CHAPTER ONE
Fifteen years passed, and in that time, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade grew more accustomed to tragedies. Whether work-related (an unsolved case, a young child left for dead in the streets) or personal (his wife cheating, filing for divorce, Sherlock Holmes's suicide), it became parts of the ups-and-downs of life. Not that certain things never left new lines around his eyes and mouth, keeping him awake at night, or possessing his mind at the worst of times, but he now realised this was what he unwittingly signed up for, going into Scotland Yard as an over-ambitious young man of twenty-five.
As an older man, any romantic images of his profession were replaced with blood, torture, and heartbreak.
On good days, he fell into a routine. He'd wake up, alone and cold in his shitty flat. Afterwards came the obligatory dig for breakfast, and if he managed to find anything halfway edible he'd choke it down hastily before running to the shower. If he only had a box of baking soda in the fridge, he'd pick up a pastry on the way to the Yard.
When these good days came around, he'd sit in his office, rummage through paperwork, go for a walk at lunch, and return for another monotonous evening of filing, signatures, and the occasional silly cat picture his niece emailed him.
Greg saw John Watson a bit more in those days, the poor bastard. The younger man still sniveled and shook away memories sadly for nearly the full year, trying not to let anyone realise. While Greg was not anywhere as perceptive as their late friend, he was able to see passed John's façade of "everything's fine."
Of course, that was the façade it seemed everyone put on. Mrs Hudson tried, after a few months, but still seemed to break down almost every time she went into 221B, crying as she complained about the mess that still plagued the flat. Molly Hooper – a funny one – seemed paler and jumpier, rather than sad. She had been in love with the man, so Greg always thought, but he never saw her particularly devastated – nowhere nearly as devastated as John at any rate, but he knew different people reacted to grief differently, and thus decided against questioning it.
As for himself, it happened in such a blur he hardly remembered. He certainly remembered walking on glass around the Yard, with the threat of the sack hanging above his head constantly. He went on probation for a short period, before the Chief Superintendent allowed it to sort out.
The rest of it distorted. The defamation, tabloids spilling out how Sherlock's deceitful life story. Greg found it all a bit hard to swallow. It seemed unlikely that someone could fake all that. Stories John shared with him only solidified the unspoken truth – the papers were wrong: Sherlock Holmes never lied or faked anything.
There must be more to it than that. It was a moot point; however, they would never find out how, or why, or the real story behind it.
But, life went on. They caught criminals without the help of Sherlock Holmes.
John kept a job in a clinic, now that his time allowed for an ordinary life. Greg pushed papers, and sometimes spent weekends with Abigail Harris, a fellow divorcee he'd met in Starbucks.
He wasn't in a relationship with Abigail, at least not a real one. She had children from her previous marriage, and as she was a rather popular lawyer, they were both saddled with occupations that left little time for old fashioned dating. Instead, they met up on Friday nights, had a few drinks, shagged in his flat, and then said good-bye. It was all she had time for, and all he had patience for.
Perhaps this was why he woke up so shocked one morning in her flat. It took him a moment to realise where he was. Then the night before came flooding back to him. Picking up Abigail, taking her for dinner, then going back to her flat.
They hardly even made it all the way there, he remembered with embarrassment. He normally had better control than that. After all, he was in his forties, not his twenties. But, the combination of the way alcohol skewed his thoughts, and the way Abigail stared at him and kissed him, it made him feel much younger with much less responsibility.
Shortly after they closed the door for the cab and Abigail gave the cabby her address, she had pulled in at his neck, and bit at his lower lip, causing a groan. There, inside the cab, in front of a perfect stranger, he began to drunkenly pull up at her skirt, as she wrapped her arms and legs around him. He pushed up under her top, grazing the lace over her breasts, pressing into them.
Thankfully, they only got as far as foreplay before the cab skidded to a halt in front of Abigail's flat. She dragged him from the backseat of the cab, throwing her money carelessly to the driver, and pulled on his jacket all the way into the more private setting.
That's where the memory ended, as far as he remembered. He hardly minded. Deep inside his mind, he realised that while Abigail excelled in foreplay, when it came to sex, she was less than satisfactory. Still, he enjoyed talking to her, they got on, and she, at least, never had time to cheat.
Sitting up, Greg looked around the room, locating his clothes from the night before. Judging the amount of light in the sky, it was too late to go back to his own flat to change clothes. Brilliant. He knew of the tally some of the gossipy secretaries kept up of who returned to work the next day in the same clothes as the evening before. Not that it really mattered what they thought.
Throwing on his clothes again, Greg made a dash for the toilet to brush his teeth and manage his face. Here, he found Abigail again.
"Well, hullo, you." She said, with the toothbrush still in her mouth.
Greg greeted her politely, as the morning called for it, and she slid over to give him some sink space.
"If you want," she said, rinsing the toothbrush, "You can help yourself to breakfast. I'm running late for work, so I'm afraid I have to dash. Be in touch for next time?"
"Yeah, Abby." Greg grunted, kissing her goodbye. "G'luck with the trial today."
"You listened last night?"
"Believe it or not, I don't just take you to dinner for sex," Greg shook his head.
Abigail allowed a look to pass through her face, as though the thought never occurred to her. Then she smiled. "I'll keep that in mind."
Shuffling into the office a few hours later, Greg grimaced to see the young, keen people who looked all together too much like him at their age. He halfway wanted to project Star Wars onto the wall, putting Admiral Ackbar's famous line on repeat. It's a trap!
He shuffled passed the Intern desks, seeing all the young, stress-free faces, buying coffee and pastries for one another, catching up on the latest water-cooler gossip. They were probably the worst. But, then again, only about a third of these bright interns would stay with the Yard. He hated to admit that he'd been around long enough to make the assumption realistically.
The new hires seemed a little less delusional than the interns. They appeared to comprehend the seriousness they dealt with on a daily basis and either made a huge deal from everything or made no fuss at all. Among these was a new transfer from the Somerset Police, a techie by the name of Collin Porter.
That morning, the aforementioned techie stopped Greg as he made his way to his office.
"Oh, 'Scuse me, sir. I was just backing up the files from the Delaney murders, and I was wondering if you wanted me to run full, differential, or incremental backups?" Collin gave the Detective Inspector a quick once over. "And you have no idea what I just said, don't you?"
Greg coughed, shrugging, and said, "Erm, differential sounds good."
Collin arched a brow, but then nodded, turning back to his pristine desk. "All right. Fine. Kind of sad about Delaney though. That's what's wrong with her, though. Too pretty. I dunno though, I think she's too flashy to get me going. Guess it's a good thing, though, her being a murderer and all."
"That's a little inappropriate, Collin."
"Right. 'Course. Incredibly sorry, sir," Collin said, not sounding sorry at all.
That was the thing about the new hires, though. They were young, impulsive, and often didn't check what came out of their mouths. It made Greg feel like an old man, much to his dismay. Although, he was fairly certain he spoke with more tact than that in his early thirties. Nearly every day, however, he couldn't wait to be away from it.
Did he hate his job?
Certainly not. He couldn't think of anything else suited to him. Constant routine was a plague – a little sat fine in his stomach, but to sit in an office pushing papers year after year after year, he figured he'd go insane. He liked to see the baddies put away and get what they deserved. He hated what they did, but for England to have even a moment's peace, because another murderer fell behind bars, it was worth the disturbing images.
The world was full of them anyhow, disturbing images. His career only made it a bit more apparent.
Life, in the past year, quieted substantially. Without Sherlock Holmes, well, anything was bound to be quieter. Yes, the occasional murder in a back alley still happened, but it seemed as though all the criminal masterminds disappeared along with Sherlock.
Or, as a very possible alternative, all the cases wound up as Dimmock's or another senior officer who never willingly asked for Sherlock's advice. The Chief Superintendent really held grudges, after all.
Either way, the crux of the matter remained Greg's life calmed substantially for the first time in the past five years. And it would stay just as calm, he reminded himself, not trusting the question nagging in his brain: was this better or worse than before?
That morning, Greg sat in his chair whilst munching on a frosted pastry and looking out the window at the busy London streets. Momentarily, a sudden knocking came at the door, followed by Sally Donovan pushing through.
"New case came in. if you want it, it's yours," she said with a definite nod, placing a hot paper, straight off the fax machine onto his desk, "And I think you'll want it."
Greg lowered a brow, looking down at the paper. No sooner had he skimmed the report, than his eyes nearly doubled in size, and he shot away from the chair, running out the door, leaving the pastry, forgotten, behind him.
He gripped the steering wheel harder than he had in years. The smooth plastic skidding underneath his hands as the whole car jolted around corners, bumping over curbs, speeding over to the scene. His hands turned white as he sped to the address Donovan barked at him from the passenger's seat.
Straight through stop signs, not caring about right of way, the siren blaring loudly in his ears. He had to get there. Quickly. He heard his pulse, fast, and louder than thunder.
The only way to put it: déjà vu. A young woman found in an abandoned building, completely naked; her throat slit in two places.
They were in the centre, a pack of police cars just behind and in front of them, racing along in the group, like a pack of wolves.
By the time they arrived, a few officers already stood in front of a blubbering middle aged man – from context the man who found the body – questioning him as he cried in hysterics.
"The basement," Donovan reminded him, ticking her head to the side.
Greg nodded abruptly, recalling the police report, and he turned to look at the building.
The crime scene, not to be cliché, stood in a dying neighborhood; one of many old and abandoned houses. Ivy grew on the walls, weeds climbed the fence, but the front walk swept clean. Several windows were broken, but there no cobwebs lurked in any corners. Upon approaching the house, Greg thought it worth noting the door swung open easily on oiled hinges.
"A bit selective on housekeeping," He muttered.
"Less expensive things," Donovan shrugged. "Not that strange."
Greg nodded in simple agreement. "Well, let's get going then."
With this, they entered the basement, accompanied by Anderson and the rest of the forensics team, to look over the crime scene. The stairs creaked and nearly broke under their feet as they entered the musty basement.
There she was, a complete callback to the last time. Completely naked, lying in a small puddle of blood, with visible vomit stains around her mouth and in her hair.
Greg risked a peek around the room, unable to see much dust. Running a gloved finger along a windowsill, he found it completely clean. An exact replica.
He coughed. "Check the room for prints. See if we can find anything. Check for cause of death, look for GHB or other drugs."
Thus the crime scene unfolded before their eyes. Anderson checked the room for fingerprints, concluded the cause of death due to haemorrhaging, and took some samples for the lab.
Meanwhile, Greg stood over the scene, looking for an open window, a clue of any kind. The poor girl, she looked as though she was in her late twenties or early thirties. Too young. He shook his head solemnly, full of regret.
Why this place? Abandoned houses usually fell victim to crime scenes, true, but with no windows open, and all the broken ones too small to fit through, a person would have had to walk through the front door. And since they locks had been broken for a long time (according to the man who found the body) that could be anyone.