A/N: I've not forgotten prompt five, but I'm struggling to think of a response for that one and don't want to fall too far behind due to other commitments, lol. I'll get to it asap!

Prompt 06: From trustingHim17 – Snow.

Beyond the White

Inspector Lestrade and Constable Burton are near the Thames.

The sun is setting, the sky a clear gradient of deep blue morphing into yellow. Clouds blemish the distant horizon to give illusions of far-off lands, wispy mountains reaching heavenwards. The river reflects the image, distorts it minutely in its swells.

It would be rather beautiful if not for the body lying at their feet.

Lestrade is looking at the pale form with his usual detachment of professionalism and scrutiny, his expression giving nothing away. Snow has fallen for the better part of the last two days, but the body is lying atop the powder as though merely resting, both arms slung out either side. Images of morbid snow angels form in Lestrade's mind, distorted fingers lying stiff and open.

Burton is examining the corpse. He is stood some feet away to avoid disturbing the scene, waist bent in a graceful bow and hands clasped behind him. Soft flakes fall and dissolve on the exposed skin at the back of his neck. The constable shivers and straightens, meets Lestrade's gaze.

"Who is he?"

Lestrade misses the tone and gives Burton a long look.

"Your faith in my memory of the London populace is sorely misplaced if you think I know this unfortunate chap."

Burton gives him a look in turn, a swift mixture of amusement and exasperation that drifts across his face like a mirage.

Lestrade allows him it, as he always does, though he's not sure why. He thinks it is because he sees something in Burton he once saw in himself. It is probably still there, buried beneath years of crime and layers of smog, but Lestrade has been too long in the job to ponder his yesteryears.

"I think I know him," says Burton, adding with the briefest smile, "sir."

"Oh? Where?"

"I'm not sure."

"A mine of information, aren't you, lad," Lestrade says, good-humouredly, hands buried as deep in his pockets as they will go. He is cold and their surroundings are quiet, too white and pure for his liking. The gentle lapping of the water does little to comfort him, and he immediately feels ill at ease.

"It'll come to me," Burton replies, confident.

"I'm sure it will."

There is a scratching awareness under Lestrade's skin, the unmistakable feeling of being watched. He sucks in a breath and shifts, his body leaning minutely towards Burton. A layer of adrenaline settles about his shoulders, and he lowers his voice to a whisper.

"Burton, we should–"

To his left the sun winks, a flash of light darting across the water.

Then Burton is no longer by his side and the breath Lestrade was releasing stops, lodges behind his ribs. Suddenly the crisp, clean landscape is no more, and a shock of crimson stretches steadily beyond the white.

End

A/N II: … *closes the angst hut door* …