I hold a lot of appreciation for a certain DI. This chapter attempts to do him some justice.

John had barely reached the door when it flew open to let him in, Sherlock's bright eyes on the other side.

"Computer," John said, and Sherlock took two long strides to pick up his laptop and hand it to him, and he sat down where he was to type in the address on the napkin, Sherlock sitting on the floor next to him, crowding his shoulder to look over it. "It's a dreaming thing, my sister was talking about it; I think this guy must be learning it, because he's going through the dictionary of it, see, look - " he clicked on abacus and Sherlock read the description.

"Outdated views?" she said, frowning, and John raised a hand.

"Wait, it makes sense, or it did, I swear, look at bailiff," he said, maneuvering the trackpad, and he felt Greg shuffle to stand behind them, crossing his arms and bending over to look at the screen too.

"Ahh," Sherlock said as she read it, and Lestrade frowned.

"I don't see it, Sherlock."

"Abacus," John explained, "represents outdated views. The murderer left it to represent that he had gotten rid of old misconceptions - in this case, perhaps, the idea that murdering is bad?"

"And the bailiff's definition: crossing a certain boundary and you must be held accountable for your actions. He knew we were onto him, and he knows he's crossing a boundary," Sherlock explained. "What's cactus, John?"

John held his breath as he maneuvered to the page, hoping Sherlock would see the same connection he did. She let out a quick hiss. "Invasion of personal space," she murmured, "he feels we're getting close."

"Need to defend oneself? Needing to adapt? It's all there. He's telling us how he feels, what he's doing," John said, and Sherlock nodded.

"You said it's a dreaming thing your sister was into?" Sherlock asked. "Who got her into it?"

Frowning, John reached for his phone. "Don't know, let me text her," he said, then stopped as his hand hit something else in his pocket. "On the other hand," he said slowly, "Harry's been working in the area near Brockwell Park, and a single mother who runs her own business gave me her card at the gardens there the other day, and her business name is Dreamers." He handed the card to Sherlock, who stared at it before giving him that look again, the one that said You're brilliant when he really wasn't.

"Right," she said popping up, and looked at Greg, who looked back warily.

"Oh, no," he groaned and shoved his hands in his pockets. "What is it I've got to do."

Sherlock grinned gleefully. "Well, a big bad policeman might be able to get a sweet little dream reader to talk about whether or not she's been helping mentor someone rather tall and scary, I think."

Lestrade groaned.

In the end John convinced Sherlock to let him try being 'good cop' before sending Lestrade in to be 'bad cop'. "After all," he reasoned with her, "We did just help her son, and I am a doctor. She might listen to me."

And so it wasn't long before he made an appointment through the same cheery lady on the phone, trying to explain awkwardly that he didn't want his dreams read, he just wanted to talk to Ms. Pillington, and yes, it was important.

"Four o'clock," he said, hanging up the phone. It was what - noon? Five hours till then? Sherlock frowned at him.

"Oh, shush, you'll be fine. Why don't you do what you can to narrow down our suspect list when we have it, and I'll make us some supper," John said, rolling his eyes, and Sherlock's frown hinted at a pout, but she turned back to the case file, and Lestrade sighed. John looked at the Inspector. "Care to help? She got the head out of the fridge."

Cooking with Lestrade was fun, actually, and as the bedraggled copper told him about how his wife was unfaithful and he wasn't getting sleep and Sherlock was making a mess, John found himself sympathizing. Too bad the man's wife was an idiot, Greg really deserved better. But only someone as patient as Lestrade could find the strength to work with Sherlock Holmes.

"I'm surprised," the DI said as he stirred the pasta. "You're managing really well."

John looked at him, widening his eyes, and Lestrade shrugged. "Coping. I mean, she trashed your flat this morning. Why doesn't she just use her own, anyway?"

Shrugging, John went back to adding garlic powder to the sauce. "She set fire to her sofa. I think it was just an excuse to get into my flat, though. She likes company."

"Sherlock Holmes?" choked Greg, and John grinned.

"Here, help me drain that," he ordered, and Greg carried his pot over to the sink to pour over the strainer. "I dunno, just because she was okay on her own doesn't mean she wouldn't enjoy someone," he defended Sherlock as Lestrade leaned back from the steam, and he coughed.

"It's not that she was okay on her own," Lestrade said, and held the pot still for John to pour the noodles back in. "It's that she chased people off. Anyone who tried to get in a spare word, poof." He mimed an explosion with one hand, nearly dropping the pot and grabbing it at the last second. John frowned.

"Why would she tolerate me, then?"

Lestrade grinned. "Well, I've been trying to figure that out. Not that you're not brilliant on your own merits, mate, it's just that till a week ago I was certain no one on earth would be good enough for Sherlock Holmes."

"You were," John pointed out, and Greg shrugged self-deprecatingly.

"Naw, I was convenient. Gave her something to do."

"Why keep coming back, then, if you thought she didn't like you?"

"Because - because Sherlock Holmes is a brilliant woman," Lestrade admitted. "And some day, I think she might even be a good one."

John frowned thoughtfully. "I think she is already, to be honest."

"Oh," Lestrade said, and then grinned. "Well, there you are, then. That's your reason, I think." John blinked, not understanding.

"Reason for what?" Sherlock said from the door. "Are you two finished? I'm starving." Both men looked at her like children caught in a candy jar, and John grinned.

"Grab some bowls," he said, and nodded at a cupboard, and Sherlock fetched them, and a moment later he and Sherlock were on the couch and Greg was in John's seat, enjoying dinner. Or, John and Sherlock were, and Lestrade was staring.

"What?" Sherlock finally said, looking up and pushing a curl out of the way so it wouldn't go dripping into her pasta.

"You're eating," Greg said, bewildered, and Sherlock rolled her eyes.

"Yes. Why is this so confusing to people?"

"She doesn't normally eat on cases," John explained to Lestrade.

"Diverts energy from thinking," Sherlock agreed, stuffing her mouth with more noodles.

"- But right now I suppose you have everything all figured out so you don't need to worry about it?" John said, teasing lightly, and Sherlock looked up, swallowing what she'd just chewed.

"Got everything I can from this," she said, waving at the file, "and I can't continue without more data. Drawing conclusions without data is idiotic, you end up suiting data to conclusions instead of letting data lead you to conclusions. Besides, I do need the energy to think with, I just don't like digesting and thinking at the same time. Eat, Lestrade, before you go into shock."

Lestrade blinked and stared down at his bowl of pasta as if he were seeing it for the first time. "Right," he said, as if he were suiting up for something dangerous, and dug in.