Cops And Robbers

Chapter One: DI Peter Carlisle Moves In, And Mycroft's Texts

"He's quite a young man," commented Doctor John Watson, looking over at the consulting detective, who was sitting in his armchair with his knees up to balance his laptop. "Peter, he said his name was."

Sherlock Holmes did not even glance at him, picking up his phone and texting his brother.

[Name of my lodger? SH.]

[Can you not spend your own time on looking? Mycroft.]

[No. Busy. Name? SH.]

[Busy looking at pictures of various knives? Mycroft.]

[Current case. Stop spying on me. Name? SH.]

[I have no idea what you're talking about. Mycroft.]

[Yes you do. NAME? SH.]

[Did Mummy not teach you about manners, or are you refusing to acknowledge the existence? Mycroft.]

[Mycroft, I need the name! Peter what? SH.]

[Detective Inspector Peter Carlisle. Mycroft.]

[Finally. SH.]

[Gratitude? Mycroft.]

[Piss off. SH.]

Sherlock drew up a new tab on his Internet browser, searching in the name and clicking Search. Drumming his fingers on the keyboard as he waited, he half-ignored everything John said.

"Apparently, he's a detective inspector. From Scotland. Quite good too, working his way down through the cities. Blackpool, that was his worst case. He said that he got emotionally involved with a murderer's family members, and then was pulled out. Ever heard of him? I don't quite know his surname .."

Sherlock sighed, "Detective Inspector Peter Carlisle, born 6th October 1970, in West Lothian, Scotland, specifically Bathgate. He went to St. Andrew's, and passed a number of qualifications with flying colours. Joined the police force at eighteen, and solved twenty murders, fifteen burglaries, and twenty-nine assaults before he turned nineteen-"

"Ok, ok. Why don't we just meet him? Maybe he's secretly a psychopath or serial killer. If there's a difference between the two," sighed John.

"I highly doubt he is since Mycroft has not texted me about that," Sherlock responded, folding his arms over his dressing gown stubbornly. "Now, you may go see this Carlisle, but I am staying right here."

----

After ten minutes of arguing - or debating, as Sherlock then contradicted - they were knocking on the door of the higher flat, Sherlock still wearing his dressing gown and slippers, having refused to get dressed. He cared very little for what others thought of his clothed. In addition, it annoyed Mycroft a lot.

Messily-styled, brown-haired DI Peter Carlisle opened the door to them, greeting them with a smile. He wore a plain, white shirt with black suit trousers, which led to the belief that he had previously been wearing a suit, though without a tie. His boots were well polished with little dirt, owing to the fact that it had not recently been raining, and they looked new, with no worn leather. There was clear healthiness, with his skin colour lightly tanned, despite it being mid-winter, and his six foot one frame was rather toned, and slim. The silver watch upon his right hand implied that he was right handed and organised.

Sherlock could concentrate more if Peter had not spoken. "Sherlock Holmes. I've heard a lot about you," he commented with a light Scottish accent, with a brief inkling of a working class background.

"Detective Inspector Carlisle, can't say the same," Sherlock returned in a monotone.

"Just Peter will be fine," Peter replied, with a light shrug. "Would you like to come in at all? I'm afraid that I haven't yet unpacked most of my belongings, and it is rather untidy," he said apologetically.

"I should be working on my case," declined Sherlock, clearly wanting to get out his company and back to the case.

"The knife murders, right? Machete," Peter informed him with a smirk. "Took a glance on my way here. It's been designed to look like a knife crime."

Sherlock listened to his words with his back turned, having been about to walk away. He glowered, but said nothing as he walked back to his and John's flat, slamming the door shut.