A Rock and a Hard Place
By Taz
He hadn't been sleeping, really. Gregson fumbled as he groped to squelch the phone that was shrilling under his pillow. He got hold of the slippery little devil, saw the time and a surge of adrenaline sent him upright, roaring, "What the hell? It's 4 a.m.!"
"Sorry Captain—Bell's voice, and he better not be smiling—there's been a response to your bolo. Petrucci called it; a squat between Garvey and Hudson. Said you should probably come at once…"
A snake slithered up Gregson's spine. He knew the block an open air drug market.
"Call the tactical unit…" His feet hit the cold wooden floor as he rolled out of bed. "I'll be there in twenty minutes…" Still giving orders, he pulled on a pair of cords, and tucked in a woolen shirt. "Pick up Petrucci…"
Outside the cold slapped him in the face. What had he done with his gloves? His hand shook as he inserted the key in the Cherokee's ignition. It was after nights like this, when the temperature was murderously low, and the shelters were overcrowded, that bodies were found frozen, huddled in doorways and abandoned buildings.
Twenty minutes later he was climbing into the backseat of an unmarked Buick, being assaulted by the smells of unwashed clothing, stale coffee and Egg McMuffins.
"Thanks." He accepted the steaming cup and walkie-talkie that Bell handed to him over the seat. "Not that I don't appreciate this, Pete, but you could use a shower."
"Tell me about it; pipes are frozen." Petrucci took a gulp from his own cup of coffee. He was slumped in the other corner of the seat with one wrist handcuffed to the other door. "I should have been home an hour ago."
"Man's ungrateful," Bell murmured. "Buy him breakfast, nice warm car; he stinks up the place…"
"Bite me," Petrucci said. "You forgot the hash browns."
"Knock it off," Gregson said. "You sure it's him?"
"Poncy accent, tattoos, and…" With the wrong hand Petrucci clumsily excavated something from the depths of a pocket of his grubby pea coat. "He swapped this for a set of works. Ever seen one of those before?"
"Yes." Gregson set his cup in the holder and accepted the watch from Petrucci. He'd had seen this one before. It was a classic Roger Dubis, despite the scuffed leather band and scratched rose gold case—practical elegance—the sort of watch a wealthy parent might once have given a son at graduation. Seeing the confirming inscription on the back, didn't make Gregson feel any better.
"Where?"
Petrucci pointed. "Second crack house on the left."
The houses on Garvey had been boarded up by the city and were waiting for a better tomorrow, but if you looked carefully you could see the plywood over the door of the one that Petrucci had indicated was broken and hanging aslant.
Gregson fingered the walkie-talkie as he opened the door. "Let's go."
Bell turned the engine off and glanced back at Petrucci. "You coming?"
"Hell no." Petrucci snuggled further into the seat and pulled his cap over his eyes. "A couple of days in a nice warm cell... Book me, Dano. When you get catch a moment, of course."
The uniformed tactical squad had already ripped the plywood from the door and entered the building. As Gregson and Bell followed, they could hear the shouting, and trampling feet as the rats sought escape tunnels.
Flashlights flicked over grimy walls and a broken banister.
Abandoned houses, empty for years, had a smell compounded of mildewed wallpaper, old fireplaces, and rats. This one smelled of all that, plus stale piss, rotting garbage and a distinctive sweetness…incense.
"Captain! We've found him!"
Holmes was in one of the back bedrooms on the second floor. He was sitting hunched on a mattress on the floor under the suspicious eyes of two of the uniformed tactical team. He looked like a gargoyle wrapped in a grey blanket. Nearby on the floor two men were lying back-to-back—they'd been duct-taped together. As Gregson and Bell entered, they both began to writhe and kick.
"What the hell?"
Holmes' grey eyes fixed on Gregson. "Journeys end with lovers' meeting," he said.
One of the uniforms said, "Christ, he's high."
"Captain Gregson, I am not high," said Holmes. "Allow me to introduce you to the men who, in the course of that botched robbery last Thursday, murdered wealthy sommelier Martin Cortéz and left him head down in a barrel of… Well, molasses is not malmsey, so the irony is somewhat lacking." He shrugged in the direction of the two bound figures. "I'm afraid I lured them here under false pretenses that I could get them high but, fortunately, I was able to get the drop on them, so to speak, without going that far. I confess I have spent the last five hours entertaining them with the history and value of some of those bottles of wine they smashed while they were looking for Mr. Cortéz's money. Not to mention those six bottles of Napoleon brandy. Now, there's irony. "
"Are you all right?" Gregson said.
"I'm fine."
"Get those two out of here," Gregson said to Bell.
Holmes stayed where he was while the two murderers were cut apart and hauled to their feet. As they were led away in cuffs, Gregson went and stood over Holmes and offered his hand. Holmes took it and allowed himself be pulled to his feet.
"Do you want the Naloxone?"
"No."
Holmes tried to pull away. Gregson hung on and brought the beam of his flashlight across Holmes' eyes. Large dark pupils contracted, as Holmes shied away.
"You don't have to do that!" he said. "I told you, I'm fine."
"What am I supposed to think?! You've been out of touch for two days! Watson's hiding it pretty well, but she's frantic."
"She needn't be."
Gregson managed to restrain a growl. "Let's get you home." He looked around the room. "Where are your boots?"
Holmes scanned the floor, and then looked apologetic. "Probably stolen."
He wrapped his grey blanket more tightly around him.
"Jacket stolen, too?" It hadn't escaped Gregson's attention that all Holmes had on was a pair of jeans and a thin green t-shirt.
"I expect so."
Outside, the murderers, and three junkies who'd been too slow or too high to flee, were being loaded into separate vans. Gregson waved at Bell as he escorted Holmes to the Cherokee.
In the east another cold dawn was starting.
Gregson started the car and turned the heat up. Holmes' brownstone wasn't far, maybe ten-minutes.
After five-minutes' silence, Holmes said, "Could we drive around for a while?"
"Sure." Gregson pulled around a garbage truck, and turned toward the river. On the sidewalks, the doughnut makers were heading to work, bundled against the cold. The city was coming to life.
In the years, the decade really, that they'd been separated by an ocean, communication had been sparse, and always laconic. Once, there had been a newspaper clipping torn out from The Sun. The headline had read DI Gareth Lestrade Nabs Boscombe Valley Killer. Gregson had recalled Lestrade as a plodding detective, and a spectacular glory hound, but in the article he seemed to have become charmingly shy when it came to explaining what insight had led him to identify the murderer. The photo of Lestrade's face had been amended in black pen by the addition of horns and fangs.
Another time, when Gregson had been dealing with an especially frustrating investigation, a package had been delivered to him at the station with a box inside from Harrods Store that contained a pair of bright blue cashmere socks. The accompanying note had read Put them on, pull them up, and make the ticket-seller tell you where she really was, and what she saw there.
Months later, Cheryl, sorting through his sock drawer, had asked why he never wore them, since, apparently, he'd bought them, adding that they matched the color of his eyes…
A soft chattering sound called Gregson back to the present.
He glanced at Holmes, who was staring straight ahead. The man was pale, there were black circles under his eyes, and his teeth were chattering even with the Cherokee's heater was cranked up. The warmth was making Gregson aware that Petrucci wasn't the only one in need of disinfectant.
Is it worth it? Gregson refrained from asking. Lucky you don't get pneumonia.
Holmes read his mind. "J-just a b-bad p-patch."
"Aw, fuck it!" Gregson said. They were passing the Riverview Motel on the other side of the street. Abruptly he pulled a U-turn and stopped the car next to the office.
The night clerk, still on duty, didn't bat an eye when he walked in, flashed his badge, and asked for a room on the ground level.
As he got back in the car, Holmes started, "W-what are you…"
"Shut up!" Gregson backed into the first open parking place. That it happened to be on the opposite side from the unit that matched the key wasn't his problem. "You don't want to go home yet; we're not going home." He got out and slammed the car door behind him.
The Riverview was an ungainly refuge. A relic of the 50s tucked among the warehouses, the view was theoretical at best, but the place was clean, convenient to the airport, and the Brooklyn Police Department always had three rooms reserved. They were there for emergency housing at those times when the department needed them for witness protection, or inclement weather…or whatever. This was whatever.
By the time Holmes had made the best way he could over the course gravel, Gregson had the unit's heater on, and steam was pouring out of the bathroom.
"I don't suppose I could ask…"
"No you can't. Get in the shower." Gregson sat down on the bed and picked up the menu for the café down the block that delivered. "You're freezing and you smell like something the cat barfed up."
After a moment, Holmes closed the door and dropped the grey blanket on the floor.
Breakfast ordered, Gregson undressed and went into the bathroom. Through the steam-frosted panels of the stall he could see Holmes standing head bowed under the shower head, letting the water sluice over him. Gregson kicked the heaped jeans and t-shirt out the bathroom door, slid a panel ope, and climbed into the tub. Holmes didn't turn around.
There was a tablet of soap in the corner of the tub. Gregson picked it up and began to wash Holmes' back. He could have counted the knobs down the spine, and the black and blue welts over the ribcage. (Somebody had done a very professional job there.) He went carefully, some of the ribs might be cracked and as his hands passed gently over the bruises, they felt the springing of hard muscles under the flesh.
Years ago—London in April—a boyish Holmes, younger-looking than his age, had deployed his cutting tongue with a smile that had been like an armor piercing missile. The combination had been dangerously attractive. Now that maturity had settled on Holmes' features, rarely smiled and insisted on being alone. Still the essence of the man showed through, sharp and hawk-like and he was still, to Gregson, dangerously attractive.
Carefully, he pressed near, letting Holmes feel his hardness, felt Holmes' breath catch and the welcomed the slight unconscious push back. He let his hands glide round to stroke up and down Holmes' front, soaping furred chest and belly with one hand. The other, a little lower down, groped. Holmes's flesh sprang into it. He dropped the soap and double cuffed it, growling, and stroked hard. Bumping and bumping, and found a niche of his own, a place to lodge, feeling Holmes's body pushing back harder, trying to embed him there at the crux of the matter. He could feel the convulsion beginning. Holmes was resisting it, crying no. But flesh is more honest and their bodies rushed toward it. Matched breaking as Holmes broke. His heat flowed down Holmes' legs as Holmes' erupted over his hands, and then he held on to Holmes' bent shuddering body as it flowed through his fingers and was washed away in the rapidly cooling water.
Alone in his own head again he recalled the possibility of cracked ribs and eased himself away from Holmes' back. He couldn't help, however, saying, "You know you make this so much harder than it has to be."
Sighing, Holmes straightened, turned and put his arms around Gregson. "I could explain how wrong headed you are, but I'm tired and you're an unbelievably stubborn man."
Somehow they were kissing…
Finis
03/14/2015