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From the Private Blog of Dr. John Watson
Hello there, everyone who still reads my blog!
Well, maybe I shouldn't start off like that, since this is never going to be posted publicly. If it was, Sherlock would sulk and rage, Mycroft would censor the hell out of it, Lestrade would murder me, and I... would be dead. But this is a truly bizarre story, and I really need to tell someone about it. Hence, this blog post.
So.
This particular 'adventure' was not about crime (except it included a crime committed by Sherlock, but we'll get to that part later), and began, as most things in 221B do, with Sherlock striding into our flat and announcing something very unexpected and extremely odd.
On this particular occasion, it was:
"John, I have recently discovered that our Detective Inspector Lestrade has taken a lover."
I, of course, looked up from where I had been typing up the Case of the Three-Footed Woman (for reference, the link is here).
"Um, I don't think I got that. Can you repeat it?"
Sherlock huffed in annoyance, most likely at my perceived stupidity.
"What I said, my dear Watson, is that Detective Inspector Graham Lestrade has entered into a new relationship of a romantic and carnal nature."
It took a moment to translate his Sherlock-speech into regular English, but once I had, I wished I hadn't.
"Yeah, that's what I thought you said. But just one thing: why do I need to know about this? And his name is Greg, you know this, Sherlock."
"It is a mystery, John! It is our duty to ensure that this individual is not a nefarious criminal like Moriarty," he protested, completely disregarding my name comment.
I smiled slightly.
"So, it's about you being bored and curious and frustrated that you don't know who it is, then."
And really, I added to myself, Lestrade's a grown man, and I don't think that evildoers are his type. The only people I could imagine being attracted to Moriarty, for example, are Molly, poor thing, and this one guy I knew back in the war, Colonel Sebastian Moran. I could see him and Moriarty hitting it off, actually. Anyway...
"Sherlock, it's none of your business. And even if it was, couldn't you, I don't know, ask him about it? It's what most normal people do."
Sherlock considered for a moment, then spun on his heel to go pickle more fingers or whatever it was his latest experiment was about.
Knowing my boyfriend like I do, in hindsight I really shouldn't have assumed that the matter was closed.
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I had quite honestly forgotten about that incident by the time the topic came up again. We'd all been extremely busy, a string of suspicious accidents causing the Yard to call in Sherlock to consult. As you can imagine, he was as happy as a kid in a sweetshop.
It was after the case was solved when Sherlock brought it up. He, I, and the Inspector were all in the latter's office at the Met discussing final details and such for the official reports. Suddenly, with all of his well-known Sherlockian tact, my barmy boyfriend blurted out, "Inspector, who is the man with whom you are conducting an affaire du coeur?"
I glared at Sherlock as Lestrade began to choke on his coffee. The great Mr. Holmes just turned puzzled eyes on me.
"Was that a bit not good, John?"
"I'd say that was a lot not good, actually," I snapped back, as I moved to see if Greg would need artificial respiration, or a coffin, or something.
Lestrade waved me off though, rasping out, "I'm alright, Doctor Watson. Just went down the wrong pipe." After getting his coughing under control, he then addressed Sherlock directly.
"Okay Sherlock, I think you can tell I'm not amused at your latest attempt to kill me by looking into my private life. Who I date is my own bloody business, and not up for judgement by nosy consulting detectives!"
Sherlock made one of his 'I'm so done with insignificant mortals' faces, and stalked out of the office muttering to himself.
I turned to the DI, who had both eyebrows raised, as if in disbelief of this latest Holmes-scene.
"O-o-okay," he said slowly, "that came out of bloody nowhere."
"Sorry, Greg. I honestly had no idea he was going to ask that," I apologized.
"Nah, it's alright, mate. Just was a bit of a shock."
"So...," I hedged (what? I was curious too!), "you've a boyfriend,then?"
Greg buried his face in his hands and groaned.
"Bloody hell, not you too! Yes, I have a partner, and no, I'm not telling you who he is. It's been going really well, and I don't want Sherlock barging in and making things weird."
"Fair enough," I conceded, "but can't you tell me anything about him? I won't tell Sherlock, I swear."
He looked at me skeptically.
"Okay, fine, I won't tell Sherlock anything on purpose, I promise. Even I don't know how he comes to his deductions about certain things. Just... how long have you two been together, then?"
Greg relented, though he retained his unconvinced look.
"We've been dating for over a year now, but we've known each other for years. Actually, I'm a little surprised that His Highness only just figured out something was up," he said with a smirk. "But what else is there to say about my guy? He's bloody gorgeous, not that he thinks he is mind you, but he is, and a total pain in the arse, which he knows for certain he is. Seriously, John, there's nothing to worry about; Mike's a good guy." He looked stricken after the last sentence, probably for having let the name slip.
"Mike a nickname, then?" I asked casually. I figured that I could try and have a guess at the identity of this guy with enough details (again in hindsight, I am an idiot and really shouldn't have asked).
Greg relaxed slightly. "Yeah, it's either that or Mary Poppins." At my confused question, he added, "Trust me, if you knew him, it'd make perfect sense."
A sudden beep startled both of us. I realized it was a text message, and opened it to find Sherlock's imperious summons: Come to the flat, quickly. SH.
"Sorry, mate, the great consulting detective requires me."
"No problem, Doctor Watson," Lestrade said easily. "Just remind me next time to tell you the story of how Mike and I met. I think you'd find it interesting."
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I arrived back at Baker Street to find Sherlock (torturing) playing his violin.
"Did the DI tell you anything of note?" he inquired, as the violin gave a particularly loud screech.
"Not a whole lot," I replied, "not that it's any of your business. Or mine, for that matter, but Greg and I are mates, so he tells me things."
A loud "hmph" sounded from the couch.
"Well, all I can say is he's got it bad, poor sod. Speaking of, did you know you're a bit late on the uptake?" That earned me a sharp glare. "What, it's true! Greg says they've been together for over a year." I counted silently, Three, two, one...
"A year?! That is impossible, John! Geoff is not nearly intelligent enough to conceal something like this from me for so long!"
"First off, I just used his name yet you still got it wrong, you have to be doing it on
purpose... you know what, nevermind. He is actually much smarter than you give him credit for."
At this point, Sherlock gave up the conversation as hopeless and proceeded to sulk for several long minutes (which shouldn't look good on adults but unfairly does on him).
Then out of nowhere, he said, "Desperate times call for desperate measures. I suppose I will have to ask my odious sibling for information."
Bewildered, I of course asked, "Why on earth would Mycroft know anything about Greg's personal life?"
Sherlock looked confused.
"For one thing, dear Brother Mycroft has complete access to the CCTV system, and I do not doubt that he utilizes it to spy on everyone involved with me and my work. I had assumed you would remember that from your first kidnapping? Besides, for some unfathomable reason, he and the Inspector are on friendly terms. Or as friendly as one can get with Mycroft."
I grimaced: I find the elder Holmes and his ever-present surveillance highly creepy (but I've always gotten the feeling that that's his desired effect. And that he enjoys unsettling people). But...
"Greg and your brother are friends?? That's... yeah, I don't think I can picture that. I don't even think that I've ever actually seen them interact with each other!"
Sherlock just shrugged. How very helpful.
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A few days later, I emerged from my bedroom to find Sherlock and Mycroft engaged in some bizarre sort of staring contest (either that or it was hypnotism) in the front room.
When he saw me, Sherlock's eyes lit up with a familiar dangerous gleam.
"Ah, Watson, how kind of you to join us. My dear brother and I were just winding up some tedious business of his."
Mycroft Holmes inclined his head in my direction as a gesture of greeting.
"Good morning, Doctor Watson. I trust you are well?" Without waiting for my answer, he continued, "Well, Sherlock? Will you take this case of not?"
"Why would I not, brother?" Sherlock asked innocently, and smirked when Mycroft's eyes immediately narrowed suspiciously.
There was a moment of silence, then the elder Holmes heaved a sigh and asked, "Alright, Sherlock, what do you want?"
Sherlock grinned triumphantly.
"You and Detective Inspector Lestrade have a surprisingly amicable relationship, correct?"
"It is true that the Inspector and I are on good terms. But you know this; why bother asking?"
It occurred to me at that moment that conversations between the Holmeses are like shark attacks. One wrong step and the other brother moves in for the kill. Speaking of...
"Since you get along so well, I assume you are aware of the identity of his new beau? I would like for you to tell me who he is."
Jaws, meet Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, Jaws.
But Mycroft is most definitely not an inexperienced swimmer, as well as loath to freely share any information he happens to have. I fancied at the time that his grip on his ever-present umbrella tightened fractionally, but his face and voice remained impassive as he responded.
"Why would you assume that I have any knowledge concerning the Inspector's private life? Gregory Lestrade and I get along, but we are not that close of friends."
Sherlock snorted.
"Please, Mycroft, we are all aware of your voyeuristic tendencies and almost pathological interest in the lives of those with whom I associate. It would be most decidedly out of character for you to NOT know."
Mycroft sniffed disdainfully.
"I would say I'm offended, but I fear that would only encourage you. As a matter of fact, I don't know who this individual is, but even if I did, what would induce me to burn my professional bridges with the Inspector merely to satisfy your curiosity? Now if you will excuse me, gentlemen. Sherlock, I expect to hear from you once you have solved the case, and do try not to be overly disagreeable to the foreign ambassadors. Good day, Doctor Watson."
With that, the British Government stood and exited the flat. I turned to my boyfriend, who was watching the door with a speculative look on his face.
"Do you think he was lying?" I ventured tentatively.
"He's a politician, of course he was lying. The question is: why? Is he covering for someone, or simply trying to send us off on a tangent of wild theories? Hmmm......."
Seeing that Sherlock was settling in for a visit to his mind palace, I hummed noncommittally and started to look through some of my patient files.
(Thanks for staying with me so far. The exciting stuff is about to start, I promise).
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So it's at this point when things go from weird to unexpectedly bizarre.
It was late at night on the day of Mycroft's visit, and I had been sound asleep when a loud noise suddenly woke me. I flailed around in bed a bit, noting the absence of a sleeping consulting detective, before I realized that the sound was coming from my mobile. 'Bloody Sherlock must have messed with my sound settings again, the utter arse' I thought grumpily as I unlocked my phone to reset the volume. Then I saw I had a text from the great man himself.
'Come to Inspector Lestrade's flat at once. No need to call the Yard first.- SH'
"What?" I grumbled; it wasn't the strangest text I'd ever gotten from him in the middle of the night (the one about the dessicated fish corpse in the microwave easily topped it), but it was odd.
I figured better safe than sorry, and quickly got ready to head to Lestrade's flat.
I arrived about 20 minutes later to find my boyfriend outside Lestrade's flat, messing about with the door lock. With a sinking feeling, I realized that I had been had.
"Oh no."
Hearing me, Sherlock turned and beamed at me from his crouched position on the floor.
"John! Very good. Could you please lend me your Swiss Army knife for a moment?"
Wordlessly, I reached into my pocket and gave it to him (I know I shouldn'tve, but I was a bit in shock). He thanked me, and resumed his attempts. The lock presently gave a soft 'click'.
Sherlock straightened and moved to open the door, at which point I found my voice.
"Sherlock!" I hissed, "what the hell are you doing?! Please tell me that you aren't breaking in to the home of one of Scotland Yard's finest?!"
He gave me an appraising look.
"Alright then. So I won't. Tell you that, that is. Besides, John, do you really think this is my. first time breaking into the Inspector's place of residence?"
With that, he opened the door and walked in. I hesitated, but seeing the lights already on inside, I had no choice but to follow (in case Greg was awake and decided to murder my barmy boyfriend).
Almost as soon as I walked in, I crashed into Sherlock, who was standing frozen looking into the living room. When I looked past him, I saw why.
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Now, imaginary readers, I wasn't sure what to expect to see upon entering the flat. But the last thing I expected to see was Mycroft bloody Holmes in a bathrobe curled up on Greg Lestrade's couch drinking tea and reading.
Yeah. My thoughts exactly.
Either Sherlock or I must have made a noise, because Mycroft suddenly raised his head and saw us. We stared at each other for a long moment in shock, until the elder Holmes spoke.
"Sherlock, Dr. Watson?" he said quietly (which made it more chilling), "what on earth are you both doing here?"
The younger Holmes, seemingly coming out of his stupor, squawked out, "Us?! For what nefarious purpose are you in Graham Lestrade's home?!"
His brother merely raised an eyebrow and corrected, "The Inspector's name is Gregory, Sherlock. Is your brain so muddled that you cannot remember a single name?"
As he spoke, the pieces all fell together and I came to the obvious and highly disturbing realization of EXACTLY what had been goimg on.
"Um, Sherlock, we should probably leave now. RIGHT NOW."
But my consulting detective was too busy ranting at his elder brother to pay any attention to me. Sometimes I don't know why I bother.
All activity in the room ceased, however, when another door creaked open and Greg Lestrade himself stumbled out, sleep rumpled and clad only in boxers and an undershirt (yes, yes, female imaginary readers, calm yourselves. You might like it, but it wasn't something I ever particularly wanted to see).
He ground out, "What the bloody hell is going on out--- Sherlock?! John?!"
I waved awkwardly while my genius merely stared.
Mycroft murmured quietly, "Sorry darling, did we wake you?"
Then both Sherlock and I were starting at Mycroft.
Greg waved his hand in a vague manner.
"Yeah, um, you weren't in bed and I heard all the yelling, so. Care to explain why your little brother and his partner in crime are in our flat in the middle of the bloody night?"
"I'm not quite sure why myself, Gregory. Would you like to explain yourself, brother mine?"
Sherlock, who had been looking between the two and gaping like a fish, turned uncomprehending eyes on Mycroft.
"What is the meaning of this?"
Greg sighed slightly.
"Alright Sherlock, the truth: I'm shagging your brother."
"Gregory! Are you trying to kill him?"
The DI grinned impishly.
"It would be payback. No, Sherlock, Myc and I have been dating for over a year now. Not to say that we don't shag..."
During this exchange, the confused look on my boyfriend's face changed to one of dawning horror.
"No."
Mycroft sighed.
"Yes, Sherlock."
"But...," the consulting menace turned to Greg, "why, Inspector?? You are a decent human being, why are you willingly choosing to associate with my brother?"
"Hey, watch it. I know you two don't get along; hell, the first time I met Mycroft I absolutely hated him. But now we're together, and I care about him. Plus," Greg added casually, "he's a fantastic lay."
"Gregory!"
"DELETE!!!!" Sherlock shrieked at the same time, quickly fleeing the flat.
Greg laughed, and turned to me.
"Sorry John, you'd better go make sure His Highness doesn't jump in the Thames because of this. Myc, are you coming back to bed?"
Mycroft shook his head reprovingly, but responded, "Yes, Gregory, in a moment."
"Well, um, I will.....see you guys. Good...good night." I blurted out and ran after my flatmate, feeling quite shell-shocked myself.
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So there you have it, dear readers. The Case of Lestrade's Lover had been solved. Back at Baker Street that night I had a hell of a time trying to comfort a traumatised Sherlock. To this day, he still won't speak of it.
Mycroft and Greg are still together, which upsets Sherlock, but at least it makes them happy.
Now that I've finished this post, I can relegate it to my private archives, where it belongs.
As always,
Dr. John H. Watson
1 Comment:
from THEConsultingDetective - John, you are aware that you accidently posted this to your public blog, yes?- SH. (also, I do not pout, or sulk).