A/N: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed or has started following this story. I really appreciate the encouragement. This chapter is where the plot thickens.

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"I can't even remember what I was doing that I couldn't go with him." Lestrade paused and then added, "No, I do remember. I had to testify in court that day."

Donovan said, "I remember that. I had to go with you."

"We had discovered a possible suspect and Sherlock wanted to be there for questioning, and he insisted we do it right away," Lestrade said. He turned his attention to John. "I wanted to send him with Donovan, but he said she was too new. Even then, he was telling me how to do my job."

"Sounds familiar," John said fondly.

"He wanted Patrick to do it," Lestrade said. "This was before he started just going off on his own. He thought Patrick was the only competent investigator we had. But I was afraid he would give Sherlock a little too much freedom if I weren't there to supervise. Plus, I had this notion that he and Sherlock were going to come to blows before long, even though they got along. I just couldn't trust him."

"Who? Sherlock?" Donovan asked.

"No, Patrick."

"Really? Why wouldn't you be able to trust him?"

"I don't know what it was exactly. Just something about him," Lestrade said.

"What does that mean?" John asked.

Donovan snorted. "Patrick was the only one, other than you, who seemed to like Sherlock. And evidently Sherlock liked him a little too much. Maybe that's what you should have worried about."

Lestrade decided to ignore what Donovan was so delicately implying. Then he stayed silent for a moment more, trying to figure out how to say what he wanted to say without offending John. "Well, I guess that was my first tip-off. Nobody liked Sherlock right away. Respected him. Tolerated him. But it took a long time even for me to come around to liking him. If you start out liking him, there's only one way to go."

"Well, that makes sense, actually," Donovan said sarcastically.

John glared at her and then turned it on Lestrade. "Spit it out. What happened?" He was seemingly growing more concerned by the second.

Donovan scoffed. "Sherlock beat the man to within an inch of his life, that's what happened."

"Well, there's more—"

"Patrick said he snapped," Donovan said.

"Snapped?" John said.

"There was more to it than that," Lestrade said.

XXXXX

Lestrade waited an hour before he was finally called to the stand. His testimony only took seven minutes, but he had to wait around another hour and a half for court to be dismissed before he could leave. Not that he was keen to rush back to work. His stomach knew exactly when noon was, and it was protesting loudly.

As he and Donovan joined a queue of people leaving the courtroom, he turned his mobile back on. He had just missed four text messages from Sergeant Patrick's phone.

Today 11:50 AM

I need help. I don't know where I am. SH

The next message was a picture of the area and Lestrade recognized it right away.

Today 11:52 AM

COME ALONE. SH

Today 11:53 AM

Please hurry.

Lestrade stopped in the middle of the crowd in the hall outside the courtroom and read over the texts again.

"You okay?" Donovan asked, walking back toward him.

He didn't answer.

The texts were obviously from Sherlock, but sent from Patrick's phone. That didn't bode well. And the fact that Sherlock didn't know exactly where he was, he found especially worrying. Sherlock was a human GPS in London.

He wasted no time in replying.

Sent today 12:01 PM

I'll be right there.

"I've got to run an errand," Lestrade told Donovan. "I'll see you back at the office."

With that, he ran toward the exit with Donovan shouting behind him, "Hey! You're my ride!"

"Sorry!" he called behind him.

XXX

It was ten minutes dodging through the traffic with the sirens and lights blaring to get in the right area, and it was another five minutes to find the right lot. He spotted a squad car, parked with one of the doors open. Then he noticed the body lying on the ground next to it. It was hidden from the road and the area was basically deserted in the middle of the day. It was almost dark between the overcast sky and the shadow of the bridge and the buildings around them.

Lestrade pulled up behind the car and rushed over to the body on the ground, which it turned out was Sgt. Patrick. He was bloodied and unconscious. A blood-soaked baton lay next to him. Lestrade bent down to check at his neck for a pulse and felt a good strong beat. He also felt his breath coming regularly and he sighed in relief

"He'll need an ambulance," a distinctive baritone voice spoke from behind him.

XXXXX

Lestrade fought with himself over how much to tell them. He wondered if he'd be able to get away with lying or with just hinting around the truth of what happened with polite euphemisms.

"He put him in a coma," Donovan said defiantly.

Lestrade shook his head. "He woke up less than forty-eight hours later. It was a simple concussion and a punctured lung."

"Wait," John said, holding up his hands. "Sherlock beat up a cop?"

"Yeah, after he tried to force himself on him," Donovan said.

"I'm sorry, what?" Lestrade said. The more Donovan said, the more he wanted to just blurt it out and make her feel properly horrid.

"He told me Sherlock came onto him and then started trying it on with him after he turned him down. Then when Patrick pushed him away and he snapped and started beating on him."

John's mouth fell open. "That cannot be true," he said.

"Oh, it is. Like I said, you should have been worried for Patrick's safety, not Sherlock's," Donovan said to Lestrade.

Lestrade stared at her dangerously for a couple of beats before he said, "Are you done?"

"No, because what really did me in was that you covered it up just to save your own neck. You made sure Patrick got transferred out of CID, ruined his career, and you smoothed it all over for Sherlock. Gang of teenagers, my arse. He told me what really happened. You went out of your way for Sherlock and screwed over one of your own, just so you wouldn't get in trouble for consulting a civilian."

"Oh, for fuck's sake. Do you really think I would do something like that?"

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Lestrade whipped around to see Sherlock struggling to sit up in the backseat, his legs hanging limply out of the car. Lestrade had totally overlooked him there.

Sherlock had blood on his hands and it was flecked all over his lavender shirt and his face. The black blazer he'd been wearing earlier that day was draped over his lap and he was clutching it against his belly. He looked worse for wear, though nowhere near as bad as Patrick.

Lestrade stepped closer and said, "Sherlock, are you okay? What the Hell happened here?"

Sherlock slumped against the back of the seat and let his head fall to the side. His face was beet red and splotchy, and he had sweat matting his curly hair to his forehead. "We had a little trouble," he said in a gravelly voice.

Lestrade frowned. "Did someone attack you two?"

He bent down to get a closer look at Sherlock and noticed for the first time that Sherlock had a set of handcuffs binding his wrists together in front of him.

"No."

"God, Sherlock. Did you two get into it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and said, "Something like that."

Lestrade stood up and crossed his arms. "Did you do this?" he said, gesturing toward Patrick, who remained on the ground.

"Yes. But—"

"Fucking Hell, Sherlock! You beat him unconscious, with his own baton, apparently. What the Hell has got into you?"

Sherlock winced. "It was self-defense. Look, can I explain later? I think I need medical attention, and I know he does." His upper lip curled into a scowl.

"What's wrong with you?"

He meant that to be more, "What the fuck is wrong with you?" and less a question about his physical condition, but if Sherlock picked up on that, he disregarded it.

"Well, I'm bleeding and my heart is beating irregularly. And I'm feeling rather weak and sore."

Lestrade's mouth snapped shut. He paused long enough to notice the two taser probes sticking out of Sherlock's chest through his shirt. His eyes did a quick scan of Sherlock's body and he couldn't see any bleeding.

"Where are you hurt?" he asked.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Then he said, "Take me in your car and call an ambulance for the Sergeant. Report to your lot that he was assaulted randomly. Band of hooligans."

"Oh. Okay. Right." Lestrade quickly made his calls and then set about unlocking the handcuffs.

"Give me a second," Sherlock said. He let out a long shuddering breath.

Sherlock finally gestured for Lestrade to come closer and Lestrade slipped his arm around Sherlock's back. Sherlock hissed as he sat up straight and threw his arm around Lestrade's neck.

He got Sherlock out of the car and on his feet, but he was still doubled over, clamping his jacket protectively over his lap. Lestrade kept his arm hooked around Sherlock and waited for him to catch his breath.

"Can you walk?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock craned his head up and narrowed his eyes at Lestrade. "I will crawl on my hands and knees before I let you carry me."

"Fine."

"I just need a second."

"Take your time," Lestrade said.

"The paramedics will be here in about three minutes. I can't be seen here."

Lestrade didn't bother asking how he knew that. He just stood there patiently, waiting for Sherlock to get his bearings.

Sherlock took a deep, pained breath. "Okay, quickly," he said.

"Okay." He didn't question Sherlock's orders. Between his labored breathing and the way he limped when he walked and winced at every slight movement, Lestrade was growing more and more concerned. He was entirely focused on just getting the man to a hospital.

He bundled Sherlock into the car carefully and then rushed around to the driver's side. As he got in and started the engine, he looked over at Sherlock sorrowfully.

"Just go. Now," Sherlock said.

XXXXX

"Did he say what happened?" John asked.

"Not at first," Lestrade said.

"Patrick tasered him to get Sherlock off of him," Donovan said. "Then he handcuffed him and Sherlock proceeded to steal his baton and beat him with it.'

Lestrade shook his head. "I was there right after, Sally. That wasn't how it happened."

"And I saw Creighton and Sherlock the next day, and only one of them was unconscious and on a respirator," she said.

"Sherlock was in a lot worse shape than you could tell by just looking at him," Lestrade said.

"He was a good actor and if anybody could fake an injury, it would be him."

Lestrade just shook his head. "Patrick lied to you, Sally."

Donovan said. "Why would he lie, though? What bloke would tell a woman that, if it didn't really happen? He turned out to be a jerk, but I still believe him. I mean, I had a relationship with him, which is more than anyone can say for Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh, fuck you," John said.

Lestrade suddenly had a stabbing pain between his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "You dated him?"

Donovan shrugged. "Yeah, for a bit. Until he stopped calling me."

"I had no idea,' Lestrade said. "Or else I would have never let you do that."

"Let me? Oh, please."

"He didn't ever hurt you did he?" Lestrade said.

Donovan's confident exterior faltered and her face fell. "No."

"Are you sure?" Lestrade looked at her pointedly.

"He never touched me."

Lestrade sighed in relief and let his shoulders sag.

John cleared his throat. "So… How bad was Sherlock hurt?" he asked. He looked at Lestrade closely, seemingly searching his face for something, which unnerved Lestrade something awful.

"That's the thing," Lestrade started. "He didn't have any visible injuries, but he was- It feels so wrong talking about this, even though he's gone." He ran his hands over his face

"What are you saying?" Donovan asked.

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A/N: Thank you for reading! I'm doing some revisions on the next bit, but it should be up in the next couple of days.