Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade steps into his office with a hot cuppa in one hand. It's the good stuff, not from the break room but from the Muslims on the corner. He looks at the clutter at his desk while unconsciously appreciating the promised warmth in his hand. Having his hands full prevents Lestrade from running them over his face, and today he doesn't need to rearrange what he's holding to do that. Today, today is a good day and Lestrade is not feeling especially tired or worn in.
Roman Stage is currently in a holding cell and the man had come willingly enough when Lestrade and Inspector Barton had cornered him at the Lister Hospital. With his grandmother watching, Stage had been on the verge of confessing too. An interrogation cell and Lestrade hinting that the woman stood observing from the other side of the one-way glass, hell, Barton even supposed that he could convince her to come and actually stand on that side of the one-way glass-and they'd have the case and the paperwork wrapped before five.
Lestrade shuffles a few pages to clear a space at his desk. Most of the paperwork belongs to Sally. He'd have to compliment her, for they wouldn't have made the collar if she hadn't taken charge of much of the calls and research regarding Roman Stage. The man had had a dozen aliases and addresses. Lestrade and Barton's teams would have been run to the ground chasing all of Stage's shadows. He would have left town after saying goodbye to his grandparents. Scotland Yard had been very close to losing him.
Eight deaths this week, all gang related. And still, the public had needed an arrest to happen and the media had never needed an excuse to ask who would be safe before that happened. Stay out of the gangs and yes, you will be safe, Greg would not have to shout at the next press release.
The killings had been the product of one man, said the forensics. Anderson had pushed the evidence through with uncanny efficiency to arrive at that point. The DNA on scene had not fit anyone in any database, so cold cases had to be dug through and police records outside of London scoured for similarities. Tuesday had been a full shift of sitting in the narrow basement at Scotland Yard in a fort of boxes and files. Greg and Sally and Syl had spent eight long hours checking and rechecking the information and DNA available from numerous gang killings for anything comparable. It had seemed hopeless, that search for a pin in a haystack with a timer ticking above their heads. And yet, not once did anyone on Lestrade's team complain. He had felt their expectations, though-that Greg would be the first to capitulate-always-in summoning Sherlock. Sally and Syl could let go of the unresolved cases far better than Greg ever could.
They had found enough to hint at a few previous gang killings in London that had been dismissed as low priority, but had similar characteristics to their current case and enough DNA to run through the system for a comparison. That had brought too many new leads to narrow down as the available forensics were tested. Despite the one tedious triumph leading to a larger tedious obstacle, by that day's end nobody had lost it on one another. Greg Lestrade will take that when he can get it. Their killer wouldn't wait for them-though Greg could take consolation in the fact that the man would probably disappear, rather than continue with murdering people. Greg Lestrade will take that too, when he can get it.
With the daunting task of investigating a hundred new inquiries to track down one solid thread worth focusing on, Lestrade had not called Sherlock-though it would have been the easiest route. Greg's only challenge then would have been in convincing Sherlock Holmes to help. Dressing up the crime, assigning drama and portraying the cleverness of the infraction is not something Lestrade enjoys doing in the least. Felonies are not meant to be brandished about for attention. 'But wait, there's more...'
And there's also the issue of conceding that they were out of their depth. A visit to Sherlock often leaves Lestrade feeling as if he had chipped a piece away from the confidence he has in himself and his team and his duty to the city and her people. It's Lestrade's job, not Sherlock's, to serve and protect London.
To route the team's disappointment, the Detective Inspector had promised Donovan that they could solve the case themselves, and when he summoned help it had only been from Detective Inspector Barton. The man owed Greg a favour and seemed to enjoy the streetwork. He also liked dinosaurs or something, which earned him favour with Anderson. Once more, Greg takes any blessings when he can.
Together, the four pushed pavement and knocked on doors and followed a trail years old and made by a ghost. By the end of the next day, Sally had picked out the name of Roman Stage over all other aliases involved in the cases, and Lestrade had met with a landlord whose renters still received Mr. Stage's mail. Barton put together a small family tree as the only known contacts with Roman and discovered a grandfather had been entered in police records earlier that very week after being a victim in a car accident, and together the inspectors had set out to the hospital to see if the man's grandparents could hint at where Roman had been living or where he may go if he needed to lay low.
By luck, the two detectives had walked into the room with Roman Stage in it. Lestrade had known that this was their man by how he reacted upon seeing their identifying badges. It could have turned violent. It didn't. Lestrade had been speaking before he knew it, hands open and indicating the older woman present and her sick husband in the bed. He and Barton had appealed to Stage to not start a fight with his family present. Dear Lord, it had been easy after that. Roman Stage has a sentimental spot for how his grandparents perceive him. Lestrade and Barton were respectful of that, never once needing to communicate the scheme with the other, and Roman Stage had cooperated fully with the polite and professional officers of the Yard during his arrest.
Barton had thanked Lestrade later, buying him his coffee-the good stuff-and expressing how grateful he was to have helped out in Lestrade's case. Barton had also been pleased to have avoided confrontation at the end. This is one of the reasons why Lestrade likes the guy.
Yes, they had been lucky. Stage had not skipped town, though it had been clear that he had been giving a sort of farewell to his family before being interrupted by his arrest. Perhaps the inspectors could count the grandfather's car accident as luck, for Roman may have not stayed had he been assured of his old man's health. And Lestrade and Barton had been fortunate to chance across him when they had, and where they could avoid drawing firearms or being harmed by one willing to murder small groups of violent people. Even the circumstances for the eventual confession were fortuitous. And still, sipping at his drink, Greg decides that he doesn't mind the good fortune. The detectives involved had worked hard for this one. It's something to be proud of.
There isn't a knock, but the door swings open and Lestrade is surprised to see Sherlock Holmes. The consulting detective strides right up to the desk and slaps down the morning's newspaper in the space Lestrade had cleared.
"Roman Stage," the detective states. He points at the cover where there is an article on the recent gang slayings. "He has several other names, but you are looking for Roman Stage."
Lestrade cannot breathe, he feels stuck in time. Indecision keeps him there, before he can utter a, "what?"
Sherlock heaves a sigh and turns away dramatically. "Your killer, Detective Inspector. Do keep up."
Lestrade's hesitation is not from Sherlock's unexpected arrival and climactic announcement, but rather more from the sudden insistent opportunity it brings. Lestrade's not sure how to use this.
"And where would I find this...Roman Stage?" Lestrade asks, hoping he can keep the smugness from giving himself away. He's probably being obvious. Sherlock, though, doesn't notice.
Of course he doesn't notice. Sherlock is showing off and it's currently all about Sherlock.
"He's staying at a hostel called the Travel Joy under an assumed name and has intentions of leaving London in the next few days. It's a wonder he's stayed so long after the crime but for the fact that Scotland Yard's brightest don't have a clue. You'll probably have no problem catching him unawares if you don't utterly bungle that up. If you need, I'll give you the data to illicit a full confession. It's hard to counteract the facts and Roman Stage is the type to quit if it's in his best interest."
It takes a lot of self-discipline to not stand up and shout "WRONG" and Lestrade would find it deliciously poetic to pull his phone out, send a text and have Sherlock's pocket chime with the response. Oh, that would be beautiful.
Lestrade settles for raising an eyebrow and pointing out, "I never asked for your help on this."
"I solved it from my sofa reading the newspaper this morning. Then five minutes on Google. You didn't ask for help because you don't yet know you need it." Sherlock paces and talks to the tiles over the room. One of the tiles is slowly soaking up water from a leak. The impeccably styled man is out of place in Lestrade's cluttered office. "I only intervened because he is leaving town today or tomorrow and by the time you ask for my help, the trail will be cold. You're welcome, by the way."
Lestrade measures in a breath, and then expels it. He counts to three. He puts his cup down and shifts back in his chair and up until now he assumes that Sherlock is waiting for him to come to terms with his pride and confess his gratitude or ineptitude. Lestrade says instead, "Roman Stage is not at the Travel Joy hostel."
The certainty in Lestrade's statement prevents Sherlock Holmes from snapping into an argument or pushing the issue. The consulting detective turns and looks at Lestrade. He really looks, and Lestrade doesn't buckle under the gaze.
"You have him in lock-up," identifies Sherlock after a pause. He doesn't quite cover the disappointment in his tone.
"Cuffed him myself an hour and a half ago," Lestrade answers. "Didn't know about the hostel, though. It's very helpful of you. We may have needed to know that if he's going to be difficult about the confession." How Lestrade offers this tells Sherlock that Lestrade doesn't believe the confession is going to be difficult to obtain.
The tall man scoffs, and then looks around the room anew.
Lestrade cannot help but add, "we worked hard on this one. Anderson and Donovan were indispensable-"
"You were lucky," Sherlock interrupts. He doesn't look back at the desk as he turns away and stalks to the door.
Lestrade lets him leave and doesn't see the point in defending himself or his team. Greg Lestrade will take luck where he can find it. He doesn't remind Sherlock Holmes that it had been luck that had led to Lestrade meeting him all those years ago, in a park on a cold night not far from the very hospital Greg had just visited. Sherlock probably doesn't remember that, nor would Lestrade expect the consulting detective to appreciate the fortune of that chance encounter. Not a lot of addicts survive the cold alone, and not a lot of beat cops walk through that park for no reason.
Lestrade salutes the door closing with his well-earned drink instead. It's strangely nice not having to look forward to chasing Sherlock Holmes down for a statement.
"Wow."
Greg Lestrade holds his almost empty paper cup and looks up at John Watson. He raises his eyebrows in inquiry.
John shakes his head, holding his own cup. "I feel unoriginal. Here I just told a story about how I'd love to have Sherlock clean the sink out, and you've got this whole thing scripted out."
"It's not that scripted," Greg objects.
"No, it is," John grins. "I'm the one with the blog telling stories about Sherlock, and you outdo me here. You've invented a bad guy, and a case. You've got other characters involved. It's adventurous with a hint of danger."
Greg tests the weight of his finished drink and wishes it were full again. He probably shouldn't order a refill at this hour. The caffeine will keep him up all night. He offers, "you could put your landlady into your hypothetical story. She comes upstairs and there isn't a corpse on the sofa. Could involve a gunfight in a tidy apartment."
John doesn't laugh, which tells Lestrade that the doctor doesn't find this example a mere hyperbole. John laments, "it'd just be nice if he cleaned up every so often. I buy a new toothbrush every week. I don't believe him when he says he hasn't touched mine in some experiment."
While he should have no reason to, Greg can appreciate the sentiment. He'd love to not have to keep replacing his warrant cards because of the detective. The doctor and the inspector had encountered one another at the coffee shop on the corner, and both had found time and an available table to sit and visit. The thing they shared most in common had been their respected reasons to aggrieve over one Sherlock Holmes and that had lead to the thought experiment of describing an impossible moment each would enjoy having with the detective.
Lestrade could concede that his own story had been much more elaborate compared to John's. It probably said a lot about the army doctor that if he could rewrite something about Sherlock Holmes, it would simply involve more courtesy in their living space. Animal lungs in the bathtub though...Jesus, that is gross.
And what did it say about Lestrade that his daydream regarding Sherlock Holmes involved himself and his team one-upping the detective on a case. That said more about Lestrade and his confidence in his skills, and even in the story Lestrade himself had created it had been luck and not deduction that had won him the day. This is Greg's job, and the safety of London-and he can only outwit Sherlock Holmes in a story game with luck, no matter how well that invented story is told...
He catches himself trying to drink from his empty cup as a sort of comfort of habits and makes himself stop. John isn't going to comment or critique. John is wonderfully not judgemental.
"You guys do good work," John Watson finally says. "Sherlock's just...Sherlock."
Greg makes a noise of agreement and puts the cup down. He laces his fingers together.
"And it is a good story," John continues. "You've put a lot a thought into Sherlock barging in and solving the case, and how you play with it. But you're also not cruel."
Greg's more pleased than he wants to admit, having his storytelling praised by the blogger. He's read most of John's entries. It's not literary art, but it's still good writing.
"And you include your team in the solving of the case, which is...nice," John chooses the word, and then sets his cup down too. "I do see the appeal of beating Sherlock to the punch. I've imagined myself coming up with an observation or clue before him on cases before, too."
"And it doesn't happen, and you still do it the next case, and the next..." Greg agrees.
"And in your story, he doesn't even admit that it's a thing, just throws a fit," John huffs. "Which is typical."
Greg feels half of his mouth turn up, and then he pushes his chair back and stands. "It could happen someday. We could find an especially difficult culprit without Sherlock's help, and you could rest easy with the knowledge that you know where your toothbrush has been."
John smiles back too, his face telling Greg that John believes this as much as Greg does.
"See you at the next murder?"
"Yeah, see you then."