Cursing the Chief Superintendent colourfully in his mind, Lestrade glanced at the clock on his desk and rubbed his face with both hands. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his back after the long hours that he hadn't expected to still be awake for. That is, until the Chief had called, demanding some obscure paperwork at last minute. Lestrade had called Donovan, who turned out to be busy in the station's forensic lab and couldn't exactly leave. He then called Anderson, who had been originally responsible for the paperwork before giving some vague reason why he was unable. Unfortunately, he was also busy in the forensic lab. Lestrade was almost tempted to go down there and demand one of them do it, if he wasn't so worried about what exactly he'd find happening in the forensic lab.

It was nearly three thirty in the morning, and Lestrade was finally faxing off the paperwork to the Chief, his eyes smarting as he punched in the number. It didn't help that he'd spent the first extra hour puzzling over the information the Dublin dispatch had sent over. To say that it was meagre would be a compliment; there was hardly enough information to say that O'Neil had been Irish, and that could have been assumed by the name. The sniper himself had nothing better. Where Steve had gotten the rest of the information had been worrying on the DI's brain for the rest of the night, and every answer he came up with seemed to only make him more uneasy. John's lack of answers on top of it, plus the extra work set by the Chief, didn't exactly make Lestrade's night a pleasant one.

Lestrade was just turning of his desk lamp when his fax machine started whirring. Christ…not again. He couldn't believe that the Chief would send over more work. Did he not realise that it was going on Lestrade's twenty-first hour without sleep, with nothing to run on but a blueberry bagel in the morning, a croissant in the afternoon, and coffee; about five times what should be the legal dose in a given day? Well, no, of course he didn't. But he should bloody well assume.

Lestrade made to drink the last bit of his last cup, but thought better of it. He set it aside, planning to drink it in despair when he sat down again with the new paperwork. At least it wasn't very many pages; it stopped after five. He pulled them out of the machine and took a look at the first sheet.

His eyebrows knitted when he saw that it wasn't, in fact, sent by the Chief. The front was stamped with an insignia, but it was faded to the point that he couldn't distinguish it, other then the fact that it wasn't the Yard's. The rest of the front page was blank, except for a few lines of handwritten scrawl. Lestrade thought the writing looked strangely familiar.

Here are the papers I used. I hope you find them informative. –S

With a flash of understanding, Lestrade realised what the papers were. What is Steve doing sending me them at three thirty in the morning? he thought moodily, his mind not thinking up any innocent possibilities. Well, if all else fails, I'm sure we can trace the fax number. He flipped over the first sheet.

If he was confused by the first page, he was completely lost on the second. What in Gods name…He stared, blankly, at the few lines of typed script.

Act as though they know more (they do not)

Act as though the obvious is obscure

Eye contact MINIMAL

PLEASE/TY

Smile (nicely)

Assume an expression of sombreness at CS

GREG

Be courteous. IGNORE ANDERSON

Lestrade could not make head nor tail of the entire sheet. He saw his name, simply written on its own with a number, and was mystified further. "Be courteous. Ignore Anderson"? Well, that didn't exactly not make sense…he shook his head and flipped over the next sheet.

This one, like the first, was completely devoid of typed script, though it was fairly blanketed with handwriting in red ink. Seeing the colour, Lestrade remembered back at the first crime scene, when Steve had borrowed the red pen. Though when Lestrade started reading, he saw with greater bewilderment that it clearly wasn't mathematical calculations.

I'm sorry that you don't understand these things

I'm sorry that you are unable to und

I apologise if you feel like you can't

I apologise that you don't know a simple grade school cal

I'm sorry that you are all at such a level of idiocy that

I apologise if I've made you two feel inadequate in any way

This page Lestrade stared at for a good while. He sat down, slowly, still gazing at the writing, which still looked incredibly familiar. He felt something stir in his weary mind, and he shook his head slowly, rubbing his eyes with his hand.

"No…" he muttered. He flipped the next few pages. They were all blank, save for multiple lines of senseless swirls and scribbles. He went back to the first, and, no longer feeling his fatigue, stared at the message written with wide eyes. Then, his eyes fell on the initial.

He dropped the sheets on his desk, and stared unseeingly at the corner of the fax machine. And, though only ten minutes previous he had been praying for the moment he could leave, Greg Lestrade sat there, staring at a fax machine, for another half an hour.

"C'mon." Anderson said, obviously attempting to sound persuasive, but only succeeding in sounding whiny. "It's nearly four in the morning."

"Um, yeah, exactly my point." Donovan squeezed a drop of solution into a test tube and swirled it gently, watching the colour dissipate. "Not in the mood."

"Don't know why I even stayed, then." he grumbled, picking up his black light again and turning back to a pile of rubbish he was supposed to be analysing.

"Neither do I." Donovan muttered under her breath.

She was just about to add another drop when she felt her phone vibrate. "Damn!" she swore, as the drop went flying. She fumbled with the dropper, putting it back in the bottle, while trying work the phone out of her pocket. "Who's calling at bloody four in the morning?" She pulled it out and clicked it on. "Here, hold. Don't tip it," she hissed to Anderson, who by that time had abandoned his black light, and nearly dropped the test tube she pushed on him. Spitting some hair out of her mouth, she put the phone to her ear. "Sergeant Donovan." she said briskly, mentally thanking God that she and Anderson hadn't been in the middle of something.

"Ah, yes, Sally, was it?" a nasally Welsh accent said smoothly. "I hope I didn't wake you, I had been informed you work late…"

"Well, this is more early the late. Who's this?" She couldn't quite place the voice, though it rang a small, insignificant bell.

"Steve Daniel, I helped on a few cases, and was at the pub meet-up a few weeks ago, believe it or not."

"Oh." Donovan remembered now. Ginger bloke with the beard, all questions. The one Anderson had repeatedly told her was a "bloody sheepshagger" at the Nicolas Green crimescene. "Right. Hi."

"I know this might seem rather strange, but I was wondering…you never did finish that story you were telling at the pub."

"Which? Oh, the one about Sherlock Holmes?" Donovan switched ears. "No, I didn't. Why?"

"I was curious how it ended."

She raised her eyebrows. Anderson was looking at her, his expression confused, both hands awkwardly clutching the test tube. "Well…Like I said, the man admitted to being a fraud, and he committed suicide. He couldn't take the consequences for what he'd done, I suppose."

"Really?" Steve sounded shocked. "That seems rather strange…"

"Well, no, not exactly. Things like that happen every day."

"Not to the extent that he seemed to take it."

"Hmm." She couldn't suppress a yawn. "Listen, Steve, if that's all, I have work that I really need to get done, so…"

"Oh, of course." he said pleasantly. "Don't let me keep you from your trivial solution mixing."

"Thank…" she stopped, frowning. "I don't think I mentioned what I was d—."

"Oh, don't worry, you didn't."

She felt a prickling on the back of her neck. Nervously, she glanced around, looking for cameras, though she never remembered them being there before.

"Don't be ridiculous, there aren't cameras in the lab."

She turned slowly back to the front, pressing the phone uncomfortably tight to her ear. "How in the hell—"

"The moment you picked up the phone, I heard you tell another person to hold something, and not to "tip it". Of course, that could have been anything from a champagne glass to a potted plant, but the fact that you had to hand it to someone at all either suggested that you weren't near a table, which I ruled out as I heard something set down just prior, or that the bottom of the object wasn't particularity sturdy. It is also evident that the substance inside shouldn't be spilled, so obviously it's of a delicate nature that shouldn't be over-agitated. I ruled out anything heated or especially corrosive by the lack of click that is usually associated with a phone hitting the plastic sides of safety goggles, and also by the fact that you spat your hair out of your mouth; it not being tied back for anything particularly hazardous. So, a fairly non-dangerous solution was the best guess. These assumptions were further supported by the distinctive squeaking sound at close proximity, the sound of rubber gloves holding a phone, a noise to which I'm quite familiar. That you were in a lab was a good presumption by then, especially with the slight echo in your voice."

It was then that the voice suddenly dropped its accent and deepened into baritone, and the familiarity chilled Donovan to the marrow. "That you don't observe is painfully obvious, but your lack of sight is what is particularly astounding, evident by both your tunnel vision making you incapable of seeing past your own inaccurate assumptions, and the fact that you have copulated with Anderson." There was a pause. Then the voice spoke again, with an undertone of amusement. "Tell him I said hi, and that he should continue picking through rubbish. It could very well be the noblest job he has ever performed."

There was a click as the caller hung up. Though there was silence on the other end, Donovan didn't bring the phone down.

"Sally, what is it?" Anderson demanded. "Who was that?" She didn't reply. "Who was on the phone?" he asked again, louder, as though even with the room being completely silent, there was a possibility that she'd missed his words. He was getting rather tired of holding the test tube, and she wasn't making any effort to answer him. Curiously, she seemed unable to move; she only continued gazing across the room, a look of horror etched upon her face.