Full Summary: A series of oneshots in which Holmes and Watson, during their various everyday activities, come across the Inspectors in unusual situations. Each may vary in length and humor, and suggestions are free to be made.
Disclaimer: ...Nope. Material is still not owned by me, no matter how many petitions I petition.
Note: So, yeah, this is something I've been wanting to do for a while—fun and easy. Doyle doesn't really give the Inspectors enough credit, and man, it's very entertaining writing about them in these bizarre happenings and surprising (or not!) our favorite duo. Glimpses into what their lives are outside of Holmes and Watson, and the like.
The order is as follows: Lestrade, Gregson, Bradstreet, Hopkins and Jones.
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Holmes and I stood outside the funeral home of one undertaker Mr. Gaddeus Throp, a man who had supposedly supplied our suspect with the three coffins used in the disappearances of our suspect's victims. The building itself was dubious—its bricks crumbling, sign weathered and panes cracked.
"Are you quite sure this is the correct address, Holmes?" I asked, hesitating as I raised my hand to knock upon the splintering door.
"Stop dawdling, Watson, and open the door!" Holmes commanded from behind me. I smiled slightly, of course he would be, and knocked twice. When there came no reply I knocked again.
"No response, Holmes." I said, more to myself then my companion. After waiting a moment longer, I grasped the doorknob and pushed the door open—it wasn't locked.
Holmes and I entered, and immediately I surveyed the room, which was dusty and frankly looked dis-used. One one side of the small shop was a table with crumpled paper upon it, on the other was a counter, behind which a man dozed, clutching a bottle. Behind him, against the wall leaned quite a few coffins, all marked with a piece of black ribbon.
Holmes strode over to the man and lightly rapped the counter. "Are you one Gaddeus Throp?"
The man muttered something and shifted in his sleep. This time, Holmes shook the man's arm, repeating the question. The response was more or less the same as before. My friend's countenance darkened, and I instinctively tightened my grip on my cane.
"Mr. Gaddeus Throp, I presume!" Holmes loomed over the man, his voice thundering. Almost instantaneously I could hear in reply a muffled pounding sound from nearby, accompanied by unintelligible yelling.
Holmes looked up in bewilderment as the man below him stirred and sat up, blinking his eyes.
"It...it appears to be coming from one of those coffins, Holmes!" I gasped, gesturing to the man's wares leaning against the wall.
We approached the coffins swiftly, and quickly determined which coffin the noise was emanating from. Holmes deftly unlatched the locks, and made to open the coffin door.
Lestrade burst through, panting wildly. Dust and splinters coated his hair and clothes, and he sported a magnificent black eye. Realizing our presence, he stood and began to brush the grime off his body. Without looking at us, he asked as to the time. When I replied it was about four in the afternoon, he paused for a moment, thinking.
"And the day?"
"Thursday," I answered, mystified. Before I could ask as to what in the heavens was he doing in the coffin, Lestrade whirled around to face the man behind the counter, every muscle taut with fury.
"Mr. Gaddeus Throp!" He roared, causing the man to shrink in his seat. "I have been encased in that bloody coffin for almost two days now—the devil you haven't been hearing my ruckus in all that time—what in the hell do you've to say for that, ya glock?"
Throp's eyes widened, and he considered his bottle. "I thought th'all tha' poundin' was just in m'head-"
"Deserve a good slating, you." Lestrade's voice shook, and he teetered violently for a moment before regaining his balance. "Corked with your shandy-gaff on the job, didn't even bloody notice..." He trailed off, and lapsed into a silence that seemed to intimidate Throp even further. The undertaker fumbled for his bottle in his uneasiness, but his shaking hands merely caused the thing to fall off the counter instead. The shattering roused Lestrade, and he idly glanced towards me.
"Thursday, you said?" He blinked, and then swore, dashing out of the door and nearly colliding with its frame in his disorientation.
Holmes and looked at each other in astonishment while Throp began to blubber before us about 'not knowing anything about the man in his coffin', injecting many pleases and sirs in the process.
"Well, Watson," Holmes finally said. "I do believe this case has become infinitely more interesting then I thought it would be. Now, Mr. Gaddeus Throp! If you would be so kind as to detail your transactions on Sunday the twenty-third, we would be most grateful. Today, if you please!"
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Since Doyle wrote Lestrade's dialogue with distinct usage of words (In one instance Lestrade uses the word shivered instead of smashed, and he describes something as 'sickish' in another), I felt Lestrade might revert to very confusing slang and grammar on occasions in which he was distinctly upset or angered. A shandy-gaff, by the way, was a mixture of ale and gin. Corked means drunk, slating means in essence beating, and glock means half-wit.