A/N: Okay, later than I wanted but here it is! Holmes has so many people to answer too…

Ch. 13- Obstacles in the Search

1 August, 1894

Another say that was a monumental waste! How am I ever to fix my mistake if no one will even offer a scrap of a clue to aid in my search? First it was my brother, who, after drugging me senseless for twenty-four hours and allowing Watson to gain an even more substantial lead than he already possesses, refuses to divulge even the slightest notion of what has become of my Boswell. He confesses that the good doctor did not see fit to divulge such information to him. Hah! While it may be true that Watson did not reveal his destination, my brother has some opinion on the matter but refuses to voice it. If he wishes that I would mend the bond between Watson and me, how shall I do so if I cannot find him? As to that matter, how am I to do so? As Mycroft has already hinted, I am failing to deduce a rather large clue to this entire affair. If I continue to do so it may very well cost both Watson and me our lives.

Blast the man! How the deuce am I to solve this problem when I have no clay in which to constructing my bricks? But it is not merely brother mine who has closed the proverbial door upon me, but the Irregulars as well! When I contacted young Baskins (who has replaced Wiggins) to employ them into keeping an eye out for the doctor at all his favorite haunts, I was informed, in a most scathing tone, that if it were any other matter but the doctor, they would of course be at my disposal. When I asked why, the young pest gave me the darkest, sternest look a thirteen year-old could summon.

"You did the doctor wrong, Mr. Holmes, and ifin he don' wanna be found, we ain't findin' 'im." I'm afraid that attempting to produce a Cockney accent on paper on paper is entirely useless and only increases the pounding of my head, I will refrain from doing so anymore than I already have. I have never been angry with any of my Irregulars before—frustrated yes—but never truly angry. In that moment, however, I feared what I might do in my anger and so dismissed the boy from my presence before I proceeded to destroy the sitting room. It served no purpose but to exhaust me, but I pulled myself back together and took to the streets myself.

Three days of that and I returned to Baker Street frustratingly empty-handed each time. Mrs. Hudson is still not speaking to me and so I was left with nothing but my own thoughts on the matter.

None of them were pleasant.

Where has Watson gone? Is he even still in London? Am I wasting my time searching here? Could he have returned home to Edinburgh? No! This is his home! Here with me! I will make him believe it—he will know it! John Watson belongs no other place than at my side.

So why is he not? It is because I am a fool and a coward of the highest caliber. I will find him. I must. I will beg his forgiveness and do all in my power to achieve it.

Even if I do not deserve it.

Perhaps the most bizarre and irritating obstacle I have encountered at this point comes in the form of that rat-faced Scotland Yarder, Lestrade. It was only after we nearly came to blows that he offered any information and even then it was such a waste. I have only just arrived home from the bout and the anger, adrenaline and frustration that courses through me is enough to make this entry nearly illegible, but as I have no other alternative (I will not destroy the sitting room again), I rooted this out and shall lay down exactly what transpired between Lestrade and myself.

On the fourth morning since I had woken from my drug-induced slumber (I shall not forgive Mycroft for that or his aiding Watson anytime soon), I found myself filling the sitting room with a thick cloud of smoke, for I had been up all night. Another night, another fruitless search. I was rapidly approaching the conclusion that either I had entirely underestimated Watson's skills at deception or he was not in London. Possibly both. As my frustration mounted, I was more inclined to believe the latter conclusion which in no way elevated my mood.

It was as I was once more examining my confrontation with my brother for clues that I was struck with a thought. Mycroft had received a report of my health from Mrs. Hudson (not surprising) and Lestrade. Why on Earth would the inspector, upon hearing the news of my deteriorated health from that loose-lipped Gregson, pass it along to my brother? What possible connection could those two have? As far as I was aware they moved in entirely different worlds. So, why? How?

Satisfied that at last I possessed a lead in which to pursue, I took up my hat and stick, pausing only long enough to glance at the clock. Whatever faults I may find in Geoffrey Lestrade, dedication to his work is not one of them. Even at this early hour it was entirely possible to find him at his desk filling out paperwork or speaking with the constables. If I possessed any luck at all (and at this stage it was entirely doubtful) he would be in his office.

I had questions for that little official.

The ride to Scotland Yard seemed to take twice as long as my mind raced ahead of the cab's horse and it was all I could do not to bite my nails. A filthy habit I had thought I had conquered in childhood, but the urge was nearly overwhelming when deprived of any means of releasing the nervous energy raging through me. (I had, unfortunately, forgotten both my pipe and my cigarettes at the flat). My mind, in retaliation, contemplated various scenarios for the upcoming interview. One question kept circulating through each of them: Exactly what was Lestrade's role in this affair?

By the time the cab had halted outside the dark gates I was no closer to a solution than before. Descending from the cab, I paid the driver, pulled my bowler low and tucked my head down, striking out towards Lestrade's office. It would have been easier and faster if I had been inclined to question one of the passing constables so that I might be certain, but I was hesitant to do so as I did not wish to alert the inspector of my impending arrival lest he be inclined to make himself scarce. I was in no mood to go chasing after an errant Yarder who might hold the key to finding my Watson. With every step I took, my agitation grew, for I had long ago spent my patience on this matter. For Lestrade's sake, I hoped he talked and quickly.

With no more than three harsh knocks, I barged into the official's office, relieved to find him, as I predicted, seated at his desk already deep into his paperwork. His eyes momentarily flashed in my direction before returning to the sheet in front of him. "Have a seat, Mr. Holmes. I will attend to you in just a moment."

The nonchalant attitude snapped what little control I had managed to retain and I snatched the paper from his hand, tossing it aside. "I will not be kept waiting! Tell me where he has gone, Lestrade, without delay, for you know that I am not to be trifled with!"

Lestrade's expression was frighteningly blank, but I could see the storm building behind those beady brown eyes.

I would have done well to heed the warning.

"Who are you looking for, Mr. Holmes?" Such a calm, even tone he possessed.

I slammed my fist down upon his desk and just resisted the urge to sweep the remaining paperwork to the floor. "You know…!" I clamped my mouth shut to contain the rest of the shout. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I had to be calm; my emotions would only cloud the matter further. "You know," I tried again, much more calmly, "that it is Watson that I seek. I must find him!"

That storm flashed but the face remained blank. "No, I'm sorry, I wasn't aware that Watson was missing. But, Mr. Holmes, if anyone can find him it would be you." He rose to his feet and pulled his coat and hat from the rack in the corner. "Now, if you will excuse me, calls need to be made, errands need to be run. I am afraid that's all the time I have for you today." He maneuvered around me and held open the door. "Good day, Mr. Holmes."

At first I was entirely shocked. While no one could ever accuse Lestrade of being anything other than professional, I had not witnessed such stiff formality since the beginning of our working relationship. Anger and desperation followed swiftly on the heels of this. No, he could not deny me! He was my only lead. I had nothing else, nothing! With these emotions firmly taking hold, I dashed forward and ripped the door from his grasp, slamming it shut and locking it. Lestrade is an excellent fighter, most would be surprised to know this and many frequently underestimate him, and immediately he fell into a defensive stance. Despite that, my anger and desperation allowed me to overpower him, smashing him against the wall. "You must tell me!" I demanded, shaking the compact frame. "I must know where he is! I must find him! Please," my voice dropped to a whisper, "I beg of you."

Lestrade's face turned red with repressed rage, but strangely he made no move to free himself from my grasp. "You beg, Mr. Holmes? Tell me this, sir, did the doctor beg you as you smashed him to bits? Because there is no doubt that the man I found wandering the streets was broken. You did that, Mr. Holmes, you! Not even Afghanistan and Maiwand managed that." My fingers lost their grip upon the inspector and I found the tables turned; he was the predator to my prey, backing me against the wall. "Are you proud of what you have done, Mr. Holmes? You turned away the one man in all of existence that actually enjoyed your company just for you, the man who wanted nothing more than to spend time with you. He was the man who brought your famous powers of deduction to the attention of the public—he helped to launch your career! He is the man who stood beside you when all other would have abandoned you to your drugs and black moods. Is this how you repay devotion and loyalty, Mr. Holmes? Is this how you repay love?"

My eyes had dropped to the floor midway through his tirade as I was unable to allow him to see my tears over his too true statement. It was true, all true! I had done it all, destroyed the man that I loved as surely as if I had placed the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. The inspector—he was a first-hand witness to the devastation that I had wrought! Why would he help me? Why should he? The Great Detective could not solve the most important case of his life. Was it honestly my destiny not to find my beloved?

"And do you know what I find ironic about this, besides the face that you are undeniably an imbecile? Despite the blow that you dealt him, Watson wished to see no harm come to you. In his eyes, he was not worth the 'trouble'." The little inspector snorted. "I would have considered it a privilege to take a stripe from your hide and I don't care if you fence, can single-stick, or are a light-weight champion boxer, I would have done it! Watson is a good man and a good friend—he was my friend. And you, sir, drove him to the brink with your 'death' then happily pushed him over with this nonsense."

I could not help but raise my head as Lestrade moved away, shaking his head as he did so. "You may be a big man on the outside, Mr. Holmes, but on the inside you are very, very small. Now, I have work to do and I am asking you to leave me in peace before I forget myself and take you to task despite the doctor's wishes." He pointed to the door before dropping into his chair and picking up the next sheet of his paperwork.

Lestrade is a man I would have once claimed to be able to predict his every move. He was a fixed quantity, a known agent in my universe of never-ending chaos. Nothing, I am only now beginning to understand, has quite added up correctly since Watson entered the equation. The universe that I had built was crumbling around me and now one of my only stable points was knocking me askew. I clutched at my hair with my hands, knocking my hat to the floor in the process, trying to stem the urge to cover my ears in a futile attempt to block out the screaming in my head. It was as though a wild beast was trapped within me, clawing in an attempt to voice its frustrations over being separated from its mate. Perhaps, if I had been in my right mind, the next words would not have escaped me.

"Do it."

Lestrade, who had been conducting a valiant effort to ignore how I was disintegrating in the corner of his office, did not, at first, look up, but his whole body seemed rigid. "What did you say?"

"Do it." The laugh that followed caused even the hardened inspector to shiver. "What's to stop you? Watson? He is not here and I shall never find him. The Great Detective?" The laugh grew high and thin as my hysteria increased. "I cannot find him and I shall never be able to tell him. You would be doing me a great service by ending my miserable existence. I could help you make it seem as though it was self-defense so as no harm would come to you. Then you would be able to go to Watson and let him know that he is free of my presence forever and—"

My rather incoherent and self-depreciating rambling was cut off abruptly by a stout punch to my nose. I could not prevent myself from falling back against the wall in surprise. The inspector allowed me no chance to recover, grabbing my jacket and slamming against that unforgiving stone. "Stop being so dramatic! This not about you! This is about Watson! The man who left London, left England to escape you! Everything he has ever done has been for you and still all you can think of is yourself!" With a cry of disgust, he allowed me to crumple to floor.

Blood dripped down my face, no doubt staining my clothes, but I made no move to halt it, instead turning my weary gaze upwards. "He is gone?"

Whether it was my pathetic appearance or the absolute hopelessness in my voice, Lestrade's anger suddenly fled and he deflated. He stared down at me silently for a moment before suddenly shaking his head and retreating to his desk. He dropped wearily into what I had no doubt was the most uncomfortable chair in existence, rubbing a shaking hand over his face. "Yes, he is gone. Saw him off on the train myself that very night." He shook his head. "I've seen a lot of things in this line of business, Mr. Holmes, but I don't think I've ever seen such an empty husk of a man who isn't dead. And all I could do was give him an early Christmas present." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I hope it will help."

"Do you know where he went?"

"I don't. I bought the ticket, but it impossible to say where he went from there or if he didn't just make a giant loop and is wandering somewhere in this great pit. I doubt that, but it can't be discounted. But what is the point, Mr. Holmes? How did it come to this and why? Why did you do this?"

My words were clipped as my despair became once more coupled with a growing anger over the situation. "As you have previously stated, Lestrade, I am an idiot of the first order. But if you cannot help me, then I must continue to blunder through this on my own. Good day to you." I stalked towards the door, having retrieved my hat, but hesitated as my hand touched the knob. I had to know, damn my curiosity. "What did you give him?"

My question seemed to surprise the little official, but he answered promptly. "A journal. Black leather, golden hound head on it. Seemed to like it well enough."

"Hound head?"

"It reminded me of him," the inspector defended. "And as I said, sir, he seemed to like it. Kept running his thumb over that head."

With a sigh, I once more bid Lestrade farewell. With each step I took away from his office, the angrier I became. I cannot begin to wonder what garnered more attention from the lingering constables and inspectors: the nearly dried blood on my face or the growing thunderstorm in my expression.

Nothing, nothing! What had I gained? Only the assurance that I had made an enemy of Lestrade and the man did not know where my Boswell was hiding. Left London—oh I had hoped not, but now I know, like all my other hopes, it was in vain. Part of me wishes to wash my hands of this entire situation, but the thought of never seeming my Watson again cuts deeper than I wish to admit. Even if it was a vain hope—for me—I could not give up—I would not—I…

I am a fool! Of course, it was staring me in the face all along! The hound—Watson reacted to the hound, Lestrade was very certain of that. It was enough to make an impression on the man. It is more than likely true that he did not know his destination until that very moment. But the hound—Baskerville! Watson has maintained a healthy correspondence with the man over the years. It would only be natural that he would invite him back. Any port in the storm—

End Ch.13

A/N: Phew! Lestrade had a lot to get off his chest, there is no doubt about that! And Holmes is still teetering about like a teeter-totter. Can't decide which way to go with his emotions. Guess he's hoping Watson can fix that! Till next time, hopefully not too far in the future!

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