Summary: Detective Greg Lestrade has hit a wall with a new case when Sherlock Holmes walks into his life and solves it in five seconds. In other words, how Sherlock helped save the case, and Lestrade helped save Sherlock.

Rated: T

"Ms. Hooper, I'm Detective Gregory Lestrade. I'm here regarding the Jefferson case."

The young woman smiled and nodded, muttered a 'right this way', and let Lestrade down a long, white hallway to the morgue area.

The body of Anthony Jefferson had been found yesterday, seemingly a suicide case, but Lestrade wasn't too sure about that. He didn't want to be that young detective who just accepting whatever little evidence as fact without being 100% positive first.

"Here he is. A bit beaten up, I'm afraid. He jumped from fairly high distance. His charts, if you'd like." Ms. Hooper handed him a clipboard with Jefferson's details on it. He looked it over quickly and shook his head.

"I don't understand. Everyone thinks it's suicide, but that doesn't make any sense. Why that building? Why did he jump? He was perfectly happy!"

"Well, maybe it was all an act," the young woman suggested. Lestrade shook his head slowly.

"My instincts are telling me it was murder, I just don't know how."

"Back bruises."

Lestrade spun around, nearly dropping the clipboard out of shock, to find a young man standing behind him leaning against the wall. He was tall and thin, too thin, and pale. His shaggy black hair was pushed behind his ears and his piercing blue eyes had bags around them. He looked sick.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"Hello, Molly. Anything interesting come in today?"

"Car crash, slit wrists, and this poor man. Suicide. Jumped off a building."

"No, he didn't." The man looked over the body quickly, nodded, then walked away. "Boring."

"Wait!" The man turned and arched an eyebrow at Lestrade.

"Who are you? How did you know it wasn't suicide?"

"It's simple," he scuffed. "Bruises on his back that were caused just ten minutes earlier than the actual 'suicide'. Someone was standing behind him, he was pushed. That building he was on is ten miles from his home. The man worked from home and was a stay-at-home dad, he wouldn't have driven ten miles just to off himself. Furthermore, there was a camera atop that building that can only be accessed through government files. There were two men who went up to that rooftop and only one who went back down. Simple."

"A camera? How did you know?" Lestrade's head was spinning, trying to clutch on to each detail and assess it. The man was speaking so fast.

"I hacked it. Goodbye." The man strode off quickly, his jacket flapping through the air, attempting to cling to his frail body.

"Who was that man?" Lestrade asked Molly.

"Sherlock Holmes. He's a proper genius."

"Then why is he so…" Lestrade waved his hands in the air, hoping that she'd understand. She smiled sadly.

"He relapsed a few weeks back. His mind…He needs to be busy. He needs to be intellectually stimulated, or else he gets bored, and he does stupid things to keep his mind busy."

"Like shoot up?"

"Pretty much."

Lestrade wandered around the body, checked the charts, and looked to Molly.

"Do you think he was right? About Jefferson."

"Absolutely," Molly said with conviction. Lestrade handed the chart back to her and shook her hand.

"Thank you for your time, Ms. Hooper. Have a pleasant day."

Lestrade followed up on everything Sherlock said, and he soon discovered that Molly was right to trust him. He was good. Lestrade couldn't stop thinking about the young man, ill by his own choice because he couldn't satiate his genius. It didn't seem right to keep going on with his life, knowing that such a brilliant man was throwing his life away.

Lestrade showed up at the hospital the next day and waited for Sherlock to come. He had called Molly late last night to ask how often Sherlock frequented the hospital and was certain he'd see him that day. Sure enough, he waited ten minutes before the shaggy, thin man came in to view.

"Hello, detective," the man muttered coldly, walking right passed him.

"Mr. Holmes, I was hoping I could have a word."

"The name is Sherlock, and no. I'm not interesting in your inquiries."

"But I have an offer to make!" That stopped Sherlock in his tracks. He turned, pushed his hands in his coat pocket, and stood next to Lestrade.

"What offer?"

"I want to offer you the chance to work with the police, help us solve crimes."

"Why?" Sherlock demanded.

"Because you're a bloody genius."

"I know. But that doesn't answer my question. Why?"

"Because…I don't like the idea of someone with such a high IQ ruining himself with drugs."

Sherlock's lip curled and he spun on his heel.

"I don't need you telling me how to live my life!" He spat out.

"But you want this." Lestrade grabbed his arm and held him still. "You know you enjoy a good mystery. With us, you can have all the mysteries you want. You'll never be bored."

"I highly doubt that."

"Come on, Sherlock. Do you like knowing that you're throwing your intellect out the window?"

Sherlock looked down at the ground and shivered, pulling his coat closer to him.

"No," he said softly.

"Then work with me. I'll bring you on to any case I can't figure out, which happens to be a lot."

"What's the catch?"

"You have to get yourself clean." Sherlock shuffled on his feet and took a deep breath.

"You'll give me your word?"

"Absolutely. I won't go back on it. Get yourself cleaned up and give me a call." Lestrade pushed his business card in to Sherlock's shaking fingers and walked away without another word. He wasn't expecting to hear from the man for five months or so, if he did at all.

He received the call only a month and a half later.

Now this one, I'm actually kind of proud of, even if it is a bit short. Also taken from tumblr, please review! *pssst send me requests!*