A police car had been sent round to get him, and by the time John reached the station, he felt as though he was going to die. He couldn't remember the last time he's slept well and for long enough, and he wasn't certain he'd eaten that day. It was the worst jetlag multiplied a thousand times. Even though it was afternoon, and the sun was out for once, John felt as if it were the middle of the night. He was hungry, but too tired to do anything about it.

Lestrade wasn't Sherlock, but he hadn't made detective inspector without reason. As soon as he laid eyes on John, he sent someone out for sandwiches and made John a cup of tea. The doctor sank into the chair in front of Lestrade's desk, gratefully cradling the old mug in his hands. He let the steam rise onto his face for a moment, then took a long draught. He could barely taste the flavour, but it was good nonetheless, if only because it was warm.

"I rang the hospital and talked to Sherlock's brother," Lestrade said without preamble. "He's still in neurology, but Mycroft said he'd wait."

"I'll go back over when we're done here," John agreed.

"No," Lestrade countered, leaning forward slightly and pushing a stack of paper out of the way so he could rest his arms on the desk's surface. "What you'll do is listen to me, eat, then give me a good six hours of sleep in the barracks here. Then I'll have an officer take you back."

John started to protest, but Lestrade held up a hand.

"I've sent an officer round to keep an eye on things, and if what you've told me about Sherlock's brother is true, then he's already well guarded. John, you're dead on your feet and you're not doing yourself, or Sherlock, any favours by it. You need to sleep. Proper sleep, not on a hospital cot or in a chair. Six hours. We have barracks here for that reason."

John wanted to disagree, but couldn't dredge up the energy. He nodded and Lestrade gave him a grim look of satisfaction. There was a quick knock on the glass door and the blinds rattled somewhat as it was pushed open. A young officer passed a wrapped sandwich to John, who took it with a quiet thanks.

"Eat it," Lestrade ordered. "And I'll tell you what I can so far."

John nodded, unwrapping the sandwich slowly, not because he wanted to take his time, but because movement was difficult now. He noted that it was turkey on rye without any real emotion one way or the other. When he bit into it, Lestrade spoke.

"I have someone checking with the woman and boy who weren't injured," Lestrade said. "To see if they received any messages immediately after the accident. I checked with CSU and they recovered all of the phones from the other victims, and most of them were destroyed, except for the second cabbie's and the delivery driver's. The cabbie's we've returned to his family, so we're checking on that, too. We kept the driver's phone, since his vehicle caused the accident, and I have CSU sweeping that carefully. I'm also getting them to step up the inspection of the delivery truck, or what's left of it."

John nodded.

"We're checking both cabs and the other car, too, to see if there was anything unusual. Right now, that's all I can tell you. Whatever's going on here, we'll find it. Just to be safe, I've got officers sitting on the other victims as well. And you're surrounded by a station full of bobbies, so nothing's happening here. I will give you whatever new information I have when you wake up. And I will wake you up in six hours, I promise."

John nodded again. He was beginning to feel that was all he could do. He was grateful, in a way, for Lestrade's insistence, because he knew being at the hospital would be useless at this point. He couldn't make any decisions, but at least he had Sherlock's power of attorney and Mycroft was legally required to call him if any serious choices had to be made. John knew that given Sherlock's present condition, that was extremely unlikely.

"Good. Finish that, and come with me," Lestrade said, standing. John pushed himself wearily to his feet, drained what was left of his tea, and swallowed the last bite of the sandwich while following the detective out of his office. Lestrade led him through the building to the barracks, used by officers and detectives on cases that needed them round the clock. Inside, it was kept dark and silent, and John could see one of the four bunk beds was occupied by a woman who was fast asleep. Silently and expertly, Lestrade pulled a pair of standard-issue grey sweatpants and a sweatshirt from the cubbies near the door.

"Wear these," he whispered. "Hamper's there."

John looked at where the detective pointed and nodded.

"Six hours. Police orders."

Lestrade left, closing the door silently behind him, and John shuffled to the nearest bunk. He shucked his clothing, not caring that someone else was in the room, because she clearly wasn't going to wake up, and he was past that point anyhow. He shrugged into the clothing he'd been given, then all but fell into the bunk and sleep.

A knock on the door made Lestrade look up and one of his officers came in, pushing the door open wide, keeping his hand on the knob.

"Sir," he said. "I spoke with Mary Davies and her son. Neither had any unusual phone messages that day. I got a hold of Fred Dreschel's family, too, and they said the same thing."

Lestrade sighed, tapping a pen against his desk.

"All right, Sam, thanks," he replied.

"There's something else, though," Sam said and Lestrade beckoned him in, nodding. "I was talking to my friend Jerry, he's a paramedic. He was on the scene of that accident, sir."

"Notice something strange?" Lestrade asked, mind kicking into high gear.

"He didn't think so, sir. But he commented to me that he was surprised that only two of the nine victims died on scene, the way things looked after the crash and the way the roads were that night."

"Nine? There were eight."

"I know, sir. I went through the list again, then called him up when I'd confirmed it. He was on the first team there."

"Who else did he see?" Lestrade demanded.

"Another delivery driver," Sam replied. "He was yelling for help from the truck. Jerry said he was hurt, but not too bad, managed to get out the truck to try and get help for the other driver, the one who died. Jerry lost track of him after that, but figured he'd been picked up by another ambulance. I called around to find out where all the victims had wound up, and all of them except for Mary and her son went the same hospital. I checked with the ambulances on scene that night, and no one picked up anywhere else from there."

Lestrade stared at the younger man for a long moment.

"Shit," he murmured under his breath.

"We have to find this guy, sir," Sam said. "Could be hurt."

Slowly, Lestrade shook his head.

"Sam, someone sent a message from the dead driver's phone three minutes after the crash. To one of the other accident victims." He ignored Sam's shock. "This guy wasn't a delivery driver, and if he was hurt, he was probably able to get it taken care of without drawing attention to it."

"You know who it was, sir?" Sam asked, disbelieving.

"Yes, I do," Lestrade muttered, standing and grabbing his suit coat. "And that means this wasn't an accident. I'm going down to CSU now. Come with me. No, first, get someone – two people, actually – and put them on guard outside the barracks. Keep them there until I go wake up Doctor Watson. Send another officer to the hospital for Sherlock Holmes."

"Your friend?"

Lestrade nodded grimly.

"The man who did this, that's who he was after."