Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson and all associated characters belong to the late, great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his estate, various studios and other companies. This pastiche is completely non-profit, and only for enjoyment and entertainment.

Warnings: Adult Themes & Light Bad Language

Authors Notes: I feel so sorry for Scotland Yard in Sherlock Holmes stories some times. But not today! This was just plain fun to write. I took a lot of the 'script writing' kinds of descriptions that ACD used in the original, because in a modern time most people wouldn't do exposition that way, even though ACD most likely used that tool for dramatic and storytelling effect.

Please, read and review

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Chapter Ten: Tobias Gregson Shows What He Can Do

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The next day Watson left early from work with the excuse that he needed to pack to move into Baker Street the next morning, and he had to organise some sort of transport for some of his things in the storage locker, as well as pay up his hotel bill.

He unlocked the door, took one look at his room, turned around, got out of the building with a scathing lecture from the hotel manager about the fire safety rules, and headed straight down to Montague Street.

He banged on the door. "Holmes!"

The door swung in and sideways, as it usually did. "Watson! Good, I was just about to call you. I," he held up a triumphant finger. "Have had a perfectly informative and constructive day in which I have cleared all the little unanswered questions about the case, save one. This shall be done within the next few hours, I can assure you."

"Holmes," Watson repeated through gritted teeth. "Would you mind explaining to me just why my hotel room currently looks like a publisher's warehouse combined with a laboratory's storeroom and an armoury, you infuriating pillock?"

The room in Montague Street was almost clean; you could actually see the floor, the window was now letting in real daylight and the walls were clear. The bulk of the chemical shelves, books and papers were all gone, along with the various weapons and lab equipment. The couch, faded and dusty looked almost lonely, with a suitcase on it. The forensic machinery - the gas chromatographer-mass spectrometer - still remained, stuck on the bare floorboards in a mess of cables.

The room actually looked empty and deserted. Well of course it did, Watson thought resentfully.

"I would prefer to have the majority of my things out of this termite nest," Holmes explained remorselessly. "The troll living downstairs may get impatient, and have this place burned down any day now. As we're moving into Baker Street tomorrow, I didn't see the harm in having my things stored with you for one night."

Watson glared at the infuriating man. "Holmes, I realize social graces are not your forte, but you need to tell me these things! I can barely get to my bed for packing boxes!"

"I was extremely busy," Holmes explained reasonably. "And I didn't want to wait. Some of those things are irreplaceable and I didn't want to see them burnt to ashes."

"There you go again with 'place is going to burn down'," Watson shouldered his way into the apartment. "You've mentioned that a couple of times now. What the hell are you talking about?"

"Mrs Dudley, the landlady?" Holmes pointed downstairs. "She feels she deserves a better lifestyle, and goodness knows what sparked that delusion. She's planning on setting this placed alight as soon as she can do it safely, and maybe not even then."

Watson stared. "You're joking."

Holmes snorted. "Trust me, insurance means this place is far, far more valuable destroyed than still standing. You of course noticed the extra layers of vanish and oil everywhere you go in this building? The chemical cans littering the hallways along with the rubbish? The sheer amount of indulgence that ogre is partaking in? Believe me, she could not afford to binge like that a few weeks ago; but now apparently she has access to a limitless supply. It does not take genius such as mine to see she is stocking up on her accelerants – some of which she can't help but dip into, apparently. With all the preparation that woman's done, this place will go up like a tinder box."

"You are," Watson rolled his eyes. "Impressively paranoid." He sat down on the couch.

"It's only paranoia if I am wrong," Holmes replied superciliously. "And I am never wrong. So, just to be on the safe side, I moved most of my things to your rooms for the night. I am the last lodger standing who hasn't been completely driven mad by her incessant harping and foul habits. I wouldn't put it past her to burn me in my sleep, the blood sucking boozer."

"I can't imagine why she'd want to," Watson commented with saccharine irony as he took a seat on the couch.

Holmes glared at him.

There was a knock on the door. "Holmes? It's Detective Inspector Tobias Gregson!" A voice yelled through the door.

"You notice how he always introduces himself with his title?" Holmes murmured dryly. "It's as if he thinks it will be stolen if he doesn't own to it every single time. Come in, Inspector Gregson."

Open, swing, pivot. Gregson cursed as he shoved the door back into place. "Sorry about that."

Holmes waved him off amusedly. "I will send you the bill. What can I do for you, Inspector?"

The man's face suddenly suffused into almost childlike delight. "I have solved it, Mister Holmes. The whole matter is now perfectly clear and we have the suspect in custody. I'm sorry to say that we won't need any further services from you," the sheer enormity of that falsehood was as clear as glass. "And the best of it is that Lestrade, the twice over fool, is following the completely wrong track. Strangerson has no more to do with this than an unborn infant. By the time he gets to the truth, the murderer will have been tried and convicted." He laughed until he choked at the thought.

For a flash of a second, Holmes face twisted with a perplexed anxiety, which vanished instantly into a schooled expression of diffident interest. "My, my. That is extremely interesting. Pray, do tell us the man's name and the method by which you found him."

"The murderer is Arthur Charpentier, a lieutenant in the British Navy," Gregson named proudly.

Holmes gave a soft, relieved sigh and relaxed back onto the couch. Watson watched the amused gleam in the man's grey eyes with caution. Holmes didn't find normal things funny.

"And how did you find this man?" Holmes asked levelly. "Would you like some tea, by the way?"

"Oh, no thank you; though I'll be stopping by my local bar on the way home," Gregson grinned. "I have had exertions to contend with for the last two days – mental ones, which I'm sure you will appreciate Mr Holmes. You yourself are a brain-worker as well."

"You do me such honour," was Holmes' reply, in which you could hear the ironical amusement dripping to the floor. Watson grimaced. This was going to be savage.

Gregson continued, oblivious. "The first step was finding out where the man was staying in London, which is no easy task considering no one knew him here. Most people would have spent days on the phones, or posted flyers or put advertisements in the paper and waited for responses, which could have taken weeks. That is not my way. Did you notice the tailored suit the man was wearing?"

"Underwood & Sons, 129 Camberwell Road," Holmes rattled off languidly.

For a moment Gregson actually looked crestfallen. "I didn't realize you had noticed. Have you yourself made enquiries?"

Holmes shook his head. "I'm afraid not."

"Well, a trifle should never be ignored, no matter how small," Gregson continued, brightening up. "The suit was brand new, so I asked Underwood whether he had made one of that description and had it delivered anywhere in the last few weeks. He had indeed had one made and delivered to Charpentier's Boarding Establishment in Torquay Terrace, the residence of Drebber whilst he was in London," Gregson grinned triumphantly.

"Smart," Holmes responded, seemingly interested. "Very smart."

"I spoke to Madam Charpentier and her daughter, Alice. They run the boarding house, along with a small staff. The instant – the very instant – I started asking questions about the American guest Mr Drebber, it was clear something fishy was going on. Mrs Charpentier went absolutely white, and Alice Charpentier looked much the same. You could see the young lady had been quite distraught recently – her eyes were red from crying and she fairly shook when she saw me. She burst into tears when she heard Drebber's name.

"I began to smell a rat. Mrs Charpentier confirmed both Drebber and Strangerson had stayed there for the past three weeks. They were entirely memorable, mostly because of Drebber. Strangerson was by all accounts quiet and no trouble; but Drebber, apparently, was not. His conduct was completely inappropriate, and that's putting it mildly. Mrs Charpentier stated the man was, without exception, drunk after twelve o'clock midday every day – falling down drunk. There were several complaints lodged about his behaviour with the female staff and female guests. Nothing criminal; just inappropriate words, behaviours and gestures. Mrs Charpentier kept them on despite this, as they were paying something like triple the amount charged for their rooms and it is the slack season. She was eventually incensed enough to ask them to leave when it became clear Drebber's attentions were focusing on Alice Charpentier, to the point where he accosted her in a hallway while intoxicated, tried to kiss her and drag her into his rooms. Strangerson separated them and went after Drebber about his behaviour. So did Mrs Charpentier; and she added in no uncertain terms that the pair could either leave of their own free will or in police custody. They both left at eight pm for the nine pm train from Euston Station to go to Liverpool on the night he was killed. Mrs Charpentier claimed they had left together, and that was the last she had seen of either."

Gregson shook his head. "As soon as she said it, I knew it was a lie. I could see it in her daughter's face. I pressed them, asked them to repeat the story. The daughter, Alice, finally gave in and admitted they had seen Drebber again. Her mother was not happy about that. Mrs Charpentier started scolding Miss Alice about it, saying she was getting her brother into trouble – a point which I found extremely interesting, you will no doubt realise. The young woman, however, stuck to her statement and confessed that Drebber had come back about an hour later – clearly intoxicated – and had given an excuse about missing the nine pm train.

"This is where it gets really interesting," Gregson leaned forward. "Drebber burst into the Charpentier's private unit and proposed marriage to Alice. Oh yes," Gregson preened over the shocked look on Watson's face, and even Holmes had a raised eyebrow. "The girl's only eighteen, which is just into the legal age. Drebber ranted that no law would stop the marriage and about being able to provide her everything she ever wanted or needed. He grabs her by the arm and tries to drag her out the door. Mrs Charpentier goes at him to try and stop him, screaming at the top of her voice. Now, unbeknownst to Drebber, Mrs Charpentier's son Arthur had come home - after the two Americans had departed at eight - for an evening's furlough with his family. He came home soon after they had left the first time, heard the story from his mother about Drebber and then went up to change out of his uniform. He hears his mother's screams not twenty minutes later, when Drebber returns, and races back down to the main room. He bursts in to see his sister being dragged by the arm by the disgusting sot, so he puts Drebber in a headlock, drags him out the door and pitches him out into the street."

"Good for him," Watson commented decisively.

Holmes rolled his eyes but Gregson just nodded. "Oh yes, apparently the two siblings are very close and he's very protective of her. Charpentier checks that his mother and sister are both alright and then tells them that's he's going to go after Drebber to make sure he doesn't come back; he disappears into the night and does not return until well after midnight. Mrs Charpentier hedged as much as she could, but she eventually admitted that she never heard young Charpentier come back in, so he had no alibi for his whereabouts at the time of the murder. The man had motive and opportunity to kill Drebber."

"And the means?" Holmes asked sharply.

"Ah, now that was a sticking point, I'll admit," Gregson answered promptly and confidently. "We arrested him when he came back to shore after some rescue drill training he had been on for the last two days in a carrier off the coast. Do you know what he had in his bag?" He asked eagerly. "The preserved head of a pit viper! Just the head, painted with preservative. He'd picked it up in some foreign port and had kept it as a souvenir. I checked with our experts; depending on the age of the ghastly thing, Charpentier could have extracted enough venom to kill Drebber with it."

Watson was confused. "But why not just use a gun? He had to have had access to many."

"Guns are traceable," Gregson shrugged. "Hematoxin less so. I suspect he did it to throw suspicion off himself. He was as bold as brass when we came to arrest him. Said straight to my face that he was sure I was there about that drunken degenerate, Drebber. He certainly isn't sorry for anything. Oh, cheer up Mr Holmes," Gregson added, mistaking Holmes expression of sheer disbelief at idiocy for embarrassment. "You were correct, this was a revenge killing. And Charpentier is a tall, fit man, so you were right there too. You can't expect to catch the man every time. As an amateur, you won't have access to the resources that we do at the Yard."

Watson was starting to feel extremely sorry for Gregson. The gleam of vengeance in Holmes eyes practically illuminated the room. Watson had no doubt the consulting detective was going to leave Gregson in little tiny pieces all over the room.

"And how, may I ask," Holmes spoke slowly, as if trying to suppress some internal flood. "Was the poison administered?"

"Oh, I'm having the morgue people re-examine the body," Gregson waved a dismissive hand while Watson turned to stare at him. "I'm certain they will find an injection site somewhere that was missed. No insult to your work, doctor," Gregson added hastily to Watson's covert operations stare. "But you're new to forensic pathology, and it's possible you missed something. It was your first unassisted autopsy, after all."

Watson had stopped feeling sorry for Gregson. In fact, he promised as he fought to clear the red from his vision that when Holmes had finished dismembering the luckless Inspector, he, Watson, was going to hide the body parts.

Watson forced himself to calm down. He could feel Holmes laughing at him silently from the corner of his eye.

"You conclusion are most...interesting, Inspector," Holmes allowed, speaking carefully.

There was a knock at the door.

"It's becoming a busy place today," Holmes remarked sardonically. "Enter."

The door did it's usual Escher movement and admitted Lestrade carrying a case and a cane in one hand, who propped the door up as usual and entered with the stride of a preoccupied man. "Mr Holmes, Doctor, Gregson," he nodded to each in turn. "Doctor, I thought you might be here. I believe this is yours," he held up Watson's cane and offered it.

"Thank you, Inspector," Watson said sincerely, while Holmes obligingly tossed the useless ergonomic one aside.

"Gregson, I heard from dispatch you were coming here as well. There's something I needed to confer with you about, though you both," he told Holmes and Watson. "Are welcome enough to stay, I suppose." He placed the case on the floor.

Gregson shot his rival a triumphant smile. "Lestrade, good to see you! I suppose you have heard of the great progress that was made in your absence?" He asked with just a hint of snideness. "Very shortly we will have Arthur Charpentier dead to rights."

"Yes," Lestrade confirmed in a leaden tone that made Holmes look up with interest. "I have heard he was arrested on the quay this afternoon. Gregson, can I confirm with you – was Charpentier absolutely confirmed to have been aboard his vessel for the last two days?"

Gregson was taken aback. "Yes, we confirmed it. It's a military vessel, Lestrade, and in the middle of the ocean. It would incredibly hard for him to abscond without someone noticing. When he wasn't on duty with four other men, he was bunking with a roommate or at the officer's mess."

"I see," Lestrade replied to this statement slowly. He scrubbed a tired hand across his face. "This is a most unusual business. Most unusual."

"Lestrade," Holmes leaned forward, filled with energy. "You have new information to add?"

Gregson snorted derisively. "What more is there to add? Drebber and Strangerson came into the country, got kicked out of their rooms because of Drebber's behaviour, the two of them separated at Euston, Drebber came back to harass the family and pushed it too far, which lead to Charpentier hunting him down and killing him. Simple."

"Not simple, Gregson" Lestrade retorted. "Not simple at all. After making some enquiries we found that the pair, Drebber and Strangerson had been spotted on Euston Station; the ticket box confirmed they bought two tickets to Liverpool. Since Drebber was found in Brixton I had the idea that Strangerson had been involved in his death, so I sent a request for information and whereabouts on Strangerson to Liverpool and started checking hotels around Euston. It was possible, I thought, for Strangerson to have murdered Drebber and then fled to Liverpool, perhaps to stowaway on the boats there; or maybe he was still hiding in London."

"This is useless!" Gregson blustered. "Strangerson had nothing whatsoever to do with it. Why would he murder his employer in a foreign country when there was ample opportunity to do it at home? We have the murderer. Why is this important?"

"I've just come from Halliday's Hotel in Little George Street near Euston Station," Lestrade replied grimly. "Joseph Strangerson was murdered there at six o'clock this morning."

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End Chapter Ten