"This is yours." The small, misshapen lump of metal lands neatly in the center of John's palm, still warm from the Inspector's pocket. "Best keep it somewhere safe."
"Won't it be missed?" John asks, closing his fist around the bullet.
"I'm not the one who lost it." Lestrade goes on watching Sherlock dance around the current crime scene, his expression tranquil. "Anderson gets careless when I call in Sherlock. Thinks he doesn't need to cross all the t's and dot all the i's because someone else will do the work for him. But no one's perfect. Not even Sherlock Holmes."