Thanks to MapleleafCameo, ITell, Ennui Enigma, jack63kids Kirsten and other guests for reviews, I love to receive your comments/criticisms.
Oh and…..Quirk alert – just for Ennui Enigma!
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Sherlock characters (Wish John was mine though!) – Thanks to all the actors, writers, etc that make the original series so worth writing about!
"Why the hell didn't I hear about this when it happened?" Greg tried to keep his voice down but it was difficult. He was fuming at being kept out of the loop.
"Sorry Greg," John's voice, quiet behind the Detective Inspector, made him jump a little none the less. "The other Holmes persuaded the hospital that there was no need to report this incident to the police regardless of standard procedure." He sighed as he saw frustration tinged with understanding on the older man's face.
Limping slowly round so that he was now standing beside his flatmate, and keeping an eye on the rest of Lestrades team, he added "Actually we were going to ask you to come to the flat, if you hadn't got in first with this crime scene." A small smile flashed across his pale features. "Has he solved it for you yet?"
"Do you have to ask?" Sherlock quirked an elegant eyebrow at his friend.
Lestrade shrugged. "He's given us enough to make an arrest."
"Good. Can you leave it with Sally?" he ignored Sherlocks snort of derision. "This discussion isn't one I'd feel comfortable holding in your office."
"Yet you're happy to discuss it where you know Mycroft can hear?" For the first time since hearing about the attack Greg actually felt like smiling.
"Yeah, well, he already knows anyway…..and who's to say he hasn't got your office bugged Detective Inspector!"
"He wouldn't….."
"You don't know my brother very well, do you?" Sherlock smirked.
Lestrade rolled his eyes, he wasn't about to let these two know that he was seriously worrying now about the privacy of his own office. Instead he nodded to them and turned away.
"Sally!" he called through the open doorway to where his sergeant was talking to one of the other officers from the squad.
John limped quietly from the room with Sherlock close behind him, leaving Lestrade to brief his officers.
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Greg walked through the door into the Baker Street flat and was greeted by the unusual sight of Sherlock making tea for his flatmate who was currently half sitting, half laying on the couch, his head and shoulders propped up with an odd assortment of cushions and pillows.
John looked at the expression on his face and grinned.
"He makes quite a good cup of tea – although that may be something to do with the appalling amount of practice he's had lately!"
"And you trust him not to put some….I dunno…some experimental something or other in it?"
"Well that was easy to understand Lestrade; I'm beginning to see why they made you a Detective Inspector." Sherlock walked in carrying three mugs of tea in one hand and a bottle of painkillers in the other. He looked at Lestrade who was, if his expression was anything to go by, trying to work out whether or not he had just been insulted, and added "It means that you can get other, better qualified, people to write your reports for you!"
Yup, he'd just been insulted! And by the way John was obviously hurting himself trying not to laugh he'd get no back up there!
"Drink your tea, Greg." John finally managed, in between chuckles, "and be thankful he didn't hear that comment before he poured it for you!"
"John! I wouldn't stoop so low!" Sherlock feigned hurt as he shook two of the pills into his friend's outstretched hand.
Relaxing back into John's armchair Greg watched as the self-confessed sociopath hovered solicitously over the invalid. Yeah, he thought, no matter what he might say he's not such an antisocial prat as he likes to make out! Pulling his thoughts back to the present he took a sip of his drink (John was right, it really was quite good!) and put the mug on the floor beside him.
"So are you two going to tell me what this is all about?"
John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to gather his thoughts.
"The thing is, Greg, we're not too sure exactly what's going on here." John's glance flicked between the two detectives. "Since I got back from the hospital Sherlock and I have been going through the cases that we have worked over the last year. Those guys were looking for something, so we started with the files they were looking at. Sherlock has physically checked the place over for anything they may have been looking for – or any nasties they may have left – but nothing. All in all we're out of ideas!"
"Really?" Lestrade looked stunned.
Sherlock glared. "You wouldn't believe how frustrating this is proving to be. We know they were after something, but there are no clues as to what!"
"And the files they were looking at?"
"No good, Greg. I think they assumed we were both out and so they started with the first pile of papers they came across." John leaned his head tiredly back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling. "When I disturbed them they were unprepared, startled. If they had been expecting one of us to be here I would quite possibly not be here now. They would have finished what they started, instead of running – the assault was unplanned." He stopped, as if he had suddenly run out of energy. The other two waited, but when he remained silent Sherlock took up the story.
"I have managed to get prints from the handle of the knife; Mycroft is having them checked now. He also sent over an artist, so we have a good likeness of the man John disturbed going through the papers in here." He reached across to his desk and picked up an A4 sheet. "You might want to make discrete enquiries."
Greg looked at the picture, but there was nothing familiar about it at all.
"What can I do to help?"
"We think it must be connected to a case that we have worked on, so we'll need access to the Yard's records of the cases you've call us in on."
"Bloody hell, Sherlock, that's a heck of a lot of paperwork!" Lestrade ran his hands through his greying hair. "I suppose I could arrange for an office to be made available for you…."
"No!" Sherlock leapt to his feet and crossed to the window. "I don't think using an office at the Yard as our base will be suitable – you know how I work."
"Somehow I don't think the Chief Superintendent would be too happy either" there was just the hint of a smile in John's tired voice. "He still hasn't forgiven His Lordship there for coming back from the dead." He lifted his head and looked searchingly at Greg. "Listen mate, we know it's a lot to ask, but there was something not right about that break in. They were plainly amateurs who panicked – burglars would have just tried to fight their way out, not attempt murder. If I hadn't seen his mate looking at him he'd have stabbed me in the back."
"And we don't keep copious notes of all the cases – just the interesting ones." Sherlock added.
Greg exhaled loudly, picking up his mug and swallowing the rest of his tea. For a moment he considered his options, then realised that actually, there was only one.
"Okay. How do you want to do this? Most recent first I assume?" he nodded as if answering his own question. "Yeah, that would make sense. I'll pull out the most recent dozen and bring them over myself this evening. Need a hand going through them?"
Sherlock was about to refuse but a look from his flatmate stilled his tongue.
"We can offer you tea and take-away if you want to help kick start the investigation Greg. Thank you"
Lestrade consulted his watch. "Right then. See you around six thirty."
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The Blind Beggar pub in Whitechapel Road once had a reputation as a villain's pub, frequented by the likes of the Kray and Richardson gangs. Nowadays it was just run down, living on its history and bad reputation.
In a dark corner furthest from the door two would-be villains were sitting on worn and much repaired chairs, sipping their pints of beer, each lost in his own thoughts. One was short and stocky, bordering on overweight. The other was a little shorter and wiry but very strong, his face bearing the marks of an amateur career in the boxing ring.
It was the ex-boxer that first noticed the two men in sharp suits entering the pub, their eyes taking in every patron, alighting at last on his partner in crime. He saw the look of recognition cross their faces, and giving them no chance to get close to him he leapt to his feet and abandoning his 'friend' ran through the door that led to the toilets. The 'suits' separated, one followed him, and the other cornered the remaining man at the table.
Moments later a very disappointed man returned to the bar area. The wily ex-boxer had managed to escape through a window to the yard and was over the wall and gone leaving his pursuer with the unenviable task of telling his boss that one of the burglars had got away. The remaining miscreant slid lower in his chair, looking with fear at the two men who stood over him. He licked his lips and swallowed convulsively, trying not to show the fear he felt.
After a moment or two of staring down at him, the taller of the 'suits' leaned down, bringing his lean, smooth shaven face close to his prey, and whispered menacingly "Our boss would like a word with you!"
A/N: The term 'Suits' was fairly commonly used by blue collar or manual workers when referring to white collar or office workers. In London it has also been used in the same context that I have used here, in referring to a sharply dressed or 'suited' person.