[fic] Inspector Lestrade and the Inappropriate Euphemisms
Title: Inspector Lestrade and the Inappropriate Euphemisms
Words: Shit, I didn't count, whatevs.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It isn't Lestrade's fault he doesn't know what an innuendo is. Really.
Author's Note: Hurr hurr hurr. For a fill at the kinkmeme.
--
Inspector Lestrade and the Inappropriate Euphemisms
or, how Dicky Deep got away with murder
The job of the sky over London is to bestow illogical amounts of rainwater onto the inhabitants and structures below, always at the most inconvenient of times and for the most inconvenient of lengths. The London sky enjoys its vocation very much-in fact, it practices it with aplomb. The wet is something everyone and everything learns to get used to-wood swelling, mold growing, building edifices stained and bleached all at once.
Inspector Lestrade had lived in London for all his life, and as a result, had lived in London rain for all his life as well. There wasn’t anything particularly interesting, or bothersome, or even mildly worth noticing about it. It happened, that was all, and Geoffrey Lestrade being a man of habits, he’d managed, over his thirty-seven years of existence, to incorporate the occasional deluge into his schedule just as he would cooking dinner or going out for a drink with the lads on Friday nights.
Which was why he found it very odd, very odd indeed, when he stepped out of Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson in tow, and saw the two of them burst into peals of ringing laughter as soon as they noted the fact that it was precipitating.
“What… What did I tell you?” Watson burst out, waving a wet finger at Holmes. “What did I say this very morning!”
Holmes was wiping at the corners of his eyes. “Alright, alright,” he gasped. “I concede defeat… But I thought you’d… Oh, never mind.”
The two men looked up at Lestrade, who was standing on the street, black umbrella opened over his head, a sour look on his face.
“If you’re quite finished,” he said, slowly, enunciating every syllable as though his words were made of razors.
“Yes, yes,” Holmes said, waving one gloved hand nonchalantly. “I’ll be back in a moment.” The man turned around, re-entered the building, and came back a minute later with a large umbrella in the crook of his arm, at the sight of which Watson started gasping for breath.
“What the hell-” Lestrade started to belt, but he was silenced by the exaggerated whoomph with which Holmes opened his umbrella and raised it above his and the good doctor’s heads. The two still had mischievious grins on their faces, and Holmes would jiggle his umbrella about every now and again, eliciting badly-disguised snorts of laughter from them both.
Lestrade rolled his eyes. If he didn’t know better, he would swear Mr. Holmes was a mutated five year old-he certainly possessed the tact of one.
They arrived at the crime scene behind schedule, something Lestrade abhorred, because he was generally such a timely individual. Gregson had no doubt already made a hash out of the whole business, constables sitting about aimlessly, body already been moved-Lestrade’s own personal Sherlock Holmes that resided in his mind was already shaking his head slowly, back and forth, and saying, in a high-pitched, idiotic, nasal voice, Geoffrey, Geoffrey, Geoffrey. What are we going to do with you.
The image disappeared with a pop. This was because the real Sherlock Holmes was not repremanding Lestrade-rather, he was currently whispering something into Dr. Watson’s ear, very quietly, and it couldn’t have been good, because the doctor’s face had turned an outlandish shade of red.
“Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade snapped. “Do you mind if we get started? I’ve a long-”
“Hngk.” Holmes coughed back a laugh. “I’m sorry, my dear inspector. Do continue,” he managed, after an interim devoted to choking into his own palm.
Lestrade’s mind-Holmes was currently glaring in a befuddled manner at his real-world counterpart. He seemed on the cusp of saying something mildly insulting, but bit it back. Lestrade, on the other hand, was floundering.
“Are you drunk, Mr. Holmes?” he asked at long last.
“No, no, perfectly sober,” Holmes said, nodding. Watson mumbled in agreement.
“Fine then. If you’ll follow me… Body’s been exposed to the elements for quite a length-”
It started again. The laughing. The barely suppressed giggles. The Dr.-Watson-doubling-over-and-wheezing-himself-into-insensibility. It. Lestrade stared at the two of them vacantly. It defied explanation, the laws of nature, what have you.
The rain came down.
Lestrade decided, then and there, to ignore any inopportune outbursts. He would continue as though nothing had happened. Yes. Yes. Mind-Holmes smiled tauntingly-Think you’re up to it, Lestrade?-but he ignored him, too, and headed right for the corpse under the assumption that the two gentlemen would follow him eventually.
He was right. They did. Tripping over themselves, barely upright, but they did.
“Body’s been moved, as is generally the case,” Lestrade said. “Original position was reported to be upright-”
Laughter.
“-against the building side. Found with a dagger that had penetrated-”
Peals and peals of barely suppressed laughter.
“-his chest, and stomach. Name is Christopher Deep, father Samuel Deep, city official responsible for landscaping, apparently, recently oversaw the erection of-”
So much laughter it was a miracle the crime scene hadn’t drowned in it.
“-a statue near Whitehalllastmonthgood God. Mr. Holmes! Doctor! What are the two of you carrying on about?”
“Lestrade,” Holmes managed to pant. “You scintillate this morning, positively scintillate, with humor. I hope you know that…he he… we appreciate your efforts and-”
“Sod your idiotic explanation!”
“I was just about to suggest the exact same thing,” Watson murmured. This illicited another round of what seemed to Lestrade the raving laughter of lunatics. Mind-Holmes’ opionion was sadly unavailable. The fellow had retreated to the back of Lestrade’s consciosness with a stiff brandy and a pipe-full of strong tobacco, with an absentminded farewell that ran along the lines of, Good luck, Lestrade-you always wanted an excuse to put me in Bedlam.
Lestrade made one more attempt. He drew himself up to his full height-not immensely impressive, granted, but better than nothing. “Can I have an explanation as to this uncalled for display of utter lack of decorum?!” he snapped.
“No,” Holmes retorted, between chuckles. “You can not.”
Lestrade contemplating asking why, but dropped it. Not worth the effort. He buried his face in his hands and swore under his breath. “Bollocks,” Lestrade grumbled.
“Exactly,” Watson piped up.
“What?”
“What?”
“Can I continue with my briefing or no?”
“Yes, yes, please do,” Holmes encouraged. “We’re listening.”
Lestrade bit his lip angrily. “Very well. We suspect the victim’s cousin, one Richard Deep-”
“Wouldn’t happen to go by Dick, would he?”
“What?!”
“Nothing.”
Watson was leaning against a wall for support. Lestrade’s brain had drawn a complete blank. And Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Goddamn Bastard Lunatic Holmes, standing smugly in the middle of the street, resolute, with a dead body at his feet.
“I do love the rain,” he said at last. “Don’t you, Lestrade? Quite invigorating.”
“Oh yes,” Lestrade hissed through his gritted teeth. He’d started to see red. “Stimulating.”
That was it really-that was the final straw. The camel went ahead and snapped its spine. Sherlock Holmes and the good doctor both collapsed into a maniacal heap of laughing idiots.
Lestrade straightened. He gave his umbrella an imperial shake. And he turned around and left. Drew a straight course for the nearest public house. A stiff drink could solve anything, and Lestrade was getting one no matter how many I told you sos his mind-Holmes intended to bestow upon him.
Needless to say, Dicky Deep was never apprehended.
Words: Shit, I didn't count, whatevs.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It isn't Lestrade's fault he doesn't know what an innuendo is. Really.
Author's Note: Hurr hurr hurr. For a fill at the kinkmeme.
--
Inspector Lestrade and the Inappropriate Euphemisms
or, how Dicky Deep got away with murder
The job of the sky over London is to bestow illogical amounts of rainwater onto the inhabitants and structures below, always at the most inconvenient of times and for the most inconvenient of lengths. The London sky enjoys its vocation very much-in fact, it practices it with aplomb. The wet is something everyone and everything learns to get used to-wood swelling, mold growing, building edifices stained and bleached all at once.
Inspector Lestrade had lived in London for all his life, and as a result, had lived in London rain for all his life as well. There wasn’t anything particularly interesting, or bothersome, or even mildly worth noticing about it. It happened, that was all, and Geoffrey Lestrade being a man of habits, he’d managed, over his thirty-seven years of existence, to incorporate the occasional deluge into his schedule just as he would cooking dinner or going out for a drink with the lads on Friday nights.
Which was why he found it very odd, very odd indeed, when he stepped out of Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson in tow, and saw the two of them burst into peals of ringing laughter as soon as they noted the fact that it was precipitating.
“What… What did I tell you?” Watson burst out, waving a wet finger at Holmes. “What did I say this very morning!”
Holmes was wiping at the corners of his eyes. “Alright, alright,” he gasped. “I concede defeat… But I thought you’d… Oh, never mind.”
The two men looked up at Lestrade, who was standing on the street, black umbrella opened over his head, a sour look on his face.
“If you’re quite finished,” he said, slowly, enunciating every syllable as though his words were made of razors.
“Yes, yes,” Holmes said, waving one gloved hand nonchalantly. “I’ll be back in a moment.” The man turned around, re-entered the building, and came back a minute later with a large umbrella in the crook of his arm, at the sight of which Watson started gasping for breath.
“What the hell-” Lestrade started to belt, but he was silenced by the exaggerated whoomph with which Holmes opened his umbrella and raised it above his and the good doctor’s heads. The two still had mischievious grins on their faces, and Holmes would jiggle his umbrella about every now and again, eliciting badly-disguised snorts of laughter from them both.
Lestrade rolled his eyes. If he didn’t know better, he would swear Mr. Holmes was a mutated five year old-he certainly possessed the tact of one.
They arrived at the crime scene behind schedule, something Lestrade abhorred, because he was generally such a timely individual. Gregson had no doubt already made a hash out of the whole business, constables sitting about aimlessly, body already been moved-Lestrade’s own personal Sherlock Holmes that resided in his mind was already shaking his head slowly, back and forth, and saying, in a high-pitched, idiotic, nasal voice, Geoffrey, Geoffrey, Geoffrey. What are we going to do with you.
The image disappeared with a pop. This was because the real Sherlock Holmes was not repremanding Lestrade-rather, he was currently whispering something into Dr. Watson’s ear, very quietly, and it couldn’t have been good, because the doctor’s face had turned an outlandish shade of red.
“Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade snapped. “Do you mind if we get started? I’ve a long-”
“Hngk.” Holmes coughed back a laugh. “I’m sorry, my dear inspector. Do continue,” he managed, after an interim devoted to choking into his own palm.
Lestrade’s mind-Holmes was currently glaring in a befuddled manner at his real-world counterpart. He seemed on the cusp of saying something mildly insulting, but bit it back. Lestrade, on the other hand, was floundering.
“Are you drunk, Mr. Holmes?” he asked at long last.
“No, no, perfectly sober,” Holmes said, nodding. Watson mumbled in agreement.
“Fine then. If you’ll follow me… Body’s been exposed to the elements for quite a length-”
It started again. The laughing. The barely suppressed giggles. The Dr.-Watson-doubling-over-and-wheezing-himself-into-insensibility. It. Lestrade stared at the two of them vacantly. It defied explanation, the laws of nature, what have you.
The rain came down.
Lestrade decided, then and there, to ignore any inopportune outbursts. He would continue as though nothing had happened. Yes. Yes. Mind-Holmes smiled tauntingly-Think you’re up to it, Lestrade?-but he ignored him, too, and headed right for the corpse under the assumption that the two gentlemen would follow him eventually.
He was right. They did. Tripping over themselves, barely upright, but they did.
“Body’s been moved, as is generally the case,” Lestrade said. “Original position was reported to be upright-”
Laughter.
“-against the building side. Found with a dagger that had penetrated-”
Peals and peals of barely suppressed laughter.
“-his chest, and stomach. Name is Christopher Deep, father Samuel Deep, city official responsible for landscaping, apparently, recently oversaw the erection of-”
So much laughter it was a miracle the crime scene hadn’t drowned in it.
“-a statue near Whitehalllastmonthgood God. Mr. Holmes! Doctor! What are the two of you carrying on about?”
“Lestrade,” Holmes managed to pant. “You scintillate this morning, positively scintillate, with humor. I hope you know that…he he… we appreciate your efforts and-”
“Sod your idiotic explanation!”
“I was just about to suggest the exact same thing,” Watson murmured. This illicited another round of what seemed to Lestrade the raving laughter of lunatics. Mind-Holmes’ opionion was sadly unavailable. The fellow had retreated to the back of Lestrade’s consciosness with a stiff brandy and a pipe-full of strong tobacco, with an absentminded farewell that ran along the lines of, Good luck, Lestrade-you always wanted an excuse to put me in Bedlam.
Lestrade made one more attempt. He drew himself up to his full height-not immensely impressive, granted, but better than nothing. “Can I have an explanation as to this uncalled for display of utter lack of decorum?!” he snapped.
“No,” Holmes retorted, between chuckles. “You can not.”
Lestrade contemplating asking why, but dropped it. Not worth the effort. He buried his face in his hands and swore under his breath. “Bollocks,” Lestrade grumbled.
“Exactly,” Watson piped up.
“What?”
“What?”
“Can I continue with my briefing or no?”
“Yes, yes, please do,” Holmes encouraged. “We’re listening.”
Lestrade bit his lip angrily. “Very well. We suspect the victim’s cousin, one Richard Deep-”
“Wouldn’t happen to go by Dick, would he?”
“What?!”
“Nothing.”
Watson was leaning against a wall for support. Lestrade’s brain had drawn a complete blank. And Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Goddamn Bastard Lunatic Holmes, standing smugly in the middle of the street, resolute, with a dead body at his feet.
“I do love the rain,” he said at last. “Don’t you, Lestrade? Quite invigorating.”
“Oh yes,” Lestrade hissed through his gritted teeth. He’d started to see red. “Stimulating.”
That was it really-that was the final straw. The camel went ahead and snapped its spine. Sherlock Holmes and the good doctor both collapsed into a maniacal heap of laughing idiots.
Lestrade straightened. He gave his umbrella an imperial shake. And he turned around and left. Drew a straight course for the nearest public house. A stiff drink could solve anything, and Lestrade was getting one no matter how many I told you sos his mind-Holmes intended to bestow upon him.
Needless to say, Dicky Deep was never apprehended.