Hello, dearies! (Yes, I'm channeling my inner Rumpelstiltskin.)

So, I've given up any hope of maintaining an outline, because sometimes the characters just don't like being bossed around. Mycroft makes an appearance soon! Say hi to him for me? Maybe ask him if he'd be so kind as to grace us with his presence again?

Sidenote: I've been listening to December 1963 (Oh What a Night) by The Four Seasons like nonstop since watching S3E2. *Bashes brains out*

Kidding. I actually love that song xD (It was perfect in the episode too, if you didn't know.)

Also, I know NOTHING about the British criminal justice scene, so bear with me, or feel free to PM me how stuff really works over there.

"What the bloody hell was that?!"

Gregson, in all his red-faced, two-days-worth-of-simmering-wrath glory, stared us down, and neither of us knew what to say.

Jamie opened and closed his mouth like a fish, and I busied myself with switching my knife from the right boot to the left.

"You - your not gay?" He finally sputtered, and I stood up angrily.

"No, of course I'm not! But I don't see how that should be anyone's damn business but-"

"You could have told me!" he shouted indignantly. I snorted at that. "I wouldn't have minded -"

"Oh, sure! You wouldn't have minded?!"

"Well, it's better than lying to me! We're supposed to be partners!"

"Yes, that's what I thought!"

"Partners don't lie to each other!" People started staring.

"Partners don't sexually harass each other their first bloody day at work!" Oops. That was louder than I intended...

"I didn't sexually harass you! I was being friendly!" He insisted.

"Oh yeah, your cock is very friend -"

"Enough!" Gregson shouted, stepping between us and holding up his hands. "This isn't Dr. Phil, dammit! If you want to talk about your bloody feelings, go see a bloody therapist! We are here to solve a murder!" He turned to the lobby of people staring. "And I'm sure you lot have something you are supposed to be doing! The show is over!"

He turned on his heel and strode into the observation room. Jamie and I looked at each other and ran after him. Gregson kicked the technician out and stared at Sherlock through the glass for a long time.

"Scout."

"Sir?"

"Tell me about America."

Jamie cleared his throat. "We are still waiting for the files to be faxed over, Sir -"

"Did we get a warrant for his personal effects yet?" Gregson interrupted.

"Erm - No, Sir." Jamie stammered. Gregson growled in response.

"And he won't sign the release?"

"No, Sir." Gregson clenched his fist.

"Are they still ignoring your calls, Sir?" I asked.

"Yeah. Dammit. What the hell does this guy do that he can get away with spying on Scotland Yard like this -"

"Lestrade!" We all looked up. "Lestrade!" Sherlock was laying on the table. Cocks had disappeared, and Sherlock was actually calling for me.

"Bored." Sherlock informed me.

"Are you." I answered from the doorway.

"You can't keep me here much longer," he drawled, tossing a small hackysack up in the and catching it. Toss. Catch. Toss. Catch.

"You are a suspect in a murder -" Toss. Catch. Toss. Catch. Toss - I snatched it from the air and crossed my arms. "You are a suspect in a murder investigation."

"No." He sat up and crossed his legs, resting an elbow on each knee. "You know I didn't do it. Besides, I've already told you who did. "

"You didn't, actually -"

"So this is unrelated, isn't it..."

I frowned. "I don't know what you are going on about. You are still a suspect. You are still hiding something."

He stared at the mirror behind me, lost in his mind somewhere.

"You should sign the release form, Mr. Holmes. You will be able to leave much sooner." He said nothing in return, so I stood up and walked to the door.

"What did you say?" he asked as my hand was on the handle. I frowned some more.

"You should sign the release form -"

"Sooner. I can leave sooner. If I sign the forms." He looked up at me, his face shining. "But not until I sign the forms. Meaning that you need something in my personal effects."

Jamie opened the door and handed me the release forms.

"Sign them, Mr. Holmes," I instructed, placing the papers in front of him.

"No."

I gaped. "Why-ever not?"

He held up a finger. "The British justice system is almost as corrupt as the American one -" another finger "The items on my phone are personal-"

"No one said anything about your phone in particular -"

"Of course you did." Another finger "I consider this a training exercise of the mind for you, since your mind is, metaphorically, a 16 year old in a 60 year old body."

"What the hell are you going on about? That doesn't even make -"

"Yes, it does. Your mind, Lestrade! Use it! Think!" He got up and paced about. "How can you contact Fatty without his phone number?" He turned to me, expectantly. I just frowned and shrugged. He heaved a long-suffering sigh. "His personal file! How daft can one ge-"

"He doesn't have one," I snapped angrily. "We don't even know what he does yet!"

He raised a eyebrow mildly. "Then go do some research," he instructed, returning to lying on his table/bed.

"What? How?" He didn't answer. "Can't you just sign the forms?" Yes, I realize I sound like a child.

"No. Go."

We had to release him after 48 hours, due to no conclusive evidence and - Goodness, I'm boring myself. Let's skip to the second time I met Him.

I could only think of three forms of do-able disrespect: vandalism, smoking, or a picnic. But who wants to graffiti a mausoleum? and I don't smoke, so obviously the picnic was the best choice. I went all out - checkered blanket and everything.

Right. Too far ahead. Alright, ummm...

Right, we let Sherlock go. And all throughout the next week, I noticed that I was being followed by various black, government-issued cars and dark men in dark shades and dark suits. All very cliche, all very American Secret Service. Though probably not the American Secret Service. Not in London.

Mycroft still hadn't made contact, and none of the captain's politicians would call him back. Gregson decided that the whole ordeal was my fault, which pleased my "partner" to no end. As promised, Sherlock had emailed me with the information on the murder and supposed murderer, Kevin Bartz, the next day. I brought the guy in, and he confessed within half an hour, which just made Gregson more angry.

By the end of the week, I was really desperate. The freaky government dudes wouldn't leave me alone, and now security cameras were turning to follow me. I was getting quite upset, screaming at the cameras and chasing the black suits into their black cars. I knew I had to do something to make Him finally talk to me-

Gosh, I feel so dramatic. I lost it, ok? I was stressed because of Gregson and Jamie, and Sherlock texted me every hour ("THINK. -SH" "DON'T BE DAFT. -SH" "IT'S OBVIOUS. -SH"), and my mother was calling me from her beach house in Florida wondering why I hadn't returned any of her 19 (20) calls, and then I was all paranoid because of the super spy men. I was going crazy at an increasingly fast rate. In fact, my crazy was starting to outweigh my hot (...it's an American comedy show reference...), and I have red hair, so I get extra leeway in the crazy department.

I finally figured out what to do whilst in the shower.

Something big. Something drastic. What better than disrespecting his father's grave?

MYCROFT'S COMING! Hopefully...

And yes, I know I said a few days, and it has been more than a few days, and I'm really sorry, I just wanted to make sure I could carry this on in the next chapter smoothly and everything. You know how I love a dramatic ending :D