December 1st, 2003
It began the way it always did; it started with an end.
"It wasn't the mechanic."
The man behind the desk with the too-big suit and the sweat beading on his prematurely wrinkled forehead starts and reaches for his gun. He fumbles with the desk drawer before he can get it open, grabbing at a non-existent handle that's several inches to the right of where it should be. The man leaning against the office door merely observes this with a hint of a smile on his face. When the man behind his desk finally gets at his gun and holds it out in front of him, he sees a hint of disappointment on the dark haired intruder's face.
"How did you get in?"
Again, that strange glimmer of disappointment. The leaning man does not move an inch save to shake his head just a fraction of an inch. He repeats himself, slowly this time, in a way that makes the seated man feel like an ignorant child. "It wasn't the mechanic."
"Who are you?"
Disappointment once again. The strange newcomer sighs and pulls his hands from his pockets. The man at the desk twitches at this sudden movement but the other man ignores him, pulling off his gloves and raising his hands to rub at his temples impatiently with closed eyes.
"Why? Why do they never ask the right questions?" The worker frowns at this, but before he can answer the other man's eyes open. "Are you even listening to me, Detective? Oh, I'm so sorry - " his eyes flicker with amusement as they take in the shiny new badge that sits too straight on the older man's chest – too shiny. New. Pride has shone that badge, and straightened it on his chest to line up with the top button of his shirt. "Detective Inspector. Congratulations on the promotion. I expect Sally will be pleased."
Hands tighten on the pistol.
"What do you want?"
"Now we're getting somewhere," the man breathes. He leans forward. He's enjoying this. The DI can see it in his eyes. "But the question, Detective Inspector, does not concern what I want - " he cocks his head to the side, and once again the older man feels like a ridiculed child. "But what you want?"
The DI takes a moment to think about this. "What do I want?" He asks, childish almost in his hope that someone will please, God, please provide an answer.
"I can't tell you that, I'm afraid. What I can tell you, however, is what you don't want."
"What's that?"
"The mechanic."
Silence. The DI ponders, staring, grip on his gun slackened by curiosity and consuming confusion. The leaning man straightens and raises an eyebrow. Waiting… waiting to be unimpressed.
"Why."
It isn't a question.
"Footprints."
"Footprints?"
"Footprints."
The DI pauses again. He frowns.
"There weren't any."
"Exactly." The other man breathes. Upon receiving no response, he clicks his fingers, impatient. The sudden noise makes the older man jump. The dark man, pacing now, ignores him.
"Think about it, Lestrade! Just take a minute and think! This man – your suspect – works in a garage all day. He steps in oil and grease and god knows what all day for a living and there are no footprints at the scene of the crime?"
The DI processes this. "He might have… cleaned them?"
Before he can finish his sentence, the other man is shaking his head. "No, no, no! Witnesses say they saw him leave the garage at precisely seven minutes past three. Tests show that the victim's brakes were cut exactly one hour before she died – "
"Hang on – whose tests?"
"Mine, shut up. So given that this alleged murderer must have arrived at the scene at exactly ten past three. It's a two minute walk from the garage to the victim's house, which means that yes, there would still be traces of oil on the bottom of your alleged killer's shoes, and no, he wouldn't have had time to clean them."
Breathless, the pacing man came to a standstill.
"He could have changed them."
"No. Your man isn't clever enough for that. You saw it, I saw it, even Donovan saw it. What kind of killer has the attention to detail to go out of his way to change oily shoes and yet is idiotic enough to duck his head and walk away when he sees a police car? Furthermore, why would he bother travelling to the victim's home to cut her brakes when he could have done it while she was still at the garage and saved himself the trouble? Someone that stupid isn't going to think about how easy it would be to trace it back to him. He's going to think about convenience, and by God man, why are you shaking your head at me?"
Lestrade stares. He puts his gun on the table and leans back in his chair with a blank expression in his eyes. The stranger watches him carefully. Finally –
"Who are you?"
A smirk.
"The name's Sherlock Holmes, Detective Inspector," the man who calls himself Sherlock says, his hand on the door. "I'm your new Consultant."
AN: Yes, I know that was absolute crap and not Sherlock at ALL. Forgive me, please, I'm just warming up!