"Move!" Lestrade barked. A sea of constables scattered before him, desperate to find cover before any of them garnered further attention from the ill-tempered inspector. Oblivious to all this, as well as his fellow inspectors gathering in a corner, the man stormed back toward his office.
"Phew!" Hopkins considered the empty space Lestrade had left behind. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"
"We just have to be scientific about it, lad." Bradstreet explained to the younger inspector as he leaned against the wall. "And make certain Lestrade doesn't find out until he's gotten a good twenty hours or so of sleep."
"More like fifteen," Jones offered. "Man's not physically capable of sleeping twenty hours."
"I've only seen him actually sleep even that long on one occasion." Gregson looked briefly uneasy, then brightened. "So, what are the terms?"
Watson looked from one inspector to the next, not entirely certain what he had gotten himself into. While it was clear that he had, on some level, been accepted into Scotland Yard by its policemen, the doctor was still trying to figure out exactly what that meant.
Currently it seemed to mean the men were willing to gossip about Lestrade in front of him; in the past the Yarders had demonstrated a united front against perceived outsiders. They might be allowed to criticize or even devil one another, but woe be it to anyone not a member of their group that so much as considered either.
Now, unless he were greatly mistaken, Watson had been accepted into that group.
"How long has he already been awake?" Bradstreet wanted to know. "That's obviously the place to start, and if we can't agree on that, the rest is moot."
The others considered this. "He was out with Jones and me on a stakeout last night." Hopkins admitted. "Not that it came of anything."
Gregson eyed Jones warily. The confession did a lot to explain the other inspector's mood. While not quite as bad as Lestrade, Jones had been unpleasant at best for most of the day. "Didn't Holmes have him out running around the East End the two nights before that?" he asked. Eyes turned to Watson for confirmation.
"He did," the doctor agreed. He hesitated only a moment before asking, "What are we doing, exactly?"
"Trying to figure out how long Lestrade's been up, so we can take bets on how long he can go without sleep this time." Bradstreet explained, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"After we figure that out, we have to decide what counts as actually sleeping." Jones added. Gregson resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the man; it was the most helpful he had been that day.
Hopkins frowned. "Shouldn't we decide that before? Didn't he sneak off the other evening to catch a few hours? I'm sure I overheard Evans saying that he couldn't find him anywhere, and not for lack of trying."
"Superintendent sent him out to apologize to some rich toff." Gregson sniffed. "By the time he made it back there was a summons from Holmes. Imperative that he speak with Lestrade immediately."
"When was this?" Watson wanted to know. "It's true we were out with Holmes those two nights, searching the East End for a murderer, but before that we hadn't seen him for well over a week."
Gregson huffed. "Wrong Holmes," he grumbled.
"Pardon?"
"The summons was from the other Holmes."
Watson took a moment to absorb the fact that Lestrade not only knew and had met the older Holmes brother, but that he had been called out to answer a summons from the man. The discussion continued before he could do much more than that.
"So that's four nights without sleep." Bradstreet counted each night out on his fingers. "What about Friday?"
"Was that the night Cratchett got himself stabbed?" Jones wanted to know. Reaching out, he caught a passing constable by the sleeve of his uniform.
The constable eyed Jones warily, refusing to so much as look at any of the other inspectors. "Sir?"
"You're scaring him, Jones." Bradstreet was kind enough to insert himself between the two men. "How's Cratchett doing?" he asked instead of cutting straight to the matter.
"Much better, Inspector." The constable still looked nervous as he addressed the larger man. "It was Friday, sir, when he was injured." The man paled. "Not that I was eavesdropping, sir."
Bradstreet chuckled. "Of course, not. Off with you, then." He turned back to the others. "It was Friday."
Gregson rolled his eyes at the other man. "Was it now? So that's five days. I know for a fact he went home Thursday; his wife had plans for their anniversary."
"She threaten you, Gregson?" Jones wanted to know. The fair-haired inspector grimaced, confirming the other man's suspicions.
"Five days then." Bradstreet recalled them all to the matter at hand. "So does he have to go home for the night? Does it count if he falls asleep at his desk for a couple of minutes?"
"Dozing off for a few minutes doesn't count, not the way he starts awake after." Gregson shook his head. "But it doesn't have to be a full eight hours. I've seen him go down for a nap and wake up thirty minutes later ready to take on London at its worst."
"So it has to be at least thirty minutes." Jones decided. "Does it have to be intentional? What if he passes out first?"
"Then be sure to catch him." Gregson snorted.
Hopkins looked thoughtful. "Is there a prize for catching him?"
"Lestrade doesn't end up with a concussion. That should be prize enough." All four Yarders shuddered.
"But does it count?" Bradstreet pressed. Gregson seemed to be the final judge when it came to what did and did not qualify.
"Only if he stays unconscious for thirty minutes." The other inspector decided. "He usually doesn't."
Jones looked thoughtful. "He was limping when he came through," he said. "That means he's too tired to bother pretending his foot doesn't hurt. I'd give it another day at the most."
"One day for Jones," Bradstreet noted, reaching for pencil and paper. "Standard bet?" The other man nodded.
Hopkins frowned. The lad was notorious for functioning on far less sleep than anyone else in the Yard with far fewer side effects. "I'll give it three, I guess," he said. "That seems reasonable, right?"
"What about Lestrade has ever struck you as reasonable?" Gregson demanded.
"He's reasonable enough, in his own way." Bradstreet insisted. "Once you figure out how the man works, he's easy enough to get along with, if you actually want to." Bradstreet stared blankly across the busy room, considering the absent inspector. "Four days at most. I can't see him lasting longer than that, the way he's been pushing himself."
Gregson shook his head. "I tried to send him home yesterday," he said. "Lestrade'll go the rest of the week without sleeping, just to prove he can."
Bradstreet groaned. "What did you say to him?" he demanded.
"Nothing out of line," Gregson retorted irritably, a sure sign that whatever he said, it had, in fact, been very out of line.
Bradstreet shrugged it off. "End of the week it is. Doctor?"
It took Watson a moment to realize they were waiting for him to bet. When he did, his first instinct was to refuse; gossiping about Lestrade with his fellow inspectors seem wrong enough. Another thought occurred to him almost immediately, however, one he could act on without feeling conflicted about later.
"Put me down for today." He decided. "For double, if anyone is willing to risk it."
To a man, every last inspector stared at him, impressed in spite of themselves. Gregson was the first to speak. "You think you can convince him?" he asked.
Watson shrugged. "I intend to try, unless that's against the rules."
"You can't drug him," Hopkins replied, shooting a dark glance in Jones's direction. "Nothing says you can't talk to him, though."
"For all the good it will do," Jones added.
Watson smiled at the inspectors. "Then if you gentlemen will excuse me, I'd like to try my luck."
Watson found Lestrade in his office, stubbornly ploughing through a mountain of paperwork. The small inspector barely looked up as he waved Watson to a seat, but the dark circles under the man's eyes did not escape the doctor's notice.
"I've been reliably informed that you haven't slept in five days," Watson offered conversationally. Lestrade shrugged. "That's not at all healthy, you know."
"Can't be helped." Lestrade grumbled, but did not elaborate.
Watson leaned back in his chair. "I've seen Holmes do his fair share of running himself ragged," he said easily. "It always catches up with him, in the end. Last time he fainted in front of Mycroft, you know." Lestrade winced, confirming that he was very much aware of the existence of Sherlock Holmes's older brother. That slip told Watson just how exhausted the other man was.
"I'm curious, however, as to how you've managed to convince Elisabeth to let you carry on like this." Watson continued while the other man tried to fill out a report and pay attention to his uninvited guest at the same time. "It's really not like her at all."
"Lizzie's sick. So are the children. Been ill the last three days," Lestrade admitted. "She doesn't want me to catch it."
"I'd wager she didn't mean for you to run yourself ragged instead." Watson arched an eyebrow at the other man. Lestrade sighed.
Watson went in for the kill.
"They're betting on how much longer you can last," he revealed. Lestrade looked annoyed, but not overly surprised. "Jones thinks you'll go down tomorrow. Gregson seems to think you'll last the rest of the week out of spite."
Lestrade closed his eyes briefly. "I take it they invited you to join in?" Watson smirked in reply.
"I wagered that I could personally get you to get some rest today," he said. "They don't seem to believe it's possible. They were more than willing to double their usual bets."
Lestrade's eyes widened slightly.
Watson considered the man seated across the desk from him. "I don't think I mentioned that Holmes is currently out of town, or that you've made use of the settee before, when the situation called for it."
"You're talking about that case that had all those busts of Napoleon," Lestrade said slowly, considering his current situation. "It's all paperwork," he admitted. "I'm not even supposed to be on duty today..."
Watson beamed at the other man. "Then you can spare a few hours for a nap. From what I've heard just a couple of hours and you'll be a new man." Lestrade rolled his eyes at that, but did not take offense. "After that, dinner, my treat? After all, I understand I'll be coming into a bit of money soon, if everything goes according to plan."
Lestrade laughed outright. "I can't tell who you're trying to pull one over on, them or me. Maybe both." He looked thoughtful. "I wouldn't mind a chance to get away from work for a few hours."
"Don't forget dinner." Watson knew full well that if the man was not going home regularly, he was likely not eating properly either. Lestrade could be as bad as Holmes in his own way, though the inspector was in general more aware of his limits, and therefore more likely to catch himself before things got too out of hand.
A group of inspectors watched the two men leave Scotland Yard together, most of them only slightly surprised. Time away from the office and a chance to at least relax a bit would do Lestrade almost as much good as actual sleep, even if Watson did not succeed entirely in his mission.
"Think he'll do it?" Hopkins asked. Bradstreet shrugged.
"He'll do his best."
Lestrade did not protest when Watson pointed to the settee, but sank down into it almost gratefully.
"Did you injure yourself?" Watson asked. Lestrade had, as Jones had earlier noted, been limping considerably as they left.
Lestrade shrugged. "I stepped down off the curb wrong the other day," he said. "Haven't really gotten the chance to get off of it. It hurts, and I'm tired. That's all."
"Tea?" Watson offered, instead of pressing the issue.
"Please."
By the time the doctor returned Lestrade had given in to his body's needs and passed out quite completely on the settee. Watson set the tea tray aside and threw a blanket across the man before taking a seat in his usual armchair and picking up a book.
Lestrade awoke three hours later, blinking as he looked around the room. Watson set aside his book and offered the man a smile.
"You really do look like a new man," he commented. "After you've washed your face and combed your hair, of course."
Lestrade did not quite chuckle. "God, I was tired," he admitted, the words still tinged with weariness. "So you've won your wager. Serves them right."
"For betting against you? Or for including me?" Watson wanted to know.
"Both." Lestrade decided. "What was that about food? I don't think I've eaten today."
Watson swallowed back the urge to scold the other man. "Any preferences? I was thinking Simpson's myself."
The two men returned to Scotland Yard later that evening, Lestrade heading straight back to his office to catch up on his paperwork, and Watson seeking out Gregson, who seemed to be the ringleader when it came to making bets against Lestrade.
He found the rest of the Yard's inspectors in the man's office as well, waiting for him.
Jones was scowling while Bradstreet pointed out that not only had they not forbidden Watson from trying to get Lestrade to get some rest, they had encouraged it, and therefore only had themselves to blame.
Gregson shrugged. "It's not as if we don't benefit either way," he pointed out. "Lestrade after a few hours of sleep and a decent meal is far more tolerable than the opposite. Well worth losing a bet over."
Jones rolled his eyes at the other man. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you set all this up on purpose," he muttered. Gregson sneered at him in reply, but did not deny the not-quite accusation.
It made Watson wonder.
"What did you do?" Hopkins wanted to know. The younger inspector was thoroughly impressed by the doctor's success.
Watson grinned at him. "Secrets of the medical profession, I'm afraid."
Bradstreet shook his head. "Well at least we know who to call on the next time this happens." Watson stared at the other man in horror.
"You don't mean to tell me this is a regular occurrence?"
Gregson grinned at him almost maliciously. "Lestrade rarely operates on a full night's sleep," he told the doctor. "I'd say he does this at least every other month."