Precious Like Rubies
by Soledad
Note: You didn't think Mycroft would be able to keep his long nose out of John's affairs forever, did you? :)
Some of the dialogue is taken from the ACD novel "The Sign of Four".
Beta read by Linda Hoyland, thanks.
Chapter 10 – Mending Fences
After three weeks behind a desk Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade nearly came to the conclusion that being suspended would be the lesser evil. Nearly.
Of course, he was glad that the internal investigation had cleared every single case in which Sherlock had been involved so far, and he was fairly certain that the remaining cases would be cleared, too. After all, Sherlock had only given the – admittedly much-needed – mental impulse to get those cases going. The actual investigations themselves had all been done by Lestrade's team, diligently following the rules and regulations of the Met.
Sherlock had pointed them to the right direction, yes, but they had done the rest, no matter what outsiders – especially the press and certain envious co-workers – might have thought. And though those mental impulses had made them the most successful team in the Met, Lestrade was insulted on behalf of his team in addition to his previous grievances. Because whatever people might think of Sherlock, they had no right to drag his team through the dirt. As if they'd been just a bunch of clueless idiots, unable to work without help, who had done nothing else in the previous five years than sitting around and waiting for Sherlock to hand them over the murderers, kidnappers, smugglers and other criminals on a platter.
Granted, Sherlock had often made the assumption that it was so. But Sherlock was… well, Sherlock, and in his eyes everyone else was an idiot.
Had been an idiot, Lestrade corrected himself bitterly. Even after all this time, it was hard to think of their resident mad genius in the past tense. But Gregson, Dimmock and the others – especially Gregson, who had used Sherlock's unique gift for his own advantage often enough – shouldn't have done so as if Sherlock's typical exaggerations had been true.
Lestrade understood professional rivalry and why his colleagues were jealous of his success. The fact that Sherlock had chosen to work with him almost exclusively – even though he had reluctantly admitted that Gregson was 'slightly less idiotic than the rest of the Yard' – had boosted the success rate of his team, and it had made the others appear in a less than positive light. Still, he hadn't expected to be backstabbed by them so eagerly as soon as a chance offered itself.
Not even by Gregson, despite their long-on- going rivalry.
And that was, basically, what he couldn't forgive Donovan for. Not that she'd suspected Sherlock of kidnapping and fraudulence in the first place, no. She was a good cop who had doggedly followed the evidence. And said evidence had been very cleverly placed. It might not hold in the long run, but it had held long enough to fool them all – and to destroy Sherlock's reputation in the process.
Sherlock's… and that of Lestrade's team. With her crusade against Sherlock, Donovan had all but destroyed her own team as well. Oh, they would be fully rehabilitated, of that Lestrade had no doubt. But Sherlock had been absolutely right – as usual – when he said that once the seed of doubt had been planted in the heads and hearts, it was near impossible to remove it completely.
"All the King's men and horses…" he muttered bitterly.
He had written off his losses, yes. But it didn't mean that said losses no longer hurt him.
His phone made a quiet pinging nose, announcing an incoming text message. That was a first, in a very long time. No-one texted him since Sherlock was gone. People preferred to call… or avoided any contact with him like the plague.
With a wave of overwhelming sadness – because he still missed the idiot and always would do – Lestrade took out the phone to see who would send him a text after all this time. Probably a death threat or something equally cheerful, he thought.
The caller's ID, surprisingly enough, was displayed, but it was a number he didn't know. The message was short… and kind of weird.
Paddington 14:40 today. Train comes from Much Benham. Come alone and make sure you are not followed. Don't let me down… as you've let him down.
There was no signature, but there was no need, either. That last sentence told it all. That, and the not being followed part. Lestrade was fairly certain that the message came from John Watson.
From John who had left London without a parting word.
From John who had changed his phone number to have his peace from both the steadfast Sherlock fans and the Sherlock haters.
From John who had still not forgiven him for Sherlock's death.
From John who was probably in trouble and didn't want Mycroft Holmes to learn about it and to meddle with his life again.
A sentiment that Lestrade understood all too well.
Oh, he didn't doubt that Mycroft would figure it out eventually, whatever was going on. That was what Mycroft did. But if John wanted to be a step or two ahead of the British Government, Lestrade was more than willing to help him.
He missed John. He missed the man's quiet, rock-solid loyalty, the easy camaraderie, the tolerant exasperation with which the ex-Army doctor had treated Sherlock.
But he also knew John well enough to realize that if the doctor reached out to him for help it had to be something really big. Something John couldn't – or wouldn't – want to deal with through the official channels.
It almost felt like old times, really.
Of course, there was always the distinct possibility that the message had not come from John and that the whole thing was a trap. But Lestrade felt that he couldn't care less.
Mycroft Holmes was immersed in a pile of coded reports about the current economic crisis in Greece with his usual intense concentration when his enigmatic PA – currently going by the seriously unfitting name of Celinda Louise, which he adamantly refused to call her by – walked into his office.
"Sir, Detective Inspector Lestrade has been contacted," she told him without preamble.
Mycroft had Lestrade's phone monitored, of course. Just in case. One could never know.
So far, no unusual traffic could be detected. Calls from his co-workers regarding police business. Calls from his ex who – despite the fact that the divorce was now official and properly documented – was in a phase again in which she wanted to get him back. From time to time a call from a frustrated journalist, trying to warm up the Sherlock story again – only to be brusquely rejected.
"By whom?" Mycroft asked, frowning.
"Unknown, so far," Not -Anthea sounded as if she'd been personally offended. "The call came from a pre-paid phone. The closes we could get on the location was somewhere in Dorchester."
"Hmmm," Mycroft didn't like the news at all. "Could you get a record of the call?"
"It was a test message, sir. One that Detective Inspector Lestrade deleted right after having read it. He seems to have figured out the angles of our surveillance cameras by now, because we didn't get a view at the display."
"Surely that cannot be an obstacle for our experts," Mycroft said. "Deleted messages can be reconstructed by today's technology."
"We'd need the detective inspector's phone to retrieve the message, sir. Shall I make efforts to acquire it?"
After a moment's thought, Mycroft shook his head. "Not yet. Better have him followed a bit more closely in the next few days."
"Yes, sir," Not-Anthea typed a few instructions into her BlackBerry.
"Anything else?" Mycroft asked.
"Yes, sir," Not-Anthea laid a printed-out report on the desk before him. "Apparently, there has been a thorough search concerning your person. Somebody was very much interested in finding out who you really are."
A Holmesian eyebrow rose in suspicious interest. "Indeed? And who would that be?"
"We don't know, sir," Not-Anthea admitted unhappily. "We've tracked back the origin of the search to a public library in an insignificant little town by the name of Market Basing, but that's as far as we got at the moment."
"Somebody was researching me on a shared public computer in a library?" Mycroft repeated. Due to the nature of his work – not to mention having had to pick up the pieces after Sherlock for decades – he wasn't easily surprised. Not anymore. But this was… well, unexpected, to say the least.
Not-Anthea nodded. "Yes, sir; and they are good. Very good. They found ways around many of our firewalls in the most creative manner, as our IT-experts put it."
"They were stopped, though, before they could find out anything of importance?"
It wasn't really a question. Mycroft only employed the best and the brightest – and didn't tolerate failure. Nonetheless, Not-Anthea nodded again.
"Of course, sir. However, I thought I'd bring it to your attention. Anyone skilled enough to come this far can be a serious risk…"
"… or a potentially useful co-worker," Mycroft finished for her. "See that you find them. I want a full background check as usual; and then I'm going to have a little chat with them."
"Yes, sir," she added the new instructions to her schedule. "I'll have the warehouse prepared in time."
"Any news about Doctor Watson?" Mycroft then asked.
She shook her head. "Nothing of importance. He seems to have settled in his new life comfortably and is apparently content with his work. Of course, it's not easy to watch somebody in such a little village where everyone else is doing the same. Our agent in that place they call The Development, that ugly housing estate, still hasn't managed to make contact, even though she gets to see the doctor regularly on his tours. She's currently working on a way to simulate a convincing illness, so that she could get into the practice, at least."
"Still no luck with the surveillance cameras?"
"No, sir. The old ladies in the neighbourhood are worse than any security system. They'd spot anyone who tried to install any surveillance devices before they could climb the ladder, and the local phone company no longer does maintenance work. I'm afraid we'll have to do this the old-fashioned way."
"For the time being," Mycroft said, decidedly unhappy with the lack of news. "Well, carry on, my dear. And find me that hacker. I prefer to have people with such skills on my payroll."
"Yes, sir," she replied and left.
Gregory Lestrade left New Scotland Yard shortly before 4 p.m with the stubborn intention to lose any escort Mycroft might have assigned to him. He didn't have any illusions that the older Holmes would have stopped watching him, just because Sherlock was gone. That was not something Mycroft would do.
So he used every trick up his sleeve to shake off his hypothetical followers. That included changing the tube lines several times and meandering through two crowded warehouses where it was relatively easy to get lost in the masses.
He reached Paddington station with barely five minutes to spare. He found the right platform just in time when the train from Much Benham rolled in… what sort of place was Much Benham anyway, he wondered briefly; he never heard of a town by that name before.
He remained at the near end of the platform, scanning the people getting out of the wagons in the hope to spot John Watson before one of Mycroft's agents did (assuming there were any of them nearby). Instead, he was approached by a petite blonde woman in a knee-length black fur coat – synthetic fur, he noticed at once, a fairly cheap design, but it looked good on her nonetheless.
"Mr Lestrade?" she asked with a friendly smile. "Gregory Lestrade?"
"Yes," he replied in surprise; he could have sworn he was seeing her for the first time in his life.
To his even greater surprise she kissed him on the cheek and linked her arm with his.
"Try to look as if you were happy to see me," she said, smiling. "John… that is. Doctor Watson… is in the last carriage and will meet us later. We thought it better to make it appear as if you had a date, just in case you couldn't lose the tail, and I quote John, that overbearing, pointy-nosed, umbrella-swirling bastard might have hung on to you."
Lestrade grinned. The acerbic description of Mycroft was so very John that he could not doubt any more that she'd been sent by the doctor.
"All right, I'm game," he said, allowing her to steer him away from the platform. But before we continue, I'd like to know two things: who are you and where are we going?"
"My name is Mary Morstan," she answered readily enough. "John… Doctor Watson and I are neighbours, and he offered to help me with a, let's say, a personal problem. However, he thought that consulting the police unofficially would be a good idea, so here we are."
"But why me?" Lestrade still wasn't quite buying it. "I'm sure there are police officers in… wherever he's living at the moment."
"St Mary Mead," she supplied. "A small village, only twenty miles from London. Much Benham is the next somewhat bigger town. And yes, the place does have some police. But John wanted someone he knew he could trust."
"I'm flattered," Lestrade said dryly, but he couldn't deny the feeling of unexpected warmth spreading inside him. John might not have forgiven him yet, but the thought that the doctor still trusted him felt good. Better than he'd have thought. Perhaps they could still salvage their friendship if John was willing to turn to him for help, of all people.
"That answers Question Number One," he said. "You still haven't told me where we are going, though."
"I hoped you would be able to tell me," she handed him a leaflet with some info clearly printed out directly from the internet. "I never heard of a Blue Parrot Café in London before, and I haven't got the faintest idea how to get there."
"No problem, I know the place," Lestrade smiled, albeit a little sadly. The Blue Parrot had played a significant role in one of the cases Sherlock had solved for him years before John Watson would even enter his life. "It's a nice one, opposite the front of the Lyceum Theatre."
She nodded. "Oh. That explains it then."
"It does?" Lestrade still didn't understand a thing.
"Oh yes, very much so," she replied. "Let's get there at once. I'm afraid time is an issue right now. As soon as John arrives we'll tell you everything, I promise."
Half an hour later they were sitting at a nice little table near the shop window of the Blue Parrot Café, all three of them. John had not changed much, Lestrade found. There was a bit more grey in his hair, which he still wore in a short military cut, there were a few more lines around his eyes and his mouth, but basically, he looked the same.
Even though he was wearing a nice enough blue suit and a tie instead of his trademark baggy jumpers.
And he seemed more than a little besotted with their female companion. Which, in Lestrade's estimate, was a good thing. John needed somebody in his life, and Mary Morstan seemed nice enough – and vivid enough to keep him on his toes.
They explained them what they wanted his help with and showed him the message itself, which he examined carefully but couldn't find out anything else by just looking than that the paper was high quality stationery indeed, and that the person who'd written the message had tried to disguise their actual handwriting.
"Most likely written by a right-handed person, but using their left hand," he explained.
At their surprised looks, he gave a derisive snort. "Despite what Sherlock liked to tell you, I'm not a complete idiot, John. I've been doing this job already when Sherlock was still in his nappies and went through two or three traumatised nannies each week."
They both smiled sadly at the mental image of a tiny, curly-haired toddler throwing a temper tantrum and reducing a long line of nurses to tears.
"I'm afraid I can't tell you anything else about this letter without having it examined in a lab," Lestrade continued. "What about the money sent to you, Miss Morstan? Have you any idea where it might have come from?"
She shook her head.
"No, and I can't explain how it was transferred to my account, either. According to my bank it was placed directly through various cash machines… a different one each time, in different small towns. All near London, but none of them had a surveillance camera," seeing Lestrade's baffled face, she shrugged. "As I said: very small towns. With cash machines where you can't only draw money but pay onto your account, too."
"And you don't even have a theory who might want to support you?" Lestrade asked.
Mary shrugged. "No. Unless…."
"Unless what?" Lestrade pressed.
She seemed to hesitate for a moment. "Well, unless it came from my father. But that's unlikely. My father has been missing for years. For some fifteen years by now."
"Perhaps you could enlighten the background for us a little," Lestrade suggested mildly.
Mary nodded. "Sure, why not? It might even help me to see things more clearly… from an outsider's point of view," she put down her coffee cup and leaned back in her chair. "Well, my father was captain of the First Armoured Division and was deployed to Kuwait during the Gulf War. He took part in Operation Granby from day one to the end of the war. When the headquarters of his division in Saudi Arabia was disbanded in 1993, my father was deployed to Bosnia, to the Multi-National division South-West. In 1998 he obtained twelve months' leave and came home."
"Where were you during this time?" Lestrade asked.
"For a while in a boarding school in Edinburgh, as my mother was dead and I had no other relatives in England," Mary explained. "Afterwards I went to St Andrews University in Scotland to study English literature, and later trained as a school teacher. When my father's letter reached me, I was working in a small school near Edinburgh."
"Was this all in 1998?" Lestrade tried to clarify the facts. Mary nodded.
"Yes. He told me that he'd arrived in London safely and asked me to come down at once, giving the Langham Hotel as his address. I was very happy, of course. We weren't really close, in fact, I barely knew him, but he was the only parent I had left. The school wouldn't give me leave – it was exam time – so I quit my job and hurried to London as soon as I could. It was a mistake, of course," she added with a sigh.
"You never found your father, did you?" John asked in compassion.
She shook her head, her eyes clouding with sorrow.
"No. When I arrived at the Langham, I was informed that Captain Morstan was indeed staying there, but that he'd gone out the night before and had not returned. I waited all day without any news from him. The manager of the hotel advised me to call the police then, which I did. I also made inquiries by the Army and even advertised in the papers – but to no end. My inquiries led to no result; and from that day to this, no word has ever been heard of my father."
She swallowed hard and closed her eyes to get her emotions back under control. John took her hand and squeezed it gently.
"What about his luggage?" Lestrade asked.
"It remained at the hotel. There was nothing in it to suggest a clue – some clothes, a few books and a great deal of knick-knacks: curiosities from the countries he served in or visited in the Middle East. I had them checked in one of the auction houses, in the hope that they would be valuable. They weren't."
"Where are these items now?" Lestrade insisted.
"I gave his clothes to charity. The rest have been in storage for the last twelve years or so. When I inherited Little Gates – the cottage where I currently live in St Mary Mead – I arranged for all my stuff to be moved there; at least the oriental rugs still look good. Why? Do you think any of that could be of importance?"
"I don't know," Lestrade admitted. "It wouldn't harm to examine those things from the forensic point of view, though. Did your father have any friends in London?"
"Not that I would know of," Mary replied. "But that doesn't have to mean a thing. I knew woefully little about him. Our contact was sporadic at best, and he never told me anything about his mates. In fact, he never told me anything of importance, I'm afraid."
"And the mysterious sums of money started to appear on your account when? Two years ago?"
Mary nodded. "Yes. I have no idea how the sender could find out my account number."
"Did your father know it?"
"Of course. He'd opened the account for me when I was barely seventeen. That's how he supported me financially, even if he wasn't in England."
"In that case we must assume that whoever the sender is, they must have at least known your father and have the number from him," Lestrade said. "The account has been set up so that others can pay money into it but only you can take money out, right?"
Mary nodded. "Yes. I changed my access code as soon as I turned eighteen. Not even my father knows it; and there's no way he could have figured it out on his own," she smiled. "I had a rather eclectic taste in music at that time."
"You mean your access code is related to one of your former favourites?" John laughed.
She smiled at him but didn't answer.
"All right," Lestrade said. "I think I've got the overall picture now. What exactly do you two want from me?"
"We'd like you to come with us when we meet this mysterious admirer," John replied.
"But the message says: no police," Lestrade pointed out.
"Which is why I decided that we need the police in this," John explained grimly. "Unofficially, of course; we still don't know if there is anything wrong at all. But if there is, I might not be the right person to deal with it. Even if I still had my old Army pistol on me... which I do not, of course."
"Of course not," Lestrade said amiably. "That would be highly illegal, after all."
"Exactly. And I, as a law-abiding citizen, would never do anything illegal, obviously," John said with a straight face. "So, are you coming with us or not?"
"If you really have to ask then you shouldn't have contacted me in the first place," Lestrade replied.
"It can get you in trouble, though," John warned. "I haven't got the faintest who is behind all this – or what this is to begin with."
Lestrade shrugged. "So what's new? Every time I followed Sherlock down some mad path only he could find, the chance of trouble was very real. This isn't any different."
"Oh yes, it is," John said very seriously. "This time we're on our own. Without backup, without justification. I think the risk you're taking is considerably greater than in the good old days."
"If it means that we' re all right again, then it's worth the price," Lestrade answered; then, after a short but significant pause, he asked. "Are we all right again, John?"
"I don't know, Greg," John confessed honestly. "I'm trying, okay? I really am. That's the best I can offer right now. And we need you in this; we really do."
Lestrade took some time to think over things.
"I take whatever you can give," he then said. "So, what's the next step?"
"Now we're going to meet Mary's secret admirer," John answered, grinning like a shark.
For a moment, Lestrade could clearly imagine him as the professional soldier, leading his men into battle.
They left the café to walk over to the Lyceum Theatre. It was not yet 7 o'clock, but the day had been a dreary one, with a dense, drizzly fog lying upon the whole city. The yellow lights of the street lamps and the shop windows became diffused in the musky air, giving the street and the people who were walking it an eerie, ghost-like appearance, like in one of those old-fashioned horror films.
Mary shivered, pulling her fake fur coat tighter around herself.
"What nasty weather!" she complained. "Perhaps we shouldn't have come at all."
John shook his head and offered her his arm.
"Yes, we should; or it would have bothered you for the rest of your life. Don't worry; me and my highly illegal, nonexistent Army pistol are with you. And so is Lestrade, even though he doesn't have a gun on him. Not even a hypothetical one."
That made her laugh and relax a little. Lestrade pretended that he hadn't heard John mentioning his illegally kept pistol. It was better so, for both of them.
When they reached the theatre, the crowds were already thick at the side entrances. A continuous stream of cabs was pulling up in front, releasing men in sharp suits and women in evening dresses, wearing lots of make- up and jewellery.
"Which side did the message say?" Lestrade asked.
"The left one," Mary pressed unconsciously closer to John. "Let's get it done before I change my mind."
John nodded in agreement, and they strolled over to the left-side entrance, dodging all the people who tried to get inside – and who were all much better clad than them – from time to time.
"There!" Lestrade pointed at a small, balding, red-headed man, clad in a fur-collared black coat, who was standing in the middle of the constant flow of people, solitary and unmoving like a rock in the breakers.
John whistled in surprise. "Well, I'll be damned!"
He let go of Mary's arm and walked up to the man briskly. "Good evening, Mr Sheldon! Fancy meeting you here, of all places!"
~TBC~