[fic: sherlock holmes] The Fall Guy (chapter one)

[cj_ludd18]

Title: The Fall Guy
Rating: PG-13
Words: 8800+ (chapter); 40,000+ (total)
Summary: Sherlock Holmes does something stupid, and Inspector Lestrade takes it upon himself to pick up the pieces. But taking the fall for a crime he did not commit is a harder task than the professional expected, and his is not the only life that begins to spiral out of control.
Author's Notes: This is the edited, formatted, pretty version, although if anyone out there is willing to beta it once more, I will not say no. The original fill is here onshkinkmeme. Thank you to everyone who commented and stuck with me through this crazy ride: crocodile_eat_u, arileo, joe_pike_junior, seldom_so (who has offered fanart!!!), e_p_kitty, sostrangechild, sparkle_free, solara_karrde, nemo_everbeing, and linguini17. And of course, Pie, who listened to me gripe about this monster in chat day after day. Could not have done it without you guys.

--

The blood won’t come out.

Holmes keeps his hands jammed deep inside his pockets as he walks quickly up the street, autumn air stinging his exposed cheeks and hatless head. The headquarters of Scotland Yard are just ahead, and praise heaven, there’s still one window with a light on-the one window that counts. He’s never been happier to see it in his entire life.

Ignoring the front door entirely, he instead goes straight for the small rectangle of light, crawling up to it as quietly as he is able, the finest traces of adrenaline still pounding through his blood, making his head spin. He peaks in through the glass.

Geoffrey Lestrade is seated at his desk, scribbling tiredly, sipping on occasion from a cup of tea that has obviously gone cold but that the frugal inspector cannot bring to pour down the drain. Holmes lets out a small breath, then lifts one hand and taps firmly on the window.

Lestrade looks up with a start, eyes widening to the size of small saucers when he sees Holmes’ anxious, pale face in his windowframe. He jumps to his feet, darting across his tiny office and sliding the window up, watching with shock all over his features as Holmes manages to drag his lanky frame into the room with a grunt.

“What the hell are you doing, Mr. Holmes? Is someone… Is someone chasing you?” Lestrade pokes his head out the window gingerly, half expecting a barrage of gunfire to start coming from down the street at any moment.

“Lestrade, close that window right now,” Holmes pants from his position on the floor. Lestrade does as he’s told with a sigh, then returns to glaring at Holmes pointedly.

“Alright,” he snaps, “What fix did you manage to get yourself into this time ‘round, Mr. Holmes? Tick of the Bogart gang? Or did Dr. Watson simply get tired of your ridiculous antics and throw you out on your… Good God, is that blood?”

Holmes stares at his hands and reddened cuffs, then back at Lestrade, who steps back nervously, because there’s something in the other man’s gaze that isn’t normal. It’s eerie and terrified and only now is Lestrade seeing the faint tremble in those typically stiff-as-a-ramrod shoulders.

He lowers his voice to a faint whisper, gasps out, “Mr. Holmes. Mr. Holmes, what…”

“Lestrade,” Holmes breathes. “I’ve come to turn myself in.”

Lestrade swallows painfully, mind racing at a thousand miles a minute. Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it. He’d wanted to see Mr. Holmes in derbies for years, but now, this is different-completely, absurdly, surreally…

“What… did you do?” Lestrade whispers. He’s never been more scared of an answer to one of his own questions in his entire life.

Holmes stares at the floorboards with a steely quality to his gaze. Then up at Lestrade once more. He grits his teeth for a moment.

“I shot a man.”

Lestrade reels. Opens his mouth to say something. Shuts it. Opens it again.

“Please don’t tell me he’s dead,” he pleads.

Holmes doesn’t have to say a word. The ashen quality to his gaze is enough. Lestrade runs a hand down his face, trying to determine if this isn’t simply a very bad joke. It’s the sort of thing Holmes would do, after all. He spins around, eyebrows creased furiously.

“Is this some sort of game, Mr. Holmes? Are you toying with me?”

“Lestrade,” Holmes snaps. “If you’d walk three blocks down and turn onto Knight Street, you’ll see that I’m being perfectly serious.”

Lestrade lunges forward and down, grabbing Holmes by the lapel of his jacket and jerking him from the ground.

“You left the body in plain view?!” he hisses.

“Of course not,” Holmes counters. “I’m not an idiot.”

“I beg to differ.” Lestrade releases his grip on the fabric of Holmes’ jacket, and returns to pacing about his office, rumpling his hair beyond repair by running his small hands through it repeatedly. “Who was it?” he asks at last.

Holmes chews on his lip. It’s the first time Lestrade has seen the man so uncertain of himself, nervous and scared.

“Neville Glickman,” Holmes says at last, with a resigned sigh.

“Oh, Christ…” Lestrade collapses into his chair.

The silence is filled by the ticking of the clock and Holmes’ ragged breathing.

“At least tell me it was self defense.”

Holmes nods slowly; he doesn’t have to explain. Lestrade’s seen it all before-one gun, two men, and somewhere in the struggle a finger squeezes the trigger and bam. He shakes his head angrily, gets to his feet.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “It really doesn’t. Think about who you are, what you’ve done. They’ll have no trouble believing you at court that it wasn’t premeditated murder.”

“Lestrade, I rather think they will.”

“Bu-”

“My gun. My letter asking we meet at my chosen location. And a motive,” he adds.

“Your client; of course.”

Holmes sighs, gently letting his head fall forward in resignation.

“Mr. Holmes, it doesn’t matter-”

Holmes snorts. “What kind of hypocrisy,” he says, “Would it be, if I, a supposed upholder of justice, went against my own principles and wormed my way out of this?”

“It doesn’t benefit anyone if you get yourself strung up at the gallows!” Lestrade shouts. “Mr. Holmes, much hate to admit this, we do need you. London does. God knows the Yard does.”

“I cannot believe it took my killing a man to get you to say that out loud,” Holmes drawls. “The worst part is, I don’t even regret it all that much.”

“Don’t say things like that, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade reprimands, voice receding to a gentle grumble. “It’ll do you no favors.”

“I don’t ask for any. I came to turn myself in.” He gestures casually towards Lestrade’s handcuffs hanging on a peg by the door. “Anyone else in the holding cells this fine evening, or must I keep my own company for the night?”

“I…” Lestrade shakes his head in disbelief at the unshakable will of this man. “Does the doctor know?” he asks at last.

“Of course not. I went alone.” Thereby eliminating the possibility of a trustworthy witness for the defense. Brilliant. Lestrade leans forward and squeezes his eyes shut, trying hard to think of something to do.

Lestrade’s brain is an object of nearly as precise engineering as that of Sherlock Holmes-that is to say, it is capable of marching in a perfectly straight line with no exceptions. One thing can only lead to one other thing can only lead to one other. It makes him a terrible investigator on occasion, but at the moment, it’s stepping, in its typical stalwart fashion, towards what is starting to look like a solution of sorts. He knows, for instance, that Sherlock Holmes is an element that cannot be removed from London. To be perfectly honest, he’s an element that cannot be removed period. In other words, thoroughly inexpendable.

But there are things that are expendable, people that could take the fall. But who would be willing… The doctor, certainly, if you asked him, but that is something Lestrade most certainly does not plan to do. Dr. Watson is nearly as invaluable as Mr. Holmes. Really, it’s Lestrade that’s always tagging along like the proverbial squeaky third wheel-

Now there’s an idea.

Now, what if… What if, for once, Lestrade can be useful and do something? It is either this, or the most important man in the British Empire is sent to the gallows for a deed few people would regard as terribly injust in the first place. It would be doing everyone a very large favor, really.

The only problem is how to convince-

“Lestrade, your silence is beginning to worry me.”

“Hm?” The little professional looks up. “It’s nothing, I…” He blinks rapidly. “Mr. Holmes, despite all this, I do trust you to do the right thing. So go home. Get a good night’s rest. We will continue this discussion in the morning.”

“I don’t see anything to discuss,” Holmes snaps. “Look, here…” He reaches into his jacket pocket and extracts a revolver; Lestrade balks at the sight of it. It is set cautiously onto the tabletop, where it sits and catches the light in a dangerous fashion. Lestrade breathes through his nose in an attempt to steel himself and closes his eyes.

“Go home, Mr. Holmes, and let me deal with this. If an arrest must be made, it can wait until tomorrow.”

Unaccustomed as he may be to obeying Lestrade’s orders for a change, Holmes nods, and reluctantly steps back towards the window. Only to stop and shake his head.

"Lestrade, just put me in a cell-"

"Go!" Lestrade barks.

Holmes manages a stiff nod.

“And those blood stains,” Lestrade adds. “A little soap, and cold water, mind.”

Holmes is too tired, too grateful, to reply that he already knows. Instead, he simply ducks through the open window, and into the calm, quiet dark of the London evening.

Lestrade puts on his coat and hat, wraps a thin scarf around his neck, and turns the lamp off in his office. He pockets the cold revolver, feels the odd sensation of the heavy metal rubbing against his hip as he closes the door behind him, and moves down the hallway.

One door is still open a crack, a small sliver of yellow light thrown across the corridor’s tiled floor. Gregson’s office-Lestrade starts to sneak past it slowly, except the door is suddenly pulled open even wider and there’s the man himself, goddammit. It’s not surprising that Holmes didn’t know he was still here-he has an office in the center of the building, no windows. Lestrade can only hope nothing of his previous conversation was overheard.

“Ratty. What are you doing here, slinking about like this?” Gregson snaps.

“I was finishing paperwork.”

“And did you finish it?” Gregson asks, one of his brown eyebrows arching upwards. Lestrade rarely leaves the office before ten on Wednesday nights, and it’s barely turned nine.

Lestrade sighs and shakes his head. Lying to Gregson is rarely ever worth the effort.

“Is something the matter?” Gregson asks. He’s one hand on his hip and is leaning against the doorframe in an imposing manner, but Lestrade can hear the worry that has managed to insert itself in the other man’s tone.

“I have some business to take care of nearby. Please,” he snaps, holding up a hand before Gregson can beg for specifics. “Don’t ask. You’ll know more by tomorrow.” Hell, most of London will.

Gregson nods and backs reluctantly back into his office, shutting the door. Even he knows when not to push a matter.

Alone once more, Lestrade lets out a deep breath and continues down the hallway, faster now, making his way to the front door and walking into the night. It is cold, even for October, and he grits his teeth as he makes his way towards Knight Street, shoulders hunched. The revolver clicking as it thuds against his side.

Snick, snick, snick.

The street is dark, no lights, no residents. No one to see, no one to hear.

Now, for the problem that begs to be solved: where would Sherlock Holmes hide a body?

There are three abandoned buildings, each one boarded up. Lestrade curses the lack of light, digging through his pockets in an attempt to find a box of matches, numb and ungloved fingers struggling to get one struck. Finally, with a small, weak flame rapidly burning down, he sets to inspecting the wooden planks covering each house’s doorway.

Ah! Here-a loose one. He runs his fingers over it and feels something wet and sticky, lifts his hand into the light and sees blood. Lestrade bites his lower lip and slides into the building just as his first match goes out with a wisp of smoke. He drops it on the floor, strikes another, looking about him at the bare walls and dirty floors.

Six red droplets pepper the ground. He follows them slowly, the light illuminating each one in turn, and he, careful to let his shoe smudge one of them, leaving a mark.

And then, in the corner, a rolled up carpet.

With two well-tailored shoes sticking out one end.

“Not particularly clever,” Lestrade mutters to himself. He blows out the second match just before the flame licks the tips of his fingers, lets it drop as well, lights his third. Doesn’t bother with unwrapping the body quite yet, simply runs his hands over the rug. There’s a corner that’s soaked in crimson, doubtless the patch covering the bugger’s fatal wound, and Lestrade takes a deep, bracing breath before pulling the rug aside.

Neville Glickman has a handsome face-had to, considering what he did for a living. Lestrade lets a small sound of disgust escape his lips, thinks of how much trouble one person is capable of causing, before finding the small, singed hole near the corpse’s unbeating heart where the bullet entered his body.

Lestrade sighs. Returns the rug, covering up the twisted visage of Neville Glickman.

“Ah!”

The flame of his third match has scalded Lestrade’s fingertips. He sucks on the wound bitterly, letting the sting subside and the traces of blood on his skin fill his mouth with the taste of iron. If he’s going to do this, then there are certain things that need to be taken care of.

He goes home in a cab, pays the driver extra so he’ll be sure to remember Lestrade’s face, he steps into his house and wipes down the gun, then holds it himself with his bare right hand and aims it at the nearest wall.

Barrel inadverdently pointed at his dead brother’s photograph.

Lestarde lowers the weapon, mumbles, “Sorry, Jerry,” and puts the revolver into his desk drawer before building up the fire, sitting down before it and listening to the flames crackle. At the moment, it’s all a plan, it’s all a Going To Do. Lestrade wonders what will happen when things start to move. If he’ll ever get as far as a gallows and the hempen rope around his neck.

He’s light. So maybe he’ll hang there for quite some time until-

Stop.

He’s doing it for London, he’s fulfilling the oath he took to serve and protect the citizens of this city, this country, and he’d never have been able to do it without Sherlock Holmes, that much is a given. Lestrade is a capable policeman, not a capable inspector. He knows this and it’s given him grief to no end.

He stares into the fire.

Holmes had risen early for the sole purpose of returning down to the Yard to finish what he’d started the night before. He dresses warmly. It’s cold in the basement, or so he hears.

Except now Watson’s leaping down the stairs before Holmes can even get a hand on the doorknob, brandishing the day’s edition of the Times, and he’s a terrified expression on his face. He knows, Holmes thinks, frozen to where he stands.

“Have you seen this?” Watson’s asking, shaking the paper violently, making the noise resound through the front hall. Holmes shakes his head dumbly. Watson snaps the paper taut, holds the front page up to Holmes’ eyes.

His heart plummets into his stomach.

Watson’s eyes have turned hard as tempered steel. He jabs one finger into the center of Holmes’ chest.

“You,” he says, “Are going to explain to me exactly what is going on. Right. Now.”

“How in God’s name did they find out so quickly?” Gregson is demanding, the paper unfortunate enough to have been delivered to him that morning already crumpled beyond hope of rescue by his still-shaking fist.

“You know how news travels in London,” Bradstreet mumbles. He snaps his own copy open and skims it listlessly. “The papers all have plenty of sources here.”

Sampson, one of the newer inspectors for whom absolutely no one holds any regard at all-unless it is the sort that prompts one to want to slam a brick into his face-crosses his arms across his chest and sneers.

“Well, he always was a strange one, if you ask me,” he says. “If any one of us were to end up in the dock, it-”

“You will shut your mouth and do so this moment,” Gregson warns darkly. He stands and points and Sampson, then the door. “Out of my office. Now.”

The other inspector curls his lip up in disgust and disappears. Gregson returns to his seat with a sigh, rubbing his temples. “Who was the arresting officer?” he asks, stifling a yawn.

“No one. Lestrade turned himself in at around three o’ clock this morning.”

“Jesus… I mean, really… Do you think he did it?”

“Why would he?”

“I don’t know, he was working the case with Holmes, not me. Perhaps it was an accident.”

“Lestrade didn’t paint it that way.” Bradstreet rips up the Times and tosses the scraps into the wastebasket. “Have you been down to see him yet?”

Gregson shakes his head.

“You should go. As soon as Hopkins leaves. I’ve already been.”

“How is he?”

Bradstreet frowns. “How do you expect he is, Gregson?”

He’s right. It was a ridiculous question. Gregson closes his eyes. “And Hopkins?” Poor boy looked up to Lestrade as a mentor of sorts at the Yard. Now this…

Bradstreet manages a small smile. “Can’t you guess? Lad’s probably down there crying a river.”

“Hopkins, please stop crying.”

Stanley Hopkins lets out a final (somewhat dignified) sniffle and rubs fiercely at his eyes. “S-sorry, sir,” he stammers. “It’s just… I can’t believe you… Please just tell me you didn’t actually… Oh God…”

Lestrade can feel a particularly wicked sort of guilt twist in the center of his chest as he shakes his head and says, “I can’t.”

There’s a silence broken by the chatter of Hopkins’ teeth as he shivers. “It’s c-cold down here,” he says. Lestrade nods. The cot provided is threadbare and there isn’t a blanket to be seen.

“Go back to work, lad,” he says, gesturing through the bars. “I’ll be fine.”

“But, sir, what-”

“Hopkins, there isn’t a thing you can do for me right now. Go upstairs and do your job.” Lestrade raises his eyebrows, fixes his stare onto Hopkins’ young face. The lad nods and turns around. Biting back another round of tears. Lestrade thinks he should probably feel grateful, but instead there’s nothing save exasperation.

More footsteps. Another visitor. Lestrade stifles a groan and lays down on the cot, hands folded behind his head to act as substitute for a pillow.

“Come to gloat, have you?” he grunts.

“Ratty, my goodness. I must say, you positively glow in these surroundings.”

Lestrade snorts and closes his eyes. “Good morning, Gregson.”

There’s a small silence. “Good morning, Lestrade,” Gregson says, voice bordering on soft. Then he laughs, returns to his mocking self. “Martin owes me five pounds,” he declares.

“What did you bet?”

“He said you’d end up in a cell for something as paltry as assault and battery. I told him such a pitiful deed was impossible from a specimen as insane as Geoffrey Lestrade. When you commit a crime, you go all the way.”

Lestrade laughs softly, the sound amplified by the bare walls and stone floors. Laughs, and shivers.

There’s a quiet clink, Gregson’s cufflinks against the metal bars, and then a gruff, “Here.”

Lestrade opens one eye, two, sits up. Gregson’s holding out a large wool blanket, fabric dangling between his fingers, waiting to be taken.

“I don’t want it,” Lestrade snaps, teeth chattering all the while.

“You always were a terrible liar, Lestrade.”

“No, really. The cold is good for my complexion.”

“True. You’ll catch consumption and turn pale as a snowflake,” Gregson says. “Right before you cough up your own lungs.”

“And would you care if I did?” Lestrade sits up and darts over, pushing the blanket and the warm hand that holds it back through the bars. “I don’t need your pity. I shot a man.”

“So you keep reminding everyone.” Gregson’s tone is testy.

“Go away.”

“Shan’t.”

“Why the hell not?” Lestrade seethes. He’s angry because Gregson is one of the few people who can look through him at a glance, to whom he’s rarely able to lie successfully. And he can’t be outed, not now, because if he is, then everything is going to go down the drain, all for nothing.

“Because,” Gregson is saying, slowly, measuredly, “I know you. And I don’t think you did this. You are many things, Geoffrey Lestrade, but you are not a killer.”

Lestrade blinks and turns away, facing the tiny window at the top of his cell through which a patch of unhelpful sunlight streams in.

“How do you know?” he says sharply. He can hear Gregson start a response, then think better.

Lestrade returns to the cot and lies down again. Gregson’s feet shuffle about on the other side, a long, low breath escapes the other man’s lungs, and then, there’s a little whumph as the blanket lands inside Lestrade’s cell.

Thoof, thoof, thoof, and now Gregson is gone and Lestrade stares up at the ceiling and the window and the light. He finally nods off in the middle of wondering whether Holmes managed to get those stains out of his cuffs or not.

“Did you see him?”

“Yes.”

“And? Well? Did he say anything?”

Gregson does not answer.

John Watson has reached the point where he’s past being vocal about his anger. He simply stands by the fire, staring at the dead ash, and works his jaw into a frenzy.

“You have to fix this,” he says at long last. Holmes, doubled over on the settee and staring at his shaking hands, nods wordlessly in agreement.

He’s never hated Lestrade more in his entire life.

“It’s bad, it’s bad, it’s very, very bad.” Bradstreet marches into Gregson’s office without knocking, the frantic cadence to his speech causing Gregson to stand with a start.

“What is it?”

“Have you heard? Who’s doing Lestrade’s interrogation? No, of course you haven’t.” Bradstreet closes the door and leans against it, breathing heavily. “It’s Sampson.”

Gregson kicks his wastebasket over.

“Why him?”

Bradstreet shrugs his narrow shoulders, pulls at his graying hair and fidgits. “Perhaps they wanted someone more impartial… Newer… Didn’t know Lestrade quite so well…”

“He knew Lestrade well enough to hate him.”

“Yes, well…”

“What do we do? What do we do? I mean, it’ll be a miracle if they both walk out of this without any physical injury on their persons!” Gregson proclaims, waving a hand over his own broad chest.

Bradstreet frowns. “You worried about Lestrade?”

“I’m worried about… Mnf. That Sampson… He has a temper,” Gregson muttered under his breath. “So? What do we do?”

“For the moment?” Bradstreet opens the door and steps into the hall. “Nothing.”

Lestrade has been in the interrogation room before, of course-only, he’d sat in the other chair, he’d been the one with the small notebook and wicked sharp pencil, he’d been the one in control. It makes his stomach turn, knowing how each and every one of his suspects must have felt.

The gas lamp is turned up a notch. Inspector Faber Sampson sits down in the chair opposite and folds his hands neatly in front of him, resting on top of his closed notebook. The smug smile on his face says, I don’t need to write this down. This is open and shut.

“So, inspector,” he drawls. “Enjoying your stay in the basement?”

Lestrade keeps his mouth shut.

“I hear they have rats the size of house cats.”

Silence.

“But, even if that were the case, you’d still be the biggest rodent down there.”

No response. Sampson raises his eyebrows briefly, and sits back. “Alright,” he says. “I understand. Not one for small talk. Get straight to business, eh? Suits me fine. So!” He smiles sweetly. “Why’d you do it?”

“Mr. Glickman had it coming,” Lestrade replies evenly.

“Did he? Enlighten me about this Mr. Glickman.”

“Read his file.”

“I’ve seen the file. It’s thicker than my thumb. And I’ve much more interesting things to do than read at the moment.”

“Like talk to murder suspects about rats.”

“Or talk to rats about murder. All the same, isn’t it?” Sampson fiddles with his pencil, tapping it against his own palm, acting as if he thinks himself terribly clever. “So. You were saying? About Mr. Glickman?”

“The only thing I know about Mr. Glickman worth telling you is that he’s dead and I put him that way,” Lestrade snaps. “If you want to know much more, read. His. File.”

“Oh, but I’d much rather listen to the sound of your voice.”

“The sound of my voice would much rather not indulge your inability to do your job.”

Sampson laughs. Then stops very abruptly and leans across the table, small, brown eyes fixed onto Lestrade’s dark, black ones.

“You know, Inspector Lestrade,” he whispers. “I never did like you.”

There is a loud cry down the hall, and a sudden ruckus starts up as people start running past Gregson’s open doorway. He looks up from Neville Glickman’s autopsy report only when there’s a terrifically thunderous wham, jumping to his feet and proceeding towards the source of the din.

A small crowd has gathered around the interrogation; Gregson elbows through. Sampson is leaning against the newly closed door, rubbing his jaw.

“What happened?” Martin was demanding.

“Little rat bastard hit me!” Sampson snarled. “I say we haul him off to the gaol proper this instant for assaulting a police officer!”

Gregson rolls his eyes and shoves Sampson to one side. “Move,” he grunts, and opens the door of the interrogation room to see Lestrade, leaning against the far wall and breathing heavily.

“Well?”

Lestrade frowns. “Well, what?”

“Well, are you trying to get yourself locked behind bars for the rest of your life?”

“Yes, actually,” Lestrade snaps. “I’d always wanted to take up smashing rocks for a liv-”

“What’s that on your neck?” Gregson lunges across the room with a vengeance; Lestrade flinches away, but not quickly enough. Gregson had already spied the fast-appearing, all too familiar pattern of purple welts on Lestrade’s skin. “Bastard,” he mutters under his breath, before returning to the hallway, where Sampson is still griping to anyone who’ll listen.

“…absolutely off his rocker…”

“Sampson.”

“What?”

Gregson grabs the other man’s arm and gives him one firm shake. “Did anyone tell you at the academy,” he said forcefully, “That the correct way to interrogate a suspect does not, under any circumstance, involve choking him about the neck?”

Sampson glares at Gregson for one long moment. Then says, through gritted teeth, “Let go of my arm.”

Gregson releases him.

Sampson marches back into the interrogation room with a spin of his heel and slams the door behind him.

The cab ride to Scotland Yard is understandably silent. Watson has nothing to say and Holmes would not have listened even if he did-he is too busy wondering what could have posessed Lestrade to make him do something so idiotic.

It’s halfway there that Holmes finally whispers out a frail, “It was an accident, Watson.”

Watson spins around furiously. “It’s always an accident with you, isn’t it, Holmes? You accidently set the rooms on fire, you accidentally kill our neighbor’s dog, you accidentally get us into a gunfight, you accidentally land Lestrade in prison for a crime he didn’t…”

Holmes snaps his mouth shut and watches Watson return to staring angrily out the window.

“Whoa…Whoa, now.”

The horses stop, chewing on their bits and snorting into the air, small clouds of steam rising from their flaring nostrils. Watson gets out first, having positioned himself as far away from Holmes as possible-ie, flat against the door, glaring out the window as the Thames whizzed by. Now he pays the driver wordlessly and storms up towards the front door, Holmes following him.

“Watson! Watson, wait, we can’t just march in there and say I’m the actual murderer, there isn’t a soul who’d believe us!”

“We have to try,” Watson says coldly. He opens the door and steps inside.

The Yard is, expectedly, a chaos zone-PCs running to and fro, inspectors giving out tired commands, looks of disbelief on their faces, every now and again staring dazedly at the corridor leading to Lestrade’s office.

Someone starts marching towards Holmes and Watson, a young sergeant brandishing a pencil like a weapon.

“You there!” he yells. “Get out! No reporters allowed at the moment!”

“We’re not reporters,” Watson states calmly. “My name is Dr. John Watson. This imbecile is…”

“Sherlock Holmes! Good God! My deepest apologies.” He shakes Holmes’ hand vigorously, before doing the same with Watson. “How can I help you, gentlemen? We’re a little short-handed today, I am afraid. Doubtless you’ve heard about Inspector Lestrade.”

“Ah, yes,” Watson says, tone fractious. “About that.”

“Now! Where were we?”

“Before or after you started your personal vendetta against my windpipe?” Lestrade rasps, voice still hoarse.

Sampson smiles sourly. “Before,” he says, irritation creeping in at the edges of his speech. “You were telling me in that winningly cooperative manner of yours about Mr. Neville Glickman.”

“Was I really?” Lestrade raises his eyebrows.

“Oh, yes. Scintillating descriptions.”

“Well, you know me, Inspector Sampson.” Lestrade leans back and blinks. “I’d hate to revisit the same subject twice and bore you. So let’s move on.”

Sampson grinds his teeth angrily and curses under his breath as he scribbles something furiously onto his notepad. The pencil’s tip snaps.

A dull roar follows.

G. Lestrade: 1 F. Sampson: 0

Bradstreet shakes his head as if trying to dispel a fly that’s gotten into his ear.

“Mr. Holmes, I know you mean well, and I know you rather like Lestrade under all that, but this is a little too much.”

“It’s not me being a hero or anything,” Holmes snaps. “Lestrade’s the one who seems to think mindless chivalry is a good pool into which one should dive. I really did shoot the bugger.”

“Mr. Holmes-”

“Bullet wound just above the heart. Found wrapped in an old Persian carpet in a house on Knight Street. Gun fired was a-”

“Mr. Holmes, all that information was either in the autopsy or the papers; doubtless, you’ve managed to get your hands on both.” Bradstreet shakes his head. “Besides, the gun only has one set of fingerprints on it, and they belong to Lestrade.”

Holmes balks at this. Fellow is smarter than I thought.

“We appreciate your concern, Mr. Holmes. Listen, Lestrade is… still downstairs, perhaps you’d want to go see him?”

Both the doctor and the detective shake their heads.

Not now. Not like this.

“Run this by me again,” Sampson says, his tone irascible. “You simply killed him… in a struggle? Self defense?”

“That’s it. What, not exciting enough for you?”

Sampson sighs irritably. “I don’t believe you,” he snaps.

“Tough.”

“Come now, Lestrade. Wouldn’t it be better for the both of us if you simply told me the truth and-”

“Stop trying to be nice to me,” Lestrade grumbles. “Listen, I told you what happened. I’ve no reason to lie to you.”

“Oh, but you do,” Sampson retorted. “A lie can be the difference between a trip to Wandsworth prison for a stay in the cells or a walk up their gallows.”

Lestrade swallows.

“And I’m positive,” Sampson continues, his smirk returning, “That even rats don’t take well to hanging.”

G. Lestrade: 1 F. Sampson: 1

“I did tell you-”

“We’re going to go try someone else. If Bradstreet won’t believe us, somebody will.”

Watson stops and looks at Holmes flatly. “Listen, old man, it’s not that I wish to see you behind bars. But you’re far more likely to get out of this than poor old Lestrade, considering your record…”

“That’s what he said last night, too.”

“Who?”

“Lestrade.”

Watson nods. They stop outside of Inspector Martin’s office and knock.

“This Glickman. He was a maltreater of women?”

Lestrade tisks. “So you did read the file. Congratulations.”

Sampson laughs merrily, takes out a cigarette and lights it with the oil lamp sitting nearby. Lestrade’s fingers resist the urge to tip the lamp and its hot kerosene onto his interrogater’s smugly smiling face.

Smoke soon fills the small room as Sampson puffs away with zest. Lestrade moans inwardly-he hasn’t had a smoke in over a day, and he’s fairly certain Sampson knows this, is pressing it to his advantage.

“Didn’t read the file,” he grunts. “Heard ‘round the office, though. You work any of his battery cases?”

“One or two.”

“Anything get too personal?”

“Not really. Charges were dropped before I even got a chance to meet the victims.”

Sampson looks at Lestrade for a few long moments, inspecting his face, leaning in every now and again, so close he can see his own, distorted expression in Lestrade’s impossibly black eyes. Eventually satisfied, he leans back and chuckles again, blows a smoke ring into Lestrade’s face.

“What are you hiding?” he says at last.

Lestrade grips the sides of the chair on which he’s sitting and says, as evenly as he can muster, “Nothing.”

“Lies, lies, lies…” Inspector Sampson wafts his cigarette about, letting it trail fragrant smoke right under Lestrade’s nose. “Is that really the best you can do, Inspector?” He leans across the table again, close enough for their noses to almost touch. Lestrade can’t hide the wince that spasms across his face as Sampson raises his large hand, but it’s simply to take another long drag of his cigarette before he whispers, “Who are you protecting?”

Lestrade jumps in his chair. Sampson grins like the cat that has gotten the canary that drank the cream.

“Well?” he says. “Who else was involved?”

Lestrade’s brain is running as fast as it can, still in a straight line but one that is going towards a deep dark place, and there’s no hope in turning back. But he can’t break, now. If he breaks now, it’ll all have gone to waste. He grits his teeth. He sets his jaw. He’s going to have to lie again.

“I was hoping,” he sighs, “To keep her out of this.”

Sampson stands, bangs the table. “So! There is someone!” He grips Lestrade’s tie and shakes him harshly. “Who?” he snaps.

Lestrade pulls himself away and dips his head in mock resignation. Mumbles something unintelligible.

“Sorry?” Sampson sneers.

“My sister. Alright? Are you satisfied?” Lestrade leans back and bites his lower lip.

“Your… sister. Mm-hm.” Sampson scribbles this new bit of information in his notebook with his shattered pencil, the words coming out nearly illegible. “Her name?”

Lestrade stares upwards. Forgive me.

“Jenny,” he says. “Jenny Richards.”

“Married?” Sampson’s eyebrows shoot up in incredulity. “And what does she have to do with all this?”

The oil lamp lights up the room in eerie shadows. Lestrade watches them flicker as he pounds out the best lie he can possibly manufacture. “She was… insulted,” he says slowly. “By this brute. When I saw him reappear in our records for hurting more women, I saw an opportunity. It wasn’t until last night that I…”

Sampson is writing as fast as he can. He dots his last I and crosses his last T and then gets back to his feet. “Don’t go anywhere now, Ratty,” he chides, before leaving the interrogation room.

Lestrade buries his head in his arms and lets out a bone deep sigh of relief.

Waiting outside the interrogation room, listening for any sounds of a scuffle, is when Gregson first starts to get more than a little nervous about this whole affair. He replays his brief conversation with Lestrade last night over, and over-Is something the matter?... I have some business to take care of nearby. Please, don’t ask. You’ll know more by tomorrow...

What if he really did…

“He coughed!”

Gregson watches Inspector Sampson march out of the interrogation room victoriously, notebook being waved about like a flag. Their fields of vision snap together. Gregson frowns; Sampson leers.

“Were you waiting out here all along?”

“Yes.”

“Tingling with anticipation over my results, or are you Ratty’s mother?”

Gregson resists the urge to throttle the other inspector, opting instead to reach out calmly for the notebook. “What did he say, then, that’s got you so excited?”

“Put this in your hat and wear it,” Sampson snickers. “He did it ‘cos the dead fella made a pass at his sister.”

Gregson leans back, squints. “Whose sister?”

“Lestrade’s. I know, I couldn’t believe it either…”

“…sister?”

“…to actually continue breeding-sorry?”

“What was the sister’s name?” Gregson asks, trying to keep his voice as normal as possible.

“Erm…” Sampson flits his eyes over the notepad. “One Jenny Richards.”

I knew it.

“I knew it.”

“Hey, now, wait a moment, tell me what’s going on here-!”

It’s too late, Sampson has lost his audience of one, and Gregson is dashing into the interrogation room with his heart pounding within the confines of his chest. He nearly wants to laugh. Nearly. Because this whole thing is just so damnably absurd.

Lestrade is still seated. The room smells of tobacco.

“You again.”

“You didn’t do it,” Gregson blurts, as soon as he’s closed the door behind him.

Lestrade frowns, creasing his brow in a neat little manner, folds his hands with each other on the table. “What makes you think that?”

“You don’t have a sister.”

“And how do you know?” Lestrade mutters.

“Because,” Gregson laughs, “’Jenny Richards’? Really?”

Lestrade fidgits in his seat, turns his head to avoid looking Gregson in the face, and mumbles, “It’s a perfectly normal name.”

“Oh, right, so, your brother’s name just happens to be Jerry.”

“What-?”

“And it is sheer coincidence that your mother’s maiden name was Richards. Come on, Lestrade, how stupid do you think I am?”

Lestrade blinks, once, twice, three times. “How,” he breathes, “Do you even know that?”

“I may have read your file.”

“You read my personal-!”

“Don’t act so surprised. I’m certain you’ve read mine. I most certainly didn’t tell you I came from Eastbourne.” Gregson sits down in the interrogator’s chair and tries hard to keep his eyes from snapping to the ring of purple bruises around Lestrade’s small neck too often. “So who are you covering for?”

“No one,” Lestrade mutters.

Gregson snorts and leans forward. “Come on, Lestrade. I only want to help.”

“Why would you help me?” Lestrade exclaims, exasperated. “You don’t even like me!”

“Who said I didn’t like you?” Gregson grunts.

“You did! Several times!”

“Oh. Well, the important thing is-”

“The important thing is that you don’t like me, Gregson, and you probably never will. You feel bad for me, which is entirely different. And I suppose I should… I don’t know, thank you for your pity or summat, but I don’t really want it. Alright? Listen, I’m not covering for anybody, it’s just that-”

The door opens; two guards from the basement step in. The first one freezes. “I’m sorry, sir,” he says to Gregson; “I thought you was finished.”

“We are,” Gregson grunts, standing. “Or, I am. I’ve heard enough.” He leads the way out the door, turning to watch Lestrade as he is escorted back down to his cell. Gregson hopes he’s started making use of that blanket. It really is desperately cold down there.

Lestrade walks with his head held high. How long it’ll stay that way is anyone’s guess.

“That’s it. We’ve tried everyone.”

“Well, I have stated repeatedly, under several circumstances, that the people here are hardly the brightest specimens of the human race,” Holmes mumbles.

“Not even Hopkins -”

Holmes lets out an impatient huff of air and removes his cigarette case from his pocket. “That’s because the only person young Stanley worships more than Inspector Lestrade would happen to be me, Watson, and therein lies the rub.”

Watson has started to massage his leg and shoulder in turn, wounds always giving him trouble under duress. He sighs and sits down in the nearest chair, brow creased. “Well, there is one person we haven’t spoken to, yet,” he says.

“You are talking about Gregson, and the answer is no.”

“Come on, just because they have a professional rivalry-”

“They don’t like each other, Watson.” Holmes lights his cigarette, puffs on it dangerously fast, the way he always does when he’s hit a brick wall. “Well, I suppose we could always break him out of his cell,” he muses under his breath.

“Holmes!”

“What? I’m simply throwing ideas around, no need to get-”

There’s a loud shout from down the hallway. Holmes and Watson look up to see Gregson walking towards them, long legs moving quickly, a scowl on his face. He stops in front of them with his arms hanging loosely at his sides, shoulders hunched and tense.

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. Just the men I was looking for. Listen, I have something to tell you,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Follow.”

He leads them down a small, dimly lit corridor with no windows, then opens a small door and gestures for them to enter. Holmes shoots Watson a wary look that is not returned.

The door leads to a flight of stairs, and it’s standing on the first step that a blast of cold hits all three men in a chilly wave. There is no doubt now that this is the way down to the holding cells in the basement. Holmes swallows, starts down while trying to retain his usual, cool demeanor, listening to Watson’s shuffling step behind him and Gregson’s slow, steady footfalls further back.

“Well?” Watson asks, as soon as they reach the bottom. He’s twisting his hands about a little, wringing them. “What is-”

“I know Lestrade didn’t do it,” Gregson interrupts; Holmes stiffens. “And I need your help in proving it. I just know he’s covering for someone, but the question is, who.”

Watson gives Holmes a pointed shove.

“Ah. Gregson. Regarding whom Lestrade is covering for. We… That is to say, I…”

“Stop wasting my time, Mr. Holmes, who is it?”

Holmes straightens. “Me.”

Gregson stares at the consulting detective for a few moments, blinking dazedly. Then he leans back and decks him.

Watson lets out a small, strangled cry, kneels to help his fallen friend to his feet. Holmes has yet to make a noise, instead wipes a small strand of blood from the corner of his lip and stands, looking at Gregson solemnly.

Watson, on the other hand, is bristling ever so slightly. “Gregson, there’s no need for violence. We’ve come to sort this mess out, haven’t we?”

Holmes’ eyes widen. “Just ten minutes ago, you were jumping down my throat-”

“Yes, but not with my fist,” Watson points out. “Listen, Gregson, if you could get us an audience with the chief, or even the superintendent, we can get Lestrade out-”

Gregson shakes his head angrily, kicks the nearest wall as he hisses, “It’s too late for that, the stupid man’s already confessed! The trial is all but scheduled! And I don’t need to tell you what the punishment for murder is, because… God,” he groans. “This is all such a terrible mess.”

Holmes is blinking unsteadily, still reeling from the blow, jaw throbbing. “I was under the impression you didn’t like Lestrade,” he says with a grimace. Gregson lets out an impatient sigh.

“And where did you pick up that assumption?”

“Well, you’re always at each other’s throats. I would have thought it was obvious.”

“Well, I… I don’t not… That is beside the point. He’s a colleague no matter what.” Gregson shifts weight from leg to leg, inspects Holmes the way an angry headmaster would a misbehaving pupil. “Mr. Holmes, what the devil posessed you to ask him to do something like this for you?”

“I didn’t ask him at all!” Holmes explains, affronted. “He went off and did it of his own accord!”

Suicidal idiot.

Gregson groans, then points at Holmes with a menacing finger. “You will fix this,” he says firmly. “And you will start right now.”

Holmes nods, lets the smallest if smirks tug at the corner of his lip as he glances at Watson.

“You know,” he muses aloud, “That’s the second time someone’s said that to me, today.”

Lestrade has taken to reading the graffiti on the walls of his holding cell out of boredom. There’s nothing particularly interesting-the typical tally marks are omnipresent, and there’s a very inspired drawing of a nude woman close to the edge of the cot. On the opposite wall, someone has scratched his name-Sam Butler, and Lestrade can personally remember the arrest several months ago for being drunk in public.

And then, further down, a heart inside which a man has written Sarah. Lestrade sighs and returns to his cot.

There are noises, speech, from further down the hall-arguing. He can recognize Gregson’s impatient baritone, and then there’s also an extremely familiar tenor that keeps on wafting in and out.

Sherlock Holmes is paying Scotland Yard a visit.

Lestrade rolls on the bed in an attempt to find a more comfortable position. There’s nothing Holmes can do now, he muses, which is all just as well, because that means that for once, one of Lestrade’s plans is working the way it should be.

The speaking has stopped. There are only footsteps now, some going away, some drawing nearer. Silently, he hopes to himself it’s not Holmes paying him a visit to grovel, which would be equal parts embarassing and extremely surreal.

It’s not Holmes.

“Ratty, why is there a tray of what looks like horse dung outside your cell?”

Lestrade looks up blearily. Laughs. “The guard claimed it was my breakfast.”

Gregson looks around, eyes landing on the blanket that is still sitting, untouched, upon the floor. “Lestrade.”

“Ng.”

“Just take the bloody blanket.”

There’s no response. Gregson sighs and kicks the foul-smelling tray, before turning about and heading back upstairs, thinking there was no possible way this entire fiasco could end well.

“Well? What’s the plan?” Watson’s eyes are surprisingly optimistic as they step back into the main floor of Scotland Yard headquarters. Holmes is staring thoughtfully at the floor, lips pursed.

“If we can find evidence supporting two things, then Lestrade will be acquitted,” he says, after a long pause.

“Two?”

“Well, first we solve the original case. Neville Glickman is a criminal, even if he is now a dead one. And second, that it was, indeed, I who was responsible for his demise.” Holmes claps his hands together and makes for the door. “Not easy tasks, my dear Watson, not easy at all.”

They’re almost outside when a loud shout rings through the front hall.

“Where exactly do you think you’re going?” Gregson bellows.

“Out for a lovely cup of tea by the river; you coming?”

Gregson’s mustache twitches in a decidedly irritated manner. “Now is hardly the time for jokes, Mr. Holmes,” he says.

“We’re going to Knight Street,” Holmes says, putting on his hat. “To find evidence that will hopefully be in Lestrade’s favor. Or in my disservice, it all means the same thing. We’ll keep in touch-”

“I’m coming with you,” Gregson declares. “Mills? Mills.” A constable jogged over through the crowd. “Fetch me my hat and jacket,” Gregson ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

“You can’t… Don’t you have a job to do?”

“Yes, and it’s called ‘Watching Your Arses.’” The constable has returned, hands Gregson his hat and overcoat, is graced with a quiet thanks, then shooed off. “Come on, then, move,” Gregson snaps, and Holmes has no choice but to make a short hiss of annoyance and step out the door, Watson and the inspector in tow.

Outside, the air is sharp and stings at exposed skin with a vengeance. The three men walk quickly, the sky darkening around them as evening slowly approaches.

“What do you expect to find, anyways?” Gregson asks.

If Holmes makes reply, it most certainly isn’t an audible one.

Knight Street and its derilect buildings doesn’t so much stand as it sprawls, flat and unsteady like the wobbling body of a rotting dead thing. A pungent smell particular to the old and the abandoned crawls through the structures, settling on the wooden planks and moldy brick.

The three men stop at the turn and stare down at the small, narrow path, the sagging houses.

“Which one?” Watson says, his voice low, and Holmes silently just marches ahead, pausing before the correct house and staring at it, biting his lip all the while. Gregson has never seen him like this before, is accustomed to the wound-up, all-too-showy blood hound of the chase, but there is comfort here, because at least… At least the fellow feels guilty.

“Holmes.”

He looks up. Watson is stepping towards him, gloved hand outstretched, and he sets it lightly on his friend’s forearm. It lingers there for a few brief moments before it is shrugged away, and Sherlock Holmes is Sherlock Holmes once more, striding purposefully into the building, shouting over his shoulder for them to follow and stop standing there like a pair of twats.

The police have already been here, have removed the body and the rug in which it was wrapped-signs of them are everywhere: half-smoked cigarette butts, foot-prints in the dust, scraps of paper on which notes have been scribbled, then discarded.

“…herd of buffalo,” Holmes is muttering under his breath, as he scans the ground. “Ah! Look here. This set that runs right through the middle of the room. This is Lestrade.”

“How can you tell?”

“There’s a twist in his foot-do you see how one half is always bent slightly more inwards than usual?” He points it out as he starts to walk, following the prints through the building.

Gregson walks after him and the doctor, hands in his pockets, ducking his head to avoid the low doorways. The whole place reeks of death, coating the insides of his nostrils, plastering itself to the curve of his skull. He tells people he’s used to it.

“Damn. “

Holmes is bent over once more, frustration written across his face. Gregson darts over. “What?” he demands. “What is it?”

“See here, he’s stepped right into one of the drops of blood.”

“So?”

Holmes makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat and gets to his feet. “So,” he snaps, “Our little friend may be a terrible investigator, but he’s awfully good at being a bad criminal. Come on, there’s little more to be gained here.”

“But Holmes, your footprints are here as well-”

“Right, but none of mine smudged a fresh drop of blood, Watson,” he grounds out, his tone scathing. The doctor sighs and walks faster.

“Well? What now? Do we go-”

“We go home. Cab!” Holmes starts down the street, waving at an approaching driver, with the doctor staring after him, disbelief splattered across his face like paint. Gregson, on the other hand, has already given chase.

“Mr. Holmes. Mr. Holmes!”

“Sorry?”

“You can not just let this go so easily-”

“Gregson.” Holmes’ eyes flash, cold and hard, as he turns his head to glare at the inspector. “Your doggedness is admirable. But the hour is getting late, and unlike some people, I like to think before I act.”

“Think now, then!” Gregson hisses.

“Excuse me, gents?” The driver leans down from his seat. “You gettin’ in or no?”

“Yes, we are.”

“No,” Gregson says, grabbing Holmes’ arm, “You’re not.” Holmes wrenches loose with a venemous glare and gets into the cab.

There’s a moment of silence between the two, broken intermittently by the impatient shufflings of the driver as he fiddles with the reins, before Gregson steps back and starts to walk away.

“Fine,” he says, holding his hands up, palms out, in a gesture of resignation. “Leave. But while you’re spending the evening at home, Lestrade is rather busy freezing his arse off in a holding cell-”

“Gregson.” It’s the doctor this time, caught up and looking bone-weary of arguments. “It’s simply how Holmes works,” he says quietly. “He does need time.”

Gregson wishes he could reply that he understands, except he can’t. He doesn’t understand, and he doesn’t want to. So instead he turns on his heel and walks angrily back towards the station, feet grinding out an angry rhythm on the cobblestone.

The doctor sighs and steps into the cab, gives the address to the driver, feels the lurch of the vehicle as the horses start to move. The city rolls by like the image on a phenakistiscope, lilting and choppy and unreal, a caricature of London, the metropolis flipped upside-down.

Holmes is eying him with what looks like an apologetic stare.

“Watson-”

“Don’t.”

Evening falls.