Got My Eye On You Chapter Eighty One
What I did on My Summer Holidays- Part Two
Author's note: As ever, I am indebted to Ariane DeVere, AKA Callie Sullivan, for her splendid transcripts of the episode dialogue.
The car was surprisingly comfortable, and Greg had been hanging around an airport half the night, so it wasn't long before he drifted off. When the driver turned off the A38 onto the slip road and then a roundabout to pick up the A348 Tavistock Road, the movement of the car toppled the snoozing DI onto the armrest and he woke up with a start. Disoriented at first, it took a moment or two for him to remember where he was and why.
He leaned forward and tapped on the privacy screen between him and the driver. An electric motor slipped it down and he could see the driver looking in the rear view mirror at him. "Yes, sir?"
"Where are we?"
"Just on the edge of Plymouth, sir. About thirty minutes- maybe forty five depending on traffic. You'll be in Grimpen before lunch."
"Thanks." Lestrade sank back onto the leather. Actually, he was hungry. The breakfast on the plane had been basic. He felt the need for a wash and a change of clothes. After the warmth of Spain, he found the air-conditioned car a bit chilly, so he slipped his cream jacket back on, struggling with the seat-belt for a moment as he worked it on over his shoulders.
His nap had refreshed him a bit. He found himself replaying in his head the phone call with Mycroft. Whatever the hell was going on between the two Holmes brothers, Lestrade was pleased that Sherlock had managed to circumvent the quarantine around case work. That probably explained why it was so bloody far away from Sherlock's beloved London. The man lived and breathed London's crime scene so well that he rarely had reason to leave it. The work he occasionally did with other forces was always something really odd; it had to be an eight or higher on the "Sherlockian scale" of weirdness. It had to be, to compensate for the stresses involved with working in places he didn't know with people he didn't trust. As much as the consulting detective routinely insulted him and his team, Lestrade knew that they had developed a way of working together over the time that was as comfortable as a pair of old slippers. And John had made that better- his presence seemed to keep the consulting detective grounded; his empathy made up for his partner's deficits.
Lestrade wondered if that's how the case found the pair- maybe through John? It wasn't like Sherlock to get involved in a military case. His natural arrogance tended to put the uniformed officers on the offensive; they had never, to Greg's knowledge, been willing to consult with him, preferring to manage their own affairs. The barriers went up; the shutters came down- no 'civilian', especially one as unorthodox as Sherlock, would be allowed anywhere near a military case. He was glad that John was there- his Army background might help keep Sherlock in line a bit so he didn't rub the military authorities up too much.
He found it amusing that a client had managed to circumvent Mycroft's "no go" area. Mind you, that might mean that Sherlock was so desperate that he'd take just about any case, just to be rubbing his brother's nose in it. And Greg certainly didn't like hearing from the elder Holmes that Sherlock wasn't talking to John. That worried him, more than he liked to admit. For the past two and a half years, Lestrade had relied on John. Sherlock was more effective, more stable- and he'd managed to stay clean throughout. If Mycroft's insinuations were to be believed, that might have ended. What game are you playing, Mycroft? Why push him so hard, why do you want him to fail?
The drive across Dartmoor in the morning sunlight was amazing. He'd not been to the area before and was surprised at how bleak and empty it was. When the car pulled into the little village of Grimpen, Lestrade couldn't help but think that the chocolate box houses seemed a million miles aware from Sherlock's usual London jaunts.
He checked in at the Cross Keys and picked up a key. "Just a single left, I'm afraid; your secretary made the call a few hours ago." said the owner. Greg wondered which of Mycroft's minions had played the role. He went upstairs, had a quick shower to help wake himself up and then headed back downstairs.
He was still in a holiday mood, so he went up to the bar, and ordered a pint. He decided to do a bit of digging. "Well, I'm lucky to get that last room, because I wanted to give my friends a surprise."
"Oh, so, do you know the two blokes down from London? Are you here to investigate this mystery hound, too?"
Greg hadn't a clue what the man was talking about. "I'm just here on holiday. What's that about a dog?"
"Then you haven't seen the documentary? I've got a video if you want; there's a legend about a demon dog that's supposed to haunt the moor, and now there've been some sightings. Your two friends seem interested."
The man lifted the full pint glass onto the bar and gave a wry smile. "It's all a load of bollocks, if you ask me. I know it's good for business, but really- the idea of a wild dog the size of a pony terrorising the locals? Makes great TV, but I live here and I've never seen anything like that."
That's when Greg heard a familiar voice outside. Sherlock was talking, his voice excited. He turned to see a pair of grey green eyes lock onto his.
"What the hell at you doing here?"
The vehemence of Sherlock's question surprised Lestrade. From years of experience, he could judge the man's volatile mood in a moment. He's swearing; he never swears.
"Well, nice to see you, too." He decided to brazen it out. "I'm on holiday, would you believe?"
Sherlock wasn't buying it for a second. "No, I wouldn't." He sounded outraged at what he clearly thought was a lie.
Greg was relieved to see John come in and head over to the bar. "Hello, John."
The doctor was surprised, but his welcoming smile and greeting reassured the DI a bit, so he directed his next comments to him instead of Sherlock. "I heard you were in the area. What are you up to? You after this Hound of Hell like on the telly?" He kept his tone light and cheery.
Before John could answer, Sherlock butted in with an angry voice, "I'm waiting for an explanation, Inspector. Why are you here?"
Greg gave him a careful look, and repeated himself, quietly. "I told you: I'm on holiday."
Sherlock was not placated. "You're brown as a nut. You're clearly just back from your 'holidays'." He sounded outraged.
Greg decided to play it cool. "Yeah, well, I fancied another one."
John was starting to look uncomfortable at the tone of Sherlock's voice.
"Oh, this is Mycroft, isn't it?" Sherlock was livid.
In all the years that they had known each other, Sherlock had rarely been angry at Greg. Frustrated at times, insulting about his intelligence, rude – yes, all of those applied, and it didn't matter a jot to Greg. But, he suddenly realised that by sending him down here, Mycroft was quite blatantly provoking Sherlock. He tried to reassure the younger man. "No, look…"
Sherlock didn't even wait for him to finish. He spat out "Of course it is. One mention of Baskerville and he sends down…my handler to…to spy on me incognito. Is that why you're calling yourself Greg?" he sneered.
Lestrade was shocked for a moment.
John came to his rescue. "That's his name."
Sherlock looked sceptical. "Is it?"
That surprised Lestrade more than anything Sherlock could have said. He knew that to Sherlock he'd always be 'Lestrade'- like the English Public School boy he was, Sherlock almost always referred to people by their last names. And he'd once explained why he never, ever called Greg by his first name- unprofessional, in his view. No, what surprised Greg was the fact that Sherlock was questioning John. A touch of paranoia? Actually, it wasn't unjustified on this occasion, and that made the jibe sting more than it might otherwise have.
He decided to play it down. "Yes, if you'd ever bothered to find out. Look, I'm not your handler." He picked up his pint. "And I don't just do what your brother tells me."
John broke the awkward silence. "Actually, you could be just the man we want."
Sherlock wasn't mollified. "Why?" He was still suspicious, but the doctor didn't let it stop him. He went on to explain about an invoice he'd pocketed from the bar, for a large quantity of meat supplies delivered to a supposedly vegetarian establishment. The DI wasn't sure the significance of that point, but it did distract Sherlock for a moment. John then brought Greg straight into whatever it was he was investigating, telling the DI that he should put the squeeze on the owners of the bar to explain what was going on. Although he was somewhat mystified as to why it mattered, he fell in with John's plans.
While Greg downed his pint, the doctor filled him in on the case- a quick précis of Henry Knight's mad dash to Baker Street, his childhood trauma and what had happened on the moor last night. Sherlock didn't contribute, but just watched the pair of them.
John finished his explanation just as Greg got to the bottom of his glass. "This invoice for meat suggests something's going on here at the pub; you're just the man to get them to tell us what's going on."
When Greg played the Scotland Yard card with the owner and the chef, forcing them to go over their paperwork, he kept one eye on what was going on between John and Sherlock- both of whom seemed to be out of sorts. He watched as Sherlock poured John a cup of coffee. That felt odd- and the doctor seemed uncomfortable about it, making some comment that the DI couldn't quite hear over the explanation that the chef was trying to give about how the records of meat supplies going back two months. Whatever John said, it provoked a look of hurt on Sherlock's face. That surprised Greg more than anything. For a man who rarely showed emotion, Sherlock was doing so now- anger at him, distress at John. He began to wonder if Mycroft was right; something serious might be up with Sherlock's state of mind.
But then the chef started spinning some story about falling off the vegetarian wagon, and Lestrade just started laughing at the preposterous comment. One thing led to another, and the truth came out- the pair had been keeping a dog out on the moor, feeding it the meat and keeping the TV story going to help business. They claimed that the dog had been put down, and that it was all just a harmless business prank. Lestrade knew there was little evidence of criminality, so apart from making the point that their shenanigans had scared a man already traumatised, there wasn't much he could do. He left them feeling embarrassed, and headed for the sunshine. He stood there for a moment wondering what the hell was going on with the case, and why Mycroft had sent him down to Devon. Was it simply another example of Mycroft trying to tighten the screws on Sherlock? Had he unwittingly been manipulated?
John joined him a moment later. "You know he's actually pleased you're here?"
Greg snorted in disbelief. Maybe John was pleased, but Sherlock's reaction had been pure hostility.
John modified his statement to the idea of Sherlock being "secretly pleased."
The DI decided to play along. "Is he? That's nice. I suppose he like having all the same faces back together. Appeals to his….his…" Greg ran out of words. He wasn't sure how much he should be saying.
But then John surprised him by finishing the thought. "…Asperger's?"
Sherlock chose that moment to come through the door, and Greg knew that he would have heard the word. His glower at John said as much. Greg knew from long experience that Sherlock did not like to be reminded of being on the Spectrum- it was surprisingly obtuse of the doctor to be so blunt. What's going on between these two?
To cover the gaffe, he asked Sherlock whether he believed the dog had actually been destroyed. The question was batted away, and Greg was left admitting that there wasn't much more he could do. He did offer to have a word with the local force. The police might have more information that could help settle the fact; he might get them to check with the vet about whether the dog had been put down as they claimed.
The whole business felt strange- not at all in Sherlock's usual league. If it was as simple as a hoax by the innkeeper, then the case was over. He hoped that Sherlock wouldn't be too disappointed. If this was the only case that had eluded Mycroft's ban, and it proved to be a bust, then the consulting detective would be seriously miffed. The DI tried to put as positive a spin on it as possible, saying it was a good excuse to get out of London for a while longer. Still feeling awkward, he beat a retreat to go find the details about the local police station. A couple of phone calls might bring the whole thing to an end that afternoon, and the three of them could head back home. He couldn't shake a sense of relief at that idea. I don't feel good about this.
