Sherlock sighed. Lestrade could be so horrifically slow sometimes.

"Obviously it was the stepbrother." He stood up and began to pace the room.

"Obviously?" asked Lestrade, blind and oblivious as always.

"Just arrest him, Geoff, he'll confess after about two minutes of struggling." Sherlock shook his head in disbelief. "Honestly, there's a reason Mycroft refers to ordinary people as 'goldfish', but he always spoke so highly of you I thought I had misjudged you. But I suppose my brother would be the kind to look beyond someone's intellect if they showed enough interest, and I'm sure he finds Gerald attractive enough in his own right."

"Your brother?" John asked. Sherlock stopped pacing and looked at John, ignoring Lestrade's spluttering and sentence fragments.

"Yes, my brother Mycroft."

"Mycroft Kingsley? Head of Communications For Her Royal Majesty?"

"Mycroft Holmes you mean, but yes, that one. You've met him, he came round for dinner a few weeks ago."

"He did?"

"The night after we arrested the Russian gunslinger in Coventry?"

"Ah yes." John didn't sound quite convinced, but Sherlock was too bored of talking of his brother to bother trying to convince John anymore. He felt John's eyes follow him as he went to the kitchen and picked up the teacup he had left there that morning, pouring its remains into the sink.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, and Sherlock turned to his friend, head cocked.

"Yes?"

"Why the hell did you pour your tea on the floor?" John asked. Sherlock turned to the cup in his hand.

"I… I didn't. I just poured it into the sink. It had gone cold. Isn't that what you do when you don't want to drink something?" Sherlock asked, confused. John studied him for a second, then leaned back in his chair.

"I suppose it is." He said quietly.

Lestrade spoke up after a moment, saying, "You know Sherlock, I think I might have something you could help with."

"Really, I thought you said you'd not gotten anything new."

"Well we haven't. It's not new necessarily." Lestrade paused, and exchanged a look with John that Sherlock couldn't read. Finally, he continued, "A guy turned up on the streets, raving mad with cocaine on his person, knowing nothing about his life but his name. He's been in a psychiatric ward for about three months, and hasn't recovered any memories that we know of."

Sherlock clasped his hands under his chin, and stared down Lestrade.

"What's his name?"

"Ah…" Lestrade looked at the floor, and John jumped in for him, saying, "William. William Scott."

"You know him?" Sherlock was surprised. John got out of the flat more than Sherlock of course, but Lestrade didn't usually tell John cases before Sherlock.

"It was in the papers, don't expect you paid attention." John explained after a moment's reflection.

"I'm sure I didn't." agreed Sherlock.

"Well, we're trying to figure out how he went round the bend, how to help him and maybe where his family is or at least something about him other than his name. Think you'd be willing to help out?"

"Oh, I don't see why not. Better than sitting in here and trying to keep myself occupied on my own." Though he said it nonchalantly, Sherlock felt like leaping for joy. Finally, a real case! Something intriguing and new and exciting, almost as fun as a serial murderer! A madman found wandering the street with only his drugs and name in his possession. The possibilities were endless!

"Perfect, I'll come and get you and John at 9:00 tomorrow morning, alright?"

"Yes, fine, good." Sherlock said distractedly. Already he could feel his mind starting up and beginning to process and speculate. He didn't even notice when Lestrade left, and only grunted noncommittally when John said he'd be out for a walk two minutes later.

"Well that was better than it usually is, he didn't throw anything or even raise his voice all that much, and he actually let me go pretty soon after you," John said, closing the door quietly behind him and joining Lestrade in walking down the hall. "And I know we already talked and I gave your plan the okay, but do you really think he's going to be able to help in his own case? His subconscious is forcibly blocking his memories, what makes you think he'll be able to figure something out if you make it into a case?"

"I think that if he thinks he's investigating a case about someone totally random, it might trick that deductive brain of his and let him figure out what happened to himself."

"True." John allowed, turning a corner.

"We'll have officers around at all times, and I already talked to the manager here, she said he was free to leave as long as you went with him as his head doctor and we brought him back before the doors close."

"Reasonable enough, I suppose. The outside could do some good for him, I won't deny. That's part of the reason I agreed to this. I'm just worried that he'll snap at someone and land himself in jail."

"I think he can handle it if you're there and we've got people stationed around him in case something happens. Lestrade said hopefully. They reached the end of the hall, and Lestrade extended his hand to John, who took it and smiled.

"We'll see you at 9:00 then?"

"9:00 it is." Lestrade grinned, then ran a hand through his hair and lowered his voice.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention what Sherlock said about Mycroft and I to anyone else. There's absolutely nothing to it of course, but we can't have rumors spreading around, especially when he holds such a significant position in the government and all. I still don't know how he managed to figure-" Lestrade stopped himself before he gave himself away, and John chuckled for a moment.

"Of course not," he said, pretending not to notice that Lestrade had gone bright red as he talked. "I wont say a word."

"Thanks, Dr. Watson." Lestrade nodded at him, and after saying goodbye, walked out of the building. John smirked and after a few seconds, turned back around and headed to the cafeteria to get a bag of crisps.