“You won’t like that,” said Lestrade when he saw what Sherlock was doing. “It’s been in the car for more than a fortnight.”
Sherlock frowned at him and went back to extracting the CD he’d found beneath the seat from its thin plastic case. “Why wouldn’t I like it? This is mine.”
“Yeah, and you left it here when we chased Yvonne Windibank to Fulworth last month. You know, when you disappeared from the crime scene and showed up four days later in Cardiff with a mustache?”
“Of course, I remember. You needn’t sound so sore about it. I told you if I wasn’t back again by this time tomorrow—”
“To carry on, yes," put in John from the back seat. "And we did.”
“And you did a good job of it, too. I caught her in Cardiff, but the case against her wouldn’t have held if you hadn’t found that Moët & Chandon in her cabinet.”
“Anderson found it.” John had to be absolutely clear on that point. Seeing Anderson work without Sherlock hovering about had been downright eerie. Until then he hadn’t known that the man was even capable of cracking a smile that wasn’t pained or ironic.
“Yes, him. Good to hear he’s not entirely useless.” Sherlock shook this off and peered closely at the CD. It was definitely the one he’d made for the occasional case-related road trip in other people’s vehicles. It had his handwriting on it, and even his name, or at least his initials. “What have you done with my music, Lestrade?”
“It’s not so much what I’ve done as what I let happen, and I didn’t even remember the thing was there until you pulled it out, so don’t blame me.”
For the most part, Sherlock was unused to being on the receiving end of cryptic I-know-better-than-you statements, and John was prepared to bet that he resented that the D.I. was trespassing on what he considered to be his personal purview. All in all, it was unsurprising that he jammed the CD into the radio of Lestrade’s BMW in silence, his lips pressed together in a tight, petulant line.
A heavy bass beat began to thump through the vehicle. John sat up in surprise, and Lestrade sighed wearily. Sherlock gave a start, jabbed the eject button, seized the disc when it slid out, glared at it, flipped it over, checked the case lying open on his lap, and fed the CD back into the player.
The same beat started up again.
“That’s not Tchaikovsky,” said Sherlock, dumbfounded.
“Nope. Not unless that’s Tchaikovsky’s ‘Another One Bites the Dust’.” Lestrade twiddled the steering wheel to avoid an overtaking Ford Fiesta. "Didn't you know? Leave music in a car for long enough and it all turns into Best of Queen."