A/N: This is the third installment of my speculative AU. This time, the actual case is based around "The Adventure of The Six Napoleons." However, the case itself is told through flashbacks. (You also might notice a slight reference to the cartoon "Sherlock Holmes of the 22nd Century"!) The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.
The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade
Today is not going to be a good day. I just know it. Not only is the one man I hate more than that Moriarty bloke coming back to London, but I'm going to have to work with him again. After what he and my ex-wife did to me... and what about my kids? Ugh. Now, I'll admit, he's a good detective. Knows his stuff. But he's not a good person, by any stretch. Neither is my ex, though I'm still loathe to say it aloud for some reason. Especially after how she's been keeping me from seeing my kids.
I'm massaging my forehead, pinching my brow, running my hands over my face, pacing my office, just... all manner of fidgeting. I'm anxious. Nervous. I can not wait for this day to end.
There's a knock at my door. It's Donovan. She looks concerned. I signal for her to come in.
"Incomin'," is all she says.
"Oh, God, he's here?" I ask wearily.
"Yeah, and he looks pissed. Any clue why?"
"I'll tell you why: He's got Beth holed up somewhere," that man bellows. All full bearded, grey-templed, dark-eyed six-foot-two of him. Where the hell does he get off accusing me of something like that?
"Sorry? I haven't seen her in eight years. And, I actually have some decency, and would never kidnap my own daughter, you arse." I immediately regret adding that derogatory, despite how much he deserved it. Man's got a hair-trigger temper. Practically explodes.
"Excuse me? I'm the arse? After what you did to Linda?" he asks pointedly. I shoot up outta my seat at that.
"Me? Me? Just how tightly wound does she have you wrapped round her finger? I didn't do a bleedin' thing!"
"Sir, you might wanna calm down a bit..." Donovan warns. She's right. This is no time for a row. I take a deep breath and slowly sit back down.
"So, is Sal your leash or something now?" he jeers. Donovan shoots him a scowl.
"Back off of her. This is between you and me. Now... if you can... calmly explain to me why my daughter isn't at home and just why in the world you think I would take her? The restraining order hasn't worn off yet. Not for another three days." He gives me a skeptical look. "Yes, I've been keeping track, Gregson. Seeing as how I'm their father, I should know these things. So, I'm going to ask you again, 'Old Boy Toby'... What happened to my daughter?"
The Viewpoint of Dr John Watson
Today is shaping up to be a good day. At least so far. Sherlock's in a decent mood as he's wrapped up in another cold case, Little Sherlock's spending the day with his Auntie Harry since I promised her she could last week, I don't have work today, and I feel... relaxed. It's good. Though, we're out of milk. Again. So, I'm off to do the shopping. I grab my coat, grab my key, grab my wallet, grab the doorknob, open the door and...
There's a young brunette girl standing in front of me, looking like she was about to knock. She can't be any older than thirteen, by the looks of it.
"Can I help you?" I ask, a bit startled. I take a quick look at her, and she looks like a fairly typical kid. Hair pulled up in a ponytail, pale blue zip-up hoodie, deep green tee, dark jeans, and a pair of red converse. With a little observation, I realise that her outfit is rather thrown together. Sure, I know nothing about kids fashion these days, but I do notice that the hoodie has a broken zipper, one of her sleeves is bulky at the shoulder, hiting that her tee sleeve is caught in it, her jeans are a tad too short, and she's wearing her shoes on the wrong feet, one of them's not even tied properly. So, I think she was in a hurry. The small purple backpack she's wearing is a good indicator that I'm right. Leaving in a hurry, wearing a backpack...
She's run away from home.
"I'm looking for my dad. I need to find him before my step-dad does," she says a bit out of breath. I raise an eyebrow.
"Wha? Who's your dad? What's the rush that you'd run from home to find him?" I ask. Her eyes go wide.
"How'd you know 'bout that? How'd you know I ran?" she murmurs.
"Well, your outfit seems a bit... ah, thrown together. Shoes aren't on right. And, you're wearing a small travel backpack. Not to mention you're by yourself," I answer. She then studies me a bit.
"Wait," she says after a pause. "You're the blogger. Saw your profile photo. Dr Watson, right?"
"Yeah."
"Great! Then maybe you can help me. My name's Bethany. Beth for short. My dad's Detective Inspector Lestrade. Can you take me to where he lives?"
The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade
"Lestrade, this is Tobias Gregson. You're going to be his partner for a while," the Super tells me, pointing this really tall bearded guy out to me. I offer my hand.
"Nice to meet you, Gregson. I'm Sergeant Greg Lestrade," I say. He grabs and vigorously shakes my hand, practically crushing it.
"Oh, no need to be so formal! Just call me Toby. My last partner used to call me 'Old Boy Toby,' so that'll work as well," he says. He then releases my hand. Seeing the sorry state it's in after only a few seconds, he apologises.
"Don't worry about it. Guess you're one of those 'Don't know my own strength' types, eh?" I ask. We both laugh at this, the Super joining in with his usual chuckle.
"Seems to me that you're going to get along just fine without me. So, gentlemen, here's your first assignment..."
"This morning, as I was getting ready to head up here, I went to say goodbye to the kids," Gregson starts.
"My kids," I mutter under my breath.
"And when I peek into their rooms, Beth isn't there. She took her toothbrush, a travel pack of toothpaste I was planning on bringing with me, as well as my travel shampoo and conditioner, this old digital watch of hers that she used as an alarm, and that tiny purple backpack of hers, from what we could initially tell. I also noticed this morning that she'd nicked about £50 out of my wallet," he laments.
"Happy fourth, Beth!" we both announce. Beth is overjoyed. She opens my presents first.
"A backpack! And a watch! And they're both violet! Yay! Thanks, Dad!" she exclaims, leaping onto me for a hug. Nearly topples us both. She's giggling in my ear and I can't help but chuckle myself.
"You're welcome, sweetheart. Now, don't forget to see what Mummy got you!"
"Did she now?" I ask a bit dreamily. "Sorry, just remembering where she got that backpack and watch. How could you let that happen? You're supposed to be her guardian."
"Don't need you berating me for it. You lost them," he retorts. I want to respond with some extremely strong language, but I wisely decide against it. I take another deep breath.
"Just answer the question. And sit down, I'd rather us be on the same level."
The Viewpoint of Dr John Watson
"Your dad's Lestrade? Right, I remember him saying he was a dad a few months ago," I mutter to myself. "Ah, well, I don't know if he's home at the moment. Why don't I phone him and see?" I offer. She nods. I then pull out my phone and find his contact. Beth then grabs at my sleeve.
"If my step-dad already found him, don't let him let on that you're talking about me," she instructs. I nod, and I make the call.
The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade
As Gregson's starting to explain, my phone buzzes.
"Hang on, could be a case update," I say and pick up. "Hello?"
"Greg? Hey, it's John. Listen, whatever you do, don't let on that you're talking to me," he says.
"Okay. What's up?" I ask
"Where are you, New Scotland Yard?"
"Yeah."
"Figured. Well, when you get the chance, let me know when you're headed home. Your daughter came to my doorstep, asking for help to find you. I think she's run off from home." I act like I'm not stunned by this news as best as I can. Don't want Gregson knowing.
"Got it. I've got a client right now, but I'll let you know. Bye," I say, hanging up the phone.
The Viewpoint of Dr John Watson
I hang up just after he does and pocket my phone.
"I think your stepdad was in the room when I called. Thankfully, he seemed to do what he could to not let on what we were talking about," I add, reassuring Beth. "Why don't we wait inside for him to phone back?" Beth nods and we head back in. As soon as we do, Mrs Hudson comes out of her flat.
"John? I thought I heard you go out to do the shopping?" she remarks.
"Sorry, can't get to that yet. Little girl lost. I'm having her wait here until her dad calls me back," I explain.
"Oh! Anything I can do? I could go out, if you need me to. What is it you need?" she asks. She's our landlady and is asking that. God bless her.
"Milk, primarily. You are a Godsend." I give her a peck on the cheek in thanks, and she goes out, while I lead Beth upstairs. Once we get into the sitting room, she plops down on the couch and checks her watch. Sherlock's at his desk, leaned over, staring at his... no, wait that's mine again. My computer. I don't mind as much, now that he's letting me tell him my passwords instead of him cracking them.
"You must be Beth Lestrade," he says, not moving. Hate it when he does that. Like he's got eyes in the back of his head. Beth looks at me, quizzically. I just shrug, letting her know it's fine.
"Yeah. How'd you know?" she asks. He spins around in his seat and looks right at her.
"You'd be the right age. Look like your father. Saw you out the window. You're rather attached to him, even though you've never heard from him, never seen him, never even received anything he's gotten for you Your mother's done a real good job keeping you apart," he remarks. I'm about to say something to let him know that was a bit out of line, when Beth shoots right back.
"You're right. She has. So, Dad's been trying to send me stuff?"
"Yes. Every year. Christmas and birthdays, for both you and your brother. I can tell you haven't gotten them, though."
"How?" Beth asks. I'm curious myself. I sit down in my armchair and listen to another Sherlock summary.
"Your clothes, watch, and bag. You don't dress 'girly' on a regular basis as your mother seemed to enjoy doing, as I've seen from photographs your father's shown me, that's a sign of rebellion, picking what you want to wear. I know that because you got dressed in a hurry. If you did dress up on a regular basis, you'd know how to get dressed like that very quickly. You got dressed quick, though you seem to be more used to slipping on shoes, rather than tying them, given that you're wearing the wrong shoes on the wrong feet, not to mention didn't tie one entirely - did no one notice that? You've pulled your hair back to ensure it wasn't obscuring your view or bothering you. You dress simply, efficiently, actively. You probably do some track and field at school, seem to have an athletic build. Thus, you're used to carrying yourself long distances. Why does that matter? Because you've run from home. Run from your mother."
Beth gets a wide eyed look.
"How do I know that? Your watch and bag. The bag, first: Far too small for you, the straps only just go around your arms. It's wearing out in spots, but you seem to have stitched it up a few times here and there. You care for this bag. Given the wear and tear, it has to be at least eight years old. So's the watch, from what I gather from the model. That's not the kind of watch you see in stores lately, certainly not one for your age group. You've poked holes in the band so you can keep wearing it even as your wrist widens out, so you care about the watch. If I may?" He holds out his hand, indicating he wants to examine it. Beth undoes it and hands it to him. "You're due for another poke, by the way. You have red marks on your wrist. It's too tight. Now, then, you've had the battery changed several times. The back has several pry marks, and the screw's been undone just as many times. So, even though you could have gotten a decent new watch, probably of a similar color, but not quite as bulky or small as this, you still insist on keeping this one. Why?"
Beth opens her mouth to answer, but Sherlock stops her, handing her back her watch.
"No, don't answer. Just tell me if I've got this right: These were the last two things you ever received from your father, and you wanted to bring them with you. To prove to him that you still care and only want to live with him. That, and you don't care about anything else your mother may have given you since your parents split."
Silence. Beth just stares at him. Wide eyed, slack jawed.
"Wow," she whispers. "So, how do you know my dad?" Sherlock stares off a moment and starts muttering to himself.
"Right, he couldn't have told you, and I'm never mentioned in police reports." He quickly switches back to a normal volume, and retains eye contact with Beth. "He's the man I work with most when I'm on police cases. Old friend. We met not too long after the divorce," he answers. I'd never heard this before. Only thing I'd ever heard about them meeting was back during our first case. Greg mentioned back then that he'd known Sherlock for five years, and yet he didn't know Sherlock any more than I did.
"What's he been like?" she asks. Sounds like she really doesn't know anything about her dad, the way he is now. It's heartbreaking, being Greg's friend and a father myself. In reply to her question, a familiar voice is at the doorway.
"Why don't you ask me myself?"