A/N: The Muse returned for another prompt. :-) Took some slight liberties with this one … but then don't I always? lol.
Prompt 13: From MichaelJGMeathook – Organ grinder monkey.
Serve and Protect
Lestrade was ready to go home. The day had yawned out endlessly from the moment he had stepped foot into Scotland Yard, left a trail of blood and paperwork in its wake. The sun had long since set outside his office windows. His head was pounding a too-familiar tempo, the tiredness settling across his shoulders like a coat worn too many times.
He sighed and stood, his spine popping loudly. His shift was due to end in two hours, but he needed a break. He donned his coat and left the room, hoping to dispel the memories of the day with a cigarette and the murky London air.
/-/-/
There was a commotion at the front desk.
Constable Burton was stood with his back to Lestrade, exasperation emanating from him in waves. Tension rippled across the young constable's shoulders, his back as straight as a church pillar. There was a stocky, heavily-whiskered man standing on the opposite side of the desk, scowling at Burton and shouting obscenities. Even from here Lestrade could detect a lingering scent of whisky.
"Sir, as I've already told you, our Inspectors are very busy," said Burton in a voice calm enough to clear ripples from a pond. "Though I am happy to listen to your concern."
"Do you not know who I am, young man?"
"Yes, sir. I have your name written here." Burton tapped the paper in front of him with his pencil. "Robert Cookson."
A flush of red creeped over the man's neck like a rolling tide, disappearing into his hairline. He spluttered with indignation.
"What. What kind of establishment is this?! That I have to unburden my issues onto a peeler who thinks he can speak to me in such a manner. Why, it is ludicrous!"
"Be that as may be, sir," Burton replied, the line of tension in his spine the only indication of annoyance, "stolen property is not a matter for the Inspectors. However, I will do my utmost to ensure this is escalated to them, if you will enlighten me as to the details."
A tattooed hand shot out and curled in Burton's collar, near yanking him across the desk. Cookson glared at Burton, eyes flashing.
"I want to speak to the organ grinder," he snarled, "not the monkey."
Burton's jaw clenched. "Let go."
Lestrade cleared the distance in three long strides, one hand braced against Burton's shoulder and tugging him back as he leaned forward to grip the man's wrist with the other. He squeezed hard, until he felt bone grinding beneath his fingers. Cookson hissed and turned his gaze on Lestrade.
"Unhand him," Lestrade ordered. "Now."
Disquiet rolled between them like a web spun of steel. A sneer curled Cookson's mouth.
"Oh? And who are you?"
"The organ grinder," Lestrade growled, a chained beast of anger clawing furiously at his ribs. The man's face fell. "Remove your hand, before I do it for you and arrest you for assault."
Cookson released his grip. The smirk on his face vanished immediately when Lestrade cuffed his hands and escorted him to a cell. He did not go quietly, spat insults at Lestrade the entire way.
He returned to find Burton straightening his uniform, his profile to Lestrade and a muscle twitching rapidly in his jaw. Burton exhaled slowly before meeting the Inspector's gaze.
"I had it under control," he said. He flushed when he realised who he was addressing, added fast, "My apologies. I did not. I mean–thank you, sir."
Lestrade remained silent. He searched Burton's face, registered a brief flicker of humiliation in Burton's eyes. Lestrade shoved his hands into his coat pockets, fingers curling. He was angry on Burton's behalf. More so than Burton seemed to be. He breathed deep, the feeling in his chest receding to a dull ache.
"You're right," he said. Burton blinked at him in surprise. "I need not ... should not have intervened."
Burton went to speak, changed his mind. He nodded stiffly.
Lestrade saw each of Burton's thoughts like boats slicing the waters of the Thames. He knew Burton was frustrated that the altercation had happened, let alone witnessed by his superior. He was shocked he could read his constable so easily, see the doubt and uncertainty there. Perhaps he'd been spending too much time in Mr. Holmes's company. Or he'd been spending too much time with Burton. Neither thought sat comfortably with him.
Lestrade excused himself and made a swift retreat. Outside, he stood and smoked slowly, watched silvery clouds drift across an inky sky, wispy fingers grasping at a new dawn.
End