Chapter Text
For DI Lestrade, this is about as close as it gets to a quiet week. He’s between cases, and Sherlock hasn’t been around in a few days; his landlady seems to think he’s gone abroad. If Lestrade can just get through the afternoon without any interruptions, he might actually be able to finish the bloody paperwork that’s been piling up.
Of course it’s never that simple. He’s just reached the file on the Cushing case—the one with the severed ears, and won’t it be fun seeing that one written up on John’s blog—when Donovan pokes her head into his office. “Phone call for you, sir.”
He doesn’t recognize the voice on the other end. Sherlock could probably have deduced the caller’s location and exact place of origin by his accent, but all Lestrade can tell is that it’s a man and he’s American. “Is this Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade?”
“Speaking. May I ask who this is?”
“Captain Leland Stottlemeyer, San Francisco PD. Listen, this might sound like a strange question, but do you have a consultant who can walk onto a crime scene and tell you who the murderer is in five minutes flat by looking at the mud on the victim’s shoes? Who picks up on all the details nobody else notices and is always right, but is an incredibly irritating person to have around?”
Lestrade manages not to groan out loud. He really should have seen this coming. “Oh, God, what’s Sherlock done now?”
There’s a pause on the other end. “He hasn’t done anything wrong, exactly,” Stottlemeyer says. “I just had to make sure that there really are two of them.”