Sherlock kept popping up at Lestrade's crime scenes, offering either the vital clue if they were almost finished, or solving the case from start to end. Sometimes Lestrade would text and invite Sherlock, and sometimes Sherlock would just come of his own accord. On the first crime scene after Lestrade's meeting with – or, abduction by, as Lestrade thought of it – Mycroft, he sidled over to Sherlock while the consulting detective was examining an earring belonging to the victim. He was slightly hunched over, staring at the piece of jewellery intensely, holding it right up to his eye, as though trying to differentiate each atom of the silver.

"I met your brother the other day," Lestrade remarked casually.

The effect was instantaneous. Sherlock paused and stayed stock-still, so still that if Greg didn't know better, he would have thought Sherlock was carved out of wood; and though his eyes didn't move they unfocused from the earring and simply stared ahead. A couple of seconds later, however, he unfroze. His eyes refocused on the earring and he kept inspecting it as he muttered, trying to act as nonchalant as possible.

Greg had to lean it to hear what Sherlock was saying to himself, but he thought it sounded like: "Bloody Mycroft can't keep his sodding great nose out of my life."

Sherlock then paused again, and woodenly straightened up.

"Did you take the money?" his voice was sharp, and his eyes darted over suspiciously to look at Lestrade.

"The…how do you know about the money?"

"The money to spy on me. Of course I know why he kidnaps everyone who comes in remote contact with me. Did you take it?"

"No!" Greg was indignant that Sherlock would think he would cave into bribery.

Sherlock simply shrugged.

"Well, like I thought, it was the nephew. This woman and her sister had a major falling-out – the victim was left the majority of the two women's father's money in his will and refused to give any to her sister. Taking his mother's side, the nephew decided to take personal revenge on his avaricious aunt."

Sherlock and Lestrade began to leave as the team packed up the crime scene. In the cruiser, Lestrade decided to broach the subject of Mycroft again.

"So, you and your brother don't get on very well?"

Sherlock's eyes once again darted suspiciously to glare at Greg.

"Well, the one time you mentioned him you sort of spat his name out, and then said it was 'unfortunate' you have a brother. I'm not stupid," Lestrade winked.

"Hm," Sherlock looked reasonably impressed. "You're more perceptive than I thought."

"Also, talking to your brother, I got the impression that your relationship isn't very good. Doesn't take a genius to work it out."

"God knows it mustn't have," Sherlock muttered softly.

He took to glaring out of the window. Lestrade knew that Sherlock wasn't enjoying this conversation; especially by the way his hands were slightly clenched into fists. But he pursued it anyway.

"So, you don't get on well?" Lestrade repeated.

"My brother and I have long ago come to an understanding to not understand each other. He doesn't understand why I won't follow in the 'noble footsteps of the Holmes family', and I don't understand how he can be such a treacherous git. He follows me and I avoid him. He annoys me by following and contacting me, I annoy him by not doing what he wants."

"Why don't you like him? He seems very concerned about you; it seems that he likes you."

Sherlock snorted.

"Very funny Inspector. He doesn't like me; he is responsible for me, and he promised mummy no harm would come to me. He has to keep me safe under his wing. He has no choice. And you ask why there's no big family reconciliation so that I accept his help and we all live happily ever after? You see, over fifteen years of negative history between us is a lot to overcome. It won't happen."

Sherlock quietened, and took to looking back out of the window. The crime scene had been fairly close to New Scotland Yard that day, and the drive wasn't a long one. As they approached the Yard, Lestrade was fully intending to drive past to cross the bridge to Lambeth and Vauxhall, but Sherlock stopped him.

"Drop me off here Inspector, I can walk. You shouldn't go further than necessary."

"No it's all right! Here Sherlock, how about I take you all the way home today?"

Sherlock smiled – Lestrade couldn't work out whether it was sardonic or derisive or something else entirely – and shook his head.

"No, I really don't think that's a very good idea."

There was something strange about Sherlock's tone.

"Seriously Lestrade," Sherlock's voice dropped to a more earnest one, "let me out. You don't have to take me home."

"Why not?"

"Because you need to get back to the Yard, and where I'm going is very out of the way for you."

"Sherlock," Lestrade's voice mirrored Sherlock's in sincerity and authority, "I want to see where you live."

"Well good luck getting me there if I don't tell you where to go."

Lestrade sighed. He knew he'd lost the battle, so dropped Sherlock off and watched the detective's coat swoop away from the cruiser. He turned the car around with a twinge of regret and piqued curiosity.

The next several cases Sherlock declined lifts altogether, lest Greg try to drive him all the way again. Twice Sherlock had shown up at a crime scene Lestrade had to turn him away because Sherlock's pupils resembled pound coins and he darted energetically and talked incessantly. In those moments no matter how good he was, Lestrade couldn't accept his help. Greg would watch him go with guilt billowing inside him for putting him on the streets alone in such a vulnerable position, but he couldn't leave the crime scenes. All he wanted was for Sherlock to be off the drugs.

It was a blustery, cold early morning that Lestrade was called to a crime in progress around Lambeth again; it was one of the poorer suburbs of London and the crime rate was high. The sun hadn't quite risen yet, and it was the time of the morning where everything looked deep blue, and though it wasn't dark, it wasn't light either. Arriving at the scene he found himself in a wide, dingy, dark alleyway that was home to people sleeping rough – sleeping bags lay on the ground and by the light of his torch Lestrade could make out figures all around him. They were huddled at the opposite end of the alley, petrified of what was going on ahead.

He advanced slowly as he could see the commotion at the end of the street, and his torch shone over something that reflected the light back. It was a gun. He drew his own weapon; he was dealing with a possibly life-threatening situation. Lestrade had done this many times before, but his heart always pounded sickeningly hard, right up in his throat. He ignored the worried, unsettled feeling in his stomach and pressed on, down the alley. As he approached closer, the scene was made clearer.

A man was holding two others at gunpoint. The aggressor was tall, thin, and with short-cropped hair. Lestrade's attention moved to the hostages, and felt sick at the sight of both of them. The shorter was standing rigid, scared witless, a young boy who looked only around fifteen years old. He was obviously homeless going by his slovenly clothes and bedraggled face, and his eyes darted worriedly around the place, trying to find a way out somehow. Seeing a police officer on the scene, his face visibly relaxed slightly.

The second hostage made Lestrade's heart drop to the bottom of his stomach. He was a tall figure, with a long black coat and scruffy black curls on his head. He stood, looking quite at ease, completely juxtaposed with the boy he was next to. Of course – Vauxhall borders Lambeth. Sherlock glanced over at Lestrade languidly.

"Police!" Greg cried, his voice emanating authority in waves.

The armed man whipped his eyes around to look at Lestrade, but kept the gun pointing steadily at Sherlock and the boy. His two hostages were backed up against a wall where there was a row of sliding dark red metal doors. It looked like a row of disused garages. Some of the doors further down were open, and Lestrade noted that they were in fact being informally used, filled with sleeping bags, dirty and frayed couches and rickety tables. It looked like the homeless lived in them.

"Don't move! Move and I shoot them – both of them! I'll kill them!"

Sherlock snorted: "Terribly optimistic of you."

"Terr – what's terribly optimistic? What do you mean?" the gunman spat.

"Terribly optimistic of you to predict the outcome of you besting me in a fight. No, I don't think so. Any undertaking of the sort against me would be woefully misinformed. You see, I'm afraid there are two rather large problems with your plan: I am me, and you are you."

"Sherlock," Greg was terse, and didn't want any provocations. Sherlock may have been convinced of his fighting ability and immortality, but Greg wasn't.

"Really Inspector, it's all fine. Lestrade, I'd like you to meet Robert Whitehall, your killer regarding the triple murder on the south bank of the Thames."

"One more word, and you're dead!" the killer yelled at Sherlock.

The sandy-haired young boy froze in terror again, and Lestrade's heart went out to him in sympathy.

"I'm going to ask you to lower your weapon sir," Lestrade instructed.

"No! You think I'm an idiot? I do that, and I know you'll splatter my brains onto this pavement with your own gun!"

"If you lower your weapon I wouldn't do such a thing, as the law would go against me. However, should you keep your weapon up now, or fire, the charges against you will be all the more severe."

"Think I care? I've got enough against me as it is!"

"Two more deaths at your hand would increase your charges considerably. I'm going to ask you again to lower your weapon."

"No!"

"Sir," Lestrade warned, his voice harsh, "if you fire your weapon now at those two, I will be forced to shoot you as well. This is your warning."

The atmosphere was so icy that the tension was almost tangible. Greg was sure that he'd be able to cut through it with a knife if he tried. Everyone waited for the attacker to make a move. The only person whose body seemed to not be wracked with fraught tension was Sherlock. He seemed perfectly calm. In the distance, Lestrade could hear his back up arriving, and prayed that, with the other officers helping, they'd soon have all of this under control. If only they'd hurry.

Suddenly, the young boy dashed to the side and behind where Sherlock stood in an attempt to escape. In that second, all hell broke loose. The assailant fired his gun, and Lestrade was forced to fire his in turn, aiming for the non-fatal position of his leg. Both bullets missed their target, and ricocheted off the walls to land on the ground. Sherlock then lunged at the attacker, trying to bring him down. Two loud bangs exploded from the ends of both guns once more, and this time there were two cries of pain. Two fell to the floor. Followed by one short syllable of deafening silence.

A/N: Well…I didn't mean to shoot anyone so early on in the story, but here it is! Ta very much to everyone still reading this! A special thank you to everyone who has reviewed, followed and favourited, you make my day! :) Don't forget to leave a comment if you feel like it ;)

And one of the lines in this story cannot be credited to me, but to the wonderful John Finnemore. Can anyone find it? ;)