Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade puffed out a sigh from billowed cheeks and leaned back in his office chair. It protested with a small squeak but was silent afterwards. More bodies. No leads. They had a serial killer on their hands. The press was going to be all over him with questions and ideas itching for a story to make him look like an idiot that shouldn't be on the force. The conference was in a few hours and he'd just gotten a call about another body. Almost gleefully he phoned Donovan and told her to cancel the meeting. She sounded almost as relieved as he felt. It wasn't necessarily a good thing, already the stations would know from the cancellation that there was another body, but it meant he could hold off the questions a bit longer.
Already there had been five bodies in two days and thirteen missing persons all centered around the same area. Along the same lines there had been complaints of nothing but off feelings in the area, people acting like they shouldn't, random ordinary people dropping off the grid if they didn't go completely stone cold missing. The bodies had gashes like, for lack of a better term, claws or teeth would have made... That in particular set Greg on edge. He felt a stirring deep in his chest, one he had dealt with for four years. The past two days had been strenuous for him as well... It was too much to be a coincidence, but he wouldn't accept the fact that another of those... those things were here. As for the other occurences he had no idea and no leads on anything period.
One thing was for sure, he needed help on this one. The D.I. scrubbed his haggard face and the silvery stubble on his chin before turning brown eyes to the mobile on his desk. He needed Sherlock, and come around an hour before twilight he needed to be ready for the last night of his condition.
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John sat in 221B Baker Street updating his blog. The hit counter still needed to be fixed, but quite frankly he had no idea how to do that. Maybe Sherlock would know, but it "wouldn't be worth his time." The veteran huffed out a short laugh at his secret thoughts and continued to type up the case they had just wrapped up. Each different twist was fascinating, everything Sherlock could figure out by someone's cologne, the texture of cardboard, a nick on a cuticle. At the same time, however, he was bone dead stupid when it came to people. Not what they did or had or what had happened, but the way they thought, their emotions. In this case alone he had left two young girls in tears without a second thought. That had been interesting to explain to their parents. By himself. After Sherlock left him without warning. Again.
A jolt of noise caught the veteran by surprise and he mistyped a word. With a murmured curse he fixed the error and then looked at the offender: his phone. The ID said Lestrade. Must've been important. The man accepted the call and held the mobile to his ear. "Watson," he greeted professionally.
"John, this is Lestrade, tell Sherlock we've got a case for 'im," came Greg's gruff voice on the other end of the line. He sounded especially upset... maybe even a bit sick. John was a doctor, he was able to tell these things, but he didn't want to assume.
"Alright, where?" replied Watson.
"Corner of Henderson and Fifth, we're sending a cab for you two now."
"Great, I'll make sure he has his pants this time." With a quick goodbye John hung up and stood stiffly, stretching out his back and legs. He had to go fetch his flatmate now and make sure the man was ready. He was sure at the mention of case he would be.