"I think I'm in love." Hopkins sat down next to Bradstreet without being invited, not it actually mattered to Bradstreet. He was probably one of the more easy going of the Inspectors at the Yard.
"Oh?"
"Remember that red-haired girl from the dinner party?" Hopkins asked.
Bradstreet thought for a minute. "You mean the one you spent most of the night dancing with?" He asked.
Hopkins nodded. "That's her. Miss Lucy Barker." He confirmed.
"So you know her name. Have you seen her since the dinner?" Bradstreet asked.
Hopkins flushed. "A few times. We've even talked once or twice."
"Oh." Bradstreet wasn't sure what else to say. "And you think you love her?" Hopkins nodded.
Silence fell, awkward silence. Abruptly Bradstreet realized the younger man was waiting for something. "Are you-er-looking to pursue her, then?" He asked the lad uncertainly.
Hopkins, if possible, flushed even deeper. "I don't know. I thought-"
"To get some advice?" Bradstreet couldn't believe it, but Hopkins nodded. "What on earth are you asking me for? I'm the single one, remember? Jones is married. Gregson is married. Lestrade is married. Ask one of them."
Hopkins was staring at Bradstreet as if he were crazy. "Jones doesn't even like me." He protested.
"Then ask Gregson." Bradstreet suggested.
"Gregson's down with influenza again." Hopkins reminded him.
Bradstreet threw his hands in the air in exasperation. "Then ask Lestrade! He gets along with his wife best out of any of them anyway." He stood and left before he could begin contemplating enacting violence on the lad.
Hopkins stared after Bradstreet's retreating form dejectedly.
Ask Lestrade.
Hopkins couldn't decide who was crazier, Bradstreet for suggesting it, or he himself for actually considering it.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.
