CHAPTER 7: LOOPHOLES

WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 7, 2015

'I am sure I misheard you, detective inspector. Would you care to run that by me again?'

Greg Lestrade had been expecting this sort of a reaction—he had geared up for it, in fact, by running through every possible argument in his head again and again over the last forty-eight hours—but he wasn't finding this conversation any less uncomfortable. Gregson was a man he respected, who he believed had a favourable opinion of him in return. Only, right now, Lestrade was making himself out to be an absolute dunderhead; the expression on the chief superintendent's face was proof enough of that.

He spread his hands, less so in apology than in acquiescence to the absurdity of his request. 'I know how ludicrous this sounds.' That's right, concede the insanity. Only the sane recognise insanity for what it is. Right? 'And given the current . . . climate . . . the timing couldn't seem worse. But sir, I've known Sherlock Holmes for years, almost half my career. I've worked closely with him before. I know how effective he can be.'

'That's hardly the point.' Gregson managed a half-hearted laugh, his own acknowledgement that he hardly believed he was taking part in so ridiculous a conversation.

'He's already involving himself,' Lestrade reasoned. 'I couldn't stop him from investigating if I tried.'

Gregson shrugged. 'We could always lock him up,' he jested.

'What I'm telling you is, he's good. He's better than good. He found important evidence regarding Sam Jefferies' murder in the dark, for Christ's sake.'

'Because your team didn't have the wits enough to look up?'

Lestrade didn't let that slight derail him. 'I could use someone like that working at my side, not ten steps behind me about to pass me up.'

'Listen to yourself, Greg! Because it sounds like you're saying you can't do your own job.'

'That's not what I'm saying at all. You oversee me; I oversee a team, a team I am instructed to hand-select. I wasn't meant to do this on my own. It's in the interest of solving crimes that I assemble the best of the best, and Sherlock—'

'—doesn't even work for the Met!'

'But he's the best. If I could bring him on, on a contractual basis . . .'

'The Yard does not consult amateur detectives. That's all there is to say on the matter. You know that, so why we're even having this conversation is beyond me.'

'But we've worked with him before. Dozens of times.'

'Never officially. And it was never transparent what you boys were doing—bringing him in on cases, inviting him to crime scenes, letting him look at corpses and handle evidence . . . If there were an official investigation, do you have any idea the sort of trouble we'd find ourselves in? There's only so much we could pin on Pitts.' At that, Gregson laughed again, rubbing his face. 'Look. I know the bloke's brilliant. Genius-level brilliant. And I also know he's not a killer. But those people out there'—he indicated all of London with a jab of his finger—'they don't know that, and the reporters would have a field day if they learnt that we had decided to hire him on just days after clearing his name. They'd think we we've in bed with the man from the start. It's impossible, don't you see that?'

'I don't care what they think. And I don't care about all those other cases. I care about this case. And this case is one that Sherlock Holmes won't simply walk away from. For his own safety, and for John Watson's and all the other poor bastards like Sam Jefferies out there, it seems prudent that we take full advantage of every resource at our disposal. And Sherlock is the best damn resource we've got.'

Gregson regarded him seriously across the desk, and silence hung between the two men for a long moment. At last, the chief superintendent let out a long breath, closed his eyes, and shook his head no. 'I'm sorry, Lestrade. I really am. I just can't make it happen.'

Lestrade left the chief superintendent's office in defeat. Being honest with himself, he hadn't expected things to go any differently. Luke Gregson was no Tony Pitts, but he could be just as hard-nosed. All the same, Lestrade was kidding himself if he thought he would have given a different answer had he been the man behind the desk and some bumbling excuse of a detective had come begging to consult with a man formerly suspected of homicide, however wrongly.

On the one hand, he was relieved. At least he wouldn't have to explain to Donovan why it was that Sherlock Holmes was just over there, crouched over a dead body with a magnifying glass enlarging the smile on his face. But he was more greatly disappointed. Not only would he have had far greater confidence in apprehending the sadistic bastards whose sick game of torture continued, but he was also looking forward the day when he could show up on Sherlock and John's doorstep with good news, rather than having another tête-à-tête devolve into a shouting match.

He was messing things up. He knew it. He was on Sherlock's side, on John's side, but he wasn't doing a whole hell of a lot to prove it.

Unable to stand another second inside NSY, he grabbed his coat from his office and fled. Though there was work yet to do, forms to fill and papers to file, nothing demanded his immediate attention. He was going to see Molly.

But two steps out the front doors, his mobile sounded.

'I see you've left the Yard,' said Mycroft Holmes.

'You know, I'm getting a little weary of you knowing my every minor move.'

'Nonsense. I know only the major ones.'

'If this is another assignment, I'm telling you, Mycroft, I'm full up at the moment . . .'

'Not an assignment, Greg. I have news to relate.'

'Good or bad?'

There was a pause. 'That depends entirely on who's asking. From my perspective, good. From yours, bad. Sherlock may very well agree with you, and John will most likely agree with me.'

Lestrade rolled his eyes; let the CCTVs pick up on that. 'Well?' He reached his car, hit the unlock button on his keychain, and slipped inside.

'Sebastian Moran had no hand in Mr Jefferies' murder.'

His hand stilled on the key in the ignition. 'What? How do you know?'

'Allow me to amend: no direct hand. He wasn't there on the night of the murder. Someone else assisted Hirsch in the homicide—if Sherlock is to be believed that two men were involved.'

'I wouldn't doubt it.' He twisted the key, and the engine roared to life. He cranked the heat to the right and waited for the car to warm properly. 'Okay, I'll bite. How do you know this? If Moran wasn't there, where was he?'

'He's been spotted.'

'Where!'

'Baranavichy.'

Lestrade thought a moment, and Mycroft let him. Then it slid into place. 'Belarus. Sherlock passed through there three years ago.'

'October 2011, to be precise. If our recreated timeline is accurate.'

He was remembering more of the details. 'He anonymously exposed the major players in a human trafficking crime ring, part of Moriarty's network.'

'And seven men went to prison. I'll give you seven guesses, inspector, regarding which Belarusian prisoners just received early parole.'

'Son of a bitch.'

'Eloquently put.'

'So this is what you call good news, is it?'

'Inasmuch as John's tormentor is twelve hundred miles away, yes. What do you call it?'

'I want to put the bastard behind bars, and that's a little difficult when the maniac is twelve-hundred miles out of my jurisdiction. We need him here. Neither Sherlock nor I would let him get anywhere near John.'

'Nevertheless, I'm sure John will sleep just a little easier. He's eluded us again, the slippery devil, but my people are working on apprehending him. So for now, you can focus your attention on whom Sherlock so colourfully calls the Slash Man.'

'He didn't come up with it.' The car was getting comfortably warm, and he was eager to be on his way. 'Anything else?'

'Just pass it along. Though, as ever, no need to mention where it comes from.'

Lestrade shook his head in exasperation. 'When's the last time you actually saw Sherlock for yourself?'

'I paid him a visit day after Christmas. There was, of course, no mention of the holiday. I'm sure he and John did nothing by way of celebration. I didn't stay long.'

'You're really taking full advantage of his being alive again, aren't you,' said Lestrade sarcastically.

Mycroft's deflection was swift. 'Off to see the lady love, are you?'

Lestrade hung up.

He found her running forensics tests in the lab, bedecked in white lab coat, teal latex gloves, and oversized goggles. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, the loose strands secured with hairgrips lining her head like a crown. When she saw him, her face lit up with a smile.

'Wasn't expecting to see you,' she said, peeling off the gloves. She seemed to have forgotten about the goggles, but he liked the way they sectioned off her eyes. She had such large, brown eyes.

As the crossed the room to each other, he had the impulse to offer her a hello kiss, but perhaps that was too familiar, too soon? What was the proper order of these things? What if she ducked? Swatted him away? God, he'd not dated anyone in ages. A man his age shouldn't have to play this game anymore.

At the last second, the risk seemed too much, and he swerved straight to the question: 'Any chance of getting away for a bit?'

They left Bart's, and Lestrade directed them north, aiming for the Three Compasses on the other side of Smithfield Market. It was cold, but they walked slowly, side by side, gloved hands buried deep in coat pockets and taking the long way around. She didn't ask why he had popped over but seemed only happy that he had. Soon, they were speaking lightly of London in the summer and what they would each do if they had a week free from obligations and a warmer sun and a kinder city. Lestrade learnt that Molly had never been to a show on the West End despite a lifelong dream of going, and Lestrade mentioned that he had never been on the London Eye because it had always seemed too 'touristy'.

'Sounds like two failings that ought to be rectified,' she commented, grinning sideways at him.

Not once during the entire walk—he was already lamenting not having chosen a more distant destination as soon as the Three Compasses came into view—did he mention a case he was working; not once did she talk about cadavers. Not once did either of them bring up Sherlock Holmes. It was as though, for a single but ephemeral moment, they didn't exist in a world of crime but stood apart from such heinous goings-on, as though they were two normal people, common Londoners, enjoying a normal, grey, but carefree London afternoon together.

Having arrived during the dead hours, the pub was nearly empty. They sat at a square table by the window and ordered two Bailey's lattes. Molly continued to talk animatedly about her rows with her new landlord (regarding a faulty doorbell, the unreliable hot water, and her downstairs neighbours playing hip-hop music at three in the morning), and Lestrade would have felt guilty, having set her up in the place, except that she smiled through each story and reached each punch line with a laugh. He had an almost irrepressible urge to reach across the table and take her hand, but unaccountable shyness forestalled him.

It made no sense to him, this reticence. Not really. Molly would not withdraw her hand—he was sure she wouldn't. In fact, he was fairly confident she would be delighted at the gesture. So he couldn't say what was stopping him. He had been so much bolder as a younger man. He'd certainly been bold with Angela. Probably too bold there. They had rushed into things too quickly, marriage included, and had crashed and burned like a hijacked aeroplane (her metaphor, not his). Why they hadn't walked away from that wreckage years earlier than they did still perplexed him, and when they finally did, he discovered (to his shame) that he was afraid of fire, afraid of getting burned again. And Molly—she burned so brightly. He was mesmerised, couldn't look away . . . but couldn't touch.

'In fact,' she said, and he shook his head slightly to tune back into the conversation. He grinned guiltily, realising he hadn't caught a word from the last two minutes; he'd just been enjoying listening to her voice. But she was now looking a little uncomfortable. She hesitated, took a drink from the mug, and licked the foam from her upper lip.

'In fact what?' he prompted.

'I was going to call you later today anyway. Something that happened this morning that I thought you should know. You and Sherlock.'

And the streak was broken.

'All right,' he said, a touch wary.

'I had a visitor,' she said.

'Who?'

'I've forgotten her name, I'm afraid. But she was a reporter, she said.'

Lestrade couldn't stop the grimace. 'Kitty Riley?' he said between gritted teeth.

'Yes, that was it.'

'Damn that woman. What did she say to you? What did she want?'

'Just to ask me some questions, she said. At first it didn't seem like a very big deal, you know? How long had I worked at Bart's, do I often work alone, that sort of thing. I couldn't figure out why she was there, at first, why she was talking to me. But then she asked how long I'd known Sherlock. That's when I realised I probably shouldn't be saying anything at all. The papers haven't been very kind.'

Lestrade leant eagerly into the table. 'What all did she say, Molly? Every word you can remember.'

Her eyes went wide. 'Why? Is she'—her voice dropped to a whisper—'dangerous?'

'She knows more than she ought to. And she's drawing all the wrong conclusions to boot.' His hope that this would be a case-free, Sherlock-free hour was dashed, but there was no possibility of returning to less dire conversation. 'Go on, what did she say?'

'Well, she does seem to know some things she shouldn't.'

'Like?'

'She knows I had been seeing Ji— Rich— I mean, Jim. She knows my signature was on the coroner's reports for both Sherlock and Richard Brook. She also knows I was working the night you all found John. So she kept asking me about my relationship with Sherlock. When did I first meet him? How well did I know him? Would I say we were close? Did I see John when they brought him to hospital and what was his condition? That sort of thing.'

'Oh god.'

'I didn't answer her questions, Greg. Any of them.'

'No, no, I'm not saying you did. But she's digging in the right plots.'

'What's she after?'

'She's trying to prove that Moriarty wasn't real and that Sherlock's a madman. And a dangerous one. She's not looking for truth—she's trying to create it. Right now, she's more a nuisance that a danger, though character assassination is never pretty. If too many people believe her, and enough already do, things could get downright ugly for Sherlock.'

'Nothing's ever easy where he's concerned, is it?'

He laughed despite himself. 'God forbid his life get too dull.'

'Exactly. Then where would ours be?'

His lips closed over his teeth as he tried to maintain the smile. Her large eyes lifted and met his, and over nearly drained lattes they held one another's stare. Lestrade wanted to tell her that Sherlock or no Sherlock, the course of events would very likely have worked out just the same, and he would still find himself sitting across from her in this pub, exactly where he wanted to be. But he wasn't sure even he believed it. If it hadn't been for Sherlock's return, no matter how grim the circumstances . . . He felt guilty feeling that something good had come from it at all, especially when John had lost so much. But he wanted Molly to know that he had no intention of taking her for granted. He parted his lips and was on the cusp of saying this when, to his displeasure, that wretched mobile sounded in his pocket.

'So sorry,' he said, digging into his pocket. Her smile stayed frozen on her face even as she turned her head away, looking at the exit. Damn whoever this was, and if it was Sherlock of all people . . . 'Lestrade,' he said.

'Detective, are you in the building?'

It was Gregson.

'Not at the moment, no.'

'Well, when you get back, pop into my office, would you?'

'Yes, sir. I'll be there soon.'

When he hung up, Molly said, 'I need to get back to the lab anyway.'

'I'm'—he stopped himself from saying sorry; he said sorry far too often to her, it seemed—'glad I got to spend even half an hour with you. It's never enough.'

'It's never enough,' she agreed. She stood and began redressing in scarf and gloves. 'Walk me back?'

'We'll take the long way.'

She rocked a little on her heels, happily. 'And slowly.'

When they stepped outside and met with the frigid air, Molly slipped an arm through his, and within two paces their feet were in sync.

Two stacks of files were waiting on Gregson's desk when Lestrade returned. One tall, one short. The chief superintendent held a single sheet of paper, and from a cursory glance, Lestrade could see that it had four columns of writing, some long, some short, all annotated in biro, but he wasn't especially adept at reading upside down at a glance.

'I was unhappy with our earlier conversation, detective inspector,' he said once Lestrade had accepted the invitation to take a seat. 'So I started reviewing the numbers.'

Lestrade's brow furrowed in confusion. He hadn't yet cottoned on to whatever Gregson was talking about, but rather than ask, he waited for enough of the chips to fall.

'Were you the first officer ever to use Sherlock Holmes on a case?'

Of course, this would still be about Sherlock. He felt a censure coming. 'I believe I was, yes,' he said truthfully. Full disclosure then: 'I used him more than anyone.'

'When was that? The first time, that is.'

He thought a moment. The first time? He hadn't exactly called the man up. Instead, Sherlock had phoned the police himself, and when he and his team showed up to the crime scene, they found this peculiar young man—god, he'd been so young then!—standing over the dead body of a teenage girl. Lestrade had never seen anyone quite like him. He was tall, thin, angular; well-dressed and clean-shaven and yet with an air of poverty; a haughty, almost Victoria sensibility superimposed on a juvenile smarminess; a phlegmatic intelligence with a vampiric edge. Sherlock hadn't waited two seconds before launching into a cool though rapid-fire explanation as to how it had happened, everything from the murder weapon (a wine bottle) to the colour of the murderer's cat (calico). Then he finished, face stoic but eyes alight and awaiting their awe and adulation. After all, he had been so thorough, so detailed, in every particular. So, naturally, they arrested him on the spot.

But it was during the subsequent car ride—Lestrade's then-partner in the driver's seat and Sherlock Holmes handcuffed in the back—that Lestrade began to have his doubts about this strange suspect, right about the time that Sherlock deduced his childhood overbite, morning dental appointment, and most recent failed attempt to quit smoking. He had been irritated as hell, but impressed. So he had pulled the strings he had known to pull at the time, and they held off booking him, kept him for questioning, and ultimately followed his leads, which led to the arrest—and ultimately the conviction—of the maths teacher.

Perhaps the first dozen times, Lestrade had shown up to a crime scene only to find that this Sherlock Holmes had beaten him there. But the first time Lestrade had called him?

'Two thousand and . . . four, I think. Ten, eleven years ago, I guess.'

'Yes, that's what I thought.'

'Sir, what is this about?'

'Between 2004 and 2010, the Yard's homicide division—and notably cases headed by you—saw a steady increase in cases solved and a dramatic decrease in cold cases. And during the years 2010 and 2011, those numbers soared.'

Two thousand and ten, Lestrade thought. That's the year Sherlock met John.

'These'—Gregson laid a hand on the tall stack of files—'are all the cases headed by you from January 2010 through June 2011 that were solved, beginning with the Jeff Hope serial murders. An eighteen-month span. These'—he laid his other hand on the considerably shorter stack—'are the unsolved ones. Do you know how many there are?' He fanned them out easily. 'Four. In eighteen months. That's a hell of a record, even for the best detectives.'

Lestrade ran a hand across the stubble on his chin, remembering. He knew exactly which cases those were. Sherlock had been in Minsk during one, uninterested in another, and genuinely stumped by the other two. Anderson still talked about those two, gleefully.

Gregson sat back in his chair and spread his hands. 'After June 2011, those numbers drop again. Not abysmal numbers, just nowhere close to what they had been. Above average for a Yarder, sure, but . . . well, you understand?'

Treating the question as merely rhetorical, Lestrade continued to say nothing. Of course he understood. Sherlock was brilliant, and he was not.

'He's good, isn't he?'

Clearing his throat, Lestrade said, 'Better than good. The best.'

'Then you see my dilemma.'

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. No, he didn't, quite.

'I can't just dismiss this kind of a closed-case record. No matter how you slice it, more cases get solved when this Sherlock Holmes is involved, isn't that right?'

He nodded stiffly, uncertainly. What was Gregson driving at?

'That's what you were telling me this morning.'

'Yes, sir.'

'You still want him, then?'

Lestrade controlled his reaction and answered smoothly. 'I do. Absolutely.'

'Right.' Gregson sighed, laughed shortly, and said, 'Now understand this, Lestrade. Like I said before, I can't just let a civilian take part in a criminal investigation. Legal matters don't simply disappear. But there may be some ways to work around it. What if he's no longer just a civilian?'

'What do you mean?'

'Put him through the process. We hire him on, good and proper. As a constable. We give him a patrol beat or make him work trafficking for a year or two . . .'

Lestrade's solid composure was broken; he threw his head back and laughed.

'No?'

'You know, I made a similar suggestion, back in the day, when I was first getting to know him.' He giggled a little more, remembering the look of utter repulsion on the young man's face at what, to Sherlock, had been the most indecent of proposals. He hadn't thought of that in a long time, and it made him smile. 'Believe me. He'd rather fake his own death all over again than become a copper.'

'Kind of him to condescend to help us, then,' Gregson said sarcastically, though without offense.

'He likes the brain work.'

'Very well. It was just a thought. It seems that the most viable course of action, then, would be contractual work, an official consultant of some sort.' He put up a hand to stop Lestrade from speaking. 'Now, I know what he calls himself. Consulting detective. The trouble is, detective work is our area of expertise. We do not consult on that point. I don't know the man like you do, so I leave it in your hands to find a reasonable, legal way to bring him onto cases where he can be an asset and not a hindrance.'

'Yes, sir.' Lestrade's heart was pounding with excitement. He would never have had this conversation with Pitts, not if half of Scotland Yard had been murdered and only one man could find whodunit.

'I'm giving you a lot of leeway here, Lestrade. Don't make me regret doing so.'

'I promise, you won't.'

Gregson grinned tightly. 'I don't expect it will be a popular move. Not just with the public, if they get wind of it. Some of the officers around here have very strong opinions regarding Holmes.'

'I'll handle them, sir. I've done it before.' He stood and closed the top button of his suit coat. 'But believe me: this is a good move.'

'I hope so. Oh, and Lestrade.'

Lestrade paused with his hand on the office door.

'Maybe it's none of my business, but how is it going with Dr Quinton?'

The amicable air between them suddenly cooled. 'Fine,' said Lestrade. 'Good. I expect he'll deem me cured any day now.'

Gregson did not miss the cynicism. 'You know I can't have an officer with . . . unresolved issues, distressing issues, performing in a dangerous environment where his judgement might be compromised.'

'I'm not traumatised, sir. I'm not.'

'Well then. If that's the case, I'm sure Dr Quinton will recommend that you be taken off probationary status any day now, like you said.'

Lestrade grit his teeth and continued out the door.

THURSDAY, JANUARY 8, 2015

It was not the most elegant solution. But it was a solution.

Lestrade punched his code against the doorbell and was buzzed up seconds later. Once inside their flat, he found Sherlock setting his violin back in its case and heard John laying dishes in the sink; next moment, he came into the sitting room and gave Lestrade a nod by way of greeting.

'John,' Lestrade returned. He was hoping for something of a smile, but John didn't seem to do that anymore. 'Sherlock.'

'Lovely, you recall our names with perfect clarity,' said Sherlock, dry as ever.

'It's called a greeting.'

'I notice you have once again brought me a file. How wonderful.'

Lestrade put on his happy face and said, 'It's not what you think. I've got good news.'

'If it's about Moran being in Belarus, you can save your breath. We already know.'

'Do you?'

Of course they already knew—Lestrade had planted the information within his private database on the Yard's 'secure' network the night before, a database he suspected Sherlock checked regularly. It was how he kept Sherlock informed without revealing the true source of his information. That Sherlock did not ostensibly suspect made Lestrade feel very clever indeed, though the feeling of triumph extended only so far. It was hard to feel triumphant when you had no one to brag to.

But he played along. 'I guess I'll just skip that part, then.'

'I would hardly call it good news in any case,' Sherlock said.

Lestrade withheld a telling smirk and glanced swiftly at John to see whether Mycroft was right about him as well; John, however, was impossible to read. Instead, he crossed to the sofa and sat, setting the cane aside. He leant forward, elbows on knees, to listen.

'Nor do I,' said Lestrade. 'But that's not what I was referring to. You told me, Sherlock, to find a way to make it right with the Yard, didn't you? That is, to make you right with the Yard. Well, I have.' He waved the file in his hand.

For once, Sherlock didn't have a biting retort. Instead, he looked genuinely curious and reservedly pleased. 'Oh?'

'That's right.' Lestrade told himself to keep smiling, to keep Sherlock in a good mood. Then he'd see that his solution was . . . sensible. That, and nothing-different-whatsoever from what they had done in the past. 'All you have to do is sign a single line on a simple form. A contract with the Yard. You sign it, and we can bring you in on any case you're interested in.'

Sherlock's eyes narrowed suspiciously, much of his good humour already gone. 'A contract?'

'Of course. You're not an officer or employee, so it's a contractual agreement that simply makes it legal for us to have you at crime scenes. Procedurally, it will be just like it was before. Only, now you'll have a little laminated card to add some, erm, legitimacy.'

'Hm.'

He wasn't buying it. He knew there was a catch. Lestrade waited for the questions.

'If this is only a simple contract, why did I never sign one before?'

'Ah. Yes, well. There may be a little bit of a caveat.'

'Predictable. Very well. Let's hear it.'

'Well, Sherlock, in order to be given contractual work with the Yard, you have to be an approved expert in a field useful to an investigation.'

Sherlock's spine straightened and his eyebrows lowered. 'I'm a detective,' he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, hardly worth saying aloud.

Lestrade winced. 'Not an official detective of the Metropolitan Police, and that's the only kind Gregson or anyone will go for. Detective work is out. We have to prove you're an expert in a field in which the Yard doesn't already have expertise.'

Sherlock now cocked an eyebrow but, mercifully, refrained from offering his opinion on that point. 'Fine. The science of deduction, then.'

'Yes, well, it's not really a recognised field . . .'

'Chemistry.'

Lestrade was now squirming a little where he stood. The smile was slipping. 'You're good, Sherlock. You are. But'—he sighed—'you do not have an advanced degree in chemistry, do you? Without that, the Yard won't recognise you as an expert.'

'He doesn't have a degree of any sort,' said John from his place on the sofa.

'Waste of time,' Sherlock said, looking pleased with himself.

It was true—Sherlock had attended only two-and-a-half years of university before becoming fed up with his uninspiring professors, mundane classes, under-intelligent classmates, and so forth. His excuse: uni was thoroughly under-stimulating. So he had dropped out and studied on his own, after his own fashion, never graduating, and never achieving any accreditation of any sort. Three years later, he began solving crimes.

'Not serving you so well now, though, is it?' Lestrade couldn't help saying. Sherlock glared, but in annoyance, nothing worse. 'Look, it doesn't matter, because I think I have a way around it.'

'What way?' asked Sherlock.

Here it came. 'Well. John'—he turned to John now—'we hire you on as a medical consultant. You're a doctor, and a ruddy good one. And what with your army experience, having served in a medical capacity with real combat fieldwork, you're unique: I checked, and there's no one quite like you down at the Yard. You'd be invaluable.'

Something passed across John's face, an expression Lestrade didn't have time to name before it was gone. Was that excitement, or apprehension? Not for the first time since coming up with this plan, Lestrade began to doubt including John at all. Not only was he uncertain whether John was in any sort of mental condition to take on solving violent crimes again, but he was also completely unsure whether he would want to. As much as he wanted Sherlock, he half hoped John would simply say no.

But whatever John was thinking, it was concealed behind a carefully constructed mask of indifference. 'And Sherlock?' he asked.

He ran his tongue over his teeth and geared himself for the response. 'We bring him on'—he swallowed the uncomfortable rock lodged in his throat—'as your assistant.'

To his surprise, he saw John's lips quirk up on one side before fading again.

'Assistant!' Sherlock said. His face kinked with revulsion. 'I am not an assistant!'

'It's just paperwork, Sherlock,' said Lestrade with every effort to keep it light, meaningless, a trivial thing. 'Point is, it will get you to the crime scene. Once there, you just go about things as normal, like you always have done.'

Sherlock was hardly assuaged. 'But I'm not allowed to the crime scene unless I'm tagging along behind John?'

'Well, no. Officially, you can't come without him . . .'

'Absurd!'

'You say it like it's a bad thing,' said John, but even Lestrade could tell it was spoken in jest.

Sherlock waved a hand. 'Come on, John, you know it's not like that. But it's entirely impractical. What about those days when John . . . can't come?'

A silence fell, each man inserting his own meaning into Sherlock's pause.

'He has a point,' said John to override the awkwardness. 'We're not joined at the hip, after all. Would I be able to'—Lestrade could have sworn John was not struggling to keep himself from grinning—'send him on assignment?'

Sherlock made a sound like a growl and spun on the ball of his foot, striding toward the window.

Lestrade couldn't help the smile that spread across his face now, and he exchanged a look of camaraderie with John that they hadn't shared in a long time, a look that said, Our genius has the emotional discipline of a toddler. At that, he knew John was on board, and because of that, no matter what fuss he made, Sherlock was sure to follow.

'Why yes, I dare say that such would be entirely within your purview as his boss.'

'I'll sign, then.'

'Honestly, John,' said Sherlock petulantly, though he did not turn around.

'Do you need a pen?'

'There's one right here on the desk, I think. Yes, here it is.'

'I've filled out your information already.'

'Thank you.'

'You're welcome to read the contract in full.'

'I'm sure it's in order.' John scribbled on the dotted line. 'Sherlock?'

Sherlock whipped back around, snatched the biro from John's outstretched hand, and bent to sign the damn contract.

'Intolerable,' he muttered, slashing ink across the page, right below the name John H Watson.