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  Lestrade’s first experience with Dr. Watson was hardly memorable - but then, most beginnings are ordinary.

  Scotland Yard:

  “Feet hurt?”

  Lestrade glared up at his much-larger rival without his usual strength. “Yes. Yes they do hurt, Tobias. I’ve recovered from the very same illness you have, and I happen to still be hurting all over, but I’m glad you remembered my feet.”

  Tobias Gregson chuckled and folded up his newspaper, ignoring the jostling going back and forth as files were transferred from office to storeroom.

  “What the devil has you in such a good mood anyway?” Lestrade asked suspiciously.

  “Funniest thing you heard all week.” Gregson promised.

  Lestrade had his instant doubts: for one thing, Gregson might be smarter than Lestrade, but his sense of humour was oft a wholly different language to Lestrade’s. There were things that set Gregson off that Lestrade couldn’t even fathom. And, there were times when Lestrade comprehended Gregson’s humour - and disagreed with it. “What is?”

  Gregson cleared his throat and looked both ways. Of course everyone in the Yard stopped pretending not to listen and angled in.

  “Sherlock Holmes has a room-mate!”

  Lestrade’s overtaxed nerves cringed at the roar of laughter that washed over the cold walls like a wave against Cornwall.

  “Oh, sweet Marigolds in June!” Bradstreet wiped his eyes as he struggled for his breath. “That’s the ripest-”He sputtered into laughter again.

  “I know! Where in God’s name did he find him?” Gregson was leaning on the desk for strength. “How in God’s name did he find him?”

  “You can’t be serious, sir!” Constable Alfreds was appalled at the thought. “Sherlock Holmes likes people about as much as Martin Luther liked women!”

  “I think Luther liked women more than Holmes does!” A wag chipped in. “But didn’t he have boils?”

  Lestrade shook his head and resolutely tried to concentrate on his reading. The problem with being on a forgery case - you inevitably started looking for forgery in everything, and that included the newspaper type you were reading. Mr. Holmes called it “being in a fog” but Lestrade suspected the truth was closer to his chasing hares.

  “...your turn, Lestrade!”

  Lestrade scowled at the finger Gregson had poked into him. “My turn for what?” He stared suspiciously at the hat full of loose coins.

  “We’re opening the betting pool on Holmes.” Bayard said simply. “Most of us are giving him a month to drive the doctor out.”

  “A month?” Lestrade repeated. He wasn’t certain he’d heard correctly. “Are you mad?”

  “Well, we’ve thought it out.” Bradstreet added. “It’s not like the doctor can just pick up and move because he feels like it. He’s got to find another place to live first.”

  “He’s new to London, that’s certain.” Gregson pointed out with that cool, infuriating way he had - it reminded Lestrade in some way of Holmes, but worse - Lestrade didn’t have to see Holmes every day of the week; Gregson he did. “The man got rooked by a cabbie because he didn’t know the straightaway from ‘Bart’s.”

  Lestrade watched, amazed as the points were ticked off on fingers: Dr. Watson was a veteran and couldn’t stand excitement. He was crippled and surely couldn’t get around well. He was clearly ignorant and innocent of the kind of monster Holmes was, and he wouldn’t have roomed with him had he known.

  Lestrade took it all in with silence, and wondered why that familiar feeling in his gut was coming back. Holmes could take all the teasing and mockery six ways from Sunday - he didn’t need defending. Because they’re selling the other man short, Lestrade realised. They’re judging him by association. Now how many times have I scolded them for that? Sloppy detective work for certain! Lestrade’s blood was far from boiling, but it was threatening to simmer. “Where there’s smoke there’s fire” was all good enough when one was a fire-fighter, but not when one was trying to untangle the knots of human nature. Assumptions and their consequence.

  He stabbed his papers down on the desk and stood up, the violence of his move startling the others. He reached into his pockets. ‘All right, I’m in. Who’s in charge of the points?”

  “Charlie.”

  “Charlie, put me down that Dr. Watson is going to stay with Holmes.”

  “Gorblimey.” Charlie shook his head in wonder but dutifully chalked the lines in. “How much are you in for?”

  “One pound.” Lestrade snapped. It was worth it, he thought in mean satisfaction - to see their reactions. Gregson looked ready to swallow his cigar.

  “Shouldn’t you be back in bed?” Gregson demanded.

  Lestrade knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t resist smirking at him. “Perhaps I know something you don’t.”

  Gregson scowled. “And what would that be?”

  “It just so happens, I’ve met the good doctor just yesterday.” He sought out the entire contents of his pockets. “And Dr. Watson,” he dropped the last handful of half-crowns into the hat, “keeps a loaded firearm.”

  9 Influenza

  10 Two pints; a gill is traditionally half a cup.

  11 Deriv. from Groseid, a gooseberry ale of antiquity.

  12 Malmsy is a sweet wine from the Malvasia family of grape.

  A Study in Brown

  1881:

  It was Gregson who found the little notebook under his desk - plain brown and unadorned, his first thought had been a comrade’s lost possessions. One look at the acres of neat writing within the pages, and he knew differently. This was an educated man’s script. The wonder of the writing itself - clean as an ink-pen but in pencil - faded almost instantly in the light of truth. Within a short period of time a gleeful transcriber had copies throughout the Yard.

  “And you gave him your notes.” Gregson accused. There was yet some way he could blame Lestrade for this.

  Lestrade wearily looked up from his desk. He was hungry, tired, and he’d been dealing with Gregson for most of the day - a new record. “You know this is like eaves-dropping. I say we give it back to him as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll give it back to him all-righty. In neat little pieces.” Gregson threw himself into Lestrade’s guest-chair (knowing neither Lestrade’s chair nor its owner could handle him very well), and set the back of it against the wall, thud. “Looks like he’s writing a book.”

  “Then he’s a braver man than you or I... perhaps foolhardy.” Lestrade willed the last six minutes of his shift to hurry up. He poured a last cup of watery tea and nursed it in both hands.

  “We let him along on this case, and this is some fine thanks we get... ‘Sallow and rat-faced.’ he sneered. “Well at least we know his pen can peg a man.”

  Sgt. Briggs gave a wry look up as he rescued a thin avalanche of blank warrants off the floor. “He sure’nuff knows how to write about London, though. When I brought my Anna here, she cried a fortnight.”

  Lestrade was briefly distracted from his looming tragedy by a new one. “That’s terrible, Briggs. Is she any better?”

  “Oh, yes.” Briggs was pleased to report. “She only cries on Easter and Christmas.”

  “Oh...” Lestrade stared at his peer in uniform, slowly realising the boy was telling the truth. He wondered if Christmas included all twelve excruciating days of it in the Briggs household. It might explain why he never grumbled to be on duty on any of the major holidays... Still, it was better than nonstop crying every day, wasn’t it?

  Scotland Yard settled with its back to the wind, facing each copied page of Watson’s observations with emotions various and sundry. Lestrade knew in his bones that in the case of anyone but himself, Gregson and Murcher it was all delight. More than once the unmistakable sounds of muffled g
uffaws drifted up from the stairwells. He had a terrible foreboding that a great many pages were being collected by his comrades in arms.

  As deeply annoyed as Lestrade was about the whole mess, he had to admit Watson spared no one, not even himself. Reading Watson’s first, stubbornly incredulous reaction to Holmes’ deductive abilities was like reading his own first experience - but, mercifully, Holmes hadn’t shredded him apart as badly as he’d done the poor doctor. That in itself was worth the time of the reading.

  “I think we needs file that one.” Bradstreet offered. He stood apart from the rest in his peaked cap and frogged coat, but no one would ever think of making fun of him. Bradstreet’s cubic capacity was an advantage in his rougher sides of London. “We should make the reading of it mandatory to the new’uns coming in.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Lestrade protested. “Tradition was good enough for us, wasn’t it? Send the poor wretches off all unknowing to their fates, just as we were done ourselves.”

  “Cruel, Geoffrey. Cruel...”

  “That quack’d best have a solicitor!”

  Gregson stamped past at a blessed minute to the hour. “I’ll have him in court, by-God. If he thinks he saw it bad in Afghanistan, I’ll give him something to dot-and-carry-on about!”[13] Instead of his usual pause to gloat about his rival’s resemblance to rodents, Gregson had clearly discovered the part on which Lestrade had been snickering.

  “I agree.” Lestrade said blandly. “Your hands are hardly fat, Tobias. Perhaps a little on the Euclidian Square side... and the plumpness of your musculature could bring about a false impression...”

  Gregson whirled. “By God, he’s got his nerve! I don’t care if he’s a soldier or not! This was uncalled for!”

  “On the contrary.” Lestrade said icily. “We don’t like each other, Gregson - there’s no point in pretending otherwise. But we could at least be civil and respect each other’s barriers in the line of duty.” Lestrade slapped the loose pages down on the rail and folded his arms across his chest. “And if you think we have it rough, for God’s sake, why don’t you actually read these accounts and see how Holmes is portrayed.”

  Possibly Gregson was just too astonished to pick Lestrade up and toss him out the nearest window. Or Bradstreet’s presence was an influence. Lestrade made a mental note that once he got home to write on his calendar the historic occasion of cutting his rival adrift: (Have witnessed phenomena referred to as ‘speechless’).

  “Don’t you even care?” Gregson finally demanded.

  “Yes I very much do care, thank you. But can you prove Dr. Watson is spreading falsehood?” Lestrade tapped the papers with his fingertips. “And again, I submit to you as if we were in court: Who would you rather be in this particular story, Inspector - yourself, or Sherlock Holmes?”

  Gregson’s silence was awkward. He was not used to being faced with a question that required that kind of thought.

  Lestrade inwardly sweated. He was not used to being on the obverse of Gregson’s attitude. Gregson was smarter than Lestrade by far - it was the common knowledge that Gregson never let him forget. But Lestrade’s willingness to get out and plod through the streets had gotten him to Gregson’s level. The Bobbies called him “The Concrete and Clay Inspector” for good reason, and for the most part Lestrade was satisfied with his reputation.

  The worst part of his job was that he had to know his own limits better than his rivals. Gregson could always be counted on to throw some intellectual problem at him and make him look like a fool, just to get even with a half-point Lestrade had scored on him a week ago. Ergo, Lestrade had learnt early on it was best to take his lumps and move on before the indignities’ rates could gather interest. He took it from Gregson, but damned if he would take it from that amateur Holmes.

  “Read it all through, gents.” Bradstreet said quietly. “The doctor tells the truth. And he certainly told the truth in that the two of you could band together in a common cause. Now that’s something none of us ever thought’d happen.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “The case needed Mr. Holmes, that’s true, but when the two of you combined your talents, we had the man inside four-and-twenty hours.”

  Talents? Bradstreet meant well, but that was a sad choice of a word. Gregson would never apply ‘talent’ to Lestrade. Lestrade decided he had no choice but to take his slim lead and finish with it.

  “Gregson, it looks like Dr. Watson is writing a book. People are always asking us to our faces how we feel about the latest write-up. We can lie, or we can tell them the truth. Or we can completely save our faces and take the third method: We can say this is being done with our complete permission.”

  “You cannot possibly be serious!” Gregson roared. “After the way he wrote about us?”

  Now it’s us? Lestrade gritted his teeth. “We cannot stop Dr. Watson from writing unless he prints an utter falsehood. Now, can you find one?”

  Gregson’s face was close to violet, but he shook his head. “He shouldn’t write about us in such a disrespectful manner.”

  “Disrespectful? Tobias Gregson, this is nothing! The day when we could see another Inspector Cuff[14] is over. When was the last time you saw a print of us that had both the good and bad together? That’s going to give Watson’s pen even more credulity. And if I’m to believe my street-vendors, it’ll make us look a bit more human to their eyes. Do you not remember the time Punch wrote us up?”

  Gregson and Bradstreet, both to a man, flinched at Lestrade’s verbal slap. Punch had written about the Yard almost three years ago, but the memory still lingered like septic infection. Bradstreet once confessed the caricatures still flashed in front of his eyelids at night when he was feeling most vulnerable. No Yarder had bought a subscription or used the paper for more than a game of darts since. Well, there was Jones, who insisted they were the thing for lining the bottom of his rabbit cages...

  “Punch also accused us of being selfish glory-hunters who refused to work together in the ‘Defective Department.’ Now it’s true we do work together, but we only do it when we have to. I for one am content with you working on your side and me to mine. But if the Yard gives everyone the impression that we know about Dr. Watson’s writings, and aren’t upset... it will go better for our reputations in the long run.”

  “You want us to take away a martyr.” Gregson’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Well done, you.” This was bitter praise indeed.

  Lestrade hadn’t thought that far. He didn’t deny it - it was simpler. “It’s a sensation novel[15] for certain. If we act like its important enough for an upset, people who wouldn’t have looked at it otherwise are going to think we’re hiding something.” He gnashed his bile down his throat, pretending he was stepping down on the now-knowing leer on his rival’s face. This was the worst case of eating crow Lestrade had ever put himself through, worse than any of the times the Old Man dressed him down in front of the whole Yard. Gregson wouldn’t leave voluntarily without a verbal evisceration, and Lestrade couldn’t handle that on top of all the bitter honesty he’d just spewed. Besides, it was the end of the day. He opted for a dramatic exit with Watson’s notebook. Four more hours, and he’d be on holiday. He could last that long.

  Thirteen minutes of concrete and clay later, Inspector Lestrade had promoted his mood over Dr. Watson from “reigned-in furious” to “dully annoyed” - Mothers and clergy who counseled to turn the other cheek either had thick cheeks or thicker beards. Watson’s notes simply rankled with him because it cut too close to the bone.

  Lestrade had passed the day when he made no more than a ditch digger, but he wasn’t making so much more that he could gloat about his pay. Being promoted up from second-class Inspector had cemented Gregson’s sense of animosity (rivalry was the polite gentleman’s word), but the slight wage increase had been a relief. The difference in bob was enough to keep put leftover bulls[16] into the bank. Solving
cases helped; grateful clients and the finder’s reward could make a year’s difference in how one met the finances.[17]

  It helped but didn’t cure the condition, and wages were deliberately kept low on the reasoning that more money would attract people who wanted the job for the income, not as a desire to be an enforcer of the law. Lestrade not that sort, but he was cynical on the attitude. Many, many of his comrades were policemen because of the promise of a pension - too few jobs had that luxury.

  Somehow it made things worse that the author of all this criticism was completely sophisticated, well-written... and a year short of his thirtieth birthday. The central character was an amateur two years younger. Lestrade in contrast was thirty-eight, had laboured since his fifth birthday, and (despite twenty proud years of service), still struggled with occasional words, needed his dictionaries, and was fully sympathetic to people who complained of having younger, smarter siblings in a household. If London was the four million-person-household, then Sherlock Holmes was surely its most infuriatingly precocious scion.

  Lestrade did not like defending that work of the written word to Gregson. It still made him slightly ill to recollect the arguing points. On the other hand, no one could accuse him of trying to coddle up to the press now! That (so far) was Lestrade’s one sunbeam in the cloud.

  But Bradstreet was right.

  And since Lestrade could afford to be wholly honest with himself (in the privacy of his own mind), there was something about Watson that still impressed him. If Watson was telling the truth, he’d been practicing surgery since his twentieth year. To leap from hospital to war was a bit unusual, especially since he’d returned from his experience a full ranking Infantry Major. That was seven steps of rank he’d managed to achieve in a very short time - even allowing for an automatic officer’s commission for his skills in surgery. If Maiwand hadn’t leveled his fortunes with a timber-saw, he no doubt would have remained in the military the rest of his life.