Special shout out to GEEKMAMA for the plot bunny late last night to base a story on Greg Lestrade's unique vacation destination, Churchill, Manitoba, (in my beautiful home country of Canada - and my provincial neighbour to the east - yes, it's a shameless way to include something closer to home that I know something about!). Greg's unconventional holiday is mentioned to explain his absence from London and his unavailability to Sherlock to help cure his boredom in "The Case of the Missing Pooh", and this story takes place very shortly after that one in the timeline.
Churchill, located in northern Manitoba on the shores of Hudson Bay, is considered to be "The Polar Bear Capital of the World," due to the polar bears that arrive, waiting for Hudson Bay to freeze over so they can continue their migration. Google can provide a lot of neat information on Churchill, the bears, and the particulars such as the Tundra Buggy and the Polar Bear Jail. Greg's holiday there is first mentioned in "The Case of the Missing Pooh". While technically in the Eurstrade universe because of the timelines, there is no Eurus, no Sherlolly, no romance, only the curmudgeonly brotherhood trio that takes in Sherlock, John, and Greg. Apart from a PC with cahonas of steel, none of the other characters belong to me. No copyright infringement is intended.
Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade stood in front of the Police Constable, his expressive brown eyes undecided if they should open wide in shocked dismay or narrow in frustrated fury. The solidly built young man, not quite matching the 5'11" frame of the seasoned DI, stood fast, determined not to quiver in front of a superior officer.
Especially not THIS one, who was well known around the Yard for his rather heated response to having his fuse finally burn out. It usually involved a colourful assortment of expletives followed by searing sarcasm potent enough to make the paint on the walls bubble, and on occasion if the burn had been especially hard and fast, physical violence directed towards nearby inanimate objects, usually involving one or both of his feet - powered by legs and technique that had found their conditioning in recreational football.
"Say that again. SLOWLY, PC," he said tightly. Greg blinked several times, counting to ten with each blink.
The PC cleared his voice. "The MacGregor case has… hit a snafu, Sir." PC Gareth Miller stood a little straighter, making and maintaining eye contact with Greg.
"The MacGregor case. Which we have spent EIGHTEEN MONTHS worth of manpower and resources on, and have come THISBLOODYCLOSE to wrapping up with a virtual guarantee of conviction… has hit a… SNAFU?"
It sounded like a question that he already knew the answer to, but was so taken aback by it that he simply couldn't stop himself from needing verification. And so, his infamous sarcasm came bursting forth, like the soothing effervescence of an antacid tablet hitting the water and rising high in the glass. It was blessed and needed verbal relief for the sake of Greg's blood pressure.
"Yes, sir. A snafu. That means Situation Normal All Fu…"
"I KNOW what it means, Miller," Lestrade cut him off abruptly, trying but failing, not to shout. He took another cleansing breath, trying to rein in his anger at this young officer who probably wasn't to be blamed for anything but having the misfortune of drawing the short straw, to be the one breaking the bad news to him.
"If it's any consolation, Sir…" the young man said, flinching only slightly at the death glare Lestrade was giving him at those words, "the aforementioned snafus are in a holding cell cooling their jets." Miller paused, thinking carefully and steeling his nerve. "May I speak freely, Sir?"
Lestrade took a deep breath, kicking himself silently for choosing NOW to give up smoking again.
"Go ahead," he said, feeling his blood pressure begin to lower at the witnessing of this tenaciously brave and admirably calm young pup in front of him.
"Perhaps you might consider cooling your own jets a bit before you go talk to them. Just… you know… a suggestion. With all due respect, of course, Sir." Miller cleared his throat, trying to banish the last of his frayed nerves. He relaxed somewhat to see the DI crack a slight smile, nodding at him.
"Duly noted, Miller. Dismissed." The young man nodded in acknowledgement, turning to leave. "Oh, and Gareth," Lestrade called out to the retreating back of the young PC.
Miller stopped and turned around again. "Sir?"
"Thank you," he said, smiling. Miller smiled back with a half-nod, and turned on his heel towards the exit.
"So, did you know that the Manitoba wildlife conservation officials in Churchill have a very interesting way of dealing with nuisance bears in the autumn?"
Lestrade strode into the cell block, knowing exactly who was being held there.
"YOU KNOW," he growled, a little more loudly than was strictly called for. "The nuisance polar bears that are habitually nosing around in things that are none of their bloody concern!?"
John Watson, sitting next to Sherlock Holmes on the sparsely padded cell cot, cleared his throat sheepishly. "Churchill. Manitoba, yeah?"
"Yeah, Churchill Manitoba. You know, my incredibly RELAXING vacation getaway that nobody but you and Sherlock here knew about until I was already boarding a Tundra Buggy in the Canadian sub-arctic. The very place I would like to send YOU blokes off to right now...!"
"Do you refer to the Canadian tundra, or the…" Sherlock said, in his stoic calm.
"Jail, Sherlock. The Polar Bear Jail. Where they detain problem bears who can't or won't stay the hell out of where they've no business in and keep their damned meddling paws to themselves. Did you know that they dart them in the ass with a tranquilizer then transport them to the facility. And then, there they sit, in polar bear jail, kept out of the way and out of trouble, until the other bears are ready to leave. And then the dart them in the ass AGAIN and air lift them back out onto the tundra. It's rather unceremonious, but it's bloody effective."
Greg strolled slowly and deliberately towards the cell doors, reaching up and grasping the bars with both hands. Leaning in, he pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, moving his glare back and forth between John and Sherlock.
"You are both damned lucky that the UK doesn't arm its police officers, because right now I would dearly love nothing more than to take a few pot shots at BOTH your sorry, nuisance, meddling asses."
Sherlock cleared his throat, looked serenely at Greg, then opened his mouth to speak. He only managed a surprised gasp and a dirty look at John when his companion elbowed him squarely in the ribs.
"Well… okay, but… we're still… you know, mates, right?" John smiled hopefully, after directing a telling warning look at Sherlock.
Greg responded with an irritated sneer and a growl.
"Did you further know that polar bears are a protected species in Manitoba? By the same token, you two lucky bastards are also considered a protected species on my turf."
"Well, in that case then, if you would be so kind as to let us out of here, perhaps later on when you've regained your sense of reason, we might meet later this evening at the pub for a pint?" Sherlock smiled sweetly.
Greg shook his head, turning away from them, grumbling to himself, "Give me bloody strength." Then a bit louder, "Nineteen hundred hours. Don't be late." As he exited through the heavy door, they heard him say, "Guard, you can release those two problem juveniles now. Be sure to arrange a ride for them straight back to their den. 221B Baker Street. No detours. That's an order."
The guard, having been known to share the occasional pint after shift with Greg, smiled at the familiar reference, knowing all about the DI's recent sub-arctic vacation. The DI had returned refreshed, and inspired by the climate and the people he'd spent 10 days amongst.
It was good to see that DI Lestrade was still feeling the relaxing effects of his Canadian tundra holiday.