igrab
in
grabi_hands
What Friends Do (Holmes/Clarkey, PG)
Holmes/Clarkey . 2,004 words . PG . in which Hopkins makes things worse and Lestrade makes things better.
Thing was, he had known for a while now, and Mr. Holmes had known that he'd known, but they had a tacit agreement not to say a damn thing because they both knew Constable Clark, and if he knew that Lestrade knew, he'd likely resign from the force and take himself off to some faraway country where no one could potentially hang him for his sexual preferences (which Lestrade wouldn't, of course, but Clarkey had some funny notions about friendship) and that didn't help either of them. So he kept his mouth shut, and when he saw how Holmes's eyes lingered or how his hands would flit sometimes, as if he wanted to reach out and touch him - well, he might've looked elsewhere for a moment, and pretended he couldn't see.
It all came to a head though, as such things do, when a new Inspector came to work with them, a young, overenthusiastic man named Hopkins.
Nobody liked Hopkins. It wasn't unkind to say so, they all told him as much, and he smiled good-naturedly and nodded and almost wiggled, and Lestrade had never met anyone who so forcefully reminded him of a Labrador Retriever - especially, however, whenever Holmes came by (or his name was mentioned, or hinted at, and if no one had mentioned Mr Holmes in enough time, he'd do it himself). Lestrade didn't dislike him - he was, at least, a capable Inspector - but he smelled trouble in the air. And, sure enough, it came in the form of a rainy day and case that couldn't be solved.
"Blast it all, I can't make heads or tails of this!" Hopkins cried, tossing the papers down on Lestrade's desk.
With the infinite patience of the oft-tried, Lestrade gathered them into their neat stack once more and frowned. Yes, he was well and truly stumped, and the case should have been an open-and-shut. If it doesn't turn out to be something more interesting underneath, Holmes'll never let us live it down, he thought. Then again, he might not anyway.
He stood, reaching for his hat. "I suppose I'll be along to Baker Street, then," and he should have known - he could have defused the situation right there, claimed to be going out for a pint instead, but it was too late - he'd said the magic words.
"Yes, of course! Mr. Holmes will be able to clear this up in a jiffy, won't he? I hope you don't mind company!"
It was unfortunate, really, that Hopkins was so very puppylike. It was nearly impossible to say no to him, not without sounding rude.
"I don't suppose I could convince you to run over to Cavendish Place to fetch the doctor instead?"
Hopkins waved a hand, airily, and held the door open for Lestrade. "I'm sure it's nothing that drastic. There's probably some ridiculously simple fact that our feeble minds completely overlooked, and he'll have solved it before we could blink our eyes." The way his steps quickened and the frenetic lilt to his words, however, made it plain that he hoped very much for it not to be so.
Lestrade followed as slowly as he could without losing him. This was bad. So far, he'd managed to keep Hopkins from barging in on Holmes unannounced - and he'd managed to keep Sergeant Clark (for he was a Sergeant now, and a damn fine one) on business elsewhere in the city.
He prayed to a God he didn't quite believe in that Clarkey wouldn't be there. He prayed.
"Good afternoon, Inspectors, let me take your wet coats," Mrs. Hudson said in her genial way, fussing over their hats and dripping outer layers. Lestrade smiled his thanks in return, but couldn't escape the feeling of dread that had settled over him.
Seventeen steps, and a very narrow staircase. There was no way he could squeeze by Hopkins without having to explain himself. No, the man would be the first to enter the room, and all Lestrade could hope for now is that he would, at least, knock.
He did. Two raps, very quickly, and then he was throwing the door opening, and it was all Lestrade could do not to wince visibly.
+
He should have known. Holmes was sprawled in his usual armchair in shirtsleeves, his ridiculous dressing-gown over it all, and the second armchair, why, that was -
"Doctor," Lestrade blurted, surprised. "Good morning."
Doctor Watson looked the spiffing image of British perfection, suited and gloved and clearly just recently breezed in himself. He smiled at Lestrade, nodded his head in a welcoming sort of manner, and gestured at the tea things. "Afternoon, actually. Care for a cup?"
"Don't mind if I do." It wasn't until the two Inspectors had pulled up chairs, sat, and taken cups of tea, that Lestrade noticed Clarkey - slipping into the living room from the upstairs exit, fully dressed (now, presumably), and anxiously glancing around to see if anyone had seen. Lestrade quickly dropped his eyes to the tea service.
"Trouble in paradise, I presume?" Holmes was saying, slashing his violin bow through the air as he was wont to do when he was feeling pretentious.
Before Lestrade could reply, Hopkins cut in. "Trouble indeed! You must have a look at these case files, sir, Lestrade and I have been over them all morning and we can't make hide nor hair of it! Of course, you'll likely take one look and have the whole thing figured out, wasn't that what you were saying on the way over, Inspector?" He turned to wink, patronizing, in Watson's direction. "Won't be needing your expertise, Doctor!"
Holmes caught Lestrade's eye, one eyebrow twitching in both apology and mirth. They'd developed a silent communication long ago, not as swift as Holmes and Watson's, but well enough to fly past Hopkins.
"I mean, the case isn't exactly worthy of your fine attention, sir," and there he went again, buttering up to Holmes like it would have any more effect than the last time he'd done it, "but I'd be much obliged if you could have a look at it for us." He actually batted his eyelashes a little. Lestrade didn't know whether to be sick or to burst out laughing.
He'd forgotten, however, about Clarkey. The door snapped shut with a gale force, and three of them - Lestrade, Hopkins, and Dr Watson - all jumped in their seats. Holmes poked the edges of the carpet with his bow.
"Afternoon, Inspectors," Clarkey said, voice tight. Lestrade had never seen him quite so worked up. "Having a party, are we, Holmes?"
"Nothing so crude," he replied with an almost vulgar familiarity - and that little note of affection, the first clue Lestrade had ever picked up on. It was there now in full warmth. "Apparently it takes five men to solve a one-man case."
Hopkins snapped the sheaf of papers he was carrying on his knee. "We were only looking for you," he whined.
The bow swished, suddenly vigorous, through the air. "You must know I never work alone." The look he gave Clarkey was loud with warning bells, and Lestrade turned to meet Watson's eyes - the man must know, of course, and the looks of disbelief they shared were mirrored perfectly.
"But Mr Holmes, I'm perfectly capable of assisting you in any - "
It wasn't an innuendo - specifically - but it didn't need to be. Coming from the Inspector's puppy-drool mouth, it was as good as a blatant obscenity, and the look on Clarkey's face as he lunged forward and grabbed Hopkins out of his chair was unmistakable. He hauled the Inspector up by his shirt, grabbed the case papers from his hands, and literally tossed him out of the sitting room. Lestrade had never seen such a thing in his life.
"I think we can handle it from here, thanks," Sergeant Clark said, civility only tangentially in place, then slammed the door hard enough to shake plaster from the ceiling.
Lestrade did the only thing he could possibly do in such circumstances.
He clapped.
Doctor Watson joined him quickly, and after a moment, Holmes did as well, his hands making barely any sound but his face beaming with pride and gratitude.
Clarkey turned, drawing in a pressed, relieved breath, then seemed to come to his sense and realize where he was.
Lestrade watched his face, watched as the expected horror set in - but then the realization, that they were clapping, that they were all as cheerful and proud as Holmes was (well, almost), that they understood.
"Oh," he said, letting out the breath in a rush of air. "Oh, I see. Dreadfully sorry about that, sirs."
"No apologies necessary, my dear," Holmes said, and his eyes watched his visitors like a pair of hawks - but neither of them even so much as batted an eyelash. He'd trained them well, Holmes had, and he had to know by now that, police officer or no, he was safe in Lestrade's company.
Safe. That had to be a precious word for a men such as they.
"Yes, well," and Clarkey was going a bit red, whether from the epithet or the situation as a whole or the unprecedented advent of an audience, Lestrade didn't know. He took Hopkins's vacated chair, and laid the confiscated papers on the tea-table, and hid his face in his teacup (for about the next, oh, century, Lestrade thought, if he'd had his way). Holmes leaned over and picked up the notes, scanning them.
"Lestrade!" he cried, leaping to his feet.
He put his teacup down with a sigh. "Yes, Holmes?"
"Why on earth didn't you bring this case to my attention earlier? The ribbon, the note! This is a dangerous business that should not have been delayed!"
Bewildered, Lestrade raised his eyebrows at the detective. "It seemed simple enough to me, and, well... Hopkins said he had it under control."
"Control? That fool wouldn't know control if it bound and gagged him in a dark alley. Suit up, everyone! We have a long night ahead of us!" He dashed up the stairs to his bedroom, presumably to put on a bit more clothes, and the three men left in the sitting room all had nearly identical expressions of confused woe.
Lestrade sighed. "Blast the man, anyhow," he said. "Never can tell what'll set him off next."
"I think he just needed a case," Clarkey ventured, and when he realized that Lestrade and Doctor Watson were listening (and why, as he'd suddenly become the official authority on all things Holmes, which couldn't've been comforting), he blushed a little more. "Also, he - when he's nervous he gets up about things, has to bash about and look important. We're to be his audience til he tires of us."
Watson nodded; he'd known as much, of course, but it wasn't his to tell. "And a splendid audience we'll be. Right, chaps?"
They were chaps, Lestrade thought, as Holmes came flying down the stairs with his coat half-buttoned and kissed Clarkey full on the mouth on his way out. No secret such as theirs should be alone, and no man is an island. They'd always have him, and Doctor Watson of course, whenever they needed a friend. It was what friends did. And he would proudly admit, to anyone who asked, that he was a friend of Sherlock Holmes first, and a policeman second.
Thing was, he had known for a while now, and Mr. Holmes had known that he'd known, but they had a tacit agreement not to say a damn thing because they both knew Constable Clark, and if he knew that Lestrade knew, he'd likely resign from the force and take himself off to some faraway country where no one could potentially hang him for his sexual preferences (which Lestrade wouldn't, of course, but Clarkey had some funny notions about friendship) and that didn't help either of them. So he kept his mouth shut, and when he saw how Holmes's eyes lingered or how his hands would flit sometimes, as if he wanted to reach out and touch him - well, he might've looked elsewhere for a moment, and pretended he couldn't see.
It all came to a head though, as such things do, when a new Inspector came to work with them, a young, overenthusiastic man named Hopkins.
Nobody liked Hopkins. It wasn't unkind to say so, they all told him as much, and he smiled good-naturedly and nodded and almost wiggled, and Lestrade had never met anyone who so forcefully reminded him of a Labrador Retriever - especially, however, whenever Holmes came by (or his name was mentioned, or hinted at, and if no one had mentioned Mr Holmes in enough time, he'd do it himself). Lestrade didn't dislike him - he was, at least, a capable Inspector - but he smelled trouble in the air. And, sure enough, it came in the form of a rainy day and case that couldn't be solved.
"Blast it all, I can't make heads or tails of this!" Hopkins cried, tossing the papers down on Lestrade's desk.
With the infinite patience of the oft-tried, Lestrade gathered them into their neat stack once more and frowned. Yes, he was well and truly stumped, and the case should have been an open-and-shut. If it doesn't turn out to be something more interesting underneath, Holmes'll never let us live it down, he thought. Then again, he might not anyway.
He stood, reaching for his hat. "I suppose I'll be along to Baker Street, then," and he should have known - he could have defused the situation right there, claimed to be going out for a pint instead, but it was too late - he'd said the magic words.
"Yes, of course! Mr. Holmes will be able to clear this up in a jiffy, won't he? I hope you don't mind company!"
It was unfortunate, really, that Hopkins was so very puppylike. It was nearly impossible to say no to him, not without sounding rude.
"I don't suppose I could convince you to run over to Cavendish Place to fetch the doctor instead?"
Hopkins waved a hand, airily, and held the door open for Lestrade. "I'm sure it's nothing that drastic. There's probably some ridiculously simple fact that our feeble minds completely overlooked, and he'll have solved it before we could blink our eyes." The way his steps quickened and the frenetic lilt to his words, however, made it plain that he hoped very much for it not to be so.
Lestrade followed as slowly as he could without losing him. This was bad. So far, he'd managed to keep Hopkins from barging in on Holmes unannounced - and he'd managed to keep Sergeant Clark (for he was a Sergeant now, and a damn fine one) on business elsewhere in the city.
He prayed to a God he didn't quite believe in that Clarkey wouldn't be there. He prayed.
"Good afternoon, Inspectors, let me take your wet coats," Mrs. Hudson said in her genial way, fussing over their hats and dripping outer layers. Lestrade smiled his thanks in return, but couldn't escape the feeling of dread that had settled over him.
Seventeen steps, and a very narrow staircase. There was no way he could squeeze by Hopkins without having to explain himself. No, the man would be the first to enter the room, and all Lestrade could hope for now is that he would, at least, knock.
He did. Two raps, very quickly, and then he was throwing the door opening, and it was all Lestrade could do not to wince visibly.
+
He should have known. Holmes was sprawled in his usual armchair in shirtsleeves, his ridiculous dressing-gown over it all, and the second armchair, why, that was -
"Doctor," Lestrade blurted, surprised. "Good morning."
Doctor Watson looked the spiffing image of British perfection, suited and gloved and clearly just recently breezed in himself. He smiled at Lestrade, nodded his head in a welcoming sort of manner, and gestured at the tea things. "Afternoon, actually. Care for a cup?"
"Don't mind if I do." It wasn't until the two Inspectors had pulled up chairs, sat, and taken cups of tea, that Lestrade noticed Clarkey - slipping into the living room from the upstairs exit, fully dressed (now, presumably), and anxiously glancing around to see if anyone had seen. Lestrade quickly dropped his eyes to the tea service.
"Trouble in paradise, I presume?" Holmes was saying, slashing his violin bow through the air as he was wont to do when he was feeling pretentious.
Before Lestrade could reply, Hopkins cut in. "Trouble indeed! You must have a look at these case files, sir, Lestrade and I have been over them all morning and we can't make hide nor hair of it! Of course, you'll likely take one look and have the whole thing figured out, wasn't that what you were saying on the way over, Inspector?" He turned to wink, patronizing, in Watson's direction. "Won't be needing your expertise, Doctor!"
Holmes caught Lestrade's eye, one eyebrow twitching in both apology and mirth. They'd developed a silent communication long ago, not as swift as Holmes and Watson's, but well enough to fly past Hopkins.
"I mean, the case isn't exactly worthy of your fine attention, sir," and there he went again, buttering up to Holmes like it would have any more effect than the last time he'd done it, "but I'd be much obliged if you could have a look at it for us." He actually batted his eyelashes a little. Lestrade didn't know whether to be sick or to burst out laughing.
He'd forgotten, however, about Clarkey. The door snapped shut with a gale force, and three of them - Lestrade, Hopkins, and Dr Watson - all jumped in their seats. Holmes poked the edges of the carpet with his bow.
"Afternoon, Inspectors," Clarkey said, voice tight. Lestrade had never seen him quite so worked up. "Having a party, are we, Holmes?"
"Nothing so crude," he replied with an almost vulgar familiarity - and that little note of affection, the first clue Lestrade had ever picked up on. It was there now in full warmth. "Apparently it takes five men to solve a one-man case."
Hopkins snapped the sheaf of papers he was carrying on his knee. "We were only looking for you," he whined.
The bow swished, suddenly vigorous, through the air. "You must know I never work alone." The look he gave Clarkey was loud with warning bells, and Lestrade turned to meet Watson's eyes - the man must know, of course, and the looks of disbelief they shared were mirrored perfectly.
"But Mr Holmes, I'm perfectly capable of assisting you in any - "
It wasn't an innuendo - specifically - but it didn't need to be. Coming from the Inspector's puppy-drool mouth, it was as good as a blatant obscenity, and the look on Clarkey's face as he lunged forward and grabbed Hopkins out of his chair was unmistakable. He hauled the Inspector up by his shirt, grabbed the case papers from his hands, and literally tossed him out of the sitting room. Lestrade had never seen such a thing in his life.
"I think we can handle it from here, thanks," Sergeant Clark said, civility only tangentially in place, then slammed the door hard enough to shake plaster from the ceiling.
Lestrade did the only thing he could possibly do in such circumstances.
He clapped.
Doctor Watson joined him quickly, and after a moment, Holmes did as well, his hands making barely any sound but his face beaming with pride and gratitude.
Clarkey turned, drawing in a pressed, relieved breath, then seemed to come to his sense and realize where he was.
Lestrade watched his face, watched as the expected horror set in - but then the realization, that they were clapping, that they were all as cheerful and proud as Holmes was (well, almost), that they understood.
"Oh," he said, letting out the breath in a rush of air. "Oh, I see. Dreadfully sorry about that, sirs."
"No apologies necessary, my dear," Holmes said, and his eyes watched his visitors like a pair of hawks - but neither of them even so much as batted an eyelash. He'd trained them well, Holmes had, and he had to know by now that, police officer or no, he was safe in Lestrade's company.
Safe. That had to be a precious word for a men such as they.
"Yes, well," and Clarkey was going a bit red, whether from the epithet or the situation as a whole or the unprecedented advent of an audience, Lestrade didn't know. He took Hopkins's vacated chair, and laid the confiscated papers on the tea-table, and hid his face in his teacup (for about the next, oh, century, Lestrade thought, if he'd had his way). Holmes leaned over and picked up the notes, scanning them.
"Lestrade!" he cried, leaping to his feet.
He put his teacup down with a sigh. "Yes, Holmes?"
"Why on earth didn't you bring this case to my attention earlier? The ribbon, the note! This is a dangerous business that should not have been delayed!"
Bewildered, Lestrade raised his eyebrows at the detective. "It seemed simple enough to me, and, well... Hopkins said he had it under control."
"Control? That fool wouldn't know control if it bound and gagged him in a dark alley. Suit up, everyone! We have a long night ahead of us!" He dashed up the stairs to his bedroom, presumably to put on a bit more clothes, and the three men left in the sitting room all had nearly identical expressions of confused woe.
Lestrade sighed. "Blast the man, anyhow," he said. "Never can tell what'll set him off next."
"I think he just needed a case," Clarkey ventured, and when he realized that Lestrade and Doctor Watson were listening (and why, as he'd suddenly become the official authority on all things Holmes, which couldn't've been comforting), he blushed a little more. "Also, he - when he's nervous he gets up about things, has to bash about and look important. We're to be his audience til he tires of us."
Watson nodded; he'd known as much, of course, but it wasn't his to tell. "And a splendid audience we'll be. Right, chaps?"
They were chaps, Lestrade thought, as Holmes came flying down the stairs with his coat half-buttoned and kissed Clarkey full on the mouth on his way out. No secret such as theirs should be alone, and no man is an island. They'd always have him, and Doctor Watson of course, whenever they needed a friend. It was what friends did. And he would proudly admit, to anyone who asked, that he was a friend of Sherlock Holmes first, and a policeman second.