Beta: The lovely parfait_cell, who makes me make sense.

Chapter Five:

Sherlock flipped another page in his magazine. His earlier fascination with the tabloid was quickly evaporating, replaced with the usual tedium. He sighed, tossing the magazine on top of the coffee table. He rubbed at his eyes in an attempt to ward off his fatigue, and then slid down until he was lying flat on his back across the sofa, injured foot propped on the armrest. Lestrade was taking forever.

Sherlock had already given in to boredom. He'd hobbled through the tiny flat in search of entertainment earlier, but at that point he'd already exhausted all possible points of interest. Well, almost. He hadn't checked Lestrade's underwear drawer, but Sherlock didn't think he was the sort of man to keep secrets among his under-things. Besides, Sherlock had already been inside his pants, figuratively speaking.

He'd been contemplating whether he should bring up that little tidbit. By the way, Lestrade, your cock is delicious, he imagined himself saying. He snorted with laughter at that, ignoring the sharp pain that flared in his ribs. It was a tempting idea, if only for the look on Lestrade's face. He just wasn't sure if it was tempting enough.

Sherlock had always enjoyed Lestrade's company. He was delighted to discover that didn't change when blow-jobs weren't on the menu. Yes, he was showing off earlier, because it felt nice to be noticed for something beside his sexual talents. It felt nice to be noticed by Lestrade, period. He was a good audience. But how would he react when he discovered the truth about Sherlock?

Data. Sherlock needed more data. Sex was a complication. It was the reason Sherlock had chosen anonymity in the first place. He needed to know exactly how Lestrade would react before he would come clean, or he'd risk losing his company completely. It wasn't a pleasant prospect. Perhaps it would be better for Lestrade to deduce Sherlock's identity on his own…with Sherlock pointing him in the right direction, of course.

Fast-approaching footsteps caught his attention. Rather hurried, squishy footsteps. Sherlock arched his neck for a better look at the front door. He wasn't disappointed to see the soaking wet figure of Greg Lestrade. It wasn't a bad look on him, if one were to ignore the put–upon expression.

Sherlock couldn't disguise his amusement. "If you're in the market for a brolly," he offered, "I know a man."

Lestrade turned to hang his coat and jacket by the door. He grumbled a few choice words in retaliation. Sherlock wasn't exactly listening. He was a bit distracted by the white shirt Lestrade was wearing, which was now plastered against his body in entirely too-fetching ways. It occurred to Sherlock that he would be very happy to see more of Lestrade besides his (admittedly fantastic) cock. Maybe he really was concussed after all.

He wasn't so distracted however, that he'd miss the pale blue something that peeked out of Lestrade's coat pocket. Sherlock's handkerchief, the one he'd lost during the fight. He only noticed that after they'd already left the park's premises, and now it looked like Lestrade had found it. Was it the reason he'd been delayed? Did he figure out it was Sherlock's all along?

Sherlock eyed Lestrade curiously, searching for signs of understanding. "Did you find what you were looking for?" he asked.

"Yeah," Lestrade said, brandishing his phone in Sherlock's direction. "I got it. Were you all right here by yourself?" He turned to his coat, pulling Sherlock's own phone from its pocket, and tucking the handkerchief out of sight.

Sherlock pulled himself into a sitting position slowly, wincing. The pain in his ribs flared up whenever his chest expanded. Only shallow breaths for a while, he reminded himself. He accepted the phone when it was handed back to him, watching Lestrade keenly. "You took your time."

"I know, I'm sorry. I, uh—" Lestrade trailed off when he caught sight of the tabloid on the table, and the pile of documents that lay underneath it. "Is that…?" he exclaimed, picking up the pile in one swift move. "What the hell were you doing?" He straightened quickly, splattering Sherlock with rainwater. His mouth was set in a thin, furious line.

Sherlock frowned, or tried to. The plaster above his eyebrow made it too difficult. "Reading. Is that against the law, Inspector?"

Lestrade's expression would have been comical if it weren't for the anger he was radiating. "Don't play stupid. You had no right to go through my property. And this," he gestured with the folder, "is classified information. I don't want to see any of it in tomorrow's papers, do you understand?"

Confused, Sherlock asked, "Why would I go to the press?"

Lestrade took a step back, searching the paper folder for any missing documents or photographs. "Or blog it, or twat about it. I don't care. I don't want to see it."

"Tweet," Sherlock corrected helpfully.

"Shut up." Lestrade snapped the folder shut. "I asked you a question. What the hell were you doing?"

Sherlock let out an irritated sigh, which he immediately regretted. Masking his wince, he replied, "I was bored."

"You're not serious," Lestrade said in apparent disbelief. He shook his finger in Sherlock's face, as though Sherlock was an unruly child. "I should throw you in the cells right now, you nosy little bastard."

"What for?" Irritably, Sherlock pushed Lestrade's hand away from his face. "You've left it in an unlocked cabinet."

Lestrade was incredulous. "No, I didn't."

"Might as well have been," Sherlock sniffed. "It's a terrible lock." He flung himself back into a lying position, ignoring the ache, and curled onto his side. He was already taking back everything he'd thought about Lestrade earlier. The man was a git.

"We're not done yet!" Lestrade snapped. He exhaled loudly. Then he said, "I know who you are."

That caught Sherlock's attention. He turned back to face Lestrade, looking at him expectantly. "Oh?"

"I figured it out." Lestrade started to pace, unconcerned about the wet puddles he was leaving on the floor. Sherlock had to choke down a smile at the little squelching noises his shoes made. "You've been sending tips to my division all year," Lestrade continued. "I knew your name sounded familiar."

"Oh," Sherlock said. He was a little surprised at the twinge of disappointment he felt. "I mean, yes. I thought you might appreciate the help?" Sherlock said uncertainly. He sat up again, folding his hands over his stomach.

"Most of us think you're a nutter, to be honest," Lestrade said gruffly. "We get our fair share of those, believe me, but you've been the most persistent."

Sherlock pouted. "It's not my fault you lot need all the help you can get."

Lestrade stopped pacing. "And what glaring clue have we missed this time, genius?" He gestured with the folder in his hand. "Enlighten me."

"Wedding rings!" Sherlock exclaimed, flexing his fingers for emphasise. At Lestrade's blank expression, he exclaimed, "Oh, for the love of God!" Ignoring the pain, he reached forward suddenly, snatching the folder from Lestrade's hand. He held it between his back and the sofa as Lestrade tried to take it back from him. "I can spell it out for you if you want."

Lestrade glared down at him for a moment. "Fine," he grumbled. "Let's hear it."

Sherlock smiled brightly at that. He flipped through the folder until he found what he was looking for: a photograph of the victim, Mrs. Melanie Edwards.

The photo was taken mere minutes before her abduction. He laid it on the table. He then pulled a second photograph from the folder, this one far less pleasant. The murder victim stared lifelessly from the crime scene photo. Her face was nearly unrecognisable; the abuse she had taken made Sherlock's injuries seem like a couple of skinned knees in comparison. She was completely naked, stripped of all her clothes and jewellery.

"Let's review, shall we?" Sherlock pointed at the first photograph. "According to the initial report, the victim was abducted from the balcony of her own home. Security footage showed two masked men dragging her away, with none of her guests the wiser, is that correct?"

Lestrade seemed at unease, but jerked his head in reply to Sherlock's question.

Sherlock then pointed at the second photograph. "She'd been found naked in a skip two days later. Stripped of any personal affects and showing signs of physical abuse. Can you tell me what items she'd been carrying on her the last time anyone had seen her alive? Her jewellery, to be precise?"

Lestrade didn't miss a beat before replying, "Diamond hoop earrings, a matching bracelet, and her wedding ring."

"A custom-made, engraved wedding ring. 'Eternally yours, Pete', that's what the inner inscription says, correct?" Sherlock asked, though he already knew the answer. Every item the victim had been carrying was unique, custom-made and described down to the last detail. If any of it was to turn up somewhere, the police knew it could lead them to the killer.

"Yes," Lestrade answered. "But I don't see how-"

"You think it's the husband," Sherlock pointed out.

Lestrade sighed. "He's a suspect with a clear motive. She filed for a divorce, and would've taken half of his money in the settlement," he said with a grimace. "He is also a gigantic, arrogant sleaze who's been using the case as a PR stunt, but that's it. He has a clear-cut alibi, and we can't prove his involvement. Not for lack of trying, believe me. I've had it up to here with lawyers," Lestrade grumbled.

"So you do think it's the husband," Sherlock confirmed, amused.

Lestrade shrugged. "As does Mrs. Cowell downstairs. What's your point?"

"Oh, yes." Sherlock picked up the tabloid from the coffee table, where it remained next to the assorted medical supplies from earlier. He began flipping through the pages, disregarding Lestrade's impatient groan. "Famous, was she?" Sherlock asked. "They do natter on and on about her. Melanie Edwards, I mean, not Mrs. Cowell."

"Sherlock…" Lestrade warned. "I don't have time for games."

Sherlock ignored him. "The husband, too. There's an interview here," he continued, lifting the tabloid for emphasis. "He does come across as a bit of a wanker. Doesn't speak too kindly about the way the Yard's been handling the case. Does that bother you? You've read this article many times, I can tell. Oh, he refers to you by name."

"What are you doing?" Lestrade asked, but didn't move to take the tabloid from Sherlock.

Sherlock turned the magazine around so that Lestrade could take a look at the cover photo. Peter Edwards, the recent widower, stared sombrely at the camera. He held a framed photograph of his late wife in his hands.

"You might have noticed that he hadn't taken his wedding ring off. Rather sweet, considering…well, if you can trust the commentary, they've had their share of marital problems. One thing strikes me as odd, though…"

Sherlock turned the magazine around to look at the photo again, a mock frown on his face. He flipped another page through the magazine, and then presented it to Lestrade. "His ring. It seems to have shrunk a bit, hasn't it?"

"What?" Lestrade blurted out, eyebrows raised. He took the magazine from Sherlock, studying the photos intently. There was another photograph attached to the article, one taken of the couple on their wedding day. Their rings were nearly identical, save for the groom's having been slightly more masculine, covering his finger almost up to his knuckle. The ring Mr. Edwards wore in the interview photograph was noticeably smaller.

"Did you ever notice that Mr. Edwards has very slender hands for a man?" Sherlock asked. "I wonder if he's the sort who'd get off on flaunting a piece of evidence under the police's nose. I wonder," Sherlock said with a smirk, "what you'll find if you check the ring's inscription?"

"Son of a bitch," Lestrade growled, staring darkly at the magazine in his hands. He looked up at Sherlock, frowning deeply. "I…" he started to say. He held Sherlock's gaze intently before finally nodding. "If you'll excuse me, I need to make a few phone calls."

"You're welcome," Sherlock called as he watched Lestrade disappear inside the bedroom. He felt entirely too pleased with himself.

Soon, though, the elation at having solved a real murder case was ebbing. He was still exhausted. He rolled onto his side, ignoring the way his ribs screamed at the abuse. He began to doze off, only to be awoken with a start when Lestrade laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock clutched at the blanket he didn't remember having. "What?" he said with a voice thick with sleep, eyes closed.

"Just checking to make sure you're still alive," Lestrade said with a chuckle. "I thought I told you not to fall asleep?"

"And I thought I told you that my head is fine."

He must have moved without realising it, because he'd been mumbling the words directly against Lestrade's mouth. They both froze, neither kissing nor pulling away. Sherlock could feel Lestrade's rapid pulse in his lips.

Lestrade was the one to break the spell. He cupped Sherlock's face gently before pulling away. "I don't think that's a good idea," Lestrade said. His hand lingered on Sherlock's cheek a moment too long.

Sherlock turned to face the back of the sofa. He could feel a growing flush in his cheeks. Mentally, he cursed himself.

"No," Sherlock agreed. "Probably not."