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starfishstarBUDS AND BELLS AND STARS WITHOUT A NAME
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Summary: Where Greg could have sworn an oak tree had stood a moment before, there was now instead a very posh man in a long, dark coat.
…In which Greg Lestrade has lunch in a city garden, and gets way more than he bargained for.
Characters: Greg Lestrade, Sherlock, cameos from Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Donovan, Moriarty (sort of) and Redbeard (sort of); eventual Sherlock/Lestrade, but can also be read as mostly gen
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
CHAPTER THREE
Against all better judgement, 11:45 that evening found Greg parking his car near the park, locking it behind him with a beep of the electronic key and plunging once again into the depths of Hampstead Heath, now quiet and dark.
He passed through a border of trees, across one of the wide, grassy areas, and into the trees again. High overhead, a slim sickle moon made brief and occasional appearances, darting out from behind scudding clouds before slipping away again. Sherlock had made it sound as if he would simply come and find Greg once he got here, so he supposed he had to trust that it would happen. Just stand in the middle of a meadow somewhere and expect Sherlock to turn up.
Mad, Greg thought, meaning himself, not Sherlock. Though perhaps it applied in both cases.
The ground sloped gently upwards as the woods gave way to a meadow. Long grass swished under Greg’s feet, the sound overly loud with the absence of the usual daytime noises to mask it. Framed by the lights of London that shone beyond the park’s borders, trees loomed out of the shadows as fantastical shapes, dark giants’ fingers clawing at the sky. A night breeze whispered and moaned through the high branches. If ever anywhere in London were a fitting place to find Greg’s strange acquaintance, this surely was it. Greg stopped in the middle of the grass and looked around.
Sherlock loomed out of the darkness a few yards away, more dramatic than ever with his pale face luminous in the darkness, framed by the sharply upturned collars of his long coat. His dark curls were wild, and he looked very much in his element. He beckoned to Greg, and set off again at an angle from the direction Greg had been heading, leaving Greg to hurry after.
“Good, you came,” Sherlock tossed brusquely over his shoulder. He didn’t seem to have ‘got the hang of’ greetings either, as the mysterious bloke in the pub might put it. “We have to find his lair, and based on the evidence, I’m certain it’s somewhere in this park. Have you got a torch, Detective Inspector? I won’t need one, but you may want it.”
“Hang on,” Greg protested, keeping pace with the retreating swirl of Sherlock’s coat. ‘Hang on’ was something he seemed to be saying a lot lately. “Whose lair? What are we looking for, exactly? If you want me to help you do this, the bare minimum would be telling me what ‘this’ is.”
“Jim Moriarty,” Sherlock intoned in a dramatic, deep rumble. He actually stopped moving for a moment, to render his pronouncement all the more theatrical, then plunged on towards the next patch of woods.
“Who’s Jim Moriarty?” Greg demanded, pulling out his pocket torch and switching it on, so he wouldn’t trip over the patchwork of roots protruding from the ground. “Is he our suspect? Talk to me, Sherlock.”
“He’s the spider,” Sherlock cried, still a couple paces ahead, dodging between trees. “The spider that sits motionless at the centre of the web, and knows well every quiver of each of its strands.”
“Okay, so he’s…a criminal? Who’s like a spider?” Greg asked, trying desperately to follow Sherlock’s careening train of thought.
Sherlock turned, still moving, and gave Greg that blank stare that suggested astonishment that anyone could be so slow.
“No,” Sherlock said, “he is a spider. Do try to keep up.”
And with that, he plunged away into the woods at such speed that Greg had to concentrate all his energy on keeping pace.
He’d never realised Hampstead Heath contained such deep and tangled woods. For all its size, the park had always struck him as genteel and well maintained, more cricket pitch than primeval thicket. In fact, Greg no longer recognised anything around them, as they delved ever deeper into the labyrinth of close-set trees. Barely any city light reached them now, and Greg was relying on his torch to find his footing.
“Sherlock,” Greg called to the retreating dark line of Sherlock’s back, barely glimpsed through the tree trunks ahead. “Wait up, would you? We don’t want to go getting separated.”
Sherlock made a puff of noise that probably meant annoyance, but Greg chose to ignore it. When it came down to it, wasn’t this his investigation? His investigation and his extremely unusual confidential informant taking him…they hadn’t even properly established where Sherlock was taking him.
Greg slowed to a jog as he caught up to where Sherlock stood, radiating impatience.
“Look,” Greg said, “I know you get off on this whole being-mysterious thing, but I’ve got to follow some modicum of police procedure here. We’re looking for someone you think may have had something to do with that odd leaf I found, right? And you think he might also have something to do with the dogs that have gone missing?”
“Dogs, yes, for now,” Sherlock snapped, setting off again, though this time at a more reasonable pace. “But he won’t be satisfied with dogs for long.”
The beam of Greg’s torch bounced eerily off of the tree trunks as they passed. “What are you saying? You think he’s going to start abducting…people?”
“One never knows,” Sherlock intoned darkly. “He recurs and recurs, a nightmare spanning across history. His agents are numerous and splendidly organised. He does little himself, he only plans. He was in Troy at the time of the War, scheming to sow discord. They say he sailed with Mark Antony, that he built his lair at Camlann. The tales of the spider are thousandfold.”
Greg, still walking, was staring agog at Sherlock, and nearly tripped over a root. He’d never heard the man so focused, and the intent in Sherlock’s voice made Greg shiver. He’d known Sherlock to be amusing in his petulant dramatics, but now he was impressive in a much darker way. In the alluring flow of words that poured forth in that gorgeous deep baritone, the impossibility of what the man was saying almost passed Greg by.
He was in Troy, he built his lair at Camlann…
Greg opened his mouth to say, “What rubbish are you talking, mate?” but at that moment a flash of pearly white, something like the brilliant flank of a horse the colour of fallen snow, and with it something long that tapered to a sharp point, barely glimpsed between distant trees, distracted him and instead Greg exclaimed, before his brain could catch up with his mouth, “Was that a unicorn?”
Beside him, Sherlock smirked and didn’t reply.
Obviously, it hadn’t been a unicorn. Probably a discarded plastic bag that had got caught in the branches of a tree, creating a flash of strange brightness when caught momentarily in the light.
The non-existent light, since Greg’s torch had been pointed the other way.
Right.
Though they’d walked a mile at most, the London Greg knew felt suddenly very far away.
But he hadn’t seen a unicorn. The man beside him wasn’t stalking an ancient enemy who might or might not be a literal spider and who was known to ‘recur and recur’ throughout history’s great battles. Obviously all of this was very silly, and Sherlock was having him on, and Greg was going to feel very embarrassed tomorrow, or whenever Sherlock finally admitted it had all been a prank. Probably he’d planted that leaf, too, for Greg to find. Clearly, the man was a little unhinged or had too much time on his hands or both. Clearly he –
In front of them, the woods opened out into a little dell, the ground dipping away in front of their feet. Sherlock stopped at its edge so suddenly, Greg stumbled into his back. Sherlock hissed, “Shhh!”
Greg snorted in return, not to be outdone in the surly-git department. “Well, sorry, mate, but you –”
Sherlock spun towards him, pale eyes shining in the gloom of the woods. “Do you trust me?” he demanded, an urgent whisper.
Greg gazed into those luminous eyes and fought the urge to agree unconditionally. Instead, he retorted, “No, are you daft? I don’t even know you!”
Sherlock seemed to flutter with impatience. “Well, try, then, won’t you? Your life may depend on it.”
Greg opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock’s hand appeared out of the darkness to cover it, stopping him from speaking. Sherlock’s skin was surprisingly warm, for how pale and otherworldly he looked.
“Listen,” Sherlock hissed. “He’s here, I can sense him. You can just see his web sparkling in the darkness down there, or maybe you can’t with your puny human eyes, I don’t know. Don’t answer that, there isn’t time. I need you to stay here. Don’t follow me, don’t try to engage him. He’s too dangerous, and he can’t be fought with the weapons you’re used to. Just wait for me here, and if I don’t come back, run.”
“Oh, no,” Greg countered, shrugging away from Sherlock’s muffling hand. “You’re a civilian, I’m not letting you –”
But Sherlock was gone, in the usual swirl of dark coat and flying curls.
“Bugger,” Greg groaned, and plunged after him into the night.
(continue to CHAPTER FOUR)
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Summary: Where Greg could have sworn an oak tree had stood a moment before, there was now instead a very posh man in a long, dark coat.
…In which Greg Lestrade has lunch in a city garden, and gets way more than he bargained for.
Characters: Greg Lestrade, Sherlock, cameos from Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Donovan, Moriarty (sort of) and Redbeard (sort of); eventual Sherlock/Lestrade, but can also be read as mostly gen
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
CHAPTER THREE
Against all better judgement, 11:45 that evening found Greg parking his car near the park, locking it behind him with a beep of the electronic key and plunging once again into the depths of Hampstead Heath, now quiet and dark.
He passed through a border of trees, across one of the wide, grassy areas, and into the trees again. High overhead, a slim sickle moon made brief and occasional appearances, darting out from behind scudding clouds before slipping away again. Sherlock had made it sound as if he would simply come and find Greg once he got here, so he supposed he had to trust that it would happen. Just stand in the middle of a meadow somewhere and expect Sherlock to turn up.
Mad, Greg thought, meaning himself, not Sherlock. Though perhaps it applied in both cases.
The ground sloped gently upwards as the woods gave way to a meadow. Long grass swished under Greg’s feet, the sound overly loud with the absence of the usual daytime noises to mask it. Framed by the lights of London that shone beyond the park’s borders, trees loomed out of the shadows as fantastical shapes, dark giants’ fingers clawing at the sky. A night breeze whispered and moaned through the high branches. If ever anywhere in London were a fitting place to find Greg’s strange acquaintance, this surely was it. Greg stopped in the middle of the grass and looked around.
Sherlock loomed out of the darkness a few yards away, more dramatic than ever with his pale face luminous in the darkness, framed by the sharply upturned collars of his long coat. His dark curls were wild, and he looked very much in his element. He beckoned to Greg, and set off again at an angle from the direction Greg had been heading, leaving Greg to hurry after.
“Good, you came,” Sherlock tossed brusquely over his shoulder. He didn’t seem to have ‘got the hang of’ greetings either, as the mysterious bloke in the pub might put it. “We have to find his lair, and based on the evidence, I’m certain it’s somewhere in this park. Have you got a torch, Detective Inspector? I won’t need one, but you may want it.”
“Hang on,” Greg protested, keeping pace with the retreating swirl of Sherlock’s coat. ‘Hang on’ was something he seemed to be saying a lot lately. “Whose lair? What are we looking for, exactly? If you want me to help you do this, the bare minimum would be telling me what ‘this’ is.”
“Jim Moriarty,” Sherlock intoned in a dramatic, deep rumble. He actually stopped moving for a moment, to render his pronouncement all the more theatrical, then plunged on towards the next patch of woods.
“Who’s Jim Moriarty?” Greg demanded, pulling out his pocket torch and switching it on, so he wouldn’t trip over the patchwork of roots protruding from the ground. “Is he our suspect? Talk to me, Sherlock.”
“He’s the spider,” Sherlock cried, still a couple paces ahead, dodging between trees. “The spider that sits motionless at the centre of the web, and knows well every quiver of each of its strands.”
“Okay, so he’s…a criminal? Who’s like a spider?” Greg asked, trying desperately to follow Sherlock’s careening train of thought.
Sherlock turned, still moving, and gave Greg that blank stare that suggested astonishment that anyone could be so slow.
“No,” Sherlock said, “he is a spider. Do try to keep up.”
And with that, he plunged away into the woods at such speed that Greg had to concentrate all his energy on keeping pace.
He’d never realised Hampstead Heath contained such deep and tangled woods. For all its size, the park had always struck him as genteel and well maintained, more cricket pitch than primeval thicket. In fact, Greg no longer recognised anything around them, as they delved ever deeper into the labyrinth of close-set trees. Barely any city light reached them now, and Greg was relying on his torch to find his footing.
“Sherlock,” Greg called to the retreating dark line of Sherlock’s back, barely glimpsed through the tree trunks ahead. “Wait up, would you? We don’t want to go getting separated.”
Sherlock made a puff of noise that probably meant annoyance, but Greg chose to ignore it. When it came down to it, wasn’t this his investigation? His investigation and his extremely unusual confidential informant taking him…they hadn’t even properly established where Sherlock was taking him.
Greg slowed to a jog as he caught up to where Sherlock stood, radiating impatience.
“Look,” Greg said, “I know you get off on this whole being-mysterious thing, but I’ve got to follow some modicum of police procedure here. We’re looking for someone you think may have had something to do with that odd leaf I found, right? And you think he might also have something to do with the dogs that have gone missing?”
“Dogs, yes, for now,” Sherlock snapped, setting off again, though this time at a more reasonable pace. “But he won’t be satisfied with dogs for long.”
The beam of Greg’s torch bounced eerily off of the tree trunks as they passed. “What are you saying? You think he’s going to start abducting…people?”
“One never knows,” Sherlock intoned darkly. “He recurs and recurs, a nightmare spanning across history. His agents are numerous and splendidly organised. He does little himself, he only plans. He was in Troy at the time of the War, scheming to sow discord. They say he sailed with Mark Antony, that he built his lair at Camlann. The tales of the spider are thousandfold.”
Greg, still walking, was staring agog at Sherlock, and nearly tripped over a root. He’d never heard the man so focused, and the intent in Sherlock’s voice made Greg shiver. He’d known Sherlock to be amusing in his petulant dramatics, but now he was impressive in a much darker way. In the alluring flow of words that poured forth in that gorgeous deep baritone, the impossibility of what the man was saying almost passed Greg by.
He was in Troy, he built his lair at Camlann…
Greg opened his mouth to say, “What rubbish are you talking, mate?” but at that moment a flash of pearly white, something like the brilliant flank of a horse the colour of fallen snow, and with it something long that tapered to a sharp point, barely glimpsed between distant trees, distracted him and instead Greg exclaimed, before his brain could catch up with his mouth, “Was that a unicorn?”
Beside him, Sherlock smirked and didn’t reply.
Obviously, it hadn’t been a unicorn. Probably a discarded plastic bag that had got caught in the branches of a tree, creating a flash of strange brightness when caught momentarily in the light.
The non-existent light, since Greg’s torch had been pointed the other way.
Right.
Though they’d walked a mile at most, the London Greg knew felt suddenly very far away.
But he hadn’t seen a unicorn. The man beside him wasn’t stalking an ancient enemy who might or might not be a literal spider and who was known to ‘recur and recur’ throughout history’s great battles. Obviously all of this was very silly, and Sherlock was having him on, and Greg was going to feel very embarrassed tomorrow, or whenever Sherlock finally admitted it had all been a prank. Probably he’d planted that leaf, too, for Greg to find. Clearly, the man was a little unhinged or had too much time on his hands or both. Clearly he –
In front of them, the woods opened out into a little dell, the ground dipping away in front of their feet. Sherlock stopped at its edge so suddenly, Greg stumbled into his back. Sherlock hissed, “Shhh!”
Greg snorted in return, not to be outdone in the surly-git department. “Well, sorry, mate, but you –”
Sherlock spun towards him, pale eyes shining in the gloom of the woods. “Do you trust me?” he demanded, an urgent whisper.
Greg gazed into those luminous eyes and fought the urge to agree unconditionally. Instead, he retorted, “No, are you daft? I don’t even know you!”
Sherlock seemed to flutter with impatience. “Well, try, then, won’t you? Your life may depend on it.”
Greg opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock’s hand appeared out of the darkness to cover it, stopping him from speaking. Sherlock’s skin was surprisingly warm, for how pale and otherworldly he looked.
“Listen,” Sherlock hissed. “He’s here, I can sense him. You can just see his web sparkling in the darkness down there, or maybe you can’t with your puny human eyes, I don’t know. Don’t answer that, there isn’t time. I need you to stay here. Don’t follow me, don’t try to engage him. He’s too dangerous, and he can’t be fought with the weapons you’re used to. Just wait for me here, and if I don’t come back, run.”
“Oh, no,” Greg countered, shrugging away from Sherlock’s muffling hand. “You’re a civilian, I’m not letting you –”
But Sherlock was gone, in the usual swirl of dark coat and flying curls.
“Bugger,” Greg groaned, and plunged after him into the night.
(continue to CHAPTER FOUR)
