Chapter Six: Captain Gregson

Disclaimer: Not for profit, sadly.

"Thanks for seeing me. I wasn't sure you'd want to."

Hannah Gregson gives her coffee an unnecessary stir—a sign, if Joan needed one, that she's anxious. Looking across the coffee shop table, Joan says, "We're good, okay? I'm always available if you need me."

She means it. Hannah has said more than once that she knows she screwed up, that she should have taken the information about the narcotics ring Joan uncovered to the detective on the case instead of being a credit hound. That she told her father right away and owned up to her mistake to him as well makes Joan hopeful that, even if Hannah doesn't prove to be the most insightful investigator, she's on track to be a more effective beat cop.

Hannah nods and lifts her cup to take a sip. "It's not about work," she says, darting a glance at Joan. "I mean, it is, sort of." She pauses a second and then adds, "It's my dad."

For a moment Joan is too startled to react. "Is something wrong?"

"He's drinking again," Hannah says. "I mean, really drinking. Enough for people to start noticing."

Mentally Joan clicks through the last few conversations she's had with the Captain. Except for looking a little tired, he hadn't seemed different. She says so.

Hannah tips her chin down. "Two nights ago there was a retirement party for Lance Inhoff, one of the detectives at the 16th. He used to work at the 11th."

"Yeah," Joan says, "Sherlock and I were invited. We've worked several cases with Inhoff. We couldn't get to the party."

Not couldn't but wouldn't. The party had been at a popular bar in SoHo, and although Sherlock encouraged her to go without him, she hasn't felt much like celebrating anything lately. Instead, they'd spent a quiet evening at the brownstone reading old case files in companionable silence.

"I didn't get there until late." Hannah takes another sip of her coffee. "As soon as I walked in, I could hear Dad. He was yelling, laughing. Not just loud, but over-the-top-almost-out-of-control loud. Drunk loud."

Joan shrugs. "Just because he drank too much at a party—"

"That's not the only time. Last week my sister was home on winter break and Mom invited Dad over for a meal one night. I mean, I knew it might be tense anyway, but he'd been drinking before he got there. He and Mom got into a nasty argument right away and he left. It was awful."

Joan feels an almost electric stab of sadness. "I'm sorry," she says. "I know the divorce has been hard on everyone."

"Yeah," Hannah says, setting her cup down carefully. "I still can't really get my head around it. But it is what it is. Right now I'm more concerned about the drinking. I stopped by his place Sunday morning and I could smell the booze. Sunday morning. Dad's always been a social drinker, but this is something different. "

"What does he say when you talk to him about it?"

"He won't talk to me," Hannah says with a bitter smile. "Not about this. He says I'm imagining things."

"Do you think you might be?"

Hannah jerks her head up. "No! I know a drunk when I see one. He has a problem, okay?"

Joan sighs and settles back in her chair. Despite their little kerfuffle a couple of months ago, she genuinely likes Hannah. And she likes and respects the Captain. Being caught between them this way is more than a little uncomfortable.

"You could suggest he go to an AA meeting," Joan says.

Hannah grimaces. "Baring his soul to the public that way? I don't think so."

"I can get you the names of some good counselors," Joan says, "that he could see privately, but unless he wants help—"

"Actually," Hannah says, leaning forward, "that's where I thought you might be able to help. Dad will listen to you. I'm his kid. What do I know? But you used to work with addicts, right? That's your territory. If you suggest he go for counseling, he might do it."

"This is really awkward." Joan's stomach knots up. If she herself had witnessed the Captain having trouble it would be one thing, but she's going solely on Hannah's word. Not that Joan doubts her, but she doesn't want to jeopardize her relationship with the Captain on hearsay only. Speaking to him—to anyone—about a perceived addiction is a tricky matter. He will feel she is crossing a line. A veritable Rubicon, Sherlock might say, and he would be right.

"Look, Hannah," Joan says, the tone of her voice giving her away before her words do, "I don't think I can help you with this. That's something you need to do."

Hannah closes her eyes briefly and places her hands, palms down, on the table. "I understand," she says. "I get that you have a professional relationship with my dad and this goes beyond that."

Joan lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. Thank goodness Hannah seems to understand her predicament.

"But I'm desperate," Hannah adds, and Joan takes another deep breath. "If this keeps up—if it gets out of control—it could affect his job. You don't know what it's like watching your dad making seriously bad choices, how helpless it feels not to be able to do anything to help him."

Hannah isn't weepy or wavering. She looks Joan right in the eye, unblinking, her pain all the more evident for her bravado.

The last time Joan saw her own father was more than six months ago at a church basement soup kitchen. It's one of three she knows he visits, so she does, too, dropping in every week or so when they are serving meals and looking for him. That last time he had seemed frailer than she remembered, his hair in need of trimming, his careworn clothes smelling strongly of urine. He recognized her, something that isn't always true, but he seemed embarrassed as well. She sat with him while he ate a silent meal and then watched him hitch up his beltless pants and shuffle down the steps of the Lowery Street subway station, his hand motioning her back.

"I gotta go," he said over his shoulder. "Don't follow me."

For a moment she stood frozen in place—the crowd parting around her at the subway entrance. By the time she reached the bottom of the steps, her father had disappeared.

"If he weren't my dad—" Hannah says.

Joan reaches across the table and lets her right hand rest on Hannah's. "I'll talk to him," she says. "I can at least do that much."

X

Tommy Gregson still goes by his childhood nickname—not Thomas or Tom but Tommy, a boy's name that feels as comfortable as an old shoe. At some level he knows it makes him more approachable. When he'd been promoted to Captain he'd toyed with the idea of going by his middle name—Tobias—but more than one person had blinked and stuttered when he'd introduced himself that way, so he resigned himself to always being Tommy. Less pretentious, but also a bit of a useful tool, suggesting, as it does, someone trustworthy. A friendly name for a friendly person.

Except that lately he hasn't felt very friendly. Even at work he's been focused like a laser, keeping longer hours than usual, rarely leaving any unfinished paperwork until morning.

Not that he'd ever kept reasonable hours, to hear Cheryl tell it, but now that he's living on his own, there's really no reason to hurry back to a stuffy apartment and sit, a beer in one hand, the remote control in the other, until bedtime.

Or more recently, not one beer but three, or bourbon when he remembers to buy a fifth at the corner liquor store. Nothing wrong with a drink now and then, as long as he keeps it in house. That thought heats up his collar—the vague memory of someone shushing him at the party for Inhoff the other night—a couple of cryptic comments the next day about tying one on.

Today as he sits down at his desk, paper cup of coffee in hand, he sees through the slatted blinds Sherlock Holmes rounding the corner. Most mornings he's glad enough to see Holmes—or more precisely, glad for his help. The man himself can test the Captain's patience.

The first time he ever saw Holmes in action—during an exchange program in London after 9/11—he watched as Holmes zigzagged across the scene of a violent crosswalk mugging, stopping briefly to squint at a tree before turning on his heel and pacing, arms out like a zombie, back across the road.

"Potty," one of the constables directing traffic muttered. At the time, Gregson had agreed with him, but when Holmes came up with the name and address of the attacker a few hours later, he was less skeptical. By the time his stay in London was up, Tommy Gregson was as much of a fan of Sherlock Holmes as anyone could be.

Not that Holmes doesn't drive him crazy. A bundle of twitches and sudden swerves, his chin tilted up as he proclaims some discovery or the other, his comings and goings not always announced with anything resembling a social grace.

"He gets results," Gregson has said more than once to exasperated detectives. "Bear with me here."

Fortunately, Marcus Bell has developed a thick enough skin to work with Holmes more often than not. Bell is no fool. He knows he owes a great deal to Holmes—and perhaps even more to Joan. Lord help her. The woman is a saint.

Holmes doesn't wait for Gregson to invite him in his office. Opening the door wide, he steps through before saying, "Captain? A word, if I might?"

Holmes' face is unreadable. A cold case he wants to pursue? Some oddball request to divert resources? Holmes and Joan aren't working an active investigation at the moment. Suppressing a sigh, Gregson waves him in.

Holmes perches on the chair opposite the desk, his spine straight. Thirty seconds pass in silence, then a minute. Gregson is determined to wait him out, but when another minute passes, he gives in.

"You said you wanted to see me."

"I am considering how to proceed," Holmes says. "The matter is a…delicate one."

To Gregson's astonishment, Holmes looks almost flustered. Sherlock Holmes—for once the person in the room discomfited by something. The idea makes Gregson smirk.

"Maybe you should just be your usual diplomatic, sensitive self," Gregson says. He struggles not to let the smirk blossom into a full-blown grin. Holmes rewards him with a frown.

"You're joking," he says, "but that may, in fact, be good advice. I have been tasked with giving you information that you will, no doubt, find difficult to hear. Indeed, that is why I am here and not Watson. She was the original purveyor of this bad news but I insisted that the job was best left to me."

"Because you are better at everything," Gregson says, one eyebrow raised. "Including giving bad news."

"Giving this bad news," Holmes corrects him.

Gregson leans back and crosses his arms. "You know, when you hightailed it back to London a while back, Joan did just fine without you. We did fine without you. You might be interested to know that the world doesn't fall apart when you're not around."

"You misunderstand me," Holmes says, the slightest note of irritation in his voice. "I was not, in any way, disparaging Watson's abilities. I am well aware that she is an excellent detective, as well as having many other skills. Her medical knowledge is vast, as is her—"

"You said you had bad news," Gregson says. "I don't have all day. Maybe you should just tell me what you came to say?"

"Captain, you know I have the highest regard for you—"

"Holmes—"

"Very well. You may need an addiction counselor, or a twelve-step program if you prefer."

"What?"

"Your drinking. It is getting out of control. Your daughter reports seeing you drunk on multiple occasions. While I cannot corroborate her accounts, I do not doubt them. Your clothes have, from time to time, smelled of alcohol, though your breath has not. It's not unreasonable to assume that, although you are not drinking before coming to work, you are drinking afterwards, probably at a bar on the way home. The smell of cigarettes. It's in your clothes as well, and I know you do not smoke."

Gregson is aware that his mouth is open. He snaps it shut and swallows.

"So I get a drink on the way home sometimes. That's not a crime. But I have not been drunk. Hannah told you that? I'll have a talk with her."

"She spoke out of concern. If I were to interview the other participants at Detective Inhoff's party, would they agree with her that you'd had too much to drink that night?"

"One night!" Gregson says. A detective walking past the office looks toward the window and the captain lowers his voice. "It was a party. People drink at parties."

"I won't insult your intelligence by reminding you that drinking and getting drunk are, for most people, two different activities."

"And yet you just did. Insulted me and reminded me."

"As you are well aware, Captain, I struggle with my own addiction issues. For me—for other addicts—there is no separation between drinking and drunk, between recreation and overuse. The same may be true for you. Consider this: your daughter reports that on a Sunday morning she came by your apartment and found you already deep in your cups. Your voice was slurred, your reaction time slowed, your affect hostile. If you were not drunk that day, how do you account for your behavior?"

"You're out of line."

"Indeed, I'm often told as much. By Watson, usually."

"Does Joan know you're here?"

"We agreed upon this course of action. In point of fact, we gave considerable thought to the best way to proceed."

Gregson feels his face flush and his heart thrum in his throat. "Once and for all, I do not have a problem with alcohol. I might have slipped up a couple of times recently but it's not a habit." He pauses and then says, "Things have been unsettled lately. But I don't have to drink. I can stop whenever I want."

He knows he's talking too loud again. He takes a deliberate breath and lets it out slowly. Mindfulness, Cheryl calls it—that ability to set aside the annoyances around him. He's failing at it miserably. "I appreciate your concern, but like I said, I don't have a problem. Hannah's mistaken."

He can tell from his expression that Holmes doesn't believe him, but he's too angry to care. The man doesn't know everything. Nobody does.

"Captain," Holmes says, getting to his feet, "for quite some time I was also in denial that I had a problem. And even when I did admit it, I did not think that I needed help. I was wrong. Coming to terms with that saved my life. I would not speak so frankly to you now if I didn't think you, too, could profit from the same kind of self-knowledge. The people who care about you are worried—your daughter, Watson, myself. I owe a great deal of my recovery to you—to the trust you placed in me, allowing me to consult for the NYPD. If you ever wish me to return the favor, I am at your disposal."

"Thanks," Gregson says, not sounding grateful at all. "But I'm good."

Holmes pivots and lurches to the door, not looking back. Gregson kneads a knotted muscle in his neck and opens a desk drawer, looking for something for a growing headache. It's going to be a long day.

X X

"Your maths teacher said your grade has fallen this quarter."

Sherlock stands at the gym locker room door watching Teddy wiping down his boxing gloves. From the little bit of sparring that he witnessed, Teddy is improving rapidly, at least in athletics. Academics, apparently, are another matter.

"You checked up on me!" Teddy says, draping his hand towel around his neck.

"I might have done," Sherlock says. "I am, as far as the school is concerned, your father, remember?"

"Oh, right," Teddy says, flashing a grimace. "I forgot about that. So, Pops, you offering to help me with my calculus homework?"

"I am doing no such thing. Your maths studies have already taken you beyond my purview. However, I do know an excellent math professor, one of my regular consultants. I can contact him if you need a tutor."

"I'm okay," Teddy says, packing the rest of his equipment in his athletic bag. "My grade dropped because of one test, that's all."

"You failed a test?"

"I missed it. Teacher wouldn't let me make it up."

Teddy doesn't meet his eye. He's dodging something.

"Students at your school are not allowed to make up missed work when they are absent?"

Teddy sighs and says, "Students at my school aren't allowed to make up missed work when they cut class. A buddy and I cut class that day."

Teddy slips his arms through the athletic bag straps and makes his way across the gym toward the front door. A gifted student, impatient with rules and authority, reminding Sherlock of himself as a teenager.

A group of passing boys yell out something, obviously in jest, and Teddy makes a phantom swing in their direction. A popular boy—a friend to his peers. Perhaps he and Sherlock are not so much alike after all.

"I know I shouldn't have skipped," Teddy says, "but I had a good reason."

He blinks in the bright sunlight as they stand on the sidewalk outside the gym.

"Which was?" Sherlock prompts, and Teddy stabs one toe against a raised edge of the sidewalk.

"Went to hear a lecture about dark matter by this hotshot astrophysicist. I've seen him on TV. Thought it would be cool to see him in person. Didn't know when I'd get another chance."

"You went to see Neil DeGrasse Tyson at the Brooklyn Museum? He was there last week."

"You heard of him?" Teddy says, a note of surprise in his voice. "He's my man."

This changes things considerably. Not only was Teddy not doing what Sherlock had assumed at first—resurrecting his old scam artist routine in the park, hustling clueless businessmen and liberating their phones and wallets, he was doing something of more educational value than sitting inert in a desk in a dreary classroom.

"Well done," Sherlock says. "Time well spent, the failed calculus test notwithstanding." Lifting his hand tentatively, he adds, "I could speak to your teacher if you like? Explain how unreasonable she's being not to let you take the missed test."

Teddy is silent a moment as if considering the offer. Then he shakes his head. "Naw, I'm good."

They part ways at the corner, but not before Teddy calls out, "Tell Mom I said hi."

It's Watson's day to have lunch with her mother. The brownstone feels as it always does when she's away, oddly empty, though not as empty as it did during the interim after Kitty left before Watson returned. Sherlock had been keenly, uncomfortably aware of the echo of his own footfalls on the wooden floors then. The air was stale, the dust motes undisturbed by any motions other than his own. His life had been orderly and clear, like a painting done with such precision that it appears flat and lifeless.

A life like the one the Captain is experiencing at present. That he's turning to drink is no surprise.

He and Watson talked about it last night when she shared the conversation she'd had with Hannah.

"You're worried that discussing this with Captain Gregson will affect your relationship negatively," Sherlock had said matter-of-factly. Watson opened her mouth to dispute that—and then visibly changed her mind, her expression softening, something she does more often than most people Sherlock knows. A flexible thinker—willing to step around her assumptions and look at them from another point of view. It's a trait he both admires and values in her.

"I know it will," she said. "He's going to be upset with Hannah for saying something to me and embarrassed when I say something to him. But it can't be helped."

"Perhaps it can," Sherlock told her. Watson turned her gaze on him and he felt, as he often did, that she already knew what he was going to say. "I should be the one to approach the Captain. My history gives me more credence in this matter, Watson, not that you wouldn't be persuasive, but my experience with the demon of addiction makes me the better spokesperson. Not only that, but I don't mind upsetting the Captain, and you do. That alone is difference enough to make the task my own."

Again he saw Watson preparing to debate him, and again he watched her expression alter as she thought better of it.

"Actually," she said, her voice low and oddly troubled, "that would be a big help."

"Consider it done, then," Sherlock said. Watson's shoulders came down from around her ears. She gave an audible sigh.

"I'm heading to bed," she said, tugging the elastic from her ponytail and setting her hair free. "See you in the morning."

He stood in the hallway and watched her ascend the stair, her hair cascading around her shoulders. He'd told her once that her belief that she was more attractive with her hair pulled back was incorrect, that either way was aesthetically pleasing. A draw, he'd called it.

At the time she'd looked at him askance—which he now knows is not because she hadn't believed him but because she didn't yet trust him, two different things entirely. His observation wasn't wrong but merely offered prematurely, before they had whatever this is they have now.

As she disappeared into the gloom at the top of the stairs he checked his original assessment. Hair back or down makes no difference. Either way he always gets a little hitch in his breathing when he sees her.

A/N: No mystery to solve in this one, but hopefully you enjoyed it anyway. Thanks for letting me know!