Author's note: I have a new story, Close Call, that I'm starting, involving Inspector Lestrade and Doctor Watson. I also have, in case anyone is interested, a sort of timeline for the Sherlock Holmes stories I have written on my profile, since they haven't been written or published in chronological order.

Seriously though, I had to go through with this, see it to the end, etc. I hope it hasn't been too much of a trial for either you readers or the Yarders. Hopefully, this is the last of this nonsense and we can move on to something less embarrassing for some of the poor fellows.


Gregson spent the dinner glaring at Lestrade when he wasn't busy being elbowed for it by his wife. Tales of them dancing had spread like wildfire through the Yard. People had been laughing behind his back all day. Worse, Lestrade hadn't been there to receive his share of the humiliation.

Lestrade ignored the glares. He was too busy watching to make sure that no one embarrassed himself badly enough that the present company would not simply overlook it out of 'appreciation' for their guests of honor's aid.

He still couldn't believe that someone had been daft enough to have the bright idea of having a special dinner in honor of the men of the Yard. Every one of those invited was uncomfortable here, except for possibly his own wife, who refused to care of worry about what those of a higher social standing thought of her.

But the men of the Yard were at their best, if somewhat tired and uncomfortable and nervous. There had been no major gaffs, no serious breaches in etiquette. Most of the Yarders had chosen to keep their mouths shut unless asked a direct question, and then they said only enough to avoid being rude. It was slightly awkward, but bearable.

Gregson would have been able to make up for a considerable amount of this silence, if he hadn't been holding a grudge about being used in a demonstration, and his wife could have helped if she had not been busy keeping him in line. Hopkins was too nervous about the dancing to be of much use in that area, but Lestrade's own wife was managing splendidly.

How she managed to charm her audience into not even batting an eye when she did slip up and reveal that she was of a lower class then they were was beyond Lestrade, but he was greatly appreciative of it, as well as her ability to cut him off before he himself said something inappropriate without so much as uttering a word.

But where on earth was Bradstreet? Their hosts had noticed his absence, and he had barely been able to appease them with the standard explanation that crime did not stop simply because one had somewhere important to be.

But Elisabeth had again come to the rescue by nodding in agreement. "Remember our wedding, Giles?" She had piped up. Upon gaining the attention of the Lady Rockwell, his wife smiled shyly and explained. "He was late, you see. He was called out the night before to help on a case, and was chasing a jewel thief through London while we were preparing for the wedding. I found out later he was lucky to make it at all, if you take my meaning."

Eyes widened as they realized he had nearly been killed the day of his wedding, and the Rockwells were understanding of the fact that Bradstreet might be a little late. He was grateful, if uncomfortable with the dispensing of such information.

But that had been almost half an hour ago, and Lestrade was starting to worry about the other Inspector.

There was a commotion outside of the dining room, and Lestrade instantly feared the worse. Elisabeth followed his gaze and caught on.

Suddenly she looked a bit ill. "Are you quite all right, dear?" Lady Rockwell inquired, and Elisabeth nodded uncertainly.

"I think I just need a bit of air." She confessed. "I hate to be so discourteous as to get up-" She swayed a bit, and their hosts were all concern.

"Why don't you take your lovely little wife out to get some air, Mr. Lestrade?" Thomas Rockwell suggested kindly.

Lestrade nodded. "Thank you, sir." He said, rising and helping his wife to her feet. They made their way into the hall, ignoring the curious and concerned eyes following them.

Bradstreet was in the hall, trying to keep control of his temper. It was a rough case that could leave Bradstreet in such a foul mood, but there he was, trying to explain that he was supposed to be there while the servants glared at his appearance.

He was missing his hat and his coat, and his shirt was torn in several places, and bore stains of blood and who knew what else. His forehead was also bleeding, and he was holding his side.

Lestrade walked into the mess. "You're late!" He barked, and Bradstreet straightened instinctively. "And you're a mess!"

Elisabeth smiled at the now rather lost looking servants, all signs of faintness gone. "Is there someplace we could take him and make him presentable? The Rockwells seemed disappointed when they noticed he hadn't arrived yet."

One of the servants reluctantly nodded, and led them to one of the washrooms in the servants' quarters.

"Wash him up, Giles, and give me his shirt." Elisabeth said quickly. "I can patch up the worst of the tears, but he really needs a jacket to look halfway presentable." Elisabeth always carried a sewing kit with her whenever she went somewhere with her husband these days.

Bradstreet, to his credit, didn't argue with either of them as they hurried to get into some halfway decent state.

Their hasty work complete, Elisabeth looked him over one last time. She sighed, and said what Lestrade didn't.

"You still look a fright." She declared. "Your shirt is a wreck in spite of what I could do, not that it would be fit for such company even if it didn't have a gaping hole in the arm."

Bradstreet colored, a bit. "I'm sorry, Lestrade." He said to the other Inspector. "Everything just went mad all of the sudden."

"I understand." Lestrade assured him wearily. They were still in trouble. Bradstreet would be met with scorn out there for the obvious signs that he had been out doing his job. It wasn't right, but it was the reality of the thing.

"Give him your jacket, dear." Elisabeth said suddenly.

Bradstreet looked down at the smaller man. "It won't fit, will it?" He asked. Lestrade was already shrugging out of it.

"He wears his jackets loose, and a bit long." Elisabeth reassured the man. "It'll be a bit snug, but it will do. And it will cover up the worst of your shirt."

Lestrade handed it over, and Bradstreet was surprised to find that it did, in fact, fit. "Lucky I lost that weight when I was ill last month." He offered, and Lestrade grunted in agreement.

It still felt awkward, and then of course there was the fact that Lestrade would be mixing among the higher ups without a jacket. But they would survive.

They reentered the hall; dinner was finished, and the next phase of the night had begun. Gregson seemed to be enjoying waltzing around with his wife, though Hopkins still looked horrified as he tried to become invisible.

"Go dance with Hopkins, will you?" Lestrade asked his wife. "He needs some confidence."

She nodded, and made her way to the nervous Inspector while Lestrade introduced Bradstreet to their hosts.

"May I have this dance?" She asked, and Hopkins nearly swallowed his tongue. He nodded, his eyes huge, and led her out to the dance floor.

It didn't take long for the young man to relax, or to start enjoying himself. Elisabeth had that effect on people.

He even managed to find another partner after Lestrade showed up and retrieved his wife from the lad.

Bradstreet managed to avoid dancing primarily because he was busy holding a rather large handkerchief to his forehead. It was dark enough in color that the bloodstains on it indicated that he had been injured without being too graphic about it. He had laughed at Jones for it in the past, but now he was considering the advantages to the thing.

One, he was managing not to bleed too much all over the ladies and gentlemen here. Two, he was avoiding dancing while getting looks of admiration for being wounded on the job. These people seemed to admire such devotion, as long as it wasn't presented in too ugly of a manner.

Lady Rockwell had even insisted that he be brought something from the kitchen since he had missed dinner.

He watched Hopkins discover he actually enjoyed dancing with a young lady with a beautiful head of red hair, and was relieved that Gregson had forgotten to still be angry with Lestrade. He chuckled as Jones and his wife danced just as much as was expected, but no more, and then drifted towards the sidelines.

His eye was caught by Lestrade and his wife, who were keeping up with their 'betters' on the dance floor, and apparently enjoying it too. It was pleasant, if impolite, to watch as that mask of duty slowly melted from Lestrade's face and he relaxed and almost smiled.

He was muttering to his wife, Bradstreet realized, and she was replying in a murmur; he doubted either of them would be overheard. Something twinkled in her eyes, and his were dark and full of mischief.

Bradstreet tore his eyes away from the spectacle, and contented himself with the knowledge that tonight had not been all that bad.


Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.