Fic: City of Delusion 2/?, Dresden Files/Sherlock [PG]
Title: City of Delusion
Author: A Lanart
Fandoms: Dresden Files (tv verse) and Sherlock (BBC)
Characters/pairing: Harry Dresden, Connie Murphy, Bob, Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rating/Spoilers: PG. No Spoilers.
Warnings: Sherlock and magic in the same fic has to be a bit cracky, right?
Word Count: This part 4703
Summary: Greg Lestrade has an unexpected encounter in Chicago - he isn't the only one, either - and discovers there are worse things to deal with than know-it-all consulting detectives.
Disclaimer: The BBC, Mr S Moffat and Mr M Gatiss own this version of Sherlock Holmes though ACD invented him. Jim Butcher owns Harry Dresden and his universe (although Lionsgate/sci-fi own the tv series).
No copyright infringement intended, no profit made.
Title from the song by Muse
Chapter 1 on LJ (also available on AO3)
~*~
~Two~
*
Greg did his best to stay out of everyone's way but be as helpful as possible, which must have been at least partly successful as no-one told him to leave. Even though he wasn't able to contribute much, it was a whole heap better than being dismissed to go back to that bloody infernal conference. The grateful smile that Murphy - he found he couldn't think of her as Connie when she was in work mode - threw in his direction didn't exactly hurt either. He was almost enjoying himself.
"Freak's here," announced one of the uniformed officers near the door. Greg nearly jumped out of his skin, expecting Sherlock to walk into the room and was almost disappointed when he didn't. The guy who entered was certainly imposing physically, he looked taller than anyone else in the room by a handful of inches, but that advantage was offset by his loose-limbed amble across the room and what looked like a permanent state of measured scruffiness. While Sherlock dressed to impress, this guy did the opposite, maybe to appear less threatening. Greg wasn't sure that the looking less threatening was entirely successful.
"Dresden, over here," Murphy called out. Greg hid a smile; so this was her version of the consultant that pulled answers out of thin air. He seemed pleasant enough, no generally acerbic comments had accompanied his entrance and he hadn't insulted a single person, though the guy who had called him 'freak' seemed a bit unnerved by the glare that Dresden had landed on him as he walked through the door. Greg found himself kind of missing Sherlock's abrasiveness.
As if the thought had summoned him, Sherlock breezed through the door in the other man's wake as if he owned the place, pinning everyone who appeared as if they might challenge his presence with a gimlet stare, until his eyes alighted on Greg - who was heartily wishing the floor would swallow him up. Only bloody Sherlock Holmes could do this to him. A kind of resigned inevitability suffused Greg, displacing any shock there might have been at first. Sherlock took a step towards him.
"Body's over there," Greg said, indicating Murphy and Dresden. He was sure she'd realise just who the arrogant Englishman was, even if he had just appeared out of nowhere. He was pleased to see that Sherlock at least donned gloves before approaching them, it might endear him more to Murphy. Or maybe not, he mentally amended as he saw the death-glare she gave Sherlock.
"You must be Lestrade's consulting annoyance," she said. "Do not mess up my crime scene or I will have you removed."
"I do not 'mess up' crime scenes," Sherlock said primly. "I have far more respect for them than that."
"Hm. Well as long as you don't get in Dresden's way, I guess I can let you look." She took half a step backwards and left them to it, though she did glare at Greg in the process, as if it was his fault. She'd been listening to him moan about what precious little control he had over Sherlock for a good portion of the last two days, so he felt a bit miffed about that. He did notice that annoyed or not by the unexpected arrival, she continued her run down of the facts of the case, including the current suspect, the dead woman's brother, who had discovered the body.
It was odd to watch Dresden and Sherlock as they moved around the body in a sort of macabre dance. They didn't pay each other the slightest bit of attention but Greg could tell from the flicker of Sherlock's eyes that he wasn't just taking note of the crime scene and he presumed that Dresden was doing the same. They stepped back at the same time, dance obviously over for the present.
"Well?" Murphy demanded, arms folded as she glared at them both in turn.
"It wasn't the brother," Sherlock and Dresden replied in unison.
"Great. Now can either of you give us something to work with here, or not?" She indicated the room as a whole though Greg heard it as a more personal demand.
"Of course," said Sherlock.
"But you won't like it," said Dresden.
They glanced at each other and Greg could have sworn he saw a spark of recognition pass between them, which was almost as astounding as the fact that Sherlock still hadn't called anyone an idiot, especially considering John Watson wasn't in the room to act in his usual capacity of Sherlock-filter.
"I'm used to not liking anything you tell me, Dresden, but I can't deny that you're useful," Murphy commented. Then she gave a resigned sounding sigh. "Why should this time be any different?"
Greg hoped she wouldn't regret saying that. Another look passed between Dresden and Sherlock, followed by a gesture from Dresden that obviously meant 'you first' as Sherlock turned to Murphy.
"I hope you're listening, lieutenant," he said and then launched into one of his rapid-fire crime scene deductions. As long as he lived, Greg would never tire of seeing Sherlock's incredible mind at work, it was fascinating. Even so, he still held a healthy dose of scepticism which kept him a few steps away from the wholesale admiration that John Watson usually displayed. In fact it seemed odd that John was not there as since he'd moved into Baker Street his presence had been a calming influence on Sherlock on almost every case. Greg assumed that John was probably in the other room, kept away from the crime scene as someone not essential for the investigation. Luckily, and rather oddly, Sherlock appeared to be on his best behaviour.
Murphy appeared to be riveted at the tumble of words that flowed from Sherlock, considering everything, filing it away somewhere to be looked over when she had more attention to spare. While Greg wasn't surprised at her expression of healthy disbelief, he was pleased not to see any trace of outright rejection on her face. Good for her. As Sherlock drew his deductions to a close, Dresden picked up the thread of narrative. His approach was different but he appeared to be no less certain in his own conclusions, even though the occasional thing he came out with was almost frankly unbelievable. Greg clamped down on that thought when he saw the smirk on Murphy's face - she was expecting Greg not to believe Dresden, which meant there had to be something to what he said. He frowned, and ran over in his mind what Dresden - and Sherlock, whose deductions he might not always follow, but at least trusted - had said.
"So you're saying the murderer stayed in here with the victim until the brother unlocked the door and then calmly escaped without anyone noticing?"
"Uh huh," Dresden replied with a hint of a smile on his face. Greg could hear Murphy muttering and cursing under her breath, she was obviously used to this.
"And how do you suggest that happened?"
Dresden's hint of a smile developed into a wide grin as he shrugged.
"Magic?"
"Magic. Really. Do you expect…" Greg found himself interrupted by the sound of Sherlock clearing his throat.
"Clarke's laws, Lestrade. If you envisage what people regard as magic as merely another way of using the potential of the human brain - most people of course don't use the potential capacity of their brains - then its existence is no longer impossible."
"And once you’ve ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true," Greg parroted; he'd heard the phrase more than once.
"Exactly." It was Sherlock's turn to smirk, but as Greg was used to it he didn't find it half as annoying as he suspected Murphy might. "You've also missed something very important."
"What?"
"The fingerprints on the ceiling."
"On the cei…" Greg's eyes drifted upwards, as did everyone else's in the room, including Sherlock's. There, on the ceiling - which in this place was several feet above his head - partway between the door and the light fitting above the body, were three blood-stained fingerprints. "Oh."
"Fingerprints. Great." Murphy's relieved sigh was audible. "Right, out of here. All of you. You too, Dresden." She chivvied them out of the room unceremoniously but Greg noted that not one of them protested the treatment.
Greg was pleased to see John Watson in the next room but he was a little puzzled by the suddenly guilty expression that stole over John's face when he caught sight of them… no, not of them, of Dresden, judging by the upward twitch of his eyes to a point above both Greg and Sherlock's heads. Strange. It became even stranger when Dresden gave a bark of laughter, then started babbling about - and apparently to - a person who, as far as Greg could tell, didn't exist, though after the performance in the other room he wasn't prepared to bet on it.
*
Harry had to admit he wasn't entirely surprised that his admonishment to not open the backpack that contained Bob had been ignored. He was surprised that his exit from the other room had apparently interrupted an in-depth conversation between Bob and his new friend - who looked almost like a kid who'd had his hand caught in the cookie jar. Bob was enthusiastically trying to introduce Harry but as he was essentially in his non-corporeal form Harry wasn't entirely certain who would hear Bob, though they would certainly hear him trying to get a word in edgeways. Eventually, he succeeded.
"Bob, will you be quiet for a minute?" Thankfully, the ghost complied. "I think we could all do with a few introductions, preferably somewhere with a bit more privacy. OK?" There was a chorus of affirmative murmurs and Harry turned to stroll away, not bothering to check to see if they followed.
They ended up in a small room that while not exactly spacious, was at least away from prying eyes and had a door that closed. Harry herded them all inside, then leaned against the door. The only other person he would consider letting in was Murphy, if she came looking.
"So, introductions?" Harry grinned at the various expressions of discomfort, wariness and outright interest on the faces that surrounded him. "I'm Harry Dresden. Wizard by nature, wizard by trade, you can even find me in the book under W, I'm the only wizard in there."
"Not a PI?" That was the interested, imperious looking one; the guy who had read the otherness of the crime scene just by observing, which was more than any other non-magical person Harry had met could have done. He was obviously an unusual man.
"Oh I'm that too, have to be, but it's my other skills that are the most useful."
"Indeed. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective." Harry wasn't surprised that Holmes didn't offer his hand to shake or that he kept both hands firmly thrust into the pockets of his coat. Harry smiled at the assessing glances being thrown at him and the flick flick flick of the pale eyes that were obviously trying to categorise him. He was fairly confident that Sherlock Holmes hadn't met anyone quite like him before either but he would be interested in discovering what conclusions were drawn.
Harry turned his gaze to the grey haired, dark eyed man who, on the surface at least, appeared to be the most normal of the lot of them. Even if the man hadn't accompanied Murphy, Harry would have known he was with the police, his entire bearing screamed it as if he'd announced it through a megaphone.
"You were with Murphy," Harry said to him.
"That's right. Greg Lestrade, from Scotland Yard." Lestrade did hold out his hand to shake; it was a firm, confident grip but he didn't maintain the contact for any longer than the polite minimum which probably said more about him than he thought. Harry gave him a smile.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade," Holmes said. Harry didn't miss the exasperated-but-fond glance Lestrade gave Holmes over his shoulder.
"I met lieutenant Murphy at a police conference. When she was called in for this case she invited me along," added Lestrade.
Harry's smile widened. "I've heard how much Murphy enjoys conferences, so I guess you were about ready to die from boredom. I'm not surprised you accepted the offer."
Lestrade's answering chuckle was warm and hearty and lit his eyes. "Something like that, yeah," he said. Lestrade stepped away to stand next to Holmes and whispered something unintelligible to him. Harry didn't much care, he was giving the remaining occupant of the room a thorough appraisal.
He didn't flinch under Harry's stare at all, though the sandy head straightened, making his stance ramrod straight - definitely military, so Harry's initial assessment that he was potentially dangerous had been correct - but his arms continued to cradle the backpack that held Bob protectively, almost gently, as if he couldn't bear to let it fall. A soldier who cared for odd things; strange. Blue-hazel eyes met his, steely with an unspoken challenge, then they softened as the man smiled and he went from inherently dangerous to apparently unthreatening in the blink of an eye.
"I believe this is yours," he said and stepped forward with the backpack. "I'm John Watson and…"
"Doctor Watson." Holmes again. Harry was almost surprised that he didn't provide the man's military rank as well, maybe he'd decided that was too obvious. Watson didn't bother to acknowledge the correction by turning around but Harry saw his smile widen.
"And as I was saying… I try to keep him," he indicated Holmes with a jerk of his head, "out of at least some of the trouble he gets into. I'm not always successful." There was an answering snort from Lestrade; that was obviously a truth, then. Watson glanced over his shoulder with a grin, then pushed the backpack into Harry's waiting hands with a more serious expression on his face. "I think you have one more introduction to make," he said. There was a disembodied chuckle from the backpack that they all heard, judging from the stares that were now being levelled in Harry's direction.
Harry sighed; Bob always did have a flair for the dramatic. He carefully drew out Bob's skull from the backpack.
"No, that certainly isn't a bomb, is it?" Holmes commented, more to himself than anyone else.
"But just as dangerous, I'll bet," Watson said, with a sunny smile. Harry glared at him, that statement was a little too close to the truth for comfort. It wasn't a surprise that Watson cheerfully ignored the glare. Thankfully, Lestrade remained silent.
"You can come out, now, Bob," Harry said.
*
After Bob's declaration that he had 'quite the presence' John had been curious to see just what a thousand-years dead magical practitioner - he couldn't quite bring himself to even think the words wizard or sorcerer - looked like. The flaming spark that arose from the eye sockets of the skull at Harry Dresden's words wasn't exactly impressive but the trail of smoke that followed it gradually coalesced into a recognisably human form. John's first impression was of a tall man - about the same height as Sherlock - dark clothes, bright silver hair and eyes that were even paler than Sherlock's, which was saying something. On a second glance he realised that Bob wasn't dressed in unremitting black, there were splashes of colour - a deep, blood red - at his neck and jacket pocket from cravat and handkerchief and as Bob moved his arms John caught sight of what appeared to be rune-engraved manacles around the ghost's wrists. Cursed indeed, but he'd been right, he did have quite the presence.
"So?" Bob demanded. Dresden gave a long-suffering sort of sigh and John bit back a rather inappropriate giggle, Bob might be a ghost, but it appeared he was about as much of a trial to deal with as Sherlock.
"Guys, this is Bob. He's a ghost and this is his skull." Dresden cast a wary glance toward Greg Lestrade. "I didn't kill him, he's been this way for a hell of a long time."
"Though I'm sure if I wasn't already as dead as the proverbial dodo you'd certainly think about it at least some of the time, hmm?"
"Bob!"
John hid a smile behind his hand, he really shouldn't find other people's discomfort amusing but there was just something about Bob and his way of interacting with the world and other people that struck a chord with him, possibly the same one that allowed him to deal with Sherlock.
"So, how does this magic thing work then?" Greg asked. John could tell he was interested despite himself; again too much time spent with Sherlock probably made him consider all sorts of things that weren't exactly thought of as normal.
"Mr Holmes…"
"Sherlock. 'Mr Holmes' is my brother, and I am very glad that he isn't here."
"Okay then. Sherlock is essentially right - it's a talent like any other which means you can look at the world in a different way. It's kind of useful sometimes." Harry shrugged, as if it was no big deal for him.
"Obviously. Most people don't look at the world properly at the best of times, so I can see that it would give you an advantage," Sherlock said, also apparently interested, though that didn't surprise John in the slightest.
"I also probably shouldn't have been so… " Dresden paused momentarily, as if he were searching for the right words, "open about my… um… other skills, but Bob kind of took that decision out of my hands."
Bob gave a theatrical sigh. "That's right, blame me. I should be used to it by now." Despite the aggrieved tone of voice, John could see the humour sparkling in Bob's pale eyes. Judging by the smirk Dresden tried to hide, he did, too.
"It's your fault, of course I'm going to blame you," Dresden said. "At least Morgan can't kill you."
"Hmph. You see what I have to endure?" Bob said to the room in general. John mostly ignored him, his attention caught by the name Dresden mentioned.
"Who's Morgan?" John asked.
Dresden frowned. "As near as dammit, he's part of the magical police, people who are supposed to stop the rest of the world finding out about magic."
"Isn't he fighting a losing battle from that point of view if you're in the bloody phone book under 'Wizard'?" Greg chimed in with the question before John could, though he'd been wondering exactly the same thing.
"We manage to work around that, most of the time; Morgan and I have something of an… understanding, even if he doesn't entirely approve of me. Apart from the police I generally only take on clients who have nowhere else to turn; desperation allows you to overlook all sorts of things. Besides, I have a good idea who are the time wasters and sensationalists and they get nothing from me."
"Fair enough. So we aren't going to have the magical police descending on us and cursing us six ways to Sunday, then?" John asked.
"That's not how they work, but no. There was a reason I wanted us in a room with a door that closed - nothing discussed in here can be heard outside. It's a useful skill and it does reduce the chances that someone will pick up something they shouldn't know about, not that most of that lot would think anything of it; they all think I'm some sort of crazy freak anyway."
"That sounds almost familiar," John commented, and cast a glance in Greg's direction to possibly share the moment, only to discover that his friend seemed to be deep in thought and was absolutely miles away. As John watched, Greg roused himself from wherever his mind had been, though he was frowning like something hadn't quite clicked into the right position in his head.
"Pity that different way of looking at things couldn't give you a face to go with those fingerprints," Greg said. "Now that would be useful."
In John's opinion that was pretty typical of Greg, to see things in terms of how they would benefit an investigation, rather than for pure interests sake, and without freaking out.
Dresden looked rather thoughtful for a moment.
"Actually, there might be a way to do that," he said. "Now if you could all step back?"
John shuffled back as far as the confines of the room allowed, Sherlock and Greg pressed close to him. They said nothing, but John was sure the look on his face alone, never mind what showed on Sherlock and Greg's faces, expressed the question clearly enough. He hoped Dresden would take pity on him.
"The use of magic interferes with complex electronics and I'm sure you all have cell phones with you," Dresden explained. "Hopefully they'll be okay at that distance. Bob, do your thing… um, Murphy, I think."
"Very well." Tendrils of what looked like smoke wrapped around Bob and when they cleared there was no longer a six foot, silver-haired, pale eyed man standing there, but a dark haired, dark eyed woman around the same height as John, who he presumed was the previously mentioned, and absent, lieutenant Murphy. Bob held the likeness for some minutes while they all stared, though God only knew what was going on behind Sherlock's eyes. Eventually, he dissolved back into being himself.
"If we're lucky, Bob will be able to get enough information from those fingerprints on the ceiling to show us the face of our unknown suspect. There's only one catch…"
"Which is?" Greg asked.
"The inability to capture the image," Sherlock replied. "If what he said about magic and electronics holds true-to-form you would be unable to use any sort of digital camera, or complex SLR to take a photograph. I don't know if even a basic film camera would record an image of a non-corporeal being wearing someone else's face."
Dresden nodded in enthusiastic agreement.
"We managed it once with an old Box Brownie, but I wouldn't want to bet on any sort of predictable success." He shrugged. "I don't suppose any of you sketches? I can't exactly ask for a police artist for something like this."
"I might be able to help," John said into what felt like an expectant silence. "I'm a bit out of practise, but…"
"I didn't know you could draw!" Sherlock sounded vaguely insulted. John supposed he could well be, he tended to regard gaps in the information he held on a subject as personal affronts and John had found that he was no exception to that; Sherlock occasionally treated him as if he were little more than an ongoing experiment that became irritating because it didn't always demonstrate predictable results.
"I don't really, not any more. Not since… " John flexed his hand, he knew Sherlock would notice the gesture and interpret the meaning. "Back then, it was something to pass the time when there wasn't much in the way of entertainment available. If someone has a…" John trailed off as Dresden held out a flip-top pad and a pencil. "Ah. Thanks. Give me a minute…" John settled himself on the floor, knees drawn up so he had something to lean the pad against as he brought pencil to paper. He was conscious of the expectant silence but refused to acknowledge it, chewing at his lip while he thought. In the end he decided to draw Bob, hoping that he wasn't too rusty and that his sketch actually looked like the ghost. The rasp of the pencil across the paper seemed loud in his ears, far louder than the distant murmur of conversation that was going on over his head. In the end, he was quite pleased with the result; it seemed he hadn't quite lost his touch. He held the pad up, to have it snatched out of his hand by Sherlock. John scrambled upright, ignored by the others as they pressed around Sherlock and looked at the drawing of Bob. The hush was disconcerting, he wasn't entirely sure if it signified approval or disdain of his artistic efforts.
"Oh," Bob said. He sounded surprised and John raised an eyebrow in silent query. "I look… happy. I wasn't expecting that."
"It is a good likeness, though," added Sherlock.
"Which means I need to go out there and talk to Murphy," Dresden said. "I won't be long - I hope." He quirked two fingers in a gesture that John wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been watching him, presumably breaking the shell of silence around the room, then headed toward the door. Bob cleared his throat conspicuously and nodded toward his skull, which Dresden had cradled unconsciously in the crook of his arm as if he were used to it being there.
John stepped forward. "I can look after that if you want? I don't think the police would take kindly to you wandering around a crime scene with a skull."
"Murphy probably wouldn't be surprised, but you're right." John accepted both skull and backpack from Dresden, accompanied by an audible sigh of relief from Bob.
*
The room seemed a lot bigger without Harry Dresden in it, but Greg didn't think that was solely due to the lack of his physical presence. There was something larger than life about Dresden, he couldn't deny that, even if he was somewhat reluctant to admit that it might be because Dresden truly did have magic.
There was no way that Greg could have anticipated the turn of events when he met lieutenant Murphy at the conference, magic just didn't exist in his world and he was pretty damn certain that Murphy didn't think it had any right to exist in hers either - they dealt with reality: harsh, desperate and far too often bloody reality - but Greg was a pragmatist and he would bet that Murphy was too. Even so, he was sure he should probably be freaking out a hell of a lot more than he was about the apparent use of magic as a potential investigative tool. Maybe he was too used to Sherlock to find the odd and unexplainable freaky, because what Sherlock did almost seemed like magic to someone like him. Greg knew he was good at his job but he was quite aware he had limitations - he was only human after all - and he wasn't too proud to use anything that came his way to ensure that justice at least had a fighting chance of being done. Murphy seemed to be cut from the same cloth.
In his case, it meant using Sherlock to point him in the direction of obtaining proof when he knew instinctively that a there was more to a case than met the eye, even if he couldn't see it. He didn't care what people thought of him for using Sherlock, the number of closed cases were more than adequate vindication.
For Murphy, it was Dresden.
If Dresden was good enough for Murphy - whose opinion and instinct he had come to respect in the short time he had known her - then he would be good enough for Greg, no matter that his methods verged on the unbelievable.
"So what now?" Greg asked.
"We wait for the estimable lieutenant Murphy to agree with Harry. It might take some time, but agree she will - she's out of options otherwise," replied Bob.
"I wish I felt as confident. Lieutenant Murphy doesn't look like someone who would grasp at straws," John said. Greg wished he could offer some reassurance, but he wasn't certain himself that Dresden would be successful.
"She isn't, but neither is Lestrade and he calls me in for less."
Greg bit his lip to stop a smile escaping, it was a typically Sherlock sort of comment.
"That's different," protested John, though Greg thought it sounded a bit half-hearted.
"Is it? I observe things Lestrade doesn't. Harry Dresden observes things Murphy doesn't. The methodology may differ but the result is the same."
Greg wasn't inclined to argue the point with Sherlock and judging from the silence that greeted the statement, neither was John. He hoped the wait would be a short one.
Author: A Lanart
Fandoms: Dresden Files (tv verse) and Sherlock (BBC)
Characters/pairing: Harry Dresden, Connie Murphy, Bob, Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rating/Spoilers: PG. No Spoilers.
Warnings: Sherlock and magic in the same fic has to be a bit cracky, right?
Word Count: This part 4703
Summary: Greg Lestrade has an unexpected encounter in Chicago - he isn't the only one, either - and discovers there are worse things to deal with than know-it-all consulting detectives.
Disclaimer: The BBC, Mr S Moffat and Mr M Gatiss own this version of Sherlock Holmes though ACD invented him. Jim Butcher owns Harry Dresden and his universe (although Lionsgate/sci-fi own the tv series).
No copyright infringement intended, no profit made.
Title from the song by Muse
Chapter 1 on LJ (also available on AO3)
~*~
~Two~
*
Greg did his best to stay out of everyone's way but be as helpful as possible, which must have been at least partly successful as no-one told him to leave. Even though he wasn't able to contribute much, it was a whole heap better than being dismissed to go back to that bloody infernal conference. The grateful smile that Murphy - he found he couldn't think of her as Connie when she was in work mode - threw in his direction didn't exactly hurt either. He was almost enjoying himself.
"Freak's here," announced one of the uniformed officers near the door. Greg nearly jumped out of his skin, expecting Sherlock to walk into the room and was almost disappointed when he didn't. The guy who entered was certainly imposing physically, he looked taller than anyone else in the room by a handful of inches, but that advantage was offset by his loose-limbed amble across the room and what looked like a permanent state of measured scruffiness. While Sherlock dressed to impress, this guy did the opposite, maybe to appear less threatening. Greg wasn't sure that the looking less threatening was entirely successful.
"Dresden, over here," Murphy called out. Greg hid a smile; so this was her version of the consultant that pulled answers out of thin air. He seemed pleasant enough, no generally acerbic comments had accompanied his entrance and he hadn't insulted a single person, though the guy who had called him 'freak' seemed a bit unnerved by the glare that Dresden had landed on him as he walked through the door. Greg found himself kind of missing Sherlock's abrasiveness.
As if the thought had summoned him, Sherlock breezed through the door in the other man's wake as if he owned the place, pinning everyone who appeared as if they might challenge his presence with a gimlet stare, until his eyes alighted on Greg - who was heartily wishing the floor would swallow him up. Only bloody Sherlock Holmes could do this to him. A kind of resigned inevitability suffused Greg, displacing any shock there might have been at first. Sherlock took a step towards him.
"Body's over there," Greg said, indicating Murphy and Dresden. He was sure she'd realise just who the arrogant Englishman was, even if he had just appeared out of nowhere. He was pleased to see that Sherlock at least donned gloves before approaching them, it might endear him more to Murphy. Or maybe not, he mentally amended as he saw the death-glare she gave Sherlock.
"You must be Lestrade's consulting annoyance," she said. "Do not mess up my crime scene or I will have you removed."
"I do not 'mess up' crime scenes," Sherlock said primly. "I have far more respect for them than that."
"Hm. Well as long as you don't get in Dresden's way, I guess I can let you look." She took half a step backwards and left them to it, though she did glare at Greg in the process, as if it was his fault. She'd been listening to him moan about what precious little control he had over Sherlock for a good portion of the last two days, so he felt a bit miffed about that. He did notice that annoyed or not by the unexpected arrival, she continued her run down of the facts of the case, including the current suspect, the dead woman's brother, who had discovered the body.
It was odd to watch Dresden and Sherlock as they moved around the body in a sort of macabre dance. They didn't pay each other the slightest bit of attention but Greg could tell from the flicker of Sherlock's eyes that he wasn't just taking note of the crime scene and he presumed that Dresden was doing the same. They stepped back at the same time, dance obviously over for the present.
"Well?" Murphy demanded, arms folded as she glared at them both in turn.
"It wasn't the brother," Sherlock and Dresden replied in unison.
"Great. Now can either of you give us something to work with here, or not?" She indicated the room as a whole though Greg heard it as a more personal demand.
"Of course," said Sherlock.
"But you won't like it," said Dresden.
They glanced at each other and Greg could have sworn he saw a spark of recognition pass between them, which was almost as astounding as the fact that Sherlock still hadn't called anyone an idiot, especially considering John Watson wasn't in the room to act in his usual capacity of Sherlock-filter.
"I'm used to not liking anything you tell me, Dresden, but I can't deny that you're useful," Murphy commented. Then she gave a resigned sounding sigh. "Why should this time be any different?"
Greg hoped she wouldn't regret saying that. Another look passed between Dresden and Sherlock, followed by a gesture from Dresden that obviously meant 'you first' as Sherlock turned to Murphy.
"I hope you're listening, lieutenant," he said and then launched into one of his rapid-fire crime scene deductions. As long as he lived, Greg would never tire of seeing Sherlock's incredible mind at work, it was fascinating. Even so, he still held a healthy dose of scepticism which kept him a few steps away from the wholesale admiration that John Watson usually displayed. In fact it seemed odd that John was not there as since he'd moved into Baker Street his presence had been a calming influence on Sherlock on almost every case. Greg assumed that John was probably in the other room, kept away from the crime scene as someone not essential for the investigation. Luckily, and rather oddly, Sherlock appeared to be on his best behaviour.
Murphy appeared to be riveted at the tumble of words that flowed from Sherlock, considering everything, filing it away somewhere to be looked over when she had more attention to spare. While Greg wasn't surprised at her expression of healthy disbelief, he was pleased not to see any trace of outright rejection on her face. Good for her. As Sherlock drew his deductions to a close, Dresden picked up the thread of narrative. His approach was different but he appeared to be no less certain in his own conclusions, even though the occasional thing he came out with was almost frankly unbelievable. Greg clamped down on that thought when he saw the smirk on Murphy's face - she was expecting Greg not to believe Dresden, which meant there had to be something to what he said. He frowned, and ran over in his mind what Dresden - and Sherlock, whose deductions he might not always follow, but at least trusted - had said.
"So you're saying the murderer stayed in here with the victim until the brother unlocked the door and then calmly escaped without anyone noticing?"
"Uh huh," Dresden replied with a hint of a smile on his face. Greg could hear Murphy muttering and cursing under her breath, she was obviously used to this.
"And how do you suggest that happened?"
Dresden's hint of a smile developed into a wide grin as he shrugged.
"Magic?"
"Magic. Really. Do you expect…" Greg found himself interrupted by the sound of Sherlock clearing his throat.
"Clarke's laws, Lestrade. If you envisage what people regard as magic as merely another way of using the potential of the human brain - most people of course don't use the potential capacity of their brains - then its existence is no longer impossible."
"And once you’ve ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true," Greg parroted; he'd heard the phrase more than once.
"Exactly." It was Sherlock's turn to smirk, but as Greg was used to it he didn't find it half as annoying as he suspected Murphy might. "You've also missed something very important."
"What?"
"The fingerprints on the ceiling."
"On the cei…" Greg's eyes drifted upwards, as did everyone else's in the room, including Sherlock's. There, on the ceiling - which in this place was several feet above his head - partway between the door and the light fitting above the body, were three blood-stained fingerprints. "Oh."
"Fingerprints. Great." Murphy's relieved sigh was audible. "Right, out of here. All of you. You too, Dresden." She chivvied them out of the room unceremoniously but Greg noted that not one of them protested the treatment.
Greg was pleased to see John Watson in the next room but he was a little puzzled by the suddenly guilty expression that stole over John's face when he caught sight of them… no, not of them, of Dresden, judging by the upward twitch of his eyes to a point above both Greg and Sherlock's heads. Strange. It became even stranger when Dresden gave a bark of laughter, then started babbling about - and apparently to - a person who, as far as Greg could tell, didn't exist, though after the performance in the other room he wasn't prepared to bet on it.
*
Harry had to admit he wasn't entirely surprised that his admonishment to not open the backpack that contained Bob had been ignored. He was surprised that his exit from the other room had apparently interrupted an in-depth conversation between Bob and his new friend - who looked almost like a kid who'd had his hand caught in the cookie jar. Bob was enthusiastically trying to introduce Harry but as he was essentially in his non-corporeal form Harry wasn't entirely certain who would hear Bob, though they would certainly hear him trying to get a word in edgeways. Eventually, he succeeded.
"Bob, will you be quiet for a minute?" Thankfully, the ghost complied. "I think we could all do with a few introductions, preferably somewhere with a bit more privacy. OK?" There was a chorus of affirmative murmurs and Harry turned to stroll away, not bothering to check to see if they followed.
They ended up in a small room that while not exactly spacious, was at least away from prying eyes and had a door that closed. Harry herded them all inside, then leaned against the door. The only other person he would consider letting in was Murphy, if she came looking.
"So, introductions?" Harry grinned at the various expressions of discomfort, wariness and outright interest on the faces that surrounded him. "I'm Harry Dresden. Wizard by nature, wizard by trade, you can even find me in the book under W, I'm the only wizard in there."
"Not a PI?" That was the interested, imperious looking one; the guy who had read the otherness of the crime scene just by observing, which was more than any other non-magical person Harry had met could have done. He was obviously an unusual man.
"Oh I'm that too, have to be, but it's my other skills that are the most useful."
"Indeed. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective." Harry wasn't surprised that Holmes didn't offer his hand to shake or that he kept both hands firmly thrust into the pockets of his coat. Harry smiled at the assessing glances being thrown at him and the flick flick flick of the pale eyes that were obviously trying to categorise him. He was fairly confident that Sherlock Holmes hadn't met anyone quite like him before either but he would be interested in discovering what conclusions were drawn.
Harry turned his gaze to the grey haired, dark eyed man who, on the surface at least, appeared to be the most normal of the lot of them. Even if the man hadn't accompanied Murphy, Harry would have known he was with the police, his entire bearing screamed it as if he'd announced it through a megaphone.
"You were with Murphy," Harry said to him.
"That's right. Greg Lestrade, from Scotland Yard." Lestrade did hold out his hand to shake; it was a firm, confident grip but he didn't maintain the contact for any longer than the polite minimum which probably said more about him than he thought. Harry gave him a smile.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade," Holmes said. Harry didn't miss the exasperated-but-fond glance Lestrade gave Holmes over his shoulder.
"I met lieutenant Murphy at a police conference. When she was called in for this case she invited me along," added Lestrade.
Harry's smile widened. "I've heard how much Murphy enjoys conferences, so I guess you were about ready to die from boredom. I'm not surprised you accepted the offer."
Lestrade's answering chuckle was warm and hearty and lit his eyes. "Something like that, yeah," he said. Lestrade stepped away to stand next to Holmes and whispered something unintelligible to him. Harry didn't much care, he was giving the remaining occupant of the room a thorough appraisal.
He didn't flinch under Harry's stare at all, though the sandy head straightened, making his stance ramrod straight - definitely military, so Harry's initial assessment that he was potentially dangerous had been correct - but his arms continued to cradle the backpack that held Bob protectively, almost gently, as if he couldn't bear to let it fall. A soldier who cared for odd things; strange. Blue-hazel eyes met his, steely with an unspoken challenge, then they softened as the man smiled and he went from inherently dangerous to apparently unthreatening in the blink of an eye.
"I believe this is yours," he said and stepped forward with the backpack. "I'm John Watson and…"
"Doctor Watson." Holmes again. Harry was almost surprised that he didn't provide the man's military rank as well, maybe he'd decided that was too obvious. Watson didn't bother to acknowledge the correction by turning around but Harry saw his smile widen.
"And as I was saying… I try to keep him," he indicated Holmes with a jerk of his head, "out of at least some of the trouble he gets into. I'm not always successful." There was an answering snort from Lestrade; that was obviously a truth, then. Watson glanced over his shoulder with a grin, then pushed the backpack into Harry's waiting hands with a more serious expression on his face. "I think you have one more introduction to make," he said. There was a disembodied chuckle from the backpack that they all heard, judging from the stares that were now being levelled in Harry's direction.
Harry sighed; Bob always did have a flair for the dramatic. He carefully drew out Bob's skull from the backpack.
"No, that certainly isn't a bomb, is it?" Holmes commented, more to himself than anyone else.
"But just as dangerous, I'll bet," Watson said, with a sunny smile. Harry glared at him, that statement was a little too close to the truth for comfort. It wasn't a surprise that Watson cheerfully ignored the glare. Thankfully, Lestrade remained silent.
"You can come out, now, Bob," Harry said.
*
After Bob's declaration that he had 'quite the presence' John had been curious to see just what a thousand-years dead magical practitioner - he couldn't quite bring himself to even think the words wizard or sorcerer - looked like. The flaming spark that arose from the eye sockets of the skull at Harry Dresden's words wasn't exactly impressive but the trail of smoke that followed it gradually coalesced into a recognisably human form. John's first impression was of a tall man - about the same height as Sherlock - dark clothes, bright silver hair and eyes that were even paler than Sherlock's, which was saying something. On a second glance he realised that Bob wasn't dressed in unremitting black, there were splashes of colour - a deep, blood red - at his neck and jacket pocket from cravat and handkerchief and as Bob moved his arms John caught sight of what appeared to be rune-engraved manacles around the ghost's wrists. Cursed indeed, but he'd been right, he did have quite the presence.
"So?" Bob demanded. Dresden gave a long-suffering sort of sigh and John bit back a rather inappropriate giggle, Bob might be a ghost, but it appeared he was about as much of a trial to deal with as Sherlock.
"Guys, this is Bob. He's a ghost and this is his skull." Dresden cast a wary glance toward Greg Lestrade. "I didn't kill him, he's been this way for a hell of a long time."
"Though I'm sure if I wasn't already as dead as the proverbial dodo you'd certainly think about it at least some of the time, hmm?"
"Bob!"
John hid a smile behind his hand, he really shouldn't find other people's discomfort amusing but there was just something about Bob and his way of interacting with the world and other people that struck a chord with him, possibly the same one that allowed him to deal with Sherlock.
"So, how does this magic thing work then?" Greg asked. John could tell he was interested despite himself; again too much time spent with Sherlock probably made him consider all sorts of things that weren't exactly thought of as normal.
"Mr Holmes…"
"Sherlock. 'Mr Holmes' is my brother, and I am very glad that he isn't here."
"Okay then. Sherlock is essentially right - it's a talent like any other which means you can look at the world in a different way. It's kind of useful sometimes." Harry shrugged, as if it was no big deal for him.
"Obviously. Most people don't look at the world properly at the best of times, so I can see that it would give you an advantage," Sherlock said, also apparently interested, though that didn't surprise John in the slightest.
"I also probably shouldn't have been so… " Dresden paused momentarily, as if he were searching for the right words, "open about my… um… other skills, but Bob kind of took that decision out of my hands."
Bob gave a theatrical sigh. "That's right, blame me. I should be used to it by now." Despite the aggrieved tone of voice, John could see the humour sparkling in Bob's pale eyes. Judging by the smirk Dresden tried to hide, he did, too.
"It's your fault, of course I'm going to blame you," Dresden said. "At least Morgan can't kill you."
"Hmph. You see what I have to endure?" Bob said to the room in general. John mostly ignored him, his attention caught by the name Dresden mentioned.
"Who's Morgan?" John asked.
Dresden frowned. "As near as dammit, he's part of the magical police, people who are supposed to stop the rest of the world finding out about magic."
"Isn't he fighting a losing battle from that point of view if you're in the bloody phone book under 'Wizard'?" Greg chimed in with the question before John could, though he'd been wondering exactly the same thing.
"We manage to work around that, most of the time; Morgan and I have something of an… understanding, even if he doesn't entirely approve of me. Apart from the police I generally only take on clients who have nowhere else to turn; desperation allows you to overlook all sorts of things. Besides, I have a good idea who are the time wasters and sensationalists and they get nothing from me."
"Fair enough. So we aren't going to have the magical police descending on us and cursing us six ways to Sunday, then?" John asked.
"That's not how they work, but no. There was a reason I wanted us in a room with a door that closed - nothing discussed in here can be heard outside. It's a useful skill and it does reduce the chances that someone will pick up something they shouldn't know about, not that most of that lot would think anything of it; they all think I'm some sort of crazy freak anyway."
"That sounds almost familiar," John commented, and cast a glance in Greg's direction to possibly share the moment, only to discover that his friend seemed to be deep in thought and was absolutely miles away. As John watched, Greg roused himself from wherever his mind had been, though he was frowning like something hadn't quite clicked into the right position in his head.
"Pity that different way of looking at things couldn't give you a face to go with those fingerprints," Greg said. "Now that would be useful."
In John's opinion that was pretty typical of Greg, to see things in terms of how they would benefit an investigation, rather than for pure interests sake, and without freaking out.
Dresden looked rather thoughtful for a moment.
"Actually, there might be a way to do that," he said. "Now if you could all step back?"
John shuffled back as far as the confines of the room allowed, Sherlock and Greg pressed close to him. They said nothing, but John was sure the look on his face alone, never mind what showed on Sherlock and Greg's faces, expressed the question clearly enough. He hoped Dresden would take pity on him.
"The use of magic interferes with complex electronics and I'm sure you all have cell phones with you," Dresden explained. "Hopefully they'll be okay at that distance. Bob, do your thing… um, Murphy, I think."
"Very well." Tendrils of what looked like smoke wrapped around Bob and when they cleared there was no longer a six foot, silver-haired, pale eyed man standing there, but a dark haired, dark eyed woman around the same height as John, who he presumed was the previously mentioned, and absent, lieutenant Murphy. Bob held the likeness for some minutes while they all stared, though God only knew what was going on behind Sherlock's eyes. Eventually, he dissolved back into being himself.
"If we're lucky, Bob will be able to get enough information from those fingerprints on the ceiling to show us the face of our unknown suspect. There's only one catch…"
"Which is?" Greg asked.
"The inability to capture the image," Sherlock replied. "If what he said about magic and electronics holds true-to-form you would be unable to use any sort of digital camera, or complex SLR to take a photograph. I don't know if even a basic film camera would record an image of a non-corporeal being wearing someone else's face."
Dresden nodded in enthusiastic agreement.
"We managed it once with an old Box Brownie, but I wouldn't want to bet on any sort of predictable success." He shrugged. "I don't suppose any of you sketches? I can't exactly ask for a police artist for something like this."
"I might be able to help," John said into what felt like an expectant silence. "I'm a bit out of practise, but…"
"I didn't know you could draw!" Sherlock sounded vaguely insulted. John supposed he could well be, he tended to regard gaps in the information he held on a subject as personal affronts and John had found that he was no exception to that; Sherlock occasionally treated him as if he were little more than an ongoing experiment that became irritating because it didn't always demonstrate predictable results.
"I don't really, not any more. Not since… " John flexed his hand, he knew Sherlock would notice the gesture and interpret the meaning. "Back then, it was something to pass the time when there wasn't much in the way of entertainment available. If someone has a…" John trailed off as Dresden held out a flip-top pad and a pencil. "Ah. Thanks. Give me a minute…" John settled himself on the floor, knees drawn up so he had something to lean the pad against as he brought pencil to paper. He was conscious of the expectant silence but refused to acknowledge it, chewing at his lip while he thought. In the end he decided to draw Bob, hoping that he wasn't too rusty and that his sketch actually looked like the ghost. The rasp of the pencil across the paper seemed loud in his ears, far louder than the distant murmur of conversation that was going on over his head. In the end, he was quite pleased with the result; it seemed he hadn't quite lost his touch. He held the pad up, to have it snatched out of his hand by Sherlock. John scrambled upright, ignored by the others as they pressed around Sherlock and looked at the drawing of Bob. The hush was disconcerting, he wasn't entirely sure if it signified approval or disdain of his artistic efforts.
"Oh," Bob said. He sounded surprised and John raised an eyebrow in silent query. "I look… happy. I wasn't expecting that."
"It is a good likeness, though," added Sherlock.
"Which means I need to go out there and talk to Murphy," Dresden said. "I won't be long - I hope." He quirked two fingers in a gesture that John wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been watching him, presumably breaking the shell of silence around the room, then headed toward the door. Bob cleared his throat conspicuously and nodded toward his skull, which Dresden had cradled unconsciously in the crook of his arm as if he were used to it being there.
John stepped forward. "I can look after that if you want? I don't think the police would take kindly to you wandering around a crime scene with a skull."
"Murphy probably wouldn't be surprised, but you're right." John accepted both skull and backpack from Dresden, accompanied by an audible sigh of relief from Bob.
*
The room seemed a lot bigger without Harry Dresden in it, but Greg didn't think that was solely due to the lack of his physical presence. There was something larger than life about Dresden, he couldn't deny that, even if he was somewhat reluctant to admit that it might be because Dresden truly did have magic.
There was no way that Greg could have anticipated the turn of events when he met lieutenant Murphy at the conference, magic just didn't exist in his world and he was pretty damn certain that Murphy didn't think it had any right to exist in hers either - they dealt with reality: harsh, desperate and far too often bloody reality - but Greg was a pragmatist and he would bet that Murphy was too. Even so, he was sure he should probably be freaking out a hell of a lot more than he was about the apparent use of magic as a potential investigative tool. Maybe he was too used to Sherlock to find the odd and unexplainable freaky, because what Sherlock did almost seemed like magic to someone like him. Greg knew he was good at his job but he was quite aware he had limitations - he was only human after all - and he wasn't too proud to use anything that came his way to ensure that justice at least had a fighting chance of being done. Murphy seemed to be cut from the same cloth.
In his case, it meant using Sherlock to point him in the direction of obtaining proof when he knew instinctively that a there was more to a case than met the eye, even if he couldn't see it. He didn't care what people thought of him for using Sherlock, the number of closed cases were more than adequate vindication.
For Murphy, it was Dresden.
If Dresden was good enough for Murphy - whose opinion and instinct he had come to respect in the short time he had known her - then he would be good enough for Greg, no matter that his methods verged on the unbelievable.
"So what now?" Greg asked.
"We wait for the estimable lieutenant Murphy to agree with Harry. It might take some time, but agree she will - she's out of options otherwise," replied Bob.
"I wish I felt as confident. Lieutenant Murphy doesn't look like someone who would grasp at straws," John said. Greg wished he could offer some reassurance, but he wasn't certain himself that Dresden would be successful.
"She isn't, but neither is Lestrade and he calls me in for less."
Greg bit his lip to stop a smile escaping, it was a typically Sherlock sort of comment.
"That's different," protested John, though Greg thought it sounded a bit half-hearted.
"Is it? I observe things Lestrade doesn't. Harry Dresden observes things Murphy doesn't. The methodology may differ but the result is the same."
Greg wasn't inclined to argue the point with Sherlock and judging from the silence that greeted the statement, neither was John. He hoped the wait would be a short one.