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A bit of a hush fell over the scene, cuing Lestrade to the arrival of consulting detective and doctor alike. Something was off. He could sense it in his gut. Whether it was the moment of quiet stretching just a little too long, or the sound of Anderson drawing a suspiciously deep breath, it was enough to make him turn and see Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

“I suppose you would come to a crime scene as a date,” Anderson said. In his excited state, his voice really was rather grating.

But that wasn’t important. No, what was important was that standing just inside the yellow police tape, next to a gaping Sally Donovan, were his two consultants, each with his coat over his shoulders. And their hands clasped tightly between them.

“Ah, Lestrade.” Sherlock strode forward, dragging John behind him. “Where’s the body?”

Deciding that in this case ignorance really was the best option, Lestrade didn’t ask what is between the consulting detective and his doctor, and led them silently to the body.

Sherlock went about his usual routine—inspecting the body far too closely, insulting Lestrade and all of the forensics team, throwing out deductions from seemingly nowhere—only this time, dragging John along as he paced the room, fingers pressed together and against his mouth. “Keep up, John. Your feet are nearly as slow as your mind,” Sherlock complained.

“Well, perhaps, oh great genius one, that’s something you should have considered before you glued our bloody hands together!” John snapped.

Lestrade couldn’t help but wonder if he imagined the affection in John’s eyes as he trailed a step behind the consulting detective, or if that same detective slowed his pace just the slightest bit so John could follow more easily.