I do not own Sherlock or James Bond
Bond at the Yard
Greg held a pen in each hand, between his thumb and forefinger, flicking them. The clicking of them hitting off each other was the only noise to be herd in his office, the noisier hubbub of the department muted by the door.
It was late. Almost half past midnight but as always the department never slept and it was as busy as if it were twelve noon. Unfortunately criminals didn't just work nine to five.
Growing tired of his own company he dropped the pens to the table with a clatter and stalked to his office door.
He opened it and just stood for a second and took in the bustling office and sighed inwardly when Sally took that moment to glance up from her desk. She stood, pushing her rolling chair back with such force from the table he was surprised both she and it didn't go flying into the wall behind her.
She came over to him.
"Where is she then?" she asked.
Greg resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Sally didn't like Sherlock, never had and never would – even after her 'resurrection' – and resented the fact that he relied on her so much. But the fact was that Sherlock was good at what she did. What she could do put bad people away and kept London safe. And Sally was just being petty not to even acknowledge this.
"It's been over an hour," she told him when he didn't answer her immediately.
She was right. It had been over an hour – coming up in two now – since he had called her, and, for once, received answer. This worried him. It had never mattered what drama of Anderson and Donvovan making at happened at the last crime scene Sherlock would always answer his calls. It had never occurred to him that she wouldn't pick up.
He remembered with a cold heart the number of times after her 'death' he had instinctively gone for his mobile to bring her in on a case to remember she wasn't there just as he went to press 'dial'.
But since her return she had picked up where she had left off and never ignored his 'summons' as she liked to call them.
He tried her mobile again and when it rang through to voicemail for the second time he left a rambling message and called John.
No, he didn't know where she was.
Yes, he was sure she had her phone with her – this was Sherlock after-all when did she ever NOT have her phone.
No, he wasn't at the flat he was working as a locum at the hospital.
Yes, he got off work in an hour and he could be at the Yard within two.
And that was how things were left.
He saw the short, stocky frame of John at the other end of the room and waved him over, he weaved through the desks to the office door.
"Any luck?" John yawned and Greg felt more than a little guilty for dragging the man here after what had obviously been a long day.
"None. Have you heard from her?"
"Haven't seen her since this morning,"
"You have no idea where she could be?" Greg was almost begging now.
They had five hours until they could no longer hold the suspect.
They needed something. Anything.
Greg's phone rang and he nearly tripped over himself to get back into his office to pick up the handset.
"Lestrade," he barked down the mouthpiece.
"Lestrade, there is no way for me to describe how bad your timing is right now," Sherlock's voice sent him weak with relief and he sagged into his seat.
"Sherlock, where are you?" the mention of Sherlock's name drew John and Sally into his office, both frowning, "We need you here,"
"I'm busy Lestrade,"
She had never been too 'busy' to help.
"We need you Sherlock," he tried again, not knowing what to say to this new line from Sherlock.
There was a heavy sigh from her end and he heard a rustle and then mumbling. Who was she with? Greg knew when a phone was being pressed to something to muffle sound. Another new thing from Sherlock.
"Do I at least have the time to go to Baker Street first?" she asked after a few more seconds of mumbling.
"No Sherlock. The suspect gets let out at six if we don't have anything to hold him. I need you to take a look at the file,"
"Very well. I shall be half an hour,"
He hung up the phone with a relied filled 'thank you' and then frowned
Greg's nerves were stretching to their limits.
Half an hour had come and gone and still there was no sign of Sherlock.
She was now fifteen minutes later than she said she would be.
With each minute that ticked by Greg saw the cell door getting wider and so in an act of desperation he had split up the case file and had several of his team and Dimmock (who Greg was pretty sure was wishing he hadn't come into work early)going through the pictures and interviews and Anderson was moodily studying the forensic reports once again.
A wave of whispering and shifting drew his attention from the document he was studying and he looked up at the door to see a woman and a man entering. They looked more like they were ready for a night at the Oscars than to be found at Scotland Yard.
He scanned the woman and his eyes froze on the familiar face.
Her dark locks were piled high on her head, lip-stick highlighted her usually pale lips and her face – pale and blemish free even without make-up – had the slightest touch of make-up to it, highlighting her cheek bones and eyes.
He lowered his eyes and he could feel them widen.
A flowing gown of green lace covered her from shoulders too feet. Showing not the barest hint of cleavage but making up for it by the way it hugged her waist and hips.
She looked beautiful. Nothing at all like the scrawny child who had knocked on his office door all those years ago, or the skinny waif she appeared to be at crime scenes.
He tore his eyes away from her to study her companion and once again his mind stuttered.
The man's uniform identified him as Navy, and he walked through the mass of tables and people with a straight back, not looking to either side as he leaned in low to Sherlock's ear and whispered something to her.
Sherlock nodded her head and met Greg's eye, not speaking until they came to a stop in front of him.
"I believe you have a file for me to examine, Lestrade," she spoke softly and held out her hand for the file.
"Ah, yes," Greg looked over her shoulder at the various desks to see just where the different pieces of the file had wound up.
"Just a minute, Sherlock,"
He weaves past Sherlock and her companion – his mind rebels against the word 'date' – and makes quick work of retrieving the innards of the file. Most of the people he was snatching the leafs of paper for didn't even notice as they were to bust staring at Sherlock and Dimmock even had his mouth open and was looking as though he had never seen a woman before.
The file all together once more he handed it to Sherlock who walked into his office and sat behind the desk.
The stranger followed her and instead of taking a seat in one of the chairs opposite the desk he crouched next to her seat, winding and arm around the back of her waist.
Just who was this man?
He watched them closely and ignored the growing crowd that was gathering around him as 'passers-by' loitered behind him.
Sherlock was mumbling to herself as she scanned the data, charts, numbers, photo's, interviews. Taking them into her brain and adding things together to build a picture that no one else could usually see until it was pointed out to them – or at least he hoped that was the case this time.
The man did not have that look of impatience on his face that Greg knew that even he was guilty of sporting on occasion – as though Sherlock was some machine that needed fixing if she couldn't spit out the answer quick enough. No he had a small smile on his face, as his eyes remained fixed on Sherlock.
Who was he?
His attention was finally drawn from the couple when he heard John – who had gone to retrieve some coffee – return. The doctor was pushing his way through the crowd of the Yards finest and finally stopped as he came between Greg and Sally – where had Sally came from?
"Who's the bloke?" Sally asked John who was staring just as dumb struck into the office as Greg knew he had been only seconds ago.
Sally spoke just louder than a whisper and he knew that Sherlock and the stranger would have heard, but neither of them gave any indication of it and Sherlock just kept flicking through the file while the man gazed at her with something akin to adoration in his eyes.
"No idea," John sounded shocked.
"The victim was definitely murdered," Sherlock announced suddenly, leaving the papers strewn across his already messy desk as she stood with the help of the stranger - who had immediately straightened when she began to move.
She came over to him and Greg was suddenly aware of the crowd dispersing as quickly as they could and Sherlock quirked an eyebrow in confusion as her eyes remained focused on the bustling people behind him. Some things about Sherlock never changed and apparently some of the more basic human traits still eluded her.
She shook her head and focused on him once more after nodding her head at John – he should have remembered that things still weren't back to 'normal' with them since Sherlock's return from the dead - before looking at him, the stranger stood at her shoulder, hands behind his back.
Greg listened in shock as Sherlock explained that the whole case against the suspect could be proved by the victim's shoes and the suspect's shirt.
"Now, if your need of my skills will not encroach upon any more of my time, I would like to get make to my evening,"
It was nearly three in the morning, just what was she planning on –
Wait. Had the stranger just taken her hand? And she wasn't objecting?
He glanced to John whose eyes looked like they were about to pop from his head.
He bet that the other man was really starting to wish he hadn't been quite so stubborn about giving Sherlock the silent treatment.
Sally snorted and Greg just knew she was about to say something to regret.
"Since when do you have a life outside of dead bodies, freak?"
The stranger stepped forward and in one graceful movement Sherlock was tucked behind him – like he was trying to protect her from some sort of physical attack. He was scowling at Sally and had opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock running a hand up his arm seemed to stop him.
Seeing Sherlock being so…intimate with another was just too strange for words.
Greg felt almost sad that the stranger hadn't spoken, he would have loved to hear what he was going to say. But as it stood he would be having a word with Sally himself once Sherlock was gone.
"Lestrade," she looked at him, "Sally," she looked at Sally and then paused before looking to John, "John. Goodnight,"
Greg watched as her hand snaked the rest of the way down the man's arm before her fingers threaded with his.
She tugged at the stranger and together they left.
Silence filled the room for a second before ever tongue in the place seemed to be going.
Greg could feel the headache starting.