hope that i'm still breathing
lestrade is not an artist, but even he can find beauty in the small moments.
Lestrade takes the first photograph on the case directly after the Moriarty bombings. And to be honest, he doesn't know why he waited this long.
The boys are kneeling by the body (man, aged 35, appeared to have died by asphyxiation, but then the med examiner is ten minutes out and John hasn't spoken yet), the early morning sunlight warming their backs. They aren't touching, but from where Lestrade stands behind and to the left, he thinks possibly they might be. Sherlock's hand hovers over the body, deducing information, and John tilts his head, watching.
Keller walks over, waiting for permission to start taking photographs of the scene and body.
It is impulse (not desire) that makes him ask for the camera.
Keller doesn't look surprised—this isn't the first time someone has breached protocol—when she hands it to him, before stepping back, as if afraid to disturb him.
He raises the lens and—as if by magic, because Sherlock hates pictures and even if he had heard Lestrade, he wouldn't have risked letting his face show—Sherlock turns his head so he looks directly at John, the corners of his mouth tilting upwards. Lestrade imagines he must feel (suddenly) amazed or pleased or in love because that tilt of his head and look in his eye? Lestrade has seen many of Sherlock's expression, but he has never seen this.
And John is missing it.
Perhaps, that is why (ultimately) he presses his finger on the shutter button.