Chapter Notes: One thing I have gotten out of this experience of writing this series, is that character happens, relationships happen, magic happens when you start with the right concept.
I wish I could say I feel responsible for the wonderful alchemy that is happening between Lestrade and Watson. I would like to claim that I am entirely responsible, but sometimes I look at the written page with awe at the depth and richness of their interaction and I feel like I related an overheard conversation between two very close friends. Will that stop me from writing it? Nope I am having too much fun with these guys.
I think there is the specter of Sherlock Holmes all over this series, it never shows so much as in this chapter.
Have fun reading...I know I had a ball writing it!
WARNING: Watson is ill. Medical ickyness happens when someone is this sick, so you are forewarned. I don't feel it excessive though. I hope you agree.
Bart
Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 4
The Frozen Image
Chapter Two
Lestrade walked a step past Watson and the corpse of the young girl, not wanting his friend to see the sudden tears from the wave of emotion that crashed over him, the weight of all thirty-four years of Yard service catching up to him at once.
"This is my fault, John, this young girl died because of my incompetence and short-sightedness," he paused, and then continued voice thick with irony, "I guess Holmes was right after all."
Watson was too frail to get up so he reached out and gave Lestrade's trouser cuff a comforting tug.
"The pressure you must have been under, the ordeal of seeing all those women turning up and you could do nothing, suddenly he is in custody, literally red-handed and confessing? Let's not go all maudlin, shall we? You may not have saved this girl, but the killer is still out there, Giles, and I need the best inspector in Scotland Yard here with me. Holmes was not infallible, you know."
Lestrade turned hastily wiping his eyes, back to his friend, down on the ground. Too weak to stand, the insufferable fool was flashing his lopsided grin.
"You can crumple up like a weepy virgin maid on her wedding day after this case is done," Watson remarked with a wry cocked eyebrow.
"Are you quite done sitting down on the job?" Lestrade asked in his most tolerant tone.
Watson began packing his medical bag, "For the moment, help a chap up will you?"
He finished snapping it closed, reached out a hand to young girl. "We will find your killer, m'lady, this I vow."
"Here, here," Lestrade agreed, offering Watson his hand.
Pulled to his feet, the change of elevation proved to be too much for the ailing Watson. He stumbled, took two steps towards the wall, and retched, away from the body behind a discarded crate.
Mayweather appeared as quickly as he had vanished. Before Lestrade could move to offer aid, Mayweather grabbed the taller tottering Watson's arm so he would not fall, showing an abnormal amount of strength as he took Watson's entire weight without visible effort.
"Curious," Watson remarked after a few moments to regain his strength, "you would think actually having something on your stomach a prerequisite."
Lestrade glanced at Mayweather with the concerned eyes he would not show Watson. Mayweather cracked a tired smile with a slight shrug of the shoulder, letting Lestrade know this had been a common occurrence recently.
Watson's face flushed as Mayweather guided him past. "I will see you at the Yard," Watson said. Lestrade knew the man well enough to understand that the blush was one of embarrassment.
"Hold the cab; Doctor, and I will ride with you, if you don't mind tarrying a bit."
Watson nodded, and he and his escort continued by.
There were so many smells in this alleyway that Lestrade did not think Watson's sick would be noticeable, but to be certain, he moved the crate to conceal the small puddle. The man deserved his dignity.
He turned to see Watson talking quietly to Rollins at the alley mouth, his face carefully turned away so the young man would not catch his breath.
The young photographer, standing with his equipment looking uncharacteristically faint, nodded at the Doctor's words. Watson gave his shoulder a squeeze and gestured for Mayweather to help him on.
Lestrade nodded to the young man as he approached. "Is the light enough? Do we need more lanterns?"
Rollins shook his head. He turned to stare past the corridor. As he did so, the morning sun burst over the horizon behind a distant building passing right through the alley.
Lestrade turned with him back to the girl's body, he marvelled at how the new light framed her. There was a shadow of a cross from a distant steeple on her bodice, and the makeup on her face gave her the illusion of repose. In that fleeting instant, she was so ethereal and angelic he could find no words.
"I think the light is sufficient, inspector, but thank you for asking," Rollins remarked, sadness in his voice as he lugged his equipment by. "Tell Doctor Watson, I'll work all morning if that's what it takes, he will have the print in two hours if I can manage."
Lestrade felt for the young man who had seen so much at such a tender age, but as he set up his camera, the more familiar cool, efficient Rollins was coming back to the fore.
Lestrade knew that Harold Rollins grew up the youngest of twelve children to one of the most successful morticians in London. He had been around dead bodies all his life. Lestrade had seen the boy walk past vomiting Police Constables twice his age at a bad crime scene to take pictures without even turning pale. For some reason, maybe because of the beautiful subject, Harold was off his level today.
Lestrade gave a nod to the two constables on stretcher duty as he passed.
He saw Gregson and Bradstreet conferring with Hopkins and the burly Athelney Jones and was immediately suspicious.
He strolled up and heard them talking in hushed tones. "Who had Lestrade flipped? I did, but I didna say slammed. I said slammed but I left out the flipped part. Alright, I says tiebreaker goes to who had him with a knife to his throat."
"As it so happens, it looks like I won..." Hopkins trailed off, as he casually glanced over and saw a fuming Chief Inspector glowering at him, arms crossed.
They dispersed in a hurry leaving an bemused Gregson standing, his culpability clear with Hopkin's pad in one hand and the quid the other.
"You all knew that maniac was lying in wait, and you said nothing!" Lestrade hissed in low perilous voice.
Gregson shrugged. "We got bigger problems on our hands, Giles, there's vultures from both the Times and Mirror in that crowd over there. We need to give a statement or they'll put words in our mouths."
Lestrade put aside his thoughts of evil deeds long enough to scan the crowd in question.
"Trollop and Weems? They are the worst!" he grumbled. The squat bald headed man with the suspicious, beady eyes was waving for Lestrade's attention. Beside him, giving Giles her penetrating stare was the attractive brunette wearing the mannish suit watching his reactions with open calculation. She was the one he feared. "Benjamin Trollop, and Agatha Weems, can this day get any worse?"
Gregson winced.
The superstitious man did not like such pronouncements because he believed them challenges to the universe or some such rubbish.
"I told them that you would handle the press, which is in your realm, not mine," Gregson remarked with a sly smile.
Lestrade had a return of those evil thoughts.
Gregson did not normally acknowledge Lestrade's seniority unless it suited him. Here he was leaving his peer to the wolves. Lestrade was not about to be out manoeuvred.
"PC Reynolds."
"Yes...sir?"
"I want you to go over and give an interview to the press."
"Saying?"
"You'll think of something, I believe in you. No comment until we know more is the answer to every question."
"Yes...sir."
Gregson watched the lumbering giant shamble over to the two reporters. He slapped Lestrade on the back. "Excellent show, old bean, bully and salutations, Reynolds has not uttered a complete sentence in the six years I've known him."
Lestrade snorted. "Since I am evidently the acknowledged senior inspector, I am assigning you to tidy up."
Gregson grimaced.
Lestrade grabbed the pad and money. "I'll see that these are returned to the proper owner." He secreted the items in his coat, tipped his hat and headed to the waiting cab enjoying the sound of Gregson's groan of misery.
He nodded at a few familiar faces on the way to the hansom. He paused when he saw the older Baker Street Irregular known as Geezer, holding the leads.
This particular young cab driver nearly drove Lestrade to distraction few weeks back with his wild abandoned reinsmanship. But Lestrade saw the deep concern in the young fellow's eyes as he checked on his passengers, one in particular, so he climbed aboard with a certainty that this journey would be of a calmer sort.
Mayweather had Watson gently propped against the far side, where the man had miraculously fallen asleep, his fevered brow apparently soothed by the cool interior wall it was resting against.
Lestrade tapped the roof as soft as possible and the driver gigged the horses to a smooth trot.
"No need to be quiet, mate, he's out, not looking forward to the waking though," Mayweather commented. "I was once thrown into a pit with a Bengal cat in the altogether with just a knife for defence, and would gladly do that again before I'd wake yon doctor for his meds in tha middle of the night."
Lestrade detected a tiny bit of fondness to his humorous tone. He could see that a bond had already formed between the two men in the short interim.
"I must ask. Did Mycroft send you?" Lestrade inquired cautiously, knowing the man beside him, no matter how presently companionable, was still a perilous one.
One reason Lestrade did not pet strange dogs was that some seemingly domesticated animals were one stray thought away from tearing your hand off. He had a hunch Mayweather was like-minded.
Mayweather's response was a cold glare that caused Lestrade to check the location of his old Beau Adams revolver mentally. "How do you know that name, inspector?"
Lestrade showed his hands empty in a conciliatory gesture. "I have been involved with Diogenes affairs more than I wish to be as of late. I know just as much about their current situation as Doctor Watson, if you wish to check the validity of my claim, you are welcome to wake him and ask."
Lestrade saw Mayweather's eyes glance over to the sleeping gentlemen to his left, and repress a small shudder at disturbing the as of late temperamental man.
"I'll take your word. Mycroft did not ask it of me. I volunteered myself. I looked Doctor Watson up earlier this week; I like to scout first before I take on any task. When I asked around I found out he had mysteriously sent his home staff away with pay for the week, so I paid a call ta check, got no answer, tinkered the lock on the door and found the stubborn bastard passed out on his office floor. Called a doctor the Club uses, I've been following his scrips, and dealing with this cranky bloke ever since."
"Tinkered the lock?" Lestrade remarked, more to himself than Mayweather.
The younger man's eyes became as empty as a panther's Lestrade had once viewed at the zoological. "Are you wishing to make an issue of it?"
Lestrade shook his head in a most emphatic manner. There were times for bravery, this was not one of them.
Desiring to change the subject quickly, Lestrade asked, "If you were sent to protect Doctor Watson, then why did you let him leave his sick bed in this condition?" He knew the question was combative so he made sure to ask in his most placating tone.
Mayweather shrugged. "My oath requires I protect him from others, it does not tell me to protect him from his own foolish self. Besides, if I had told him no, he would have crawled the entire way if that's what it took. If you know him as well as you claim, then you know I am right."
Lestrade sighed. "You are most likely correct, indeed."
Mayweather reached out a hand to steady Watson as they made a particularly sharp turn. Lestrade sensed there was more to this young man's sudden attachment than he was saying. Even a sense of duty would explain nursing a man you have not met previously through severe illness. There were hidden depths here, Lestrade was certain of that fact, he was just too wary of the young man to pry over much.
The rest of the journey was a quiet one.
They arrived at the Yard; Mayweather gestured for Lestrade to wake the Doctor, moving swiftly out of the battle zone and onto the street with the sleekness of a cat.
Lestrade restrained an urge to call him a coward as he grumbled and steeled his resolve for the task ahead.
He reached out a gentle hand to Watson's shoulder.
"John, wake up old boy, we are arrived," he called with a nudge.
"Holmes?" Watson murmured, "Leave me alone, it's the middle of the bloody night." (1)
Lestrade felt a strange mixture of pity, and disappointment, but he suppressed it and ordered, "Language, Watson, you are representing the Yard."
Lestrade saw Watson's eyes crack open, readjusting to the light, the intolerable grouch growled, "You cretin, why did you let me sleep? We could have discussed the case on the way."
Lestrade rolled his eyes in irritation and offered the man his arm. "Do quit your mewling, we have work to do."
He helped Watson out of the cab, into Mayweather's waiting arms, and amused smirk.
Dangerous or not Lestrade made sure he shot the man his most scathing glower.
He stayed behind to pay the cabby, and to give the boy a request with an extra quid. The lad turned the money down, looking deeply offended. "Anything for tha' Doc, guv, you knows that."
He drove off leaving Lestrade feeling the ungrateful fool.
--
He made his way down to the Yard offices, hoping the Superintendant did not notice him. He would be fighting that battle soon enough.
The political implications of finding yet another possible victim of the Red Tear Strangler, while the man who they were certain was the killer stayed safely in the walls at Newgate, was Lestrade's worst nightmare come true. This was a career-ending situation, and Lestrade had little hope as to his prospects.
Beyond that, the Doctor's influence on him no doubt, was an overshadowing thought that there was a beautiful young girl who was alive last night, now on a slab in the basement, and a killer that needed capturing.
The offices were nearly deserted, but he heard a frantic voice talking to one of the night shift constables. "I don't care that it has not been a day, my daughter did not return home last night, she is very ill, she might have collapsed somewhere and is in need of aid! My wife and children have already been out looking. Please, sir, you must help us!"
Lestrade knew, call it instinct, or experience, or just cynicism of a life spent too long in the direst of circumstances, but he knew this was the father.
He made his way over.
The man was tall, very handsome with aristocratic bearing but middle class clothing, Lestrade also noticed with no small twisting of the knife in his guts that the man's daughter had his dark curly hair.
Story Notes: You will have to be patient on the Mayweather backstory, he will eventually come into sharper focus. However I am not insisting that he do so, that is one scary little bloke!
(1) Sleepy, sick, but still formidable! The picture is in the profile.
Bart