These characters do not belong to me, but I promise they're not doing anything they won't thoroughly enjoy ;)
The first time Greg ever put Sherlock Holmes in handcuffs was, coincidentally, the first time they met.
It had been a Friday evening. Greg remembered because it was near the beginning of his "separation" with his wife, and he'd just dropped off their daughter for the weekend. He was tired, hungry, more than a bit cross, and he wanted to be anywhere but standing in a dark alley, in the rain, looking at a mess of a crumpled body.
"This is the third one this month isn't it? Serial killer, I'd wager," Anderson sipped coffee out of a hot thermos.
"Don't say that," Greg groaned. A serial killer panic was really the last thing he needed.
The body had been sliced up with a scalpel, like all the others. Heart, brain, and lungs removed, then pushed out the second story window. The flat was taped off, but it had been empty. The killer had broken in. It was all a bloody disaster, and Greg had no leads.
After examining the body and the surrounding area, Greg had gone into the apartment complex. Walked up the stairs, down the hall, to what was supposedly a quarantined area. But as he'd stepped across the threshold of the flat, he'd heard a noise.
Squeaky shoe on plastic covering—he was on instant alert. Gripping his nightstick, scanning the room.
He'd seen the dark shape move in the corner of his eye, and he'd tackled it, pinned it to the ground, face down, wrists behind the back handcuffs slapped on before he had time to breathe.
The man was tall, and wearing a wool coat, and he had curly dark hair, and he was struggling violently.
"Let me go you imbecile!" The man had a rather low, pleasing voice. Or it would have been pleasing if he hadn't been yelling so cattishly.
"You're under arrest," Greg spat. "And how can you call me an imbecile when you're the one that's just returned to the scene of a crime?"
"I'm not the serial killer, you moron! She's about to get on a train to France. We have to stop her."
Greg had sat on the man for perhaps three minutes. In that time, the man (Sherlock Holmes was his actual name, not a fake one like Greg had thought) berated him thoroughly. He knew a lot details about the case, which really did not help his argument that he wasn't the killer. Because he wasn't in the mood to fight, Greg let the man up, still firmly holding the cuffs, and placed a call down to the train station. They stopped a certain Matilda Rorke from leaving the country and both she and Sherlock were hauled in for questioning.
As it turned out, Sherlock was right. She broke down almost immediately. Saying she was so sorry, she'd just dropped out of Med School because she'd fixated on vivisections. She hadn't really wanted to hurt anyone. Just couldn't stop herself.
After alienating everyone at the Yard through a long tirade about how he was astounded that they seemed to manage walking with the IQ's of primitive single-cell organisms—Sherlock left his card on Lestrade's desk.
When he returned home, at an awful hour of the morning, Greg privately wondered whether or not Sherlock Holmes was actually a human. He'd been rather caught off guard by that face, with the wide blue eyes, pouty lips and frankly startling cheekbones. His features were the expression of perfect innocence one minute, and condescending hatred the next. Greg found it frightening and intriguing in the same breath.
I know it's short, and quite lacking in smut, but trust me. We're gearing up for real depravity. I just intend to take my own sweet time about it :)
These will be going up every Sunday once things get rolling, but I'll be posting Chapter 2 on Thursday, just because I've given you so little to go on. Think of this as the first potato chip of many. An experiment, if you will.
Cheers!