"Definitely your colour," Lestrade remarked with a wry smile, his eyes traversing Sherlock's new addition, a dark blue cast that seemed to match exactly the shade of his scarf. He wondered briefly if it was possible to get a specific colour for a cast, because if anyone would, it would be Sherlock. With a little help from Mycroft of course. But he wouldn't... wouldn't he?

He just smiled as Sherlock attempted to scowl at him, but failed miserably.

Some things are better left unknown.

He drove them home in his car, not the police car, as Sherlock seemed to have an irrational (no, that wasn't quite true, after all he'd been through, Lestrade supposed it was rational) hatred for police cars.

It was quite a production. Sherlock's legs were long as it was, but seeing as one was now unable to bend just made it that much more difficult.

Sherlock ended up being sprawled across the entire backseat, despite protests that he should be the one in the front, and not John.

"And how do you expect to fit like that?" Lestrade had asked him, looking pointedly at the leg space the front seat had and back to Sherlock's leg.

Sherlock scowled in response and that was settled. He sulked in silence all the way home.

Sherlock seemed to perk up a bit when they arrived back at Baker street, probably because he realized he'd have to get up the steps to their second floor flat somehow.

"No," John said flatly, seeing the glint in Sherlock's eye that meant he was plotting something. "You are not hopping up all those steps."

Sherlock looked at him innocently. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Oh, I don't know. Perhaps living with you for the past year and a half."

"And how do you propose I get up there then?" Sherlock pointed out. "You can't do it, your arm is broken and you're still recovering from a serious head injury."

Lestrade coughed. He smiled at them weakly when they both looked over, like they were surprised to see him there.

"Hey. I have an idea."

Sherlock scowled.

Lestrade had to admit, it had been a little awkward giving the detective a piggyback ride up the stairs, especially taking care not to hit his head or outstretched leg on anything as he navigated up the small stairwell.

Out of breath at the top, Lestrade waited for John to unlock the door before he unceremoniously, but gently, dropped Sherlock onto the couch. Looking at the detective, who would of course never admit it, Lestrade could tell he was in pain and exhausted. He retrieved the bottle of pills from one of the many bags John had been forced to carry up the stairs (along with crutches) and threw it to Sherlock.

"Take one," Lestrade ordered him.

Sherlock smirked. "Sure this isn't a trick drugs bust?"

"Course not," Lestrade replied. "Need something to drink?"

Sherlock shook his head and swallowed the pill dry.

"Need anything else?" he asked John more than Sherlock.

John paused for a moment before shaking his head. "No. But thanks for everything."

Lestrade nodded, fully aware of what everything entailed.

"Now listen," he said forcefully, turning back to Sherlock. "You need to let John rest. And despite what you may think, you need to rest as well. I'll be back tomorrow to check up on you and bring some things to keep Sherlock entertained, but I will withhold them if I determine they won't be beneficial to your health." Sherlock scowled, but Lestrade continued. "So I will be informing Mrs Hudson of this, and giving her my number as well as the number of a certain government official. I've told her not to hesitate if she thinks anything is going on that is not in both of your best interests. Got it?"

Lestrade looked between John and Sherlock, the latter scowling fiercely from the couch and John nodding in thanks.

"Great. See you tomorrow, and if you need anything, just text me."

Before he was even down the stairs, he heard Sherlock begin furtively whispering at John.

He smiled, and knocked on Mrs Hudson's door.

Lestrade returned the next day on the pretence of bringing Sherlock some cases to work on and other such things, but all knew he was really there more to babysit than anything else. He felt bad for John, who was still recovering from injuries of his own, and on top of that had to deal with an essentially immobile Sherlock who had been given long weapons before being discharged from the hospital. The doctors called them crutches, but a rose by any other name...

Lestrade didn't even bother ringing, just let himself in. He could hear the bickering from the bottom of the stairs. Mrs Hudson poked her head out of her door just as Lestrade started up the stairs.

"Oh, good luck dearie," she said to him. Lestrade nodded in reply.

Lestrade stood just outside the door to the flat, listening for a moment.

"No Sherlock, you cannot do an experiment to test how waterproof fibreglass is. At least not while it's still on your leg!"

Lestrade suspected Sherlock made a rude gesture, or at the very least, a face, because John responded in turn.

"No, no, don't give me that. God help me I will call Mycroft and take him up on his offer."

Silence for a moment, then quietly, Sherlock responded. "You wouldn't dare."

"Oh yes I would." John sounded extremely smug.

Sherlock sighed loudly, probably louder than usual.

"Come in Lestrade!"

Shrugging, Lestrade pushed open the door and nodded to the both of them, Sherlock perched on the couch with his leg propped up on a pillow, John in his chair looking exhausted.

"Sherlock," Lestrade warned. "No experiments with your cast. Or any experiments really." He threw the files onto the already cluttered table. "Here. Old case files. Thought they'd keep you busy."

Sherlock glanced at the files and back up at Lestrade.

"I can't reach them," he spat.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow in an amused way. "Really? Oh dear. Perhaps if you asked John nicely, he'd fetch them for you."

"John." He looked at him expectantly. John only looked back.

Sherlock sighed. "Please."

Smirking, John got up and passed one of the files to Sherlock. He flipped it open and scowled at the pictures. (Lestrade knew that Anderson had been on forensics for that one, and settled in for an afternoon of complaints about picture quality and general incompetence.)

"Lestrade. Tea."

He didn't move and looked at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes and added "please" in a way that meant he really didn't mean it.

"Of course."

Lestrade was pleased with how things had turned out. Not perfect, but then, nothing in life really was, but it was good enough for him. It would do.

Yes, he thought as he smiled to himself, watching Sherlock and John bickering, the latter holding up a certain skull, and the former threatening him with a crutch. That'll do.