(no subject)
Lestrade is having his afternoon tea when the constable comes in, looking annoyed, and carrying a note in his hand.
"Sir, a boy dropped this off for you, insisted that he deliver it personally, but I told him no," he says, hovering in the doorway.
Lestrade waves him in and takes the note, but the constable doesn't leave; he lingers uncertainly by Lestrade's desk until Lestrade lifts an eyebrow at him.
"Anything else?" he prompts, and the constable scowls.
"He's waiting outside, sir. He asked that I wave to him, so's he could know you got the letter."
Lestrade finds the whole thing amusing, really, especially the constable's attitude at being ordered about by a street urchin. He leans back in his chair, his curiosity over this all-fired important note on hold as he takes in the constable's frustration.
"Well, go on then. Don't want to keep him waiting."
He receives another scowl, but he doesn't stop grinning while the constable taps on the glass and waves frantically for a few moments. Important job finished, he turns around and almost stomps out of Lestrade's office, and the glass in his door wriggles when he shuts the door behind him. Lestrade is still chuckling as he opens up the note, but the smile doesn't last long.
Lestrade,
Not as dead as previously implied. Position yourself and several undercover patrolmen on watch on Baker st. tonight. I'd like to solve a murder for you.
- SH
P.S. Also, to apologize.
He reads it once, and then again more slowly, and then he leans into the light and scrunches his face up to study the handwriting. He's nowhere near as skilled as Holmes was (is?) with that, but he can recognize Holmes's handwriting well enough, can remember being on the receiving end of such notes in the past. Even without doublechecking the handwriting, he couldn't imagine anyone else could have penned this note. Who else but Sherlock Holmes would announce that he isn't dead and subtly recall all the ineptitude he'd accused Lestrade of in the past, and then slide in at the end any kind of apology?
For three minutes, Lestrade is too dumbfounded to do anything but drink his tea and stare into space. Sherlock Holmes -- the man whose penknife he still carries in his pocket, who he thinks of every time he pulls it out to use it, who died three years ago in Switzerland -- is alive and presuming to solve a crime for him. Maybe it's all a hoax; maybe it's all a setup, but he can't imagine who would try to set him up this way. Why now? Why Holmes, of all people?
He stares at the note again, and then pockets it; he finishes off his tea and fetches his hat, and he promptly forgets the paperwork on his desk. There are two people he needs to see. The first is Dr. Watson, because if Holmes is alive and in London, then he ought to know. The second is his wife, because if Holmes is alive and in London, Lestrade thinks he's going to need a hug. (And he's not embarrassed by that. Hugs are necessary things, particularly from his wife.)
~
Baker street is as familiar as it was, maybe even more so now, and Mrs. Hudson lets him in after he knocks.
"Mrs. Hudson, is the doctor in?" Lestrade asks, but Mrs. Hudson is already shaking her head no and waving her hands; she raises a finger to her lips and then nods toward the stairs; she leads him up to the landing and stops with her hand on the door.
"It's true. Mr. Holmes is alive," she says, voice hushed, and Lestrade's eyes widen marginally. "If they're watching the house, they'll have seen you come in, so you'll have to visit -- oh dear." She sighs and clenches her hands briefly. She fixes him with a stare and twists the knob, slowly starting to open the door.
He steps into their sitting room and stops.
"This will all make sense tonight," she says, with a weight to it, and Lestrade brings his mouth shut.
"He really must be back," he says numbly. "Who else? Who else?"
~
He finishes his afternoon tea with Mrs. Hudson and a wax model of Dr. Watson, once they've arranged everything so it would seem like he's simply visiting with the doctor on a normal afternoon.
"But where's he been?" Lestrade asks, shaking his head, and he reaches for another biscuit.
"Tibet, he said." Mrs. Hudson refreshes their teacups and sits back, reaching up to adjust a hair that had fallen out of place as she'd crawled along the floor to readjust the Watson model.
"Tibet? He let us all think he was dead, while he went off to Tibet?" None of this makes any sense to Lestrade. Maybe before, maybe years before, he could've thought that Holmes would unfeelingly fake his death and launch a comeback three years later, but he can't reconcile what Holmes has done with the man he's come to know. Plus, the man he thought Holmes was wouldn't have apologized.
"He wouldn't tell me much," Mrs. Hudson says, and she purses her lips as she looks down a the half-eaten biscuit in her hand. "He tried to pretend like he hadn't changed a bit, that this was all normal, but I saw it. He's haunted now, Inspector. Something's happened to him -- whatever it was that didn't kill him, it hurt him in other ways."
Lestrade considers that, staring down into his teacup; the weight of Holmes's penknife is familiar by now, but he hasn't stopped feeling it since he got that letter.
"Dr. Watson is angry; I don't know if he's ready to see it yet. I suppose I think of it as a man returned from war; someone thought dead but who turns up miraculously on your doorstep, and you think... thank God." She closes her eyes, and Lestrade feels almost guilty for intruding on a private moment, but then she'd been the one to start sharing, so what's he got to feel guilty for? He stuffs a biscuit in his mouth.
"He looks like he's been to war," Mrs. Hudson continues lowly, and Lestrade watches her; they aren't exactly friends, haven't exactly sat down to tea together like this; it seems Holmes never ceases to cause ripples around him wherever he goes.
"You think he was forced into this?" Lestrade supplies, and Mrs. Hudson hums.
"I think it would take a great deal of force to keep Mr. Holmes away from London."
She says London, but their eyes meet and they both know what she means: Watson. Lestrade drinks down his tea and this new information, rolling it around in his head.
"Hard to imagine anyone forcing Holmes to do anything," he says after a moment, and Mrs. Hudson smiles.
"I used to think I'd like to see that."
They share a humorless smile, and Mrs. Hudson offers him the last biscuit, which he declines. It is easier to imagine that Holmes was gone because of some great purpose, because he was made to, because he had no other choice. It's far easier to believe that than it is to accept that Holmes callously let his friends and family think him dead for three years while he did whatever people do in Tibet. Maybe that's making Holmes into more of a hero than he is; no man is a hero.
But the Holmes he knew had come awfully close. He'd like to believe that Holmes is even closer to being a hero now, rather than the alternative.
"Well. I'd better go. I should talk to Mary..." He stands and nods at the fake Watson. "Need any help with that?"
"Oh, no." Mrs. Hudson laughs as she stands, and she starts piling things on the tea tray. "No, I can manage. I'd like to manage." She glances ruefully at the dummy, and then at the V.R. on her wall. "I've missed all this. Can you believe that?"
Lestrade pulls his coat on and situates his hat on his head; when he looks up, he has a smile for her.
"That I can believe."
They share a warm smile, and Lestrade makes his way out of Baker street. He'll need to talk to Mary, that's for sure.
And then he'll have to organize his patrol and find a heavier jacket. If he'll be standing on Baker street all evening, he'll need it.
"Sir, a boy dropped this off for you, insisted that he deliver it personally, but I told him no," he says, hovering in the doorway.
Lestrade waves him in and takes the note, but the constable doesn't leave; he lingers uncertainly by Lestrade's desk until Lestrade lifts an eyebrow at him.
"Anything else?" he prompts, and the constable scowls.
"He's waiting outside, sir. He asked that I wave to him, so's he could know you got the letter."
Lestrade finds the whole thing amusing, really, especially the constable's attitude at being ordered about by a street urchin. He leans back in his chair, his curiosity over this all-fired important note on hold as he takes in the constable's frustration.
"Well, go on then. Don't want to keep him waiting."
He receives another scowl, but he doesn't stop grinning while the constable taps on the glass and waves frantically for a few moments. Important job finished, he turns around and almost stomps out of Lestrade's office, and the glass in his door wriggles when he shuts the door behind him. Lestrade is still chuckling as he opens up the note, but the smile doesn't last long.
Lestrade,
Not as dead as previously implied. Position yourself and several undercover patrolmen on watch on Baker st. tonight. I'd like to solve a murder for you.
- SH
P.S. Also, to apologize.
He reads it once, and then again more slowly, and then he leans into the light and scrunches his face up to study the handwriting. He's nowhere near as skilled as Holmes was (is?) with that, but he can recognize Holmes's handwriting well enough, can remember being on the receiving end of such notes in the past. Even without doublechecking the handwriting, he couldn't imagine anyone else could have penned this note. Who else but Sherlock Holmes would announce that he isn't dead and subtly recall all the ineptitude he'd accused Lestrade of in the past, and then slide in at the end any kind of apology?
For three minutes, Lestrade is too dumbfounded to do anything but drink his tea and stare into space. Sherlock Holmes -- the man whose penknife he still carries in his pocket, who he thinks of every time he pulls it out to use it, who died three years ago in Switzerland -- is alive and presuming to solve a crime for him. Maybe it's all a hoax; maybe it's all a setup, but he can't imagine who would try to set him up this way. Why now? Why Holmes, of all people?
He stares at the note again, and then pockets it; he finishes off his tea and fetches his hat, and he promptly forgets the paperwork on his desk. There are two people he needs to see. The first is Dr. Watson, because if Holmes is alive and in London, then he ought to know. The second is his wife, because if Holmes is alive and in London, Lestrade thinks he's going to need a hug. (And he's not embarrassed by that. Hugs are necessary things, particularly from his wife.)
~
Baker street is as familiar as it was, maybe even more so now, and Mrs. Hudson lets him in after he knocks.
"Mrs. Hudson, is the doctor in?" Lestrade asks, but Mrs. Hudson is already shaking her head no and waving her hands; she raises a finger to her lips and then nods toward the stairs; she leads him up to the landing and stops with her hand on the door.
"It's true. Mr. Holmes is alive," she says, voice hushed, and Lestrade's eyes widen marginally. "If they're watching the house, they'll have seen you come in, so you'll have to visit -- oh dear." She sighs and clenches her hands briefly. She fixes him with a stare and twists the knob, slowly starting to open the door.
He steps into their sitting room and stops.
"This will all make sense tonight," she says, with a weight to it, and Lestrade brings his mouth shut.
"He really must be back," he says numbly. "Who else? Who else?"
~
He finishes his afternoon tea with Mrs. Hudson and a wax model of Dr. Watson, once they've arranged everything so it would seem like he's simply visiting with the doctor on a normal afternoon.
"But where's he been?" Lestrade asks, shaking his head, and he reaches for another biscuit.
"Tibet, he said." Mrs. Hudson refreshes their teacups and sits back, reaching up to adjust a hair that had fallen out of place as she'd crawled along the floor to readjust the Watson model.
"Tibet? He let us all think he was dead, while he went off to Tibet?" None of this makes any sense to Lestrade. Maybe before, maybe years before, he could've thought that Holmes would unfeelingly fake his death and launch a comeback three years later, but he can't reconcile what Holmes has done with the man he's come to know. Plus, the man he thought Holmes was wouldn't have apologized.
"He wouldn't tell me much," Mrs. Hudson says, and she purses her lips as she looks down a the half-eaten biscuit in her hand. "He tried to pretend like he hadn't changed a bit, that this was all normal, but I saw it. He's haunted now, Inspector. Something's happened to him -- whatever it was that didn't kill him, it hurt him in other ways."
Lestrade considers that, staring down into his teacup; the weight of Holmes's penknife is familiar by now, but he hasn't stopped feeling it since he got that letter.
"Dr. Watson is angry; I don't know if he's ready to see it yet. I suppose I think of it as a man returned from war; someone thought dead but who turns up miraculously on your doorstep, and you think... thank God." She closes her eyes, and Lestrade feels almost guilty for intruding on a private moment, but then she'd been the one to start sharing, so what's he got to feel guilty for? He stuffs a biscuit in his mouth.
"He looks like he's been to war," Mrs. Hudson continues lowly, and Lestrade watches her; they aren't exactly friends, haven't exactly sat down to tea together like this; it seems Holmes never ceases to cause ripples around him wherever he goes.
"You think he was forced into this?" Lestrade supplies, and Mrs. Hudson hums.
"I think it would take a great deal of force to keep Mr. Holmes away from London."
She says London, but their eyes meet and they both know what she means: Watson. Lestrade drinks down his tea and this new information, rolling it around in his head.
"Hard to imagine anyone forcing Holmes to do anything," he says after a moment, and Mrs. Hudson smiles.
"I used to think I'd like to see that."
They share a humorless smile, and Mrs. Hudson offers him the last biscuit, which he declines. It is easier to imagine that Holmes was gone because of some great purpose, because he was made to, because he had no other choice. It's far easier to believe that than it is to accept that Holmes callously let his friends and family think him dead for three years while he did whatever people do in Tibet. Maybe that's making Holmes into more of a hero than he is; no man is a hero.
But the Holmes he knew had come awfully close. He'd like to believe that Holmes is even closer to being a hero now, rather than the alternative.
"Well. I'd better go. I should talk to Mary..." He stands and nods at the fake Watson. "Need any help with that?"
"Oh, no." Mrs. Hudson laughs as she stands, and she starts piling things on the tea tray. "No, I can manage. I'd like to manage." She glances ruefully at the dummy, and then at the V.R. on her wall. "I've missed all this. Can you believe that?"
Lestrade pulls his coat on and situates his hat on his head; when he looks up, he has a smile for her.
"That I can believe."
They share a warm smile, and Lestrade makes his way out of Baker street. He'll need to talk to Mary, that's for sure.
And then he'll have to organize his patrol and find a heavier jacket. If he'll be standing on Baker street all evening, he'll need it.