Burden of Proof
Author: Capt_Facepalm
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Holmes, Watson, various Scotland Yarders
Summary: Not quite fluff; not quite crack; one pawky title; and not enough snark
Warnings: (see summary) no slash
Word Count: 1450
Author's Notes: With the advent of BBC Sherlock, will anyone read gaslight fiction anymore?
Awesome beta by med_cat. Scotland Yard feedback and more by bartimus crotchety.
Please read and review
.oOOo.
October 8 1881
Friday evenings at Scotland Yard could range from incessant boredom to a virtual circus of activity, but this evening had been mostly uneventful. By 10 P.M. only one hive of activity remained. Raised voices emanated from Inspector Lestrade’s office. In theory, there was a desk, but it was buried beneath layers of notes, maps, and diagrams; seated closely around this chaos were Inspector Lestrade, Inspector Gregson, and Sherlock Holmes, the unofficial consulting detective. It had been a long day and such a frustrating case that patience was in short supply. Animated, heated discussion ensued.
“We’ve been over this already, Mr. Holmes, and we fully agree with you. We know that Andrew Derrick is the murderer. The snide little bastard all but confessed. We just cannot prove how he commited the murder. We’re at an impasse. There are no more angles to investigate; we’ve exhausted them all,” said Lestrade.
“It all rests on the fact that there is no way Derrick could move the body that far. He is just not strong enough of a man. The victim would have outweighed him by nearly three stone. Dragging him would have left obvious marks and there were no suitable implements at the scene. If there was any way he could have moved the victim, then we might have a case against him,” reiterated Gregson.
The conclusion had been arrived at and discussed and argued three times already that evening and John Watson had heard it all before. He was not sure whether it was the circular reasoning or his missed supper which was making his head spin. Still, being bored out of his mind at Scotland Yard was a welcome change from the daily tedium of Baker Street and he was grateful that Holmes had included him on this case.
Those Yarders who tolerated Sherlock Holmes’ assistance extended their courtesy to Watson and considered him a welcome guest; a quiet fellow who didn’t meddle in police matters and knew enough to stay out of their way. There were some, however, who, by their displeasure with the world’s first consulting detective, saw the doctor’s presence as just an additional annoyance. Watson ignored these people's attitude as best he could and considered it the cost of his freedom from the confines of 221B.
“Was he ever in the military?” asked Watson, slumped, forgotten, in the armchair in the far corner.
“What was that, Doctor?” asked Lestrade, peering past the other two investigators.
“Did Derrick ever serve in the army?” Watson repeated, wearily.
“No. We’re quite clear on that fact. Why do you ask?” asked Holmes, turning to face his friend.
“Why would that matter, anyhow?” Gregson demanded, dismissively. To his mind, one consulting detective was one too many, and now this one had begun dragging that poor invalid of a flatmate around to cases… it was becoming too much. Was there anyone left in London who did not want to tell him how to do his job?
Watson ignored the derision and instead addressed Lestrade: “Gregson here outweighs you by nearly three stone… ”
“…closer to four,” Holmes added helpfully, receiving a foul look from Gregson and a brief smirk from Lestrade.
Watson sighed and continued, “How far could you carry him, if you had to? Could you carry him as far as the Chief Superintendent’s office? That is about the same distance as Derrick would have had to carry his brother-in-law’s body.”
"What are you suggesting?" asked Holmes.
"I think a demonstration will prove the possibility that Derrick could have moved the body all by himself," Watson replied.
"Rubbish! It's a waste of time," exclaimed Gregson.
"Oh, I don't know. It may help to look at the problem from a different perspective," Lestrade said. "Besides, it's three against one!"
Gregson reluctantly agreed to put it to the test. Word spread around the Yard and the few men on night duty materialised in the corridor to witness the spectacle. Some were placing bets. The inspectors stripped to their shirtsleeves. When Gregson was ready, Lestrade clinched him around the middle, hefted him over his shoulder, and began unsteadily down the hallway. Holmes stole a glance at Watson and was surprised, and a little gratified, to see a hint of amusement in his eyes.
“Do you think they will be requiring your professional services, Doctor?” asked Holmes.
“Lestrade will do his back that way, but Gregson won’t need my help unless Lestrade dumps him down the side stairwell.”
“You’re an evil man, John Watson,” grinned Holmes.
An instant later, Lestrade collapsed under the weight of his larger colleague. They had made it almost half way to the Chief Super’s office.
“Just as I predicted. What a complete bloody waste of time!” blustered Gregson when they returned to where Holmes and Watson were waiting. “All that we have done is proven again that Derrick must be innocent.”
“Actually, what you have proven here is that Yarders need better training in the extrication of casualties,” replied Watson, handing Holmes his cane.
"There is a method that the army has been teaching for years. It is used to carry injured or unconscious casualties. It distributes the weight more evenly and is safer for both the injured and the carrier. It also allows smaller or weaker people to carry heavier people. Allow me to demonstrate.”
Taking the reluctant Gregson’s arm, Watson bent forward and levered the heavier man across the back of his shoulders, securing Gregson’s right leg and right arm with his own right arm, straightened to a nearly full standing posture, and motioned for his cane with his left.
Although he could see the advantage of Watson’s technique, Lestrade was alarmed. Gregson’s bulk had been too much for him, and throughout his brief acquaintance with the doctor, Watson’s constitution was never considered strong. To undertake this stunt was sheer foolishness.
“Doctor, are you sure you should…” cautioned Lestrade.
"Watson, what of your shoulder... " Holmes asked.
"It wasn't so long ago that I was instructing the men of my regiment in this method. Derrick may not have ‘taken the shilling’, but he may have had training, or knew someone who had. This is not a difficult manoeuvre to learn,” then, addressing the book-making constable said, “I have a quid which says we'll make it to Fennis’ office.”
That man’s pride will be the end of him someday, Lestrade thought to himself. He looked to Holmes for guidance, but the consulting detective only gave a vague gesture and a slight shake of his head.
New bets were placed and cheers of support followed Watson and Gregson as they made their tortuous way down the corridor; past Lestrade’s mark, past the tempting stairwell, and on to the door of Chief Superintendent Fennis’ office. The last few steps were agonisingly slow and awkward. Watson’s face was flushed with exertion and grimaced with determination, or perhaps with pain. The bookie increased the odds.
Chief Fennis’ light was still on. The Old Man was working late. To Gregson’s utter dismay, Watson steadied his balance and rapped smartly on the door with the handle of his cane.
The door opened and a startled Fennis looked out on a bizarre sight. There was the giant, Gregson, immobilised over the back of some unfamiliar gentleman leaning on a cane. He blinked his incredulous eyes behind his owlish spectacles and asked:
“Inspector, what is the meaning of this?”
“Ah. Good evening, Chief Fennis. We are re-evaluating the Andrew Derrick case. New developments may lead to a conviction after all,” Gregson replied as smoothly and nonchalantly as he could from his awkward position.
“Oh… Good show… Carry on,” the astonished Fennis replied, and he shut his door, once again questioning whether early retirement might be a good option after all.
Yarders crowded around Watson as he eased Gregson back to a standing position and leaned back against the wall to catch his breath.
“Your winnings, Doctor Watson,” beamed a young constable, handing him a cup full of coins.
“Thank you, Deakons,” he replied, wrapping the coins with a handkerchief, and depositing them in his pocket.
“Well done, Doctor,” said Gregson with genuine respect, shaking Watson's hand earnestly.
As the Yarders dispersed and returned to their regular duties, it became apparent that Lestrade was the only other man to claim a winning wager.
“I think, Doctor, that you have given Gregson some new insights and he will have a few matters he may wish to reconsider,” he said.
“More than a few, I should think!” replied Holmes, meaningfully.
Lestrade gifted Holmes and Watson with a wide grin as he pocketed his winnings and turned to follow Gregson back to his office, leaving them alone in the corridor.
“Holmes, you bet against me?” accused Watson in mocking admonition.
“Yes Doctor; and you proved to be a great disappointment. My money was on the stairwell.”
.oOOo.
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