Short Stories. Various Headcannons. And Snippets.
A/N: No, this isn't an actual story-story. Just a few things I thought up but don't think are going to get anywhere. If you like what you read and want to expand on it, feel absolutely free to do so. (I just have a few scraps lying around and I felt the need to keep them somewhere concrete before they get lost in the abyss of forgetfulness, or something horrible.)
Anyway, those scraps that aren't titled means that they're just snippets of conversations, or headcannons.
And I may add a few more chapters of scraps in the future so ignore if you're looking for longer stories!
Enjoy! (...What little I have written... but enjoy anyway!)
The Knowing
It began with a very odd murder. Detective Carter supposed that he should feel just a little bit lucky to get this murder, after all, it wasn't like people went around killing people with boomerangs every day.
His phone rang and he picked it up. "Carter."
"Have you heard of Sherlock Holmes?" A strange but vaguely familiar voice asked him from the other end.
The voice triggered faint memories of press conferences, Christmas parties in the office, and booming orders being shouted out across rooms.
Another sharper part of his brain filled in the name that went with the voice; DI Lestrade.
"Who?" Carter asked, confused.
"Well, you're about to meet him now." Lestrade warned him. "This is your case, this is entirely up to you, this is just friendly advice: give Sherlock five minutes on your crime scene and listen to everything he has to say." Lestrade said to him, pinning down all the important points of his call quickly and efficiently. Then, he paused. "And as far as possible, try not to punch him." he said in afterthought.
Carter frowned a little bit. "Wait, why is this Sherlock Holmes coming here?"
"He is a consulting detective, works as a private investigator for various clients. One of them just happens to have asked him to look into your case." Lestrade explained.
"How did you hear about that?" Carter asked curiously. "If this is a private case for him."
... ... ...
Lestrade glanced into the rear view mirror of his car and locked eyes with Mycroft.
"Most wonder how I know about all of his private cases." Lestrade grumbled complainingly in the mirror, still on the phone.
"And how do you know?" Carter asked. Mycroft just raised his eyebrows with an innocent look that no self-respecting intelligent creature would believe.
"Another bit of friendly advice: don't ask, don't tell." Lestrade said and hung up.
... ... ...
DI Carter looked at his dead phone weirdly, but a few minutes later, a cab pulled up and John clambered out with an open laptop.
"Sherlock Holmes?" DI Carter asked.
John's head jumped up, startled. "No, John Watson, but might as well be." he sighed, turning his laptop.
On the screen, DI Carter could see that a Skype window was open.
"Ah, I see."
"How did you know I was coming?" John asked him curiously.
"Our DI Lestrade called ahead to give me warning." Carter shrugged. "Told me to give you the look around."
John looked even more confused. "But... how did he know?"
Carter shrugged again. "Don't ask, don't tell, is what he said."
The Writing on the Wall
It was months since the Fall. Months since Sherlock Holmes jumped off St. Bart's. Months since they had put him in the ground.
Months... and still the quagmire of confusion revolving around Sherlock Holmes's association with Scotland Yard persisted. Cases were being reopened, investigated, and retried.
Lestrade hadn't so much as been allowed to touch a murder investigation since being suspended. He was reduced to chasing down punks and vandals instead of investigating and tracking down murderers and serial killers.
He was itching to get back on the cases, but knowing that there was still a long ways to go before it even became a possibility.
These days, he was investigating a series of vandalism that seem to have taken London by storm.
Most thought he would be discouraged at the petty case he was working, disgruntled, and impatient to get back to the working the homicides.
But he wasn't. Not with this case.
"Got another one!" Lestrade grunted into his radio, but he was grinning.
In an obnoxiously eye-catching yellow, someone had spray painted the words that people everywhere in Central London were painting on the walls like a prayer.
I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES
And how could he be grudging in working a case like this one? People everywhere, constantly reminding him that, like him, they believed. That they knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, of Sherlock's legitimacy.
He caught them sometimes, dragged them down to the station, jotted down their names and personal details, slapped them on the wrist, and sent them off.
And every time a new believer crawled out of the woodwork, Lestrade would visit Sherlock's grave afterward and tell him about it.
"This nice girl, Elaina, she believes in you. This punk, Tony, bit of a troublemaker, but said you helped his Ma convict this asshole. He believes you, too. And Betty-..." It would go on and on as the days and weeks stretched past.
"You know," he said, one day as he was preparing to leave. "John believes you. And Mrs. Hudson. And I believe you. You know that right?" He sniffed and rubbed his hands down his face. "Course you don't. You're dead."
A few hours later, there was another call in on the vandals case.
Lestrade got to the scene in his squad car and scanned the area with his eyes, looking for the usual 'I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES' sign.
He never found it. He only found one word painted in an eye-catching white, the colour of a familiar text message.
WRONG!
Sherlock Holmes calls everyone stupid. But he truly believes this of the other Yarders because he subconsciously measures them up to Lestrade's standards.
Nobody really knows this, not even Sherlock and Lestrade. John wonders if he should tell them.
Sherlock was never really inclined to quit the drugs.
But, with a lot of convincing, Lestrade slowly eased him off them. Sherlock continued doing drugs when he wasn't looking, but Lestrade never lost his head over it.
A few months later, Sherlock began hiding his stash of drugs where they were more easily accessible, and therefore, easier for Lestrade to find.
It was the first implication that Sherlock really did want to kick the habit.
The same week, Lestrade made the habit of holding his warrant card in the outer pocket of his jacket, not the inside. It was alot easier for Sherlock to pick when he needed to vent his annoyance at Lestrade's confiscating his drugs.
Being Not-Even-Remotely Human
Sherlock is a vampire, John a werewolf, Lestrade a ghost, and Mycroft the Grim Reaper, enough said.
Also, Mrs. Hudson is a fairy, Moriarty a banshee, Molly a woodland spirit, Stamford is cupid, and Anthea may-or-may-not actually be God.
Dating Mycroft Holmes
Paperwork. Lestrade has lots of it. He's just wrapped up a case with Sherlock and his desk is drowning in the white.
He needs to get it done before the end of the week. All of it.
But, despite the urgency of the situation, he finds himself sitting in a surprisingly comfy armchair in an abandoned warehouse across from Mycroft who is pouring tea for the two of them.
"Mycroft, I don't mean to be rude," the detective says. "But... what am I doing here?"
Mycroft looks up, absently tossing slices of lemon into the teacups in a way Lestrade thought as much too domestic for them. "Waiting. Obviously." he says in that infuriatingly unconcerned way.
"Yeah, but for what?" Lestrade asks impatiently.
"We are going to be meeting a friend of Sherlock." Mycroft tells him, sipping his tea elegantly. "Anthea has gone to pick him up. I wish to hear your opinion on a few matters. Meanwhile, drink your tea, Gregory."
Lestrade sighs and grabs his cup. Mycroft reaches over and loads a pastry onto a plate and sets it before him expectantly. So Lestrade bites into it. It's not like he had time to eat while chasing after Sherlock and he's starving.
Five minutes later, they are still having tea. And Anthea has yet to show up with their mystery guest.
Mycroft could practically hear Lestrade's brain absently clattering with words he intends to put on paper, writing and crossing out in his case report. The policeman's knee bounces and his heel jitters up and down like a squirrel on caffeine.
"Gregory." Mycroft says, Lestrade doesn't hear him the first time. "Gregory." Mycroft repeats and this time, gets the man's attention.
"Sorry, what?"
"Have you finished your tea?" Mycroft asks coolly.
"Yes." Lestrade replies quickly. "Sorry, do you think you can hurry it up a little? I mean, this is lovely, and all, but I have things to do."
"If it's about the paperwork, it's done." Mycroft tells him and Lestrade's knee bouncing immediately stills.
"Excuse me?"
"I thought you might be detained a little longer than necessary." Mycroft says.
Lestrade suddenly sits up a little straighter in his seat and looks around suspiciously. "Wait a second. Anthea's not bringing anyone is she?" he says.
Mycroft just smiles at him indulgently.
"I'm the friend of Sherlock's you're meeting." Lestrade continues.
"And such a good friend you are." Mycroft hums.
"So all that about needing my opinion on something-..."
"That was not entirely untrue." Mycroft cuts him off. "I do wish to hear your opinion."
Lestrade leans back and spreads his hands. "Alright. Shoot."
Mycroft looks him straight in the eye over his teacup. "How would you consider having tea with me again someday?" he asks bluntly.
Lestrade, who had been in the process of sampling a cocoa-dusted pastry, promptly inhales the powder and breaks out into violent coughs. He gulps down the rest of his tea and accepts the handkerchief Mycroft offers him.
"Wow..." he coughs one last time as Mycroft pours him another cup of tea. "I wasn't expecting that one."
Mycroft just smiles. "Well, perhaps I could've waited until after you had finished your pastry before bringing up the question."
"Yeah..." Lestrade wheezes. Then, he sees Mycroft's patient look. "Oh, answer! Um, you mean tea like on a date?"
"Like on a date." Mycroft nodded with a smile. "Preferably, non-singular." he adds hastily.
"Right. Dates. Non-singular, gotcha." Lestrade nods slowly. "Yeah, sure. I mean-...!" He babbles for a few moments before finally taking in a calming breath. "Yes. Yes, I would love to go out on a date with you and have tea. But next time, I would prefer it if we went somewhere where it's more socially acceptable to have tea, and it would help if I actually know we're going on a date, okay?"
Mycroft just laughs. "Of course, Gregory."
Electronics-Savvy-Lestrade-Oh-My-God-It's-The-Firs t-Sign-Of-the-Apocalypse!
A.K.A The Horrible Alternative Universe in Which Lestrade is Anthea.
"I was supposed to have a day off, today. One of only seven full twenty-four hours off the job in a year." Lestrade seethed, breaking the silence of the Diogenes Club Stranger's Room. "I hate you." he concluded with feeling as he tapped away insistently on his Blackberry.
Mycroft just lifted an eyebrow elegantly, half-convinced that his assistant was playing Angry Birds. Or Candy Crush. Mycroft will forever deny being the one to introduce him to it. "Is there ever a moment you do not, Gregory?" he asked calmly.
"Oh, not since Christmas '83." Lestrade retorted smartly.
"That was thirty years ago, Gregory." Mycroft sighed. "Let it go."
Just then, the door opened and the Baker Street Duo stalked in with a very unimpressed Detective Inspector on their heels.
"Brother dear, John." Mycroft greeted tepidly.
"Anthea." Lestrade nodded his acknowledgement at the DI and waved.
Anthea just shifted her weight from one foot to the other and placed a hand on her cocked-out hip. "So what's the fuss? You know I haven't got time for you." she told them bitingly.
"She's right." Lestrade piped up. "She's scheduled to be in court in fifteen minutes." He consulted his phone again. "Meaning, you've got five minutes to talk, Mycroft, before I'm kidnapping her from you."
Mycroft scowled at him. "I thought you were supposed to be my assistant."
"I'm assisting." Lestrade just grumbled back with a scathing look. "Anyway, I'm not letting you on getting on Anthea's bad side. You've never gone drinking with her. When she's drunk, she's mean. And when she's mean... she a goddamn menace."
Anthea just tilted her head back ever so slightly to appear to look down her nose at the world. "You bet."
Just then, Lestrade's phone buzzed in his hands and he stood up. "If you'll excuse me everybody, I need to shut down the U.S Government. I'm considering putting in a petition to make an app for that." he said pleasantly and walked out, tapping his phone at a blinding pace.
"Don't." Mycroft snapped warningly at his retreating back because, who knew with Lestrade, he might actually do it.
"The U.S-...?" John shuddered and shook his head. "Nope. No. I don't want to know. Where'd you find Gabe, anyway?" he marveled.
Everybody looked at him.
John stared back blankly. "His name's not actually Gabriel, is it." he realized.
"No." Everybody returned flatly.
"His small joy in life." Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Tomorrow he's considering 'Jennifer'."
And in Lestrade's absence, nobody knew if Mycroft was joking or not.
Lestrade returned five minutes later as promised, in the middle of Mycroft debriefing the group on a case, and whisked Anthea out of her seat with Mycroft trailing absently after them, scowling and grumbling at his assistant's back all the way.
"Gregory, I'm not done explaining the situation!"
"You're insufferable. I told you, five minutes. And you're going to get nowhere even if you use the puppy-dog eyes!"
"I don't understand why I didn't ever fire you yet."
"Because you're an idiot and you'd never survive the big-bad world without me."
"Says the man who can't function without coffee."
"I don't want to be told that by Mr. My-Diet-Is-Perfectly-Fine-Don't-Judge-Me!"
"Oh, oh very mature, Gregory!"
"I'm a big boy now."
Sherlock and John watched them bicker back and forth like bitter old enemies as they ushered Anthea out to the car.
But the way Lestrade gently guided Mycroft through the doors with an almost tender hand on the small of his back and the way Mycroft opened the car doors for his assistant and Anthea as they argued, spoke of a different story.
But then, John guessed, that's just how they were.
"There's a story behind those two, isn't there?" he said to Sherlock.
"Not my business." Sherlock just shrugged apathetically and turned to leave. "Not that I'd tell." John pretended not to hear him say.
He shrugged to himself.
Guess this was just one of those mysteries that not even Sherlock could solve.