Fic Rec - Five Times Sherlock and Lestrade Never Met

[archea2.livejournal.com]

Title: Five Times Sherlock and Lestrade Never Met...
Author: grassle
Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade
Length: about 25 K words (six chapters)
Rating: PG-13 except for chapter 4 (strong R)
Warnings: mention of drug use
Verse: Sherlock BBC
Author's summary: “The symbol perfects itself by the accumulation of approximations. As such, it is comparable to a spiral, or rather, a solenoid, which each repetition brings closer to its target.” Gilbert Durand, L'Imagination symbolique.
Reccer's comments: Don't let either the title (if you're a sentimentalist, like me) or quote (if you're wary of French structuralists) put you off. This is one of the most subtle, poignant yet hopeful S/L sagas recently posted. If you're interested in the two characters but have never held much faith in a romantic relationship for them and want to give belief a go, go for this.

One somewhat consensual headcanon in the Sherlock fandom, struck early on, was that Sherlock must have met DI Lestrade when he barged into a crime scene high as a grasshopper on grass and began to rattle off briliant deductions. Well...you won't find it here. What you'll find instead is a series of might-have-been episodes in which their paths cross again and again, ever since teen!Greg found a solitary child looking for fossils in his native Somerset, only for life to spin them apart.

Yet each transient meeting leaves its trace, each contributes to shape their respective identities. In the meantime, there's laughter, tears, suspense, casefic, Sherlock-made craziness and a crowning chapter that brings together all the loose ties and takes the spiral of eternal return to a wonderful, glowing conclusion. As in her other works, Grassle's mature writing, her grasp of pacing, humour, imagery and detail make this series a joy to read, as I've found time and again since it was first posted.

“Hey.” Lestrade nodded at O’Neil, the only one left outside the room. “Go easy on the kiddy, yeah?”

“God almighty! It’s only a bit of a laugh,” answered the sergeant.

“You get that already, with his letters, I’d have thought. No need for a live show.” Lestrade had to return to his own interview. Just as Vanessa tucked a limp lock of hair behind her ear and started in on how his leadership and command skills hadn’t really been showcased by his last set of objectives, and she shouldn’t really be saying this but he would be seen in a better light if he used the scheme to pursue a specific area of interest and broaden his career horizon by returning to his degree, he heard the kiddish voice pipe up, “I think he was murdered!” before the room broke down into fits of laughter.

Vanessa had to raise her voice to spout clichés such as continued professional development vs. self-development and potential vs. performance, but it was still tough for her to compete with the male voices from across the corridor cracking up as they competed to chip in, “What, stop him winning, yeah?” and “God, Brighton, full of gangsters still, is it?” and, “Got in above his head, did he?”

At, “Well, Carl’s sleeping with the fishes now,” he heard the noise of a chair scraping back and then saw a smallish figure push out of the room into the corridor, heading for reception.

“Excuse me,” he said, rising from his chair and heading after the boy, no clear idea why or what for. “Hey, you,” he called up the expanse of corridor. “Kid, hang on.”

The figure stiffened and paused. Lestrade advanced, catching up. He saw the head turn almost to the wall, preventing him seeing…anything, and heard a hiccupping, sniffing sound. Oh.

“Here.” He passed his handkerchief over a thin shoulder, into the boy’s line of vision. A slim hand snatched at it, and the head full of very black short-clipped curls dropped down on its shoulders. PC Lestrade approached the front of the kid and observed, and saw a somewhat gangly eleven or twelve-year-old in black trousers, new, a new white shirt – a school shirt – and a plain tie and dark blue blazer. The tie was a little big and the blazer much too big. Neither was his. Oh. Lestrade’s heart stuttered, much as the lad had done under the meanness and targeting of the men, as he realised the kid hadn’t wanted to wear his school blazer and tie to go up to town, to go to a police station, so had borrowed some ‘smart’ clothes. His brother’s? Cousin’s? God.