Anderson growled irritably. "No. Absolutely not."
Lestrade leaned back and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers, trying to control his frustration. "The flat is in chaos, ripped to bits, almost, someone carried out someone from it, and John has been missing for two days. What else do you want, Anderson?"
His suspended coworker eyed him narrowly, an expression which wasn't improved in the slightest by bloodshot eyes. "The question is, what are you doing here? The CSI hates anyone connected with - Holmes, and he's still got a grudge against Watson for chinning him. Maybe he had a sick friend over and had to take them to hospital. You have no proof!"
Lestrade opened his mouth, then closed both it and his eyes. It was moments like these when, in a past life, he would have called in Sherlock, if only to make sure there was a crime he could justifiably investigate. In a pinch, John would do.
He suddenly and unaccountably felt like swearing, and bit it back only with an effort. "What will it take to get your help?" he asked instead.
Anderson looked uncomfortable. Lestrade could see he wanted to help, but being under censure was trying to be cautious. He could relate. "Proof," the forensics investigator replied finally. "You get me proof something out of the ordinary happened and I'll do it."
Lestrade stood up, and Anderson followed suit. "I'll do that," the DI agreed.
They didn't shake hands. They didn't need to.
Lestrade shook his head tiredly, then without another word let himself out of Anderson's flat.