"Er, Gregson?" Bradstreet hovered uncharacteristically in the doorway of the only other Yarder even close to his size with air of one about to poke at a wasp's nest. It was a sight that Gregson might have found amusing, had he not been able to list on one hand the number of times he had seen the other Inspector without his usual, almost-too-easygoing nature.
"What is it, Bradstreet?" The blonde asked, waving for the man to come in and setting aside his paperwork in an unusual demonstration that Bradstreet had his full attention.
"Well, you see," Bradstreet took in a deep breath, "It's Lestrade. He's...off, in a manner of speaking."
Gregson resisted the urge to roll his eyes only because Bradstreet seemed genuinely concerned. "Did you try asking him what's wrong?"
Bradstreet let out a huff of air through his nose. "That only works when he can't hold it together any more and trying to deny it will cause more problems than admitting it. And even then it might not." He shifted uncomfortably. "Besides, I don't think it's that sort of off."
Gregson looked up at the ceiling briefly before turning his attention back to the man before him. "So what sort of off, exactly, do you think it is?" He asked with alarming patience.
Bradstreet practically squirmed in his seat. "I don't know, exactly, Gregson. That's why I came to you. I was, well, hoping you would go talk to him."
Gregson stifled a sigh and stood up. Whatever was wrong with Lestrade, if something were even wrong with the man-Gregson had known the man to take on some pretty strange moods-had left Bradstreet completely unsettled, and the man would likely not pull himself together until he was convinced that Lestrade was, in fact, just fine.
"Come on," he said, leading the other Inspector down the hall toward Lestrade's office. Without bothering to knock, he opened the door and leaned in. "Lestrade-"
Lestrade stared up at him absently from behind his desk, one hand propping up his chin, the other tapping out an odd, staccato rhythm against the wooden surface of said desk. His eyes were what stopped Gregson in his tracks; something glimmered just beyond the darkness that he could not, even after all these years, identify.
"Gregson," Lestrade had at least noted his arrival, though something in the greeting was-off, to use Bradstreet's explanation. Gregson could see now why the other Inspector had failed to come up with a better description.
"Lestrade," Gregson softened his voice, something he had done rarely with the other man over the years, but the smaller man seemed to respond to it. His gaze sharpened, and he eyed the two Inspectors lingering in his doorway with curiosity-but not outright suspicion.
"What's on your mind?" It was a risky question, too open ended if Lestrade wanted to avoid the discussion, but Gregson suspected he did not.
Lestrade frowned, and waved them both in. The staccato drumming started up again. "Bradstreet," he greeted the other Inspector cordially enough.
Lestrade was not a particularly warm individual on the best of days. It was simply not in his nature. Gregson took a seat across from the other Inspector, capturing his attention once again.
He knew Lestrade well enough by now to know the man had not forgotten his question, and so he waited while Bradstreet opted to lean on the door frame rather than go searching for another chair.
The drumming stopped.
"West is dead." Lestrade said, looking to Gregson as if he expected some sort of answer there.
"West." Gregson repeated. "As in Inspector-Superintendent West? That West?"
Bradstreet straightened up. "West? Was that the case with the cleaver?" Lestrade nodded.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
"I thought he'd outlive us all." Gregson admitted. "What happened?"
"Somebody shot him." Lestrade said bluntly.
Gregson let out a low whistle. "West, dead." He was silent for a moment, then. "I hated him," he admitted. "He frightened me in a way I never could quite explain."
Lestrade made a noncommittal noise. "I thought he was a hero, at first." He said, his voice oddly empty.
"Glad you learned better." Gregson retorted prissily. "Whatever else he was, the man was no hero."
Lestrade shrugged. "He was a hard man. I used to worry I'd end up like him. Still wonder, sometimes."
Gregson snorted at the confession. "Can't say I could ever picture you gunning down an unarmed child, Giles." He pointed out, not unkindly. "Or gutting Hopkins for saying the wrong thing."
Lestrade tilted his head in acknowledgment of the point. "Wouldn't still be here without him." He said, oddly.
"So he saved your life once. Doesn't make up for all the times he nearly got you killed. And him being here back then doesn't change the fact that he was a dangerous man-and not a particularly good man, either."
Lestrade frowned. "I'm not mourning the man, Tobias."
"Good." Gregson huffed. "I didn't think you cared that much for him, to be honest."
Lestrade considered the unspoken question behind the words. "I knew what to expect from him. I knew where I stood. Sometimes it seems like..." He trailed off and shrugged. "I could work with the man. I knew how to work with him."
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Gregson's chair creaked ominously in protest as he leaned back in it. "I always thought I hated my father." He said, then fell silent, waiting for Lestrade to figure out the change in topic was not actually a change in topic.
The man's eyes eventually met his, and Gregson continued. "He's the reason I joined the police force. And I never spoke to him, not for twelve years. And he died last spring."
Lestrade shot him a look, frustration written plainly on his face. Gregson shrugged in response. Sometimes there weren't any answers.
"You're scaring the boys." He finally said, nodding toward Bradstreet. Lestrade turned to eye the Inspector lingering in the doorway and slowly raised an eyebrow.
"I was worried," Bradstreet admitted sheepishly.
"So you went for help," Lestrade rolled his eyes, "and came back with Gregson."
Bradstreet shrugged, but Lestrade looked more like himself than he had all morning.
