A/N: This might be a really clichéd story concept, but as I've yet to find a fic based on it that doesn't involve slash, I had to write one. There isn't enough proper Sherlock fanfic that focuses on bromance rather than romance, which is a shame, because it's the friendship between these two which define the whole show - and truth be told, the original Conan Doyle stories as well. So, here it is: the friendship of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, from the eyes of New Scotland Yard (re: Lestrade).

Disclaimer: Sherlock and all its characters belong to the BBC.

"Well?" questioned Lestrade as Sherlock straightened from his crouch.

"Dull," the detective said dismissively, carelessly stepping over the dead man. "Honestly, Lestrade, I thought you said this was interesting. It was obviously the ex-wife."

"Really? How do you figure?" It was a common question by now; Lestrade was used to Sherlock's seemingly far-fetched deductions — and he wouldn't have bothered to keep asking if it weren't for the fact that he suspected Sherlock secretly enjoyed being asked to share his incredible observations, despite the way he always acted as if it were a waste of his time to explain his thought processes to those of inferior intellect. Of course, Lestrade was always keenly interested in knowing just how Sherlock arrived at his conclusions — but he wouldn't ask if he thought the detective actually meant any of the scathing insults that usually accompanied such an explanation.

True to form, Sherlock huffed in exasperation and replied, "As always, Lestrade, you look, but you don't see. The victim's injuries were clearly caused by a car running over him, but the blood-streaked tire tracks lead out of the driveway, not in — the car was therefore parked in the driveway and backed out. This isn't his house because the keys in his pocket are for the Ford Focus parked by the roadside and the soil on his trainers is found in Harrow, not here. So, he was visiting someone who ended up running him over with their car, but who? Not a friend — he's a homebody, doesn't like to go out, certainly not in the middle of a working Thursday — see the stiffness of his watch strap? He's dressed surprisingly well for a home visit — ironed shirt, pressed slacks, blazer — very formal, but if one's visiting someone in their home it implies a familiarity that doesn't require such formal attire. So, someone he wanted to make a good impression on, and obviously someone he knew — indicates a breakdown in the relationship. There's a tan line on his left ring finger from a wedding ring recently removed — he hasn't lost it and he's not having an affair because he doesn't go out much. A divorce, then — if his wife had died he'd leave it on. Divorce, good impression — he was coming to see his ex-wife in the hopes of gaining her signature on a settlement favourable to him. She didn't take it well, ran him over with her car, took the divorce papers with her to remove evidence. Obvious." He paused. "Also stupid, because the investigation would have revealed the house to be in her name, making her an instant suspect." He scoffed derisively. "If you're going to commit a murder you should have the sense to do it somewhere that isn't absurdly easily traced back to you. As I said, dull."

Lestrade shook his head, full of awe, as usual. Could awe still be considered awe if it happened so frequently?

Only when Sherlock Holmes was involved, apparently.

"Hey, Freak." Sally Donovan appeared, looking supremely irritated. In her hand she held a blank white envelope, which she thrust violently at Sherlock. "Letter for you."

"That's…kind of you," Sherlock observed with a raised eyebrow. He didn't yet take the proffered letter.

Donovan scowled. "Kind has nothing to do with it. Bloody government official didn't want to 'get his shoes dirty in all the blood' and ordered me to get this to you. I only agreed because I didn't want him compromising the crime scene any more than you already are. Now take the damn letter before I rip it to shreds."

"Really, Sally," Sherlock said snidely as he took the envelope and started turning it over in his hands. "I can hardly be compromising the crime scene if the case is already solved, can I?"

"You're not serious," she scoffed. "You've barely been here five minutes."

"As I told Lestrade, it was dull. Exceedingly so. Not worth my time." He abruptly frowned as he fingered one corner of the envelope. Lestrade was observant enough to notice the very slight widening of his eyes; Donovan was not.

"You don't have to come," she said bitingly.

She expected a response, a verbal lashing of some sort that insulted the intellect and abilities of Lestrade, herself, Anderson, the whole New Scotland Yard; it was the norm, after all. She was surprised when Sherlock said nothing and merely stared at the plain envelope in his hands as if it were a puzzle he didn't particularly want to solve. She'd seen that look before, of course, when Lestrade called him for a case he considered beneath him, but never like this — never with that utterly blank look in his pale eyes, devoid of any coldness or condescension. Sally slowly realised that this was Sherlock's expression of dread.

"Are you expecting bad news?" Lestrade asked softly. He, too, had read the detective's frightening stillness for what it was.

"Most probably." Sherlock's voice was composed, controlled, but there was the tiniest of tremors running through it. "Excuse me."

He walked past them and left the crime scene, still holding the unopened envelope like it was fragile crystal glass.

Sherlock didn't respond to any texts Lestrade sent that day, or the next. The detective inspector would have tried calling if he hadn't been certain that Sherlock would refuse to answer.

On the morning of the third day, four people turned up dead in the north, south, east, and west sectors of London, each gruesomely murdered in exactly the same way and, according to the medical examiners at St. Bart's, at exactly the same time. While the murders had obviously been committed by the same person, no one at Scotland Yard could figure out how one individual could have simultaneously and creatively killed all four victims in different parts of the city — particularly since the crime scenes showed no evidence of the bodies being moved or the scene being tampered with. Even Anderson admitted (very, very grudgingly) that the only one who might possibly be able to make sense of this one was Sherlock Holmes. Donovan actually volunteered to come with Lestrade to Baker Street to ask the consulting detective for his help — partly out of a desire, admittedly, to know what it was that had elicited such a strange reaction in the cold-blooded Freak at the previous crime scene.

Sherlock's landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was a sweet, motherly old woman who reacted bizarrely when the pair showed up. While most people would have been apprehensive to see two police detectives at their door, Mrs. Hudson had been Sherlock's landlady long enough to view it as a normal occurrence, occasionally even offering them tea or biscuits. Today, however, her eyes positively lit up when she recognised them.

"Oh, I'm so glad you're here," she said as she ushered the inside. "It's terrible of me, but I do hope this particular victim's been murdered very creatively."

"What?" Sally gaped, wondering if the Freak's psychopathic tendencies had rubbed off on his landlady.

"Oh, no, dear, ordinarily I wouldn't wish any such thing," Mrs. Hudson assured her, "but at this point I think it's the only thing that will stir Sherlock to any sort of action at all. He's been in such a dark mood since the news…"

"What news?" Lestrade asked immediately.

"Why, the news from Afghanistan, of course!" Mrs. Hudson looked astonished. "Didn't he tell you?"

Lestrade and Donovan exchanged horrified glances.

"No, he didn't," Lestrade responded.

Sally's stomach twisted as she realised what the letter she had so resentfully handed to Sherlock must have been. The Freak adamantly insisted that he had no friends, but Lestrade had informed her that he had a brother in the British Government (and wasn't that a terrifying idea, a Holmes in power); it wasn't inconceivable that there was another brother — or a sister — in the army.

"Oh, dear," sighed Mrs. Hudson sadly. "Well, you'd better go on up; I'm sure he already knows you're here."

"Wait, Mrs. Hudson — who does Sherlock have in Afghanistan?" It was suddenly vital for Lestrade to know.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "Oh, no, that isn't for me to say. It's up to Sherlock whether he wants to tell you. Go on, you two — try to make the case sound as interesting as possible, won't you? It's not good for him to lie around all day."

With that, she shut them out of her ground-floor flat, leaving the two Scotland Yarders to apprehensively climb the seventeen stairs up to Sherlock's flat. Neither could remember ever being so anxious to talk to the self-proclaimed sociopath before.

Sherlock was lying on the sofa, his hands clasped over his narrow chest and his long legs stretching straight out; it didn't look as though he'd moved in several hours. His eyes were firmly fixed on the ceiling.

"Go away, Lestrade."

"I need your help."

"I'm not taking cases."

"Four homicides, completely different parts of London —"

"No."

The single syllable was curt, definite, final — a warning of some primal emotion lurking just beneath the cool exterior — and Sherlock had yet to even look at them.

Donovan didn't dare say anything. Lestrade swallowed and tried again.

"The coroner says they were all murdered at the same time, by the same person, in exactly the same way, and the bodies weren't moved."

For the briefest instant, a light of interest flickered in Sherlock's grey eyes as they darted to glance sideways at them; but he quickly returned to staring at the ceiling. "Find someone else."

Both Lestrade and Donovan were shocked. Sherlock refusing a case of this complexity was itself unheard of, but to hear the world's only consulting detective practically ordering them to find another consultant…

Lestrade was greatly alarmed by now. This was serious.

"Sherlock, what happened?" he asked in horror.

Sherlock didn't answer.

Then Sally saw it — there, on the coffee table, a thin sheet of paper, folded such that its top third revealed official-looking type, resting on top of a plain white envelope.

"Greg," she whispered, guiding his gaze.

Lestrade eyed the letter, casting a surreptitious glance at Sherlock. "Er, Sherlock, do you mind…?"

Silence. No acknowledgment whatsoever.

Lestrade decided that was permission enough. In two strides he had crossed the room and plucked the letter off the coffee table. Under normal circumstances he would never dream of violating Sherlock's privacy this way (unless evidence was involved and a drugs bust was required) — but anything that had made Sherlock stare at a simple envelope with such dread and then lie listlessly on a sofa for two days was approaching national-crisis danger-level. Likewise, on any other day Sally would avoid anything to do with Sherlock like the plague, but today she was right beside Greg reading the letter with him.

Mr. Holmes, we regret to inform you that Captain John Hamish Watson, RAMC, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, is missing in action, presumed dead…

"Oh…oh, God," Lestrade choked, while Sally ran through possible connections in her mind.

John Watson. Not a brother, then. Possibly a friend — though the Freak had always insisted that he had none, so perhaps a colleague or schoolmate? Or — Sally shuddered at the thought — a lover?

For Lestrade, it didn't matter who John Watson had been to Sherlock Holmes; it was enough to know that he'd been important enough to warrant a death notification — which meant that there was some measure of closeness between the two men — and that Sherlock was quite obviously grieving.

"Sherlock…I'm so sorry," Lestrade said quietly.

"Yeah." Sally surprised herself by speaking — but damn, the Freak was human after all. "Me too."

Sherlock still refused to talk, but the corners of his eyes crinkled in pain.

"I'll try to see what we can do with the case," Lestrade offered. "Maybe we'll find something and we won't need you. I'll come by to update you in a couple of days." He was already edging out the door, compassionately leaving Sherlock to grieve privately.

"No," Sally said suddenly.

Lestrade shot her a look, but Sally knew there was no way they were solving this case without Sherlock's help. She knew Lestrade knew it too, and she knew Sherlock definitelydid.

Sherlock had actually turned his head towards her, his gaze piercing, as if seeing her for the first time. Sally swallowed, but she wasn't backing down. All right, so Holmes was mourning, and maybe he wasn't as much of a psychopath as she'd thought — but he was still being selfish by refusing them help only he could give.

"Sally…" Lestrade began.

"Greg, you and I both know we're not solving this without Sherlock." Lestrade blinked and Sherlock's expression shifted minutely at hearing her address him by name. "Sherlock, I'm sorry for your loss, but you're being selfish and childish and you know it. I'm not belittling your mourning, but there are four people whose families are also grieving, and they deserve to see the killer brought to justice. We can't help them, but you can. You owe it to them."

"I don't owe anyone anything," Sherlock flared.

"Bull," Sally said calmly. "I'm not buying your psychopath — sociopath, whatever you are — act, not after this. You're human, you have emotions — you just hide them damn well."

"I am a high-functioning sociopath."

"Fine, then prove it. Function. Solve these murders. I'm sure whoever John Watson was, he wouldn't want you to waste away on the sofa."

"Donovan!" Lestrade barked.

Sherlock had stiffened as if an electric current were coursing through him at John's name, and for an instant Sally feared she'd gone too far.

Then Sherlock bolted upright on the sofa.

"Fine," he said icily, glaring coldly at her. "I'll come."

Lestrade was amazed. "Are you sure? You don't have to —"

"I said, I'll come. Don't make me regret it. Let's go."

Lestrade shut his mouth and led the way down the stairs, scowling meaningfully at Donovan.

Whoever John Watson was, he meant a lot to Sherlock Holmes.

"You shouldn't have done that," Lestrade said reprovingly to Sally as they watched Sherlock examine the bodies in St. Bart's mortuary. Molly Hooper stood off to one side, attentively following Sherlock's movements.

"We needed him," Sally said simply.

"The man is grieving, Sally."

"Yeah, so are these people's families. You and I wouldn't let the loss of a loved one stop us from doing our jobs, and neither should he."

Lestrade managed to refrain from flinching at her unintentional reference to his own dead brother. Afghanistan had claimed Tobias Lestrade long before John Watson.

"Sorry," she murmured.

Lestrade brushed the apology aside. "Sherlock's different, Sally. He's not like normal people."

"That gives him the right to act like a selfish arse?" she demanded.

"You've never called him out on it before."

"I never knew he was human before. Now I know that sociopath diagnosis was just an excuse for him to get away with not acting like a decent human being."

"If you're quite done talking about me behind my back," Sherlock spoke up, "I need to see the crime scenes. I trust you haven't completely contaminated them?"

Only Lestrade's no-nonsense, warning look prevented Sally from opening her mouth.

The car ride to the first crime scene was suffocatingly silent. Sally drove, and Lestrade sat in the back with Sherlock in a double attempt to provide comfort and to keep him and Donovan apart. Sherlock remained cold and aloof, keeping his gaze on the window and generally being even more antisocial than normal, but Lestrade knew he was thinking of John. It had been years since Tobias had fallen in Afghanistan, but Lestrade still thought of him often. The detective inspector was suddenly filled with a rush of gratitude for Sherlock.

"Thank you."

"I'm not doing this for you."

"I know, but thank you all the same."

His message delivered, Lestrade settled back, prepared for the return of silence, but Sherlock surprised him by responding.

"John would never forgive me if I let myself slide."

That was all he said, but it spoke volumes.

Lestrade met Sally's eyes in the rearview mirror. They had both heard and understood the subtext.

John would have wanted me to help.

By six-thirty that evening, Sherlock had solved the problem of how one man (it was clearly a man because a woman would not have had the strength to deliver the blows on the victims, nor was a female likely to have the sadistic tendencies exhibited by the crimes) had murdered in four different places at the same time, and told the Yard how to find the killer. Apparently the time of death estimates had been cleverly manipulated by the use of dry ice (or, as Sherlock insisted on calling it, cardice), which lowered the temperature of the bodies more rapidly than would have been normal. The victims had been killed at different times, and the quantities of dry ice packed around them had been specifically calculated for each body so as to leave the impression that the murders had occurred at the same time. The ice then sublimed into carbon dioxide, leaving no trace of its presence save a few freeze burns on the victims. Only a trained individual would have been able to calculate the quantities so precisely for each victim, so they were looking for a chemist with free access to dry ice and a personal connection to all four victims, because no one went to such lengths for random killings.

"Ask him why," was Sherlock's final statement before departing. "I'm curious to know why he went to the trouble to orchestrate such an elaborate string of murders."

As the days passed and Sherlock continued to consult on cases, he quickly returned almost to normal. Almost, because although he pranced about and spouted deductions in his usual madcap manner, to those who were truly looking — i.e. Lestrade and Donovan — there was a hint of sorrow underlying it all. It was subtly present in the way he often deliberately restrained his vocalised thoughts, as if they were constantly pulling in a direction he didn't want to go; in the way he seemed to hesitate at least momentarily before carrying on with whatever insult he was delivering; in the way his face would swiftly and fleetingly become blank and bleak whenever he caught sight of white envelopes or sandy hair. When he finished announcing his conclusions about the case at hand, he never lingered — he never had, but now he rushed off almost before he had finished speaking, like he couldn't get away soon enough. He spoke as sparingly as ever to Donovan and even more sparingly to Anderson, but his put-downs lacked their usual scorching edge, more stinging than searing now. The difference was extremely slight, but Sally had become more attuned to his mercurial moods since that day at his flat, and in return for Sherlock's newfound temperance she kept Anderson from voicing the most vehement of his opinions. Eventually she'd taken the forensics expert aside and quietly informed him of Sherlock's loss — and though Sherlock surely noticed that Anderson's barbs lost most of their venom overnight, he made no comment.

By far the biggest change in Sherlock's behaviour, however, was a gradual willingness to confide in Lestrade, and only Lestrade. The detective inspector remained a solid, quietly supportive presence wherever he and Sherlock happened to be — be it at a crime scene, the Yard, St. Bart's, or Baker Street. He never asked about John Watson, never pried into Sherlock's emotional well-being — after that one day, Lestrade had kept it business as usual, with the only indication that he was worried for Sherlock manifesting as more frequent reminders for the consultant to eat and sleep. Sherlock, for his part, actually listened to Lestrade's often curt commands to get food, and deigned to update him with reports of his last meal when the DI asked.

Then, one day, Sherlock apparently chose to remember that Lestrade had also lost someone in Afghanistan.

"Grant, you had someone in Afghanistan," he said bluntly one morning as the detective inspector led him to the dead body on the pier.

Lestrade was well used to Sherlock mixing up his first name by now, but he did startle at the consultant's mention of his own loss.

"It's Greg, Sherlock," he sighed. "And yes, I did."

"Who was it exactly? Brother, friend, cousin?"

"Brother." Lestrade peered at him intently. "Why do you ask?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I've heard it's good for people who have undergone similar losses to provide…emotional support for each other."

Lestrade blinked. "I appreciate it, but I'm okay, Sherlock. It was five years ago."

"Oh." This time Sherlock blinked. "So five years is a long enough time for grief to fade?"

"Not really," Lestrade admitted. Instinctively, he knew what Sherlock was really asking. "It never really goes away, but with time you learn not to dwell on it. Life goes on, you know."

"And how do you shut it out?" Sherlock questioned briskly.

"Sorry?"

"You just said grief never truly goes away. Yet clearly you do not feel it all the time, because I have only seen this particular expression on your face three times in our acquaintance."

Lestrade was sightly unnerved that Sherlock had counted his facial expressions. Once again, however, he heard the deeper question in the younger man's words.

"You don't shut it out," he said carefully. "You let it run its course, and then you heal. But you don't let it take over your life, either."

Sherlock appeared to consider that for a second. "Easier said than done," he observed, before ducking under the police tape and striding over to the body.

Two days later, while they were riding in Lestrade's squad car, he asked another question about the latter's brother.

"What was his name?"

"Wesley Jones, he's a part-time employee at Tesco's…"

"Not the witness," Sherlock said impatiently. "Your brother."

"Which one?"

Sherlock stared at him blankly. "You have more than one?"

"I had more than one. Now I just have one."

Showing a surprising amount of tact (for a Holmes), Sherlock clarified, "The one who…passed away." It was clear that he disliked using the euphemism — death was death and using other terms for it didn't make one less dead — but Lestrade appreciated the gesture, all the same.

"Tobias."

"How close were you?"

"Probably about as close as you and your brother."

"Not very, then."

Lestrade smiled secretively. Neither Holmes would ever admit it, but they did genuinely care for each other. Underneath their mutual animosity, Lestrade had seen tiny hints — which, for Holmeses, were as good as neon signs — of what they really felt for one another. He hadn't the foggiest idea why they chose to act like enemies and he wasn't going to attempt to understand it — but he suspected that the Holmes brothers felt the same familial bonds as the Lestrades.

However, he would let Sherlock think that he'd fallen for their hostile act.

Since Sherlock had brought up the topic, Lestrade braved an inquiry of his own.

"What about you and John Watson? Were you close?"

Sherlock's posture became rigid, but after a moment he exhaled and confessed, "Very."

Lestrade's mouth fell open and he hurriedly closed it, trying not to think too hard about what that implied.

"Oh, don't be so perverted, Lestrade. It was nothing of that sort. John is — was — my best friend."

"Best friend?" Lestrade repeated in amazement.

"Yes, by default."

"Default?"

"I told you I don't have friends, Lestrade. I wasn't exaggerating."

"But, John —"

"Use your brain, detective inspector. I don't have friends. I've just got one."

There was nothing Lestrade could say to that, so he didn't try. He fixed his eyes on the road and let Sherlock lapse into silence. It was impossible to miss the hidden pain lurking in the detective's voice and etched in the sharp lines of his form, but at least Sherlock was talking about it. That was something.

"He could be alive, you know."

Anderson didn't know what on earth compelled him to speak, but Sherlock had been staring at the latest victim's short blond hair (and he wasn't stupid, despite what Sherlock thought — he knew John Watson had to have had blond hair) for several seconds too long now, and Lestrade wasn't here to notice (he was busy arguing with DI Dimmock about letting Sherlock near the scene), and Anderson could be snide and hostile towards the consulting detective, but he was generally a decent man capable of feeling compassion even for his rival, given the right circumstance. And Sherlock hadn't ordered him out of the room while he worked for the last three crime scenes, so Anderson could afford to be a little generous too.

Sherlock blinked slowly and turned to him, eyes narrowed and eyebrow arched. He wasn't the only one; Sally was hovering in one corner — she and Sherlock seemed to have come to a sort of tacit understanding that eluded Anderson — and she appeared simultaneously astonished and curious at his initiating a conversation with the know-it-all detective.

"I assume you did check for a pulse, didn't you?" Sherlock made a sweeping gesture towards the body. "Presumably the lack of one was enough to confirm a diagnosis of death." The moron lurking behind the sentence remained unspoken.

Anderson bristled, but he kept his voice civil. "You know bloody well that's not who I'm talking about, you pillock."

"And you are not taking the hint that I don't want to talk to you."

About John is not said. Anderson wondered when he got so good at interpreting Sherlockian. But he wasn't letting it slide, not this time. He was going to say what he wanted to say, prickly Holmes pride be damned.

"Some people would be glad to know there might still be hope," he said as pointedly as possible. "He's only presumed dead because they can't find him — he could be alive." He knew, without thinking, that it would be a bad idea to say John's name.

"He's not."

"You can't know that," Anderson said exasperatedly. Good grief, was the man so stubborn as to want to believe his only friend was dead?

"The odds of a missing soldier being found alive in Afghanistan are extremely small," Sherlock pointed out — seemingly unperturbed, but the light strain in his voice proved otherwise. "Particularly when the last anyone saw of that soldier involved him being shot through the shoulder."

Sally gasped involuntarily from her corner; Sherlock lifted his gaze to meet hers.

"You didn't read that far into the letter, did you, Donovan?"

Anderson recovered from his stunned silence. "Holmes, I'm sorry," he said sincerely.

The detective shrugged, but he gave the forensics expert an infinitesimal nod before turning to examine the body.

Sixteen days after Sherlock had received the letter, a tall, slightly overweight man with an impeccable suit and an umbrella on his arm appeared at Scotland Yard, demanding to see Sherlock Holmes.

"And you are?" Detective Inspector Dimmock inquired irritably.

"The most dangerous man you will ever meet. Now, Detective Inspector, unless you wish to find yourself posted to Leadworth or some other equally bucolic hamlet, you will allow me to see my brother."

Dimmock's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. "Brother?" he sputtered. "Holmes has a…Donovan!"

Sally poked her head around the corner. "What is it, Dimmock?"

"This gentleman here —" Dimmock gestured at their visitor. "— wants to see Holmes. Apparently he's his brother."

Sally recognised him immediately as the government official who had delivered that fateful letter. "You!" she gasped. "You're Sherlock's brother?"

"Unfortunately," Mycroft Holmes responded. "I would say that it's good to see you again, Sergeant Donovan, but my business is urgent and I am losing my patience. If you would be so kind as to show me to the interrogation room where Sherlock is, I would appreciate it."

"Right this way, sir," Sally said obligingly. She didn't ask how he knew Sherlock was observing Lestrade's interrogation of their current suspect — she had a feeling she didn't want to know. Nor did she inquire as to why he hadn't insisted on delivering Sherlock's letter himself that day — if he was as powerful as Lestrade implied, he could easily have overridden Sally's objections.

Sally had long since given up trying to figure out any Holmes.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed when Mycroft entered the observation room. "What's wrong?" he asked immediately.

"Why do you assume there's something wrong?"

"You wouldn't be here if there wasn't."

"Not an entirely accurate claim, brother mine, but I'll let it slide this time. There's been news."

Sherlock straightened at once; contrarily, his expression became softer and altogether more vulnerable.

"He's alive, Sherlock."

It didn't take a Holmes to realise that they were talking about John Watson, and Sally watched in amazement as Sherlock's eyes widened in shock and suddenly glittered with a keen, desperate hope.

"You're sure?" he demanded. His voice was harsh, charged with emotion, seeking confirmation like a drowning man sought air.

"I wouldn't have come if I wasn't," said Mycroft, cool and even, an immovable bulwark against the whirlwind that was his brother.

And Sally had thought Sherlock was emotionless.

"Well, Sherlock, what did you — Mycroft?" Lestrade had entered the observation room, hoping to hear Sherlock's deductions of their suspect; he stopped short at the sight of Mycroft.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," Mycroft greeted calmly. "I'm afraid Sherlock has somewhere else to be at this moment. My apologies for any inconvenience caused."

"What's going on?" Lestrade asked in concern.

"Let's just say…an old friend has returned from Afghanistan." Mycroft glanced significantly at his brother. Sherlock jerked.

"He's here?"

"Naturally. Given the circumstances, I wanted to verify his survival myself. He was airlifted to the Royal London Hospital late yesterday evening; I waited only long enough to ensure that he survived surgery before coming to fetch you. Charles is waiting outside with the car; Anthea is monitoring him until we arrive."

Without a single word to Lestrade or Donovan, Sherlock bolted out the door.

Mycroft flicked his eyes lazily to the one-way mirror. "By the way, Detective Inspector, you may want to arrest the flatmate. The only thing this man is guilty of is falsifying tax returns. Good day to you both."

New Scotland Yard saw and heard absolutely nothing of Sherlock Holmes for the next five days, but a rumour started going around that the consulting detective was in the hospital. Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson were the only ones who knew about John Watson, and they did nothing to discourage the gossip that claimed Sherlock had been admitted because of a failed experiment (or a cocaine relapse, or a stabbing or gunshot sustained while chasing after criminals), as they were fairly certain Sherlock would prefer this to the utter demolition of his reputation as a cold-hearted sociopath with no friends — or worse, a bunch of Scotland Yard's finest showing up at Watson's ward to get a glimpse of the rare creature that could make Sherlock Holmes care. Lestrade knew his colleagues, and although the majority were good men and fine detectives, unfortunately a great many of them happily discarded all moral principles when it came to Sherlock Holmes (Sherlock had a negative effect on people).

In any case, all three were firmly determined to help Sherlock maintain his privacy (the man had just found out his missing, injured best friend was alive and home after thinking he was dead) and John his anonymity. Lestrade had never thought he'd see the day when Donovan and Anderson willingly helped Sherlock, but the loss and reappearance of John Watson had cracked the consultant's thick shell and it was too late for Sherlock to take back the bits of his character — bits Lestrade always knew (always hoped) were there — they had seen. They might never be friends with Sherlock, but their working relationship with him was much more pleasant. It was a miracle.

Sherlock returned to his consulting duties within the week. For about a month, however, his manner was solemn, and a shadow of worry lingered constantly about him. He was not as somber as he had been during the days when he'd thought John was dead, but it was plain to Lestrade (and by now Donovan and Anderson, as well) that he was concerned for his friend. Sherlock said very little about John, other than to say that he was 'recovering' whenever the Yarders enquired after him — but Lestrade could guess well enough what that recovery involved. He wasn't sure exactly what had happened to John Watson, but Afghanistan was a treacherous, traumatising place, and John had been wounded — not to mention whatever he went through while he was missing. It was entirely possible that he'd been captured by the enemy, and that was sure to have left lasting scars, both physically and mentally. Post-traumatic stress disorder was practically a given, and John likely faced a long rehabilitation for his physical injuries.

Gradually, though, Sherlock began to brighten. His eyes sparkled more, his gestures became more exuberant, his mood lifted. More and more cases were solved without the obvious worry for someone else in his mind, and he began to mention John more often.

Lestrade was glad to see the evidence of John's progressing recovery in Sherlock's behaviour, but by now he had resigned himself to the fact that he would probably never meet the man himself. John would never come near a crime scene, he was sure — he would have seen more than enough in Afghanistan — and by Sherlock's own admission, he was the consultant's only friend — it wasn't as though Sherlock would ever invite anyone at the Yard to come over for tea and biscuits with John. The very idea was laughable.

Nearly six months after John Watson's return, a string of suicides broke out in London. Four perfectly well-adjusted individuals from completely different backgrounds decided to up and kill themselves in the space of a single week. It wasn't natural, and Lestrade would shred his warrant card if it really was suicide.

Lestrade was too flustered to really notice the serious, quiet man in the second armchair when he came to 221B to plead for Sherlock's assistance after the discovery of the fourth suicide; but Sally instantly took note when she saw Sherlock approaching the crime scene with a companion.

"Hello, Freak." She may have come to accept Sherlock as a part-time colleague, but there were some things that would never change. She had grown so accustomed to calling him Freak that it slipped out without her thinking about it; there was usually no real heat behind it unless he was being truly intolerable.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade," Sherlock said authoritatively.

"Why?"

"I was invited."

"Why?"

"I think he wants me to take a look."

"It's a suicide," she protested. "Same as all the others."

"But there's something different about this one, isn't there?"

Sally stared at him. "How do you know?"

"Because Lestrade invited me," Sherlock responded simply as he lifted the crime scene tape over his head. "I realise your brain capacity is much smaller than mine, but do try to keep up, Sally."

Sally was saved the trouble of replying when Sherlock's companion made to cross the tape. "Hang on — who's this?"

"This," said Sherlock, "is Dr. Watson. Dr. Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan."

"Dr. Watson?" Sally peered intently at the newcomer. His appearance wasn't particularly handsome — in fact, next to Sherlock's high cheekbones and sculpted features, he was quite plain. He was a short man, about her height, but his erect, proper posture gave him a few extra centimetres. He walked with a bad limp and was using a cane, but it was his sandy blond hair that gave him away. "John Watson?" she exclaimed incredulously.

"Hello." John offered her his right hand, temporarily transferring his walking cane to his left.

"Hi," Sally returned, sounding rather flabbergasted. "Um…what are you doing here?"

"No idea," John said honestly. "Sherlock invited me."

"Chit-chat later," Sherlock interjected brusquely, breezing by them on his way into the house. "There's a woman inside who needs me to solve her murder. John, come on."

John shrugged, giving Sally an apologetic look before limping after Sherlock.

Sally was still reeling from meeting Sherlock's — whatever, she still hadn't figured out John's exact relationship to the mad detective — so it took a couple of seconds for her brain to register what Sherlock had said.

"Hang on, did you say murder?"

"Where are we?"

"Upstairs," replied Lestrade, handing a pair of latex gloves to Sherlock. His eyes travelled to John. "Who's this?"

"John, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade; Lestrade, this is Dr. John Watson, Captain, RAMC, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers." There was a knowing smile playing about Sherlock's lips as he stepped back to observe their interaction.

Predictably, Lestrade was stunned. "Dr. Watson, it's an honour to meet you," he said finally.

"John, please." He looked less than pleased that Sherlock had blurted out his full title. "What have you been telling them about me, Sherlock?"

"Nothing."

"Right."

"No, really, nothing."

"I don't believe you."

"To be fair," Lestrade interjected, "it really was nothing until you were reported missing."

"Which means he did tell you something."

"Only that you were a friend," Sherlock clarified.

"I believe the exact term he used was best friend," Lestrade corrected with a grin.

"Oh?" John cut his eyes to Sherlock, who had already grown bored with the conversation and was clearly itching to get back to the important issue: the dead body upstairs.

Lestrade had realised this, too. "Shall we?"

"Please."

Eight hours later, at the end of a truly crazy night, Lestrade found himself standing beside an ambulance with a blanket-draped Sherlock Holmes.

"You are insane," the detective inspector declared. "You know that, don't you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Spare me the theatrics, Lestrade. I just caught you a serial killer." He paused. "More or less."

"You were going to take that damn pill, weren't you?"

"Of course not. I was biding my time."

"Until what, exactly?" Lestrade wanted to know. "Even you couldn't have predicted an unknown shooter killing the cabbie before he could make you victim number five."

"Oh, I wouldn't say he was unknown."

"Of course he wasn't." Lestrade took a moment. "Okay, gimme."

"Honestly, Lestrade, how am I supposed to know?" Sherlock asked exasperatedly. "I just spent the last hour in a high-pressure situation with a known serial killer who was trying to get me to commit suicide; I hardly had time to look out the window to see if any crack shots happened to be waiting in a building to rescue me. I'm in shock — look, I have a blanket."

Lestrade sighed. "All right. I need you to come to the station tomorrow to give your statement."

"Fine. Can I go now?"

"Yeah, go on."

Sherlock shed the garish orange blanket and all but skipped to John Watson's side. Lestrade smiled to himself as the consulting detective began to talk animatedly with the ex-army doctor, who listened with a fond grin and eager eyes. Lestrade had never seen anything like it, and he was quite content to leave the mystery shooter as an unsolved case. Even if he suspected he knew exactly who had killed the cabbie, the Yard had nothing to go on, and Lestrade was fine with that.

John Watson, on the other hand — now, there was a mystery Lestrade would like to figure out. The man had gone through God-knows-what in Afghanistan, yet he'd happily followed Sherlock throughout the entire case tonight. He'd even lost the limp. And it took a special kind of man to draw Sherlock Holmes out of his shell. John was everything Sherlock was not — calm, steadfast, humble, sociable — but he perfectly matched the eccentric detective, slotted in easily beside him as if he'd been meant to be Sherlock's friend all along. And Sherlock came alive around him — became less of a sociopath, more of a person. John's presence revealed the emotions behind the man, and Sherlock was better for it. Somehow, the odd friendship just worked.

"Weird to see him getting along so well with one of us mere mortals, isn't it?" Donovan commented as she appeared next to Lestrade. Her eyes followed Sherlock and John as they passed a black limousine, stopping for a chat with Mycroft Holmes. "Funny thing is, it really is completely natural."

"I guess they really are friends," offered Lestrade.

"Suppose so," Sally agreed, before sighing. "Guess I can't go at the Freak now for having no friends. He has one."

Lestrade smiled as he watched Sherlock and John walking side by side. "Yeah, he's got one."

"I don't have friends. I've just got one."

And what a one it was.

A/N: I'm thinking of writing a companion piece from Mycroft's point of view. Do write a few words and let me know your thoughts on that - and on this story in general. Thanks for reading!