The Story Teller and the Detective. Prologue
After Sherlock's death, things had gone from bad to worse for Gregory Lestrade. He'd been suspended for a week, pending a full investigation, and because he'd been home had met Bryan.
Bryan was ten years younger than him, half a foot taller, easily stronger, and a Sports Science Teacher. He was also sleeping with Mrs. Lestrade.
When he finally got back to work, after a long investigation, he found himself reaching for the phone. Only when he scrolled through his contacts to Sherlock did he see the note in the 'company' field. DEAD
He didn't like the word deceased, as callous as it might sound, dead was a much better word. It didn't tone down the finality of it. You knew when someone was dead that you wouldn't be seeing them again.
It was strange. Ever since Sherlock had jumped, he'd been trying to work out exactly what had been fake. It didn't make sense. Fake crimes? Of course, they could be. Fake criminals? How on earth would you make someone else take the wrap for what you'd done? And they'd have known if large sums of money had been transferred to any of the criminals, or from any of Sherlock's accounts. The amazing clues could be faked, but to plant them without alerting the SOCOs would be no mean feat. Sherlock Holmes clearly had been a genius. Maybe not in the way they'd thought but he must have been at some point. And he couldn't have faked all the cases he'd helped on for the several years they'd known each other.
He glanced down at his case file again. Some junior busybody had attempted to pin conspiracy to perjury on Richard Brook. He made a note at the bottom of the page that an enquiry had already been launched and had closed. Richard Brook was coerced in so many ways that they'd never get a conviction.
He felt sorry for the man though, looking at the two photos. One was a haughty mastermind stood in front of the custody desk, having his mugshot taken. The other was a smiling man with two children sat on the ground as he read: a publicity shot from 'the Storyteller'. And wasn't that just like Sherlock. To choose the Storyteller to tell his story.
And now, Rich Brook was the subject of a smear campaign. People were spray painting everywhere: I believe in Sherlock, Rich Brook = liar, Moriarty was real. It was worse online, with plenty of people actively posting threats to his website.
He realised he'd been staring at the file, completely spaced out. He needed another caffeine boost.
Sticking his head out of his office, he shouted to Youghal, who looked like he was on the coffee run for the organised Crime lot.
"Yougs? Get us a latte with an extra shot of expresso"
"Essssspresso you mean?" Youghal had a shit-eating grin on his face. Rightly so, too.
"No, I mean I want it express, double time." He ducked back in for a moment, then stuck his head out as Youghal turned to go. "and with the extra coffee shot."
He got a middle finger for his troubles. Bradstreet whistled at Youghal: "public order offence that." Got one for himself.
Sitting back down at his desk, a phone number caught his eye. Richard Brook: Personal Mobile Telephone.