Lestrade sighed as the car pulled to a stop in front of the familiar 221B doorway. He rubbed his hand over his face one last time and gave Donnovin a grimace before opening the door. He glanced upstairs as his feet hit the sidewalk. Glancing upstairs, he saw movement in the flat above. Sherlock's sillouette could be seen leaping about, doing god-knows-what.
He couldn't stall any longer. The Detective Inspector could feel Donnovin's eyes boring into his back. Taking another few steps forward, he reached out and pressed the buzzer. The tone rang through the chilly night air.
John opened the door, looking surprised but not concerned as he moved to let Lestrade in. He probably thought there had been developments in the case. If only.
"Ah, Lestrade. Anything new?" He spoke lightly and was clearly recovering from seeing Sherlock, once again, act like a madman.
Lestrade glanced back at Donnovin. She stared at him expectantly, and he turned back to mutter to the doctor. "Listen, John. Whatever happens, just remember. I'm believe Sherlock. I'm just trying to help."
He ignored John's confused reaction and started moving upstairs. He really was trying to help. If Sherlock was at the station, no matter how bad it looked, the detective could keep away from the public's eye. No more accusations, no more finger pointings, and most importantly, Donnovin and Anderson would get off his back.
After all, he couldn't be making it worse, right?
