Chapter Text
When the blaring sound of his phone pulled Greg out of sleep, he wondered (not for the first time) why, exactly, he’d thought being a police officer sounded like fun to him. He considered letting it go to voicemail, but after a split second of entertaining the thought, rolled over and picked up his mobile from the bedside table.
“Lestrade,” he answered with a sigh, and winced at the gravelly, rough sound of his voice.
“Hey boss,” Donovan greeted from the other end of the line. “We’ve got a case.”
“Isn’t it supposed to be my day off?” There was a guilty pause, and with another sigh Greg ran a hand through his hair and began getting out of bed. “Where is it?”
“Kings Cross.”
“Wonderful. Have they closed it down?”
“The platform and the line, yeah.”
Greg rubbed his eyes and got up, walking towards his closet. “Okay. See you there.”
Kings Cross Station at 5:30 in the morning was quieter than usual, but there was still a good amount of people in the station, from people in business suits walking determinedly to their platform and others in what was probably the last outfit from their suitcases straggling back from winter holiday.
Lestrade hadn’t gotten a winter holiday. Hell, he hadn't even gotten a post-winter holiday day off. But, it is what it is, he thought to himself as he ducked under the yellow crime scene tape on Platform Nine. Donovan was standing nearby, her arms crossed as she watched the forensics team work.
“What have we got, Donovan?” he asked wearily.
“Guv,” she greeted, and looked down at her notebook. “White female, late twenties to early thirties. Body discovered by a security guard just after opening. Dressed in black halter top and skirt with high-heeled boots. Cause of death- well, it’s pretty obvious when you see it.”
Greg gave a nod of thanks, and walked over to the bench where the body sat, slumped in on itself. Her blonde hair obscured her face, but a glance at her torso showed rips in her shirt; under that, Lestrade could make out the stab wounds. The black of her clothing helped make the blood less noticeable, but with a step in a different direction, he could see that the material was shiny with it.
“Wilson,” Greg called to the head of forensics. “Have your crew found anything?”
Wilson made his way over to Lestrade, his weight making his body sway with each step. The man had grown rotund as the years had gone on, but Lestrade had known him since being promoted to DI, and he did good work. “Not a thing,” Wilson admitted, pushing up his glasses. “Leastwise, not yet. No fingerprints, not fibres. They may be able to find something at the morgue but…” he trailed off.
“I bet she was a prostitute,” jumped in one of the assistants, a gleeful expression on his face. Greg couldn’t remember his name, though he’d seen the weasel-like man around before. “And she was killed in revenge by a jealous spouse.”
Wilson gave the man an annoyed look. “Anderson, aren’t you supposed to be digging through the trash bins?”
Anderson opened his mouth to object, but at a fierce glare from Wilson, slunk off frowning. Wilson sighed, and Lestrade clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“I hear ya, mate,” he agreed.
Their moment of commiseration was broken by Donovan, who was yelling at someone. “No, you can’t bloody well just stroll into a crime scene, you freak! Piss off!”
Greg turned, eyebrows lowered in confusion. “What the….” A tall, skinny man in a coat that seemed to hang off his frame like a cloak from a fairytale was standing by the tape, a vaguely dissatisfied look on his face. Donovan, in comparison, looked as if she was about ready to smack the man.
Quickly, Lestrade jogged over to them. It would be just my luck, to have a brawl start at my crime scene. When he reached Donovan and the stranger, he took a quick second to compose himself.
“What’s going on?”
Donovan turned toward him, outrage written on her face. “This….this freak wants to ‘take a look’ at our crime scene!”
Lestrade peered at the man. He looked incredibly bored. “This is a crime scene, sir. You can’t just expect to walk in.”
The man rolled his eyes. “Don’t call me sir. My name’s Sherlock, and I certainly do expect to walk in.”
“Look, mate, Sherlock, whatever, it’s a crime scene,”
“I’m well aware.”
Greg threw up his hands. “Then why on earth do you think I’ll let you on it?”
Sherlock smiled, and it was the most cunning grin Lestrade had ever seen on another person’s face. “Because I can solve your murder. Because you need a weapon, Detective Inspector Lestrade. A weapon that you can use with crimes like this, when you’re stuck and coming up against countless dead ends, when your resources are too idiotic to find the answer. And because,” Sherlock grinned again. “I’d rather work with you than Gregson or Dimmock.”
Greg blinked in amazement. “How-”
“Oh please, don’t,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. With a graceful bend, he lifted the crime scene tape and ducked under, coming to stand in front of Lestrade. Donovan made some kind of undignified squawk, but Greg was too focussed on the absolutely captivating man who’d just shown up at a crime scene, with raven hair and eyes that appeared to be half a dozen colors at the same time.
“Now,” Sherlock said. “Here’s my card.” A pale hand flashed out of his coat pocket, a small white piece of paper held between his fingers. Hesitantly, Greg took it. Sherlock Holmes, it read. Consulting Detective. +44 (0) 207 958 7731.
“Consulting Detective?” Greg asked.
“Yes,” Sherlock said succinctly. “Now, you are clearly not ready to admit you need help yet,” he continued, staring at Lestrade. “But, when you are, text me. I’ll be waiting.” With a nod, and-was that a wink? Sherlock Holmes ducked back under the crime scene tape and walked away, coat flaring dramatically behind him.
Lestrade watched him until the odd man was just a figure exiting the station, and then turned back to the scene, utterly bewildered.