CHAPTER 20. ENCOUNTERS

Greg Lestrade, had known Sherlock Holmes Consulting Detective, young genius ex addict and royal pain in the ass for five years now. Five years, and in that time he learned just a handful of things, almost immediately the first being, the man was a bloody genius and the conceded bastard was more than aware of it.

Lestrade also knew that Mycroft Holmes was not one to be trifled with, and the less contact he had with the man the better. It gave him chills just thinking about having to deal with the older Holmes. Greg had put up with Sherlock's insults, his impolite observations about Lestrade's marriage and the personal lives of all those Greg worked with, the stealing of evidence, the harassing of witness' and alleged victims, the text messages in the middle of the night calling for back up, or naming the identity of the murderer.

He'd even put up with the damned sticky fingered sociopath pinching his ID badges and when Lestrade had been a smoker, the bastard would steal the DI's cigarettes as well. All these things he knew about Sherlock Holmes all of it impersonal information, superficial at the very least.

It wasn't as if Greg didn't care about the man, in reality he'd come to respect the git, but he also didn't fool himself into believe that the friendship or respect was two sided. He could deal with that, he wasn't some school girl with a crush. Greg wasn't even sure Sherlock knew his first name, if he did he never used it in the time they'd been acquainted. Sherlock wasn't like most people he wasn't sentimental or emotional unless it was about a case.

Well the one exception was Mrs. Hudson landlady the Landlady, he'd only ever known Sherlock to embrace the elderly woman and flash an appreciative smile in her direction. Lestrade never asked but he assumed she'd known the younger man a lot longer than he, often he found himself wondering just how the two met.

Sherlock was difficult on his good days, poor Mrs. Hudson had the sociopath living as a tenant downstairs and now he'd moved to her upstairs apartment. How could she have put up with him all these years, without going mad?

These were the thoughts running through Greg's head as he tried to figure out who the hell the newcomer was. He'd watched perplexed as the shorter blond man leaned into a cane his limp very evident, that was the only real noteworthy thing about the seemingly ordinary man. That was it, ordinary, and he managed to keep up one stride behind the tall long legged Sherlock. Who could he be, and why was he here? This wasn't a tourist attraction and Lestrade was already going out on a limb calling the consulting detective in.

When Greg demanded to know who the other man was the only reply from Sherlock was "He's with me." As if that was all the explanation the DI needed, but god help him he would let the other man accompany Sherlock. Some battles weren't worth fighting, but at least the shorter man had waited politely for Lestrade's approval to follow Sherlock into the room where the murdered victim was.

The silver haired DI stood back, allowing the two men to inspect the body of the female victim clad in a horrible pink, definitely not German.

"Poison" the blond man frowned, and Sherlock was on his feet firing off observations. Lestrade tried to catch them out of the air just as fast as they came but like usual he lost all hope at deciphering the language that was uniquely Sherlock. Before he could ask for a layman's version of what was said, the man with the limp and cane beat him to it.

John, that's what Sherlock called the man, and Doctor Watson. So John Watson was a Doctor, but what the hell was he doing here and with Sherlock? Something about their relaxed body language and the peculiar way in which the genius detective started to explain slower and in detail without the usual bite of irritation or sharp insults.

Lestrade observed curiously, they weren't lovers, Sherlock wasn't at all interested in anything that wasn't a crime. The Doctor didn't look the type to be interested in that sort of thing, so who was he? He carried no family resemblance so he wasn't a relative, god help the world if there were more than two. To make things even more off, Sherlock Holmes was showing patience for the Doctor's questions. Lestrade couldn't help but stand with open mouthed shock.

Looking over the Doctor again, Greg saw nothing seemingly out of the ordinary, in fact the Doctor or John appeared to be ordinary in every way. From his haircut to the checkered shirt he wore.

Then the whirlwind that was Sherlock was demanding a suitcase and just like that Lestrade was left staring at the open door, Sherlock was practically skipping down the stairs. The Doctor followed slowly, and to no surprise of Lestrade's the Detective left his friend, no Sherlock didn't have friends, he left his, Associate? behind.

Should he mention something to the older Holmes? Watching the Doctor makes slow progress down the spiraling stairs, he thought against it, poor man didn't need the scare, he was thin and looked as if he'd just got over a recent illness. No need to send him back into the hospital or have a hand in his disappearance. Nope, Lestrade had a crime to solve, he'd investigate this Doctor John Watson later.

~0~

John managed to make it out of the building onto the street, his leg pained him not used to so much activity, but he didn't mind. It felt good to be out, although a crime scene wasn't top on his list of ideal outings.

The soreness of his leg, and the cold bite of the London night air was worth the chance of seeing Sherlock excited, and practically skipping. For a moment he could see the small curly haired six year old he'd once met on the way to the library.

Having been Sherlock's friend for so long being left behind didn't bother him. He knew that sooner or later his friend would realize that he'd forgotten someone, by then John planned on being back at their flat. He liked the sound of that. "our flat". He'd just moved in and already it felt like old times, the same messes and clutter, though the body parts in the fridge was a new addition to things that made Sherlock an interesting flatmate. At least at UNI Sherlock hadn't the access to body parts. Thumbs next to the carrots would definitely take some getting used to.

"You're not his friend." Sally Donovan jumped at the chance of getting to talk to the man that accompanied the freak.

"Excuse me?" John walked under the lifted crime scene tape, the woman holding it had been the rude one that attempted to verbally spar with his flatmate earlier. Something John watched straight faced, knowing from the years of Uni and summer holidays that when someone tried to be condescending to Sherlock it never worked out in their favor.

Out of respect he never fought his friend's battles, knowing how the younger man hated feeling as if someone needed to take care of him, he was an adult, although this never stopped John from stepping in to take a fist to the face or gut, all in the name of friendship of course.

So this frizzy haired Sergeant was actually going to trash talk HIS friend, this should be interesting.

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends, you've met him. I'd stay away from him if I were you."

"But you're not. Are you?" John couldn't help it. "Since we are throwing unwanted advice around Sergeant Donovan-" The army Captain in John Watson surfaced now his shoulders straightened and back stiffened. The Captain met the surprised women's brown eyes with a cold glare.

"Here's some for you. Sherlock is a genius." She snorted but John continued on, holding her brown eyes with an intense stare. "Maybe you wouldn't have your pride hurt and every flaw advertised to your coworkers if you were a bit more professional and less scathing to a man who is attempting to help you find a murderer. Jealousy isn't very becoming Sergeant. In fact it's a little sad."

"I'm not jealous!" She fumed crossing her arms over her chest.

"Oh?" John flashed a lopsided smile, eyes full of doubt.

"Who do you think you are?"

"His friend." John replied and using a clipped tone that signaled the end of this particular conversation he asked. "Now if you could direct me to the street, I need to catch a cab." She turned on her ridiculous black heels without a word John shrugged and headed in a direction hoping it lead to a main street, a smile still teasing the edge of his lips.

He passed a ringing phone in a telephone booth. Then while holding a hand out for a cab, he heard a phone ringing in the restaurant behind him but when the waiter moved to answer it the ringing stopped. John glanced away from the window and tried to refocus on finding a cab,maybe it was his stature because several passed him by, his unimpressive height no doubt making him invisible. It's not like he was a tall, mysterious dark haired detective in a long coat.

He moved further down the street leaning on the cane hating having to lug it around, this cane was bothersome. He wondered if a day would come and the cane would no longer be needed. Another phone's ringing caught his attention this time from the phone booth.

OK not coincidence. So, he answered it.

"Hello Doctor Watson, please get in the car." And on cue a black car pulled up to the curb. He sighed looking out at a cctv camera that moved suspiciously in his direction, then across from that one another moved to focus on him.

The line went dead and John new that this was coming, he hung up the phone and made his way slowly into the black car. Hoping that Mycroft wasn't going to disappear him. John Watson didn't look forward to this meeting at all. But it couldn't be helped, it must be done, might as well get it over with. He contemplated texting Sherlock goodbye, but decided against it.

"Doctor Watson." A young brunette woman didn't look up from her blackberry she continued to text. Yeah, she would be one to work for Mycroft, John only greeted her casually.

"Any chance you can tell me where we are headed?"

"No." she replied in an uninterested tone.

"Do you have a name?" he sighed.

"Anthea." She gave a false smile, leaning into the leather seat John wondered if this was it, at least he'd get to go seeing a pretty face. A pretty but uninterested face, oh well.

"That's not really your name is it?" The woman didn't look up,

"Uh, no." she smiled politely.

"Thought so."