General Disclaimer

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Enjoy!

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Chapter One: La Belle France

It was springtime in France, and a glowing evening sun bathed the rolling green hills of the countryside in a warm golden blanket, the tips of the grass waving in a gentle breeze. Or, at least, Lestrade was sure this would be the case, had she been able to see the rolling hills of the countryside and not just the election campaign boards that stood shoulder to shoulder along the tracks of the bullet train.

"I hate election time," she muttered.

"Oh?" Holmes raised an eyebrow. "I would have thought you the type to glory in exercising your rights and making your voice heard, or some such romantic thing."

"Well, yeah, sure, whatever, but it’s always so depressing. Who to vote for? The slimy little man on the right, the slimy little man in the middle or the slimy little woman on the left? Either way, it’s not much of a choice. Though personally, I tend to go for the slimy little woman on the left...."

"I think you’re doing the government an injustice. They work hard and do as good a job as is possible. No one is perfect. Yes, there have been mistakes but for the most part their work ahs been beneficial and it’s due to that that our world is as good as it is now."

"Oh yes, the world is so good right now. That’s why half the world doesn’t have clean water to drink and mothers are selling their children into slavery for the money to buy enough for dinner. Our country is as good as it is because we went around the world taking slaves and cheating and stealing money from everyone else. It took them forever just to legalize same-sex marriage, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. What about-"

"All right, all right Inspector." Watson held up his hands. "You win, but I still think you’re being overly judgmental."

Lestrade laughed, flashing him a grin. "And I still think you’re bring overly optimistic."

"I’ve been told it’s a flaw of mine." Watson smiled back. "But here, have a sandwich; you haven’t eaten since this morning."

Lestrade’s face darkened as she accepted the sustenance. "That’s not my fault! If my zedding luggage hadn’t been lost back at the airport, and I hadn’t been running around in frickin’ circles trying to get it back, I would’ve. And not only that, but now I have to go buy new clothes too. Heck, I have to buy new everything... and I hate shopping."

Holmes chuckled. "Tch, here we are in the fashion capital of the world, or so Deidre tells me it still is, and you, who are by all accounts female, don’t want to go shopping. This is a strange world indeed." He kept his face admirably straight as he said this, but his lips turned up at the corners just ever so slightly as Lestrade turned her evil eye on him.

"Zed off, Holmes."

"As you wish." Smiling amiably, he turned back to his honest-to- goodness paper newspaper (a novelty he picked up at a French souvenir shop).

The rest of the train trip was passed in silence, Lestrade dozing, Watson surfing the net, and Holmes buried face-first in his paper. At the station they were met by a government official -- charming and polite, if a bit stiff -- and a brand spanking new hover-limo, which took them to a shiny state-of-the-art five-star hotel.

Lestrade made peace with Watson, decreeing that there was absolutely nothing wrong with rich politicians who decided to foot the bill for your travels, especially when you were traveling for something really stupid. Like, say, a teamwork seminar. He told her they weren’t stupid and she and Holmes could use it. She replied that yes, Holmes certainly could, but there was no reason to make all of them suffer. Holmes simply told her that it wasn’t his fault if she couldn’t keep up with him. But he said it with a smile and she wasn’t offended, though she grumbled about arrogance.

After having thoroughly explored her hotel room, a veritable cave of pastel wallpaper, potpourri and lush carpet, Lestrade ambled down to the dining room to join Holmes and Watson. Ignoring the raised eyebrows her rumpled clothes got, she quickly found her way to a small table in the back corner; perfectly situated so as to be able to watch everyone who entered and exited the room. Lestrade shook her head at the detective as she sat down.

"Yes?" Holmes raised an eyebrow.

"Just complementing your choice of seating -- great view." Lestrade glanced over the menu innocently.

He smiled; pleased, perhaps, that she noticed.

Watson grinnned. "I tried to tell him a nice relaxing view of the gardens would be better on a holiday, but oh, no, once paranoid, always paranoid."

"There’s a difference between being cautious and being paranoid." Holmes sniffed as the waiter approached.

"Est-ce que vous etes prêt pour faire vos ordres, m’sieurs, madmoiselle?"

Holmes raised his eyebrows at Lestrade who nodded. "Oui, merci, je vais avoir le saumon avec orange et..." He turned to Lestrade, waiting for her to tell him what she wanted. Instead, she turned to the waiter.

"Et je vais avoir une crepe de diner, merci."

The waiter smiled. And waited. So did the three at the table. The waiter’s smile faltered.

"Oh!" Lestrade put a hand over her mouth to hide her smile. "Oh no, pardoner moi, monsieur, il n’est pas- ah, il ne mange pas."

"Ah." The waiter looked puzzled but he left politely, without asking.

Watson chuckled under his breath. "Poor man. How embarrassing..." Lestrade grinned in agreement.

Holmes however, cocked his head at Lestrade. "I didn’t know you spoke French, Lestrade."

"Really? I’m surprised." Her grin grew. "French, Spanish, and Italian. My father, Peter Lestrade, was a purebred Englishman-whatever and my mother was a mixed blood French gypsy. It was all very romantic, until he ran off with another woman. Anyway, in hopes that I would take her mantle, she taught me all the languages she knew. Appears I got stuck with my father’s genes, though... unfortunately for everyone involved." Lestrade finished with a wry smile.

However, at that moment their food arrived, and anything Holmes might have said was forgotten in favour of dinner.

 

After having been fed and watered, Lestrade returned to her room, stripped off her clothes and flopped into bed, pausing for a moment to curse whatever zedhead stole her luggage. Her eyes were closed before she even hit her pillow, but open again just as quickly. A brick had just come crashing through the French doors, angled so as to land scarily close to her head.

Wrapping herself in one of the many blankets, she grabbed her ionizer off the night table (she wasn’t stupid enough to pack that in her luggage) and ran out onto the balcony. Three stories below her the swimming pool glistened silver under the moon. Encircling the pool, extensive gardens stood dark and silent, and there was no sign of her attacker.

Lestrade shook her head. Probably some kids out on a dare. She’d tell room service in the morning... right now it was all she could do just to get back into bed.

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French phrases in order of appearance:

Are you ready to make your orders, Sirs and Miss?
Yes, thank you, I will have the salmon with lemon and...
And I will have the crepe with egg and cheese, please.
Oh no, sorry sir, he’s not-ah, he won’t be eating.