Chapter Thirty Eight: The Stockbrokers' Courier Part Three: Rally Round
The premise of the rally was simple: the big bike courier companies competed against each other in a kind of treasure hunt, picking up and delivering packets to pre-set destinations without knowing where they were supposed to be going next until they got there. Each of the five big companies had a dispatcher managing teams of five bikes, and each bike had two riders- one to pick up, the other to plot the route. None of the bikers really knew the area well, given their normal beats were in London. Sat nav for bikers relied on mobile phone technology, and no app ever had the home-grown knowledge, such as where a short cut through a parking lot could cut minutes off a journey, or how to avoid the longest traffic lights in town. It was a test of teamwork and a bit like rally car driving, where the navigator was almost as important as the driver. The order of the destinations was different for each bike pair; what mattered were the minutes clocked up between stops, which were tallied at the end of the rally- the team with the lowest time won.
"Our chance comes from the fact that there are always at few scratch teams." Sherlock explained the rules over a cup of coffee at Redroaster, down a little side street of Brighton's main north/south road. They had almost seventy minutes to go before registration opened for the rally, and Lestrade had insisted on a breakfast. Sherlock used the time to brief him. "Courier companies don't like to have a lot of permanent employees, so they hire casual labour for the busy periods. It's quite possible for one self-employed courier to work for several different companies, and that's who I am banking on as our suspect. The rally teams will be permanent staff, but the contractors club together to form at least one five bike team of their own. And the dispatcher of the scratch team owes me a favour, so I've entered us as one of them."
Greg smirked. "So, far from finding a needle in a haystack, if there's only one scratch team, you're actually guessing that one of the other four bike pairs is our suspect, or nine pairs if there are two teams?"
Sherlock looked at the detective with an annoyed frown. "Guessing? What part of my work for you has ever involved guessing?" He sniffed, "Really, Lestrade if you intend to carry on criticising my methods, I just might start favouring another detective at the yard with my deductive skills- could make you a little less complacent if someone like Dimmock starts challenging your clear-up rates."
Greg smirked. "You're not the only one who can wind someone up, Sherlock. I just like rattling the bars of your cage occasionally."
Sherlock glowered, but Lestrade could recognise when he was actually playing along with the tease rather than being really offended. They had spent enough time in each other's company over the years to be able to banter like this. He sat back and took a long pull at the take-away latte, then devoured his second almond croissant in a series of quick bites. "You really should eat something you know; that brain of yours needs some fuel other than coffee." Sherlock had inhaled a double espresso in two seconds flat. "You'd mainline caffeine if you could, wouldn't you?"
Sherlock didn't reply. He was looking out the window, keeping an eye on the parked bike, which had drawn admiring glances from the morning commuters walking to work. Greg just watched him, enjoying how the morning light fell on the angles of that face, and the unruly dark hair now freed from the confines of his crash helmet. So often at a crime scene, Sherlock was in constant motion, and Greg was on duty, so they rarely had a chance to spend any time in silent companionship. Now that John was sharing Baker Street with Sherlock, the consulting detective had stopped seeking out Greg's company when he needed an audience or just someone around to stave off the cravings. That had been their relationship before John, but Greg did not resent seeing Sherlock less, given the obvious fact that he was doing just fine now. The young man had put on weight, and had a normal pallor instead of that grey wasted look when he had been on his own, pushing himself too far for too long. Greg had long ago learned the signs of a danger night, and been so relieved that since John arrived, those times seemed to have passed. He thought to himself that the idea of a flat share had been a master-stroke, but thanked luck for crossing John Watson's path with Sherlock's. No one could have predicted that.
The older man smiled to himself. Yes, it had been something of a roller-coaster ride, knowing Sherlock over the years. He'd seen him high, low and everywhere in between. He'd seen him ecstatic at scenes that would turn a normal person's blood cold. Normal is not a word I would apply to him.
In the early days, he found Sherlock alternately fascinating and frightening, and so clearly in need of some sort of anchor. The DI also vacillated between thinking Mycroft was a saint for putting up with his brother and knowing that Mycroft was also the villain responsible for at least a significant part of the problem. He and Mycroft had come to an understanding over the years, with the older Holmes now realising that Lestrade could be trusted to put Sherlock's well-being above his need to solve cases.
Above all else, Greg was continually amazed by Sherlock's unique gifts, and willing to put up with the peculiarities and eccentricities that drove the rest of his team wild. Thanks to his nephew Sam, he knew the challenges that people like Sherlock would always face. What impressed Greg then and still did every day he spent time in his company, was how Sherlock managed to turn what most people saw as a mental handicap into quite profound genius. Greg just liked to see that mind at work- it was fascinating.
The object of his musing suddenly stood up and grabbed his crash helmet. "Come on," Sherlock said with some impatience. "You've had enough time to eat and drink coffee; we've got work to do."
