A/N: This was intended to be a one-shot, but at around 8K words it got a bit hefty to post as one chapter, therefore it is hopefully not too awkwardly broken into four. I'll be posting all four parts over the weekend as long as real life doesn't interfere! Rated for sex.

DI Lestrade pulled his overcoat more tightly around his chest against the biting wind that whipped across the waste ground stirring up flurries of powdery snow. It barely covered the ground, catching in the ruts or between the sparse brown tufts of scrubby grass, but when the wind caught it, it swept across the frost-hardened expanse, dancing like millions of tiny polystyrene beads. In another world, in different circumstances, he may have found it pretty, but this was London in February, and he was trying to summon the strength to walk the hundred yards to the white SOCO tent that concealed the latest victim. He was weary of the job and his life. Fifty, divorced and living alone in a shabby flat. Career had reached as far as his age, fitness and enthusiasm could take him. No romance to speak of, and even his casual shags were, well... Complicated! God his future looked bleak but at least he had one, unlike the victim.

He pushed himself away from the side of the car as a black cab pulled up behind him, and took one last drag of his cigarette, grinding out the butt under the heel of his shoe. The rest of the pack was tossed onto the front passenger seat before he closed his driver's door, and steeling himself he began the dreaded walk. The passenger from the cab fell into step beside him, hands thrust into the deep pockets of his ridiculous swirling coat, scarf swathed around his neck.

"Is it her?" Sherlock asked in a puff of visible breath. They were into minus temperatures already, predicted to fall to minus eight overnight. Unusual for the inner city to get so cold; all that pollution was a great insulator.

"I think so. Hope so or..."

Or the girl they were looking for was still missing and they were dealing with another body. It physically hurt in his gut to contemplate that possibility; two dead, one missing. If this was a fourth... Well it didn't bear thinking about.

Lestrade lived far too much for his work; every case had signature energy, an almost predictable battle plan even with the wide variety of twists and turns that presented themselves. Bank robberies, major drugs rings, high value fraud, even violent death. Each one spoke to him in a different way and raised a buzz of excitement, not for the crime itself but for the determination to solve the puzzle and bring the perpetrator to justice. He and Sherlock were alike in that regard, but in one type of case - this type - he found himself lacking the necessary detachment where Sherlock could keep going as impervious and unaffected as ever.

Sally Donovan stood at the entrance to the tent speaking quietly to one of the SOCOs. She bared her teeth in a bitter smile as the pair walked up. "Boyfriend not with you?" she asked snidely.

Lestrade froze. "This isn't the time or place Sally, leave it." He snapped, but Sherlock just regarded her with a cool gaze and didn't dignify it with a response. These cases were different; you let things slide knowing they were a self-preservation mechanism for many. A way to pretend it was 'situation normal'.

Realizing she wasn't going to get a rise out of the consulting detective she muttered "You can go in. They're just waiting for His Highness here to pronounce, then they can move the body. Ninety-nine percent certain it's Isobel Tanner. Family will ID."

'The body' lay on the freezing ground dressed only in a thin cotton t-shirt and underwear. Her eyes were closed and she looked like she was asleep. Greg had the bizarre notion she would be cold and he wondered if he should fetch a blanket from the ambulance. Stupid. She was beyond that now but he had the urge to gather the small girl up into his arms and hold her against him to share his warmth, as if that would restore her to life so he could return her safely to her family. He took an involuntary step backwards, blinking hard to clear his vision.

"Sherlock-?" He spoke to the detective's back as he crouched by the child, gathering and cataloging every detail of her appearance and the state of her body. "Was she-?"

"There's bruising on her inner thighs, but her underwear is in place. I don't wish to disturb her clothing and risk compromising evidence, but from what I have observed I don't think there was sexual interference. The post mortem will confirm that hopefully. Cause of death most likely asphyxiation again."

Lestrade sagged with visible relief. The child was just as dead, and that was devastating enough, but at least he wouldn't have to tell her parents she'd been sexually assaulted too. It was only a matter of time though, at the rate this sick fuck was escalating.

The first girl had been found five months ago in a similar place on the other side of London, partially dressed but no sign of assault. Her parents hadn't even realized she was missing for hours, each believing the child was with the other. Two months ago another girl disappeared on her way home from school. She was found in an alley not far from a derelict factory, naked apart from her underwear with bruising around her mouth and arms, but again no indication of interference. Now Isobel lured away from her friends by a man in a black car and dumped here. He prayed she was untouched, but the bruising on her legs was a bad sign. Statistics didn't support a serial killer of children without a sexual motive.

He felt the bile rising and swallowed reflexively, forcing himself to look properly at the child and record his own observations in detail for the records. He was determined to miss nothing that could identify and convict this monster before another little girl was lost. Sherlock pointed out the tell-tale mark on the child's belly; the same imprint of some kind of metal belt buckle that had appeared on the other two bodies too. There was bruising around the girls mouth, and Sherlock noticed one of her top front teeth had loosened and was trapped between her gum and upper lip. One of the SOCOs carefully photographed and collected it.

They worked in silence for ten more minutes, Lestrade making his own notes and writing down anything the detective uttered. The tent gave some protection from the chill but it was by no means warm and soon his fingertips were numb. Finally Sherlock straightened.

"Done?"

"Done," he agreed.

He couldn't wait to leave the tent but there was no way he'd be able to leave what he'd seen behind. The six year old would haunt him, along with the other two, until he was able to formally charge someone for this atrocity. He carried the pressure of being the one tasked to do that in the tension of his shoulders and the pain in his heart. He exited the tent ahead of Sherlock, halting at the light touch on his shoulder. He fancied he could feel the warmth of his hand resting there, but that was impossible through at least four layers of clothing between them, but god he needed that human touch. He closed his eyes momentarily, just feeling the barely-there pressure on the crest of his shoulder.

"What do you need?" Sherlock rumbled softly behind him, stepping close so his left hip barely brushed against Lestrade's. His hand still lay on his shoulder reassuringly there.

"You. Just ten minutes with you, somewhere quiet away from all of this to collect my thoughts."

"Cigarettes?"

"In the car."

Without another word Sherlock strode off into the darkness towards Lestrade's car, sliding into the passenger seat and pulling the door closed. Lestrade found Donovan and indicated she should get things moving to recover the body, and then he followed more slowly. He flicked the courtesy light off immediately leaving them in deep shadow. It helped not to see Sherlock at times like this and no one outside should be able to see them. He watched the detective play with his unlit cigarette twirling it end to end against the back of his other hand. He wouldn't light it; this was an exercise in resistance and control for Sherlock, something Lestrade had witnessed before when the detective was warring with himself. He would pour all that internal conflict into a simple match between willpower and nicotine-craving to avoid confronting the real issue that stressed him.

"How do you avoid it?" Lestrade asked thickly, finally allowing his professional face to drop and some of the emotion to bleed into his voice. He sagged over the steering wheel, dropping his forehead to his hands.

"I don't. I'm just better able to compartmentalize my reactions to stress. Becoming emotional would reduce my capacity to reason, therefore hindering the investigation. It would not serve Isobel or the other children for me to allow my feelings to incapacitate my mental abilities."

"So you're saying I'm a hindrance now?"

"No I'm not. Come here." Sherlock pulled gently on Lestrade's arm until he could awkwardly wrap his arm around the older man's shoulders. Greg let himself be tugged into the embrace and sighed raggedly, fighting against a dry sob that threatened to escape. It should have been weird. It wasn't. "You and me, we're the best team. Whatever you need from me, I'm here."

Lestrade nodded briefly. "Can you come home with me?" He regretted it the moment he asked, feeling Sherlock stiffen beside him. "I- I'm not suggesting- or asking for anything. I just-"

"Yes." Sherlock tightened his arms fractionally, letting Lestrade feel the hug before releasing him and withdrawing completely. Their eyes met in the dark. "If you need something now-? Release might help you focus. Chase the darkness back for a while." He slid his hand under Lestrade's bulky coat to rest high on his muscular thigh and this time the DI could feel the heat of the other's skin through the fabric of his trousers. Sherlock stroked his thumb along the creases well to the left of his groin, not teasing exactly, but testing the water, seeking permission to slide a couple of inches over and help Lestrade forget.

"Not here, too public. Donovan will be over any minute to find out what we're doing." Lestrade's voice cracked, hardly able to believe he was contemplating what Sherlock was suggesting at a fucking crime scene for god's sake, but he wanted it, and to his shame he felt his cock start to grow heavy. It felt disrespectful but his body didn't appear to give a damn about that when the motion of the detective's thumb was doing exactly what Sherlock intended it to do – drag his thoughts away from the harrowing death of another innocent to give him a moment of freedom. He choked a half-sob. "Stop! I have to get back to work and deal with this."

"I know; I'm sorry." Sherlock withdrew his hand and retrieved the cigarette he'd tossed onto the dashboard prior to their hug. "Let's smoke."

"You don't need it Sherlock. You're doing so well."

The courtesy light came on as Sherlock pushed the door open, illuminating his face and Lestrade saw the tightness around his eyes, the straight set of his mouth that evidenced the strain the detective felt too. He lit the cigarette, his first in over six weeks, and reached for the policeman's hand squeezing it hard. "We both need it. Text if you want me."