Lestrade stands in front of a patrol car, watching as Sherlock stalks away from the crime scene. He had to have sustained a concussion at the least, but he was petulant as always; the paramedics knew it was useless to fuss over him. Lestrade rubs a weary hand through his prematurely silver hair, then glances up as a shadow passes over him, umbrella spokes casting sharp, dark spikes onto the ground.

"You worry about him." A stately man, dressed sharp and smooth, the only creases those of the frown on his face. Lestrade nods.

"So do I."