A/N: Yes. Here it is. I am terribly sorry for the delay. Translating is harder work than it lets on...
In the unaired pilot episode there is one scene during which we can read one of Sherlock's mails. The name of the sender, as much as one can read, is "Gregson L". I have no idea whether "Gregory" is fannon or canon, but I know one thing: Lestrade's first name will (for me) never, ever be Gregson.
Also I would like to announce that I have found the ultimate Sherlock song and that I might just be willing to share this knowledge with you, if you in turn can tell me who the "six people in the world" mentioned in this chap are.
Quote: There is an East Wind coming, Watson...
Chapter Three_Test
"Let me sum this up one more time."
It is late morning in London, England, and the sun is shining with visibly more force through the living room windows of 221b Baker Street, drawing glowing patterns on the faded red carpet. John and Sherlock are seated in their respective chairs- John is leaning back right now, absently sucking his lower lip into his mouth, while Sherlock leans in closer in anticipation. He has his legs elegantly folded and his chin is propped up on his hands. The center of his attention is one D.I. Gregory "Greg" Lestrade, by trade one of the best policemen at the NSY (though Sherlock would probably tell you otherwise) and for the first time in years at least partially on the ball. (And shouldn't my temporary suspension bother me more? He thinks by himself. But no- after John's call he turned back around and slept for another few heavenly hours.) Now, awake and much calmer than a few minutes ago (when John had to get him away from Sherlock's grin by sheer force) he frowns as he tries to put the pieces together in his mind.
"What you say is", he starts and looks right into Sherlock's pale eyes (he is one of six people in the world who are able to do this, and it took him years to learn it), "Jim Moriarty has stopped playing hide-and-seek with us, is back to London, and his first move in months is to get rid of me?"
A desperate sigh escapes Sherlock and he tears his hair. "Lestrade", he says and makes the name sound like an insult. "Think. This wasn't about you. Your involvation is merely a bonus." He has showered and changed out of yesterday's wrinkled suit and into dark trousers and a simple white shirt, though unmistakeably a high-quality one. (And how does someone with a flatshare pay this stuff, anyway?) His curls are still damp and after the attack of his hands the strands are sticking out in all directions. In the sunlight they shine in a dark red, so unlike their normal dark brown, and not for the first time John is taken aback by the family resemblance that is revealed in millions of small gestures and personal features of the two Holmes brothers, present or not. He blinks a few times, scratches the bridge of his nose and turns his attention back to the case- or to be precise, to the Inspector, who remains unimpressed by Sherlock's antics and simply tries again.
"So Moriarty is back on the job as consulting criminal, and his first move is the suspension of Anderson?" For some reason Anderson's name sounds even more like an insult than his own did a few moments ago, and Gregory bites his tongue in sudden guilt. Sherlock, on the other hand, seems positively enthusiastic.
"This, on the other hand", he says (and really, can't he at least pretend not to be happy about it), "hits the nail on the head."
Lestrade realizes that his breathing is too fast and too low and forces himself to take a deep breath and calm down. This whole conversation is madness. Utter madness. It is ridiculous, really (and he feels shrill laughter bubble up in his chest), ridiculous, but Sherlock is not joking. From the corners of his eyes he can see John giving him a concerned glance, before he turns back to Sherlock. They are both waiting for an explanation from the detective, anything to understand this nonsense, while said detective seems suddenly and utterly taken in by a patch of wallpaper above the fireplace. Beg me, the curve of his lips says. It is Lestrade who finally breaks the silence (and curse this, not only does John know how to play the game, is is also better at it already). Nervously licking his lips, he starts to talk, and John gets up at once and disappears into the kitchen, no doubt fetching him a drink. (The man pays attention in his own way, Greg thinks. It gets lost next to Sherlock's brilliant deductions, but John Watson has an uncanny knack for gestures and expressions. They complete each other. He shakes his head to clear it of these thoughts. In this direction madness lies.)
"Sherlock", the inspector says very slowly, "I have no idea, what you are talking about."
In an exaggeratedly bewildered gesture, the young man runs a hand down his face. "Really, civillians nowadays." Greg grounds his teeth and is glad that John puts a tea mug in his hands before he can do something else with them. Break Sherlock's nose, to name but an example. He sips at the steaming drink and is surprised to not find tea but hot chocolate in his mouth. No, not hot chocolate- rum with a trace of cocoa, he thinks and feels like hugging John for this (in a very manly way, of course). The trick is as simple as it is brilliant- Sherlock despises cocoa, and he makes sure that people know when he dislikes something.
"Obviously", Sherlock says just now and puts both feet down hard, "this is a test for me. In his message, Moriarty said he wants to-"
"Hold it", John interrupts him just as Lestrade utters a flabberghasted "Come again?". Just what is Sherlock saying there? Quickly the Inspector motions for the doctor to continue. "Hold it", John repeats in a low voice, and suddenly there is something dangerous in his tone- something hard and dark that is an unsettling contrast to his quiet appearance. Lestrade swallows thickly. "What message, Sherlock?"
Uh oh. Lestrade leans back into the cushions, sips his cocoa and works on his invisibility skills. Sherlock, on the other side of the couch table, seems to be unimpressed. Only a lifted eyebrow allows speculation about his thoughts. "A CD. That's why I took your old player yesterday. It came in the mail and I sent the envelope to the Yard for analysis. You were working." For some reason now it sounds as if the whole matter were Lestrade's and John's fault. The doctor's dark blue eyes turn to Gregory and the man finds himself wondering if the weapon (which-must-not-be-named) is in the room. He dearly hopes it isn't.
"Well, now that you mention it. We did get an envelope yesterday. In an envelope. Left by a courier that we had to pay. There was no sender and no further explanations, and quite frankly we had other things to worry about, so we ignored it." This time John's eyebrows rise to his hairline. Sherlock waves his hand, dismissively. "Unimportant details, Lestrade. Unimportant." (Everyone in the room knows that this is Sherlock for "I didn't think of this". But no one objects. And what could they possibly say?)
"In any case there was a message. Moriarty- at least I strongly suspect it to be him- threatened me to attack people close to me next. It seems he is unhappy with the result of our little pool-affair and now plans to get rid of me for good. before starting up on anything new." He sniffs indignantly, but the corners of his mouth are turned up in a way that suggests that he is actually rather pleased with himself. John facepalms with a groan.
Lestrade doesn't even know what to say. There is so much wrong with Sherlock's last sentence that he can't even think of where to begin. Next to him, John sighs, face still buried in his hands. (It is a deep, exhausted exhalation of breath, and Lestrade feels the weight of it as if it were his own.) Then the shorter man gets up and disappears through the door at the far end of the kitchen, presumably to fetch mentioned CD-Player from Sherlock's quarters. Lestrade takes a deep breath. "Sherlock", he says and those fog grey eyes focus on him again. "How does people close to you connect to Anderson? You hate the man." And the feeling is mutual, too.
Sherlock makes a face. "Don't be silly, Lestrade. I don't hate Anderson any more than I could hate a tree. Or a stone. On the ground of the Thames. He doesn't fall within the spectre of intelligence necessary to make a being hateable. It's not his fault. He's just plain dumb. I guess it runs in the family." Lestrade flinches at the insult, but Sherlock exhales softly and for a moment- a second really- his shoulders seem to slump. Then the Yarder blinks, and the moment is gone. "But yes, it is a test. And it's not over either. Obviously, Moriarty starts at the outer edges of my social contacts, but he won't stop there."
This doesn't calm Lestrade in the slightest. Why would Moriarty care about Sherlock's (rather non-existing) social life in the first place? He realizes, and not for the first time, that he actually has no idea just what happened that night at the pool three months ago. There are thousands of questions to be asked, but he doesn't know where to start, and then the opportunity to say anything has passed.
John saves them from having to talk at all by coming back and putting the object of interest down on the low couch table in front of them. It is a rather battered old thing, this CD-Player, complete with a cassette deck and a radio tuner and obviously battery-run. Without much ceremony, John presses play.
They listen to the message three times total, and then continue to focus on bits and pieces of it at a time. Sherlock gathers his notes from his room, carefully hiding the threatening ones, and goes through them again. John sucks his lower lip in agitation, leaving scrap marks on the skin, and Lestrade catches himself copying the movement. They run through theories, pouring forth ideas and speculations wilder and angrier as the evening progresses and only leaving the room once when takeout arrives. The activity seems fleeting with nothing to go on, but there is nothing, there are no crime scene photos and manila folders and documents, there are just three men and a CD. Where next? Why now? How do we stop it? Each new question leads to dread. Sometimes they just sit there for minutes, silently staring at the wallpapers. Sherlock will throw words at them, little bits of information ripped from the context that only he can hear, but they listen anyway because it helps him, and still after hours and hours of pacing and sitting and chewing on fingernails and cold pork a solution seems no closer than at the beginning of it all.
Gregory Lestrade doesn't leave when the sun disappears behind the rooftops in the west and illuminates the pall of smog above the city in burning red. He stays as the discussion runs back and forth in circles and the words have a sharp edge to them for angry hours. He doesn't leave the flat when Sherlock explains that he doesn't wish for anything to happen do Anderson, or Donovan, or anyone- but that it doesn't effect him in the slightest if something does happen. He stays awake over John's suggestion of a list of possible next victims, one at which Sherlock only snorts dismissively. He listens to the sudden rain around midnight hammering against the windows while searching the cupboards for bugs and cameras. It is far past three in the morning when he finally steps out onto the empty streets and claims his car out of thousands to get home.
No one reminds him to be careful, or watch out, or call once he's home. That's because they don't have to. He doesn't have to be told to check his car for explosives before he gets in, and he doesn't have to be lectured to keep his gun on his nighstand when he falls into the sheets. He never leaves his phone unattended anymore and sometimes finds himself staring at the display for minutes, waiting for something that doesn't happen. And he watches the people on the streets with a new intensity, on a new level, avoids alleyways and shortcuts and parks after ten at night. It is paranoia, this, but what is worse is that it's rectified.
(Sherlock Holmes calls himself a sociopath, and Lestrade let's him talk. But he, other than Anderson, has done his research. And when John suggested a list of people close to Sherlock, the man's eyes flickered to meet the Inspector's for a split second, which was enough. Enough for a strange mix of protectiveness and fear settling in his guts. No one reminds him to be careful, and that's because they don't have to. If Jim Moriarty has to play with Sherlock's feelings, he won't do it by the means of Gregory Lestrade. Not if he can help it.)