"Why are you wearing that?" Greg Lestrade, looking dapper in a black three-piece dinner suit, remonstrated cantankerously. He and his annoying little brother were engaged in yet another standoff. This time they were in the living-room of the semi-detached home of their mutual friend Sherlock Holmes, which also happened to be where the younger Lestrade had decided - before he even left New York City - to stay during his time in London. This was despite the fact that his brother had a fully furnished apartment within the distance of a cheap taxicab ride from their current location that was plenty large enough for both of them. Add to that the fact that the siblings hadn't seen each other in the nearly two years since "Travers" had become "Travis" and gone to live in the United States of America –perish the thought! – and Greg had arrived to pick up his brother in an extremely acrimonious state of mind.
"What?" Travis Lestrade, looking uncomfortably handsome in navy blue dress pants and white shirt, grumbled defensively while fiddling in the mirror with his little-worn black tie, his one and only nod to his English upbringing and it's, to his eyes, outdated customs.
"That," Greg said scornfully, indicating the offending article.
"It's a jacket." Travis finally succeeded in tying a passable imitation of a Windsor knot, and moved to pass his brother and go out the door.
"It's green!" Greg pointed out, reaching to restrain his smart-alec brother.
"Yep," said Travis flippantly, adroitly avoiding his know-it-all brother's grasp.
"We're going to a funeral, !" Greg loudly protested to his younger sibling's back.
Sherlock Holmes had always tried hard to keep right out of disagreements between the Lestrade brothers. Greg, who also happened to be Sherlock's boss, tended to have an abrasive and interrogatory relationship with this only sibling. Travis reacted by continually baiting his brother into further argument, and such was their circle of life. So, naturally, Sherlock, not wanting to endanger his career, kept his mouth shut wherever possible. This time, however, there was much more than Travis' normal obstinacy and obstreperousness behind the man's decision to wear the disputed garment. It might help catch a killer.
But Patrick stepped in before Sherlock could speak up or World War Three could break out. "I suggested he wear it," he admitted, defending his friend and compatriot, and at the same time saving his host from having to choose to jeopardise his livelihood. He rose from his seat to greet the newcomer with a hearty grin and a hand extended in welcome, which was studiously ignored.
"And who are you?" Greg demanded, turning to face his brother's defender.
"Patrick Jane, at your service," Patrick doffed a pretend top hat, and swept a deep bow. "I met Trav at the airport, and he invited me to stay here for a few days."
"Trav?" Greg raised his eyebrows. "Oh, you mean Travers?" He pronounced it "trAHverz."
Patrick spun to stare at his young friend, who had stopped dead in the doorway at the sound of the nickname his brother knew nothing about and certainly wouldn't approve of. "Seriously? Your name is Travers?"
Greg winced at the deformed pronunciation of the family name by an upstart American.
"Legally," Travis affirmed sneeringly. "I changed it when I went to America. Far too hoighty-toighty for the hoi polloi I mingle with, eh, Greg?"
Greg's back stiffened. "It's not hoighty-toighty, it's English," he corrected.
"Same diff," Travis derided. "Come on, or else we are going to be late, and that'd be even worse than wearing a green jacket to a funeral." He abruptly walked out the door, glad to finally be able to use his brother's overwhelming need for punctuality to get his own way. Greg had no choice but to follow.
Sherlock swallowed nervously. I had no idea I was calling my boss' brother by the wrong name! Hopefully, it won't impact negatively on my career, he fretted. Greg Lestrade wouldn't be that petty, would he? Then he suddenly thought of what else he knew about the young Englishman-turned-American, and his anxiety increased hundredfold.
Patrick snuggled back down onto the couch that had quickly become his preferred seat of choice in his new home. Patrick Jane, life-long flibbertigibbet, had been converted to the joys of relaxing. His chosen piece of furniture was comfy and broken-in, perfect for whittling his inferences into workable hypotheses worthy of presenting to his audience.
"Greg doesn't know, does he?" he inquired, shooting meaningful look in Sherlock's direction.
"Know what?" Sherlock was not about to inadvertently betray a confidence.
"Trav's real reason for going to America," Patrick smoothly answered.
"Which is?" Sherlock shot back.
"The one thing that would truly scandalise a traditionally aristocratic dyed-in-the-wool monarchist like Greg." Patrick closed his eyes as if the conversation bored him.
"No, Greg doesn't know," Sherlock finally admitted, and made sure to warn the foreigner: "and it's not up to us to tell him."
"Of course not!" Patrick snorted, "But its 2005, for heaven's sake! That man should get with the programme!"
"Oh, yeah, and who's going to convince him?" Sherlock asked, glancing at Patrick. They locked eyes and duelled for supremacy in a staring contest. Finally, Patrick, knowing he was about to lose, suggested a game of "Paper, Scissors, Rock."
"What?" Sherlock asked confusedly.
Patrick settled back for a long session teaching his host one of his favourite childhood past times. But being a speedy study, Sherlock quickly became adept at the game. Which was just as well since they had a job to do.