Author's Note: This story seeks to explain a number of puzzling elements of the Study in Pink. In particular, why did Lestrade wait until FOUR serial suicide victims before getting Sherlock started? Greg goes into the press conference about the three victims, and Sherlock has to embarrass him by texting "wrong" to everyone. And then why was Sherlock quite so ecstatic about him coming to him when the fourth victim came to light? There is an interesting power play going on between the two men- provoked by Sherlock, who forces Lestrade into admitting that he "needs" Sherlock's help. And, as Sherlock had only JUST taken on the lease for Baker Street, how did Lestrade know where to find him? There was no doorbell rung, and Mrs Hudson was upstairs, so Lestrade just let himself in and came upstairs- so how/why did he have a key? As of last chapter, we now know just why Sherlock was looking for someone (ie John) to share a new two bed flat. And, given the last story, we might also have an idea why Mycroft got quite so protective- enough to interrogate John and to show up at the scene where Sherlock is talking to Lestrade and then John after the cabbie was shot. If these (and any other puzzling elements) have plagued your mind as much as mine, then accept this is an attempt to get the back story, explaining just why the first series opener took the plot line it did.
Chapter Twenty Seven - 2010 A Third Party (Part One)
Lestrade was beginning to really feel the heat of disapproval from his superiors. His Murder Investigation Team picked up the case after the second suicide. The local station's investigation of Sir Jeffrey Patterson's death had concluded suicide, over the protests of his widow. When the second suicide of the teenager, Jamey Phillimore, at a local leisure centre in south London, followed a little over a month later, using exactly the same MO, and involving the same poison cocktail, from an identical pill bottle to the one used in Patterson's case, the Homicide and Serious Crime division took over, and Lestrade's team got the case. They'd been plodding along, but every lead became a blind alley. Under normal circumstances Greg would have involved a certain consulting detective, but when Sherlock nearly got himself killed chasing a suspect at almost the same time as the first suicide, that wasn't possible.
Then last night, some eight weeks later, an MP who was also a Junior Transport Minister, took her own life in exactly the same way.
The Detective Chief Superintendent called him while he was at the crime scene.
"Make it quick, Lestrade. This one is attracting way too much publicity."
A Scotsman with a no-nonsense approach, the DCS admitted that his own superior, the Deputy Assistant Commissioner, was leaning on him, so he was in turn leaning on Lestrade. "Dead MPs just make for headlines we don't want to read, so work your usual magic."
The trouble was, as Greg well knew, his "magic" was still being kept off limits. Mycroft Holmes had laid down the law twelve weeks ago. The consulting detective would not be allowed to deal with any hot cases until he found a flatmate and finally moved into Baker Street- and then only if Mycroft approved. Despite signing the lease and moving the bulk of his belongings to Baker Street more than a week ago, Sherlock was not being allowed to take up residence until he found someone to share.
Caught between his personal concern for Sherlock and his need to do his job, Greg decided to call Mycroft from the crime scene. This time Mycroft answered- that female voice who usually filtered his calls must have gone off duty this late. He explained to Mycroft where he was and the who the latest victim was. "I really need his help on this one. So why can't he get started now?"
"No."
"Mycroft, for God's sake; it was an MP, a minister!"
Mycroft's reply was succinct: "I don't care, Lestrade. If Sherlock is allowed to move in on his own, he will find a hundred reasons to reject every candidate, and he'll then sit there happily in an expensive two bedroom flat, and we will back to square one. No cases until he moves in; no moving in until he finds a flatmate. And I would not complain, if I were you, Detective Inspector; after all, this was your idea in the first place, and you will just have to stick by it." The line went dead.
By the time he'd cleared the crime scene at the building site where Beth Davenport's body was found, it was nearly dawn. If Greg timed it right, he'd have just enough time to get home and have a shower. In the back seat of the squad car, he closed his eyes for a moment, but before he could enjoy the respite, his mobile vibrated with an incoming text message:
7.15am Help, I'm being held hostage by a minor official of the British Government. Come to my rescue NOW SH
Greg sighed. He called home to tell Louise that he would be going straight into the office, but there was no reply and her mobile was switched off. Still asleep? Lucky her! He stopped off at Montague Street, and let himself in. It was an unwritten rule of Greg's- as he had given Sherlock a key to his flat, so he had a key made for Sherlock's flat. "It's either me or your brother, Sherlock, which would you prefer?"
The living room looked oddly bare, missing Sherlock's usual clutter. The brunet was sitting on the sofa with a scowl on his face.
Greg wasn't in any mood for anything. "So, where are the handcuffs? I don't see any visible signs of you being held hostage. You shouldn't cry wolf, you know, Sherlock. Next time it actually happens, I might think you are just pulling my leg."
"Lestrade, I've just wasted the whole of yesterday in the most pointless exercise, all because my brother is being a pedantic git."
The DI had some sympathy, but not enough to let Sherlock know it. "Look, Sherlock, I'm in the middle of an investigation that has kept me up all night and I don't have time to hear your woes about how finding a flatmate is proving difficult." He rubbed his eyes wearily.
Sherlock fixed him a black coffee as he continued to rant. Greg learned all about how advertising led to telephone enquiries and then actually having to meet people, and show them around the flat. Sherlock loathed both processes.
"You know how much I hate this sort of thing, even if it's just one new person. But a whole day of it is enough to drive me mad!"
"You handle client calls OK, and those are people you don't know."
Sherlock glowered at him. "Clients mean cases; I can put up with anything if there are cases at the other end of it. But, this…exercise...is enough to drive even a normal person mad."
After Sherlock's ad went live at nine yesterday morning, he'd fielded twenty calls from potential flatmates, all but six of whom abandoned the idea after the initial phone call. Sherlock's "I don't know why they'd do that, but at least it stopped me form having to actually endure their company or show them the flat." Greg smirked. Sherlock then explained that he met up with the six, but rejected them as being "boring", "tedious", or "so stupid as to be a positive threat to humanity".
When Lestrade suggested that he might be over-exaggerating, Sherlock just carried on.
"Really, Lestrade- a Pilates instructor? An accountant from Walsall? A civil servant from the Treasury? Actually, I think the last one was a plant from Mycroft. It would be just like him to try to foist a spy on me."
"Well, Sherlock, you're not exactly the most user-friendly flatmate yourself. I mean who would want to share with someone who plays a violin all night? Or who thinks a kitchen is just a lab bench? And what about lying on the couch for hours on end staring off into space? You may have to adjust your expectations a little."
Sherlock huffed and then tried to change the subject. "Come on then, tell me the latest about the serial suicides. If you can talk to the media, you can talk to me about them."
"Who says I've been talking to the media?"
Sherlock threw the morning edition of the Evening Standard across the room at him. "Page three"
The headline jumped off the page at him, as did the photo of him, taken from the Met's website. "Yard Stumped by Suicide Killer's Third Murder". Greg sighed. "lovely, just what I need." He rubbed his eyes again.
"Let me help."
"The media aren't likely to get me fired. Your brother is, if I breach the terms of our agreement. Find yourself a flatmate and he just might let you get involved."
The younger man stalked off toward the window where he stood looking out. "This is a pointless standoff."
"Yeah, well I'm not too happy about it either, because I would appreciate a little help right now but I can't get you involved."
Sherlock turned and gave Lestrade a sly smile. "It would serve Mycroft right if I went out and got a drug dealer to flatshare. Then he'd have something real to worry about."
Greg crossed his arms. "No, Sherlock that isn't going to happen. You know as well as I do that the flatmate has to be acceptable to both you and your brother. Those were the terms of the deal."
Sherlock didn't answer, as Greg shouldered his coat back on. "I've got to get to the office, and grab a shower and a fresh shirt. We've got a press conference at nine, and a briefing with the Head of Communications before that. I am being leaned on from high places to get things done in a hurry. So, please, Sherlock, don't waste any more of my time, just get on with it, will you?" With that plea, he left.
