A/N- Hello, all. This is my first Sherlock Holmes fic. I've noticed while reading through this genre that some writers have quite excellently captured Arthur Conan Doyle's style. I, however, to just use my own style. Takes place directly after the Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton.
Disclaimer- I do not own the Sherlock Holmes series, or any of the many movies and shows made after them.
rade stood outside of 221b Baker street for several minutes, rather surprised and unsure what to do. Sherlock Holmes had never refused to work on a case. Even if he didn't go down to the crime scene, he would at least listen to the story and conjectures, offering some advice.
It had been several months since he had worked completely alone on an unusual murder case.
Glancing back up, he turned and walked back towards Scotland Yard. Of course, he was not helpless without Holmes. He had plenty of experience and there were several good clues. They had the footprints, they had the descriptions, they had the under gardener, they had the housemaid whose fiancé had vanished. Upon reaching the offices, Gregson hailed him eagerly from the doorway. "Is Holmes not helping you?"
Lestrade shrugged. "Didn't really seem interested. He said that he had thought that that Milverton chap was one of the worst men in London and was more on the side of the murderers than the murdered."
Gregson nodded. "Since he's not an official, he can do that. However, you can't and the longer you wait the less details you get. Looks simple enough, should be pretty hard for you to botch up. Good day."
He strolled back into the building, and I took a cab to Appledore Towers. People were milling about, mostly on the outside of the fence, craning their necks to try to get a glance. Standing just inside the fence by a muddy spot was the gardener, surrounded by several regular policemen and two reporters. He looked like he was enjoying the attention.
"Two men there were, that's right. Ran across the yard, straight through the garden, if you'll believe it. I was closest, I saw them both. One was tall and lanky, with long legs. Leaped right over the fence like it was nothing, he did. Other one was shorter. Hard to see in the dark, but he wasn't as fast. Limping, too. When he tried to get over the wall, I nearly got him, but he escaped. Stronger, more muscular build than the other. Once they got over the wall, they ran off together, back in the direction of Church Row." He waved his hand east, towards London, and then stared rambling about how cruel they must have been to murder such a good master. Lestrade moved on, a cold prickle traveling down his back as he thought about the description of the two men.
The study was empty of people, but full of rather interesting objects. A large green safe open in the corner. The body, peppered with a dozen round holes in the chest and head. An enormous amount of loose, feathery ash in the fireplace. A maid had said that the fire had been put out as soon as possible, but the papers, probably from the enormous safe, had burned.
Lestrade crouched down by the still warm ashes and gently turned then over with the poker. Despite what the maid had said, there were some salvageable papers in the center, though the edges were burnt and many unreadable. He gently extracted one of the best ones, and bent over it, trying to discern the words from the ash steaks. It was a letter to a well known Dutchess, a love letter from the look of it. He glanced at who it was from and his eyes widened. Crumpling it into pieces, he mixed the shredded letter in with the ash and say back down, his eyes wide. If that letter got out into the public, two noble families would be ruined. He glanced at the blood splattered corpse and realized that the consulting detective had a point. If all of the papers were the same...
He shuffled the ash until the whitest parts were on top, then set it on fire. In less than ten seconds, a policeman skidded into the room. "Inspector, what are you doing?!" he nearly shouted, his eyes wide.
Lestrade pushed the papers further into the fire. "Not now, officer," he reprimanded, trying to think up an excuse. "The... amount of smoke that gets into the room during a fire may have a vital effect on the case."
"But sir, he was clearly shot to death. He didn't suffocate."
"Don't you have something that you need to be doing?"
As he left, Lestrade made sure there were no more readable papers, then walked to the safe, which had been carefully forced open, probably in a soundless way. He tried to deduce things, like Holmes always did, but there was nothing.
Frustrated, he went out to where the gardener said they had run across the lawn. The soil was still wet from the horrible rain the night before, and by a stroke of luck, they had run through a mound of loose, overturned soil which had been spread loosely under a window, where they had apparently left the study. Grinning at the turn of events, Lestrade crouched down and examined them. The toes were more pronounced than the heels, so they had hit the ground running. Holmes had said during the Jefferson Hope case that the height of a man could be determined by the length of his strides. One, a pair of long, narrow boots, almost completely cleared the soil by the second step. This was the tall, fast man, then. He examined the clearest mark more closely. A sliver of the heel was missing from the instep.
Still crouching, he frowned. The boot was oddly familiar, almost like he had seen that damp footprint in the mud some time before. Turning, he looked at the other one with the shorter stride. Even in the few strides, a limp was visible. One foot pressed more heavily into the ground than the other.
A tall,thin man, with a shorter, limping companion.
Lestrade sat back in the dirt as everything came together. The boot was familiar; he had been there when Holmes had kicked out his foot and deflected a knife blow several months ago.
No wonder they hadn't wanted to help with the case.