"I told them it had the makings of a serial killer. They didn't listen."
John frowned at the biting tone of his friend. It sounded somewhat bitter; as it always did. He couldn't count how many times he had heard his capanion say exactly what he had just stated. They didn't listen. I told them. John's frown deepened.
"It must've been very frustrating," He observed alloud.
Sherlock glanced at him.
"What was frustrating?" He asked almost cautiously.
Lestrade glanced between them both. Watson made eye contact with Sherlock.
"Knowing everything, yet no one will listen to you? That sounds bloody infuriating! Why wouldn't anyone take you seriously?" He asked in some confusion. His confusion grew when Lestrade burst into laughter.
"Are you kidding?! When we first met, he was looked like a teenage junkie off the street, telling me to look at the inside of the victum's phone case! Everyone thought I was bloody insane for actually doing it."
Lestrade looked as though he was reliving the event. His laughter died, and he smiled in a nostalgic way.
"That is, of course, until the evidence we needed to pin her brother as the murderer was found exactly there. That shut the lot of them up," He said, grinning.
Sherlock was quietly observing them both.
John frowned again, in confusion.
"If he honestly looked that bad, why did you do it?" He asked Lestrade, completely ignoring Sherlock's eyes on him. Lestrade looked uncomfortable, and glanced between the two of them, again.
"Well," he cleared his throat, not sure what to say; what was too much.
"The problem wasn't that he didn't just looked like a teenage junkie off the streets," Lestrade said suggestively, glancing nervously at Sherlock. Watson's eyes widened.
"Well that just makes it all the worse!" he exclaimed.
"Why would you ever look at the phone?"
Lestrade didn't seem to know how to reply. He looked at Sherlock, who held eye contact with him for a moment, before directing his attention to Watson.
"You're right," Sherlock stated evenly. "I was near insanity, with having all these murderers live on, due to the untrusting idiocy of the police force. So, when the women who found me on the streets, and tried to get me clean, was murdered by her brother, I went to the crime scene. I knew how to solve the crime. She herself had told me! Yet, when I went to the Inspecting Detective on the case, he laughed in my face, and had me forcefully removed. I waited on the edge of the crime scene, just on the other side of the tape, desperately waiting for someone with enough of a brain to actually listen to me. Sergeant Lestrade came along, and I grabbed him," a ghost of a smirk flitted across Sherlock's lips, "Quite in the literal sense. I told him all he needed to do was look inside her phone case, and the crime would be solved. He took pity on me and did so. Of course I was right, and her brother was arrested that day. I didn't see Lestrade again until I was arrested a few months later. Ever since then, he's been smart enough to not take my word for granted."
Watson's mind was reeling with questions. From the look on Lestrade's face, he could tell Sherlock was leaving alot out. However, he settled on the one that was pressing on his mind:
"You were arrested?"
This time, Sherlock undoubtedly smirked.
"Drug bust that also happened to coincide with a murder next door," he said nonchalantly starting to walk away.
"But that's a story for another day. By the way, your serial murderer is at O'Rielly's pub currently. He's wearing a ridiculous red cap, or at least has it with him."
Watson looked at Lestrade in amazement, and realized that Lestrade almost looked prideful.
"But, how could you possibly know that?" Watson called.
"The earings! No one ever looks at the earings!"
Watson looked over, to see that Lestrade was now chuckling. He shook his head and ran after his highly functional, sociopathic friend.
Just a short little fic to jump-start my "How I met Sherlock" prompt series. I might do another one where Lestrade met Sherlock in a completely different way. (And of course just HAD to tell John about it ;))
I thought of this own, when I had a image of a teenage, rugged, probably high Sherlock clung desperately to a Sergeant Lestrade, sobbing miserably as he begged the officer to just do as he said. Lestrade, of course, would never explain this to Watson with Sherlock standing right there, and Sherlock was conviently rather vague with his explanation of events.
The Cassandra Syndrome is named after a Greek Goddess who could see the future, and knew what was going to happen, but no one believed her. Frustrating, right?
Anywho, I don't own Sherlock, and sorry for any grammar/spelling mistakes. I don't have a beta or spell-check. Sad, I know.
Tell me what you think!