Yeah, so, totally pulling the classic Lestrade in a dress doo dad in this chapter. I know it’s been done about a billion times, but hey! this is a for fun fic and I’ve always wanted to do it!

Lli

Chapter Nine: Purple People

The light was dim, figures skulked suspiciously between rickety displays and garish colours. Their voices were manic, and their frenzied words garbled into frightening cacophony by the thick glass.

Lestrade stared through at them, horrified. Thank gods for the glass, she thought. All that separated Her from Them. Yes, thank gods for the glass.

"You promised." Holmes elbowed her delicately, as though she were already contaminated. She glared at his reflection in the window.

"Mergleumph." Was all she could bring herself to say. By this, she really meant: Towers of office furniture and now this? How am I meant to cope? Please will you be my knight in kinda, really rusty armour?

"See you at dinner, then shall I?" He doffed his cap, grinning, and positively swaggered off down the sidewalk, leaving her all alone in a cruel, cruel world.

Lestrade gnashed her teeth at his retreating form. But, she straightened her spine, looking once more through the glass. Rouge! Read the red cursive of the neon sign.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed through into the boutique with all the fury that she might bust a mafia ring. If she could build towers of office furniture she could buy Deidre underwear, by zed!

A haughty sales woman gave her rumpledess a caustic once over and moved on to meatier prey. Well, thought Lestrade, at least I won't be interrupted. She looked around, assessing the battle field, her subconscious snapped on its surgical gloves with a practiced flourish.

"C'est du connerie ceci..." She muttered to herself, holding up what looked to be three pieces of pink yarn and giving them her most horrified grimace. But, our valiant Inspector waded on; through pink feathers, black leather and spikes, sequins in hitherto unknown colours, looking for that perfect, Deidreish pair of panties. "Bloody kid had better appreciate this..."

Two hours later, Lestrade dragged her weary, knicker- beaten body to the checkout counter. That same skeletal saleswoman wrapped up two pairs of panties in tissue paper and placed them in an extraordinarily conspicuous bag (which Lestrade had no qualms about stuffing hastily into her own rucksack) and gave her the receipt.

Two pairs? Our dear readers might ask. Well, sometimes, our Inspector isn't quite as infallible as she likes to pretend. And really, they were such a lovely shade of purple...

Once back at the hotel, she made a beeline for the dining room. Those old biddies can stuff it if I look worse than usual, she thought. I need to eat, and I need to do it now.

True to form, Holmes and Watson were holed up in the back, watching the flow around them.

"Success?" Asked Watson cheerfully. "You certainly took your time!"

"I hope you had a lousy day." Was Lestrade's gracious reply.

"Actually," replied Watson, deciding to get straight to the point. "I had a very informative one. Someone has been leaking information about you two."

He smiled (but just a bit) to see them snap to attention like reprimanded school children. Their response to the newscast was predictable but he enjoyed it no less.

"Bloody zedding--- " Were Lestrades opening remarks.

Holmes scored marginally higher with a profound: "Well, well well..." But he graciously let Lestrade's swearing play solo until the food came, before taking over with something of a little more substance.

"I believe you may have been quite right with your suggestion of a publicity stunt, Lestrade. Watson, what do we know about Notre France and Mr. LaMensange?"

"Well," Watson paused to scan his search results. "Notre France has been around sometime, since the late 2080s, after the climate change crisis was dealt with and France became a multi-party democracy. But they've always been quite a marginal party, no voter base, very extreme, that sort of thing. However, in the last few years they've been garnering strength with the anti-immigration supporters. Patriotic to an almost a frightening degree. Now, it appears they're quite the dark horse in the upcoming election. Bit of a surprise for the entrenched parties, let me tell you. As for Mr. LaMensange, well, he is, in actual fact, Corsican, but educated at Oxford... not a very patriotic thing to do now is it? Decent lawyer it seems, nothing overly remarkable, but then, there doesn't seem to be much about him available."

"Huh." Waving her fork to enunciate, Lestrade frowned. "And they say Our Island is behind it? How'd they come up with that one? Last time I checked we weren't on their hit list as well. Did you piss someone off that I don't know about Holmes? I mean, we have an election coming up too. This sort of zed isn't gonna win them any votes." She stared at her plate in consternation.

Holmes glanced at her thoughtfully. "Possibly, my dear, possibly. But, lest we begin to conjecture without the facts..."

"Yeah, I know, I know!" But she caught his smile just before it vanished and didn't get too terribly mad.

The next morning was yet another beautiful cliché of fabulous French weather. Lestrade wriggled deeper into her sheets, stretching herself out, the spitting image of a lazy Sunday. No seminar today, oh ho no! But then the satisfied look faded and she remembered why. Ah yes, hobnobbing with the President. And guess who was gonna play the wallflower? Oh how thrilling.

But then again... She sat up in bed, raising an eyebrow and peering about the room in a disquietingly Holmesian manner.

"Huh huh... " She began hunting for the purple knickers. "Just let them try and ignore me! I am woman! Hear me roar... or something like that... man, I need to get more sleep..."

Holmes and Watson were waiting in the lobby with that same stiff official as met them in the beginning. They were both valiantly denying the soaring temperatures (though for Watson, this wasn't a terrible sacrifice) wearing the complete Victorian get up. Lestrade shook her head fondly.

"Dear me, Inspector, aren't you looking lovely today?" Watson offered her his arm, and she grinned at him.

Her hair was up, her eyelashes were darker, her throat and shoulders were exposed, and the rest of her was covered, though how well was up for debate, by something delicate and red. Holmes gaped by raising an eyebrow.

"A dress, Inspector? Does the President realise he's so affected you?"

"And good morning to you too, Holmes. How do you know it's for him? One shouldn't conjecture without the facts!" That's right buddy, just stew on that one for a bit, why dontcha. She gave him a grin too, and looped her other arm through one of his, as they walked out to the limo. Wallflower? No way bucko.

C est du connerie ceci...

This is ridiculous/utter foolishness... (though, leaning more to the expletive side of utter foolishness.)