John Watson walked on the crime scene with Sherlock Holmes as usual. Lestrade is crouched by the body looking at details waiting for Sherlock's input. John stands back today wanting to observe. He clasps his hands behind his back and takes a steady stance watching Sherlock approach and taking over Lestrade's place bent over the body. John Watson watches the quick movements of Sherlock taking in every little detail that everyone else has scent but not observing. He can almost see the calculations begin laid out in Sherlock's head as he jumps from detail to conclusion the movement of Lestrade pulls his attention.

The DI is shifting subtly closer to the doorway and a surprise visitor makes an entrance. Anthea or whatever she's calling herself today walks over and stand next to Lestrade typing at her blackberry. Mycroft is back by his car silently observing, perhaps waiting for Sherlock to notice, or show that he notices. John watches Lestrade and Anthea getting closer tucking their heads together over the Blackberry even as she continues to type. John finds it odd, their easy flow of words over the Blackberry. Of course John's relationship with Sherlock is no different. He puts up with Sherlock experimenting, whingeing, playing violin, sitting at John's computer typing away ignoring John as he sets down tea or food or those biscuits he likes or any number of things really.

John can't help but feel this tight group of people are some of the oddest persons and somehow all meant for one another. As Lestrade places a soft hand on Anthea's lower back and Anthea leans in brushing her hair across his shoulder then glancing up smiling allowing him to lean down and place a peck of a kiss on her lips. John can't help but thing of those stupid names Americans give their acting couples: Brangalina…Bennifer. And as he watches the two of them, a new one comes to mind. Lestranthea. It suits then he thinks. Lestranthea- a mix of their names as they become one over the connection of the Blackberry, the minute touching and soft kissing and electric air uniting them. Yes, Lestranthea fits.

Mycroft noticed something very interesting as Lestrade and Mycroft's P.A. grew closer together. He noticed the look in Lestrade's eyes when Mycroft addressed 'Anthea' a certain way.

"Darling, could you send that file to the French Ambassador, please." Normally Mycroft would have his eyes on Anthea, watching her intent productivity. This time, he watched Lestrade and very carefully. Ah, there it was, that spark in his eyes at the word 'darling'.

It amused Mycroft how pet-names could so enrage a lover when it wasn't coming from their lips. Mycroft knew the power of names, but the little nick-names he gave to people seemed harmless to him. It was his own affectionate way of addressing a woman who didn't like her name known. It was respect.

And yet, a lover, such as Lestrade, could grow in jealousy by it. Mycroft smiled and when he noticed Anthea had sent it, he pushed the D.I.'s buttons one more time, for experimental measures, he reasoned. "Thank you, Darling."

Sherlock was supposed to be studying the body, but they were so damn distractible. He stopped in the middle of everything and stood up straight, back to the man's body on the floor of the hotel room, and watched.

Anthea was standing inches from Lestrade's shoulder, holding out her Blackberry to the man and both were smiling. Sherlock grimaced as he watched them, listened to Lestrade's laid back tone.

He couldn't work under these conditions, couldn't focus without someone standing there telling him to 'hurry up' or 'you're completely off base. We know who did it'. There wasn't anyone to challenge, to prove wrong. Lestrade was too busy fawning over some woman. His brother's P.A.

Mycroft, he must have something to do with this set up and Sherlock would see an end to it. "Lestrade, my brother is the killer."

Lestrade looked back at him, then over to Anthea. When she shook her head, Lestrade shot Sherlock a glare. "Mature of you, Sherlock. Are you stumped? Need Anderson to take over?" He grinned wickedly at the youngest Holmes.

At least the woman hadn't taken away his quick wit, and now Sherlock had something to work off of once more.

Wait…he'd listened to Anthea without a shred of proof. He never believed Sherlock until the killer was in custody. That damned woman would ruin Sherlock's favorite D.I.

Donovan and Anderson sat together at a desk in Scotland Yard. Their eyes were on Lestrade who was a yard away staring intently at his cell and typing away at the keys. "Been like that for weeks, Anderson." Donovan's voice was hushed.

"Mm, that woman?" Anderson asked not taking his eyes from the D.I.

"Has to be. It's sort of cute, you know?" Donovan smiled, folding her arms over her chest.

Anderson looked over at her, looked her up and down, and then back at Lestrade. "Right, sure. At least he's normally in a good mood as of late."

Donovan reached over and slapped his chest. "You're so unromantic. That man deserves a little bit of happy in his life, after dealing with Sherlock."

"I think Anthea is a sociopath, too."

Lestrade, eyes still focused on his cell, spoke up. "I hear both of you. And she's not a sociopath…" He looked up at them after sending his message. "Much."