Ash
….
Lestrade scratched his chin in bafflement. He couldn't make head or tails of this peculiar case.
One man somehow died whilst smoking his much- prized pipe.
Not only had the man died under the most mysterious and baffling circumstances ever witnessed in a domestic environment, but there was no Holmes available to come and 'assist' the police force.
The bloody fool caught pneumonia whilst on a case, and now poor Watson was worrying himself half to death for his friend's life and health.
Lestrade made a mental note to give the consulting detective a strike for driving the poor doctor into an early grave- metaphorically speaking, of course.
"What are you thinking of, Lestrade?" Asked Gregson, with a smirk.
The first inspector looked up at his rival. "Well, I was thinking I'd like to strike Holmes for putting the poor doctor through misery needlessly." He said darkly. Getting pneumonia was no joke, and Lestrade was sympathetic to the consulting detective's plight- but the pneumonia had also been brought upon Holmes because the bloody idiot wouldn't even so much as wear a muffler when the Four Seasons deemed it time to don furred armours against bullet fast blizzards and shrieking winds.
"For once, I concur," said Gregson thoughtfully. "Any luck on the evidence?"
Lestrade shook his head. "Holmes would have found some clue we always seem to miss and perform his deductions. We must keep looking; however. One of us will find something." He added determinedly, crouching on the floor with a magnifying glass- a Christmas present from Holmes.
Gregson nodded. He admired his rival's tenacity; no matter the peril they faced. And so, with that in mind, the two resumed their search, carefully examining every possible square inch of the room.
Although nowhere near a match for Sherlock Holmes' gifts, the two inspectors each possessed qualities which worked together beautifully.
Sadly, their egos were not one such quality. In fact, they were the reason they didn't work together more often- when they disagreed on something, it was difficult for either man to back down to the other. So, they only worked together if they needed to.
Often Holmes would be out of commission for some reason or other.
They couldn't even rely on Inspector Hopkins either- the closest they had to Holmes working in Scotland Yard. The lad was busy solving a case of disappearing bodies from the morgue; along with Inspector Bradstreet and Inspector Bell.
…
"Well, I'll be blazed," muttered Gregson. He smirked as he watched Lestrade continue to crawl on the floor, examining the leg of a coffee table.
"Are you done, Lestrade? Shall I put your leash on?" He asked teasingly.
"Quiet you," Lestrade huffed, swinging his head round to glare at his partner/rival. Unfortunately, in his grumpiness, he forgot about the coffee table
BANG!
…
Lestrade let off a stream of rather ungentlemanly curses, his hand flying to his now throbbing temple. To make matters worse, the force with which Lestrade banged his head also sent the coffee table shaking, causing a small, ugly ashtray to fall right onto the floor- smashing it to pieces and sending the ashes scattered everywhere.
"And Holmes deems you worthy the best of the worst?" Gregson asked sarcastically, watching as Lestrade scrambled to his feet, still gingerly rubbing his head. "Honestly, Lestrade, this was not the case to be without Holmes and Watson."
"It never is," Groaned Lestrade. "This wasn't the case to be working with you, either."
"The feeling is mutual, old man," Replied Gregson, folding his arms across his chest. "Just as well you're not Holmes, then- there's not much in there worth protecting," He smirked, tapping his head and giving Lestrade a knowing look.
Lestrade just growled, trying not to let on that the insult stung. Holmes was far more withering with his words; but he still hated his office rival thinking that he was just a bumbling fool who couldn't solve cases, much less injure himself in the process.
He was about to consider another option, which he wasn't sure what to do; but then, the ashes suddenly caught his eye.
Something seemed off about them. They didn't look blindingly extraordinary, but he knew that they didn't look like tobacco ashes- and at once, that set one question running through his mind.
What was this man burning?
Gingerly, he allowed his fingers to run through the ash, allowing it to fall between his fingers as seconds from the hands of Father Time himself.
It wasn't tobacco, but it seemed familiar, all the same. And it gave him a sinister feeling….
Lestrade racked his brains, frantically piecing together possible conclusions for the strange substance at his knees.
And then, as though a pile of bricks had been dropped on him, the answer came to him. The inspector blanched, jumped to his feet and began alternating between frenzied orders and ever more cursing.
"Lestrade, what's the matter? I know I went too far before, but there's no need to"-
"No time for that, Gregson!" Lestrade barked, so suddenly that Gregson almost jumped out of his skin. "We need to go and get a cab- now!"
"Why, Lestrade? What"-?
"Our murder victim is actually a corpse smoker!"
He was out of the door and hailing a cab before Gregson could actually process what Lestrade had said.