Devonshire Squires Chapter Twenty
"I've guessed you're a bitter man. Am I right?"
The Detective Inspector looked down at the pint glass of dark amber liquid. It was sitting on a little round table in the Builder's Arms on Bittern Street. At a Wednesday evening at 5pm, the place was heaving, and she'd been lucky to snag a table. Mary had chosen it because it was convenient for the Royal Brompton Hospital, where she 'd just finished a one day top-up course to keep her nursing qualifications up. Once, long ago, it might have been a workers' boozer, but now it was done up in gastro-pub décor, the wooden panelled walls now a rather shocking shade of purple.
She added, "It's real ale- a guest beer called Doom Bar, from Cornwall, although what it's doing up here in London, I don't know."
Lestrade smirked as he sat down. "First of all, you're right. I do prefer a proper beer, none of that lager stuff you're drinking." He gestured dismissively to the half pint of Carlsberg she had in front of her.
As he reached for the glass, he continued, "Doom Bar is from Rock, in Cornwall. It's where all the Chelsea kids go surfing. So, it makes sense that this pub would serve it."
Mary noticed that he stroked a finger down the side of the glass, before picking it up.
She smirked. "I've left it there for what John says is the statutory seven minutes to warm up, although I can't understand why."
That earned her another smile. "Because London pubs serve their beer too cold." Then the smile faded, and he glanced away briefly.
Mary decided it was time to start the negotiation. "John told me that it was Sherlock who experimented with it to find the right length of time. You like it seven minutes; John prefers ten."
"Yeah, for someone who never drank a pint of beer if he could help it, Sherlock was something of an expert. As for ten minutes, well, John's from the Midlands. He would prefer it warmer."
"I always tease him that he should like it colder, because he probably dreamed about having a pint when he was in Afghanistan."
That made Lestrade look back at her. He took another swallow and then put the glass down. "So, what can I do for you, Miss Morstan?"
"It's Mary, as you well know. And I meant what I said in the text. I need a consultation about a Consulting Detective."
"Why?" There was just a hint of caution behind the question.
She sighed. "Why does everyone assume that I am somehow Sherlock's enemy?" She gave him a look of exasperation. "I love John. When I met him, I knew he had a hole in him- any idiot could see that something was missing. I'm not an idiot. I have tried to fill the hole in, but I'm not enough. When I met Sherlock I realised that together, we can do it. I want that. John needs it. And I think Sherlock does, too. But the two of them are playing silly buggers and won't get back together again."
"Why tell me this? You're preaching to the converted."
She was watching him carefully and saw the momentary tightening around his eyes. She gave him one of her grateful smiles. "Thank you, by the way, for getting John to attend at that crime scene. If Sherlock hadn't been a prat then, they might have made real progress."
He grimaced. "He wasn't exactly on best behaviour."
She swallowed another sip of her lager. The cold made her teeth hurt. "John came home grumpy as hell. Took me ages to winkle out of him what had happened. Then I thought the stuff about him finding the fingerprint on the body, and then our trip to Reigate would help. What's happened since?"
"Not much. Accidental death- even in a such dubious situation- isn't my division. Officially? The case is closed." He shook his head sadly. "And now Sherlock's gone AWOL."
Encouraged by the frankness of that admission, Mary ploughed on. "So, why is he pushing John away?"
"It's not just John."
"Oh, he's doing it to you, too?"
"And his brother."
Mary knew all about that. But she needed to know what Lestrade wasn't telling her. His whole manner made it clear that he was uncomfortable about something. If she was going to keep her promise, and protect her real identity from Mycroft Holmes, she needed to crack Lestrade's reluctance to share intelligence. Finding Sherlock was an imperative, and Mycroft's clock was ticking.
"Detective Inspector…"
Before she could get the question out, he smiled. "If you want me to call you Mary, then you'd better call me Greg."
She smiled- and it was genuine. "Okay, Greg. I think you and I are on the same page here. We both want them to sort whatever it is that is keeping them apart. Let me help, please."
He took another mouthful of beer, considering her request carefully. "Some people would think that as John's fiancé you would be the last person to want them to reconcile."
She snorted. "As I said before, I am not jealous of Sherlock. I like him. From what John says, he's having some trouble getting back into normal life."
"Sherlock doesn't do normal, even at the best of times."
"I know that. In fact, that's what makes him so interesting. I really want the chance to get to know him better. For my own sake, not just because he's an important part of John's past. I want Sherlock to be a part of our future, too. If I end up as the reason why the two of them don't work it out, then that's going to poison John's relationship with me. And I am selfish enough not to want that to happen. So, that's two good reasons why you and I should work together. Let me help you find him."
"How?"
"Well, you could start by being honest with me. You've seen him since the crime scene, haven't you?"
He put his hands down on the table. "Yeah, and I made a mistake. I realised he was using my motorbike, and I trapped him returning it to the garage at my flat. But I didn't realise how ill he was, and I let him get away."
"Ill?" She didn't have to fake the concern. No wonder Mycroft is worried.
Greg nodded. "He's not properly recovered from what happened before he returned. According to Sherlock, Mycroft caught up with him just as he was talking his way out of a prison. I did see the evidence - he'd been beaten to a pulp, and was on heavy-duty pain relief while trying to find the underground train plot."
She was startled. "John…doesn't know."
"Yeah, I figured that out. Sherlock hasn't told him anything about what happened."
"But you know? What has he told you?"
"Not much about the torture. And nothing about what happened before that. It's more the evidence. I've seen his back. And whatever happened has provoked a number of seizures."
"Oh." She shook her head in amazement. "He hides it well. I would never have guessed. He seems so…I don't know- confident, self-assured. The only time I saw anything but that cocky attitude was on the very first night- he genuinely thought John would welcome him back with open arms."
Greg smirked. "I saw the result- the split lip. But you have to realise something. Sherlock let John hit him. There's no way he'd have let anyone else lay a finger on him. He's a bloody good fighter... had to be to survive the two years against the likes of Moriarty's men."
Mary replayed the three collisions- John trying to throttle Sherlock on the floor of the restaurant. Then the punch in the café, followed by the head butt that gave the man his bloody nose. Not once had Sherlock even tried to block the blows. Some sociopath. She couldn't decide whether it was Sherlock realising that John had to let loose some of the frustration and pain, or he'd been willing to play punching bag out of some sense of guilt. Her estimation of the extent of Sherlock's sacrifice had gone up when Lestrade showed up at their flat and played John the tape of the rooftop discussion with Moriarty*.
So, why push John away? "That's background. What about now? Why has he gone AWOL?"
He hesitated. "It's not the first time. I've known Sherlock for years, and whenever big brother gets a little too insistent, he does a runner."
"He's not the sort to sit around hiding somewhere."
Greg smirked. "Yeah- you've got to know him pretty quickly." Her comment seemed to answer a doubt he had, because he then said "Well, let's start with the fact that for him the case isn't over. He's still investigating Robbs' death, by joining the same Fight Club. Showed up at my flat on Friday night bruised and bloody. Said he'd won and that the other guy was in hospital with a suspected broken neck."
"Oh!" Her face must have conveyed her delight.
"What?!"
"If so, then we can find out where the fight club met, and ask Sherlock's opponent what's going on."
Greg looked confused. "He never said anything about that. We haven't a clue where it was or who was involved."
She rolled her eyes. "That's because you're not a medical professional. The 999 call would have been recorded. Have you checked to see what admissions were made at London hospitals for that kind of injury on late Friday night?"
His eyes widened. "I'm an idiot."
"No, but I'm sure Sherlock assumed you wouldn't know. See how working together helps? I'm going to call John, and we're going to start asking around."
She knocked back the rest of her lager and reached around for her coat and handbag. "Let's get to work."
Author's Note: * See Got My Eye on You, Chapter 75. And Happy Christmas, or Nemaste- whatever... Normal Service will resume on Boxing Day.