Disclaimer: ACD and BBC's.

A/N: Sorry it's taken so long to update, it's taking a totally different path to what I had originally thought of. I also spent quite a while debating whether to take down the previous chapter – I personally liked it because it was bit of a filler-in characterwise but *shrug* what did you think?

Also, last line of this chapter, bit obvious?

As always, please review.


"If you could all just move back behind the fence now please!" Lestrade barked for what seemed like the hundredth time since arriving at the scene that morning. Honestly, he could understand concern for a neighbour, could even understand passing curiosity but in all his years in the force, he had never understood the morbid fascination with crime scenes. He couldn't understand people slowing down to catch a glimpse of a body at an RTA (RTC a voice in his head corrected him), the endless murmur of asking after all the gory details and gossip about how the perpetrator had 'always had an evil look about them' and, of course, the gathering crowds outside the crime scenes all craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the figure in the zipped up bag. He shook his head – maybe it was because they didn't have to do the paperwork…or wash the smell of blood out of their clothes and God, he needed a fag.

"Sir?"

"What?" He cursed himself as his new sergeant flinched slightly then drew herself up defiantly.

"Path guys are almost finished, Sir."

He turned away from the crowd, back towards the white canvas the team had erected just after he got there. He paused just outside, gagging at the smell drifting out from within the tent. They stepped inside together but he noticed the sergeant excused herself fairly swiftly, holding one hand to her mouth and nose. He couldn't blame her. Her first case as a sergeant and it had to be this. She must have seen scenes like it before, but being expected to be inside, on the scene the whole time was quite different to working as crowd control and securing the scene. Besides, even with the experience he had, Lestrade could happily have joined her outside and let someone else handle it.

He stepped out of the way as some of the scene techs came by, carrying evidence bags and boxes for the…remains. He'd been called out to oversee the recovery and investigation of the body – it wasn't officially murder yet. He watched resolutely as the remains were painstakingly removed from the ground piece by piece.

"So," he cleared his throat, breaking the silence that always accompanied finds such as this one, "what am I looking at here?" he asked, just to have something to say. It was fairly clear even to someone that wasn't a doctor: a figure that said 'woman', face that still said 'girl' – the universal victims. God, where had her friends been? In fact, never mind friends, where had her parents been?

The pathologist shot him a look. "I haven't had time to examine anything properly yet," he said tensely, "you'll be the first to know when I have done."

"Come on, anything to work on?"

Sighing, the pathologist sat back on his haunches, scowling up at Lestrade. "I'd say less than 24 hours going by decomp but it's hard to tell what with all the er...," he nodded towards the remains, "disturbance."

"Right," Lestrade said, nodding firmly and thinking 'disturbance' was far too kind a word for what had been done to the poor girl before them – disembowelment was more accurate. "I'll get on to missing persons but if she's been gone less than a day…" he trailed off, shrugging.

"That is an approximate timeframe, Detective Inspector. It will most likely change."

"Yeah, okay," Lestrade answered distractedly, already pulling out his phone and going in search of the sergeant. He found her, leaning against the railings of the park and glaring at the assembled crowd who had now been joined by several photographers. "Vultures, aren't they?" He nodded towards them, joining her against the fence.

She glanced briefly at him then nodded silently.

"We'll get him," he assured her, feigning more confidence than he was feeling.

"How do you know?" she asked accusingly.

"I'm very good," he informed her conspiratorially, grinning at her. There were a few moments where he wondered if his bravado was unwelcome, but then he noticed her lips twitching and was finally rewarded with a small smile. "Sorry, I'm rubbish with names. What was yours?"

"Donovan. I was with you on the Dowling case last year…but I was only a constable." She looked faintly annoyed – he couldn't say he blamed her really. He ducked his head bashfully.

"Sorry," he repeated, smiling apologetically. He dispatched her whilst he put in a call to the missing persons department at the Yard and watched, with unexpected pride, as she threw herself back into securing the scene and assisting however necessary.

The crowd began to dwindle after a while and all but dispersed when the van left to take the cadaver to the morgue. Lestrade stalked the scene, scanning the square for anything they had missed earlier but found nothing. His attention was drawn by a sudden commotion at the entrance to the square, where he could see two officers blocking the way of a man intent on breaking through the police tape.

"Oi! What's going on?" He barked, approaching the group and taking note of the civilian: pale, dark hair, mid-twenties, jeans, t-shirt and trainers, could clearly use a trip home for a few weeks of his mum's cooking.

"This guy," one of the officers gestured towards the civilian, "says he needs to talk to you – says he's a witness."

"I thought you said there weren't any witness?" Lestrade demanded of Donovan who shrugged sheepishly.

"I never said 'witness'; I said I had information pertinent to your investigations," the man snapped, angrily shaking off the officer's restraining hands.

"Sir," Donovan murmured, turning and ushering Lestrade away from the struggling man, "he's flying!"

"Yeah," Lestrade nodded darkly, taking in the unnaturally dark eyes, flushed cheeks and slightly damp hair, "so I see." Turning back to the man, he dismissed his other officers. "All right," he addressed the young man, "what have you got for me?"

The young man smirked, wetting his lips quickly. "I believe the question, Detective Inspector, is: what have you got for me?"

Lestrade shook his head – just another junkie, out for whatever he could get. "Handcuffs and a prison cell if you don't stop pissing around – do you actually know anything or are you just getting off on the attention?" He bit out furiously, wondering whether the man had anything left on him that he could be charged for. Wasting police time was one thing, but exploiting a case in which a young girl had ended up dead was something else.

"As I said, I could…assist."

"Fine," Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose, "what can you tell me?"

"Plenty – more once I've seen the corpse," the younger man said quickly, an alarming gleam in his eyes.

"Hold on," both men looked at Donovan, who looked horrified. Lestrade could hardly blame her. "You actually want to see the body? D'you really think that's going to happen?"

"Fine," he shrugged, almost pulling off 'nonchalant', "if you don't want my help."

"Wait!" Lestrade barked, grabbing hold of the younger man's bare forearm – was he mad? It was nearly December! The man glanced at the arm and then at Lestrade himself – Lestrade got the distinct impression he was being sized up for a fight. Against his better judgement, he attempted to bring the kid back on side. "Look, anything you've got will help, but there's no way – no way – you can see the body."

The young man sighed disappointedly, "Fine, I'll be in touch."

Lestrade exchanged stunned looks with Sergeant Donovan, "Hang on a sec, you said you had information!"

"I have," he replied indifferently, "but it's nothing you can't get from the scene yourselves." He turned away, ready to blend back in to the busy London streets, suddenly, he turned back to the speechless police officers, "Think about it, Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Lestrade reflected in the early hours of the next morning that he had since been able to do little else.


It was a week later, when having run DNA tests and dentals, appealing for witnesses, searching the MPs database and coming up with nothing on all counts, Lestrade was beginning to wonder whether they would ever identify the victim, let alone the murderer.

Lestrade sat lounging on his sofa, case notes in hand, trying to force the unbidden images of his little girl's face on this girl's body from his mind. Somewhere, was there a house with faded photographs of her in school uniform with plaited hair and a happy, gap-toothed smile? Had she ever been to the zoo? Been ice-skating? Kissed a boy? Taken it further than a kiss? Christ, she had been fifteen – didn't her parents care?

Lestrade looked up, surprised, as he heard the flap on the letter box snap open and shut. Setting his notes aside, he peered out of the window in time to see the retreating back of the man from the crime scene. Crossing to the door, he flung it open and dashed out to the pavement in his socks, shouting for the man to stop. When the man was nowhere in sight, he returned disappointedly to his house, stooping to pick up a piece of paper from his mat.

Your stupidity and lack of insight astounds me.

Russell Square, 3 o'clock.

What? Russell Square – the scene of crime. Was Lestrade expected to meet this man there? And what sort of man posted things through letterboxes just to insult the occupants? Lestrade crumpled the note up and threw it away from him, scowling. Never mind the reason for this strange man visiting, how the hell did he know where Lestrade lived? His mind was drawn back to a few weeks earlier; a man had been outside and Lestrade had been certain he had been there simply to watch him or rather, his house. Was it the same man? Was he, Lestrade, being followed? Was this man dangerous? And who was he anyway? Some junkie that showed up at their crime scene and not only skulked around hoping to, but actually asked to see the body.

The question he kept returning to, whether he was being stalked or not, was should he meet him? He sighed, there was no harm in meeting with the guy even if he was following him, he supposed. A public place in broad daylight...and the guy had looked pretty young, little more than a kid really, Lestrade had 30lb on him easily so there was that…and of course, Lestrade had a gun. But with people like this, he had learned the hard way to never underestimate the weapons that could be concealed in an inside pocket or tucked up someone's sleeves.

Should he go? If he didn't fear for his safety (or that of others) and he had no intention of telling the guy anything he couldn't have read in the papers, where was the harm? A niggling thought in the back of his mind pointed out that if he didn't, there would be a fifteen-year-old child with no name buried and never thought of again. Cursing, he grabbed his jacket and headed out.


"Donovan!"

The young woman turned, raising a hand in greeting but not smiling. "Sir, what are we doing here?"

"It's a crime scene," he stated, shrugging, "there's no harm in going over it again."

"All the forensics are cleared," she pointed out very slowly, "anything that was here, won't be here anymore." She glanced at something over his shoulder then scowled, "Sir? It's that bloke again – the junkie with the death fetish."

Lestrade frowned disapprovingly at her description but turned to greet the younger man. His entire body seemed to be tremble slightly but other than that, it seemed as though he had in his own way made an effort to look vaguely respectable – the T-shirt at least looked clean and he had shaved and combed his lank hair. His pupils which before had been blown beyond what Lestrade thought was possible had retracted to reveal piercing, red-rimmed irises. He now resembled almost every other twenty-something when making their way home from a rather adventurous night out. It was not, by any means, an attractive look, but it beat the bloodthirsty junkie look he had previously been sporting. "Well? I'm here, what d'you want?"

The young man glanced irritatedly at Donovan – he had never said that Lestrade was to come alone though – before replying. "To help my fellow man?" He offered innocently.

Lestrade scoffed, "Yeah, okay then." He looked him over, trying to work out whether the man was high or not. He didn't appear to be. "Okay, fine. What've you got?"

"We've been over this, Detective Inspector. I don't work for free." The man sighed.

"You're not working at all," Donovan pointed out, "you're 'helping your fellow man', remember?"

The man's lip curled slightly as he glared at the sergeant. "That doesn't mean my fellow man can't reciprocate."

"A tenner," Lestrade blurted out, more to stop the two from causing a scene than because he was really willing to give it. At Donovan's scandalized "SIR!", he placated in an undertone, "Look, if he takes it, we'll do him for blackmail or something." Donovan continued to look torn between getting information, and doing what was if not illegal, then entirely unethical. "Look," Lestrade said, fishing coins out of his pocket "go and get some coffees or something right?" Glancing towards the man, he added "D'you want anything?"

The man looked mildly surprised. "Tea? Coffee?" Donovan asked with a put-upon sigh.

"Water," he ventured slightly suspiciously, "I'll have water."

"Could've said 'please'," she muttered, pushing her way past him towards the nearest café.

"Very kind," the young man observed, perching on the edge of the nearest bench and lighting up a cigarette, "to offer to buy me a drink."

"You're welcome," Lestrade replied, joining him.

"I didn't say thank you."

"No, you didn't." Lestrade agreed, frowning. Looking him over again, Lestrade noted with a pang how young and very thin the man was – he was by no means the most extreme case of either that Lestrade had seen, but still… "You could've had a hot drink," he commented, slightly less irritably, watching the younger man hold the cigarette between his lips so that he could rub his hands together to warm them. He suddenly had the mad impulse to grab the fag from him and smoke it himself. "Still, I hear that," he nodded towards the angry, red marks in the crook of the man's arm, "causes pretty serious dehydration so maybe you made the right choice." The young man shot him a look out of the corner of his eye, but made no attempt to cover the marks.

"Fifty." He stated bluntly.

"What?"

"Ten isn't enough – nor is fifty, really – but let's call it an introductory rate, shall we?"

Lestrade laughed disbelievingly, "You're not serious?" The man did not answer, "I'm not actually paying you for this. The only reason I even showed up was because – "

"Because you don't have any other leads, yes I know." The young man interrupted. "So I suppose the question becomes, how much is the monster who killed this poor, innocent little girl worth to you, Detective Inspector?" Although the language and question itself was very much along his own line of thinking, the emotionless way in which the younger man said it sent a chill down Lestrade's spine. He might have been discussing the weather.

"I'm not paying you," Lestrade informed him bluntly, suddenly feeling a lot less charitable towards him. The young man scoffed. "I'm only here because there is a kid lying dead and we don't even know her name! I'm gonna do whatever it takes to nail that bastard, but I am not gonna pay you when I don't even know if you've got anything," Lestrade repeated emphatically.

The man seemed to consider this, then sighed resignedly. "All right, fine, if you really feel this strongly about it," he fixed Lestrade with a condescending look, "I must say, Detective Inspector, I'm a little…disappointed in you."

So thankful was he that the younger man had given in so easily, Lestrade didn't like to tell him that the complete lack of compassion he was showing for the case and the people involved made him more than a little disappointed with mankind in general, let alone him particularly. "Just tell me," he barked, finally losing patience, "or we're going down to the station."

The young man smirked before launching into an explanation that had Lestrade diving for his notepad and wondering whether he was really cut out for this job.


"You took your time," Lestrade said by way of a greeting as Sergeant Donovan returned.

"There were queues," She shrugged, then added slightly accusingly "and you moved…Sir." Lestrade 'mmed' in response, accepting the polystyrene cup she offered him "Coffee," Donovan stated, "and a bottle of water." Their 'informant' considered her mistrustfully before accepting the bottle and surreptitiously examining the seal on it. Tutting, she rummaged in her bag for the sachets of sugar before adding one to her drink.

"Queues, huh?" Lestrade said, raising his brows at the obviously new magazine sticking out from her bag.

"It was busy! There's loads of news coverage – people want to see the scene!" She said defensively.

"Women are positively queuing up at night to be at the scene of a brutal murder – it's done wonders for the tourist trade." Both police officers regarded the other man, trying to work out if he was serious or not. Meeting Donovan's eyes, he suddenly smirked.

"Are we taking him back to the Yard?" She asked, glaring at him.

"What for?"

"Sir, he needs to make a statement. He's a witness."

"He's not a witness," Lestrade assured her, "He's nothing to do with it, he's just made a few…observations." He wasn't sure how comfortable he was telling his sergeant that a civilian had essentially just solved his case, so he was thankful when the man made no reply.

"Well," the man said, standing, "this has been enlightening but I have a meeting with a…friend." Both Lestrade and Donovan snorted at the implications.

"You should lay off that stuff," Lestrade felt compelled by some deep-seated duty as a police officer to tell him.

"So I've been told."

"By the way, when I write up this report, if – if – I mention you, what name should I put?"

The young man seemed to consider him very seriously for a moment before speaking, "Sherlock Holmes."

"Right," Lestrade said derisively, shaking his head but taking the name down anyway. 'Sherlock' looked momentarily confused, then slightly annoyed. Suddenly, he stumbled forward, and Lestrade automatically reached out an arm to steady him. "You all right?" He asked apprehensively.

"Yes," Sherlock assured him waveringly, one hand gripping the older man's shoulder. Then, standing straight, he gave them both a tight smile. "Yes, I'm fine."

"Do you…do you need to see a doctor?" Donovan asked hesitantly, one hand reaching for her mobile.

"No, no, I don't live far."

"Maybe give this meeting with your 'friend' a miss?" Lestrade suggested, still watching him closely.

Sherlock nodded, seeming to see the sense in it and straightened, "Mm," he said noncommittally, "well, I'm sure we'll see each other very soon, officers."

"Why?" Donovan asked immediately, alarmed.

Sherlock looked almost pityingly at her before turning to Lestrade, "Detective Inspector, you really ought to do something about your front garden – it's getting quite out of control." He disappeared into the London rush hour crowds before either officer had a chance to respond.

"He's been to your house?" Donovan asked incredulously.

"Yeah," Lestrade responded nervously, trying to spot him amongst the crowds, "I think he might be stalking me."

"The junkie with a death fetish is stalking you?"

"Yeah…" he said, turning to look at her, "do you think I should be worried?"

Donovan shot him a look.

"Yeah, okay. I should be worried," he checked his watch, deciding they could spare another half an hour. "D'you want another coffee? From an actual coffee shop this time?"

"Sure," Donovan agreed, also checking her watch. "You can fill me in."

They were just about to enter the café when Lestrade stopped dead, rooting around his pockets.

"He's nicked my wallet."