'Tomorrow' came far sooner than either of them wanted, grey vines of dawn twining along the street after what seemed like only moments of sleep.

Lestrade squinted down to the other end of the alley, but the shapes they had spotted last night still remained motionless. He knew you learnt to disregard light and dark when you lived out here, sleeping through the brightening morning until people were up and about. He couldn't do that– he was far more used to scraping together odd hours of rest while on the job, falling dead asleep in his office chair at two o'clock in the morning, dozing fitfully on the couch on Sunday afternoon after forty-eight hours awake to apprehend a difficult suspect.

John, too, was still asleep, still wrapped around him for warmth, and he gave the younger man's shoulder a gentle shake.

"Mmf."

"Come on, John, it's getting light out."

"Mmf. So what?"

"So we've got a job to do for – if we want to lay hands on this murderer, and we'd better get on with it. I know you haven't spent a lot of time on London streets, but we'll fare a lot better if we don't start off on the wrong foot. And – erm – cuddling in a back alley is a bit the wrong foot."

John jerked back as if he hadn't realized until now that that was what he was doing. "Er… sorry."

"'s all right. Didn't die overnight, did I?"

A weary grin from his compatriot. "Why's it still so bloody cold?"

"Because it's February?"

"You'd think," said John, "that if Sherlock were going to put us out here, the least he could do is warm it up a bit."

They laughed and that, at least, made the day seem somewhat less insurmountable.

"It's not so bad," Lestrade told him. "It'll warm up through the day and we can move about. And we've still got – " he scrabbled in his pocket for a moment and squinted at the coins in his hand – "five pounds and change for breakfast."

"And tea," John added firmly.

"'Course."

A shout came from the street behind them and they turned to see figures moving about; whoever had been sleeping down there wasn't anymore. Lestrade strained to hear and managed to make out disjointed exclamations.

" – last night, right 'ere – "

" – ain't been in it weeks – "

" – Jesus bloody Christ – "

He didn't know what it was that sounded off about it, but he was halfway down the alley before he even realized he was running, John close behind.

"What's this?"

"The 'ell are you?"

Lestrade flung an impatient arm down the street to where they'd been sleeping the night before. "Who is he?"

"Was," growled the dark-haired man who stood opposite him, blocking access to the unmoving shape on the ground.

"Jesus, he's – "

"Yeah, 'e is, and I'm not off making it both o' you if you don't – "

"Look, we're only here to – he's a doctor – "

"I am," John hurried to add. "If you let me have a look…"

"You can't 'elp a dead man, doctor."

"No, but I can always – oh."

Lestrade set his jaw and leant closer, confirming what he already knew – that this was the work of the man they were after. He knew what John had meant to say, but in this case, the cause of death was fairly obvious. He'd never seen a sweater sop up so much blood. Which was saying rather a lot for the leader of a murder investigation team.

"Look 'ere, gerroff 'im, will you? What the 'ell you doin' 'ere anyway, if you're a doctor? What you doin' out 'ere with us?" The man shifted into a confrontational stance, feet planted firmly, arms half-raised, fists clenched as he inserted himself between John and the body on the street.

The response was almost automatic. "Oi!" and Lestrade hauled the man away, knocking John aside with his shoulder at the same time. "He's got just as much right to be here as you, and don't think he doesn't know it!" He slid a foot into the gap between the larger man and the still legs behind him.

"Who's this, your boyfriend?"

"Don't think you want to start a fight with me, mate," Lestrade said, rocking back on his feet into a ready position, fists curled at his sides. "You might have me now, but I've got people up Hackney way."

"Ooh, people, ain't we toff?"

"Toff's as it may be," said Lestrade, and his face was grimmer than John had ever seen it. He pulled the sleeve of his polo neck up, well past the elbow, and held it out to the other man, muscles taut in his arm.

The man took a step back, muttered, "Out of your territory, ain't ya?"

"What business is it of yours?"

He dropped his gaze. "No business. What you want with 'im?" Sideways tip of the head to the body still lying beside them, John crouched uncertainly at the torso.

"Nothing. Just passing through. Not the first, is he? Heard some things."

The man glared at them and Lestrade immediately looked away. They weren't here to start anything, and antagonizing people in the area would achieve nothing for them. They'd already have to find somewhere else to go; though he and John wouldn't get any more trouble here, word would spread about this little pissing contest and no one would trust them, either.

"Suit yourself," he said, as gruffly as he could. "No time for kids' games. Deal with it. Don't want the wrong people getting the wind up them."

"Yeah, and who's the wrong people?"

"Just – deal with it." And with a gesture of the head to John, Lestrade walked down the alley without a backward glance.

He didn't say a word until they had managed to scrounge up some breakfast for themselves, and John didn't dare try to start a conversation. The look on Lestrade's face was hard and foreign, anger and worse clearly visible in the angle of his jaw and the darkness of his eyes.

They ate in silence, cheap sandwiches from a street vendor that, along with the tea John hadn't mentioned again, pretty near cleaned them out. The food was almost gone before Lestrade said, "You're not going to ask?"

John shrugged. "You'll tell me if you want to."

"I don't."

"All right, then."

"I don't, but I have to. That was bloody stupid of me, the whole thing, and – best if you understand what we'll be dealing with now."

"Okay."

Glancing around to make sure no one was paying them undue attention, Lestrade tugged up the sleeve of his pullover again.

John looked. "L.O.M.?"

He let the sleeve drop, smoothing it back down over the tattoo. "Look, no one knows about this, all right? Not even Sherlock. He might've guessed, but he won't know for sure. And not about – that."

"What is it?"

"It's…" and the older man inhaled deeply, letting it out in a sigh. "It's a gang."

"Why've you got a gang tattoo?"

The question earned him a scathing look. "Why d'you think?"

"I dunno, undercover ops, something? Like we're doing now?"

"My life's not a bloody film, John. I don't go undercover every five minutes."

"You were… you?" The same incredulous tone of voice John had used when he'd discovered Sherlock's less-than-desirable past.

"Yes, me. Does that surprise you?" Echoing Sherlock again.

"Of course it surprises me. You're a DI. Aren't you supposed to be, you know, against all that?"

"I am. You can't always help what happens to you."

"What happened to you?"

John, Lestrade thought, had always been direct. A bit too direct, in this case, but there wasn't much for it. He had to know now.

"Slept rough when I was a kid. A lot. Got caught up in this. Don't have many options, kid on the streets with no protection, you do what you're told or… you do what you're told."

No response from John, just that steady gaze.

"These guys were the ones that got me. Roughed me up and then. Well. Gave me a choice."

"What choice?"

"They could… do… worse to me, or… I could be a runner."

"So you joined up."

Brief nod.

"Not much of a choice, was it?"

Less of one than you know.

"But you got out."

"You might say that." You're never really out.

Quizzical look from John.

"Crew doesn't exist anymore. Youngers dropped the name; call themselves Hoxton now. All over rivalries. It's a bad game. Yeah, I got out."

We're not talking about how.

"So that fellow back there, he was, what, scared of you?"

"Scared of Hoxton. Told you they're all about rivalries; make enemies, you make yourself a name."

"So… what are we dealing with now, then?"

"Going to have to sleep somewhere else tonight. Word gets around; no one here will tell us anything."

"That's not all."

"No. Dangerous, what I did. Any one of a dozen gangs'll want our blood now. Not ours; mine. You… ought to leave. Forget this undercover thing, go back, help Sherlock, I can stay."

"What, alone? After what you've just told me?"

"I can handle it myself, John. Done it before, haven't I?"

"Yeah, younger, and with an entire gang behind you. I'm not leaving."

"Go."

"No."

Silence, and they looked at one another until John raised his paper cup and took a determined sip of his tea.

It was so very John that Lestrade couldn't think of a response, and instead he evaluated. John was a soldier, and a good one, as he had reminded them on numerous occasions. He could probably fight – Lestrade cast a doubtful glance at the injured left shoulder and revised his estimate; John could probably fight if needed, but he had a weakness – and he would definitely be no stranger to trouble.

Maybe he didn't have to protect everyone all the time.

"All right, stay," he said, "but if you do, you've got to listen to me, understand? I've done one stupid thing already and I'm damn well keeping us away from any more. All right?"

A nod from John and another sip of tea.

"And – "

John waited, but Lestrade didn't continue. "And?"

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry? For what?"

"Involving you in all of this. I should've – I know better than that, I'm not an idiot. I just – he was going to hurt you, and I – " He broke off and shook his head, rubbing a hand across his brow. "Stupid, stupid…"

"Hey, stop it," said John gently. "That's my friend you're talking about. Come on, hadn't we better find another place to find things out, if we can't stay around here?"

"Back to Westminster," Lestrade agreed, "that's safest."

"Easiest for Sherlock to find, too."

"Sherlock'll find us anywhere."

A strangely comforting thought. "Okay, let's go."

As they walked, John asked, "Shouldn't you tell someone?"

Lestrade was instantly on his guard. "Tell them what?"

"About the body."

"Oh." He blew out a breath. "No. Whoever's on that beat'll have found it by now."

"Don't you have to – make a report or something? I mean, isn't there police procedure for something like this?"

"For sleeping through a murder on the street behind you, then flashing gang credentials at the thug who discovers the body? No, I don't think so."

"Oh. Right."

"I'll make a… full report on Monday." Sort of full, anyway. "Hopefully along with an arrest, if Sherlock does his bloody share."

Some minutes passed. A double-decker bus full of tourists swung along the embankment going far too fast and Lestrade frowned, but didn't say anything. There wasn't much he could do without a uniform, a warrant card, even a set of clean clothes.

John seemed to share the sentiment, as he wriggled his shoulders against the windcheater he was still wearing and muttered, "Could do with a shower."

"Mmm," was the absent reply. They'd been out less than twenty-four hours. As the memories came back, he recognized the feel of sweat in his hair and grit under his fingernails. One day of London grime was nothing.

Eventually, John's stolen glances came too often, his unspoken words too heavy in the air between them.

"What?"

"Hmm?" John put his head to one side and looked at the inspector.

"What aren't you saying?"

"Nothing."

"Go on."

John shifted uncomfortably. "It's just – why were you sleeping on the street?"

"Eh?"

"When you were a kid. Why were you on the street?"

Lestrade's frown deepened and he bit his lip.

"Sorry," John said hurriedly. "You don't have to tell me. It was stupid of me to have asked."

"No, it's… all right. It's all old history anyway." That's good. That sounds casual. Right? "My dad was – well, he – liked his whisky." He was a complete piss artist, you mean. "And he was a nasty drunk."

Again, John didn't say anything. God, he was good at that, at getting you to talk by doing nothing whatsoever.

"I slept rough because it was either that or let him hurt me." More.

"What did – " The automatic doctor's question, cut off abruptly a moment too late and replaced with something different. "What about your mum?"

Jesus. His entire life teased out of him bit-by-bit by John's quiet words. But some things just couldn't be said.

"She died."

John, horrified, "Did he – ?"

"No! God, no." He swallowed. "Cancer. I was fifteen. That's when he really started with the drinking."

They walked on in silence for a while, both lost in their own minds.

John had never even given thought to Lestrade's home life, but if he ever had, he would have pictured it much like his own – loving parents (stern father, indulgent mother), bit of a cut-up at school, roughhousing with friends (and Harry), summer hols spent working part-time jobs and mooning after the latest cute girl (or boy) he'd met in Brighton.

Reality, it seemed, was very different.

He thought of something, suddenly. "How much does Sherlock know?"

"I don't know. We've never talked about it. He's probably deduced most of it by now."

John grinned wryly. "Took him all of about ten seconds to deduce Harry's alcoholism."

"Your sister?"

Belatedly, John realized that they'd never discussed that, either. He was just so used to assuming his secrets were common knowledge. Side effect of spending all his time with Sherlock, he supposed.

"Yeah, she… spends a bit too much time at the bottom of a bottle, too."

"Sorry."

"Not your fault. Not anyone's but hers." Compared to you, mate, I got off easy.

"Easy to say," Lestrade said. "Harder to believe."

They kept on walking.