I neither own nor profit from any of these characters; they are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC.

If you see something that you think ought to be changed or improved, please feel free to let me know, if you'd like. Constructive criticism is always welcome.

Special thanks to LeDragonQuiMangeDuPoisson for having read this over for me.

De-anon from kinkmeme prompt: "Five things Lestrade can do that Sherlock can't and the one thing they both can't do."

A/N: I don't usually de-anon this early, but with the way LiveJournal's been behaving, I'm hoping that perhaps the OP will be able to find it here instead.


I.

Lestrade can't fathom how Sherlock keeps managing to get himself into these situations. He's been kidnapped by serial killers, imprisoned in museums with acrobat assassins, been left messages in bombed-out houses by brilliant psychopaths, and now, he's taken a graceful dive off a rail bridge into the Thames and, somehow, instead of breaking his damn neck, he's sitting shivering on the bank and there's a suspect in custody that Lestrade never hoped to catch.

He hates it when Sherlock's foolishness yields results, because it leaves him without a leg to stand on when he's trying to tell the younger man off.

"Go on," he says roughly instead, kicking a change of clothing toward the man still shaking under the orange blanket. "Put 'em on. If you catch pneumonia, John'll kill me."

Sherlock frowns at the tracksuit bottoms, T-shirt and running shoes. "What are these?" he asks, disdainful even as his teeth chatter through the words.

"My workout clothes. Does it matter? You can't stay in that sopping suit and coat, and I highly doubt you've brought a change."

The grimace on Sherlock's face intensifies. Lestrade can tell he'd like to argue, but there's nothing he can really say, and so the detective inspector turns his back while Sherlock strips out of his soaked Spencer Hart, using the shock blanket to shield himself.

He turns back when the scuffling noises die down, and Sherlock's sitting on the blanket now, suit and coat in a crumpled heap beside him, and Lestrade's running shoes piled haphazardly on top.

"The shoes, too, Sherlock! You'll catch your death in soaking wet boots, and they're ruined anyway."

"The boots are fine, Lestrade."

"No, they aren't. Look at them – " and he tips one of Sherlock's feet up to emphasize his point; a thin, brown stream of cold Thames water runs out of the boot and soaks into the cuff of Lestrade's grey tracksuit bottoms. Instead of releasing the foot, he attacks the laces (takes a bit of time; the dunking they've received has made them slimy and difficult to manipulate) and deposits the boot beside them on the riverbank.

"Now hurry up. The other one's no better."

Sherlock sighs and pulls the second boot off, tossing it carelessly aside so that it rolls a few feet down the bank and settles dangerously close to the water's edge. "Happy?"

Lestrade throws the shoes at him and turns away to deal with something Donovan wants him to do. He's fairly certain it can wait, but after all, she's a member of his team and Sherlock isn't. When he turns back, Sherlock hasn't gotten any farther along in putting on the bloody shoes.

"Sherlock…" he growls warningly.

Sherlock crams his feet into the shoes (they won't fit perfectly, but they'll do, Sherlock is being infuriatingly overdramatic), flops back against the grass and looks at him.

"You're like a bloody five-year-old. Go on, tie them, and if you're good, we'll go to McDonald's after school today."

"There's no need for sarcasm."

"It's been a quarter of an hour and I'm still trying to get you to put on dry clothes."

Sherlock shifts his gaze away and Lestrade begins to wonder just what the hell is going on. So he asks. The detective casts a wary eye in Donovan and Anderson's direction, then says in a low voice, "Your shoes."

"Yeah?"

"They're lace-ups."

"Most running shoes are."

"I don't do that."

"You don't…" Lestrade stares at him. "Your boots are lace-ups."

Sherlock's voice drops even lower. "John does those."

Lestrade presses his lips together and turns away for a moment, trying to force into submission the laughter that threatens to escape him. Sherlock will never forgive him if he laughs, but…

"How can you not know how to tie your shoes?"

"It's completely unnecessary knowledge. I've never needed it to solve a case and I can't imagine I ever will."

"Is that all you think about?"

"Yes, of course." Sherlock sounds like he can't believe Lestrade didn't know that already.

Lestrade stares at him for a moment, then kneels beside him and swiftly does the laces up, wrapping them around his fingers to make sure they're not too tight. He checks over his shoulder – no one on the team has seen.

"Thank you," says Sherlock stiffly, and motions as if to rise.

"You're welcome," says Lestrade, and can't quite hide his grin as he adds, "Now remember what I said about being good at school today."

It earns him a death glare, but he doesn't care. It's nice, for once, to see Sherlock brought down to his level, and he's far too human not to take advantage of it just a little.