Speechless
Chapter 1.1: What You Said To Me
The message had not included a meeting place, or even the suggestion of a meeting. Thus, it was through some powerful instinctual draw that Lestrade found himself back at the entrance to the Globe. He deftly ducked under the caution tape, gently pushing the wooden door open.
It was dark inside the theatre, as one could expect from an open-air venue in the wee hours of the morning. The only sounds were the slight creaking of the aging stage as it stirred like an arthritic beast in its slumber and the soft echoes of the detective's own breath.
"You came alone."
The deep voice startled Lestrade. He always hated this part, when he was seen but the stranger was still invisible, a wisp and nothing more. He gulped, hoping that he could conceal the fear in his voice. He really should have called for backup. In fact, he shouldn't be here at all. He should be in bed with his wife. This game was a game for younger men.
"Yes," he replied simply, though as he said it, it dawned on him that the man had not asked him a question. Rather than a query, it was a statement of fact.
"Good."
He could almost feel the smile in the tone of the stranger's voice, and for some reason that frightened him even more.
"You said you could help," he blurted rather abruptly, as though the lingering smile would swallow him whole.
Suddenly, he saw a flicker of movement in the darkness, the black coattails vanishing once more from view. He bolted up on the stage, following the only lead he had into the dark alley behind the theatre.
He searched frantically for the source of the voice for some minutes before he heard a familiar chuckle from behind him.
"No wonder you haven't cracked it yet. Can't even find me. Idiot."
Lestrade spun around, coming face to face with. . .
He could only describe the man huddled against the wall as Death itself. His pale skin clung tightly to his body like cellophane, revealing every twist of sinew and bone beneath them. Sunken eyes almost unbelievably blue glowed at him from under a tangle of matted dark hair. He leaned forward to get a better look at him, only to reel back in disgust at the stench of piss and rot that reeked from the man.
The man shuddered, drawing his threadbare, patch-covered black coat around himself with skeletal fingers to shield himself from the spring chill.
Lestrade frowned, tearing his own coat off himself and wrapping it about the man. No one, not even a washed-up street addict, deserved to freeze to death alone in the gutters of a heartless city.
The man glared up at him. "Thanks," he snarled. Clearly, he did not really want to be helped.
"Who are you, and what do you know about the homicide of John Fox?" asked Lestrade point-blank. There was no sense wasting time, especially when this man very well could be the murderer.
The man rolled his eyes. "Homicides."
Lestrade stared at him. "Sorry, what?"
"Homicides. As in multiple. As in serial killer. I told you before, it's not about revenge. There have been at least three now, in different theatres, years apart. That's why no one's noticed. But it's all a pattern. Don't you see?"
He stared at the man, confused. "No, I don't see."
"Why is everyone so stupid? Come on, Detective Inspector! It's right in front of you! The Lear murder, 1995. The so-called Macbeth suicide, 1999 -"
Lestrade sighed. "But I worked on both those cases. And we know Kinley's death was a suicide. She stabbed herself with a dagger on New Year's Eve because she thought the world was ending."
"Right. Onstage. Because people often commit suicide in public places right before curtain call."
"You don't think we were thorough?" He was getting visibly annoyed with the man. After all, he was one of the best detectives in all of London. Even as humble as he was, he could only bear being insulted for so long.
The man smiled sardonically. "Oh, you were thorough. Just not thorough enough."
"And what could we have possibly done differently, if you know so much?"
"You could have been working with me." He held out his hand towards the detective, who took it gingerly. "The name's Sherlock Holmes."
"Ok, Mr. Holmes. You've had your fun. Now let's say I play along. Do you really think you can find this killer?"
"Oh, absolutely. And Sherlock, by the way. I prefer Sherlock."
Lestrade stared at him. With that level of confidence, the grungy ball of tattered clothes and bones in front of him was either a madman or a genius. Either way, he was intrigued.
"And if you help me, Sherlock, what do you expect in return?"
"I want a full-time partnership. Any time you get a good case, one with a lot of violence and things that don't make sense, I want you to call me, understand?"
"And why would I do that?"
The man reached up quickly, grabbing the detective roughly by his shirt collar and pulling him close with significant strength.
"Because you need me," he whispered intensely into Lestrade's ear. "You just don't know it yet."