From Michael JG Meathook: Growing bored with catching criminals, Sherlock decides it will be more interesting to become one.


Despite what Sherlock Holmes might say, and John Watson might write, Inspector Giles Lestrade is no fool. There is a reason he made Inspector so quick. He may not have all the intellect of the famous detective, nor all the intuition of his friend the Doctor, but he is nothing if not determined. Usually he would not let this go.

"A mugging gone wrong." Holmes insists, unusually subdued and Watson notably absent from his side. "That is all."

Lestrade frowns. The detective is not one for modesty, indeed it is normally only Watson who keeps him in check.

"Where is the Doctor, Mr Holmes?"

"Ill," Holmes answers shortly, and turns to leave. "If we are done here I had best get back before the pharmacy closes."

"But what about the footprints?" Lestrade continues doggedly, following behind the detective. Together they leave the back alley, and the body that was discovered there, passing out onto the much busier Folly Street, where Holmes waves down a hansom. "You've made much more of much less, in the past. Don't you want to catch the murderer?"

"It was a mugging gone wrong," Holmes insists. "And of the footprints, very well - you are looking for a tall man with size 11 feet. If you think you're able to track him down with that, then be my guest."

The hansom trundles away, but something doesn't sit right with Lestrade.


He visits Baker Street once he's finished at the Yard, met at the front door of 221B by Mrs Hudson.

"Oh Inspector." She smiles wearily. "Is it urgent? Mr Holmes is finally asleep, bless him."

"Asleep?" It is only just gone 8 in the evening. He notices how worn the landlady looks and asks, "Did something happen last night?"

"Oh, you haven't heard?" She shakes her head sorrowfully. "It was poor Doctor Watson, he was attacked on his way back from his rounds. Thank goodness one of Mr Holmes's boys found him in time."

"Found him? Found him where? Near Folly Street?"

"I'll take it from here, Mrs Hudson." Mr Holmes's voice, rough from sleep, echoes from the staircase behind the landlady. "Would you watch over Watson for me?"

The landlady tuts. "You should be asleep, Mr Holmes. After being up half the night, honestly."

She leaves all the same, Holmes taking her place. His hair is tousled, still wearing the shirt and suit he was in at the crime scene. He regards Lestrade warily.

"Inspector. Can I help you?"

Lestrade considers what to say. You told me Doctor Watson was ill or Were you at Folly Street last night? or What size are your feet, Mr Holmes? In the end he settles for,

"How is the Doctor?"

"He is... better," Holmes replies haltingly. "The surgeon said he should recover well enough, providing the wound is kept clean and infection kept at bay."

"What happened?"

"It was a- a mugging, I believe."

Lestrade hesitates. He is no fool and neither is Mr Holmes, who fidgets uncomfortably with the hem of his sleeve. For several seconds they stay there, the air thick with tension.

"I thought," Lestrade eventually speaks, slowly, "That I had found something out, about the body by Folly Street."

"Oh?" Holmes digs his hands deep into the pockets of his gown. "That is, uhh-"

"But now I'm here," Lestrade continues, cutting across him, "I realise I may have been mistaken."

Holmes's jaw drops and Lestrade feels a minute thrill of pleasure that for once he has managed to surprise the all-knowing detective.

"Goodnight, Mr Holmes." Lestrade tips his hat in farewell. "Wish Doctor Watson well for me."

Inspector Lestrade is no fool, and he knows when things are best left unexamined.