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Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Lestrade stepped out of the car and looked around. There was an ambulance, John Watson working with the paramedics to treat someone. He didn't look frantic, so Lestrade walked over.
"Inspector," Watson greeted him. "I'll be right back, Mrs Hudson. You're in good hands."
"But you'll go with me to hospital?" Sherlock and Watson's landlady asked, her voice quavering.
"If you want, of course," Watson answered, patting her on the arm. "I'll be right back."
Lestrade led him over to a quietish corner. "What do you know?"
"Not much," Watson answered. "I left the flat at half seven this morning to go to work. Sherlock didn't have a case when I left. About half an hour ago, just before three, I got a text from him telling me to check on Mrs Hudson. He didn't answer when I called, so I rushed back here. Mrs Hudson was unconscious in the entryway and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. I called you and 999."
"Did you look for him?" Lestrade asked.
"Yes, which means I contaminated the crime scene," Watson said, sounding irritable, "but I wanted to make sure he wasn't up there bleeding to death. Otherwise, I've left it to you lot. Was he working on something with you?"
"No," Lestrade answered. "I called him in on a case this morning, but he wouldn't take it."
"Too boring?" Watson asked. He glanced over at the ambulance.
"No. Said working on it might compromise the case."
Watson turned to face Lestrade, frowning. "What does that mean? I've never heard that one before."
"The victim was a dealer. Drugs, cocaine mostly." Lestrade really hoped he didn't have to say anything else.
He didn't. "He knew him?"
Lestrade shook his head. Sherlock had refused to discuss it, just stated that his involvement would compromise Lestrade's case and left. "Was there anything out of order up there?"
Watson shrugged. "It's a tip, which it wasn't when I left, but I didn't notice anything else." He glanced over at the ambulance. "I'd better get going."
"She'll be all right, won't she?" Lestrade asked. He should have asked earlier, but he'd been focused on Sherlock.
Watson almost smiled. "Should be, but she needs scans run. It's more shock than anything else. Call me if you need to." He moved back to the ambulance and was immediately talking to one of the paramedics.
Donovan walked over. "No one saw anything. A couple of people heard shouts and thumps, but didn't think much of it."
Lestrade shook his head. "Let's check upstairs."
Tip was an understatement; the flat was a complete disaster. There was something odd about it, though. Lestrade stood in the doorway and looked, trying to determine what wasn’t right.
"The furniture's not been touched," Donovan said. "That's weird." She started to move into the flat.
"Stop!" Lestrade said. She was right; the furniture hadn't been touched, and the papers all over the floor hadn't been rifled through. He leaned down and looked at a few of them. Old cases. Standing, he noticed a line of crumpled papers from the door to Sherlock's bedroom and a second line from Sherlock's bedroom to the stairs. "Watson came in to check on Sherlock," he said. "No one else has walked on these papers."
"But, what does that mean?" Donovan asked.
"When they came in, Mrs Hudson intercepted them," Lestrade said, thinking out loud. "Sherlock had a few minutes before they came up here."
"Too bad he didn't go down to help her," Donovan said, scowling.
Lestrade shrugged. Expecting Sherlock Holmes to act like a normal human being was a pointless enterprise. "He probably knew he was about to get grabbed," he said. "He'd want us to know where he was, but he wouldn't want the killers to know that."
"He walked to the door and dumped a box of papers so that it'd look a mess." Donovan frowned. "He wouldn't leave us a clue, would he? He thinks that, combined, we have the IQ of pond scum."
Lestrade couldn't help grinning. "Not quite that bad," he said. "It'll be obvious, to him." He sighed. "Unfortunately, no one else thinks like him."
Donovan started walking toward the desk, trying to avoid trampling the papers any more than they already were. "Why are there stuffed animals? I can't see either of those two playing with toys."
"Not that kind," Lestrade said, pulling up Watson's number on his mobile. "Why are there stuffed animals, the little ones, in your flat? Or shouldn't I be talking to you on your mobile?"
"They've sent me to the waiting room," Watson answered, sounding annoyed. "Jenny, one of the nurses at the clinic, asked me to look after her little girl for an afternoon last week. Sherlock picked those up to tell her stories." He paused for a minute.
"Has he been fiddling with them, or experimenting on them, since?" Lestrade asked, walking over to the desk himself. There was a Lady, from the Disney film, and a dinosaur on top of a laptop and a rat with its paws on either side of the catch.
"No," Watson said, with a snort.
"Thanks," Lestrade said and ended the call, summarising the call to Donovan.
She looked down at the toys for a minute and then exclaimed, "That's disgusting!"
"What?" Lestrade looked again at the little toys. The dog was obviously meant to be Donovan, the insult clear, and Sherlock had once called Anderson a dinosaur, "since you're so unevolved." It wasn't surprising that he'd arranged the toys . . . Lestrade realised what had so offended Donovan. The dog was on top of the dinosaur, face in its groin. "We're clearly on the right track with that. The rat's supposed to be me—" At Donovan's look of shock, he shrugged. "He's called me rat-faced a couple of times, when he's not trying to butter me up."
"And still you call him," Donovan said. She'd pulled on gloves and was carefully removing the dog and dinosaur from the top of the computer. She looked like she wanted to pitch them across the room, but she was being professional and keeping them in position. Lestrade knew Sherlock would have thought all of that through and would have enjoyed the image.
Carefully opening the laptop, he was faced with a prompt for password. Sighing, he pulled out his phone and dialled Watson again.
"It's his laptop, because I have mine," the doctor said. "I have no idea what his password is."
After disconnecting the call, Lestrade looked at Donovan. "Try psychopath," she said, sneering.
When that was rejected, Lestrade gave her a look. "He's not a psychopath," he said. "He's a high-functioning—"
"Sociopath," Donovan chorused with him as Lestrade typed it in as the password.
The screen unlocked and a document was displayed. Even though he'd refused to become officially involved in the case, Sherlock had been typing up anything he could remember about the victim and his associates. Including, to Lestrade's relief, an address.
By the time Lestrade and Donovan made it to the address, after fighting through rush-hour traffic, the murderers had been arrested and Sherlock had been freed. He was sitting in an ambulance with an orange blanket around his shoulders, with blood all over his face, a black eye, and an expression of supreme irritation.
"I'm not in shock," he protested as soon as Lestrade made his way over.
"You're welcome," Lestrade said, ignoring the detective's petulance. "How'd they know to attack you?"
"I went to the scene," Sherlock said in his best "you are an idiot" voice. "One of them was watching and saw me." After a moment, he asked in a much less certain tone, "How's Mrs Hudson?"
"She's okay," Lestrade told him. "Banged up a bit and they're still waiting for the scans, it's just a precaution, but Watson wouldn't be worried if he knew where you were."
Sherlock nodded. "Well, then. Shall I go give my statement to Sally?"
Rolling his eyes, Lestrade said, "Only if you want a second black eye for calling her a bitch."
With a smirk, Sherlock said, "That is her own interpretation. I called her Lady. So sad that she has such low self-worth, isn't it?"
"Just remember, you needed us to rescue you."
Sherlock waved his hand and went looking for Donovan, but Lestrade knew he was grateful anyway. After all, there had been no comments on his or Donovan's lack of intelligence. For Sherlock, that was a glowing recommendation.