Try as he might, the Inspector could no longer ignore the boy. Standing primly in the midst of chaos in what was most likely a brand new suit and seemingly unfazed by the crowds swarming around him, the young man would have blended in with the common criminal element present in the room had it not been for two things: the aforementioned suit, and the fact that he was somehow cleaner than the majority of the police force at Scotland Yard. Not, Johnson admitted to himself, that that was necessarily a particularly impressive feat in and of itself.

The fact that he had been here since shortly after the Inspector had come in this morning, and had remained in place without so much as shifting position-as far as Johnson could tell based on the four times he had passed through the room and noticed the other out of the corner of his eye-made Johnson wonder what exactly had brought him here, though he was equally if not more interested in what had caused him to stay.

Johnson made his way over to the desk sergeant to make an inquiry. Crane, a heavy-lidded man with thin lips and a sallow complexion, had a way of making his skin crawl without so much as uttering a word. Of course, when he did speak it was so much worse. Johnson usually tried to avoid the toad when he could, but unfortunately there was little he could do this time without simply approaching the lad himself and demanding an explanation.

He leaned almost casually against Crane's desk and found himself reconsidering as the man's dark eyes drifted up almost lazily to meet his. Stifling a sigh, he forced himself into the conversation.

"Snappy dresser," he commented, tilting his head ever so slightly. Crane did not bother to look. "Clean, too."

"Hmm," The other man hummed noncommittally. "Won't last," He pronounced judgment. Johnson felt his forehead wrinkle.

"New Constable?" He asked, but that wasn't right. The boy would have been in a uniform.

"Former. Promoted. Came over from Fleet Street." Crane was no longer interested in either the newcomer or in the Inspector invading his desk space. "Superintendent said to stick him with the first Inspector to ask about him, if he didn't get fed up and leave first."

Johnson bit back an oath. "And I'm the first." There was no need to ask. The very reason he had ignored him the first several times was that he had not wanted to deal with him.

Crane smiled up at him almost maliciously. This time Johnson did swear. Without another word he stalked across the room.

Up close the boy was not as young as Johnson had thought, but still young enough. His clothes were new, well made, and a little more expensive than most Inspectors went for, but perhaps that was an attempt to offset his physical appearance: short, thin, dark-haired, and with a pinched look that on the street would make a man reconsider the safety of his wallet. Johnson paused in front of him and waited.

The young man met his gaze slowly. He had to look up to do so, and Johnson found himself staring down into the darkest pair of eyes he had ever seen in his life. The lad blinked-Johnson could not entirely shake his first impression of a boy standing untouched by all around him-and whatever might have been read in those almost black eyes by someone caught less off guard by them shuttered. His expression closed to a polite mask.

Johnson wavered between curiosity and annoyance. "What's your name, boy?" He asked more sharply than he meant.

Perhaps exactly as sharply as he meant. He really had no interest in being followed around by some freshly promoted Inspector that the Superintendent clearly did not want around.

"Lestrade, sir," a brisk response, "Inspector Lestrade," he added carefully. It sounded as if it were the first time he had tried the title out. Johnson wondered how he liked it.

"Inspector Johnson," he introduced himself. "Seen the Superintendent yet?"

"No, sir,"

"Well you won't. Not unless you stick around long enough for him to notice you. Until that happens, or you quit, or die, you're with me."

"Yes, sir," Not one for conversation, but maybe he was just nervous. Johnson wondered if his polite expression would falter, just a bit, if he smacked him.

"Come on, then," Johnson headed back to his office, wondering just what exactly he was supposed to do with a rookie Inspector. Paperwork, maybe?

"Yes, sir," That was going to get old quick.

"You don't need to speak unless you're answering a question." Johnson suggested, and the lad fell mercifully silent and followed him down the hall.

He looked around as they entered his office and realized he was further behind on his paperwork than he had originally thought. His office was in worse shape as well. It was both impressive and infuriating when the rookie took the room in without the slightest change of expression.

"Can you read, boy? Write?"

"Yes, sir."

"Which?"

"Both, sir."

Johnson pointed to a stack of cases heaped on a chair in the corner. "You can start by sorting through those and getting them in some sort of order. They go in that cabinet when you're finished."

Lestrade blinked at him, then looked back at the chair. Johnson wondered if he were going to argue with him, but he only asked, "Any special way you want them ordered, sir?"

The older Inspector shook his head. "Just make sure I can find something when I need it." He doubted the lad would get far, or that anything he did would be particularly useful later, but at least it would keep him out of Johnson's way while he tried to catch up on his reports.

He sat down at his desk. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Lestrade gingerly examine the file sitting on the top of the stack. The lad's eyes furrowed as he stared down at the page, and a frown slipped through the mask.

"You did say you could read?" Johnson pressed. He received no reply, but Lestrade's eyes were moving across the page, albeit slowly. The older man left him to it and turned his attention to his own work.

Three-quarters of the way down the page his office door opened. A head poked through the now open door frame. "The lad's gone-Smith will be so disappointed. He was sure the boy would be waiting there all day and-" Inspector Adams stopped as he noticed the room's second occupant. "Yours?"

"It is now." Johnson grumbled. Lestrade never looked up. "Rookie Inspector. Fresh from Fleet Street."

"He involved in that incident with the barber?" Adams grinned. "Are you going to introduce us now or wait a couple of weeks to see if he lasts?"

Johnson strangled a laugh into a cough and set down his report. "Inspector Lestrade,"

The boy looked up and barely stopped himself. Johnson could still hear it. Yes, sir?

"This is Inspector Adams."

Lestrade sized up the other Inspector in much the same way a pickpocket on the street might. It lasted only a second, but nonetheless left both Inspectors unsettled. "Pleased to meet you, sir," his voice was every bit as carefully pleasant as his expression.

"Well, we'll see," Adams returned. "Lestrade, was it?"

"Yes, sir."

Adams chuckled. "And Johnson has you doing his dirty work, I see."

Something flashed in those eyes, but Lestrade's expression only shifted to mild uncertainty. "Sir?" He asked, his gaze drifting momentarily down to the file in his hand before returning to meet Adam's.

The Inspector shook his head. "Never mind. I'm sure Johnson is only trying to make sure you're fully prepared for every aspect of your new position."

Eyes flickered between the two older men, and he must have realized some sort of response was in order. "Of course, sir."

"He's polite enough," Adams said a moment later, as the lad went back to sorting through the stack of files.

"Doesn't say much." Johnson grumbled. "Mostly variations of what you just heard. He does know his own name, at least. And he can read."

"That's something." Adams conceded. Excusing himself with a wave he added, "Smith will probably be by later to size him up."

By the time Smith showed up Johnson had made it through the last of his reports and was entertaining himself by watching the rookie Inspector sort through the vastly diminished stack of files. Around him, and seemingly with no particular design or method were a number of smaller piles, and Lestrade had even gone so far as to open one of the cabinet drawers. Now he stood frozen, halfway through some turn that he had started but not completed, his head tilted slightly and his eyes startlingly unfocused. Whatever had caught his attention had caused a complete change in the man; his body also seemed to almost radiate a nervous energy. Fascinated, Johnson did not immediately notice when the other Inspector invited himself inside.

Smith cleared his throat and nudged the foot of other man's desk with the toe of his shoe. "Working hard, I see."

Johnson recovered and rolled his eyes. "Lestrade," he snapped, and was gratified when the young man started. The next instant he had recovered completely and was waiting for one of the other two to make the first move. Johnson sighed. "This is Inspector Smith. Smith, this is the Rookie."

"Inspector Lestrade," Smith greeted the other man. Lestrade's response was entirely predictable.

"Yes, sir. Pleased to meet you."

"And you," Smith replied, amused. "Learning anything useful?"

Uncertain again, Lestrade blinked. "Sir?"

Smith laughed outright. "You always this polite, Rookie?" He asked, smiling in an attempt to reassure the lad.

Lestrade hesitated, and Johnson wondered what was going on behind those carefully neutral eyes. "I try, sir." He said at last.

Smith snorted. "Never mind the 'sir,' Rookie."

"Yes, Inspector." Johnson sighed again. He could feel a headache coming on.

"Smith will do." Predictably, Smith's humor never wavered. Looking over at Johnson, he asked, "Want me to take him for a walk? Give you a break?"

Johnson stood. "We could both use a break." He admitted. "Come on, Rookie. Let's see how you do on the street." Lestrade considered his unfinished assignment only briefly before nodding.

"Fleet street, huh?" Smith asked as they turned a corner and Scotland Yard disappeared behind them. He was slightly ahead of the young man, but did not miss the way Lestrade's eyes flickered toward him for less than a second.

"Yes, sir." Smith figured the response was reflex by now and ignored it.

"How long?"

"Five years," Lestrade replied promptly. "A year with the River Police before that."

Smith let out a low whistle. "You don't look near old enough for that." He said easily. Lestrade shrugged; as polite as he had been so far, he apparently felt no need to explain himself. Smith waited to see what he would do, but he seemed to feel no need to break the silence either.

"Any family?" Johnson did not care for the extended pause.

Lestrade hesitated. Both men saw him do it. "My sister lives here in London with me." His voice was tight.

Smith and Johnson exchanged a glance. "Anyone else?" The latter pressed, interested. Here was something that threatened the polite young Inspector that had spent the last few hours sorting files without complaint. Something glimmered in his eyes, as of yet undefined.

"Our mother died when we were small." He replied dutifully. One more question, Johnson decided, just to see what would happen.

"Anyone else? Father? Brother?" Lestrade flinched.

"Not in London," He said darkly, and Johnson left it at that.

The man was clearly not comfortable talking about his family. It was to his credit that he had chosen to do so anyway instead of lie, Johnson supposed.

Smith tilted his head as the sound of a police whistle cut through the air. "Not far," he guessed, "two blocks over?"

"Willie's," Johnson groaned. Smith turned and smiled at the rookie.

"Want to go break up a bar fight?" He asked, and was gratified when Lestrade's eyes widened ever so slightly. The lad was a tricky read unless you caught him completely off guard.

"At Willie's?" His voice dropped to almost a whisper, and Smith laughed.

"Got to get your feet wet sometime!" He declared cheerfully. Johnson scowled.

"If he gets killed they'll blame me." He pointed out as they started toward the bar.

Lestrade did not get killed. The first person to come after him took a blow to the chin that left both Inspectors impressed in spite of themselves as his head snapped sharply back and he fell to the floor senseless.

It was a lucky shot; Lestrade's attacker had not been expecting much of a fight from his much smaller opponent. The man he had been sparring with before the Inspectors had so rudely interrupted took a different approach. He threw a chair.

Lestrade turned and the worst of the impact jolted down his shoulder and upper arm. He staggered back, and there the two older Inspectors lost sight of him as they were drawn into the fray. Belatedly both realized that this was less of a fight and more of an all-out brawl, and that perhaps they should have left the rookie outside.

Someone slammed Johnson into a table; he thought he caught a glimpse of Lestrade being lifted off the ground as he went down. I've gotten that boy killed, he had time to think as he crashed through the table and kept going. If he ended up in the floor he was as good as dead-they would trample him and never know he was there.

Someone jerked him roughly away from the still overturning table and to his feet. He stumbled trying to regain his balance, dimly aware that there was blood running into his eyes. he staggered into Adams, who was giving him some sort of look.

"Where's the kid?" He shouted over the din around them. Johnson shook his head stupidly and Adams rolled his eyes. "Pull yourself together, Henry!"

Johnson shook his head and looked around, trying to get his bearings. Reinforcements had arrived, and he could already see that the melee would be over shortly. Smith had backed himself against a wall intentionally and was keeping his opponent at an arm's length. Craddock was near the bar; Johnson watched him smash a beer bottle across some poor drunk's face. Lestrade was nowhere in sight.

The fight was over now, as swiftly as it had probably begun. Drunks and slightly-less-than-sober participants from the night's brawl were slinking out the door, leaving Constables and Inspectors in their wake, some freshly arrived and still ready for a fight, others all but collapsing into the nearest available seating. Johnson scanned the bar, still searching for his erstwhile rookie and hoping he had not, as he feared, gotten the man killed on his first day as an Inspector.

Smith was scowling at his chest. Someone had bloodied his nose and the resulting spray had stained his jacket, tie, and shirt, but Johnson had been there that morning when Adams had told him the whole suit was a bad idea-what if he got blood on it? The man had been warned, but even without the friendly admonition he should have known better. Blood aside, it was nearly impossible to keep clean on the job.

Adams had sliced open the back of his hand on something, likely while hauling Johnson up off the floor-the man was incredible in a fight. Nearly untouchable, he seemed to weave through a crowd as if it were nothing more than a minor inconvenience. He seemed not to have noticed the cut yet as he scanned the bar, and Johnson realized they were both looking for the same person.

Licking his lips to moisten them, Johnson swallowed. "Lestrade!" He barked. His throat spasmed, and he told himself it was the fight and not fear that left his mouth so dry. Looking around once more helplessly, he tried again. He could not ignore Adam's glare as it skewered him from across the room.

"Sir?" The weary response reached him. He spun around too fast and the room shifted. He put a hand out to steady himself and found nothing.

Instead of falling he slammed into a slight but surprisingly solid frame. Lestrade rocked slightly at the impact but held steady. Johnson righted himself almost immediately after and stared down at the decidedly still alive rookie before him. The younger man held out a spotless white handkerchief to him, and he considered it for a moment.

"You're bleeding, sir," Lestrade finally said, gesturing with the handkerchief, and Johnson remembered that his own blood was still dripping into his eyes and accepted the other Inspector's offering. He wiped the blood from his eyes first, then pressed the cloth to his forehead.

"Thank you," He said gruffly. "I see you're still alive."

"Yes,"

"Are you hurt?" Johnson asked, and for the second time that day, Lestrade hesitated. This time the older man did not wait to see what he would say. "Where?"

Lestrade stiffened, but he answered anyway. "My shoulder and arm are stiff." The chair, Johnson thought. "Someone tried to cut me open," he gestured, and the other Inspector could see the cut in his jacket, but it whatever the material, the knife had been stopped there. "When that didn't work his friend kicked me in the back of the leg. Might be some bruising later..." The lad had been lucky.

"You could have been killed." Johnson had not meant to snap, but it told him more than he cared to admit that Lestrade's expression instantly blanked and his posture immediately straightened. His response did nothing to help.

"Yes, sir," he agreed blandly. A beat, then he added, "My apologies."

Johnson shook his head at the man and immediately regretted it. "Not your fault," he said. "I should never have let you get involved in something like this on your first day." Like it or not, he thought, you're my responsibility. "You did well though. You obviously know how to handle yourself somewhat or you wouldn't be standing here now."

Lestrade grimaced. "With all due respect, sir, I'd much rather be sitting right now."

Johnson blinked at him through vision that was starting to blur a little bit. "Good god, Lestrade. Sit down."

Lestrade obliged, swinging a chair around with his left hand and perching almost prissily on the edge of it. He settled uncomfortably, and Johnson guessed his back was bothering him as well and would not have let him fully relax even had he wanted to. Johnson himself was starting to ache in various places he had not realized had taken a beating.

Johnson found his own seat, unable for the moment to do more. Someone else could worry about questioning Constables and figuring out what had started the fight in the first place. Someone who had shown up after the worst had broken up. Someone who didn't care and would probably just sweep the whole affair under the rug.

Truth be told, Johnson didn't really care either. Not about a tavern brawl. Not enough to put up a fuss. Not enough to risk crossing the wrong person.

A shadow fell across the floor in front of the Inspector and he leaned slightly to the right. It was not enough, but it was the most he could manage at the moment. The shadow's owner noticed and was kind enough to step around and into view.

It was none other than "Willie," the tavern's robust owner and namesake. He catered to anyone and everyone, as long as they could pay, treated the police with cool indifference, and stayed out of the way if someone started a fight. "Don't get attached, don't get involved," was his motto, and so far it had kept him alive through several particularly rough patches.

He was smiling now, though, as he looked them both over. "All right there, Mr. Lestrade?" He asked, his tone far more friendly than Adams could ever remember hearing. "You got that promotion, did ya? You in that suit and tagging along with the Inspectors Johnson and Smith all proper like."

"I did, thank you, Mr. Williams." Lestrade offered a polite smile that did nothing to hide the weariness in his eyes.

"Put up a good fight tonight." Willie, or Mr. Williams, added brightly. Johnson wondered what his Christian name was. Before tonight he had always assumed it was William. "Thought the fella with the knife might have done ya in."

Another smile, this one weary. "Not this time, I'm afraid." Lestrade looked down at his jacket ruefully.

"Aye, next time, maybe." Willie offered, as if they were discussing the weather rather than the Inspector's possible death. "Anything I can get ya, Mr. Lestrade? Look about done in, if ya don't mind my saying so."

"Thank you, but no, Mr. Williams," Lestrade was pulling himself to his feet, "Another time, perhaps."

"Aye, certainly." Willie agreed as Johnson grumbled to his feet as well. "Good night, Mr. Lestrade, and to you, Inspector Johnson."

They stumbled across the bar to join Smith and Adams. "I didn't know he knew my name," Johnson mused, turning to watch the man as he righted tables and chairs with the ease that comes only with a great amount of practice. "And he certainly knows your name, Mr. Lestrade."

Lestrade blinked. "He knows everyone's name, sir. And he never forgets a face."

"Good to know." Adams grumbled. "Let's get out of here. Rookie all right?"

"He's alive. Got hit by a chair and kicked in the back of the leg. His jacket kept a knife from spilling his guts all over the floor."

"He got lucky," Adams said.

"And Johnson learned not to take a rookie into a fight on his first day." Smith put in reasonably, as if he had had no part in the business. "Now let's go."

"Go home, Lestrade," Johnson waved the Inspector off. "You can finish the files tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," Lestrade said wearily, "Thank you, sir,"

They watched him go.

"He's certainly polite," Smith offered, rolling his shoulders back and cracking his neck.

Adams scowled. "It's an act." He declared. "A well-practiced act, likely fine-tuned after years of practice, but an act all the same. "

Smith did not disagree. "Good luck getting him to drop it, if that's the case."