A/N: This is for all of you who asked for it, and I hope you like it! I do not own, nor do I profit from. Enjoy!
Somewhere, Greg Lestrade thought, there were normal people who had normal jobs and got up at normal hours and did normal things, like eat breakfast and read the news and waited for the tube in the press of other people going about their normal days. They would sit behind a normal desk, deal with normal co-workers (all right, he realized this was a stretch no matter what), have a normal lunch, take a normal tube ride home, and spend a normal evening watching telly before going to bed.
And sleeping.
They would not consider being dragged out of the house at the bloody crack of the freezing bloody dawn to go down to the bloody Barking wharf because some bloody idiot had shot a bloody drug dealer.
Somehow, he knew without being told this had to revolve around Sherlock bloody Holmes.
He wished the man had a badge if only so Lestrade could take that badge from him now and put him on suspension and perhaps throw him in a cell to stew overnight, just for good measure. That would have been made all the better knowing that overnight was a long way from where he stood now.
But Sherlock probably would have figured a way out in a matter of minutes, so it didn't much matter.
Apparently, Lestrade had a new bed. The wife had bought it, one of those fancy independently coiled mattresses with a pillow pad or weave or something – pillow top, that was it – and something called memory foam which sounded a bit sentient to his mind. But she swore by it, said it was the most comfortable thing she'd ever known.
He thought perhaps he'd seen this new bed once.
He'd like to give sleeping on it a go, one of these days.
Maybe he'd send Sherlock the bill for it. That brightened his day slightly as he pulled up behind several patrol cars already on scene, their lights flashing, their sirens mercifully silent. The dawn brightened the day as well as he stepped into the chilly morning air – even for July, it was cooler than normal. The breeze off the river was tinged with the smell of salt, so the tide was in, at least somewhat.
He rubbed his hands together and found a likely looking constable to take him inside. He could hear the babble of voices as they entered the dock's warehouse complex, ringing off the concrete walls, amplified and sounding as though it was coming from all directions. It made him wonder how anyone knew where to go, until he focused a little more, and heard the source ahead of him, not far. And there was more light up there, spilling out into the dim and slightly damp corridor.
Lestrade focused on the sounds of the voices then sighed when he picked out one familiar one, rising above the rest.
"No, look, I told you– Don't touch that! Lestrade, what kind of bloody idiots are you employing these days?"
How Sherlock had gauged he was there, Lestrade didn't know, but didn't ask.
Bloody knew it, didn't I? he asked himself, huffing against the chill he felt, in part from the cold, in part from too little sleep. He should have been used to this, after all these years, but he wasn't, never would be. People who said they were made him suspicious (even more suspicious than he always was, being a cop). They were either lying or possibly delusional.
Even a cup of coffee would do the trick, he thought, then wondered about sending this eager young constable out to get one. The man had that look between pride and terror – probably his first big case. God, was I ever that young? Lestrade wondered. Couldn't have been.
The warehouse storage room was small, with a mezzanine running three quarters of the way around the perimeter, and it was full of people, a sea of voices that bounced off the walls and the ceiling.
It also smelled of blood and gunpowder, and the first thing Lestrade saw when he approached the door, the young constable suddenly emanating nervousness, was the source of that smell: the body of a woman, probably in her early forties, lying on her side on the concrete, a pool of dark red oozing out around her.
Then Sherlock, striding toward him, grey eyes bright, looking as though he wasn't lacking any sleep – although he always looked like that. Behind him, John Watson was standing over the body, although Lestrade thought a blind monkey could have diagnosed death on this one. Admittedly, John looked more tired than anything, and didn't appear to be doing much but standing there.
Fifty quid this has something to do with that bombing, the DI thought, then remembered why he himself felt so tired. Good lord, had that really only been the previous night? Had it really been just over twenty-four hours since the fire had been put out and the wounded all shunted off to the hospital?
Had he really just seen Sherlock, in the evidence impound, then at the demolitions lab after retrieving that fireproof safe from the burnt-out car?
It seemed like ages ago.
"Lestrade, tell them to give me back my bloody gun! And John! Neither of us shot her! Also, she was the drug dealer." Sherlock threw in this last bit like it was inconsequential.
"Sorry?" Lestrade asked.
Coffee, his brain reminded him. Coffee.
All right. He held up a hand and turned back to the young constable, whose eyes were darting between the DI and Sherlock, clearly uncertain as to what was going on.
"Constable, would you be so good as to do a coffee run? I'm dead on my feet."
"You know there's a sniper tied up in the mezzanine," Sherlock commented.
"Sorry, what?" Lestrade asked, turning back. Beside him, the constable hesitated. "You can go," Lestrade assured him. "I'll deal with this." Whatever it was.
"She had a sniper. John disarmed him. He's unconscious, or was, and tied up above."
"For God's sake, Sherlock, slow down, I have no bloody idea what's going on."
"Obvious, isn't it? She was the international drugs dealer I told you about earlier today – last night, rather. She lured me here after I figured out who she was and who she had been targeting and where she would be. She had a sniper as back up, but John disarmed him. He's up above," Sherlock pointed and Lestrade looked up, and could almost make out what looked like a body slumped in the shadows, against the mezzanine's railing. "He may need medical attention. I understand John hit him quite hard, with his gun. Which your officers won't return."
Lestrade thought about how much easier this would all seem with coffee.
"So John cold cocked a sniper and you shot a drugs dealer?"
"No, I told you, I didn't shoot her! Keep up, Greg!"
Lestrade tried. The room was abuzz with voices, although he didn't know why. He could count six uniformed officers and three plain-clothes detectives, some of them on their radios, some on their phones, and all of them seemed to be talking across one another, for some reason. He felt like he would need to let out a good bellow soon, to get the situation, or at least the volume, under control.
There was an odd harmonic, though.
Someone wasn't speaking English.
French. Someone was speaking French. He couldn't speak it himself, but he recognized it.
"So John shot her?" Lestrade said, refocusing on Sherlock, ignoring the French. It was probably not relevant.
Later, he thought that if he'd had some coffee, he wouldn't have dismissed it.
"No, I told you that as well! John was up above, disarming the sniper. He could hardly be in both places at once. You can clearly see she's been shot in the chest and the forehead."
Lestrade could see that. Whoever had shot her had good aim, that was certain. So it could have been John, with his army training, presumably. And Lestrade knew that Sherlock had good aim, unfortunately.
"All right, so who the bloody hell shot her?" he asked.
At this, Sherlock hesitated.
"I will arrest you if you don't bloody tell me!" Lestrade snapped.
"That is not an arrestable offense," Sherlock retorted.
"For you, any judge would make concessions. Who the hell shot her? Was it a mystery shooter who ran off into the night? Perhaps she shot herself?"
"Don't be daft, those aren't self inflicted wounds." Sherlock hesitated again, looking extremely displeased. "Interpol."
"Interpol? Interpol! That agent you hired – sorry, that consults for you? Are you bloody serious?"
"Yes," Sherlock managed to mutter through closed and tightly pressed lips. Lestrade was impressed – he'd never seen anyone capable of that before.
"And is he here?" the DI demanded.
"Yes, he is," a voice said from across the room.
French.
It clicked into place and Lestrade could have kicked himself. Sherlock made a sound that could only be classified as a growl and held out a hand. Lestrade followed the movement instinctively, toward a younger man who was hanging up his mobile, putting it back in the inner pocket of his jacket.
It wasn't fair, Lestrade thought vaguely. He was an Interpol agent. Surely he should be wearing a dark trench coat and some kind of threatening suit, not a pair of faded jeans and a light jacket that came only to his waist. What kind of secret agent was he?
Coffee! Lestrade's brain chimed.
"This is a bad idea!" Sherlock warned.
"Yes," said the man in his faintly accented French voice, looking up. "But for once, it's my bad idea."
There was a moment when the universe held its breath, then teetered, and Lestrade's coffee- and sleep-deprived mind kicked into overdrive, supplying him with memories, filling in gaps, assuring him that the differences were due to changes in colouring, particularly the hair, which had been darker. And he looked older, although it had been less than two years.
It was the eyes. Lestrade had never had any other officer with green eyes like that.
He opened his mouth, staring at the faint smile on the younger man's face, but Sherlock cut him off.
"Greg Lestrade, meet Agent Yves Bessette. Yves, you know the DI."
"I do," the not-really-Frenchman replied, extending his hand, his smile growing. "Good to see you again, sir."
Lestrade could only stare a moment at the proffered hand, then took it carefully, as though the man in front of him might be a ghost, might vanish at a touch. He opened his mouth and closed it again, his mind suddenly refusing to connect with his vocal chords.
"You–" Lestrade started.
"Fell quite a ways and was quite badly injured, yes," the man who had been Lestrade's constable once, Sam Waters, agreed. "And now, it seems, I've shot an international drugs smuggler who recently escaped from British custody. I'd advise you save your questions for later, sir, as we're about to have a host of Interpol and London police officials descend upon us, and I'd rather get this out of the way."
He gave Lestrade quite a bright smile, one that Lestrade remembered very clearly, because it had been sorely missed about the Yard when it had gone, the fall before last, when Sam had died.
Or not died, as was clearly the case.
Sherlock was still looking displeased, more so than normal, arms crossed, almost as though he was refraining from muttering.
"I promise I'll answer all of your questions. All of them I can, anyway," Sam – Yves – whoever – assured him. "This is rather more pressing, but we'll have time to catch up later."
He hadn't been kidding.
Lestrade wondered about sick senses of humour and perverse pleasures and what kind of things a person could do if they had the proper connections and resources.
All right, he didn't wonder about it, because he knew, since he was a detective. He saw it all the time. Sometimes, he could even identify the perpetrators of dark humour as his own officers. It went with the job. And when you had access to evidence or weapons or records and were short on sleep and long on dealing with victims, the worst things could seem funny.
He normally let this go, but kept an eye on if it got out of hand, if someone needed more help than a brief moment of dark humour could provide. There were times when things got to be too much, when a person could see more of the shadows than they could handle alone, when it began to creep into the soul. It was in those times that Lestrade intervened, and he almost always met with resistance, but he could deal with that, because these were his people. They listened to him, if only begrudgingly, but they listened.
He wondered at the people above him, who were convinced he'd listen, if only because he had to.
He wondered how long this had been planned, what had gone into it, how much it had taken.
"There's a car downstairs," he said into the phone. "You're coming now. Both of you."
"We've been summoned," he heard Sherlock say, presumably to John, the moment before he rung off.
Yes, Lestrade thought. Not by me.
If he'd wanted a simple life, he shouldn't have become a detective inspector. Maybe something straightforward, like one of those army blokes who defused bombs. Or a rocket scientist. Or Prime Minister.
There would be a lot of ruffled feathers, he suspected.
But probably less than there would be smiles and laughter and some tears.
And, from Sherlock, a grinning, satisfied appreciation of the situation. After the shock, of course.
Unless he already knew.
Bloody git probably already did. Lestrade could hope, though.
Sherlock showed up, with John, still the most unlikely combination Lestrade had ever imagined. The consulting detective was wrapped in his black wool coat, the collar turned up as always, a new scarf, this one dark purple, wound around his neck, immaculately dressed in a light grey suit and spotless, perfectly shined shoes. And John, in his bomber jacket with a blue-and-grey jumper underneath and a pair of old jeans.
"This better be important," Sherlock snapped.
Oh, as though you have so many better things to be doing, Lestrade thought, but didn't say it, although Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him. John just looked vaguely resigned. Lestrade wondered if it was an expression he wore often, living life with Sherlock, or if he reserved it specifically for the police.
"It wasn't me who asked you to be here," he said, settling down into his chair behind his desk again, moving his coffee mug next to the small pumpkin some mysterious person had placed on the edge of the desk in some kind fit of Halloween spirits. He was lucky there were no paper ghosts taped to his door, he supposed.
"Then what?" Sherlock demanded. The sound of the blinds rattling on the door as it opened distracted them and John and Sherlock looked round. Lestrade felt a stab of triumph at the surprise on both of their faces – Sherlock hadn't known.
For a moment, it felt glorious. He would savour this instant, wanting to press it in a book so he could take it out when he was older and remember it.
"Gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to London's newest Interpol liaison officer, Agent Gabriel Samuel Mitchell. Agent Mitchell, I'm sure you already know Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."
Sam, with his light hair but still green eyes, smiled brightly, the same smile Lestrade remembered from his former constable, the same smile he'd seen in July down at the Barking wharf when he'd come face to face with a man who should have been a ghost.
He still had questions, but Sam had promised him there would be time for them to be answered.
Lestrade had no idea how right that would be.
"I do," Sam replied. "Good to see you both again. Call me Sam."
John was grinning but Sherlock had his eyes narrowed, never one to just enjoy something when he could tear it apart.
"How did you manage this?" he demanded.
Sam shut the door behind him, eyes still bright, face still alight. Lestrade recognized that look as someone who was where he was meant to be.
"Have you ever heard the expression 'it's easier to ask for forgiveness than it is to get permission'?" he asked.
"Yes," John said.
"No," Sherlock said at the same time.
Sam rolled his eyes and behind the duo, Lestrade did the same. For all of his massive intelligence, Sherlock reserved little room for much else in his brain, it seemed. Lestrade was familiar with the expression, because his people loved to pull it out on him when they'd done something he didn't want them to do – or taken initiative as they called it. But he'd trotted it out himself, in front of the brass, to get him off the hook when he had results but hadn't necessarily bothered to clear things with them first.
"Well, now you have," Sam said easily, slipping his hands into his own trouser pockets. No more London police officer uniform for him, it was suits and ties, but he wore them well, and it covered scars on his arms Lestrade knew were there. "And I thought, after last time, why ask for forgiveness? Why not start making demands? After all, I was due some slack for the recent criminals I've helped apprehend, yes? And after all I've been through."
This last sat uneasily with Lestrade – he knew enough to know he didn't want to know more, but Sam's voice and eyes didn't go dark with it. And he was no longer Lestrade's officer. Someone else was watching out for the shadows now, and he knew that Sam already had people in place to help him tackle those.
John was still grinning, Sherlock still looking suspicious.
"Permanently?" Sherlock snapped.
"As permanent as I want it to be," Sam said. "And I think they'd be happy to stop shuffling me about and forging me new identity papers."
"It's official?" the consulting detective asked.
"As of today," Sam replied, and grinned.
Sherlock stared at him a moment, then barked an unexpected laugh, earning a questioning look for John, but a grin from Sam. Lestrade only rolled his eyes – dark humour? Irony? No, this was deliberate. He was certain Sam had orchestrated it for precisely this day.
"What?" John demanded.
"The date, John!" Sherlock said, pointing to the small desk calendar on Lestrade's desk, next to the coffee mug and the pumpkin.
"What about it?" John asked.
"October twenty-eighth," Sam replied, his voice still easy, his smile bright. "Strip away all the aliases, all of the undercover identities, and it's my birthday. My actual birthday. Gabriel Mitchell, thirty years old."
Sherlock laughed again and John blinked, looking surprised. The consulting detective moved then, bundling Sam into a brief hug, surprising the DI, but apparently not John or Sam, not really.
"Welcome back, Sam," he said, grey eyes bright.
Sam grinned at him and shifted his gaze across the three of them, green eyes dancing, lighter than they had been even in July, shadows pushed back even further. He looked younger, stood taller, and Lestrade could almost believe the scars hidden under his clothing and the ones that weren't physical at all were paler, less apparent, less troublesome.
"After all this time," Sam said with his wide, bright smile, "it's good to be home."