FIC: Staircase Wit [4/6]
May. 6th, 2012 09:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: Staircase Wit
Author: Alex
Fandom: Sherlock [BBC]
Rating: Varies
Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: A.C. Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss.
Summary: L'esprit de l'escalier - Sherlock never suffers from it, which isn't to say he doesn't suffer for it. Five times he took a beating, and one time he got away.
Warnings: Violence, possible explicit sex to come.
Notes: This is my very first Sherlock fic, so please feel free to let me know if I've made any missteps.
Can also be read on AO3
*
4. Twenty-four
*
He couldn’t call himself a ballet aficionado by any stretch of the imagination (if the music was tolerable, he could endure watching it for an hour, an hour and a half at most, before ennui set in) but he did know the difference between dance tempo and concert tempo, and between the wailing-cat noise the moronic amateur of a conductor was coaxing from the sad conglomeration that dared to call itself an orchestra and the sound of heels thudding down on the elderly wooden stage (sounded like cannonballs; Sherlock was surprised that the audience wasn’t stampeding for the exits, screaming with laughter – well, no, not really surprised. The audience was stupid too) this particular exhibition of the Dance of the Wilis was proving itself a really amusing failure. He half-expected to read about the conductor turning up the next day strangled with a pair of pale pink tights.
Not that there weren’t other sordid goings-on claiming his attention at the moment.
He waited for the conclusion (more inappropriately up-beat than the rest of the piece – God, they were incompetent) and listened to the applause – polite, no more. Shocking. Maybe there were a few people out there discerning enough to know dreadful renderings when they heard them. Twelve panting, angry dancers stormed into the wings, cursing and sweating. In the second leg of the wings, another group waited to go on, an assemblage of young men and women in vaguely Eastern costume. Sherlock took advantage of the temporary confusion to make his way down to the dressing rooms in the company of the unhappy Wilis.
“I’m going to kill that fucker,” one of the girls hissed, blotting her face with a fistful of tissue. “Who the hell does he think he –“ She swerved to avoid a passing dresser with an armload of unitards and bumped into Sherlock, who’d planted himself squarely in her path. “Sorry.” She looked at him again and smiled. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Sherlock replied, showing most of his teeth in a wide grin. “God, I’m so lost. Boys’ dressing room?”
“Um, that way,” she said, pointing over her shoulder. “Though if you’re really bored, you can join me.” She returned his smile and looked him up and down.
Sherlock ducked his head and bit his lower lip. “Thanks. See you around.” He pivoted on his heel, slung a battered tote bag over his shoulder, and reversed direction down the corridor.
“Nice try,” he heard another girl say.
“Well, you never know, do you?” the first girl replied in an arch tone.
“Yes, you do. It’s ninety percent, not ten percent.” Both girls giggled.
Sherlock pasted an anxious smile to his face, like a naïve tourist trapped in a crowd of people speaking a completely foreign language, and found the door that said Men’s Dressing Room. Simple enough – for the male corps only, he assumed. Principals and possibly soloists would get their own rooms, though they might have had to share for the festival since space seemed tight. He pushed the door open and stepped in, his nostrils assailed by the overwhelming stench of old and fresh sweat mingled with stale cigarette smoke. Smelled like the place hadn’t been aired since 1971 or so. It was a long room, lined with mirrors and makeup tables, a row of benches down the center, and a door at the far end that read Showers. A few dancers sat before the lights, applying makeup; others loitered on stools and benches in varying states of undress, chattering and laughing. Sherlock strolled to an empty makeup table. “Is this taken?”
The dancer applying makeup on a nearby stool glanced up from the mirror. He was dark-haired and dark-eyed, wearing a plain red unitard. “Doesn’t look like it. Help yourself.”
“Thanks. I’ve never been here before – totally clueless.” Sherlock proffered an apologetic smile and began rummaging through his bag, coming up with a pack of cigarettes. He lit one and inhaled deeply. “You on soon?”
The dancer waved a stick of eyeliner at a speaker attached to the soffit, emitting a crackling, intermittent burst of music, orchestral Morse code. “Half an hour, if that twat on the loudspeaker is telling the truth. Dances at a Gathering. You?”
“Oh, not for a few hours yet, but I always get twitchy before these things, so I thought I’d come and warm up a bit.” Sherlock grinned and indicated his cigarette. “Trying to cut down, but days like these –“
“Tell me about it. Could I beg one of those from you?” The dancer smiled and held out a hand. “Brian Gilbert. I’m with Carpe Diem.”
Sherlock took the man’s hand. “Sig Sherrinford. Ballet Essex.”
“Nice. So what are you dancing tonight?” Gilbert accepted the cigarette Sherlock gave him and cupped his hand round the flame of Sherlock’s lighter. His fingers, stained with nicotine, stuttered briefly against Sherlock’s, and his eyes, ringed with kohl, gave Sherlock a quick once-over.
“Le Corsaire. Still waiting for my costume, though. I don’t know where the bloody dresser put it.”
“Oh, tell me about it. Solo?” Gilbert asked with a touch of envy.
“Mm.” Sherlock fished clothes out of his bag. He eyed the dance belt a bit dubiously and peeled his shirt off. “Though honestly, I feel a bit off tonight, what with…you know, what happened yesterday.”
“Aren’t we all? Jesus Christ, how scary can you get?” Gilbert turned back to the mirror, his cigarette clamped between his lips, and began to draw a high, arched brow over the real one he’d blotted out with makeup. “What kind of a world is this – terrorists invading a fucking ballet festival? I mean, really. I guess the show must go on, blah blah blah. We’re all sick about it, though.”
Sherlock pulled off his trainers and unbuttoned his jeans. “Well, they didn’t really invade, did they? Unless – did you see it happen?”
“No. Nobody did, as far as I know. It’s just – one minute Andrei was in the theatre, the next minute – whoosh! Gone. Crazy, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Sherlock agreed. He’d stripped down to his underwear and socks, and cast another suspicious glance at the dance belt. It was ugly as hell, the color of an elastic bandage, and the backside was fairly non-existent. Ugh. He slid his boxers off and pulled the thing on. “Oh, God.”
Gilbert looked at him in the mirror. “Something wrong?”
Christ, is it supposed to be this uncomfortable? “No. I was just – are they sure it was a terrorist group? How can they be sure?”
“Well, they left a note, right? I mean, if you want to make a big fucking fuss, kidnap the world’s biggest ballet star from the biggest ballet festival in London and sit back and let the press do the rest. Maybe it’ll be a boost for ticket sales and we’ll all get a raise.” Gilbert snickered, then looked contrite. “I shouldn’t say that. I hope they let him go. Did they even ask for a ransom? It’s all so hush-hush.”
“I don’t know.” Sherlock quickly pulled on a pair of black footless tights and winced as he adjusted them. How in the name of God did anyone get used to that feeling? “Strange that no-one else saw it happen.”
“Well, Sasha Terekhov and a couple of girls from Rambert said they saw him go out, but nobody saw him come back. Which is kind of amazing, when you think about it. Kirillovsky’s the biggest fucking showoff in ballet. Needs an audience for everything.”
Sherlock smiled and worked his feet into a pair of black slippers, hurrying so that no-one would see that they were straight and unscathed, not the mangled, blistered, and bunioned feet of a real dancer. He pulled on a pale-blue Adidas warm-up jacket and zipped it. “Aren’t we all showoffs?”
Gilbert laughed. “I guess so. Anyway, everyone’s inconsolable, and it’s been chaos all day. Well, you saw the reporters outside when you came in, yeah? You wouldn’t believe the people giving interviews. So stupid. Sasha’s the only one who’s been coherent, and even he’s a mess.”
“Were they close, he and Sasha?”
“Oh yeah, for certain.” Gilbert glanced at Sherlock in the mirror. “Darling, if the foundation’s too heavy, the building sinks.”
“What?”
“A little lighter with that makeup. You’re really glopping it on there.”
“Oh.” An embarrassed smile curved Sherlock’s mouth. “Sorry. I’m twitchy, like I said.” He ground his cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray and wiped a bit of the pancake off. Five more minutes, he promised himself. Then he was looking for some other avenue of information. This couldn’t have been more tiresome, nothing but backstage gossip, and the bloody dance belt crawling up his arse wasn’t helping in the least.
“You’re doing Corsaire? I do a perfect Corsaire face, believe me. Let me help.” Gilbert stood and gazed down at Sherlock. “Hm. Not bad. I can work with this.” He took a kerchief from his dressing table, whipped it into a cord, and made a knot at the ends, then slid it over Sherlock’s head, pushing his hair back from his face. “That’s better. Hold still now. This kit of yours is pathetic. Let’s just use mine.”
“Really, I can –“
“Oh, no, it’s my pleasure.” Gilbert grinned, his exaggeratedly made-up eyes gleaming. He tilted Sherlock’s chin up with one hand, then started working with sponges and brushes and cotton swabs, dipping into pots and jars with astonishing speed. “Fabulous kisser, Sig.”
Sherlock barely refrained from casting his eyes upward. He smiled. “Than –“ but Gilbert lay a finger on his mouth.
“Shh. Don’t talk. What was I saying before?”
“Sasha,” Sherlock managed through rigid and evidently fabulous lips. He looked at Gilbert straight on. Red eyes, sour breath, sniffling, exceedingly distinct aroma emanating from skin: amyl nitrite user, heavy, too, judging by the intensity of the odour, and an additional smell of the previous night’s vodka binge drifting from his pores. He had a short career as a dancer ahead of him if he kept up the inhalant and alcohol abuse. Receding hairline, touch of minoxidil on the scalp, home-dyed, greying roots showing a bit. No time to touch up, or perhaps indifference. Likely indifference, Sherlock thought: nearly thirty, still a corps boy, no chance now of becoming a star, a minor role in what would be a big event in a younger dancer’s life, Mr. Gilbert was rapidly blossoming into a gossiping, flirtatious lush, a ballet never-was.
“Oh, right. Suck those cheeks in. God, you hardly need contouring. Yeah, they’re really close. Well, they were in the Maryinsky together, y’know.”
“Were they…um…you know…really close?”
“Oh, God no! How do you not know this? Sasha’s addicted to pussy, and Andrei only likes cock. Still, they grew up together, and if you can’t get along with all sorts, you don’t belong in ballet, am I right?”
“Right.” Sherlock frowned a little. “Right.”
“Don’t frown. Almost done. Look up, up. Oh, skimpy lashes, Sig. Your only flaw. Sasha’s supposed to do Apollo tonight – I’m sure this is going to throw him off. The balletomanes will be, like, just waiting to watch him fall on his ass. So is everyone else, probably. Of course, now that this has happened, everyone’s scared, but honestly, who else are they going to grab? Especially now that the police are watching so carefully.” Gilbert leaned closer, tracing a brush over Sherlock’s mouth. “Next time, darling, shave a little closer. Personally, I recommend waxing. Makes you less mottled on stage. Believe me, people notice.” He dusted powder over Sherlock’s face, then whipped off the kerchief with a flourish. “There - et voilà!”
Sherlock turned to the mirror. Gilbert had dramatically darkened and arched his eyebrows, lined his eyes with shimmering black stuff, sharpened his features here and there with some sort of bronzy cream, and exaggerated his mouth with a clay-colored pencil. He looked ridiculous, but not, he supposed, altogether out of place. He smiled at Gilbert. “Thanks a million, it looks fantastic.”
“My pleasure. What are you doing after? Want to have a drink?”
“I’d love that, Brian.” Sherlock dialed his smile up a few notches. Time was trickling away; time to really start digging. “I should probably go and hunt my costume down.”
Gilbert laughed. “Take off the jacket and slap on a couple of armbands, no-one will notice.”
“I wonder if it might have got mixed up with some of the principals’ costumes,” Sherlock said. “Where are their dressing rooms, do you know?”
“Down that way,” Gilbert said, pointing. “Won’t likely be there, though. Only the top bitches have their own rooms for this affair.”
“Sasha?”
“Oh, of course. Andrei too, and naturally Andrei’s is nicer. Could I beg another smoke? Dying here. You know how it is.”
“I do,” Sherlock replied feelingly, and gave him another cigarette. Freeloader. A static-ridden sound of applause came from the speaker, and then a robotic female voice.
“Curtain coming down. Dances at a Gathering, on in fifteen. Little Swans, ready for places please. Curtain going up.”
“First curtain call all day, I bet. Got to go. The hag demands my presence,” Gilbert said, getting to his feet with a slight grunt. Incipient arthritis, lower back issues, weakening metatarsals. Sherlock gave him another two years at most. “Come find me when you’re through, yeah? There’s a nice quiet pub just round the corner.”
“Absolutely,” Sherlock said. “Um, merde.”
“Merde,” Gilbert said with a wink, and pushed out the door, a number of other young men following behind him.
Sherlock waited a moment, lighting another cigarette and listening to the gossip around him. The kidnapping of Andrei Kirillovsky was big news – he heard the dancer’s name here and there, drifting like autumn leaves caught in a breeze – but nothing useful, mostly salacious gossip. Everyone seemed to be swallowing the terrorist angle with no difficulty at all. But it wasn’t a terrorist group. He just had to prove it….
Satisfied that no-one was really paying attention to him, he got up and exited the men’s dressing room, trying not to twitch visibly at the unbelievably discomfiting sensation of the dance belt crawling up his arse. He resisted the urge to give it a tug and moved down the corridor in the direction of the principals’ dressing rooms. There were names on the doors, bordered by stars. Despite the illustrious names, Sherlock saw no press, no fans, only dance and theatre personnel – there had been some reorganisation after the abduction, though it hadn’t taken any effort at all to slip past the police at the door. Some security team they were.
The speakers in the corridor gave off another tinny blast of music – Tchaikovsky, rendered as badly as he’d expected. God, it was tragic. If he’d been in the audience, he’d have thrown tomatoes.
He found Kirillovsky’s room, bordered by crime-scene tape. Sherlock leaned against the door-frame, exhaling a lavish plume of smoke, and reached into the pocket of the warm-up jacket. Carefully, he inserted the pick into the lock, and after a moment felt it give.
Dancers, dressers, and self-important administrators rushed past, but no-one gave him a second glance; this was the biggest ballet festival in London, and they weren’t going to shut it down, even if one of its brightest stars had been snatched from it by some very clever party masquerading as a terrorist. The show must go on – how very ruthless. Sherlock smiled.
The door opened easily, and Sherlock slipped under the tape and stepped inside, closing the door behind him and clicking on the light. The room was small – a stool at a tiny built-in table, a lighted wall mirror bordered with florist cards and handwritten notes, a slim rack for costumes, a minuscule shower. Bunches of wilting flowers took up most of the available floor space. Sherlock stepped close to the table, examining the items strewn across it: makeup, vitamins, contact lens solution, cigarettes, a jar of bee pollen, a tin of breath mints, the festival programme opened to Kirillovsky’s photo. He leant close to the mirror to read the cards. Notes of admiration, pre-emptive congratulations, wishes for luck. A few were in French, and one was in Russian. Sherlock frowned at a familiar smell and moved closer to the mirror. He plucked the note in Russian from the security of its tape and gazed at it thoughtfully, then held it to his nose.
At length, Sherlock pocketed the card and turned out the light. He opened the door and ducked under the tape – amazing, really nobody was watching the place at all – and moved further down the corridor. He paused at another door: Aleksandr Terekhov.
“Sasha,” Sherlock whispered. He dropped the smoldering stub of his cigarette and ground it under the thin leather sole of one slipper. The dance belt was still bothering him; surreptitiously, he gave it a tug. It felt comfortable for a moment, then began its slow inexorable creep again. Sherlock winced and knocked boldly on the door.
Nobody answered. Sighing, Sherlock turned, pasting an expression of disappointment on his face (couldn’t meet up with my idol, what a pity), and collided with a small man carrying an armful of costumes in dry-cleaners’ plastic. “Oh – sorry.”
“It’s okay.” The man smiled at him. “Crowded down here.”
“It is.” Sherlock waited until the man had scurried out of sight, then tested the doorknob. Locked. He performed his little trick again with the pick, pushed the door open, and slid inside.
This dressing room wasn’t much different from Kirillovsky’s, despite Gilbert’s assertion to the contrary. The flowers were fresher, he noticed, but there were fewer of them, as well as fewer cards on the mirror. A Russian newspaper lay folded on the dressing stool, and a pair of slippers sat skewed on the floor, as if the wearer had just stepped out of them. Sherlock picked one up and examined it, then saw a card taped to the mirror. Russian handwriting. He removed it neatly and slipped it into his pocket, then bent to examine the newspaper.
Terrorists Abduct Kirillovsky From Theatre
His Russian wasn’t terribly good, but he got the gist well enough – the newspaper was a local one for the Russian-speaking community in England, and it looked like a standard-issue wire service story, with additional details of Kirillovsky’s background and early career. Sherlock clicked his tongue, went to set the paper down again, and halted.
“Oh. What’s this?”
The programme lay open on the stool, open to Kirillovsky’s photo. Sherlock picked it up. Dog-eared, very much handled, smeared with…makeup, looked like, and something greasy like butter or mayonnaise. And the smell…. Sherlock held the programme to his nose and frowned.
Now that’s not a coincidence….
He heard the click before the light went out, and turned just in time to see the bright glare of a torch come to life. He lifted his hand to shield his eyes, and something hard caught him on the side of the head. Sherlock staggered backward, knocking over a vase in the dark. Glass crashed, and he felt water soaking into his slippers. The light stayed relentlessly in his face, blinding him to his attacker.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Someone –“
The hard object (what was it? That smell again, stronger now) crashed into his temple, and brilliant crimson flared in his vision before he fell senseless to the floor.
*
Sherlock came to in the dark. He blinked and gingerly touched his temple. Bleeding, as he’d suspected, and painful. A duller, thudding sensation in time with his pulse reverberated in his skull, likely from where he’d hit the floor. His jacket was sopping wet, and for one befuddled moment he thought he was bleeding, but then remembered the broken vase. He sat up with a groan, cradling his head.
Reckon I was wrong about nobody watching.
Which, he realised, only proved his suspicions. He leapt to his feet, his head protesting, and groped for the light switch. Squinting against the sudden brightness, he looked round the room. Broken vase, roses scattered across the floor. Slippers still there. He glanced at the dressing stool.
The newspaper and programme had disappeared.
“Ha,” Sherlock murmured. He checked his pockets; both cards still there. Good. His watch read seven-forty-two. He’d only been out cold for a few minutes. He leant toward the mirror, examining the wound on his temple. What on earth had they struck him with? It hurt like hell and had bled rather copiously, running down the side of his face in dark red rivulets. He smiled a little; with any luck, people might take it for stage blood against all the makeup he wore. His pupils looked normal, at least. He snatched up some tissues from a box and scrubbed at the blood as he left the dressing room.
Once again, everyone appeared to be going about their business, but he knew that wasn’t quite true. He ran down the corridor and up the stairs to the stage door. The guard there gave him a startled glance as he burst outside and accosted the lone policeman standing in the alley.
“You! Has anyone left here in the last five minutes?”
*
Greg contained a sigh and surreptitiously checked his watch for what was probably the fiftieth time that evening. His shift was almost up, and even though the overtime would come in handy, he was looking forward to going home, having supper (Annie had made cottage pie, his favorite, and the expression on her face when he’d told her he had to pick up a shift was none too pleased), maybe watching a bit of telly, and maybe, just maybe if Annie wasn’t still narked – a nice, lazy shag before bed. Of course, that was unlikely. Annie hadn’t wanted to do it for nearly a month now, and he was about ready to give up altogether. Or find someone else.
The disloyal thought made him feel bad, but not as bad as he’d felt the first time it had occurred.
He leaned against the brick wall and whistled a bit. Not long now. It was a nice night, at least, chilly but not outright cold yet, and crisp and clear, with that unmistakable scent of autumn in the air. He wished he’d been here for the initial investigation instead of relegated to what amounted to a night watchman’s job. Once they’d received the note, slipped underneath the box office door, the theatre had been closed down and searched thoroughly, but Kirillovsky had been long gone by then, with no witnesses to his abduction. And nothing had happened since then, more than twenty-four hours ago. The kidnappers had only announced that they’d grabbed him on behalf of imprisoned comrades; no demands had been made at all, no further communication had ensued. The festival would be over by tomorrow evening, and though NSY had hoped for a timely rescue, it hadn’t happened yet. Kirillovsky had been scheduled to dance the first number as well as the final number, a big deal apparently, and the first number had never happened and the final number looked like it wasn’t going to happen either. And instead of helping to look for him, Greg Lestrade was stuck baby-sitting a building.
He shifted and stuck his hands disconsolately in his pockets. His stomach was making plaintive noises.
“You!”
The stage door banged open, and Greg turned, startled, to see a young male dancer with wild dark curls pointing at him.
“Has anyone left here in the last five minutes?”
Greg hadn’t been to a ballet since his mother had dragged him kicking and screaming to The Nutcracker when he was eight. His first fleeting thought as he looked at the young man was that they must have been tailoring ballet to modern movie-going audiences nowadays – there was scarily realistic stage blood on his face and warm-up jacket. “No, it’s been dead as a doornail.”
The young man strode up to him, his posture challenging, his dramatically made-up face set in a scowl. “A launderette van, or a dry-cleaner’s. Nothing at all?”
“No, sor –“ Greg squinted at the young man’s face. That wasn’t stage blood at all. “Holy Christ. What happened to you? You okay?”
“I’m fine. I’ve just been hit on the head with a blunt instrument, though, and if the person who did it didn’t escape through the stage door, then they’re either still in the theatre or they left through another exit. Where are the other exits?”
The young man moved as if to dart back into the theatre, but Greg grasped his arm. “Hang on a minute. I’m not sure you’re fine. You might have concussion – you’re bleeding a lot.”
The dancer’s frown deepened. “Sergeant…”
“Lestrade. Gr –“
“Sergeant Lestrade, whoever hit me is involved in the kidnapping of Andrei Kirillovsky, and not to tell you your business, but while you’re chatting with me, the trail’s growing a bit chilly. So if you don’t mind –“ The young man wrenched his arm free and made for the stage door again.
Greg followed him. “Kidnapping – you mean there are terrorists in the bloody theatre? How the hell do you know that?”
“They’re not terrorists.” The young man pulled on the handle, then rattled it. “The damn thing’s locked!”
“Yeah, it locks from the inside. Wait, slow down a minute.”
“No time.” The dancer banged on the door. “Hey!” Nobody answered, and the young man wheeled and looked up and down the alley. “Must be another exit. Inconspicuous.” He took a step, staggered, and braced himself against the wall with a hand. “Hell,” he muttered.
“All right.” Greg took the young man’s arm again, very firmly, in the reassuring yet intimidating grip he used with drunken Hooray-Henrys carousing in public fountains, and propelled him toward the squad car. “I don’t want you passing out on me. If you’ve got information, it’ll keep until we get you to A&E.”
“I’m not going to the hospital!” the young man snarled, swatting at Greg’s hand as he stumbled along. “Listen carefully. Whoever’s abducted Kirillovsky used a launderette or a dry-cleaning van, and Sasha Terekhov is in on it as well. Come on, get your hand off my arm!”
“What’s your name, lad?”
“Sherlock Holmes.”
“Well, Sherlock, you can tell me everything on the way to the hospital, all right?”
“God, do the police deliberately hire idiots or do you receive special training? Don’t you get it? We’ve got to find out where they’re holding him! He hasn’t much time.”
Greg kept his grip on Sherlock’s arm and kept his voice steady and calm, though his patience was eroding rapidly. “You’re not going to have much time either, if that head wound keeps bleeding.”
“Never mind my head.” Sherlock dug in his feet, forcing Greg to halt with him. “Just wait. Look.” He dug in the pockets of his warm-up jacket and produced two folded pieces of paper. “Look at this. Two cards, both written in Russian. Same kind of paper, both produced and sold in St. Petersburg. Thick stock, pine pulp, but that doesn’t account for the smell on both of them. Go on, have a sniff.”
Greg sighed, but decided to indulge him. Might help calm him down. He took both pieces of paper and sniffed at them. “It does smell a bit piney, though.”
“Right. It’s powdered rosin, the kind dancers use. Not really widespread nowadays because most theatres have modernised their stage floors, but some of them still have wood and wood is slippy, don’t you see?”
“Okay,” Greg said cautiously, then paused. “Hang on, what did you say your name was?”
“Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.”
“Oh, Jesus.” Greg shook his head and handed the cards back. “I thought your name sounded familiar. You’re that fella who comes round to the Met now and then, aren’t you, bothering the force about unsolved cases? Gregson and Bradstreet told me about you. Look, I’m going to take you to A&E, and then I’ll take you home. Where you belong.”
“I see. You’re clearly as stupid as all the rest. You think I’m some nutter who doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Even though when Hilary DeMille murdered her husband and I was the only one who realised she’d been feeding him arsenic in small –“
“Coincidence.” Greg pulled on Sherlock’s arm again. “Come on.”
“At least hear me out!”
“You can talk as much as you want in the squad car.”
“You’re a bloody idiot,” Sherlock snapped.
Greg rounded on him. “Okay, I’ve had just about enough.”
“Andrei Kirillovsky was not abducted by terrorists, and I can prove it. I’ve got the god-damned proof right here – are you going to let the man be murdered, or are you going to listen to me and save his life and perhaps climb a rung or two on the Met ladder – Sergeant? Or no, don’t tell me. You’d rather wear that uniform and spend the rest of your career arresting drunks and junkies instead of handling the interesting cases, the ones that matter.”
Greg felt his fingers digging deeper into Sherlock Holmes’ arm and forced himself to relax a bit. It was true that he itched to work on the really tough stuff, the sort of work that required thought and a scrap of intelligence, but for whatever reason he’d been relegated to baby-sitting. Maybe he was too easy-going, or maybe a promotion required more than hard work and steady dedication. Maybe he had to take a leap once in a while.
But with Sherlock Holmes, who already had a reputation as a bit of a looney as well as a bother? His credibility might take a hit, and his chances for advancement with it. He’d always trusted his intuition; it was part of what had kept him alive and whole as a police officer for the past seven years. All he knew about Sherlock Holmes was that he was a nutter who popped round and ranted and raved a bit about the police being incompetent…and yet, the evidence he’d presented on the DeMille case had been solid. Had anyone picked up on that? No – they’d dismissed it as coincidence and mocked Holmes’ insistence. Once a nutter….
Maybe there was more to Holmes than met the eye, though. And if Greg cracked the Kirillovsky case with Holmes’ help….
“All right, listen,” Greg said. “You’ve got fifteen minutes to prove your idea, but first I’m putting a dressing on that head wound, because you look like someone attacked you with an axe. Is it still bleeding?”
Sherlock touched his temple and examined his bloody fingers. “Not so much.”
Greg sighed. “Okay. I’m counting on you not to pass out in the next fifteen minutes. Come on, let’s shift it.” He led Sherlock to the squad car and made him sit down as he fished out the first-aid kit. “I’m going to clean it up a bit. Hold still, lad.” Sherlock submitted meekly enough to Greg’s ministrations. It was hard to tell, but he looked a bit pale under the makeup and blood. “So I’m guessing you’re not really a ballet dancer.”
“No. It was the best way to investigate inconspicuously, that’s all.”
“Don’t you have a real job?”
Sherlock glared at him. “What the hell does that matter?”
“Peace, peace.” Greg held up his hands. “Just making conversation.” He pressed a clean dressing against Sherlock’s temple. “Does that hurt much?”
“Not really. Look, Lestrade, time’s of the essence here, I think.”
“You say it’s not a terrorist group.”
“No. When terrorists commit crimes, they make certain the media’s kept fed. Whatever the cause, whatever the crime. They crave attention, they hunger for it. Inspiring fear, legitimising their ideologies, forcing compliance – none of that can be accomplished unless they maintain an open line of communication.”
“Okay.” Greg had heard a few people saying the same thing at the Met, but they’d been shouted down in fairly short order. “But there was a note claiming responsibility.”
“But not demanding the release of any particular prisoners?”
Greg hesitated. It wasn’t standard order of procedure to release details to the public, but…. He shrugged. “No. It was more of a rant, I guess.”
“And no follow-up communiques, either.”
“No.”
“It’s a sham, a smokescreen to cover the truth, and not even a good one. How closely did you people examine it? Back to the notes.” Sherlock, odd-looking with his outlandish makeup and crazy hair tumbling over the white dressing, dug in his pockets and produced the notes again. “Right. Now you smelled the rosin on them. That particular blend is Russian, same as the notes. Must be some sort of performance ritual for them, sending each other good-luck notes. But smell this one.” He extended the paper.
Greg sniffed. “I only smell the pine.”
“If you took it to your lab and performed chemical analysis – which of course nobody bothered to do – you’d be able to detect traces of tetrachloroethylene on this note only.”
“What the hell’s that?”
“Dry cleaning fluid,” Sherlock said. “I wasn’t thinking – I didn’t grab the slippers from Terekhov’s room, but I should have. If you get them, you’ll find more of the same. The smell’s all over his things.”
“So you’re saying that Terekhov’s in on it? But the dry cleaning –“
“It had to be something commonplace,” Sherlock exclaimed, pushing himself out of the squad car. “Come on, there’s got to be another exit. Bring a torch.” He moved rapidly down the alley, then turned back. “Hurry up!”
Greg grabbed a torch and followed, intrigued despite his misgivings. Sherlock Holmes might have been a nutter, but he wasn’t boring. “What about the dry cleaning?” he called.
“The smell’s simple to identify, and the vehicle they used to remove him had to be one that wouldn’t be remarked upon at a theatre. They must have had ten different costume deliveries here today alone, with all the performances. But the stage door’s fairly busy, so they couldn’t have abducted him from there.” Sherlock paused. “Of course – the man with the costumes! He was the one watching me. Probably left already, in plain sight. God, stupid!” He wheeled on Greg. “Don’t speak, don’t breathe, don’t think. Just – stay there and be quiet.”
Greg wasn’t sure what Sherlock was on about. “I’m beginning to see why you’ve got a bit of notoriety down at the Met.”
“That’s because you lot never use your collective loaf.”
“Case in point, I guess,” Greg said.
“Shut up!”
Greg decided to ignore Holmes’ rudeness. “Maybe they drugged him?”
“But then how would they get him out of the theatre? Doesn’t make sense. You’d have to drag him out; he’s a big star, people would make a fuss, think he was sick, take photos. No, he was lured out somehow, and by someone who knew him well.”
“Terekhov? But why?”
Sherlock stopped in the alley. “Rivalry.”
Greg almost ran into him. “Come on, that’s a bit melodramatic, isn’t it?” He vaguely remembered being hungry a while ago. He wondered if Annie was keeping the cottage pie warm.
“Whoever hit me on the head took both a Russian newspaper and the festival programme from Terekhov’s dressing room.”
Greg shook his head. “You were snooping in their dressing rooms? Please tell me you didn’t go into Kirillovsky’s….”
Sherlock shrugged. “I didn’t disturb much.”
“Oh, God.”
“That’s not the point. The newspaper was a story about the kidnapping. It went on a bit about Kirillovsky, about his popularity. The programme was open to Kirillovsky’s biography. Whoever was reading it – Terekhov, it would be safe to assume, since it was his dressing room after all – was a bit obsessive. He’d handled it over and over, and got some food on the pages, as well as makeup. Since there wasn’t much on the page besides a bio, which he probably knew quite well as both dancers had been trained together from childhood, I gather he was a bit upset.”
“Well, if they were childhood friends, makes sense that he was upset, doesn’t it?” Greg replied, a bit exasperated. “His best friend had just been kidnapped, I’d be upset too. That’s not a lot to go on.”
“The note,” Sherlock said, waving it in Greg’s face. “Look at the handwriting.”
Greg grasped Sherlock’s hand and aimed the beam of the torch at the note. “It’s in Russian.”
“The text isn’t important. It’s just a wish for success. ‘To Andriushka, good fortune tonight as ever, et cetera, with affection from Sasha.’ What matters is how it’s written. The writing – so deep and hard it indents the paper, almost tears it even though the stock is quite heavy.” Sherlock turned the note over and brushed a finger across the heavily textured blank side of the paper. “Whoever wrote this was under a great deal of stress.”
“Performance anxiety?”
“Doubt it. Terekhov only had one performance scheduled, and that’s tonight. Unlikely that an experienced dancer would be so tense that early. Come on.” Sherlock turned on his heel and kept moving down the alley. “There’s another door down there. Did they take soil samples?”
“Yeah, but nothing extraordinary came up. I’m still not convinced, Sherlock.”
“The programme,” Sherlock said.
“What about it?”
Sherlock stared at Greg for a moment, then shook his head slowly. “It’s astounding, really. How do you manage to get through the day?”
“Hey!”
Sherlock sighed. “Fine. Kirillovsky was dancing first – well, after some sort of kiddie exhibition, anyway – and last, wrapping up the festival, but he was abducted before his performance. Any terrorist worth his salt would have waited until after the first performance. Triumph for the papers, splashy displays of athleticism followed by horrifying crime, the nation mourns – but no. He doesn’t perform at all. And then his dear, devoted friend, who isn’t quite as popular, soldiers bravely on. When Kirillovsky is found dead, which is certain to happen in the next few hours or so, after his friend’s courageous performance, Aleksandr Terekhov sets a little stool down beside his grief, milks it for all it’s worth, and comes up smelling like a rose. It’s not political, it’s personal. Rivalry, pure and simple.”
Greg took a deep breath. “Jesus. Are you sure?”
“Mm. Hold on.” Sherlock held a hand out, halting Greg’s progress. “Give me your torch.” Greg handed it over, and Sherlock got on his hands and knees. “Don’t move.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Hang on. Here…and here.” Triumphantly, Sherlock pointed at the ground. “Thank God for slovenly maintenance. Tracks in the dirt and gravel. Two men, both dancers – the tread proves it, they’ve all got that duck walk, developmental hip dysplasia. One is taller and heavier than the other, though. That’d be Terekhov.” He scooped up a small handful of dirt and brought it close to his nose. “Rosin. St. Petersburg blend. And eau de tetrachloroethylene.”
“But couldn’t that just have been common?” Greg asked. “I mean, all dancers must smell like that a bit.”
“But his slippers were nearly saturated with the smell, and the note too. I’m stunned that you can’t smell it. You should cut down on the cigarettes. The note was on Kirillovsky’s mirror before he was kidnapped, which means Terekhov was arranging things at the dry cleaner’s beforehand. The place must reek of it. The slippers….” Sherlock crawled close to the door and let out a cry.
“What?”
“Sobranies!” Sherlock held up two cigarette butts. “Russian, Lestrade. Your forensics team is tragically inept. Two male dancers came out here to have a cigarette. This far away from the stage door, who’d hear a struggle when the van pulled up? And then Terekhov went along with them, back to the dry cleaning shop, which is how his slippers acquired the odor. Now all we have to do is find the right shop, and you’ll find Kirillovsky.”
It felt right. Somehow, for all that this guy was snappish and more than a little eccentric, it felt solid and right. Greg trusted his intuition. “God, there must be a hundred shops in London.”
“Look for the ones in the Russian communities. There must be a connection – family, maybe? Someone willing to help Terekhov out and hold Kirillovsky captive until the time comes to kill him. And we’ve got to find out soon, because Terekhov performs in less than an hour, and you can be sure that he’ll go back to the shop flushed with success and ready to see his best friend die.”
Adrenaline surged in Greg’s veins. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Where?”
“To find the bloody dry cleaning shop. Come on!”
*
It took two hours, but they narrowed the location down at last, and sat in the car, side by side, watching the faint light in the shop. Most dry cleaners didn’t stay open until ten on a Saturday night.
“I haven’t seen anyone leave or enter,” Sherlock complained.
“I don’t want to risk going round back,” Greg said. “I’m calling for backup.” He proceeded to do just that, and then turned to Sherlock. “Are you all right? You look bloody awful.”
“I’m fine. Let’s go.”
Greg lay a restraining hand on Sherlock’s arm. “If you’re right about this, I think I’m going to owe you a massive favour.”
Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t care about that. And frankly, I’d prefer that you didn’t mention my name in regard to this.”
Interesting. Greg would have guessed that Holmes was in it for acclaim of some sort. “Then why are you doing this? Why bother the Met the way you do?”
There was a pause. “Why not?”
Greg considered for a moment. “Most people want recognition for stuff like this.”
“I don’t need the press hounding me. You’ll know. That’s enough.”
“Well, as long as you’re on the right side of the law, I reckon it doesn’t matter why. How you arrived at all that’s beyond me.”
A little smile tugged the corners of Holmes’ lipsticked mouth upwards. “That seems abundantly clear.”
Smart-arse. Greg was about to frame a retort, then saw a car gliding silently next to his. “Right. Stay here, Sherlock.” When Sherlock was about to protest, Greg locked a hand round his wrist. “For your own safety. You’re already wounded, and I don’t want you caught in the crossfire, if there is any. Stay put, all right?” He gave Sherlock a stern look, and got out of the car.
*
Sherlock had been right. When Greg Lestrade and his team had infiltrated the dry cleaning shop, they found a frightened and exhausted Kirillovsky bound in a closet, and a particularly gruesome execution scenario involving murder by dry-cleaning fluid prepared for him. They’d apprehended the perpetrators, rescued Kirillovsky, and arrested Terekhov immediately following a performance that the papers the following day gleefully described as inappropriately manic.
Greg rubbed his hands over his face and trudged back to the squad car. It was midnight, and he was beyond knackered. Annie was probably going to kill him, and he was bloody starving, but victory sang in his blood. Gregson had murmured something about promotion; it seemed too good to be true.
He stopped in his tracks. The boot of the car was open, and Sherlock was bent over, examining the little arsenal inside. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I got bored.”
“How did you get the damned boot open?”
Sherlock shrugged. “Wasn’t difficult.” He closed the boot with a bang. “Can you give me a lift home?” He leant against the car, peculiar-looking in his makeup, bandage, and practise clothes. He even wore ballet slippers.
Odd duck, Greg thought. But an odd duck who’d solved a kidnapping and saved a man’s life. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
“Thanks. Can’t wait to get out of this bloody dance belt. My arse is killing me.”
Do I want to know? No, probably not.
With resigned good grace, Greg opened the passenger door and gestured toward it. “Get in, Sherlock.”
*
For the first time in seven years, Greg Lestrade went to work in a suit. It felt strange, a bit vulnerable, but he’d get used to it. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.
Yes, he’d get used to it.
Whistling, he went to his office and booted up his computer, sipping a cup of tea. He sat back, waiting for the Met interface, and turned at a knock on the door. “Come on in!”
An office with a door, an increase in salary, new respect from the crew at the Met. Life was not bad. If Annie could have mustered some happiness for him, it would have been great, but he had to take what he could get.
The door opened, and a tall man strolled in, impeccably and expensively dressed, with thinning hair, and carrying an umbrella, though it was a fine day. He stopped in front of Greg’s desk and regarded him in silence for a moment, his expression inscrutable.
“Hello,” Greg said. “Can I help you with anything?”
“Detective Inspector Lestrade?”
“That’s right.”
“How do you do.” The man extended a hand. “Mycroft Holmes.”
*
Author: Alex
Fandom: Sherlock [BBC]
Rating: Varies
Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: A.C. Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss.
Summary: L'esprit de l'escalier - Sherlock never suffers from it, which isn't to say he doesn't suffer for it. Five times he took a beating, and one time he got away.
Warnings: Violence, possible explicit sex to come.
Notes: This is my very first Sherlock fic, so please feel free to let me know if I've made any missteps.
Can also be read on AO3
*
4. Twenty-four
*
He couldn’t call himself a ballet aficionado by any stretch of the imagination (if the music was tolerable, he could endure watching it for an hour, an hour and a half at most, before ennui set in) but he did know the difference between dance tempo and concert tempo, and between the wailing-cat noise the moronic amateur of a conductor was coaxing from the sad conglomeration that dared to call itself an orchestra and the sound of heels thudding down on the elderly wooden stage (sounded like cannonballs; Sherlock was surprised that the audience wasn’t stampeding for the exits, screaming with laughter – well, no, not really surprised. The audience was stupid too) this particular exhibition of the Dance of the Wilis was proving itself a really amusing failure. He half-expected to read about the conductor turning up the next day strangled with a pair of pale pink tights.
Not that there weren’t other sordid goings-on claiming his attention at the moment.
He waited for the conclusion (more inappropriately up-beat than the rest of the piece – God, they were incompetent) and listened to the applause – polite, no more. Shocking. Maybe there were a few people out there discerning enough to know dreadful renderings when they heard them. Twelve panting, angry dancers stormed into the wings, cursing and sweating. In the second leg of the wings, another group waited to go on, an assemblage of young men and women in vaguely Eastern costume. Sherlock took advantage of the temporary confusion to make his way down to the dressing rooms in the company of the unhappy Wilis.
“I’m going to kill that fucker,” one of the girls hissed, blotting her face with a fistful of tissue. “Who the hell does he think he –“ She swerved to avoid a passing dresser with an armload of unitards and bumped into Sherlock, who’d planted himself squarely in her path. “Sorry.” She looked at him again and smiled. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Sherlock replied, showing most of his teeth in a wide grin. “God, I’m so lost. Boys’ dressing room?”
“Um, that way,” she said, pointing over her shoulder. “Though if you’re really bored, you can join me.” She returned his smile and looked him up and down.
Sherlock ducked his head and bit his lower lip. “Thanks. See you around.” He pivoted on his heel, slung a battered tote bag over his shoulder, and reversed direction down the corridor.
“Nice try,” he heard another girl say.
“Well, you never know, do you?” the first girl replied in an arch tone.
“Yes, you do. It’s ninety percent, not ten percent.” Both girls giggled.
Sherlock pasted an anxious smile to his face, like a naïve tourist trapped in a crowd of people speaking a completely foreign language, and found the door that said Men’s Dressing Room. Simple enough – for the male corps only, he assumed. Principals and possibly soloists would get their own rooms, though they might have had to share for the festival since space seemed tight. He pushed the door open and stepped in, his nostrils assailed by the overwhelming stench of old and fresh sweat mingled with stale cigarette smoke. Smelled like the place hadn’t been aired since 1971 or so. It was a long room, lined with mirrors and makeup tables, a row of benches down the center, and a door at the far end that read Showers. A few dancers sat before the lights, applying makeup; others loitered on stools and benches in varying states of undress, chattering and laughing. Sherlock strolled to an empty makeup table. “Is this taken?”
The dancer applying makeup on a nearby stool glanced up from the mirror. He was dark-haired and dark-eyed, wearing a plain red unitard. “Doesn’t look like it. Help yourself.”
“Thanks. I’ve never been here before – totally clueless.” Sherlock proffered an apologetic smile and began rummaging through his bag, coming up with a pack of cigarettes. He lit one and inhaled deeply. “You on soon?”
The dancer waved a stick of eyeliner at a speaker attached to the soffit, emitting a crackling, intermittent burst of music, orchestral Morse code. “Half an hour, if that twat on the loudspeaker is telling the truth. Dances at a Gathering. You?”
“Oh, not for a few hours yet, but I always get twitchy before these things, so I thought I’d come and warm up a bit.” Sherlock grinned and indicated his cigarette. “Trying to cut down, but days like these –“
“Tell me about it. Could I beg one of those from you?” The dancer smiled and held out a hand. “Brian Gilbert. I’m with Carpe Diem.”
Sherlock took the man’s hand. “Sig Sherrinford. Ballet Essex.”
“Nice. So what are you dancing tonight?” Gilbert accepted the cigarette Sherlock gave him and cupped his hand round the flame of Sherlock’s lighter. His fingers, stained with nicotine, stuttered briefly against Sherlock’s, and his eyes, ringed with kohl, gave Sherlock a quick once-over.
“Le Corsaire. Still waiting for my costume, though. I don’t know where the bloody dresser put it.”
“Oh, tell me about it. Solo?” Gilbert asked with a touch of envy.
“Mm.” Sherlock fished clothes out of his bag. He eyed the dance belt a bit dubiously and peeled his shirt off. “Though honestly, I feel a bit off tonight, what with…you know, what happened yesterday.”
“Aren’t we all? Jesus Christ, how scary can you get?” Gilbert turned back to the mirror, his cigarette clamped between his lips, and began to draw a high, arched brow over the real one he’d blotted out with makeup. “What kind of a world is this – terrorists invading a fucking ballet festival? I mean, really. I guess the show must go on, blah blah blah. We’re all sick about it, though.”
Sherlock pulled off his trainers and unbuttoned his jeans. “Well, they didn’t really invade, did they? Unless – did you see it happen?”
“No. Nobody did, as far as I know. It’s just – one minute Andrei was in the theatre, the next minute – whoosh! Gone. Crazy, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Sherlock agreed. He’d stripped down to his underwear and socks, and cast another suspicious glance at the dance belt. It was ugly as hell, the color of an elastic bandage, and the backside was fairly non-existent. Ugh. He slid his boxers off and pulled the thing on. “Oh, God.”
Gilbert looked at him in the mirror. “Something wrong?”
Christ, is it supposed to be this uncomfortable? “No. I was just – are they sure it was a terrorist group? How can they be sure?”
“Well, they left a note, right? I mean, if you want to make a big fucking fuss, kidnap the world’s biggest ballet star from the biggest ballet festival in London and sit back and let the press do the rest. Maybe it’ll be a boost for ticket sales and we’ll all get a raise.” Gilbert snickered, then looked contrite. “I shouldn’t say that. I hope they let him go. Did they even ask for a ransom? It’s all so hush-hush.”
“I don’t know.” Sherlock quickly pulled on a pair of black footless tights and winced as he adjusted them. How in the name of God did anyone get used to that feeling? “Strange that no-one else saw it happen.”
“Well, Sasha Terekhov and a couple of girls from Rambert said they saw him go out, but nobody saw him come back. Which is kind of amazing, when you think about it. Kirillovsky’s the biggest fucking showoff in ballet. Needs an audience for everything.”
Sherlock smiled and worked his feet into a pair of black slippers, hurrying so that no-one would see that they were straight and unscathed, not the mangled, blistered, and bunioned feet of a real dancer. He pulled on a pale-blue Adidas warm-up jacket and zipped it. “Aren’t we all showoffs?”
Gilbert laughed. “I guess so. Anyway, everyone’s inconsolable, and it’s been chaos all day. Well, you saw the reporters outside when you came in, yeah? You wouldn’t believe the people giving interviews. So stupid. Sasha’s the only one who’s been coherent, and even he’s a mess.”
“Were they close, he and Sasha?”
“Oh yeah, for certain.” Gilbert glanced at Sherlock in the mirror. “Darling, if the foundation’s too heavy, the building sinks.”
“What?”
“A little lighter with that makeup. You’re really glopping it on there.”
“Oh.” An embarrassed smile curved Sherlock’s mouth. “Sorry. I’m twitchy, like I said.” He ground his cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray and wiped a bit of the pancake off. Five more minutes, he promised himself. Then he was looking for some other avenue of information. This couldn’t have been more tiresome, nothing but backstage gossip, and the bloody dance belt crawling up his arse wasn’t helping in the least.
“You’re doing Corsaire? I do a perfect Corsaire face, believe me. Let me help.” Gilbert stood and gazed down at Sherlock. “Hm. Not bad. I can work with this.” He took a kerchief from his dressing table, whipped it into a cord, and made a knot at the ends, then slid it over Sherlock’s head, pushing his hair back from his face. “That’s better. Hold still now. This kit of yours is pathetic. Let’s just use mine.”
“Really, I can –“
“Oh, no, it’s my pleasure.” Gilbert grinned, his exaggeratedly made-up eyes gleaming. He tilted Sherlock’s chin up with one hand, then started working with sponges and brushes and cotton swabs, dipping into pots and jars with astonishing speed. “Fabulous kisser, Sig.”
Sherlock barely refrained from casting his eyes upward. He smiled. “Than –“ but Gilbert lay a finger on his mouth.
“Shh. Don’t talk. What was I saying before?”
“Sasha,” Sherlock managed through rigid and evidently fabulous lips. He looked at Gilbert straight on. Red eyes, sour breath, sniffling, exceedingly distinct aroma emanating from skin: amyl nitrite user, heavy, too, judging by the intensity of the odour, and an additional smell of the previous night’s vodka binge drifting from his pores. He had a short career as a dancer ahead of him if he kept up the inhalant and alcohol abuse. Receding hairline, touch of minoxidil on the scalp, home-dyed, greying roots showing a bit. No time to touch up, or perhaps indifference. Likely indifference, Sherlock thought: nearly thirty, still a corps boy, no chance now of becoming a star, a minor role in what would be a big event in a younger dancer’s life, Mr. Gilbert was rapidly blossoming into a gossiping, flirtatious lush, a ballet never-was.
“Oh, right. Suck those cheeks in. God, you hardly need contouring. Yeah, they’re really close. Well, they were in the Maryinsky together, y’know.”
“Were they…um…you know…really close?”
“Oh, God no! How do you not know this? Sasha’s addicted to pussy, and Andrei only likes cock. Still, they grew up together, and if you can’t get along with all sorts, you don’t belong in ballet, am I right?”
“Right.” Sherlock frowned a little. “Right.”
“Don’t frown. Almost done. Look up, up. Oh, skimpy lashes, Sig. Your only flaw. Sasha’s supposed to do Apollo tonight – I’m sure this is going to throw him off. The balletomanes will be, like, just waiting to watch him fall on his ass. So is everyone else, probably. Of course, now that this has happened, everyone’s scared, but honestly, who else are they going to grab? Especially now that the police are watching so carefully.” Gilbert leaned closer, tracing a brush over Sherlock’s mouth. “Next time, darling, shave a little closer. Personally, I recommend waxing. Makes you less mottled on stage. Believe me, people notice.” He dusted powder over Sherlock’s face, then whipped off the kerchief with a flourish. “There - et voilà!”
Sherlock turned to the mirror. Gilbert had dramatically darkened and arched his eyebrows, lined his eyes with shimmering black stuff, sharpened his features here and there with some sort of bronzy cream, and exaggerated his mouth with a clay-colored pencil. He looked ridiculous, but not, he supposed, altogether out of place. He smiled at Gilbert. “Thanks a million, it looks fantastic.”
“My pleasure. What are you doing after? Want to have a drink?”
“I’d love that, Brian.” Sherlock dialed his smile up a few notches. Time was trickling away; time to really start digging. “I should probably go and hunt my costume down.”
Gilbert laughed. “Take off the jacket and slap on a couple of armbands, no-one will notice.”
“I wonder if it might have got mixed up with some of the principals’ costumes,” Sherlock said. “Where are their dressing rooms, do you know?”
“Down that way,” Gilbert said, pointing. “Won’t likely be there, though. Only the top bitches have their own rooms for this affair.”
“Sasha?”
“Oh, of course. Andrei too, and naturally Andrei’s is nicer. Could I beg another smoke? Dying here. You know how it is.”
“I do,” Sherlock replied feelingly, and gave him another cigarette. Freeloader. A static-ridden sound of applause came from the speaker, and then a robotic female voice.
“Curtain coming down. Dances at a Gathering, on in fifteen. Little Swans, ready for places please. Curtain going up.”
“First curtain call all day, I bet. Got to go. The hag demands my presence,” Gilbert said, getting to his feet with a slight grunt. Incipient arthritis, lower back issues, weakening metatarsals. Sherlock gave him another two years at most. “Come find me when you’re through, yeah? There’s a nice quiet pub just round the corner.”
“Absolutely,” Sherlock said. “Um, merde.”
“Merde,” Gilbert said with a wink, and pushed out the door, a number of other young men following behind him.
Sherlock waited a moment, lighting another cigarette and listening to the gossip around him. The kidnapping of Andrei Kirillovsky was big news – he heard the dancer’s name here and there, drifting like autumn leaves caught in a breeze – but nothing useful, mostly salacious gossip. Everyone seemed to be swallowing the terrorist angle with no difficulty at all. But it wasn’t a terrorist group. He just had to prove it….
Satisfied that no-one was really paying attention to him, he got up and exited the men’s dressing room, trying not to twitch visibly at the unbelievably discomfiting sensation of the dance belt crawling up his arse. He resisted the urge to give it a tug and moved down the corridor in the direction of the principals’ dressing rooms. There were names on the doors, bordered by stars. Despite the illustrious names, Sherlock saw no press, no fans, only dance and theatre personnel – there had been some reorganisation after the abduction, though it hadn’t taken any effort at all to slip past the police at the door. Some security team they were.
The speakers in the corridor gave off another tinny blast of music – Tchaikovsky, rendered as badly as he’d expected. God, it was tragic. If he’d been in the audience, he’d have thrown tomatoes.
He found Kirillovsky’s room, bordered by crime-scene tape. Sherlock leaned against the door-frame, exhaling a lavish plume of smoke, and reached into the pocket of the warm-up jacket. Carefully, he inserted the pick into the lock, and after a moment felt it give.
Dancers, dressers, and self-important administrators rushed past, but no-one gave him a second glance; this was the biggest ballet festival in London, and they weren’t going to shut it down, even if one of its brightest stars had been snatched from it by some very clever party masquerading as a terrorist. The show must go on – how very ruthless. Sherlock smiled.
The door opened easily, and Sherlock slipped under the tape and stepped inside, closing the door behind him and clicking on the light. The room was small – a stool at a tiny built-in table, a lighted wall mirror bordered with florist cards and handwritten notes, a slim rack for costumes, a minuscule shower. Bunches of wilting flowers took up most of the available floor space. Sherlock stepped close to the table, examining the items strewn across it: makeup, vitamins, contact lens solution, cigarettes, a jar of bee pollen, a tin of breath mints, the festival programme opened to Kirillovsky’s photo. He leant close to the mirror to read the cards. Notes of admiration, pre-emptive congratulations, wishes for luck. A few were in French, and one was in Russian. Sherlock frowned at a familiar smell and moved closer to the mirror. He plucked the note in Russian from the security of its tape and gazed at it thoughtfully, then held it to his nose.
At length, Sherlock pocketed the card and turned out the light. He opened the door and ducked under the tape – amazing, really nobody was watching the place at all – and moved further down the corridor. He paused at another door: Aleksandr Terekhov.
“Sasha,” Sherlock whispered. He dropped the smoldering stub of his cigarette and ground it under the thin leather sole of one slipper. The dance belt was still bothering him; surreptitiously, he gave it a tug. It felt comfortable for a moment, then began its slow inexorable creep again. Sherlock winced and knocked boldly on the door.
Nobody answered. Sighing, Sherlock turned, pasting an expression of disappointment on his face (couldn’t meet up with my idol, what a pity), and collided with a small man carrying an armful of costumes in dry-cleaners’ plastic. “Oh – sorry.”
“It’s okay.” The man smiled at him. “Crowded down here.”
“It is.” Sherlock waited until the man had scurried out of sight, then tested the doorknob. Locked. He performed his little trick again with the pick, pushed the door open, and slid inside.
This dressing room wasn’t much different from Kirillovsky’s, despite Gilbert’s assertion to the contrary. The flowers were fresher, he noticed, but there were fewer of them, as well as fewer cards on the mirror. A Russian newspaper lay folded on the dressing stool, and a pair of slippers sat skewed on the floor, as if the wearer had just stepped out of them. Sherlock picked one up and examined it, then saw a card taped to the mirror. Russian handwriting. He removed it neatly and slipped it into his pocket, then bent to examine the newspaper.
Terrorists Abduct Kirillovsky From Theatre
His Russian wasn’t terribly good, but he got the gist well enough – the newspaper was a local one for the Russian-speaking community in England, and it looked like a standard-issue wire service story, with additional details of Kirillovsky’s background and early career. Sherlock clicked his tongue, went to set the paper down again, and halted.
“Oh. What’s this?”
The programme lay open on the stool, open to Kirillovsky’s photo. Sherlock picked it up. Dog-eared, very much handled, smeared with…makeup, looked like, and something greasy like butter or mayonnaise. And the smell…. Sherlock held the programme to his nose and frowned.
Now that’s not a coincidence….
He heard the click before the light went out, and turned just in time to see the bright glare of a torch come to life. He lifted his hand to shield his eyes, and something hard caught him on the side of the head. Sherlock staggered backward, knocking over a vase in the dark. Glass crashed, and he felt water soaking into his slippers. The light stayed relentlessly in his face, blinding him to his attacker.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Someone –“
The hard object (what was it? That smell again, stronger now) crashed into his temple, and brilliant crimson flared in his vision before he fell senseless to the floor.
*
Sherlock came to in the dark. He blinked and gingerly touched his temple. Bleeding, as he’d suspected, and painful. A duller, thudding sensation in time with his pulse reverberated in his skull, likely from where he’d hit the floor. His jacket was sopping wet, and for one befuddled moment he thought he was bleeding, but then remembered the broken vase. He sat up with a groan, cradling his head.
Reckon I was wrong about nobody watching.
Which, he realised, only proved his suspicions. He leapt to his feet, his head protesting, and groped for the light switch. Squinting against the sudden brightness, he looked round the room. Broken vase, roses scattered across the floor. Slippers still there. He glanced at the dressing stool.
The newspaper and programme had disappeared.
“Ha,” Sherlock murmured. He checked his pockets; both cards still there. Good. His watch read seven-forty-two. He’d only been out cold for a few minutes. He leant toward the mirror, examining the wound on his temple. What on earth had they struck him with? It hurt like hell and had bled rather copiously, running down the side of his face in dark red rivulets. He smiled a little; with any luck, people might take it for stage blood against all the makeup he wore. His pupils looked normal, at least. He snatched up some tissues from a box and scrubbed at the blood as he left the dressing room.
Once again, everyone appeared to be going about their business, but he knew that wasn’t quite true. He ran down the corridor and up the stairs to the stage door. The guard there gave him a startled glance as he burst outside and accosted the lone policeman standing in the alley.
“You! Has anyone left here in the last five minutes?”
*
Greg contained a sigh and surreptitiously checked his watch for what was probably the fiftieth time that evening. His shift was almost up, and even though the overtime would come in handy, he was looking forward to going home, having supper (Annie had made cottage pie, his favorite, and the expression on her face when he’d told her he had to pick up a shift was none too pleased), maybe watching a bit of telly, and maybe, just maybe if Annie wasn’t still narked – a nice, lazy shag before bed. Of course, that was unlikely. Annie hadn’t wanted to do it for nearly a month now, and he was about ready to give up altogether. Or find someone else.
The disloyal thought made him feel bad, but not as bad as he’d felt the first time it had occurred.
He leaned against the brick wall and whistled a bit. Not long now. It was a nice night, at least, chilly but not outright cold yet, and crisp and clear, with that unmistakable scent of autumn in the air. He wished he’d been here for the initial investigation instead of relegated to what amounted to a night watchman’s job. Once they’d received the note, slipped underneath the box office door, the theatre had been closed down and searched thoroughly, but Kirillovsky had been long gone by then, with no witnesses to his abduction. And nothing had happened since then, more than twenty-four hours ago. The kidnappers had only announced that they’d grabbed him on behalf of imprisoned comrades; no demands had been made at all, no further communication had ensued. The festival would be over by tomorrow evening, and though NSY had hoped for a timely rescue, it hadn’t happened yet. Kirillovsky had been scheduled to dance the first number as well as the final number, a big deal apparently, and the first number had never happened and the final number looked like it wasn’t going to happen either. And instead of helping to look for him, Greg Lestrade was stuck baby-sitting a building.
He shifted and stuck his hands disconsolately in his pockets. His stomach was making plaintive noises.
“You!”
The stage door banged open, and Greg turned, startled, to see a young male dancer with wild dark curls pointing at him.
“Has anyone left here in the last five minutes?”
Greg hadn’t been to a ballet since his mother had dragged him kicking and screaming to The Nutcracker when he was eight. His first fleeting thought as he looked at the young man was that they must have been tailoring ballet to modern movie-going audiences nowadays – there was scarily realistic stage blood on his face and warm-up jacket. “No, it’s been dead as a doornail.”
The young man strode up to him, his posture challenging, his dramatically made-up face set in a scowl. “A launderette van, or a dry-cleaner’s. Nothing at all?”
“No, sor –“ Greg squinted at the young man’s face. That wasn’t stage blood at all. “Holy Christ. What happened to you? You okay?”
“I’m fine. I’ve just been hit on the head with a blunt instrument, though, and if the person who did it didn’t escape through the stage door, then they’re either still in the theatre or they left through another exit. Where are the other exits?”
The young man moved as if to dart back into the theatre, but Greg grasped his arm. “Hang on a minute. I’m not sure you’re fine. You might have concussion – you’re bleeding a lot.”
The dancer’s frown deepened. “Sergeant…”
“Lestrade. Gr –“
“Sergeant Lestrade, whoever hit me is involved in the kidnapping of Andrei Kirillovsky, and not to tell you your business, but while you’re chatting with me, the trail’s growing a bit chilly. So if you don’t mind –“ The young man wrenched his arm free and made for the stage door again.
Greg followed him. “Kidnapping – you mean there are terrorists in the bloody theatre? How the hell do you know that?”
“They’re not terrorists.” The young man pulled on the handle, then rattled it. “The damn thing’s locked!”
“Yeah, it locks from the inside. Wait, slow down a minute.”
“No time.” The dancer banged on the door. “Hey!” Nobody answered, and the young man wheeled and looked up and down the alley. “Must be another exit. Inconspicuous.” He took a step, staggered, and braced himself against the wall with a hand. “Hell,” he muttered.
“All right.” Greg took the young man’s arm again, very firmly, in the reassuring yet intimidating grip he used with drunken Hooray-Henrys carousing in public fountains, and propelled him toward the squad car. “I don’t want you passing out on me. If you’ve got information, it’ll keep until we get you to A&E.”
“I’m not going to the hospital!” the young man snarled, swatting at Greg’s hand as he stumbled along. “Listen carefully. Whoever’s abducted Kirillovsky used a launderette or a dry-cleaning van, and Sasha Terekhov is in on it as well. Come on, get your hand off my arm!”
“What’s your name, lad?”
“Sherlock Holmes.”
“Well, Sherlock, you can tell me everything on the way to the hospital, all right?”
“God, do the police deliberately hire idiots or do you receive special training? Don’t you get it? We’ve got to find out where they’re holding him! He hasn’t much time.”
Greg kept his grip on Sherlock’s arm and kept his voice steady and calm, though his patience was eroding rapidly. “You’re not going to have much time either, if that head wound keeps bleeding.”
“Never mind my head.” Sherlock dug in his feet, forcing Greg to halt with him. “Just wait. Look.” He dug in the pockets of his warm-up jacket and produced two folded pieces of paper. “Look at this. Two cards, both written in Russian. Same kind of paper, both produced and sold in St. Petersburg. Thick stock, pine pulp, but that doesn’t account for the smell on both of them. Go on, have a sniff.”
Greg sighed, but decided to indulge him. Might help calm him down. He took both pieces of paper and sniffed at them. “It does smell a bit piney, though.”
“Right. It’s powdered rosin, the kind dancers use. Not really widespread nowadays because most theatres have modernised their stage floors, but some of them still have wood and wood is slippy, don’t you see?”
“Okay,” Greg said cautiously, then paused. “Hang on, what did you say your name was?”
“Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.”
“Oh, Jesus.” Greg shook his head and handed the cards back. “I thought your name sounded familiar. You’re that fella who comes round to the Met now and then, aren’t you, bothering the force about unsolved cases? Gregson and Bradstreet told me about you. Look, I’m going to take you to A&E, and then I’ll take you home. Where you belong.”
“I see. You’re clearly as stupid as all the rest. You think I’m some nutter who doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Even though when Hilary DeMille murdered her husband and I was the only one who realised she’d been feeding him arsenic in small –“
“Coincidence.” Greg pulled on Sherlock’s arm again. “Come on.”
“At least hear me out!”
“You can talk as much as you want in the squad car.”
“You’re a bloody idiot,” Sherlock snapped.
Greg rounded on him. “Okay, I’ve had just about enough.”
“Andrei Kirillovsky was not abducted by terrorists, and I can prove it. I’ve got the god-damned proof right here – are you going to let the man be murdered, or are you going to listen to me and save his life and perhaps climb a rung or two on the Met ladder – Sergeant? Or no, don’t tell me. You’d rather wear that uniform and spend the rest of your career arresting drunks and junkies instead of handling the interesting cases, the ones that matter.”
Greg felt his fingers digging deeper into Sherlock Holmes’ arm and forced himself to relax a bit. It was true that he itched to work on the really tough stuff, the sort of work that required thought and a scrap of intelligence, but for whatever reason he’d been relegated to baby-sitting. Maybe he was too easy-going, or maybe a promotion required more than hard work and steady dedication. Maybe he had to take a leap once in a while.
But with Sherlock Holmes, who already had a reputation as a bit of a looney as well as a bother? His credibility might take a hit, and his chances for advancement with it. He’d always trusted his intuition; it was part of what had kept him alive and whole as a police officer for the past seven years. All he knew about Sherlock Holmes was that he was a nutter who popped round and ranted and raved a bit about the police being incompetent…and yet, the evidence he’d presented on the DeMille case had been solid. Had anyone picked up on that? No – they’d dismissed it as coincidence and mocked Holmes’ insistence. Once a nutter….
Maybe there was more to Holmes than met the eye, though. And if Greg cracked the Kirillovsky case with Holmes’ help….
“All right, listen,” Greg said. “You’ve got fifteen minutes to prove your idea, but first I’m putting a dressing on that head wound, because you look like someone attacked you with an axe. Is it still bleeding?”
Sherlock touched his temple and examined his bloody fingers. “Not so much.”
Greg sighed. “Okay. I’m counting on you not to pass out in the next fifteen minutes. Come on, let’s shift it.” He led Sherlock to the squad car and made him sit down as he fished out the first-aid kit. “I’m going to clean it up a bit. Hold still, lad.” Sherlock submitted meekly enough to Greg’s ministrations. It was hard to tell, but he looked a bit pale under the makeup and blood. “So I’m guessing you’re not really a ballet dancer.”
“No. It was the best way to investigate inconspicuously, that’s all.”
“Don’t you have a real job?”
Sherlock glared at him. “What the hell does that matter?”
“Peace, peace.” Greg held up his hands. “Just making conversation.” He pressed a clean dressing against Sherlock’s temple. “Does that hurt much?”
“Not really. Look, Lestrade, time’s of the essence here, I think.”
“You say it’s not a terrorist group.”
“No. When terrorists commit crimes, they make certain the media’s kept fed. Whatever the cause, whatever the crime. They crave attention, they hunger for it. Inspiring fear, legitimising their ideologies, forcing compliance – none of that can be accomplished unless they maintain an open line of communication.”
“Okay.” Greg had heard a few people saying the same thing at the Met, but they’d been shouted down in fairly short order. “But there was a note claiming responsibility.”
“But not demanding the release of any particular prisoners?”
Greg hesitated. It wasn’t standard order of procedure to release details to the public, but…. He shrugged. “No. It was more of a rant, I guess.”
“And no follow-up communiques, either.”
“No.”
“It’s a sham, a smokescreen to cover the truth, and not even a good one. How closely did you people examine it? Back to the notes.” Sherlock, odd-looking with his outlandish makeup and crazy hair tumbling over the white dressing, dug in his pockets and produced the notes again. “Right. Now you smelled the rosin on them. That particular blend is Russian, same as the notes. Must be some sort of performance ritual for them, sending each other good-luck notes. But smell this one.” He extended the paper.
Greg sniffed. “I only smell the pine.”
“If you took it to your lab and performed chemical analysis – which of course nobody bothered to do – you’d be able to detect traces of tetrachloroethylene on this note only.”
“What the hell’s that?”
“Dry cleaning fluid,” Sherlock said. “I wasn’t thinking – I didn’t grab the slippers from Terekhov’s room, but I should have. If you get them, you’ll find more of the same. The smell’s all over his things.”
“So you’re saying that Terekhov’s in on it? But the dry cleaning –“
“It had to be something commonplace,” Sherlock exclaimed, pushing himself out of the squad car. “Come on, there’s got to be another exit. Bring a torch.” He moved rapidly down the alley, then turned back. “Hurry up!”
Greg grabbed a torch and followed, intrigued despite his misgivings. Sherlock Holmes might have been a nutter, but he wasn’t boring. “What about the dry cleaning?” he called.
“The smell’s simple to identify, and the vehicle they used to remove him had to be one that wouldn’t be remarked upon at a theatre. They must have had ten different costume deliveries here today alone, with all the performances. But the stage door’s fairly busy, so they couldn’t have abducted him from there.” Sherlock paused. “Of course – the man with the costumes! He was the one watching me. Probably left already, in plain sight. God, stupid!” He wheeled on Greg. “Don’t speak, don’t breathe, don’t think. Just – stay there and be quiet.”
Greg wasn’t sure what Sherlock was on about. “I’m beginning to see why you’ve got a bit of notoriety down at the Met.”
“That’s because you lot never use your collective loaf.”
“Case in point, I guess,” Greg said.
“Shut up!”
Greg decided to ignore Holmes’ rudeness. “Maybe they drugged him?”
“But then how would they get him out of the theatre? Doesn’t make sense. You’d have to drag him out; he’s a big star, people would make a fuss, think he was sick, take photos. No, he was lured out somehow, and by someone who knew him well.”
“Terekhov? But why?”
Sherlock stopped in the alley. “Rivalry.”
Greg almost ran into him. “Come on, that’s a bit melodramatic, isn’t it?” He vaguely remembered being hungry a while ago. He wondered if Annie was keeping the cottage pie warm.
“Whoever hit me on the head took both a Russian newspaper and the festival programme from Terekhov’s dressing room.”
Greg shook his head. “You were snooping in their dressing rooms? Please tell me you didn’t go into Kirillovsky’s….”
Sherlock shrugged. “I didn’t disturb much.”
“Oh, God.”
“That’s not the point. The newspaper was a story about the kidnapping. It went on a bit about Kirillovsky, about his popularity. The programme was open to Kirillovsky’s biography. Whoever was reading it – Terekhov, it would be safe to assume, since it was his dressing room after all – was a bit obsessive. He’d handled it over and over, and got some food on the pages, as well as makeup. Since there wasn’t much on the page besides a bio, which he probably knew quite well as both dancers had been trained together from childhood, I gather he was a bit upset.”
“Well, if they were childhood friends, makes sense that he was upset, doesn’t it?” Greg replied, a bit exasperated. “His best friend had just been kidnapped, I’d be upset too. That’s not a lot to go on.”
“The note,” Sherlock said, waving it in Greg’s face. “Look at the handwriting.”
Greg grasped Sherlock’s hand and aimed the beam of the torch at the note. “It’s in Russian.”
“The text isn’t important. It’s just a wish for success. ‘To Andriushka, good fortune tonight as ever, et cetera, with affection from Sasha.’ What matters is how it’s written. The writing – so deep and hard it indents the paper, almost tears it even though the stock is quite heavy.” Sherlock turned the note over and brushed a finger across the heavily textured blank side of the paper. “Whoever wrote this was under a great deal of stress.”
“Performance anxiety?”
“Doubt it. Terekhov only had one performance scheduled, and that’s tonight. Unlikely that an experienced dancer would be so tense that early. Come on.” Sherlock turned on his heel and kept moving down the alley. “There’s another door down there. Did they take soil samples?”
“Yeah, but nothing extraordinary came up. I’m still not convinced, Sherlock.”
“The programme,” Sherlock said.
“What about it?”
Sherlock stared at Greg for a moment, then shook his head slowly. “It’s astounding, really. How do you manage to get through the day?”
“Hey!”
Sherlock sighed. “Fine. Kirillovsky was dancing first – well, after some sort of kiddie exhibition, anyway – and last, wrapping up the festival, but he was abducted before his performance. Any terrorist worth his salt would have waited until after the first performance. Triumph for the papers, splashy displays of athleticism followed by horrifying crime, the nation mourns – but no. He doesn’t perform at all. And then his dear, devoted friend, who isn’t quite as popular, soldiers bravely on. When Kirillovsky is found dead, which is certain to happen in the next few hours or so, after his friend’s courageous performance, Aleksandr Terekhov sets a little stool down beside his grief, milks it for all it’s worth, and comes up smelling like a rose. It’s not political, it’s personal. Rivalry, pure and simple.”
Greg took a deep breath. “Jesus. Are you sure?”
“Mm. Hold on.” Sherlock held a hand out, halting Greg’s progress. “Give me your torch.” Greg handed it over, and Sherlock got on his hands and knees. “Don’t move.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Hang on. Here…and here.” Triumphantly, Sherlock pointed at the ground. “Thank God for slovenly maintenance. Tracks in the dirt and gravel. Two men, both dancers – the tread proves it, they’ve all got that duck walk, developmental hip dysplasia. One is taller and heavier than the other, though. That’d be Terekhov.” He scooped up a small handful of dirt and brought it close to his nose. “Rosin. St. Petersburg blend. And eau de tetrachloroethylene.”
“But couldn’t that just have been common?” Greg asked. “I mean, all dancers must smell like that a bit.”
“But his slippers were nearly saturated with the smell, and the note too. I’m stunned that you can’t smell it. You should cut down on the cigarettes. The note was on Kirillovsky’s mirror before he was kidnapped, which means Terekhov was arranging things at the dry cleaner’s beforehand. The place must reek of it. The slippers….” Sherlock crawled close to the door and let out a cry.
“What?”
“Sobranies!” Sherlock held up two cigarette butts. “Russian, Lestrade. Your forensics team is tragically inept. Two male dancers came out here to have a cigarette. This far away from the stage door, who’d hear a struggle when the van pulled up? And then Terekhov went along with them, back to the dry cleaning shop, which is how his slippers acquired the odor. Now all we have to do is find the right shop, and you’ll find Kirillovsky.”
It felt right. Somehow, for all that this guy was snappish and more than a little eccentric, it felt solid and right. Greg trusted his intuition. “God, there must be a hundred shops in London.”
“Look for the ones in the Russian communities. There must be a connection – family, maybe? Someone willing to help Terekhov out and hold Kirillovsky captive until the time comes to kill him. And we’ve got to find out soon, because Terekhov performs in less than an hour, and you can be sure that he’ll go back to the shop flushed with success and ready to see his best friend die.”
Adrenaline surged in Greg’s veins. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Where?”
“To find the bloody dry cleaning shop. Come on!”
*
It took two hours, but they narrowed the location down at last, and sat in the car, side by side, watching the faint light in the shop. Most dry cleaners didn’t stay open until ten on a Saturday night.
“I haven’t seen anyone leave or enter,” Sherlock complained.
“I don’t want to risk going round back,” Greg said. “I’m calling for backup.” He proceeded to do just that, and then turned to Sherlock. “Are you all right? You look bloody awful.”
“I’m fine. Let’s go.”
Greg lay a restraining hand on Sherlock’s arm. “If you’re right about this, I think I’m going to owe you a massive favour.”
Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t care about that. And frankly, I’d prefer that you didn’t mention my name in regard to this.”
Interesting. Greg would have guessed that Holmes was in it for acclaim of some sort. “Then why are you doing this? Why bother the Met the way you do?”
There was a pause. “Why not?”
Greg considered for a moment. “Most people want recognition for stuff like this.”
“I don’t need the press hounding me. You’ll know. That’s enough.”
“Well, as long as you’re on the right side of the law, I reckon it doesn’t matter why. How you arrived at all that’s beyond me.”
A little smile tugged the corners of Holmes’ lipsticked mouth upwards. “That seems abundantly clear.”
Smart-arse. Greg was about to frame a retort, then saw a car gliding silently next to his. “Right. Stay here, Sherlock.” When Sherlock was about to protest, Greg locked a hand round his wrist. “For your own safety. You’re already wounded, and I don’t want you caught in the crossfire, if there is any. Stay put, all right?” He gave Sherlock a stern look, and got out of the car.
*
Sherlock had been right. When Greg Lestrade and his team had infiltrated the dry cleaning shop, they found a frightened and exhausted Kirillovsky bound in a closet, and a particularly gruesome execution scenario involving murder by dry-cleaning fluid prepared for him. They’d apprehended the perpetrators, rescued Kirillovsky, and arrested Terekhov immediately following a performance that the papers the following day gleefully described as inappropriately manic.
Greg rubbed his hands over his face and trudged back to the squad car. It was midnight, and he was beyond knackered. Annie was probably going to kill him, and he was bloody starving, but victory sang in his blood. Gregson had murmured something about promotion; it seemed too good to be true.
He stopped in his tracks. The boot of the car was open, and Sherlock was bent over, examining the little arsenal inside. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I got bored.”
“How did you get the damned boot open?”
Sherlock shrugged. “Wasn’t difficult.” He closed the boot with a bang. “Can you give me a lift home?” He leant against the car, peculiar-looking in his makeup, bandage, and practise clothes. He even wore ballet slippers.
Odd duck, Greg thought. But an odd duck who’d solved a kidnapping and saved a man’s life. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
“Thanks. Can’t wait to get out of this bloody dance belt. My arse is killing me.”
Do I want to know? No, probably not.
With resigned good grace, Greg opened the passenger door and gestured toward it. “Get in, Sherlock.”
*
For the first time in seven years, Greg Lestrade went to work in a suit. It felt strange, a bit vulnerable, but he’d get used to it. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.
Yes, he’d get used to it.
Whistling, he went to his office and booted up his computer, sipping a cup of tea. He sat back, waiting for the Met interface, and turned at a knock on the door. “Come on in!”
An office with a door, an increase in salary, new respect from the crew at the Met. Life was not bad. If Annie could have mustered some happiness for him, it would have been great, but he had to take what he could get.
The door opened, and a tall man strolled in, impeccably and expensively dressed, with thinning hair, and carrying an umbrella, though it was a fine day. He stopped in front of Greg’s desk and regarded him in silence for a moment, his expression inscrutable.
“Hello,” Greg said. “Can I help you with anything?”
“Detective Inspector Lestrade?”
“That’s right.”
“How do you do.” The man extended a hand. “Mycroft Holmes.”
*
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-05-07 05:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-07 03:12 pm (UTC)No, Sherlock doesn't want the attention of the masses. He wants the attention of those that *matter*.
Yes! And I think he can discern who matters rather quickly. :) Thank you so much!
no subject
Date: 2012-05-08 01:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-08 02:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-07 07:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-07 03:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-07 04:27 pm (UTC)Since then: Mystrade = Canon.
no subject
Date: 2012-05-07 04:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-07 08:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-07 03:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-07 07:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-07 07:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-07 11:15 am (UTC)He’d stripped down to his underwear and socks, and cast another suspicious glance at the dance belt. It was ugly as hell, the color of an elastic bandage, and the backside was fairly non-existent. Ugh. He slid his boxers off and pulled the thing on. “Oh, God.” Great, I love it. It made me laugh, but also brought the memories back to your balletverse, especially when Sean meets Javier.
Definitely my favourite chapter up to now. Clever Sherlock and clever Alex to write like this. And a tiny bit of mycroft ttoo! Marvellous.
no subject
Date: 2012-05-07 03:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-07 01:25 pm (UTC)I mean, Sherlock poncing around in ballet slippers with black tights up those long long legs... and wearing that dancers' belt. heh heh Higher.. HIGHER... HARDER TIGHTER... HIGHER !!!! and did Sherlock do the ten-to-two walk with his slippers as he walked the pavement looking for Sobranie butts? (he smokes, but has a superior sense of smell if he can find tetrawhatsit AND rosin that old. - oh well it's Sherlock after all!) And the makeup...aaah we should have an icon with Sherlock all made up like that... curly hair flopping as well. aaah and please, warmup jackets - how far down do they come, do the cover the haunches, or end just above the bumcheeks, cos really... Sherlock in black tights, and a shorty jacket aaaah dancer's walking down the pavement... Dead sexy.
And may I ask what in HELL Mycroft has to come barging in for???
You're really getting me IN to this Sherlock personage. mmmmm I really fancy this one.....kinky!!!!
Bless and thanks... we are getting more, natch????? Lizzie.XXX
no subject
Date: 2012-05-07 03:19 pm (UTC)Lestrade and Mycroft have a lovely relationship - that one's for the Mystrade fans, of which I'm one. I'm glad you liked it! Thank you so much. Two more parts to come. :)
no subject
Date: 2012-05-07 09:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-07 09:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-08 12:46 am (UTC)I thought Sherlock asking Greg for a lift home was adorable, but I'm not sure why.
This Mystrade fan heartily approves the last bit. :)
no subject
Date: 2012-05-08 02:53 pm (UTC)I thought Sherlock asking Greg for a lift home was adorable, but I'm not sure why.
Hee, thank you. :D
This Mystrade fan heartily approves the last bit. :)
Gotta shout out to the Mystrade girls. I'm one too! :D
no subject
Date: 2012-05-08 08:10 am (UTC)Sherlock cut Lestrade off before he got to say his first name XD
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Date: 2012-05-08 02:54 pm (UTC)Sherlock cut Lestrade off before he got to say his first name XD
;) He did indeed. :D
no subject
Date: 2012-05-08 11:47 pm (UTC)Right, the first bit was Sherlock introducing himself a Sig Sherrinford. Have no idea why, but it was just so absolutely perfect and him that I danced a little in my seat, lol (That, and his hightened sense of smell. Nods to the canon are always a thumbs up). Then the makeup, the dance belt... yeah, you had me dying. (But also, so incredibly Sherlock, because when he does a job he doesn't go halves. Another example of him throwing himself headlong into his work. Doesn't stop him from complaining though, hee!)
I will admit to not quite following the case in the beginning of the fic. However, that doesn't mean it didn't work, because it absolutely did (and I believe it was more from myself than the structure of the fic). In fact, I liked that I didn't follow because it echoed the canon/BBC 'verse, where the audience "sees but does not observe". I was straggling behind, definitely feeling a bit like John, knowing I was stupidly missing something... And then Greg happened. (I cheered when the guard turned out to be him, because as others pointed out, the two of them meeting over Sherlock and his drugs is fairly well accepted as fanon--it was nice to see something different, to see them both meet on more of an equal level than kind-hearted arresting officer and fucked-up junkie.)
As soon as the fic switched to Greg's POV and Sherlock started throwing out his deductions with dagger-like contempt, using Greg as a sounding board... everything just clicked and all the initial stumbling after Sherlock, struggling to keep up was suddenly very worth it. (And you did it again--how?!--I could hear Rupert Graves voice, and oh, what a voice. He was so haggard and fed up and yet, so... valiant? Despite the jadedness that inevitably comes from a job like his, the part of him that makes him a good cop, the part that makes Sherlock consider him important shone through, in a very subtle, understated way.)
Another thing I liked about their meeting not being the officer/junkie dynamic (besides the respect they can show each other immediately) was that it allowed Greg to use Sherlock to further his career. He's a good cop and no one who's good at what they do wants to stay on the bottom rung of the ladder for the rest of their lives. Greg trusts his gut instincts, takes a chance on Sherlock, because hell why not, and they both get some sort of validation at the end. Greg doesn't end up picking up the pieces of Sherlock's shattered life. Instead, Sherlock only wants to be taken seriously... just like Greg does. It provides some kind of bonding, kindred spirit moment... Um. I'm probably reading too deeply into this. Suffice it to say, I think I prefer this meeting to fanon.
These were the bits that stuck with me long after I finished reading (even though, they're probably throwaway lines...):
“Well, as long as you’re on the right side of the law, I reckon it doesn’t matter why. How you arrived at all that’s beyond me.”
A little smile tugged the corners of Holmes’ lipsticked mouth upwards. “That seems abundantly clear.”
And... The boot of the car was open, and Sherlock was bent over, examining the little arsenal inside. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I got bored.”
“How did you get the damned boot open?”
Sherlock shrugged. “Wasn’t difficult.”
I wasn't sure how you could end it better than Greg making DI (because I was grinning and fist-pumping by then)... and then you threw in Mycroft. My jaw dropped, I squeaked in excitement, then carried on grinning like I'd been lobotomized. Perfect nod to Mystrade fans (Um, yes please), but also even to those who see them as friends with a common purpose of looking after Sherlock. It was just a beautiful way to end.
So, I thank you very much. It keeps getting better and better (dear god, I can't wait for you to introduce John... or god Moriarty--if you do Moriarty... *shivers in the best way*). Eagerly awaiting the next bit. :D
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Date: 2012-05-09 04:07 am (UTC)First off, your fb made me squeal like a LITTLE GIRL. Totally. I'm just thrilled to bits and will respond a bit here and there. :D
So the only Holmes I'd ever read was The Hound of the Baskervilles and I really didn't remember all that much about it, but I'm working my way through the canon and it's lots of fun to discover not only that they're really good reads, but everything that Moffat and Gatiss really mined so well for the BBC series, keeping the spirit, all those references and yet making it fresh. It makes me want to just dive into the whole two seasons again from the first. :D I'm so glad you liked the Sherrinford bit and the smell - picking bits of canon is proving to be more fun than I'd thought! And yeah, I can totally see Sherlock completely immersing himself - but not really liking it, bitch moan whine. :)
And I'm thrilled that you liked this method of meeting! I don't mind the cop/junkie encounter because it does ping my hurt/comfort meter something fierce, but I didn't feel like I could approach it with any originality, so I decided on a different route. I'm really happy it worked for you. And glad you liked Greg's voice!! I think he's such a good guy, a good cop, really such an essentially decent human being, and I think you're exactly right that both Sherlock and Greg get validation from this encounter, and it allows them to meet on a more even playing field. Lestrade's not dumb in the least - and certainly Sherlock recognizes that, otherwise he wouldn't bother with him, I think.
Eee, I'm happy you liked the Mycroft bit as well! MYSTRADE YES. *fistbump*
I don't want to reveal anything ahead of time - I hope you like the next part! And thank you so, SO much for the lovely feedback, it made my WEEK. Stay strong for your finals - be brave! Be brave! :)
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Date: 2012-05-09 10:48 pm (UTC)Last bit of my finals tomorrow, woo! How could I not stay strong when I have you and Maj. Jamie Stewart cheering me on? (And I've had that line in my head all day, thank you. Bolstering and heartbreaking all at once. Yeah, that's finals week, lol). So, thanks very much and um, tally-ho, hee. :D
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Date: 2012-05-10 02:45 am (UTC)Ha - how apt.
The major and I are rooting for you. *fistpump*
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Date: 2012-05-09 03:52 pm (UTC)Playing catch up again. We stayed an extra day in Yorkshire, because the twinnies were sick and unable to go to nursery. We volunteered to look after them so that the Moomins could go to work. It was no hardship, as they are grest fun, even when not at their best.
It was such a treat to return to this. I loved Sherlock going wholeheartedly undercover, even down to the dance belt! :D Reading the ballet details made me think of
I very much enjoyed the meeting with Lestrade and Mycroft's appearance at the end. Can't wait for the next bit. *Hugs*
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Date: 2012-05-09 05:04 pm (UTC)I'm so glad you liked this! Sherlock doesn't do things by halves. ;D I was telling
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Date: 2012-06-13 04:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-13 04:49 pm (UTC)