Hello friends! If I may offer my sincerest apologies for not writing… Ever. Please forgive me!

"You misjudged the angle of the shot."

"Excuse me?"

Sherlock sighed. "The angle of the shot," he replied, glancing up from his crouching position beside the body, "you misjudged it."

"H-how-," Lestrade began, blinking, "y'know what? Sod it." He turned around, shaking his head. "Donovan!"

The sour-faced detective joined them at the scene in two long strides. "Yes, sir?" She asked, purposefully keeping Sherlock's hunched form at arm's length.

"You sent Anderson into the parking garage," Sherlock said without missing a beat, effectively cutting off the Detective Inspector's words, "where you believe the assassin fired his rifle."

"Yes," Lestrade replied, rolling his eyes none-too-subtly, "although I did say 'sod it'".

"Your assumption would be correct," the consulting detective continued, "had the bullet entered the victim's head at a seventy degree angle. You thought yourself very clever, for you noticed the hole in the otherwise smooth wall, the perfect size for the nose of a gun." He pointed to the parking garage, which, though abandoned, was in remarkably good shape except for the odd cave in.

Lestrade nodded, dreading Sherlock's point, if he ever managed to make one.

"There are several things wrong with this conclusion, " the dark-haired man said quickly, "first of all, it wasn't a seventy degree shot, but a sixty-nine point five eight shot, not much of a difference I know but enough to shift the assassin's position slightly, making it impossible for him to have fired his weapon from the hole in the wall. That angle is impossible to achieve in that manner, but easy if the assassin was leaning out of a window of the apartment building directly beside the garage."

The detective pointed a slender-boned finger at a dark pink building. "Third floor," he said, "judging by the orientation of the building and the spacing of the windows I'd say you're looking for a room 3L." Sherlock smiled, crouching again next to the body and sliding out his magnifying glass.

"Detective Inspector, should I-" Donovan began.

"Yeah, yeah," Lestrade said, waving her away.

"Kindly ask the lab not to estimate next time, would you?" The consulting detective murmured, not looking up.

"I'm sure they'll appreciate it," Lestrade replied sarcastically, storming off to a nearby police car.

Sherlock heard a light chuckle to his right and glanced up at the man suddenly standing beside him.

"You know he hates it when you do that," John reminded, still laughing.

"Oh of course," the crouching man replied, "I could have expressed myself in less than three sentences. I don't do it because I have to." He smiled, drawing up the edge of his soft bow lips. "Honestly John, use your head."

"Makes the boring cases just bearable, does it?"

"Yes, that and the occasional pick-pocketing."

"Mmm."

"And embarrassing Anderson."

"Well, of course."

Both men laughed, earning them some of the coldest glares John had ever seen. Grimacing somewhat, the doctor remembered that they were, in fact, at a crime scene, standing over the body of a recently emigrated Chinese tax attorney. His laugh suddenly became a scarcely believable cough, and then he decided to just keep his reddening face pointed at the asphalt.

"The victim's name is Zheng Yi. He came here less than three months ago."

Both men looked up, startled, to see a tall and lanky man in a suit twirling his umbrella absent-mindedly.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted, getting angrily to his feet, "What are you doing here? This case is of no importance to the British government!"

The older Holmes brother sighed, rubbing his forehead.

"I'm not here about this Sherlock," he said tiredly, wondering if anyone noticed the deep circles under his eyes. "I require your… Assistance, with a minor issue of national security."

"No," Sherlock said flatly, crossing his arms in the manner of a pouting child.

Mycroft pursed his lips. "Imagine what Mummy would think if she could see such impudent behavior."

"Where do you think I learned it from?" Sherlock replied mockingly before turning his back on his older brother and squatting next to the body. "Go away Mycroft, I'm busy."

"It was worth a shot," Mycroft said with a sigh.

"It really wasn't," the consulting detective murmured, not turning around. John gave Mycroft a sympathetic shrug before he too turned away.

Mycroft frowned. This was going to be harder then he thought.

Lestrade glared angrily at his watch. Sherlock had been at the crime scene for exactly six minutes and the Detective Inspector was already pissed off. The record was two minutes. Not for the first time Lestrade wondered if he would ever be able to get away with murdering Sherlock Holmes. He concluded that there was about an eighty percent chance of being caught, but he doubted anyone would blame him. In fact, a jury might even deliver a verdict of not guilty by reason of performing a public service.

So caught up in his thoughts was he, that the Detective Inspector did not notice the tall man walking in front of him, and the two collided, the stranger's umbrella toppling to the ground.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," the man said, stooping to retrieve the umbrella.

"No, it was my fault, I wasn't paying attention." Lestrade looked up as the man stood again, observing that he was impeccably dressed, but also looked incredibly weary.

"I'm sorry," the man said after a moment, extending a bony hand, "Mycroft Holmes.

Lestrade shook his hand incredulously. "I'm Greg." He blinked. "Sorry, Detective Inspector Lestrade, you must be Sherlock's older brother."

"Yes, I don't believe we've ever met, though you were just considering murdering my dear brother."

"… Sorry?"

Mycroft waved his hand dismissively. "I don't blame you, he can be exceedingly difficult."

Lestrade smiled, crossing his arms. "Oh, don't get me started on Sherlock Holmes…"