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Chapter 37: Lestrade's nature
"it would have been a damn pity if you'd actually managed to murder us, since we found a way to keep contestants alive and still get out of Dyaus' mad game," John announced.
At that, Lestrade choked on his tea and started coughing violently. "No? Seriously?" he asked, when he regained his breath. "I mean, sure, you did say alternative, but…alive and safe? Can you really?"
Sherlock glared at him. "If we couldn't, why would we even bother not killing every contestant on sight? You know me Lestrade, I'm efficient if nothing else," he snapped.
The inspector glared back. "Well then, if you can, why would you assassinate Donovan and Anderson?" he accused, incensed now.
"Who said we did?" John countered, grinning. "In case you had realised they were targets, I didn't want you to go after them before I had an occasion to talk to you and explain that you didn't have to play Dyaus' game. It seemed common courtesy towards them, you know. After all, right now they don't have their blogs for protection. I'd feel guilty otherwise."
"Can I be honest? The more you talk, the more it sounds like you're both taking the piss," Lestrade huffed, crossing his arms.
"Besides the fact that neither of us is a prankster, so this is improbable to begin with, why would we keep up such a deception? I mean, imagine we poisoned you with that tea. Do you think we would have no other way to keep you from realising it and looking for an antidote than with inane chatter?" the sleuth retorted, rolling his eyes.
"Sherlock," the doctor interjected sternly, "Bit not good, that."
"What? Acknowledging that, as a doctor, you have the knowledge and means to poison anyone you want, and discussing the matter like logical adults? Why would it be wrong? I'm assuming he has enough sense to consider the matter without turning into a headless chicken," the detective objected, frowning.
"Charming as always, Sherlock," Lestrade remarked, chuckling. "Don't worry, John, With anyone else, I'd be spooked. But his idea of light banter has involved the easiest and most efficient ways for my demise since well before Dyaus started his game. It didn't take me long to understand that this was his rather unique way to warn me about my weaknesses – to look out for me, as it were. Donovan and Anderson, however, didn't take well to our friend's conversation. They pegged him immediately as a serial killer. Ridiculous, of course. Any serial killer worth his salt wouldn't share his plans with the police in advance."
"I feel insulted," Sherlock stated, turning his back on them, "by your insinuation that I would care for you and try to ensure your safety. My conversation has always been a purely academical exercise.
"Sure it was…you big softie," John teased kindly.
The consulting detective turned to glare at him.
"Honestly, the fact that you want people to be safe isn't some sort of shameful character flaw. I'd like to meet whoever put that idea in your brilliant brain and have words with them," the doctor added. His left hand was instinctively curling, betraying that these words would certainly be underlined by some very physical reactions.
An unusual warmth filled Sherlock's insides. Why would John even feel so strongly about what he'd been taught? He squashed it ruthlessly, though, and declared, "Never mind that, we're not here to discuss my feelings – or lack of them. What matters now is: what can I do for you, Lestrade? It's the same relationship we've ever had, so let's focus on that, please." He cut the air nervously with his hands.
"As I said, I can disconnect your phone from the blog. Or rather, I could do that if you were a secondary contestant, loaning another's powers. As it is, I'll have to disconnect the blog from you. That way, when the phone is destroyed – and it will have to be, for you to leave the game, so you might want to copy your address book first – it will not drag you into its falling into one of Dyaus' black holes. Like that, you'll be officially out of the game. Not a god, but not a designated prey, either. And obviously, without your future predicting powers. But I believe that you don't need them to be a decent cop," he added.
Lestrade mock curtsied. "That is high praise indeed, coming from you! I'm flattered," he acknowledged, grinning.
"Not that you'll have that problem, because – for your safety, you understand – it would be better if you left. It's what we insisted on for Anderson and Donovan, in case someone had pinned them as contestants already and just hadn't made a move detectable by the blog yet. People who remained alive this long should be the ones more inclined to careful planning – likely for longer than a blog can track – and getting murdered when you're already out of the game, well, that'd be a bummer," John remarked, shrugging.
"That's where you're wrong, John," the sleuth interjected, "Lestrade may leave the Met, he may relocate to the antipodes, but he'll always be a cop. Which is not true for Anderson and Donovan, or at least I hope so for the universe' s betterment."
"So they're…what? Off to a better life?" the inspector wondered, frowning in puzzlement.
"Yep," John confirmed, popping the p. "I guessed you'd want to talk with them before putting your phone in Sherlock's very capable hands. We can assure you all we want, but it's still your life on the line. Their phones have disappeared, though, so…what can we do?"
"I believe they should still be with Kate and Irene. I expect that they'll need a number of instructions on how to start a new life beforehand. I'm still shocked that they do not need someone constantly holding their hands. I can give you Kate's number, Lestrade, and she'll hand the call over to them," the detective pointed out.
"Of course, this Kate might be an accomplice of yours and you might have recorded my men while they were here," Lestrade retorted, without heat.
Before John could deny it in earnest, Sherlock nodded sharply. "True, of course. Which is why I suggest you both ask them something only your colleagues would know, and keep the conversation as random and detailed as you can. Nothing I could fake with a couple of recorded yes or no, or that I would think to force them to say even if I'd captured them and fed them lines before their murder," he suggested then.
"I hope you won't start criticising my conversation now… like, 'That isn't original enough,' you know," Lestrade huffed, with a chuckle and a shake of his head.
"Of course not. Trying to steer your words any which way would be counterproductive and only validate your suspicions," the consulting detective replied, perfectly serious.
"Good to know. Call that friend of yours that's with my team, then," the officer urged, when the backup of his address book to the pc Sherlock offered for his needs was finally complete.
Sherlock did, but Kate wasn't very quick to answer, and when she did, she was slightly out of breath. "Don't tell me you have another emergency, 'Lock!" she whined.
"Not as such. But if you could just hand your phone over to Donovan or Anderson for a moment, I'd be most grateful. You could get back to your fun, and I swear I won't bother you ever again," the sleuth promised.
"I don't think that they'll like it if you interrupt them. Especially because they don't seem to be fond of you, for all they owe you, you know?" she retorted, annoyed.
"Oh, I know. But it isn't for me. I have someone here who really needs to hear from them, and that they won't mind too much talking to. I expect at least training to kick in, and if my acquaintance can have this chat, it might spare me having to fight the phone out of his possession," Sherlock explained, instinctively shrugging, even if she couldn't see him.
"The things I do for you, pretty boy," Kate sighed. "If you hadn't saved Irene, I would have ignored this call very happily."
"Yes, well, the sooner you put them on the phone, the sooner you can get back to her. Win win, I'd say," the consulting detective snapped, handing the phone over to Lestrade.
A few minutes, and the inspector heard a woman huff, "I told you, 'Lock, they don't want to talk to anyone!"
"Tell them it's Greg Lestrade on the line, please," he remarked calmly.
"Wow, that was…" the DI heard, but since he never got the end of that sentence, Donovan promising she could explain, Sir, truly, he assumed the last word would have been 'quick'.
"Relax, Sally, I'm not going to report you, if that's what you're worried about. though I'm a bit disappointed that you'd ditch me like this. We're overworked as it is," Lestrade sighed, sagging on his chair.
"We're sorry, but the freak was very convincing, sir. He thought that we might attract…" Donovan started to justify herself, an edge of panic in her voice, and the usual blame for Sherlock.
"Contestants," the inspector cut in, impatient. "Look, I do know about Dyaus, and you've never been very good at lying or coming up with an excuse on the spot."
"You know?" she breathed, sounding vaguely horrified.
"I play myself, actually. None of us is very good at deducing, are we? I'd never suspected you, and you both clearly hadn't, either – luckily for me," Lestrade replied, self-deprecatingly.
"I suppose that's why we have the Freak in the first place," Sally groaned. "But well, before you start tracing this call, there's something you should really know, sir. We're not playing anymore."
"Fuck me sideways, so that's true!" the DI swore fervently.
"Greg?" she blurted out, repressing a laugh. Hard to be respectful when the man was like that.
"Holmes can actually get you out of the game without dying, really, Sally?" he asked. His sergeant wouldn't deceive him. Teaming with Sherlock to take him down? The reverse would happen first (or, well, to take John down, he supposed.)
"I thought he was going to murder me, but yes, as much as I'm annoyed at his superpowers, it's true," Donovan confirmed. A beat of silence, then she added, "Not that I'd have blamed him entirely if he'd tried to kill us."
"And Anderson is with you?" Lestrade queried, choosing to ignore her admission.
"Of course he is. I'll put him on the phone, he's been eager to speak with you from the start," Sally replied.
"I don't care how good the Freak is, make him follow proper procedure on crime scenes!" her lover urged, voice shrill, as soon as he got on the phone.
"I think you're mistaken, Philip. I'm not god yet…and I'm not even sure Dyaus himself would be able to, honestly," the DI quipped. Sherlock smiled smugly at that, and even John couldn't help a silent but theatrical facepalm. Lestrade ignored their antics, letting his thoughts wander. "Besides, I'm not very interested in being God, to begin with. It really makes you wonder what Dyaus was thinking of when he picked us. I still object to being murdered, though, so a couple questions, if you please," he continued.
"Uh…sure, sir. Fire away," Anderson agreed.
"What mess did you get in, first day on the job?" the inspector asked good-naturedly, while the sleuth next to him managed to convey, "Told you that the man was an idiot!" without a sound.
"Shoved you out of the crime scene, sir, but you weren't in uniform, so…" Philip blabbed out.
"Yup. I know, my fault. But I needed to ask. You see, I'm pretty certain Sherlock can't have deduced this and forced you to say it, and you wouldn't be casually discussing it around him," Greg cut in, taking pity on him.
"Of course not! I'd never," Anderson declared earnestly.
"I know, now just another question – when did you tell me you were dating Sally?" the DI queried, probably interrupting a much lengthier assurance of reserve, if he knew the man at all. Anderson was a good bloke, but God, did he have a tendency to ramble!
"You really want to embarrass us today, don't you? I never did, there was no need. Not after you caught us going at it against the copy machine. For a moment I thought you'd fire us both on the spot," Philip confessed, and Greg would bet that he was blushing. That had been a traumatic experience for all involved.
"No idea why you see me as some sort of martinet, you know. But I do believe that you'd rather die than let Sherlock know this, so I'm assuming you're really alive and safe, and that somehow he can indeed get people out of the game," the inspector concluded.
"I hate to acknowledge it, but yes, sir," Anderson acknowledged.
"I wish you and Sally all the best and so much happiness, then. Somehow, I suspect we won't talk again…but if you want to, don't hesitate. You do know my home telephone number, after all," Greg said warmly.
"Will do. Thanks…Greg," Philip assured, sounding almost moved.
He'd just closed the call, when the inspector handed Sherlock not only his mobile phone back, but his own, too. "Here it is… if you'd be so kind to get me out of Dyaus' mess," he said.
"Of course, Lestrade, don't be ridiculous," the sleuth acquiesced, with a sharp nod. Not five minutes later, the DI's phone vanished, together with an old, mismatched bowl mummy wouldn't miss.
"Just one thing, though. I see your reasoning about possibly being in someone's sights already, and disappearing for safety. But I think I'll take my chances and risk staying where I am. You said so, Sherlock. I'm a cop, I don't know how to be anything else. Running from my place wouldn't be a good reference. Never mind that, unless the game has a good result, the world ends in less than a dozen days anyway. Taking flight now seems rather pointless, honestly," Greg remarked, shrugging.
"Are you sure?" John asked, frowning.
"I am. Besides, I offered you my help a long time ago, and that offer is more than standing now. If I flee to New Zealand, I won't be much good in case you need a hand," Lestrade pointed out, with a smile.
"Thanks," Sherlock replied earnestly. "Mind you, I expect that you'll still let me help you as always, you know."
The inspector laughed. "More than ever, I think"