SHERLOCK
AFTERMATH:
LESTRADE'S STORY ~ FALL OUT
"Call me the second you hear anything about Holmes and Watson!" Greg ordered the constable on the other end of the line. Slamming down the phone, he propped his arms on the desk, dropping his head onto his upright, open palms. Teams had been out all night and half the day searching for the two, yet nothing! Greg would have bet his paycheck that someone would have seen them bloody somewhere! After all, it's not like Holmes could disappear into a crowd; the man's ego wouldn't permit it, Greg grinned. His amusement collapsed. The situation wasn't funny it was dire. The two were wanted fugitives and his career was in jeopardy. Only an hour ago he had had another visit from the Chief Superintendent for an update, the man leaving madder than when he had arrived.
"You stay here till you've brought them in, you understand?" the C.S. had shouted. "And get this clear . . . only reason I'm not busting you down to street copper, Lestrade, 'cause you're the best detective we have. But from now on, all your moves will be watched, you got that? Each breath you take, each finger you crook, each hair you touch will be logged!"
Greg's stomach growled angrily as overwhelming fatigue inundated every fiber of his body. He'd had nothing but coffee and biscuits since the two escaped, yet the idea of real food made his insides roil. Greg slid his hands over his face, rubbing his dry, tired eyes. "Come on, Lestrade! Where would he go? Who would he turn to for help? There has to be—oh, bloody hell, this is Sherlock Holmes! He could be hiding amongst the underground homeless for all we know." Suddenly his head filled with terrified little Claudette screaming hysterically at Sherlock.
Greg snapped upright, obliterating the image. Massaging his temples, he contemplated the bottle in his left drawer. A shot of scotch would take the edge off his raw temper and over-processing mind, but he didn't dare. Not with his job hanging by a thread as it was.
Could Sherlock have set up the kidnapping? Was it possible that Holmes was a fake? Greg's abdomen tightened into knots just considering it. Everyone else seemed to believe it quick enough, but he couldn't. He had witnessed the man's talents first hand on too many occasions over the last five years. Even more important his gut told him it wasn't true, and his gut had never failed him. Well, except once, but his marriage was another story.
"Bollocks!" he yelled, slapping his desktop. "Sherlock, John, what the bloody hell's going on!? Call me, text me, send me a damn email for Christ's sake just explain it to me!" The telephone rang, jolting him. Instantly, Greg resumed his professional bearing. "Lestrade," he answered.
"Greg . . . ."
He strained to listen. It was a man, maybe. The voice was faint. However, he could hear what sounded like gasping and confusion—turmoil—on the other end. "Who is this?" he asked, suspicious.
"Jo-John. Watson."
Every muscle in Greg's body went taut, his blood pounding in his ears. "What's wrong?"
"It's Sh-sherlock. He's dead."
Greg's chest tightened, his breath trapped in his lungs. "What happened?" he forced out, his mind racing.
"I can't . . . ."
Greg swallowed. "Where are you?"
"The morgue. Bart's."
"I'll be right there." Greg threw down the phone and dashed out of his office to the coat stand. He heard the telly on behind him, some sort of news special, but he dismissed it: not important.
"Greg!" Sally Donovan intercepted him near the door, pointing frantically at the television. "It's the freak! He jumped off a building!"
Greg gawked at her, his mouth stuffed with a dozen questions, none of which would come out. She indicated the telly again, and he followed her like an obedient puppy. Everyone in the room had gathered round the breaking story.
"The famed consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes took his own life today," the somber reporter told his audience. "Holmes, possibly distraught over an upcoming paper series declaring him a fraud, jumped off the roof of St. Bartholomew's hospital. The same hospital where he was said to have solved many of his reputed cases. In addition, we have learned that Holmes was arrested last night, and may have been facing criminal charges over his alleged role in the abduction and kidnapping of Ambassador Bruhl's two young children."
"Oh, my God," Greg gagged. He turned to Donovan. "I'll be at Saint—" a freeze gripped his soul. Donovan, although she tried to hide it, looked happy about the news. His eyes swung to Anderson beside her. Him, too. Greg knew their hate went deep, but this lack of compassion—that went beyond contempt!
Deal with it later, Greg chose, turning on his heels. He nearly made it to the lift when the Chief Superintendent stormed to his side.
"Where are you going?" he demanded.
"St. Bartholomew's Hospital."
"No, you're not." The superintendent leaned into Greg's face, arrogance playing at the corners of his pasty mouth. "By the book, officially we haven't been informed of Holmes' death so it isn't a police matter yet. And even if it were, you'd not be handling it. Conflict of interest," he emphasized with a smirk.
Greg stiffened. Primed for a fight, he looked the C.S. direct in the eyes with unflinching resolve. "I'm going to a friend then."
"Who?"
"John Watson—"
"Good. Bring the bastard in an—"
"I WILL DO WHATEVER I THINK IS BLOODY WELL RIGHT!" Greg roared. "You can discipline me, suspend me, or even fire me, just don't stop me from going!"
The superintendent's expression went stony and he pulled back, like he was considering the options, but kept his mouth shut when Greg pushed past him into the waiting lift.
In the hallway outside the morgue, John was wrapped in a blanket, slumped on a bench, his face pale, eyes staring at nothingness.
"John . . . ." Greg squatted down in front of him, words failing him.
John's eyes darted from him to the double doors. "He's in there."
Greg looked over then slowly stood. Normally, as a homicide detective, he would go in to check the body, but this was an acquaintance. Could he? Should he? Did he even want to? Greg squared his shoulders. Yes. If nothing else for his own—what?—peace of mind? No: confirmation. So "what's if's" couldn't haunt him later. Greg pushed through the doors.
A woman in medical tugs rushed forward, arms outreached to stop him. "You can't come in here."
"He's a friend," Greg shot back without hesitation. Realizing what he had just said, sorrow washed over him. "Sherlock Holmes was my friend." He showed her his I.D. Walking forward, Greg stopped four feet from the autopsy table. His stomach rolled, the contents threatening to come up, but he forced himself to look. The man's brown, curly hair was matted into a bloody glop, his face as white as alabaster contrasted horribly against the red streaking the side of his face. His eyes, thank God, were closed. But it was him. Sherlock. And Greg needn't go any further.
He returned to the hallway, experiencing a heaviness he had never encountered before. "Come on . . . John. I-I'll take you home."
"No, don't. I can't go back there. Not today. Not yet."
"Mrs. Hudson."
"Oh, god," John mumbled, falling back against the seat "I don't know if she's heard yet. If she has—"
"I'll take care of it. And her. In the meantime—" Greg stopped. He'd almost said, 'You'll stay at my place,' but given the circumstances it was a bad idea. If the media got wind of it . . . "Doctor John Watson, escapee and flatmate of suspected kidnapping mastermind, Sherlock Holmes, hides out at inspector's house." And that, as they say, would be the final bolt in his career coffin.
Greg lifted the shell-shocked John to his feet. "You'll stay at my sister's. Lovely girl. Patient. With four kids she has to be, just so you're aware."
Ruth Conlee was delighted to see her older brother as always, but a little taken aback at Greg's request to "mind John" as if he were a child. However, she caught on quick. She'd seen the telly, and had known of Greg's working relationship (as well as his admiration and exasperations) with Holmes. Plus being a soldier's wife, she was familiar with "the look." She hustled John in immediately, settled him on the couch, and wouldn't take 'no' for an answer when the doctor started to show some spark.
"Sis, I have to go," Greg said with regret. He'd rather have stayed and commiserated with John, to acknowledge his own grief, but he had a promise to fulfill.
"I understand. I'll keep a watch on him."
"Thank you." Greg gave her a kiss on the cheek, then left.
In the car, Greg sorted out his bombarding mess of thoughts and emotions: grieve tomorrow, promises first; but, currently, he was provoked into learning why. Holmes' had shown no signs of drastic behavioral instability, now or of late. In fact, Greg recalled looking back, Sherlock had appeared genuinely confounded by Claudette's reaction. The man's mindset for escaping was to prove his innocence—and his mental prowess—not to take a one way trip off a ledge. Plus, he'd been adamant about having been setup. By Moriarty.
"Get Sherlock" flashed to Greg. Moriarty had written it on the Crown Jewels display case. The message was deliberate and specific, but directed at whom? Greg began to wonder. The police? Sherlock? Or someone else entirely? He himself had received many threats during his term of service, so could the break-in have been part of Moriarty's labyrinthine plan to enact revenge on Sherlock? Moriarty was a psycho and a brilliant one. He'd managed to be acquitted of all charges, an unprecedented feat given the crimes. But in order to fulfill his plan he'd have to outwit the acclaimed Sherlock Holmes—a splash of bright color broke through the drab crowd on Greg's right. Waiting at the traffic light, he watched a woman in a radiant pink suit exit a cab parked in front of the hotel. Another "Study in Pink", he mused. Greg's blood turned to ice. The serial killer case . . . the one where he had met John Watson . . . the cab driver had manipulated people into voluntarily committing suicide . . . the idea had been given to the cabby by a man named Moriarty, John had told him afterwards . . . Sherlock committed suicide . . . .
This wasn't a coincidence! Greg declared. And he would dig out the truth until he was satisfied with the answers. Just like before.
"There's no letters on that napkin so you're not playing the hangman game, therefore, you must be trying to sort out a murder," Holmes had said at their first meeting.
Greg had been at a pub having a scotch (several, in fact), trying to dampen his agitation against his so-called investigative team while ruminating over the case they'd been assigned that morning. Having only been a detective inspector for six months, he had been at odds with the old blokes who didn't want to see the forest through the trees. Greg stared at the hangman stick figure he had doodled on the napkin beside his open case notebook. When he looked up to take a draw from his drink, his eyes locked, via the mirror, with a lanky bloke in the black Belstaff trench coat passing behind him. The man sprouted a funny little grin, backtracked, took a brief glance down at Lestrade's work, and then promptly descended onto the stool next to him.
"Who are you?" Greg had demanded, his hackles up at the invasion and ready to arrest the git on the least probable cause.
"Sherlock Holmes, Detective Inspector Lestrade.
"Who might you be? I don't remember arresting you."
"Because you haven't. But I know you."
Startled, Greg was ready to pull his gun until—
"The explanation is quite simple," the man rattled on. "I read your name in the newspaper last week. The way you solved the Moftiss case, figuring out what poison the killer had slipped the woman and how, was admirable. Of course I would have done it in a fourth of the time—"
"You've a Master in chemistry, do ya?"
"A degree is nothing more than a piece of paper used to convince others you're as smart as you want them to believe. My skills, however, are evident in and of themselves."
Greg leaned back, crossing his arms, casing him with a dubious eye. "Oh, really? Do tell."
Holmes gave him a quick foot-to-head pan, then did what Greg would come to learn was Holmes' "habitual-signature, rapid-fire discourse" . . . : "You're married; there's an indentation where a ring usually is, but you took it off not long ago so you're either on the hunt, or having marital difficulties. I say marital problems because you haven't once checked out the available women—or men—in this room. What you have been intensely staring at is that napkin and pad. Your name has been in the newspaper several times over the last few years so you're either a glory-grabbing copper edging for a promotion, or an aggressive, hell-bent-for-justice detective. Judging by what's on those items, I believe the latter, supported by the fact that your hands have burns on them. Rope burns to be precise, meaning you've been doing your own research. That says independent man and not one to accept explanations by surface evidence, nor take the word of others as pure fact. I like that. It means you look beyond the elementary boundaries of what you see. So what's troubling you, D.I. Lestrade, and how may I be of help?"
Greg eyed him for a long moment. Holmes was right, and Greg was stumped. He decided to take a chance. "A girl, a young woman, committed suicide over an ended love affair."
"But you don't think she did."
"No."
"How did she do it?"
"Rope over a beam in the garage."
"How tall is she?"
"5'3""
"How tall is the ladder?"
"A little under 4 feet."
"How high is the beam?"
"9 foot."
"How tall is the boyfriend?"
"6 foot."
"The ladder: old, new, wooden, aluminum?"
"Old. Wooden."
"Anything near the ladder that was as tall as it was?"
"Nothing. What would—"
"She was a short, the support beam high. Even standing on the very top of the ladder she'd have to stretch upwards to get the rope into place. The ladder would wobble, shaking her balance, necessitating her to grab the beam to keep from falling off; whereas, for the boyfriend, one shot and the rope would be over the support. Was the top of the beam checked?"
Greg gaped at him. "I don't see—"
"Course you don't. Nobody ever sees the dust the beam. If the dust is disturbed, she killed herself. If not, the boyfriend killed her."
Greg had never been a pushover, so right from the start (as well as to protect his own arse) he investigated all aspects—personal, criminal, and other—of Holmes until one answer was clear: Sherlock Holmes may have been a git, but he was a brilliant one. And Greg, in spite of his suspicions, had liked him from the start. Sherlock always stated the facts, the naked truth. A refreshing course from most of the men and women he knew.
Approaching Baker Street, Greg was stunned at the mob strangling the block. Many were reporters; the rest, he figured, were probably the usual sickos who got off on scandals like this. He angled the car inside the nearby alley and snatched up the radio mic.
"Dispatch, D.I. Lestrade. Send several cars immediately to 221 Baker Street. It's a madhouse down here! Have them clear the people. It's creating a safety hazard!" Hanging up, Greg pushed open the door against the flocking crowd. Holding his I.D. badge high, he threaded his way to the address, shouting, "Clear the way, police business!"
Reaching the stoop, his hand on the doorknob, Greg peered up, taking pause at seeing the "221B." A lump came to his throat. He swallowed it, hurrying inside. In the hallway, the house was still and eerily quiet. She might not even be here. If she'd already heard about it, she might have left before the circus set in, Greg speculated. He moved forward to her residence, hearing nothing from that direction.
"Mrs. Hudson?" he called out. It was then he heard the sobbing overhead.
Upstairs, Greg found Mrs. Hudson in their flat, John and Sherlock's, crying in an armchair, a box of tissues on her lap, bunched up used ones filling the trashcan beside her. Greg had notified dozens of families on the death of a loved one, but here he went numb. Useless. Softly, he cleared the fresh lump from his throat then kneeled eye-to-eye to her. "Can I do anything for you? Get you something? Tea?" He tried to think of what else might help. Nothing would. "A new box of tissues?"
Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "No. Thank you." Suddenly she grabbed his wrist, looking at him with pleading eyes. "You don't believe Sherlock was a fraud, do you, Inspector?"
Greg's instincts reared with a vengeance. "Not for a second!"
His declaration appeared to give Mrs. Hudson immense comfort as well as renewed strength. She was going to need it, Greg thought, what with publicity-hell storming the aftermath. "There's a crowd outside. Can I take you somewhere? Do you have someplace to go?"
Mrs. Hudson raised her head high, her demeanor flipping from frail, vulnerable woman to determined, fearless warrior. "I have a place to go—right here! And none of them out there is gonna make me leave! And if anyone says to me Sherlock is a fake and a kidnapper, I'll give him what for!" She waved a petite fist in the air.
Surprised at her vehement tenacity, Greg looked upon her with new respect. He pulled a card from his shirt breast pocket. "Call me if you need anything."
"Thank you, Inspector."
"Call me Greg."
By the time he reached his car, Greg's energy and brain-matter were sapped. He needed sleep. Within minutes, he pushed open the door to his flat, surprised to find his wife already home, having left early from work. He stared at Miriam and for the first time since they had met, he had no delusions about where their relationship stood.
"What are you doing here?" He gave the door a shove, it swinging shut behind him.
Miriam blinked, looking uncomfortable. "I heard about what happened. I-I thought you might . . . ."
"You sleeping with the P.E. teacher?"
"What?" she startled.
"It's a simple yes or no answer," he growled. "Are you sleeping with the phys. ed. teacher or not?"
Miriam crossed her arms and looked down at the floor. "No."
"Right. We're done. That's it." Greg marched to the refrigerator, yanking it open.
"You're tired, Greg. And upset," she said matter-of-factly.
"No! It's over between us." He popped the beer top, taking a long swig.
"What are you talking about?"
"The affairs, the latest one being the teacher. Hell, everybody knows about it. Even Sherlock Holmes!"
Miriam frowned. "Greg, I can explain."
"There's nothing to explain! You're unhappy 'cause I'm not around so you sleep with other men to fill the gaps, the loneliness, as you call it. Well, it's not gonna get any better now, is it? So we might as well end it here and get on with our lives." His mobile rang as he tipped the bottle up over end. Digging the phone from of his pocket while finishing off the beer, Greg looked at the display with dread. It was headquarters. He took a deep breath. "Lestrade."
"We have a case," said Donovan.
"Is it—?"
"No."
Thank, God.
"But, Greg, there's something you need to hear. They found a second body on the roof where Holmes jumped. It's that Moriarty bloke. Holmes shot him." Greg steeled himself against the news. Would this long, strenuous day ever end? "I'll be right there. Text me the location." I'll deal with the Moriarty issue later. He turned to Miriam. "Contact a lawyer. If you don't, I will." He slammed the beer down on the counter and walked out.
Greg's brain reeled as his drove over. So many things he wanted to do, to investigate, but that all had to wait . . . exiting the car and hastening along the dirty, cracked street of London's seedier side, Greg took in everyone and everything. Despite his misery and fatigue, he was edgy, his attention and senses magnified. Must be the tension, he figured.
Donovan stood at the corner, her back toward him talking with a constable, the yellow crime scene tape stretched protectively across the alley entrance. Approaching, he heard her say, ". . . we can get back to being a real investigative agency without amateurish interference."
"Right." Greg veered before her, acting nonchalant. "Amateurish interference." He saw Sally startle for half-second before recovering. He stared at her with his typical open demeanor, hiding his intense scrutiny under a cloak of well-practiced, feigned naiveté. The smugness he sensed earlier lingered around her like rancid smoke. To a degree, Greg understood Donavon's outlook because, to her, in a macabre way, this proved her theory about Holmes. Nevertheless, her callousness enraged him. Even more important, it disappointed him, yet he said nothing. He hoped it didn't effect their working relationship, but he could already feel it undermining his trust and respect for her. One more thing to have to deal with in time. Right now, he had work to do.
Greg took a gander down the alley. The body was lying on the ground a few feet from them. He could see the arm of the victim, but that was all, the rest was hidden behind a trash bin. "Donovan, details," he said, climbing into the blue coverall from the nearby supply kit, listening while she spoke, yet focusing on the scene from where he stood.
"Male, young, mid-thirties thereabouts, beaten to death, no wallet," Sally dictated from the case notebook in her hand. "Judging by his expensive coat, he looked to be a well-to-do bloke in the wrong place at the wrong time. We were alerted by an anonymous passerby."
"Right." Greg exhaled deeply, clearing his mind. "Let's get started." He and Sally signed the Log Book then ducked under the tape, Greg snapping on the latex gloves as they went. He squatted down next to the covered victim, but paused to fight off his sudden sorrow. Will I ever again be able to look at a crime scene without thinking of Sherlock Holmes? Regardless, Sherlock, this one's for you.
Greg visually scoured the immediate area, taking note of details then pulled back the police sheet. The victim was lying on his stomach, his exact age and cause of death to be confirmed later by the coroner. Something wasn't right, he instantly noticed. He started his exam, being meticulous yet using utmost care to cause as little disturbance to the scene as possible, delving into a depth of thoroughness he had never utilized before. He leaned down so close to the victim's face that had the man been alive, Greg would have smelled his breath. A vague inkling at the back of his mind was forcing its way forward. He picked up the arm, staring at the fingertips. He climbed to his feet, jolting when he saw Anderson at Donavan's side. Ignoring him, Greg went to the brick wall of the building lining the alley way. There, at eye level, was a patch of blood with strands of hair stuck to it. He stepped into the middle of the alley, squinting hard at the course, uneven road.
Greg turned to his two colleagues. "Right. Here's my take on things," he announced with defined authority. "Despite the mustache, this isn't a man, but a woman, specifically an actress made up to look like a man. She's wearing heavy theatrical make-up. Sally, contact the theaters and find out if they're missing one of their people. The clothes underneath the coat are a light-weight shirt and pants, aka summer wear. It's a cold day so she would have needed a coat, but this coat, as Sally pointed out, is a very expensive one; too expensive for a bit player. Why a bit player? Because if she were one of the headliners we would have been called a lot sooner. She was a good distance from any theater so she was driven here. She could have driven herself, but this liaison was meant to be a quick trip, hence lack of outerwear. She was chilled so someone, a boyfriend, friend, or lover—a rich one by said article—gave it to her. They had an argument; she jumped from car, probably a moving one judging by her scrapes and torn clothes."
"Scrapes?" Donavon echoed, looking incredulous.
"Yes. She's overall clean accept where her body physically met the filthy ground. Her fingernails are short yet manicured, but the palms and back of her hands are cut, bloody, and dirty. Same for her pants at the knees, which are also torn, like she had landed on them while in motion. However, something else happened here. She hit the wall, pretty high up there, too. Like she'd been hit by a car. Someone speeding down the alley? Accident or murder? Boyfriend or stranger? Won't know more until the victim's been positively identified, and person or persons of interest pulled in for questioning. Your marching orders: Anderson, take samples from the wall there," he pointed over his shoulder, "of what I believe is a fresh patch of hair, skin, and blood. And I want samples of the tire marks on the road, they're also fresh. Sally, look for suspects."
Seeing their annoyed, apprehensive frowns, Greg felt a bit smug himself. He was always underestimated. And Sally may be after his job, but he wasn't about to give it up any time soon and not without one hell of a bloody fight!
"When you find something call me. Until then, I'm going home to get some sleep." He walked away, his thoughts returning to the other murder case he had to investigate.
. . . . . . . . . .
The surname "Moftiss" is a tribute to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, to whom I'd also like to give my eternal thanks for the best written, cast, directed, composed, and intelligently stimulating show I've seen in a long time.
In addition, "Ruth Conlee," is in tribute to aRTHUr CONan DoyLE. I have no idea if Lestrade has a sister, but adding her felt right for the story.
Lastly, I know Europe's standard of measurement is the Metric system, but when I used the conversion, it just didn't have the same impact. I.e. "He stopped six feet from the table. / He stopped 1.83 meters from the table.