The waves of anger coming off him were so strong that he had a three foot radius of empty space around him, even in the early morning crowd on Baker Street.

"Bloody Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade fumed as he stomped towards number 221. "Fucking Sherlock Bloody Holmes. And fucking John Watson too." Not that the good doctor was really at fault, he had to concede. In the year since John Watson had moved to Baker Street, he had not yet missed a case with Sherlock. Having the doctor at his side seemed to tone the Consulting detective down to the point where it was almost tolerable to work with him.

That was until last night, when Sherlock showed up solo because the doctor was the only one on duty at the surgery over night. Or, at least, that was what Sherlock had said. Donovan was betting that John was deceased at home, probably chopped up in the refrigerator, at the hand of his "freakish" flatmate. Anderson was certain he had finally come to his senses and moved out. Greg was praying neither of them were correct because Sherlock without John was like a tornado. You could hear the sirens. You knew disaster was imminent. There was just nothing you could do but cower and wait for it to pass.

So last night, Mr. Sherlock Bloody Holmes had shown up at the crime scene which just happened to be at the Barbican Centre, home to the London Symphony Orchestra. One of the violists had dropped dead in the middle of the performance. Thankfully for the symphony public relations department, no one pays attention to the viola section so the death went unnoticed until after the concertgoers had left for home. It seemed the perfect case for Sherlock: mysterious circumstances, hundreds of witnesses but no one saw anything, even a sodding symphony orchestra.

The man in question spent 15 minutes stomping around the stage, looking at the body, and bemoaning the lack of actual medical knowledge on the Scotland Yard staff. If Lestrade had to hear "If John were here," one more time he was going to be committing homicide himself. Sherlock then proceeded to interrogate each and every member of the orchestra, reducing three flautists, and memorably, one rather burly looking euphonium player to tears before declaring the case beneath him and flouncing off in to the night.

Five hours later and not only was New Scotland Yard no closer to solving the case, but they also had a new case on their hands. It turns out that the back-up bow that belonged to the concertmistress had suddenly gone missing during the chaos of the murder investigation. When Lestrade questioned the merit of her claim, she had to be physically restrained to keep her from slugging him. Turns out that the "stick with a bit of hair on it" as he had unfortunately referred to it was worth over £13,000. Yeah, it was not shaping up to be his night.

That was how he found himself on the doorstep of 221 Baker Street at 7 in the morning, thanking the powers that be that good Mrs. Hudson had gotten tired of letting him in to the flat upstairs and finally just given him a key a few weeks back. His plan currently was to go upstairs and annoy Sherlock until he solved the case. Admittedly, it was a plan likely to fail, but at the moment it was the only thing the DI had.

Well, that and a sneaky suspicion that the bloody consulting detective had something to do with the disappearance of the bow. It wouldn't be the first time he had walked off with something from a crime scene, though it would be the most expensive. If it was him, Greg thought as he quietly climbed the stairs, he had better have a damned good reason.

As he reached the top of the stairs, he was surprised at the silence that greeted him. Even at 7 in the morning, one of them was usually awake, generally the doctor, but sometimes Sherlock as well, especially if he hadn't bothered going to bed. However, this time it was silent. No tea kettle in the kitchen. No test tubes rattling, or guns being fired at innocent smiley faces. Honestly, Lestrade was scared. Nothing involving Sherlock should be so calm and peaceful. That really should have been a sign.

Glancing up the stairs, Greg noticed John's door was closed. Not surprising for a man who had worked an overnight shift. (Or for someone currently chopped up in the freezer. He was not really willing to check that out quite yet.) More surprising was that Sherlock's door was closed. For a man who acted about as inhuman as they came, the fact that he occasionally ate and slept always seemed to catch Greg off guard.

Speaking of catching off guard, that gave him an idea. Perhaps a sleepy Sherlock would be a more compliant Sherlock. It was worth a chance. And after the shitload of ridiculousness the consulting detective had put him through throughout the years, missing a few minutes of sleep seemed like a minor trade off. So, with his mind made up, certain he was making the right move, he crossed the space between him and Sherlock's door, and without even knocking walked on in.

His first thoughts after crossing the threshold: "Always knock first."