They solved Rachel. More specifically, Sherlock solved Rachel, insulting them ("look at you lot, you're all so vacant—is it nice not being me it must be so relaxing") as he went through his explanation. He pulled up the screen, Watson sat and watched the computer process while Sherlock told Lestrade to send for the helicopters.

He objected to the helicopters. They had criteria for that sort of thing—man on the run, for example—not that Sherlock cared. They had a lead, so Sherlock thought the situation called for helicopters.

That was Sherlock, always leaping headfirst when he thought he'd come upon the answer.

And then something strange happened.

The GPS said that the phone was at Baker Street.

"How can it be here? How?"

They both knew that Sherlock could not miss something as obvious as a phone, and his team would have noticed if there'd been a smart phone anywhere in the flat.

"Well… maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere."

"What, and I didn't notice it—me? I didn't notice?"

It'd happened before, and it could happen again, however unlikely. But his instinct was telling him that there was something else going on. Ever the investigator, he began by covering all his bases, ordering the team to search for the mobile while he and Sherlock thought of alternatives—

"Sherlock, where'd you find the case? Maybe it fell out on the landing or in the hall? Maybe out on the pavement?"

Sherlock was standing preternaturally still.

"Sherlock?"

There was no sign that Sherlock had heard a word he'd said. He was staring in middle space, lost in whatever tides had washed into his mind. Lestrade had seen this before—it looked eerily like Sherlock when he was high. But in the middle of a case? Sherlock Holmes was many things, but he was never still, and as a rule he never dosed on the job. It interfered with his ability to make accurate observations.

"Sherlock?" Watson tried.

Nothing, only some vague hand motions

When Sherlock pulled out a mobile from his jacket pocket, that loose, dazed expression his face, Lestrade's mind began to spin. A mobile. He didn't know if that was Jennifer Wilson's mobile, but he knew that Sherlock never carried one of his own. Watson's mobile? He couldn't be sure. If it had been planted, or if Sherlock had had the phone in his possession all this time—

Suddenly a thousand scenarios jumped to the forefront of his mind. Thoughts raced, mind panicked, a detached part of him that sounded suspiciously like Sherlock told him that at this moment he wasn't rational. But whatever wave of insight had crashed into Sherlock leaving him dumb to the physical world seemed to sweep Lestrade away with him, and the only thing he could think was: what if?

What if Sherlock had finally cracked and decided to try his hand at murder? What if all this time, he'd been stringing everyone along so that they might unwittingly witness the man who had committed the crime lead them to his manufactured solution? What if Sherlock had overcome his laziness and the few moral limits he'd followed and set everything up to amuse himself? And the phone—what if it was a sign that he'd slipped? Lestrade had believed in Sherlock—he'd given up on their relationship and the past lie broken between them but after five years, he'd thought that he'd come to know Sherlock. He'd thought he'd seen something more than mere intellect.

One second and Sherlock was gone. Had popped out to get some fresh air. Lestrade was impassive. He refused to react, refused act on the same impulse that governed Sherlock and caused him to demand helicopters or leave the flat during the crucial moment of investigation. He stopped, examined his runaway suspicions.

Because something else was going on here. In moments such as these when he felt paralyzed by the possibilities running through his head he, unlike Sherlock, always trusted his instincts. His mind was spitting all sorts of ghastly scenarios—it didn't help that he knew what Sherlock was capable of as a chemist, as an actor, as a brilliant analyst and orchestrator. But there was something different, something else, something missing despite the fact that the evidence thus far pointed to Sherlock.

What was it?

He stared at the far wall of the kitchen, recalled the nicotine patches.

And realized that in the moment when Sherlock had said that he was clean, showed he was trying despite the fact that he clearly wanted to fall back into his habit, Lestrade trusted him. He realized that in spite of everything, he trusted Sherlock still—and that perhaps he'd never stopped.

This was, he thought—body uncoiling and mind settling back to its usual slow, steady rhythm—this was the difference between them. Had their roles been reversed, Sherlock would have disregarded the matter of trust and followed whatever the evidence indicated. For Lestrade, however, trust carried a lot of weight. Sherlock wasn't the killer. He could be a killer—the potential was still there—but he wasn't this killer. Not this time.

He collected himself, glanced around. Watson stood at the window—he looked something like a dog watching faithfully over Sherlock. Amazing, considering how long they'd known each other. Donovan was clearly frustrated with this entire ordeal, Anderson angry. Lestrade had the beginnings of a headache. Panic always did that—left a bitter aftertaste.

"He just got in the cab. It's Sherlock, he just drove off in a cab."

Bloody hell. Trust or no, Sherlock was doing a damn good job acting like the killer.

"I told you, he does that. He's left again," Donovan stepped up to him, tense and tired. They'd all had a long day. "We're wasting our time."

"I'm calling his phone, he's ringing out."

"If it's ringing out it's not here," he replied. Stupid, but it was the only thing he could think to say in light of what he'd just been contemplating.

He was relieved that Watson hadn't noticed anything amiss—Lestrade wondered if it had ever crossed his mind that Sherlock could have been (could be) the killer. Probably not. Men like Watson were loyal. He hadn't thought that Sherlock was a junkie, to say nothing of a criminal.

"I'll try the search again."

For what good it would do. Communications with Sherlock really only ran one way—from Sherlock to whomever he was bothering.

"Doesn't matter, does any of it? He's just a lunatic and he'll always let you down and he's wasting your time. All our time."

Donovan looked at him, feelings clear on her face. She respected Lestrade—cared for him, even. She hated seeing him defend Sherlock time and again, she hated the way Sherlock always pulled them in and left them hanging. Because every time, it had never worked. Lestrade never showed it, but somehow she knew.

He gave in. Long day, somewhat hellish. Sherlock wasn't the killer. They'd found the woman's email account and a few other leads. It was enough. Whatever Sherlock was doing taking a cab, it wasn't his business. There was such a thing as trust from a distance.

"Okay everybody," he nodded to her, something collapsing. "Done here."

Cleaning up, resignation. Resignation, exhaustion, annoyance. With everything, the bloody pink case. Annoyed at the panic he'd felt when he's thought Sherlock was the killer, annoyed that it was the bloody nicotine patch that made him realize he hadn't forgotten as much as he'd thought. Annoyed at Sherlock for triggering all those reactions in the first place, then left without a proper explanation.

"Why did he do that, why did he have to leave?" he asked to himself, to Watson. He wanted to know if Watson understood Sherlock any better, or differently. A fresh set of eyes. Anything—new, impressions, doubts.

"You know him better than I do."

He shook his head.

"I've known him for five years and no I don't."

"So why do you put up with him?"

That was easy. He just hadn't been willing to admit it. Hadn't been tired enough, worn down enough, willing enough—it amounted to the same thing, he thought.

"Because I'm desperate, that's why."

Because they could have worked, but never did. He regret it—regrets weren't here or there, trust was not faith, faith lost was faith that could not be rebuilt. Sherlock believed in neither justice nor the law, only what he thought was right.

'Because you need me.' Because implicit within that statement was 'and I need you,' but it was a rare thing to see Sherlock come clean and his wordless confessions weren't enough. Sherlock had never apologized, never admitted he was wrong, and he never would. That was another impasse between them.

Yet somehow, Lestrade found himself making his own truest confession to a man he'd only met earlier that same day. Maybe this was what Sherlock felt around Watson—something about him was steady and reassuring. His jumper, probably. Lestrade was a DI, not the sort to mull over things, not the sort to dwell on things done and closed. Apparently, he still had some last words to say.

"Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man."

He believed that. He was telling this to Watson because he recognized the implicit faith that Watson had for Sherlock—the way Watson believed in his logic, the way he thought Sherlock, flawed though he was, could do no wrong. The beginning of their five years, Lestrade had had the same confidence that Sherlock was someone more than his method. He'd never wanted to change Sherlock, but he'd wanted Sherlock to care about questions of justice, fairness, right and wrong.

"Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think that one day—if we're very, very lucky—he might even be a good one."

Watson looked at him. Lestrade wondered how much Watson could read into his words. Possibly a lot. Possibly nothing. He'd never known what he'd had with Sherlock after all—it was possibly a lot, possibly nothing. Who could say?

Before his post-panicked, half-addled, wrung-out mind could think of something more incriminating (and revealing, and damning, he didn't want to think on it any further), he descended the stairs and headed back to the office.

The entire day felt like a giant blur. Staring at his desktop computer screen, he was sure it was going to be a long, sleepless night.

Case notes, pink cases, Sherlock's insistence on a helicopter, smart phones. His eyes were getting tired and his brain was utterly worn out, but Rachel bothered him. Rachel. Passcodes. If Sherlock were the murderer and Rachel was a huge miscalculation, would he dump the phone? Wouldn't that be anyone's first reaction? Had Jennifer Wilson planted it on him? But Sherlock wasn't the killer.

Lestrade sat up.

But what if he was? Not actually the killer, but someone else—someone like Sherlock. She was clever and—it had to be. These weren't typical victims. One high profile, the others with no reason for suicide. The killer must have known their deaths would be noticed, increasing risk and increasing the stakes.

Stakes.

Games.

Murder as a game, cat and mouse with the coppers—it'd been done before, the signs were there.

The GPS.

They'd left before Watson could tell them where the mobile was. If it wasn't at Baker Street, then either Sherlock had it with him in the cab, or… the phone had moved. Somehow. Grown legs and wings. If it was still at Baker Street, they'd have to go back in the morning and search the premises again, properly this time. It might have run out of battery, been dumped. If, too many ifs.

., rachel

Not Baker Street.

Where—?

Rolling Cove Further Education College… not Baker Street. Not Baker Street. Sherlock, or legs and wings.

Watson.

Working on a hunch that he couldn't explain, Lestrade drove back to Sherlock's flat.

To find that Watson wasn't there. Sherlock hadn't returned. They were both out, somewhere, and Lestrade would bet his badge—the one, the other. Mrs. Hudson went nattering on about her herbal soothers and he assured her as best as he could without being rude that she was not in trouble with the law. Watson had reacted—the GPS coordinates. Where there's smoke, there's fire, where there's meat, there's maggots—

Sherlock—that bastard. He probably knew that the mobile was going to be at Rolling Cove College, that had been his epiphany. He had gone off again, on his own, in the investigation. He was going to find something. Lestrade was torn between calling the squad together again (he could see the pile of overtime slips at his desk, Anderson spitting and Donovan incandescent) to go after Sherlock or waiting until morning to raid the flat again. Why, for god's sake, couldn't Sherlock make his life easier for once?

He sat in the car, key in the ignition.

Sod it.

He started the car.

It could wait until morning.