Experiment on an Inspector
"It is a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment." (A. C. Doyle: A Study in Scarlet)
Lestrade is a professional. He is used to watch closely, to collect data and to observe and, most importantly, he is used to draw conclusions from what he reads from a crime scene, from bits of information, from the mimics and the statements of a suspect.
The fact that Sherlock is so much faster in coming to the correct conclusions doesn´t imply that Lestrade would easily overlook evidence or tiny signs which lead him to the right track. He wouldn´t have been a police officer for long, after all, had he not the ability to reflect. And he is, after all, more experienced than Sherlock: he has seen an awful lot of incidents, he has had his moments of error and doubt and he reads people quite well.
This is why he suddenly switches into detective inspector mode when one Sunday morning in Headington he notices Sherlock wheezing past John Watson, revealing to him who the victim was and what has caused his death and in passing brushing his fingertips ever so slightly against John´s.
While Lestrade is still watching in awe – certainly Sherlock is not a person who invites on intruding his personal space, let alone enters those of other human beings without a good reason – John´s mouth curves into the tiniest of smiles. But in the blink of an eye everything is back to normal, and Lestrade wipes what he has seen temporarily from his mind.
Several weeks later he is reminded of the incident. This time, the detective and his companion are in Lestrade´s office, Sherlock studying intently the messages saved on a suspect´s mobile, John patiently waiting for further deductions. When Sherlock grabs a biro from Lestrade´s desk to draw out a list of the five last appointments the mobile records, John´s hand reaches out to push it towards the detective´s fingers, and for a moment their fingertips touch, which kindles a tiny smile in Sherlock´s eyes.
Again, Lestrade won´t be sure if asked two hour later whether what he saw actually happened. He is only sure of his cop instinct kicking in, telling him he is missing something.
And then there is this very early, very bright morning near the Thames, the majestic river sparkling from rays of early morning sunlight, when they have chased down a criminal. His team is glowing from relief and the glory of their success when he notices the two men, standing near the river bank, slightly detached from the others, and Sherlock beaming – actually beaming – at the doctor.
A week later they are a new crime scene when Anderson gives his report to Lestrade. Sherlock rushes in fifteen minutes late, John in tow. He greets Anderson with just another insulting observation about his flirt with a women from the office before he rushes on to his own examination of the body. The detective inspector sighs, as he can tell Sherlock is in a very foul mood. He is already prepared to step into their bantering. But it seem that John has kept Sherlock under watch, for he leans closer to his friend, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. Sherlock looks up sharply, first at John, then at Anderson, then at Lestrade, nods and delivers a very tight and thorough report. When the two men leave, John grabs hold of Sherlock´s hand again, hushing something, and they exit, giggling like teenagers.
Lestrade seriously wonders what magic John has worked on Sherlock to pull him out of his depressive mood. And his officer´s instincts are kicking in again with a vengeance. The detective has always appeared more focused, more content because of John´s presence. He still brims of energy when on a case. But his insults on Sally and Anderson have lessened in number and he actually makes an effort to listen to them. But while he seemed to be more at peace with his life ever since he met John, Lestrade has never before seen the consulting detective happy. But that is what Lestrade senses now: happiness.
It is in Sherlock´s smiles, in his movements, in his touch. Remembering John and Sherlock touching, ever so slightly, Lestrade suddenly realizes. This must be more than working together, more than being friends. There has been a shift in their relationship, but for some reason they want to keep it secret. Since when, Lestrade wonders, and why? Certainly Sherlock is not the man to care too much about social rules and requirements. Probably he keeps silent for the benefit of John, who presumably needs more time to come to terms with the situation. But then again the doctor has acted confidently in the last few weeks, not even once attempting to retort to any suggestions that they were a couple.
Does he really need to know, the detective inspector muses as he climbs the stairs to their flat at 221B. Isn´t the decision whether to tell others of their relationship up to them? He opens the door, which, as usual, is not locked. Sherlock stopped bothering to turn the key to his front door ever since Lestrade had to pry his former flat´s door open with a crowbar the day the detective overdosed on cocaine.
Lestrade freezes at the sight of Sherlock, sitting bare-chested on the sofa. John stands behind him, his hands on his flatmate´s shoulders.
"Lestrade," Sherlock offers with an inviting and very relaxed smile.
"Ever so sorry to walk into your wonderful evening, but there have been new developments in the Robert´s case," Lestrade manages to say.
He is answered by a giggle from John and an even wider smile from Sherlock.
"If you´d like to release some of the tension this new development causes you, please feel free to sit down. A massage works wonders on the spirit," Sherlock says.
"No, thank you," Lestrade answers sharply. "John´s your lover, not mine."
Sherlock´s eyebrows inch up and he sends a peculiar gaze towards John, who stifles a laugh. He grabs a T-Shirt from the corner of the sofa, pulls it over and faces Lestrade.
"Whatever gave you the idea we are lovers?" he asks.
"For God´s sake, Sherlock, I´ve simply been observing. The two of you have been touching a lot lately and the other day you giggled like teenagers on my crime scene."
"Right, you´ve won, Sherlock," John laughs. "You really need to tell him the truth."
Sherlock, who now occupies his favourite armchair, staples his sleek fingers under his chin and fixes Lestrade with an intensive stare.
"It was a bet," he says. "John wouldn´t believe me when I said it would be rather easy to lead you on a wrong track. He insisted he knows you as a very experienced officer and he trusts your instincts. But I knew that most people´s conclusions are based on assumptions rather than facts. I asked him if he believed you could block out the rumours if we presented you with some evidence that we are more than just friends. He was certain that you would not jump to conclusions, whereas I knew that yes, indeed, you would. And this is where our experiment has taken us."
Lestrade slumps onto the second armchair, fuming. "An experiment? A bloody bet?" he fumes.
John returns from the kitchen and presents him a mug of tea. "We needed to settle our dispute on who´s to buy the milk. And Sherlock was bored stiff when we were talking this over, so I agreed on it to keep him from harming himself," he explains.
"You don't bloody bet on your employer, for God´s sake," Lestrade retorts.
Sherlock curls up in his chair, knees under his chin. "Probably not. But I wanted to prove my point and you were the nearest object available. I couldn't have used Sally or Anderson, for they are not equipped with the same powers of observation as you are."
Lestrade runs a hand through his hair. "Christ, I´m not an object, Sherlock! I´m good at my job and you know that."
"If you are that good, what led you to assume that John and I are sexually related?"
"I saw you touching. You were smiling a lot. And you seemed happier than I´ve ever seen you."
"Is this all the evidence you have?" Sherlock asks.
"Yes. And it´s enough, if you ask me."
Sherlock chuckles. "Ah, the good detective inspector is being stubborn," he says. "Didn't it occur to you that we could be making all this up?"
"No, it didn´t."
"And may I ask why?"
"Because I wanted to believe it, I guess," Lestrade answers wearily. In fact, he has not quelled his suspicions or questioned himself whether the friend´s display of affection was real. He didn´t because he wanted Sherlock to be happy, he wanted a decent life for the wrecked, brilliant kid he once knew.
Sherlock reads his mind in an instant. "You care, don´t you? That's why. You can´t keep a professional distance from the subject of your investigation."
Lestrade nods. "I guess."
Sherlock turns to John who leans at the mantelpiece, holding his steaming mug in both hands, and points toward Lestrade. "There´s my proof," he says.
Obviously the detective has tackled another, very sensitive, topic, for John frowns deeply, pondering the pattern of their oriental rug. "This is not proof that one shouldn´t care for others," he answers.
"It´s not 'one' we are talking about, it´s me," Sherlock replies. "I need to detach myself from any personal feelings to succeed in my profession. I can´t be attached to anyone."
John looks at Sherlock, then at Lestrade and sighs: "Well, if you can´t, at least Greg has given you proof enough that he does care."
"And that caring interferes with his judgement. I was right. Caring is not an advantage." Sherlock gets up, facing Lestrade. "Come on Inspector, fill me in on the new developments you mentioned." He turns. "And John – you will buy the milk next month."
Ten days later John is hacking away happily on his computer keyboard. He had to promise Lestrade not to mention the experiment the detective inspector has been object of, but he can´t refrain from noting down Sherlock´s theory. Suddenly, his flatmate, who has been playing the violin for some time, stops and peeks over his shoulder.
"Interesting," he says.
"What´s so interesting?"
Sherlock smiles. "You are distributing my theory on human´s assumptions to the general public. I wonder whether this might trigger a change in your readers on how to perceive their fellow humans."
John, who has stopped typing, turns to face his flatmate. "A change? How?"
"Perhaps they will be more cautious with their judgment. Perhaps they will be less prone to label others", Sherlock says, serious.
John immediately notices that this topic is something his friend is personally concerned with. "You wouldn´t have been labeled sociopath, would people observe more clearly, is that what you are saying?"
Sherlock sighs. "That´s not only about me," he answers. "Anyway, there might be less damage if one uses the assumptions of other people to mislead them on purpose. They might be able to see where they have been wrong."
"And that´s what you did with Lestrade?" John asks.
"Basically." Sherlock frowns. "Our experiment had quite an interesting outcome for me, though."
John frowns back, for Sherlock´s voice is unusually small and he avoids the doctor´s gaze. "How do you mean?" he asks, puzzled.
His flatmate starts to pace between the table and the kitchen. "You were my object," he confesses.
"Why do you say that?" John asks, now curious.
Sherlock is obviously getting uncomfortable. He paces again, four steps back, four steps forth. "When I said we should be touching… we should pretend to be ever so happy together… Well, I had my own theory that I wouldn´t care, that I would stay cool. But I´ve found that… well… it felt good, I mean, our display of… affection. Was quite good."
This comes out so much as a serious confession that John actually laughs, a nice, friendly, encouraging laugh. "So your experiment went wrong?" he asks.
A gaze from bright blue eyes pierces him. "Perhaps I only need a little more data," Sherlock replies.
"Always happy to help you out," John beams back. "That´s what friends are for, you know."
"I don´t need friends. I need only one," Sherlock answers, a smile forming on his features.
Would Lestrade have walked in on them at this moment, he would never have believed they had only been pretending to be more than friends due to a bet.