City of Shadowy Places, BBC Sherlock Fic
Title: City of Shadowy Places
Rating/Warning: PG, none, but spoilers for Reichenbach
Characters/Genre: Lestrade-centric, Gen AU
Word count: roughly 1100 words
Prompt: From morganstuart's Monday request, "You know Moriarty's fairytale about "Sir Boast-A-Lot" that casts Lestrade as King Arthur? I'd love to see a story that runs with that Lestrade-as-Arthur theme somehow." This theme ran away with my imagination and hasn't really come back.
Summary: The night before The Fall, Lestrade finds himself in a Reincarnation!AU where shadows think they're dragons, London thinks its Camelot, and Lestrade thinks he's losing his mind. Featuring poetry by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
Disclaimer: I have no claim and take no credit for these characters of BBC Sherlock. No profits made; only for entertainment.
So all of the knights went to King Arthur and said, “I don’t believe Sir Boast-a-lot’s stories! He’s just a big old liar who makes things up to make himself look good.”
....And then even the King began to wonder...
A damp haze crept into the city while the Met prepared to arrest Sherlock Holmes. It is not a true fog; it feels more like the result of cold rain hitting warmish pavement. DI Lestrade only notices from the effect on the street lamps outside the Yard. The old sodium lamps are always a bit amber, but the mist makes them seem more orange and the one dying streetlight to his left is flickering worse than usual. Lestrade rubs at his eyes, thinking about reading glasses and getting older. For a moment he saw the flames of a torch reflected in the puddles.
It’s likely time to get his eyes checked, but the past 24 hours have been so awful anyone would hallucinate. The evening went from a typical sort of ‘bad’ to ‘seriously wrong’ the moment the girl screamed at Sherlock. Since then he’s felt this persistent déjà vu, but déjà vu isn’t supposed to last for hours.
He should have known better, walking up to Sally Donovan in the conference room. No good conversations started in darkened rooms. In his experience, those sorts of furtive whispers carried farther than you wanted. Even when they moved into his office, Anderson’s words-so calm and reasonable-seemed to echo like the walls were made of stone. His footsteps had the same hollow ring as he left the Superintendent’s office and dialed John.
It’s not like he’s enjoying this and unlike Sherlock he can’t go off and do as he pleases. The thing of it is this-he’s bound by the laws of this land, same as any Met officer. Donovan has been angry and suspicious for months, honestly, but he’s been able to ignore it. Lots of the men didn’t like Sherlock but it was all just rumor and whinging. Now, however, she’s said something, accused something. He has a duty to follow it through. He can’t ignore the possibility.
Instead, he’s been trying to ignore the layers of doubt in his mind while the armed response unit scrambles. Lestrade huffs in frustration and runs a hand though his hair. Sally is mercifully quiet and Anderson is-well, Lestrade doesn’t know and doesn’t care. There’s little to distract him here but the eerie weather, mist and a soft wind that makes his coat flutter at his calves. The heavy wool refuses to settle around him. Sherlock’s coat would be very impressive in this weather, flapping about like a great cape and looking downright otherworldly amid the torchlight and stone parapets-
A squad car pulls up and he jumps for it as if that movement could shake loose the mental image. Something is setting his hair on end tonight. Too much coffee and too much late night telly in the canteen, most likely.
Camelot, a city of shadowy palaces
And stately, rich in emblem and the work
Of ancient kings who did their days in stone;
Which Merlin's hand, the Mage at Arthur's court,
Knowing all arts, had touched…
Whatever discretion Donovan had shown at the station is gone by the time they pull up on Baker Street. She leaps out and starts pounding at the entrance to 221B. Lestrade takes his time walking over, following another DS, Mark or Marks or something. The man is an absolute bore and just along for the fun of it; he already has his cuffs out. The sound of steel sliding on steel gets louder as they walk up the cramped stairway.
That sharp rasping sound is ringing in his ears and poking at his memories. Lestrade had never been imaginative as a child, so why is he thinking of swords sliding out of scabbards?
Then there is work to do and the thought escapes him.
The words are said, John is warned, and less than a minute later the good doctor is at Sherlock’s side again-against a squad car. Donovan and Mark are grinning like fools, but Lestrade just wants to bang his head against a wall. Of course John got himself arrested. He’s getting ready to walk over there when radio feedback screams in his ear like a dying beast and Sherlock Bloody Holmes has a gun.
He picks himself up again as Sherlock and John sprint away, and a sudden breeze smells sweeter than any normal London air has a right. The strangeness makes him pause for a moment while Donovan leads the charge. He catches the scent of green forests and fields and summer seas and something aches in his chest. Something very old but forever new. He wants to stay in that moment but Superintendant Lucas starts shouting. He walks in Sherlock’s general direction for show but there’s little point. Lestrade stops on the street corner next to some awful tagging and Iain Dimmock appears at his side.
“That’s not going to look good.” Leave it to Iain to state the obvious.
“Not much,” Lestrade replies. “You’d think he’d have deduced that innocent people don’t run.” He considers London’s newest fugitives and the constables sprinting after them. “They’ll never catch him, you know. Sherlock knows London like he built it himself and he won’t get caught unless he wants to.”
“He won’t get caught by us, you mean,” Iain mutters under his breath.
The two men watch the play of shadows cast by the police cars. Lestrade tries to not to see anything in the shapes. He tries very hard.
“This is not your fault, Greg, and you weren’t wrong about him.”
Lestrade has to look at his companion to make sure he’s still talking to DI Iain Dimmock and not some changeling or, god forbid, a therapist. “No…I don’t…What?”
“I don’t believe for a second that Mr. Holmes did this and neither do you. He’ll prove it, we’ll help, quietly, and everyone else will look like prats.”
There's a grim sort of cheer in his voice, though by the time Lestrade swallows that lump in his throat and looks, Iain’s face is properly serious.
“Right.” He looks up at the London sky-no stars in sight, just grey clouds made orange by London’s glare. He has a feeling it might look that way for a while yet. “Back to the Yard. This isn’t done yet.”
Then spake the King: 'My house hath been my doom...
King am I, whatsoever be their cry;
And one last act of kinghood shalt thou see
Yet, ere I pass.'
A/N: Lines blockquoted from Idylls of the King by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. I used the Project Guttenberg version so no line numbers :( Inspiration also somewhat from Living Lore by Silver Pard on FFN.
Rating/Warning: PG, none, but spoilers for Reichenbach
Characters/Genre: Lestrade-centric, Gen AU
Word count: roughly 1100 words
Prompt: From morganstuart's Monday request, "You know Moriarty's fairytale about "Sir Boast-A-Lot" that casts Lestrade as King Arthur? I'd love to see a story that runs with that Lestrade-as-Arthur theme somehow." This theme ran away with my imagination and hasn't really come back.
Summary: The night before The Fall, Lestrade finds himself in a Reincarnation!AU where shadows think they're dragons, London thinks its Camelot, and Lestrade thinks he's losing his mind. Featuring poetry by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
Disclaimer: I have no claim and take no credit for these characters of BBC Sherlock. No profits made; only for entertainment.
So all of the knights went to King Arthur and said, “I don’t believe Sir Boast-a-lot’s stories! He’s just a big old liar who makes things up to make himself look good.”
....And then even the King began to wonder...
A damp haze crept into the city while the Met prepared to arrest Sherlock Holmes. It is not a true fog; it feels more like the result of cold rain hitting warmish pavement. DI Lestrade only notices from the effect on the street lamps outside the Yard. The old sodium lamps are always a bit amber, but the mist makes them seem more orange and the one dying streetlight to his left is flickering worse than usual. Lestrade rubs at his eyes, thinking about reading glasses and getting older. For a moment he saw the flames of a torch reflected in the puddles.
It’s likely time to get his eyes checked, but the past 24 hours have been so awful anyone would hallucinate. The evening went from a typical sort of ‘bad’ to ‘seriously wrong’ the moment the girl screamed at Sherlock. Since then he’s felt this persistent déjà vu, but déjà vu isn’t supposed to last for hours.
He should have known better, walking up to Sally Donovan in the conference room. No good conversations started in darkened rooms. In his experience, those sorts of furtive whispers carried farther than you wanted. Even when they moved into his office, Anderson’s words-so calm and reasonable-seemed to echo like the walls were made of stone. His footsteps had the same hollow ring as he left the Superintendent’s office and dialed John.
It’s not like he’s enjoying this and unlike Sherlock he can’t go off and do as he pleases. The thing of it is this-he’s bound by the laws of this land, same as any Met officer. Donovan has been angry and suspicious for months, honestly, but he’s been able to ignore it. Lots of the men didn’t like Sherlock but it was all just rumor and whinging. Now, however, she’s said something, accused something. He has a duty to follow it through. He can’t ignore the possibility.
Instead, he’s been trying to ignore the layers of doubt in his mind while the armed response unit scrambles. Lestrade huffs in frustration and runs a hand though his hair. Sally is mercifully quiet and Anderson is-well, Lestrade doesn’t know and doesn’t care. There’s little to distract him here but the eerie weather, mist and a soft wind that makes his coat flutter at his calves. The heavy wool refuses to settle around him. Sherlock’s coat would be very impressive in this weather, flapping about like a great cape and looking downright otherworldly amid the torchlight and stone parapets-
A squad car pulls up and he jumps for it as if that movement could shake loose the mental image. Something is setting his hair on end tonight. Too much coffee and too much late night telly in the canteen, most likely.
Camelot, a city of shadowy palaces
And stately, rich in emblem and the work
Of ancient kings who did their days in stone;
Which Merlin's hand, the Mage at Arthur's court,
Knowing all arts, had touched…
Whatever discretion Donovan had shown at the station is gone by the time they pull up on Baker Street. She leaps out and starts pounding at the entrance to 221B. Lestrade takes his time walking over, following another DS, Mark or Marks or something. The man is an absolute bore and just along for the fun of it; he already has his cuffs out. The sound of steel sliding on steel gets louder as they walk up the cramped stairway.
That sharp rasping sound is ringing in his ears and poking at his memories. Lestrade had never been imaginative as a child, so why is he thinking of swords sliding out of scabbards?
Then there is work to do and the thought escapes him.
The words are said, John is warned, and less than a minute later the good doctor is at Sherlock’s side again-against a squad car. Donovan and Mark are grinning like fools, but Lestrade just wants to bang his head against a wall. Of course John got himself arrested. He’s getting ready to walk over there when radio feedback screams in his ear like a dying beast and Sherlock Bloody Holmes has a gun.
He picks himself up again as Sherlock and John sprint away, and a sudden breeze smells sweeter than any normal London air has a right. The strangeness makes him pause for a moment while Donovan leads the charge. He catches the scent of green forests and fields and summer seas and something aches in his chest. Something very old but forever new. He wants to stay in that moment but Superintendant Lucas starts shouting. He walks in Sherlock’s general direction for show but there’s little point. Lestrade stops on the street corner next to some awful tagging and Iain Dimmock appears at his side.
“That’s not going to look good.” Leave it to Iain to state the obvious.
“Not much,” Lestrade replies. “You’d think he’d have deduced that innocent people don’t run.” He considers London’s newest fugitives and the constables sprinting after them. “They’ll never catch him, you know. Sherlock knows London like he built it himself and he won’t get caught unless he wants to.”
“He won’t get caught by us, you mean,” Iain mutters under his breath.
The two men watch the play of shadows cast by the police cars. Lestrade tries to not to see anything in the shapes. He tries very hard.
“This is not your fault, Greg, and you weren’t wrong about him.”
Lestrade has to look at his companion to make sure he’s still talking to DI Iain Dimmock and not some changeling or, god forbid, a therapist. “No…I don’t…What?”
“I don’t believe for a second that Mr. Holmes did this and neither do you. He’ll prove it, we’ll help, quietly, and everyone else will look like prats.”
There's a grim sort of cheer in his voice, though by the time Lestrade swallows that lump in his throat and looks, Iain’s face is properly serious.
“Right.” He looks up at the London sky-no stars in sight, just grey clouds made orange by London’s glare. He has a feeling it might look that way for a while yet. “Back to the Yard. This isn’t done yet.”
Then spake the King: 'My house hath been my doom...
King am I, whatsoever be their cry;
And one last act of kinghood shalt thou see
Yet, ere I pass.'
A/N: Lines blockquoted from Idylls of the King by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. I used the Project Guttenberg version so no line numbers :( Inspiration also somewhat from Living Lore by Silver Pard on FFN.