(( Hello again, everyone! I decided to post this up, even though I'll be leaving in a little while. I really hope you like it – it's probably not an original idea, but I've always been a huge fan of 'What if everyone thought John murdered someone?', so here it is. Any reviews you guys leave would be appreciated!))

It took a lot of doing to get Sherlock to sleep. Sherlock hadn't slept in two days, and he was sure John had noticed. The signs were subtle enough – a slightly wavering step, a faint stutter to the voice, blood shot eyes. John was unobservant in every way but one. His medical duties. In cases, it was helpful – he could usually identify if the victim had the damn flu before dying. On the other hand, he could always tell whenever Sherlock was ill. That wasn't helpful, as neither could admit the influence they had over the other.

So he had forced Sherlock to bed. 'Forced' being the operative word. John could be rather coercive when he wanted to be. There had been a nice cup of tea, with one sugar instead of the usual two. He had taped a bee documentary, which had always interested and relaxed Sherlock. And then, for the finale, the cursed blanket over his shoulders. It had been a three-part plan, and by God, it had worked brilliantly. Sherlock was defeated, and had soon been snoring softly on the sofa. Sometime during the night John had managed to heft him to his bed.

He was too groggy to be angry at John when his mobile rang at three in the morning. If anything, he wanted to sleep longer. Looking at his mobile, he noticed Lestrade's number. That was odd. Three in the morning? Lestrade was occasionally at work, still, but he never called past ten. Never visited past eight. Not unless it was an emergency, and if it was an emergency, why call Sherlock? It didn't make sense.

"Lestrade?" He mumbled into the phone. Granted, it came across as 'Lestraaah?' in his sleepy state, but it went across.

"Sherlock. Hi. Sorry…sorry for the hour. It's just…well, John's been badgering me for a case lately, and a crime scene's just been in. It's a murder. Bit dull, I think, but…you might like it, and John mentioned that you might be desperate." Greg's voice was distracted and exhausted. Sherlock could have deduced more, likely, but he was far too tired. That was why he didn't like sleeping – it dulled his senses. However, there was something about this that he just couldn't miss.

"Lestrade, what is different about this one? You wouldn't call me at three AM unless something was wrong."

There was a breath being sighed out, and Sherlock could nearly see Lestrade running a hand through his hair. In the back of his mind, Sherlock wondered if something had happened to Mycroft. A sudden, fierce bolt of worry shot through him. It was entirely unexpected and it had the added bonus of immediately waking Sherlock from his groggy state.

"No, it's just…would you mind just getting here? Everybody's fine, you don't need to worry yourself. I just really need your assistance on this one, mate."

'Mate'. Lestrade never called him mate. Usually it was 'Sherlock'. On a bad day, it might be 'consulting dick'. Even on Lestrade's best days, it was never 'mate'.

It sounded far too pitying for Sherlock to be put at ease. So he immediately stood up out of bed and made his way for the door. On his way, he stuck his head into John's room. He expected to see the man there, but he saw nothing. Odd. Perhaps he had had a date tonight and Sherlock had simply forgotten (or, as Sherlock put it, didn't bother to remember). Either way, he left.

Sherlock was halfway to the crime scene before he realized that he hadn't changed. It didn't terribly distress him that he was showing up to a crime scene in his sleeping robe and his grey pyjamas.

…

There was always a certain sense of calm that washed over Sherlock when he arrived at a crime scene. Although he'd never admit it, there were certain moments of…insecurity, during his career. He had tried to psychologically rid himself of those moments, but given that everybody seemed to both despise him and require him, they were inevitable. At least he had John. John neither needed him nor despised him, and yet hung about anyway. It made him feel…good.

"I don't suppose you've taken the liberty of securing me a temporary assistant." Sherlock told Lestrade as he approached the body. They were in the middle of a back-alley, ones that nearly screamed filth and corruption. Sherlock knew them well, moreso from his younger years. Oh, and there was another reminder from his younger years – a few needles in the corner.

Too far away from victim traces of organisms growing on the glass ages old therefore unrelated.

His mind was fast. It got ahead of himself sometimes, leaving Sherlock's physical body huffing to keep up. John often asked himself for his reasoning, and it took Sherlock a few moments to explain himself. His deductions were as fast as lightening – he didn't have to bother taking time to analyse. It just happened in his mind, among the synapses and neurons.

"Oh, for God's – last week, Sherlock, you told me you didn't want any other assistant if John wasn't here. Besides, nobody agreed to work with you." Lestrade grumped at him. Sherlock cast one glance at the man. This was at least his tenth hour working, he hadn't eaten in a while, he was tired, exhausted, cranky. But there was something different, something sharper, worming its way into Lestrade's expression.

Was it…fear?

It didn't matter. Lestrade's life was not the concern.

There was one gunshot, delivered straight through the skull. Anatomy figures flashed through Sherlock's brain – yes, it had went gone up through the brain stem. That would mean almost immediate death – or, if not, then heavy paralysis for the rest of one's life. Whether the shot was lucky or showed pre-meditation, Sherlock didn't yet know.

The man was on his face. He had hit it with some force, indicating that he had been standing when he had been shot. It also told Sherlock there was no attempt to save his life. Any reasonable individual would have immediately moved the man to his back. So the man had been shot, had fallen, and the murderer had left. Not entirely unusual.

There were two sets of footprints leading into the alley. One was quite obvious – two heels, dragging their way back into the alley. They were frenzied and panicked. The other prints were a bit larger, but they were certainly calmer. The murderer had dragged the victim back into the alley. The victim was a small man, frail – the murderer was not.

"Did your team take anything away from the victim?" Sherlock asked, getting on his knees beside the victim. Not a drug user, social drinker, never smoked – likely because he had asthma, as well as an allergy to cats. Despite his allergy, he had two. Lived with a girlfriend…fiancé…no, he had the ring but didn't propose yet. Financially well-off – worked as a doctor, though he had a good bit of inheritance from his parents.

None of this was helping.

"Er, yeah. His wallet. He had about seventy-five pounds with him, as well as a picture of someone…a girlfriend, we think? A couple of IDs, some loose change, a cinema ticket." Lestrade explained, waving over a forensic technician. "Is there a reason you're still in your-"

Speaking of his pyjamas, Sherlock was rather getting cold. He would have preferred to continue this conversation in the warmth of the Yard (or at home). Either way, the news about the wallet put fire through his veins, and he forgot about his cold for a few seconds. He was sure Lestrade could see the warmth in his eyes, now.

"Ah. We've gotten lucky, then. I so hate luck, Inspector, it reduces the difficulty of the dilemma. Either way, we know that this was not a robbery, which eliminates the most likely option. As it happens, we can also strike out revenge – if this was for revenge, the murderer would have wanted for the victim to see him. This leaves a good number of other options, which I'll start to whittle down. The first thing to do, evidently, is to interview the people he knew. This wasn't a crime of passion, Inspector – you can't just grab a man off the street and drag him into the alley. No, you must know the traffic around the streets, you must know the victim's route, you must know the physical strength of the victim. It was deliberate. Bring in the fiancé for questioning. Which hospital did he work at?"

Lestrade took Sherlock's speech patiently, and didn't question how Sherlock knew the man worked at a hospital. He flipped through some files that the tech had suddenly brought up, and handed a paper over to Sherlock. "St. Barts. He was a physician there."

"St. Barts." Sherlock repeated, flipping through the papers there. A rather good physician – had won a few awards. "John may have known him. Damn. He'll like to give his opinion on him, as if that would help in the slightest. Very well. The picture of his fiancé."

Lestrade handed the picture over to him. Sherlock was pleasantly surprised by it – Sarah Sawyer. Good. It was not the fiancé, then. The footprints were far too wide for her feet, and there was no way she would have had the physical strength to drag her fiancé back into the alley.

"Very well. I'd like a list of those he worked with, and those he was closest to. Put the ones who have medical experience at the top." Something occurred to Sherlock, then, and he turned about on his feet to face Lestrade again. "And the ones who have some form of military experience, as well. I need those who have professional knowledge of the human brain and the military training to go through with it. The victim and the murderer were close, Inspector, physically close. There would have been blood, brain matter, skull fragments. It would have been frightening."

Lestrade looked physically ill with himself. He shook his head and stuffed his hands in his pockets. The man's head was bowed low. "Right. We'll get on it. Thanks for your help here, Sherlock."

Sherlock whipped around again to stare into Lestrade's eyes, his eyebrows furrowing. "There is something else that is unnerving you. What is it?"

Sherlock didn't often express concern for Lestrade. They were two different people. And now t hat John had entered into his life, Sherlock had felt a growing…worry. He had a past with Lestrade, a past that involved drugs and overdoses and showing up at Lestrade's door at three in the morning, sobbing his heart out, and begging for a place to stay for protection. If Lestrade told John, John would be disappointed. Or, even worse, concerned – he would have treated Sherlock differently for it. So he had made it a point to not be overly concerned in Lestrade's life.

If he had been asked by anyone, he would have said that he just thought that Lestrade was hiding something from him, and Sherlock needed all the information he could. However, there was that thing on Lestrade's face. A sort of personal fear.

"We found someone at the crime scene. Er. We think it may have been the murderer, and we have him in custody. He's…he's a doctor, yeah, and he used to be in the military. He's pretty damn strong, too. Wrestled a couple of the officers who tried to put cuffs on him. Didn't hurt anyone, not much, but…yeah."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Why, then, would you call me to the crime scene?"

"I think you better see who it is, first." Lestrade answered for him, and then the man did something he'd never done before. There had been shock blankets delivered, of course, but those had been mainly in jest. It was rare that he showed an actual, physical sign that Lestrade cared about Sherlock.

However, that night, Lestrade gently slid off his NSY jacket. He placed it over Sherlock's shoulders and tugged it so that it wouldn't fall. Although Sherlock had initially just raised an eyebrow on him, he kept the jacket on.

He had ridden in Lestrade's car, feeling only a little childish as he held the jacket on his shoulders. This must've been bad. Perhaps Mycroft had finally snapped and murdered someone. Oh, that would have been delightful. He didn't feel like that was what it was, however. No, Lestrade was too eerily quiet for that. When Lestrade finally opened his mouth, Sherlock twitched in surprise.

"Hey. When you see who it is, don't…freak out. Like you usually do, you know? And don't feel guilty, for the love of God. None of this was your fault. We don't know what was going through his mind at the time. There were probably things none of us could have known about. So don't feel guilty about it, and…if you ever need someone to talk to, about anything, then you know where I work." Lestrade didn't make eye contact the entire time. He'd been more keen on heart-to-heart talks when he was younger, but that seemed to have diminished with his age.

"I assure you that, even if it is my own mother sitting there, Lestrade, I will be perfectly fine." Sherlock snapped – it was automatic. "Just drive."

They drove in silence.

When they arrived at the Yard, Sherlock was out first and making his way towards the interrogation room.

It felt as if time stopped at that moment. Sherlock felt as if he could go out of himself, and see the visual as clearly as a painting. There was Sherlock, opening the door in the interrogation room. His mouth was slightly dropped, not enough to be comical. Eyebrows were raised. The coat was just starting to slip off his shoulders. Behind him, there would have been Lestrade, one arm raised as an attempt to stop Sherlock going into the room alone.

And there, at the table, was one John Watson, his wrists bound together in cuffs, and staring down at the table.