It was a cold January day in London on which Gregory Lestrade's life would change forever. He certainly didn't know that at the time. Unfortunately, one doesn't often get notice about such things. There was no advertisement in the post, no email alert on his computer; no one had placed a notation in his calendar. If he had been warned, Greg would have probably done some more mental preparation, wondering why, in fact, things were going to change so dramatically without the slightest provocation...
No, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade woke that morning with no clue from which to deduce the fact that such an ordinary day would lead to a most extraordinary period in his life. As he made coffee and ate toast, there was nothing more pressing on his mind than the traffic that awaited him on his way to the office, which, incidentally was quite mild and he arrived at the Yard with little to no deviation for the norm.
"Morning, Detective," someone called, as he walked in from the icy rain, "Lovely day."
Greg chuckled as he brushed his hand through his damp hair, "At least it isn't snow, Moffat," and he walked up to his office. Greg had recently been promoted to Detective Inspector, and he was still acclimatizing himself to the division. So far, the transition had been mostly smooth.
He sat at his desk and began going through his email, reading some of the most recent departmental memos. Nothing extraordinary there: two meetings on Wednesday afternoon, a talk on sexual harassment in workspaces to be given Tuesday next, five notices regarding evidence for the MacDonald case, and a note from his mother, reminding him he was due to visit for tea next Sunday. He sighed at the last.
Life was routine. Paper pushing was frequent between more monumental cases, and Lestrade knew his business well in both instances. He turned away from his computer and briefly swiveled around to look out the windows. He still had no inclination, as he gazed out at the damp, twiddling his pen, that anything important would happen today. He didn't even realize it when the pivotal moment arrived in the form of a phone call.
At around ten o'clock, information came in regarding a particularly gruesome triple murder.
The department mobilized relatively quickly. By the time Lestrade arrived at the scene, the forensics team was busy collecting evidence. Greg stepped into his role with approachable authority, consulting with the head medical examiner and directing the proceedings.
Three bodies had been found (Bloody well ripped to bits, Greg thought with sadness and disgust) in an alleyway in central London. Two young women, one young man, seemed to be university students. All three had been stabbed repeatedly, sections of their skin had been removed, and several strange symbols carved into their necks.
"Sight aren't they?" asked one of the officers.
He nodded, "Did you find any identification?"
Donavan smiled grimly, "The bloke, yeah. The girls no."
"Well it's a start," he sighed, "Go talk to Anderson; see what else he's turned up."
"Right, Detective Inspector," She turned to leave, and Lestrade watched her walk away. It was then that he noticed something odd.
The crime scene was packed with police officers. The forensics team in their protective suits were milling about, trying to collect evidence and keep the site free from contamination. Everyone was moving pretty quickly and relatively purposefully. Most of them were in uniform.
This was all normal. The young man standing just outside the caution tape was not. Lestrade tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. He was a pale young man, dark mop of shaggy curls falling into his face, exceptionally thin, couldn't have been more than twenty-five, and he was standing perfectly still, just outside the activity, surveying the scene with apparent disinterest. He did not belong.
Greg's hackles went up. It was normal for police lights and caution tape to draw more attention than they repelled. In fact, crime scenes tended to attract their fair share of weirdoes and eccentrics as well as the odd passerby. Nearly every single person in those categories, however, was usually displaying some kind of emotional reaction: fear, excitement, apprehension, anger, grief. Very few of them stood, as this boy did, greatcoat flared open, indifferent to the cold rain and wind, completely impassive. Lestrade didn't like it one bit.
"Donovan," he called.
"Yes, sir?"
His brows were furrowed suspiciously, "Who is that bloke over there?"
Donovan looked puzzled, glancing confusedly from the direction the DI had pointed back to his face.
"Uh, I don't see anyone, sir."
"What are you blind Donovan? He's right there," Greg gestured emphatically but when he turned back the man had gone. Sally looked quite concerned, as Greg ran his hand through his hair in confusion.
"I'll just go check in with forensics, shall I?" She walked away without waiting for a response.
It was then that he heard some commotion near the bodies. The same young man had somehow worked his way through the blockades and was gesturing vigorously to one of the criminal pathologists. I do not bloody need this today, he thought as he ran over.
"Oi, you!" He shouted and the stranger turned to face him, cocking his head to one side and considering the DI with complete indifference.
"What are you doing here? This is a crime scene. Authorized personnel only. Now I suggest that you—" Lestrade was using his best possible commanding voice and he was still cut short, mid-sentence.
"Wrong."
"What?"
"Your team," the icy eyes stayed fixed on Greg and there was a serious air of disdain emanating from his person and his cold voice, "They are doing it wrong."
Greg was momentarily stunned by the nature of this exchange. The doctors surrounding the bodies seemed highly disgruntled by the comments of the young stranger. Greg waved them back to work, as the interloper continued staring on. He seemed completely calm, if not a little bored, and the only indication that this might not be the case was the way that his hand was trembling, twitching convulsively.
"Look, mate," Lestrade tried to remain calm. He made to touch the younger man's arm, perhaps guide him away from the scene, but the boy flinched back with a glare, and the DI held his hands up in an effort to calm him.
"We don't you go home and leave it the professionals, all right? They know what they're doing. And I am sure that—"
"They're idiots," he said disdainfully, surveying the forensics team, some of whom looked up to glare hatefully at the youth. Lestrade internally groaned; they were going to be a right pain later. For now, he waved them down with a firm, "back to work," and focused on the problem at hand.
"They're the most highly qualified in their field. They know what they're doing."
"They aren't and they don't," the boy's tone had not changed in the slightest. Icy and indifferent, he stated opinions as if they were facts.
"What?"
The boy rolled his eyes, as if it actually pained him to have to answer such mundane questions.
"They aren't the most highly qualified" He replied.
"Oh, they're not?" Greg wondered briefly why in the hell he was even mildly entertaining this young upstart.
"No, they are not," there was a brief pause during which he passed a clinically discerning eye over the scene before staring straight at the DI, "I am."
Greg barely concealed his laugh, but only just. The boy's eyes narrowed with dislike from beneath his damp shaggy fringe. For all that his clothing seemed to be of high quality, he had an air of neglect. Dark circles under his eyes, thin pale face, and curly hair that could use a trim. It was hard to imagine that he was an expert at anything. Except, well, there was something in the pale gaze that suggested a deep intelligence along with total indifference, which gave Greg pause.
"They are idiots. I had this case solved five minutes after I arrived," Greg's brows rose to his hairline and he was seriously considering calling in a psych consult.
"I'm not crazy," retorted the boy with an air of boredom.
"I didn't say that you were," Greg replied, and the younger man looked highly skeptical.
Honestly, the DI didn't know what to think. Killers often returned to the scene of the crime; they liked acknowledgement sometimes, especially for something this showy. This kid wanted recognition, that much was clear, but not for killing someone. It didn't seem that way to Greg, at least, and, after spending nearly all of his adult life in law enforcement, he had learned to trust his instincts. I'm going to regret this, he thought with an inner sigh.
"Go on then," he said, and the young man looked surprised, suspicious, and (was that a small smile?) slightly pleased, "Prove it."
Greg crossed his arms and nodded his head towards the bodies. He certainly meant it as a challenge. He was genuine in his desire to give the kid a chance, but, for the most part, he was just hoping that the young stranger would take this as an opportunity to give in and either confess or get the hell out so that he could get on with his job and actually solve the crime. Instead…
"It was their boyfriend," the boy stated with clarity.
"What?" The DI was stunned by the fact that younger man had taken the bait and was now spouting off facts (things which it would have been completely impossible for anyone to know) at an alarming rate, clipped cultured tones, enunciating quickly and clearly the exacting circumstances of the death. Greg couldn't believe that this was happening.
"…of course, when he realized what he had done, he quickly fled the scene. You can see from the foot prints of the trainer marks, heading north. The amount of gravel displaced suggests hasty movement, but not shock. We can, therefore, safely assume that the man—"
Greg made an inarticulate noise, and the youth appeared extremely annoyed with having been interrupted. He sighed heavily, "Yes, yes, haven't you been listening? Or are you just too stupid to comprehend what I'm saying?" He paused, considering, apparently deciding that Greg's mental facilities were in need of a reputation of information, "Your killer is a young university student. He was dating both of the women simultaneously. Though one of the girls was dating this young man here," he gestured vaguely towards the victim lying dead in a pool of blood with medical examiners hovering around the corpse like flies.
Greg's jaw had literally dropped. He couldn't decide what was most annoying: the fact that he had had his authority undermined by a cocky twenty year old; that said kid had just called him stupid and meant it; or that he honestly believed that he knew that identity of the suspect when his own team hadn't yet been able to identify the mangled bodies of the female victims.
"Now, look," Greg began.
"Don't be dense," the younger man continued, "I would expect him to be quite close by still. Judging by the nature of the wounds, the angles of the stabs, and the position of the bodies, you're looking for a young man, probably between the ages of twenty and twenty-one. He will be an athlete, mostly likely rugby. This murder spree was part of an initiation ritual for an urban gang. You can tell by the strange circular markings carved into the victims' necks beneath the ear. Also, the missing skin suggests a need for evidence of the kill, yet, the fact that such a small sample was taken, indicates that it would be used as proof of the act. You should check any abandoned buildings within a five kilometer radius. This sort of ritualistic initiation will surely have a conclusion ceremony of some kind."
He stopped abruptly and looked at Greg, as if startled to still find him standing there.
"Well?" He asked impatiently.
"Kid, I'm sure—"
"Detective Inspector," he said in a tone that brooked no resistance, "If you wish to find this man, I suggest that you move a bit more quickly."
The two men started at one another for a few moments. Greg was making a decision, a crazy, wild, impulsive, illogical decision. This will not end well,he thought and he felt a headache forming somewhere behind his eyes.
"Michaels!" he called and the young man smirked. I just want this goddamn day to be over. That look does not bode well for my life. He wanted to groan but restrained himself and ran his hand through his hair instead.
"Yes, sir?" The young sergeant had come immediately.
"I want you to have search parties cover an area five kilometers square from this spot. You're looking for a young man and probably some kind of gathering. Make sure you're armed."
"Sir, why—" the young officer began dubiously. Lestrade rolled his eyes, good bloody question.
"Those are my orders, Michaels, now go," Lestrade the DI could make quite an impression, or, at least, that's what the hastily retreating back of his subordinate officer suggested. He turned to face the young man again only to find an empty space where the boy had stood. Fine. Bloody fine, Lestrade fairly growled with frustration, With my luck, the idiot probably was the damn killer and I sat here five steps away from having tea with him.
But, as it turned out, when Sergeant Michaels returned fifteen minutes later, the stranger had been right. Two streets away, in an abandoned theater, the Yard had found several young men, one of whom had the murder weapon in his possession, as well as DNA evidence that could be used to link him and the rest of the group to the murder. All five had been arrested and taken in for questioning.
As happy as he was to have apprehended dangerous criminals, Lestrade couldn't help but ruminate on the strange nature of this entire situation. Greg was a man who solved crimes for a living. He had seen many extreme and strange circumstances, yet even he thought that this whole thing was peculiar. It wouldn't make sense for the boy to have known as much as he did with nothing to go one except the scene of the crime, which he had only seen from a distance. Lestrade lit a cigarette and breathed deeply. Not unless he was the killer, a small voice whispered. Greg was close to following that voice but…the boy had led them to the actual perpetrator. And, well, the youth didn't seem like a killer, and Gregory Lestrade had a high number of those in his acquaintance with which to make a legitimate comparison. If anything (Greg took another long drag as he watched the forensics team load up the last of their materials), he seemed more like a collector, an enthusiast. He had appeared bored but also somehow engaged, like he was solving a very challenging crossword puzzle. It was all very odd.
Greg took a final inhale, and Donovan walked over as he crushed the butt beneath his heel.
"I see you met him," Donovan remarked scathingly.
"Met who?" Lestrade had a feeling he knew exactly to whom she was referring.
"Sherlock," when the DI looked confused, Donovan continued, "Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, that bloke you were speaking too."
"You know him?"
"Yeah…" Donovan wore a look of extreme dislike, "He's a bit of a nutter. Been comin' 'round to scenes for about a year…"
Lestrade considered this for a moment without giving her a response. Interesting.
"It's not normal, sir," She concluded as if trying to make her point as clear as possible without actually saying it.
The DI inclined his head, his mouth thinning, "No, probably not, but I think he just helped us to catch a murderer."
"Sill not normal," Sally muttered and Lestrade glared over at her in a way that made her shut her mouth, "Right. Well, I'll just take these reports back to the Yard"
"Yeah," Lestrade said.
He took one last look at the scene. Then he turned away, lighting another cigarette and thinking of the strange enigma that was Sherlock Holmes, as he walked down the street towards the nearest café. He was so preoccupied by the unexpected turn his day had taken, that he didn't notice the way that every security camera on the street turned to follow his progress as he passed.
AN
Welcome, everyone, to Where You Find It. This is a prequel to my other fic, You Were My Life and will tell the story of Greg Lestrade, how he meets the Holmes' brpthers and how this affects all of their lives in serious ways...There will be angst (cause that's how I roll) but also some romance, family drama, and humor. So I hope you'll join me for the ride.
What do you think so far? Did you enjoy Greg and Sherlock's first meeting? Greg is one of my favorites to write and I think that we're going to see how much influence his presence has had in Sherlock's life by the way the our dear consulting detective acts here as opposed to in the series and in my other stories. Just a note: for my own creative purposes I'm setting this story ten years before A Study in Pink, I know it's not canon but I want Sherlock to be in his mid-twenties.
Reviews/comments/feedback are always welcome (and responded to). The next chapter should be tomorrow or Tuesday at the latest. Also, for anyone who is interested the first chapter of the sequel to You Were My Life will be posted mid-week.
lots of love,
Nic