Test of the Professionals

Lestrade panted, getting to his feet as the gang of Cheathams fell back. "Right now I can think of worse things than rescue by an amateur detective." "My dear Lestrade, we're simply ensuring the fight is fair." Sherlock Holmes somehow dissuaded the truth of that by the way his lips were coiling up at the edges (without letting go of the pipe in his teeth). Perhaps it was because he was clearly in disguise as a seedy deckhand in Dutchman's sailing clothes. From behind him the little professional could see Dr. Watson, tarred like a sailor and armed with a wicked-looking blackthorn. "Well, then!" Lestrade crowed with his fist up and parallel to the looming swarm over the tavern. "Who is next?"

Lestrade felt his heart fall through his rib-slats and hit the floor. "Bradstreet, please tell me you did not bring Mr. Holmes in while I was stark staring mad." "What do you take me for? He came himself. Needed a clip of your hair." "What in God's Teeth did he want with a clip of my hair?" Lestrade shouted. All things considered, he was proud of himself for not screaming. Without intending it, he reached up to seek out that offending spot in the back. With horrible clarity he now knew the cause of his earlier hair-dressing dilemma.