Disclaimer: None of these characters or settings are mine. I'm just playing in the lovely sandbox kindly provided by the BBC series (all hail to Mr. Moffat and Gatiss!), which in turn is derived from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's magnificent works.

Shock Blanket

The first time Lestrade really noticed John Watson, he was reminded of a mouse: grey, quiet, a mild yet unimportant nuisance dragged along by Sherlock. Like some strange pet befitting the eccentric consulting detective.

It took him a few seconds to link the face to the man he had seen, in a flash, when he'd stormed into Sherlock's flat earlier, intent on his plea for help rather than the décor.

The man hadn't jumped out then, as he did not now, dogging Sherlock's heels, generally trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. Nevertheless, he looked out of place and had a decidedly uncomfortable air about him. But there was also something else.

Something Lestrade couldn't quite put his finger on just yet.

With no other justification than 'he's with me', Lestrade had allowed a perfect stranger to enter his crime scene. (What was he thinking? He really urgently needed to build up some resistance against Sherlock's conniving ways…)

Confronted with Jennifer Wilson's body, the man's face hadn't shown any overt emotion and later, when Sherlock addressed him as 'doctor Watson', Lestrade started connecting the dots.

He thought it was intriguing that the doctor did not simply bent to Sherlock's every whim, like most would (even he, Lestrade, did so much more often than he liked to admit), but first looked at Lestrade for permission before examining the body.

The next minute or three was a blur of Sherlock's rapid-paced deducing, which appeared to impress Watson as much as it still did Lestrade, although Watson had not yet learned to keep quiet so as not to encourage the detective's already inflated ego.

Curiously, Sherlock didn't unleash his usual sarcasm on the doctor's overt admiration, and that should have been Lestrade's first cue. As it was, he was far too preoccupied with rainy weather and the colour pink to ponder about the mystery presented by one doctor Watson.

During the 'drugs bust', Lestrade added naïve to the list of John Watson's apparent character flaws.

The way he stood up for his flat mate, which he had only known for a few hours, would not have been amiss in very old, indeed very loyal, friends. There was genuine surprise when Sherlock made him drop the topic by vaguely hinting at what Lestrade and his colleagues already knew but couldn't –yet- prove.

And then, briefly, there was something else in those puppy-dog eyes. Disappointment? Sorrow?

Strange that the man should care so much about someone he had only known for a day. Perhaps it was a general nurturing instinct, perhaps a physician's cultivated caring, perhaps both.

In any case, the doctor may be far too trusting for his own sake, maybe coming from a high-class sheltered upbringing, still believing in his boy scout ideals of honour and friendship.

John Watson turned out to have worn a tougher uniform than that of a mere boy scout, although he was indeed a very good doctor according to Mrs. Hudson, the chatty landlady who had provided Lestrade with tea, and, quite inadvertently, gossip about her new tenants.

She had seen some of his papers and effects when he had started moving in some boxes ('caught a glimpse of them, purely by accident, dear, of course') and they told of honours degrees in surgery and commendations for his work on the battlefield.

A good doctor and apparently a good soldier too. Mrs. Hudson had, at length, speculated about how his brave actions might have caused him to injure his leg. Lestrade had, of course, spotted the cane and accompanying limb right away, but he drank in the additional information, and the tea, gladly.

It certainly did help paint a clearer picture of John Watson, MD. Post-traumatic stress disorder would fit the quiet, withdrawn demeanour, up to the point where he seemed unconcerned with his surroundings, or even his own future. Perhaps he had allowed himself to be dragged along by the eccentric detective simply because he didn't care, not anymore, and Sherlock was, if nothing, far more amusing than most people.

But something had changed, somewhere along the line. For John Watson cared right now.

Sally didn't particularly care for the good doctor.

"He looked so lost, after the freak had dashed off, like he always does. Like a puppy that has been kicked and left, but still is anxious to wait for and please its owner..."

Lestrade had given a non-committal grunt, only just in the process of re-evaluating the man himself.

Sally found a more attentive audience in Anderson, who agreed instantly with her. Lestrade wondered if the man really agreed based on his own limited first impression or was just trying to increase his chances to warm his bed tonight.

"I mean, the Freak doesn't do colleagues." Sally went on, and Lestrade felt an instant the compulsion to deadpan 'unlike you', but he managed to suppress it like any polite, or even merely correct, boss would. With a pang of jealousy, he considered that being a sociopath, able to blurt out even the most insensitive thoughts, did have its perks.

Yet, sometimes, even Lestrade cringed at Sherlock's more spectacular ones. Like the statement about the pink lady, as Lestrade had privately resorted to calling their latest victim, and her enduring grief for her still-born daughter.

And interestingly, it was John's wince that had caused Sherlock to pause and re-evaluate, whereas he had never before responded to even the most adamant verbal reproaches.

It was John's quietly voiced opinion, not theirs, which had mattered.

It made Lestrade wonder what the inconspicuous doctor's influence might do on a longer term.

Sherlock had spiced up all of their lives, sky-rocketing quite a few blood pressures but just as remarkable heights had been reached by Lestrade's number of solved cases.

Lestrade, and his superiors, were quite happy about the latter, and many of his colleagues were green with envy, but no one wanted to actually work with the infamous Sherlock Holmes.

Lestrade didn't work with him, precisely, either. It was actually quite puzzling: on paper, the consulting detective worked for the New Scotland Yard; in reality, Lestrade felt more like he was working for Sherlock, providing the interesting cases that kept the man out of his infamous spells of boredom, and excessive substance abuse.

But whatever their relation, it was profitable for both parties, only not for Lestrade's health.

Maybe the arrival of a third interested party would cure him of his ulcers. If nothing else, a doctor could always come in handy, for stomach relief prescriptions.

After the shooting, Lestrade had to hide a smirk at the sight of Sherlock, tall and dark and imposing, with the small orange blanket awkwardly draped around him.

Somehow, the brightly coloured blanket, the huddled pose and confused stare, made the man seem much younger. And much more vulnerable and human.

He hadn't even been able to utter the sarcastic words that were on the very tip of his tongue, not when Sherlock had met his eyes with such a lost and dazed look, muttering about not needing a shock blanket. Instead, he had opted for some light-hearted teasing, focussing more on the reassuring tone than the actual words.

In a brief flash of insight, he had then carelessly commented on their lack of evidence to find the shooter, knowing that, of all things, this would kick Sherlock's mind back into gear.

As expected, the consulting detective rose to the bait, like a hunting dog having caught the prey's scent,becoming instantly more animated as he enumerated all clues Lestrade had missed picking up.

But those light eyes did not regain their usual spark. Lestrade sighed inwardly. It would take a while for Sherlock to bounce back from this one, it seemed.

Then, mid-sentence, something flared to life again in those eyes, which no longer seemed as cold and distant as they normally were.

He didn't believe a word of Sherlock's flimsy excuse (the shock talking, it sounded like a freaking movie line). Despite Sherlock's limited appreciation of his talents, Lestrade did not need to be a high-functioning sociopath to follow Sherlock's gaze and deduce the link to John Watson, MD and former officer in her Majesty's army.

Highly trained, steadfast, a crack shot. Strong sense of morality. Dogging Sherlock's heels. Caring enough for the bugger to worry about his hidden addictions. And inconspicuous as a small mouse, looking about with wide eyes projecting the epitome of innocence…

Lestrade grinned to himself as he watched the two flat mates exchange words, trying and failing to look like they had nothing to hide, like a pair of errant school boys.

"Oy!" He couldn't help but tease a little, inwardly smiling as the conspiring duo put on their best performance. Neither was able to fully hide the twinkle in their eyes that Lestrade, in a sudden flash of instinct or presentiment, knew he would be seeing a lot more in the near future, and would not like what it implied.

It was already a given that he would let them go, would let John walk and get away with it all.

After all, he liked Sherlock, in a strange, probably masochistic kind of way. The man was a genius, and his eccentricity an unfortunate (yet entertaining when one took the right mindset to it) byproduct. Lestrade had no hopes of getting past the young man's barriers himself, but he unless he was very much mistaken, he had met the man that just may be up to the task.

Inconspicuous, but steadfast, determined, caring.

Lestrade smiled as he saw the consulting detective ditch the orange piece of cloth carelessly. And why wouldn't he? After all, Sherlock Holmes was currently wrapped up in a much more efficient shock blanket in the person of John Watson, the only person that he would ever call his friend.

Just what the doctor had ordered.