A/N: Hello! So this is my first long fic, and I'm expecting it to span from when Lestrade meets Sherlock to when John meets Sherlock, but I'm not sure how many chapters that'll be yet, we'll see! :P I love reviews, so please humour me :)

December 1997

"Lestrade!"

Lestrade whipped around at the barking of his name, and he saw a rather disgruntled DI Bradstreet, who headed his team, beckoning him over.

"Yes sir?" Lestrade asked, approaching the DI.

He saw Bradstreet staring to a point on the outskirts of the roped-off crime scene area, and followed his gaze. He saw a man standing there – well, when he said man, he wasn't sure whether boy would be a more appropriate term or not. His looks were analogous to that of a walking twig, he was gaunt-looking, and seemed very young – but his air radiated a sense of having seen a lot of adversity. Standing ramrod straight, bedraggled black curls fell into his thin face, his skin was alabaster white, and his scrutinising electric eyes grey-blue eyes bored through the crime scene. To top it all off, the look was completed with a black coat that billowed behind him in the cold winter wind, and a blue scarf entwined around his neck. The entire look was extremely impressive framed against the flashing cruiser's lights, the police tape and the slate grey sky – probably his intention.

"He's been there for one hour and six minutes, and he's irritating me. He's done nothing but stand there and look. Just look around, as if he's gathering information…or…I don't know! But he hasn't moved. Not a muscle. It's rather creepy; remove him please Sergeant."

"All right," Lestrade nodded his assent, clutching his jacket tighter to him as the cool wind buffeted him.

As he approached the man in the coat, the stranger spoke.

"Wrong."

Lestrade stopped in his tracks, hesitated for a second, and continued.

"Pardon?" Lestrade asked.

"I said, 'Wrong'," the stranger's deep baritone clarified.

Lestrade was completely baffled; who the hell was this guy? What the hell was "wrong"? And as he approached, he was slightly shocked. He seemed thinner than he did from a distance, and his pale, taut skin coupled with overbright eyes made him seem almost ill. But despite this, he looked completely alert and calculating. He also looked younger than he did from a distance; Lestrade decided he was probably in his late teen years, possibly around 18 or 19.

"And, er, what is 'wrong'?" Lestrade inquired.

"What you and your team are doing. You're on the completely wrong track and at the rate you're going your evidence will bring about a false conviction and your killer shall evade you. You shall rope in the wrong suspect, he, against his true protests, shall be incarcerated and justice will never be."

"Can I ask what your credentials are? Your job?"

"I am a Consulting Detective – the only one in the world. I invented the job a few weeks ago," he looked extremely smug at this, and thoroughly pleased with himself.

"What's a Consulting Detective, may I ask?" Lestrade was dubious – he'd never heard of it before and it didn't sound overly creditable, especially since this teenager had made it up himself.

"The name is self-explanatory, though should I really expect you to figure it out, judging by the average standard of intelligence I have seen so far at the Yard? Perhaps not. But you do seem to me to be a touch brighter than your moronic colleagues. I am a detective who solves all the crimes the police find too difficult for their limited intelligence. Or, I would, and Scotland Yard wouldn't have nearly as many cold cases, if your idiotic Chief Superintendent allowed me to work. Apparently, I need to complete a course at university or some other tertiary institution before anyone takes me seriously. God knows why."

Lestrade was thoroughly taken aback by the man's long oration, sprinkled with multiple insults directed his way, when he realised he still didn't even know his name, and felt DI Bradstreet's eyes on him.

"What's your name?" Lestrade asked.

"Sherlock Holmes," came the reply, to which Lestrade snorted, and tried to hide a snigger.

Sherlock Holmes looked down his nose at Lestrade disdainfully.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked.

"No, no, not at all, it's just, well, I've never heard a name like Sherlock Holmes before; especially Sherlock. Is that even a name?"

"Yes it is. I have it on my birth certificate in the section that states 'First Name', registered with the British Government. Therefore, it must be a name. My name. Anyway, a unique name is a world better than something as plain as Greg. It's so plain and dull I might delete that information, I usually do with those sorts of names; no need to waste space on the hard drive now, is there?"

Greg Lestrade's mouth hung agape at the penultimate sentence, especially with the delicate stress placed on the word "Greg". Thinking back quickly, he checked his mind as to whether he recalled telling Sherlock his name at any point, and he couldn't remember doing so.

"How do you know my name?" his voice was now wary.

"I heard one of your fellows calling you by 'Greg' and others calling you 'Lestrade' before as you walked around the crime scene. Not such a great logical leap to make."

Lestrade was amazed. In his peripheral vision he noticed Bradstreet beginning to look rather irate, and he remembered why he had been sent to Sherlock in the first place. It certainly wasn't to have a social chit-chat.

"Well Mr Holmes –"

"Sherlock. I detest all that "Mr Holmes" business. It reminds me too much of my brother," Sherlock shuddered.

"Well then, Sherlock, it's been, er, good chatting with you, but I'm afraid I must order you away from the crime site. Civilians are not permitted to loiter and watch the proceedings going on behind red tape, especially not if they are standing stock-still as if made of wood, and watching everything in a very calculating way."

"What a shame, I guess my predicted outcome will prevail. Sad for the innocent person framed for this murder."

Lestrade was confused, and then remembered the first three things Sherlock had said to him.

"Er – could you tell me how exactly we're wrong, and how exactly you know that we're wrong?"

"It's extremely easy, all you must do is observe," Sherlock began, and happily launched into his tirade. "The rope lying next to the victim is not the rope used to strangle her, it has been planted by the killer as a red herring. The DNA on it is fake, and it will lead you to the wrong suspect. The fact that the killer has thought to leave a different rope shows he is clever, considered, and will have chosen the DNA of someone who may have a plausible motive, to make the murder seem as though it was committed by the framed suspect. This ensures the framed person's arrest despite any denials of committing the crime. Your killer is around…" he cocked his head thoughtfully, "six foot tall, with blonde hair, and is a confident and intelligent person.

"Your forensic scientists have taken samples from the footprints and rope – both will contain fake DNA, the DNA of the framed suspect, as I said before. Neither will help with the case. Call them off their pointless job. The murderer is obviously comfortable being in this garden, as there are no signs of forced entry and he has a key. So he must live here, or not be worried about being seen here. As the marriage of the victim is deteriorating, and she is having an affair, it was probably the husband. If the husband is six foot with blonde hair, arrest him."

Sherlock quietened. Silence reigned for a moment, before Lestrade spoke up once more.

"How on earth do you know all of that?" he asked weakly.

"The marks around the victim's neck where she was strangled by the rope were made from a rope that was of a medium thickness with coarse material, shown by the size of the indents and the scratch marks around them. The rope lying next to the victim, however, is made of thick nylon, only a touch thicker than the real rope though. Obviously it's a different rope. Therefore, a red herring, and with a different DNA sample, because if the killer is smart enough to put a different rope there he will have made sure his DNA is not on it. He's thought this through then, he's quite intelligent, and wouldn't have just put any old DNA on it though.

"His foot size coupled with the distance between footsteps shows his height and the pattern of tread shows his gait. He's confident, the footsteps are clear, he wasn't rushing, all the footprint sizes and distance between footprints are even and they're a slightly more than normal width apart, so purposefully striding. There are no signs of forced entry and no signs of concealment. The gate here indicates recent key usage, but the woman apparently hasn't been out of the front yard for a few days. I asked the neighbours. You can also see that their marriage isn't strong because of her wedding ring; all her jewellery is carefully polished, but you can see the dirty ring, state of the marriage on her finger. You'll not believe how many cases are solved, namely because of that unpolished ring showing a destabilised marriage. This woman's hair is brown, but there are some short blonde strands, her husband's hair. So, in conclusion, if the woman's husband is tall, with blond hair, and knew of his wife's disloyalties, arrest him."

It seemed credible, but then a thought hit Lestrade – had he been just made an utter fool?

"You seem to know a lot about this case Sherlock, pardon me, but how do I know you're not the murderer and just trying to deter the blame away from you?" Lestrade had to ask the question; anyone would think it was suspicious.

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically and made a loud hmph noise.

"So maybe you're not as intelligent as I originally thought. Shame, I was expecting you to be one of the only decent officers on the force, one that might be able to relate to me slightly more."

"Look Sherlock, I'd love to believe you, but how do I know you know all of this stuff without being in on the crime?"

"I know all of this the same way I can read your life after ten seconds; and now our conversation has run to five or maybe ten minutes, that is ample time. Ordinary people see things – I observe. But not only this, I make rather obvious logical leaps that other people's brains can't seem to. The Science of Deduction, Sgt Lestrade –" again Lestrade looked surprised as he was sure he hadn't told Sherlock his title on the force, and Sherlock noticed as he continued. "Don't be surprised, it's quite obvious you're a Sergeant."

Lestrade backtracked: "Wait, the Science of Deduction? What's that?"

"The way I know who committed this crime, and the way I know that you are in your late-thirties. You're very newly wed, judging by the age of your ring; at the moment the marriage is good but I fear it will deteriorate judging by the fact that your wife has already stopped ironing your shirts neatly, it's a very slap-dash she's done on all your clothes. You're trying to quit smoking, but you keep caving in and going back to cigarettes, I know the signs. You have no children. You have a good relationship with your father judging by that expensive watch engraved "From your loving dad"; and your mother, yes, good relations with her as well, though you fear for her health. You're originally from a well-off family in Somerset; I noticed that by your speech and how you present yourself. You're good at your job and a natural leader, and you're also just back from a holiday…Italy, I believe, how lovely!"

Lestrade thought about this for a while. The very unusual person would trust Sherlock; nearly everyone would be completely freaked out and annoyed. For some reason, Lestrade trusted Sherlock Holmes completely. It was just something about the man. An aura of omnipotence and knowledge, almost. Lestrade snorted as he realised that if he told Sherlock this the detective would probably agree completely and praise Lestrade for being so perceptive of Sherlock's nature; during their conversation he had seemed rather egotistical.

"So Sergeant, I suggest that you go over to your overseeing Inspector and solve his crime for him. I trust you've remembered what I told you about it? Though if I were you, I might not disclose the fact that you found out all of this off a bystander, however intelligent that bystander may be. Then I'm sure he'll be so impressed he'll file the petition for the promotion up a rank he's been considering for you for some time now. Yes, he's been very impressed with you. Ever since you moved from…the narcotics division I assume it was? You must be one of the more intelligent and perceptive officers, though our conversation today doesn't quite entirely support that. Oh well. I must be off now, good-bye Lestrade, I'm sure we'll be seeing each other sometime again."

Sherlock began to turn away, his massive coat swirling with him. He turned around as he left to add with a wink: "And I'm sure the DI will be additionally impressed by the fact that you successfully rid the crime scene of the loitering bystander who was so irritating him."

And with that he rounded the corner, and the end of his black coat whipped out of sight. For a few moments, Lestrade simply stood there, slightly baffled. He had just had his life told to him by a complete stranger who apparently had observed it, had a crime solved in seconds by the same stranger, and had also been called stupid multiple times. Sherlock's manner had been brusque, upfront, and simply quite rude. But despite this, Lestrade had a feeling that his manner wasn't all there was to him; there was much more to Sherlock, something deeper, Lestrade decided. The officer had always been a good judge of character. He was intrigued. And there was something about the curly-haired youth that he quite liked.

Suddenly, Lestrade jolted out of his thoughts when he realised he was staring into space, not doing anything, and was starting to attract looks from the team. With some quick thinking, he assumed a pensive face, and spun around, as if struck by some sudden incredible idea. He strode purposefully over to Bradstreet. Lestrade found him just beginning to finish up at the crime scene.

"Sir!" Lestrade called.

"Yes, Lestrade? We're just packing up now, we have DNA from the rope and also a –"

"No sir, that's wrong. That DNA is going to lead you to the wrong guy," Lestrade informed him.

"What are you talking about?"

"That rope isn't the rope that was used for the murder. I was just thinking about it for a while over there, because something had been bothering me about the case, and this is what it was. See these marks? They're made by a rope of medium-sized, coarse material. Here," Lestrade demonstrated the size of the indents, "and here," he pointed out the scratch marks by coarse material.

"So, it's a red herring?"

"Yes. The killer had planted it here, not only to not be detected, but to frame a suspect and deflect blame from him entirely."

DI Bradstreet looked rather impressed at this.

"So how do we find the killer?"

"Give me a sec," Lestrade replied, and began pretending to inspect the body. "Well for starters, these footprints look as though they were made by a tall man, and the stride as he comes in from the gates, using even steps and full footprints, shows confidence, so he doesn't need to be worried being seen here. As there's no sign of a forced entry – I checked it out after talking to our loiterer – and the lock on the gate indicates a key was used in it today because of fresh scratch marks, the person probably lives here. It's the husband, most likely, because Lucy Everton here was having an affair. Her…wedding ring isn't clean, even though all her other jewellery sparkles."

Lestrade finished, and prayed that this Sherlock Holmes was right. His career was resting on it. He had always been one of the best officers to join the force, always worked things out others couldn't, seen things others didn't, caught the criminals the others wouldn't have. It was for that reason he'd risen up the ranks very quickly. Of course, meeting Sherlock made his skills seem juvenile and basic in comparison. So he knew that however good he'd been, he'd never been quite this good; but hopefully Bradstreet could believe it was a normal progression of going from Very Good to Genius.

Bradstreet spoke after a few moments of contemplation: "Well, we'll have to investigate all of this first, of course. Right: Barton, Wilson, find the woman's husband and interrogate him. Especially if he's tall," Bradstreet barked.

And with blond hair, Lestrade thought.

"Murcher," he continued, "go through all her contacts, find out if this woman was having an affair," he turned to Lestrade. "Golly, if you're right…"

Lestrade watched with a great feeling ballooning inside him as the woman's lover was uncovered, her blond-haired and tall husband interrogated, the files for the Everton case sealed and Sherlock Holmes proved right. A few weeks after he met Sherlock, he sat at his desk contemplating where the enigma was now, an intense interest in the man began to form. Thinking about the detective in the flapping black coat he fiddled contentedly with the so very shiny and new badge he'd acquired: Detective Inspector Lestrade.