"Who are we hunting, West?" Lestrade's voice had risen, and was agitated enough to attract the attention of his fellow Inspectors across the room. Lestrade was standing now, hands on his vacated chair, eying the other 'Inspector' intently. "Who?"
West also stood. "You don't need to know." He said flatly. He did not seem bothered by Lestrade's sudden change in demeanor.
"If you want our cooperation on this, then I do." Lestrade replied. His voice had lowered again, to a deadly pitch that Gregson had hoped never to hear again.
West matched Lestrade glare for glare. "You know who we're after." He finally said, and Lestrade swore and stalked away from the table. West waited.
Lestrade turned his attention to the group in the corner. "Hopkins, Bradstreet, go home." He snapped. "You too, Jones."
Hopkins thought about opening his mout. Bradstreet actually did. "Lestrade, what-?"
"Now!" Lestrade barked.
West moved then. "I need them, Lestrade." He told the Inspector. Lestrade wheeled about to glare at him.
"I'm not dragging them along for Le Boucher du Diable to cut open." Lestrade snarled. He turned to glare at Jones. "Why are you still here?" He demanded.
Gregson grabbed Hopkins by his jacket and shoved him toward the door. Bradstreet took the hint and followed along before Gregson could grab him as well. Jones followed, though for a completely different reason.
Gregson looked like a dead man as he ushered the three out.
"Well?" Jones demanded as they paused in the downstairs room of the empty building. Gregson did not answer right away.
"Le Boucher du Diable is French for The Devil's Butcher." Gregson finally answered. "The last time anyone went after him he sliced open five men, stomach to throat, and left them for dead. He nearly gutted a sixth, and would have if the sixth hadn't been wearing protective armor of sorts. He still ended up a mess. Out of the eight men that went after him, only three actually made it back out alive."
Jones offered Gregson a look that said he was an idiot. "And you think we're going to leave you three to take this creature down by yourselves?" He asked.
"Lestrade doesn't want to have to bury any more Yarders this time around." Gregson snapped. "And you have no idea what you'd be getting yourselves into."
"And you do?" Jones asked. "Do you really think we'd just walk away and leave you three to what you think is certain death?"
"Do I have to show you the bloody scars?" Gregson all but roared, and Jones shut up. It was one of the few times he'd seen Gregson actually lose his temper. It was the only time he'd ever seen the man so openly frightened for both himself and the people he worked with. He was not confident in his and Lestrade's chances of survival. He was confident that the other three Inspector's chances were none.
That rare moment of unspoken honesty did more to convince them than any words could have, and they exchanged a glance as Gregson took a deep breath and tried to collect himself.
"Go," He murmered softly, "Don't argue, just go."
Jones finally nodded. "We'll see you in the morning." He said firmly, and Gregson nearly laughed.
"Sure," he said, "in the morning."
Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.
