A Market Meeting

Part 4

Sherlock had texted Lestrade as he waited in the dark, listening to the men discuss the minutiae of the deal through a small crack in the old wall. 75 kilos of cocaine wasn't the largest bust he had assisted with, but the men working in this ring were certainly dangerous. They had a body count of at least 20 people, mostly petty criminals they deemed no longer useful or traitors, and it had taken months to find the victims or throw the lucky ones in jail. They had been working on the case for a few months in total, with Sherlock coming in the last few weeks. They had pieced everything together as neatly as possible, but the final piece was finding the supplier and the main dealer, who somehow both kept a low enough profile to avoid exposure while hiding in plain sight. After all, Sherlock remembered, they were smuggling drugs at a relatively popular farmer's market. What should have been a standard drug ring to bust had stumped Lestrade's crew for months, only giving way when Sherlock was asked to intervene. Sherlock hadn't noticed that silence had fallen on the old shop, the voices had disappeared. Lestrade would be here any minute, but where had the men gone? Peeking through a small crack, he could see the once occupied room now stood empty. Sherlock hissed in frustration, and took three large strides to enter the back office where the men had been chatting. As soon as he stepped through the threshold, a large object came crashing into contact with the detectives head and his lithe frame crumbled underneath him. What followed was a loud bang, shouting, a gunshot, and a frenzy of other noises Sherlock couldn't quite grasp as he lay disoriented on the floor, bringing his hand to his head and feeling the hot blood covering his forehead and hand. 

After a few moments a figure perched over him and exclaimed, "Christ, Sherlock you look horrible, let's get you to hospital!" Sherlock recognized deputy inspector Greg Lestrade's voice and was eventually able to focus on his figure. "No," Sherlock responded quickly, "Where did they go? What happened to the deal? Did you catch them?" The questioning made him dizzy but he needed to know. Lestrade handed him a square of gauze to press on the wound which Sherlock took with a humpf. "Yeah Sherlock, after one of em' knocked you with a piece of plywood, we caught them, shot one square in the stomach but he'll live, in prison at least.." the D.I. mused. "How on earth did you know to look here, we've been casing every abandoned warehouse in London and you got him at the bloody farmer's market" he continued, constantly baffled by Sherlock's deduction abilities. Sherlock winced as he sat up, a mixture of annoyance at the ignorance of the man in front of and the pounding headache he quickly acquired, his usually astute line of sight clouding with stars. "As usual Grant, you lack basic observational skills, so much so I'm concerned about your efficacy in leading these hacks you call a team, " Greg rolled his eyes, choosing to ignore both the insult and his own misnaming, as Sherlock quite liked making those jokes. The detective continued, "I followed a hunch based on a footprint we recovered from the scene of the most recent deceased lackey, identifying reside in the print that contained trace amounts of pastry dough, flower petals, organic fertilizer, cows blood, and curry spices. Clearly he had been traipsing around some sort of market, and once I narrowed in on the distinct fertilizer, it only took some quick research into which farms around here used the specific type found on the footprint. The farm in question had stands in two different markets, so obviously all I had to do was frequent the markets enough to identify a male, 6'1" with size 12 steel toed boots who bore a tattoo of a bleeding rose on his upper bicep. Now please help me up so I can go home and rest until you undoubtedly have another simple case you are unable to solve." Greg just blinked at the man on the ground, who usually looked so cold and intimidating, now currently clearly disheveled and in pain. "Sherlock, please let someone take a quick look at you, you probably have a concussion!" he quipped. "I see your observation skills are coming along quite nicely, yes obviously I have a mild concussion but there is nothing to be done except rest and getting away from people that suck the intelligence out of every room they enter." Greg rolled his eyes again, wondering why someone with such a brilliant mind was such a complete dickhead all the time. "Fine, whatever you great git, but call me if you need anything, Sherlock. I mean it." He helped the man up, who wavered slightly as he rose, but regained his balance and continued to apply pressure to the wound that had stopped bleeding on his temple. Sherlock locked eyes with Lestrade, hoping he could convey his gratitude with a look instead of admitting it out loud, which was one of his least favorite things to do in all the world. Lestrade seemed to understand, and handed Sherlock another gauze bandage for later.