Disclaimer: Not mine. All respects paid to Sir Doyle, the BBC, and writers Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
A/N: Many thanks to those are are leaving feedback for both this and 'First Impressions'. I appreciate all the thoughts and reflections I have received. I apologize too, for the lateness of this chapter...it was supposed to go up Monday, but RL intervened.
The following is a total departure from the scenes of the television show. It's Lestrade's snapshots of a single case Sherlock and John work with the Yard. This takes place sometime after 'The Blind Banker', but before 'The Great Game.' Enjoy!
Lestrade
Trust.
"Will you come?"
They had always played this game. At first, Lestrade had found it confusing and, frankly, irritating. Sherlock lived for crime scenes. The cool detachment, the need to even ask the question 'Will you come?' (Lestrade wouldn't be here if he weren't in dire straights), the disdainful dismissal of riding in one of the Yard's cars, the groans from the rest of the unit when knew the detective was coming – why go through this? Everyone knew from the instant Sherlock heard the sirens in the street below that he would be joining them.
Now, however, the irritation was gone – along with most of the confusion. Donovan and Anderson's sneered "Freak," was the strongest consistent reaction, but the D.I. knew that most of his force found Sherlock a high-handed, arrogant prick. Lestrade, Dimmock and a handful of others were the few who valued his brains enough to deal with his personality. And of them, Lestrade had to admit that he was the only one who felt anything like friendship or affection for the young genius.
In scouring Sherlock for likable qualities, the detective inspector had discovered something he hadn't expected. Like any burgeoning primary schooler, Sherlock needed signs of approval, indications that he was useful.
Sherlock would bristle and shut down if Lestrade ever offered it directly. So he continued to ask the question.
This time, though, Sherlock changed the rules.
"John?" The detective's gaze went to the older man, one hand on the black coat that had been slung carelessly over the back of a chair. His body betrayed him – he was ready to dash after Lestrade – but he was waiting for his…assistant?
No…that title didn't suit John Watson.
And Sherlock would never wait for a mere assistant, anyway. Before John Watson entered his life, the copper had never seen him wait for anyone.
John sighed, set down the newspaper he hadn't been reading as it was, turned his wrist to check the time, twisted his mouth in thought, and nodded once, decisively. "I can call in sick."
"Excellent." The detective turned back to Lestrade, swinging his long coat over his shoulders. "We'll be right behind you."
The D.I. glanced at John, who had a faint smile on his face as he hit the SEND button on his mobile to makes his excuses, and shook his head in wonderment.
The two men had come together on every scene since the cabbie-serial-killer incident. Watson was remarkable at smoothing Sherlock's diamond-sharp edges and soothing ruffled feathers in the wake of the detective's passing. A fact for which Lestrade was grateful. And clearly, John didn't mind if it interrupted his normal work.
Then again…there was a lot more to John Watson than the quiet doctor of his first acquaintance, Lestrade reflected as he jogged back down the stairs to his car. Sherlock might think Lestrade hopelessly thick, but it hadn't been much of a leap when he'd seen Sherlock duck across the police tape line to talk to his new flat mate just after the cabbie's death. "Ignore all of that. It's just the, uh…the shock talking."
No…it had been the truth. John Watson was the marksman Sherlock had done such an admirable job of describing. Lestrade had quietly tucked that knowledge to the back of his brain and left it there, happily tossing the file on the cabbie's mysterious killer into the Cold Case cabinet, never to be re-opened.
"Freak's coming then?" Sally Donovan asked drily as he slid into his seat. He shot her a stiff glare.
"Sherlock and John are coming." His tone left no room for objections as the car lurched into traffic towards the crime scene.
888
They burst through the access door onto the roof, only to find it singularly devoid of one Sherlock Holmes. John's blue eyes widened in panic as he scanned the place with the rapidness of a professional soldier and failed to find what he was looking for.
"Sherlock!"
"It's all right, John." The voice came from below them, and John hit the rooftop so fast that if he'd blinked, Lestrade would have missed it. The smaller man was lying flat on his stomach, arm outstretched as far as he could reach. His flat mate was under the gutter, hanging from the thick bundle of cable and electrical wires running just under the overhang.
Long, pale fingers grabbed John's as Lestrade threw himself down beside the doctor, adding his strength, the doctor wincing as he started to pull, wriggling backwards to allow Sherlock to grab the gutter, levering himself onto the concrete roof before the weak metal gave way.
"Thank you," Sherlock breathed, crouching next to them.
"For God's sake, be careful!" John snapped, turning the younger man's hands over, running his fingers over them in a light, proficient manner, checking for injury amongst the deep impressions and grease smears the cables had left on Sherlock's skin. "There had to be a better way to get a look—"
Sherlock waved him off. "No time…and the rooftop lookout was the best way to see what was happening."
"Rooftop, Sherlock," John said sharply. "That means on the roof. Not dangling under it."
"Too obvious!" Sherlock replied impatiently, the slate-colored eyes desperate for John's understanding. Lestrade watched silently. He'd never seen Sherlock take a scolding. From anyone. On any subject. But John Watson didn't appear to know or care about this previous track record as he glowered at his flat mate. "And ground surveillance is too clumsy," Sherlock elucidated, glancing dismissively at the copper. "He's clever. They would have seen."
The D.I. rolled his eyes and reminded himself not to throttle the other man. "So? What did you see?"
"I was right. They are supplying ice."
"Which means he's probably the murderer," Lestrade followed with some satisfaction.
"No. He just hired them." Sherlock rose, strode towards the still-cocked door that had granted them access to the roof, calling back over his shoulder. "John, we need to get to the hospital."
A flick of his black coat and he was through the door, thundering down the stairs.
Lestrade glanced at the physician as he stood. "You all right?" he asked.
John gave him a grimace and shook his head. "I wish he wouldn't be such an idiot, but yeah. I'm not sure what he's thinking about the hospital, but I'd better go with him."
"If only to ensure no one else tries to kill him," the copper said wryly.
"Exactly."
888
Lestrade jogged down the hallway at Bart's, flipping his wrist up. 1:45. Looked like lunch was off the schedule. Again. At least a visit to the morgue was likely to quiet his rumbling stomach. He might be a detective, but he had never grown accustomed to the gruesomeness of the dead that the Yard were typically called to investigate.
"…going to end up in the 'fridge this time?" he heard John Watson's voice. It was comprised of equal parts exasperation, admiration and resignation.
"Of course, John. The state of her liver is most important. That and her blood should tell us exactly when she had her last dose – ah, Detective Inspector." Sherlock looked up from where he was capping a small blood sample.
"Sherlock. Molly," Lestrade nodded to the mortician hovering in the corner, shelving his automatic pang of pity. Anyone who'd been in the same room as Molly Hooper for two minutes knew of her yearning for Sherlock Holmes. The army doctor's entrance into Sherlock's life had sealed her fate – John Watson was, for some unfathomable reason, the only one allowed to be close to the enigmatic man. While Molly made the short list of people Sherlock vaguely cared about, her connection to the morgue and therefore all the bodies was undeniably her most important feature in his world.
Lestrade felt he could relate. Despite being the man who'd picked an addicted and overdosing Sherlock up out of the gutter five years prior, his importance to the detective was largely limited to the fact that he held the power to invite or ban him from crime scenes.
However, unlike Molly, he did not have the misfortune the fancy himself in love with the man.
"Afternoon, John. Did you say 'in the 'fridge?'" he asked the doctor.
John sighed. "Sherlock labors under the delusion that the 'fridge is for body parts. And bacteria. And experiments."
"I keep everything off the 'Food Only' shelf," the detective replied indignantly, not lifting his gaze from the corpse he was examining.
"Sherlock…the whole refrigerator is designed for 'Food Only'. Mold travels. It has spores – never mind," he shook his head, hopped off the stool he'd been occupying, and turned to Lestrade. Despite the display, the D.I. suspected that John had long since grown used to Sherlock's complete failure to understand appropriate domestic behavior, and offered a token protest only because it was somehow expected as the 'normal' thing to do. He extended a hand, which the D.I. took. "Greg. I didn't know you were joining us."
Lestrade waved his mobile phone vaguely at Sherlock. "He texted. Said it was important."
"Hmm?" Sherlock looked momentarily blank at this, and Lestrade gritted his teeth, counting slowly to ten. If he'd missed lunch yet another time for nothing more than the detective's whims—
"Ah, yes. Come take a look at the body's left hand." Lestrade allowed himself a moment of relief that his rush to answer Sherlock's summons was not in vain, then dutifully strode to the table, avoiding the deceased's face, and looking very carefully only at the broken nails and rough chilblains on her hand. "Here, and here," Sherlock didn't quite touch, but his blue gloves hovered over massive bruising. "Actually…" now his nose was level with her left thumb, and he lifted her hand delicately, running the fingers of his other hands under her wrist.
"John!"
The doctor was at his side instantly, kneeling to join him. "Hemorrhaging," John agreed, peering at the damage. "This woman was bound."
"For awhile, judging by the state of her hands," Sherlock added. "Perhaps two to three days. We'll need to look through her phone, emails, see what evidence we can find to corroborate."
"And she obviously fought," John indicated her split and uneven nails, the ragged edges where some had been torn away.
"Phone. I need to send a text."
Lestrade stared as John didn't rise, didn't ask "Where is it?" but placed a hand flat on Sherlock's chest and slid downwards, as if patting him down. Sherlock waited patiently through this exercise, apparently still completely focused on the corpse. A faint quirk on the doctor's lips told the D.I. that he'd found the desired object, and then he thrust his hand into the front of Sherlock's jacket pocket, withdrawing the mobile.
Neither man seemed to find the casual, intimate invasion of space odd as John rocked back on his heels, fingers slowly typing the message Sherlock dictated.
Lestrade glanced to Molly, who returned his gaze with longing and envy – but not with surprise.
888
The cars pulled up as Sherlock was running, his long strides eating the ground as he dashed towards the back of the apparently normal brick residence. Lestrade could see where he was going. He didn't even try to catch up, let alone stop him. Nothing stopped Sherlock.
Except possibly the kidnapped man inside. Lestrade's gut iced at the thought of what would occur if Sherlock arrived and John Watson was no longer breathing.
"Secure the exits," he ordered his squad. "Sherlock will go in from the rear." He turned to Herrick with a sigh. "See if you can get to a second story window. Try not to let him get killed – or kill John with his foolishness."
Herrick nodded seriously.
Lestrade eased himself over to the front door. It was late afternoon, and they were approaching a nominally average house. He hoped that meant the likelihood of getting shot upon ringing the doorbell was lessened.
He rang. There was no answer. He rang again.
After the third ring, he sighed, took out a useful little kit that he wasn't entirely sure that even Sherlock knew he owned, and picked the lock.
Technically, owning and using lock-picks was illegal. But Lestrade had always felt that citizens, taxpayers and neighbors appreciated not having doors broken in.
The first floor looked and sounded deserted. He could have gone searching through every room, but as a copper he'd developed a sixth sense for people. People made…noise. Messes. The ground floor looked staged. Mildly lived in – but only in the way one would occupy a hotel.
Up, then. Or down. He listened, not moving off the front mat.
After ten seconds of hearing nothing but his own breathing, he went in search of the basement stairs.
He carefully descended, noiselessly as possible, gun in hand…into a scene of complete carnage.
There were minimally three thugs in the room, and at least one of them was dead. A human neck just wasn't meant to bend at that angle. The other two had suffered serious accidents with various items of furniture. One was unconscious, the other curled on the ground, eyes wide with terror and wishing he had also been blessed with oblivion.
In the middle of the room, John Watson was tied to a pole, blood running down one side of his face. Not two feet away stood Sherlock, a young boy's (eleven? twelve? Lestrade wondered, feeling his stomach turn) face in his hands, forcefully captured upwards to meet the consulting detective's terrifying ice-grey stare.
The boy was struggling not to burst into tears, shock shaking through his limbs, lips chattering with the numbness born of terror. John Watson's voice cut across the scene, low and soothing.
"Sherlock, he didn't know. He's a homeless kid who runs errands for them in exchange for some cash and a place to sleep at night. He had no way of knowing their plans."
"If they had killed you, would that make him less an accomplice?" Sherlock demanded of John roughly, not looking away from the youth, who blanched at the word 'killed'.
"Sherlock…I'm fine," John continued in that same voice, firm and gentle. "The kid didn't mean any harm. He thought…they told you I was a customer, didn't they?"
The boy nodded once, still shaking into Sherlock's grip, grimy blond curls bouncing.
"I'm all right, Sherlock." John laughed. It was faint, and weak, but real. "Greg's probably going to have my head now for rushing into a situation unprepared."
"There's no denying you'd deserve it," Lestrade said sharply, announcing his presence and stepping off the last stair, stowing his weapon. "Why did you come here without back up?" he asked John. Then he took a slow look around at the wrecked basement and addressed Sherlock, "What happened?"
The detective's question broke Sherlock's deadlock with the boy and he glanced sparingly at the destruction he had no doubt been responsible for and shrugged, stepping away from the youth to duck behind John, a wicked knife making an appearance to cut the smaller man's bonds.
"I don't know. They seem to have had a bit of a struggle sitting down at the table together."
Lestrade heaved an exasperated sigh. "There's no possible way for me to make that story stick, Sherlock."
The dark-haired detective was supremely unconcerned as he finished with the ropes and started massaging John's wrists, encouraging blood flow.
The copper's gaze was momentarily transfixed by the sight of those long, pale fingers steadily kneading the older man's tanned hands, pressure placed on each knuckle of each digit to bring back motion. After a few seconds, John noticed Lestrade's attention, and snatched his hands from Sherlock's, a blush spreading up his neck as he rubbed them himself.
Sherlock favored him with a quizzical look, then turned unworriedly back to Lestrade, who had averted his gaze guiltily as soon as John noticed him. "I'm sure your forensics team will come up with a suitable explanation," Sherlock said dismissively. John's eyes had drifted to the boy, standing as if frozen, uncertain as to whether he was allowed to breathe.
The D.I. took pity on the kid. It looked like he had mixed himself in with the wrong people, but if he was just an errand runner, something could be worked out that wouldn't involve a juvenile facility.
"You've scared him half to death," Lestrade chided Sherlock gently, stepping up to the boy. He wanted to box the detective's ears, but he needed to get the kid down to the station. He placed a hand on his thin, shaking shoulder. "Come with me."
There was no resistance when the D.I. gently turned him around and guided him towards the stairs.
"Don't touch anything, Sherlock!" Lestrade called over his shoulder. He heard a tenor chuckle and a baritone scoff behind him.
"As if I would contaminate a crime scene," he heard Sherlock's low protest, only to be interrupted by John's laughing rebuttal:
"No, you'd just steal the fingers. Or a kidney—"
"Only if it was vital evidence, John—"
The door closed on their friendly banter and Lestrade led the kid to his car, hoping he could get Sherlock out of the way before Anderson insisted on arriving.
888
Both men were laughing as they entered the station. Lestrade paused at his desk, fingers stilling over the paperwork he'd been signing.
Sherlock looked…normal, his usually intense face cracked by his open smile, the glitter in his eyes that of amusement instead of his insane love of the game.
As for John, his honest face gave him away under all circumstances, and now it was relaxed, at ease, content with his place in the world at this man's side as they chuckled over some private mirth.
Even their laughter merged, the bright tenor and the deeper baritone weaving together in blended harmony.
Aware of his scrutiny (and the eyes of half the rest of Scotland Yard), the two made a visible effort to compose themselves, John clapping one hand on Sherlock's shoulder to steer him towards Lestrade's office, both of them clearing their throats and schooling their expressions.
The D.I. saw Sally Donovan's surprised and frankly appraising glance "You know they've got to be going at it, Greg. Why else would Watson hang around with him?", watched Sherlock's warm gaze cool as it fell on her, observed John's blue eyes follow his friend's, and the frown that crossed his features as he met her dark, challenging stare.
Lestrade stepped out of his office, drawing their attention and subconsciously reinforcing 'good' behavior. A confrontation between these two at the Yard would serve none.
"Sherlock. John."
"Did you sort out the kid? Drew, right?" John asked immediately, all lingering traces of mirth fading from his gaze.
Lestrade sighed. "Sort of. Orphan, but we've talked to foster care places and found an aunt out in Brighton. I'll keep an eye out for him, see what happens."
"If you could let me know…when a decision gets made…" John trailed off.
"Of course." Sherlock cleared his throat, my turn!, etched into every nuance of his stance. The detective inspector obliged. "What have you got for me?"
"Solved," Sherlock said bluntly. "The victim's mother was in St. Bart's recovering from surgery for stage-two lung cancer. So he was running part of the operation out of her basement —"
"—which Sherlock told her very tactfully," John jumped in. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards again, and Lestrade shot him a serious look, trying to control both his instinct to grin and the desire to cover his face with his hands. He could imagine the scene all too well.
"Honestly, John, why should I have said it any differently?" Sherlock said, flapping his long arms with his typical, dismissive impatience. "It would hardly have changed the truth."
John ducked his face to hide his smile, and the D.I. bit his lip to control his as Sherlock (oblivious to both of them), laid out his conclusions in his customary style.
The Yarder returned his full attention to the consulting detective, but not before he caught the proud, affectionate look John turned on a Sherlock now in full-flow. It was a glance Lestrade had witnessed between partners on the homicide squad, between soldiers of the same platoon.
John Watson didn't consider Sherlock just his friend, he trusted him his comrade-in-arms.
Lestrade doubted there was a higher honor the former captain could grant another. And, remembering that dismantled room, Sherlock's intensity as he had interrogated the youth responsible for taking his doctor, he thought that, just perhaps, Sherlock Holmes was the man to deserve such an honor.
888
As always, please review and let me know what you think!