Were any days good days for Gregory Lestrade?
It started out with the boring, usual stuff at Scotland Yard, 2005. Filling out paper work. Listening to complaints. Receiving call after call about things ranging from coffee sizes and preferrances to a vicious quadruple murder in underground Brixton. Getting yelled at by Dimmock and taking the shit for every little mistake his officers made. All very mundane. All very annoying.
It wasn't like he tried to finish his work quickly, but he did.
It always came around to sitting around with his feet propped up on the desk, legs crossed at the ankles, drinking his coffee with a doughnut in hand.
"Sir." Donovan sighed at the look of Gregory sitting in his chair, as she always found him, when she popped her head into the small office that Lestrade was occupying.
He sighed, taking a bite of his doughnut. "What now, Sally?" He asked, uncrossing his ankles taking his legs down and sitting properly at his desk. This was the third time she'd been in his office today. The new officers at Scotland Yard always had questions, always eager to impress.
Sally looked down, twisting her lips to the side, thinking of what to say to make sure she didn't mess anything up. "You are needed to head to Brixton at the moment. We have a source about the multiple shooting that took place yesterday evening." She said, keeping her head held high as she wanted to keep up her apperance as what she thought to be, strong.
Lestrade nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. "This source? Is it 'he-who-shall-not-be-named?" He asked, muffling a burp with his hand. "S'cuse me."
He-who-shall-not-be-named was their source for many of things. Always called in whenever he had information, but never gave a name. He always helped then disappeared until the next time they were desperate. Never could track him down because the payphone was what he used to call in. He was the joke of Scotland Yard. Most people denied his existance.
Donovan walked fully into the office now, keeping her correct posture. She shuffled with the file in hand, looking down at it before looking back up at her superior. "We don't have a name, yet. We have been in contact with this particular male in the past. Helping us with many different cases." She said, still trying to act her very best.
Greg nodded. "Alright. Where is he?" He asked, standing up and stretching slightly. He yawned. Very mundane. Very boring.
"Underground Brixton, he says. He insists on helping. Apparenltly a witness." She said, looking about the small room.
"Isn't he /always/ a witness?" He said as he pulled on his jacket that was hanging over the back of his chair, looking down to the desk of scattered papers. He could take care of that later. Anything to keep him from being home with his horrid wife.
Sally ignored the question, trying to figure out if it was more rhetorical. "Do we know where we're going? If this guy isn't some lunatic, luring us in?" He asked, heading out of the room, taking the file out of Sally's arms in one swift motion.
She followed him close behind like an obedient dog. "Well, the Vauxhall Arches. He said he'd meet us there. Used a payphone to call in, like always. Same one that was used to report the shooting." She nodded. "If he is some sort of... Mad pshycopath, we've got our bullet proof vests and guns-"
"I know what we have." Lestrade practically groaned, heading down the stairs and out to the police cars.
{=-=}
Sherlock sat against the wall, his ratty clothing smelling foul. Three weeks ago he stole them off of a sleeping man on the bench right out of his cart that he had been wheeling around.
There was still a faint smell of blood in the air. Thankfully, where he had his own area in the darkness of their hideaway was not in the exact area of the shooting.
He was craving. Wanting. Needing. He needed to use, right now. He let his head fall back against the cold, concrete wall as he took a sharp breath, trying to calm himself down from the thumping in his chest. He wanted to use, right now. It was a shame that he finished the last of his stash with Raz two days ago.
The shrouds of layer after layer of clothing hung off of him, like clothing set out to dry on a wire. He hadn't eaten in a week and a half. Not by choice. Sherlock was practically just skin and bones at this point. He kept telling himself that it was an experiment. He was debating emerging from the underground long enough to pickpocket some stranger's wallet in need of food and drugs.
But his mind was more so focused on the drugs.
He had taken some coins from Raz to use to call the police. He figured, if he was going to do anything, he might as well do something he was good at.
This was the sevententh time he'd callen the police to talk to them about some sort of murder or break in or robbery. He had even made sure that an elderly woman's husband was executed of his murder trial in Florida.
He saw everything like a map inside of his head. He'd heard things from the other members of what he liked to call, 'the homeless network', or his 'family', and received his information from them. He'd stand outside the police tape lines at crime scenes, already knowing most of the information they were looking for.
What could he say? He was good at it.
Since he was not an ametur of helping Scotland Yard out of their depth, and since they relied on him when the cases were tough to call in and give as much information as possible, he had a good shot at something. Either a job or some sort of pay. Whatever it was, he'd be happy with it.
{=-=}
"Hey, man." Raz sang as he stepped over people sleeping on the wet, dirty concrete floor. "Got ya something you might like." He smirked, tossing him a small, plastic bag.
Sherlock grabbed it out of mid air, eyeing it. He raised an eyebrow at Raz, his only friend in the underground. Only friend in general, really. "Where'd you get this?" He asked quickly, looking him up and down. "Oh. You snuck it off some sleeping junkie, didn't you?" He asked as Raz sat down next to him.
"Might've. But I got you it, didn't I? I think I deserve a thanks." He shrugged, looking at Sherlock's messy, black hair.
Sherlock gave him a look, saying /really?/.
"A congratulations?" He shot for, but not getting it. "I know, I know. Keep dreaming." He sighed with a smile.
Sherlock nodded. "Exactly. Took the words right out of my mouth."
Together, Sherlock and Raz used what he scored, just like a normal day. Side by side in the darkness of what they both called 'home'.