People filled the cathedral square as the light faded from the evening sky and Lestrade leant back against the sturdy brick of a tree planter near the entrance to the church. The end of the Missa Cantata was still reverberating through the ornate building and latecomers straggled in for the seven o'clock spoken Mass.

He and John were sitting on the pavement below the edge of the planter, using it to shield themselves from the wind. There were already a few people gathered about the square who didn't appear to have any intention of attending Mass, and they sent the occasional probing look (promptly returned in kind) toward the two men.

"Establishing territory," Lestrade said softly.

"What, like, telling us to leave?"

He inclined his head slowly to one side, the best he could manage for a no. "Just letting us know they're in charge here – been around longer. Seeing we're not going to make trouble."

"If they knew our track record so far…"

Chuckling, and Lestrade's hand on John's shoulder.

"It's fine," he said, reassuring. Westminster was a common place for sleeping rough – he'd done it time and again himself – and though the City Council strongly disapproved and residents of the area were none too pleased either, it remained a well-known place to bed down if you'd nowhere else to go.

"Shouldn't we, you know, warn them?"

What? That one of us or, failing that, one of them, might well be up for the chopping block tonight?

"That would be making trouble."

"Telling them it's dangerous?"

"With what proof? No. We just keep an eye out."

The deep tones of the deacon reading out the liturgy could be heard faintly from beyond the tall, arched doors and John turned to catch what little of the words he could. "Always wondered what it was like in there."

"Never been in?"

"No. Sort of felt like I didn't belong, you know? Not Catholic enough. Not Catholic at all. Have you?"

"Been in? Yeah, but not like you'd think. Part of an investigation."

They settled in, letting the half-intelligible words roll over them, relaxing in the rhythms despite the cold that tensed their muscles and bit into their skin. John shivered, and Lestrade said, "Swap me jackets."

"What?"

"Give me your jacket. Take mine."

"What? Why?"

"Mine's warmer."

"And you're hurt. Keep it."

"No, I'm not even cold. Come on." He had the short denim jacket off already, dropping it into John's lap as though he couldn't bear to touch it.

"I – " but John knew when he was beaten, so he stripped the windcheater from his body and helped Lestrade into it, getting it on quickly to preserve as much of the warmth in it as he could. "Why'm I getting the royal treatment all of a sudden?"

"I'm not cold."

"I've slept through worse. Soldier, remember?"

"So have I."

When the Mass ended, John nudged Lestrade and tilted his head toward the edge of the piazza. There was a brief glimpse of dark, swirling coat – Sherlock, early, lost amid the crowd of people streaming from the church doors – and then nothing.

"How long do you think," John asked, "before he's utterly bored?"

"Probably already is."

They shared a wry grin at that and lapsed back into cold, but comfortable silence. John, Lestrade thought, was the sort of fellow you were glad to have on your side – and the sort of fellow he was glad to have on Sherlock's side. Even if it did mean a bloody freezing weekend on the streets and having to play surgeon on some idiot gang-member-turned-copper who happened to be out there with you.

The square quieted as the last of the tourists and churchgoers vanished, and the dark shapes huddled around the edges of the open area were now no longer moving, staying for the night. Lestrade wondered for a moment which one of them was Sherlock, before rolling his eyes at himself for entertaining the notion that the detective would let himself be seen. He would be off somewhere around a corner or in a cab or on a rooftop, the melodramatic git. His eyes flicked up to the cathedral spires, but that was too ridiculous even for Sherlock and he shrugged deeper into the lined windcheater, hiding from the wind.

John blew on his hands, which he'd had shoved deep into his denim pockets. "Reckon we're convincingly asleep yet?"

"Might have been until you said that."

"Night, Greg."

His first name. He wondered why John had chosen to use it, but found he didn't mind. "Night, John."

He wasn't entirely sure he hadn't dozed off a few times. Certainly, he wasn't perceiving the night as clearly as he had been a few hours ago. The dark was thicker now, the piazza filled with the muttering of low voices and the wind. Cars passed occasionally down the street to their north, but the headlamps went unnoticed as they swept across the scene and continued on their way.

It was the sound that had brought him back to some approximation of alertness now, his mind fuzzy with cold; he'd heard something – a step, a breath, something that was out of place, too close. Now there was nothing, but if he stayed still…

Yes, one footstep and then another, quicker now across the paving stones in their direction – why had they stopped? To make sure they were sleeping, perhaps; or, if his earlier instincts were not wrong, to get a look at their faces. To be certain they were the two who had been making uncomfortable enquiries about a particular set of gruesome crimes…

Stay still, he warned himself again, as the image of the body they'd seen yesterday flashed across his mind. He'd seen it all before, yeah, at crime scene after crime scene. But the idea that he might be setting himself up for that – or, worse, John – still had an impact that an ordinary ten-forty-five wouldn't.

Wasn't going to happen. If he'd really thought it would, they wouldn't be here. Right?

Light step. Light step. Quiet rustle of cloth against cloth and every instinct in him screamed to roll away, get up, run, now –

"You'd be much better at this if you were less predictable," a voice rang out across the square.

Sherlock.

He was on his feet in moments, ignoring the rush of giddiness and pain.

Those same steps, heavy now, running away, and without even thinking, he struck out after them, feet landing at awkward angles as he followed the sound, wishing his eyes would clear of the bright sparks swimming in front of them so he could run properly.

"Hey! Hey," and someone caught him, holding him upright as he blinked, tried to push away, find the footsteps again. "It's all right, it's all right, we've got him."

Got him?

Sherlock came up behind them, walking – sauntering, damn him, like he didn't even care – and nodded. "Yes," he said. "Red-handed, if you will. Knife out and everything. I don't think we'll have much trouble proving intent there."

Lestrade grasped the tail ends of the words, mashing them together in his head into something meaningful. Red-handed… knife… trouble… intent…

Meaning to kill him or John. Or both. Better both; keep them quiet.

What?

"Killer… you…"

"Got him, yeah." And that was John, voice sliding from warm affirmation to concern. "Hey. You all right?"

"'course I am," he tried to say, but he didn't think that was quite what came out as he gave up being 'all right' and let his eyes fall shut.

This time, when he woke up, he was at Baker Street.

The couch, he thought, and felt the crispness of new bandages over his head and chest, the warmth of blankets wrapped tightly around him. And a heavy weight against his legs – or was that just one more thing he'd done to himself? He raised his head (bloody hell, was that ever going to stop hurting like that?) and cracked open one eye enough to see John Watson, fast asleep sitting on the floor, back against the couch cushions and his legs.

Oh, right, then. Why wasn't he in bed?

"He refused to leave."

"Don't do that, Sherlock," Lestrade whispered.

"Why not?"

"It's… unsettling."

"This from the man who baited a serial knife murderer. Twice, if one takes into account your enquiries at The Passage."

"Yeah, and whose bloody fault was that?"

"Will you two shut up?" John asked wearily from the end of the couch, position unchanged, eyes still closed. "I'm trying to sleep."

"Better off in a bed," Lestrade pointed out, "which you have right here."

John opened his eyes enough for a sleepy glare, then pushed himself up off the floor. "Shove over."

"What?"

He sat at the far end of the couch and wriggled down, making room for himself by pushing Lestrade out of the way. "All right?"

"That's not a bed."

"'s comfortable," he said. "Not climbing all those stairs now."

Much as it ought not to be, Lestrade had to admit it was comfortable. Maybe it was just long, cold nights on the street speaking, or maybe he was still too tired to think straight. Either way, he wasn't going to complain.

Twisting to look at Sherlock, he asked, "What about the murderer?"

"In custody. I did have police backup, you know."

"How – "

"DI Dimmock."

A small, satisfied smile escaped and danced across his face for a moment. So Sherlock could get along with other people if he had to. And Dimmock was a notoriously difficult man to get along with.

"Don't look so pleased with yourself."

"Do as I like."

"Go back to sleep."

Lestrade considered arguing, but decided he really didn't object to that at all.

It was good to have someplace to come home to in the end.