Before everything went downhill, when the "Yard" had a case that seemed insolvable, they (or more specifically Lestrade) would contact Sherlock Holmes for help.
In the days after the great detective's apparent suicide, crime rates had gone up drastically.
Sometimes Lestrade would ask Dr. John Watson to assist in a case, as he was the one of the only people who had been close to the detective and had learned his ways. John would help a little, using the tricks he had learned from watching Sherlock at work. Sometimes his help would lead to solving a case. But even when they didn't really need the help, Lestrade would still have John come to the crime scene. John liked it. It made him feel important. It made him feel closer to Sherlock. To the memory of the great man whom he had shared a lifetime of adventure with, in only a short time.
The day was cloudy and gray, although the rain hadn't made its escape from the clouds, John could feel it when he breathed. It would rain for days when it broke.
As he crossed the street, John saw flashing lights and people milling around an old several level concrete car park. John was drawn closer to the flashing lights, forgetting whatever he had been doing, simply out of habit. He made his way through the small crowd of onlookers and spoke to the uniformed sergeant. It seemed to be a routine shooting. Only a homeless person.
John spotted Lestrade in the background, talking to several of his men. Without waiting for permission, John ducked under the police tape and joined Lestrade.
"Afternoon, John."
"Hullo, detective inspector. What's going on?"
"Just a shooting. Some homeless kid, not quite your type of case. But you can take a look if you'd like."
John nodded and approached the body. The man was lying on his back, body splayed, arms and legs at absurd angles. His eyes were closed, there was almost a look of peace about him, despite his bloody death. The blood was everywhere. John had to watch his step as he moved closer to me man. He was young, mid to late twenties, dressed in patched and dirty clothes. He had been shot at least five times, all in the chest. John's eyes roved over the man, over the last few months, his ability to observe had gotten a bit keener, although it would never be that of his dear dead companion. Despite wearing clothes that were basically rags, the man was clean. His face and hair had none of the residue of oil or soot that he had seen on those who slept under road ramps and by train tracks. John used a pen from his pocket to lift up the man's hand. It was long with thin fingers, the skin was soft and had no calluses or cracks. The man had obviously never done any hard labour.
"Find anything?" Lestrade asked after a bit.
"Well-" John looked around. "-Do you hear that?"
"What?"
"That sound..."
Lestrade turned to the group of police and bystanders.
"Everybody be quiet!"
John stood up and moved slowly, listening hard. The sound grew louder as he approached what had once been an automated pay box. It was a soft whimpering, the sound a baby would make, or a child... Carefully, John moved aside a large chunk or concrete to reveal a hole in the stand of the box. He reached inside, hoping to god it wasn't a rat, and touched something warm and alive. It licked his hand. John gently scooped up the animal and brought it into the light. The puppy whimpered again, making a sound as if calling for it's mother. John held it close to his body, stroking its soft fur.
"What is it? What did you find?" Lestrade called from across the car park. John re-joined him. "It's a bulldog pup, I think it was his. He must have hidden it."
"Why would he do that?"
"Besides the obvious, the man who killed him did it in cold blood. Those are professional shots. I doubt that the killer would have let even an animal live."
"Do you want us to take the dog?" Lestrade asked.
"Is he evidence?"
"I doubt it."
The puppy yawned and curled up inside John's coat.
"No, I'll take him."
John started to walk away, then turned back. "That man isn't really homeless. I'll bet you'll find that he's actually someone with a great deal of money and standing."
Lestrade nodded, looking slightly puzzled.
John held the small, sleeping dog to his chest. "That man died to save you. He could have left you in the open, he could have used the time it took to hide you to run...I've seen so many terrible and selfish things that people can do, but he did something amazing."
The puppy stretched in its sleep and yawned again. John smiled. He suddenly remembered what had taken him on this route. He glanced back as he turned off Gladstone Street, silently thanking the dead man for saving an innocent creature, even at the cost of his own life.