Disclaimer: nothing mine. Probably ballistics impossibilities, but I'm no expert and I'm trying to translate Conan Doyle's ideas. Oh, and a meta-joke (I think it can be called that) I hope won't offend anyone.

"At least you don't look at me like I'm out of a nightmare," Sherlock remarked.

"Because I knew you survived, so I didn't need to worry about revenants," Lestrade countered, settling behind his desk.

"Ugh...too much information Lestrade!" The detective grimaces.

"What?" Lestrade blinked. Because really, what had he said?

"It wasn't Molly, because if she cracked under the pressure and confessed Mycroft would have warned me. So Mycroft himself told you I was alive, and he wouldn't unless he deemed you family, and since I'm quite sure you're not some long lost relative of ours you've become his...significant other. As I said, Lestrade. Too. Much. Information," Sherlock fired off.

The DI blushed a brilliant red. Dammit, he'd forgotten. Mycroft was like his brother, but he kept his knowledge hidden for future blackmail purposes, so he wasn't used anymore to having his life's very private details exposed. Thank God they were in his office!

The best defense was to attack – Sherlock proved that everyday – so Lestrade refused to justify himself or indeed discuss the thing in any way. Instead, he redirected the conversation.

"I thought you had to keep a low profile, Sherlock. What has gotten into you? A locked room is so juicy you simply can't resist it?" the DI asked with a smirk.

The sleuth was grim when he replied, "The culprit is part of Jim's web. He's the most prominent member still free, in fact."

"Oh. So you would be involved anyway. I guess it makes sense."

"And really, your team's performance has worsened over the years. Did you all become blind? The room was far from locked," Sherlock reprimanded, ending with a sigh.

"Now Sherlock, the room was locked with a deadbolt from the inside," Lestrade objected, opening the files to confirm it with the crime scene photos.

"But the definition of a locked room murder implies a dead body in a room without any openings, as if in a box. Here, Lestrade!" the detective pointed out the room's window, left slightly ajar, on the very same photo.

"Ballistics said it was used a gun, and there is no way a gun could make that shot. Not if bullets haven't been trained to turn a corner or the shooter wasn't hovering in midair, in which case I think we'd have witnesses. There's no place inside a gun's firing range to shoot from so that the bullet would go through the window, not even for a crackshot." The inspector wanted nothing more than a solution, but he needed an unassailable explanation.

"It wasn't a gun. It was a rifle. Sebastian Moran, sniper, had a specially commissioned weapon built so that the striations left on the bullets match those of a gun. It's widely known inside Moriarty's web," Sherlock revealed.

"Why in hell would he do that?" Lestrade wondered aloud. He knew sharpshooters loved their

weapons, but this looked nonsensical.

"Jim's gift." Sherlock spit the name like a curse. "Knowing him, this is why he did it. In case I didn't play into his hands – if I let you die – he knew I could restore my reputation. The police, the media...everyone could run all the checks they could imagine on me, and my deductive powers would be proved true. Jim had already planned another round. The fake locked room would have been amusing. Having infiltrated his organization, and hence knowing the answer already, it is unspeakably boring instead. Obviously."

Of course Jim had a plan B for the situation at Bart's. Just in case he had misjudged where Sherlock's pressure points lay, in case the detective really was a psychopath as Donovan repeated. Or a plan C, considering how things panned out. He shouldn't have worried. He found Sherlock's weakness the way a shark smelt blood: unerringly and by instinct. Luckily Jim forgot Molly – lots of people did (Sherlock too, sometimes). Otherwise, he'd be well and truly resting under that ugly black stone. Mycroft's taste was abominable...and his brother couldn't even say in his defense that he'd done it to save money. Greek marble. Of course, the whole point of the stone was to keep up the necessary appearances, and it would reflect badly on Mycroft if he settled for anything less. How did his brother not gag on the sheer duplicity of his workplace?

While Sherlock's thoughts took this rather singular and slightly morbid turn, Lestrade allowed himself a moment to consider the chance that Moriarty's plan needed to come to fruition. It made him vaguely sick, not because he'd be dead in that prospect, but because it'd be such a waste of this young man's true potential if Sherlock had agreed to their deaths (to John's death) in order to keep his duel with Moriarty going. Speaking of John...

"Boring? Is that why you didn't bring John around this time? Even if it is for you, I'd imagine he'd like to see the end of this case – I'm surprised he trusts you alone, really. And I somehow doubt you will just give me the name and sit out of this anyway, so it's doubly odd that he's not shadowing you. So? How comes, Sherlock?" the detective inspector inquired.

"As you said, Lestrade, I have to keep a low profile. That means not contacting people from my... past life, so to speak. The ones apprised of my continued existence are Molly Hooper, Mycroft, you, and now your subordinates currently on the clock, whose collaboration I need – distasteful as that is – to ensure Sebastian Moran and his underlings will not pose a danger against anyone anymore. I don't see why you would assume John knew about my survival, much less about my taking this case. Unless it is because of your ingrained habit of making baseless assumptions," Sherlock replied, cold as ice and almost spiteful.

The crueller he gets, the most defensive he's feeling. The DI learned that long ago. So he wasn't offended. Well, he wouldn't have been if he wasn't busy gaping. And gaping. And gaping some more. Then he finally managed to growl, "Wait a moment here. When Mycroft told me about you I kept my mouth shut, even when I really didn't want to, but well, safety first. But are you seriously telling me you let Donovan know you're alive before John? You let Anderson know first, 'cause there's no way she's not texting him right now?", glaring all the while.

So Sherlock's mind worked in ways no one else seemed to get (but his brother...partially), but honestly. What. Was. That. Boy. Thinking? If he was thinking at all. Lestrade would have understood, maybe even praised, not telling Mrs. Hudson just yet, because revealing such a news to the poor lady required tact if they wanted her not to have a heart attack, and tact had never been Sherlock's strong suit. But the inspector would have bet an year's worth of his salary on the consultant detective beelining from the airport to his blogger, like a needle back in a magnet's range. If Lestrade had ever met a couple (maybe not like that, not that it mattered) codependent, it was Sherlock-and-John after all.

Not in the psychiatric sense, mind you. John might be a saint (his niece showed him the tag, after explaining to him what fanfiction are and why someone would lose time writing their fantasies about more-or-less famous people's sex life – mostly), but he's not a pushover. Hell, he's the only one who can keep Sherlock in some sort of line. In the etymological sense. They are dependent on each other. Considering the other options (he's met pre-John Sherlock), if this offered them even a shred of balance, Lestrade was sure everyone who met them – barring Moriarty – wouldn't dare to wish them apart. God knows when alone they were both messed up (not that Greg felt much better than them) but together...together they were a bloody force of nature. Which begged the question – again – of why would Sherlock stay away from one John Watson, MD an attosecond more than absolutely necessary. (Attosecond is the shortest time measurable; it's weird what stuck in your brain after an evening with Beyond Tomorrow.)

Sherlock openly grimaced at the mention of Anderson, but he was silent for awhile, trying to decide how to word his answer so that Lestrade would stop prying. In the end, he settled for, "I did. I'm aware this is not the best possible option, not what I'd wish, but I have my reasons for that, Lestrade." It didn't work.

"Let's hear them, Sherlock. I'd like to help if I can. And I bloody hope they're very sound reasons, because if they aren't, I swear I'm texting John right now. Telling him to come around because a friend of mine in the Lost Property Office had something of his brought in and he gave it to me since he knows going by Baker Street is painful for him," Greg flat-out ordered.