Chapter Three:

If anyone were to ask, Greg probably would've conceded that he was having a bit of an off-day. Mentally, he preferred to label it as a clusterfuck.

If he had any sense left in his head, he'd have gone straight back to the meagre little flat he called home, maybe watch some telly, have a nice soak, and then plunk face-first into his rumpled sheets. Instead, Greg was out frolicking in the woods in the middle of the goddamned night, freezing his goddamned arse off and getting mud all over his goddamned shoes.

He sighed to himself. The days when he could have cheerfully done with only three hours of sleep at night were all but gone. God help him, but he felt old. He would have taken a day off if he could, but the situation at work being what it was, he couldn't afford to. And to be honest, even if he had, he would have felt like a lazy schmuck for it.

Last night, he'd spent three hours on the phone with the ex-wife. She had just broken it off with her boyfriend, a sleazy banker Greg had the good fortune to have punched once. It wasn't one of his best moments, but he'd be lying if he said he had any regrets about it.

The ink on the divorce papers hadn't dried yet, and she was already making noises about getting back together. God help him, but he couldn't go through all that again, even when a small part of him still wanted to say yes. It was hard, and messy, and at least for those reasons he was glad they never had children together.

They'd been eighteen when they married, just a pair of snot-nosed idiots high on life and hormones, and incompatible in every single way. It was a miracle they'd lasted as long as they did.

Greg woke up that morning feeling lonelier than ever, with a crick in his neck and a bad taste in his mouth. His headache went away after two Paracetamols, but that was easily the best thing to have happened to him all day.

He'd somehow managed to spill coffee all over his shirt just before the morning conference with the Chief Superintendent. He had to personally report that they had no new leads on the Edwards case. No progress in months, actually. He ended up getting chewed out by his boss, and in front of DI Gregson, no less.

If that wasn't enough, the higher-ups weren't the only ones breathing down his neck. The press was all over the case. Melanie Edwards was the tabloids' sweetheart after all, nicknamed "the modern Cinderella". That had hardly helped the poor girl any. Dead at the age of twenty-five, she never got her happy ever after.

Greg knew, he just knew, that the husband, Peter Edwards was the real culprit behind the murder. The man was a bloody millionaire, though, and his type could hire damn good lawyers.

The rich man's attorneys had found ways to cock-block them from the moment the investigation began. Greg didn't like the look of the git from the moment he laid eyes on him, back on that rubbish reality show that had everyone glued to their screens last year. He didn't like him any more inside an interrogation room, either. Unfortunately, gut instincts held no weight in court.

At the end of the day, bone-tired from too much caffeine and barely enough sleep, he made his way to the public toilet at the usual time. There was nothing quite like a mind-shattering blow-job to improve Greg's mood after a long day at work. Unfortunately, the pale blue handkerchief was nowhere to be seen.

Greg did find someone else to pass the time with, but the experience was extremely unsatisfying. For one thing, bizarrely enough, he felt like he was cheating.

Secondly, the encounter itself was just...wrong. The bloke Greg had picked up was nice enough, but he had nothing on the mystery man's impressive skills.

On top of everything, Greg had got spoiled.

As he made his way back home, the familiar sounds of a tussle caught his attention. He approached the scene, dismayed to discover that it wasn't exactly a fair fight. Some poor sod, severely outnumbered, was getting the snot beat out of him. Someone was having a worse day than Greg after all.

"What's going on over there?" Greg yelled, although that much was obvious. All heads turned to him, except for the young man who was slumped forward in his attackers' grips. Greg's eyes caught something glinting menacingly in the hand of the main assailant, and he cursed silently, hand already reaching for his phone to call for backup.

He didn't need to. The lads took off running before Greg could blink, leaving their victim to collapse on the ground.

"Stop! Police!" he called out in vain.

The young man groaned, and rolled over onto his back. He muttered something Greg couldn't quite catch, his mop of dark hair plastered to his face with what Greg hoped was just sweat and mud. He couldn't make out too much in the dark. There was a lamp nearby, but it kept flickering on and off. He knelt down beside the young man, and used his mobile to light his face, checking his injuries. That earned him a death glare, but at least he was able to verify that there wasn't too much blood. His face was beginning to swell up something awful, though.

"Can you hear me, lad?" Greg said, with a well-practised, reassuring smile. It didn't seem to work on the young man, who continued to glower at him with startlingly pale eyes. The young man opened his mouth to reply, but was rendered mute by a coughing fit. He rolled onto his side, clutching his chest until the coughing subsided. Greg instinctively placed his hand on the young man's shoulder.

"Easy," Greg said. "Don't worry, I'm a policeman. Name's Lestrade," he offered. "Can you talk? What's your name?"

To Greg's chagrin, the young man pushed himself up by the elbows. "Sher-" he stopped to steady his breath, coughing again. "Sherlock Holmes," he said eventually, his deep voice hoarse with the effort.

Oddly, that name rang a bell. Greg thought he ought to have remembered a 'Sherlock'. He brushed the thought aside.

"All right, Mr. Holmes. I'm going to call you an ambulance, all right? You're going to be fine." Greg started punching in the number, but before he could make the call, the kid grabbed his arm, effectively knocking the phone from his hand. It skidded a metre away on the ground.

"Don't," Sherlock rasped. "No need. I'm fine." To illustrate his point, he started to pick himself up.

Or at least he tried to, because he would have fallen flat on his face had Greg not caught him. Sherlock groaned, slumping against Greg and smearing him with more than a little blood and dirt. Greg pushed him back to a sitting position.

"Hey, take it easy," Greg said. "Listen to me now, you need to get checked out, make sure nothing's permanently damaged. Do you understand?"

He grimaced when Sherlock leaned over to the side and spat out a gob of blood, which narrowly missed Greg's trousers.

"Bastards cost me a tooth," Sherlock groaned. He wiped his hand across his mouth before adding a resolute, "I don't need an ambulance."

"All right, relax," Greg said. "Do you want to tell me what happened back there, then?"

Sherlock frowned. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Do you know those kids?" Greg said. "I didn't get a good look at them."

"What does it matter?" Sherlock asked. Sighing, he reached into his coat pocket, grimacing when he realised it had got ripped in the struggle. He pulled out a wallet, which he more-or-less shoved at Greg.

"Here," Sherlock said. "If you're so keen."

"What?" Greg asked.

Sherlock levelled Greg with a glare, as if he were the one not making sense.

The flickering light stayed on long enough for Greg to flip through the wallet. It was empty except for some change and an expired driver's license that was very obviously not Sherlock's. Rather, it belonged to someone named 'Randall Waters'.

"They hit you because you pick-pocketed them?" Greg asked, his brow crinkling in confusion.

"No, they hit me because they're drunken simpletons who shouldn't be allowed in public. I pick-pocketed him during," Sherlock said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Somehow, Greg believed him.

Sherlock grabbed onto Greg's shoulder to try and haul himself back on his feet. Greg climbed up with him. The kid was taller than Greg, which made it easier for Greg to snake an around him for support. Sherlock snarled when he found he couldn't put too much pressure on his right foot, and he leaned more keenly against Greg.

Greg could feel his body heat through his clothes, and he shook his head to banish any inappropriate thoughts. Now was decidedly not the time for that.

Slowly, they made their way out of the park.

Greg gestured with the wallet in his hand. "Mr. Holmes, if you want to press charges, you'll need to get yourself checked out first," he said. It wasn't strictly true, but Greg felt it was all right to bend the rules a little bit in this case.

"That's perfectly all right by me, Detective-Inspector," Sherlock said in a way that made it absolutely clear he was going to do no such thing. "And call me Sherlock."

Greg sighed. "All right, Sherlock. Can I get someone for you, then?" he asked. At least the kid was talking sense, mostly. He was obviously anxious to get out of there. Sherlock had already demonstrated he knew how to steal, although in this case Greg didn't blame him. Maybe he was on edge because Greg had mentioned being police.

He hadn't mentioned his rank, though.

"Hang on, I never told you I'm a detective-inspector!" Greg exclaimed.

"It's fairly obvious," Sherlock replied. "Just help me get to the main road. I'll hail a cab." He wobbled suddenly, and Greg had to hoist him closer to make sure they both wouldn't end up sprawled on the ground.

"I can drive you," Greg offered.

"There's no need," Sherlock said.

Greg sighed. "So, do you want to tell me what you were doing out here in the middle of the night?"

"I can ask you the same thing, Detective-Inspector." Sherlock panted, either from the pain or the effort of staying on his feet. Greg wasn't sure.

Greg smiled. He stopped to allow Sherlock to catch his breath. "Fair enough," he said. "The nearest A&E isn't so far away. Come on, the queue isn't that bad."

Sherlock laughed soundlessly, pressing his face against Greg's shoulder in a way that was definitely too intimate. Oh, hells.

"You're okay to continue?" Greg asked.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, "to get a taxi."

"All right." Greg sighed, not pleased with Sherlock's decision, but powerless to force his hand.

At long last they reached Greg's car. He struggled for a moment, balancing between Sherlock's weight and retrieving his keys. He finally pulled them out of his pocket and unlocked the car doors.

"Where do you live?" Greg asked.

"Someplace a cab can take me. I told you, you don't need to give me a ride," Sherlock mumbled. He shivered against Greg's side, making no effort to untangle himself from Greg's grip.

"Don't be daft," Greg replied. A different thought occurred to him. "Is there anyone at home right now?"

"I live alone," Sherlock said. He pulled himself free, only to sink down beside Greg's car. "Just give me a moment," he mumbled, holding his head in both hands.

Greg rubbed his eyes. "Listen, I can't just leave you like this. Is there someone I can get for you, or some other place I can take you? Won't you think about going to the hospital?" You stubborn fool, he added mentally.

Sherlock shook his head.

Another idea came to Greg's mind. It was probably a bad idea. A very bad idea; after all, Greg didn't know the first thing about Sherlock Holmes. But he couldn't just drop him at his flat and call it a night, either.

Greg sighed deeply and opened his mouth to speak.