Watson did not expect to be turned away when he stopped by Scotland Yard to check on Lestrade after the previous night's fiasco.

Nor did he expect even Gregson to look so delighted as he refused the doctor's request.

Bradstreet sniggering in the background like a madman only served to add insult to injury.

Watson whirled around and stormed off, muttering uncomplimentary things about police inspectors who thought they knew better than doctors, only to nearly collide with the ever-nervous Constable Cratchett.

He waited out the resulting stream of stuttered apologies-after two years the man still stuttered around everyone except Lestrade, somehow, but he seemed to have gained the man's confidence, and the other Inspectors trusted his judgment.

Watson realized, as Cratchett calmed down-for him-that this was probably his best chance at finding the erstwhile Inspector.

"I say, Constable," he ventured casually, "I'm looking for Inspector Lestrade, and was actually hoping you could point me in his direction."

Cratchett actually looked distraught. "L-lestrade?" He asked, for a moment looking like he might actually faint. "Lestrade is-he's-" the man faltered as Gregson rounded the corner.

The Inspector looked from Watson to Cratchett. "Off you go, Constable." He said briskly, a dismissal if ever Watson had heard one and, unless he was greatly mistaken, one with an underlying threat.

Watson turned on Gregson hotly. "You saw the condition he was in last night, Gregson! He should be home, recovering."

"So he should," Gregson replied, amiably enough, "but you know the man better than that. Or you should, by now."

Watson stifled a sigh. "That's why I'm here. I just want to help, Inspector. You should know that by now."

Gregson reconsidered the man standing before him, and for a long moment Watson felt the ridiculous urge to hold his breath, as if he were waiting for the Inspector to pronounce judgement upon him.

At long last Gregson relented. "Cratchett, take Watson to Lestrade. Do not give anything away." The Constable looked nervously from Inspector to doctor before nodding. "Watson," Gregson paused as if searching for the right words, a rare occurrence for the man. "Just stand back, and watch. I assure you, Lestrade is in no danger."

With that cryptic bit of instruction, Gregson left them. Watson was still for a moment, pondering the possible meaning behind the words and coming up with nothing. Turning to Cratchett, he offered the lad what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

"Shall we?"

Cratchett led Watson to the morgue of all places, not the least bit reassuring in spite of Gregson's reassurances. Watson had spent a considerable amount of time here, and had never felt particularly ill at ease in the room, but now found himself unsure what to make of the current situation.

He did not understand why both Gregson and Bradstreet would both find it amusing that Lestrade was here or try to keep Watson away. Such behavior was unheard of, even for Gregson, but especially for Bradstreet. Watson had to admit that up until now neither man had seemed the type to make light of a death-and Watson could think of nothing else that would bring Lestrade here.

Cratchett knocked briefly before opening the door and standing aside to allow Watson entrance. The doctor took one step inside and immediately found himself unable to move further. His mouth went dry as he took in the scene before him.

Laid out before him on the autopsy table was Lestrade.

He recovered and would have sprung into action had Cratchett not caught his sleeve. The uncharacteristically bold action held Watson back for a moment longer.

It was long enough for him to remember Gregson's reminder that Lestrade was not in danger. It also gave him time to notice Hopkins standing next to the table with Jones not far off. Neither Inspector appeared concerned by Lestrade's current position.

The Constable standing next to Hopkins was another matter entirely.

Tall, round-faced, and impossibly young looking, the third man in the room was not someone Watson could remember having seen before. That, combined with a fairly fresh uniform and shiny new shoes, suggested that the lad was new to the Yard. He was also new to Lestrade, if the way he was staring down at the man in complete bewilderment was any indication.

"You want me to do what?" He squeaked, and Jones looked away. Hopkins smiled reassuringly at the Constable briefly before looking up-he had noticed their arrival. Hopkin's eyes flashed a warning as he answered.

"Check for a pulse." He nodded toward Lestrade, lying prone on the autopsy table. "You have to learn to work with corpses sooner or later, you know. Better now-in private-than later. Nothing worse than fumbling around under the public eye."

Watson took a step closer, intrigued. Lestrade not a bad stand-in for a corpse, not after the events of the previous night, though why the three Inspectors in front of him seemed determined to portray him as such was beyond him. Certain that neither of Lestrade's colleagues would be so casual about the situation if the man were in any sort of danger, Watson allowed himself to relax and watch the scene unfold.

The Constable did not look as if he believed Hopkins. Swallowing nervously, he inched closer to "the corpse" but seemed unable to actually force himself to touch it.

Jones shifted. "You do know how to check for a pulse, don't you?" He asked drily, and the Constable nodded reluctantly.

"It's not even my first corpse." He admitted, unsteadily, looking to Hopkins for something-reassurance, perhaps, or even rescue.

Hopkins nodded sympathetically. "It's different when it becomes your responsibility." He agreed, his voice solemn. "Nothing for it, lad. Sooner it's begun, the sooner it's over."

The Constable nodded and steeled himself. Reaching forward, he pressed his fingers carefully against Lestrade's throat, checking for signs of life.

The lad frowned. "I feel something." He said, his eyes suddenly huge. "It's alive, Inspector!" He stared down at his hand, still pressed against the flesh of what was supposed to be a dead man-a dead man that abruptly opened his eyes and sat up.

The Constable screamed and snatched his hand away, and Watson figured out the game. It was still unclear to him, however, whether this was some elaborate joke or intended for some other purpose. Given Lestrade's involvement Watson doubted it was the latter-this did not seem the kind of thing Lestrade would joke about.

Lestrade moved again, leaning forward, and the Constable panicked, lashing out. Lestrade's head snapped back from the impact as fist met jaw, and Hopkins swore and dove forward to intervene.

"Steady there, lad!" The Constable looked about ready to swing again. Taking his life in his hands, Hopkins stepped between Constable and Inspector and put a hand on the former's shoulder. "Easy, now. Take it easy." Not bothering to look, he called over his shoulder, "All right there, Lestrade?"

"Lestrade?" The Constable stilled, and the color drained from his face. "That was Lestrade? Not a corpse?"

"Obviously not a corpse." Lestrade managed from behind Hopkins, sounding not quite his usual self. Positioned safely out of reach, Jones barked a laugh.

Hopkins ignored him in favor of studying the Constable. "All right?"

The lad was staring at him in horror, opening and closing his mouth repeatedly but largely unsuccessful in getting any words to come out. "Lestrade?" was all the best he could manage.

Watson could sympathize. The Inspector could be intimidating on a good day, even to those who had known him for years. On a bad day even his fellow Inspectors scarcely dared to cross him, and most of the Constables, with few notable exceptions, seemed to hold for him a sort of reverent terror.

Hopkins smiled down at the man and patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. "In all the years I've known Lestrade, he's never killed a rookie on their first day." When this failed to reassure the man, Hopkins simply stepped out from between the two men.

"Lestrade, this is the rookie. Constable, this is Inspector Lestrade."

The lad swallowed and forced himself to stand up straight. "Inspector. Sir. Inspector Lestrade, sir."

Lestrade looked the new man over. "Constable Fletcher," he nodded, then closed his eyes briefly.

Fletcher swallowed nervously. "About the-" he broke off, then forced himself to continue. "Sorry. Sir."

Lestrade somehow managed to raise an eyebrow. "Whatever for?" When the lad stared at him instead of answering, he shifted his gaze towards Watson. "Doctor," the greeting was slightly resigned, but not the least surprised.

"Lestrade," Watson replied cheerfully. Feeling for the new Constable, he continued conversationally as he approached the group, "I remember the first time I came across a corpse that wasn't really dead."

He had Fletcher's attention. Hopkins and Jones were interested as well, and trying to pretend they weren't listening. Lestrade tilted his head obligingly. "Oh?"

"I nearly fell over my own feet trying to get away from the man." Watson admitted without shame. "Turned out he had fallen and hit his head. The blood on his shirt wasn't even his."

Hopkins chuckled. Constable Fletcher unwound minutely. "I really am sorry, Inspector." He apologized again.

Lestrade waved him off. "Don't let it happen again," he said shortly, and Jones snorted. Vacating the table, he left the group behind and started toward the door. "Doctor?"