Disclaimer : Sherlock belongs to MM. Conan Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss, and probably a few others – I'd advise collective babysitting in his case.
A/N : Written for the Rupert Graves Birthday Meme. The background case is very loosely derived from ACD's story « The Blue Carbuncle ».
In For the Pull
By the time they had finished pulling apart the fourth and last file, Sherlock's hair made him look like the rightful heir of the Struwelpeter and Lestrade's stomach was reminding him that he was a few meals late on his daily tribute.
« It just doesn't make sense. »
« Then make it. »
« Make it what ? »
« Make it do what it takes to make it make sense!»
« Oh, for — go back to thinking, Lestrade, there's only so much I can take of your syntax after curfew. »
« Well, it can't be the sister-in-law anyway. »
« Brilliant premise, Inspector. I'd go so far as « scintillating » if I hadn't established it myself six hours ago. »
« Gimme that statement. Surely, the father's step-brother — »
« Most improbable. He's Daltonian. »
« Yeah, 'coz you definitely need to tell red from green in order to wield a sodding big machete. »
« No, no, no, no. When the morning brings back Anderson from whatever Underworld he's currently roaming after his IQ, you'll find that the Prozac was hers, not the daughter's, hence she was poisoned then beheaded so you'd suspect the Panamean gardener. The uncle would have stood a fifty-fifty chance to confuse the pills, all her boxes are identical and unlabelled. »
« Oh. »
« My thoughts exactly – six hours ago. »
« But I still don't see — »
« — where she could have hidden the Kar-Bûn-Kel first. I know, I know! Or rather, I don't – yet. That message simply doesn't make sense. Are you certain it was she who left it ? »
« Yeah, eighteenth edition. Graphologist's report. Minute fragments of graphite under her nails. »
He felt rather than saw Sherlock's body unwind at his side under the press of hours, feet shoved far under the coffee table, mussed dark head squeezed against the hard wall to keep it from nodding off. Lestrade had had half a night of sleep, fairly distributed among the last two days. Sherlock had had a catnap while waiting for the crime scene to be cleared. Lestrade sometimes wondered if his room at Baker Street saw him at all, but these premises usually sprouted untasteful inferences about the second room and its owner, and he had learnt to nip them in the bud.
« Anger. » Sherlock's nervous lilt roused him from his own incipient doze. « Why anger ? Of course the woman was angry. She'd just realized she had been poisoned. What use was it writing it down ? »
Lestrade let his eyes slide close. It was unfair, really, that what was at most a gangly elbow rubbing against his arm should release such warmth. Sherlock's words poked at his sleep-addled brain, trailing strange images behind them – a giant ring of steel ; a maroon velvet cushion with a fringe ; a cat, that might have been his father's when he was still living with them in that old cobblered cathedral town called —
His head jerked up only to collide with Sherlock's shoulder. « Wait! » he said urgently, dismissing the lurch in his chest. « Could it have been Angers ? The French town ? Perhaps she never had time to finish her— »
« Your childhood town? » Sherlock's voice cut in, amused, almost — no. Nip that in the bud. « Don't pull an Anderson on me, Lestrade, this is unworthy of you. The Countess of Morcar had no known connection to France and no reason to play hide-and-seek across the Channel. No — but —oh ! »
And there it was, the sight that made Lestrade's breath catch and falter on every sparse occasion : Sherlock's face stilled at last, lambent with certainty while his whole body somehow tensed upwards. Jesus, but it was a good thing Sherlock only took the more interesting cases – Lestrade's blood pressure couldn't have born the sight daily. Or could it ?
« Of course! Oh, of course! Don't you see, Lestrade? The Kar-bûn-kel! »
« You've caught me a stone ? » Lestrade was looking wildly about for a glass of water.
« The Countess spent the first twelve years of her life in Pakistani, which is where her father acquired the jewel. » Sherlock was firing the words staccato-wise as he rummaged for his mobile under the dry tide of paper. « The probability that she spoke Pashto as a child... And the brain can be a vicious operator under trauma... Listen, Greg, she — ah. John ! John, it's me. I need you, John. »
Lestrade had never been less drowsy. In fact, he felt the very opposite of sleep — he felt anger. Dull, rising anger. Sherlock's knack for blowing hot and cold at close quarters was unbearable at the best of times, and now was not a good time. Lestrade was tired, he was hard, and he was listening to a private conversation between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.
« Well, you can sleep when you've answered me. What? Oh, now you're merely procrastinating. It's not as if you needed any beauty sleep, John. Now listen. Can you remember any Pashto word that would sound like anger? Even remotely? I said anger, John. Yes, that's hilarious. What ? »
Lestrade watched as Sherlock pounced on the third file, the one with the graphologist's report. He listened as the younger man uttered a "whoop whoop!" quite unbefitting of the world's only consulting detective.
« Yes ! Yes! It's half blended into the r, that's why they mistook it for an e... Angur. Grapes. The Renaissance style panel in the living room – the one carved with fruit. So obvious. I — what ? Oh yes, your fashionably early shift. Of course. Yes, I'll be back in an hour. Good night, then. »
Sherlock paused mid-gesture and brought the phone back to his ear. « And thank you, John » - but Lestrade had heard the tell-tale click. The bubble of satisfaction in his chest was instantly nipped when he noticed the empty glass of water in Sherlock's hand. Sherlock was all but purring with self-content.
« You're welcome » Lestrade told him wrily.
He was met with a pellucid blue stare. « I don't seem to remember you speaking Pashto tonight, Inspector. »
« I put you on the trail! If I hadn't mentioned Angers — »
« Your subconscious did, Lestrade. I can hardly offer it a handshake. »
Lestrade himself was almost shaking with exasperation. « You'd never have thought of switching languages if it hadn't been for me, you big tosser. I gave you an idea. John bloody Watson gave you an answer ! »
« An answer I'd have spent precious minutes looking up on the Web. In fact, I should thank my stars that I have a flatmate with inordinary language skills. »
« Well, he's not the only one. » They were both sounding childish, Lestrade knew, but it didn't help that Sherlock had reverted to his initial floppy stance next to him while drinking his water and maligning his linguistic abilities.
Then inspiration struck, and he leant forward.
« Bet you I can talk for five whole minutes in a language you won't understand. »
The pellucid stare turned stony. « I have a French grandmother, Lestrade. »
« Yeah, right. »
« And I'm not interested in any Western patois you might or might not have picked up during your first twelve years. »
« Yeah, yeah. So, a language known to a vast community of people, but not you. »
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and Lestrade was reminded once more of the snake-like, changeable cat he had loved as a child.
« And if I do get it? »
« I'll — give you a lift to Baker Street. »
« And if I don't ? »
Lestrade leant a bit closer. « You get to shut that fine wanking mouth of yours for five - whole - minutes » he said, careful to detach the last three words. They remained sitting, sizing each other up before the low table and the discarded files. Was this what it felt like, being Sherlock's adversary? His arch-enemy? The adrenaline was an unpredicted blessing; manna to his veins after their forty-hour crossing of the desert.
« You're on. »
Lestrade inhaled deeply, mouth dry and smiling. « Good. » He pivoted so that he could face Sherlock from a more comfortable posture, never letting his gaze drift away from its target. Sherlock's lips were still half open, slightly damp from the water he'd sipped. Lestrade licked his quickly.
« I'm just about done being mikkied, treacle » he began. « Pegged for a spanner by a spiv that raises an argy-bargy soon as he spots my two and blues, but can't keep his hooter from the heat longer than a moon. » Sherlock blinked. « Yeah, me for the abdabs when you go mad alicking and I ask myself, will he end up jammy, that jam roll? Or end tits-up? It's a sore ball-ache, keeping up with your barney rubble, and scratch the bit of ding-dong at the end of the day. Tl, dr: don't give me lair, treacle, or I'll go in for the pull before you can say one and half. » (1)
He waited a moment more, but Sherlock, though he was done blinking, was still looking at him in wide-mouthed disbelief. Well, he'd had his chance. Lestrade grabbed the slim shoulders none too gently and pulled his consultant up against him, tilting his head to kiss the handsome spiv full on the lips. He kept it short and merciful – that is, short of the ominous five minutes – but kept his hold tight until Sherlock's soft gasp for breath confirmed that he had been well and truly pulled.
« You didn't keep your mouth shut » he then observed with forgivable complacency.
Sherlock pushed him back and straightened up, the very picture of outrage.
« I didn't have to. That was... utter... gibberish. »
« Maybe. But it's pretty useful gibberish when you start out in my trade, treacle. Come, I'll drive you home. »
Sherlock waited until the long coat had landed on him with a soft plop to rearrange himself on the sofa, using the garment as a makeshift blanket.
« Oh, so you admit you've lost ? »
« Not at all. I can't have lost if you cheated. Slang is an informal use of language, not a language per se. And you can drive me to Morcar Manor tomorrow. »
« I see. » Lestrade turned off the ceiling lights and crossed back to the couch, lifting a fold of warm cashmere to snuggle in next to its owner. « G'night, you. »
He was so focused on keeping his breathing even that he almost missed Sherlock's murmured « Kip tight, Greg ».
FINIS
(1) I've had enough being ignored, sweetheart. Taken for a fool by a smart tosser who cocks up a verbal dispute from the moment he sees my police car but can't keep his nose out of danger for longer than a month. Yeah, I'm terrified when you run off on a tangent and I'm left wondering, will he be lucky this time, the bloody idiot? Will he be dead? It's a heartrending task, keeping up with all your trouble, with not even a nice shag to look forward to in the end. In short : stop messing with me, sweetheart, or I'll kiss the hell out of you before you can say scarf.
[Author apologizes for the improbable casserole of slang and rhyming Cockney.]