Right - I know that Lestrade is in homicides, but he must have started his career somewhere, mustn´t he? And I don´t have a clue, actually, what a barking Corgi sounds like ;)
Enjoy!
New Acquaintances
Detective Inspector Lestrade has spent ten years on the drugs squad, but he can´t remember a single case when he called in a user – or former user - to ask him for advice on his work. He shakes his head at himself and his ridiculous idea, his feet propped on his desk, the lukewarm remains of the horrid coffee the machine one floor below his office produces. Most likely, he will only get stomach cramps from the stuff, but he is an addict in his own right and thrives on the stale fluid and the chocolate bars he keeps in his drawers.
Movement in the hallway causes him to swing his legs off the pile of files and to cross them beneath the table.
A young officer – was his name Miller or Millet? Lestrade muses – opens the door, ushering his visitor in. Grey eyes adept at surveying, observing and analysing take in the slightly ruffled but well-cut suit of the younger man, the wrinkle at the base of his nose, his blue eyes and the dark smudges beneath them.
"Sherlock Holmes?" Lestrade asks, and is instantly awarded with a huff and a snide answer.
"As you have required my presence, and we texted earlier, I would assume that you do know who I am."
Leaning forward in his seat, Lestrade points towards a chair at the opposite side of his desk. "You looked quite different the last time we met," he replies quietly. "Guess I just wanted to make sure you are not a henchman, sent to eliminate me. Please, take a seat."
Sherlock does as asked, his eyes flicking over Lestrade´s desk, the withering fig tree on the shelf behind him and the multiple coffee mugs on the right-hand corner of his desk. His lips turn into an ironic smile.
"Isn´t it strange that a drug´s squad senior officer should be allowed to yield to his cravings for caffeine?"
"Oh, if caffeine were illegal, I guess all of Scotland Yard would be behind bars," Lestrade replies off-handedly, not taking the bait. "First of all, are you on anything other than coffee and cigarettes? Because if you are, we are not going to have this talk."
The younger man shakes his head, defiantly. "The court made pretty sure I went through the usual procedures," he grits through his teeth.
"You are clean, then?" Lestrade knows he might not get an honest answer, but the lad looks much more confident and healthy then when Lestrade arrested him. Thus, when Sherlock nods, he pushes a file towards him.
"Know this man?" he asks, regarding the look of intense concentration on Sherlock´s features. "Go on, you can leaf through it if you want."
It takes several minutes of silence and intensive reading, before Sherlock looks up and pushes the file back towards the policeman.
"Richard Small. He is one of the dodgier dealers of South Bank. I didn´t frequent him, as he is greedy and never delivers good quality. It´s cheap, though, so he gets enough customers."
Lestrade leans back, crossing his arms on his chest. "We suspect him of leading an important drug trafficking ring, but so far we can´t get any closer to him, even though we´ve been observing him 24 hours a day for three months now. There was something you told me when I arrested you, and which I couldn´t get out of my head. You said that he was responsible for the murder of a young girl two years ago."
Suddenly, all signs of impatience seem to leave Sherlock, who has been bouncing his knees while Lestrade has been talking. He nods and looks the Inspector in the eye. "I met him once and noticed he wore a peculiar bracelet, shaped like a leaf, possibly of Peruvian origin. I remembered the Walters case several years ago, where the bracelet of a young girl who had gone missing had disappeared. But, of course, this was not enough evidence to report him to the police, and the trinket was gone when I saw him again."
"What do you think was his motive?" Lestrade asks, intrigued.
"They had a deal. He is notorious for picking out the best-looking users he can find and promising them unrestricted provision with the drug of their choice – in exchange for sexual favours. Laura Walters was struggling with getting clean. Obviously, she had planned to report Small to your department."
Lestrade is tapping the tips of his fingers against his lips. "Hm. I remember a girl who called us, very upset, about Small. But we could never confirm who she was." His lips curve in a wry smile. "What do you make of the photograph?"
"Is this where Small keeps his supply?" Sherlock asks.
"Kept. We think so, yes. But the building looks completely abandoned, as if no one has entered it in years. An anonymous tip has lead us there, but we couldn´t make sense of it."
Sherlock turns the picture, scrutinising it, his brows drawn. "Do you have a JPG of this?" he asks, urgently. Lestrade nods and pushes his computer screen towards his visitor, several images of the room loading in quick succession.
The younger man stares at them, grabs the mouse and enlarges remote corners, window sills and peels of wallpaper. Finally, he points at an inconspicuous stain beneath a window.
"Blood. The indentations here have been refilled with sawdust, hence they are a little bit darker. You can even spot the trace of a heavy boot. They tied their victim to the chair, pushing it towards the window so he would be blinded by the setting sun. You can see from the way the light falls through the window that it looks West. They were thorough, threats first, then one well-aimed knife at his heart, hence the absence of more blood stains. They used the sawdust to inconspicuously cover their traces."
Lestrade watches the young man, who has delivered the last bit of his analysis with verve and at a speed which he nearly failed to be able to follow. He smiles.
"This was brilliant," he says. "Could you meet me at the morgue of St. Bart´s tonight to take a look at a corpse we´ve found in the Thames a week ago?"
Sherlock´s eyes light up in rather indecent glee. "It would be a pleasure," he replies.
Had it not been for the infernal Corgi, Sherlock would in all probability never have exchanged a word with Victor Trevor. As soon as he leaves Scotland Yard and walks down to the nearest Tube station, there is a high-pitched, aggressive bark behind him. He has hardly the time to turn and meet his hairy opponent before the creature sinks its teeth into his left ankle, growling. Kicking at it with his right foot, he turns to look out for its master, but isn´t able to discern who might be the human appendage of this monster. He finally succeeds in taking hold of the dog´s collar, tugging it tight against the animal´s throat, which, startled, loosens its bite on the human flesh.
"Oh God, I´m so sorry." The man who has materialised at Sherlock´s side has taken hold of the collar, too and holds the raging dog at bay while Sherlock examines his bloodied trousers and the torn flesh at his ankle. He only notices he is slightly shaking when the stranger puts one arm under his, carrying some of his weight, and drags him toward a ledge beneath the window of a nearby shop. As soon as he sits, the pain hits Sherlock with full force, and he stares blindly while the other man wraps a handkerchief around the wound in a vain attempt to still the blood.
"This is bleeding quite profusely," he says. "You´d probably better go to A&E."
Sherlock looks up, startled by the concern and warmth in the stranger´s voice, and shakes his head. "It´s nothing ," he shrugs him off. In fact, his ankle is pounding and he doubts he will even reach the curb to hail a cab, let alone reach the Tube. Inwardly, he curses Mycroft and his frequent trips to Buckingham Palace – the dog´s aggressive behaviour might very well have been triggered by traces of the smell of the Queen´s little, ubiquitous pack.
"Oh yes, it is – and it´s my fault," his counterpart replies. "Wait here, I´ll get us transport." He ties the still barking dog to a lamppost before he straightens to wave towards the traffic.
This is the first time Sherlock gets a good look at him. The stranger is shorter than himself, trained, wearing a casual jacket and boots, but no gloves, despite the cold. His brown hair is straight and cut short, left slightly longer at the sides and his forehead. The reassuring smile he sends Sherlock is clearly intended to cover his embarrassment at having endangered an innocent Londoner with his raging quadruped. Despite his annoyance, Sherlock smiles minutely as he realises that the dog´s master seems to be more upset than the victim of the attack is. Deliberately calming his breathing, he leans back and continues to watch as the stranger finally succeeds in luring a cab from the rush-hour traffic.
Three hours, a tetanus shot, a dose of antibiotics and a trip to the dog´s rightful owner later, and they sit in Sherlock´s small kitchen over a mug of coffee, exchanging their views on art, philosophy and science. While Sherlock gathers several points in science, Victor outruns him in art and philosophy, and Sherlock realises that it has been a long time since he´s had a comparably inspiring conversation. It´s been a long time he has talked so casually about his interests, too, he perceives, when Victor smiles mischievously at him, an eyebrow raised.
"You know, I walk dogs for a living. Well, not quite," he says. "It´s just that London can be rather expensive in places."
"This is hardly an outstanding observation," Sherlock snarls, exhaustion and the dull throbbing in his leg making him irritable.
Victor leans over the table, his elbows nearly brushing against Sherlock´s hand, which has been drawing circles onto the wooden surface. He smiles. "What I meant was that there are a lot of intriguing pastimes one could spend hundreds of pounds upon. I think, as a spoiled child from a wealthy family, you might be familiar with some of them."
Sherlock draws his hand back and sits up, his blue eyes boring into Victor´s brown ones. "Dull. You read the newspapers," he says, his voice dark and threatening. "Is this why you set your dog on me – to get access to the black sheep of the Holmes´ family? It wouldn´t be the first time some delusional human pursued me to declare his everlasting love."
The scathing irony in Sherlock´s voice isn´t lost on Victor, who smiles, imaging a trail of followers chasing Sherlock through London´s streets. He quickly grows serious again, though, and leans back. "Oh, I´d bet, considering your good looks," he replies off-handedly. "I didn´t plan on meeting you, though. Sweetie seemed to have felt a jolt of attraction, I´m afraid – seems to be more the SM type, I reckon." He lays his open hand on the table, as if calling it a truce. "You appeared far more wired and aloof in the report than you are in reality. I doubt I would have ever imagined meeting you in person could be fun."
"This was the reason why my family kept the press at bay. To keep people from speculating about our family traits," Sherlock replies sternly. "Plus, my father has never forgiven my grandfather that his divorce at the age of seventy-eight was displayed in the tabloids."
"A family scandal everyone could identify with," Victor says. "I remember my mother was devastated by the news of how your grandmother had died. Oh, I´m sorry," he continues, noticing Sherlock´s darkening features. "This is hardly an appropriate topic."
Sherlock stays silent, lost in the memory of leaving his grandparent´s estate for the last time after a summer of freedom and adventure in Brittany. He remembers the uproar at Holmes Manor at the news on his grandmother´s accident, and his own grief. His father had changed, then, becoming more detached and bitter with every passing month, and their strained relationship didn´t improve but grew worse ever since.
He looks up, meeting Victor´s eyes. The brown-haired man shrugs. "Every family has its own difficulties, I guess," he says lightly, and for once, it doesn´t sound indifferent but soothing. Sherlock nods, pushing away the sudden wave of fondness for his counterpart. He is suddenly tired, but can´t find the right words to end their conversation.
Again, Victor´s thoughtfulness takes him off guard. "It´s time I leave." He raises from his chair and sends Sherlock a peculiar glance. "Since I´m the one responsible for your ordeal, allow me to invite you for a trip to the countryside tomorrow. We could go to the seaside, cherish the sun outside a pub, you know."
Puzzled, Sherlock stares back at his visitor. This is clearly meant as a date. "I have no inclination..." he starts, but Victor throws his head back and laughs.
"I wouldn´t want to intimidate you, of course. But seeing that you can´t possibly leave the flat on your own, I assumed I could be of assistance. You don´t seem to take confinement very well."
"How would you know?" Sherlock snarls back, again taken by surprise by Victor´s observation.
"Oh, come on, you´ve been tapping your good foot against the table´s leg for the past half hour, and you´ve been fiddling with the remnant of your biscuit ever since we sat down." Victor smiles his mocking smile again. "If I am guessing correctly, you are yearning for distraction. You know, three months in rehab are rather a short time to recover, especially when you didn´t want treatment in the first place. We could end tomorrow on a special note, you know."
Thrilled despite the warning in his mind that he promised himself never to socialise with other users, Sherlock is looking at Victor, biting his lip. He is already far too curious to get to know this man better, and wanting too desperately to recline his offer.
"I hope it´s good stuff, then," he growls, and Victor laughs again.
"Premium," he replies, and grabs his jacket. "You´ll be surprised, Mr. Holmes. Tomorrow at two?"
The younger Holmes nods. The image of the sea rolling in, of Victor´s smooth voice explaining Plato´s theories to him and the wind ruffling their hair creeps into his inner vision.
"Two, yes," he says, roughly. They can´t have been flirting. He has no inclination to get romantically involved, he likes his solitude. No, taking Victor up on his offer is just his usual practice of discovering the unknown. It is his usual way of keeping the tsunami of his thought at bay by solving a puzzle. It is distraction, nothing else. And Victor, astonishingly enough, presents a puzzle.
Later, as he plucks at his violin´s strings, Sherlock remembers his appointment with Lestrade. Well, he can always get sober early enough to be reputable for police work. Ordinary people are so easy fooled, after all.