Title: The Threefold Man
Setting: Between "A Study in Pink" and "The Great Game."
Disclaimer: Obviously, I do not own Sherlock. The characters in this story are the products of Steven Moffat, the BBC, and the formidable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
A/N: This a companion piece to "One Good Man" and "Talking It Through," but can stand alone.
Lestrade didn't realize until later the egregious error he had committed. To be fair, at the time he'd been extremely preoccupied with the case of the serial suicides, and far more concerned with the prospect of extracting information from an extremely brilliant and equally difficult consulting detective. When he looked back on that moment, however, Lestrade berated himself for the idiot Sherlock Holmes always called him.
He, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of Scotland Yard, had seriously underestimated John Watson.
After the cabbie was shot, Lestrade figured that he'd been wrong about Watson, but he hadn't really appreciated just how wrong he'd been. Now that Lestrade had received the in-depth background report on the good doctor, he was finally beginning to understand the gravity of the error.
Watson was a three-fold man.
The first face was the one that most of London saw at any given moment, that unremarkable fellow in a bland jumper, forgotten in a minute; Lestrade had fallen victim to this at the Baker Street flat, when he went to beg (beg!) Sherlock to go to the Brixton crime scene. His eyes had just passed right over Watson, not even really noticing him.
The second, a healer of exceptional skill and deep humanity and compassion. This had shown up during the 'drugs bust' Lestrade had used to leverage Sherlock. Watson had seen, Lestrade thought, the same potential in Sherlock that Lestrade himself had seen. A great man that might one day be a good man. Lestrade, to his current chagrin, had at the time thought this was the extent of Watson's character.
But then the serial-killing cabbie was killed with that exceptional shot with a handgun. And Lestrade had seen John Watson hiding powder burns on his hands.
How had Sherlock put it? "Crack shot... A history of military service."
That was putting it mildly. According to the documents Lestrade had just read, John was a daring and courageous soldier, loyal to a fault and with a definite thirst for action.
Though John had killed the cabbie not out of aggression, but a protective instinct bound by a keen sense of morality.
"Strong moral principles," Sherlock had remarked in his description of the shooter, and Lestrade heartily agreed. John was already having a positive effect on Sherlock - Lestrade paused to recall a moment during the 'drugs bust' where Sherlock had actually realized when he said something offensive about the victim's dead daughter.
Add it all together, and the result was an extremely dangerous, and quite extraordinary man.
Now he knew why Sherlock had accepted John Watson into his life, though Lestrade wondered if Sherlock himself truly realized. This former army doctor was the perfect companion for the temperamental, self-professed sociopath of a consulting detective.
It was possible, of course, that John could merely become an enabler for Sherlock. But Lestrade seriously doubted it. He rather fancied that John Watson might be the best thing that ever happened to Sherlock. Time would tell, of course.
Leaning back in his chair, he decided that he would keep a close eye on those two. Just then, he got a text message from Donovan.
check out watson's blog. a study in pink.