Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson et all are the exceptional creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This story is a work of fan fiction, written by a fan, for the pleasure of other fans and no harm is meant or intended by its creation.

For KCS

The Three Pint Problem

It was on a chill November evening that a familiar step on the stair heralded the arrival of our sometime ally in the art of crime detection, Inspector Lestrade. I remarked as such to Holmes, who nodded impatiently, as was his manner, and gave every indication that this intrusion would not be entirely welcome.

As it happened, Lestrade had chosen the worst time to visit. I knew he had been lured to our door by the promise of a ten-year-old bottle of malt whisky that a satisfied client had pressed into my hands and which I had offered to share if and when the Inspector had an evening to spare. That it was this evening, however, was unfortunate.

Holmes was deep in contemplation of the facts relating to the singular disappearance of the Dunmow Flitch and had only a minute before insisted on my silence for a period of no less than an hour. Normally, this would have presented me with little problem, since I had had several editions of The Lancet demanding my attention and a comfortable seat beside the blazing fire. The entrance of Lestrade into our little haven meant that this pleasant situation was not going to last for very much longer.

Not that I had any objection to the man, but he tended towards garrulousness, especially when a case brought him here. With Holmes in meditative mood and an ounce of shag at hand, the reception the Inspector would get this evening was likely to be as cold as the winds that rattled our windows.

Predictably enough, no sooner had Lestrade entered than Holmes had reverted to type.

"I have quite a three pipe problem at hand," he declared, "and I am scarcely through my first."

"A case?" Lestrade said hopefully.

Holmes glowered at him. "An excellent deduction, Inspector. Have you come to dazzle us with your perspicacity or is this merely a social call?"

"Well, I was just passing and I wondered if there was any chance of a quick nip of that whisky?"

"Certainly not," said Holmes bluntly. "This is not a gentleman's drinking club. If you and Dr Watson wish to addle your senses with alcohol, I suggest you take yourselves to the nearest public house."

At times, I wonder if there is any limit to the extent of Holmes's incivility when the mood takes him. There is no such thing as a 'mere social call' when someone makes the effort to come out on such a bitter night as this. That visitors are few and far between who choose willingly to spend time under the same roof as someone who could justifiably be called the rudest man in London also seems to escape Holmes's notice.

As usual, however, it fell to me to extend the hand of friendship in appreciation of Lestrade's gesture. I quite felt for him as he hovered on the threshold, unsure whether to go or stay. He looked pinched, harassed and near blue with the cold. Forsaking my fireside seat, I ushered him out, donned my hat and coat and suggested we leave Holmes to his own devices.

"Not quite himself tonight?" Lestrade inquired.

"Too much like himself, if you ask me," I muttered. "Have you time for a pint of beer?"

"I'll say," said he miserably. "The mother-in-law is visiting and I don't fancy another evening of listening to how much my wife's sister's husband, Reginald the lawyer, earns a year."

"How much?" I asked out of interest.

He quoted a figure that made me wonder if I was in the wrong profession, and suddenly I found I needed a drink as much as he did. He suggested a pub in Blackfriars where a colleague had told him they served the finest bitter money could buy, and we duly hailed a cab to take us to our destination.

Some little time later, we were in a bright, warm interior, rich with the smell of ale and smoke, and near deafened by the chatter of the patrons and the tuneless tinkling of a man on the upright piano struggling through Nelly Dean. As promised, however, the bitter was exceedingly fine. The first pint vanished without complaint, I slowed a little on the second and by the third I was positively struggling.

I was also feeling decidedly merry and pleased with the world in general. By contrast, Lestrade had become maudlin and had lost all moderation over the volume of his voice.

"Twenty-five years I've been knocking my pipe out at Scotland Yard," he slurred, "and not a gnat's of appreciation do I have to show for it."

"I'm sure they value you very highly," I tried to reassure him.

He shook his head. "What I say s'true enough. Started when I was a lad and worked my way up. No short cuts for me, not like these new boys that come in and think they know it all."

"That's the way of the world, I'm afraid."

"And then there's Mr...Mr..." He struggled to form the word and failed. "I mean your friend, Mr Gnolmes," he said. "How comes he's so clever? I've a good pair of eyes in my head and for the life of me I don't see half the things he does. How's he do it?"

"You don't have to tell me about it, Lestrade. I wonder that all the time."

"And you, Doctor, you're an intelligent man. How do you put up with him? He's so..." He gave a distracted wave of his hand. "What's the word?"

"Difficult?"

"That's it. He's dissif... diciss... he's smug is what he is."

He leant across as if to share a confidence, treating me to a blast of his beery breath.

"You know what, Doctor?" said he. "He wouldn't be so smug if he had to do my job. It's all very well him sitting there with his theories, but we get left with the boring bits. Locking 'em up, washing 'em down, standing up in court before the beak, and piling through piles and piles of paperwork. Bane of my life is that. Writing all day I am."

To my surprise, he suddenly rose to his feet, glass in hand, and swayed unsteadily on his feet.

"I'm nothing more than a clerk," he declared to all and sundry. "They call me an Inspector, but I'm just a clerk of Scotland Yard!"

The awkward silence that followed this statement should have warned me that events were about to take a turn for the worse. Several rough fellows by the bar began muttering amongst themselves and casting dangerous glances in our direction. I pulled Lestrade back into his seat and warned him to keep his voice down.

"Why, who's listening?" he said belligerently, getting up again. "Anyone wants a fight, I'll give it to them."

Unfortunately, one of the ruffians decided to take him up on his offer. Large, fleshy and worryingly muscular, he stood near six foot two, towering over the diminutive Inspector, who, to give him his due, steadfastly held his ground.

"You looking for trouble, sunshine?" said Lestrade, pulling himself up to his full, if less than impressive, height.

"We don't like coppers in here," said the man menancingly. "Especially not Scotland Yard Inspectors. It was one of you lot who had me brother up for a seven-year stretch."

I groaned inwardly. The evening was about to get very lively indeed.

"Well, it wasn't me," said Lestrade. "'Cos if I'd been in charge of the case, your brother would've got seventy years!"

He laughed, although the man found it less amusing. The punch he threw propelled Lestrade across the table, scattering glasses and beer dregs in his wake. He ended up on the floor with blood pouring from his nose while his assailant guffawed with laughter.

I had hopes it would end there, but Lestrade's temper was roused with the heat of indignity and alcohol. As I helped him up, my suggestion that we beat a tactful retreat was thrust rudely aside.

"Leave?" he protested. "Leave now when it's just getting interesting?"

With that, he charged, caught the big fellow around the waist with a tackle worthy of the rugby field and both went down into the crowd by the bar. Someone threw a punch, a glass was upended over someone's head and a brawl was suddenly underway between people who were only a moment before enjoying a quiet drink. A distressed whimper came from the piano as a chair crashed into it and the drunken pianist ended up on his back with his legs in the air, looking quite bemused as to where his instrument had gone.

My immediate concern, however, was for Lestrade, although I need not have worried. By the time I fought my way through a crowd of rowdy men, one of whom had a woman on his back soundly boxing his ears, the Inspector had somehow managed to gain the upper hand and was giving his opponent a sound thrashing. I tried to pluck him away, got a punch on the chin for my trouble, and had to duck as a table flew towards me and continued on its way to shatter the bottles behind the bar.

Only when someone shouted that the coppers were on their way did the fight break up. Never in my life have I seen a place empty so quickly. I could no better than follow the excellent example set before me, so I hoisted a triumphant Lestrade to his feet and fairly carried him out.

Fresh air succeeded in sobering him somewhat, although he was still far from being repentant.

"What a night!" said he. "I've not had this much fun since there was that riot at the docks. I'm glad we went for a drink, Doctor. I told you the bitter was good."

"But Lestrade, look at the state of you."

Considering he had emerged victorious, he bore the unenviable signs of having taken a beating. Blood was smeared across his cheeks, one eye was starting to show the discolouration of a bruise, his hat had been turned inside out and his coat was stained with spilt beer. Despite all this, he looked extraordinarily pleased with himself.

"Look at yourself, Doctor. Your lip is bleeding."

"You hit me."

"Oh, did I? I'm sorry about that. Got rather carried away in there. Most unlike me."

"Well, you can't go home to your mother-in-law like this," said I. "I suggest you stay the night with us at Baker Street."

"Mr Holmes won't like it. He's got his three pipe problem for a start. And what'll we say if he asks what happened?"

A suitable response occurred to us both simultaneously and our laughter rang merrily through the empty streets.

"We'll tell him," I said with a grin, "that we had a three pint problem!"

The End

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