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Joshua was first aware of the fact that his leg itched. Really bad. He moved to scratch it, then fell back. His head felt as if it were on fire. Moving it gingerly, he nearly passed out as a wave of pain washed over him.

Oh man . . .

What happened? I can't remember . . . and my leg still itches.

I hit my head.

How did I hit my head?

I hit it on the ground after flying out of a building. The memory came rushing back. Lestrade and Sherlock must've gotten out; they were there after the explosion. Good.

He opened his eyes. The light brought back his headache full force. Wincing, he leaned forward and scratched his leg, looking around as he did. He was in a car, stretched out along the backseat. He couldn't see the driver, but it was probably Lestrade. Sherlock wasn't there.

Joshua struggled to a sitting position. Mild concussion, I'd bet. Could've been worse. He moved his arms and legs. Nothing broken. His left arm was sore, but probably just bruised.

He lay back, exhausted from the effort. He tried to hold his head still, but it was hard in a moving vehicle. Every bump made him bite his lip.

The car finally stopped. He sat up again. It was easier this time.

He heard the driver's door open and close, and then Lestrade opened the back door. "You're awake?"

"I've got a thick skull." He climbed out on unsteady legs, clinging to the car until he found his balance. "What happened back there?"

"The whole building was wired. When it blew, we saw you come flying out the window. Thought you'd be dead."

"It takes more than a bomb to incapacitate me. Where'd Sherlock go?"

"He took off."

Can't say I'm sorry about that.

"Can you walk?"

"I think so."

He managed to make it across the parking lot with no help from Lestrade. We're at a hospital.

Of course we're at a hospital. I have a probable concussion.

I hate hospitals.

The things we suffer for the sake of duty.

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"Moderate concussion….are you staying with anyone?"

"Nn," Joshua replied in the negative while focusing on the cracks in the cement between his own still slightly uncooperative feet and Lestrade's car.

"Guess you'll be bunking with me, then." Lestrade unlocked the car and Joshua had already gotten in before Lestrade's statement registered.

"What? Why? Oh….keeping an eye on me?" He cursed his slow mind. Ninjas did not think slowly.

"Yeah. The couch is comfortable enough. You wouldn't be the first to crash there." Lestrade stared at the steering wheel for a moment before starting the vehicle. "Need to stop by your place for anything?"

Joshua absentmindedly gave Lestrade directions to his flat while his brain processed Lestrade's statement. "…Sherlock?"

"Yeah." The inspector gave him a sidelong glance. "He still does, occasionally. Picks the lock, waltzes into the living room, flops down on the sofa, and tells me to shut up. Usually when John's away."

"Oh." Joshua stared out the window for a bit. "John?"

"His flatmate. He'd never admit it, but even the genius gets lonely occasionally." Lestrade braked to avoid a reckless cabdriver and cleared his throat. "There's a file. In the glovebox." It took Joshua a moment to realize that Lestrade wished him to get it out. This concussion business sucked. He pulled out the file and froze.

"Richard Fox." Lestrade pulled up in front of the flat and parked. "Richard was in the drugs division. Quiet bloke, you take after him. He did good work. He died on an undercover mission…four years ago now." Londoner and Yankee sat in silence for a minute.

"So he died in the line of duty."

"Yes."

Joshua nodded, swallowed, and got out of the car. "Do you want to come up? It's nothing much." Lestrade shrugged and followed him up the stairs.

Joshua pushed open the door and entered. "I'll just be a minute." He walked into the bedroom, grabbed a few clothes, and then, after a moment of deliberation, took out his gi, his ninja uniform. Because you never know.

He picked up a few more things and walked to the kitchen to get a bag. Lestrade was staring into a cupboard. "Potatoes?"

"Oh. I've been surviving on those."

Lestrade closed the cupboard. "Want to have a burger with me?"

"Yes. Yes I do."

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"How'd you figure it out about . . . my dad?"

"The file was on my desk and Sherlock mentioned his name. I looked him up while you were stopping your nosebleed. Chips?"

"NO POTATOES." They got their burgers and sat down at a table.

"You came here looking for him."

"Yes . . . I thought he was dead most of my life. And he is. But still . . . I'm not sorry I hit Sherlock. I'd do it again in an instant." Plan to, in fact. But he doesn't need to know that . . .

"He's…a bit hard to get along with. Trust me, I've been looking after him for seven years now."

"Sounds rough."

"Not as bad as you'd imagine. He's…a great man. I'm proud of him." Lestrade stared at his coffee a moment in silence. Joshua shifted uncomfortably and looked for a way to change the subject.

"Um…do you have any kids?" Lestrade grimaced in response.

"No…can't say it was my choice, though. My wife isn't a huge fan of kids." He chuckled humorlessly. "She certainly wasn't a fan of Sherlock. He's the closest I've gotten. And now he doesn't even really care." So much for changing the subject. Lestrade appeared to be in a somewhat gloomy mood. Joshua shifted again and yawned deliberately. Lestrade immediately ceased the staring match with his coffee and raised his hand for the check.

"Best get you home. Sleep's the best thing for that headache. Oh, one more thing . . . there was a watch your dad wore all the time . . . didn't know if you'd want it, but I brought it with me." He handed a watch across the table to Joshua. "It's broken."

"That doesn't matter. Thank you."

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The sofa was comfortable enough, but Joshua couldn't sleep. He glanced at the watch on his wrist, then remembered it was broken. It's stupid to wear an old broken watch just because it belonged to my father. He took it off and looked at it more closely. Maybe I could get it fixed . . . hey, there's an engraving on the back.

What's past is prologue.

W. S.

W. S. . . . William Shakespeare, maybe? He got up and went over to a bookcase. Hey, he has some Shakespeare. He pulled the book out and opened it to a random page.

Full fathoms five thy father lies

Of his boned are coral made

Those are pearls that were his eyes

Nothing of him doth remain

But doth suffer a sea-change

Into something rich and strange

Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell

Hark! I hear them, ding dong bell.

Okay, that is strange. I just remembered why I don't read Shakespeare.

He stuck the book back, shoving impatiently when it didn't fit in quickly. Rats. Something must be jammed. He took the book back out and reached into the back of the bookcase. There were a bunch of papers crammed back there. Odd. He pulled them out.

Another police file. On . . . Sherlock Holmes. Holmes? That was the government guy's name too. Maybe they're related. This ought to be interesting.

He settled down on the couch for a long read.

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Joshua woke up the next morning with a cramp in his neck. He'd fallen asleep reading the file on Sherlock. It wasn't high quality reading material, but it was still pretty interesting. Hey, my headache's gone!

He got up and went into the kitchen. Lestrade wasn't there. No wonder, it's already nine thirty. He probably didn't want to wake me and went on to the office.

He took time to eat a quick breakfast and then got dressed. I could probably claim a sick day on my concussion, but I feel normal and it's boring just sitting here. I'll have to walk to Scotland Yard; I don't have cab fare.

He walked out the door and stopped. Lestrade's car was parked in front of the house. He's not gone yet? Then where was he?

He turned and went back into the house. "Lestrade?"

No answer. He started searching the house. No breakfast dishes other than his, Lestrade's bed hadn't been slept in, or at least had been made, his toothbrush was dry, and his shoes weren't by the door.

It looks almost like he hasn't been here all night.

Like he never came back. A knot of panic started to form inside him. Something happened last night. Why else would he not come back?"

He tried to rationalize the fear away. It's a nice day; he might have walked to the Yard.

But it's practically on the other side of London.

There has to be an explanation for this.

The front door opened. He practically ran to it, then stopped mid-stride.

Sherlock Holmes.

The one person I really, really didn't need to see right now.

Sherlock pushed his way past Joshua into the house. "Where's Lestrade?"

"I don't know. He's not here."

"No!" Sherlock pushed past him into the kitchen, searching frantically.

"Sherlock, he's not here! What are you doing?"

"The watch in the building! Oh, I've been too slow! He's taken Lestrade!"

"Who took Lestrade? What's going on?"

"Moriarty, shut up, I need to think!"

Moriarty? Jim Moriarty, the one it talked about in the file?

The one who blew people up?

"Sherlock, how-"

"Shut UP!"

"I care about him too!" Joshua's fist connected solidly with Sherlock's chin, knocking him against the counter. Sherlock recovered instantly and swung at him. Joshua ducked, tripped on his own foot, and fell over. Stupid concussion. Sherlock over-swung and staggered off balance, toppling to the floor as he tripped over Joshua.

"We have got to stop doing that," Sherlock groaned.

"Well maybe if you weren't such a blasted idiot-"

"I'm going to find Lestrade. By myself. So just leave me alone."

"We'll work faster together."

"I don't want your assistance!" Sherlock turned and stormed from the house.

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Now, we're currently having a little debate on whether you get to know anything about Sherlock's file, so...care to weigh in?