A Trip Down Baker Street

mood: chipper

“No, no, no, no, John, you are doing this all wrong!”

Sherlock grabbed the bag from his hands so abruptly that a cloud of flour erupted over their heads.

“I’m doing exactly as the cookbook says!”

“Well the cookbook is wrong! You need to mix clockwise only! Clockwise, my good man!”

“What is the bloody difference?” John scoffed and snatched back the flour, pouring some into the bowl and stirring it vigorously. “They’ll taste good anyway.”

“And they’ll look like microwaved eyeballs, too. Appearance, John. That’s what it’s all about.”

“Well, you’ve become overenthusiastic all of a sudden. They’re just cookies, you know.”

Sherlock straightened his back in a very aristocratic gesture. “They are not just cookies. They are cookies for Mrs. Hudson. These Christmas cookies will determine our future meals, our future groceries, our future rent. These cookies are everything. Use your mind, for goodness’ sake!”

John laughed. He dipped his finger in the mix and tasted some. “Well, maybe if we added some of her herbal soothers they would taste better. Have a lick.”

Sherlock dipped his finger too and licked it. A perplexed look spread across his face. He smacked his lips in disappointment.

“Appearance, John. That’s the only thing that can save us now. Break out the sprinkles.”

“The sprinkles? You must be desperate.”

“Indeed I am. Now, let’s see if we can decorate them to look like little violins.”

mood: contemplative

George decided that it was hopeless, absolutely hopeless, and with a growl he flung the book all the way across the room. He sprang up and began pacing about, distributing punches at the walls and cabinet doors, collapsing finally on his bed, swearing under his breath. He fought against it as hard as he could, in vain; his father’s voice crept up his mind, reminding him of the uselessness of his venture in the academic world. He never really was the bookish type, that much was true, but how he ached to do something new, just to be different, a trailblazer in a long line of stiff military men and drunken policemen! He was the first in many generations to go to the university and for that he could not have been more proud of himself, yet he seemed to have forgotten to account for the biggest challenge of them all: actually graduating from it.

Burying his face in the pillow, he stifled a yell and bit down to it to calm himself. Instinctively he turned around to talk to his friend, but, having forgotten that good old Charlie had graduated and left him for good a few days ago, he felt the pang of loneliness and jealousy afresh. He let his face fall in the covers again and remained like that for quite some time.

He must have fallen asleep, because when he half-opened his eyes again the sunlight was all but gone, leaving dull gray shades behind. What had woken him up was the soft rustle of feet moving beside him. He lifted his head trying to discern the unknown figure.

“Did I wake you up? I’m sorry.”

George didn’t reply. He kept staring, but all that was visible in the near darkness was the pallor of a wide forehead.

“I’ll leave my things and I’ll be off,” the unfamiliar voice continued. It was soft too, as if made by the same material as the discreet shuffle of the feet.

“Who are you?” he groaned hoarsely.

“Jim. Your new roommate.”

He sat up and shot the newcomer a suspicious look. He fumbled for the light switch, turned it on and faced the young man.

The word slight seemed to fit him perfectly. Barely an adult, with pallid skin, short raven hair and a pair of piercing dark eyes that were examining him back from their deep sockets. The boy made an awkward face, but George instantly felt the lie. The boy’s bearing was upright, almost haughty, and he moved around with the ease of someone familiar with his surroundings.

“You’re a first-year? How old are you? You look like a bloody kid!”

“That’s because I am a bloody kid. I’m sixteen. How old are you, old chap?”

Old chap?

“Twenty-four,” he mumbled, instantly blushing with shame.

“You’re a doctorate?”

“No, a major.”

His blush deepened.  Jim chuckled in disbelief.

“I’m George, by the way,” he hurriedly said stretching out his hand, eager to change the topic. “George Lestrade, Economics.”

Jim hesitated for a brief moment, and then offered his hand in a short, tight shake.

“Jim Murray. Literature.”

“One of them prodigies, eh?”

“People seem to think that,” Jim answered in a voice layered with sarcasm. “What with this being my second major and all.”

George managed not to express the full length of his surprise.

“So you dropped out of-”

“Completed, really. But I never truly enjoyed Physics.”

“Right. Who does?”

Jim turned his back and resumed his unpacking. He took out thin piles of pressed shirts which he hung carefully, expensive-looking shoes, and small stacks of notebooks, all of them black and leather-bound. Mesmerized, George watched as he arranged them in neat rows in the drawers, carefully aligning the books on his desk and stretching out the creases on the fine woolen trousers.

So, this could be interesting. 

The following days, mainly driven by boredom and procrastination, George dedicated much of his free time in studying his peculiar roommate. Jim would wake up every day at five in the morning, take a shower and then leave for the library, where George would sometimes see him burying his nose in heavy cloth-bound classics or thick encyclopedias of the most unusual subjects, such as “A Study Of The Human Mind,” “19^th Century Archives Of Criminal Psychology”, or “Essays On Medieval History”. Then he would choose an isolated corner and spend hours scribbling in these little black notebooks of his, completely disregarding morning lessons.

Most of the days he wouldn’t appear during lunch, which George spent contemplating morosely his overdue paper, and he usually was nowhere to be seen until early in the night. Barely saying a word, he then would change into his pajamas and read himself to sleep. Many days passed in this way and George, depressed and frustrated with his homework, gave up trying to get to know him.

Autumn was almost over, and a crisp chill had descended upon London, enveloping the city in a blanket of cold wind. George was making his way to the campus restaurant, kicking the brown leaves in his path and trying to drown the constant voice of his father in his head, when he heard shouting from behind the library. He followed it automatically, because he was like that, a stupid boy who kept getting beat up in grade school for standing up against the bully.

Behind the library building there was a small opening with an old tree in the middle and a few stone benches around it, a perfect place for peace and quiet. Jim seem to have isolated himself there, his little pile of books and notebooks on the bench, except that now three rowdy seniors were standing facing him, sneering and shouting abuse. George, unnoticed, moved a little closer.

“Oooh, you must be the Murray kid. Second major at sixteen? How stupid we must look to you.”

The shorter one, Jack, was a couple of years younger than George and had a reputation of being a snotty bastard. His father was a big-time politician and he was known to hate anyone better than himself, which would pretty much include most of London.

“Indeed you do,” Jim answered in a low voice and kept on reading, but Jack wouldn’t be ignored. He snatched the book from his hands and read the cover.

“Forensic Science Through The 20^th Century? Are you bloody kidding us? Who read this stuff?”

The other two boys laughed. Jim reached for his book but Jack held it high. The boy’s pale cheeks assumed a faint crimson hue and his eyes could burn holes in Jack’s head. He stood up slowly, looking like a twig between the athletic young men.

“Give it back,” he commanded in an authoritative tone.

Jack grabbed Jim by his crispy lapel. The others laughed.

“Think you’re better than us, genius boy?”

“What is this, preschool?” snorted George, finally stepping in sight.

Jack’s eyes narrowed and he reluctantly let go of Jim, who stepped back looking like a wild cat.

“Well, if it isn’t Lestrade, the man who wouldn’t drop out,” he sneered. “Looks like you’ve taken in a stray.”

Tossing violently the book back in Jim’s hands he walked away laughing, his friends following him while eyeing them contemptuously.

“Filthy rich son of a bitch,” muttered George.

Jim picked up his books and stuffed them in his bag. He glanced at George in a strange way and then turned to leave.

“Hey!” shouted George. “I’m off to lunch, want to join me?”

Jim stopped, staring at him.

“Sure,” he said after a moment.

They walked in silence, listening to the crunching of the dead leaves under their feet.

“You know, morons like these will keep popping up,” sighed George. “World’s full of them.”

“Don’t I know.”

“And you draw attention. If you’d like, I could show you a couple of moves. My dad’s a cop.”

“Yes, I know. But I hate getting my hands dirty.”

George smiled and tightened his scarf.

“Well then, you’re in for a world of trouble,” he said.

Jim smirked and didn’t answer.

mood: accomplished

(five years earlier, a young man named Sherlock Holmes gets arrested for using drugs, under Lestrade's watch)


Detective Sergeant Lestrade rubbed his eyes and yawned. It was past ten pm and he had barely taken a break in the last twelve hours. He cursed under his breath. Those damn press conferences and their annoying journalists, with lights flashing and idiotic questions being fired at him from every angle! His back still hurt from the previous night, and he wondered why he had spent almost a thousand quid on a sofa not worth sleeping on. The foolishness of an optimistic newlywed. Six years, six bleeding years of marriage and now he was competing with the dog for the fluffiest pillow.

A curly-haired head popped in the doorway, interrupting his thoughts. It was the young trainee girl whose name he could never recall.

“Sir, there has been an arrest. Drugs, probably. We have him in Interrogation One. Would you like me to take care of it?”

“Drugs?”

“A young man, sir. We are not sure yet, the tox report will be a while, as you’ve heard.”

“Where did you find him?”

“We were interviewing a witness down at M. Street, by the campus. I bumped into him afterwards and I recognized mild symptoms of usage, sir. Looks like cocaine, but I’m not a hundred percent sure. We haven’t started on the paperwork yet, I thought you should know.”

“Run-of-the-mill, then, you should be able to handle it. Take Ranger with you.”

“Right, sir.”

Lestrade stretched in his chair. It was time for him to be off. He picked up his coat and suddenly the vision of his sofa flashed before him. Perhaps he could wait until she was asleep. He hurried down the hall and caught up with the girl, remembering at the last moment that he still didn’t know her name.

“Wait, er…”

“Donovan, sir. Sally Donovan.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“It’s all right, sir.”

“I’ll take it from here. Finish up with the reports and then go home, get some rest. Early day for us tomorrow.”

“Thank you, sir.”

She flashed a smile at him and was gone before he had the time to change his mind. Lestrade checked his watch. He needed to delay this interrogation if he wanted to avoid his wife completely. Sighing, he  made his way to room One.

The young man was leaning against the table, face buried in his folded arms as if asleep. Only a mess of dark hair was visible, but when Lestrade stepped in, the head rose and a pair of blue, slightly bloodshot eyes scanned him top to bottom. The nose wrinkled disdainfully in response and the face disappeared again between the arms. Lestrade closed the door behind him and dropped some forms on the table.

“Heads up, mate. Got any identification on you?”

A negative shake of the head.

“Need a glass of water?”

Another negative shake. An eye half opened and a raspy voice came muffled through the sleeves.

“You must be the Detective Sergeant.”

“Very acute of you. What’s your name, then?”

“Isn’t it a tad late for you to conduct interrogations? Doesn’t your wife miss you?”

“Your name, please. Address and date of birth.”

“No, she wouldn’t, would she?” the young man continued. “Not while she has you sleeping on the sofa.”

“How the-“

“By observing, by noticing all those little details that people tend to forget about. Not that it makes the slightest difference, does it? All is well with the world, no one is hurt, et cetera et cetera.” He waved a long, thin hand dismissively. “Nothing to do, nothing to think.”

“What’s your name?” he asked again.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“That’s an unusual name. Where do you live, Sherlock?”

“M. Street campus. I’m a student.”

“So, tell me, Sherlock, are you on anything?”

“I don’t think that I am.”

Lestrade leaned on the table. He couldn’t help being amused by his audacity.

“The tox report will be ready in a moment, you know.”

Sherlock smirked. “I hardly think so. I noticed the disturbance on the way in. You’ve had a bit of an accident in the lab today, didn’t you? Someone must have spilled something very unpleasant, and slightly toxic, by the smell of it. I saw the cleaning crew in my way in. It will take a while for them to get everything back on track.”

Lestrade’s amusement evaporated. He hated to be reminded - it had to happen in the middle of an important investigation, too.

Sherlock covered his face again and let out an exasperated moan that sounded like boooord.

Lestrade checked his pulse.

“Your heart is still racing. I’ll send for some valium.”

“That won’t be necessary. I like my head clear.”

“Doesn’t look like it, though.”

“Well, I’m bored! What am I supposed to do?”

“How about going to the gym, or drinking a pint, or finding a nice girl? Never crossed your mind, these things?”

“Dull,” he muttered scornfully. “Dull, dull, dull. There is absolutely nothing that could possibly interest me.”

“Lucky you then, because I have more than enough on my plate and I shouldn’t be wasting my time here.”

The disheveled head rose slowly once again and a piercing stare appeared as if from nowhere.

“You’re in the middle of an investigation, aren’t you?”

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably.

“I’m a DS, aren’t I? That’s my job. Your job is keeping your nose clean.”

I sound like my bloody father! he thought, and checked the time once again. An hour or so left. Perhaps he could leave now, wander the city, grab some quick dinner and manage to get enough sleep. He started filling the forms. The young man opposite him straightened his back and shot him a haughty look.

“You’ve been at X Bridge today,” he noted, finally.

“Now, how could you possibly-“

“Mud splatter on your trouser leg whose color and texture are consistent with that location - I’ve walked around London a bit myself - it hasn’t rained in days so obviously you were at the river bank - anyway, that’s not important. What were you doing there? I heard about that incident - two bodies the day before last, wasn’t it? I thought you had caught the murderer.”

“Do you really expect me to divulge this kind of information?” scoffed Lestrade.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. His forehead was glistening with sweat.

“Come on, I read about it in the paper. Thought the case was shut by now. You announced this morning at the press conference that you had the culprit.” He wiped his brow, eyes blazing. “Is it hot in here? Oh no, it must be kicking in.”

He took off his jacket and rubbed his neck, revealing an expensive taste in clothes and a lanky, wiry constitution.

“I’d take that glass of water now, and some paracetamol if you have it.”

Lestrade stepped out to send for them.

“Right”, Sherlock announced after swallowing a couple of pills. “Bit clearer now. It should do the trick in a moment. Now, where were we?”

“You were about to give me your address and DOB, so that I can file your information while waiting for the tox report,” Lestrade answered as he was seating himself opposite the young man, but he was completely ignored.

“Yes, the X Bridge case. Did you find any new leads? Ah, let me guess, you think you have the wrong man! Why else would you personally return there, after the public announcements and all? You believe you have missed something, don’t you?”

Lestrade was slightly taken aback. The young man’s brain capacity, even under such strenuous circumstances, was amazing.

“What,” Sherlock continued, “wasn’t the culprit the thin, left-handed man that you needed, with the old injury on his right leg and the weak wrists? Tut-tut, you were correct in thinking you were wrong. By the way, even though I find them extremely interesting, you shouldn’t allow the press to take photos of the crime scene. Never know whose attention they might catch.”

Lestrade leaned forward across the table and in an sudden, angry move, grabbed Sherlock from the lapel.

“Do you know what you’re talking about? Hey, listen to me! How do you know about this investigation? The forensic files are sealed!”

Sherlock calmly detached the Sergeant’s fingers from his collar, straightening it out.

“I’ve already told you. You’re not deaf, and hopefully not an idiot. I observed. The photos from the newspapers, the press conferences, everything that was released to the public. They weren’t exactly conclusive though, so I am allowing myself a small margin for error.” He managed a snigger. The flushing the drugs had caused was leaving his cheeks and he looked more composed by the second.

“Do you believe that? Do you, personally, think you have the wrong man?”

Lestrade did not answer. His eye twiched over to the CCTV lens on the top corner behind him. Sherlock didn’t miss the involuntary gesture.

“You do have the wrong man!” he exclaimed. “Ha ha, this is getting more interesting by the minute! Say, you wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette, would you?”

“No,” Lestrade replied, fascinated. “I’d like one myself, but there’s no smoking in here.” The man before him had now his undivided attention, and for a while he completely forgot about the uncomfortable sofa.

“Why do you say he has an old injury on his right leg?”

“I enhanced the crime scene photos that were publicized online…”

“You don’t say.”

“The deduction is quite simple, really. Evidence number four, six and eight, if I remember correctly - those were the ones visible, anyway. Neither footprint is too deep, so he is rather thin, but the right is perceptibly shallower than the left. The difference is small, so it is unlikely that he is actually limping, therefore he has suffered an injury in the past that has left him with the habit of putting less weight on that leg. Are you between suspects now? This could help considerably.”

“And the weak wrists?”

“Oh, this is child’s play, I don’t see how could you have possibly missed it! Ah, yes, because you found the murder weapon. Blood matching the victims’ and wound matching the blade, you didn’t bother any more with the fatal wounds.”

“Don’t push it, mate.”

“The depth of the incisions on the neck! Have you ever tried to cut deep enough through flesh with one move? It’s more difficult than it sounds. Oh don’t look at me like that, this happens to be a subject that I have researched a lot. Let me tell you, it takes a strong wrist to pull that off. The man you are looking for has thin, weak wrists and underdeveloped forearm musculature. It is highly unlikely that he does any kind of manual labor. There’s another clue right there. And I assume you know about his left-handedness already.”

Lestrade had himself spent the entire morning trying to convince his superiors of the same idea, except his was only a gut feeling. That a severely intoxicated, spoiled college student in posh clothes would support his theory in such well-constructed arguments, had caught him completely off-guard.

What am I doing? Am I actually listening to to this daft kid? Am I considering his “deductions” as viable pieces of advice? Am I about to be incredibely stupid and investigate these clues?

Was he being mocked? He searched the young man’s face. Only childish enthusiasm was visible on his aquiline exotic features.

“It’s a peculiar one, that is,” Lestrade admitted. “No DNA traces, alibis checking out suddenly left and right. All relies on good old-fashioned detective work, which is not something many here can handle.”

Sherlock nodded. “You don’t have enough evidence to justify a subpoena for any other suspect, do you? Perhaps all you need is a point to the right direction.”

For the first time that day, Lestrade actually smiled, teeth and all. It lasted barely a couple of seconds. “Pointers accepted.” He buzzed the intercom, and moments later, a tall, well-built man entered the room, saluting Lestrade and shooting Sherlock a suspicious look.

“Ah, Ranger, good. I need you to call forensics and ask them to measure the thickness of the footprint mouldings from the X Bridge case. Then ask them to roll out the bodies and measure the depth of the incisions on the neck wounds. Tell them I need them.”

“Yessir, footprint thickness, neck incision depth.”

“Also, dig out the suspect files for me, will you?”

“Right away, sir.”

Looking a bit puzzled, he disappeared in the hallway.

“Everything you need will be there. With these, you’ll be able to pull in the right suspect and question him. The rest is up to you. Well, off you go, then! Talk to subordinates, call in suspects, do whatever it is that you do to resume an investigation! There is not a moment to be lost! The game is on!” exclaimed Sherlock.

Lestrade shook his head at his enthusiasm.

“That is a horrible line. Don’t ever use it again.”

“Oh what do you know? You write reports for a living.”

“You really have absolutely no social awareness, do you?”

“I have been reliably informed that I don’t.”

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the table with a twinkle of a smile in his eye.

“Are you going to arrest me, then?”

“Are you confessing to something?”

They stared at each other for what seemed like a long time.

“The tox report won’t be ready for quite a while with all the commotion,” Lestrade finally said. “I don’t think I can hold you in for much longer without anything incriminating.”

The young man didn’t respond. He bit his lip, waiting for the Sergeant to come to a decision. Several more minutes passed in silence.

Inside Lestrade’s head a furious battle of instincts was taking place. His urge to bust a kid for using was reluctantly giving way to his desperate need to catch the murderer, and to a guilty desire to put his foot in the door for a promotion.

The intercom buzzed again and Ranger’s gruff voice asked the Sergeant to step out for a moment. Lestrade closed the door behind him and ruffled through the papers the Constable had brought. There it was, that tiny differnce in numbers he had been told about. The right footprint was a few milimeters thinner.

“And the incision measurements?”

“They said that it will take a moment more.”

Lestrade’s trained eye ran through the faces on the suspect photos, remembering. There. That one. He said nothing to Ranger though, and returned to the interrogation room.

“Did I get anything right?” Sherlock asked with the slightest bit of sarcasm.

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that.”

The young man chuckled, wiping the last beads of sweat from his brow.

“I’m also afraid that I can’t keep you any more. You may leave now.”

Sherlock sprang to his feet. He looked as if he was making a serious effort not to be cocky, and the Sergeant thought that this was probably as close as it would get for the young man to thank him. Before he reached the door though, Lestrade stopped him.

“One last question. How do you know the culprit is a man? You can’t possibly know anything about our suspect pool.”

Sherlock winked.

“Does it matter? You already know that.”

“And the sofa?”

“Just a little trade secret.”

“Always keep ‘em wanting more, eh?” scoffed Lestrade, opening the door. Behind it appeared the curly-haired girl as if from nowhere, and seeing Sherlock handcuff-less and ready to leave, she took a menacing step forward.

“What, he’s free to go? But, sir-!

“Leave it, Donovan.”

“But I saw him, I pulled him in! He is definitely on something!”

“I said, leave it.”

The girl blushed, but held her tongue. Pursing her lips, she turned and walked away briskly.

“She’ll be alright,” muttered Lestrade. “I think we’re done here, aren’t we?”

“Yes, sergeant,  and it’s been a very interesting evening.”

Sherlock paused by the door and handed him a piece of paper.

“What’s this?”

“My card. Should you require my services again in the future.”

“It’s your phone number, scribbled on the corner of a newspaper, and I don’t usually need consulting.”

“Nevertheless, keep it. You needed some today, didn’t you? Never know.”

He grinned provocatively. Sighing, Lestrade tucked in his wallet, making a mental note to throw it away sometime afterwards.

“Well, this has been fun,” Sherlock announced, putting his jacket back on. “Evening!”

And with that he dashed out, leaving Lestrade gazing incredulously around the small room.

What the bloody hell just happened?

Two days and one arrest later, Detective Sergeant Lestrade was promoted to Detective Inspector, as an acknowledgment for his investigative prowess on the X Bridge case. He decided to leave the torn piece of paper in his wallet, as a keepsake of the unusual night in Interrogation One. Not that he would ever need to use it, of course. Would he?