Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade lived alone. His wife, who he now… disliked, has been sleeping with a P.E teacher from the local primary school. His flat seemed empty without her. Don't think about that! Concentrate on the road! He thought bitterly. His phone buzzed. Text. Greg didn't really get texts anymore. Not after his wife… No! Don't think about that! He fished around in his jacket, keeping his eyes on the road, and found it. He glanced down. It wasn't a number he recognised.
It was the biker.
-S
The bi-…?
The biker! It fit in! His most recent case, a quadruple murder in east London, was expected to take at least a week to solve, if not more. Greg grinned like an idiot. That was one down! He might get a bit of a day off tomorrow. That would be nice. He put his phone back into his pocket.
He pulled up in the reserved parking space outside his home, and climbed the stairs to his flat. When he got to it, he dug in his pocket for his keys. He couldn't find them. Greg frowned. But then he looked down to the keyhole, and pushed the door open. His frown deepened. As he slowly pushed the door open, he noticed a clanking against the door. His keys! How did… how…
Greg slowly pushed the door open. He carefully padded into the living room, his heart painfully loud. He crouched down and looked around. Nothing. Nothing out of place when he left in the morning. He straightened up. But what about the kitchen? He slowly moved into his kitchen, his heart thumping even louder. Nothing! Only one room left in the flat…his bedroom. What sort of an intruder went into the guys' bedroom? He crouched down, and remembered the gun in a kitchen drawer. Before leaving the kitchen, he opened the drawer to the left of the hob. Papers, loose change, but nicotine patches where missing, but Greg didn't really notice. His gun, which he 'borrowed' from a crime scene. He held the gun in front of him, his arms straight. He moved into his messy bedroom. Nothing! He dumped the gun back on his bed and turned to go back into the living room. He sat down, and turned on the T.V. Man U Vs Liverpool. Should be good.
Nothing else happened that night. He got dinner. He went to bed. And though he knew there was no one in his flat, that didn't stop him from barricading his bedroom door.
As Greg ate his breakfast the next day, he only just started to ponder the text. –S it had said. Sean? Sam? Sophie? He shook his head. It was probably just a guilty witness, trying to make up for holding the information in.
Once he got to work at New Scotland Yard, a new case had been put in his inbox. Greg rubbed his eyes with his wrist. He took the case file, and read it through. So much for a day off. The inspector gathered up a team to go with him on the case. Anderson's forensics team…. and Donovan's police crew. That'll do.
'Anderson!'
'Yes boss?'
'Get a forensics team together, and get Donovan to get a police team together.'
'Yes boss. What case are we on?'
'The new case, the one with the suicide.'
'Okay.' Anderson turned and headed to Donovan's office.
They left in half an hour and when they arrived, Donovan got tape set up and Lestrade, Anderson and his team went into the house where the body was found. The poor man was hanging from the banister on the staircase, and was hanging down into the hallway, with a tipped over chair close to the guys feet. Anderson's team worked quickly, taking samples of the man's skin, for DNA and raiding the man's pockets for ID. Greg decided to take the samples and ID out of the hall and into the tent that had been set up. It was beginning to get a little darker now, after searching the man and his house for hours, and Lestrade had to call it a day, to return tomorrow. He packed up the evidence, practically leapt into the car to get back to the office, and drove back to the Yard. Once he got there, with the police cars containing Andersons' team (Donovan's will stay the night, guarding, taking shifts) behind him, he stuck the plastic bags used for holding evidence into his outbox where the guys in Barts would analyse it.
The next day, once he pulled up his car into the crime scene, he got out of his car. Andersons' team where just about to move in when he heard Anderson him self call out.
'What do you think you're DOING!'
Greg looked up in surprise. He'd never heard of Anderson shout like that. Seconds later, Grey saw a ghost like figure sprint out of the house, his coat flapping behind him. Anderson was already running out, chasing the man, but he was faster and was soon bounding around the corner.
'DANMIT! That idiots' probably contaminated the area!'
Anderson gave a howl of rage, stopping dead.
'Calm DOWN, Anderson!'
'But we'll probably have defective evidence now!'
Anderson gave a growl of rage, and stomped back. And just when Anderson had disappeared back into the house, he felt his phone buzz.
It wasn't a suicide. The man's called Arthur Milton, and his brother shoved him down the stairs. James Milton, brother, didn't know what to do and made it look like a suicide. Take a look under his hat.
-S
Greg stared at the text. Could be a fraud. There's probably noting under the guys hat! He thought. Regardless, he texted him back.
Who are you?
While waiting for a reply from the number, Greg made his way into the house.
'Anderson, take of the man's hat.'
'Er… Why?'
'Just… just do this for me.'
Anderson frowned, but walked up the stairs and when he reached the rope where the man was suspended from, he leaned down and tugged at 'Arthur Milton's' hat. It wouldn't peel away from his head. Anderson, who was looking a bit paler, tugged with a bit more force. A few flakes of dried blood fell out of the man's had that had fallen off the mans scalp, where dried blood had gathered under the woollen hat. Anderson, for the first time, looked a bit sick, but he still managed a feeble curse.
'But… but how did you know, sir?' one of Andersons' lower ranking men piped up, whose name Greg seemed to remember as Brenton. Greg didn't know an answer to this.
'The man's name is Arthur Milton. Research him. Find out about his family. They'll need to be informed.' replied Lestrade, as a sort of answer.
'But sir…' The man started
'Brenton.'. The man opened his mouth, when Lestrade gave him a look.He then closed it and bustled off to one of his colleagues in the crew. Lestrade was about to make a start to go out, when he felt his phone buzz.
I'm no-one who you'll need to know.
-S
Lestrade felt annoyed at this. It was his duty to know things. It was his job to know things and figure out the answer. So he replied.
Okay then. How did you know about the man's death?
Feeling like this would catch the man out if this was a witness, he went out of the building, and he felt his phone buzz. Quick. He thought with satisfaction.
I'd advise firing the man who I believe is called 'Anderson', by the way.
-S
Lestrade was shocked. He'd never considered firing Anderson.
Why?
He sent back. Even quicker this time, 'S' replied.
He's an idiot.
-S
Anderson wasn't an idiot. Well, as far as Lestrade was concerned anyway. A little annoying at times, yes, but not stupid.
Who are you?
This time, the man didn't reply for a while longer. Good! Thought Lestrade. 'S' was thinking about it. It was beginning to get dark before he's replied. An hour later, in fact.
I'll leave you to your deductions, Inspector Lestrade.
-S
At this, if the man was in the room Lestrade probably would've punched him. But, as Lestrade lay in bed that night he really did think about it. And then somehow it linked. The man who was running away from the crime scene, the texts. Greg grinned into his pillow.
-=|SHERLOCK|=-
No, no, no! They where doing it all WRONG! How could the 'best' detectives in London not figure this one out! Sherlock, who was currently sitting curled up upright with his chin on his knees on the roof of the hotel opposite the Yard, was watching the Detective Inspector through his office window. He seemed intelligent enough. Well, stupid, but not too stupid anyway. Sherlock unravelled himself and stood up, his coat fluttering in the wind.
One confused receptionist and one insulted guest later, Sherlock made his way off the roof and out of the hotel. Sherlock whistled a tune that sounded worryingly like Chopin's Funeral March. A young woman, not more than 25, came up to Sherlock. She wore a faded blue hoody and jeans.
'Got any change, sir?'
'For what?' Sherlock replied.
'For a cup of tea, of course!'
Sherlock then slipped the woman a piece of paper. She opened it and nodded, then made her way over to the Yard, sliding inside. Sherlock leaned against the lamp-post, and waited. But then he felt his phone buzz.
You know, Sherlock, I could actually fund you a flat. After all, I do apparently run the government.
MH
Sherlock gripped the phone a little tighter then shoved it roughly back into his pocket.
