Work Text:
London, 2008
Greg Lestrade eyed the shop window in front of him with narrowed eyes. He’d passed it several times in the last three weeks. An idea had planted itself in his mind and now he couldn’t shake it off.
Sherlock Holmes
Consulting Artist
He knew the name. A name like “Sherlock” was hard to forget. And even harder to forget when the bloke bearing it had made such a lasting impression.
Almost two years ago, he had arrested a Sherlock Holmes during a raid. A skinny young man sporting an intricate arm tattoo and spewing vitriol when the handcuffs had closed around his wrists. He had been high as a kite, but his voice had been sharp enough to cut glass as he had insulted Greg with a vocabulary far too articulate and posh for the amount of cocaine they had found in the drug test later. Not that posh people didn’t take cocaine (God knows they did), but no one this high should have still been able to form coherent sentences.
Sherlock Holmes had been swept into a holding cell where he had continued to hiss abuse at Lestrade and other officers that had hit uncomfortably close to home. How the kid could have seen that he’d avoided going home for a couple of days because he’d had a row with his wife was baffling (and quite unnerving) to Greg.
Sherlock Holmes had stayed in a holding cell for all of four hours before a woman in an expensive suit had strode in and uttered a few sentences to Greg’s superior. His boss had nearly fallen over himself to release Sherlock personally, copious amounts of grovelling included. It had reeked of friends in high places.
If anything, Holmes had looked even more put out by being released than being arrested, muttering about the bane of his existence. The woman at his side hadn’t looked impressed with his huffy attitude and ignored the complaints about the interfering git Sherlock had thrown at her while collecting his effects. Worn leather wallet, a set of keys, mobile phone with scuffed edges, a pack of Camels and a Zippo engraved with the name of Mycroft Holmes. The woman had eyed the the latter for a few seconds, but she had refrained from saying anything.
“Marcus 'The Inker' Smith. He might be able to identify the victim,” Holmes had muttered to Greg as he stuck a cigarette between his lips, pocketing the rest.
“Come again?” Lestrade had asked, alternating his stares between the photos in his hand and Holmes.
The young man had sighed heavily, flicking the Zippo lid open and close. “I suppose you’re looking for a positive ID for the victim on the photographs in your file. No one is actually called ‘Joe Bloggs’,” he said and nodded to the name scrawled onto the manila folder with the coffee stain. “The tattoo on his arm was done by Marcus Smith, easy to tell by the linework and the shading on the indigo. About three to four years old, judging by the light fading. Maybe less, if the victim's been exposed to a lot of sunlight. It’s big and recent enough that Smith might still remember him. At least, it should give you something to go on.”
Lestrade had stared in surprise. Sherlock Holmes in turn had raised his eyebrows as if daring him to challenge the statement.
“That’s...how do you know that?” Greg stammered and looked closely at the pictures again. He couldn’t see anything special about the tattoo. To him it looked just like any other run-of-the-mill tattoo,
“Child’s play,” Holmes had smirked. "Every artist has unique mannerisms or an identifiable style."
“Our analysts couldn’t identify anything about this man, much less about the specifics of his tattoos.”
“Tattoos are easy to identify if people would only bother to study the details. Unfortunately, most are blind beyond the glaringly obvious. It’s mere observation and deduction. Good day,” Holmes had said with a self-satisfied smile and turned to leave.
“Hang on, what was the name again?” Lestrade had called and scrambled behind the counter to wrestle a pen from the guard’s hand. He'd be damned if he didn't at least check that theory, unlikely as it had sounded. They had had no other leads.
“Marcus Smith,” Sherlock Holmes had replied without turning around. “His studio is called 'Inkling'; you’ll find it in Southwark these days.”
With a mock salute, he had left the police station, the woman in the business suit at his heels, speaking into her phone.
Greg had mulled over Sherlock Holmes’ intake form at his desk later, noticing that Holmes had put down his occupation as consulting artist. Whatever that was.
A fancy description for “tattoo artist,” Greg now knew.
He was curious whether Holmes had cleaned up his act. Greg hadn’t arrested him again afterwards, but he’s been out of the drugs squad for some time now. Though the lads would certainly have talked about a peculiar person like Sherlock Holmes in their cells.
The shop seemed small and squeezed into the building on Montague Street like an afterthought – a landlord trying to make some additional money by renting out near unusable spaces for astronomical prices. This sort of exploitation got Greg’s hackles up.
At least, the place didn’t look dingy from what he could see through the window. Quite the contrary: even just looking in, the place appeared polished and spotless. Clean, modern, if a bit sterile. Nevertheless, it was a good sign.
Gathering the last of his resolve, Lestrade pushed open the door, sending a sharp ringing through the backroom. A couple seconds later, Sherlock Holmes appeared behind the counter, looking very bored.
He hadn’t changed much. Still the same mop of unruly dark hair, sharp blue eyes and aura of aristocratic ennui. However, he seemed to have gained a few pounds, and the colour of his skin, while still pale, wasn’t ashen and unhealthy anymore. Gone were the red rims around his eyes. Sherlock Holmes looked a lot better. Good. Otherwise, Greg would have walked out immediately. No smackhead would ever get to stick a needle in him.
“Here to arrest me again, sergeant?” He asked by means of greeting.
Still recognised him then. “Detective inspector, actually,” Lestrade said. “And no.”
“Ah, a step up the ladder,” Sherlock Holmes said and managed to make it sound insulting. Git. “Since there’s been no bounty placed on my head and it’s unlikely that you went to check on someone you arrested ages ago for a few hours, I suppose you’re here for my services. A tattoo, I take it.”
“Err...yes. I haven’t given it much thought yet and it’s only a vague idea, but—” Greg started, but didn’t finish, because the other cut him off.
“Give me the drawing in your wallet,” Holmes said and extended his hand.
Lestrade couldn’t quite follow that train of thought. “Huh?”
“You want a tattoo – your job doesn’t allow for many tattoos, so you want something meaningful. First choice for a dedicated family man as you: children. You thought of getting their name. Boring. Give me the drawing in your wallet.”
“Hang on, hang on! How do you know about the drawing? And that I’m a father, anyway.” Lestrade narrowed his eyes at Holmes, who didn’t look impressed at all. More like Greg was deliberately being difficult for no reason.
“Good lord,” he sighed. “Besides the obvious remains of crayon under your fingernails and the Sesame Street bandaid on your left thumb? When you arrested me, we passed your desk at the station – name tag, before you ask – and the wall next to your desk was filled with children’s drawings. I remember it because I was researching children's art at the time for a project. Parents are sentimental, so you keep everything they draw, most likely. You don’t carry around photographs in your wallet because you’re paranoid that criminals might see your family. But for the sake of sentiment, you carry around something. I daresay you keep the first picture your son or daughter ever drew with you.”
Lestrade couldn’t help but be gobsmacked. “That’s...yeah.” Holmes was doing it again. The day at the station looked less and less like a fluke. He didn’t rule out psychic yet.
“Eloquent,” Sherlock drawled, wriggling his extended fingers. “It’s so easy to see what appeals to a customer, but no one ever bothers to observe. Truly observe. If artists used their eyes, nobody would need to walk around with a sub-par tattoo.”
Lestrade made a noise that he hoped sounded neutral (since he had no idea when it came to this stuff) and pulled his wallet from the inner pocket of his jacket. The chestnut-brown leather had gone smooth and soft after years of being carried around in his pockets. He’d need a new one soon, he thought as he rifled through a stack of old receipts, mindful not to tear the fragile leftovers of the yellow stitching. (He noticed that he’d forgot to pick up his dry cleaning – there was a crinkled stub dating three weeks back sandwiched between a Tesco and a Waitrose receipt)
He carefully pulled the folded piece of paper out of one of the compartments and handed it to Sherlock, who looked at the drawing with a couple of humming noises. Whether that was positive or negative, Greg had no idea. Better not ask.
Sherlock turned the page, the familiar crayon picture now facing Greg. It showed two stick figures, one tall with short grey hair and one short with longer blond hair, both wearing pink clothing and standing on a bright green meadow. A poppy-red-and-violet-blue flower almost as tall as the larger figure stood to the right and above them an orange sun was smiling. Two turquoise clouds flanked the sun, one labelled “Daddy” and one “Taylor.” It was the first in a long line of drawings – crayons had been a revelation to Taylor (and a joyous day for the crafts industry).
“This,” Sherlock said, speaking in the slow tone one addressed the stupid with, “will go on your chest. Exactly as is.”
Greg blinked a couple of times, processing the idea. “That...is actually genius.” There hadn’t just a proverbial lightbulb lit above his head, it felt like a whole chandelier. How come he hadn’t thought of that?
“Of course it is,” Sherlock Holmes said.
The man was as arrogant as Greg remembered him to be. Although this time, he would need to admit it was justified. Only to himself, that is. He was sure Sherlock didn’t need anyone to convince him he was brilliant.
“I have an opening next month on the 15th," Sherlock offered.
"That's—“
"Yes, that’s school holidays, so I take it you’d like to bring your daughter along for sentimental drivel like a bonding experience,” Sherlock sighed, sounding long-suffering. "Parents always do this."
If the man was always this charming to customers, he’d need to be amazing to stay in business. Good thing Greg had forgot how to be offended years ago.
“Son actually, but yes, I’d like to bring him along. I happen to like this sentimental drivel.”
“Son,” Sherlock hissed in annoyance. “There’s always something.”
Normally, Greg would reassure people that with the longer hair, current fondness for pink and the neutral name, they weren’t the first to assume he had a daughter, but Sherlock Holmes could profit from a little bruise on his ego.
He paid for the deposit and got a card in return, with a stern warning that if he didn’t turn up, he should never show his face again.
In the following month, Greg got cold feet precisely four times (he knew because that's how often he had almost called the studio to cancel) and remained on the fence on whether to tell his wife or not. She wasn't a big fan of tattoos, but surely, a tattoo of their son was different? Greg didn't want to shake the boat any more than necessary – his marriage was a bit of a minefield. Or a shark tank, to stay with the watery metaphors. He didn't tell Taylor because he wanted it to be a surprise for him.
Taylor was a big fan or surprises and was already awake at 5:20 on the morning of the appointment. Lestrade had a hard time convincing the boy to let him sleep for at least three more hours – an agreement was only achieved after he'd allowed Taylor to wriggle under the covers of the bed (his wife was still at her night shift) and let the TV run on a low volume. At 8:30, Taylor declared that Transformers were stupid and he wanted breakfast. No chance for a lie-in. A bowl of cereal and two pieces of toast later, they left for the nearby park, where Taylor proceeded to build a massive sand castle with two other children while Greg bought himself a coffee and a paper at the small kiosk at the entrance and settled on a bench in the morning sun. They still had a couple of hours left and if he didn't keep his son moving around, he'd pester him about what the surprise was.
Two hours later, Taylor abandoned the construction of the South wall at once when Greg suggested they leave. The boy was decidedly curious if he left the playground without protest. Usually, it was a fight over at least three rounds with extensive negotiations and/or threats.
They took the Tube towards Montague Street and Greg became more nervous as the minutes passed. It was just a tattoo, no reason to get his pants in a twist. He dealt well with pain, even. Not that the thought really managed to calm him down.
Taylor looked appropriately intrigued as they entered the studio, Sherlock lounging on a chair behind the counter, feet propped up.
"Ah, Gavin."
"Greg," Lestrade said and raised an eyebrow, but Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.
"Just as well," Sherlock responded and took his feet from the desk. "I'm already set, so we can start immediately. Follow me."
Greg took his son's hand and led him into the back room where Sherlock had set up his workstation. Everything looked scrubbed within an inch of its life: the tiles on the floor were immaculate, the stainless steel worktops gleaming in the overhead lights. No question that Sherlock took this job seriously. It made Greg feel slightly less nervous about the whole thing.
“Take off your shirt and move over here,” Sherlock instructed and waited for Greg to get undressed. Taylor eyed them suspiciously – probably knew what was going on or had at least an idea.
Once he’d stripped off his shirt (he really needed to do something about that little belly that was starting to grow. Bloody middle-age.), Sherlock shaved the area above his heart with a disposable razor. Now that looked rather strange. Greg had never been the type to shave (or god help, wax) his body hair; he’d never had enough to be bothered by its existence.
Sherlock sprayed his chest with something that smelled like Dettol before applying the stencil and peeling off the second layer, so that the outline remained in blue lines. From the sideboard, Sherlock grabbed the original picture and held it next to the blue lineart on Greg’s chest.
“Take a look in the mirror and see if it’s positioned the way you want,” Sherlock said and pointed to a large mirror on the opposite wall.
In the meantime, Taylor’s eyes had grown to the size of saucers.
“That's my picture!" He exclaimed, pointing at Greg’s chest.
"Yes, well spotted,” Sherlock replied in a dry tone. “I see the observational talent runs in the family.”
"And it's always going to be there?" Taylor asked, looking between his father and the stranger who was supposed to help make this possible. He was nearly vibrating with the idea of his picture being actually on Greg’s skin instead of just in his wallet.
"Yes,” said Greg and smiled. “I can’t ever lose the picture.”
"Cool!"
Sherlock fixed his blue eyes on Taylor. "You", he said. "You make certain you don't bump into the chair. If that happens, I'll make a mistake and it'll be on your father forever, too. ”
His tone was stern but not malicious.
"Like felt pens? If somebody in school pushes me when I draw with them, you can't fix it when you slip."
"Yes, like felt pens. You can watch, however. Or you sit in the corner."
Greg wanted to protest about sending his son to sit in a corner, but then he saw that Sherlock had placed a large cushion in the middle and stacked a couple of books about comic art, paper and coloured pencils next to them. Well, that was probably a good idea, Taylor would have become bored if he could only watch. Attention span like a fly, that kid.
"First however, you need to sign your name," Sherlock said and handed over a black pen, gesturing to Greg's chest.
Only now did he notice Sherlock had left out Taylor's name from the stencil, deliberately it seemed. Lestrade couldn't hide a small smile. Sherlock might be gruff, but it seemed he knew how to handle a kid in his shop. Keep them entertained and engage them in what was going on. He doubted the motive was entirely altruistic, Sherlock was more the type to make a few sacrifices to keep a child quiet rather than risk having to handle a tantrum.
His son took the pen with a look of reverence and signed his name onto Greg's chest (boy, those felt tips tickled) with more concentration that he'd ever muster up for school.
"Very well," Sherlock said and took the pen back. "Now sit back and don't touch anything in a two-feet-radius."
Sherlock pulled a pair of gloves from a dispenser, put them on and proceeded to fill small white caps with ink in various colours before connecting a cable to the end of his tattoo machine and stepping onto a pedal on the floor. The machine came to life and Sherlock eyed the moving needle for a few moments, apparently liking what he was seeing and dipped a finger into what looked like petroleum jelly, smearing it on a small surface on Greg's chest and grabbing a paper towel from a stack nearby.
"What applies to your son goes for you as well: don't move. If you need to move, sneeze or scratch anything, tell me," he said with a stern look, making Greg feel six years old.
"All right," Greg said, taking a last deep breath and trying to get comfortable.
Sherlock nodded and stepped on the pedal again, sinking the tip of the whirring machine into an ink cap.
Shit, this was getting real.
For the first half hour, Taylor watched with rapt attention as his picture was brought to life on his father's chest. Now and again, Lestrade scrunched up his face whenever Sherlock traced the needle over a sensitive spot. Interesting how only a few millimetres difference made his mental pain scale tick from "okay" to "bloody hell!"
After being unusually still for thirty minutes, Taylor started to move around, which Sherlock allowed as long as he stayed away from the chair and his instruments. The inspection of the room done, he settled in the corner, picked up the pencils and paper and started to scribble, obviously fascinated by the array of colours available. There were at least twice as many as he had at home, and there, Lestrade couldn't step anywhere without encountering some sort of pencil or crayon. On the more unfortunate occasions, he’d sit or step on them in the dark, and a sharp pencil was almost as bad as Lego.
God help him if Taylor wanted even more pencils after this, now that he knew the number of colours didn't end at two-hundred.
For another twenty minutes, Taylor was quiet, only looking up now and again while drawing away on at least two sheets of paper. Lestrade had needed to ask for a toilet break two minutes ago (three cups of coffee before the appointment hadn't been his best idea) which Sherlock granted with a resigned sigh. Bodily functions were obviously an inconvenience for him.
As he entered the room again, Greg saw Taylor handing Sherlock the sheet he'd been drawing on. Curious, Greg moved over to catch a look at the picture.
"For you," he said and observed Sherlock taking in the drawing: a rendition of Sherlock working on Greg (albeit a bit more colourful than it really was. Sherlock didn't seem the type who would paint his walls apple green). Taylor had even tried to capture Sherlock's arm full of tattoos.
"Well, the proportions are a bit off and – “ Sherlock started and Greg threw him a questioning glance. He wasn't really about to tell a kid what was wrong with their drawing?
Apparently, Sherlock caught Greg raising his eyebrows and frowned, parsing what Greg was looking at him for before he understood.
"Uhm, yes...thank you," Sherlock said and cleared his throat. Which was probably the stiffest 'thank you' Greg had ever heard, but it was definitely better than critiquing a drawing one got as a present. Fortunately, Taylor didn’t pick up on it and beamed at Sherlock and Greg.
The man had no idea how to deal with people. Odd, considering that he worked on people for a living. Greg mentally shook his head and got back into position. He decided it wasn’t his problem how Sherlock dealt with customers. As long as no one got murdered, it wasn’t his division.
In the corner of the room, a TV had been playing the early afternoon programmes, some sort of show about bridal dresses currently on. Greg wouldn't have thought Sherlock was the type to watch that sort of telly, but maybe he just like to have something play in the background that didn't require your undivided attention? Occasionally, Sherlock stopped the machine, looked up and rolled his eyes whenever he saw a tattoo on one of the women shopping for dresses. (Did some people really pay ten-thousand quid for a bloody wedding dress? Greg’s whole wedding had been cheaper). For nearly everything he saw, Sherlock had a derisive quip about the designs and execution.
"Roy Davies needs to stop attempting Traditionals if that is the best he can do," Sherlock harrumphed and ranted about shading and blending and a whole lot of others things Greg knew nothing about.
"You can really tell who did a tattoo just by looking at it?" Greg asked, incredulous. It seemed absurd.
"Of course! Every 'artist' leaves identifying marks one way or another, even if they don't work with a recognisable style. It's in the technique as well – one only has to know where to look for it. Just like a painter has a unique brushstroke."
"Wish I could do that. With the amount of tattooed people these days, my job would be a whole lot easier if I could just ID victims or criminals by their artist," Greg sighed.
It was five days after the appointment, the skin on his chest still tender and oily with balm that Greg Lestrade turned up at Sherlock Holmes’ again, this time with a pack of manila folders under his arm. Though it had been planned as a check-up, Sherlock seemed not the least bit surprised when he was confronted with crime scene pictures of various tattooed bodyparts instead.
If anything, a spark seemed to come into his eyes.