Chapter 5
"Lestrade," he answered business-like when the phone on his desk at the Yard rang through to him.
"Hi, yes, Mr. Lestrade, this is Julie from Springhill Rehab," the therapist that had been assigned to Sherlock greeted, "again," she added on at the end, her voice taking on an exasperated tone.
Greg sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "What's he done this time?" he asked, exhaling through his nose. Sherlock hadn't even made it a month into rehab and Greg had gotten at least a call a week from Julie, if not more.
"Well," Julie began slowly, drawing out the word before launching into whatever antics Sherlock had participated in throughout the week. "It would seem that your last present didn't last very long. He had his evening phone privileges taken away for the rest of the week for being rude to one of the newer patients. And then, in his group session yesterday, he made some startling revelations about the guest sponsor that came in, which made the rest of the group time deteriorate rather quickly," while her voice remained monotone, after speaking with her on the phone so often, Greg was beginning to pick out the irritated inflections her voice took on. "He's been assigned to kitchen duty for the rest of the week as punishment, but he seems to have taken a rather interesting approach to helping prep the meals."
He covered his face with his free hand. "I'm really sorry, Julie," Greg apologized on behalf of the arse-headed teenager.
"Mr. Lestrade, he's making the other patients' food explode!"
Greg let out a snort and then quickly covered his mouth to stifle the laughter, not wanting to upset Julie. Well, that was a new complaint. Greg wasn't exactly sure how to respond to that. Making people's food explode? Oh, he was going to have a talk with the kid on Sunday.
Julie's voice brought him out of his initial surprise, "I know, I told you I wouldn't recommend this," Julie paused, and Greg could hear the nervousness in her hesitation.
"Please don't kick him out," Greg cut in, borderline pleading with the therapist. "I know he's difficult. I know he's lashing out. But isn't that what you said would happen?" he asked Julie, pointing at nothing in front of him. "The three of us sat down in your office when I checked him in and you prepared us both for what was to happen. Something about the teenage mind being on drugs during crucial brain development time, or something like that?"
Julie sighed on the other end of the phone. Greg could tell she was waffling, so he continued before she had a chance to jump back in.
"Look, give him something to solve. He needs a puzzle," Greg suggested. "But don't ask for any more cold cases from me. He knows the deal. He only gets one a week."
"I'm still not sure that is appropriate for someone of his age," Julie commented on Greg's method of keeping Sherlock occupied. "Not completely sure it is an appropriate use of police time, either," she added on at the end, sarcasm dripping from her voice.
"Yes, but it helps. And he's solved two of them so far!" Greg volleyed back quickly. He cringed and looked around the office, mouthing a silent 'sorry' to the other people in his working area. "I'll be there for family day on Sunday and bring him a new one," he told her, bringing his voice down to a reasonable level. "Just... Don't give up on him yet. Please."
There was a long pause from Julie, and Greg was mentally crossing his fingers and toes that she would give Sherlock another chance. Sherlock wasn't ready to leave rehab yet. Julie and the other counselors were adamant that he needed the full twelve weeks they offered, if not more, because of his age. Not to count whatever they recommended for his post-rehab life. Greg had been floored to find that Sherlock had discovered cocaine just before turning fourteen. Greg had a lot on his plate at Sherlock's age, but he couldn't imagine adding homelessness and drugs to the equation.
Finally, after a minute of silent deliberation, Julie sighed in defeat. "Alright, Mr. Lestrade. I'll do my best to help him, but at some point, he needs to be the one to realize why he's here. He needs to realize that this isn't a punishment. He's sick and needs help, and that's what we're trying to offer him."
"Lestrade!" Littleton's voice yelled out from her office, making Greg jump slightly at his desk. He needed to remember that he was at work and would need to focus on his job and getting his paperwork completed so that he could spend a few hours with Sherlock on Sunday.
"I will talk to him on Sunday. Promise," Greg gave a small pump of his fist, excited that Sherlock could live to terrorize his therapist for another day. "I've got to get back to work. You are an angel sent from heaven, Julie," he rushed his praise towards the very patient therapist.
Julie chuckled on the other end. "You can't butter me up, Mr. Lestrade. We'll see you Sunday," she told him before ending the call.
Greg hung up the phone with a relieved sigh. Leaning back in his chair, he let his head fall back, leaving him at an awkward angle. Hopefully, the kid would drop the attitude before Greg drop kicked him. And Greg only partially meant that. It had been a long, trying month since he brought Sherlock back to his flat. Greg had been so naïve at the time to think that the first weekend would be the worst of it. The following week had lulled him into a false sense of security.
Greg had taken the week off of work to get Sherlock situated, getting him clothes, taking him to get a haircut, and getting him checked out by a doctor. The NHS doctor was honestly surprised Sherlock hadn't keeled over yet and they left with several rehab pamphlets and suggestions. The entire week, Sherlock had been quiet and compliant, and in hindsight, Greg could see the kid was just going through the motions. When Greg checked out Springhill, it had hit a lot of marks on his list. It was clean, modern, and Sherlock's assigned therapist, Julie, specialized in adolescent addiction issues. Then, when he found out that anonymous sponsors were willing to take care of the bill, it was only the cherry on top. However, for Sherlock, it seemed that after a week of being clean and eating healthy, it started to clear the fog around his mind. After getting Sherlock checked in and set up, it took less than twelve hours to get his first phone call. And so began Greg's weekly phone calls from Julie.
First, it started off with minor transgressions. The first night, Sherlock apparently refused to stay in his room and wandered about the building, pacing like a mad man. Then, things progressed to snarky comments and inappropriate deductions. Apparently, calling the director out on having an affair with not one, but three of the staff members, all of which had no idea, was extremely frowned upon and earned Greg a call from the director himself. That was when Sherlock had gotten his first warning, and he hadn't even made it a week yet. It hadn't left Greg with much hope for the remaining eleven and a half weeks of his stay in rehab.
He got up from his desk, stretching his neck, and headed towards Littleton's office to see what was needed of him. The mountain of paperwork that had been dumped on him by his DI did nothing to keep Greg's internal monologue about figuring out what he was going to do with Sherlock at bay. He had been so sure he figured it out when the brilliant (if he did say so himself) idea came to him about offering Sherlock one cold-case a week. Granted, they were minor, not high-profile cases, that had been pushed aside before Greg's time on the homicide team. Then the blasted kid had to go through them so quickly.
Then, of course, on top of Sherlock, Greg had been dealing with Hannah. He frowned outside of Littleton's office and shook those unpleasant thoughts from his head. Greg knocked outside of the DI's office to announce himself and see what she was ready to dump on him now.
"Sergeant, have you finished the final paperwork for the Williams' murder?" Littleton questioned without raising her head from her work.
"Uh, yeah. Sorry. I'll have it on your desk tomorrow night," Lestrade apologized, scratching the top of his head. "I had to wait - "
"I don't care for the excuses, Lestrade," Littleton interrupted, setting her pen down. She folded her hands on top of her desk and narrowed her focused gaze on Greg. "I need everything on my desk by the afternoon tomorrow. Before lunch would be ideal, so I can review it. I'll be turning the information over to the solicitors in the afternoon so they can take it from there," she finished abruptly, then pursed her lips in a thin line and pointed to the empty chair across from her. "Why don't you have a seat, Sergeant."
Well, this was different, Greg thought and nervously sat down across from the Inspector. He remained silent, giving Littleton the chance to start, but as the seconds ticked by, he fidgeted slightly in his chair, resisting the urge to keep his restless leg from bouncing.
"You've been off your game lately," she started finally. "I'm concerned about your performance recently. It's not like you to be so distant and behind on your work," Littleton told him, surprising him with a genuine look of concern.
Greg cleared his throat nervously. He wasn't expecting the I'm concerned about your work speech. He'd seen her transfer people out of homicide for far less than not getting their reports done in a timely fashion. Hell, he was reasonably sure that he had narrowly avoided transfer when he brought her the wrong coffee. It had been his first week as a Sergeant, and Littleton had done her best to instill as much fear into him as possible. He'd been saved by a phone call she had to take, and Greg made sure never to make that mistake again.
"Yes, well, I've had a lot on my plate this month," he answered, uncertain as to how much of his personal life he wanted to reveal to his superior. Besides, it wasn't like Littleton to care, anyway. But it was hard to deny that she was right. Despite Greg's best attempts, he knew that he was not doing things to his own standard. So much had changed in the last four weeks, and Greg would be lying to himself if he said he wasn't bringing his home life to work with him.
Littleton gave him a slow nod. "I've heard some rumors to that effect. I take that to mean you and your wife are proceeding with the divorce?" she asked. And was that concern in her voice now, too?
"Uh, yeah. It seems that way," Greg sighed and gave her a nod. "She moved out this past weekend. Probably for the best. Hard to stay with someone who doesn't love you anymore," Greg shrugged. "On top of that, I've taken in a kid off the streets with a drug problem. A kid who has decided to make it his life's mission to cause me to go grey even faster than I already am in the small amount of time he's been in rehab," he tried to give her a joking smile and ran his hand through his dark hair that was beginning to add more salt than pepper to the mix. "So yeah, that's the short of it."
The compassionate smile he received from DI Littleton was not what he was expecting.
"I didn't know you had a foster son, Lestrade," she replied, only allowing a small amount of surprise to cross her face. "My husband and I fostered kids for years," she told him, and the personal insight floored him. He had no idea. "We ended up adopting a brother and sister in the system. They're seventeen and fourteen now. They've been blessings. Not to say they haven't had their own issues and monsters to deal with," Littleton grabbed a picture frame that sat on her desk and turned it around to show him. It was a picture of her and her family in front of their home's fireplace—all in matching Christmas sweaters.
Greg smiled at the picture. Compared to the familiar face that he was used to, the stark contrast of the huge, happy smile on his boss's face was almost unsettling. Still, it was nice to see that she wasn't quite the robot that everyone, including himself, had made her out to be.
"I know how difficult it can be. But it is one of the most rewarding journeys you can experience," she told him and turned the picture back around. "At least that has been the case for me."
"I had no idea, Inspector. Thank you for sharing that with me," he gave her a smile of his own. He hadn't had the chance to discuss Sherlock with anyone else. Well, aside from Hannah, who still couldn't believe that Greg was planning on sticking around until Sherlock finished rehab. "Sherlock is special. Sometimes I think he is a special pain in my arse, but," Greg finished with a joking shrug of his shoulders. "He just came into my life one day, and it just seemed right, ya know?"
Littleton smiled and nodded her head. Suddenly, Greg felt like some of the weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He hadn't realized how alone and isolated he felt until he was finally able to have someone to explain everything to, someone that found what he was trying to do for Sherlock the right thing to do. Even if it was his strict boss, it was comforting to know that he knew someone else had done something similar. Greg tried to wrack his brain but couldn't remember ever having any type of personal conversation before this. Perhaps Littleton wasn't quite what Greg had pictured.
"We don't have something quite so official yet as far as guardianship," he continued on, encouraged by the new understanding he forged with Littleton. "I've been trying to reach child services but have gotten the runaround. The kid won't even tell me his last name—the prat," he grumbled quietly. "I was worried I wouldn't be able to get him into rehab, but they let me check him in without something overly official. The rehab facility even had anonymous donors lined up to help take care of the cost. The kid just needs to work on getting himself clean now," Greg gave a knock to the desk that was placed between them. "Hopefully, he won't get himself kicked out of rehab in the meantime."
"If you don't get some answers with child services soon, let me know. I've made some connections with my years of being a foster parent. I'm sure I can get a few squeaky wheels in motion. In fact, I insist on it," Littleton instructed, giving him an emphatic point.
"Thank you, Inspector," Greg replied, taken aback at the kind gesture from Littleton. "I appreciate it. I will let you know if I decide to take you up on that."
"Well, maybe this will make your assignment a little more meaningful, then," Littleton started with a smile. "You're being transferred to narcotics."
Greg felt both of his eyebrows raise so high, he was sure they had disappeared behind his hairline. His chest constricted involuntarily, and Greg felt like a bomb just went. Narcotics? Nothing against the group, but homicide is where he had fought long and hard to get on. Was he doing so poorly that Littleton felt the need to transfer him out?
"I-I don't understand," Greg stumbled, still trying to grasp the information Littleton just told him. "I know I'm a little behind on my paperwork, but I bust my back for this department day in and day out!" Greg argued.
Littleton put up her hands in defeat. "Orders from on high, I'm afraid," she told him, and he still wasn't understanding. "This has nothing to do with your performance. I argued for you to stay. You are my top Sergeant. I truly believe homicide is where you are meant to be," she looked just as disappointed and confused as Greg felt. "After hearing your story with your new ward, I thought you had possibly asked for it, or would at least be pleased. But if it makes you feel better, I am not under the impression that this is a permanent transfer."
"Orders from on high?" Greg asked, still trying to wrap his mind around what was happening. "As in someone requested me?" he shook his head in disbelief. This wasn't making any sense.
She nodded. "Someone's boss's, boss's, boss, or something I'm told. Seemed to think that you were the right fit for this next project the narcotics team is amping up for," Littleton finished with a shrug.
Greg was totally and utterly confused now. Who would want him in narcotics? The whole Yard knew he had his sights set on joining the homicide team after he got to help on his first murder as a lowly beat officer. Everything he had done from that point, he had done with the end goal of joining the homicide team in mind. The brief thought that this had something to do with Sherlock crossed his mind, but he quickly dismissed the idea. Before now, Hannah was the only person that even knew he was taking care of the kid.
"You are expected to go up there and meet with the lead Inspector about the project before you report to them officially on Monday," Littleton informed him, breaking through his thoughts.
"Right now?" he asked, completely taken aback.
"I'm afraid so," she confirmed with a slow nod of her head. "You'll finish out the rest of the week with us to tie up any loose threads you may have, but after that, you'll have a new floor to call home for a bit," Littleton's voice took on a sad lilt to it as she gave him an equally downcast expression.
"Right, well, I - Thank you?" Greg was perplexed, to say the least. This was not at all how he had remotely pictured his day going. "No, but really, thank you for everything," he corrected quickly, not wanting to appear rude or ruin the newfound appreciation he had for his DI. "It was nice to be able to talk to someone about everything."
"And you too, Greg," Littleton stood up from her desk and extended her hand. Greg stood up from his chair slowly, accepting the handshake on autopilot. "Hopefully, I'll get to meet your Sherlock at some point. Don't hesitate to reach out to me if you have any questions or just need to vent. Being a foster parent is not all rainbows and sunshine, but I promise it's all worth it in the end," she squeezed his hand briefly before letting it go.
Greg nodded and turned to leave her office before traveling to the narcotics floor. It seemed as if someone had taken over his whole life, and he didn't know which way was up or down any longer. First, Hannah's infidelity, then marriage counseling. Then, just when he thought he was getting the ground back under his feet, Sherlock arrived. From there, everything slowly began to spin out of control. Hannah's bombshell that she loved the bloke she was seeing on the side and wanted out. It was just all becoming a bit too much. Now he was being transferred out of his department?
The elevator dinged, and Greg took a deep breath to stamp down his emotions. Being angry wouldn't do him any good now. And from what Littleton said, it was hopefully only temporary. Get in, get out. Get back to homicide. One case, he could do that. Maybe he was reading too much into this. Perhaps one of his old cases tied into whatever investigation the narcotics team was getting ready to work on. Surely, it was something as simple as that.
"Uh, Greg Lestrade," he introduced himself to the secretary on this floor. "I think I'm supposed to meet with someone this afternoon."
"Yes, Sergeant," the secretary spoke with a clipped, professional tone. "DI Jackson is in his office," she pointed in the direction of the Inspector's office.
"Right, thanks," he nodded after it became apparent that was the end of the conversation.
He turned to head in the direction of DI Jackson's office. He looked curiously around the floor that was so similar to his own, yet so different. He was at least familiar with some of the younger faces, several of them he had been friendly with when he was an officer. DI Jackson's office was tucked in the corner of the floor, and Greg tried to push the anxious feelings away when he stared at the nameplate that hung outside of the man's office.
Jackson had his office door open, and the man in question seemed to be looking over some pictures on his desk and writing notes down as he went. Greg gave a knock on the Inspector's door to announce his presence.
Detective Inspector Jonathan Jackson was someone Greg had always heard rumblings about in his time at the Yard. He was borderline legend material already at almost fifty. The man was several centimeters over six feet, with olive skin and dark chestnut hair kept in a military buzz. Greg always thought that Jackson's deep brown eyes tended to be on the cold side in the few brief interactions they had in the past. Greg never had the opportunity to work with him before, but knew that he commanded loads of respect from just about anyone who was anyone at the Yard.
"You must be Sergeant Lestrade," DI Jackson stood from his desk to welcome him. After a firm shake of his hand, Greg had to force himself to break the shake finally, surprised that he was actually star-struck by the man. "Rumor has it you are the man for our next project," Jackson looked at him with a surprised look and motioned for him to have a seat.
"So I've heard," Greg replied, trying not to let the darkness creep into his voice. "Any chance you know where you heard that particular rumor?" he hoped that the man whose team he was supposed to be joining was slightly more in the loop than Littleton had been.
"I'm afraid not," Jackson shook his head. "Orders from -"
"On high," Greg filled in, interrupting the Inspector. "Yeah, I got that excuse upstairs," he frowned that he was still in the dark about how he came about his new assignment. His gaze refocused, and he saw Jackson staring at him curiously from across his desk. "Sorry, what can I do to help?"
DI Jackson held his look for a moment before handing him the stack of photos he had previously been looking at before Greg joined him.
"Our next project is a Russian drug ring run by one Alexander Volkov," Jackson started, pointing to the first picture of a handsome, slender, bald man. The man, Volkov, was giving an almost knowing look like he knew he was being watched. It was slightly unsettling. "We've had tips and tails on him, but nothing solid until recently when we were able to get an undercover officer implanted in the ring for a short time. That's how we were able to get pictures of some of the drug runners and their names," Jackson paused to point at the Polaroids that were in Greg's hands. "They tend to deal with more of the highbrow crowd, people with too much money that they need something a little extra to party with, rich Uni students spending family money, that sort of thing. But they aren't posh enough to stay exclusively with the high-class. Our informant estimates that they are responsible for up to a quarter or third of the cocaine in London alone."
Greg let out a low whistle and began thumbing through the rest of the pictures handed to him.
Jackson nodded in agreement and then continued with his briefing. "Those are some of the drug runners and strongmen that our officer was able to get. The drug runners' ages appear to have a wide range. There is no common gender or ethnicity. They are paid with drugs and a small portion of the profits. Volkov thinks he is clever by having them smuggle drugs around in old, hollowed out, famous Russian novels, but that is the only link between the drug runners. There are bases throughout the city, but we were only able to access one for a short time."
"Yeah? What happened?" Greg asked, pausing his examination of the pictures.
Jackson looked away briefly, picking up a pen on his desk and pressing it into the surface several times, making it click repeatedly. "Somehow, our officer was found out. He didn't make it," he replied solemnly.
"I'm sorry," Greg told him sincerely. Now that he thought back on it, he did remember hearing that narcotics had lost one of their undercover officers. It was a shame whenever the Yard lost one of their own on the job. Greg counted himself lucky that he had yet to be even injured on the job.
"So you can see we aren't going to take an attack against our own lightly," Jackson started back up, his make of determination slipping back over his face. "I presented a plan to the Chief Superintendent and he approved it. I want one of the drug runners," he jabbed a finger at the stack of pictures that Greg held in his hands. "We know at least a few of their names or aliases. We turn one, get the information we need, and take down Volkov."
Greg nodded; it seemed like a solid plan. He was about to ask what his job would be in all of this when he got to the last picture in the stack. A shock of black hair and a familiar piercing gaze caught his attention. Shezza was written in the Inspector's block lettering in the white space below the picture. There was no mistaking Sherlock from a mile away. Everything seemed to tunnel on the Polaroid before him. The world was once again turning upside down on him.
"Sergeant?" Jackson's voice cut through his thoughts, and he scrambled to pile up the pictures and place them back on his desk. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah, sorry. I'm doing paperwork on a murder victim one minute, and the next thing I know, I'm on the drugs team. Just trying to wrap my mind around it, is all," he covered while pocketing the picture of Sherlock without the DI noticing.
"I realize that this is a unique situation, Sergeant. To be completely honest, I'm not sure why you're here, either. However, with that being said, I looked you up," Jackson told him, grabbing a small manilla folder that he had in a drawer and started flipping through it. "You have a stellar record as an officer, not to overlook the multiple accolades Inspector Littleton has given you for thinking outside the box in the homicide department. I think we could use that kind of hard work and brainpower here."
"Thank you, Inspector, that means a lot," Greg was taken aback, having no idea that Littleton had actually added nice things about him in his file. It was surprising that he briefly forgot he was pocketing a picture proving Sherlock had been working for a drug lord. What was the world coming to?
"Right, well," Jackson started up again, forcing Greg out of his thoughts, "finish up what you need to do with homicide and report back here Monday morning," Jackson instructed, and the two men shook hands before Greg took his leave.
Greg slowly walked back across the narcotics floor in a haze of confusion. Sherlock, or was it Shezza, was a known associate of a Russian drug lord. Next week, Greg would belong to the narcotics team because some random person from on high put him there. Not to mention that Littleton had actually thought he was a decent officer all this time. Greg had been forced in so many directions just today that he felt as if he was exiting a rollercoaster ride.
Once he was alone in the elevator, he reached into his suit pocket for Sherlock's picture he nicked from DI Jackson. Of course Sherlock had to be part of a Russian drug ring. Why wouldn't he be? Greg thought sarcastically to himself as the elevator doors opened back to the homicide floor.
Sunday couldn't come soon enough, and Greg found himself eagerly anticipating his talk with Shezza.
