Author's note: Another plot bunny sent my way, courtesy of alabastor-demon: A Yarder is out of the country during the Hiatus and runs into Holmes (maybe recognizing him, maybe not).
I hope you enjoy it.
"Look out!" I shouted, shoving the smaller man out of the line of fire. A second later a bullet struck the brick wall behind the spot where his head had just been.
We both went down, rolled, and came back up into a crouch, the man whose life I had just saved scanning the area for some sign of his would be assailant. "Are you alright?" I asked without thinking. "You could have been killed."
The man looked at me oddly, and my heart faltered. It was possible that I had jeopardized everything with my impromptu rescue. It was entirely possible Lestrade would recognize me, and my cover would be blown.
I berated myself. I should not have risked being recognized; in the next second I wondered if I could have stood by and watched him die. Another part of me wondered if I were simply homesick for London or if I had actually developed some sort of fondness for the exasperating Inspector.
It also occurred to me to wonder what on earth the man was doing here. I had been aware that he occasionally did undercover work, but what on earth would bring him so far out here? The man should have been home. He should have been in London.
He should not have been here, wandering the streets, barely avoiding getting a bullet lodged in his brain. He could have died right here, and likely no one back home would have ever found out what had happened to him.
I had to swallow against the urge to ask about London, about Watson, about Moriarty and his gang and even the Yard. I was curious, yes, and perhaps it was even more than just that that made me want to ask.
Lestrade blinked. I saw the question form in his eyes, and saw him resolutely push it to the back of his mind because he had work to do right now and couldn't be distracted. The stirring of recognition faded and died; I was simply some stranger who had, for whatever reason and by whatever skill or luck, saved his life.
I was not entirely pleased by the lack of recognition, as illogical as such a reaction was. I should have been relieved.
"Fine." He assured me, as if only seconds had passed. In truth, that was all the time that had passed. Only seconds. It seemed like longer. "Are you?" I nodded, wary that he might recognize my voice if I spoke. "Thank you." He said.
I nodded again. Then I turned and left him there in the street.
Oh how I wanted to go home!
Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.