Passing Inspection (1/1)
Title: Passing Inspection (1/1)
Author: jenlee1
Rating: PG
Setting: 2009 movieverse
Pairing: Holmes/Watson (implied)
Word Count: 2054
Warnings: none that I’m aware of
Summary: Inspector Lestrade may not be a world-famous master of deduction, but neither is he a fool.
A/N: Written for a prompt by ingridmatthews on our little fic meme at worththewounds, asking for some musings by a third party on Holmes' chilly demeanor with the world at large in contrast to his obvious regard for Watson.
The most basic tenet of a police inspector’s profession, for better or worse, is that people are rarely what they seem.
Nine times in ten, it’s the filthiest street urchin who’s got the crucial bit of information we need, and the most well-spoken of criminals, as likely as not, who commits the worst crime. It’s rule number one of good police work - or so I’ve always been told - and I ought to know it as well as anyone.
Early on in my career, I had always figured Mr. Sherlock Holmes for an exception. He’s an exception to most everything else, after all, and so perhaps it’s an understandable oversight. London’s only consulting detective - by which he means amateur, however he couches it - is a difficult man to work with, never mind getting to know him well enough to say much about his character. Inscrutable as a bed of limestone, and every bit as cold; we’ve run in the same circles for years, and there was a time I’d have sworn up and down that he cared for his pipe and his puzzles and the thrill of the chase, and nothing else in the world.
And more the fool I am for it, I suppose. But to be fair, a man can only see what’s in front of him, and I’ve been working from the only evidence I had.
Simply enough, he’s got a way about him that grates, like sandpaper over fine china. He’ll turn up at a crime scene - my crime scene, neat and tidy and under control, thank you very much - and run roughshod over everything, sniffing the floors and going on about trifles like a broken lamp in the linen cupboard and the victim’s choice in pipe tobacco, and God forbid you try and interject some common sense into the matter.
He coughs, invariably. Draws himself up to his full height - which isn’t half as impressive as he thinks it is, and I’ve always wanted to say so - looks down his nose, and blinks like he can’t believe you’ve just said what you said. Probably because he can’t, I suppose; that great overdeveloped brain of his is always ten steps ahead, waiting at the finish before the rest of us have grasped the particulars of what we’re meant to be thinking about. But all the same, it’s hardly a personal failing on the part of the rest of the world that we bloody well can’t keep up.
Sets my teeth on edge, each and every time.
Privately, I’ve always had a suspicion that all the ordinary civility and awareness and just plain decency have been pushed out by the logic he's so proud of - something’s lacking, for sure and certain - and the overall effect is more than a little unsettling. His performance is always the same; he trots out his answers, collects his thanks, and turns to go without a backward glance. The solution is all he wants - all he’s ever wanted, in fact, as far as I can tell - and the rest is just white noise.
That’s what the world is to him, with all its various and sundry parts and people. Cogs in a machine; nothing more and nothing less. It’s a trifle disconcerting until you get used to it, and then it’s just a fact of life. Like a cold wind, or a paper cut - it stings a bit for a moment, but there’s nothing to be done except curse a little under your breath and go on about your business. It’s the only way, really; take his manner to heart, and you’ll soon go mad. I’ve seen him eviscerate men with a glance, stock still and cool as you please, for having the audacity to offer a different interpretation of the facts.
Not that Sherlock Holmes would be caught dead asking another man’s opinion, of course - he’s far too sure of himself for that. Vain as a peacock and always has been, and the fact that he’s always right just makes it worse.
With the Doctor, now - well. That’s something altogether different.
I’d like to think that I’m a capable enough observer of people, but it must have been over a year before I noticed it - really noticed, without brushing it off as a trick of the light or a passing fancy, but there’s no mistaking the signs. When the Doctor speaks, he listens.
There’s a change that comes over his face; mouth set and silent, eyebrows raised, gaze focused like it never is when I’m trying to tell him something. Like John Watson’s revealing the mysteries of the universe, instead of offering a thought on the appearance of the carpet in the victim’s sitting room. Perhaps the self-same thought that I myself might have offered, to utterly indifferent ears, but no matter. There are certain niceties reserved for a man’s longtime colleague and flatmate, even on the part of Sherlock Holmes, and I assumed at first that the explanation lay in this arrangement.
Because for all his airs, “consulting” doesn’t always pay the rent. Or it didn’t in those early days, at least - I remember the crumpled hatbands and jackets that didn’t quite fit, even if he claims otherwise. I’d wager that there were months when it didn’t pay half the rent, to state the matter a bit more clearly, but the Doctor would sooner cut off his own arm than put an acquaintance out on the street - and so it went.
Small wonder, then, that Holmes gave him a bit more consideration than most. Some addled mixture of fair play and self preservation - because pride is one thing but necessity is something else, and who else could he ever find to tolerate him at such close quarters?
Not that it’s only that, of course. Perhaps it never was, but I’m every bit as prone to mistakes as the next man, and who can say for certain? All I know is what I’ve seen, and Heaven knows I’m seeing more of late than I used to. Enough to change my thinking on a few points I once thought were fixed and solid, including the existence of something human in the coldest man I know.
The McMurtry murder case was the turning point, as much as I can say there was one. Nigh on ten years ago at last count and I remember the day because it snowed, hard. First storm of the season and I felt the chill in places I’d forgotten I had, but crime goes on regardless of the weather and so does Scotland Yard. We flushed our quarry just east of the shipyards and he was off in an instant, with a bitter wind coming off the Thames and six pairs of boots in close pursuit.
Winter’s teeth have always been harder on the Doctor than on anyone else, and Holmes knows it better than most. His bad leg wasn’t up to the strain and when he caught himself against a wall - for the third time that afternoon, not counting the times I hadn’t noticed - and waved us on at last, no one stopped to argue.
If Holmes’ concentration faltered a bit, or the Doctor’s mouth tightened in something other than pain as he watched us vanish around the corner, I confess that I was too preoccupied with the villain up ahead to pay it any mind.
McMurtry, after all, was a murdering scoundrel and a highly dangerous man.
The chase concluded itself easily enough, with the blackguard cornered and brandishing a blade not ten minutes later, and subdued with a minimum of fuss shortly thereafter. Holmes - to no one’s surprise, as I’ve yet to see the man demonstrate any particular sense of caution, no matter how warranted - had been the first to fling himself into the fray and earned a nasty gash on the forearm for his trouble, but nothing worse apart from cuts and bruises. All in all the matter was brought to a very satisfactory conclusion, if I do say so myself.
No sooner were the darbies placed than Holmes was gone, off to God knows where doing God knows what, and it seemed his statement would have to wait for morning. Not an unusual occurrence, to be sure - he’s never paid any mind to our protocols, and I’ve made a concerted effort to stop being surprised - but there are times, nonetheless, when it’s all a bit much. Useful as he is to have around, it’s always a bit of a sticking point to decide whether or not it’s worth the aggravation.
Mostly it is, of course, or I wouldn’t darken the door of 221b Baker Street half as often as I do.
Still.
Be that as it may, it bears reminding every now and then that we have certain expectations - procedures to follow, rules to heed, and whatnot - and so I doubled back along our route in rather a fine temper. I’ll admit I was a bit surprised, after everything that had happened, to find Holmes with Dr. Watson right against the wall where we’d left him.
I hung back a bit at first, thinking to give the Doctor time to vent his frustration - few things have ever raised his ire more than his daft detective running off half-cocked on his own, and I had no wish to spare Holmes the scolding - but they were too busy with each other to notice much else, and truth be told, that’s when I first saw them. Really saw them, the way I should have from the start if I’d been paying attention, and stopped dead at the corner so as not to give myself away.
They could have been doing any number of things - I’d expected Holmes’ arm to have received some cursory professional attention, along with the vocal disapproval I’d been witness to on other occasions - but in point of fact they were simply standing, unobserved for the space of a few precious moments and taking full advantage of it. The Doctor had levered himself up, standing on his injured leg by sheer strength of will, to lay a bare hand against the other’s cheek.
And Holmes - Holmes, his head bent in something awfully like concern, with one arm around the Doctor’s waist to steady him. Both as still and silent as anything I’ve ever seen - foreheads just touching, close enough to feel each other’s breath, and they were a pair as far removed from what I knew of Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson as a crackling hearth is from a snowstorm.
The Doctor had been worried, that much was clear; worried over our stubborn, arrogant bugger of a consultant, little enough sense though it made to me at the time. But it was there nonetheless, plain to see in the way they stood with the Doctor’s pain and fear, and his relief, as stark and unmistakable as Holmes’ injured arm braced against him, dripping blood unnoticed in the snow.
Something almost human, indeed.
Another second, of course, and I’d clear my throat, turn to brush a clinging bit of ice from my collar and when I turned back they’d look at me like always: a respectable distance apart, with the Doctor smiling politely and Holmes impatient to be on his way. But he’s not the only one astute enough to draw conclusions, and I’d seen all I needed to see.
The two of them frozen there in the gathering dark: Holmes with his eyes closed, leaning into the Doctor’s touch, and that, I believe, is when I knew.
Nothing indecent about the gesture, of course - a warming of the fingers, a chance alignment of bodies against the wind. Two colleagues sharing a quiet moment of satisfaction in a job well done, and why shouldn’t they? But an inspector is paid to know these things, and I knew.
Not that it makes much difference.
It’s a lesson in appearances, is all. There are those at the Yard who might take an interest, but I’ve never counted myself among them. And in any case, there’s no evidence of anything to speak of - just a handful of shared glances and murmured words, and one man’s empty hunch. If Mr. Holmes and his Doctor are well and happy and no one’s the wiser, then who am I to offer any complaint?
Every man’s allowed his secrets, I suppose.
Author: jenlee1
Rating: PG
Setting: 2009 movieverse
Pairing: Holmes/Watson (implied)
Word Count: 2054
Warnings: none that I’m aware of
Summary: Inspector Lestrade may not be a world-famous master of deduction, but neither is he a fool.
A/N: Written for a prompt by ingridmatthews on our little fic meme at worththewounds, asking for some musings by a third party on Holmes' chilly demeanor with the world at large in contrast to his obvious regard for Watson.
The most basic tenet of a police inspector’s profession, for better or worse, is that people are rarely what they seem.
Nine times in ten, it’s the filthiest street urchin who’s got the crucial bit of information we need, and the most well-spoken of criminals, as likely as not, who commits the worst crime. It’s rule number one of good police work - or so I’ve always been told - and I ought to know it as well as anyone.
Early on in my career, I had always figured Mr. Sherlock Holmes for an exception. He’s an exception to most everything else, after all, and so perhaps it’s an understandable oversight. London’s only consulting detective - by which he means amateur, however he couches it - is a difficult man to work with, never mind getting to know him well enough to say much about his character. Inscrutable as a bed of limestone, and every bit as cold; we’ve run in the same circles for years, and there was a time I’d have sworn up and down that he cared for his pipe and his puzzles and the thrill of the chase, and nothing else in the world.
And more the fool I am for it, I suppose. But to be fair, a man can only see what’s in front of him, and I’ve been working from the only evidence I had.
Simply enough, he’s got a way about him that grates, like sandpaper over fine china. He’ll turn up at a crime scene - my crime scene, neat and tidy and under control, thank you very much - and run roughshod over everything, sniffing the floors and going on about trifles like a broken lamp in the linen cupboard and the victim’s choice in pipe tobacco, and God forbid you try and interject some common sense into the matter.
He coughs, invariably. Draws himself up to his full height - which isn’t half as impressive as he thinks it is, and I’ve always wanted to say so - looks down his nose, and blinks like he can’t believe you’ve just said what you said. Probably because he can’t, I suppose; that great overdeveloped brain of his is always ten steps ahead, waiting at the finish before the rest of us have grasped the particulars of what we’re meant to be thinking about. But all the same, it’s hardly a personal failing on the part of the rest of the world that we bloody well can’t keep up.
Sets my teeth on edge, each and every time.
Privately, I’ve always had a suspicion that all the ordinary civility and awareness and just plain decency have been pushed out by the logic he's so proud of - something’s lacking, for sure and certain - and the overall effect is more than a little unsettling. His performance is always the same; he trots out his answers, collects his thanks, and turns to go without a backward glance. The solution is all he wants - all he’s ever wanted, in fact, as far as I can tell - and the rest is just white noise.
That’s what the world is to him, with all its various and sundry parts and people. Cogs in a machine; nothing more and nothing less. It’s a trifle disconcerting until you get used to it, and then it’s just a fact of life. Like a cold wind, or a paper cut - it stings a bit for a moment, but there’s nothing to be done except curse a little under your breath and go on about your business. It’s the only way, really; take his manner to heart, and you’ll soon go mad. I’ve seen him eviscerate men with a glance, stock still and cool as you please, for having the audacity to offer a different interpretation of the facts.
Not that Sherlock Holmes would be caught dead asking another man’s opinion, of course - he’s far too sure of himself for that. Vain as a peacock and always has been, and the fact that he’s always right just makes it worse.
With the Doctor, now - well. That’s something altogether different.
I’d like to think that I’m a capable enough observer of people, but it must have been over a year before I noticed it - really noticed, without brushing it off as a trick of the light or a passing fancy, but there’s no mistaking the signs. When the Doctor speaks, he listens.
There’s a change that comes over his face; mouth set and silent, eyebrows raised, gaze focused like it never is when I’m trying to tell him something. Like John Watson’s revealing the mysteries of the universe, instead of offering a thought on the appearance of the carpet in the victim’s sitting room. Perhaps the self-same thought that I myself might have offered, to utterly indifferent ears, but no matter. There are certain niceties reserved for a man’s longtime colleague and flatmate, even on the part of Sherlock Holmes, and I assumed at first that the explanation lay in this arrangement.
Because for all his airs, “consulting” doesn’t always pay the rent. Or it didn’t in those early days, at least - I remember the crumpled hatbands and jackets that didn’t quite fit, even if he claims otherwise. I’d wager that there were months when it didn’t pay half the rent, to state the matter a bit more clearly, but the Doctor would sooner cut off his own arm than put an acquaintance out on the street - and so it went.
Small wonder, then, that Holmes gave him a bit more consideration than most. Some addled mixture of fair play and self preservation - because pride is one thing but necessity is something else, and who else could he ever find to tolerate him at such close quarters?
Not that it’s only that, of course. Perhaps it never was, but I’m every bit as prone to mistakes as the next man, and who can say for certain? All I know is what I’ve seen, and Heaven knows I’m seeing more of late than I used to. Enough to change my thinking on a few points I once thought were fixed and solid, including the existence of something human in the coldest man I know.
The McMurtry murder case was the turning point, as much as I can say there was one. Nigh on ten years ago at last count and I remember the day because it snowed, hard. First storm of the season and I felt the chill in places I’d forgotten I had, but crime goes on regardless of the weather and so does Scotland Yard. We flushed our quarry just east of the shipyards and he was off in an instant, with a bitter wind coming off the Thames and six pairs of boots in close pursuit.
Winter’s teeth have always been harder on the Doctor than on anyone else, and Holmes knows it better than most. His bad leg wasn’t up to the strain and when he caught himself against a wall - for the third time that afternoon, not counting the times I hadn’t noticed - and waved us on at last, no one stopped to argue.
If Holmes’ concentration faltered a bit, or the Doctor’s mouth tightened in something other than pain as he watched us vanish around the corner, I confess that I was too preoccupied with the villain up ahead to pay it any mind.
McMurtry, after all, was a murdering scoundrel and a highly dangerous man.
The chase concluded itself easily enough, with the blackguard cornered and brandishing a blade not ten minutes later, and subdued with a minimum of fuss shortly thereafter. Holmes - to no one’s surprise, as I’ve yet to see the man demonstrate any particular sense of caution, no matter how warranted - had been the first to fling himself into the fray and earned a nasty gash on the forearm for his trouble, but nothing worse apart from cuts and bruises. All in all the matter was brought to a very satisfactory conclusion, if I do say so myself.
No sooner were the darbies placed than Holmes was gone, off to God knows where doing God knows what, and it seemed his statement would have to wait for morning. Not an unusual occurrence, to be sure - he’s never paid any mind to our protocols, and I’ve made a concerted effort to stop being surprised - but there are times, nonetheless, when it’s all a bit much. Useful as he is to have around, it’s always a bit of a sticking point to decide whether or not it’s worth the aggravation.
Mostly it is, of course, or I wouldn’t darken the door of 221b Baker Street half as often as I do.
Still.
Be that as it may, it bears reminding every now and then that we have certain expectations - procedures to follow, rules to heed, and whatnot - and so I doubled back along our route in rather a fine temper. I’ll admit I was a bit surprised, after everything that had happened, to find Holmes with Dr. Watson right against the wall where we’d left him.
I hung back a bit at first, thinking to give the Doctor time to vent his frustration - few things have ever raised his ire more than his daft detective running off half-cocked on his own, and I had no wish to spare Holmes the scolding - but they were too busy with each other to notice much else, and truth be told, that’s when I first saw them. Really saw them, the way I should have from the start if I’d been paying attention, and stopped dead at the corner so as not to give myself away.
They could have been doing any number of things - I’d expected Holmes’ arm to have received some cursory professional attention, along with the vocal disapproval I’d been witness to on other occasions - but in point of fact they were simply standing, unobserved for the space of a few precious moments and taking full advantage of it. The Doctor had levered himself up, standing on his injured leg by sheer strength of will, to lay a bare hand against the other’s cheek.
And Holmes - Holmes, his head bent in something awfully like concern, with one arm around the Doctor’s waist to steady him. Both as still and silent as anything I’ve ever seen - foreheads just touching, close enough to feel each other’s breath, and they were a pair as far removed from what I knew of Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson as a crackling hearth is from a snowstorm.
The Doctor had been worried, that much was clear; worried over our stubborn, arrogant bugger of a consultant, little enough sense though it made to me at the time. But it was there nonetheless, plain to see in the way they stood with the Doctor’s pain and fear, and his relief, as stark and unmistakable as Holmes’ injured arm braced against him, dripping blood unnoticed in the snow.
Something almost human, indeed.
Another second, of course, and I’d clear my throat, turn to brush a clinging bit of ice from my collar and when I turned back they’d look at me like always: a respectable distance apart, with the Doctor smiling politely and Holmes impatient to be on his way. But he’s not the only one astute enough to draw conclusions, and I’d seen all I needed to see.
The two of them frozen there in the gathering dark: Holmes with his eyes closed, leaning into the Doctor’s touch, and that, I believe, is when I knew.
Nothing indecent about the gesture, of course - a warming of the fingers, a chance alignment of bodies against the wind. Two colleagues sharing a quiet moment of satisfaction in a job well done, and why shouldn’t they? But an inspector is paid to know these things, and I knew.
Not that it makes much difference.
It’s a lesson in appearances, is all. There are those at the Yard who might take an interest, but I’ve never counted myself among them. And in any case, there’s no evidence of anything to speak of - just a handful of shared glances and murmured words, and one man’s empty hunch. If Mr. Holmes and his Doctor are well and happy and no one’s the wiser, then who am I to offer any complaint?
Every man’s allowed his secrets, I suppose.