Even as he carried a heavy box of his things up the stairs and into 221B, Lestrade wasn't sure what had possessed him to stick with this decision.
He'd talked to John about it, at a recent crime scene. The thought made him shake his head – Sherlock had apparently completely missed the fact that John was married now and probably had other things to do with his time, and was still banging on John's door at all hours to shout cheerful things like "Double murder! Marylebone! Come on!"
And yet, John came. Sarah must not mind, or if she did, she must have learnt by now that no force on heaven or Earth could keep John Watson from following Sherlock Holmes to a crime scene. The thought rankled a little, no matter how happy he was for John. He couldn't help feeling that it was a little unfair that John's wife would let him run off to a murder even though it was neither his job nor his obligation, and yet his wife hadn't been able to tolerate it even though for him it was both.
No, there was no sense in bitterness. Sarah was an exceptional woman – Lestrade had said it during his toast at the wedding, and he had meant it – and she and John were exceptionally lucky to have found one another.
Lestrade, on the other hand, was not feeling quite so lucky at the moment.
He could hear Sherlock above him in the flat, shouting something about Lestrade's choice of shirt colour (what was wrong with white? Maybe Sherlock could pull off that ghastly purple thing he was wearing right now, but Lestrade had his pride) and disassembling the last box that had been hauled up the stairs.
"Sherlock, do you mind?" He set the newest box down on the rug and went to rescue his entire work wardrobe from Sherlock's somewhat derogatory attentions. "You can't just go through my things whenever you like. I'm your flatmate, not a cold case!"
"John lets me."
"Not anymore, he doesn't, and I'm not going to either."
"What if I need something?"
"Then you can ask for it like a normal human being!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Normal. Normal's boring."
"I can think of worse things."
John had said it was like living with a tornado. What he'd failed to mention was that it was like living with a sarcastic tornado with absolutely no respect for personal space.
He dragged the boxes over to the corner of the room, where hopefully Sherlock would be less tempted to use their contents to deduce what he had had for breakfast every Sunday for the past nine years, and looked up just in time to see Sherlock run a Geiger counter over his guitar case.
"Sherlock!"
"What?"
"Get away from there or I'm calling Anderson to help me move in!"
Sherlock's petulant look never wavered, but he did take a half-step away from the guitar.
"I don't understand why you need so many things at all."
Lestrade gaped at him, then waved a helpless hand at the mountains of belongings Sherlock had scattered about the living room, the laboratory in the kitchen, the evidence tacked and Sellotaped to every wall. Sherlock's things could fill a flat twice the size and not look out of place.
"You could just use mine."
"John told me about the time he borrowed your shampoo."
In great detail, in fact. Lestrade's favourite part of the story had been that, despite the fact that it was John who had used what had actually turned out to be an experiment in mildew growth in various mild acids, it was Sherlock who had sulked for several days afterward – initially at the loss of the experiment, but then at the idea that John had had the audacity to touch his shampoo.
Stories like those had made for good nights down at the pub, but they were suddenly less funny now.
He realized that it had grown far too quiet in the flat. "Sherlock?" he called, hearing the way his voice echoed in strange and unfamiliar ways in this new place.
"In here."
"What are you doing in there? That's my room."
"You haven't brought your gun."
"Wha – Sherlock, are you in my room, looking for my gun?"
"It's important to be familiar with all resources. Your gun is a resource."
"My gun is not a resource! And I'm not telling you where it is!"
"What if I need to rescue you?"
"The only thing I'm going to need rescuing from in the near future is you, and the only thing that's going to be rescuing me is a pint. Now either help me bring in the rest of the boxes or get out of there."
"Did you bring jam?"
Sherlock's leaps of logic were starting to make him dizzy. "Jam?"
"John keeps jam in the fridge."
"Why would I have brought jam? Go to Tesco's if you want some, it's a two-minute walk."
"John did the shopping."
Lestrade dropped his face into his hands, massaging his temples. He knew when he was beaten, and his instincts told him that jam was not the only thing missing from the refrigerator.
"I'll go. Just let me get these boxes into my room first."
As he lugged the last load into his bedroom, Lestrade sighed. It was not exactly an auspicious start to their flat-share, but at least it was better than John Watson's – after all, he had had to kill a man on his first night. (Lestrade wasn't stupid, and neither Sherlock nor John was as good at covering as they thought they were.)
He supposed a two-minute trip for jam and groceries was a comparatively minor sacrifice.
Even if it did mean leaving Sherlock at home alone with his things in the meantime.
Well, this is different, thought John, as he stood awkwardly outside the ring of yellow tape by Putney bridge. Without Sherlock. Or Lestrade.
Sherlock had called him almost forty minutes ago, saying he was literally getting into a car at that very momentand that John had better be at Putney bridge within twenty minutes, and to hell with the traffic laws. John was almost completely sure that Sherlock had added that last bit purely to bait Lestrade, who was sure to have his hands full enough as it was. All the same, though, he was glad that Sherlock had never driven him anywhere.
Except mad, which was entirely different, and could actually be quite an enjoyable place.
Fortunately, John wasn't missing the late nights, the noisome experiments, the chases, the cab rides, the violin, and the body parts in the fridge nearly as much as he had feared – thank god – or else he would hardly be serving his purpose as functional human being and husband.
He did miss his friend, however, and so still leapt at the chance to take a case with him. He constantly blessed his new wife for her boundless understanding. She knew he missed Sherlock, and she never put up a fuss about John's wanting to see him. He had been married just over four weeks, and he was noticing the vast differences in his pre- and post-marriage life styles, beyond even the expected.
It would appear, though, that some things never did change, as evidenced by the conspicuously absent consulting detective, who had all but promised to be there twenty minutes ago. What was unusual was the current lack of Detective Inspector.
John stood uneasily by the base one of the stone arches, feeling very out of place, and wondering when either of them would have the decency to show up.
He didn't know anything about the actual crime, as he hadn't received his customary debriefing from Sherlock, but all too clearly Sherlock had wanted him there. For what, he had no idea. Sounding board, witness, human canoe – or maybe he had been – no. Sherlock Holmes was many things, but he wasn't a nostalgic.
He also wasn't there. Why wasn't he there?
Finally, after a few more minutes of pointless speculation, a white police car pulled up by the bridge, and disgorged a very ruffled-looking Lestrade, followed by an equally irate Sherlock, who both picked their way down the slope to the cordoned-off area.
Lestrade headed directly to the milling crowd and called over Sergeant Donovan, who he addressed in a voice too low for John to discern. Sherlock strode over to John, and began speaking as soon as he was within earshot. "It's fortunate Lestrade is a member of the police force – I'm certain that, had he not been, we would have been pulled over for driving unacceptably slowly."
John chuckled, but cast a glance over to where Lestrade appeared to be wrapping up his brief conversation with Donovan. "So what kept you?"
Sherlock scowled slightly. "We were… delayed."
John snorted. "Yeah, that's helpful. But really, what?"
"Genius boy forgot something," called a new voice. Lestrade was approaching them, and despite his exasperation, he looked rather pleased to be the bearer of bad news. "By the time he realized, we were practically here."
Sherlock rounded on Lestrade. "We weren't 'practically here,' we hadn't even passed Fulham – "
"That makes no difference!"
"Yes it does! Saying we were 'practically here' implies that we had to triple the total driving time, when in fact, since we hadn't yet passed Fulham, we saved well over six minutes."
"You didn't have to go back and get it!"
"Get what?"
"Yes, I did. How else do you expect me to do my job?"
"His magnifier."
"What?"
"You could've just used mine!"
"Absolutely not."
"What's wrong with it?"
"You have a magnifier?"
"Yes, and there's nothing wrong with it."
"Since when?"
"Yes, there is – it has terrible distortion."
"Since four years ago, and no, it does not."
"It absolutely does."
"Why did you even go past Fulham?"
"Because Lestrade never listens to my directions."
"Not for driving, no, god no!"
"Why does no one trust me?"
"Because you have no knowledge of traffic laws?"
"Thank you, John."
"How admirable."
"I do try."
"Clearly."
"Thank you. Now, what've we got here? I've been standing here like a fool for the past twenty-five minutes, and I have no idea what I'm even supposed to be doing with this." John gestured at the sea of milling officials behind him.
"Right, sorry. In that case, let's go." Lestrade motioned for John and Sherlock to follow him as he ducked under the tape and strode to the body. Donovan stood near their entrance, but she notably didn't say anything as Sherlock passed her. John caught up a second later, and stood next to Lestrade as Sherlock bent to examine the corpse with his – apparently distortion-free – magnifier.
As Sherlock worked, the DI quickly filled John in as to the case thus far, taking care to speak softly, facing slightly away from the stooped figure of the consultant.
"Woman, early middle age, looks like suicide, but of course you can't ever tell him that. Appears to have jumped, no signs of a struggle or violence. Odd thing is, though – "
"She didn't jump into the river," finished John quietly.
"Exactly. For whatever reason, she went over the side where there was still land underneath."
"No, she didn't," called Sherlock, quite carryingly. "She was in the water, but was pulled out soon afterwards, even though she was already dead."
John took this in stride, and simply looked along the bridge. "Yeah, okay, but…"
"Yes?" prompted Lestrade.
"It's not high enough for a water landing to kill her."
Sherlock stood up and smiled at him. "Glad to see you've not deteriorated in my absence. You're absolutely right. She hit one of the platforms that juts out a bit from the side." He pulled off the examination gloves with a snap. "She landed at just the right angle, so that she died upon impact, but it wasn't until the tide came came in – mere minutes after – that she was actually submerged. She spent a very short amount of time in the water before being dragged to shore. Looks like a Good Samaritan job, but for the artful arrangement of the limbs. No reason to commit suicide, no signs of a struggle, drugs, or poison on the body, so now, all that remains to be seen to is the road. John, Lestrade?"
Without waiting for an answer, he was off again, climbing the slope and hopping over the guard rail with his usual agility, and walking along the road until he was out of their line of sight.
Lestrade sighed. "Come on, we'd better make sure he doesn't get hit by a car." Sharing a wistful chuckle, they began cautiously following the route Sherlock had taken, although with much less grace. As they reached the rail, John saw Sherlock crouched down, on the sidewalk, at least, oblivious to the traffic whirring behind him.
"So," John asked Lestrade as they clambered onto the sidewalk themselves, "has he given you hell?"
Lestrade chuckled. "No more than I'm used to, usually, although occasionally…" he trailed off with a pained smile.
"Yes, god, yes, I know only too well."
"Right, which is why I thought I'd ask…"
"Yes?"
"Does he really never do the shopping?"