The BBC owns Sherlock, not I.
Prompted by and filled for TYRider.
A bit of a shorter chapter this time. Hope you enjoy:)
Prompt: Instead of Sherlock Holmes, Mike Stamford introduces John Watson to recently divorced Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.
The cab turned onto Baker Street and slowed to a crawl.
"Where do you want to be dropped, mate?" the cabbie asked.
John looked up and down the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of Greg's car. Traffic was sparse enough for this early in the night. Of the few cars parked along the curb, not one was a silver BMW.
"Keep going," he said. "Slowly. I'll tell you when."
Halfway up the block, he spotted the Beamer parked on the left. "Here! Drop me here. Thanks."
The taxi pulled over to the curb and stopped. He paid the fare, hiding a grimace behind another murmur of thanks, and tumbled out onto the footpath.
The BMW was parked outside a cafe that proudly advertised itself as Speedy's Sandwich Bar and Cafe. John glanced inside. The interior was dark, chairs were stacked on tables and the sign on the door was flipped to Closed. He didn't think Greg was in there - although, John supposed, he could be out the back.
John swallowed, looking up the street and back down it. No sign of Greg apart from his car. He could be in any of these buildings. How on earth was John supposed to find him?
His pocket rang.
He pulled out Greg's phone and glared at it. He couldn't answer the man's phone. It was bad enough that he'd accidentally stolen it in the first place. The mobile kept ringing, flashing a number followed by a name: Sally Donovan, whoever she was. The sound grew louder. He stuffed the phone back into his pocket, hoping to muffle the noise. No such luck. A woman hurried past him, keeping her distance and looking at him sideways. He must look like an idiot, he thought, standing in the middle of the footpath ignoring the phone ringing very loudly in his pocket.
He pulled the phone out again and glared at it until it - finally! - stopped ringing. Good. Now if it would just stay silent…
It rang again. The screen lit up, showing the same name and number. Sally Donovan. John sighed and hit Accept Call.
"Hello?" he said.
"Hello," an amused and most definitely female voice said. "Is that Doctor Watson?"
He blinked. How did she know his name? "Er. Yes. It is, yes. I mean, I am. Who is this?"
"Sergeant Sally Donovan. Where are you?"
"Why are you asking?" he returned. She might claim to be a police officer, but he wasn't about to give his location to a strange voice on the other end of the phone.
"Greg would quite like his phone back, if it's all the same to you."
Oh. She was with Greg. Right. "Can I speak to him?"
"Sure." There were muffled noises, and her voice grew distant. "Boss, he wants to talk to you." And then she was back. "I'll hand you over."
"John," said Greg.
"Greg," said John, tamping down on the rush of relief he felt. "It's you. Good."
"Were you expecting someone else?"
"You never know," John said. "Stranger on the phone claiming to be a police officer. Could've been anyone."
He could hear the grin in Greg's voice. "Well, if you're satisfied that I am who I say I am - "
"I am."
"Then would you mind getting my phone back to me?"
"Yes. Sorry. It fell off the couch when you threw it, and I had meant to give it back to you, but we left in such a rush - "
"John. Don't worry. It's fine."
"Right," he said. "Good. I - yeah. Good. Um. Where are you?"
"Baker Street. Where are you?"
"Baker Street."
Greg barked a laugh. "You're kidding!"
"I heard you on the phone back at your flat, saying where you were heading off to," John said, "so I caught a cab. I'm loitering at your car at the moment, and I've been getting some strange looks, so if you could maybe come and meet me here…"
"I'll be down in a second," Greg said. Wind whistled through the earpiece, and John heard him talking to someone else. "What do you know, he's waiting at my car now. I'll just pop down and - "
The line went dead. It was barely a minute later when the door beside Speedy's opened and Greg's head emerged.
"John!" he called, waving a hand.
John jogged across the footpath and brandished the mobile at Greg. "Here. Take it before I forget to give you again. I am so sorry - "
Greg cut him off. "I told you, don't worry about it. These things happen. And if nothing else, you've at least proven yourself trustworthy."
He hadn't thought about that. "There is that, I suppose."
Greg took the phone and slipped it into a pocket. Dark eyes looked him over for a second. "You may as well come up."
"I - what?"
"Come on up. You can meet my team. And Sherlock."
There was more than a hint of devilish glee in those last words, John was sure. "Uh, I'm really not sure…"
"If you're serious about flatting with me, you'll have to meet them at some point, and there's no time like the present, is there?"
John blew out a breath and conceded defeat. "No, I suppose not."
Greg stepped back, leaving room for him to squeeze past into the entrance hall. "Well? Hurry up, you're letting the heat out."
He moved past Greg to the foot of the the staircase. It was only marginally warmer here than it had been outside.
Greg shut and locked the outside door before waving him on up the stairs. "After you. It's the door straight ahead of you at the first proper landing."
John had a distinct feeling that there was a lot he wasn't being told. He didn't move. "This isn't a set up, is it?"
"A set up? For what?" Greg asked. "No. Why would it be?"
"I don't know. Just feels like there's something you're not telling me." He held Greg's gaze, trying to read him, but the older man just shrugged and quirked a grin.
"I'm anticipating your meeting Sherlock, if you must know," said Greg. "He's a bit of a character, that one."
An impatient shout echoed down the stairs. "If you're quite done nattering on like a pair of old women, Lestrade, you might bring this doctor of yours up so that I can meet him!"
John lifted an eyebrow.
Greg nodded. "That's him."
"Lovely," John said, not with irony. He hefted his cane, chewed his lip for a moment, and started up the stairs.
He'd looked Sherlock up, of course. Anything to help him in his quest for information about Greg. It had taken him a couple of tries to get the spelling right, but with a name like that, he hadn't even needed a surname to get several dozen hits on Google. The man sounded simultaneously fascinating and a right twat.
Comments on his website ranged from the adoring:
Thank you so much for finding my mother's heirloom ring, Mr Holmes. If there's ever anything we can do to help you, please let us know -
to the matter-of-fact:
Your services in the matter of the missing million-dollar valuables belonging to the Indian Prince were much appreciated, Mr Holmes -
to the barely civil:
We are not ungrateful for your help in Regent Street this morning.
And speaking of his website… The Science Of Deduction? Who did he think he was, Hercule Poirot? How much more pretentious could you get? Not to mention the fact that it was technically inaccurate: Holmes seemed to be using induction, not deduction. It didn't exactly inspire confidence in the man's abilities.
He'd be lying if he said he wasn't curious about meeting Holmes, though. A man who claimed he could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb? He'd be mad not to be curious.
It sounded as if the detective's manners left something to be desired. Holmes' own comments on his website were at times politely reserved:
Think nothing of it, Major Redwood -
but more often rudely blunt, which John thought odd in a man as highly educated and snobbishly intelligent as Holmes.
No, really, it was nothing, Lady Bracknell. I solved your petty little case in ten seconds flat without leaving the comfort of my armchair. Don't bother contacting me again.
You think you can bribe me to take your case by offering me money, Mister Armitage? Boring.
Theodore Barton. Normanby. 12:10. Case solved, thank you, goodbye and good riddance.
And then, fairly recently, there had been a comment from Greg.
G Lestrade: I've tried your mobile, your email, and I've been round to your flat. There's been another one.
Holmes' reply had been succinct. John had fought not to grind his teeth at the man's high-handedness.
SH: Busy.
Another comment-and-reply from yesterday had filled in the context a little, and had put John's back up even more.
SH: Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!
G Lestrade: THEN HELP US! PEOPLE ARE DYING, SHERLOCK!
No big deal to the detective, clearly. Only people dying. John, medic to the bone, had chafed at Holmes' casual brushing-off of the situation. Greg must be desperate, asking for his help with a case, and Holmes was refusing. Why? Because it was too simple? Because it was only Greg asking and not an Indian Prince? Because the stakes weren't high enough?
John had dealt with intellectual snobbery before. He'd dealt with blunt rudeness. He'd dealt with apathy in the face of life-and-death situations. He could handle any sort of observation or insult Holmes saw fit to deal out, whether inductive, deductive, or otherwise.
He came to the landing at the top of the flight of stairs and paused, glancing sideways at Greg.
Greg nodded to the ajar door in front of them.
John set his jaw, squared his shoulders, and stepped forward to meet Sherlock Holmes.
