"Don't suppose there's any money left for lunch."

Lestrade felt doubtfully in his pocket, then held out the handful of change. "Whatever you can get for 50p."

"Damn," said John. "Trust Sherlock not to think of that."

"Are you hungry? I can find us somewhere to eat."

"You mean like a day centre?"

He shook his head. "Soup run. No day centres open for free lunch on Saturdays."

"What, none of them?"

"Are you hungry?"

"I'll be fine."

He would. One meal missed was like one day without a shower – nothing.

"So… what now?"

"We go and find people. Come on. Let's be Sherlock's insiders."

He withheld the comment that he'd ended up being far more of an insider than Sherlock had ever intended, and John withheld it, too.

"Keep your head down, though. News travels fast, and someone representing for L.O.M. is news."

"And if you say leave, we leave."

Good.

They ended up at St. Martin's, just off Charing Cross Tube station, hanging about outside the wrought-iron fence as services closed for the day and people began to emerge onto the steps. It was easy from there to slip into the crowd, follow people back to the places they seemed to congregate. Someone was bound to say something before long – they were already getting sidelong glances from the younger people around them – but it would give them some ground. Lestrade went through several options in his mind and settled on the truest one to life. Their mutual weariness would make it as believable as it needed to be.

Sure enough, one of them finally asked, but not exactly the question Lestrade had been anticipating. "Are you following us?"

Yes. "No. Well – yes."

"What?"

He considered the speaker. Young, mid-twenties maybe. Money, if he wanted it, but no sense, which was why he was out here among the invisible homeless of London, sleeping rough – no, shelter, maybe, only rough in the summer, Lestrade was willing to bet – and turning down his opportunities. Political, probably; activist; git.

Amazing how it all came back to you. Like riding a bloody bicycle.

He knew exactly what to say. "Been about for a while. Had to leave our last patch." He shot John a quick look, just enough so the other man would catch it. "Might have been trouble. Just looking for a place to kip a night or two, just 'till…"

"Night centre here's good," the young man said. Feeling him out.

Lestrade shook his head. "Get you in there once, they start putting you into their system. Before you know it it's all counselling this and training that and your life's not your own anymore."

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught John's surprised look, but at least he had more sense than to say anything.

"Right," said the man opposite him slowly. "Well, there's a group of us that… you sleep out?"

"Yeah."

"Down at the river. We've got a spot."

"You inviting?"

He narrowed his eyes. "You want?"

"Yeah. We do." We don't come separately.

"Come on, then. What's your name?"

"Greg." John would catch on. Anything but his real name.

"James," and John stuck out his hand to the other man, who nodded and took it.

"Gabriel."

As they made their way back to the embankment, following at a carefully-judged distance behind Gabriel and his companions, John asked, "So – this is good, then?"

"It's all right," said Lestrade. "These guys – " he dropped his voice – "don't know anything."

"How d'you know?"

"They're just kids after a lark," he said. "If they didn't want to be here, they wouldn't have to be. No one who knows anything will talk to them, either."

"Then why are we with them?"

"We needed an in. We're not with them, we're just taking advantage of their space. Anyone with any experience out there will see that."

Experience hardened his voice; the harsh familiarity of what they were doing now seemed to age him a little more. John reached out and clapped a hand over his shoulder, then patted it uselessly for a moment. A stupid gesture, maybe, but he'd needed to do something to answer the rough raggedness he'd heard in the undertones of Lestrade's words.

"'s all right," he told the detective inspector. "We'll get what we need."

"Yeah," Lestrade returned, a shadow of his old grin on his face, "'cause Sherlock'll kill us if we don't."

"Murder all 'round, then," John agreed amiably.

Night fell; John found himself wishing for the caricature of homelessness he saw so often in films, old oil drums stood on end and filled with friendly flames, stew cooked in rusted tin cans and served and shared around.

Instead, he sat huddled in the grass just off the road, blinded alternatingly by headlamps of cars rushing by and then by blank darkness that followed, shrouding his eyes. Lestrade stood some way off, keeping a sharp eye out for Sherlock.

The detective was supposed to rendezvous with them every night. That was the deal – because they needed him (money; they had none and no way of getting any in their current state), he needed them (information, not that he wouldn't know already about what they'd seen that morning) and it maintained the fiction of their membership in his homeless network (vital; made them look like they were 'in the know,' made them look like they belonged). But it was late (perhaps; not having watches or mobiles made them a little hazy on the passing of the hours) and they had seen no sign of him. Maybe he wasn't coming.

"You should get some sleep, J – ames," he said softly.

"I'm all right, Greg." It was Lestrade's real name, given as an alias because he never used it in everyday life, and John felt strangely privileged to be saying it aloud.

"You're shivering. You can barely keep your eyes open."

"It's fine."

The older man sighed. "You can't – " but he was cut off by shouts ringing out from the edge of the street. His eyes snapped around.

"Stay here."

He crossed the grassy area in long, quick strides and found a couple of the kids from Gabriel's crowd standing opposite a group of youths (well, under-thirties, which to Lestrade was synonymous), angry and defiant, cursing in ways Lestrade had never even heard in his time on the streets.

"What's this?"

"Who're you, old man?"

"Shut up. What's this about?"

"'s about your mum, way I fu – "

"Shut the fuck up." He knew how to take charge – not just police experience, not just negotiation skills, but something harder and more dangerous, something he refused to allow himself to feel. "What. Is. This?"

The man addressing him lounged back, pursed his lips and cast a smug look at Lestrade. I don't have to take anything from you I don't want, was the message, and oh, how wrong he was.

"Lookin' for a Hoxton boy. We heard he was 'round these parts."

A cold smile began to gather in the corner of Lestrade's mouth. "Sure you have all your facts right?"

"You tellin' me you think I'm wrong?"

"I'm telling you I know you're wrong. No young gunners 'round here, the man you want's old blood. Love of Money. Or didn't you know?"

"Love of Money, what the hell is that? That's dead and gone. Bring 'im out."

"I have." And the smile twisted the rest of the way around his face, while the good, upstanding man inside hoped against hope that it would make him look like the street-smart idiot he had once been.

Clinging to that hope, he grabbed the sleeve of his shirt and pulled up, and as he did, he heard three things.

The kids behind him, gasping and falling back – they'd never meant to get involved in old gang wars. They didn't even understand the way it was out here, not really.

The kids in front of him, hissing and spitting (warm saliva on his cheek; he didn't wipe it off, no weakness here) and a silvery metallic sound he knew, he knew too well, oh, fuck –

And John, behind him, breathing, "Greg," as if in warning or in benediction, but he didn't know, he didn't know, he wouldn't have heard the sound, he wouldn't have known what to listen for.

Get out. John. Get out.

He stepped forward.

"Go on, then. But remember who you're taking up with now. You really want to start this?"

"G'wan, old man. Got nothin'."

He wasn't going to start anything; he knew better than that. If only he stayed still, if only the idiots behind him kept their mouths shut, if only these boys were just posing (but the knife, the knife was not a game)…

Everyone might still get out of here unharmed.

Crunch of dry grass as the first kid in Gabriel's group (no, not the first; more than one) took off. Good. That was right. The boys in front of him took a step forward, all of them, almost in unison. He nearly laughed aloud, and that would have been suicide right there.

One raised his fist.

He stood, unmoving –

but John didn't.

John's rugby tackle connected flawlessly with the man in front of him, taking him down, and if they had been in the army just then, it would have been perfect – take out the leader; cut off the head; the rest will follow when they have no orders.

But they weren't in the army and there was nothing worse John could have done.

They fought well, both of them, and John was handling two of them with ease, but Lestrade was looking for the gleam of metal and he was distracted – kick to the legs; he stayed upright, but barely – he hit back, sent the boy reeling, Christ, he was going to be sent up for this – blow to the back, fell forward, doubled over another fist, breathe, breathe –

There.

The knife he was hoping he'd imagined.

He yelled and slung a fist at the nearest figure, hoping to draw attention to himself (John, John), but he'd been fighting poorly and he wasn't their main focus anymore.

Another blow, low on his spine, sent him to the ground. He tried to drag himself upright, but a boot – his head – he tasted blood; the world around him spun wildly – first instincts; he covered his mouth with one hand and ran his tongue over his teeth, still there, all right, back up – there were other boots, other fists, but he couldn't think about them now, and he pulled mostly upright in time to see three of them on John (not three, he couldn't handle three) and the knife was there, right there.

He half-ran, half-stumbled over miles (six steps) of grass, John, John, Sherlock would kill him (no, he would kill Sherlock) (might be a moot point in a minute). No, too late, the knife was up, no time to warn the man on the ground in his old workout clothes, no time to grab the knife, just time, just barely time to fall –

He'd missed. The kid holding the knife had missed.

That was his first clear thought after collapsing on top of John, spreading his body out to cover as much of his friend as he could.

The second thought was, oh.

No.

He hadn't missed.

There was no pain, no… nothing, really, but the knife was still – he could feel it, grinding against something in him, robbing him of breath, but… no pain…

His third clear thought was now I understand, which made no sense, but that was when the pain began, because his body had rolled over and the knife dragged on his skin as it slid free (no, damn, that would be a problem now, but he had no energy to fix it).

John hadn't moved.

The last clear thought he had was terror, because John hadn't moved.