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dimity_blueTitle: The Lesser Perils of Paperwork
Author: Dimity Blue (was Arnie/Arnie1967)
Rating: PG
Genre: gen, humour
Characters: Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Donovan, Anderson, OCs
Word Count: 1,289 words
Disclaimer: Not mine
Summary: Greg folded his arms and leaned against the splintered doorframe, regarding the remains of Mr. Stoner stoically. He looked like he'd been a mousy little man, which fitted in with the woman Greg had mentally labelled 'a right battleaxe' downstairs. Greg couldn't imagine her choosing a man who'd stand up to her, or that anyone would voluntarily put up with that strident voice - not if they had a spine, anyway.
The Lesser Perils of Paperwork
By Dimity Blue
Greg sighed as he raised his head from the stacks of paperwork he was struggling to get through and saw a tall, dark-clothed figure swooping down upon him. "I've got nothing, Sherlock!"
"But I'm bored!"
"I've got nothing!" Greg repeated, hoping it'd get through.
"John's making me watch daytime TV!"
"All I said was -" John began, then fell silent as Sherlock swirled around on him.
"Daytime TV!"
Judging by the disdain in Sherlock's voice, it was like asking a toddler to eat their vegetables. As Sherlock turned back, Greg said, "All I've got is paperwork. And, trust me, no one wants you to have that." Especially Greg; he wanted to keep his job, thank you very much.
The door opened and Greg heard Donovan's voice. "We've got a suici -" She broke off, then continued, "Who let you in?!"
Greg sighed again. All he needed now was Anderson and he'd have a complete schoolyard.
"Suicide? Since when - ah!" Sherlock's voice was filled with triumph. "They don't think it's a suicide."
As Donovan peered around Sherlock, Greg shrugged. At least it'd get them all out of his office. "Go ahead, tell him."
Side-stepping, she seemed to be doing her usual 'ignore Sherlock and maybe he'll go away'. Greg admired her determination, futile though it was.
"Derek Stoner. His wife's insisting he'd never kill himself. He was found in a locked bathroom with whiskey bottles and pill bottles - they had to break the door down to get at him."
"Fine." Greg shut the file he'd been working on, got up and grabbed his coat. "What's the address?"
"23 Old Pye Street."
That was enough for Sherlock and he grabbed John by the shoulder and started pushing him out of the office.
"We'll meet you there then, shall we?" Greg enquired, over the top of John's protests.
"Move, John!" was the only answer he got and Greg shook his head. He didn't know why John bothered resisting any more either.
~~~
"All right, so what have we got?" Greg folded his arms and leaned against the splintered doorframe, regarding the remains of Mr. Stoner stoically. He looked like he'd been a mousy little man, which fitted in with the woman Greg had mentally labelled 'a right battleaxe' downstairs. Greg couldn't imagine her choosing a man who'd stand up to her, or that anyone would voluntarily put up with that strident voice - not if they had a spine, anyway.
"It's suicide," Anderson said, flatly. He cast a glance over. "I don't know why you bothered bringing him."
"I didn't have much choice," Greg muttered, reflecting that it certainly looked like a suicide scene. There was the body, curled up on the bathmat, two empty bottles of scotch by him, a small number of pill bottles, and a handwritten suicide note lying on the toilet lid. "Satisfied, Sherlock?"
"No."
Greg raised his eyebrows as Anderson burst out, "No? What do you mean 'no'?! It's obviously suicide!"
Ignoring them both, Sherlock knelt beside the body, his magnifier already in his hand.
"What are you looking for?" Greg had to admit, he was curious. He'd seen Sherlock be right, despite the odds, far too many times to dismiss him out of hand.
Sherlock seemed to be peering into the man's face, then he reached out and very deliberately poked the dead man in the eye.
The corpse gave a loud squawk of pain and rolled away, its hands clutching at its face.
"Bloody hell!" Greg stepped back to give the man more room to roll. "He's alive!"
"He was dead!" Anderson insisted, despite the rolling, moaning, complaining corpse at their feet.
As Sherlock straightened and stripped off his gloves, he positively smirked. "Excellent deduction, Lestrade." His gaze swept to Anderson, total disdain in his eyes. "I would have thought you could tell the difference between a dead body and a live one."
"But he was dead!" Anderson continued to insist.
"But the pills he took -" John put in.
"He didn't take any pills," Sherlock interrupted. "He drank a few mouthfuls of whiskey, enough to flavour his breath, then poured the rest - with the pills - down the toilet."
"But why?" John asking, voicing the only question Greg could think of.
"You saw his wife. There's no way she'd allow him to divorce her."
"Divorce?" Greg echoed.
"Of course. He's having an affair with the woman next door. I should think they planned to disappear together, now that her house has been sold." Sherlock looked at them, then sighed. "You did notice the 'sold' sign, didn't you?"
Mr. Stoner sat up, one hand over his eye. "Don't tell Sharon. It's all true, but she's -"
"Derek!" Like an avenging angel, only in a dark blue cardigan and sensible shoes, Mrs. Stoner swept into the room and caught up the unfortunate Mr. Stoner, shaking him back and forth. "You've been sleeping with that hussy!"
"No, no I haven't!"
As Mrs. Stoner hauled off and belted Derek, Greg grabbed her arm, vaguely noticing John leaping in to do the same as Sherlock stepped delicately out of the way. Typical! Trust him to set off a shitstorm then avoid the fallout. "Mrs. Stoner!" Greg protested as she aimed a kick at her husband, who was sensibly making for the door.
"I haven't slept with Judith - we're waiting until we're married," Derek said, almost primly, as though bigamy and faking one's death was far better than adultery.
As Mrs. Stoner lunged forward again, he yelped and retreated through the doorway.
"Mrs. Stoner! Knock it off or I'll have to arrest you!" Greg warned her.
"Arrest me?!"
One black eye and an arrest for assaulting a police officer later, Greg reflected his words might have been a mistake. As Mrs. Stoner was taken out in handcuffs, Greg nursed his face, ruefully. It had been years since he'd had a shiner, but he knew this one would be a beauty.
"I can't believe we wasted our afternoon on this," he heard Sherlock complain. "It wasn't even a one!"
"You were the one who insisted on coming," John replied. He put his head around the edge of the doorframe, a sympathetic look on his face. "Are you all right?"
"I will be," Greg muttered. "I can't believe this case. A corpse that isn't dead and an ex-widow in handcuffs."
"I don't understand how he thought he'd get away with it," John said, coming further into the bathroom.
Mr. Stoner followed him in, looking more like a grey mouse than ever. "Judith works at the morgue. That's what put the idea into our heads. Well, that and I've always been good at playing dead." He added, a note of pride in his voice, "I'm in amateur dramatics; I always play the corpse."
"But there was no pulse!" Anderson all but wailed. "I checked!"
"There are plenty of drugs that slow your pulse down, aren't there, Mr. Stoner?" John asked, casually.
Mr. Stoner smiled, and nodded, then a look of dismay crossed his face. "Uh, no!"
Greg sighed. The last thing he wanted to do was investigate Judith-next-door to see if she'd nicked any drugs from where she worked. He figured she'd have more than enough trouble on her plate once Mrs. Stoner was let loose. "Mr. Stoner, take my advice: get yourself a solicitor and get a divorce. The next time I see you playing dead, I'll arrest you for wasting police time." Assuming he wasn't actually dead, which he very well might be if his wife got her hands on him again. "Okay, pack everything up and let's get out of here." After this day, Greg thought it'd be a pleasure to get back to his paperwork.
The end.
2nd December 2012.
~~~
The uh...plot, such as it is, isn't all mine. I've been reading a book about the British police called "Perverting the Course of Justice". It's written by a long-suffering officer (using the name Inspector Gadget to cover his real life identity), and one story details how he, as a young constable, was sent out to an apparent (and very convincing) suicide but the corpse was totally faking it and continued faking it until a paramedic poked him in the eye. Why was he faking it? Who knows, but that's where I got the idea for this.
I hope you liked it anyway.
Author: Dimity Blue (was Arnie/Arnie1967)
Rating: PG
Genre: gen, humour
Characters: Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Donovan, Anderson, OCs
Word Count: 1,289 words
Disclaimer: Not mine
Summary: Greg folded his arms and leaned against the splintered doorframe, regarding the remains of Mr. Stoner stoically. He looked like he'd been a mousy little man, which fitted in with the woman Greg had mentally labelled 'a right battleaxe' downstairs. Greg couldn't imagine her choosing a man who'd stand up to her, or that anyone would voluntarily put up with that strident voice - not if they had a spine, anyway.
The Lesser Perils of Paperwork
By Dimity Blue
Greg sighed as he raised his head from the stacks of paperwork he was struggling to get through and saw a tall, dark-clothed figure swooping down upon him. "I've got nothing, Sherlock!"
"But I'm bored!"
"I've got nothing!" Greg repeated, hoping it'd get through.
"John's making me watch daytime TV!"
"All I said was -" John began, then fell silent as Sherlock swirled around on him.
"Daytime TV!"
Judging by the disdain in Sherlock's voice, it was like asking a toddler to eat their vegetables. As Sherlock turned back, Greg said, "All I've got is paperwork. And, trust me, no one wants you to have that." Especially Greg; he wanted to keep his job, thank you very much.
The door opened and Greg heard Donovan's voice. "We've got a suici -" She broke off, then continued, "Who let you in?!"
Greg sighed again. All he needed now was Anderson and he'd have a complete schoolyard.
"Suicide? Since when - ah!" Sherlock's voice was filled with triumph. "They don't think it's a suicide."
As Donovan peered around Sherlock, Greg shrugged. At least it'd get them all out of his office. "Go ahead, tell him."
Side-stepping, she seemed to be doing her usual 'ignore Sherlock and maybe he'll go away'. Greg admired her determination, futile though it was.
"Derek Stoner. His wife's insisting he'd never kill himself. He was found in a locked bathroom with whiskey bottles and pill bottles - they had to break the door down to get at him."
"Fine." Greg shut the file he'd been working on, got up and grabbed his coat. "What's the address?"
"23 Old Pye Street."
That was enough for Sherlock and he grabbed John by the shoulder and started pushing him out of the office.
"We'll meet you there then, shall we?" Greg enquired, over the top of John's protests.
"Move, John!" was the only answer he got and Greg shook his head. He didn't know why John bothered resisting any more either.
~~~
"All right, so what have we got?" Greg folded his arms and leaned against the splintered doorframe, regarding the remains of Mr. Stoner stoically. He looked like he'd been a mousy little man, which fitted in with the woman Greg had mentally labelled 'a right battleaxe' downstairs. Greg couldn't imagine her choosing a man who'd stand up to her, or that anyone would voluntarily put up with that strident voice - not if they had a spine, anyway.
"It's suicide," Anderson said, flatly. He cast a glance over. "I don't know why you bothered bringing him."
"I didn't have much choice," Greg muttered, reflecting that it certainly looked like a suicide scene. There was the body, curled up on the bathmat, two empty bottles of scotch by him, a small number of pill bottles, and a handwritten suicide note lying on the toilet lid. "Satisfied, Sherlock?"
"No."
Greg raised his eyebrows as Anderson burst out, "No? What do you mean 'no'?! It's obviously suicide!"
Ignoring them both, Sherlock knelt beside the body, his magnifier already in his hand.
"What are you looking for?" Greg had to admit, he was curious. He'd seen Sherlock be right, despite the odds, far too many times to dismiss him out of hand.
Sherlock seemed to be peering into the man's face, then he reached out and very deliberately poked the dead man in the eye.
The corpse gave a loud squawk of pain and rolled away, its hands clutching at its face.
"Bloody hell!" Greg stepped back to give the man more room to roll. "He's alive!"
"He was dead!" Anderson insisted, despite the rolling, moaning, complaining corpse at their feet.
As Sherlock straightened and stripped off his gloves, he positively smirked. "Excellent deduction, Lestrade." His gaze swept to Anderson, total disdain in his eyes. "I would have thought you could tell the difference between a dead body and a live one."
"But he was dead!" Anderson continued to insist.
"But the pills he took -" John put in.
"He didn't take any pills," Sherlock interrupted. "He drank a few mouthfuls of whiskey, enough to flavour his breath, then poured the rest - with the pills - down the toilet."
"But why?" John asking, voicing the only question Greg could think of.
"You saw his wife. There's no way she'd allow him to divorce her."
"Divorce?" Greg echoed.
"Of course. He's having an affair with the woman next door. I should think they planned to disappear together, now that her house has been sold." Sherlock looked at them, then sighed. "You did notice the 'sold' sign, didn't you?"
Mr. Stoner sat up, one hand over his eye. "Don't tell Sharon. It's all true, but she's -"
"Derek!" Like an avenging angel, only in a dark blue cardigan and sensible shoes, Mrs. Stoner swept into the room and caught up the unfortunate Mr. Stoner, shaking him back and forth. "You've been sleeping with that hussy!"
"No, no I haven't!"
As Mrs. Stoner hauled off and belted Derek, Greg grabbed her arm, vaguely noticing John leaping in to do the same as Sherlock stepped delicately out of the way. Typical! Trust him to set off a shitstorm then avoid the fallout. "Mrs. Stoner!" Greg protested as she aimed a kick at her husband, who was sensibly making for the door.
"I haven't slept with Judith - we're waiting until we're married," Derek said, almost primly, as though bigamy and faking one's death was far better than adultery.
As Mrs. Stoner lunged forward again, he yelped and retreated through the doorway.
"Mrs. Stoner! Knock it off or I'll have to arrest you!" Greg warned her.
"Arrest me?!"
One black eye and an arrest for assaulting a police officer later, Greg reflected his words might have been a mistake. As Mrs. Stoner was taken out in handcuffs, Greg nursed his face, ruefully. It had been years since he'd had a shiner, but he knew this one would be a beauty.
"I can't believe we wasted our afternoon on this," he heard Sherlock complain. "It wasn't even a one!"
"You were the one who insisted on coming," John replied. He put his head around the edge of the doorframe, a sympathetic look on his face. "Are you all right?"
"I will be," Greg muttered. "I can't believe this case. A corpse that isn't dead and an ex-widow in handcuffs."
"I don't understand how he thought he'd get away with it," John said, coming further into the bathroom.
Mr. Stoner followed him in, looking more like a grey mouse than ever. "Judith works at the morgue. That's what put the idea into our heads. Well, that and I've always been good at playing dead." He added, a note of pride in his voice, "I'm in amateur dramatics; I always play the corpse."
"But there was no pulse!" Anderson all but wailed. "I checked!"
"There are plenty of drugs that slow your pulse down, aren't there, Mr. Stoner?" John asked, casually.
Mr. Stoner smiled, and nodded, then a look of dismay crossed his face. "Uh, no!"
Greg sighed. The last thing he wanted to do was investigate Judith-next-door to see if she'd nicked any drugs from where she worked. He figured she'd have more than enough trouble on her plate once Mrs. Stoner was let loose. "Mr. Stoner, take my advice: get yourself a solicitor and get a divorce. The next time I see you playing dead, I'll arrest you for wasting police time." Assuming he wasn't actually dead, which he very well might be if his wife got her hands on him again. "Okay, pack everything up and let's get out of here." After this day, Greg thought it'd be a pleasure to get back to his paperwork.
The end.
2nd December 2012.
~~~
The uh...plot, such as it is, isn't all mine. I've been reading a book about the British police called "Perverting the Course of Justice". It's written by a long-suffering officer (using the name Inspector Gadget to cover his real life identity), and one story details how he, as a young constable, was sent out to an apparent (and very convincing) suicide but the corpse was totally faking it and continued faking it until a paramedic poked him in the eye. Why was he faking it? Who knows, but that's where I got the idea for this.
I hope you liked it anyway.
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(no subject)
Date: 2012-12-02 07:25 pm (UTC)Thank you and goodbye!
(no subject)
Date: 2012-12-02 08:23 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2012-12-02 10:35 pm (UTC)Great fun, thank you. You've got such a lovely sense of humour with them. And how incredible that somebody was ever actually that daft.
(no subject)
Date: 2012-12-03 01:17 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2012-12-03 12:29 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2012-12-04 09:36 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2012-12-04 09:37 pm (UTC)I'm glad you enjoyed the story, Leesa. Thanks!
(no subject)
Date: 2012-12-04 09:38 pm (UTC)Thanks, Snail. I'm glad you enjoyed the story.
(no subject)
Date: 2012-12-04 09:39 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2012-12-04 09:40 pm (UTC)Thanks. I'm glad you enjoyed it!