CHAPTER FIVE
Sherlock Holmes. After spending hours he should have spent sleeping, Lestrade knew little more about him. There was no record of any major tragic events in his life that might have caused his calloused detachment that he could find. There was no denying Sherlock had an impressive skill set, but his research hadn't taught him that. Sherlock had tried to offer the police a tip on a drowning investigation when he was eight; it had been largely ignored and the incident ruled accidental though. He had been picked up during a drugs bust a couple years earlier, but strangely no charges were ever filed, and he walked.
That was about it. The only family he seemed closely linked to was an older brother, Mycroft Holmes, who seemed to occupy a fairly high position in the government, but oddly little more was known about him, including what his actual job title was.
With so little information, he wondered how he and Sherlock had crossed paths, how he had known about the 'fake' bodies that turned out to not be so fake, and if he'd ever work with him, or even see him, again. Only time would tell.
Ӂ
Greg arrived Friday morning in a good mood. Casework had been light, he and the wife had been getting along well, and he had the weekend off. And to make things even better, he'd finally gotten that new mobile phone he'd been thinking of getting for ages.
Sergeant Donovan entered his office with a perplexed look on her face before turning to her boss. "We have another one – man killed in central London, apparently a stabbing."
Her phone vibrated again and she looked down to check it, the confused look returning. "It says 'wrong.'"
Abruptly Greg's phone buzzed as well, notifying him of a new text.
'I'll be in touch. -SH'