Chapter Text
“You know, there are times I wish I could just...poke around in his brain,” Lestrade said quietly so Sherlock wouldn’t hear, not really to anyone in particular, but he knew Sally would comment.
“Why?” was her simple reaction, causing him to look at her.
“I suppose I just want to know how it works,” he said. “How he pulls these deductions out of a rabbit hat, I guess.”
Sally chuckled, the sound a little derisive. “I’d like to get inside and poke around and find out what’s messed up about it that makes him the way he is.”
Lestrade frowned. That wasn’t what he had meant, not really, but he knew Sally didn’t see Sherlock the same way he did. She viewed Sherlock as nothing more than a nuisance, really. A brilliant nuisance, but he made her job and her days harder. Sherlock didn’t really help in that regard, no matter how much he tried to smooth things out between them. And he would admit, there were some...peculiarities...to Sherlock, though over the years he’d seen them fade into something more akin to quirks.
But he just wanted to get even a fraction of a glimpse into the way his mind worked. Mycroft had once said Sherlock had a beautiful, complex brain that should have been hindered by his past drug use but seemed to brush it aside as though it was merely an irritating chemical reaction, and Lestrade could see that. He had known Sherlock for a long while, since his brother had sought out his help to save the man from himself.
Sometimes he even liked to think he had helped in the matter, but he wasn’t entirely sure. Sherlock, being Sherlock, was blunt and rude, even with those he cared for, and he always wondered which side of the divide he fell on.
He was shaken out of his thoughts as Sherlock approached them, pulling off his late gloves with a snap, the only consolation he made to being on a crime scene and not contaminating the place. Not that he would do it intentionally, but Lestrade had learned long ago that asking for Sherlock’s help meant playing by Sherlock’s ground rules, even if they only made sense to Sherlock. But they got results, and to his superior’s that meant Sherlock’s quirks were to be tolerated.
Within reason.
The day Sherlock crossed the line his arse would be banned from being allowed within a quarter-mile of any crime scene NSY operated. They were all very aware that rules could only be bent so far, restrictions could only be circumvented so long, and this was a game that they all had to acknowledge could blow up in their faces at any moment if Sherlock ever changed.
But it was a game Sherlock played well, so for now, all was well.
“It was suicide,” he said, tossing the gloves at John. “An elaborate one made to look like a murder, but the gunshot wound was no doubt self-inflicted. Molly Hooper will confirm that. You can trust her to notice the minute details most would miss.”
“But not you,” Sally said.
“No,” he replied, seemingly uninterested in a game of snark with Sally. “In my opinion, he rigged the gun that fired the shot by remote so it would look like it had been fired from a distance, but I doubt it’s far away from here. That is unless he has an accomplice.”
“An accomplice?” Lestrade asked with a frown.
“He’s a shady businessman. If you don’t find the gun, look into other people he was trying to take advantage of that he would have a personal distaste for, and then see who else shared his feelings on the matter. He would only trust one person, perhaps two, with his plan, but only someone who hated Lord Drummond as much as the victim did would frame him for murder. Be wary of any evidence you find implicating Lord Drummond, by the way. Chances are it’s planted.”
“And if it’s not?” Sally asked, crossing his arms.
“Then I’ll parade around Scotland Yard in just my pants,” he said with a sneer towards hers. “Doubt the evidence, for once. It’s a ruse.” He motioned to John to move away from them and they walked around, ducking under the crime scene tape moments later.
Sally shook her head. “What a prick,” she said under her breath before uncrossing her arms and moving in the opposite direction from Holmes, walking towards the victim. Lestrade watched her for a moment and then turned back to see Sherlock and John ducking into a cab.
He would give anything to figure out how Sherlock ticked, he thought to himself. Anything at all...