Title: It’s Snowing
Rating: PG
Fandom: BBC Sherlock:
Pairing: None/Gen
Disclaimer: Not mine! Not getting any money!
Summary: Greg needs Sherlock’s help at a crime scene.
Notes: Written as a snow drabble on my February 13, 2014 snow day
It’s Snowing
DI Greg Lestrade coughed thickly into his shoulder and ignored the look Sergeant Donovan was giving him. He wasn’t in the mood for her disapproval today, not with a dead carpenter and a monster of a head cold on his hands. His men were all over the scene, taking photos and bagging items. The man had been bludgeoned to death, but it was impossible to tell which of the dozens of tools at the construction site might have been the murder weapon. They had too much potential evidence and no suspects. His head swum with unnatural head and clouded with confusion. On his best day, maybe he’d understand what he was looking at, but right now it was just a dead carpenter.
Time to suck it up and call in help. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed. Sherlock answered on the first ring. “Yes?”
“Sherlock, hi, it’s DI Lestrad—”
“So my phone tells me. Also, you have a cold.”
Taken aback, it took a second for Greg to reply. “Ah, yes, I do. Could you tell frub the codgestiod id by voice?”
“That and the sneeze.”
“What sdeeze?” Then, seemingly from out of nowhere, it struck. “Urchoo!” His breath caught repeatedly. His eyes stayed closed. His nose twitched. His mouth hung open. His brow furrowed. His fist lifted to his nose and mouth. “hurrchoo! KTchooo!” When he lifted the phone back to his ear, he coughed again and sniffed hard. “How did you dow?”
There was silence on the other end. Greg checked the phone and found Sherlock had hung up on him. Oh, that was nice. He rang again.
“Yes? What is it now?”
“You hug up od be.”
“Yes, I know. I was there. And it happened mere seconds ago. I did not require a reminder.”
There was a soft click in Greg’s ear and the man groaned. He redialed.
“Yes?”
“I deed your helb on a case.”
There was a brief pause, and then Sherlock said, “It’s snowing.”
Greg looked around. He knew that much already. It was freezing out, which wasn’t helping his cold any. His nose hadn’t stopped running since he’d arrived on the scene. He sniffed hard again. “I dow that. I… Sherlock? Oh for the love of…” Rolling his eyes, he dialed Sherlock’s number again.
“Yes?”
“Sherlock, would you just get over here? I deed your helb od a case.”
“No.”
“What?”
“No. It’s snowing.” And he was gone again, disconnected, conversation over.
Rage flooded through Greg. He was sick and light-headed and didn’t have a lead to go on. What good was having a consulting detective on call if he refused to leave his house just because it was snowing out? It wasn’t even a heavy snow, just cold and wet and steady.
Greg shivered fiercely and rubbed his running nose against the sleeve cuff of his coat. “huh…” He pressed his nose to the fabric, trying to hold it back and failing. “Uhh-chooshhh!” That wasn’t the cleanest sneeze ever, but thankfully black hid all manner of sins. Greg sniffled and opened his eyes.
He saw the ground at his feet. Or, rather, he saw the snow covering the ground. White dusted the toes of his black shoes. And when he turned, the tracks he’d made in the snow were already starting to get filled. Covering his tracks. Covering all manner of sins. “Everyone!” he croaked. Greg stopped and cleared his throat, and then he tried again. “Everyone, listen up. Clear this snow away. We’re looking for evidence underneath it.”
It didn’t take long to find it. Footprints in the soft ground that had frozen. Blood that had been washed clean off the sledgehammer that had pooled in the dirt. The dryness beneath the body, which gave them a pretty accurate time of death without hearing from the forensic scientists. Then someone found an ID badge spattered with blood, and the badge didn’t have the victim’s face on it.
Smiling, shaking his head, Greg ordered more photos and evidence collection bags. Then he grabbed his mobile and rang Sherlock.
“Yes?”
“It’s snowing.”
There was another brief pause. “I believe that’s what I’ve been telling you. Now that we have that straight, I’ll put John on. You need to speak with a doctor about that cold. It’s about to develop into bronchitis.”
Greg gave a cough in surprise. “Wait, what?” But Sherlock was no longer on the end of the line, and the faint footsteps told him that Sherlock was on his way to wherever John was. One of these days, Greg was going to need to hire a consulting detective just to help him understand his consulting detective.