Another four months later - February

Lestrade sat with his feet on his desk, ankles crossed, reading the paper. It had been a rare quiet night. The sun was just coming up, and soon he would be able to finish his night shift and go home. He reached over for his paper cup of terrible office coffee, now cold, just about to take a sip.

There was a knock at the door, and a sergeant stuck his head in. "You're never gonna believe this one, boss."

At just that moment, a text came in on his phone. He swung his feet off the desk, looked from the sergeant to his phone, knowing instinctively something was up. An anonymous number.

Look outside

He immediately pushed away from his desk and moved over to the window and looked down. Just below the window, he could see a few officers milling around what appeared to be a person. He strained to make it out…a person handcuffed to a street light post.

"What the…." he mumbled to himself.

He grabbed his coat and followed the sergeant down the stairs to the outside, where he was met by Donovan.

"What's all this?" he asked her, waving towards the crowd.

"You tell us," she said, mysteriously. "Apparently, he's for you." She stood aside for him to pass.

"Wha?..." Lestrade strode through the crowd to see what was going on. There was indeed a thin, sinewy man, dressed shabbily in an oversized winter coat, gagged with a cloth stuffed in his mouth. Cuts and scrapes and bruises covered his face, hands and knuckles. Strangest, though, was an envelope pinned to the man's jacket, with "DCI Greg Lestrade" written on it.

Lestrade crouched down in front of the man, looked him over. It was cold as fuck outside. He reached out and pulled out the gag.

"Jesus, how long have you been here?"

The man didn't answer, just glared at him. Lestrade pulled his gloves from his pocket and put them on, carefully reached out and unpinned the envelope. He stood up again.

"Get him inside, put him in one of the cells for now. Call the doctor, and get him some water."

The officers sprang into action to pick the cuffs open.

He and a team of officers took the envelope upstairs, where he carefully slit open the envelope and turned it upside down over a table covered with a white cloth. The objects fell out; a small tin soldier, like a child's toy, tumbled to the table with a quiet clink. A lighter piece of paper fluttered after it. Stunned, he found himself staring at a young Molly Hooper. The missing piece torn from the family photo in Molly's flat.

He looked over to Donovan. "You'd better call Gregson."

He turned away and went back to his office, shutting the door behind him. He sat down behind his desk. He needed a moment to be alone, collect his thoughts. He leaned back in his chair, everything falling into place. His disbelief was growing by the moment, yet he knew they would find it all to be true. He knew exactly who the person was chained to the street lamp, and exactly what he had done. He had never seen his face so he didn't recognize him immediately, but the body type matched. And most importantly, he knew exactly who had chained him there. He was sure, large amounts of money betting sure, that any CCTV security tape that might have shown how the man was chained there would be mysteriously missing.

Sherlock. He had been off the radar for a few months, following the shooting of Magnusson. Lestrade knew little about it, but had speculated a lot. A monumentally sincere, dramatic, yet legally misguided act of love, as only Sherlock could do. He had risked everything and he had been put into semi-exile to atone for his crime. Lestrade could only imagine the resources available to Sherlock now that he was working for the government in some shadowy way. It appeared he had put that power to good use, sanctioned or not.

His phone chimed again, and another text came in.

For Molly

Just two simple words, but which carried so much weight.

"You bastard," he said aloud, to no one in particular.

Even now, Sherlock was still always thinking of Molly. Lestrade's brows automatically furrowed a little, then he put the thought aside. And then he could not stop a huge smile breaking across his face. He thought about the envelope, which bore his name spelled entirely correctly, with even the new title exactly right. He had learned long ago to read the code that Sherlock used to show affection, and he realized that, perhaps, Sherlock thought a little about him, too. Affection for Sherlock flooded his own heart. He would forgive him for always thinking so much of Molly. Just this once.

He shook his head, still in amazement. He texted back to the anonymous number:

You bastard

And then,

Thanks

He waited for a reply, but none came. That phone had probably already been tossed into the Thames.

For the nine hundred and ninety-ninth time, he hoped no one would ever check his phone for improper personal use.

Lestrade opened the door to his flat. It was still early in the morning, well before 8:00. He set his winter coat and keys down on a chair by the door, emptied his pockets of change and a wallet, and made his way down the hallway to the bedroom.

He looked through the doorway, and his heart beat a little faster, like it did every single time he saw her. Molly; in his home, in his life, in his bed. It had been a few months since they had moved in together, and he still felt like the luckiest man in the world. Probably always would. The sun was streaming in through the windows, picking up highlights in her chestnut hair spread over the pillows, one hand tucked under her cheek. She was still asleep, Toby snuggled in by her feet. She had worked late at the morgue last night and he hadn't expected her to be up yet.

He sat on the side of the bed and took off his shoes, then lay down next to her, face to face. He smoothed some silky strands of that chestnut hair off her forehead.

She stirred, and slowly opened her eyes.

"Hey," he said, smiling, still smoothing her hair, tucking it behind her ear.

She smiled back. "Hey," she said sleepily.

He leaned forward to kiss her then; both his large hands now coming up to lightly cup her delicate face. He captured her lips between his own, then moved to eyes and cheeks and temples, lingering over every beloved detail, every memorized feature. She sighed in contentment, surrendering happily to his ministrations. He could feel the roughness of his incorrigible five o'clock shadow brush against the smoothness of her skin, and he brushed against her cheek again; she often told him she how much she liked the feel of it. He savored the moment and the fact that she was here, and he was here, they were both alive, and in love. A night like last night always made him count his blessings.

But eventually he pulled away a little, rested his forehead against hers. "Listen…" he started, unsure where to begin. "There's something I need to tell you."

"What's wrong?" she said, suddenly awake. She disentangled herself, and sat up. "Is everything ok? Are you ok?"

He rolled over onto his back. "I'm fine, Molls. Everybody's ok. It's something else." He was still wearing his suit jacket, and reached into his pocket and pulled out a picture which had been folded in half. "Come back down here, I need to show you something."

Her brows knitted together. "What is it?" she said, and settled back into place along his side, nestled against him under the arm he had held up for her to slide under.

"Do you recognize this?" He passed the photo to her.

She slowly opened it up and looked at it for a few seconds. "Well, it looks like...like maybe one of the toy soldiers that Timmy used to play with."

Lestrade took a deep breath. "It IS the toy soldier that Timmy used to play with. I had to leave the original with Evidence but I got this picture. This matches the one toy that was missing from the set when Timmy disappeared."

She continued to stare at the photo, in shock.

"And this?" he pulled out another photo, which was of the piece torn off the family picture.

She took it from him, looked at it but said nothing, still in shock.

"There's more," he said. "Very early this morning, we found a man handcuffed to a street lamp outside the Yard. He had this toy on him, and that scrap of the photo. And what's more, he's confessed. Gave a complete statement already." He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone.

"And finally, this." He gave it to her to read the text he had received.

When she finished, she looked over at him, eyes wide.

"Molls," he said quietly. "Do you see what it all means? We got him." He paused, corrected himself. "Sherlock got him. The guy who killed Timmy. And threatened you. You don't ever have to be afraid of him again."

Tears started to stream down her face. "Are you sure?" she asked unsteadily.

He gently took the photos from her shaking hands and laid them to the side, and pulled her more closely against him, her head tucked under his chin.

"I'm sure."

Wrapped in his arms, she cried the tears she had never really allowed herself to cry before. She would have questions later, he knew, as would they all. And most of all, he hoped that she could find some resolution and put that part of her past to rest. But for now, he would be here for her, for as long as she needed. And then long after that.