People say a night could be as short as a blink of an eye, or as long as it feels like a month. For Lestrade, a night usually felt like a blink of an eye. Police work isn't easy and sometimes he gets back at 2 am from work. Sleep was never enough for him. He decides he was wrong after following Sherlock into an abandoned house at night.
Sherlock claims himself to be on a case, or so he always claim that he's on a case, and Lestrade, being the Detective Inspector, followed him. He was a bit concerned about the young man's brash personality to rush into things and an abandoned house did have its dangers. Of course, Lestrade didn't except things to escalate this quickly.
The man they were trying to find was a 47-year old serial killer named Jack Mikkleson. He was chased into the abandoned house just a while ago by him and Sherlock and Lestrade concluded that it wouldn't be too hard to trap and cuff him. Like what Sherlock has stated, Mikkleson is an amateur killer, leaves too many footprints around the crime scene and makes careless mistakes. Taking him down wouldn't be so difficult.
Lestrade was wrong. Because the moment they found Mikkleson hiding in the main bedroom, cowered on the bed, Lestrade noticed something very off.
The soft ticking of a bomb.
"Son of a bitc-" He didn't even have time to finish when the world explodes in the brilliance of colors. What felt like an hour later, Lestrade finds himself lying on the ground feeling like shit and half-crushed by a slab of cement. So much for a night.
Hi guys, so far this is only the prelude of the story, so please give me consent whether you want this story to be continued or not! Thanks~