Lunch was Spanish tapas at Tierra Brindisa in a booth overlooking the busy street. At night the dim lighting created an intimate dining experience, hiding dingy tables and worn flooring under a veil of romanticism. In the afternoon sun it became a shabby little eatery good for business meetings and a quick cup of decent coffee. At this time of day the three men were the only patrons.
Lestrade kept glancing up at the man that had ushered them in and now stood beaming over their table. John held the menu in front of his face with two hands and pointedly ignored Sherlock.
"Timone," Sherlock greeted the grinning restaurant owner.
"Had a row, have you?" Timone asked sympathetically, patting John on the back.
John lowered his menu and rolled his eyes. "We are not a bloody couple."
"Just tea for me," Sherlock interjected before the doctor could finish.
"Sure thing, and I'll bring two pints for your friends. On the house, of course," Timone said.
Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table as they waited. He dabbed continuously at his nose with a napkin, sniffing delicately as if embarrassed that he could have a human condition like a runny nose.
"Head cold? I had one last week. It's going around," Lestrade said.
"He's been running a low grade fever too. Sick and too damn stubborn to admit it. You should be in bed, Sherlock," John said.
"Bed is boring," Sherlock replied.
"Is that why yours is covered with blood?" John asked, and Lestrade choked on his beer, coughing and sputtering into his arm.
Sherlock became engrossed by his cell phone. He didn't speak another word after the food arrived at the table, but Lestrade suspected he was sending text messages by the way John's expression grew darker each time his phone beeped.
Then it was back to 221B and within minutes Mrs. Hudson was bringing a guest up the stairs. In the doorway a small thin man held his hands together and gave them each a formal bow.
"Ah, Mr. Mehra. Sit down. The chair," Sherlock suggested. Sherlock joined John on the couch.
"I got your message, Mr. Holmes. Will she be okay?" he asked.
"The police believe she has killed a man," answered Sherlock. The little man nodded darkly.
"I should not have left her. Abhinac-babu died so suddenly. Please, Mr. Holmes, I am a most unfortunate man in all this world. Do not let them arrest me before I explain to you the truth."
Sherlock's expressive face showed as much satisfaction as sympathy. John nudged him with one elbow until his lips turned back down into a more appropriate frown. Lestrade stepped forward, handcuffs at the ready.
"Mr. Mehra, it is my duty to inform you that anything which you say will be used against you. I arrest you in the Queen's name for-"
"Just a minute, Lestrade," Sherlock said, "this man was about to clear up some of the more puzzling details."
"Sherlock, I can't imagine this becoming clear to anyone but you."
"I'd like to hear what he has to say," the detective insisted.
The two men stared at one another until Lestrade gave in with a sigh. After everything they'd been through, everything Sherlock had done, he couldn't possibly say no.
"Two minutes," Lestrade agreed, although he knew Sherlock would take as much time as he needed. The Indian man was sitting with crossed legs on the couch, eyes downcast. He waited for a nod from Holmes before beginning his narrative.
"After my mother died Abhinac-babu raised me like his own son. He was a rich man and I was honored that he would grant me an inheritance. There was a raid and he lost his ivory and his fortune and had to flee to Africa. I met someone and we became close, like... brothers." Mehra paused.
"It's not unnatural that you should find such a companion," Sherlock offered.
Lestrade struggled to keep a straight face as the doctor cleared his throat and studied the floor carefully.
Sherlock was droning on, "so you told Baldev the important details of your life, and he assumed your identity in hopes of extracting Ayra's trust and wealth."
"This was extreme violation in nature. Abhinac-babu was most angry. It is a matter of izzat or honor. He had been living under Abhinac's roof, eating his food, spending his money. He demanded more although Abhniac lived modestly and had little."
"So you used your elephant to crush him?" Lestrade asked, both disgusted and amazed.
"Of course not," Sherlock interrupted quickly. "He gave Ayra the hook and the elephant obeyed. So there you have it, inspector. That was most enlightening. It's been a golden evening for me. So, Mr. Mehra, when do you leave for Africa?"
Lestrade looked dubious. "I can't just let him go!"
"This man has every chance to live as happy a life as he can make for himself. There's no need to obscure it with this black cloud."
"But Sherlock-" Lestrade heard the desperation in his own voice.
"A jury would never give you a conviction based on such circumstantial evidence," Sherlock insisted.
Lestrade grabbed the Indian man's elbow firmly and steered him towards the door before he could bolt. He might not get a conviction but he could at least take his statement. It wouldn't make the paperwork any easier, but it would alleviate his nagging conscious.