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“Oi! You, with us - “
For a brief second Greg didn’t understand Divine’s shout, but the glare and the pointed finger made it all too clear: he needed to get his ass in gear right quick.
Grabbing his jacket and ignoring the crash of his chair rolling into the cabinet as he sprang to his feet, he ran after Divine and Torrington and Kaye who were already halfway down the stairs.
“It’s him? Really?” asked Kaye, voice annoyingly high pitched. Apparently he had had some kind of throat surgery and there was a possibility the change was permanent.
“Five years and then he suddenly ups and contacts the landlady out of the blue…weird,” muttered Torrington, polishing the stairway railing with one hand as he rounded the landing.
Five years…? Greg clocked it. Sherlock Holmes, had to be. It had been three years since he’d last heard anything, and even then it was just one of those ‘Not Seen Since’ and ‘Have You Seen’ campaigns. Wealthy white family, old stock, whispers of Whitehall.
Divine glanced at his watch, trotting down the last flight of stairs as if trying to get his heart rate up. “That’s why I want Lestrade to do the interview. Holmes won’t have met him before and Lestrade’s fresh enough to make the right kind of mistakes.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Greg shortly before reining back his annoyance. He might be new to this job, but he wasn’t wet behind the ears, either. Just because he’d made a stink and had been offered the ‘choice’ of a transfer or a new career didn’t mean he didn’t have experience, he was just new to this nick.
The custody suite had been freshly painted in an attempt to show the public that money was being spent on policing, which of course anyone with an ounce of common sense could see wasn’t going to work. Greg had decided to enjoy the cream and green walls while they remained unscuffed and unbloodied. He nodded at Willis, the custody sergeant, and Burchill, the intake officer as he followed the others towards the interview rooms.
Divine stepped into the video room, Torrington and Kaye on his heels. Greg hovered in the doorway, because there was no AC in this nick and between the stuffy room and the heat outside, he didn’t fancy his chances at remaining sweet by the end of the day.
Kaye flicked on the video monitor and audio feed before sitting down, looked at Greg. “Well, go on then.”
Greg glanced at Divine, who made a little shooing motion. After a quick look at the monitor, which showed the possible Sherlock Holmes sitting on his heels in one corner of the interview room, assuring himself of a good view of the door, Greg took a deep breath and headed to the room at the far end of the dingy beige hall. Funny how this part of the station always smelled like old socks and worse.
“Hello, I’m Detective Constable Greg Lestrade,” he said, taking his pen and notebook from his pocket because dammit, he’d forgotten to take the file from Torrington. “How are you today?”
No answer, but a glare which was answer enough in its own way.
“Can you tell me your name, please? Do you require medical assistance?” asked Greg, pulling first one chair and then the other away from the table before seating himself. “Tea?”
“Builder’s. With extra sugar.”
Right. Hoping he hadn’t let his surprise show too much, Greg got up again and called for tea down the hall. Hopefully someone would deliver it without him hearing about it later on, but that’s how you got nicknames.
Nice voice, though. And, unlike many of the clientele he was used to dealing with, despite the well worn clothing and slightly unkempt appearance, Sherlock Holmes didn’t smell of anything in particular, nor was his hair a rat’s nest. Didn’t even have a beard. Whatever had happened to him, his mental state didn’t seem questionable.
“Tell me about yourself,” said Greg, clasping his hands together and leaning on the table. “And why don’t you take a seat, this angle is hell on my neck.”
Much to Greg’s surprise, Holmes complied. He unfolded from the floor with enviable grace, proving himself tall and far more broad than Greg expected. In fact, Greg was taken aback by the fierceness and intelligence of his gaze. Well, alright then. Before he had a chance to speak again, there was a quick knock at the door before it opened.
Torrington entered the room holding a paper cup and a manila file folder. His lips were pursed and a moment later Greg understood why.
“Mr. Holmes, don’t say anything,” said the man who followed hot on Torrington’s heels.
Greg hadn’t seen him in the nick before, but he’d only been here a hot minute himself; maybe he was the odd man out. Still, that suit was so sharp he doubted its wearer was in police stations very often.
“DC Lestrade, I’ve come to take Mr. Holmes as you haven’t charged him with anything.”
Greg leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. “You know very well we can hold him until tomorrow without charge.”
“Swill, excellent,” exclaimed Holmes, grimacing as he put the paper cup on the table.
Torrington coughed into his fist, looking at Greg as he did so. “DC Lestrade,” he announced loudly, stressing the ‘d’ and ‘c’ parts. “Mr. Holmes has be bailed.”
What? Bailed? “Bailed?” he repeated out loud. “By whom? And for what? We’ve not even arrested him!”
“Thank you, Detective Torrington,” snapped Holmes’s solicitor. He took Holmes by the upper arm and hauled him to his feet, headed towards the door.
“Now just wait a damned minute!” Greg said loudly, standing up as well. “This isn’t leg- “
“Lestrade!” Divine barked from the door. His cheeks were red while the rest of his face was nearly white with rage.
Greg froze. He hadn’t heard that particular tone of voice since his father had passed.
Divine stepped aside as Holmes and his solicitor walked into the hallway. “We appreciate your haste, sir. We always need the interview rooms free in this station.”
“Anything we can do to accommodate the Poli - “ The solicitor’s voice faded as went further from the interview room.
“Unbelievable,” Greg muttered under his breath. “What even was the point of all this if Holmes was just going to be gotten in the first place?”
“’Going to be gotten?’” asked Torrington with a raised eyebrow.
“Oh, you know what I mean,” said Greg. Hands on his hips, he blew out a noisy breath before taking the file and the tea off the table. Might as well face Divine now before the day got any worse.
The rest of his shift was not an improvement. Greg was assigned a backlog of paperwork to go through, calls to make, arrestees to question. A busy, busy day that left him hungry, tired, and upset. On his way home he gave in to the thought of beer, buying pack of Stella Artois (refreshing in the sticky weather) and a red pudding supper.
Safely ensconced in his shiny new and quite boring flat, all magnolia walls and Argos furniture, he downed one bottle almost immediately and ate standing at the kitchen counter, once again wondering if he’d made the right move. Maybe he should’ve gone to Manchester or Luton or hell, he didn’t know, Scotland or some place like that. The Isle of Man. Guernsey. Lewis. Maybe he should give up being a copper all together - nah, the law was in his blood, just as it had been for every generation of the family. Even Amelia spoke of joining the Force from time to time and she was all of 11.
Speaking of whom - he glanced at the stove clock, groaned. Gymnastics event on Sunday and he wasn’t sure he could make it. Might be a time to knuckle down at work, given Divine’s smackdown. Okay, smackdown might be a strong term for it, but dammit, what had happened today wasn’t right. He wasn’t prepared to mess up his career again.
Not yet, anyway.
Greg peeled off his sport jacket, tossing it onto the chair with the other jackets needing dry cleaning. He cracked open another Stella and brought it into the bedroom, leaving it sweating on top of the bookcase while he stripped before heading into the shower.
Washing away the grime of the day was glorious, even if it gave him too much time to think. He needed drunken distraction and, opening the bathroom door, found the distraction part sitting on his bed. “What the actual fuck?”
Mycroft had the grace to look down, tapping the tip of one shiny brown brogue on the gray carpet. “He’s my brother, Greg.”
Greg shook his head. He grabbed a plain white teeshirt from the bureau and pulled it over his head. “And you’ve never mentioned him, not once in two years.”
“I didn’t know how to bring it up.”
“Bullshit,” Greg answered. He drank half the beer, trying to think of what to say, how to import upon Mycroft just what the lack of trust meant to him. “You have to tell me these things, Mycroft. This isn’t some high powered government secret we’re talking about here, this is just every day, ordinary police work that’s done all the around the country.”
“We did all we could,” said Mycroft. “We had to be very very careful, and in my line of work - “
“No,” said Greg, holding up one hand to forestall more bullshit. “Missing people are my line of work. Your brother’s image has been shown national tv, for christ’s sake! There was no reason, absolutely no reason, not to fill me in. Especially given he was last seen in the area. You could have called me! There was no reason for that show at the station. And while I’m on the topic of my job, you can’t just swan in and remove people from interview rooms without notice!”
Mycroft snorted and stood up, tugging down the vest of his pinstriped three piece suit. “I didn’t know you were the interviewer. And I wasn’t sure of what state Sherlock would be in.”
It was the expression on Mycroft’s face that did it. Greg couldn’t remain angry or hurt just because Mycroft was being a stubborn prick. Besides, judging by the way Mycroft’s gaze was fixated on the floor, how his shoulders were rounded instead of in alignment with ears, shoulders, and ankles…the man was shocked. He didn’t know what to do, where to go, what to say.
“Alright, okay,” said Greg. He cocked his head to one side. “You want a beer?”
At that, Mycroft grimaced. “Are you getting dressed?”
What was wrong with a tee shirt and a towel? “I’m not accommodating anyone else but myself, tonight. You can like it or lump it,” he called, walking back into the kitchen in bare feet. Too hot for slippers, dammit, that lost tack be damned.
Greg already had a stein frosting in the freezer; he poured a Stella into it and brought it over to the coffee table. Mycroft was sitting on the sofa rather than the recliner. Interesting. Greg took the other half of the sofa, crossed his ankles, turned on Eurosport. Galatasaray vs Leeds, that was fine. “So,” he said, “Tell me about your brother.”
“Sister, as once was,” answered Mycroft. He picked up the stein, lips wrinkled with disdain, took a sip.
“Oh right,” said Greg, genuinely surprised. He tried imagining the Sherlock Holmes he had met today as a girl. Huh. He couldn’t make it work.
“Intelligent, stubborn, artistic. Musically inclined but can’t be bothered. Mathematically inclined…” Mycroft drank more beer, waved the stein a little. “When are you going to decorate this hovel?”
Greg snorted. He pointed at a pen and ink framed sketch hanging on the wall by the window. “I’ve got that lovely piece over there.”
“Amateurish. There’s no color, no design, no skill to it. Someone obviously drew it on the fly, might as well have been on a serviette and tossed into the trash after!”
“I love it,” said Greg, knocking Mycroft’s knee with his own. “it was given to me by someone I like a lot.”
Mycroft sniffed and sipped. “Sherlock was investigating a case - he dabbles, nothing like what you do - “
Greg was glad to hear it. “And that’s why he disappeared?”
“According to him, yes.”
“You don’t believe him.”
Mycroft shrugged. “He can be…there are times when I wonder if we’re related at all.”
“Hmm, yeah. So what was he doing out there? Why didn’t he contact you? Why his landlady?”
Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Mrs. Hudson is a force of nature. It would be wise not to underestimate her. As for Sherlock, he…went on the run, fearing for his life. He’s been living in a fly tip for the past three years. A fly tip! If you’ve ever been in Wilson’s Woods, you probably walked right by him.”
As a matter of fact Greg had been in Wilson’s Woods, more than once. Thirty acres of woods in the middle of the city. There were allotments, ponds, a couple of streams not quite big enough to be called rivers, a small golf course, trails for walking and running, thickets for the bird watchers, and two pavilions for the brass bands and church fetes and all the other local entertainments. It was a place of wild beauty as well as crime. Fly tipping was the least of it, in all honesty.
“When Mrs. Hudson called me, she said he sounded very tired. There are other issues and I was concerned enough to call the police as I was abroad when she contacted me.”
“You want another?” asked Greg, eying the Stein.
“No,” said Mycroft. He took Greg’s hand, squeezed lightly. “Let me take you out to dinner tonight.”
His hand was warm, fingers bony, the nails manicured. Greg thought about getting dressed again, going to some fancy restaurant, drinking expensive wine…”How about we stay here and order in, yeah?”
“You just ate chips,” chided Mycroft.
“Yes, but we’ll be hungry again later on.”
“We will?”
“Yeah,” said Greg, loosening the tuck of his towel.
Mycroft’s eyebrows shot up. “Bold of you to assume I’m in the mood…oh my…”
END