"Holmes! Holmes! Get out of the way, woman! Holmes!" Holmes and Watson were both on their feet as the sound of Lestrade shouting reached their ears. Their eyes met, Watson hoping for some explanation, but Holmes was just as puzzled as his companion by such extraordinary behavior.

That was when the doctor realized there were two sets of feet on the stairs, and that neither of them were Mrs. Hudson's. She was probably still at the bottom of the stairs where Lestrade had so rudely ordered her clear.

Holmes' client was also on his feet, looking greatly alarmed. "I'm sure it's nothing." Watson assured the man, though there was certainly something amiss. Lestrade did not come racing up the stairs, bellowing frantically, and he would never dream of insulting Mrs. Hudson as he had just done.

The door burst open revealing the Inspector himself, Gregson in hot pursuit, both breathing heavily. The Inspectors stopped short; both sets of eyes landed on Watson, then darted to Holmes, and Lestrade breathed a sigh of relief.

"What the devil is going on?" Holmes demanded, looking from one Inspector to the other. Their behavior certainly was peculiar.

Lestrade was trying to apologize for alarming the two between gasping breaths when his eyes narrowed. Watson followed his gaze, and realized he was staring at their client, who was trying unobtrusively to put some distance between himself and the two apparently mad Inspectors.

To the surprise of both of the men residing at 221B Baker Street, Lestrade went for his revolver. "Who is this?" He demanded harshly.

Holmes regarded Lestrade critically. "A client." He replied. "His business here is rather confidential, I'm afraid."

"Of course it is." Gregson sneered at the man in question.

"Did he give you anything?" Lestrade snapped out the question. "Confidential or not, Mr. Holmes, you can either answer that or I'll drag you down to the Yard here and now for interfering with police business."

Watson stared at Lestrade in shock. "Lestrade-?"

"You can join him, Doctor." Lestrade cut him off.

Their client was shaking ever so slightly now, and Watson feared for him. He had admitted, after all, to suffering from a severe nervous condition. Watson said nothing, however.

There were times when you didn't argue with Lestrade, or even utter as much as a word to him unless in answer to a query. Watson had seen it before with criminals, Constables, and, albeit rarely, even with his fellow Inspectors. He had never been on the receiving end of it himself.

"Did he give you anything, Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade repeated his question, ice fairly dripping from the words.

Holmes also recognized the mood Lestrade was in. To his credit, he indicated the small box resting on the arm of his chair.

Lestrade picked it up, looked it over with considerable disinterest, and tossed it into the fire.

"Lestrade!" Holmes stepped forward as he accused the man. The Inspector paid him no heed, his eyes once more on the detective's trembling client.

"We have your accomplice." He informed the man coolly. "You can come quietly, or you can resist, but if you do anything other than exactly what I say I will shoot you on the spot."

Watson looked to Gregson for help, even if it were only an explanation for Lestrade's mad actions, but Gregson was kneeling by the fire as if fascinated by the burning box and consequently of no assistance whatsoever.

"I d-don't know w-what you're t-talking about-t, In-inspector." Holmes' client stammered out, his eyes wide with fear.

Lestrade didn't acknowledge the denial. "You're under arrest. You can set your personal belongings on the table there. I want even the lint out of your pockets, and I don't want to have to search you myself." He ordered.

Holmes exchanged another confused glance with the Doctor. "Lestrade-"

"Be quiet, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade cut him off. "I'm warning you."

Their client, meanwhile, was mournfully emptying his pockets. Distress lined the poor man's features, and his hands were shaking fiercely. Watson felt sorry for the man, and indignant over the treatment he was receiving at Lestrade's hand.

"Hands together in front of you." Lestrade said finally, satisfied. The frightened man obliged, and Lestrade approached him.

A second later the Inspector grunted and backhanded the man he was arresting. Holmes' client staggered back, then broke and bolted for the door.

"Gregson!" Lestrade snapped as he started forward but suddenly stopped and swore. Gregson stuck out a foot and the fellow stumbled, but kept going. Gregson promptly seized the nearest object, which happened to be one of Watson's heavier medical texts, and darted after him.

A second later Watson heard a thump, and then came a series of thuds that he recognized as the sound of someone falling down the stairs.

"My apologies, Mrs. Hudson!" He heard Gregson shout as he took the steps two at a time. A second later he was thundering back up them, and then he was once again in the room. "It was self defense." Gregson declared. "You saw that, didn't you?"

"Him lunge for you instead of going for the door like any sane man would've?" Lestrade retorted, still in the same spot he had been in.

Gregson nodded. "I was using a medical text, sorry Watson. How believable is that?"

"He had a knife; you used it to block his blow." Lestrade said quickly. "You were hoping to disable him, so you hit him in the back of the head."

"And the stairs?" Gregson persisted. Watson watched the scene unfolding before him, silently aghast.

He had no doubt their client was now dead, at the hands of these two Inspectors no less, and now they were lying, trying to cover up the details.

"You didn't hit him hard enough to knock him out." Lestrade offered. "But he hit the stairs, stumbled, and fell to his death. Terrible thing, but it happens."

Gregson nodded again, and made his way over to the other Inspector. Lestrade jerked as he spoke. "You should have searched him anyway." He said accusingly to the smaller man.

"I was going to." Lestrade snapped, staring past Gregson. "Now do me a favor and pull the bloody needle out."

"It's not really a needle." Gregson pointed out reasonably as he turned his attention to the smaller man's side.

"It's long, thin, hollow inside, and sharp at one end." Lestrade countered. "Would you prefer dart? Or splinter, perhaps?" He grimaced, and Gregson straightened.

"Here's an interesting murder weapon for you, Holmes." He said as he set the small object on the table. "You should probably sit down." He commented. Lestrade growled in response.

"I would if I knew where the chair was." He retorted. "I can't see."

"That was fast." Gregson took Lestrade by the arm and maneuvered him towards the couch. "I'm going to go for your wife."

"And Scotland Yard, I hope?" Lestrade grumbled. "Mrs. Hudson won't appreciate you leaving a dead body on the stairs."

"And Scotland Yard." Gregson agreed. "Anything else?"

"No. Now go clean up this mess." Lestrade replied immediately. As an afterthought, he added, "Actually, would you mind?" He held up his hands, and Gregson sighed.

"Sure." He agreed, going for his cuffs.

A second later he left the three of them there, Holmes and the Doctor without a clue as to what had just happened, and Lestrade with not only his wrists cuffed, but the cuffs wrapped around one leg of the couch so he couldn't go anywhere.

It was silent for a moment. Then Holmes shifted, and went for his pipe. "Now, would you care to explain yourself, Inspector?" He demanded, irritation and even some resentment seeping into his words.

Lestrade heard it and sighed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes." He offered wearily. "It's been-it's rather complicated, you see."

"Perhaps you should try starting at the beginning." Holmes suggested dryly.

Lestrade considered that. "If you wish, though it probably won't help."

"Would it help to start at the end?" Holmes demanded impatiently, moving to stand in front of the Inspector. Watson was not the only person rattled by the events that had just taken place.

Lestrade flinched at the outburst. "I'll try to explain." He said quietly. "Yesterday morning found an unmarked envelope on my desk. Inside was an anonymous letter stating the sender's intent to murder two people.

"Holmes was one of them?" Watson guessed. Lestrade nodded.

"The letter stated the time, the place, even the method by which each murder would take place." Lestrade hesitated. "I was afraid I wouldn't make it here in time." He admitted. "Two men were involved; we found this out after we caught the other where the first murder was supposed to take place. He laughed and said it changed nothing. The younger-would still die." He had left something out, there. Why, Watson didn't know. Lestrade did not usually keep information from them.

"Why didn't you simply warn us?" Holmes demanded. "Why the theatrics?"

"Because it took forever to convince Gregson I wasn't insane, and then we still had to get rid of the bloody physician from Bedlam and sneak out of Scotland Yard!" Lestrade snapped.

"Bedlam?" Watson repeated. "But why on earth-?"

Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to show Inspector Bradstreet into the room. If she noticed that Lestrade was now handcuffed, she knew better than to comment on it. She had seen far too many things since the coming of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson into her life to be all that surprised by anything that happened anymore.

Bradstreet, however, waited until she was gone to speak. "Gregson said you'd be raving like a lunatic by now." He told Lestrade. "Good to hear you aren't actually insane." He added cheerfully.

Lestrade muttered something under his breath before actually replying. "Not a word." He warned.

"Don't worry." Bradstreet assured him as he took a seat on the couch as well. "A word is enough to cost a person their job by now." He winced, but didn't explain why he suddenly looked so uneasy. "I'm supposed to be taking statements." He said after a minute. "Do you want to give one, or should I talk to the other two first?"

Lestrade was silent for a moment. Then he sighed. "Is that Bradstreet?" He asked grudgingly.

Bradstreet blanched. "Yes, sir." He replied nervously.

Lestrade growled. "Your corpse downstairs nicked me with some of his accomplice's hallucinatory drugs, Bradstreet. I can't see straight, and my hearing's starting to go funny."

"I wondered why you were handcuffed to the couch." Bradstreet ventured. "But shouldn't you be starting to, I don't know, react or something by now?"

Lestrade considered this. "Probably. It helps that while I know you find strange things in the sitting room here, there can't possibly be sea serpents swimming in the rug." He finally said. Then he twitched. "All the same…" He said, swallowing nervously.

"What drug?" Watson finally asked, wondering if there were something he could do for the Inspector. He had little more idea what was going on now than he had earlier, but he was a doctor. Drugs he could probably help with somehow.

Lestrade shrugged the offer off. "We haven't figured that out yet." He was eyeing a corner of the room nervously. "But what we do know is that it drove three men into drug induced panics last night, and that two of them killed themselves under its influence. How's Jones?"

"He was grumbling that he wished we had just let him kill himself along with the other two." Bradstreet reported. "He said the after effects were just as bad as the hallucinations themselves. It took two Constables to stop him from hanging himself." He added, for the benefit of the those not with the Yard. "He also about had a heart attack when a horse trotted by on the street this morning."

"Lovely." Lestrade muttered. He was looking a bit green now, and his eyes fluttered shut. "Shouldn't you be taking their statements?" He demanded irritably of Bradstreet.

Bradstreet's eyebrows raised in amusement. Business-like, he turned to Holmes. "Would you mind telling me what happened?" He asked.


Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.