Chapter 1
Fucking horrible.
Attired in yesterday's wrinkled dress shirt, snatched from the bedroom floor in the dark, Captain Tommy Gregson was facing the most fucking horrible day in his career and it was only 5:00 in the morning. As Gregson approached his office at a worried trot, running his hand through his un-brushed hair, he knew damn straight he hadn't even gotten near to the worst of it.
Yet.
.
.
.
"Captain?" Detective Marcus Bell materialized from somewhere to his the left, reminding Tommy just how off his senses really were. Good damn thing he wasn't on the street right now. They stood together for a moment, wounded.
"Marcus." The detective looked as frayed as Gregson felt.
Shifting from foot to foot, Bell seemed uncharacteristically at a loss. "Captain, I'm sure glad you're here. Tell me what I can do to help. Is there anyone I can call?"
Gregson found that a surprisingly painful thought and the wince on Bell's face probably mirrored his own. "No, probably not. Not anymore." Fighting a lurch in his chest, he pressed on. "How did you even catch this?"
Detective Bell rubbed a hand across the back of his neck before answering. His top button was undone and his ever-present tie was long since abandoned. "Just luck, I guess. Although not the sort of luck I would have ever wanted." He looked up at the ceiling, blinking hard for a second. "It was awful. Two uniforms were bringing him in as a John Doe. He couldn't even walk under his own steam. No ID. He wouldn't—probably couldn't—speak. I don't think he even recognized me."
That damn catch was back in Tommy's chest again. "Jesus." He pulled himself back into the moment. He was a leader and he'd sure as hell better start leading. "I'm sure I know the answer, but, Marcus, how is he?"
"Honestly, Captain, I think it's bad. He hasn't said a word, which has me worried. I've got a medic on short notice. You know. In case."
Gregson's shaky hands scrubbed at his forehead, his face. His eyes. Eyes that felt as though they'd been peppered with ground glass. "Yeah, I know."
After a moment he rested a hand on Bell's shoulder. "You holding up?"
Marcus shook his head, lips pressed tightly together. "Nope. Not at all. I plan to get black-out drunk the moment I get home."
Gregson nodded, that tightening in his chest had crawled up to his throat.
Fucking horrible.
.
.
.
A uniformed officer was standing anxiously outside Gregson's office door. How does someone even stand anxiously? He found himself wondering for a split second. That said, the man penned up inside could do that to most people with one glance.
The anxious uniform came to something of an odd attention before Tommy settled him with a hand on the man's forearm and a quick glance at the younger man's name tag. "Hey, it's ok. Just a report please Owens."
The fresh faced man looked like he'd been on shift all night.
Probably had.
His voice was forgivably unsure "I tried Captain. To get him into something clean. Washed up. But…"
Gregson could only imagine how that went. "Yeah. That's ok."
With one hand on the doorknob Tommy Gregson found himself wanting nothing more that to turn around, go home, and take a page from Bell's book—getting black out drunk. If traffic was light he could forget this…well, no, not forget it…he could dull this whole disaster by 6:00. Instead he called back over his shoulder, "Hey, Owens, do me a favour. Find a couple of wet cloths and slip them in the door." He turned back towards the door before remembering another pressing need. "Oh, and ask Bell to go to their place and grab some real clothes."
Even catatonic, there was no way Sherlock Holmes was going wear standard-issue department sweats.