Desperate (7/9)
BBC Sherlock
Rating 15 (explicit slash, swearing)
Summary: If only Sherlock had co-operated, talked to Greg, things might have been different.
Many thanks to The Small Hobbit for betaing.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6.
Sherlock had obviously decided to finish 2010 as he'd started it, by being a complete tosser. Actually, almost literally a tosser: on New Year's Eve he threw a burglar out of the window at 221B. Greg made some stupid crack about how often he'd done it and Sherlock called him "Detective Inspector" in reply, which meant he was really up to no good. Greg decided he'd better find out who the burglar was, just so he knew exactly how much trouble they were in before he made any rash promises to Sherlock about covering the mess up.
He didn't recognise the burglar when he got to the hospital - bit hard to, with all the tubes the doctors had stuck into him. But easy to tell what he was. Big man, middle-aged, and the clothes they'd cut off him were smart-casual. Not your average London burglar and an American as well. There was only one reason Greg could think of for an American to be menacing 221B quite so openly. And that also meant...it was like suddenly realising that two plus two equalled four. He'd been so slow.
He stood outside the hospital, smoked a fag and then dialled Sherlock's number. He hoped he would reply for once; this wasn't the sort of matter you could discuss in texts.
"What's Irene Adler playing at?" he enquired, when Sherlock finally answered.
Sherlock's tone was dry. "Decomposing. She died last week, if you remember."
"She's alive," he said, with complete certainty. "She faked her own death." There was a brief pause at the other end.
"What makes you say that?" Sherlock said. He hadn't simply called him an idiot, which meant Greg's hunch had been right.
"Your odd behaviour the last few days."
"I haven't done anything. I've just been in the flat."
"That's the odd behaviour. You know, Sherlock, I've seen hundreds of people who've had a friend murdered. Some of them might sit at home doing nothing; you wouldn't. You'd want - you'd need - to find who killed Irene. But you haven't been near the case. And you were the one who identified her body, weren't you?
"Yes." He could practically see Sherlock's dismissive look.
"I reckon you realised at once that it wasn't her. And kept your mouth shut till you knew what she was up to."
"That came perilously near actual deduction, Lestrade. Don't let the Yard know or they'll throw you out for competence."
That was probably the nearest he was ever going to get to a compliment from Sherlock; Greg allowed himself a tiny moment of pleasure before he went on,
"So where is Irene Adler now?"
"I don't know."
"You must do. That's why the Americans are after you, isn't it, to track her down? "
"Wrong again, inspector."
It had been too good to last, obviously, but it took more than Sherlock being obnoxious to deter Greg.
"What were they up to, then?"
"I'm in possession of information given to me by Irene, and certain foreign powers are interested in it."
"If they're willing to break into Baker Street in broad daylight, the stuff's too bloody dangerous for you to hang onto. If you don't want the police to have it, then give it to Mycroft." Greg paused and then added. "John can act as a go-between if you're not talking to one another again." They could probably halve the crime statistics, he always reckoned, if the two Holmeses actually got on with one another.
"There's no point. The material's encrypted and if I can't unlock it, the Yard and the Service certainly can't."
"So why did Irene give it to you?"
"I'm not sure. The motives of women are inscrutable sometimes. She may want me to unlock her phone, for some reason; she may simply have an unusual method of flirting."
Oh bloody hell. Sherlock was angling for a second round with the woman, was he?
"Last time you tangled with her, you got an armful of dope," he reminded him. "Watch your step."
"I'm quite capable of looking after myself." Sherlock's tone was icy. "I suggest you concentrate on your own department."
"You reckon?"
"Yes. Irene Adler has an informant within Scotland Yard, possibly even within your own team. Have your superiors announce that the investigation into her death is being closed, because you have eye-witness evidence that she's still alive. And then simply observe who's not surprised at that news."
Shit, he thought. He'd forgotten all about Irene's mole in the Met. "Do you have any idea-"
"-Not at the moment," Sherlock broke in. "If I unlock the phone I can tell you exactly who the man is, so if you'll excuse me, I'll get back to that. Have a happy New Year, Lestrade. Goodbye."
***
Greg had only one New Year's resolution for 2011: keep buggering on. He was back in Sally's cousin's flat in Deptford and Ruth was being co-operative about the divorce. She was happy to keep on letting him see the kids, who seemed almost relieved that their parents had finally made up their minds.
Sherlock was a pain, of course, but no worse than usual. And after his mistakes of the summer, he seemed to be on a winning streak. Finding the stolen Turner painting; catching Peter Ricoletti after thirty years. And getting Alexander Holder back safely from his kidnappers.
It had been collaring Ricoletti that had got the Met happy; the brass hats had agreed to Greg's suggestion of a formal presentation to Sherlock at last. And he'd watched detectives queuing up to speak to Sherlock afterwards, to shake him by the hand, to thank him. Only to get insulted by Sherlock, because having his genius appreciated didn't seem to be what he wanted after all. But the Yarders didn't seem to mind any more; even Donovan and Anderson's suggestion about the deer-stalker had been only mildly malicious.
But it was getting Holder back that put a smile on Greg's lips for the first time since Christmas. The memory of standing in a squalid alley in Newham, when the kidnapped banker staggered from a lock-up, his mouth still duct-taped shut. John Watson at Holder's side, supporting him; Sherlock on the other, tapping away at his phone, still looking for further clues. Greg had been convinced that the banker was a goner the moment the ransom note had arrived, but thanks to Sherlock there he was, safe.
Greg had to turn off the telly when the press conference came on, and he saw Holder standing with his kids, because he was stupidly near tears. Sherlock might be the biggest arsehole in creation, but this was why Greg worked with him: because sometimes he didn't just solve murders, he saved people's lives.
And then he went and got a beer and sat on the sofa and turned on the telly again to find something, anything else to watch. Holder might be able to go back to his family, but he couldn't.
***
He wondered occasionally if he should ask Sally for advice. Doubtless among her huge network of friends and relatives, there'd be someone willing to date a copper. But a middle-aged bloke with three kids going through a divorce? No sensible woman would get involved with him.
No sensible bloke either. Every now and then, he found himself thinking about phoning Alec. But what the hell could he say, after their last conversation? And even if Alec was still interested, Greg could hardly go swanning off to Devon to see him. Not when he was doing his level best to spend every day off with his kids. Leave it for a few months and see how he felt then, he decided. No hurry, after all.
He was still thinking that in March, when Moriarty came back.
***
It wasn't the worst day of Greg's life; he'd had so many terrible days over his career that it was hard to pick just one. But there was a moment when it seemed like the longest day ever, some loop that he was trapped in forever as yet another security system collapsed. Even when they'd got Moriarty in custody, Greg kept on staring at his phone, expecting another message, the next move in Moriarty's impossible game.
It didn't come, which meant it was time to try and ensure it never would. Moriarty might get life for attempted robbery, but there was no guarantee of that. And Greg wasn't going to see prison doors opening legally for the man ever again if he could help it.
The CPS prosecutor was Jane Okafor, which was good news; she and Sally were old mates, and Jane was a battler. She sounded enthusiastic about adding extra charges to Moriarty's sheet.
"As long as you've got some evidence," she said. "I thought you couldn't trace the bomber last year."
"We knew who he was," Greg told her, "We just didn't know how to get hold of him." Jane listened as he told her the details, her quick, dark eyes scanning his face.
"So all you have definitely connecting this man to the bombings is the identification by Holmes and Watson," she said. "We'll need statements from them, and pre-trial interviews."
Greg nodded and noted that down. "And if you have those?"
"No promises," Jane replied, "but if there's any way to get the man, we'll go for it. I was involved in the Janus Cars prosecution; I heard about the young man who was put in a bomb- jacket. I won't let you down on this one, Greg."
***
But a week later when Jane phoned him, he could tell from the edge in her voice that things had gone wrong.
"Bad news about the James Moriarty case, Greg. We're not proceeding with the bombing charges and the Tower of London affair is being reduced to attempted burglary."
"It's gotta be robbery," Greg protested. "Moriarty knocked a security guard out."
"We can't take any chances."
"But we have two witnesses that Moriarty strapped a man into a bomb-jacket!"
"One of whom we can't use. There's no way that I am putting Dr Watson onto the stand."
"Why not?" Greg forced himself not to yell. It wasn't Jane's fault this was happening; it'd be some senior manager trying to cover his arse, because he thought the case might go pear-shaped.
"John Watson was invalided out of the army with mental health problems. He's devoted to Sherlock Holmes. He's got a temper. The other side's obvious tactic is to ask whether he's just saying what Sherlock Holmes told him to, and follow that up with a query about his exact relationship with Mr Holmes. Five minutes of that kind of needling, and I'd lay you long odds he'll either take a swing at counsel for the defence or give them an earful. Which will piss off the judge and wreck his credibility with the jury."
It rang horribly true; you wanted John by your side in a physical battle, not a verbal one.
"There's still Sherlock," he protested, half-heartedly.
"If there was any way we could keep him off the witness stand I'd take it," Jane replied promptly. "The man's unbearable."
"It's not about whether he's nice, it's whether a jury will believe him."
"In court, a credible witness is one who tells a simple, confident, coherent story. Not one who's so full of himself that he can't be arsed to give straightforward answers to obvious questions."
"You can't just ignore his evidence," Greg said, considering the many, many possible ways that Sherlock had got up Jane's nose when she'd met him. Would it be any help to tell her that he was like that with everyone?
"I know," Jane said, with exasperation. "If we don't call Holmes as a witness, Moriarty's side might well do so. As far as I can see, their only possible tactics are to try and muddy the waters, claim there's some vast government conspiracy. And Sherlock Holmes is the obvious red herring, given the rumours about his connections in high places."
"Moriarty was out to get Sherlock; the message he wrote on the glass proves that."
"I don't know what the defence will be. But if James Moriarty's been caught red-handed and he's not pleading guilty, he must have some trick up his sleeve."
"You think he can get away with this?"
"No," Jane says. "We can nail him for attempted burglary, and when we do he's going down for life. It doesn't matter what the sentencing guidelines say, they won't let him out again. And once he's put away, someone somewhere will talk, tell us about all the other things he's done. He's a nasty piece of work, but I think Mr Moriarty's gone too far this time."
***
The day that Moriarty walked free probably was the worst day of Greg's life. The most blatant bit of jury-nobbling for years and nothing anyone could do about it. And then all the old, vaguely plausible rumours were being aired again. About a network of corrupt coppers in the Met protecting criminals, about secret MI5 plots. Followed by the finger-pointing, as everyone tried to shift the blame for the disaster of the trial.
Greg wondered afterwards if that had been what really did for Sherlock. Hard to claim he cared about solving crimes when the whole country knew he'd taken apart the counsel for the prosecution, damaging his own side's case. Had that been when Sally decided to bring down Sherlock? When she'd seen him publically humiliate a black woman for the crime of not being as clever as him?
No, that wasn't fair. His team might dislike Sherlock, but they were still willing to work with him when the Bruhl children were snatched a couple of months later. And if only Sherlock had co-operated, talked to them, things might have been different. Because Sally was wrong about Sherlock being responsible for the kidnapping, but she was dead right that there was something fishy going on.
***
He still remembered Sally standing in his office the night before Sherlock died, arms crossed, laying her theory out, as Anderson watched and nodded.
"So who are we looking for otherwise? If it's not Sherlock, who else would have done this?" she demanded at the end.
"Someone trying to get at Rufus Bruhl," Greg replied promptly. "He's a bloody ambassador, he's gonna be a target."
He'd trained Sally too well. "Bruhl's got no serious money of his own, and why target an ambassador to the US? And if someone's trying to send a message to him or the FCO, they'd have kept a tighter guard over the kids, made sure they couldn't be found."
"So it's some random pervert," Greg replied weakly. But as he suspected, that was an argument so pathetic even Anderson wouldn't swallow it.
"That kind of sadist wouldn't walk off and abandon his victims. He'd want to see the children die, he'd get off on it," Anderson said. "Why would anyone just leave Max and Claudette there in the warehouse?"
"Because they aren't important to whoever kidnapped them," Sally went on relentlessly. "They're just pawns in some kind of game. And who do we know thinks crime is just a game?"
It couldn't be Sherlock, Greg knew that. But Sally was right that Sherlock had to know more than he was saying. And Greg couldn't keep on letting him get away with his tricks; it was undermining morale.
He was almost tempted to try another drugs bust, but they were way beyond that sort of power play. He'd just have to go and talk to Sherlock, make it clear that he had to be given something, anything. He needed an explanation from Sherlock and he needed it now.
***
He didn't get an explanation from Sherlock; he didn't get anything. Six years working with that bastard, and when Greg went round practically begging him for help, all he got was Sherlock saying "No, Inspector." Refusing to come to Scotland Yard because it might look bad, as if he didn't almost live there half the time. Talking vaguely about Moriarty, saying he wasn't willing to play his game.
Sherlock didn't seem to understand that he was already part of the game, like it or not. How had he not realised that if he didn't come with Greg voluntarily, he'd end up being arrested?
It made no sense to him, but he wasn't a bloody high-functioning sociopath. Greg risked his neck arguing with the DCS and then phoning Sherlock to warn him, and what happened? Did the man run off beforehand, as anyone sane would do? No, he had to steal a bloody gun and make a song and dance about his escape. As he watched Sherlock run off with John trailing in his wake, there was a tiny part of Greg that wished he would get shot resisting arrest, just to teach him not to be such a dickhead.
There was a much larger part that knew that the only way he was going to get out of this mess with his career intact was if Sherlock solved the case. Meanwhile, his best hope was to keep his head down and get the big boys in. He brought up a number on the phone that he reserved for dire emergencies.
He got an anonymous answer phone on the other end, not the bland haughtiness of Mycroft's voice. But that didn't matter; they'd get his message to Mycroft somehow. Sherlock's on the run, and they're trying to pin the Bruhl kidnapping on him. He's in deep shit and I'm probably about to be suspended. You've got contacts: you need to use them now.
***
It was like the old cartoons in the end; you ran off the cliff, but it was only when you looked down that you fell. He went into work the next day, ignoring the whispers as people saw him, and there was no sign of Sally. It was Anderson's day off, as well, he realised when he checked the rota. He gave what remained of his team their orders: Check if the Bruhls have any financial or marital problems. Two of you back to Addlestone to ask for any sightings of a man with children. Another down to St Aldate's with a picture of Moriarty, in case he was involved in some way.
They all went off, but he didn't know if they were going to do what he wanted. If they'd already realised that he was a dead man walking. He sighed and reached for the pile of paperwork from yesterday and wondered how long before someone came and told him the bad news.
***
He didn't expect the bad news to be that Sherlock was dead. That was when someone showed him the article in the Sun, which he'd somehow missed. He sat in his office, and people talked at him, telling him all the rumours, and then he got the call from the Deputy Assistant Commissioner. He listened silently as he was told that he was suspended, under investigation for possible misconduct, unauthorized disclosure of information, corruption and god knew what else. He was only surprised no-one tried to claim he'd been nicking money from the tea fund. He was toast, he knew that. Designated scapegoat for the failed prosecution of Moriarty, even though the whole thing made no sense.
It didn't need to make sense. It just had to hold together long enough for the tabloids to report that the problem had been down to a single rotten apple, a rogue DI ignoring all proper procedure. The Met making a presentation to Sherlock a few months ago - well, he'd helped them in a purely unofficial capacity, like any citizen. Nothing to see here, move along now.
It wasn't a surprise. As he sat in his flat that evening, Greg realised he'd known all along working with Sherlock would end in tears. But he couldn't have helped it; couldn't have walked away from him. Sherlock had mattered too much to do that.
Part 8
Rating 15 (explicit slash, swearing)
Summary: If only Sherlock had co-operated, talked to Greg, things might have been different.
Many thanks to The Small Hobbit for betaing.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6.
Sherlock had obviously decided to finish 2010 as he'd started it, by being a complete tosser. Actually, almost literally a tosser: on New Year's Eve he threw a burglar out of the window at 221B. Greg made some stupid crack about how often he'd done it and Sherlock called him "Detective Inspector" in reply, which meant he was really up to no good. Greg decided he'd better find out who the burglar was, just so he knew exactly how much trouble they were in before he made any rash promises to Sherlock about covering the mess up.
He didn't recognise the burglar when he got to the hospital - bit hard to, with all the tubes the doctors had stuck into him. But easy to tell what he was. Big man, middle-aged, and the clothes they'd cut off him were smart-casual. Not your average London burglar and an American as well. There was only one reason Greg could think of for an American to be menacing 221B quite so openly. And that also meant...it was like suddenly realising that two plus two equalled four. He'd been so slow.
He stood outside the hospital, smoked a fag and then dialled Sherlock's number. He hoped he would reply for once; this wasn't the sort of matter you could discuss in texts.
"What's Irene Adler playing at?" he enquired, when Sherlock finally answered.
Sherlock's tone was dry. "Decomposing. She died last week, if you remember."
"She's alive," he said, with complete certainty. "She faked her own death." There was a brief pause at the other end.
"What makes you say that?" Sherlock said. He hadn't simply called him an idiot, which meant Greg's hunch had been right.
"Your odd behaviour the last few days."
"I haven't done anything. I've just been in the flat."
"That's the odd behaviour. You know, Sherlock, I've seen hundreds of people who've had a friend murdered. Some of them might sit at home doing nothing; you wouldn't. You'd want - you'd need - to find who killed Irene. But you haven't been near the case. And you were the one who identified her body, weren't you?
"Yes." He could practically see Sherlock's dismissive look.
"I reckon you realised at once that it wasn't her. And kept your mouth shut till you knew what she was up to."
"That came perilously near actual deduction, Lestrade. Don't let the Yard know or they'll throw you out for competence."
That was probably the nearest he was ever going to get to a compliment from Sherlock; Greg allowed himself a tiny moment of pleasure before he went on,
"So where is Irene Adler now?"
"I don't know."
"You must do. That's why the Americans are after you, isn't it, to track her down? "
"Wrong again, inspector."
It had been too good to last, obviously, but it took more than Sherlock being obnoxious to deter Greg.
"What were they up to, then?"
"I'm in possession of information given to me by Irene, and certain foreign powers are interested in it."
"If they're willing to break into Baker Street in broad daylight, the stuff's too bloody dangerous for you to hang onto. If you don't want the police to have it, then give it to Mycroft." Greg paused and then added. "John can act as a go-between if you're not talking to one another again." They could probably halve the crime statistics, he always reckoned, if the two Holmeses actually got on with one another.
"There's no point. The material's encrypted and if I can't unlock it, the Yard and the Service certainly can't."
"So why did Irene give it to you?"
"I'm not sure. The motives of women are inscrutable sometimes. She may want me to unlock her phone, for some reason; she may simply have an unusual method of flirting."
Oh bloody hell. Sherlock was angling for a second round with the woman, was he?
"Last time you tangled with her, you got an armful of dope," he reminded him. "Watch your step."
"I'm quite capable of looking after myself." Sherlock's tone was icy. "I suggest you concentrate on your own department."
"You reckon?"
"Yes. Irene Adler has an informant within Scotland Yard, possibly even within your own team. Have your superiors announce that the investigation into her death is being closed, because you have eye-witness evidence that she's still alive. And then simply observe who's not surprised at that news."
Shit, he thought. He'd forgotten all about Irene's mole in the Met. "Do you have any idea-"
"-Not at the moment," Sherlock broke in. "If I unlock the phone I can tell you exactly who the man is, so if you'll excuse me, I'll get back to that. Have a happy New Year, Lestrade. Goodbye."
***
Greg had only one New Year's resolution for 2011: keep buggering on. He was back in Sally's cousin's flat in Deptford and Ruth was being co-operative about the divorce. She was happy to keep on letting him see the kids, who seemed almost relieved that their parents had finally made up their minds.
Sherlock was a pain, of course, but no worse than usual. And after his mistakes of the summer, he seemed to be on a winning streak. Finding the stolen Turner painting; catching Peter Ricoletti after thirty years. And getting Alexander Holder back safely from his kidnappers.
It had been collaring Ricoletti that had got the Met happy; the brass hats had agreed to Greg's suggestion of a formal presentation to Sherlock at last. And he'd watched detectives queuing up to speak to Sherlock afterwards, to shake him by the hand, to thank him. Only to get insulted by Sherlock, because having his genius appreciated didn't seem to be what he wanted after all. But the Yarders didn't seem to mind any more; even Donovan and Anderson's suggestion about the deer-stalker had been only mildly malicious.
But it was getting Holder back that put a smile on Greg's lips for the first time since Christmas. The memory of standing in a squalid alley in Newham, when the kidnapped banker staggered from a lock-up, his mouth still duct-taped shut. John Watson at Holder's side, supporting him; Sherlock on the other, tapping away at his phone, still looking for further clues. Greg had been convinced that the banker was a goner the moment the ransom note had arrived, but thanks to Sherlock there he was, safe.
Greg had to turn off the telly when the press conference came on, and he saw Holder standing with his kids, because he was stupidly near tears. Sherlock might be the biggest arsehole in creation, but this was why Greg worked with him: because sometimes he didn't just solve murders, he saved people's lives.
And then he went and got a beer and sat on the sofa and turned on the telly again to find something, anything else to watch. Holder might be able to go back to his family, but he couldn't.
***
He wondered occasionally if he should ask Sally for advice. Doubtless among her huge network of friends and relatives, there'd be someone willing to date a copper. But a middle-aged bloke with three kids going through a divorce? No sensible woman would get involved with him.
No sensible bloke either. Every now and then, he found himself thinking about phoning Alec. But what the hell could he say, after their last conversation? And even if Alec was still interested, Greg could hardly go swanning off to Devon to see him. Not when he was doing his level best to spend every day off with his kids. Leave it for a few months and see how he felt then, he decided. No hurry, after all.
He was still thinking that in March, when Moriarty came back.
***
It wasn't the worst day of Greg's life; he'd had so many terrible days over his career that it was hard to pick just one. But there was a moment when it seemed like the longest day ever, some loop that he was trapped in forever as yet another security system collapsed. Even when they'd got Moriarty in custody, Greg kept on staring at his phone, expecting another message, the next move in Moriarty's impossible game.
It didn't come, which meant it was time to try and ensure it never would. Moriarty might get life for attempted robbery, but there was no guarantee of that. And Greg wasn't going to see prison doors opening legally for the man ever again if he could help it.
The CPS prosecutor was Jane Okafor, which was good news; she and Sally were old mates, and Jane was a battler. She sounded enthusiastic about adding extra charges to Moriarty's sheet.
"As long as you've got some evidence," she said. "I thought you couldn't trace the bomber last year."
"We knew who he was," Greg told her, "We just didn't know how to get hold of him." Jane listened as he told her the details, her quick, dark eyes scanning his face.
"So all you have definitely connecting this man to the bombings is the identification by Holmes and Watson," she said. "We'll need statements from them, and pre-trial interviews."
Greg nodded and noted that down. "And if you have those?"
"No promises," Jane replied, "but if there's any way to get the man, we'll go for it. I was involved in the Janus Cars prosecution; I heard about the young man who was put in a bomb- jacket. I won't let you down on this one, Greg."
***
But a week later when Jane phoned him, he could tell from the edge in her voice that things had gone wrong.
"Bad news about the James Moriarty case, Greg. We're not proceeding with the bombing charges and the Tower of London affair is being reduced to attempted burglary."
"It's gotta be robbery," Greg protested. "Moriarty knocked a security guard out."
"We can't take any chances."
"But we have two witnesses that Moriarty strapped a man into a bomb-jacket!"
"One of whom we can't use. There's no way that I am putting Dr Watson onto the stand."
"Why not?" Greg forced himself not to yell. It wasn't Jane's fault this was happening; it'd be some senior manager trying to cover his arse, because he thought the case might go pear-shaped.
"John Watson was invalided out of the army with mental health problems. He's devoted to Sherlock Holmes. He's got a temper. The other side's obvious tactic is to ask whether he's just saying what Sherlock Holmes told him to, and follow that up with a query about his exact relationship with Mr Holmes. Five minutes of that kind of needling, and I'd lay you long odds he'll either take a swing at counsel for the defence or give them an earful. Which will piss off the judge and wreck his credibility with the jury."
It rang horribly true; you wanted John by your side in a physical battle, not a verbal one.
"There's still Sherlock," he protested, half-heartedly.
"If there was any way we could keep him off the witness stand I'd take it," Jane replied promptly. "The man's unbearable."
"It's not about whether he's nice, it's whether a jury will believe him."
"In court, a credible witness is one who tells a simple, confident, coherent story. Not one who's so full of himself that he can't be arsed to give straightforward answers to obvious questions."
"You can't just ignore his evidence," Greg said, considering the many, many possible ways that Sherlock had got up Jane's nose when she'd met him. Would it be any help to tell her that he was like that with everyone?
"I know," Jane said, with exasperation. "If we don't call Holmes as a witness, Moriarty's side might well do so. As far as I can see, their only possible tactics are to try and muddy the waters, claim there's some vast government conspiracy. And Sherlock Holmes is the obvious red herring, given the rumours about his connections in high places."
"Moriarty was out to get Sherlock; the message he wrote on the glass proves that."
"I don't know what the defence will be. But if James Moriarty's been caught red-handed and he's not pleading guilty, he must have some trick up his sleeve."
"You think he can get away with this?"
"No," Jane says. "We can nail him for attempted burglary, and when we do he's going down for life. It doesn't matter what the sentencing guidelines say, they won't let him out again. And once he's put away, someone somewhere will talk, tell us about all the other things he's done. He's a nasty piece of work, but I think Mr Moriarty's gone too far this time."
***
The day that Moriarty walked free probably was the worst day of Greg's life. The most blatant bit of jury-nobbling for years and nothing anyone could do about it. And then all the old, vaguely plausible rumours were being aired again. About a network of corrupt coppers in the Met protecting criminals, about secret MI5 plots. Followed by the finger-pointing, as everyone tried to shift the blame for the disaster of the trial.
Greg wondered afterwards if that had been what really did for Sherlock. Hard to claim he cared about solving crimes when the whole country knew he'd taken apart the counsel for the prosecution, damaging his own side's case. Had that been when Sally decided to bring down Sherlock? When she'd seen him publically humiliate a black woman for the crime of not being as clever as him?
No, that wasn't fair. His team might dislike Sherlock, but they were still willing to work with him when the Bruhl children were snatched a couple of months later. And if only Sherlock had co-operated, talked to them, things might have been different. Because Sally was wrong about Sherlock being responsible for the kidnapping, but she was dead right that there was something fishy going on.
***
He still remembered Sally standing in his office the night before Sherlock died, arms crossed, laying her theory out, as Anderson watched and nodded.
"So who are we looking for otherwise? If it's not Sherlock, who else would have done this?" she demanded at the end.
"Someone trying to get at Rufus Bruhl," Greg replied promptly. "He's a bloody ambassador, he's gonna be a target."
He'd trained Sally too well. "Bruhl's got no serious money of his own, and why target an ambassador to the US? And if someone's trying to send a message to him or the FCO, they'd have kept a tighter guard over the kids, made sure they couldn't be found."
"So it's some random pervert," Greg replied weakly. But as he suspected, that was an argument so pathetic even Anderson wouldn't swallow it.
"That kind of sadist wouldn't walk off and abandon his victims. He'd want to see the children die, he'd get off on it," Anderson said. "Why would anyone just leave Max and Claudette there in the warehouse?"
"Because they aren't important to whoever kidnapped them," Sally went on relentlessly. "They're just pawns in some kind of game. And who do we know thinks crime is just a game?"
It couldn't be Sherlock, Greg knew that. But Sally was right that Sherlock had to know more than he was saying. And Greg couldn't keep on letting him get away with his tricks; it was undermining morale.
He was almost tempted to try another drugs bust, but they were way beyond that sort of power play. He'd just have to go and talk to Sherlock, make it clear that he had to be given something, anything. He needed an explanation from Sherlock and he needed it now.
***
He didn't get an explanation from Sherlock; he didn't get anything. Six years working with that bastard, and when Greg went round practically begging him for help, all he got was Sherlock saying "No, Inspector." Refusing to come to Scotland Yard because it might look bad, as if he didn't almost live there half the time. Talking vaguely about Moriarty, saying he wasn't willing to play his game.
Sherlock didn't seem to understand that he was already part of the game, like it or not. How had he not realised that if he didn't come with Greg voluntarily, he'd end up being arrested?
It made no sense to him, but he wasn't a bloody high-functioning sociopath. Greg risked his neck arguing with the DCS and then phoning Sherlock to warn him, and what happened? Did the man run off beforehand, as anyone sane would do? No, he had to steal a bloody gun and make a song and dance about his escape. As he watched Sherlock run off with John trailing in his wake, there was a tiny part of Greg that wished he would get shot resisting arrest, just to teach him not to be such a dickhead.
There was a much larger part that knew that the only way he was going to get out of this mess with his career intact was if Sherlock solved the case. Meanwhile, his best hope was to keep his head down and get the big boys in. He brought up a number on the phone that he reserved for dire emergencies.
He got an anonymous answer phone on the other end, not the bland haughtiness of Mycroft's voice. But that didn't matter; they'd get his message to Mycroft somehow. Sherlock's on the run, and they're trying to pin the Bruhl kidnapping on him. He's in deep shit and I'm probably about to be suspended. You've got contacts: you need to use them now.
***
It was like the old cartoons in the end; you ran off the cliff, but it was only when you looked down that you fell. He went into work the next day, ignoring the whispers as people saw him, and there was no sign of Sally. It was Anderson's day off, as well, he realised when he checked the rota. He gave what remained of his team their orders: Check if the Bruhls have any financial or marital problems. Two of you back to Addlestone to ask for any sightings of a man with children. Another down to St Aldate's with a picture of Moriarty, in case he was involved in some way.
They all went off, but he didn't know if they were going to do what he wanted. If they'd already realised that he was a dead man walking. He sighed and reached for the pile of paperwork from yesterday and wondered how long before someone came and told him the bad news.
***
He didn't expect the bad news to be that Sherlock was dead. That was when someone showed him the article in the Sun, which he'd somehow missed. He sat in his office, and people talked at him, telling him all the rumours, and then he got the call from the Deputy Assistant Commissioner. He listened silently as he was told that he was suspended, under investigation for possible misconduct, unauthorized disclosure of information, corruption and god knew what else. He was only surprised no-one tried to claim he'd been nicking money from the tea fund. He was toast, he knew that. Designated scapegoat for the failed prosecution of Moriarty, even though the whole thing made no sense.
It didn't need to make sense. It just had to hold together long enough for the tabloids to report that the problem had been down to a single rotten apple, a rogue DI ignoring all proper procedure. The Met making a presentation to Sherlock a few months ago - well, he'd helped them in a purely unofficial capacity, like any citizen. Nothing to see here, move along now.
It wasn't a surprise. As he sat in his flat that evening, Greg realised he'd known all along working with Sherlock would end in tears. But he couldn't have helped it; couldn't have walked away from him. Sherlock had mattered too much to do that.
Part 8