"But why does he carry a gun?" Hopkins finally asked the question that had been plaguing him for years. "Nobody else here does."
Instead of answering, Gregson began uncharacteristically counting on his fingers. Jones snorted. "You're going to need more fingers." He advised.
"It is unusual." Bradstreet commented idly, setting down his drink. "Has he always carried a gun?"
"For as long as I've known him, yes." Jones offered. Gregson was still oddly distracted by his fingers.
Hopkins gave the older Inspector an odd look that he failed to notice; Bradstreet grinned and elbowed him in the arm.
Gregson looked up, slightly annoyed. "I think it was seven." He said. Nobody knew what he was talking about. "He denied the eighth."
"Seven what?" Jones demanded, curious.
"I think it was seven." Gregson repeated. "Don't hold me to it." Jones shot him a glare, and Gregson rolled his eyes. "I think seven was the number of times someone tried to kill him that first month I was an Inspector."
"That's why he carries a gun?" Hopkins was slightly confused.
Gregson sighed. "Not exactly." He admitted. "From what I understand, the number of attempts dropped after he started going armed. No one wanted to get shot."
"Or, at least," he added after a moment, "they were more careful in their attempts."
Bradstreet sensed that they were only getting half the story. "Who, exactly, are they?" He asked.
Gregson looked at the younger man. "I became an Inspector right around the time they were trying to clean out the corruption that had run rampant through the Yard for years." He said, his voice low. "Lestrade was one of the men involved in that effort."
"I was the scapegoat." Lestrade had joined them at last. The others didn't bother trying to pretend they hadn't just been talking about him. There was no point in doing so. "I was young and expendable. What brought this on?"
"They want to know why you carry a gun." Gregson told him.
"And you told them it was because I was tired of being accosted in lonely corridors down at the Yard." Lestrade guessed.
"Not in so many words." Gregson admitted. "I always wondered, though, wouldn't a knife have been just as effective a deterrent?"
Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "If I brandished a knife at you, would it stop you?"
"Probably not." Gregson conceded.
"And then, after they don't stop, I still have to deal with them." Lestrade explained. "A gun will stop most sane people in their tracks, and then I don't have to try to incapacitate them and worry about one of us getting hurt."
Gregson grinned. "Incapacitate? Have you been studying the dictionary lately?" He taunted the other man.
"My son learned it somewhere." Lestrade admitted without embarrassment. "He's been making use of it every chance he gets."
Gregson chuckled. Hopkins and Bradstreet were a little wary of this new development. Jones was suspicious.
"What puts you in such a good mood today?" The latter demanded, eyeing the other Inspector critically.
Lestrade smiled enigmatically, but did not answer. Dark eyes glittered mischievously as he considered the beverage before him and eventually decided to take a drink.
"You solved the case." Gregson realized. "You figured it out."
Lestrade nodded, looking rather smug. "I was right." He offered cryptically, but when pressed, would say no more.
Gregson laughed to himself at the thought of Lestrade finally coming off the victor in the unspoken battle that usually ensued when Holmes had one theory about a case and the Inspector had another.
After all, the man couldn't be wrong every time, and not even Sherlock Holmes could always be right.
Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.
