A/N: Still a bit in the trail of the last plotline, but with a twist: I'll let you see it through our friendly neighbourhood detective inspector. Don't worry, it will pan out in new directions. I'll give you the opening gambit here. More to come.

Happy New Year. -csf


1.

Sherlock is rightly a genius, but he can be a right pain in the—

Or so thinks DI Lestrade, grudgingly admitting Sherlock's amazing deductions on the lover's wife's twin's part in a scandalous affair hushed by the elite forces of the Commonwealth, involving a pick axe and a hot air balloon, were at par with the best in the consulting detective's official repertoire so far. And so were the snide remarks to the police detectives, and the frankly alarming threats to the forensic investigators who mishandled the axe fallen from the sky so badly that the evidence pointed to a crime committed in a supine position in bed, instead of a dog walk outdoors. There was even enough lyric vitriol to extend to the man's own poor, overworked assistant, the faithful doctor Watson. And that, more than anything, ticked Greg off.

Greg Lestrade is a patient man, and a hardened police officer with too many years of service to not try and meet difficult geniuses in flapping long wool coats with tried patience and a touch of fatherly wisdom. In fact, he saw Sherlock's potential much before Mycroft ever came frighteningly close to giving up on Sherlock, or John came along with his rose tinted glasses thinking Sherlock was amazing, brilliant, spectacular, and an all around world treasure. The first time Greg and Sherlock met, it was hard to avoid seeing the spark of potential in the lost young man that, whilst unfortunately strung up at the time, still deduced a triple murderer from incomplete evidence sticking out from Lestrade's jacket pocket (half hidden behind methodical labelling too). Grudgingly, Lestrade would, two weeks later, admit the young junkie had been correct in the crack den – or whatever that multiusers space was meant to be called nowadays, Sherlock had merely called it "useful for a kip" – and all the evidence the inspector was about to present to the prosecution pointed exactly in the direction of the night manager as the bold killer. That summed up what a young Sherlock had told him in a slurred but stubborn voice, from a darkened corner of... well, might have been the world's end for all it seemed to matter to Sherlock. The inspector took an interest in the young man so desperately seeking oblivion from his life, but that had quite a disturbing nonchalance on death and gore, and quite positively came alive – and half out of his chemical induced stupor – when debating crime scene evidence and elaborating murder theories. If a man like Sherlock Holmes could be that good half off his head, then the inspector would coax him to become the gifted investigator he could be.

Only that did not turn out well. Not at all. Sherlock was not designed to be a creature ruled by procedures and regulations. Or safety concerns. Not even common sense. And when the young man got himself back on track, took up a flat and evidenced new interests in the form of a violin, a shelf full of books, a glass case full of moths, and a short army doctor, the inspector was as much surprised as when he first laid eyes on Sherlock's own printed business cards stating clearly that he was now a "consulting detective". Eventually, Lestrade shrugged it off. It suited Sherlock, this own brand profession, entirely of his own making and ruled by no man's laws. And judging by Sherlock's new crisp lines attire, there was money somewhere up in his family tree, so he could actually afford to give it a go. Lestrade smiled and decided that if Sherlock was willing to reinvent himself in a healthier lifestyle, the DI himself would be a support when required.

It turned out the old addiction to crime scene puzzles became a major trait in Sherlock's blossoming returning personality (as many former addicts will testify, their personalities have to be rescued from under the rubble of successive burials through vice numbing). And it also happened that the short army doctor who had originally no inkling of Sherlock's ennui propelled self-destruction, was also blatantly disregarding it as if was a mere stumble in a brilliant man's life path. John saw a brilliance in Sherlock that Sherlock himself never got tired of seeing reflected in those bright big blue eyes. It did wonders for Sherlock to have the strong, steady belief in him John always emanated. Lestrade thought Sherlock would never tire of it, what with that flicker of vulnerability that you could spot in the externally acerbic genius every blue moon. But tire of it he will have, because a criminal mastermind came along, and before Greg saw it coming, there was Reichenbach, and St Bart's rooftop dramatic ending, and John was a detached shell of a broken man for many months to come.

John has assured Greg he's forgiven Sherlock for the ignominious deceit. Greg, for the most part, believes John has. Except that there was this time John and Greg got caught by a people smuggler and John's head got a big bump, and John kept slurring whilst talking nonstop, no social filters left from a neat concussion that made him a bit cross eyed, and John said things he won't recall having said, and he sobbed every time his damaged mind kept forgetting Sherlock had returned from exile and returned him six feet under, and that John wasn't alone in a dark place anymore. When Sherlock finally sauntered in to release them from captivity, the patient, world-worn inspector punched him so hard in the face it sent him reeling backwards. "Sorry, you startled me, thought you were one of them", he had lied, as soon as the pent up guilt came flooding in; "look, John's in need of medical attention", he had added hastily to avoid further explanations. Whatever Sherlock had deduced from this outburst, Greg never came to find out; or possibly he learnt it from deducing Greg's features. As a saving grace, the inspector made sure that Sherlock would not hear John's private concussion soliloquy until the hospital's medication kicked in and sent John into a repairing slumber, blessedly silent (apart from a bit of snoring). What had passed was now over and done, and reliving it would only cause all parties further pain, so Greg absolutely never would bring it up.

It did, however, leave in the gritted inspector a fondness for the small army doctor, that in his selfless and intense bravery, was so quick to deflect attention from his own needs, whilst dedicating more than the normal share of energy to Sherlock's. And if ever Lestrade thought Sherlock was being the proverbial pain in the backside to John, more than John was able to deflect with his easy going nature, Greg stepped in, like a father figure trying to get the house back in order.

Unorthodox methods work best with Sherlock. John was quick to spot that from the beginning of their friendship, and profits from his quirky imagination. Not that John is manipulating Sherlock. He's just good at responding to that madness that comprises the consulting detective, because he so is revitalised by the adrenaline-fix world where anything can happen at the drop of a hat, a magician's world with white rabbits jumping out of top hats and midnight chases across London's rooftops (Greg should know, he's dismissed a few concerned members of the public's reports suggesting giant foxes with super climbing powers). Anything boring and predictable is akin to physical pain in Sherlock's world. So a mere lecture would yield very limited results, Greg was sure, and leave them both miserable.

And this is how Lestrade came to find himself ignoring a greasy bacon sandwich at his lunch break, sat at his desk, pondering if the internet was big enough for two arrogant consulting detectives. He decided he was going to find out.

Inspired by Sherlock's beloved scientific method as it demands so often, Lestrade started designing his little experiment.

.

'Sherlock, have you seen the paper this morning?' I ask, intrigued by the black on white words I just read.

The detective looks up from his microscope and notes, easily: 'Found the newspaper, you're holding it. Another case solved. Don't be afraid to give me a really difficult one next!'

'What? No!' I shake my head in disbelief, but won't pursue it further. 'I mean, have you read the newspaper, Sherlock?'

'I rarely do that. I've got you to do that for me, John.'

'Ta, I think... Sherlock, come on, have a look at this', I request his attention, trying to get his gaze unstuck from the microscope's eyepiece. I'd feel bad for interrupting some important scientific experiment, but I'm not so daft that I haven't noticed Sherlock's got no slide on the stage. He's using his toy to pretend he can't give me the time of day.

Probably still sulking because I gave him a lecture about the importance of starting the day with a healthy breakfast.

'Sherlock...' I insist.

'What is it now? Another clairvoyant claiming to have foreseen their own demise by the hands of a psychopath is angrily demanding said psychopath's release from prison?'

'What? There never was a clairvoyant like that in the newspapers.'

'There was the last time I read the personal ads, if you read between the lines!'

I grimace, utterly confused.

'Sherlock, you're no longer the only consulting detective in the world – if you ever were, I think that's just a fancy title for a detective, a private eye, a mystery man, a dick; there were plenty of names for your job back in the day, you know.'

The detective currently in the flat raises an imperious eyebrow. That eyebrow valiantly attempting to take over my bedroom upstairs, by the looks of it.

'What do you mean, no longer the only one?' He suddenly grabs the porous paper out of my hands. 'Why is this person on the news? What does it say?'

Patiently I summarise, even as his slightly unfocused and frenetic eyes scan the pages: 'France has got their own Sherlock Holmes, that's what it says there. He works with the Parisian police, helping them solve crimes. He's a forensic expert, a puzzle solver, a rational machine; he's even got nice cheekbones, they say.'

'Preposterous!'

'Maybe. But it's a fact, mate. He's got a lot of success, and a friend that helps him around – a bit like you do. Any of that sounds familiar?'

Sherlock balls the newspaper and growls.

'That's alright, mate', I say, holding back a snort. 'There'll never be anything like the original in my mind. Besides, you can't solve all the cases that baffle the police or that arrive by email. There's more than enough space for brilliant detective copies.'

'John, I will not abide to be... serialised!'

'And', I add pragmatically, 'he's in France. I'm sure your paths won't ever cross.'

Sherlock squints so hard at me that his left eye is developing a twitch.

'You're enjoying this.'

'Only a little bit. Then again, I'm not an insecure genius.'

Sherlock snarls and quickly unravels the newspaper ball to scan the pages in apocalyptic haste.

'Where, John? Where!'

'Page 27, bottom right. Really, mate, it's alright.'

'Easy for you to say, even your name is commonplace, John.'

I sigh and give up. Let the genius wallow a bit in the loss of his unique stance in the consulting detective business. It's amazing how my friend never saw it coming, anyway, I ponder, glancing out of the window onto the street, where a group of teenage girls are giddily trying to take a picture of 221B, cosplaying in matching deerstalker hats.

Oscar Wilde once said that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, did he not?

.

TBC