A Scandal in New York (Castleland; WIP)
Title: A Scandal in New York
Author: hope_tang
Word Count: 2,218-ish
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Other than being a fan, I have nothing to do with Castle.
Author's Notes: This was written for castleland as a Castle/Sherlock crossover. Clearly, when the plot tribble bites, it bites hard. This is not 100 words! *desk*
~
“Between you, Matthew, and Sherlock,” the man complained with fondness as he and his companion stepped out of the lift, “I barely have a day to myself.”
The pretty, young woman with him laughed. “You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if you had a day off, besides sit around your flat, staring at the walls and going a bit barmy.”
She grinned at him, the sparkle in her eyes taking the sting out of her words. Nevertheless, the older man put a hand over his heart in mock horror.
“I wouldn’t! I’d have errands to run!”
“Oh, pssh, keep telling yourself that.”
“I do take time off.” The protest was somewhat weak, mostly formulaic as they rehashed an old conversation with more good-natured teasing than full-blown ire. The wheels of the man’s rolling suitcase rumbled on the old creaky floors.
“You’re a workaholic, Dad, admit it.” The young woman gave him a knowing look. “If I didn’t drag you over here, you’d be waiting for Sherlock to interrupt your holiday again.”
“You make it sound like I appreciate him barging into my life without invitation.”
“You’re the one who told me he grows on you.”
“Like acinetobacter baumannii,” he replied with a straight face, “or a persistent strain of black mould.”
“And how is Ms Hooper?” asked his companion with amused glee in her voice, looping their arms together. “Will she be able to join us?”
“A transatlantic flight is a bit far for a short holiday, you know,” he said with mock disapproval, hoping to throw his daughter off the topic of his girlfriend (and her potential step-mum-to-be).
“Come on, Dad,” his daughter pleaded, in the same tone of voice that had gotten her a puppy when she was six, the one that every doting father knew with equal parts adoration and dread from their little princesses, “it’s not that bad. If you’ve managed a full week off...”
He didn’t even bother to put up further resistance. “As soon as the trial verdict comes in, she’ll be on the next flight over.”
“And she’s sure that--”
“Yes, Molly is very sure, and I have been warned on the pain of extra, extra-hot curry to not offer again.”
“You’re such a pushover, Dad, for the women you love.” His daughter gave him a quick hug before stepping away from him.
It still stunned him every single time when his grown children accepted and supported his life choices, especially his daughter. Most people, he knew, would probably balk at the thought of their father dating a young woman not much older than they were, but his children had taken the development with grace and understanding, and had done more than he ever dreamed they would do to welcome his … significant other into their family.
“You’re all right with this? With me and...”
“If I wasn’t all right with it, I wouldn’t have invited both of you to come over.”
They stopped in front of flat 519 and his daughter began looking for her keys in her handbag. He glanced up and down the deserted corridor, and made a note to talk to his daughter about personal safety (again). It was an old lecture he’d given her ever since she was old enough to go out and come home on her own, but clearly, she needed a refresher.
“I like Molly,” his daughter said, holding her embassy credentials and purse strap in one hand while she dug through her handbag contents with the other. “And sure, you met because of the Job, but your relationship isn’t all about the Job, and she understands the late nights and long hours and crazy early mornings, and Mum never did, and she knows Sherlock, which is more than most of us can say, and well...” she paused to smile at her father. “Molly makes you happy, which makes me happy, and I like her because she’s smart and funny and sometimes wildly inappropriate and very honest.”
She continued quietly, eyes focused on the doormat, “For a while, it felt like Sherlock was your job, and I was horribly jealous and worried.” She shook her head and resumed fishing through her bag. “Then Dr Watson came along, poor man.”
Her father laughed, “Don’t let that innocent ‘who-me?’ face fool you. There’s nothing that John Watson has gotten involved in that he doesn’t want to be involved in.”
“He just hides his crazy better?”
“Exactly. Now, are you sure this is above board?”
“Perfectly,” she said before letting out a cry of triumph. She held up her keys before turning to the door. “You’re family; we’ve paid for your airfare privately; and the Ambassador is fine with it. If you seriously want to reimburse--”
He held up a hand and chuckled. “Point made and taken.”
She laughed and kissed him on the cheek before she opened the door to the flat. “It’s not much, but I do hope it will suffice for the next few days.”
Stepping over the threshold, the protective father was pleased to note that the door seemed to be made out of fairly sturdy material and there were two extra deadbolts. The place didn’t appear to be the most secure of living arrangements, but it was clear that the Foreign Office did take the safety of its employees seriously, even in a city like New York.
He looked around at the cramped, but tidy flat. “It will do.”
His daughter chirped happily, “You’ll take the bedroom, of course, with Molly. I’ll be on the sofa.”
“Charlotte!”
“What?” She gave her father a look of bright innocence. “I just thought it would be sweet.”
Her father spluttered as she took his hand and led him into said bedroom. “It’s nice and cozy, just perfect for you two.”
“Oh my God,” he muttered in mock consternation, “and I thought Sally was bad. My own daughter. I don’t need the two of you playing matchmaker for me!”
“Oh cheer up, Dad,” she laughed, reaching up to hug him. “It’s sweet, watching you and Molly being lovebirds, and I want you to spend as much time together as possible. It’s not like I’m asking you to hide a dead body for me.”
The ceiling gave an ominous creak.
“What’s that?” he asked immediately, looking worriedly up at the plaster.
His daughter shrugged, “It’s been like that a few days. I’ve asked the embassy to look into it. It’s probably termites. It’s a pretty common issue around here.”
“I don’t like it that it’s making that sound over your bed.” He took a step closer to the bed, peering up at the flaking paint. Was it just his eyesight and poor lighting, or did the ceiling look like it was sagging downwards?
“It’s fine, Dad. I’m sure it’s noth--”
The ceiling abruptly gave way with a groan. Immediately, he tackled his daughter to the ground, shielding her from the drywall, rotten wood and whatever the fuck else was coming down on them. In the back of his mind, he made a note to have a word with the Ambassador about the safety of the embassy staffers’ housing, and if that wasn’t going to do it, he was going straight to Mycroft.
When the tumult quieted down, he ran clinical hands over his daughter’s shaking form. No blood, no punctures, no serious harm. “Thank God” he sent heavenwards as he asked hoarsely, “You hurt?”
“No,” she choked on the growing dust cloud, “but let’s get out of here. These buildings are old.”
He nodded, holding out a hand to help her to her feet before he glanced over his shoulder... right into the blank eyes of a bloodied corpse.
“Sodding hell,” he thought, even as he whirled back around to his daughter and half-dragged, half-shoved her out of the room with a sharp, “Out! Eyes closed! Go!”
“Dad,” she asked, her voice pitched high with fear, even as she did as he asked, stumbling into the hallway. “What’s going on?”
“Call the police, then your Ambassador,” he instructed grimly, holding firmly onto his daughter’s wrist, fingers resting just over her pounding pulse. “Then see if we can find a motel somewhere around here.”
Charlotte had her mobile out and dialed as she asked, “Why?”
Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade glanced back at the half-open bedroom door. There were things a father never wanted his daughter to see; this was one of them.
“This just became a crime scene.”
*
“-T-A-D-E” said the young brunette, wrapped up in a shock blanket and sitting at her kitchen table while Esposito took her statement and contact information. For an innocent bystander who had a corpse literally fall into her bed, Kevin noted that she seemed to be taking everything remarkably well.
With a nod, he dismissed the uniforms who had quarantined the other witness in the living room, sans shock blanket but with a strong cup of coffee. The older man was staring down at the mug of black liquid with a look of faint revulsion mixed with resignation.
Kevin caught the tail end of the man’s mumbled comment--something about tea?--before he cleared his throat and said, “Excuse me, Mr. Lestrade?”
“Yes?” There was something about the older man that gave the impression he felt incredibly calm about this entire situation. Most civilians would be unnerved not only by the dead body just down the hallway, but also by the controlled chaos of evidence-gathering and intrusive nature of police work. This man, even more so than the young woman in the kitchen, acted as if he was undisturbed, even comforted by the swarm of strangers invading his very personal, very private space. Kevin wondered if that was just “the accent effect” that Jenny had mentioned one time, or if the man really was as composed as he seemed.
“I’m Detective Ryan with the NYPD,” said Kevin, shaking hands with the older man before pulling out his notebook and pen. “Can you tell me what happened today?”
Their witness nodded and launched smoothly into a very concise, detailed account of his movements, pausing at just the right moments to allow Kevin to keep up with his notes.
“My daughter Charlotte picked me up at LaGuardia airport at approximately 1:30 this afternoon. My flight was from Heathrow to LaGuardia, on Virgin Atlantic, with an arrival time of... I believe, 12:20 pm. We took a cab, stopped at a cafe for lunch--you’ll have to ask her for the name, I’m afraid--and arrived back here at approximately a quarter to 4.
“Besides a passing greeting from one of her neighbours downstairs in the foyer, we saw no one else in the lift or corridors on our way to this flat. I’d have to take a closer look, but I did not see any noticeable sign of a break-in before she opened the door. We entered, locked the door behind us, and spoke for a few minutes before we entered the bedroom. I observed that the ceiling was sagging downwards over her bed.
“During the resulting conversation, the ceiling collapsed, sending your victim,” he nodded in the direction of the bedroom, “halfway to the floor. I immediately brought her out of the room, and instructed her to call the police, and then the British Ambassador.” He gave Ryan a sharp, knowing look as he added, “in that order. We then waited outside in the hallway until your uniformed officers arrived, at which point, I asked my daughter to stay outside while I directed one of the officers towards the bedroom. I then returned to keep company with my daughter until we were both brought inside, given cups of American coffee, and separated until the Homicide detectives arrived.”
Kevin looked at him with polite suspicion as he took down the preliminary statement. “You watch a lot of crime shows, Mr. Lestrade?”
“No, actually, I--”
“Greg?” Beckett sounded surprised. Kevin looked over his shoulder to see that, yes, indeed, Beckett was very surprised, but also pleased. On the other hand, Castle’s usual enthusiasm for the case was shifting towards wariness at the unexpected development.
“Kate?”
“What are you doing here?” asked Beckett warmly.
“Well,” their witness replied with a hint of dry amusement, “I was on holiday...” he shrugged in mild resignation,” but clearly, a policeman’s lot is not a happy one.”
“You know each other Beckett?” asked Castle, curiosity coloring his voice. Kevin silently seconded the query himself.
“I’ll let him introduce himself. Your daughter’s in the kitchen?”
“Yes, if you could--?” An anxious father briefly replaced the calm man in front of the trio of NYPD investigators.
“I’ll go check on her for you.”
“Thank you.” The calmly professional exterior returned, this time softened with a rueful smile. “I probably should have introduced myself first.” He held out his hand. “Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector with New Scotland Yard. Kate and I met on a case back in ‘05.”
“Welcome to New York,” said Kevin, warmly shaking his British counterpart’s hand. “Kevin Ryan.”
Castle stepped forward for a handshake of his own. “Richard Castle, writer and police consultant.”
Lestrade nodded. “I’ve read one or two of your books. You, ah, have quite an imagination, Mr. Castle.”
“I try to put my skills to good use.”
Author: hope_tang
Word Count: 2,218-ish
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Other than being a fan, I have nothing to do with Castle.
Author's Notes: This was written for castleland as a Castle/Sherlock crossover. Clearly, when the plot tribble bites, it bites hard. This is not 100 words! *desk*
~
“Between you, Matthew, and Sherlock,” the man complained with fondness as he and his companion stepped out of the lift, “I barely have a day to myself.”
The pretty, young woman with him laughed. “You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if you had a day off, besides sit around your flat, staring at the walls and going a bit barmy.”
She grinned at him, the sparkle in her eyes taking the sting out of her words. Nevertheless, the older man put a hand over his heart in mock horror.
“I wouldn’t! I’d have errands to run!”
“Oh, pssh, keep telling yourself that.”
“I do take time off.” The protest was somewhat weak, mostly formulaic as they rehashed an old conversation with more good-natured teasing than full-blown ire. The wheels of the man’s rolling suitcase rumbled on the old creaky floors.
“You’re a workaholic, Dad, admit it.” The young woman gave him a knowing look. “If I didn’t drag you over here, you’d be waiting for Sherlock to interrupt your holiday again.”
“You make it sound like I appreciate him barging into my life without invitation.”
“You’re the one who told me he grows on you.”
“Like acinetobacter baumannii,” he replied with a straight face, “or a persistent strain of black mould.”
“And how is Ms Hooper?” asked his companion with amused glee in her voice, looping their arms together. “Will she be able to join us?”
“A transatlantic flight is a bit far for a short holiday, you know,” he said with mock disapproval, hoping to throw his daughter off the topic of his girlfriend (and her potential step-mum-to-be).
“Come on, Dad,” his daughter pleaded, in the same tone of voice that had gotten her a puppy when she was six, the one that every doting father knew with equal parts adoration and dread from their little princesses, “it’s not that bad. If you’ve managed a full week off...”
He didn’t even bother to put up further resistance. “As soon as the trial verdict comes in, she’ll be on the next flight over.”
“And she’s sure that--”
“Yes, Molly is very sure, and I have been warned on the pain of extra, extra-hot curry to not offer again.”
“You’re such a pushover, Dad, for the women you love.” His daughter gave him a quick hug before stepping away from him.
It still stunned him every single time when his grown children accepted and supported his life choices, especially his daughter. Most people, he knew, would probably balk at the thought of their father dating a young woman not much older than they were, but his children had taken the development with grace and understanding, and had done more than he ever dreamed they would do to welcome his … significant other into their family.
“You’re all right with this? With me and...”
“If I wasn’t all right with it, I wouldn’t have invited both of you to come over.”
They stopped in front of flat 519 and his daughter began looking for her keys in her handbag. He glanced up and down the deserted corridor, and made a note to talk to his daughter about personal safety (again). It was an old lecture he’d given her ever since she was old enough to go out and come home on her own, but clearly, she needed a refresher.
“I like Molly,” his daughter said, holding her embassy credentials and purse strap in one hand while she dug through her handbag contents with the other. “And sure, you met because of the Job, but your relationship isn’t all about the Job, and she understands the late nights and long hours and crazy early mornings, and Mum never did, and she knows Sherlock, which is more than most of us can say, and well...” she paused to smile at her father. “Molly makes you happy, which makes me happy, and I like her because she’s smart and funny and sometimes wildly inappropriate and very honest.”
She continued quietly, eyes focused on the doormat, “For a while, it felt like Sherlock was your job, and I was horribly jealous and worried.” She shook her head and resumed fishing through her bag. “Then Dr Watson came along, poor man.”
Her father laughed, “Don’t let that innocent ‘who-me?’ face fool you. There’s nothing that John Watson has gotten involved in that he doesn’t want to be involved in.”
“He just hides his crazy better?”
“Exactly. Now, are you sure this is above board?”
“Perfectly,” she said before letting out a cry of triumph. She held up her keys before turning to the door. “You’re family; we’ve paid for your airfare privately; and the Ambassador is fine with it. If you seriously want to reimburse--”
He held up a hand and chuckled. “Point made and taken.”
She laughed and kissed him on the cheek before she opened the door to the flat. “It’s not much, but I do hope it will suffice for the next few days.”
Stepping over the threshold, the protective father was pleased to note that the door seemed to be made out of fairly sturdy material and there were two extra deadbolts. The place didn’t appear to be the most secure of living arrangements, but it was clear that the Foreign Office did take the safety of its employees seriously, even in a city like New York.
He looked around at the cramped, but tidy flat. “It will do.”
His daughter chirped happily, “You’ll take the bedroom, of course, with Molly. I’ll be on the sofa.”
“Charlotte!”
“What?” She gave her father a look of bright innocence. “I just thought it would be sweet.”
Her father spluttered as she took his hand and led him into said bedroom. “It’s nice and cozy, just perfect for you two.”
“Oh my God,” he muttered in mock consternation, “and I thought Sally was bad. My own daughter. I don’t need the two of you playing matchmaker for me!”
“Oh cheer up, Dad,” she laughed, reaching up to hug him. “It’s sweet, watching you and Molly being lovebirds, and I want you to spend as much time together as possible. It’s not like I’m asking you to hide a dead body for me.”
The ceiling gave an ominous creak.
“What’s that?” he asked immediately, looking worriedly up at the plaster.
His daughter shrugged, “It’s been like that a few days. I’ve asked the embassy to look into it. It’s probably termites. It’s a pretty common issue around here.”
“I don’t like it that it’s making that sound over your bed.” He took a step closer to the bed, peering up at the flaking paint. Was it just his eyesight and poor lighting, or did the ceiling look like it was sagging downwards?
“It’s fine, Dad. I’m sure it’s noth--”
The ceiling abruptly gave way with a groan. Immediately, he tackled his daughter to the ground, shielding her from the drywall, rotten wood and whatever the fuck else was coming down on them. In the back of his mind, he made a note to have a word with the Ambassador about the safety of the embassy staffers’ housing, and if that wasn’t going to do it, he was going straight to Mycroft.
When the tumult quieted down, he ran clinical hands over his daughter’s shaking form. No blood, no punctures, no serious harm. “Thank God” he sent heavenwards as he asked hoarsely, “You hurt?”
“No,” she choked on the growing dust cloud, “but let’s get out of here. These buildings are old.”
He nodded, holding out a hand to help her to her feet before he glanced over his shoulder... right into the blank eyes of a bloodied corpse.
“Sodding hell,” he thought, even as he whirled back around to his daughter and half-dragged, half-shoved her out of the room with a sharp, “Out! Eyes closed! Go!”
“Dad,” she asked, her voice pitched high with fear, even as she did as he asked, stumbling into the hallway. “What’s going on?”
“Call the police, then your Ambassador,” he instructed grimly, holding firmly onto his daughter’s wrist, fingers resting just over her pounding pulse. “Then see if we can find a motel somewhere around here.”
Charlotte had her mobile out and dialed as she asked, “Why?”
Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade glanced back at the half-open bedroom door. There were things a father never wanted his daughter to see; this was one of them.
“This just became a crime scene.”
*
“-T-A-D-E” said the young brunette, wrapped up in a shock blanket and sitting at her kitchen table while Esposito took her statement and contact information. For an innocent bystander who had a corpse literally fall into her bed, Kevin noted that she seemed to be taking everything remarkably well.
With a nod, he dismissed the uniforms who had quarantined the other witness in the living room, sans shock blanket but with a strong cup of coffee. The older man was staring down at the mug of black liquid with a look of faint revulsion mixed with resignation.
Kevin caught the tail end of the man’s mumbled comment--something about tea?--before he cleared his throat and said, “Excuse me, Mr. Lestrade?”
“Yes?” There was something about the older man that gave the impression he felt incredibly calm about this entire situation. Most civilians would be unnerved not only by the dead body just down the hallway, but also by the controlled chaos of evidence-gathering and intrusive nature of police work. This man, even more so than the young woman in the kitchen, acted as if he was undisturbed, even comforted by the swarm of strangers invading his very personal, very private space. Kevin wondered if that was just “the accent effect” that Jenny had mentioned one time, or if the man really was as composed as he seemed.
“I’m Detective Ryan with the NYPD,” said Kevin, shaking hands with the older man before pulling out his notebook and pen. “Can you tell me what happened today?”
Their witness nodded and launched smoothly into a very concise, detailed account of his movements, pausing at just the right moments to allow Kevin to keep up with his notes.
“My daughter Charlotte picked me up at LaGuardia airport at approximately 1:30 this afternoon. My flight was from Heathrow to LaGuardia, on Virgin Atlantic, with an arrival time of... I believe, 12:20 pm. We took a cab, stopped at a cafe for lunch--you’ll have to ask her for the name, I’m afraid--and arrived back here at approximately a quarter to 4.
“Besides a passing greeting from one of her neighbours downstairs in the foyer, we saw no one else in the lift or corridors on our way to this flat. I’d have to take a closer look, but I did not see any noticeable sign of a break-in before she opened the door. We entered, locked the door behind us, and spoke for a few minutes before we entered the bedroom. I observed that the ceiling was sagging downwards over her bed.
“During the resulting conversation, the ceiling collapsed, sending your victim,” he nodded in the direction of the bedroom, “halfway to the floor. I immediately brought her out of the room, and instructed her to call the police, and then the British Ambassador.” He gave Ryan a sharp, knowing look as he added, “in that order. We then waited outside in the hallway until your uniformed officers arrived, at which point, I asked my daughter to stay outside while I directed one of the officers towards the bedroom. I then returned to keep company with my daughter until we were both brought inside, given cups of American coffee, and separated until the Homicide detectives arrived.”
Kevin looked at him with polite suspicion as he took down the preliminary statement. “You watch a lot of crime shows, Mr. Lestrade?”
“No, actually, I--”
“Greg?” Beckett sounded surprised. Kevin looked over his shoulder to see that, yes, indeed, Beckett was very surprised, but also pleased. On the other hand, Castle’s usual enthusiasm for the case was shifting towards wariness at the unexpected development.
“Kate?”
“What are you doing here?” asked Beckett warmly.
“Well,” their witness replied with a hint of dry amusement, “I was on holiday...” he shrugged in mild resignation,” but clearly, a policeman’s lot is not a happy one.”
“You know each other Beckett?” asked Castle, curiosity coloring his voice. Kevin silently seconded the query himself.
“I’ll let him introduce himself. Your daughter’s in the kitchen?”
“Yes, if you could--?” An anxious father briefly replaced the calm man in front of the trio of NYPD investigators.
“I’ll go check on her for you.”
“Thank you.” The calmly professional exterior returned, this time softened with a rueful smile. “I probably should have introduced myself first.” He held out his hand. “Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector with New Scotland Yard. Kate and I met on a case back in ‘05.”
“Welcome to New York,” said Kevin, warmly shaking his British counterpart’s hand. “Kevin Ryan.”
Castle stepped forward for a handshake of his own. “Richard Castle, writer and police consultant.”
Lestrade nodded. “I’ve read one or two of your books. You, ah, have quite an imagination, Mr. Castle.”
“I try to put my skills to good use.”