Getting into Lestrade's office is not difficult. After years of haunting New Scotland Yard on a regular basis, Sherlock knows more ways in and out of the building than even the most seasoned of veterans who have been working there since before he was born. It used to frustrate Lestrade to no end; he calls it a "security breach" or some such nonsense. Sherlock usually dismisses him when Lestrade starts prattling on about the matter, and after a while the man gave up and now he doesn't mention it anymore. Doesn't stop him from giving Sherlock pointed glares whenever Sherlock finds his own way in, but Sherlock has learned to ignore those as well.

Lestrade is bent over his computer when John opens the door. He's got a cup of coffee in one hand and a half-eaten sandwich in the other, and when he looks up there's mustard on one corner of his mouth. He blinks at them and says, "Oh bloody hell."

"Good morning to you too," John says with that faint, awkward smile that means some social line that Sherlock doesn't care about is being crossed. He closes the door behind them and moves to shut the blinds. It won't stop most of the place from being curious, but Sherlock would rather not have the majority of the met gawking at him while he tries to do his work. No one has seen him yet and he hopes to keep it that way.

"I thought I told you to stay away until you were back to normal," says Lestrade.

"You told me not to come to any crime scenes." Sherlock corrects him. "Last time I checked, your office was not a crime scene. Unless there has been a recent offence to which I was not informed, and as far as I can tell there has not been." Although it is possible that the stack of files perched precariously on the edge of the desk may soon murder someone; he can tell at a glance that the weight would be enough to crush the chest cavity of a child, if not an adult. He skirts them as he approaches the desk, just in case.

"My office was kind of implied along with that," Lestrade says in his best long-suffering tone.

Sherlock just shrugs and, spotting the newest information on the part of the case that Lestrade's been working on, grabs it to see what's been happening. That's one of the things he appreciates about Lestrade. Once the man gets his hands on a case, he never lets it go, doesn't let it rest until all possibility for a satisfactory conclusion has been explored, successfully or not. It means that when most DI's would have moved on to new cases and let this one rest, Lestrade is still doing what he can when he has a spare moment. He flips through the file eagerly and is only vaguely aware of John's phone ringing. It stops, then starts again, and only stops this time when John answers it, and a moment later when Sherlock looks up John is gone.

Something goes cold in his stomach and his throat tightens, not panic of course but too close for his tastes. John hasn't left him since they stepped outside of the flat, and now he is very aware of being alone. He stares at the door and is halfway to opening it when Lestrade says, "He just stepped out for a minute, Sherlock. Got a call from his sister, wanted to take it in private." His voice is very kind. Too kind, pretending that he hasn't noticed the way Sherlock starts when he speaks. That's the voice he uses with victims who are upset or suffering. The last time he used it on Sherlock, he'd taken too much cocaine and had been just this side of an overdose.

"Have you any other new developments?" he asks, because it's easier to ask than respond to the implicit question about John.

Lestrade watches him carefully, all protests about Sherlock's presence temporarily assuaged. "No. The trail's gone rather cold. I know you said you thought it was a member of the family, but I questioned them all repeatedly and -"

"It wasn't," Sherlock interrupts, relieved to have something else to focus on, something that is not the icy knot in his belly. The irrational thought that his mother or the people who work for her could be anywhere won't stop creeping up on him. "I was wrong. I believe that this case is related to a new one that was recently brought to John's and my attention."

"What case would that be?" Lestrade recovers nicely from his momentary boggling over hearing Sherlock Holmes admit that he was wrong.

"Godfrey Norton," says Sherlock, relishing the way the words roll off of his tongue. If their suspicions are correct, Norton's an active serial killer, the very best sort of case. And he can tell just by the look on Lestrade's face that the name means nothing to him, which makes the situation just a little bit sweeter. He closes the file and sets it back on Lestrade's desk. "I need to see the witness statements you collected."

"Alright, but -" A brief hesitation, and then Lestrade gets up. He moves over to Sherlock, stands too close, the uncertainty visible in every line of his body even in the darkened room. Sherlock wishes he wouldn't. It's hard to breathe with Lestrade this close. There is a part of him, a very small part but one that is there regardless, that wants to curl up in Lestrade's lap and close his eyes and let everything pour out. It doesn't help when Lestrade crouches down so that the two of them are face to face. "Are you alright, Sherlock?"

"I'm fine," he says dismissively, automatically, and Lestrade's hand grips his arm.

"No, you're not. I may not be as bloody clever as you are, but don't think for one second that I can't tell when something is wrong with you. I won't pretend I know what it is… knowing you it could be anything…" He shakes his head just once and sits back on his heels. "You have no idea how hard it was to wrap my mind around this whole situation. I know you're angry because I banned you from crime scenes, but that doesn't mean you get to be a child about it."

"I am a child," Sherlock points out.

Lestrade's hand tightens briefly and then abruptly lets go. Before Sherlock can decide whether or not he misses the contact, that hand runs across his curls. Brief, soft, fleeting - and his throat goes tight as Lestrade stands up. "Yeah, you are," he sighs to no one in particular. "That you are, god help me."

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