Watson:
It was nearly a fortnight after Hopkins' quitting of our sofa that Inspector Lestrade next made an appearance upon it. His visits were usually more frequent, but he had been occupied with a series of cases that had apparently required quite a bit of footwork and no little paperwork. It was with a relieved sigh that he set down before our fire once more, and related to us a harrowing tale of a panicked jewel-thief that took four men to subdue and nearly killed two of them and himself in the process. Holmes seemed to think he was exaggerating the matter, though he didn't say as much, but I had seen first-hand some of the cases that the Yard engaged in outside those they brought to his attention, and unmeditated brutish violence was no extraordinary thing to them. Holmes' discrimination in his casework generally had the benefit of dealing with a higher class of criminal.
Lestrade fell silent once his tale had finished, standing and pacing to the fireplace despite his earlier complaint of sore feet. He glanced at the transfixed letters and the tobacco-slipper, lingered at the wax bust with the neat hole in its forehead, and then turned around and tapped absently at the mantle. Holmes pretended not to notice the Inspector's state of rumination in favor of the clippings that he was pasting into his scrap-book.
"No, I'm afraid I just can't let it be," Lestrade finally said. "Forgive me for asking, but just what is it between you and Hopkins?"
Holmes raised a brow but did not look up from his work. It was as well that Lestrade's attention was on him, for I could not hide my surprise near so well.
"Whatever do you mean, Lestrade?" Holmes asked.
"Come now, Holmes, I've known you for longer than either of us cares to admit, and this is the first time you've ever shown so much interest in a Yarder. Not that I'm complaining, mind, but I'd like to know the why."
"Potential should be nurtured. And he brings me intriguing cases."
Lestrade shook his head in exasperation. "I had hoped that by this time I'd merit more confidence than that. Never mind, then. I shouldn't have asked. Good night, gentlemen, I've taken up enough of your time."
"Lestrade!" Holmes snapped, halting the Inspector's advance to the door. "Please, sit." My friend leaned back and closed his eyes, his fingertips pressing together, his whole form arranged in the expression of contemplation that I had come to know well. Lestrade did not resume his seat, but he did not move for the door, either, dark eyes watching my friend expectantly. At length, Holmes said, "You're right. I give your integrity too little credit; in that trait, at least, you have never disappointed. You have never abused our confidence, nor anyone else's that I've heard of." He paused and opened his eyes, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "You may want to sit down."
Sherlock Holmes, Watson, and Lestrade do not belong to me.