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holmesticeTitle: The Case of the Little Black Dress
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
piplover
Recipient:elfbert
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade
Warning: Some descriptions of blood
Summary: How are a lamp, a stuffed elephant, and a little black dress all connected? That’s what they have to figure out!
Author’s Note: Betaed by the lovelylavvyan. I couldn’t fit the porn in, Elfbert, but I do hope I bashed poor Lestrade enough for you. Merry Christmas!
The Case of the Little Black Dress
It was only after the third break-in that Gregory Lestrade decided to call. It wasn’t that he was adverse to bringing Sherlock onto the case. Nor was it the fact that only four days previous he had spent the better part of the night shagging the younger man senseless.
No, the reason Lestrade had not called Sherlock Holmes yet, and was procrastinating about doing so, was that the break-ins had all seemed random and unrelated until this last one. He wasn’t looking forward to being told, in excruciating detail, about all the evidence he had missed.
And he had missed something, because there was a young woman in hospital. Stabbed five times in her own home while her husband was taking their daughter out Christmas shopping. The prints left on the knife, dropped in haste when Mr. Dorr returned, had matched a set found at the first break-in two days ago, and, Lestrade hoped, the set found earlier that day.
Sighing, he gave in to the inevitable and pressed the speed dial, waited for the phone to ring.
***
When they arrived, Sherlock with a dramatic swirl of his coat and John faithfully following, Greg could not contain the small sigh that escaped. He may have been madly in love with the irascible brat, but he would be damned if he ever allowed that to flow over into their professional lives, hard as it was some days. Looking at the younger man now, hair disheveled and cheeks flushed, he could tell it was going to be one of those nights.
Paused in the doorway, Sherlock’s eyes swept the bedroom dispassionately, taking in the blood splatters, the turned over chair and the jewelry scattered haphazardly across the floor. Behind him, leaning against the doorjamb out of the way, John met Lestrade’s eyes briefly, inappropriate mischief lurking in their depths.
The doctor obviously knew what kind of mood his friend was in and was looking forward to the show. Bastard.
“Well?” Greg snapped, more harshly than he had intended.
He ignored the smirk Sherlock sent his way as he walked into the room.
“It wasn’t a normal break-in, the thief knew what he was looking for. The jewelry hasn’t been touched, it was scattered in the scuffle. The drawers haven’t been disturbed and the closet is still shut. He wasn’t expecting the wife to be home, sloppy,” Sherlock chastised absently as he bent down to investigate a scrap of blood-soaked fabric. “She was preparing to go out once her husband returned, probably a Christmas party. The thief startled her, but he didn’t flee once he was spotted. Why? Because she was wearing what he had come to take. What shape was she in when she was found?”
The question was followed by Sherlock moving to examine the dresser, his pocket magnifier pulled out.
“What the hell kind of shape do you think?” Anderson asked from his spot by the window, moving as if to block Sherlock’s access.
“Anderson,” Lestrade warned, his voice sounding more like his father’s long-suffering tones than he cared to think about. “Go check if the prints have come back yet.”
He waited until the forensics specialist departed, pouting and glaring the whole way. As he passed John he sneered at the other man, earning a brilliant smile for his effort.
“She was stabbed five times with a utility knife, the wounds concentrated on her legs and arms. She put up quite a fight, really. She thinks he was going to rape her, kept trying to pull her dress off.” Lestrade trailed off as Sherlock uttered a little “oh” of surprise. “Sherlock?” he prompted, knowing the signs of sudden realization.
“He wasn’t going to rape her,” Sherlock dismissed, eyes focused on the blood covered floor. “He did, however, want her dress. Why?”
“Sorry,” John interrupted, and bless the man for voicing what Greg wanted to. “How do you know he wanted her dress? Maybe he had a fetish or -”
“Can’t you see?” Sherlock demanded impatiently. “Why go for her legs? Why not just rip the dress off if he wanted to rape her? Why go after her at all, anyway? He wanted something, he came here with a plan. The knife wasn’t meant as a weapon, not with that small of a blade. It was a tool, he was going to cut something with it, she just got in the way. The jewelry isn’t touched, the rest of her clothes ignored. The bedding isn’t even disturbed!”
Sherlock waved at the bed, which looked as though it had come from the cover of a posh magazine, save for the blood splatters.
“Why did he want her dress, though? What was so important about it?” This last was directed at Lestrade, who found himself blinking, caught off guard.
“Of course it was new,” Sherlock muttered, waving away any replay Lestrade may have made. “She was going to a Christmas party, she would have bought something special for the occasion. The question we should be asking is, where did she get the dress? I need to speak to the husband!”
Greg caught Sherlock’s arm before the other man could go running out of the room. Out of the corner of his eye he saw John shift slightly, blocking the door. They both may have loved Sherlock in their own ways, but neither man could deny that he had his faults. One thing he was not was sensitive. “He’s at the hospital with his wife and daughter,” Greg said, his tone making it quite clear that that should be it.
Sherlock, of course, ignored him.
“If we can find out where and when the dress was purchased we should be able to find out who wanted it and why!” Sherlock protested, shaking off Greg’s grip.
“Sherlock,” John murmured quietly, and the consulting detective cast a glare his way. John was unfazed, returning the look with one of his own.
“Look, I’ll have Donovan ask him,” Lestrade said, pulling out his phone and waving it a little in demonstration. “Save you a trip.”
Sherlock scowled, crossing his arms as he paced impatiently, waiting for Lestrade to finish. It only took five minutes, but the room was seething with tension by the time he hung up.
“It was purchased at an auction a week ago,” Greg reported, tucking his phone away. “In fact, it was the one John and I watched.”
“Oh, the one for the hospital?” John asked, intrigued. He ignored Sherlock’s huff of disgust. “I think I remember, that black dress, one of a kind designer thing?”
“That’s the one. Pretty thing, too,” Greg agreed.
“If you two are quite finished,” Sherlock growled.
“It’s not our fault you were too concerned with your toes to watch telly with us,” Greg teased.
It wasn’t often that all three had been able to spend time together, what with John’s relationship with Sarah and his work, but that night had been quiet and boring, almost domestic.
It would have been perfect if Sherlock hadn’t received a set of deformed toes from the morgue earlier. Instead, Greg and John had found themselves enjoying a nice cuppa and watching the auction as they chatted, letting Sherlock play with his new find until they had all retired for the evening.
“Anyway, she bought the dress there,” Greg finished, scowling as his phone rang again, vibrating his pocket insistently. “Lestrade,” he said. “Really?…We’ll be there in fifteen.” When he hung up he found himself the center of both men’s attention. “They found the thief. He’s at the morgue.”
***
The body before them was that of a slightly pudgy, mousy haired man in his early fifties. Never married, though with a girlfriend half his age, he had been killed instantly by a shot to the heart. A couple trying to catch the bus had spotted him, slumped against a phone box.
“Eric McKinley,” Lestrade read from the folder before him. “Worked for a Mr. Gordon Landers of Fairview Auctions. Apparently, Mr. McKinley here has been rather busy. His prints match the other two scenes.”
“Interesting,” Sherlock murmured, examining the man’s left hand and the blood still staining the cuticles. “What was he searching for, I wonder? And, more importantly, did he find it? What were the other items stolen at the previous break-ins?”
“A stuffed elephant and a Tiffany Lamp,” Lestrade said, shrugging at the confused look John threw his way.
“I think we need to speak with Mr. Landers,” Sherlock rumbled. His voice was deeper, more of a purr, and Lestrade shared a knowing glance with John as they left the morgue.
Sherlock was once again ten steps ahead of them, but at least he was waiting for them to follow along.
***
Once Sherlock explained everything on the drive over it all made a terrible kind of sense. A stockbroker dealing with insider trading, hiding the information that was to be passed along in innocent items sold at auctions. Only a new assistant had bungled everything up, from his hiding of the items to the retrieval. The information, hidden in the base of a Tiffany lamp, the stuffing of an elephant, and sown into the hem of a dress, was worth nearly 7.8 million pounds
Lestrade had seen murder committed for a lot less.
He winced, grimacing as another bullet passed over his head. There had been a time, before that first fateful meeting with Sherlock Holmes, when gunfights and murderous stockbrokers weren’t the norm. When guns and madmen had been things from movies and not at all common. That had all changed when they started working together.
For one thing, he'd started getting shot at.
“It’s a through and through,” John tried to reassure him as he deftly wrapped the makeshift bandage around his arm. “Don’t have to hunt for the bullet and it looks like it missed anything major.”
“Yeah, thanks, everything but my arm!” Greg snapped, wincing as the doctor’s hands pressed steadily to stop the bleeding. “Where the hell is Sherlock?”
“Where else?” John growled, poking his head around the overturned desk they were using for shelter. “Looks like Sherlock has him blocked by the reception area.”
“If he gets himself killed…” Greg hissed, fighting the nearly overwhelming urge to vomit from the pain.
“Yes, well, I claim what’s left when you get through,” John agreed. “Ambulance and backup should be here soon. Don’t worry, you’ll be in and out of hospital in no time!”
Greg was not reassured, and as his vision started to fade, he thought it rather prudent to keep his mouth closed for numerous reasons and simply let himself pass out.
***
He awoke to the steady beeping of a heart monitor and an itch in the back of his hand. His left arm from the elbow up was numb, and when he lazily turned his head to the side he could see why. A swathe of white covered the limb, spreading across his shoulder until it looked like that part of his body had been mummified.
“I really wish you wouldn’t do this.”
He turned his head the other direction to see Sherlock, knees pulled up to his chin in a demonstration of flexibility that had Lestrade grinning loopily.
“Stop it,” Sherlock growled, wiping a hand over his eyes. “There’ll be none of that for quite some time, I’m afraid. Doctor’s orders.”
“Which doctor?” Greg croaked, licking his lips and grimacing at the taste of chemicals. He smiled gratefully as a straw was held to his mouth.
“Our doctor, of course. You don’t think I would entrust you to anyone, do you? He’s filling out paperwork,” Sherlock added, checking his watch. “You’ve been out for nearly a full day.”
Greg wisely decided to keep any comments to himself, continuing to sip from the little cup until it gurgled and was pulled away.
“Consider this payback for last June,” he said, closing his eyes as his hand was taken delicately in pale, elegant fingers. “You scared the piss out of me.”
“Yes, well…” Sherlock cleared his throat, looking to the door before turning back, dropping his legs and leaning forward so his lips ghosted over Lestrade’s. “How about we both stop and let John have his illusions of a boring life?”
The kiss was gentle and sweet, two words not usually associated with the younger man. It was only the sound of a throat being cleared that broke them apart, to find John standing in the doorway.
“I do hope you two realize that when I say no sex for the next two weeks, I mean no sex for the next two weeks,” he said without heat, arms crossed as he leaned casually against the door
“We weren’t having sex, we were kissing,” Sherlock protested.
“Which, with you two, usually leads to sex,” John pointed out reasonably. Then he turned to Greg and said, “You’ll be staying at ours until you’re ready to be released back into the wild. And that way I can keep an eye on both of you!”
When Lestrade opened his mouth to protest he was silenced with another kiss, and found his eyes closing of their own volition. When he opened them again, some several minutes later, John was gone and Sherlock was looking at him seriously.
“Shut up and accept our hospitality, Greg,” Sherlock whispered.
Lestrade shut up.
Author:
piploverRecipient:
elfbertRating: PG-13
Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade
Warning: Some descriptions of blood
Summary: How are a lamp, a stuffed elephant, and a little black dress all connected? That’s what they have to figure out!
Author’s Note: Betaed by the lovely
lavvyan. I couldn’t fit the porn in, Elfbert, but I do hope I bashed poor Lestrade enough for you. Merry Christmas! It was only after the third break-in that Gregory Lestrade decided to call. It wasn’t that he was adverse to bringing Sherlock onto the case. Nor was it the fact that only four days previous he had spent the better part of the night shagging the younger man senseless.
No, the reason Lestrade had not called Sherlock Holmes yet, and was procrastinating about doing so, was that the break-ins had all seemed random and unrelated until this last one. He wasn’t looking forward to being told, in excruciating detail, about all the evidence he had missed.
And he had missed something, because there was a young woman in hospital. Stabbed five times in her own home while her husband was taking their daughter out Christmas shopping. The prints left on the knife, dropped in haste when Mr. Dorr returned, had matched a set found at the first break-in two days ago, and, Lestrade hoped, the set found earlier that day.
Sighing, he gave in to the inevitable and pressed the speed dial, waited for the phone to ring.
***
When they arrived, Sherlock with a dramatic swirl of his coat and John faithfully following, Greg could not contain the small sigh that escaped. He may have been madly in love with the irascible brat, but he would be damned if he ever allowed that to flow over into their professional lives, hard as it was some days. Looking at the younger man now, hair disheveled and cheeks flushed, he could tell it was going to be one of those nights.
Paused in the doorway, Sherlock’s eyes swept the bedroom dispassionately, taking in the blood splatters, the turned over chair and the jewelry scattered haphazardly across the floor. Behind him, leaning against the doorjamb out of the way, John met Lestrade’s eyes briefly, inappropriate mischief lurking in their depths.
The doctor obviously knew what kind of mood his friend was in and was looking forward to the show. Bastard.
“Well?” Greg snapped, more harshly than he had intended.
He ignored the smirk Sherlock sent his way as he walked into the room.
“It wasn’t a normal break-in, the thief knew what he was looking for. The jewelry hasn’t been touched, it was scattered in the scuffle. The drawers haven’t been disturbed and the closet is still shut. He wasn’t expecting the wife to be home, sloppy,” Sherlock chastised absently as he bent down to investigate a scrap of blood-soaked fabric. “She was preparing to go out once her husband returned, probably a Christmas party. The thief startled her, but he didn’t flee once he was spotted. Why? Because she was wearing what he had come to take. What shape was she in when she was found?”
The question was followed by Sherlock moving to examine the dresser, his pocket magnifier pulled out.
“What the hell kind of shape do you think?” Anderson asked from his spot by the window, moving as if to block Sherlock’s access.
“Anderson,” Lestrade warned, his voice sounding more like his father’s long-suffering tones than he cared to think about. “Go check if the prints have come back yet.”
He waited until the forensics specialist departed, pouting and glaring the whole way. As he passed John he sneered at the other man, earning a brilliant smile for his effort.
“She was stabbed five times with a utility knife, the wounds concentrated on her legs and arms. She put up quite a fight, really. She thinks he was going to rape her, kept trying to pull her dress off.” Lestrade trailed off as Sherlock uttered a little “oh” of surprise. “Sherlock?” he prompted, knowing the signs of sudden realization.
“He wasn’t going to rape her,” Sherlock dismissed, eyes focused on the blood covered floor. “He did, however, want her dress. Why?”
“Sorry,” John interrupted, and bless the man for voicing what Greg wanted to. “How do you know he wanted her dress? Maybe he had a fetish or -”
“Can’t you see?” Sherlock demanded impatiently. “Why go for her legs? Why not just rip the dress off if he wanted to rape her? Why go after her at all, anyway? He wanted something, he came here with a plan. The knife wasn’t meant as a weapon, not with that small of a blade. It was a tool, he was going to cut something with it, she just got in the way. The jewelry isn’t touched, the rest of her clothes ignored. The bedding isn’t even disturbed!”
Sherlock waved at the bed, which looked as though it had come from the cover of a posh magazine, save for the blood splatters.
“Why did he want her dress, though? What was so important about it?” This last was directed at Lestrade, who found himself blinking, caught off guard.
“Of course it was new,” Sherlock muttered, waving away any replay Lestrade may have made. “She was going to a Christmas party, she would have bought something special for the occasion. The question we should be asking is, where did she get the dress? I need to speak to the husband!”
Greg caught Sherlock’s arm before the other man could go running out of the room. Out of the corner of his eye he saw John shift slightly, blocking the door. They both may have loved Sherlock in their own ways, but neither man could deny that he had his faults. One thing he was not was sensitive. “He’s at the hospital with his wife and daughter,” Greg said, his tone making it quite clear that that should be it.
Sherlock, of course, ignored him.
“If we can find out where and when the dress was purchased we should be able to find out who wanted it and why!” Sherlock protested, shaking off Greg’s grip.
“Sherlock,” John murmured quietly, and the consulting detective cast a glare his way. John was unfazed, returning the look with one of his own.
“Look, I’ll have Donovan ask him,” Lestrade said, pulling out his phone and waving it a little in demonstration. “Save you a trip.”
Sherlock scowled, crossing his arms as he paced impatiently, waiting for Lestrade to finish. It only took five minutes, but the room was seething with tension by the time he hung up.
“It was purchased at an auction a week ago,” Greg reported, tucking his phone away. “In fact, it was the one John and I watched.”
“Oh, the one for the hospital?” John asked, intrigued. He ignored Sherlock’s huff of disgust. “I think I remember, that black dress, one of a kind designer thing?”
“That’s the one. Pretty thing, too,” Greg agreed.
“If you two are quite finished,” Sherlock growled.
“It’s not our fault you were too concerned with your toes to watch telly with us,” Greg teased.
It wasn’t often that all three had been able to spend time together, what with John’s relationship with Sarah and his work, but that night had been quiet and boring, almost domestic.
It would have been perfect if Sherlock hadn’t received a set of deformed toes from the morgue earlier. Instead, Greg and John had found themselves enjoying a nice cuppa and watching the auction as they chatted, letting Sherlock play with his new find until they had all retired for the evening.
“Anyway, she bought the dress there,” Greg finished, scowling as his phone rang again, vibrating his pocket insistently. “Lestrade,” he said. “Really?…We’ll be there in fifteen.” When he hung up he found himself the center of both men’s attention. “They found the thief. He’s at the morgue.”
***
The body before them was that of a slightly pudgy, mousy haired man in his early fifties. Never married, though with a girlfriend half his age, he had been killed instantly by a shot to the heart. A couple trying to catch the bus had spotted him, slumped against a phone box.
“Eric McKinley,” Lestrade read from the folder before him. “Worked for a Mr. Gordon Landers of Fairview Auctions. Apparently, Mr. McKinley here has been rather busy. His prints match the other two scenes.”
“Interesting,” Sherlock murmured, examining the man’s left hand and the blood still staining the cuticles. “What was he searching for, I wonder? And, more importantly, did he find it? What were the other items stolen at the previous break-ins?”
“A stuffed elephant and a Tiffany Lamp,” Lestrade said, shrugging at the confused look John threw his way.
“I think we need to speak with Mr. Landers,” Sherlock rumbled. His voice was deeper, more of a purr, and Lestrade shared a knowing glance with John as they left the morgue.
Sherlock was once again ten steps ahead of them, but at least he was waiting for them to follow along.
***
Once Sherlock explained everything on the drive over it all made a terrible kind of sense. A stockbroker dealing with insider trading, hiding the information that was to be passed along in innocent items sold at auctions. Only a new assistant had bungled everything up, from his hiding of the items to the retrieval. The information, hidden in the base of a Tiffany lamp, the stuffing of an elephant, and sown into the hem of a dress, was worth nearly 7.8 million pounds
Lestrade had seen murder committed for a lot less.
He winced, grimacing as another bullet passed over his head. There had been a time, before that first fateful meeting with Sherlock Holmes, when gunfights and murderous stockbrokers weren’t the norm. When guns and madmen had been things from movies and not at all common. That had all changed when they started working together.
For one thing, he'd started getting shot at.
“It’s a through and through,” John tried to reassure him as he deftly wrapped the makeshift bandage around his arm. “Don’t have to hunt for the bullet and it looks like it missed anything major.”
“Yeah, thanks, everything but my arm!” Greg snapped, wincing as the doctor’s hands pressed steadily to stop the bleeding. “Where the hell is Sherlock?”
“Where else?” John growled, poking his head around the overturned desk they were using for shelter. “Looks like Sherlock has him blocked by the reception area.”
“If he gets himself killed…” Greg hissed, fighting the nearly overwhelming urge to vomit from the pain.
“Yes, well, I claim what’s left when you get through,” John agreed. “Ambulance and backup should be here soon. Don’t worry, you’ll be in and out of hospital in no time!”
Greg was not reassured, and as his vision started to fade, he thought it rather prudent to keep his mouth closed for numerous reasons and simply let himself pass out.
***
He awoke to the steady beeping of a heart monitor and an itch in the back of his hand. His left arm from the elbow up was numb, and when he lazily turned his head to the side he could see why. A swathe of white covered the limb, spreading across his shoulder until it looked like that part of his body had been mummified.
“I really wish you wouldn’t do this.”
He turned his head the other direction to see Sherlock, knees pulled up to his chin in a demonstration of flexibility that had Lestrade grinning loopily.
“Stop it,” Sherlock growled, wiping a hand over his eyes. “There’ll be none of that for quite some time, I’m afraid. Doctor’s orders.”
“Which doctor?” Greg croaked, licking his lips and grimacing at the taste of chemicals. He smiled gratefully as a straw was held to his mouth.
“Our doctor, of course. You don’t think I would entrust you to anyone, do you? He’s filling out paperwork,” Sherlock added, checking his watch. “You’ve been out for nearly a full day.”
Greg wisely decided to keep any comments to himself, continuing to sip from the little cup until it gurgled and was pulled away.
“Consider this payback for last June,” he said, closing his eyes as his hand was taken delicately in pale, elegant fingers. “You scared the piss out of me.”
“Yes, well…” Sherlock cleared his throat, looking to the door before turning back, dropping his legs and leaning forward so his lips ghosted over Lestrade’s. “How about we both stop and let John have his illusions of a boring life?”
The kiss was gentle and sweet, two words not usually associated with the younger man. It was only the sound of a throat being cleared that broke them apart, to find John standing in the doorway.
“I do hope you two realize that when I say no sex for the next two weeks, I mean no sex for the next two weeks,” he said without heat, arms crossed as he leaned casually against the door
“We weren’t having sex, we were kissing,” Sherlock protested.
“Which, with you two, usually leads to sex,” John pointed out reasonably. Then he turned to Greg and said, “You’ll be staying at ours until you’re ready to be released back into the wild. And that way I can keep an eye on both of you!”
When Lestrade opened his mouth to protest he was silenced with another kiss, and found his eyes closing of their own volition. When he opened them again, some several minutes later, John was gone and Sherlock was looking at him seriously.
“Shut up and accept our hospitality, Greg,” Sherlock whispered.
Lestrade shut up.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-12-11 04:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-11 09:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-12 01:58 pm (UTC)I loved the relationship between them, I loved that John knew. Thank you :D
no subject
Date: 2010-12-12 07:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-12 08:04 pm (UTC)I've loved about everything: from John knowledge of the other two relationship, to the sweet and caring Sherlock. And always perfect Lestrade.
*hugs*
San
no subject
Date: 2011-02-23 09:11 pm (UTC)