Bradstreet sprawled on the floor of the cell, looking for all the world like the drunken sod the Surrey Constabulary had mistaken him for when they had arrested him.
Hopkins possessed one end of a bench, leaning into the corner of the cell, trying not to yawn any more than he already had in the last couple hours, and trying to look more alert than he currently felt.
Gregson had claimed the other end of the bench, his face blank and expressionless, his body relaxed as if he had simply stopped by for a visit and could leave any time he so chose.
Jones remained standing, and would have paced, had there been room. As it was he had retreated to a corner and was glaring at the rather burly Constable that was to be keeping an eye on them. The Constable also had the misfortune of being the man that had relieved Jones of a rather nasty looking knife before shoving him unceremoniously into the cell with his mates.
"'Strade's gonna kill us, in't 'e? Said not t' make 'im come after us." Bradstreet slurred nearly unintelligibly, and Gregson wondered once again how hard he had been hit and if he should not check the other man for further injury. But Bradstreet had told him to shove off, and given him a shove as well, when he had tried to do as much earlier, and Gregson had no intention of getting the normally easygoing man riled up.
"Think he knew?" Hopkins yawned.
"If he'd known he wouldn't have sent us." Gregson replied wearily. "He'd have just gone himself. When's the last time you slept, lad?" Hopkins shrugged; he couldn't remember.
Gregson didn't actually frown. It was never a good thing when Hopkins couldn't remember the last time he'd slept.
Gregson didn't sigh either. He wanted to tell Jones to quit sulking over his knife, but that wouldn't do anyone any good, so he ignored the other man.
He wondered, in light of the lack of either reason or cooperation from the Surrey Police Station regarding their situation, how long it would take for Lestrade to realize something had happened and come out after them. He also wondered if that was actually something to be desired.
They had been stretched far too thin of late.
Hence the fact that four Inspectors had followed two murderers to Surrey instead of Hopkins simply taking a group of Constables along to apprehend two men who had already proved back in London to be more than a match for most. There hadn't been any Constables to spare, and the four Inspectors were supposed to have gotten their men and been back by morning, preferably without involving the local police.
Those two men had unfortunately also proved to be more than a match for four Inspectors as well, and everything had gone downhill from there. The Surrey police had gotten involved, and now Gregson was sitting in a cell with his fellow Inspectors, trying not to think about the cell full of lively drunks on one side of them and the two murderers they had been after on the other side.
At least they hadn't gotten away. Gregson supposed that counted for something.
Gregson figured that Lestrade would notice when they weren't back by morning and be after them on the first train out. He also figured that when the man showed up around mid morning, he would not be happy.
Gregson eyed Bradstreet, who was going nowhere, glanced over at Jones, who was livid but still sensible enough to refrain from doing anything more than sulk, and turned his attention over to Hopkins.
"Get some sleep, lad." He told the younger man. "We're going to be here all night."
Hopkins nodded, sighed in resignation, and leaned back and closed his eyes. Gregson wished he follow suit, but someone needed to keep an eye on the other two Inspectors.
He settled back for a long wait.
He must have dozed off at some point, because he started awake at the sound of a door opening and approaching footsteps.
"Your keys." Gregson recognized the voice before he recognized the man glaring at their guard. "Now." He barked, when the Constable hesitated.
"Who-?"
"Inspector Lestrade." The man interrupted. "Scotland Yard." He held out a hand for the man's keys, but the Constable was not ready to cooperate just yet.
"These men-"
"Are also from the Yard, here on my orders." Lestrade explained impatiently.
He was sweating, Gregson realized. It was the middle of winter and the man was sweating. He was also pale, Gregson now noticed, and the dark circles under his eyes were considerably more pronounced than was usual for the Inspector.
"I can't-" The Constable tried to protest; Lestrade again cut him off.
"Then find someone who can release them. Be quick about it." The Constable cast a dubious look in our direction, looked back down at Lestrade, and darted off, successfully cowed by the Inspector.
He wasn't really wearing his coat; it was just sort of thrown over his shoulders. One arm was in its sleeve where it belonged, but his left elbow was only half tucked into the other sleeve. It was not an efficient way to wear a coat, nor was it a way that Gregson would ever have thought to see the other Inspector wear his.
Lestrade's eyes sought Gregson's; they glittered oddly as he waited for some sort of report from the latter.
"Hopkins can't remember the last time he slept." Gregson offered. "I told him to get some rest." Lestrade's eyes darted over to the still slumbering Inspector before returning to focus on Gregson. "Your Constable friend took Jones' knife, and he's livid." He continued.
"Sit down, Jones." Lestrade snapped at the glowering man. Jones considered swearing at the man, but obeyed, seating himself between Gregson and Hopkins. "What happened to Bradstreet?"
Gregson shrugged. "He told me to shove off." He said.
Lestrade scowled at the prone figure on the floor. "Look him over." He growled. Gregson moved to do so. Predictably, Bradstreet stirred and began protesting. "Shut up." Lestrade snapped, and Bradstreet was still. However out of it the man was, he knew better than to argue with Lestrade right now.
"Who are you?" A plains-clothes man demanded of Lestrade as he bustled in, hassled Constable in tow. He all but towered over Lestrade, but the smaller man refused to be intimidated as he looked up at the man who was standing far closer than most people in their right minds would be willing to get when Lestrade was as irate as he currently was.
"Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard." He answered, his voice surprisingly low. The hairs on the back of Gregson's neck raised as half-remembered incidents from early in his association with the man once again refused to be either clearly remembered or entirely forgotten. "And you are?"
"Inspector Baynes." The larger man introduced himself.
"Oh." Lestrade's acknowledgement was less that polite. "May I ask why you are holding four members of Scotland Yard in your cells, Inspector Baynes?" He asked, his tone almost conversational.
Inspector Baynes did not seem to realize the predicament he was currently in. "Who?" He asked, frowning. He looked a bit puzzled. Lestrade nodded toward the four Inspectors. "Oh. They were involved in a fistfight at one of the local taverns, Inspector Lestrade." He explained. "We rounded up those involved and set them in there to settle down."
One of the drunks smiled and waved amiably. His smile faded almost immediately as Lestrade turned his gaze in the drunk's direction, and he shuffled off to somewhere out of the angry Inspector's way.
Lestrade then turned his gaze on Gregson. "We tried to explain the situation." He offered. "Unfortunately, Bradstreet seemed to do more harm than good."
"S'right." Bradstreet managed to pipe up, but quickly quieted himself as he caught sight of Lestrade's expression.
Lestrade turned back to Baynes. "They told you who they were and why they were here?"
Baynes sighed. "Look, Lestrade. I had a fight and a group of unruly, bloodied men, all of whom reeked of alcohol. You don't mean to tell me you would have taken them seriously had it been you?" He laughed at the apparent absurdity of the notion.
Lestrade was not amused. "They aren't from around here." He pointed out. "They also behaved rather rationally for a bunch of drunks." He added. "At least, I'm assuming they did; they know better than to give the local police a difficult time."
"We tried to explain ourselves." Gregson assured the two Inspectors who were not currently imprisoned. "We didn't physically resist the police. We aren't stupid."
Lestrade barely managed not to react to that assertion as he turned back to Inspector Baynes. "If you would release them," he suggested in a tone that indicated it was not really a suggestion, "we can be on our way back to London and out of your hair. Them too." He pointed to the two murderers in the adjacent cell.
Baynes colored. "Now just a minute, Mr. Lestrade," He protested, "you can't just barge in here and start making demands."
Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "I am requesting that you release these men and turn those two over into my custody." He corrected the offended Inspector. "When I start making demands, I'll go to a higher authority than the Inspector that made the arrests." He took a step closer to the already too close man and glared up at him. "And if I have to waste time going over your head while five Inspectors are absent from Scotland Yard, which has been stretched to the breaking point these past few weeks, then rest assured I will make it worth my while, and what started out as merely a minor misunderstanding could easily be blown into a prime example of lack of cooperation between our branch of the force and the Surrey branch, for which you, Inspector Baynes, will be primarily responsible." Again he held out his hand for the Constable's keys.
Baynes had gone red in the face. "I don't know who you think you are, Inspector-" He began, but Lestrade cut him off.
"I ran out of my store of patience for the month yesterday, Inspector." He growled. "You either unlock that cell door now or your Constable here can take me down to pay a visit to Superintendent West."
The color rapidly drained out of Inspector Baynes' face. He was white as a ghost as he gestured for the Constable to unlock the cell.
The Constable fumbled with trembling hands to turn the key in the lock; Gregson was tempted to take the key from the man and do it himself, but sensed that enough damage had been done here already.
He elbowed Hopkins awake and enlisted his assistance in helping a still unsteady Bradstreet (the man seemed to have a minor concussion) to his feet and out of their cell.
The nervous Constable offered a surly Inspector Jones his knife back; the man took it, but was smart enough not to comment as he returned it to his pocket. Lestrade looked toward the murderers, back to the four Constables, and sighed.
"I'll send someone for those two, if you'll hold them." He said to Baynes, sounding for all the world as if nothing had just happened between the two of them. "We have a case against them, murder." He explained.
Inspector Baynes simply nodded. He did not trust himself to say anything else as the four Inspectors wasted no time in bidding Inspector and Constable good day and departing.
Lestrade did not speak a word to any of them during the entire trip home. He sat huddled in his seat on the train, glaring at nothing in particular and grimacing occasionally as they bounced and rattled along.
He was ill, Gregson suddenly realized, and wondered how he had not noticed it before. He also wondered how long the man had been ignoring it and how long he had been away from home for his wife not to have noticed and addressed the issue.
"What happened to your arm?" He asked as Lestrade caught him staring.
"A chair." Lestrade grunted. He did not explain further, nor did Gregson ask for clarification.
"You don't look well." He said instead.
"I told you I didn't want to have to come after you." He grumbled. Gregson ignored what was almost an accusation.
"No chance of you calling in sick tomorrow, I'd wager." Lestrade responded with a dark look that did not intimidate his fellow Inspector in the slightest. "You could at least manage to be an hour late." He suggested, and Lestrade rolled his eyes. "You are going home tonight, aren't you?" He demanded, catching on.
Lestrade shrugged. "If I have time."
"Make time." Gregson told him flatly. "You have to make time for your family, Lestrade, and for yourself. You're no good to anybody if you run yourself down and end up in the hospital."
Lestrade scoffed. "When have I ever been sick enough to go to a hospital?" He demanded. Gregson had no answer to that.
"Go home tonight, Giles." He ordered. "Go home, or I'll send a message to your wife telling her you're sick."
Lestrade glowered at the other man, but did not argue. Gregson offered him what was calculated to be an annoyingly cheerful grin. "So our good friend Inspector West made it to Superintendent." He commented idly. He had not known West was with the Surrey police. "Isn't he getting old by now?"
"Superintedent is still a demotion." Lestrade grumbled. "And he could still take both of us without breaking a sweat."
Gregson had to admit that Lestrade was probably right on that count.
