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Chapter 8
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They reached Baker Street extremely tense. Even after closing the reassuring blue door behind them, they couldn't help but say that it had been very close. The light wasn't on in the flat and the policeman's electric torch was too powerful so he couldn't distinguish anything at all. Sherlock doubted the officer had been able to recognize them, but John wasn't that confident. To infiltrate crime scenes would now become increasingly difficult.
He nimbly climbed up the stairs, straight to his bedroom.
"Never again, Sherlock," he decreed then. "Never again. Next time, we'll do as I have suggested, we borrow uniforms. You love outfits, you'll get it."
"John."
"What?"
He turned around to see Sherlock standing on the doorstep of the living room, looking at him. He frowned, then, puzzled by the look a little tense of the detective, he came down. Sherlock was straight, stiff and frozen. John followed his gaze and a shiver of alarm immediately ran along his back.
Lestrade.
He was sitting in Sherlock's armchair, patient. John furtively thought about the drug bust in "The Study in Pink", where the DI was found waiting for them in this same armchair. He looked around, half expecting other members of the team to emerge from nowhere. But the quietness in the flat made him understand that Lestrade had come alone, and the atmosphere that emanated from the officer's presence was radically different from the one during the drug bust. Lestrade's casual attitude had given way to a palpable tension. Crossed legs had given way to the elbows on his knees. The look he put on Sherlock and John had no triumph overtones anymore, but was mixed with a sort of tender sadness.
"Lestrade," Sherlock greeted without any salutation.
"Sherlock," Lestrade said with a nod. "John."
He didn't answer, very tense. It was long since he hadn't seen the DI face-to-face, and the emotion he felt was very different from when he watched him in the pub.
There was a deep silence.
"What do we owe the pleasure of your visit, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked as to break the ice. "You're going to handcuff us for interfering on your crime scene?"
Lestrade sat up and leaned back in the armchair. There was nothing in his eyes but an intense melancholy.
Then he let out a breath he seemed to hold for a long time. He rubbed his tired face.
"No," he replied then. "I'm not here for that."
"In this case, if it's to give us a warning, be aware that you have all the reasons to believe we won't follow it."
But Lestrade didn't seem to hear him. He looked at John and Sherlock, intrigued and sad in the same time.
"Why are you here?" he asked.
His question took them by surprise. They exchanged glances, not sure of the answer to give.
The DI seemed to have aged ten years. His hair was greyer than usual, his features more marked. His shoulders seemed to sag under the weight of age and worries. He seemed much more tired than the last time John had seen him.
He moved forward.
"Is something wrong, Greg?"
He looked at him.
"Why are you here?" he repeated. "You shouldn't be there."
"You know Sherlock. Refusing him a case is like refusing a bone to a dog. But we can promise you that we didn't interfere. Well, yes… in a way."
"Thanks for the comparison," Sherlock hissed.
He had detailed Lestrade in few glances. Not shaved cheeks, costume not changed for two days, the bags of a man who hadn't slept under the eyes, drops of coffee on the shirt. Lestrade was edgy, he was barely standing, seemed about to break down from one second to another.
"Something is bothering you," Sherlock analyzed. "And it has nothing to do with our interferences in your cases, in which case you would have said it. This is more vicious, more elusive. Has Donovan taken you for a ride about me again?"
Lestrade opened his mouth to speak, but changed his mind at the last moment. He looked again, silent. Then he seemed to take a decision and stood up. His movements had something stiff.
"Come with me," he said then. "I think I have to show you something."
John felt Sherlock tighten.
"If it's a ruse to bust us at Scotland Yard," hissed the latter, "I am sorry, but it doesn't work with me."
"It has nothing to do with the Yard," said Lestrade.
His answer was so clear and so spontaneous that even Sherlock didn't wasted time to question it. He looked at the DI, a concerned fold on his forehead, but consented to follow him.
They left Baker Street. At the door, a car was parked. Lestrade opened the door and gestured in their direction.
"Get in."
Hands in his pockets, Sherlock looked at him suspiciously, and then finally got into the vehicle. John followed shortly, not sure of what Lestrade intended to show them. His tired attitude had all aspects of incredible tension. Had they made a mistake somewhere?
The journey was made in silence. John looked the streets pass through without noticing. Then a building caught his attention, and he then understood the direction they were taking.
"What? Greg…"
"We're almost there, John."
The DI's voice was soft, but didn't leave room for negotiation.
They got out of the car and Lestrade led the march. John and Sherlock followed, puzzled. They entered, advanced without a word, Lestrade still ahead. Then he finally stopped, pulled away and turned toward them.
"So, now?" He asked.
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Notes: change of warning next chapter...
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