"Mum would just throw it out if we don't stop her, Greg. Go on, you keep it."

"It's a wedding ring, Lenora. What am I gonna do with it?"

Lestrade turned the gold band over in his hand, grimacing slightly. More than forty years and a bad marriage later, he could hardly make out his parents' names, engraved on the inside. That was irony, for you. In all honesty, he was surprised they'd managed to hold it together for so long. His mother claimed they'd done it for the children, but Lenora had moved out nearly fifteen years ago, and they'd still stuck around. It was more likely that with no children at home, his parents had no one to yell at but each other - and yelling seemed to be their favourite past time.

He slipped the ring on his left hand, admiring it in a cynical sort of way.

"Wouldn't do that if I were you," his sister warned. "It's bad luck."

"Wasn't very lucky for them, was it?" Greg asked with a frown. "Coat's got a hole in the pocket." He meant to have it mended, but with a potential promotion in the air at work, he'd had other things on his mind.

A small girl with messy clothes and dark hair rocketed towards him before he had the chance to explain. "Uncle Greg! Uncle Greg!" she cried, hands waving agitatedly in the air. "Uncle Greg, Danny's got a sluuug!" Her eight year old brother chased after her, slug dangling precariously from his fingers. Before he could drop the slimy, wiggly bug down his sister's shirt, Greg scooped her up into the safety of his arms.

"I can see that," he answered, grinning down at his nephew. "Where you'd find that, Danny?"

The boy made a face at his sister, who had wrapped her chubby little fingers so tightly around Greg's collar that he was afraid she - a three year old - might choke him. "On the castle!" He motioned absently at the wooden castle behind him where other young children played. "It was trying to climb to the top. Jimmy wanted to squish it, but I had a better idea!"

"You did... now why not go put it down Jimmy's shirt instead?"

"Greg!"

"What? It's just a slug. Jimmy'll be fine."

Danny ran off, slug in hand, before Lenora had a chance to stop him. "Honestly, you're a terrible influence, Greg," she scolded, pursing her lips.

Greg smiled, bouncing his niece on his hip. "Maybe so, but they'll always remember me as the fun uncle. Isn't that right, Charlotte?"

The little girl hid her face in his coat, embarrassed at being spoken to.

"I'll take that as a yes."

She squealed loudly, as his pocked buzzed.

"That's probably the office. I've got meetings back to back today," he muttered, handing Charlotte back to Lenora. "When's Danny's next match?"

"Tuesday afternoon, think you can make it?"

He straightened his coat and his collar as he considered it. "Probably, but I'll ring you," he answered, giving Charlotte a quick peck on the cheek. "Danny!" He called out with a wave.

After so many years as a trained law enforcement officer, he knew better than to think he could make it from the playground to his car without incident. What he didn't expect, however, was to see a black leather shoe poking out of a tree in the parking lot. Stuffing his keys in his pocket, he walked over.

"Look, unless you're an arbourist, I'm gonna have to ask you to come down from there."

"And let a kidnapper go free? No, thank you."

"A what?" Greg stepped under the tree and looked up, shielding his eyes against the sun to try and get a better look at the man attached to the shoe. "Who's been kidnapped?"

"Sir Thomas," the voice answered.

Greg frowned. "Look, if someone's been kidnapped, I have a right to know. I'm with the police." He fished out his badge and held it up as evidence. "Now come down before I drag you out."

A younger man with a mess of curly, black hair and sharp cheekbones leaned over, peering down between the leaves at him. "Not someone. Some thing. It's a cat - a ginger tabby, to be precise. A very rare show cat whose owners are distraught by his absence, not that it has any relevance to the case."

"Get out of the tree."

The man paused for a moment, as if considering disobeying him. Then, narrowing his eyes, he swung his long legs over a branch and quickly climbed down. He was more than a little bit cat-like himself, scaling the trunk and never once looking down to check his footing. He didn't stop when he finally touched down, brushing past Lestrade without so much as a 'good day'.

"Now hang on," Greg reached out and grabbed his arm. "Just who are you? And what about this missing cat?"

The look of disdain the other man gave him at being detained was frigid. "It's taken care of."

"What is, the cat? Is that a confession?"

He rolled his eyes. Greg tightened his grip.

"I expect some answers."

"What kinds of answers, Sergeant Lestrade?" There was a strange smugness to his smirk now.

"What's your name? And how'd you know my rank?"

"Sherlock Holmes. You may have heard of me. I'm the man that people turn to when the police fail... as they so often do. And I know much more about you than that."

Lestrade let him go, unsettled by the coy expression Holmes was giving him. Here was a man whose eyes seemed to read him like a book, rather than view him as a human being. They searched him, slowly and deliberately, as if every detail about him was a fact to be logged, rather than a sight to be seen.

"Can you?" he said, with a hint of bravery in his tone. "Well, do tell."

Sherlock smiled.

"You're not with the police, you are the police. A detective sergeant, or you wouldn't have been so interested in missing persons, or stopping me from being in that tree. Of course you aspire to be promoted, your type always does."

Greg's eyes widened slightly. Sherlock continued without pausing for breath.

"Oh, don't bother with the surprise. An idiot could read that in your face, the bags under your eyes. You get to work early and you stay late, but you're not in the lower echelons, just look at the mark on your right index finger. Obviously you're right-handed, and you do a lot of paperwork. More than the average police constable, at any rate, but why you're doing it by hand when everything's computerised these days..."

Sherlock shrugged. "Maybe you're older than you look. Either way, you're married; you have been for some time. Probably ten, maybe fifteen years, given the wear on your wedding ring. And happily - congratulations. You have two children, possibly three, judging by the state of your clothes." Lestrade opened his mouth to interrupt. Sherlock held up a hand to silence him, and barrelled on. "There's a muddy footprint on your pants. It suggests that you're acclimatised to the mess of children. Judging by the size and the way your collar is wrinkled, the child is small - probably three years old. A man your age, only one three year old? Statistically unlikely. On to the coat pocket."

"My coat pocket?" Greg asked, disbelieving.

"Inside, a folded piece of paper, hastily tucked away. The edge of a drawing is visible, in crayon. Who does drawings in crayon and presents them to their parents? Primary school children. Age of the second child is therefore closer to eight or nine. Now, sergeant, do you see why people consult me, rather than coming to the police?"

Greg's mouth twitched slightly, slowly spreading into a smile.

Sherlock's smugness faltered. "What? What did I miss?"

"Go home, Mr. Holmes," he answered. "Leave the detective work to the professionals." Brushing past Sherlock, he walked back to his car.

"So I was right, then?" Sherlock called after him.

He paused, one hand on the door as he looked back. "I am hoping for a promotion... detective inspector, if I'm very lucky."

"And?"

"I've never been married. And they're not my kids."

"But the wedding ring?"

Lestrade smiled as he stepped into his car. "Appearances can be deceiving, Mr. Holmes. Please stay out of the trees."

Two days later, he'd all but forgotten the incident with the blue-eyed man in the tree, until he received a very blunt but accurate text message.

"Gay. Ring is your father's. -SH"

Lestrade smirked and put his phone back in his pocket without replying. In all likelihood he would have forgotten about the text, too, if Sherlock Holmes hadn't been waiting for him in the parking garage the next morning.

"Nice to see you on the ground, Mr. Holmes."

"Did you get my text?" He asked, arms wrapped tightly around himself as he leaned against Lestrade's car.

"Yes."

"...and? Was I right?"

Greg considered not answering. But after the trouble the younger man must've gone through to get that kind of information, he felt guilty denying him. "Yes," he replied. "On both counts."

Sherlock let out a barely discernible breath of relief. "You could have texted back. Spared us the drama of meeting here."

"I don't text. How'd you get my number anyway?"

"My brother," Sherlock answered almost immediately, as if he'd known the question was coming. "What do you mean you don't text? Everybody texts."

"I think we've already established that I'm not everybody, Holmes. How does your brother have my cell phone number?"

"He's the British government. He has every number," Sherlock replied dismissively. "It's the new millennium, how do you get by without texting?"

"Too many buttons." Without thinking, Greg pressed his hand firmly over Sherlock's mouth to keep him from asking another question. The younger man's look of surprise was strangely satisfying. "I'm going home now. Good night, Holmes."

He slowly pulled his hand back, eyes narrowed just enough to be considered threatening. Sherlock remained silent as Lestrade slid into his car.

It wasn't until Lestrade had started the engine that he added, "...good night, sergeant."

Greg looked up with a smile. "It's detective inspector now."

Sherlock's eyes met his for a brief moment before answering.

"I know."