PRELUDE TO THE FUGUE
.
...Gregson doesn't make any documentable appearances after Holmes's hiatus that ended in 1894. He is the first detective in the Canon to summon Holmes. He is Scotland Yard's smartest in Holmes's opinion, and the two men get along wonderfully. Which leads one to wonder why Holmes was working with Lestrade alone at the time of "The Final Problem." We see Gregson investigating organized crime in REDC and suddenly he's gone in FINA, a tale of Holmes's biggest battle against organized crime. Might Gregson have been killed by Moriarty during the late 1880s? -'Sherlock Peoria'
I.
London
1887
The last time Inspector Lestrade sees his friend and colleague alive is late on a Saturday afternoon in April, when they are both seated in the back corner of a dark and dirty public house in East London and Gregson happens to mention he's been followed of late.
They're not here to drink, they're here to talk, and so the two pints of porter on the table are still full to the brim, froth dribbling over the glass rims and pooling on the tabletop. Everyone speaks quietly here, conspirationally, plotting revolution and felony and God knows what else. If Lestrade were on duty, he'd have arrested half the patrons by now.
But he's not. And there's only one conversation he's giving his full attention to, and that is the one he's currently engaged in.
"Followed?" he says gravely, leaning forward. "Why? Does it have to do with that case you're working, that string of murders?"
"I haven't the slightest idea. But I thought I should tell you. You know nearly as much about the whole affair as I do."
"Have you informed anyone else? Have you told the super?"
Gregson chuckles morosely. "I highly doubt it's worth bringing up with him quite yet. But you, I worried you might…" He runs one hand through his hair. He's gotten thinner of late, the result of too many late nights and not enough meals in between. "Nothing has happened to you, am I right?"
"Well, no, but… What do you mean, exactly, when you say you've been 'followed'?" Lestrade asks.
"It's always one person," Gregson explains. "Not sure if it's the same person each time, mind, I've never been able to get all that close a look at them. Generally, it's in the evenings, when I head home from the office."
"Keep their distance, do they?"
"I've ever seen 'em closer than fifty yards." Gregson twists his hands nervously and tries his best to smile, for Lestrade's sake. "Funny, this."
"Don't see me laughing, do you?" The porter is starting to look awfully appealing at the moment. Lestrade finally wraps one hand around his glass, the condensation making his fingers slide, and takes a small sip. He wipes the foam from his lip with the back of his hand and closes his eyes with a small, barely satisfied sigh. "I'm not going to bid you be careful, because you will do so on your own account." One wary eye opens again. "Correct?"
Gregson chuckles and throws some spare change onto the table, getting to his feet with a small grunt. "I should get going," he declares. "It's been weeks since I've caught more than three hours of sleep in one go, and I fully intend to dedicate my entire evening to the enterprise."
One more swallow of the lukewarm porter and Lestrade stands as well. They are, without a doubt, the first patrons of the bar in years to step out the front door fully sober.
The sun has already begun to set, casting a dull red glow the color of dried blood that leaks over the rooftops and factory smokestacks. The air is still cold, spring not having quite arrived, and so Gregson walks quickly, taking comfort in the light pit-pat of Lestrade's footsteps behind him. They move down the small side-road quietly; it is not until they've almost reached the main that Gregson turns and casts a hollow look at his partner.
"Lestrade," he says, quietly, as if the walls have ears, "Lestrade, I've found something."
"Pardon?" Lestrade freezes, his low, even breathing visible in the form of small bursts of steam.
"While I was investigating. I found something—someone, rather—and it's a matter of grave importance, I can feel it. Everything… Well. I'm afraid I cannot tell you now, not until I'm certain. But I believe this is why I'm being shadowed."
Lestrade blinks rapidly, five times in quick succession. "Do what you need to do," he mutters. "Just don't go around inviting trouble to your door. Dig yourself into a ditch and nine chances from ten I'm the one who ends up digging you out. "
"I would never wish such an ill upon you, Lestrade." Gregson manages to smile. It almost reaches his eyes. Lestrade nods tersely and the two of them proceed, albeit slightly slower, savoring the normalcy, as if they know.
(Oh, but they couldn't possibly. You see, it's all supposed to be a jolly big surprise.)
At the main road, Lestrade starts to turn left, only to see that Gregson is not following him. "How now! Your home's thataway," he shouts.
"Oh. Well, I've only just remembered… There's something that needs taking care of. Back at the office." Gregson laughs. "You're well acquainted with my absentmindedness, I'm sure. I shall see you on Monday," he promises.
Lestrade nods and watches Gregson grow smaller and smaller as the distance between them widens—watches until the other man rounds a corner and is gone. Lestrade waits where he stands for a few brief moments, then turns and trudges slowly towards home, an eerie, ugly sensation curling in the pit of his stomach.
.
"It is incurable, I'm afraid."
The sitting room of Baker Street resembles, for once, more an actual living space and less a storage unit for old papers. Mainly due to the fact that its two habitual occupants have been gone for the past three weeks.
"A foul disease is this!" A door slams shut. "Utterly inescapable, its grip as tight as the constricting power of a python, its symptoms—"
"As usual, Holmes, you make far too large a deal out of nothing," Watson chirps, his expression wavering between amused and annoyed.
Holmes collapses into a heap upon the settee, a scowl on his angular features. "A pox!" he declares. "A pox upon me! The wretched, revolting, greusome plague of—"
"A mild onslaught of ennui has never killed anyone before, Holmes." Watson snaps his newspaper open and settles down in his armchair. "If you must wallow in boredom, at least be proactive about getting yourself out of it. Haven't you a monogram to be researching?"
"Pah! Research. Only for the lesser minded individual. The truly intelligent know without combing through the mediocre works of others." Flipping onto his stomach, Holmes proceeds to bury his nose into a throwpillow and inhale deeply. "Oh, my dear Watson, but four days home and already I pine for some activity to engage my brain."
The newspaper gives a small crinkle of protest as Watson sets it down and folds it neatly over his knee. "Holmes, do be reasonable," he says. "You were very ill for quite some time. It was only fair that I suggested—"
"Dictated!"
"—suggested, my dear Holmes, that you rest. Is that really too much to ask?"
"My brain, Watson!"
"It's your body I'm worried about. Stop griping, you will thank me later."
"Does tomorrow constitute as 'later'? Because I shall still loathe you for this in twenty-four hours, you mark my words." Holmes stretches languidly, arms dangling over one end of the settee and feet hooking over the other. "Oh, for a case…"
There's a sharp knock on the door. With a quiet moan of resignation and another crackle of the paper, Watson gets to his feet and walks across the room, his tread for once unimpeded by stacks of files upon the floor. He opens the door and looks down to see Billy standing in the hall, an envelope in his hand.
"Good afternoon, Doctor," the boy says, smiling. "Letter for you."
"Thank you. Run along and ask Mrs. Hudson when dinner will be ready, there's a good lad." Billy nods; moments later, the sound of his rapid footsteps resounding off the stair floods the sitting room. Then there comes distant shouting.
"Missus Hudsooon! Missus Hudsooon! Doctor Watson wants to know…"
The small voice fades to inaudible mumbling. Watson returns to his armchair and sets to opening the envelope, pulling out the letter, and scanning its contents. In the brief time it takes to engage in these three actions, Holmes has managed to vacate the settee, sprawl himself on the rug in front of Watson's chair, and mutter, "Can you curse a pox upon a pox, I wonder?"
"Do be quiet, Holmes."
"Perfectly valid question, Watson. What does the letter say?"
"It is from a friend of mine, a colonel. He's asking for us to stay at his estate." Watson flips the paper over to check for further writing; there is none. "He lives in Surrey; perhaps this would be a good opportunity for you to leave the city, reclaim some of your health."
"Mmmmmnnngggguh."
"It would give you something to do."
Holmes sits up and holds out a slender hand for the letter, which Watson reluctantly hands over. Three seconds later and the paper is back in Watson's lap, tossed there by a disinterested Holmes.
"Surrey—What does one do there, exactly?" he groans.
"Recuperation." Watson brandishes the letter about. "Holmes, this could be just what you need. By the time we return, you shall be whole and hale and ready to take on every crime that London has to offer."
Holmes is silent for nearly five minutes time. Watson spends the interim perusing the rest of his newspaper, skimming over announcements of marriage and news of an incident in Schnaebele on the Continent. By the time he's reached the agony columns, Holmes has flipped over where he lies and is grumbling something altogether incoherent into the rug.
"I'm sorry, my dear fellow, what was that?"
"I said I'll go." Holmes' expression is priceless—an amalgamation of petulant five-year-old and young, spurned lover. "But by God, if anything happens in London while we are away, I am holding you accountable."
Watson raises his eyebrows and returns to the paper, another small victory won. "Oh, trust me, my dear Holmes," he mumbles. "Nothing interesting could possibly happen in this city in your absence."
.
Headquarters are silent, a normal state for Saturday evenings. Gregson enters through the unlocked back doors—for a police station, the building has terribly lax security—and goes straight to his office.
Lestrade mustn't know, nobody must know, that's the key. He's a good enough liar to have gotten away with it thus far. It's a terribly uncomfortable ruse to keep up with, however. Really, hiding the results of an investigation? Gregson is fairly certain that's three kinds of illegal, but since when did he care about legality when justice was at stake?
He steps into his office and shut the door behind him, the room pitch dark all around. Gregson slowly makes his way over to his desk and finds the gas lamp, turning it up slowly and watching a dim, yellow glow spread across the room.
Right, good, to work. He removes a key from the inside pocket of his jacket and bends to open the bottom-most drawer of his desk, where he's hidden all papers pertinent to the current investigation. Hardly a safe, yes, but it'll do for now, until he can afford to move them someplace—
Click.
Gregson snaps his head up and glances around. "Who's there?" he snaps, slipping the key back into his pocket. "I say, who—"
A cold, hard pressure materializes on the back of his head.
"Mr. Gregson," a wheedling voice rasps. "I do believe I haven't had the pleasure. Allow me to introduce myself. I work for the man you've been trying so hard to unearth."
"Wait—"
There's a clink, a pistol cocking—Gregson can feel the minute vibrations being conducted by his skull—and then the barrel twists into Gregson's scalp.
"Mr. Gregson. Cooperate, and you may make it through the evening with your brain intact. Resist, and I can see to it that the fish in the Thames will have a very lovely meal before the day is out.
"Now. Where are the papers?"