A/N: Welcome back, everyone! Here we have a bit more interaction between Lestrade and Sherlock (have I mentioned I love their friendship?!) I'm a bit nervous, though, because I've never attempted writing a case – if you could let me know what you thought of it, I'd appreciate it! I do want to thank those who reviewed chapter 2 – your kind words were much enjoyed.

Thanks as always to the amazing Marvel Lit Chick for her rad beta skills!

And, of course, I don't own any of the characters and am only borrowing them for entertainment purposes.

Ch 3

It was a quarter past twelve by the time Lestrade pulled into his parking spot at New Scotland Yard, and the two detectives immediately set off towards the restaurant. The sidewalks were packed with a lunchtime crowd that had poured out of the various local workplaces, office workers seeking the pale warmth of an early spring sun which felt resplendent after weeks of dismal winter.

By the time they'd arrived at their destination, even Sherlock was beginning to feel the uplifting effects of the sun.

"You mind if I have a smoke before we go in?" Greg asked.

"Not at all."

The two men stopped at the entrance of an alley beside the restaurant, moving out of the way of pedestrian traffic. Lestrade pulled a pack of Mayfairs out of his coat pocket and offered one to Sherlock, who accepted.

"I thought you'd quit," the consulting detective remarked as he pulled in his first drag. Almost immediately he felt himself relax, the effects of the nicotine making their way through his system.

The other man exhaled and leaned against the sun-kissed brick of the building. "My divorce is finally going through."

Sherlock nodded in understanding. Lestrade's marriage had been a train wreck the entire time they'd known each other, much of it due to his wife's penchant for infidelity. "Going that well, is it?"

The other man let out a snort of derision. "She's trying to play the role of woman in distress. I'm just glad the kids are old enough to tell the mediator the truth - that she's a cheating cunt. What about you?" Lestrade asked, deflecting the focus from himself. "Thought you'd quit."

"Nearly died of a drug overdose only to almost die at the hands of a serial killer."

Lestrade nodded, took another drag on his cigarette, and started to chuckle. Sherlock soon joined him. After all the misery they'd been through the past few months, it felt good to laugh.

They finished their cigarettes and went into the restaurant, finding an empty table in a far corner.

After the server came to take their orders, Lestrade checked his phone and placed it face up on the table. "So… you and Molly, huh? I have to admit I've been waiting to see how long it would take you to make a move."

"What tipped you off? The habit I had of publicly humiliating her, or how I used to capitalize on her fondness for me when I needed something?" Sherlock couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice - he'd never understand how Molly persisted in remaining his friend through his treatment of her.

"Not since you came back, you haven't," his friend countered. "Actually, these past few years you've been looking at Molly a hell of a lot like she used to look at you in the beginning. If she's in the room, your eyes are always after her, like you need to make sure you always know where she is."

"Perhaps, but how do I know I'm good for her?" And there, truly, was the crux of Sherlock's dilemma. The more his brain got involved, the more his heart second guessed itself.

Lestrade opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by the server, who'd come to bring their coffees. "Your meals should be out soon, boys," she assured them, leaving a couple of creamers and milk pots.

"Look, mate, you nearly killed yourself to save John from sinking into depression. I don't think anyone is going to question your loyalty to your close friends."

"I'm not talking loyalty," Sherlock huffed. "I'm talking relationships. Romantic relationships - something in which I have zero experience."

"But it's all part of the package, isn't it?" Greg leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table in front of him. "Loyalty, trust, love - you can't have any sort of relationship without that. Take it from me - if you're not friends first and foremost, if it's just about sex, it's never gonna last."

Sherlock considered Greg's advice. Leaning back in his chair, he took another sip of coffee to buy himself some time to think.

His parents came to mind. They'd just celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary the previous month - what was it about their relationship that had made it last for so long?

He recalled their weekly movie dates, the dancing lessons, the musicals they attended, the TV shows they always watched together. Quite frankly the whole thing had always annoyed him. Can't they do anything on their own? he'd often wondered. Don't they get bored of each other?

But he couldn't imagine ever getting bored of Molly. They'd spent whole days side by side at the lab, either working together or independently, and he'd been quite content to be in her company either way - and this was long before he was ever fond of her. He was sure it could be the same if they were watching the telly or travelling.

"She loves Shakespeare."

Greg's voice brought him back to the conversation. "Pardon me?" he asked.

"Molly," the other man clarified. "In case you're trying to think of things you might have in common."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "How do you know I like Shakespeare?" He was pretty sure literature had never come up in conversation with Greg Lestrade.

"You have an entire bookshelf devoted to Shakespeare's works, mate, most of them dog-eared. You don't have to be, well, you to figure it out."

"Alright. How do you know Molly likes Shakespeare, then? Does she have a similar collection? A copy of Henry V that's also underlined with notations in the margins?"

"Because I talk to her," the other man explained, slightly exasperated as if Sherlock wasn't getting a basic concept. "I have conversations with her, listen to what she has to say and I ask her questions in return. That's how us normal folks get to know people - we can't glean information from a fold in a shirt or a scuffed cell phone or whether someone favours their left leg over their right. We have to ask."

The server arrived at that moment with their food. "One order of keftedes and Greek salad," she said, placing a dish in front of Lestrade. "And lamb kebabs with rice and Greek salad for you," she said to Sherlock. "Can I get you anything else at the moment?"

Both men shook their heads and thanked her, digging into their lunches.

"So, what's our plan with Kapoor?" Sherlock asked, thoughts back on the case. He needed to prove to himself that a relationship wasn't going to impact his ability to do his job.

"Not much of a plan at this point, I'm afraid," the other man replied honestly. "We'll have a better idea once we start asking him questions about Fanshawe - we can play it by ear from there."

Sherlock felt the vibration of an incoming call. He fished his phone out of his coat pocket and looked at the display. "Good timing - it's Molly," he announced, answering.

"Molly, please tell me you found something."

To his relief, the pathologist cut straight to the chase. "You were right, Sherlock. Lord Fanshawe was already dead when he hit the water. I found a puncture wound in his chest but I can't pinpoint what could have caused it. The closest I can come to is…". She let out a nervous laugh. "Well, is a meat thermometer, like you'd use on a turkey."

"A meat thermometer?" He repeated incredulously. "Molly, that's ludicrous."

She sighed. "I know, but it would have been something very similar - an object no more than a few millimetres in diameter, long and sharp enough to go through the ribs and muscles to pierce his heart, but not long enough to pass through the heart. I've tried to think of tools used by painters and can't match it to anything." There was a pause, and he could hear her rustling paperwork. "And there's one more thing, Sherlock. Whoever did this was either very lucky or had solid knowledge of human anatomy, because the puncture was directly over his heart. He or she knew exactly where to hit for maximum damage."

Sherlock looked up at Lestrade who was staring at him intently, his meal momentarily forgotten. Sotto voce, he asked the detective inspector if he knew of a tool with a design similar to that of a meat thermometer. "Something narrow and sharp, maybe ten centimetres long?"

"Sounds like an awl," Lestrade remarked immediately. "But that's typically used in woodworking or cabinetry…"

"Molly, can you look up an image of an awl and tell me if it could have caused the injury?"

He waited, the sound of her tapping away on her keyboard filling the silence.

"Yes," she finally announced, "this definitely could have caused the injury."

"Excellent. Did you find anything else?"

"Not as of yet. I called you as soon as I'd investigated the stab wound - thought you'd want to know right away."

"I did. Let us know if you come across anything else that could help us."

"I will. I should go - it's bad manners to keep guests waiting," she snickered.

"I've told you before," he scolded, "don't make jokes."

"You say that," she teased, "but I can hear the smile in your voice."

He couldn't help but laugh. "Do you have dinner plans for tonight?" He cast a quick glance in Greg's direction and was relieved the other man was focusing on his lunch, offering him whatever privacy he could in such close quarters.

"Tonight?" she repeated, sounding uncertain she'd heard right.

"If you don't already have plans," he insisted, pushing aside the unwelcome fear of rejection. Irritated with himself at the awkwardness and uncertainty with which he tread on this new social ground, he nearly recanted his offer, calling the idea off.

But then she accepted, with a breathless "I'd love to," whispered into the phone as if they were agreeing to an illicit encounter.

Sherlock closed his eyes, imagining her saying those words in that same tone but in very different circumstances. Clearing his throat and avoiding Greg's amused glance - the man was too good at reading people, he decided self-consciously - he replied as nonchalantly as possible. "Good. I'll meet you at your flat around seven o'clock, then?"

"Sounds perfect." They ironed out a few more details before hanging up and Sherlock dropped his phone back into his pocket, doing his damnedest to ignore the man sitting across from him.

"You've got it bad, mate," Lestrade teased.

"Oh, piss off," Sherlock replied through a mouthful of food, trying not to let it show that he was enjoying camaraderie more than he ever imagined he would.

A few moments later Greg's phone made a robotic sound, which Sherlock knew meant he'd received a text. The Detective Inspector looked at the incoming message and signaled for the server to bring them their bill. "Kapoor's at the station." He read a new message and added, "They asked him to come in on the pretense of asking him a few quick questions - that'll put him in a more cooperative frame of mind."

The two men tried to finish off as much of their lunches as they could while Lestrade settled the bill. "You're here for work," he'd said, waving off Sherlock's attempt to pay for his lunch. "I'll expense it."

The sun was still shining when they left the restaurant, although the crowds had thinned somewhat.

"Harris and I will talk to Kapoor," Lestrade explained as they waited to cross a street. "I'm going to want you to watch through the video feed and text me if you catch onto anything we miss."

"Hold on," Sherlock said as they started to cross the road. "What do you mean 'watch through the video feed'? Won't I be in the room with you?"

"This is Harris's case, too, Sherlock. She's been very cooperative with us but that could change if we exclude her. Anyway, Kapoor will be more comfortable with her than he would with two strangers in the room."

This was ridiculous. "If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't even know the cases were related!"

"But it's not about you!" The other man growled. He stopped in his tracks, pulling Sherlock out of the way of a woman jogging with a pram. "It's about a dead sixteen year old girl. It's about a murder victim who might be responsible for her death. It's about a father who lost his daughter. What it isn't about is you. So when we get back to the station you're going to swallow your pride and watch us on the video feed and do what you do best - help us solve this case."

They stared at each other, neither man pulling his gaze away, until Sherlock relented. "Fine," he acquiesced, unable to come up with a valid argument that didn't make him seem like a self-centred asshole.

They fell into step, walking back to New Scotland Yard in silence. When they entered the building and scanned their access cards, Lestrade spoke up. "I'm going to get security to program your card so you can get through at St. Bart's. Otherwise I'm gonna have to drive down there to sign you in every time you want to visit your girlfriend."

Sherlock nodded, pondering the term 'girlfriend' and whether it made him and Molly sound like a pair of teenagers. Despite his own repulsion towards the word he assumed she'd be chuffed, so he was willing to tolerate it for her happiness.

"Thank you," he responded, following Greg through the hallways.

They arrived at a doorway beside which stood a very tall woman dressed in a very business-like blouse and pencil skirt. "Lestrade," she greeted the other man with a nod.

Greg nodded back, introducing the two detectives. "Sherlock, this is Detective Inspector Susan Harris. Susan, this is Sherlock Holmes."

They shook hands, and Sherlock took the opportunity to observe the female detective. She was tall - nearly as tall as him, even in flats - and her blonde hair was cut at an angle just below the jaw (professional, yet feminine, indicating comfort with her gender). She was slender but fit (most likely a runner) and had a sharp, calculating gaze (has earned her position, unlike many idiots working here).

"Mr. Holmes," she greeted dryly. "Your reputation precedes you."

"And what are they saying about me these days?" Sherlock was pretty sure he already knew the answer. Despite his track record with helping them solve cases, he was not popular with the men and women of New Scotland Yard - most likely because he never failed to remind them of his superior intellect.

"That you're a pompous, self-centred cock with an uncanny ability for solving the most impossible crimes."

Yep. "Right on all accounts, I'm afraid."

His candidness seemed to amuse her and the set of her shoulders relaxed very slightly, the corner of her lips pulling into a smirk. "Interesting. What do you deduce from looking at me?"

He caught Lestrade's look of warning from the corner of his eye and understood his intention - he needed to tread carefully and not upset her.

"You've recently lost someone dear to you - a male relative, perhaps your father, brother or a favourite uncle - and the stress has led to the temptation of smoking, which you gave up years ago. In order to fill the void of this loss you've taken in one… no, two kittens, adopted from the RSPCA, which will also help fill the time you used to spend running but had to stop because of a knee injury." He pointedly left out the bit about her recent divorce, hoping he'd still managed to satisfy both her curiosity - sometimes he felt like a circus sideshow - as well as Lestrade's silent plea.

"How… How did you get all that from a glance?" Her gaze was keen, curious, but not upset. Good, he thought to himself.

"It's very simple," he explained. "People look, but they don't see. You're wearing a gold chain that's too long for you and is a gauge typically reserved for men's jewelry. Since you are meticulously dressed and your other accessories are very feminine, it indicates that the necklace is being worn for sentimental reasons rather than for adornment. People tend to be more sentimental shortly after a loss, during the period of depression; once you enter the acceptance phase of grieving you'll most likely put it away with other cherished belongings." He pointed to her forearm, just beneath the rolled- up sleeve of her shirt. "You're wearing a nicotine patch and you've been chewing your cuticles, however your fingers don't show any signs of chronic cigarette use. As for the kittens, there are two very different kinds of cat hair woven through your skirt and both of your hands are marred with dozens of tiny superficial scratches - more than one kitten could cause, hopefully - and I can still see a faint note written in pen on the inside of your wrist with 'RSPCA' and their phone number," he added, with a small smile. "And lastly, your left knee is slightly inflamed and you are favouring your right side - a very common running injury."

Harris stared at him, dumbfounded, then turned to Lestrade. "I don't care what everyone says. I like him," she stated bluntly, opening the door to a small room filled with electronics.

The two men shared a look and followed her in. Mr. Kapoor was already on-screen, seated at a metal table in a plastic chair, a styrofoam cup on the table before him.

Lestrade gave Sherlock a quick overview of the equipment, showing him how to toggle between camera views and how to adjust the sound. "And if anything comes up, like a clue or a question you want us to ask, just text me."

Sherlock nodded and took a seat while the two detectives left the room. He played around with the controls, familiarizing himself with the few angles they gave him. Already, he'd been able to deduce a few insights about Kapoor. The man appeared at ease yet still sat up straight with good posture, which pointed to either a military career or a more formal upbringing rather than anxiety. He was taller than many people of Indian descent he'd met, a sign he'd had proper nutrition while growing up. And, although he was still dressed in his work clothes – a pair of dark blue heavy cotton pants and a grey t-shirt - they were in good condition and didn't show the wear and tear of clothes worn day in and day out - he must have owned many such outfits.

All of these were signs of someone who had grown up with money. Relevant, or not? he wondered, tabling the thought for later.

Kapoor stood up when Harris and Lestrade entered the room. He shook her hand first, then Lestrade's as she introduced the two men.

"Thanks for agreeing to come by again, Mr. Kapoor," Harris said. "Detective Inspector Lestrade is working on a case he believes you might be able to help him with."

"First off, I want to offer my condolences for your loss," Lestrade offered as he and Harris took their seats. "This can't be easy for you, so I really do appreciate your coming by to talk."

Kapoor nodded, sitting down across from them. His face was drawn, exhaustion clear across his features. "Thank you. It's been a very difficult time for me. You see, I only had Priyanka - it had just been the two of us since her mother passed away a few years ago." He took a few deep, shaky breaths, trying to retain his composure.

Sherlock noted his accent - Urban, most likely Mumbai or Delhi - which supported his previous theory that Mr. Kapoor could have been raised in a more affluent neighbourhood.

"Have you received the results of the autopsy yet?" he asked, turning towards Harris.

"I'm afraid not," the detective replied gently. "I've been assured it's underway, however."

The man simply nodded in understanding, not replying.

"Mr. Kapoor," Lestrade began, "You're part of the team that's working on the renovations underway in some offices at Parliament, am I correct?"

Sherlock listened intently, splitting his focus between the man's responses and his mannerisms. Lestrade, and Harris he assumed, was a keen observer of body language but it never hurt to have a third set of eyes watching.

As the questioning progressed, a thought began to press at the outskirts of his mind. Something Molly had said when she'd called him at the restaurant. Sherlock closed his eyes, taking a quick detour into his mind palace. In it, he found an old-fashioned answering machine similar to what his parents still used. He rewound the tape, listening to Molly's words: "Whoever did this was either very lucky or had good knowledge of human anatomy, because the injury was directly over his heart. He or she knew exactly where to hit for maximum damage."

In the corner of the room stood a makeshift table made of a sheet of plywood and sawhorses. On one end lay painting supplies: a tin of paint, a tray, rollers, tape knives and a drop cloth. On the other, an awl. Sherlock picked up the small tool and walked over to the far end of the table. The awl didn't seem to fit in.

Fit in… he thought, an idea coming to mind. Holding the awl tightly, he placed it under the lid and pushed down on it, popping the lid off. It worked like a charm.

"You've figured out the awl," he muttered to himself. "Now figure out why Molly's words are so important."

He left his mind palace, his eyes moving back to the three people on-screen. How would Sunil Kapoor, a painter, have a good knowledge of human anatomy?

He thought of Khalid, a taxi driver with whom he rode at least weekly. Originally from Iran, Khalid had been a doctor before immigrating to England. His credentials not recognized in his new home country, he'd been forced to settle for whatever work he could find - in his case, a taxi driver.

Damn it… Of course! Grabbing his phone, Sherlock typed madly, sending Lestrade a text.

An awl can be used to pry open paint tins. Ask him what his profession was back home. Molly said the killer would have a solid knowledge of human anatomy. -SH

He watched Lestrade check his phone and pause, seemingly confused.

"Come on," Sherlock growled from the room. "I practically handed it to you!" He stood up and paced the room, fighting the temptation to run off towards the interrogation room. All these people and their tiny, useless minds.

Finally, the other man seemed to catch on to Sherlock's train of thought. He put his phone back down on the table and dragged his hands up his face and through his hair, a habit he had when he was unhappy with a situation.

"Out of curiosity, what is it that you used to do back in your home country?" he asked, looking back up at the other man. The question seemed to be a complete non sequitur, but Sherlock caught the slight shift in the grieving father's posture.

"Excuse me?" he asked, his left leg now bouncing noticeably under the table.

"What was your profession before moving to England, Mr. Kapoor?" Lestrade asked again, more directly this time.

"I was a cardiac surgeon," the man responded quietly. "When I moved here, I discovered my degree was insufficient for working in my field, hence…" He shrugged, smiling self-consciously and waved at his paint-spattered clothing.

It was the answer Sherlock had been anticipating but, instead of the usual exhilaration of being proven correct, he felt saddened, somehow. Because he knew Lestrade's next question, and he knew the answer that would follow.

"Would you happen to have an awl among your tools?" Harris seemed unsure about the question - Sherlock could tell from the slight tilt of her head - but a knowing look passed between the two men in the room before Kapoor broke down and began to weep.

A/N: Thanks for reading! Don't forget to review – it helps the creative juices flow