Running at Midnight
It was the burn Dimmock liked, the purifying burn he sought out every day. The feel of muscles flexing in his legs to the point of pain, the air in and out of his lungs that felt like fire. This particular pain he invited into his life; it helped to consume the pain that was uninvited. It burned out the ache of isolation, the sting of wounded pride, the stab of a broken heart. It kept him going, no matter what.
During his long runs, after enough time and distance had passed he would enter into a zen-like mental zone when the constant pounding of his feet on the pavement and the state of his breathing reached a regular pattern. The events of the day would play through his mind like a looped recording. On this late night run he thought of what had transpired in twelve short hours, from noon to midnight.
At noon he sat down for lunch behind his desk. A large shadow fell over his shoulder and he sighed, holding his sandwich stationary in mid-air as he glanced slightly over his shoulder. It was Tobias Gregson, a huge bear of a man, the office bully if ever there was one. Gregson had a beer belly that hung over his belt, habitually wore a jacket that was just a little too small, sported dark and curly hair that was balding at the top. He had a loud and booming voice and not much patience for vegetarians, environmentalists, or intellectuals.
Unfortunately for Dimmock, he was vegetarian, an environmentalist, and an intellectual. He was of an average height tending to the shorter side and had a smooth and serious face still unmarked by his years which culminated in a boyish earnestness to his appearance that he couldn't seem to shake even though he was well over thirty. Some of the other inspectors joked about it constantly, Gregson most of all, so he tended to keep himself apart.
So in light of all that, he was prone to solitary organic vegetarian lunches at noon and long morning or evening runs through Hyde Park, depending on his schedule. As a consequence, he had the restless, lean and wiry body of a marathon runner. When he ran, he thought of endless ways in which he would show up Tobias Gregson; pointing out mistakes in his work, correcting his terrible grammar, eventually getting promoted above him while being fifteen years younger. That was what he worked for, focused on, stayed out of office politics and gossip for; a promotion. Someday he hoped to be the Superintendent, or better.
"Hey, Dimwit," Gregson said, mockingly. "What's for lunch today? Tofu? Or maybe-"
Fortunately, before Gregson could get started, DCI Lestrade walked up to his desk.
"That's enough, Gregson. I'm sure you've got work to do," Lestrade said with a severe look which sent Gregson nonchalantly wandering off without a word. Lestrade was a senior officer, tough but with a kind streak he couldn't quite hide. But everyone knew he didn't tolerate any sort of badmouthing or ribbing, at least not in his presence. Lestrade turned to Dimmock.
"Dimmock, do me a favor, would you? We need some files from the morgue. Would you stop by and get them from Dr. Hooper? I can't today, I've got a meeting."
Dimmock was surprised. It was a rare moment that anyone other than Lestrade went to Bart's. Dimmock found Dr. Molly Hooper to be extremely pleasant, pretty and funny, and he had long had a serious crush on her. He knew she had recently broken off her engagement; all the men at the Yard knew, in fact. Sometimes when he ran he replayed a series of conversations with her through his head where he was always suave and funny and confident, which always ended positively with a date. Even so, he had not yet found the opportunity, or the courage, to ask her out. He knew he couldn't wait much longer or someone else would. Today might be the day.
"Of course," Dimmock answered, his day instantly brightened. "I'll get down there as soon as I can, Sir."
He ran through a copse of trees, the path lit up as if with strobe lights as the street lamps seemed to flicker off and on through the thickly packed trunks, quickly alternating from dark to light to dark again. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he wiped it away with an angry swipe of a hand.
Molly had been expecting him and she had the files ready. That afternoon she had been wearing a long pleated red wool skirt with black heeled boots and an oversized white fisherman's jumper under her lab coat. Much to his chagrin, though, Molly was not alone; Sherlock Holmes was also in the lab, sitting behind a microscope. Sherlock gave him a bored glance and no greeting at all as if he did not even recognize him, which brought a flush of embarrassment to Dimmock's face. They had once worked on a case together about a dead banker and he still smarted at the memory of Sherlock's rude brushing aside of his offers of help and then his outright mocking of the praise and gratitude that he had courteously extended to him. Arrogant sod.
Sometimes when he ran, he made up endless smart and saucy retorts he hadn't thought of at the time but which he now imagined would leave Sherlock crushed and speechless with indignation and defeat. He really didn't understand how Lestrade could stand him, but those two were thick as thieves, right along with Molly Hooper.
Molly, though. Molly Hooper was a class apart. Whenever he saw her, his heart would do a little flip. She always smiled at him, always treated him like he was smart and capable. She appreciated his eye for detail and encyclopedic knowledge of rules and laws when it came time to fill out reports. Sometimes, if time allowed, they talked about things other than work like books and movies, and it seemed they had similar tastes.
Unfortunately, though, today would be no different from any other day. With Sherlock glaring at him from behind the microscope like a dark and scowling gargoyle, there would be no opportunity to talk to her about private matters. Thwarted once again. He sighed.
"Well, thanks for the reports, Dr. Hooper. They look like excellent work, as always."
"Thanks, Inspector," she answered with a smile. "Going to the Black Feather tonight, then? I hear the whole Yard is going to be there."
Ah, yes, he had heard about that. A birthday thing for another inspector at the Yard, Stanley Hopkins.
"Are you going?" he asked, careful not to sound too interested, pretending to study the files he held in his hands.
"Yes, I'm planning on it. Maybe I'll see you there, then?" she asked pleasantly.
Generally Dimmock hated that sort of thing. He wasn't particularly good at social events and tended to avoid them. But knowing that Molly Hooper was going, and had asked if he was going, changed his mind rapidly. His optimism rose a little. Maybe she was even hinting she would like to see him there…was it possible she fancied him, just a little? Maybe, if he found an opportunity to talk to her alone at the party, he might have been able to use one of his well-rehearsed conversations to ask her out.
"Yeah, all right. I'll see you later," he said, rather cheerfully, quite unlike his usual reserved self.
Sherlock's head lifted from the microscope at the exchange of conversation about The Black Feather and directed a probing stare at him that made him feel exposed like a beetle pinned to a board, but he mercifully remained silent.
So Dimmock had left, reports clenched in his hands, but with some hope in his heart.
And now that pleasant train of thought regarding Molly Hooper was officially over, he thought, ruminating about the events of the day, pushing himself, running farther than he usually did on the dark paths of Hyde Park. He was running past Serpentine Lake and he could see the silhouettes of resting swans like white ghost ships dotting the surface. Running as far as he could go.
At The Black Feather, all the DIs stood in a corner, pints in hands. For more than an hour he'd put up with the loud shouting of Gregson as he talked and guffawed as he told one endless off-color story after another. Dimmock had politely wished a happy birthday to Stanley Hopkins, a tall, quiet, slim man with neatly parted short dark hair, the polar opposite of Gregson, but for some reason they seemed to be best friends. Lestrade had exited to go out for a smoke, which he often did throughout the day and night.
Sergeant Sally Donovan was there, too, chatting with the other DIs, all men except for her; but she kept up with them, rude joke for rude joke, pint for pint, football match score for score, never allowing herself to be overshadowed. She must often feel excluded, Dimmock had thought on more than one occasion, but he admired how she held herself and chose inclusion, rather than exclusion, like he did. He had always found her very smart and attractive, but she also scared him a little, if he was honest.
Molly Hooper, still in the outfit she had been wearing earlier in the day, sat on a tall barstool with her small feet unable to reach the floor swinging charmingly in the air. She was sipping a glass of wine, quiet but smiling at the antics of the group around her, for whom she seemed to have a never ending amount of tolerance and affection. As he watched, she set her drink on the counter, slid off the barstool and slipped down a side hallway at the back of the pub and out a door with a tattered and stained EXIT sign on it.
Some air really would be nice, he'd thought. Seizing the opportunity, he worked his way through the crowd with his pint in hand, grabbed her still full wine glass from the counter, and headed for the exit at the back of the pub, mentally running through one of his prepared conversations and visualizing a positive outcome. Both hands full, he pushed against the exit door with his foot and shoulder. And froze as soon as the door was half open.
Molly Hooper was against the wall in the dimly lit alley, and Greg Lestrade was kissing her, the length of his body pressing into her. One of Lestrade's hands was braced against the wall and the other was curled around her thigh, holding up her leg that was bent at the knee and slightly wrapped around him. Lestrade's hand was starkly pale against the tiered red skirt cascading down as it pooled just above her knee that was bare. The pointy toe and sexy high black heel of her leather boot was quite visibly silhouetted against the light grey wool of Lestrade's trouser leg.
Lestrade's long trench coat was unbuttoned and fell open to the sides to shield them in just such a way that Dimmock could not tell exactly how much was going on. But from the way Molly Hooper's hands were roughly, urgently sliding through Lestrade's hair to hold his head down to hers, the way their bodies were undulating against each other, the way Lestrade's lips moved over hers, claiming, teasing, tongues flashing, twining, it was still indecently hot enough fully clothed. Christ, he'd threatened to arrest teenagers in the park for less than that.
In shock, he backed away slowly, shutting his eyes, hearing the door shut with a 'whump' in front of him. When he opened his eyes again, now back inside the pub and staring at the drinks in his hands, he noticed with increasing detachment that he had not tripped or spilled anything, not even a drop, his hands as steady as a surgeon's. He turned around and froze yet again, surprised there was now someone else in the hallway.
He was face to face with Sally Donovan. She met his startled stare with her beautifully dark and enigmatic eyes that let on nothing but took in everything. Then she lifted her shoulders in an almost imperceptible shrug and gave him ever the slightest of smiles that seemed almost kind and empathetic before she moved on down the hallway without saying a word. Maybe she had seen them, too. Maybe she knew what he was feeling. He didn't care to find out, he just wanted out. Dimmock walked back to the front of the pub, set the drinks on the counter, grabbed his coat and left, an incredible urge to run building inside up him.
Still running hard, the image of the lovers filled his mind again. He stumbled, his breath ragged, sweat blinding his eyes, fire in his legs, fire in his heart, from the run or his thoughts, he wasn't sure. He staggered to the side of the path where it passed under a stone bridge and leaned forward with head down and chest heaving, two hands in front of him bracing against the cold and wet flagstones of the wall, uncharacteristically emotional.
He imagined Molly Hooper beneath his outstretched arm with her back to the wall. Looking at him with desire in her eyes, her soft lips eagerly raising to meet his, maybe his hand moving down to explore her curves hidden under her oversize sweater, her skin warm and soft to the touch; but he could only feel the rough lichen under the pads of his fingers, his short nails scratching against the cool, hard stone as he flexed his hands to suddenly push himself away. He collected his breath for a few moments, then pulled the hem of his sweatshirt up to mop at his face, his toned abs exposed, his grey sweats hanging low off his lean and muscular hips.
Fuck, he thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Lestrade and Molly Hooper. He knew now that Molly had never meant anything more than to be nice when she'd asked him about coming to The Black Feather, she'd never really fancied him. He really should have put two and two together long ago; no wonder no one else ever went to Bart's. He wondered if Lestrade was the cause of her breaking off the engagement with that other guy. He wondered if files were all that Lestrade got when he went to Bart's.
Lestrade, he grated out almost silently through gritted teeth, his head tilted back as he looked up at the moon, pacing, still breathing hard, arms up and fingers linked behind his neck. That man was like a cat with nine lives. No matter what happened to him, he just kept bouncing back. There had been injuries that should have taken him out permanently, a bout with drinking and gambling years ago, a scandalous near-failure of a career after the Reichenbach fall, a miraculous professional recovery to legendary proportions upon Sherlock's return and vindication, and most recently his long and bitter divorce. Now all so clearly forgotten in the willing arms of Molly Hooper. Dimmock wondered how many lives Lestrade had left in him.
But he couldn't find it in himself to hate him. Of course not. Envy him, yes. Envied Lestrade that he could fail so many times but still win in the end. Envied his easygoing nature countered with authority and gravitas that made him able to get along with just about everyone at the Yard. Envied his height and ruggedly mature handsomeness and that goddamn head of thick and arrestingly silver hair. But Lestrade had always been a mentor to him, had always looked out for him, praised his work, and encouraged him.
There was just something about Lestrade that was larger than life. And people noticed. Molly Hooper obviously noticed. Judging from what he'd seen, that affair wasn't ending anytime soon. If ever.
He walked in circles, cooling down. Slow breaths in and out, over and over until his heart slowed down, his body and thoughts coming under his control again. The pain was less now.
He checked his watch. Well past time to go home. At home he would shower. He would lay out his clothes and check his schedule for the next day, like he always did. He would pack his lunch, like he always did. Maybe even go over notes to prepare for the next day's meetings, like he always did. Sometimes he despised his own compulsive need for an orderly regimen, but it kept him on track. The order kept chaos and failure and pain at a distance. But lately, a new feeling had started to gnaw at the back of his head: maybe too much self control was not entirely a good thing.
Now that he had stopped running, the cool night air was increasingly noticeable and he shivered against a sudden stiff breeze. He flipped up his sweatshirt hood and started back home at a slow and steady jog, hands in his sweatshirt pockets, head down against the steadily increasing wind, doggedly moving forward.