Chapter Sixty Seven:

The Great Man (Part Four)


The momentum of his anger and frustration with Sherlock carried him right down the stairs to street level before he ran out of steam. Now standing on the pavement outside St. Bart's hospital, Greg tried to figure out what to do next. Sherlock could be so infuriating. He was only trying to help, but if the man wouldn't acknowledge that fact, then there wasn't a whole lot he could do about it. He tried to sort through his emotions. He was angry at the whole scenario- being pushed by procedure into arresting Sherlock, angry at being manipulated by Donovan, the Chief, even Moriarty. He was angry at himself. And burning away in the back of his head was the knowledge that he was just about to lose his entire career, despite having invested everything of himself in the Met. When he stopped thinking about himself, he was furious with Sherlock for being hell-bent on confronting the Irishman on his own. Tired, angry and just so frustrated he could kick something, Greg was coming close to the edge.

He glanced around in the early morning light, looking for somewhere to sit and calm down. His eye was caught first by the phone box on his right- nowhere to sit. Then he saw the weathered wooden benches against the wall- no, too exposed to the wind that was now whipping up the pavement. To the left he saw the bus shelter. Yes, that would do. He sat on the folding seat put in by London Transport, grateful for protection. It was promising to be one of those irritating London days- grey skies, the odd brief shower, then occasional sunny spells, but a strong biting wind. It suited his mood- all over the place, unable to make its mind up.

He took a deep breath. Get a grip. He'd be no good for anything if he couldn't calm down enough to think things through. The only one he knew could actually stop Sherlock was his brother. It would be a drastic solution- and Sherlock would probably never trust him again if he got Mycroft to lock him up somewhere safe from Moriarty's plots. Tough. He might be pissed off with me, but he'll still be alive. He pulled his phone out, scrolled down the contact list and found Mycroft's personal number.

Two rings and then the voice of his PA. "How can I help you, Detective Inspector? Or should I say, Mister Lestrade?" It was said kindly and with some sympathy, but it still made his blood boil. He growled, "So, Mycroft's got spies to tell him the latest Yard gossip, but he's still not doing anything to protect Sherlock?"

There was a little huff on the other end of the line. "I can pass that message onto Mr Holmes, if you'd like, but is there anything substantive you would like to add?" Her tone was now professionally cool.

"Does that mean he won't talk to me directly, because he's got you to hide behind?"

"Mr Holmes is in a meeting. I can pass a message onto him, but he is unlikely to be able to return your call anytime soon."

"FINE." Greg spat out the word, knowing that the tone conveyed that it was far from fine. "Yes, do that: tell him to get off his backside and get Sherlock locked up somewhere safe. NOW. His brother is at Bart's, if he doesn't actually know that. He's only got himself to blame if everything goes to hell in the next couple of hours." He stabbed the key to end the call. He noticed a woman who had arrived at the bus shelter- the next bus was probably due any minute. She gave him a strange look, must have overheard his conversation. The bus arrived, and she got on. He stayed seated, trying to think his way out of an increasingly tight corner.

For the second time in the past fifteen minutes, Greg knew that he had failed to connect with a Holmes. He was running out of options. If Big Brother was sitting on his hands, the only one Greg knew able to talk Sherlock out of something crazy was John. So, if he wanted to stop Sherlock, he was going to have to locate the doctor. The last time Greg had seen him he was attached to Sherlock's wrist, claiming to be a hostage. Now he was unattached. "Minding his own business" is what Sherlock had said. What the hell did that mean? For the whole time that Lestrade had known John Watson, Sherlock was his business. John's world revolved around the man. He could not, not for a single moment, believe that John would have stopped trying to help Sherlock get out of this mess. No matter what Sherlock said or did, Watson's loyalty went deep enough to survive whatever his flatmate tried to use to deter him. Maybe the best thing that Greg could do at this point was just to put the two of them back together again.

If he was going to find John, he needed to know what was happening. For all he knew, Watson might have already been caught by the police and was sitting in a cell somewhere. That made him remember something that Sherlock said about the assassins. Moriarty had led them to believe that Sherlock had something valuable, back in the flat. Something worth killing each other rather than let it fall into someone else's hands. So, what was it? He wondered what the Crime Scene Examiners might have turned up. That report was probably sitting on his desk, because the news about his suspension probably would not have spread widely yet- it was still too early. Most of the Murder Investigation Teams wouldn't be in.

That thought was a fuse that led to an extraordinary realisation. There is an advantage to being sacked in the middle of the night- most people won't know yet. He wondered if he just might be brazen enough to walk back into the Yard and see what had turned up. Maybe he could convince DI Dimmock to tell him what was going on. He also knew how lax most of the team were- someone on the floor would have been stupid enough, or tired enough, to forget to log off. So even if they'd taken his user name and password off, he'd still probably be able to finesse computer access.

So it was that twenty three minutes later, Greg Lestrade walked into New Scotland Yard with his usual take-away coffee in his hands and nodded at the new shift's desk sergeant. Just like every morning when he came in balancing a coffee, newspaper and fumbling for the pass that he knew must be somewhere, the sergeant hit the security gate release and waved him through. Thank God we're all so bloody predictable.

The open plan room was nearly empty- just two detective constables looking tired and grumpy from being on an all-nighter. Greg scanned the evidence board at the far end with Sherlock's photo taking pride of place, the position usually reserved for the prime suspect. Nothing new had been added since he last looked, which gave him some comfort. At least it proved that John was not yet in custody. As he turned away from the board, he caught sight of Dimmock sitting in his own office, three doors down from Greg's; he looked tired, even at this distance. Hoping that he hadn't been noticed, Greg slipped into his own office, where he saw a file sitting on the desk. He was leafing through it, scanning for anything that the Crime Scene Examiners turned up that would have been worth killing for, when Dimmock popped his head around the office door.

"I thought you'd been…sent home?" It was a cautious query, neutral in tone.

"Yeah, well, you know how it is …loose ends need tying up." Greg hoped that was sufficiently vague. Before Dimmock could reply, Greg resumed. "The dead guy at Portland Square- he was a French assassin, linked to the Irish bomber- Moriarty."

Dimmock's eyes widened, "How the hell did you find that out?"

"I have my sources. It will check out. The ballistics report- you put a rush on it?"

"Yes, of course, we need to know if Holmes did it."

"Well, you can relax. The autopsy report shows it was done by a sniper- high velocity rifle."

"You've been busy…" Now there was a flare of suspicion in the young DI's tone.

"Did you really expect me to sit in my kitchen while all this is going on? Would you, if our positions were reversed?" Greg hoped that by building some rapport it would be harder for Dimmock to report him to the Chief.

The younger man grimaced. "Probably not, but then I've only done a few cases with Holmes; he's half your bloody career. So, I get why you'd want him to be innocent. That's why they've taken you off the case- you can't be expected to be impartial."

Greg realised that Dimmock thought that he'd only been removed from this particular case, not suspended from his post. That would give him more time. He pushed the file into Dimmock's hands. "That's the CS report on 221b. They didn't find anything- which is definitely wrong. There's something there that is worth assassins killing each other for- so I suggest you send someone back over there to give it a proper going over. Someone other than Anderson. If you think I can't be neutral, then you haven't seen the depth of his animosity."

DI Dimmock gave a tired smile. "Holmes has that effect on people- there are at least a dozen coppers in this building who would love to see him in the dock. He really does know how to get up people's noses."

Greg ignored that, and remembered what Sherlock had nicknamed the man now standing in front of him - dimwit. For once, he hoped Sherlock's assessment was accurate, because that might give him more room to manoeuver. "Have there been any leads on Watson's whereabouts?"

Dimmock looked puzzled. "According to your sergeant, the guy was last seen handcuffed to Holmes. You were there, remember?"

"Yeah, but get real. Sherlock would get out of those cuffs without too much trouble. He's able to pick locks on almost every door I've ever seen, so a pair of handcuffs won't take him long. If I know him, and I do, then he will want to put some distance between him and the good doctor."

"Why would he want to do that? You heard him- Watson's a hostage."

Greg snorted. "Don't be an idiot, Dimmock. Watson chinned the Chief because he wanted to stay close to Sherlock. The 'hostage' label was Sherlock's version- a way of keeping the doctor as the innocent in this. He wanted Watson free- and the danger Sherlock is in now will make him want to push his friends away."

"Danger? What danger?"

"Look, Dimmock- this whole scene is…well, it's complicated. Holmes has been at war with Moriarty- you remember him?" He said it patiently.

"Of course I remember him. The guy robbed the Bank of England and the Crown Jewels, for God's sake."

"And walked free. Holmes has been trying to catch up with him." Greg gestured at the file in Dimmock's hands. "And Moriarty's not stupid. He's framing Sherlock; setting him up and making us do his dirty work for him. And, like the idiots he keeps telling us we are, we are going along with the scam- doing everything that lunatic Irishman wants us to do. Come on, I'll show you." He walked over to the evidence board, and started to take Dimmock through it. At every step along the way he offered an alternative view to what Donovan had told Dimmock's team last night.

The open plan office behind them was filling up. It was almost nine thirty, and the MIT members were getting stuck into the day's work. A few were standing around one desk, reading over the shoulder of a chap who had brought in the Sun newspaper. Unbeknownst to Lestrade, one set of eyes had found his back and were observing his every move. PC Hanson had spent the night outside Lestrade's flat, waiting for the DI to arrive home. When he didn't show, he'd called into the desk sergeant only to be told his target had arrived at the office.

On the way into New Scotland Yard, he'd got on the phone to text his contact, the one who had made him watch for Lestrade's return. Within minutes, a call came in reply. He took this one outside on the pavement, before going into the Yard. An odd voice, protected by a voice synthesiser, was on the other end.

"It's show time, policeman plod! I need you to get close enough to him to put a bullet in him; if you don't hear from me after 10.15, then kill Lestrade."

"Whoa- just wait a minute! I only ever agreed to keep an eye on the guy!"

The weird voice on the phone just laughed. "Kill or be killed, matey, and as you need more incentive, I will throw in your wife and kiddies. So, pull the trigger, or my man's trigger finger will twitch for them. Don't worry. The gun you've been given has another person's prints on it- a certain consulting detective's prints. You won't get caught as long as you're discrete and leave the gun behind when you've done the deed."

The words echoed in his ears still. How had he ended up here? A gambling debt gone bad, an acceptance of a bribe- it was enough to turn him from an officer on one of the Murder Investigation Unit into a hired gun. The idea of his wife and the two girls now at risk was making his palms sweat. The small illegal weapon in his ankle holster weighed heavily, but doing the deed at the Yard was different from the guy's flat- it would be much harder to hide his role in it.

When Hanson got to his desk, Dimmock was frowning at Lestrade. Hanson moved over to the unoccupied desk nearest the pair, fishing for a file on it and then pretending to read its contents.

"So, Donovan's version and mine are equally possible. It's just that Moriarty is manipulating us all into believing that Holmes is the villain."

The other DI was not buying it outright, but he was listening.

"Come on, Dimmock- a man is innocent until proven guilty. You've seen him work. Right now, Sherlock could do with all the friends he's got on this force."

"Friends? I wouldn't have thought Holmes has many friends. He's too insufferable for that. You are probably the closest thing to a friend he's got- you've put up with his ego for years." The younger man now looked speculatively at the older DI. "I don't suppose you've seen him since he escaped?"

At that question, a traitorous idea crept into Greg's thoughts. He could tell the Yard exactly where Sherlock was. It was a last ditch defence- get Sherlock taken into custody to protect him from whatever confrontation he was planning. Sherlock would never, ever forgive him. But, he'd be alive. And just maybe turning him in would re-establish some of his own credibility. Then when Sherlock was proved innocent, they could both be reinstated. He hated the very idea. Was he that desperate, yet? He wondered if he should play for a little bit more time.

Time was something that Hanson was running out of. He glanced at the clock over the evidence board- the third time in the past ten minutes. It had just gone a quarter to ten. The gun felt impossibly heavy, a ball and chain around his ankle, its weight reminding him of what he was going to have to do if his family was to survive this morning. He only hoped that his sweaty face and rumpled clothing would not attract attention; luckily, other officers had worked all night, too, so he didn't stand out like a sore thumb.

Dimmock was waiting for the answer to his question, watching Lestrade closely. Something must have shown in his expression, because it prompted a whispered explosion- "Oh, shit, you have seen him. Lestrade, you have to tell the Chief if you ever want to work here again."

Greg heard the comment, and finally realised it was the truth. He'd run out of options. He also remembered Sherlock's words: "When they come with questions about the cases, you have to be seen as a reliable witness- for both our sakes."

The best way to do that was to turn him in. However disloyal it might seem, it just might save Sherlock's life, so he could get a chance to defend himself. And it just might mean that they'd at least listen to Lestrade when he tried to explain a decade's worth of work with the consulting detective.

Lestrade nodded to Dimmock, and then before he could reply, Greg went into his office and picked up the phone. Hanson couldn't hear what was being said, he just watched as the clock hands moved inexorably on. Then Lestrade stood up, bending over his desk. "Yes sir, goodbye." That was loud enough to carry.

The DI came out. "Come on, Dimmock, I'll take you and one other officer with me." Hanson was nearest to the pair, so he said "I'll come with you, sir." Dimmock nodded and the three men set off down the corridor. Lestrade said grimly, "He was at St Bartholomew's Hospital when I last saw him. No big splash this time; I need an unmarked car."

Hanson responded. "Take mine; I'll drive."

At every red traffic light, Hanson took another look at his watch. They had just turned onto Fleet Street when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. When the traffic signal at the intersection with Farrington Street went yellow, Hanson stopped, pulling out his phone to see a new text message. He thumbed it open, scared witless that it was going to tell him that he was too late, he'd not followed instructions and that his family was now dead.

10.12 Stand down. Mission accomplished. Ditch the evidence.

He closed his eyes in relief, and they were still closed when the car driver leaned on his horn. "Alright, just give me a break," Hanson muttered. From the back seat, Lestrade snapped, "Just get a move on, will you? He might not still be there, given how long you're taking!"