Keeping up with Sherlock – at a dead run through the back alleys of London – had been proven as a cure for psychosomatic limps. As a medical professional, John could endorse it without reservation.

As a cure for real limps, specifically those caused by gunshot wounds, it was dubious.

It was true that just a few minutes out in the city with Sherlock seemed to do far more good than any of John's weekly physical therapy sessions, but it also seemed to do quite a bit of harm, and John could never decide where the balance fell. He erred on the side of Sherlock because he always did. Because, he'd decided, he was quite cracked in the head. It was the only explanation, really.

Was his leg really improving, though? He wanted desperately to believe it, as he pushed himself, limping along the path several paces behind Sherlock. He felt stronger. He had more stamina. He didn't take those bloody meds anymore. It was possible.

They spotted the police tape ahead and a few meters to the right of the path. The crime scene itself was hidden from view by trees and hedges, but Lestrade stepped out into the path, heading them off.

"Sherlock," he said sternly. "Listen, you will be on your best behavior. A bloody choirboy, do you get me?"

Sherlock stopped and stared Lestrade down. "I came here to solve a murder, not to sing psalms."

"I don't need you this time. If you want in on this case, it'll be on my terms. You will be respectful of everyone working here, you will not touch anything without my permission, and you will do as I say."

Sherlock's upper lip twisted, making him look like a snarling dog. "You are not my handler, Lestrade."

"No," Lestrade replied, throwing an obvious glance at John. "That's not my job. But this is my crime scene. Do we understand each other?"

"I understand you," he sneered. "I very much doubt the reverse is true."

Lestrade seemed to take that as an acceptance of his terms, and gestured for Sherlock to duck under the police tape. John followed, with Lestrade next to him.

"Good to see you back in your element, Greg," John said warmly. "Very good. You've been missed."

"I wou-"

"Oh, what's the freak doing here?" Donovan's voice rang out ahead of them. John shot Lestrade a meaningful look and hurried ahead. Sherlock was walking past her but just opening his mouth with a retort; John quickly positioned himself between them, placed a firm hand on Sherlock's arm and pushed him ahead, towards the body. Sherlock clenched his jaw and, to John's great relief, moved on.

The body lay face down in a little clearing. There had been no attempt to hide it, despite the thick foliage all around. It was an older man, late 50s or early 60s, with an expensive wool jacket and a crumbling hole where the back of his skull used to be.

"Smoker. Widower. No wife or girlfriend," Sherlock was saying, crouched down next to the body. "Occasional gambler. No occupation. Family money? I doubt it. Had a desk job for most of his life. Accountant? Lived in a sunnier climate for many years… the Middle East, no, Australia, I believe. Yes, his watch says as much. Your diagnosis, doctor?"

"Dead," John replied, dropping to his knees near the man's head. "Posterior third of the left parietal bone and left half of the occipital bone shattered by a blunt object."

"Repeated blows," Sherlock observed, hovering over John's shoulder. "Here's the initial one, don't you think?" He pointed at the bottom of the occipital bone, where the damage was not quite as sharp. John, knowing the question was rhetorical, didn't answer. "Yes, but if so, the killer was a bit shorter, the weapon had to have been angled up." He stood and swung at the air at an approximately thirty degree angle. "Awkward. But possible, depending on the weapon. Which was no more than six or so centimeters at the business end, but had to have been long enough to have force and leverage behind it. Then the victim fell and the killer struck straight down…" He bent over the body and brought his arm down repeatedly. "The victim rolled a bit to his right, and these final blows on the left finished him off." He leaned in closer. "Then the killer wiped the blood off the weapon on the victim's coat, here… And on the grass, here." He stood up again with a little bounce. "No defensive wounds. It was fast."

He stretched his arms out, wiggled his fingers and cracked his knuckles, glancing quickly all around him with bright, almost feverish eyes.

"We've got a suspect…" Lestrade volunteered.

"Good for you," Sherlock snapped. "In a moment, I'll tell you if you've got a murderer."

He dropped back down to his knees and began crawling on all fours around the clearing. Donovan snickered and started to whisper something to Anderson, but John stepped in front of her and silenced her with a glare he had once reserved for disrespectful cadets. It was still effective. She glowered back at him but said nothing. Then she turned toward Sherlock and called out, "You won't find any footprints. We've looked."

"On the contrary, Donovan, this clearing is covered with footprints. You might as well have paraded an entire football team through here. Damn it, Lestrade! It would have been so simple if you'd let me look at it before you all mucked it up." His concentric circles had taken him to the edge of the clearing, where there was an opening between two buckthorns. "There!" he breathed in relief. "Bicycle tire."

"That would be James McCarthy," Lestrade began. "As I was trying to tell you…"

"Shut up, I didn't ask."

Lestrade shot John a warning look, but he was already crossing the clearing to drop down by Sherlock's side. He positioned his body to block the Yarders' view and rested a hand lightly on Sherlock's shoulder. "Hey," he murmured. "Be good and keep the case. Ok?"

Sherlock turned his head to meet John's eyes and blinked slowly. "Hm," he replied, pursing his lips, and bent down to scrutinize the bike track more closely.

It was an answer. John patted Sherlock's shoulder and stood up. His leg screamed in protest.

Sherlock finished crawling round the perimeter of the clearing and began poking around in the bushes beyond. After some time John heard a "ha!" of triumph. He and Lestrade hurried into the foliage, where they found Sherlock, standing between a hedge and an elm tree, pointing down at a patch of grass that looked to John like every other patch of grass.

"Your suspect's shoe size?" Sherlock asked sharply.

"I don't know," Lestrade replied.

Sherlock sighed deeply and looked up at the tree branches above him as if they could commiserate. "Of course you don't. Why would a Scotland Yard detective ever want to know something so trivial as the suspect's shoe size?"

"We've only just arrested him. He hasn't even been questioned yet."

"You don't need to question him to look at his feet. So it's a man, then." Sherlock sighed again and asked, as if addressing a barely verbal child, "Does he have very small feet?"

"I have no idea. I haven't even seen him."

"Alright. Well, if you find that he wears size five shoes, or six in women's, that would be very interesting."

"I'll be sure to let you know."

"And if you learn that he was riding two bicycles at once, that would also be fascinating."

"How's that?"

"Someone stopped here, dismounted their bicycle, and leaned it… here, up against this hedge. The handle bar broke this twig, you see? No, of course you don't. And the tire track here is obviously completely different from the one on the other side of the clearing."

"I can't see a thing," Lestrade said. "I know you see it, but that's useless before a jury."

"That's your problem, not mine," Sherlock snapped. "I don't build cases, I solve them."

"So what do you suppose the murder weapon was?" Sherlock and John both swung round in unison to see Anderson peering over the hedge and smiling innocently at them. John's hand shot out, almost instinctively, to touch Sherlock's arm in warning. Sherlock clenched his jaw and said nothing.

"A blunt object, did you say?" Anderson continued. Sherlock gave John a sidelong look, simultaneously lethal and pleading. John shook his head.

"What could it be, what could it be?" Anderson steepled his gloved fingers in front of his face, mocking Sherlock's habit. John began to seethe but tried to stay focused on keeping Sherlock calm. "Let's see… The butt of a rifle? You don't see too many people walking round with those in Boscombe Park, do you? How about a hammer? Or an axe? Same problem, I suppose. I know! A cane!" He glanced over at John. "No, no, I really don't think someone using a cane would've been able to strike this man down." Sherlock narrowed his eyes dangerously, and John clenched his left fist, stretched his fingers, clenched them again. "Oh, I've got it all wrong," Anderson continued amiably. "It's so obvious. Of course it's a rock!" He pointed at the ground just on the other side of the hedge, on the inside of the clearing. "Like that one there, that the great Sherlock Holmes just sniffed right past."

All three men stepped back into the clearing, Lestrade crouching down to examine the rock, John looking on curiously, Sherlock standing back with his arms crossed and nose in the air.

"Look, Detective Inspector," Anderson said excitedly, pointing at a roughly triangular rock a little bigger than a man's fist. "The point of it is just a perfect fit for the skull fractures."

"It's not," Sherlock interjected. "Point's too big, rock's too small."

"And you can see, the grass underneath it is damper and less squished down than under the other rocks. Because it was placed here more recently. By the murderer."

"Because it was knocked over clumsily. By the pillocks of Scotland Yard."

"And what is it doing tucked under this hedge anyway?"

"It's being a rock. In a park. What else would it be doing? Composing a sonnet? Contemplating life's great mysteries?"

"Someone was trying to hide it, that's what."

"Alright," Lestrade said, standing up. "That's enough. Bag it."

"Happy to, Detective Inspector!" Anderson picked the rock up with a smirk and held it in front of Sherlock's face. "Well. Looks like we've got a corpse, a suspect, and a weapon. Can't imagine what we'd need you for. Why don't you run along and find someplace you can be useful. Like a circus, you freak. Maybe they'd want you as an acrobat, since jumping off buildings seems to be the only thing you're good for."

"Anderson!" Lestrade shouted. "Shut up and do your fucking job!"

Anderson turned away to get an evidence bag, but met Donovan's eyes on the way, and they both burst out laughing.

"I swear to God," Lestrade hissed. "I don't know whether I work at Scotland Yard or a bloody reform school. You both can either grow up or go…"

John had already grabbed Sherlock's arm and was hurrying him back to the path, Lestrade's voice receding in the background.

"Jesus," John breathed once they were out of range. "Jesus God, what a wanker. I had forgotten." He turned to watch Sherlock, who was gazing impassively upon a territorial dispute between two crows. "Well done, Sherlock. Amazing restraint."

"Don't patronize me," Sherlock snapped.

"I'm not," John replied with a shrug. "I'm being serious. I don't have any clever insults or creepy deductions about his sexual habits, but another minute of that and I would've broken his nose. Which would have been worse, actually. So good on you."

Sherlock looked sideways at John and the left side of his mouth quirked up into a smile. "You see, you underestimate me."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far."

"Sherlock! John!" They both turned to see Lestrade approaching from the clearing. "Listen, I'm… Well, Sherlock, you didn't entirely hold up your end of the deal, but Anderson went beyond the pale and I apologize."

"I assure you he didn't do any damage," Sherlock replied.

"Not the point. Just accept my apology and let's move on."

"Fine. Accepted."

"And while we're at it, thank you for saving my life."

For a fraction of a second, Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise; John barely caught it and doubted that Lestrade had seen it at all. "You're welcome," he replied stiffly.

"And also, fuck you for ruining it."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Well, you're welcome to that too."

"I honestly don't know whether to feel hatred or gratitude."

"Why don't you go with both, like you always have before?"

Lestrade smiled wryly and nodded. "I guess I will. And thank you for your testimony at my hearing." John grinned smugly and elbowed Sherlock in the side. That testimony would have been a train wreck if John hadn't insisted on coaching Sherlock through it beforehand. ("We are not having a repeat of the Moriarty trial," John had barked. "You will be polite and respectful and law-abiding and intelligent, but not cleverand not, under any circumstances, yourself.")

"It was essential, actually," Lestrade continued. "I wouldn't be back here without you. Although of course I wouldn't have been suspended without you either."

"Hm. Don't mention it. Are we done?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Your, uh…" Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Your divorce. Unfortunate."

"Ah. Yes." Lestrade cleared his throat. "Well, you were right. And there was another one besides the PE teacher."

"Librarian."

Lestrade sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes, that's the one."

"I don't know what you saw in her anyway. She… she wasn't appropriate for you."

"You never met her, Sherlock."

"I didn't need to."

"Right." He cleared his throat again, shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, and rocked back on his heels. "So the suspect?"

"Your petite cyclist, yes."

"Donovan's on her way to question him now. His name's James McCarthy, and that man with three-quarters of a skull is his father, Charles McCarthy. They live here in Boscombe Hill. This morning, Charles went for a walk along this path. Shortly afterward, James came out for a bike ride. His statement to the responding officers was that he ran into his father and stopped to talk with him, there in the clearing. They argued. And we do have a witness, a jogger, who heard them arguing and saw James raise his hand. James says that after this heated argument, he got back on his bike and continued his ride, trying to blow off some steam. On his way back, he thought it was odd he hadn't seen his dad on the path, so he looked in on the clearing and found the body. Or so he claims. He called 999 immediately. Arresting officers reported blood on his arms and chest. When they informed him he was under arrest, he said, 'I deserve that.'"

John's heart sank. It was a bad case after all. Anderson was right; Sherlock wasn't needed here, and his boredom was going to take a dive into something much more dangerous.

"So you think you're done?" Sherlock asked, tapping away on his mobile.

"Not done, but it shouldn't be long," the DI replied. "Rather obvious, don't you think?"

"There is nothing as deceptive as an obvious fact, Lestrade. Student at London School of Economics, nineteen years old, and judging from this photo, about the same height his father and quite unlikely to have size five feet. You have a suspect, but you don't have a murderer."

"Then find me one." Lestrade pulled a pack of Mayfairs out of his pocket and shook one out. He gave John a sheepish look as he lit the cigarette, and then shot Sherlock an apologetic one as he took his first drag. Sherlock said nothing, but leaned over to inhale the secondhand smoke.

"You're disgusting," John grumbled. "Not you," he added quickly to Lestrade.

The DI shrugged. "It is disgusting." He blew another long stream of smoke in Sherlock's direction. "I was doing so well, too. Should never have started back up. But that was around the time I lost my job and a colleague of mine flung himself off the roof of St. Bart's. Upsetting events."

"I think I recall that," John remarked dryly. "It was a difficult period, wasn't it?"

"Very. You can't blame a man for turning to his vices in such a dark time."

"No, you can't. Me, I drank."

"Did you?"

"Whiskey. Loads of it." John shook his head mournfully. "My dad would've been proud. I was a mess, honestly."

"Well, I can't judge you, mate. I was at the pub every night nursing a pint. Why shouldn't I? I had no job to go to in the morning."

"No one to go home to in the evening."

"That's sad. That is a sad, sad tale you've told me."

"No sadder than yours, Greg."

"Infantile drama queens!" Sherlock spat, spinning around and stalking down the path away from the crime scene. "I should've let Moriarty have the both of you!" he shouted over his shoulder.

John and Lestrade looked at each other and snorted with laughter.

"I missed the crazy tosser," Lestrade admitted with a chuckle. "Is he doing alright?"

"Yeah, he's fine."

"And you, are you alright?"

"Leg could be better. But it's improving. And I'd rather be alive with one leg than dead with two. I also find the second gunshot wound is much easier to handle than the first."

"Good to know."

"And you?"

"Well, like he said, divorced. That wasn't fun. But it's done and over and for the best, really."

"You can do better, I have no doubt."

"Thanks, mate." Lestrade looked down the path at the tall dark figure striding away. "Is he alright, really?"

"Yeah." John liked Lestrade a great deal, but there was no way he was going to tell him about the insomnia (even worse than before, though that shouldn't have been possible), the occasional nightmares (hoarse, wordless shouts and sometimes cold sweats before John could rush in and wake him), the clinginess (wanting John to go everywhere with him now, anxious when they were apart). John trusted Lestrade, but there was no way he was going to tell an officer of Scotland Yard what Sherlock had done while he was dead – the people he'd killed and the people he'd tortured, the things John knew and the things he suspected, and the things that made Sherlock wake up with a choked gasp and a racing pulse and wide, blank eyes. He wasn't going to tell Lestrade that he knew when Sherlock's pulse was racing and when it was normal and when it was slow because he checked it every single time he found Sherlock asleep and sometimes, compulsively, when Sherlock was awake. And how those times, Sherlock just stared at him silently while he did it, and how occasionally it was Sherlock who broke the stare and looked away.

"He's good if he's got a case. Can he keep this one?"

Lestrade dropped his cigarette butt and crushed it under his shoe. "I owe him more than a case, I reckon," he replied. "We'll see what we've got from this suspect and I'll be in touch." They shook hands and John hurried down the path. Sherlock had already vanished.