Over the next month, Lestrade invited Sherlock to consult on five separate cases, all of which were concluded in record time.
It was after one such case that Lestrade sat in his office contemplating the direction that his professional path seemed to be taking. He had had a long day. Sherlock could be very helpful in some ways…in others, well, he made Greg's life about fifty times more difficult. The DI honestly wasn't sure if the "consulting" detective was doing it on purpose or was just completely oblivious to the way that he grated on other people.
Just today, Lestrade had had to keep Michaels from punching Sherlock in the face. Not to mention the grieving widow that Sherlock had provoked into a fit of hysterics so great that she had almost passed out.
To be fair, the day had been successful. They had solved the case largely thanks to Sherlock's deductions. But…the process had been a lengthy, trying, and difficult one. Half the Yard thought Sherlock was a complete menace; the other half believed that he was secretly responsible for every instance of death and destruction they were called in to work on. It didn't help matters that Sherlock seemed inclined to insult (I'm simply observing, Lestrade.) everyone. If he didn't start to at least realize what he was doing, Greg was pretty sure that someone would take the young man out. It wasn't just the high cheekbones that would be damaged…many of his officers were carrying live weapons…
Lestrade sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. Part of him thought that his primary concern should be for his officers, who were clearly not enjoying the presence of the younger man, but he couldn't help but worry more for Sherlock. He was dangerously thin, and, though extremely intelligent, he was so completely antagonistic that Greg wondered if he had any contact with people outside the few texts they exchanged regarding cases. Well, Greg amended, any contact outside observing them like they're science experiments. Oh, it had been worlds of fun watching him "deduce" Sally Donovan after she called him a freak…the resulting slap echoed through the room like a gun crack. Lestrade was torn between amusement and genuine worry.
Greg had tried to express this earlier in the afternoon. Sherlock had seemed a strange mix of fastidiousness and unkempt. And as Greg pulled him aside, he wondered vaguely, what the bloody hell am I getting myself into? Before politely telling his inner skeptic to shut the hell up. He was in the business of solving crimes and so, apparently, was this boy.
"Don't you think it would be better if you could, uh, tone it down a bit?" Greg had blustered gently.
Sherlock looked confused, "I haven't done anything."
Greg rolled his eyes, "and the red hand print across your face, is just decoration is it?" he asked scathingly.
"They're idiots," Sherlock said with scorn, "It's not my fault that Donovan-"
But Lestrade interrupted before Sherlock could continue. Thanks to the younger man, he had already learned more today about Sally Donovan's sex life, socioeconomic status, and emotional drama than he had ever wanted to know.
"Granted, all right, but just because you know these things doesn't mean that you have to tell everyone, all right?"
"I don't know, Lestrade, I notice."
He just has such a lovely voice when he's talking down to you, Greg though most sarcastically. He took a deep breath rather than engage in physical assault.
"Look," he implored, "It would make my life easier if you would at least try to get on with the Yardies."
There was a long pause, during which time Sherlock seemed to consider this. Well, Greg amended, he's either considering it or deducing me…I hope it's the first.
"Please," he added.
"They're ordinary. Dull," Sherlock's nose crinkled in disgust, "Why should I care?"
"Because they are trying to do something good." No response, "Because I'm asking you nicely. Because we work best as a team."
"I work alone; I am a consulting detective," he said and there was hint of pride in his voice. Sherlock added, as if to make sure that he was perfectly clear, "The only one. I invented the profession."
"What exactly does that mean, consulting detective?" Greg asked suspiciously.
Sherlock smirked, "When you're out of your depth, which is quite frequently, you call me and I put my considerable talents at your disposal."
Greg glared, "Well it's hard to bring you in to "consult" if you're going to keep right on terrorizing the victims and getting into fights with the officers on duty."
Sherlock turned sulky. Greg was beginning to understand that the boy, though in some ways brilliant, was complete and utter bollocks at interpreting things like sarcasm, emotional reactions (there had been a tense moment with Sherlock describing a death in excruciating detail within earshot of the grieving mother), and anything like appropriate social cues. It was very disconcerting to talk to Sherlock Holmes, Lestrade observed, not least, because he felt like he was under a microscope with every feature and flaw held out for scrutiny. He also seemed to hold a very low regard for humanity in general.
"And what do you get out of this?" Lestrade was genuinely curious. Was this some vigilante mission? A quest for justice? A weird murder fetish?
"It's fun."
"Fun?"
"Yes," he nodded face impassive, "and it alleviates the boredom. The world is boring."
"Right." Greg was not sure how he felt about any of this, especially the abrasive and potentially mentally unstable young man whose greatest passion involved the observation of murders, "Well if you want to keep working with us, you're going to have to try, all right?"
They had reached a tentative peace and Sherlock had gotten into two more arguments before the afternoon was over.
Reliving the tense moments even now, hours later, made Greg want to slam his head down on his desk. He knew that he wouldn't stop asking for Sherlock's help, just as much as Sherlock knew it. The problem, of course, was that it would be bloody difficult to keep on if the "ordinary" detectives and the "consulting" one couldn't come to a truce.
That wasn't even the worst part of it. The fact was, that though Greg wanted to keep their relationship strictly professional, he seemed exceedingly preoccupied with the welfare of a certain enigmatic consulting detective, whose random comings and goings brought up a great deal of angst and tension.
Greg didn't want to worry about the damn kid, who wasn't, when you got right down to it, a kid. He was an adult, he could look out for himself, except, Greg had a sneaky suspicion that Sherlock's definition of self-care was very different from that of a "normal" person…
I should have bought a puppy; he continued rubbing his eyes applying force to alleviate the steady throbbing of his head (the number of headaches he experienced per day had dramatically increased since he had met Sherlock). They all said to get a puppy after the divorce. Cute little pet, take your mind off things; give you something else to worry about. But no, Greg almost wanted to laugh. He had so completely resisted the idea of getting something to care for. He had barely been able to look after himself, after all. Now, four years later he seemed to be on the verge of adopting a lunatic, consulting detective, with no social skills, a personality that asked to be punched in the face, and, most wonderfully, seemed to have absolutely no desire to be looked after by Greg or anyone else for that matter. Ironic: a puppy would have been so much easier and infinitely more appreciative.
Greg lifted his face from his hands and finished his paper work, donned his scarf and coat, and locked his office. He was looking forward to dinner followed by a warm cuppa, maybe some telly and bed. A nice quiet night. He was quite certain that he deserved one. Alas, he had not yet realized that having Sherlock Holmes in his life would frequently preclude such things.
Since he had met Sherlock a series of strange, but innocuous and mostly unnoticed things had happened to Gregory Lestrade. The first and most prominent was that he was consistently worried about the younger man. The others were less obvious to Greg. Like the fact that random surveillance cameras seemed to follow his movements or the way that there seemed to be far more men in suits that seemed inclined to bump into him on the street than there had been previously. Greg was usually thinking of quite different things.
This was probably why he didn't notice that he was being followed that evening as he walked down the street, not, that is, until the man came up behind him and briefly tapped him on the elbow.
"Sir," the stranger said when Greg appeared startled, "I require you to come with me on a matter of some import."
Greg was not an idiot and was therefore highly suspicious until the man presented him with a signed memorandum of his superior at the Yard, requesting an immediate meeting, to which Lestrade felt he had no available response other than acquiescence. He thus got into the waiting car and ten minutes later was escorted into a small and expensive French café. He was placed at a table and waited impatiently, tapping his fingers on the table cloth in an anxious tattoo, wishing he had a cigarette and a more relaxing evening.
That was when he saw him for the first time. He cut a striking figure as he walked into the room. Tall, sharp, all angles and edges, narrow face, high cheekbones and thin aristocratic nose. He wore a well-made suit. A complete suit, mind you, waistcoat, pocket watch, tie, and all. He looked like a nineteenth century gentleman transported and adapted to the present day. He spotted Greg at the table and sauntered over swinging an umbrella as he came. There was something dangerous and arresting about him. Though Greg couldn't quite tell you what it was. There was also familiarity about the way his eyes seemed to calculate everything about Greg in all of five seconds and left him wearing a small smirk at Greg's surprised look, which the DI quickly turned into a frown.
"Detective Inspector," he said in a cultured voice, "thank you for coming."
He sat down opposite Greg and made a vague waving moving to summon a waiter bearing a tea service, which he poured out.
"Not to be rude," Lestrade said calmly and slowly, "But who the ruddy hell are you?"
The man smiled, adding sugar to his tea and stirring slowly.
"That's really not important," he set his spoon aside and blew on the steaming liquid before taking a sip, "However; you could just call me a concerned citizen."
Lestrade was completely certain that "concerned citizens" did not just pick you up of the street and force you to have tea with them. He would bet money that this man was far from being a lay person of any kind.
"That's not an answer," Greg couldn't keep the frustrated tone from his voice and somehow this seemed to please the dapper man, "Why the hell am I here?"
The gentleman took another sip of tea, still surveying Greg with detached scrutiny. There was something very familiar about it…
"It has come to my attention that you have taken into your employ a certain consulting detective," he said precisely.
Greg was momentarily stunned. "Sherlock? You brought me here to talk about Sherlock Holmes?"
The man rolled his eyes as if this were an obvious answer, "Of course."
"Well, first off, I'm not employing him," Greg cut in, trying to puzzle out exactly why this gentleman was taking any sort of interest in Sherlock. Fuck, he thought, what kind of trouble has that idiot gotten into. Honestly, he tried not to think too much about that on a regular basis because he had a feeling that he would not like the answers.
"I can't bloody keep him away from the crime scenes. He volunteers," Greg also didn't like to think how Sherlock found the means to afford his daily bread. Of course, he reflected, that presupposes that he eats at all, when judging by the state of him-.
The gentleman laughed, leaning back slightly in his chair. Greg wasn't sure if he was laughing at the strange face he himself was making or if it was more to do with his comment.
"How very altruistic of him," he seemed to be finding this highly amusing and apparently held a very low opinion of Sherlock's motivations.
"How do you know him?" Despite himself, Greg couldn't help but be genuinely curious
He composed himself and raise one supercilious eyebrow, "Oh, he and I go way back."
Great, another vague non-answer.
"Detective Inspector," the stranger took on a business like tone, "I wish to speak candidly."
Lestrade snorted, he doubted highly that this man had ever spoken with candor in his life.
"Indeed, well, as I am sure you may have noticed," Greg frowned at the dubious inflection in his tone, his intelligence was being insulted far too frequently of late, "Sherlock is not um, how shall we say? A particularly amenable creature."
Lestrade did laugh at that, causing the man to look startled, "If you mean he pretty much begs someone to break his nose every time he opens his mouth, it's kind of hard not to notice that."
The gentleman looked as if he wouldn't put it past Greg to have missed something so obvious and Lestrade glared.
"What of it?"
"I understand that he is working under your supervision at the Yard?"
Greg nodded in response, "That's right…" though how the ruddy hell this bloke new all that was beyond him at the moment. MI6, assassin, and royal espionage were all currently on the table.
"Indeed," he spoke in a very clipped and authoritative way, no doubt meant to intimidate Greg who was beginning to rally, "It is my desire that no harm should come to him while he is under your care."
"He is not under my—" Greg began hotly. He did not want to take responsibility for this.
The man raised his brows crinkling his aristocratic forehead, "You are right. He is not under your care," he paused, considering, "He is under mine. However, since he persists in behaving like a vagabond child-"
"Sorry, wait, he's under your care? What the hell do you mean by that?"
The man flexed his long elegant fingers and looked down at them disinterestedly while he contemplated his answer, and Greg became more anxious and annoyed. It occurred to him that that was the point of the delayed response.
"He is my brother," He said without looking up or in any way inflecting his speech, "We do not get on."
Suddenly Lestrade made the connections. The cold calculating stare, the posh clothes, the sophisticated accent, the sense of superiority and disdain for humanity that radiated from both men. They even had the same nose.
"He's your brother?"
The man sighed, "Yes, indeed. And I have a personal investment in his well-being, and since you seem to have taken such an invested interest in his person," here he stared at Greg, "I hold you personally responsible for his well fare."
Now that was going too far, but before Greg could so much as open his mouth the man had abruptly stood up and stepped back from the table, taking his umbrella in hand.
"Now, if you will excuse me, I have an urgent meeting to attend."
"No! Now you wait a bloody second. You don't get to kidnap me and then give me custody of a bloody psych-"
"He is a self-diagnosed sociopath, though I suggest you evaluate his condition yourself, and I believe, Detective Inspector, that you will find that I can."
Greg was about a second away from punching the man in his frustration.
"Do see that he stays out of trouble, won't you? We'll be in touch." He ran his eyes over Greg from his soles to his crown and the DI felt a blush creep up his neck despite the anger.
Then, before he could say another word, the stranger had left and Greg sat down at the table. So much for a nice bloody evening he thought, down. That was when he saw the card.
Mycroft Holmes, it read on neat white stock lettered in black, British Government. It listed a phone number and underneath a note in neat script that read, just in case.
He really didn't want to think of the circumstances under which he would need to contact Mycroft Holmes. He had no idea, as he pocketed the card and left the café, that he would soon need to speak with him desperately.
AN:
Welcome to Chapter 2, everyone! What did you think? Do you enjoy this early version of Sherlock? How are you finding Lestrade's voice? What did you think of Mycroft and he and Lestrade's first meeting? Please, review, I would love to hear your thoughts.
It's quite odd to write all these characters when they've only just met. Like visiting an alternate universe where subtle things are different. Anyway, stay tuned because before long Greg is going to be forced to contact Mycroft and things are going to get real for everyone. You know me, angst is where I live. The next chapter should be up within two days.
Until next time,
Nic