A/N: So this little monster has been stuck in my head and I finally decided to unleash it. This first part will be primarily Sherlock and Lestrade, with John being introduced in part two. I love the whole Papa Lestrade stuff, so I hope you guys enjoy it.

A/N 2: Nov 8, 2020, updated. Special thanks to Hucklebarry for helping go through the first half of the story to get it up to par with the rest.

Prologue

He'd been silent for three months. Three months since Sherlock… Well, let's just say he'd been silent for three months too long. He watched the commotion of the room with an odd feeling of calmness. He'd probably get his rank busted down again after this interview, but he didn't care anymore.

"Listen up," a mysterious voice from just beyond the bright studio lights brought his attention back to the present. "We're back on the air in three, two," he finished with a whispered one before pointing to one of the reporters from BBC One. She had been an active follower of Sherlock's recent career after John's blog had a large part in making the consulting detective famous.

Greg panicked for a moment, unable to remember her name. He nervously bounced his leg and flexed his recently healed hand, using the pain he was feeling to help him focus on getting through the next five minutes.

The journalist, with her long coiffed hair, turned to look directly into the camera.

"For those just joining us, we are sitting down with the father of Sherlock Holmes, the infamous detective that tragically committed suicide three months ago, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade," she finished with a grim face before angling her face back to him.

Greg sat awkwardly in an uncomfortable chair, trying not to squint too much as the bright light blinded his eyes, and nodded to the camera with his own sad smile. God, why could he not remember her name?

"So, Inspector Lestrade," the reporter restarted the interview, but Greg held up a hand to interrupt her from going any further.

"Sorry," he apologized for throwing her off, "it's actually Sergeant now. Just to set the record straight," he finished awkwardly.

She gave him an understanding nod, but Greg saw the eagerness in her eyes to dig for more answers. The reporter had tried to provide him with a list of questions and topics for him to approve prior to the interview, and stupidly, Greg hadn't cared at the time. Still, three months out, he found it difficult to care about much. Hopefully, he wouldn't regret that decision.

"Oh, sorry, Sergeant Lestrade," the interviewer jumped back in without missing a beat. "So, let's jump back into the interview there. You took a demotion," she stated, continuing after Greg's nod. "Was that because of the events that happened with Sherlock?"

"Uh, yeah," he answered hesitantly. "Sherlock wasn't exactly on the force," he rubbed the back of his neck with his uninjured hand. "I had been using him as a consultant for certain cases with the Yard."

The interviewer tilted her head curiously, "And what exactly qualified him as a consultant?"

Dull, Sherlock's voice rang clear in his head, and Greg had to stifle an eye-roll on camera. These types of questions were repetitive. If they had bothered to spend five minutes or less with the kid, they would have seen that brilliance, too. Instead, all they had was John's blog, the smattering of articles from various papers, and the tragic media circus that happened before and after his suicide.

"Sherlock was a graduate chemist, for God's sake," Greg informed her with a shake of his head. "Not that anyone bothered to report on his accommodations and accolades until it was too late," he dug his heels in the floor and felt validated when the reporter's face fell slightly.

"He was smart," he carried on, shaking his head, thinking back over the last twenty years he had with the kid. "Sherlock always had this way of seeing the truth of it all," he tried to explain. "Even as a teenager, which was when I first met him. He just…" Greg paused, looking for the right words, but failing. Sadness and anger began to make their presence known again, not that those emotions had ever really left at any point over the last three months. He just needed to make sure he had a good reign over them before he made himself look like an idiot on national television.

"So, to answer your question, he was smart," Greg restarted, trying to focus on the task at hand. "I had tried to get him to join the Yard in the forensics department for years, but he always turned me down. Besides, it's not like I was calling him in on every case," he tried to explain. "Nine times out of ten, a murder case is fairly cut and dry. It's just those rare cases that have a certain flair or particular twist that I thought would be up his alley; the ones that were more difficult to solve."

He had been perfectly capable of solving cases on his own, despite Sherlock's teasing. Sometimes, it was just too tempting to work side by side with his brilliant son.

"We don't have much time left," the interviewer brought his focus back to her, "but I want to go back to the beginning. The world knows Sherlock Holmes as your son; however, that isn't strictly speaking the case - "

Greg scoffed, apparently interrupting the reporter from finishing her question. Try taking care of the kid for twenty years after his own family had disowned him.

"That's exactly the case," Greg bit out and pointed to the woman in front of him. "No, he wasn't biologically speaking mine, but in all the ways that matter… in here," Greg paused to point where his heart ached in his chest. "Sherlock Holmes is, and will always be my son," Greg had to take a break to let in a calming breath before he was able to continue on.

"I know what everyone is saying about him," he angrily shook his head, thinking back to everything that had happened over the last few months. "I know some of the things that happened don't make sense. But Sherlock, my son, didn't make this up. Jim Moriarty is a very real person," he paused to look from the reporter to the camera, "and I won't stop until I clear Sherlock's name."

The interviewer nodded and turned back towards the camera, herself, "Well, you heard it here first. Thank you for joining us, Sergeant. We wish you good luck with your future endeavors," she told him, reaching a hand across the vacant space between them.

Greg nodded and shook the interviewer's hand.

"And we're clear," the anonymous voice from earlier said. Like magic, the harsh studio lighting shut off, letting the much easier standard lighting take over.

Greg stood up from the uncomfortable studio chair and unclipped his microphone from his shirt and belt before passing it off to the nearest stranger.

"Well, thank you again," the nameless reporter came closer to him after removing her own microphone set. "Can I ask?" she hesitated momentarily before continuing. "What made you finally come on? I've been trying to get you on since - well, for about three months now."

"I wish I had a good answer for you," Greg told her honestly, running a hand across the back of his neck again. "But I've lost my son and I've gotten demoted. I guess you can say I don't have much left. But I can tell you one thing," Greg told her, squaring off his shoulders, feeling slightly more confident.

"What's that?" she asked him with a sincere, open expression.

"I believe in Sherlock Holmes."


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20 Years Earlier

Sherlock drummed his fingers, getting increasingly agitated every second the prolonged silence drug on in the large, overly done 'family room'. Sherlock laughed at the colloquial expression. He sat in an uncomfortable, exceedingly ornate settee at a distance across from his parents that was just outside what a typical family would consider comfortable. He supposed that he shouldn't be overly surprised by his parents' bombshell revelation. However, it was generally frowned upon to cast out children, for a family of their status, before they reached the age of eighteen.

"So, that's it?" Sherlock was unable to continue sitting in silence. There had to be some deceitful gimmick lurking in their deck that they were just waiting to unveil at the last minute. Surely, they weren't seriously considering disowning him.

The two stone-faced, expressionless faces that were across from him told a different story. Not one tear, not one raised voice—typical of his parents.

"So, you find it perfectly acceptable to cast your fifteen-year-old son out on the streets?" Sherlock prodded them once more for answers.

"Don't be so dramatic, Sherlock," his mother started with an exasperated sigh. "Somehow, the son you speak of has managed to become a drug addict and drop out of school," she shook her head at him in disgust. "There is no more innocence for you to hide behind," there was no waiver in her voice. Sherlock couldn't believe what he was hearing.

The sinking suspicion that his parents were finally serious began to slowly spread through his veins like the ice water that ran through the creek in their estate, causing Sherlock to shiver slightly. He appeared to have miscalculated his parent's apathy for his general existence. He wasn't the exalted Mycroft, so why bother with Sherlock. Typical, but still not the outcome he had anticipated.

"It's not as if we haven't tried to help you, Son," his father chimed in after having remained silent and impassive throughout this ordeal. "The sheer amount of money we've spent alone on this whole ordeal should speak for itself. We've sent you to rehab, which you somehow managed to get kicked out of, not once, but twice. Changed your boarding schools, and when you'd gotten kicked out of those, we brought you back home and attempted to homeschool you," leave it to his father to boil everything down to the amount of money he had spent as some kind of leverage. "You couldn't even tolerate homeschooling. You made the most sought after tutor in all of the UK flee in tears. We simply don't know what else to do," his father conceded.

"Have you considered not casting me out into the streets like a common street rat?" Sherlock asked sarcastically.

His parents turned to look at each other, apparently having some type of wordless, emotionless, telepathic conversation before turning their impassive faces back towards Sherlock.

"You'll be cut off from your trust fund, naturally," his father's condescending voice responded as if Sherlock had actually thought he had a chance of touching the trust fund. "We aren't unreasonable though, so access can and will be restored if you can prove that you can be a stable, responsible adult," his father continued, sounding as if he was Father Christmas himself.

Bringing the trust fund into it then, Sherlock frowned. It would appear as if they were serious, although Sherlock couldn't help but think that this arrangement was likely for the best. He never had any type of meaningful relationship with his parents. Mycroft was the closest thing he had to one (and that in and of itself was concerning), but he was currently away at school.

Sherlock started running through a checklist in his mind. It was March, so still cold, but Winter was abruptly coming to an end. He had a small amount of money he had pocketed away that he would have to make work. Pack lightly; get out of the countryside and take the first train to London he could find. It would be much easier to hide himself away in the larger city.

"So, that's it?" he asked one final time after it appeared his parents had said their fill.

"That's it," his mother responded with a firm nod.

"Mycroft?" he asked, trying to downplay his curiosity over his older brother's thoughts on this arrangement.

His mother scoffed, "What about Mycroft?" she asked him with an impressive rise of her eyebrow.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the response, "I assume you've explained to him the exile of your youngest?" he looked between his parents for answers.

His mother sneered while his father kept the emotionless mask he called a face firmly in place.

"Mycroft is aware of the situation," his mother informed him. "Your brother is almost finished with his graduate studies and is in a position to become someone. He doesn't need his drug-addicted brother to bring him down," she finished scornfully.

Sherlock nodded, and for the first time, felt the need to tamp down tears. He couldn't let his parents see his weakness. It would be useless to try to change their minds.

Abruptly, he stood up from his spot on the settee, not bothering to look back at his parents. Taking large, quick steps, he made his way through the large house towards the room he had grown up in and closed the door behind him. He gave himself a moment to take one last look around the cluttered space that had been his for the previous fifteen years, his safe haven from the horrors out of the home and inside it, as well. With a determined nod, he grabbed his backpack and emptied the contents on the floor. He packed a handful of necessary clothes and other items he deemed essential. Next, he moved to the bed and lifted the mattress to grab the envelope of cash he had kept hidden. It wouldn't last him long, but it would be enough to get to London and feed him for a short time. After that, he would need to figure out something else.

He was about to exit his bedroom through the window when a picture that had been on his nightstand grabbed his attention. The nanny his parents had hired at the time had taken it and had a copy framed for each of the brothers. It was when he had been much younger and had received his first chemistry set. Mycroft stood next to him, explaining the various pieces that had come with it. Both of their backs were turned to the camera, but Sherlock's head was tilted close to Mycroft, eagerly soaking in the lesson from his older brother. With a frown, he slammed the picture face-down on the nightstand before finally slipping out of the window.

He was well and truly on his own now.