Upon reaching the Yard, I headed back to my office, being careful to duck out of the way of the hurried forms of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson as they passed, an only slightly bothered Inspector Lestrade in tow. Maybe it was just my imagination, but it seemed that Holmes called for Lestrade more than he did anyone else at the Yard, and that Lestrade did not terribly mind.

I noted, as I passed Gregson's office, that the man had not gotten as caught up on his paperwork as he had hoped. I also made a note to stop in with a mug of tea on my way out; Gregson would likely be here late into the night, and I could tell by his expression that he was rapidly reaching the end of his tether. The man loathed paperwork with a passion. Unfortunately, there was more of it involved in our line of work than one might think.

Jones was also snarling over paperwork, but in his case that meant he was having some sort of domestic problems that his colleagues had best keep their noses out of. The man was as closed about his personal life as Lestrade was, even if he was not quite as skilled as Lestrade at keeping up the professional façade when all was not well at home.

Hopkins dragged in as I reached my office door, looking as if he had come off the worst in some sort of brawl. "Rough day?" I asked as he opened his own office door to stare forlornly at his own mountain of paperwork.

"Got called down to the docks." He answered mournfully. "How is it that Lestrade is suddenly the best at keeping his paperwork done?" He wanted to know. "He used to be the slowest."

"He doesn't keep it done." I told the lad. "He just keeps it neat. He's further behind than the rest of us."

"Still…" Hopkins sighed. "If I could keep my office half that neat I'd be happier. At least then it would look like there's less of it. Are you working late?"

"Everyone else is." I said, though I had planned on ignoring my own paperwork in favor of seeing what else I could learn about the family of the murdered man. "We can call it a party."

"A party." Hopkins snorted. "If it were a party, there would be food."

"Lestrade's out." I suggested. "I saw something that looked like food in his office."

"His wife sent him lunch." Hopkins said absently. "He's been here all day too." Then he realized what I was suggesting. "You want to steal Lestrade's lunch." He said flatly.

I shrugged. "He went out with Holmes. It's not like he'll be back anytime soon." Hopkins was still skeptical, so I continued. "Besides, you know how much it cheers Gregson up to steal Lestrade's food, and you know how much he hates paperwork. It's for the good of the Yard, Hopkins."

Hopkins' shoulders slumped. He had given in. "Are you sure Lestrade won't be back?"

"Positive." I lied. It didn't matter; Hopkins had already committed to it.

We stopped by Gregson's office on the way to Lestrade's. "We're throwing a party, and refreshments are in Lestrade's office. Want to come?"

Gregson considered it. "Is Jones invited?" He wanted to know.

"Jones wouldn't come anyway." I reminded him.

The three of us continued down the hall. We stopped outside of Lestrade's office.

The door was closed. It was never locked. Most people knew better than to bother anything left in that office. There were a few Constables foolish enough to occasionally mess up his note board, but even they knew not to touch anything else. Gregson and I were the only ones stupid enough to remove food from the man's office. Hopkins didn't count; he was quaking in his shoes and only here because he needed to do something to release the tension caused by whatever nightmarish day he had suffered.

Hopkins stood watch at the door while Gregson and I cautiously made our way in. Stealing Lestrade's lunch was all well and good, and he probably wouldn't do more than mention the disappearance in passing, but as far as the rest of the office was concerned if we left one thing out of place Lestrade would kill us.

Actually, if all he did was kill us we would be lucky.

Fortunately the floor was clear, as it always was. You couldn't walk through Gregson's office on a good day, at least, nobody but Lestrade and Gregson himself could manage such a feat, and most of us Inspectors had something or other lying about that would trip up anyone blundering about in the darkness. Lestrade's office was the exception to that rule.

The basket was on one of the chairs in front of Lestrade's desk and easily accessible. Gregson braced himself, threw a glance back over his shoulder at Hopkins to assure himself that the cost was clear, and eased the basket out of the chair.

We cautiously made our way back out of Lestrade's office and retreated back to our makeshift kitchen, which consisted of a sink, a cabinet of cracked dishes, and a stove that was only good for boiling water in the dented teapot Gregson claimed had been here longer than he had. Of course, he also claimed Lestrade had once used it to ward off an angry, corrupt Inspector that had gone after him with a sword, which, as entertaining as the notion was, we were all hesitant to believe.

I set to brewing some tea while Hopkins nervously examined the contents of the lunch basket and Gregson drew himself up to his full height and glared at the poor Constable who was trying to figure out what we were doing and why we had been sneaking down the hallway like fugitives.

After finishing our tea and Lestrade's lunch, we went our separate ways back to our offices, and I resigned myself to doing some of my own paperwork. It was probably the better option between that and having Hopkins and Gregson miffed that I was going home and they weren't.

Hopkins and Jones had given up and gone home by the time I locked up my own office and headed out. Gregson was still working in his office as I left.

I spent the following morning interviewing the neighbors. I did not learn much.

According to the neighbors, the family got along well. They did not fight, at least, if they did it was never in public. The house was generally a quiet, peaceful place.

The daughter, they said, was a bit on the wild side, however. That she often went out walking by herself and to the market unescorted were a few of the examples I was given of this alleged wildness.

The cook and the maid might as well have been part of the family, I was told. This did not surprise me much, in spite of Miss Jacobs' assertion that they were not that close.

Watson, I learned, was considered by most of the neighbors to be a good man. He was hardworking, well mannered, and handsome to boot. It was a pity, I was told, that the daughter would not have him.

I wondered, as I headed back to the Yard, if the murder could possibly been over the proposed marriage between Watson and the daughter. But who had killed him, and why?

According to the daughter the uncle would have sided with her on the matter and both her father and Mr. Watson knew as much. Whether this was entirely true or not, I did not know, and made a note to ask Mr. Southhall about his brother's views on his daughter's proposed marriage to Mr. Watson.

"Inspector Bradstreet." I turned to see Miss Southhall stepping down off her porch and coming towards me.

"Miss Southhall," I greeted her with a smile. She returned it, briefly.

"Father says I am not to go out alone after what happened to my uncle. I was hoping to go the Grocer's for dinner, but my Father is busy. Would you accompany me? It would not take long."

I do not know for the life of me why I agreed, but I did.

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.