Messing with Lestrade

"It can't be."

"But it is."

"But that's impossible!"

"Obviously it's quite possible and it's happened."

"But-it's-"

"The truth, John. It must be the truth."

DI Lestrade glanced down at the body in front of him and then towards the consulting detective. He-like always-must've been missing something vitally important. He cleared his throat.

"D'you mind telling me what's going on? Things might be easier if I knew how he died."

Sherlock barely spared him a glance, instead poking at the skin hanging off the body with a pen. It was in awful state of decay, probably about a month old. Lestrade had been told that John found the body in one of their trash bins on Baker Street. He was only slightly suspicious that a body could've been left to rot in the detective's trash bins for a whole month, but stranger things had happened.

"Well, this genius here thinks that this man died about twelve hours ago." John spoke for Sherlock, wincing as said man pulled a particularly nasty piece decomposing flesh away and set it aside.

"That's ridiculous," Lestrade muttered. "He's clearly decomposing. How can he only be twelve hours dead?"

"Simple. I know he wasn't in the bins thirteen hours ago because John had taken the trash out. And since it's rained for half the week, it was easy to find the indentations in the ground. There were two pairs of footprints: one was John's, obviously, and the other must be this mans."

"How do you know someone didn't just dump the body?"

"Because, Lestrade, there was only one set of footprints that went away from the trash bins-again, John's. Which means that the body was there for twelve hours or less. And before you say that John might've done it-"

"I wasn't going to suggest that..."

"-he didn't. But I have a perfectly sound explanation for all this."

"Perfectly mad, you mean! Really, Sherlock, there's no such thing!"

John angrily crossed his arms, huffing to himself. Lestrade tried to quell the minor panic that was building. Not even John could agree with him on this one? Strong, dependable, John? It must be mad indeed.

"Oh, just get on with it then," Lestrade waved his hand at Sherlock to explain.

"Yes, well, he'd been dead for twelve hours, but he's already thirty days into decomposition. He has remains of flesh in his mouth-and if you tested it I can guarantee it would be human-and he has a festering bite wound on his left shoulder that appears to be worse off than any other part of his body. So that leaves-"

Lestrade cracked a smile and snorted. "Yeah, okay, you got me. Nice one, boys, real nice. This is honestly better than that time Anderson got everybody decaf coffee and thought it was funny. I mean, seriously? Zombies?"

John and Sherlock shared a serious look.

"Yeah, that's right. Zombies. They're in London." John nodded, as if to reassure himself more than Lestrade.

The DI blanched. These two...they were serious. They seriously thought that this dead man was a zombie. He'd have to put them both in a mental institution. No, different institutions. No telling what they'd get up to when they're together. God, the paperwork he'd have to fill out...

"Lestrade, stop thinking, please. It's aggravating. We are not crazy. Look for yourself-really look."

Sherlock gestured vaguely to the body. Lestrade looked but...there was nothing but a dead man. He didn't see any indications that it was a zombie-really, he wouldn't know what would classify as "zombie-like" anyway. He leaned in to look closer, more to appease the two men in front of him than anything else. He'd really need to call some of his contacts to have them mentally evaluated and-

The man-the dead man-surged up from the table, fleshy hands latching onto Lestrade's shoulder. Later, after he'd run out of Bart's, he would claim that the girlish squeal had not come from his mouth. He'd never scream like a five year old, thank you very much.

Lestrade reeled back from the body as it pushed itself up. He could feel detached skin hanging on his shoulder, and his eyes were blown wide. The zombie—that was a bloody zombie! — was in front of him. He was too busy praying to every god he could think of to notice Sherlock or John. They both grabbed him by his coat and ran.

"John, call Mycroft! Tell him we need quarantine at Bart's. Lestrade, I need you to-Lestrade!"

Lestrade stared at the floor with glazed eyes. "A...zombie. A bloody zombie...I don't think..."

And he collapsed.

There was silence as Sherlock and John stood outside the morgue's double doors and peered down at the unconscious DI. They both shared a look and then glanced back towards the morgue. The zombie strolled out to join them before they proceeded to cackle manically.

"Oh-that was-precious," John choked, patting the zombie on the back while it pulled a layer of prosthetics away from its face.

"Perhaps he'll think twice next time he decides to leave us trapped in a garbage barge after a case." Sherlock stepped around the DI to grab the Zombie by the shoulder and steer him down the hallway.

"Very well played, Dimmock. I'm sure Lestrade won't mind handing you a few exciting cases in his absence."