“Holmes? Sherlock Holmes?” a man dressed in a uniform of the constabulary called out as we stepped from the cab. He and two of his fellow officers were standing near the rear entrance to the building. He was remarkably tall, red-headed, aged somewhere in his mid-twenties, and wore mutton chops that were most unflattering. As distinctive as he was I did not recognize him.

“Yes.” I said as I walked toward them with Watson a few steps behind me, having stopped to instruct the driver to wait for us. “And whom might you be?”

“Constable Hightower.”

An apt moniker for such a statuesque young man.

“We’ve not met before have we Constable?”

“No sir.” he replied, “But everyone around the yard knows about the infamous Mr. Holmes.”

“Including the details of my physical appearance it would seem.”

“Aye, there’s a couple of photographs of you hanging on the wall, clippings from some newspaper articles.”

Just then the door swung open and a man stepped out, eying the lads sharply. He was well dressed and with dark hair which was only just beginning to show the greying at the temples that, along with the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and folds upon his forehead, told me that he was some forty-five to fifty years of age. His suit was finely tailored, a deep brown with pinstripes, and his hair neatly brushed back with the aid of some form of cream. He pulled at his clothing and stood in such a fashion that it was apparent to me that he was unaccustomed to such attire. He was about to attend an important meeting with someone that he wished to make an impression upon.

“If you lads don’t get back to...” he noticed Watson and myself standing there and promptly shifted his attention to us. “Why if it isn’t Sherlock Holmes, the ‘consulting detective’.” he spoke the words with disdain in his mouth.

This man I did not know either.

“Haven’t seen you around here in what...five years or so? Finally decided to leave the police work to the real coppers have you?”

“I’m sorry sir but have we met?” I asked, attempting to mirror his contempt whilst masking it thinly behind a façade of gentlemanly manners.

He angrily motioned for the men to return to their duties. They extinguished their cigarettes and hesitantly did as they were instructed. He watched them go, shook his head, and then turned back to Watson and I.

“Chief Inspector Wilks.” he said, putting out a hand to shake mine. “And no, we’ve not met, though I’m thoroughly aware of your exploits.”

I ignored his gesture, instead introducing him to Doctor Watson who chose to accept his greeting. I kept my hands resting firmly atop my walking stick. He looked down at them, barely managed to keep a look of anger from his face.

“I need to speak with Detective Inspector Lestrade immediately sir. I was wondering if you would be so good as to tell him that I am here.”

The man afforded himself a chuckle at our, or rather my, expense.

“Do you mean to tell me that the legendary Sherlock Holmes doesn’t know?”

“Know what?”

“That Lestrade isn’t with the Yard any longer, hasn’t been going on five years now. Hell, he resigned not long after you stopped poking your head around here.” he leaned in a bit, “If you want my personal opinion I think that sorry sap couldn’t cut it without an amateur such as yourself solving his cases for him.”

“Ah!” I exclaimed, turning to Watson to show a smile. “You see, the chief inspector recognizes my talent after all.”

“Hardly.” came his tepid reply. “Still, I’ll give you credit for being a fair sight smarter than that Lestrade chap.”

“Hardly an accomplishment.” I jested, “Speaking of whom, do you know where I might find him?”

As I finished the sentence I noticed Wilks’ eye lift from mine, to something in the street.

“Holmes!” I heard a familiar voice call out.

“That’d be him right now Mr. Holmes.” the chief inspector said, pointing to a cab that had just pulled up behind ours.

“Your Inspector Lestrade?” Watson asked.

“Precisely.” and with that I walked away, leaving Wilks where he stood, giving him not so much as a wave or a tip of the hat. There was something about the man that I instinctively disliked, and he apparently felt the same way about me. From behind I heard the good doctor apologize on my behalf and then his steps striking the pavement as he hurried to catch me up.

“That was a bit rude would you not say?”

“Only repaid in kind Watson. The chief inspector should learn to watch his tongue. Ah, Mr. Lestrade!” I belted out as I approached the cab, lifting my walking stick into the air.

For an instant only I caught the reflection of Chief Inspector Wilks in the glass of the window, his gaze still fixed upon my back. Had I truly angered the man? What was it that subconsciously caused the two of us to be pre-disposed to dislike one another? I decided that it was of little consequence. I’d not known of him personally, nor had I ever met him in the past, but I did recall newspaper articles about a new chief inspector at Scotland Yard. The subtly detectable emotions I’d sensed on his men as he’d come outdoors to chide them told me that they feared him but that they did not respect him. A crass fellow, I could not blame them.

The window of the cab lowered, and out poked the instantly recognizable visage of Gregory Lestrade, the fabric of his bowler hat catching the morning mist. His scars, reminders of our encounter with the Bugbear, were more noticeable than I had remembered, having last seen him up close only shortly after his wounds had healed and they had formed.

“Gentlemen, please get in.” was all that he said.

I let my new friend enter the coach first and then promptly followed him, wishing to get out of the weather which was beginning to work its way up from a mist to a full on rainstorm. We took our seats across from Lestrade, who called out to the driver to get the carriage moving again.

“Blast!” Watson exclaimed. “I neglected to pay our cab driver.”

“Hold!” Lestrade called to his own driver.

I fumbled in my waistcoat pocket and pulled free a bill that should have more than covered what we owed the man. Clutching my hat as the wind began to pick up a bit I popped the door open, leaned out, and handed him the money before ducking back into the comfort of Lestrade’s carriage.

“Now then.” I said as we lurched back into motion. “You wished to see me did you not.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

The former Scotland Yard detective wore his hat low, utilizing its small brim to cover as much of the scars that ran from his eyebrow down to the mid-point of his cheek as was possible. I noticed him glance to the man seated at my right, then back to me questioningly.

“Yes I most certainly did Mr. Holmes, however I must admit that I did not expect you to bring company.”

“Ah yes. How very rude of me.” I said, leaning forward and putting on a cordial smile. “Gregory Lestrade this is Doctor John Watson. He is assisting me in an investigation.”

The two men exchanged pleasantries. Lestrade looked much harder, much colder than when I’d seen him last. I supposed, however, no more so than I appeared to him. He returned his hard stare to me.

“Is there somewhere we can drop off the good doctor?” he asked, glancing back and forth between the two of us who were seated across from him.

“Come now Lestrade, whatever it is that you have to say can surely be said in the company of the doctor. He has my utmost confidence.”

Was that true? Likely not. I did, for some reason I could not explain, implicitly trust Watson, at least as much as I trusted anyone. Still, I’d known him for only a short while. Regardless, as Mr. Hudson was already in the process of clearing out the other room for him, the one which I’d already rented myself so as to better keep prying eyes out of my business, we’d soon be sharing living quarters. I’d better learn to trust him, and quickly.

Lestrade hesitated, “It has something to do with the last case that you and I worked together. Surely you can see how the doctor would not wish to get involved in such a matter.”

Interesting. The little I had seen of him after the Bugbear incident he’d wanted absolutely nothing to do with matters of the sort. Though I’d never explicitly told him so I had no doubt that he’d become aware of my status as a monster hunter.

“Well then I’m afraid you’d be wrong Mr. Lestrade. For you see the good Dr. Watson here has already found himself entangled in similar matters with myself as recently as last night.”

“Oh?” Lestrade queried.

“Show him Watson.” I said, never letting my eyes leave the detective. After a moment’s pause I turned to face the doctor.

“Do you really think that wise?” he asked, obviously quite uncertain.

“Go on Doctor. I think it should clear the air so that we might get on with whatever mystery it is that Lestrade has for us.”

“It’s not just a carnival act you know Holmes?”

“You said that it didn’t hurt.”

“Yes but that’s beside the point. If I go about town...”

Lestrade cut us both off. “Gentlemen. What in the bloody hell is going on here?”

Watson sighed, drew the shade of the window beside him, took a deep breath, then transformed. Acting off of pure instinct Lestrade’s hand went to his coat, no doubt for a revolver which he kept concealed there, but it paused before withdrawing the weapon. His eyes, filled with what I could only describe as sheer terror, darted over to me but only ever so briefly, as he apparently wished to keep them trained on Dr. Watson.

“He’s...he’s a...” the detective gasped for his words.

“A monster. Yes.” I spoke plainly, then raised my walking stick to his hand and pushed it gently away from the gun. It was an act which he seemed to not even pay heed to, his gaze so intently fixed on my furry companion.

“Incredible.” the softly spoken words barely escaped Lestrade’s mouth.

“Isn’t it?” I declared, “How he manages to keep such a coat so voluminous and luxuriously shiny is beyond me.”

Watson shook off the transformation, tufts of thick fur disappearing into the collar and sleeves of his shirt as he did so.

“Alright.” he declared. “I think that’s enough gawking for today Holmes.”

My jest had been designed to put the detective into a more relaxed humor, not to rile the doctor’s.

“My apologies Watson.”

He nodded forgiveness. I’d not considered that my repeatedly asking him to metamorphose into his bestial form would make him feel a bit like a curiosity, less a man and more something to be studied.

“So now you see Lestrade, that not only is the good doctor aware of the things which we may speak of, but that he might even be able to provide a unique insight of his own.”

The detective shook his head nervously then sat up in his seat and attempted to collect himself.

“So Doctor you’re a...what precisely? A were-badger?”

“The correct term would be Mor, though Mr. Holmes seems fond of the moniker you just used.” he turned to me, “Don’t worry Holmes, I find it more descriptive than insulting.”

“You’ll forgive me for asking Dr. Watson but how precisely does this work?” the detective asked of him, “You do know what Mr. Holmes does don’t you? Do you help him hunt down other...” he hesitated to use the term, “monsters?”

I spoke for Watson, “Actually we’ve not yet worked out that dynamic. We’ve only just made each others’ acquaintance yesterday. Though if it will reassure you any I met the doctor here while attempting to hunt down a vile creature that he himself was trying to rid the world of. It would seem that not all of them mean any ill towards mankind.”

I left out the part that I might, myself, be some sort of variation from the norm and that the doctor wished to study me every bit as much as I wished to study and learn from him.

“Besides, he’s remarkably clever and may very well be able to assist me in the matter you wished to speak to me about. Which, though we’ve gotten a bit sidetracked, I believe we should attend to.”

“Yes.” he nodded, still throwing an occasional uncertain glance towards the doctor. “Well, we’ll be at my office in a few moments. We can discuss it over glasses of brandy. Speaking of cleverness, however, I feel that I must ask to what has become of your own Mr. Holmes.”

“Oh?” I asked, attempting to mask my contempt of the statement.

“Yes, the old Holmes would have known not to go looking for me at Scotland Yard.”

I let forth a hefty chuckle. “Believe it or not sir I’ve much more pressing matters to attend to than tracking the whereabouts and life details of bumbling Scotland Yard detectives; especially one whom I have not seen in years and that I had to rescue from his own incompetence on many occasions.”

Lestrade didn’t even blink at my insults, as he was quite accustomed to them during the time in which we were more familiar with one another.

“Still, you must not have held out that much faith in my abilities, seeing as how you realized your mistake in not attaching an address to your letter and came to find me at the yard. Or was it that you had a man on me?” I rubbed my chin in thought before speaking frankly, “Yes, surely that is the case. You had someone following me and he came to tell you that I was headed for Scotland Yard and not your new office.”

“Perhaps.”

“Well let me dissuade any of your doubts as to my abilities Mr. Lestrade...or should I say Detective Lestrade?” I glanced over him, drew in a deep breath before continuing, “You have not spent these years unemployed. Instead you are gainfully employed, for a prestigious firm no less, one who’s building has recently undergone some renovation. You’ve also suffered some injury to your left hip, have developed something of a drinking problem, and your father has passed away.”

The detective nodded. “How?”

“Elementary my dear Lestrade. Knowing your educational background and lack of family connections I find it highly unlikely that you would have been able to procure gainful employment in any field other than detection. Since the suit that you wear, right down to the necktie, is of a fine quality, though not the finest, and of the latest fashion, you are most obviously not destitute. There is also the carriage that we ride in now,” I waved my hands around, “it is of a fine build and there was a small maker’s badge on the outside that said ‘Made for Thomas Stilton.’ From there it is hardly a difficult leap to reason that it belongs to your employer, none other than the owner of the Stilton Agency, a private detective firm. There is also the slight hint of plaster residue on the tip of your left shoe, a sign that renovations are occurring at your place of business.”

Lestrade looked impressed. “Please go on.”

“Since departing the yard I’ve seen you adjust your position in your seat no less than four times, always leaning so as to put weight onto your right hip. That coupled with the fact that you now carry a walking stick, and one heavy enough to be truly supportive, not just decorative, tells me that you sustained an injury, possibly a gunshot, to your left hip. As to the drinking problem? After passing over the last bump in the street I was able to detect the minute sloshing sound of whisky inside a flask. There is also a slight tremble to your hands and a thinning of hair around what is visible of your temples that signifies a heavy drinking habit.”

“And my father?” he asked.

“Watson, would you care to take this one?”

The doctor smiled, paused a moment to give the detective a thorough visual examination. “Your watch Detective.” he said as he pointed to it, “It seems to have quite a bit of age to it, and the coin hanging from its chain is engraved with H. Lestrade, not G. Lestrade. I can then only infer that it is not a piece that you wore when you and Mr. Holmes last knew each other, causing him to deduce that is has since been passed down to you through inheritance.”

He blinked, looking from Watson back to myself, his hands bobbling around atop the heavy walking stick that he held between his legs as the carriage went down a cobblestone street onto which it had turned.

“Perhaps you’re right Holmes. Your new colleague might just be able to help us with this problem after all.”