A/N: I know there's quite a few of these but the idea of writing one was intriguing. This is the journey of Lestrade from the moment he unknowingly met Sherlock - the journey from then to present day. This is also Sherlock's journey through becoming who he is today and overcoming the drug and trust issues he had earlier in life. This story starts off when he was only 15 - don't be confused by it, it's not exactly present day. Do enjoy, I don't own Sherlock.

Please note: in this fic, Lestrade will know Sherlock for more than 5 years. However there will be a reason used to explain the whole "I've known him for 5 years and no, I don't" thing... hopefully. ;D

"It was the husband."

The voice was a little bit hushed, the pitch deep, but undeniably belonging to a minor. He frowned lightly, playing with the stained phone cord. He vaguely wondered if this was the same person he'd been warned about, but, then again, he'd no experience with the kid himself. No one particularly knew or cared about the name, but somehow the youth had gotten himself known around Scotland Yard, and (strangely) not through charges. It was said that the boy often called during cases, providing clues that they would only bother with if they'd all hit a dead end. This had confused him at first: why would they listen to a kid at all? And, if the kid was right - just as they said he always was - then why not track him down?

"Excuse me, who's calling?" Lestrade rubbed a tired hand across his face. He was tired, to say the least, and it would only be best to play it safe. There was a high chance that this really was the boy and, if it was, his curiosity was too powerful to be left unquenched through badly chosen words. "What're you going on about, sir?"

"I said, it was the husband." He'd tried to start off the conversation casually, of course, and even added in a 'sir' as to make the boy feel more mature, but obviously this backfired. The voice only sounded annoyed and arrogant as it continued, "The newest case that you idiots at Scotland Yard can't crack. The one that appeared to be a suicide but turned out to be a murder. With the woman from Brixton. Her husband killed her."

Lestrade frowned a bit. He was getting sceptical over this kid. What business did he have calling this late, anyway? If anything, Lestrade was exhausted and rather hoping to go home soon. He'd only just started working in the major crimes unit and it was taxing to say the least. If THIS was what he'd have to put up with, then… well, he wasn't entirely sure how long he could last. Besides, the kid was making him feel like an idiot already, and none of it made sense. The husband had an airtight alibi, confirmed by his senile old mother. No one could possible force a senile, senior citizen to lie for them, could they?

"And how do you know this? I've heard about you… you're that kid, aren't you?" Lestrade dropped all attempts to be casual then and there. "You go around giving us clues and making fools of us, and you won't even tell me why."

"Well," the irritated voice replied, "if you'd let me explain, maybe I wouldn't make such a fool of you. But you've done that well by yourself. The old woman is lying, though she doesn't know it. She has no proper idea of time in her old age and forgot the exact time, but she does remember her son coming to visit her, so she supplied an alibi. She is in denial and doesn't want to believe her son might be a killer. Check the surveillance tapes at the nursing home, you'll find I'm quite right.

As for her husband being the killer, it's all in the house and on the body. There is blood in the sink. The woman's blood. Her husband claims she cut herself and the sink wasn't cleaned after she bandaged her hand. There's far too much blood down the drain to be from a cut as shallow as the one you found on her hand. However, the cut is present, I do realize. If you look closer, you'll discover it was made post-mortem in a way to cover up the husband's actions and-"

For a moment, the voice stopped, cut off by a rather loud bang. Startled, Lestrade nearly dropped the phone. His eyes widened, waiting for a few heartbeats for the voice to start talking again. Thankfully, it did, though the boy certainly wasn't talking about the case anymore, nor was he actually talking to him. "Mycroft! Put that down! That's an experiment! I need that! Mycroft, you awful-"

The line cut dead after that. Lestrade frowned and stared at the phone for a few moments before a tired sigh escaped him. He carefully replaced the phone and began typing out all of the information the boy had given him, happy when he'd finally finished typing. It took a good ten minutes to do so, but it was worth it. He could go home now. With a few final clicks, he sent the message to the Detective Inspector in charge and left for the night.

That was to be one of many encounters with the then-unknown boy. Somehow, the kid seemed to know when he was working and had a habit of calling late at night, even calling him by name sometimes. It got frustrating, it really did, and he would often get the urge to hang up. He even worried sometimes, worried about the kids' mentality. But what worried him most was silence.

He'd spent three years working with the boy, late at night, trying to understand the clues given to him. It wasn't to say they knew each other personally, the boy just seemed to prefer him. In fact, Lestrade didn't even have a clue as to what the name might be. But just past those three years, the year that he guessed that selfsame boy had turned eighteen, things suddenly became silent. For months he awaited another phone call, but none came. It drove him insane. Somehow he'd gotten attached to the kid in some way or maybe he just worried as a good detective was meant to.

Still, he managed to keep himself on track and advanced through the ranks quickly. He brushed away the silence as the boy finally finding a hobby. But this was soon to be proven wrong. It was about noon on April 5th and he was sifting through miles of paperwork, trying desperately to find something to do. No murders, no nothing. Nothing interesting, anyway.

And then a call came in. Something about a mentally unstable, very high man causing trouble in London. Oh, this sounded like a great way to rid himself of boredom, and Lestrade jumped at it in seconds, abandoning his desk. He responded to the call and found himself soon joined by two officers, one senior and one junior to him. They didn't look like a bad team at all, he thought. Surely they could handle some kid who'd gotten too high on the weekend and gone and wreaked a little bit of havoc.

The ride there was short, but it felt too long to him. Adrenaline was pumping through his veins. This was the part he liked. He was excited, though he would never admit it to the other cops. The trio exited the car nearly as fast as it parked, surprised to see the high man walking down the street, yelling something they couldn't understand. None of them recognized him. He looked like a regular junkie, maybe just turned eighteen, and he seemed absolutely insane at that moment.

"Stop where you are!" The senior officer yelled. Blackwood, Lestrade remembered vaguely, his name was Blackwood. But no matter his name, because the three of them were approaching at a remarkably fast speed and the stupid man didn't even seem to care. Hell, he didn't even turn around. Frowning, Blackwood tried again. "Stop right there!"

Still, he didn't turn around at all. They were very near to him now, perhaps only a few paces away, and the overly tall man had yet to turn around. Irritated now himself, Lestrade's hand twitched in the direction of his gun and he growled, "Stop. Now. Right where you are. For God's sake, you're running down the street high as a kite. Stop now, you're only making it worse for yourself."

The man suddenly stopped walking and whipped around. There was surprising clarity in those bright blue eyes, though he did bare quite a few signs of drug use. Obviously used needles, considering the marks on his exposed arms. He loomed over the officers, a disdainful look in his eye, but there was something else there. Recognition. Lestrade didn't understand it at all, and he had to stop himself from flinching under that gaze.

"No."

"Excuse me - what? Do you not realize you're being arrested?" the junior officer called, confused. He swiped a hand across his face, blinking. Obviously his first time dealing with a druggie.

"I'm not being arrested."

"Sure you are."

"Not."

"Yes."

"Not."

"Would you stop that?" Lestrade growled in exasperation. He sent a rather scorching gaze at the junior officer. When he refocussed not he man they were supposedly 'not' taking into custody, he found that recognition there again. There was something he couldn't place in that voice and in those words. It frustrated him, but he brushed it away in attempts to remain professional. "Both of you, just stop. Thank you. Now, hands behind your back."

"Not going to be arrested," the man said again, but he put his hands behind his back anyway. Just as Blackwood strode forward to arrest him, however, he turned rapidly. His hands flew in random directions, one smashing Lestrade in the face. Instant hate and anger flared through the police man, but, before he could reach out to grab this obviously very high man, he realized they were nearly alone. The only hint as to where that man had just gone was the swish of a black jacket as it swept around the corner. He moved to go after it, but Blackwood's arm quickly barred his way.

"Don't bother. He's always like that, we'll never catch him. Too fast."

And he had never wanted so badly to know someone's identity, but he didn't push it. Instead, he nodded and stood down, still staring at the spot that that frustratingly familiar man had stood just seconds before.