"… And then he found the case. Just like that."
"… For the third time, Yes. He knew what to look for."
"And you don't find that suspicious at all? You and eight other members of the London Criminal Investigative Department didn't even know there was a suitcase to be found, and he knows exactly where it is, five minutes away in some dumpster behind a building."
Greg Lestrade had seen better days. And his days weren't usually sunshine and rainbows either.
"Listen, you don't know Sherlock Holmes. He's not like anyone else- he really is just that smart."
"And did he give reason for his frankly alarming amout of information on the case?"
After the month he'd had, it was difficult to give this man a straight face. The grey-haired man bit his lip and continued in what he'd hoped was only a semi-sarcastic tone:
"Dr. Watson has a blog. It's all on the blog."
"Had a blog. Did he not commit suicide last Friday?"
Lestrade's eyes shot to Sherlock. He had forsaken his public-school posture for a bored slouch, long legs stretched far out past the table in front of him holding papers, files and a disgruntled lawyer. He felt an amount of pity for the woman on the basis that he felt pity for anyone who was forced into working with Sherlock, but at the present was overpowered by the concern for the man himself.
"… The information is still on the blog. He knew she had a suitcase because… Mud spatters on her leg, I think."
"And the whereabouts?"
"I- you'd probably get a more complete tale of this if you asked Mr. Holmes himself."
Concern for Sherlock Holmes. God knows he needed it right now. He looked…
He looked very close to normal. He just looked bored- he was staring straight ahead of himself, unblinking. When Lestrade said his name, he looked up for a moment, met his eyes- there was nothing different about them, nothing anyone could possibly pinpoint to confirm that yes, this man's closest friend had just commited suicide in front of him.
Most people would agree- Sherlock Holmes just wasn't affected by John Watson's death.
But Greg had known Sherlock in the days of his addiction, the days of the much-younger man irritably kicking his habit, disappearing for a month, and then stumbling into Scotland Yard high as a kite dangerously close to the ionosphere.
He'd seen that look before- the look of nothing, of very close to normal- and it worried him. Once this was all over and Sherlock was back home- he refused to believe anything else would happen- he would have to make sure Sherlock stayed clean.
"Detective Constable?"
Not that he had much jurisdiction in that field anymore.
"I'm sorry. What?"
"How long had you been using Mr. Holmes on your cases?"
"He'd been coming to the Yard with information on cases before I was even DI. I wasn't the first to use him on a case."
"What was the year, do you think, that you met Sherlock Holmes?"
"It must have been about eight or nine years ago. 2003."
"And in that entire time, you never wondered how he got his information?"
"Well, no, he usually explained himself when everything was all done and over with-"
"Usually?"
Greg shot a short glare at Sherlock. He was looking another way, but it was still rather satisfying- look at the mess you've got me into. Through practically gritted teeth, he continued.
"When asked for an explanation, Mr. Holmes would be able to provide one."
"So there were some times you felt best not to ask."
"I used Sherlock Holmes on my cases because without his help, we wouldn't have been able to solve them."
He wasn't supposde to say that- that was one of those things that didn't just affect him, but people that were still in the yard.
The man opened his mouth, but Lestrade cut him off, continuing;
"That's not to say that the Yard is incompetent. They're not- they're trained professionals with years of experience. But Sherlock sees the details- little details no one would even think to notice and connects them to the bigger picture. He's put murderers behind bars. More than I could care to count. It was against regulation to bring him in to the cases, yes, but his insight brought criminals to justice."
"That's assuming that Sherlock Holmes' insight is trustworthy."
"I find it much easier to believe that he solved all of those crimes than orchestrated them. He just- He couldn't have done it. There is no possible way."
"And Richard Brook? Why would he make up something like this?"
"Moriarty blew up a block of flats last year just to catch Sherlock's attention-"
"And you find that easier to believe than the guilt of a cocaine addict? Tell me, Constable, how many cases did Mr. Holmes oversee while incapacitated? One? Ten? Forty? I, myself, find it very difficult to believe that a Detective Inspector with almost thirty years on the force put justice in the hands of a drug fiend."
And just like that, anything Greg Lestrade could possibly say was considered moot. He fought the urge to rub his face in exasperation, hyper-aware of the cameras staring pointedly at him, thirsty for some sort of reaction. This wasn't the first time he'd been on television. It wasn't usually like this, though- calming the public was no easy feat, but he'd take an eternity of it over standing in front of a lawyer.
"I have no more questions."
Lestrade had ruined whatever chance he had of saving himself on the podium. There were several different ways he could have answered that would have given his title back, preserved the integrity of the Yard, or at the very least kept his dignity intact- all in the way of testifying against Sherlock.
And yet, he'd fought to keep his name.
Sherlock knew that this was nothing personal, no lasting sentiment. Lestrade (now Constable- a wonder he didn't face criminal charges, let alone lose his job entirely) sought justice over propriety or integrity. It was the reason why he continued to allow Sherlock into crime scenes even after all of the other Detective Inspectors had put up with enough of him, even after all of his instincts must have been telling him to put the young, addicted Sherlock into a pair of handcuffs and then, into a rehabilitation centre.
All the same, he'd positively fought for Sherlock's innocence. Even as Moriarty's lawyer easily turned every testimony the older man gave against him, he felt a semblance of…
Gratitude. That's what it was.
He could expect no such thing after the next witness was finished.
She sat at the front of the room with her back straight, hands folded in her lap and her legs crossed at the ankles. She faced the cameras and audience with her chin up, eyes flitting through the room with no discrection save for a pointed avoidance of where he was sitting.
"Detective Inspector Donovan."
She did not smile, even at the title. She doesn't like the way this happened. She'd wanted this spot, but not in this way. She'd respected Lestrade. She wanted to earn her new title at a retirement party, not a court hearing.
"Yes,"
"How long have you known Mr. Holmes?"
"Seven years."
"He was already working with the former Detective Inspector Lestrade then?"
She pursed her lips. It was obvious to even her that his language was intentional.
"Detective Lestrade was still a Sergeant when I joined the force. But yes, Sherlock was working with… With us by the time I joined, yes."
"Were you surprised?"
"Pardon me?"
"When you started working with Sherlock Holmes. How did you feel about his presence?"
"I…"
She looked to Lestrade for a second before continuing- permission? Forgiveness? Sherlock couldn't tell, her face was expressionless.
"I was weary. He treated us all as if we were idio- as if we were incompetent. He just- he went around solving these crimes and then he'd leave and leave us all to do the actual work. The way he treats people- he doesn't care about them. It's the puzzle that he cares about. That's all."
"Do you believe Sherlock Holmes was all that he said he was?"
It took her a long moment to answer, filling the time with a lick of her lips.
"He's a genius. He's unfairly smart. I know that much without a doubt. In the beginning, at least, he was solving crimes that weren't his. But… He gets so easily bored. Sometimes we'd call him in for help, if there were people dead and people in danger, and he would completely deny us because it wasn't 'interesting' enough for him. He doesn't care if people live or die. Not even-"
She caught herself. Took a furtive glance at Sherlock- his eyes steeled over, peered at her, unwavering.
"I think one day solving crimes just wasn't enough for him. He needed something more. I- I don't know if he's behind any of the crimes that he's solved, but I think it's worth an investigation."
"Judging by the evidence at hand, do you think he kidnapped the U.S. ambassador's children, Detective Inspector?"
Donavon narrowed her eyes, pursing her lips- she inversed her ankles, tightening the grip of one hand on the other. The longer she spent time on her answer, the more pleased the lawyer in front of her seemed- uncertaintly was exactly what she needed.
"The evidence is still inconclusive."
"Inconclusive."
"Yes."
"But what do you think? You're an expert in the field-"
"-And I trust only the evidence in front of me. Which, at this point in time, is not severe enough to ensure his guilt."
"And Richard Brook? Do you believe he was the invention of Sherlock Holmes?"
"I've worked against Moriarty. I'd have to say that Richard Brook is a fabrication."
"But based on your knowledge of Mr. Holmes, do you think it's just as possible that James Moriarty was another of Mr. Holmes' games?"
They met eyes- Sherlock had been watching her for minutes now, and she must have felt his eyes on her a while ago, only deciding to act on it now-
"… Yes, I'd have to say it is."
Her face revealed no spite, no enjoyment in these words- she wasn't pained to admit it, but it wasn't a pleasure for her.
Why wasn't it a pleasure for her?
Interesting.