Death of a Consulting Detective

The Red Room

October 21, 2013

The sunrise was rather beautiful later on that morning. There were various oranges and pinks that provided a nice contrast to the grey clouds in the background. My favorite part of the sunset was it was lacking in the color red. Ever since Lestrade and I talked I have felt very shitty and red is the last color I wish to see. The color's cameo in my nightmare earlier was bad enough.
I was seated in my chair wearing a clean set of clothes: a grey vest over a white button-down with a blue square pattern littered across the fabric. I also had on a pair of dark grey trousers and black socks. Really it was just a simple outfit I threw together quickly after I had taken a shower. The amount of thought put into my clothing for each day is one thing that has not changed over time.

Of course I wasn't admiring my clothes as I sat in the living room. No, I was flipping through the journal from Sherlock. Due to recent events I have not had the time to thoroughly read what he wrote for me and it has been bugging me since I got it. At first I wanted to postpone reading it for a few days so I could recover from my outbreak yesterday, but I was honestly very peaceful and fascinated when I skimmed through a paragraph on the page where Sherlock mentioned Lestrade.

It didn't take a long time to read through most of the book. I'm a quick reader and Sherlock's thoughts were just so brilliant I couldn't put the bloody thing down. The part I had trouble with was truly understanding the printed words. They spoke of basic things when faced with common situations but how could I adopt his thought process? How could I tell if a happy man is depressed, a lovely couple is cheating on each other, or if a successful man was secretly a serial kill-

The door to the flat swung open and a very miserable looking Lestrade rubbed his eyes with one hand, while placing his car keys into his pocket with the other. He had left maybe an hour or so after our conversation, I assumed to get some fresh air. I was a little worried when he was gone for quite a few hours - thought he might've gotten hurt or something - but then I remembered how he still had to go to work so he could find more information on James Moran and interview anyone who was in contact with the victims before their murder.

I shut the book, and then set it down on the small table resting by my arm. My gaze focused on Greg as he made his way over to the couch. Something about the way he moved told me that he hasn't smoked a lot today; maybe it was the way his hands shook or the way his foot kept tapping on the wooden floorboards when he sat down.
My hand now rested on the pocket containing my lighter, ready to take it out. "Need a smoke?"

He covered his face with both of his hands - almost disappointed that his physical state was so poor. "Fucking hell... is it really that obvious? Jesus..."

"Tough day?"

"I did nothing all day except interview this one lady who used to be friends with James Moran. She wouldn't shut the hell up about what a nice mate he was a few years back. She's also against smoking. Nearly killed me when I asked to go out for a second 'cause I haven't smoked all day. I think I misplaced my lighter too. Fuck, I'm itching for a bloody cigarette."

I removed the small lighter and tossed it over to where he sat. He clumsily took out a box of smokes and lit one up. A huge wave of relief washed over him as he blew out a small cloud of smoke. Greg took a long drag on the cigarette, leaned back into the couch, and closed his eyes. I should feel bad for supporting this man's addiction, but then I would be a bloody hypocrite. In this past week it has become apparent that I have grown an addiction to smoking as well. I'm not as bad as Lestrade is - he smokes every ten minutes or so - although I do find myself desperate for a cigarette now and then.

"The woman wouldn't even let you smoke outside?"

He didn't look at me when he answered, just nodded then said, "I. Was. There. For. Hours."