In The Footsteps Of The Master. Chapter Two. A Precarious Truce.
Title: In the Footsteps of The Master. Chapter Two. A Precarious Truce.
Author: ghislainem70
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2,200
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs Gatiss, Moffat, et al.
Summary: Sherlock and John return to London to help DI Lestrade catch a serial killer who may not be what he seems.
Warnings: Explicit violence, graphic gore and depictions of brutality, non-con, murder, explicit sex.
In The Footsteps Of The Master. Chapter Two. A Precarious Truce.
John went straight to Lestrade’s flat, in a modern glass building in the City. The streets were thronged with workers going to their offices. It was still relatively early and Lestrade had been working grueling hours on the case. He said he could spare some time for John, though, if he could kindly come around to his flat as he couldn’t come to Baker Street.John didn’t mention that the last place he wanted to have this talk was in Baker Street.
Lestrade rang him through and he took the elevator up to the top floor, where Lestrade had left the door ajar. He was drinking tea and fastening his tie. The flat was as usual spotless, tastefully decorated in modern leather furniture and carefully chosen black and white architectural photographs. It suited Lestrade completely.
The flat had walls of glass windows that went from floor to ceiling and had a modest view of office buildings by day; he had only been there at night once, dinner cooked by Lestrade while Sherlock was in hospital after a cocaine overdose. He recalled that at night, the city lights through the dark windows were mesmerizing. He pushed this memory away.
John was holding the envelope with the photos from Sally in his hand and he reminded himself that this was not a social visit - the murder victims were really what this was about.
Lestrade was serious, exhausted-looking, but his face lit up briefly, as it always did when he saw John. He poured him a cup of tea - properly made, not a teabag- from his well-equipped kitchen. Having finished with his tie, Lestrade invited John to sit at the little glass dining table. He was looking at the envelope with his detective’s eyes.
John cleared his throat. "Ah, Lestrade, there’s something I need to say. To you."
Lestrade’s face fell. He had been waiting for this for a long time. The longer that it had never actually happened, the more he had clung to false hopes. But he wasn’t going to help John do it. He tried to look puzzled.
"What are you talking about, John?"
Their eyes met. Despite his gruff, cool exterior, Lestrade could never hide his feelings for John, especially this close to him. He refused to look away. He just let John see it. Know what he was doing.
John had the grace to look away.
"Lestrade. This has to stop now. You know what Sherlock and I are to each other. That can never change. You’ve got to let it go. You can see that, can’t you?" He ended, somewhat uncertainly. Lestrade was frowning.
"Never change? Never, ever, change? Not that long ago, you didn’t know who Sherlock Holmes actually was. Did he ever tell you how many times I tried to come to you in hospital, in Afghanistan? And here in London, when you were in hospital here?"
John was astonished. Lestrade had tried to come to Afghanistan? No, Sherlock never had told him that. And he hadn’t asked, had never thought to ask. He was ashamed.
"I didn’t think so. And I suppose he never told you that the first day you came home to the flat, I had a man posted outside 221b. So I could see you when you were discharged. But Sherlock made me promise to give him a month to get you settled before you saw anybody that would - what did he say - upset you."
John was silent. "I think," he finally said carefully, "that Sherlock was trying to protect me."
"I spoke to your doctor, you know. Dr. Nazimi. She said that there was nothing to stop you from seeing me. She even thought it would be good for you. She didn’t say anything about your condition, of course; I just told her what Sherlock had told me himself - that you had amnesia. But by then, I’d made a promise to Sherlock to keep away, and I decided to keep that promise. I always do, John.
"So you see, he wasn’t trying to protect you. He just wants you all to himself and he doesn’t care how he does it. Maybe, just maybe, if you had seen me earlier, your memory would have come back. Thank God it did, anyway."
John was getting angry now. "Look, Lestrade, this isn’t about Sherlock. This is me, John, asking you. I know that Sherlock is - well, no one knows Sherlock better than I do. This is me, asking you please, as a friend, let it go. It can never happen. With us. I can’t. We can’t. That’s it."
His heart was pounding in his chest, which surprised him and made him very uncomfortable. This was a lot harder than he had thought it would be. He had rehearsed the words over and over, fretting almost all night over it. And now that he said them, it sounded hollow, cheap even. He knew he was throwing away the love of a very fine man. He thought that was really what he should be saying. They shouldn’t be talking about Sherlock at all.
Lestrade shrugged. "You think you know him. There’s a lot you don’t know," he said darkly.
"Stop it, just stop it, all right. I don’t want to fight about Sherlock, Lestrade, you’ll make me do something I’ll regret," his voice was rising now and he was getting angrier. Lestrade didn’t bat an eye, though.
"Did you know I investigated him - twice? He was my prime suspect. In some very, very gruesome murders. He doesn’t even pretend he’s not a complete sociopath."
John’s mouth gaped. He could not remotely conceal his astonishment. This, he had never heard. When he first met Sherlock he had jokingly asked whether people often thought he was the murderer, and Sherlock had just laughed it off. And no less authority than Sally Donovan had warned him that same day that one day, Sherlock would be unmasked as a killer. Because someday, solving crimes wouldn’t be enough.
Sherlock got bored.
John shook his head. "I don’t want to know about it. He’s walking free, isn’t he? You never pinned anything on Sherlock, he hasn’t done anything. He told me about that, anyway," he fibbed.
Lestrade looked him in the eye and shook his head pityingly. "No, he most certainly didn’t. Because he never knew. I never told anyone, until I told you just now," he said.
John’s hands were clenched into fists. "How dare you accuse him then, behind his back. That’s very low, Lestrade."
Lestrade rubbed his chin, remembering when John had punched him in the face, for kissing him while he was handcuffed and unable to do anything about it. Anything except kiss him back, hard - something that John clearly didn’t want to be reminded of.
Lestrade decided that if John was going to give him the ultimate heave-ho, there was no reason to hold back. He intended to fire at will.
Maybe something would stick.
"Do you really understand what a sociopath is, John? I want you to know that I do. I have to. It’s part of my job. In fact, without them, I wouldn’t likely even have this job. I wish I could make you open your eyes. Because if you did, you might understand the position you’re in a little better. Charming, of course; seductive, aren’t they? They have to be - if they weren’t, no one would tolerate their immorality. Their deceit.
"Rules that apply to everybody else, don’t apply to them. They’re special. More special than you and me. They do whatever they want, consequences be damned. They lie, cheat and manipulate to get what they want, do whatever they want. There are no limits with them. They make no apologies - because they are never wrong. They are possessive and controlling when they have something that they think is theirs, that they are entitled to. If - or when - they don’t want it anymore, it gets thrown in the trash, or destroyed without a second thought.
"And they get bored. Very easily bored. Bored enough to do very dangerous things."
"Damn you, Lestrade, keep your psychoanalysis to yourself. I don’t want to hear any more, do you understand? If you ever speak another word against Sherlock, I will never speak to you again. I’ve told you and I’ll tell you again. I love Sherlock. I’ll never leave him. Nothing can change that. I don’t believe he will ever leave me. I care about you, more than you probably believe right now. So please listen when I say - you can’t keep doing this, you have to let it go."
"You can’t even say it, can you? I can, though. I love you. John, I do. I do, and I’m not afraid to say it. I’ve loved you all this time, and I won’t give it up. I want you to think about that. Nothing you can say can change the way I feel. And it sounds like nothing I can say will change the way you feel.
"So where does that leave us, John?"
They just looked at each other: John very angry and yet, hurting in a way that he refused to examine; Lestrade hurting too, but defiant.
"Leave it alone, Lestrade. If you know what’s good for you. Now I’ll make you a promise. I won’t get involved in this case." He pushed the envelope over to Lestrade, who glanced inside and instantly understood.
"I’ll stay well out of it, you have my word. But if you need help catching this bastard, and I understand that you do - you have to let Sherlock help. Don’t let this - between us - stop you from helping these poor women. That’s what you do, that’s one of the things I most respect about you, you never stop until you get them, and you aren’t afraid to take whatever help you can get to do it. It’s all about these poor women, shouldn’t that be all that counts, Lestrade? So call Sherlock. Let him help you, and catch this monster."
Their eyes met over the photos of the abused corpses. John held his hand out, and Lestrade shook it.
"Truce?"
"Truce."
* * *
In another part of London, a tall, slender, dark-haired man was surveying an anonymous, shabby hotel room. This place was filthy, below him. It made his skin crawl to even touch the grubby furniture, the shiny bedspread that was almost greasy.
He had washed away the last tiny droplets of blood down the drain to his complete satisfaction. Multiple applications of a high-tech cleanser washed away any microscopic traces. He drew the blinds and shut out the light, and shone his portable forensic alternative light source (ALS) that revealed any traces of telltale biologic material. He put on a ventilator mask and protective goggles.
Then he began misting, with patience and precision, all of the room’s surfaces with fluorescein in a spray bottle: floor, ceiling, walls, furniture, deliberately revealing biologic traces throughout the room. The amount of luminescent trace was truly horrifying; he patiently waited for the glow to peak. He shuddered to recall that the substance was a suspected carcinogen.
He applied reagents to destroy the traces and surveyed his handiwork. Even he could not remove the ample quantities of dried sperm from innumerable prior occupants of this room, but now he was satisfied that there was nothing here to attract attention from a forensic team in terms of blood.
He himself, of course, had left no sperm traces.
He bent to carefully re-affix the carpet, which he had rolled back from the walls before he began, and re-attached it to the floor with the carpet nail gun and rubber mallet that he had ready in his duffle bag for this purpose. He brushed it to redistribute its inherent filth back to its original state.
He didn’t even look at the corpse, a woman, laid almost peacefully out on the bed and dressed as though for a romantic assignation in a short, white satin nightgown. Not for him the vulgar, overtly sexual, taunting poses of lesser practitioners.
She was no longer bound; ligatures were too valuable a clue to leave behind, although it would be amusing to do so. The corpse’s mouth was crusted with dark blood; the makeup so carefully applied at the beginning of the session was now inevitably smeared. He could not bear to touch them, after they were dead, to repair it.
Possibly he might switch to actual theatrical makeup. Not his own makeup; the colors were wrong for this . . .purpose. And there was no point at all trying to reapply the makeup while they were still moving, still alive.
Not once things had gotten past a certain point.
He was almost going to open the door to leave, was reaching with his gloved hand for the door handle, when he stopped and cursed himself for carelessness.
He had almost forgotten something.
He went to the nightstand and opened the drawer there. There was a Gideon Bible, a phone book, and a small plastic ziploc bag containing a bloody lump. In fact, a severed tongue.
This he withdrew with his gloved fingers and deposited in his duffle bag with the rest of his kit.
"Sharpen up," he muttered to himself.
To be continued . . .
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