The midterm craze has passed, there's no lasting damage, and finally here's another chapter. The plot thickens! As much as a plot of mine can, at least...

Chapter Twelve: Home, Sweet Home.

New London’s inexplicably yellow sky shone down on them like a proud mother. Lestrade yawned, rubbing her eyes. At least there wasn’t any jet lag to deal with.

“I’m not sure whether I’m glad to be back, or not. On the one hand: near death and teamwork. On the other: paperwork and Greyson. You know, it’s a hard choice.”

Watson boxed her ear playfully as he passed her her luggage. She hugged it to herself.

“At least this one didn’t get lost.”

“Dear me, that really would have been a bit much! Oh! Deidre’s just emailed to inform me that they’ll be over for dinner. Do you want to join us?”

“Mm! Yes, please. I want to get rid of those panties as quick as possible! ... And there’s no food in my house.”

“My dear Lestrade, that excuse lost validity as soon as we discovered that that is your flat’s natural state. Honestly, get yourself a housemate who will look after you!”

“Haha! But then I’d have no excuse to come visit you Holmes, and then where would we be? You’d fall into a brown study and start shooting at your walls again.”

He boxed her other ear as Watson hailed a cab. With a hurried “See you at dinner then?” the two of them soared off to Baker St.

“Huh.” Lestrade stayed on the sidewalk, watching them vanish, thoughtfully chewing the inside of her cheek. “Huh.” She repeated, and set off towards the bus stop.

She was climbing the perpetually dark stairs to her flat (the landlord had promised them new lights by last Christmas) and not paying the slightest bit of attention to where she was going when a man in a black track suit nearly bowled her over.

“Hey! Watch it buddy! Where’d –“ But she was cut off as the man turned quickly, back-handing her across the face. Caught by surprise, and off balance with her luggage, she didn’t even duck. Her head snapped back and she staggered into the wall. The man fell on her, his shoulder pinning her arm, and punched her, hard, in the stomach.

“Oof! Zedding-“ She kicked him in the shins like a belligerent child as he got in a good jab across her windpipe, but he took off down the stairs before she could do more than gasp for air. She ran pell-mell after him, but as she turned the corner he swung out at her and what was already dark went black.

She came to with Mrs. Winterbottom from #42 hovering over her in a housecoat and hair rollers.

“Ugh.”

“Oh dear, oh dear. Now Miss Lestrade, it’s not good to go lying about, sleeping on the stairs. Someone might trip on you!”

“Sleep... what? No, I was... oh, never mind.” Lestrade sat up, groggily accepting a hand from Widow Winterbottom. The woman had a reputation for being more than a little dotty, and Lestrade didn’t want her getting any ideas about them all about to be murdered in their beds.

“Thanks Mrs. Winterbottom, I can take it from here. Can’t believe I just fell asleep like that... how silly of me.”

Mrs. Winterbottom nodded sympathetically. “It happens to the best of us. Don’t let it worry you.”

“I’ll try not to.” Lestrade turned to go. “Uh...by the way, do you know what time it is?”

Mrs. Winterbottom drew an enormous gold pocket watch from the depths of her robe. “Yes, of course, dearie. Never go anywhere without my watch. It belonged to my Gregory, you know. Hmm, let’s see now, it’s six o’clock on the nose!”

“ZED! Dinner!” And Lestrade hurtled, a bit drunkenly, up the stairs.

She washed off most of the blood and tried keep the bruises from swelling, but having been unconscious for three hours, there were few preventative measures she could take. Her left eye was a quite lovely shade of indigo and couldn’t open past half way, her cheek was puffy, several bruises scuttled up from the collar of her shirt and her lower lip was split and grown to Angelina Jolienian proportions. Standing in the doorway of 22B she grimaced at what Watson would say, but found grimacing rather painful so opted instead to just let herself in and grin and bear it, as it were.

The Irregulars were already there, just beginning to tuck into what smelled like an amazing dinner. The chatter died away instantly as she came in.

“Man, I am starving. This looks stellar Watson, thanks so much!” Cheerfully she dropped into the empty seat, facing Holmes lengthwise across the table, and tried to fill the silence. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Did you put ice on that, my dear?” He asked as he passed her the carrots, as though she was simply the working mother of a large family and he the stay at home father wondering had she had a good day?

“Did you put ice on that?! She looks like she got run over by hoverlorry!” Deidre replied indignantly.

“Inspector, what on earth happened to you!” Watson was on his feet, with his scanner out, tilting her head back and forth.

She wriggled in his grip. “Aww common Watson, I’m hungr-ouch!”

“Hold still!” He held onto her chin with grim determination. “And tell me what happened.”

“Some thug surprised me in the stairs. Knocked the wind outta me, then clobbered me from around a corner when I chased after him. I was out for a couple of hours before a neighbour found me. That’s why it looks so bad, I didn’t get to them right away. It’s really worse than it looks Watson.”

“I’ll tell you if it’s worse or not!”

“Zed, why would someone jump you in your own hallway? Was he after money?” Wiggins asked from behind Watson’s bulk.

Out of the corner of her eye Lestrade could see that Holmes was still grimly chewing on the potatoes he’d put in his mouth five minutes ago, while staring straight ahead and looking stony.

“Nah, he didn’t take anything.” She tried to sound bracing, but it came out choked as Watson chose that minute to shine a light down her throat.

“Watson, let the woman eat, for heaven’s sake. Her face will still be there in ten minutes.”

“Holmes! Really! She may need-“

“My dear, if she’s made it this far all she needs is a proper meal and some tea.”

Watson let her go reluctantly and the table lapsed into silence for a moment before Deidre piped up about her literature project and how the heck were men with donkey heads going to further her growth as a person, anyway?

“That reminds me!” Lestrade grabbed her rucksack. “I brought you something. You owe me big time kid!”

Deidre’s eyes went wide. “Oohhh you didn’t! I swear I’ll never call you a witch again!”

Lestrade raised a caustic eyebrow. “Gee, don’t overdo it.”

Deidre looked unrepentant as she caught the tissue wrapped parcel Lestrade chucked her.

Tennyson beeped urgently

“Haha! Yeah! Don’t open it at the table. Some of us are trying to eat.” Wiggins grinned around a mouthful of broccoli.

“Ewww! Didn’t your mother ever teach you to eat with your mouth closed! Besides no way I’m wasting this on you unappreciative buggers. I’m opening it at home, don’t worry.”

“Guys, it’s just a pair of knickers. Calm the zed down.”

Holmes barked a laugh. “You certainly didn’t think as much when you went to get them, Lestrade. I seem to remember you looking absolutely terri-“

“Shut it Holmes.”

The Irregulars left soon after dinner, when it became apparent that both Holmes and Watson were getting antsy about Lestrade but weren’t in the mood for an audience. As they clattered out into the stairwell, demanding promises of the full story later, Deidre turned at the last minute, giving the Inspector a quick, one armed hug, before they disappeared into the smoggy night. Lestrade stared after her, bemused.

Watson made a grab for Lestrade’s chin once again. “Do you think this has something to do with the attacks in France?”

Holmes leaned on the table next to Lestrade, his hands shoved in his pockets and his face scowling. “Perhaps. Though that might disqualify Notre France, after all that. I somehow doubt our attraction spans the channel.”

“Mmmm.” Watson replied meditatively as he smeared regenerative salve on Lestrade’s lip. She screwed up her face at the taste.

“Not much to go on either, is it? Thick set guy, six foot, in a dirty track suit and a balaclava. Big nose though, that shows through the knit.”

Holmes glared at his bay window over her head. “Did he say anything? Was there dirt on him anywhere? Anything Lestrade, now, any-“

“Holmes, relax. I know. Anything. There was nothing, and even if there was, that hallway’s like a zedding cave and I wasn’t exactly worrying about distinguishing features while he was punching me in the gut. And honestly, this could just be a random zedhead.”

Watson made vague and disapproving noises while checking for concussion.

Holmes growled a bit and began stalking about, jerkily gathering up the necessities for tea.

Deciding his tea set was, at present, in more danger than she, Watson left her with a pat on the head and quickly took the cups and pots from Holmes and vanished with them into the kitchen.

Holmes harrumphed into his armchair.

Chuckling, Lestrade swung into the chair next to him and leaned towards him, chin in hand. “Geeze, what’s up with you tonight Holmes? You’re all wound up.”

“’What’s up with me tonight?’” He repeated incredulously. “I wonder! Sometimes, Lestrade, I...” But he broke off and let the sentence hang.

“You...?” She looked down, examining her fingers and smiled a little. “I'm ok, though. You don’t need to get you knickers in a knot.”

His lips twitched and she patted his arm as Watson came back with the tea. He gave them a knowing look which they both ignored, Lestrade rubbing her hands in anticipation of cookies.