Prompt: "Not once, in all my years as an inspector, did I ever see Mr Holmes..." from Book girl fan
A/N: obviously, with a prompt like this, I could not resist going the Garridebs route
By the time Lestrade arrived with backup from the Yard, he was hardly needed. Mr. Holmes had obviously figured out the entire case himself, and no doubt would lord it over them much as he had done for the past twenty-odd years.
Still, the moment he arrived, something felt off, and he had any number of crime scenes to compare it to. The criminal was cowering, for lack of a better word, against the far wall, staring up at Mr. Holmes in something like terror, his eyes wide. As for Holmes, he was ignoring the fellow entirely, bent over a second figure across the room. Neither of these elements struck Lestrade as normal - Holmes could be intimidating, certainly, but fair, and no other criminal he had put away reacted to him as if he was the devil himself. Holmes, too, never missed an opportunity to explain at length how Scotland Yard had bungled the investigation.
"Lestrade! Have you brought a medical inspector?" Holmes's strident tones rang out without him turning around. Though Lestrade had enough experience of the world's only consulting detective to know that something was wrong. His manner, of being in charge and convinced he was the only one in the room who knew anything at all, was missing. In another man, Lestrade might have called his tone fearful.
"Yes, though I hardly see that we need one," Lestrade said.
"Good," Holmes said. "He shall look you over, Watson."
A weak chuckle, and as Holmes moved over to allow the medical inspector to approach, Lestrade realized who the second figure on the floor was. Dr. Watson, seated against the wall, looking remarkably pale and clutching a rag to his leg. Lestrade swallowed as he saw the rag was stained with blood. "Holmes, I am fine," Dr. Watson said. "It is a scratch, nothing more."
"Nonetheless, you should have a doctor look over it," Holmes said imperiously.
Dr. Watson chuckled softly again. "Holmes, I am a doctor. I can assure you it is not serious."
"Still," Holmes said. Now that he stood to greet Lestrade, the inspector saw that he looked very pale and somewhat nervous. Perhaps, Lestrade thought, a distraction would do him good.
"Is this the fellow, then, Holmes?" he asked.
"This piece of filth?" Holmes asked, uncharacteristically angry. "Yes, he is behind the plot of the Garridebs. You may take him, Lestrade, and may he never see the light of day again."
It was most unlike Holmes to be so vehement in his feelings about anyone, particularly a criminal. Lestrade had often thought he was not harsh enough in his feelings about those who committed crimes. Oh, he had a sense of justice, but the most Lestrade had ever seen him admit to feeling for one of the criminals he brought in was respect for their intellect.
"He said he'd kill me!" The man on the floor said, raising a shaking finger to Holmes. His accent was American, Lestrade noted. "Said if that fellow over there had been killed I wouldn't leave the room alive! He's a madman!"
Lestrade looked to Holmes, who glared down at the man with such anger that Lestrade was momentarily taken aback. "He shot Watson," the detective said with venom dripping from his tongue. "Thankfully, his aim was poor."
Lestrade glared at the American himself. Holmes may have been a nuisance more than anything else, but Dr. Watson was kind and well-liked by the Yard, not only for making Holmes seem rather more human, but for his quiet sense of humor, willingness to assist whenever necessary, his ready medical knowledge, and simply for himself. Dr. Watson was the sort who always remembered to ask about an officer's children or wife or parents, or to remember a birthday, and while Holmes might have been able to deduce all those facts, Dr. Watson simply knew them as a colleague. He had even spent evenings in the pub with the Yarders, and all had found him an easy companion to like. Lestrade was certain that every man at the Yard would be glad to have in their custody a man who had tried to kill the doctor, and to make sure he knew it too. "Take him away," he growled to the constables. They pulled the American up roughly and hauled him out of the room.
"Holmes," Lestrade said. "You did not really say you would kill him, did you?"
Holmes breathed heavily, as if bringing himself back under control. "I most certainly did. Had Watson been - been killed, I would have made sure to do so."
Lestrade pretended not to notice he had admitted to, well, almost attempted murder. Rather, it occurred to him that had never seen Holmes trip on his words before. But he had never seen Holmes appear so nervous before either, or angry, or indeed, so human as to have emotions other than disdain for everyone less intelligent than himself.
Next to them, the medical examiner was helping Dr. Watson up. "You will be fine as soon as it can be stitched in a hospital. The bullet passed cleanly through."
"Yes, I thought so," Dr. Watson said, in an attempt to maintain his usual good spirits, though he winced and leaned heavily against the wall.
"Here, Watson, lean upon me," Holmes said, leaving Lestrade behind entirely and offering Dr. Watson his arm.
"Thank you, Holmes," Dr. Watson said. "I believe I can walk, though it shall be slow going."
"We shall take a hansom direct to the hospital," Holmes promised. "Slowly, now."
Lestrade waited until they had at last made it down the stairs before he turned to the medical examiner next to him. "Not once, in all my years as Inspector, did I ever see Mr. Holmes so affected," he said.
"Well, his friend was very nearly killed," came the answer. "I would be more surprised had he not been so affected."
Lestrade had never really considered whether Holmes really cared for Dr. Watson at all…certainly they had shared rooms for long enough, but it seemed so strange that Holmes should care for anyone. He was, as he said himself, a perfect reasoning machine.
Perhaps, though, there was something human under there after all.