Prompt: Scotland Yard's seasonal shenangians, from BookRookie12
A/N: This got away from me a bit, and I tried very hard to bring it back under control. Hopefully I succeeded.
Any workplace were men were constantly jostling for position was bound to be beset by rivalries, and Scotland Yard was no exception. Rivalries between individual officers were really the least of the problems of the force, Lestrade thought defensively, after the third time in as many months that he and Gregson had been called before the Superintendent to account for themselves. The divisions ran up against each other in the course of duty, and it was only natural that they should compete to see who had caught the most burglars, run down the most criminals, or solved the most murders. It was Lestrade's own Westminster Division that had won these unofficial contests the last few years, though it was due in no small part to the fact that the world's only consulting detective happened to live in their district. It still counted for them, Lestrade pointed out to Gregson, the two having agreed to call a truce to ensure that Chelsea and Marylebone divisions didn't come close to overtaking them.
This year, though, the competition threatened to turn into open war, as the new Commissioner had unwisely, in Lestrade's opinion, decided to offer Christmas bonuses to the division with the most arrests and most cases closed. "He'll have half of London behind bars before the season's over," the little Inspector grumbled, looking through his unsolved cases for the day.
"Still, it'd be nice to get that bonus," Bradstreet said as they headed out to find a particularly recalcitrant witness.
"You can't really think you'll get that bonus!" Lestrade turned around to stand face-to-face with a massive brick of a man standing in their way. "Kensington's got it in the bag!"
Lestrade, who had been completely uninterested in claiming the bonus until this very moment, pulled himself up to his full height and managed to look the Kensington giant directly in the middle of his chest. "We've had seventeen murders solved this year. Seventeen! Have you even reached double digits?"
The huge Kensington officer merely chuckled. "That might be your number but everyone knows you don't solve your own in Westminster. You've got that Holmes fellow on standby, haven't you?"
Lestrade bristled, in no small part because they didn't have Holmes on standby. They really only called him as a last resort; he simply turned up of his own accord the rest of the time. Unfortunately, Bradstreet held him back. "Come on, we'll get an eighteenth today if we're lucky," he said. "Everyone knows not enough even happens in Kensington for them to have a chance." Later that day, when Lestrade closed their eighteenth murder, with no assistance from troublesome consulting detectives, he was inclined to agree.
The weeks went by and the Christmas decorations went up. Lestrade usually paid no attention to the holiday and only noticed the decorations when a very large Christmas tree appeared in such close proximity to his desk that he couldn't get up. "What the blazes is this doing here?" he asked, pushing aside branches so he could at least see in his own office.
"Our turn to host the Christmas party, sir," one of the young constables said, sticking his head around. "Can't have Southwark beat us. Last year they had live doves!"
Lestrade groaned. The Christmas party. "We're not inviting him, are we?" he asked. They'd so far avoided inviting their resident amateur to the Christmas party only because they'd never hosted it.
"Well, he is the reason we've won, isn't he?" Gregson said.
"So they hate us already and they'll hate us even more once he announces to the world who's lost all his money gambling or who's got marriage problems," Lestrade said.
"Then we'll never have to host the party again and everyone will love him for it," Gregson said, and everyone laughed. "You can make him behave, can't you, Lestrade?"
"Why is it up to me?" Lestrade asked.
Gregson shrugged. "You know him better than we do."
Lestrade highly doubted anyone really knew Sherlock Holmes, even Dr. Watson. Perhaps he wouldn't come; the man was so infernally unsociable. Though this hope was quickly dashed when the invitations went out, and both Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson sent back affirmative responses. "Maybe the Doctor can make him behave," Lestrade said, though without much real hope.
Gregson seemed not to share this opinion, as he gave Lestrade an incredulous look. "You cannot be serious. You know they're like a pair of children together."
"Yes, I know, thank you!" Lestrade snapped, their truce forgotten now that the contest was won and the bonus was theirs. Annoyingly, he was right. Mr. Holmes could do no wrong in Dr. Watson's eyes, and he was unlikely to attempt to reign in his friend's behavior. If indeed, it could be done at all.
The day of the Christmas party was cold and bright, and Lestrade walked into the office to find a group of carolers stationed inside, singing a cheerful rendition of "God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen."
"Are they going to sing all day?" Bradstreet asked, passing by Lestrade's desk.
"I sincerely hope not; I think I might go mad," Lestrade answered. The constables were engaged all day in hanging boughs of holly on every conceivable surface, until it seemed as if they were working in a pine forest instead of an office building in the middle of London. A few of the officers from other divisions were beginning to arrive, looking around in a way that seemed very judgemental to Lestrade. Let Southwark keep their doves, he thought to himself. We solved eighteen murders.
The best thing that could be said about the Christmas party was that there were an extraordinary array of cakes. They must have bought out every bakery in Westminster, Lestrade thought approvingly, swallowing a bite quickly when he saw Dr. Watson approach. "I only wanted to thank you for the invitation," the former soldier said. "It's been a long time since I attended a party."
"Oh, it is our pleasure, Doctor," Lestrade said, completely truthfully. Dr. Watson was a very pleasant fellow, and it had become much easier to deal with Holmes once they'd taken rooms together. How much of this was due to the good Doctor's influence and how much due to the improvement in Holmes's landlady was still the subject of many roundabout conversations between the Inspectors. "Where is Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade asked, realizing he could count on one hand the number of times he had seen the two separated since they had taken rooms together three years previously.
"Probably boring that Inspector from Chelsea," Dr. Watson said, nodding toward a corner, where Holmes was indeed speaking very animatedly. "When I left he was discoursing about the amount of wear on various makes of gloves and how this allows one to determine...something." He smiled good-naturedly. "There are times one must tune him out."
Lestrade burst out laughing. "I suppose Inspector Chelsea will need a rescue."
"Well, the thing is, the Inspector started out by telling me a very long and complicated story about his service as a supply officer in Africa," Dr. Watson said. "It was Holmes who came to my rescue." He chuckled, then they both turned around as they heard raised voices, and saw a different Inspector stalk away angrily. Holmes looked distinctly satisfied with himself.
Lestrade sighed. "I had better go find out what happened," he said, but before he made it even two steps he was accosted by the Inspector in question.
"I don't know what you're playing at here, Lestrade, but you've been letting that amateur rule your force for years now, from what I've heard. Now I don't care what you do in your own division but he's got no business telling the rest of us how to do our jobs!" The man's face was bright red, and Lestrade wondered what Holmes possibly could have said. Certainly he could be downright rude when he wanted, but rarely did anyone react like this.
"Lestrade, do tell your colleagues to calm down," Holmes said, appearing as if from nowhere at Lestrade's elbow. "This fellow is rather too enthusiastic in picking up pickpockets off the street. Do you know how many of my Irregulars I have had to bail out of his gaol?"
"Who the devil uses street Arabs to solve crimes?" the red-faced officer all but yelled in Lestrade's face.
"Perhaps if you did, you would have won the contest," Holmes said in that infuriatingly calm way he had.
Lestrade groaned aloud. "Mr. Holmes, perhaps you should give your Irregulars some sign to show that they're on an errand for you so they don't get picked up inadvertently?" he suggested, since it seemed as if neither side was willing to budge an inch on what seemed a very easily solved issue.
Holmes sniffed. "Perhaps I shall. I'm very tired of having my investigations interrupted because my assistants continually get arrested." The angry inspector humphed in disappointment at this sensible solution and disappeared, no doubt to complain about amateurs getting too big for themselves. Lestrade found it quite a nice change from when he himself did the same thing and turned to Holmes.
"How the devil did you know that there was a contest?" he asked.
"Your shoes, Inspector," Holmes answered. "New, are they not? You have recently come into money, and I happened to read about the bonus promised to the division with the highest number of arrests. It was not hard to put the two together. Incidentally, that man was obviously from Kings Cross, which explains why he was so angry."
"It does?" Lestrade asked
Holmes nodded seriously. "He was quite obviously drunk, and since I read about no fewer than twenty-five incidents this year in which a Kings Cross police officer was drunk on duty, I do believe they hold the dubious record for most intoxicated officers on duty this year."
Lestrade burst out laughing. No wonder the fellow was so angry, though he really only found it funny. "Come, Mr. Holmes, let's go find some eggnog," he said.
Perhaps it was the Christmas spirit, but he was feeling very good about having the world's only consulting detective on his side at the moment.