The coffee was bitter, doughnuts were stale, a message from his recent-ex-wife waited on the line, his wrist was sore from when he'd banged the cab door on it that morning, and there was a massive pile of paperwork on his desk. Lestrade was not having a good day at the Metropolitan Police Service. On top of all that, Chief Superintendent had called earlier and demanded to know how far the investigation on family suicides was going.
Frankly, it was going absolutely nowhere. And now he had to deal with Americans. The snobbiest of the lot.
Donovan had come in earlier, telling him two FBI agents were waiting for him at the front. Lestrade considered briefly putting it off but had decided in a small moment of motivation to get it over with. Motivation which had vanished just a few seconds later. But he rose from his chair and went out into one of the interrogation rooms booked for official foreign visitors.
Swinging open the door, he saw the backs of two men in sharp black suits already in their seats. He went to the opposite side of the room and smiled at them. "Yes, gentlemen, how may I help you?"
"You're Greg Lestrade?" the taller of the two men asked.
"I am. And you are?"
The two men flashed their IDs, pictures and faces matching up next to the big blue logo. "I'm Detective Dean Roger. This is my associate, Detective Sam Taylor. We're from the FBI," the shorter one continued talking.
"Yes, Donovan told me. What can I do for you lads?"
"Well, we're interested in certain aspects of the cult suicides. Is it safe to say you've been present at the scenes of crime?" Dean asked sharply.
Lestrade leaned back in his chair and raised an eyebrow. "I didn't realize this was an international issue. Why is the FBI interested in the case? They're suicides."
"Suicides with no suicidal cause of death, correct? No poison was ingested, no cardiac problems, internal organs perfectly intact… our source tells us all of their throats were slashed with struggle and yet there is no trace of the murder weapon or possibility they did it to each other. Each vic- and there were four of them- were separated when the bodies were found, behind locked doors with no sign of forced entry and leaving absolutely no exit." Dean smirked. "Stop me when I'm wrong."
"Well, it's apparent the Americans have been doing their homework. Excuse me for being impolite, but I still don't see how the FBI should be involved." Lestrade had to admit, he was reluctant to give away the facts of his case, especially to anyone from Washington DC. Somewhere inside, he still had a glimmer of hope that if Sherlock could solve crimes like this, so could his team. Well, his team excluding Anderson.
"The FBI's interest was sparked from their tattoos. All four members of the family had the same marking on their flesh. And similar tattoos were found in murder-suicides in Kansas a few years back. And while we didn't make a big deal of it then, if this is really the same ritual being performed, all of us have to be on alert. We're not fucking around, Detective. So I'd appreciate your cooperation." Dean struggled to keep his voice under control. John and Sherlock hadn't mentioned what a hardass the detective could be.
Lestrade sighed and straightened, flexing his hurt wrist. If he was in it for good, he might as well play nice. Not much choice given there. "Yes, I was at the scene of crime. The family next door called us. They said they had seen shadows and very bright flickers of light from the house, screaming and -oddly enough, barking."
Sam and Dean exchanged a glance and Sam took up the line of questioning, "Did anything seem very strange? Out of place? Like, it shouldn't've been there?"
"We did find ash in one of the upper story rooms. We believe the last murder occurred there of the father. The ash was scattered all around the floor along with long sharp scratches; we honestly can't tell what the origin of either might have been. And also, the floor was slightly scorched through in certain places. Like someone had dropped chemicals or something," Lestrade trailed off, noticing the two men were again giving each other that look.
"What about smells?" Dean asked abruptly. "Anything strong?"
"A smell was definitely there… not sure what I would place it as, though."
"Sulfur?" Dean suggested.
"Yes! That's it!"
"We thought as much," Sam said, nodding seriously. "What about the post mortem? Turn up anything unusual?"
"I'd like to know myself. My favorite mortician, Molly Hooper, has conveniently called in sick and I'm not quite comfortable with believing anyone else's judgment."
Sam cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. "We have the authority to get her reinstated, no matter what her emergency."
"Oh, for God's sake! If she's sick, leave the girl alone. She's gone through enough as it is; having to do the autopsy of Sherlock and all." Lestrade grimaced. "We can get someone else."
"I'm afraid only the best will do. Detective, we're going to need to see all the data you have on the case, including pictures, names of neighbors, and access to the scene of crime," Dean used his best official authoritative voice.
Lestrade shook his head insistently, "You boys can't just come in here and start throwing your weight around!"
"Not even if we can help you solve this case?" Sam demanded.
"Oh…" Lestrade narrowed his eyes. Help again? Last time he'd taken help from someone, the man had ended up throwing himself off a building. But these guys were Feds. Even if Lestrade turned them down, they could go over his head and then he'd be forced two work with men he'd offended. And the case was at a dead end. Eventually, he said, "My team will assist you with whatever you gentlemen need."
The Americans looked content. Lestrade stood and the men followed him to his office, where the file of the Cult Suicides (with capitalization status now) was lying on his desk almost mockingly. He held up a finger and smiled tightly while he made a copy of all the papers. Finishing, Lestrade handed the copied file over with his uninjured wrist and returned to his chair with the abandoned cup of shitty coffee.
The pair pored over every detail in the file, pointing out details in the pictures, underlining parts of the file, whispering urgently to one another. A while later, they gathered up the papers and the short one, Dean, said "Thank you for this, Detective Lestrade."
"Anytime. I'm afraid I have too much on my hands today, but I can take you around the family's flat tomorrow morning," Lestrade offered.
"That'll be fine." Dean agreed. "Out of curiosity, are you doing anything tonight? Sam and I have a proposition for you."
"Proposition?" Lestrade's eyes widened.
"Yeah, if you're up for it."
"I'm sorry, are you coming on to me?"
"What?" Dean looked taken aback.
"No! Not like that!" Sam broke in before the situation escalated. "We have a friend we'd like you to meet who would undoubtedly be interested in the case as well."
Lestrade looked slightly relieved. "You understand we can't discuss the case with civilians? And we can't have the press knowing details?"
Sam nodded, "Look, it's just someone we think you should meet."
This was turning out to be slightly more effort than Lestrade was used to committing to any extracurricular cause. But his curiosity was caught, and as a Detective, he followed his instinct. "I'll get off around 8, if you can wait that long."
"Certainly. We'll just be outside the building." Sam said, smiling.
Lestrade stared after them when they left. How very like Americans to be mysterious and subtle in all the wrong ways while being crass and brute in all the others. He rolled his eyes and returned to work, but the entire time it nagged at him. The way those two men kept looking at each other, they knew something. And the sulfur; Lestrade had initially dismissed it as a cooking disaster a day earlier or one of those smells people's houses tended to accumulate- how did that fit in?
Finally his shift was over. He clocked out and exited by the glass doors. The two men were already waiting outside (had they left at all?), talking to each other with a comfortable ease that only came by knowing someone for years. Lestrade felt for his gun and, assured by the knowledge that it was there, strode up to them.
Dean noticed him first. "Detective! Ready to go?"
"Where?" he asked warily.
"Just to a friend's house. We promise you it'll be very safe. We were concerned about talking openly inside your office because it's probably bugged," Dean shrugged.
"I'm sorry, talk about what? The Cult Suicides?"
"If you'll just follow us," Sam gestured to a cab waiting on the street corner.
"I'd like to know why before I follow you anywhere," Lestrade replied, crossing his arms over his chest. He was determined to outwait them; he had the patience.
Dean rolled his eyes in frustration and opened his mouth, but the taller one held up a hand to silence him. Sam lowered his voice and leaned closer. "Detective Lestrade, it's about… Sherlock."
Lestrade blinked. "WHAT?" He couldn't help his voice from rising incredulously.
Taking advantage of the moment, Sam shamelessly grabbed the Detective's hand and dragged him forward toward the cab. He hardly resisted. His brain was still trying to make some kind of sense of the sentence. By the time he collected himself, he was sandwiched between Dean and Sam in the cab and Sam was giving the driver an address that sounded extremely familiar.
"That's Molly's address," he observed inanely.
"Hopefully, 'cause that's where we're going," Dean agreed.
"Molly Hooper's flat? What's there?" Lestrade found himself answered by silence. "Okay, you two. I'm the fucking Detective here and I'm demanding some answers! NOW!"
Sam cleared his throat and pointed ahead at the cabbie. "I think we'd better wait until a more opportune time."
"I think I can handle being overheard."
"Yeah, but we can't," Sam stared intently at the man until he inhaled deeply and looked away, tucked uncomfortably between the Americans. He shifted slightly, trying to get his hand in a place where he could easily withdraw his gun if the need arose. But it proved difficult considering how close they were bunched together. He realized he'd have to wait it out.
Eventually, they ended up before Molly's flat. Sam paid the cabbie and finally turned to acknowledge the Detective. "We've brought you here with a certain amount of trust; you were told to us to be someone we could put our faith in, someone we could rely on."
"Yes, yes, will you get to the point?"
"Please take this news calmly, Detective. Sherlock is alive."
Lestrade took a look at them and pronounced, "You're insane, the two of you. I can get you arrested for kidnap. Possibly more."
"We're not… oh jeez. You'll really have to see it to believe it," Sam muttered as Dean opened the door with his key. He followed him inside then turned back. "Come on. Just Molly's place. Your favorite mortician. No big deal, right?"
"Why would you say something like that?" Lestrade asked without moving. "Why are you bringing him into this?"
"Just come inside!" Dean snapped over his shoulder.
Frowning, Lestrade entered the darkened interior where Dean was unlocking the second door. It swung open. The first thing Lestrade saw was indeed his favorite mortician. His face broke into a relieved smile which swiftly dissipated when his eyes fell on the person sitting beside her, a cup of tea in his hands.
"Oh, my God," Lestrade breathed. "They told me but I couldn't believe them."
Sherlock smiled hospitably. "I see your divorce finally went through. Also, you probably need to get that sprained wrist looked at. It's going to start swelling soon if you don't."