Though I Walk Through the Valley (32/38)
Though I Walk through the Valley
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (32/38)Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part II of IV)
Author: melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish, I wish upon a star... but until that works, not mine and sadly no money made.
Author's Notes: No real warnings for this chapter. Hope you all like.
Warnings:
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 10 - Chapter 20 - Chapter 30 - Chapter 31 - Chapter 32 - Chapter 33 - Chapter 34 - Chapter 35 - Chapter 36 - Chapter 37 - Chapter 38
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Saturday morning Greg indulged in a lie in, ignoring the guilt inducing squarks of his alarm trying to force him to run and snoozing way past ten. He would have slept longer, but the sounds of another person wandering around the house dragged him sharply from the half-doze he was luxuriating in. By the time he recognised Mrs Potts’s humming the damage was done and there was no chance of getting back to his somnolent state so he continued down the staircase headed for the kitchen.
“Morning.” He mumbled sleepily, reaching blindly for his small tin of instant, granular gold.
“Good Morning. You know you’re going to have to keep that away from the baby when it arrives.”
Greg grunted an acknowledgement. It was only coffee. Mrs Potts tutted back at him in return and bustled off, the laundry basket tucked under one arm.
He really was getting spoilt, Greg thought, with all the household chores being done for him.
It was hard to decide what to do with a free day. He used to flick through case files or do his housekeeping and required DIY repairs, and since moving in with Mycroft as much time as possible had been spent with him, but he’d deliberately not brought case files home, the chores were Mrs Potts closely guarded domain, and there was no Mycroft.
Gathering up his laptop, Greg made his way to the TV Room, preparing to dig in for a day of nothing. First though he had to see if Mycroft had replied, hoping yes, but sadly expecting not. The hollow feeling in his chest when his suspicions were confirmed threatened to lodge in his throat, but he blinked down his disappointment and decided to feel angry instead.Saturday 14/5/11 11:09 am
To: Mycroft Holmes
Subject: Really?
Ignoring my email won’t make this go away. It’s been coming for weeks and you’re well aware of that.
Stop acting like a five year old and write back.
Greg
He killed time watching movies, zoning out as his higher brain stopped thinking in favour of explosions and corny dialogue. He was well and truly settled in for the evening, still flipping to check his email every now and then, and contemplating ordering pizza, when John called with an invitation for beers and a match at the pub.
Seeing how he wasn’t doing anything anyway, Greg agreed.
There was a boisterous crowd for the match and John and Greg stumbled home at close having drunk much more than either of them planned. At least this time though, Greg thought as John unsuccessfully navigated a step otherwise indistinguishable from any other and crashed into the wall giggling, he wasn’t the only one plastered.
The door to the flat wasn’t locked so a repeat of the seven tries to get into the building wasn’t required, though Greg did stumble as it opened for no determinable reason eliciting more giggles from John.
John, Greg decided, was very giggly, and cuddly, and he had big blue eyes like a kitten.
Sherlock was seated in the kitchen doing something that involved beakers of unlabelled clear liquid that was almost definitely not water. John staggered over to him, wrapping one arm across Sherlock’s chest and burying his nose in the mess of curls.
“Come to bed.” It was probably meant to be a whisper.
“You’re drunk.” Sherlock absently replied, frowning as he carefully measured out four drops from one solution, adding them to another.
“And you’re shexy. Come to bed.” John’s hand started wondering down Sherlock’s shirt, unsuccessfully fumbling at buttons.
Sighing Sherlock capped the bottled in front of him with a flourish and covered the rest of the beakers with a flick of a tea towel. Standing he took his first look at his totalled Dom and Greg and rolled his eyes. Greg thought he muttered “idiots” under his breath, but right then with the way the ground was beginning to spin, holding onto the wall was far more important than working out what Sherlock was saying.
“What exactly are your chances of navigating the stairs on your own?” Sherlock’s acerbic tone was at odds with the patient gentle way he fended off John’s drunken advances.
Greg debated whether to give the answer he wanted or the one he suspected was true, despite having managed one set not five minutes before, but Sherlock had already answered his own question and moved on.
“Go brush your teeth.” He ordered, catching John’s wondering hands and turning him towards the bathroom.
“Bed.” John demanded, trying to pull Sherlock with him.
“Teeth. I’ll see to Lestrade and meet you there.”
“Promise?”
“Teeth.” Sherlock repeated, sending John stumbling off towards the bathroom.
Greg protested the entire way up the stairs that he was fine and didn’t need Sherlock there; continually ignoring the fact Sherlock was supporting nearly all his weight.
“Hey, Shhe-lock,” Greg listed slightly to the side as Sherlock propped him against the wall to open the door, “wassht’s Mysh middle name?”
“Ptolemy.” Sherlock remarked absently, trying to get an arm back around Greg’s chest to guide him through the space.
“No!” Greg pulled back, falling into the door frame so his vision went a little blurry.
“Yes, though I doubt you’ll remember in the morning.”
“Mine’sh francoissh, washt yours?”
“Shoes.”
Greg stared up at the ceiling from where he was suddenly sprawled on the bed and tried to work out how to get to his feet to do the laces.
“Oh for…” Sherlock knelt beside the bed and efficiently pulled apart the sloppily tied laces.
“Shhouln’t you be witsh looover boy?” Greg tried to sit up and bat Sherlock’s hands away to do it himself, but had to stop still leaning on his elbows as the world began to lurch again.
“John will have passed out the second he was on the bed, if not before, just like you’re about to.”
Greg meant to tell Sherlock he was wrong and that was utterly ridiculous, but before he could manage the words, proved Sherlock correct and passed out.
~*~A loud horrible sound was trying to wake him, blaring out an awful run of notes again and again and again before settling for a harsh beep. Glad it was gone, Greg tried to drift further back to sleep because he knew, just knew, he didn’t want to wake up, but the beep came again and his head hurt.
Burying his face in the pillow with a groan, Greg tried his hardest to ignore his head, ignore the noise, and ignore life given everything hurt so much.
Life struck back as his phone, of course it was his ruddy phone, rang again.
He fumbled around and eventually got it somewhere near his mouth. “Lessade.”
Murder.
Knowing he’d never understand let alone remember the address he told dispatch to text it to him and began the slow, painful process of moving.
Joy of all joys, someone (John?) had been considerate enough to leave water and painkillers next to the bed. The stairs were their own challenge and Greg told himself again that he had to stop doing this. He wasn’t in his twenties anymore and didn’t bounce back the way he used to.
Sherlock was at the table reading the paper, crimson dressing gown over his suit. The table appeared safe, so Greg collapsed in a chair, pillowing his head on his arms and wishing he could go back to bed and sleep it off. Eyes swept disdainfully over his admittedly pathetic figure and returned to the paper.
“Well you’ve beaten John to some form of awareness, however limited it may be.”
“Alays say my ‘wareness limited.” Greg mumbled into his arms. His head was pounding in time with his heart. “Coffee.”
“I believe water and sleep would be more helpful.” Sherlock turned the page. Loudly.
“Need coffee.” Greg insisted. “Crime scene.”
“You’re going to a crime scene like that?” Sherlock sounded thoroughly scandalised, though Greg refused to lift his head to check.
“Murder.”
“But what if it’s interesting? You’ll miss everything of importance.” An irritated sigh stirred the air between them. “You’ll be even more useless than usual, more useless than… Anderson!”
Of course it wasn’t about Greg being in no state to do justice by the victim and everything to do with the ‘obvious’ clues he’d miss.
“Who’s on forensics?”
“Andesson.” Or at least, Greg assumed it would be Anderson.
“Oh for…”
Sherlock’s chair scraped loudly across the floor, screeching into the pain filled corners of Greg’s brain and shaking them up. He moaned again, trying to convince himself blacking out at the table instead of going to work was a bad idea. It was just so comfortable and…
“Here.”
A mug of coffee and two more painkillers appeared next to Greg’s elbow.
“Already had two.” He did pick up the coffee.
“Just take them.” Sherlock disappeared in a swirl of scarlet silk, making Greg feel slightly dizzy.
When he reappeared it was sans dressing gown guiding a not-really-awake-and-definitely-hung-over John who already held a mug of coffee in his hand, though he didn’t seem to have the wherewithal to do anything with it.
“Do hurry up, Lestrade.” Sherlock chided, finding John’s shoes and putting them on his feet. He was halfway through manoeuvring John into his coat before Greg realised what was going on.
“Hang on, you’re not coming.”
“I assume this is the address on your phone?” Sherlock asked, casually holding the electronic bane of Greg’s life in his palm.
“Sher-”
“Today, Detective Inspector.” Sherlock called over his shoulder, guiding his partner to the door and prodding him down the stairs.
Greg cursed voraciously, navigating the stairs to the spare room to fetch his shoes as quickly as his aching head would allow. He was extremely aware at that moment that if he didn’t reach Sherlock before a cab, the pillock wouldn’t wait for him.
He made it. Just.
John was sitting in the cab, head tilted back against the headrest with his eyes closed. He wasn’t asleep because he winced when Greg slid into the front seat and shut the door with a slam. He was still holding the coffee mug.
“Where to?” The cabbie asked, eyeing the three of them with some trepidation.
Given Greg probably looked like he’d been dragged through a fence backwards and John was very obviously hung over, it was probably fair enough.
“You realise I know nothing about this scene.” Greg warned as they drove, Sherlock having given up the address. “You can’t complain it’s just some boring domestic.”
“The state you’re in you couldn’t see the difference between an ordinary domestic and something more worthwhile.” Sherlock shot back. “Besides, two bodies and one is missing its clothes, which don’t appear to be on the site at all. It at least shows potential.”
“How do you- Phone! Now!” Greg demanded, holding out a hand.
Sherlock sulked the rest of the trip, an entirely preferable state of affairs as he sulked quietly in deference to John’s hangover allowing Greg’s aching head a small measure of relief as well.
In retrospect, stopping to fumble some notes out of his wallet to split the fare with John was something of a mistake. Of course, in retrospect getting drunk so he was idiotic enough to bring Sherlock (or more correctly, be brought by Sherlock) to a crime scene with Sally and Anderson in attendance was also a mistake, but stopping to fuss with money was a more immediately idiotic move because Sherlock didn’t stop to wait and Sally was between him and the bodies.
“Get lost, Freak.” She blocked his way, chin up, arms crossed over her chest. “You weren’t invited.”
“If your DI could hold his drink better I wouldn’t need to be here.” Sherlock sniped back.
Sally looked over Sherlock’s shoulder, eyes falling on Greg who was hurrying towards them as fast as he could and John Watson who was soldiering through every stolid step and looked like it. Her lips thinned and Greg felt like a teenager being caught partying on a school night.
Noticing Weatherly carefully marking exhibits with plastic numbers, Greg was reminded things could always get worse.
“Get out Freak.” Sally didn’t budge.
Sherlock straightened, shoulders rolling back and down, chin tilting arrogantly in response. Greg was close enough to see his eyes darting wildly, skipping over Sally, the crime scene, Anderson, Greg, everyone and everything.
Shit, shit, shit.
Sherlock’s mouth twisted into a cruel smirk.
“Just because you’ve finally called it off with Anderson for good is no reason to yell at me, Sally.”
“Sherlock.” John had apparently woken up, if the hissing tone of voice and suddenly active footsteps were anything to judge by.
“Oh please, it’s obvious. Anderson - not wearing his wedding ring, but Donovan not looking overjoyed. Rather, determined, grim and otherwise not enjoying vast amounts of celebratory sex. She’s trying very hard not to look at that constable, the same constable Lestrade’s expression tightened upon seeing. Conclusion, that is PC Weatherly, the Sub Anderson is well known to have recently had an ill-advised one night stand with.”
At this stage everyone was staring. No one at the scene was even trying to hide the fact they were eavesdropping on the not very private conversation.
“Now, Weatherly: At work, but looking shaky and unsure; Shadows under the eyes indicate not sleeping; slight gauntness around the face indicates slight corresponding weight loss, counter balanced by some weight gain because her uniform still fits, even is pulling a little more tightly across the chest. The timing is again suggestive. Conclusion: PC Weatherly is pregnant and Donovan has finally refused to take Anderson back.”
Greg closed his eyes, trying his hardest to feel the bed underneath him because this had to be a nightmare.
“About time too.” Sherlock sniffed disdainfully. “Limited as your potential is, he was certainly holding you back from achieving it.”
Without waiting he breezed past Sally into the house, leaving everyone else standing outside in a frozen, silent tableau.
No one moved. No one looked. After months of not being looked at, it was a familiar sensation. Nobody twitched, openly staring at the ground or the sky until a car backfired several blocks away breaking the tension. Instantly everyone began talking in overly loud voices.
John took a hesitant step towards Sally and stuttered out “Um, f-from Sherlock that was, um, probably meant as a compliment” before fleeing into the house after his Sub.
Greg followed along, carefully watching his steps rather than look up at Sally.
“Sherlock, you arse, you have ninety seconds left.” He yelled into the house, ignoring the way it hurt his head.
There were the usual protests, but they cut off very quickly suggesting that no matter what Sherlock thought, John was putting his foot down.
“Find the husband.” Sherlock looked thoroughly put out. “How ordinary.”
“Sherlock…” Greg seethed.
“Boring.” The Omega wondered away, not even looking back over his shoulder.
John sent Greg an apologetic look and hurried after Sherlock, still holding his ceramic mug of coffee. From the vague flash of something across Sherlock’s face and the way he stopped to wait for John to catch up, Greg figured John’s face hadn’t stayed apologetic once he’d turned away.
“Alright,” Greg roared, “get to work. Donovan, find a husband. I don’t care which corpse’s spouse, just ID and find one. Stevens, find me the other. Everyone else, get this scene processed.”
God help them all.Saturday 14/5/11 8:05 pm
To: Gregory Lestrade
Subject: Re: Really?
Gregory,
I would like to start by making it perfectly clear that I would not stoop to the entirely childish position of refusing civil communication and as such resent the implication. My time at the moment is very much not my own, I am afraid to say, and consequently is extremely limited.
I must confess to a level of ignorance regarding what my brother has communicated to you regarding our family, however I imagine most of it is blown out of proportion in truly Sherlock-esque style. My brother has always possessed a well-developed sense of the dramatic. While it is true Holmesian tradition is that the head of the family must approve suitable names for the next generation, you are mistaken in your apparent belief that this is a procedure I have not undergone willingly and am not pleased with the outcome. I understand this is not a tradition observed by your family, but I would ask you to respect my choice to follow my family’s ancient routines even if you cannot respect them yourself.
Mycroft P. Holmes
Sunday 15/5/11 5:47 pm
To: Mycroft Holmes
Subject: Re:Re:Really?
That’s a low blow, My. You know I respect you, that I’m willing to live with most of your choices. This is different. This isn’t flight plans or surveillance or security. This kid is us. Us, My, not you, not me, us.
So what about respecting me, euh My? Where do I stand? I won’t ask what’s more important, me or outdated traditions, cause that’s clear innit, but I’m not gonna stop. If you don’t respect me enough to even consider alternatives, what else are you going to shut me out of? We can’t have anything together, limited though you demand it be, if you don’t respect me.
Oh, and congratulations, your brother’s “overly developed sense of the dramatic” just outed Sally, Weatherly and Anderson at a crime scene.
Humphrey? Sheridan? Quinn?
Greg
“Lestrade!”
Packenham’s roar echoed through the Yard, reverberations lingering in the unnatural silence that followed. Wearily Greg capped his pen, more surprised Packenham had waited until midmorning than anything else.
On the other hand, there wasn’t a very large audience first thing Monday morning.
He’d sent Sally out following up leads as soon as there had been enough witnesses to testify to his orders. She’d looked like she wanted to protest, but submitted gracefully to his protective instincts in order to not undermine his authority in front of the other officers.
The silence followed him as he walked calmly towards the irate Sub standing at the entrance to the bullpen. Dimmock tried to send him a covert supportive smile, but just ended up looking constipated. Gregson was scowling angrily, the tapping pen suggesting worry behind the grumpy shield. Whiting was at a scene, the bastard, but Greg doubted he’d have been called up as well. Weatherly was with him, a small fact that almost made Greg forgive him his absence.
“My office. Now.” Packenham barked, spinning on his heel and stalking off.
Posture perfect Greg followed after him.
“Well?” Packenham hissed, settling into his chair.
Mulgrave already occupied the other seat, twisted so it was him and Packenham rather than him and Greg. In lieu of taking the seat they’d left and surrendering entirely to their authority, Greg remained standing.
“Sir?” He asked gaze on the wall just over Packenham’s left shoulder.
“Well what do you have to say about this latest debacle Lestrade?” Packenham dug his fingers into the arm rest.
“To which particular debacle are you referring, Sir?” Greg kept his voice neutral, subordinate officer to superior.
“The incident at your crime scene yesterday!” Packenham’s eyes flashed dangerously.
“Regarding the upcoming leave of absence by PC Weatherly.” Mulgrave added; to diffuse the atmosphere or merely get his own penny in it was impossible to say.
“PC Weatherly will soon be taking maternity leave. My officers were aware of this fact. The revelation was made to other personnel on the scene by a third party. There were no further words or actions outside those proscribed by their duties by any parties present.” Greg kept his eyes firmly on his chosen point.
When he was finally released an hour later, unpunished because nothing had actually happened, he couldn’t help but wonder why exactly his bosses appeared to hate him so much.
Monday 16/5/11 12:07 pm
To: Gregory Lestrade
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Really?
Gregory, you’re being unreasonable. It’s just a name.
Mycroft Holmes
Monday 16/5/11 7:31 pm
To: Mycroft Holmes
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Really?
Mycroft,
No, I’m not. This isn’t just about his name any more. This is about whether or not you’re going to let me have any say in our child and you know it.
Let me in, My.
Got yelled at at work today. I could strangle your bloody brother sometimes, you know that? Still employed, but I swear to God only because they couldn’t justify firing me.
Greg
Greg wasn’t quite sure what he was meant to be doing Tuesday morning, sorting through the various piles just to check he hadn’t left something undone underneath. Somehow, magically, no one had been killed since Sunday and the two bodies in the building had been resolved in less than a day, thanks to Sherlock.
Stevens, PC assistant luckily in tow, had knocked on the door to his body’s house and was barely out of the way before the enraged blood covered Alpha had charged out the door, knife in hand. After that, it had all be fairly simple and was entirely in the hands of forensics to match the blood and weapon to the dead.
“Sir!” Sally barged through the door, file and stack of papers in hand. “I, we, need a warrant.”
That caught Greg’s attention and he held out his hand for the paperwork.
“Who’s Donald Remington?” He asked, flipping through her draft affidavit. “And what do we like him for?”
“Drugs,” was Sally’s immediate response, “and possibly murder. Juniae Shaendal, the extra body from the Thames, was a huge advocate for equal rights. She spent a significant amount of time helping at the legal aid centre as well as the Sub Shelters, often trying to convince a lot of the Subs from the shelter to go and get legal advice and help.”
“She was a lawyer?” Greg frowned, trying to remember whether her father or Dom had mentioned that in the interview.
“Legal clerk.” Sally shook her head. “Working her way through night school to get her degree.”
That sounded more familiar to Greg. Her partner hadn’t missed her at first thinking she was at class or the library.
“Right Sorry, go on.”
“One of the Subs she helped recently was Bruce Carr. Bruce was a regular at the shelter. Young kid, only in his early 20s.”
Greg flipped back a few pages and found a series of photos of a young Beta of Indian appearance sporting a massive black eye and lacerations. The injuries had been carefully documented from multiple angles.
“Bruce’s Dom used to do that regularly apparently.” Sally’s voice was hard. “He ended up running to the shelters several times a year, before eventually going back. Attacks usually occurred in rounds of three, each worse as his Dom let out his anger at Bruce running away. There was never a fourth appearance at the shelter during these cycles and it would be three to nine months before they saw him again.”
Greg frowned angrily at the photos. “Why didn’t anyone report this?”
“Some of the Subs did, but domestic abuse is still a difficult issue and the claims were unable to be substantiated. Their Doms claimed accidents or consensual rough play. Most of them are too scared to report what happens, especially as their Doms claim they’re sorry and it won’t happen again. A lot of them are financially dependent on their Doms still and some of the female victims have kids with their partners. The shelter volunteers don’t want to scare them into not coming back, so they do what they can and don’t push too hard.”
Greg sighed and nodded. Domestic abuse was an on-going problem all over.
“Bruce,” Sally continued, “was apparently different. According to some of the shelter volunteers I spoke to he seemed to be genuinely terrified of his partner, but not because of the beatings. More like he was afraid of whom he was, not what. On one occasion one of the girls had seen him being confronted outside a supermarket while doing her shopping and dragged off by a couple of goons talking about The Boss and hadn’t he learnt by now not to upset The Boss.”
“And this boss,” Greg flipped another page, scanning over it while she talked. “Donald Remington?”
“Donald Remington. Vice is currently very interested in him for drugs and he’s suspected of gang involvement, though they haven’t pinned down how close to the top he is.” Sally confirmed. “Juniae managed to talk Bruce into going to the legal aid centre. Those photos are from the claim for severance she helped him file. One of the centre’s lawyers, Richard Cork, let him stay at his while they arranged space in a motel for him under an assumed name.”
“Okay, but this was Juniae’s thing, yeah? I don’t doubt she’s helped hundreds of Subs before, so why’d this kid and this Dom so important?” Greg leant back in his chair.
Sally gave him a light dangerous smile and flipped a few pages to a witness statement. “Because Donald Remington was seen assaulting Juniae Shaendal outside the legal aid centre and threatening to kill her if she didn’t tell him where Bruce was. Her co-workers had already gone home and none of them knew about the incident. One of the café owners was still closing up and saw.”
“Oh really?” Greg bared his teeth in what was almost a smile. “Then I think we owe Mr Remington a visit. Where’s Bruce now?”
“He’s disappeared.” Sally answered. “Whether Juniae’s death spooked him and he’s run, or his drug-running gang boss boyfriend has him I don’t know yet.”
“Let’s hope for the former.” Greg closed the folder and grabbed his jacket. “Else we might be finding his body instead.”
~*~“Donald Remington? Open up, New Scotland Yard.” Greg banged again on the door. “Remington, if you’re in there, open up.”
“He’s gone out.” The statement was accompanied by the loud smack of bubble gum popping.
“Has he?” Greg turned to face the hallway’s new occupant, a woman of indeterminable age behind the caked on make-up.
“Oh yeah.” She chewed the gum loudly, twirling a strand of her stringy bleach blonde curls in what was probably meant to be a seductive manner. “Left ‘bout an hour ago. Keeps odd hours ‘e does.”
“Is there anyone else who can let us in?” Greg asked, flashing his ID at her.
“Tell you what, cutie. Just for you, I’ll fetch the spare key.” She gave him a flirtatious wink and sauntered back into her flat, too tight jeans and skimpy top clinging to the overflowing curves they couldn’t quite contain.
“So whatcha want with Donny?” She asked, brushing deliberately close past Greg to open the door.
“Thank you Miss…?” Greg opened the unlocked front door.
“Trixie.” She purred. “Come say hi before you leave.”
With a wink she went back to her flat, leaving the officers in control of Donald’s flat.
“Right,” Sally strode in, taking charge of her case. “We’re looking for anything to do with drugs, dealing and the murder of Juniae Shaendal. She didn’t have her wallet with her, so that might be a good place to start. Also, anything that can provide proof of Remington’s drug connections, or the systematic abuse of Bruce Carr.”
The officers set to work quickly, pulling the usual hiding spaces apart in their search. Greg wondered around the whole flat, getting a feel for it and the kind of person who lived there.
“Sir, Ma’am.” One of the uniforms called.
Greg and Sally headed over. The young Beta was kneeling next to a squeaky floorboard.
“It’s been replaced, Sir, Ma’am.” He looked up at them.
Sally looked at Greg then nodded to the constable. “Pull it up.”
It took some work with a screwdriver wedged between the boards, but with a creak the wood eventually lifted, gleaming nails extended like fangs.
Greg whistled. “That looks to me like a trafficable quantity of cocaine.”
“That it does.” Sally turned to one of the officers. “Contact the drugs squad and tell them to bring sniffer dogs. There might be more caches under the floorboards.”
“Well done, constable.” Greg smiled at the uniform, who stuttered and blushed that it was nothing, really, nothing.
“Well, you’ve got him on drugs.” Greg said to Sally once she turned back, “but there’s nothing to link him to the murder of Juniae Shaendal yet.”
“No,” Sally worried at her lip, “and nothing to give any kind of hint whether he knows where Bruce is either.”
“Sergeant Donovan,-”
The constable was cut off by the sounds of a fight at the end of the hallway. Hurrying out the door Greg and Sally could see a couple of officers from the drug squad Sally had had on call in the parking lot in case grappling with a tall ginger Beta.
“Hey, hey!” Sally yelled, running towards them. “Donald Remington, you are under arrest for drug trafficking, possession of a controlled substance, and suspicion of murder.”
Remington broke free of the hold, but with the officers on one side and Sally and Greg on the other there was no where he could go, and was soon subdued. Greg noticed that Sally took particularly vicious pleasure in slapping the cuffs around his wrists.
“Take him back to the station.” She ordered, taking her knee out of his back and allowing the uniforms to pull Remington to his feet. “Make sure to read him his rights on route.”
“Frickin bitch!” Remington, struck out, trying to head-butt her or something, held back by the uniforms.
“Get him out of here.” Greg waved them off in disgust.
The thumps and cussing could be heard down the stairs to the waiting cars below.
~*~Inbox (0)
~*~Greg sighed and rolled his shoulders, pushing back from his desk. There were a few officers still around. Dimmock sighing into a folder, head in his hands and a trickle of uniforms packing up to leave like Greg was about to do.
He hadn’t had a response from Mycroft yet and refused this time to break and email first. Besides, it was only Wednesday. One day was nothing.
The uniforms filed out with a wave, leaving the station almost empty. Definitely time to go home.
He was almost at the lift before his eyes registered that Dimmock’s was not the only light left on. Sally was also at her desk, forehead resting on one hand as she pored over files. The glow of success from yesterday’s arrest was long gone, subsumed to the knowledge that the only charge they could currently make stick was the drugs. There was no evidence in the flat to link Remington to the murder of Juniae and Bruce Carr was still missing.
He pressed the button for the ground floor with a sigh. Undoubtedly Sally would be there until some ungodly hour, fuelled by a need to prove Remington guilty of more than drug trafficking and the phantom of the cold, empty flat waiting at home. Greg had been there, done that, still occasionally felt that drive, that need. It had faded over the years since Jo left, whispered away in the darkness until its painful voice was hoarse, but still sometimes found the strength to scream out at him nonetheless, driving him to work long thankless hours as though solving this one would solve his life.
Mycroft usually gave him three days, somehow distinguishing between case and mood driven work, before pulling him out of the Yard and escorting him home.
Yes, he knew those moods. Intimately.
The breeze was warm, May continuing to attempt summer, and brave souls passed Greg chattering in short sleeves and flimsy dresses. Greg wasn’t that brave, knowing how capriciously London weather changed, but he had shed the overcoat, scarf and gloves from his regular wardrobe.
The lights were still on at Sally and Dimmock’s desks when Greg trudged back through the Yard twenty minutes later. He dropped one steaming bag on Dimmock’s desk and without waiting for his proud denials or brash gratitude continued on to Sally’s desk to drop the heavier bag next to her.
“Go home, Sir.” Sally didn’t look away from her screen.
“What’ve you got?” Greg snagged an office chair and wheeled it close.
“Go home, Sir.” She repeated stubbornly.
“I could say the same to you, sergeant.” Greg held out a takeaway container of pollo avocado. “What’ve you got?”
Sally watched him dangle it in front of her, jaw set stubbornly while she considered his offer. With a derisive snort she took it and disdainfully accepted the accompanying plastic fork.
“You really should go home, Sir.” She twirled the linguini around her fork.
“So should you. Any leads?” Greg opened his own spaghetti.
“Nothing.” Sally admitted angrily. “His car was in the area Juniae disappeared from, but I can’t put her in the car. Forensics says it’s been scrubbed clean. I can’t link Remington to any aspect of her murder except circumstantially, and there is absolutely zero sign of Bruce.”
“You’ve got him on drugs.” Greg reminded her gently.
“It’s not enough.” Sally growled despairingly. “I know he killed her, I just can’t find proof for a jury.”
“You might never manage. At least he’s going away for something.”
“Yeah, but…” Sally trailed off.
“We can’t solve them all, Donovan, and we can’t prove every case we solve.”
Sally sighed and took another bite so she didn’t have to reply. Greg let her eat in silence, replacing the lid on his takeaway and stealing down to Missing Persons for another box of records.
“You know you’re not supposed to remove those.” Sally commented, eyes flicking between her screen and a file as she verified a string of numbers.
“Yeah, yeah.” Greg dove in for another bite of spaghetti before opening the box. “I’ll have it back before morning, and if they’d get them all computerised already I wouldn’t have to.”
The quiet lasted for several hours, until Greg had to return his box of records and fetch a new one.
“Your chance of identifying the body this stage is-”
“About as good as your chance of linking Remington to that murder?” Greg raised an eyebrow. “We all have our cases, Donovan, and - oh. Well.”
Greg pulled the report at the front of the box out.
“Well,” Sally blinked at it over their takeaway, “that’s unexpected.”
“Yes,” Greg stared at the innocent piece of paper. “Yes, it really is.”
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Previous - Next
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (32/38)Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part II of IV)
Author: melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish, I wish upon a star... but until that works, not mine and sadly no money made.
Author's Notes: No real warnings for this chapter. Hope you all like.
Warnings:
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 10 - Chapter 20 - Chapter 30 - Chapter 31 - Chapter 32 - Chapter 33 - Chapter 34 - Chapter 35 - Chapter 36 - Chapter 37 - Chapter 38
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Saturday morning Greg indulged in a lie in, ignoring the guilt inducing squarks of his alarm trying to force him to run and snoozing way past ten. He would have slept longer, but the sounds of another person wandering around the house dragged him sharply from the half-doze he was luxuriating in. By the time he recognised Mrs Potts’s humming the damage was done and there was no chance of getting back to his somnolent state so he continued down the staircase headed for the kitchen.
“Morning.” He mumbled sleepily, reaching blindly for his small tin of instant, granular gold.
“Good Morning. You know you’re going to have to keep that away from the baby when it arrives.”
Greg grunted an acknowledgement. It was only coffee. Mrs Potts tutted back at him in return and bustled off, the laundry basket tucked under one arm.
He really was getting spoilt, Greg thought, with all the household chores being done for him.
It was hard to decide what to do with a free day. He used to flick through case files or do his housekeeping and required DIY repairs, and since moving in with Mycroft as much time as possible had been spent with him, but he’d deliberately not brought case files home, the chores were Mrs Potts closely guarded domain, and there was no Mycroft.
Gathering up his laptop, Greg made his way to the TV Room, preparing to dig in for a day of nothing. First though he had to see if Mycroft had replied, hoping yes, but sadly expecting not. The hollow feeling in his chest when his suspicions were confirmed threatened to lodge in his throat, but he blinked down his disappointment and decided to feel angry instead.Saturday 14/5/11 11:09 am
To: Mycroft Holmes
Subject: Really?
Ignoring my email won’t make this go away. It’s been coming for weeks and you’re well aware of that.
Stop acting like a five year old and write back.
Greg
He killed time watching movies, zoning out as his higher brain stopped thinking in favour of explosions and corny dialogue. He was well and truly settled in for the evening, still flipping to check his email every now and then, and contemplating ordering pizza, when John called with an invitation for beers and a match at the pub.
Seeing how he wasn’t doing anything anyway, Greg agreed.
There was a boisterous crowd for the match and John and Greg stumbled home at close having drunk much more than either of them planned. At least this time though, Greg thought as John unsuccessfully navigated a step otherwise indistinguishable from any other and crashed into the wall giggling, he wasn’t the only one plastered.
The door to the flat wasn’t locked so a repeat of the seven tries to get into the building wasn’t required, though Greg did stumble as it opened for no determinable reason eliciting more giggles from John.
John, Greg decided, was very giggly, and cuddly, and he had big blue eyes like a kitten.
Sherlock was seated in the kitchen doing something that involved beakers of unlabelled clear liquid that was almost definitely not water. John staggered over to him, wrapping one arm across Sherlock’s chest and burying his nose in the mess of curls.
“Come to bed.” It was probably meant to be a whisper.
“You’re drunk.” Sherlock absently replied, frowning as he carefully measured out four drops from one solution, adding them to another.
“And you’re shexy. Come to bed.” John’s hand started wondering down Sherlock’s shirt, unsuccessfully fumbling at buttons.
Sighing Sherlock capped the bottled in front of him with a flourish and covered the rest of the beakers with a flick of a tea towel. Standing he took his first look at his totalled Dom and Greg and rolled his eyes. Greg thought he muttered “idiots” under his breath, but right then with the way the ground was beginning to spin, holding onto the wall was far more important than working out what Sherlock was saying.
“What exactly are your chances of navigating the stairs on your own?” Sherlock’s acerbic tone was at odds with the patient gentle way he fended off John’s drunken advances.
Greg debated whether to give the answer he wanted or the one he suspected was true, despite having managed one set not five minutes before, but Sherlock had already answered his own question and moved on.
“Go brush your teeth.” He ordered, catching John’s wondering hands and turning him towards the bathroom.
“Bed.” John demanded, trying to pull Sherlock with him.
“Teeth. I’ll see to Lestrade and meet you there.”
“Promise?”
“Teeth.” Sherlock repeated, sending John stumbling off towards the bathroom.
Greg protested the entire way up the stairs that he was fine and didn’t need Sherlock there; continually ignoring the fact Sherlock was supporting nearly all his weight.
“Hey, Shhe-lock,” Greg listed slightly to the side as Sherlock propped him against the wall to open the door, “wassht’s Mysh middle name?”
“Ptolemy.” Sherlock remarked absently, trying to get an arm back around Greg’s chest to guide him through the space.
“No!” Greg pulled back, falling into the door frame so his vision went a little blurry.
“Yes, though I doubt you’ll remember in the morning.”
“Mine’sh francoissh, washt yours?”
“Shoes.”
Greg stared up at the ceiling from where he was suddenly sprawled on the bed and tried to work out how to get to his feet to do the laces.
“Oh for…” Sherlock knelt beside the bed and efficiently pulled apart the sloppily tied laces.
“Shhouln’t you be witsh looover boy?” Greg tried to sit up and bat Sherlock’s hands away to do it himself, but had to stop still leaning on his elbows as the world began to lurch again.
“John will have passed out the second he was on the bed, if not before, just like you’re about to.”
Greg meant to tell Sherlock he was wrong and that was utterly ridiculous, but before he could manage the words, proved Sherlock correct and passed out.
~*~A loud horrible sound was trying to wake him, blaring out an awful run of notes again and again and again before settling for a harsh beep. Glad it was gone, Greg tried to drift further back to sleep because he knew, just knew, he didn’t want to wake up, but the beep came again and his head hurt.
Burying his face in the pillow with a groan, Greg tried his hardest to ignore his head, ignore the noise, and ignore life given everything hurt so much.
Life struck back as his phone, of course it was his ruddy phone, rang again.
He fumbled around and eventually got it somewhere near his mouth. “Lessade.”
Murder.
Knowing he’d never understand let alone remember the address he told dispatch to text it to him and began the slow, painful process of moving.
Joy of all joys, someone (John?) had been considerate enough to leave water and painkillers next to the bed. The stairs were their own challenge and Greg told himself again that he had to stop doing this. He wasn’t in his twenties anymore and didn’t bounce back the way he used to.
Sherlock was at the table reading the paper, crimson dressing gown over his suit. The table appeared safe, so Greg collapsed in a chair, pillowing his head on his arms and wishing he could go back to bed and sleep it off. Eyes swept disdainfully over his admittedly pathetic figure and returned to the paper.
“Well you’ve beaten John to some form of awareness, however limited it may be.”
“Alays say my ‘wareness limited.” Greg mumbled into his arms. His head was pounding in time with his heart. “Coffee.”
“I believe water and sleep would be more helpful.” Sherlock turned the page. Loudly.
“Need coffee.” Greg insisted. “Crime scene.”
“You’re going to a crime scene like that?” Sherlock sounded thoroughly scandalised, though Greg refused to lift his head to check.
“Murder.”
“But what if it’s interesting? You’ll miss everything of importance.” An irritated sigh stirred the air between them. “You’ll be even more useless than usual, more useless than… Anderson!”
Of course it wasn’t about Greg being in no state to do justice by the victim and everything to do with the ‘obvious’ clues he’d miss.
“Who’s on forensics?”
“Andesson.” Or at least, Greg assumed it would be Anderson.
“Oh for…”
Sherlock’s chair scraped loudly across the floor, screeching into the pain filled corners of Greg’s brain and shaking them up. He moaned again, trying to convince himself blacking out at the table instead of going to work was a bad idea. It was just so comfortable and…
“Here.”
A mug of coffee and two more painkillers appeared next to Greg’s elbow.
“Already had two.” He did pick up the coffee.
“Just take them.” Sherlock disappeared in a swirl of scarlet silk, making Greg feel slightly dizzy.
When he reappeared it was sans dressing gown guiding a not-really-awake-and-definitely-hung-over John who already held a mug of coffee in his hand, though he didn’t seem to have the wherewithal to do anything with it.
“Do hurry up, Lestrade.” Sherlock chided, finding John’s shoes and putting them on his feet. He was halfway through manoeuvring John into his coat before Greg realised what was going on.
“Hang on, you’re not coming.”
“I assume this is the address on your phone?” Sherlock asked, casually holding the electronic bane of Greg’s life in his palm.
“Sher-”
“Today, Detective Inspector.” Sherlock called over his shoulder, guiding his partner to the door and prodding him down the stairs.
Greg cursed voraciously, navigating the stairs to the spare room to fetch his shoes as quickly as his aching head would allow. He was extremely aware at that moment that if he didn’t reach Sherlock before a cab, the pillock wouldn’t wait for him.
He made it. Just.
John was sitting in the cab, head tilted back against the headrest with his eyes closed. He wasn’t asleep because he winced when Greg slid into the front seat and shut the door with a slam. He was still holding the coffee mug.
“Where to?” The cabbie asked, eyeing the three of them with some trepidation.
Given Greg probably looked like he’d been dragged through a fence backwards and John was very obviously hung over, it was probably fair enough.
“You realise I know nothing about this scene.” Greg warned as they drove, Sherlock having given up the address. “You can’t complain it’s just some boring domestic.”
“The state you’re in you couldn’t see the difference between an ordinary domestic and something more worthwhile.” Sherlock shot back. “Besides, two bodies and one is missing its clothes, which don’t appear to be on the site at all. It at least shows potential.”
“How do you- Phone! Now!” Greg demanded, holding out a hand.
Sherlock sulked the rest of the trip, an entirely preferable state of affairs as he sulked quietly in deference to John’s hangover allowing Greg’s aching head a small measure of relief as well.
In retrospect, stopping to fumble some notes out of his wallet to split the fare with John was something of a mistake. Of course, in retrospect getting drunk so he was idiotic enough to bring Sherlock (or more correctly, be brought by Sherlock) to a crime scene with Sally and Anderson in attendance was also a mistake, but stopping to fuss with money was a more immediately idiotic move because Sherlock didn’t stop to wait and Sally was between him and the bodies.
“Get lost, Freak.” She blocked his way, chin up, arms crossed over her chest. “You weren’t invited.”
“If your DI could hold his drink better I wouldn’t need to be here.” Sherlock sniped back.
Sally looked over Sherlock’s shoulder, eyes falling on Greg who was hurrying towards them as fast as he could and John Watson who was soldiering through every stolid step and looked like it. Her lips thinned and Greg felt like a teenager being caught partying on a school night.
Noticing Weatherly carefully marking exhibits with plastic numbers, Greg was reminded things could always get worse.
“Get out Freak.” Sally didn’t budge.
Sherlock straightened, shoulders rolling back and down, chin tilting arrogantly in response. Greg was close enough to see his eyes darting wildly, skipping over Sally, the crime scene, Anderson, Greg, everyone and everything.
Shit, shit, shit.
Sherlock’s mouth twisted into a cruel smirk.
“Just because you’ve finally called it off with Anderson for good is no reason to yell at me, Sally.”
“Sherlock.” John had apparently woken up, if the hissing tone of voice and suddenly active footsteps were anything to judge by.
“Oh please, it’s obvious. Anderson - not wearing his wedding ring, but Donovan not looking overjoyed. Rather, determined, grim and otherwise not enjoying vast amounts of celebratory sex. She’s trying very hard not to look at that constable, the same constable Lestrade’s expression tightened upon seeing. Conclusion, that is PC Weatherly, the Sub Anderson is well known to have recently had an ill-advised one night stand with.”
At this stage everyone was staring. No one at the scene was even trying to hide the fact they were eavesdropping on the not very private conversation.
“Now, Weatherly: At work, but looking shaky and unsure; Shadows under the eyes indicate not sleeping; slight gauntness around the face indicates slight corresponding weight loss, counter balanced by some weight gain because her uniform still fits, even is pulling a little more tightly across the chest. The timing is again suggestive. Conclusion: PC Weatherly is pregnant and Donovan has finally refused to take Anderson back.”
Greg closed his eyes, trying his hardest to feel the bed underneath him because this had to be a nightmare.
“About time too.” Sherlock sniffed disdainfully. “Limited as your potential is, he was certainly holding you back from achieving it.”
Without waiting he breezed past Sally into the house, leaving everyone else standing outside in a frozen, silent tableau.
No one moved. No one looked. After months of not being looked at, it was a familiar sensation. Nobody twitched, openly staring at the ground or the sky until a car backfired several blocks away breaking the tension. Instantly everyone began talking in overly loud voices.
John took a hesitant step towards Sally and stuttered out “Um, f-from Sherlock that was, um, probably meant as a compliment” before fleeing into the house after his Sub.
Greg followed along, carefully watching his steps rather than look up at Sally.
“Sherlock, you arse, you have ninety seconds left.” He yelled into the house, ignoring the way it hurt his head.
There were the usual protests, but they cut off very quickly suggesting that no matter what Sherlock thought, John was putting his foot down.
“Find the husband.” Sherlock looked thoroughly put out. “How ordinary.”
“Sherlock…” Greg seethed.
“Boring.” The Omega wondered away, not even looking back over his shoulder.
John sent Greg an apologetic look and hurried after Sherlock, still holding his ceramic mug of coffee. From the vague flash of something across Sherlock’s face and the way he stopped to wait for John to catch up, Greg figured John’s face hadn’t stayed apologetic once he’d turned away.
“Alright,” Greg roared, “get to work. Donovan, find a husband. I don’t care which corpse’s spouse, just ID and find one. Stevens, find me the other. Everyone else, get this scene processed.”
God help them all.Saturday 14/5/11 8:05 pm
To: Gregory Lestrade
Subject: Re: Really?
Gregory,
I would like to start by making it perfectly clear that I would not stoop to the entirely childish position of refusing civil communication and as such resent the implication. My time at the moment is very much not my own, I am afraid to say, and consequently is extremely limited.
I must confess to a level of ignorance regarding what my brother has communicated to you regarding our family, however I imagine most of it is blown out of proportion in truly Sherlock-esque style. My brother has always possessed a well-developed sense of the dramatic. While it is true Holmesian tradition is that the head of the family must approve suitable names for the next generation, you are mistaken in your apparent belief that this is a procedure I have not undergone willingly and am not pleased with the outcome. I understand this is not a tradition observed by your family, but I would ask you to respect my choice to follow my family’s ancient routines even if you cannot respect them yourself.
Mycroft P. Holmes
Sunday 15/5/11 5:47 pm
To: Mycroft Holmes
Subject: Re:Re:Really?
That’s a low blow, My. You know I respect you, that I’m willing to live with most of your choices. This is different. This isn’t flight plans or surveillance or security. This kid is us. Us, My, not you, not me, us.
So what about respecting me, euh My? Where do I stand? I won’t ask what’s more important, me or outdated traditions, cause that’s clear innit, but I’m not gonna stop. If you don’t respect me enough to even consider alternatives, what else are you going to shut me out of? We can’t have anything together, limited though you demand it be, if you don’t respect me.
Oh, and congratulations, your brother’s “overly developed sense of the dramatic” just outed Sally, Weatherly and Anderson at a crime scene.
Humphrey? Sheridan? Quinn?
Greg
“Lestrade!”
Packenham’s roar echoed through the Yard, reverberations lingering in the unnatural silence that followed. Wearily Greg capped his pen, more surprised Packenham had waited until midmorning than anything else.
On the other hand, there wasn’t a very large audience first thing Monday morning.
He’d sent Sally out following up leads as soon as there had been enough witnesses to testify to his orders. She’d looked like she wanted to protest, but submitted gracefully to his protective instincts in order to not undermine his authority in front of the other officers.
The silence followed him as he walked calmly towards the irate Sub standing at the entrance to the bullpen. Dimmock tried to send him a covert supportive smile, but just ended up looking constipated. Gregson was scowling angrily, the tapping pen suggesting worry behind the grumpy shield. Whiting was at a scene, the bastard, but Greg doubted he’d have been called up as well. Weatherly was with him, a small fact that almost made Greg forgive him his absence.
“My office. Now.” Packenham barked, spinning on his heel and stalking off.
Posture perfect Greg followed after him.
“Well?” Packenham hissed, settling into his chair.
Mulgrave already occupied the other seat, twisted so it was him and Packenham rather than him and Greg. In lieu of taking the seat they’d left and surrendering entirely to their authority, Greg remained standing.
“Sir?” He asked gaze on the wall just over Packenham’s left shoulder.
“Well what do you have to say about this latest debacle Lestrade?” Packenham dug his fingers into the arm rest.
“To which particular debacle are you referring, Sir?” Greg kept his voice neutral, subordinate officer to superior.
“The incident at your crime scene yesterday!” Packenham’s eyes flashed dangerously.
“Regarding the upcoming leave of absence by PC Weatherly.” Mulgrave added; to diffuse the atmosphere or merely get his own penny in it was impossible to say.
“PC Weatherly will soon be taking maternity leave. My officers were aware of this fact. The revelation was made to other personnel on the scene by a third party. There were no further words or actions outside those proscribed by their duties by any parties present.” Greg kept his eyes firmly on his chosen point.
When he was finally released an hour later, unpunished because nothing had actually happened, he couldn’t help but wonder why exactly his bosses appeared to hate him so much.
Monday 16/5/11 12:07 pm
To: Gregory Lestrade
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Really?
Gregory, you’re being unreasonable. It’s just a name.
Mycroft Holmes
Monday 16/5/11 7:31 pm
To: Mycroft Holmes
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Really?
Mycroft,
No, I’m not. This isn’t just about his name any more. This is about whether or not you’re going to let me have any say in our child and you know it.
Let me in, My.
Got yelled at at work today. I could strangle your bloody brother sometimes, you know that? Still employed, but I swear to God only because they couldn’t justify firing me.
Greg
Greg wasn’t quite sure what he was meant to be doing Tuesday morning, sorting through the various piles just to check he hadn’t left something undone underneath. Somehow, magically, no one had been killed since Sunday and the two bodies in the building had been resolved in less than a day, thanks to Sherlock.
Stevens, PC assistant luckily in tow, had knocked on the door to his body’s house and was barely out of the way before the enraged blood covered Alpha had charged out the door, knife in hand. After that, it had all be fairly simple and was entirely in the hands of forensics to match the blood and weapon to the dead.
“Sir!” Sally barged through the door, file and stack of papers in hand. “I, we, need a warrant.”
That caught Greg’s attention and he held out his hand for the paperwork.
“Who’s Donald Remington?” He asked, flipping through her draft affidavit. “And what do we like him for?”
“Drugs,” was Sally’s immediate response, “and possibly murder. Juniae Shaendal, the extra body from the Thames, was a huge advocate for equal rights. She spent a significant amount of time helping at the legal aid centre as well as the Sub Shelters, often trying to convince a lot of the Subs from the shelter to go and get legal advice and help.”
“She was a lawyer?” Greg frowned, trying to remember whether her father or Dom had mentioned that in the interview.
“Legal clerk.” Sally shook her head. “Working her way through night school to get her degree.”
That sounded more familiar to Greg. Her partner hadn’t missed her at first thinking she was at class or the library.
“Right Sorry, go on.”
“One of the Subs she helped recently was Bruce Carr. Bruce was a regular at the shelter. Young kid, only in his early 20s.”
Greg flipped back a few pages and found a series of photos of a young Beta of Indian appearance sporting a massive black eye and lacerations. The injuries had been carefully documented from multiple angles.
“Bruce’s Dom used to do that regularly apparently.” Sally’s voice was hard. “He ended up running to the shelters several times a year, before eventually going back. Attacks usually occurred in rounds of three, each worse as his Dom let out his anger at Bruce running away. There was never a fourth appearance at the shelter during these cycles and it would be three to nine months before they saw him again.”
Greg frowned angrily at the photos. “Why didn’t anyone report this?”
“Some of the Subs did, but domestic abuse is still a difficult issue and the claims were unable to be substantiated. Their Doms claimed accidents or consensual rough play. Most of them are too scared to report what happens, especially as their Doms claim they’re sorry and it won’t happen again. A lot of them are financially dependent on their Doms still and some of the female victims have kids with their partners. The shelter volunteers don’t want to scare them into not coming back, so they do what they can and don’t push too hard.”
Greg sighed and nodded. Domestic abuse was an on-going problem all over.
“Bruce,” Sally continued, “was apparently different. According to some of the shelter volunteers I spoke to he seemed to be genuinely terrified of his partner, but not because of the beatings. More like he was afraid of whom he was, not what. On one occasion one of the girls had seen him being confronted outside a supermarket while doing her shopping and dragged off by a couple of goons talking about The Boss and hadn’t he learnt by now not to upset The Boss.”
“And this boss,” Greg flipped another page, scanning over it while she talked. “Donald Remington?”
“Donald Remington. Vice is currently very interested in him for drugs and he’s suspected of gang involvement, though they haven’t pinned down how close to the top he is.” Sally confirmed. “Juniae managed to talk Bruce into going to the legal aid centre. Those photos are from the claim for severance she helped him file. One of the centre’s lawyers, Richard Cork, let him stay at his while they arranged space in a motel for him under an assumed name.”
“Okay, but this was Juniae’s thing, yeah? I don’t doubt she’s helped hundreds of Subs before, so why’d this kid and this Dom so important?” Greg leant back in his chair.
Sally gave him a light dangerous smile and flipped a few pages to a witness statement. “Because Donald Remington was seen assaulting Juniae Shaendal outside the legal aid centre and threatening to kill her if she didn’t tell him where Bruce was. Her co-workers had already gone home and none of them knew about the incident. One of the café owners was still closing up and saw.”
“Oh really?” Greg bared his teeth in what was almost a smile. “Then I think we owe Mr Remington a visit. Where’s Bruce now?”
“He’s disappeared.” Sally answered. “Whether Juniae’s death spooked him and he’s run, or his drug-running gang boss boyfriend has him I don’t know yet.”
“Let’s hope for the former.” Greg closed the folder and grabbed his jacket. “Else we might be finding his body instead.”
~*~“Donald Remington? Open up, New Scotland Yard.” Greg banged again on the door. “Remington, if you’re in there, open up.”
“He’s gone out.” The statement was accompanied by the loud smack of bubble gum popping.
“Has he?” Greg turned to face the hallway’s new occupant, a woman of indeterminable age behind the caked on make-up.
“Oh yeah.” She chewed the gum loudly, twirling a strand of her stringy bleach blonde curls in what was probably meant to be a seductive manner. “Left ‘bout an hour ago. Keeps odd hours ‘e does.”
“Is there anyone else who can let us in?” Greg asked, flashing his ID at her.
“Tell you what, cutie. Just for you, I’ll fetch the spare key.” She gave him a flirtatious wink and sauntered back into her flat, too tight jeans and skimpy top clinging to the overflowing curves they couldn’t quite contain.
“So whatcha want with Donny?” She asked, brushing deliberately close past Greg to open the door.
“Thank you Miss…?” Greg opened the unlocked front door.
“Trixie.” She purred. “Come say hi before you leave.”
With a wink she went back to her flat, leaving the officers in control of Donald’s flat.
“Right,” Sally strode in, taking charge of her case. “We’re looking for anything to do with drugs, dealing and the murder of Juniae Shaendal. She didn’t have her wallet with her, so that might be a good place to start. Also, anything that can provide proof of Remington’s drug connections, or the systematic abuse of Bruce Carr.”
The officers set to work quickly, pulling the usual hiding spaces apart in their search. Greg wondered around the whole flat, getting a feel for it and the kind of person who lived there.
“Sir, Ma’am.” One of the uniforms called.
Greg and Sally headed over. The young Beta was kneeling next to a squeaky floorboard.
“It’s been replaced, Sir, Ma’am.” He looked up at them.
Sally looked at Greg then nodded to the constable. “Pull it up.”
It took some work with a screwdriver wedged between the boards, but with a creak the wood eventually lifted, gleaming nails extended like fangs.
Greg whistled. “That looks to me like a trafficable quantity of cocaine.”
“That it does.” Sally turned to one of the officers. “Contact the drugs squad and tell them to bring sniffer dogs. There might be more caches under the floorboards.”
“Well done, constable.” Greg smiled at the uniform, who stuttered and blushed that it was nothing, really, nothing.
“Well, you’ve got him on drugs.” Greg said to Sally once she turned back, “but there’s nothing to link him to the murder of Juniae Shaendal yet.”
“No,” Sally worried at her lip, “and nothing to give any kind of hint whether he knows where Bruce is either.”
“Sergeant Donovan,-”
The constable was cut off by the sounds of a fight at the end of the hallway. Hurrying out the door Greg and Sally could see a couple of officers from the drug squad Sally had had on call in the parking lot in case grappling with a tall ginger Beta.
“Hey, hey!” Sally yelled, running towards them. “Donald Remington, you are under arrest for drug trafficking, possession of a controlled substance, and suspicion of murder.”
Remington broke free of the hold, but with the officers on one side and Sally and Greg on the other there was no where he could go, and was soon subdued. Greg noticed that Sally took particularly vicious pleasure in slapping the cuffs around his wrists.
“Take him back to the station.” She ordered, taking her knee out of his back and allowing the uniforms to pull Remington to his feet. “Make sure to read him his rights on route.”
“Frickin bitch!” Remington, struck out, trying to head-butt her or something, held back by the uniforms.
“Get him out of here.” Greg waved them off in disgust.
The thumps and cussing could be heard down the stairs to the waiting cars below.
~*~Inbox (0)
~*~Greg sighed and rolled his shoulders, pushing back from his desk. There were a few officers still around. Dimmock sighing into a folder, head in his hands and a trickle of uniforms packing up to leave like Greg was about to do.
He hadn’t had a response from Mycroft yet and refused this time to break and email first. Besides, it was only Wednesday. One day was nothing.
The uniforms filed out with a wave, leaving the station almost empty. Definitely time to go home.
He was almost at the lift before his eyes registered that Dimmock’s was not the only light left on. Sally was also at her desk, forehead resting on one hand as she pored over files. The glow of success from yesterday’s arrest was long gone, subsumed to the knowledge that the only charge they could currently make stick was the drugs. There was no evidence in the flat to link Remington to the murder of Juniae and Bruce Carr was still missing.
He pressed the button for the ground floor with a sigh. Undoubtedly Sally would be there until some ungodly hour, fuelled by a need to prove Remington guilty of more than drug trafficking and the phantom of the cold, empty flat waiting at home. Greg had been there, done that, still occasionally felt that drive, that need. It had faded over the years since Jo left, whispered away in the darkness until its painful voice was hoarse, but still sometimes found the strength to scream out at him nonetheless, driving him to work long thankless hours as though solving this one would solve his life.
Mycroft usually gave him three days, somehow distinguishing between case and mood driven work, before pulling him out of the Yard and escorting him home.
Yes, he knew those moods. Intimately.
The breeze was warm, May continuing to attempt summer, and brave souls passed Greg chattering in short sleeves and flimsy dresses. Greg wasn’t that brave, knowing how capriciously London weather changed, but he had shed the overcoat, scarf and gloves from his regular wardrobe.
The lights were still on at Sally and Dimmock’s desks when Greg trudged back through the Yard twenty minutes later. He dropped one steaming bag on Dimmock’s desk and without waiting for his proud denials or brash gratitude continued on to Sally’s desk to drop the heavier bag next to her.
“Go home, Sir.” Sally didn’t look away from her screen.
“What’ve you got?” Greg snagged an office chair and wheeled it close.
“Go home, Sir.” She repeated stubbornly.
“I could say the same to you, sergeant.” Greg held out a takeaway container of pollo avocado. “What’ve you got?”
Sally watched him dangle it in front of her, jaw set stubbornly while she considered his offer. With a derisive snort she took it and disdainfully accepted the accompanying plastic fork.
“You really should go home, Sir.” She twirled the linguini around her fork.
“So should you. Any leads?” Greg opened his own spaghetti.
“Nothing.” Sally admitted angrily. “His car was in the area Juniae disappeared from, but I can’t put her in the car. Forensics says it’s been scrubbed clean. I can’t link Remington to any aspect of her murder except circumstantially, and there is absolutely zero sign of Bruce.”
“You’ve got him on drugs.” Greg reminded her gently.
“It’s not enough.” Sally growled despairingly. “I know he killed her, I just can’t find proof for a jury.”
“You might never manage. At least he’s going away for something.”
“Yeah, but…” Sally trailed off.
“We can’t solve them all, Donovan, and we can’t prove every case we solve.”
Sally sighed and took another bite so she didn’t have to reply. Greg let her eat in silence, replacing the lid on his takeaway and stealing down to Missing Persons for another box of records.
“You know you’re not supposed to remove those.” Sally commented, eyes flicking between her screen and a file as she verified a string of numbers.
“Yeah, yeah.” Greg dove in for another bite of spaghetti before opening the box. “I’ll have it back before morning, and if they’d get them all computerised already I wouldn’t have to.”
The quiet lasted for several hours, until Greg had to return his box of records and fetch a new one.
“Your chance of identifying the body this stage is-”
“About as good as your chance of linking Remington to that murder?” Greg raised an eyebrow. “We all have our cases, Donovan, and - oh. Well.”
Greg pulled the report at the front of the box out.
“Well,” Sally blinked at it over their takeaway, “that’s unexpected.”
“Yes,” Greg stared at the innocent piece of paper. “Yes, it really is.”
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