#lestrade-centric

[mycrofic]

Police Tape: Doctor Watson

Word Count: 1401 Summary: The story of how only Greg Lestrade could see Sherlock's genius for what it was.

- masterpost -

When Greg first meets Sherlock's new friend, he’s confused to say the least. Sherlock seems to almost- like him. He remembers his name and everything, though Greg doesn't find that out until later. Must be nice, he will think wryly before dismissing the thought entirely.

Sherlock, vague as ever, says simply, "He's with me," as if that should be enough to cover it. Greg tries to press for information but Sherlock has always kept his cards close to his chest, so to speak. Instead of prying, Greg runs through the victim's details and leads the two of them upstairs. He doesn't bother to cater for the stranger's injured leg. He still isn't sure if he likes him. Sherlock seems to trust him but Sherlock is a recovering junkie with an unhealthy interest in crime - forgive Greg for not trusting his judgement.

Greg dutifully stands to one side with his hands tucked behind his back. He knows by now just to let Sherlock get on with it.

"Shut up," Sherlock says suddenly. Greg blinks.

"I didn't say anything," he protests and Sherlock fixes him with a hard stare.

"You were thinking. It's annoying."

Greg turns his gaze to Sherlock's friend who offers an apologetic one of his own. One which seems both horrified and intrigued by Sherlock's bluntness. And brilliance. There's no denying that. He really is brilliant. His new friend certainly seems to agree. His eyes follow Sherlock's every move while Greg watches him like a hawk. He can't tell much about him except that he's got a limp and a military-style haircut and a fascination with Sherlock Holmes.

"Got anything?" Greg asks eventually and Sherlock's smirk tells him Sherlock has bloody everything. Still, he says, "Not much," and Greg tries not to find it infuriating.

When Sherlock slams the door in Anderson's face, Greg isn't quite sure what to make of the stranger's stifled smile. On one hand, he wants to be defensive of Anderson but, on the other, it was actually quite funny.

"So," he says to break the following silence. "She's German?"

"Course she's not," Sherlock scoffs and Greg resists the urge to sigh. Of course she's not. It wouldn't be that easy. It takes everything he has not to pinch the bridge of his nose in annoyance while Sherlock goes off on his usual ramble. There are a few instances where Greg would swear to Sherlock's making things up just to impress but he knows himself that's not how Sherlock does things. He impresses people with his deductions because they're always bang on. He'd never lie and threaten his credibility like that. It would jeopardise everything.

Greg can't wrap his head around this. "But what about the message?" He begins dazedly when Sherlock interrupts.

"Doctor Watson, what do you think?"

So, finally a name to the face. Doctor Watson. Greg can't help but instinctively begin to profile him. Short. Strong build. Could probably hold his own in a fight. Doesn't really fit any kind of typical criminal profile. But Sherlock wouldn't be letting him anywhere near him if he thought he was dangerous, would he? Who is he trying to kid? Sherlock would risk his life to prove he was clever while, ironically enough, was a moronic thing to do.

When Sherlock asks John to examine the body, Greg buts in. "I'm breaking every rule letting you in here!" He practically cries. Sherlock is one thing but this Doctor Watson? He doesn't know a thing about him. This isn't safe. This isn't allowed. He could lose his job over this.

Sherlock looks him dead in the eye. "Yes. Because you need me."

Greg falters. "Yes I do," he admits reluctantly before looking away. "God help me."

"Doctor Watson," Sherlock says again and the man's eyes immediately flick to Greg for approval. Law abiding, then. Automatically looks to an authority figure so used to following orders or at the very least directions. But then there's the haircut. And the limp. Ah. He's an army doctor.

Greg sighs. "Oh, do as he says. Help yourself."

Without bothering to watch, he leaves them to it and tells Anderson to keep everyone out for a couple of minutes before he leans against the wall and massages the bridge of his nose. He's bloody exhausted, that's what he is. Getting too old for this.

Sally Donovan offers him a sip of her coffee and he accepts gratefully. It's too sweet but beggers can't be choosers.

"I'm not sure about that doctor fella," he admits quietly.

"The one the Freak's dragging round with him?" Sally retorts. "I feel for him."

Greg shoots her a look and she rolls her eyes.

"I don't understand why you're so defensive of him!" She exclaims, throwing her free arm in the air in exasperation. "Yeah, he's good. But he'd not the be all and end all."

Greg doesn't answer. He's too busy remembering how skinny and downright ill Sherlock had been the night they first met when Greg was on the corden surrounding a murder scene just like this one. He remembers the terror he felt in the pit of his stomach when he heard Sherlock's name connected to the case of an overdosing drug addict. He remembers bending over backwards to allow Sherlock access to cold cases and then files for real cases and, finally, this. Actual crime scene access. It would be a lie to say he only does it for the result. He feels a strong, paternal protectiveness towards Sherlock. It might be partly to get a result but there's an underlying feeling that maybe crime and detective work will keep Sherlock active and, by extension, away from cocaine.

"Don't you have a corden to be guarding?" He asks weakly, giving his head a shake befor he heads back into the room to find Doctor Watson bent over the body and giving his diagnosis. Greg crosses his arms. He cannot get a clear picture of him at all and it bothers him because he's a police officer and he's Sherlock's self-procaimed protector. He won't be able to live with himself if he lets him go swanning all over London with someone who could very well be plotting to kill him.

"Sherlock, two minutes, I said. I need anything you got," he says and his voice is back to authoritative. Not that it has any impact on Sherlock but he sees John stiffen automatically. Definitely an army man.

Sherlock launches into one hell of a deduction whiel Greg tries desperately to keep up. Christ, that man talks at a rate of knots.

"...simple."

"S'brilliant!" Doctor Watson says suddenly, earning a look of surprise from Sherlock like nobody has ever told him that before. Greg did. Once. Maybe he should have done so more because he can see it flatters him. Doctor Watson apologises and Greg interrupts.

"Cardiff?"

"Obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock says.

Doctor Watson shakes his head and looks between Sherlock and Greg. "It's not obvious to me."

Greg silently thanks the Lord he's not the only one and he wonders if perhaps Doctor Watson can be an ally and proof that not everybody who couldn't keep up with Sherlock was an idiot. Sometimes - most of the time - he just made too many leaps in logic. Greg tactfully chooses to ignore Sherlock's poorly concealed attempt to call them stupid and lets him move on.

"...Cardiff."

"S'fantastic!" Doctor Watson butts in again. Sherlock lowers his voice.

"Do you know you do that out loud?"

Doctor Watson looks sheepish. "Sorry. I'll shut up," he offers but Sherlock is quick to dismiss such a suggestion.

"No, it's...fine," he says thoughtfully and there's a hint of a smile on his face.

Before long, Sherlock takes off again and Doctor Watson is left to limp downstairs alone. Poor sod. Greg almost feels sorry for him. He can't have been around Sherlock very long and, while Greg is still wary, he can't prevent himself from wondering if Doctor Watson will be the making of Sherlock.

He supposes only time will tell.

[mycrofic]

Third Wheeling

Summary: Greg is feeling like a third wheel. Too short to warrant a Read More. "Call me if you hear anything. Don't hold out on me, John!"

Greg hates that he even has to add that last sentence but he knows by now that he's not as important in the life of Sherlock Holmes as he once was. Gone are the days when he'd stay overnight at Sherlock's stingy flat to act as a barricade between him and the drugs he craved. Gone are the days when Greg's persuasion had been the only reason Sherlock had eaten anything at all.

Sherlock had needed him then. But he has John now. Greg Lestrade's importance has been downgraded to I-need-you-to-sneak-me-onto-a-crime-scene. As always, he's left as the third wheel.

Still, he tries not to let it bother him - particularly now when Sherlock is missing with a bloody bullet wound to the abdomen. There are more important things than Greg's hypersensitive emotions.

Though sometimes it still stings when he remembers the days he had spent with John after Sherlock's fall, drinking endless pints of alcohol until they stumbled home to each other's flats and passed out. They'd been close. Really close. Sherlock’s return had changed that.

Of course, Greg is thrilled that he's back. But he remembers bailing John and Sherlock out after the stag night and wondering if he really mattered so little that they wouldn't even invite him. How many times had he been a shoulder to cry on? For John and for Sherlock alike? He's always been there but they continue to cast him aside like he's just another casual acquaintance.

He knows he's right on the money when he doesn't get a call until the next morning, saying Sherlock has been re-hospitalised. After all, why would they bother letting him know. It's not like he's been worrying himself sick or anything.

Oh, wait.

Greg sighs. Being prepared for disappointment doesn't make it hurt any less.

[mycrofic]

Police Tape: A Shoulder To Cry On

Word Count: 1245 Summary: The story of how only Greg Lestrade could see Sherlock's genius for what it was.

- masterpost - Even before he reaches Sherlock's room, Greg can hear raised voices and hopes to God he isn't getting shirty with the nurses. He picks up the pace, almost jogging until he reaches the door when he stops and peeks through the available crack to see the back of another man stood by Sherlock's bedside. He's clad in a dark grey suit and leaning on an umbrella in his right hand. His body blocks Sherlock from view which, luckily for Greg's eavesdropping, means he can't be seen by either of them.

"Why are you still here?" Sherlock hisses angrily and Greg can almost hear the other man raise his eyebrows.

"Because I've no doubt you'll manage to slip past the medical staff if I don’t babysit you," he says firmly.

“I’m not a baby!” Sherlock sighs dramatically. "It's funny how you only care when I threaten your reputation. Can't have a junkie for a-"

"Oh, do shut up, Sherlock!" The man bristles and his harsh words make Greg immediately defensive. "This has nothing to do with my position."

Sherlock mutters something which sounds like, "Yeah, right," but it's ignored. Wise move, Greg thinks. A silence hangs in the air for a moment before the suited man speaks up again.

"I am simply concerned-"

"Spare me the lecture," Sherlock groans. There's a shuffling and moving of his bed sheets which suggests he's rolled over petulantly. "I know what I'm doing. I’m not a child anymore!"

Greg can almost hear his thoughts running parallel to the other man’s when they read, you are to me. That illusion is interrupted not seconds later.

"Clearly," he sneers before adding. "You must love it here. They actually attach the drugs to you."

That's when Greg decides the conversation has strayed into cruel territory and clears his throat pointedly. The suited man spins at such a rate that Greg is amazed his umbrella doesn't wallop off everything in its path.

“Ah, Detective Sergeant,” he sounds surprised. “Seems a little overboard to send someone of your position to supervise the recovery of an addict’s overdose, even for the Metropolitan Police.”

Greg sets his jaw. He doesn’t like this man, he decides. He doesn’t like him at all.

“Oh, there’s no need to look at me like that,” he goes on pleasantly which only provides Greg with more reasons to look at him like that. “I am just as concerned as you are.”

“Yeah, you sound really concerned,” Greg shoots back and the man’s features darken.

“It must be difficult only seeing your children once a week. Did your wife convince the courts you were unfit to be a father figure?” He sneers.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock chokes, horrified. He’s ignored.

“Of course she did and that must kill you inside because she never loved them like you did, did she?” Mycroft takes a step closer, his eyes looking Greg up and down and left and right and diagonally all at once. Greg firmly stands his ground. There’s no way he’s going to let this posh twat intimidate him. “She lied and lied to get you out of her life. Told them you were an alcoholic. But she couldn’t make a restraining order stick so she grudgingly lets you take them for ice cream over the weekend. You’re worried they’ll forget about you; grow to resent you like most children do with their absent fathers. Worse, you’re starting to question if you are, in fact, an unfit parent. You know the only reason she really got custody was because of her job – yours is far too unpredictable with its work hours to allow you to care effectively for young children when there’s another option available. You're wondering if it makes you a bad father for not giving up your job. So, you’re trying to compensate by caring for Sherlock here. How very sweet of you, Detective, but I’m afraid he’s beyond redemption.”

Greg isn’t surprised to find his fists are clenched angrily by his sides while his whole body shakes in fury. How- how dare he? How does he even have the nerve to-

He takes a deep breath through his nose and forces an obviously false smile before he looks past Mycroft to where Sherlock is gazing at him apologetically. “Relative?” He asks, his tone clipped.

“Unfortunately,” Sherlock spits and Greg is surprised to find honest-to-God resentment in his features. There are family feuds and then there’s whatever is going on here and Greg doesn’t intend to put his foot right in the middle.

When he looks back to Mycroft, he finds a mixture of shock and horror written across his face, as though he can’t believe the majority of the things he’s just said. To be perfectly honest, Greg can’t believe it either. Nobody has ever had the audacity toask him about his kids, never mind go the whole hog and make derogatory remarks about the entire situation. So why is he not punching Mycroft’s lights out? Really, he doesn’t know.

“I-” Mycroft begins uncertainly. “I do apologise. I forgot myself for a moment.”

Greg doesn’t respond.

~

Upon Mycroft’s departure a short while later, Greg feels all the tension drain from his body. The way the pair of them fight - it reminds Greg of his own boys but far more petulant and colossal. He's certainly never witnessed an argument during which a twenty three year old man stuck his tongue out at his older brother having just been called a word Greg had never even heard in his life.

He's not entirely sure what to make of the Holmes brothers but he feels a strange sense of protectiveness for Sherlock and so refuses to leave him alone with Mycroft again.

"Where was I?" Sherlock asks absently before his expression clears and he launches back into his explanation of whatever case he'd been telling Greg about before he'd left. Greg rolls his eyes. He can't quite get a grip of what Sherlock is talking about and so allows himself to believe it's just drugged-up babble and lets him continue uninterrupted.

"-an interesting choice of murder weapon, I grant you, but-"

"Sherlock," Greg says eventually, stunning the boy into silence. Somehow, Greg knows already that this is a rarity and opts to use this opportunity to its full potential. "I don't know why you do this to yourself and I don't need to know but," he pauses and scratches at the back of his neck awkwardly while he fiddles with the card in his other hand. He holds it out to Sherlock. "My number's on here. If you...well, if you ever feel like you're coming close to relapsing or, um, if you feel this low again...you can always call me."

Sherlock stares at the card in Greg's hand, confusion written all over his features. Shakily, he reaches out to take it and turns it over between his fingers.

"I don't understand," he murmurs, glancing up to meet Greg's eye. "You're not obligated. You're not family. Of course not. Family are never done complaining about their obligation. It's unlikely you've been told you have to give this to me; not standard police procedure. Which would mean you're doing it because-"

He cuts himself off and Greg gives him the most pitiful look before saying, "Because I want to."

Once again, he feels his heart shatter at the sight of such confusion on Sherlock's drawn face.

[mycrofic]

Police Tape: Drugs Bust

Word Count: 1585 Warnings: Drug Use/Overdose Summary: The story of how only Greg Lestrade could see Sherlock's genius for what it was.

So angry with himself is he that he storms straight into the DI's office and asks, demands, practically begs to be lead of the investigation. He feels like he owes it to Sherlock despite having only met him once. Although he knows he's only granted his wish due to his exaggerated positive history with Sherlock, he wills himself to believe he's been given a chance by some higher power to intervene. This is his chance to protect Sherlock from whatever demons he's fighting and he won't let him down this time.

He glances to the file on the passenger seat nervously and wonders if Sherlock will actually remember him. Greg certainly remembers Sherlock and his extraordinary mind. He'd been right about the affair, about so many other things. His deductive skills were beyond anything Greg had ever seen before or has seen since.

When he catches sight of Sherlock in that hospital bed, hooked up to a drip and several monitors, Greg's breath hitches in his throat. It should never have been this way. He should have seen it.

"Sherlock?" His voice comes out as a whisper and a strangled one at that. He clears his throat quietly and takes a seat. After barely a moment's hesitation, he drops his hand into Sherlock's curls and lets them glide along the spaces between his fingers.

He stays like that for a long time, threading Sherlock's shaggy hair through his fingers soothingly, endlessly.

It's some time later when Sherlock finally stirs, his eyes fluttering open to look straight through Greg. They look glassy and far away. He's seen people strung out before, he's seen countless suspects go through withdrawal when detained and it's never affected him like it's doing now. Those people were the bad guys, the scum of the earth in some cases. But Sherlock-

He's still a child and it's not fair.

"Sherlock?" He tries again, his hand never stalling.

Sherlock gazes up at him as though seeing him for the first time. "Graham?" He asks groggily and Lestrade smiles.

"Close enough," he says, smiling warmly. "How are you feeling, mate?"

Sherlock licks his dry lips, his hand flying to his head and latching onto Greg's wrist. Greg can feel his boney hand shuddering minutely though his grip remains tight. "I need-"

Greg bites his lip. "I know what you think you need, Sherlock, but trust me when I tell you it'll be worse for you in the long run."

Sherlock doesn't seem convinced and has swung his legs over the side before Greg can stop him. The second his feet his the floor, his legs give way under him. Luckily, Greg is there to catch him.

"Woah, there," he mutters, feeling Sherlock go limp against him as he babbles something incoherent. Greg risks nuzzling his nose against Sherlock's curls before he begins to hoist him back onto the bed with difficulty. "Come on, you," he says fondly while he tucks the blanket over him again.

Sherlock blinks at him unsteadily. "Did you get him?"

"What are you on about now?"

"The case. Haven't you been listening?" He rolls his eyes and Greg quickly interrupts sharply with Sherlock's name before he has time to go off at a tangent once more.

"Do you know where you are?"

"Of course, I do. I'm not an idiot," Sherlock says indignantly, insulted Greg would even dare to consider insinuating such a thing.

"I know, but-"

"I'm in hospital - most likely Barts given the location of my flat which is the last place I remember being - and I could have sworn the last thing I did was inject cocaine into my body in the hopes of getting high. Clearly, I misjudged the dosage."

Greg can only stare. The nonchalance with which Sherlock can discuss his own dice with death unnerves him. It makes him wonder if, perhaps, Sherlock misjudged the doage on purpose. Or, at the very least, was purposely careless about his measurements. He clears his throat.

"Yes, well-" He pauses to clear his throat again awkwardly. "You're damn lucky to be alive."

Greg could have sworn he hears Sherlock murmur something which sounds suspiciously like, "Am I?" but chooses to ignore it in the hopes it will prevent it from having happened at all.

Sherlock's eyes look so dull and his skin so pale. It bother's Greg that he didn't notice, that he hasn't seen him for six years. All of a sudden, he wants to know about Sherlock's life, about his home and his family, about his friends and education; he wants to really know Sherlock Holmes. So far, he's seen two sides of him - the genius and the addict. But there's more to him than that. Sherlock Holmes is a complex creature and Greg, being instinctively intuitive and all, is desperate to understand him.

A nurse enters, looking a little distressed.

"Are you alright, Mr Holmes?" She asks, pressing two cool fingers against the young man's neck. Sherlock shies away and she sighs, pressing ahead anyway. She glances to the monitor next to his bed for confirmation. "Your heartrate is elevated."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Greg figures he already knew that. The nurse turns to him as if only just noticing he's there while she sets about fluffing Sherlock's pillows, much to his dismay.

"And you are?" She asks in a tone which manages to be both defensive and offensive at once.

"This is- oh," Sherlock looks amused for a moment as he looks Greg up and down. "Detective Sergeant Lestrade. Moving up in the world, I see."

Greg shakes his head at him, bemused. He doesn't bother asking how he knows. He's Sherlock and that's all the explanation he needs, really. And it's probably the only one he'll get. The nurse shoots him a look.

"Mr Holmes isn't fit for questioning right now, Detective, so-"

Greg interrupts before he's really thought the words through. "I'm not here on duty. I'm here as a friend."

The way Sherlock's eyes widen at the use of such a foreign word breaks Greg's heart.

~

Even just stepping into Sherlock's flat makes Greg's stomach turn, and that's not just down to the smell of sweat and dirty washing. It's an overwhelming sense of, probably unprecedented, guilt. The poor kid has been practically living in squalor, for God's sake.

"I want this place searched from top to bottom," he orders firmly. "Bag up anything you find and bring it to me. Anderson!"

The trainee forensic officer looks to him in panic. Greg doesn't drop his authoritative facade. "Gloves," he says simply and Anderson nods, clearly jittery.

When Greg makes his way to the kitchen, his heart well and truly hits rock bottom. The wastepaper bin is overflowing with used needles and blood spotted tissues and the remnants of broken glasses lie scattered on the floor. Diet Coke cans in varying states of emptiness litter the work surfaces and, to top it all off, there's not a scrap of food in sight. Sherlock's been runing on cocaine and oxygen.

The bedroom, however, tells a different story. The bedsheets haven't been changed in God knows how long but it has a certain something about it which reminds Greg more of the young man he met at the police cordon six years ago. He wonders if he was already in deep with the drugs even then.

There are books struen across the bed and the floor and a map of the city pinned to the wall. It looks like something out of a spy film with red marker lines and thumb tacks practically covering it as locations are linked together. There are photographs surrounding it too; close-ups of certain locations and people blown up and attached again by a marker line.

"Good God," someone mutters from behind him. Greg turns to find an apparently nameless member of the drug squad gazing down at a piles of books and note sheets in astonishment. "He's...he's solved them."

Greg looks more closely. Infamous cold cases have been meticulously researched and written down, each fact and figure seemingly significant. When his eyes find the solution, they widen. He scans the writing again. The reasoning is flawless.

"Remarkable," he breathes and he's not sure if he's talking about the work or the man who made it.

~

"Anything?" He calls after they've been at it for a good few hours. Yells of "clear" come flying back at him and he breathes a soft sigh of relief. The used needles are testement enough to Sherlock's state of mind but there are no actual drugs in the flat and they've turned it upside down - not that the difference is obvious given the state it was in before.

He's thankful to be excused from arresting Sherlock. So, he's smart enough clearly to only buy what he'll use that day. Too smart to get involved with drugs in the first place. Lestrade thinks back to the daggers he'd dodged when he'd mentioned Sherlock's home life. And he wonders.

[mycrofic]

Police Tape: The Police Don't Consult Amateurs

Word Count: 1247 Warnings: N/A Summary: The story of how only Greg Lestrade could see Sherlock's genius for what it was.

He sighs. Surely this should be a job for the PCs. After all, it was what he'd been lumbered with during his time in uniform. How come he was still stuck with it now? He was starting to think that maybe his superiors just didn't like him very much. The whole point of joining CID was in the hopes of doing some detecting. Fat chance of that happening if his main duties involved keeping the general public from scooting under the police tape.

(In years to come, Greg will be thankful for his assigned place on the barricade.)

At half past eleven, things finally start to get interesting when a young man in an oversized coat turns up with a glint of something in his eyes which are half obscured by his unruly dark curls. Greg observes him casually for a moment until he comes too close to the tape for comfort and he has to step in.

"Oi, mate," he says but doesn't shout. The young man's head snaps round to him as if just noticing he's there. "You can't come through here."

The young man says nothing, simply turns his coat collar up against the wind and flashes Greg a crooked smile. Greg looks him up and down. He can't be a day over eighteen, if that. Greg decides that the times have definitely changed if standing outside crime scenes is the new preference for a wild Friday night.

"Don't you have a home to go to?" Greg asks, amused. His smile falters when he's met with a piercing stare. So, bad home life then? Poor kid. "Or, I don't know, an umbrella you could spare."

The young man shakes his head and says seriously, "That would be my brother's department."

Greg nods. He's not quite sure what to make of him. "What's your name, then?"

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes," comes the response. Greg raises his eyebrows. Well, he can't fault the parents on their creativity. "How many suspects?"

Greg falters. "I- I can't discuss something like that with-"

"None then," Sherlock interjects impatiently, his fingers trailing along the tape and collecting the water droplets with his fingertips. Greg feels himself puff up a little. He doesn't take kindly to being called a fool.

"Hold on," he begins. "Nobody's saying we-"

"I am," Sherlock interrupts again. "I could find you the killer in twelve hours."

Greg shakes his head in disbelief. "Who said anything about a killer?"

Sherlock scoffs. "Oh, please. You've got forensics swarming the place but no ambulance. It can't have been an attack or you'd have whisked someone off to hospital by now. So, murder then. Not a serial killer - there's been nothing on the news. One off killing. Probably love affair - it usually is - particularly since this is a family house with two young children whose father is an adulterer and very bad at hiding it. Likely the wife finally blew her top."

Greg gazes at him in amazement. "How do you-"

"Oh, use your eyes!" Sherlock exclaims without further elaborating. "Let me help. I can solve this."

Greg can only stare at him in disbelief. Nobody could be that clever. It's not possible. "You haven't even seen the crime scene. The victim was a woman."

Sherlock smiles. "So, there is a body."

Without another word, he ducks under the police tape before Greg can stop him. He does, however, manage to catch up with him before he manages to cause any damage. He gets a firm grip of Sherlock's arm and hauls him backwards with more force than he had intended. He hadn't expected him to be so light.

The force of the gesture sends the sides of his coat flying backwards, revealing his stick thin body clad in a shirt which was too big for him. But it looked like a school shirt, worn out with pen marks dotted around the pocket from where they'd been shoved hastily after class. And Greg was sure he could see the faint scrubbings of Sherlock's name written in dark blue inside his collar.

Regaining himself, Greg hisses, "You can't be in here. I'll lose my job."

"Not if I catch the killer," Sherlock insists but he's not stupid enough to attempt to pass again. There's something about him which suggests he's not strong enough for a physical brawl. Greg has seen thin before but, the more he looks at Sherlock's drawn, pale face, the more he considers the possibility some form of eating disorder. Perhaps nobody could be that clever but certainly nobody should be so thin.

Greg sighs, gently manhandling Sherlock back onto the other side of the line. Really, somebody should be out here helping him but it had always been a slim chance anybody would show up at this time of night. Sherlock Holmes, Greg was already aware, wasn't just anybody.

"It's nice to see someone so keen," Greg says so as not to discourage him. "But leave the police work to the professionals, yeah?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes in a way which suggests he feels Greg has misused the word "professionals" but says nothing to confirm this.

"You'll get your chance soon. You're, what, eighteen?"

"Seventeen," Sherlock corrects him grumpily. Greg smiles.

"You could join up in a year," he adds, hoping to encourage Sherlock. "You've got the right spark there. But I'm afraid I can't allow it."

For a moment, Sherlock looks at him with desperation in his gaze. Something about it sends a cold shiver down Greg's spine. He's obviously troubled but there's nothing Greg can do to help him. He sighs again.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. But the police don't consult amateurs."

Sherlock's steely gaze returns. With another glare, he spins on his heel and flounces off, calling lazily over his shoulder. "Stay home tomorrow, Lestrade. You're coming down with a rather nasty cold."

Greg shakes his head. He wouldn't be stood out in the rain if he was sick, would he? Sherlock Holmes. He rolls the name on his tongue under his breath.

The presence of the Detective Inspector by his side startles him.

"Who was that?" He asks gruffly. His voice is always gruff, though. Greg doesn't take it personally.

He can't resist a smile. "Sherlock Holmes."

The DI grunts. "Bloody nuisance, that boy. Came into the station when he was just a kid, babbling about Carl Powers' shoes. Seems to think we're all incompetent."

There's a short silence before the man continues, leaning closer to Greg. "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes if you want to keep your job," he says dangerously before striding off back to his crime scene. Greg swallows.

It's roughly an hour later when he realises that he didn't tell Sherlock his name and approximately four in the morning when he stumbles home without his ID Card. That sneaky little pickpocket. Greg can't even be mad at him. He's got style.

(He thinks of Sherlock only briefly the next morning when he wakes up with a scratchy throat and so congested he can hardly breathe.)