John fished his phone out of his pocket for the fourth time in twenty minutes.
"Greg, I'm sorry, we're—"
"I have a case so interesting that it'll guarantee your son will never shut up, and you're taking your time? The evidence won't last much longer, John. I need him here."
John held the phone by his shoulder, dragging an indignant (and still silent) detective by the ear onto the couch. He wagged a finger, a silent move a muscle and I'll kill you while he tried to increase Lestrade's patience. "Won't last much longer? Why?"
"It's on the shore, John," Lestrade huffed. He'd gone through great lengths to keep an eye out for cases for the needy detective; he'd traveled miles for this one. Out of his district, yes, but he'd pull strings for Sherlock. Always had. "We've gathered what we can, but I imagine Sherlock could tell more if he saw the scene before the waves wash away anything he could notice. What's taking so long?"
John bit his lip. "We, uh…" He cleared his throat. "Sherlock lost his shoes."
"What?"
"His shoes. I can't find his shoes anywhere."
The line was dead for a moment before Greg spoke, slowly. "You can't find Sherlock's shoes. He really is a child, isn't he?"
John glanced down at Sherlock, who glared right back. He didn't see the need for shoes; on learning Lestrade had a case lined up, he'd made it halfway down the stairs before John caught up and demanded he'd dressed.
Everything was hastily put on, save his shoes.
The detective had looked frantically, silently, even entering his mind palace to determine the spot. Nothing. And his father was firmly clear that they weren't to leave the flat without the shoes.
John's thumb and pointer finger remained clenched on Sherlock's ear, making sure of his staying put.
"Lestrade, you have no idea."
He heard the inspector laugh and mumble something, probably explaining the scenario to the police force at the scene. "Look, I've cashed in a lot of favors to get permission for our consulting detective. I imagine everything will be washed away in about an hour; after the commute, you don't have a ton of time. I don't care if he's barefoot and silent, John—get him here."
John put the phone back in his pocket, using his now-free hand to massage his temples. Fine. "Sherlock, we'll go to the crime scene. But—" John paused, pushing the glean-eyed detective back on the couch. "But, understand something. This is an exception. I'm still cross with you for not talking, and for losing your shoes; in any other situation I'd make you miss this, alright, but Lestrade's gone through a lot of trouble. Don't expect me to make a habit of making exceptions. Got it?"
The detective nodded furiously, bent on racing John to the cab.
They arrived at the scene in a little over half an hour; Lestrade audibly laughed as they walked up, John looking utterly defeated as Sherlock trudged through the sand in one sock, an old t-shirt of John's, and his own dress pants.
The two older men leaned against a bluff as the detective examined the blood being washed by the waves.
"Couldn't even manage a second sock, could we?"
"Shut up," John said, again massaging his temples. "I haven't slept in days, Greg. He's improving on the violin, thank God, but it's all I can do to make him sleep. He insists on practicing in the middle of the night, and Mary encourages it. Helps Allison sleep, apparently."
"I could…babysit?"
John considered. "That might not be such a bad idea, actually. If you're serious."
"Why not?" Lestrade watched as Sherlock got knee-deep into the water. "I'm better with children than I am with…well, whatever on earth he was before. Still won't talk?"
"Not a word. He's eating, though. Gained five pounds since before the accident."
"I could take him tonight. Allison too, if you'd like. I imagine you and Mary could use the sleep."
Sherlock nearly fell as a large wave rushed up to his hips; John sighed, imagining cleaning up would be eventful. He shook his head. "Just take him. Maybe if he's gone for a few hours she'll start talking again. I've got two detectives now, Greg. You've no idea what my life's like."
Lestrade smiled. "Bring him to my flat around six. He can spend the night; I have the futon. If I get called in I'll just have him tag along."
John was in the middle of thanking him when Sherlock ran up.
"Figure it out, bud?" John asked.
The detective nodded.
"I hate to break it to you," Lestrade quipped, "but you'll have to explain it to us. That usually requires words."
Sherlock frowned, looking back and forth between his father and Lestrade. He signaled for a piece of paper before John shook his head.
"No. Come now, Sherlock. Out with it. You want to help the Yard, don't you? Be a good lad and help them out."
The detective watched the sand nuzzle between his toes.
Lestrade put an arm around him. "That's alright, John. Why don't I just take him now? Want to spend some time with me, Sherlock? I'll show you some more cases I've been stuck on; there's a whole file in my flat."
Sherlock looked at John for permission before nodding.