Regardless of what Sherlock thought of him, Greg Lestrade was a decently observant man. Hard work had earned him the position of Detective Inspector, and though Sherlock ranted and raved about the Met’s efficiency, hardly any cases went unsolved under his leadership. When Sherlock and John walked into his office he immediately knew what had happened. Anderson owes me a hundred quid, it would seem.

  “Can I help you boys?”

  “Yes, Detective Inspector. I was wondering if there are any cases dangling precariously over your head that I could solve effortlessly for you.”

John sighed and reached to shake Greg’s hand. The greeting was steady and firm- Greg liked John, his military mannerisms made him right at home among the police.

  “What he means is ‘Hello, Greg. How’ve you been? Catch the match last night?”

Lestrade smiled and Sherlock snorted derisively. 

  “I did, in fact, down at the pub. I was a bit too pissed to remember it, but someone definitely won. And no, Sherlock, we’ve been able to handle everything thrown our way. No mysterious murders, no incredibly unlikely thefts, no explosions, nothing big enough to catch your interest. If I need you, I’ll call.”

  “That seems incredibly unlikely. If there’s one thing I appreciate about London’s criminal network, it’s that it’s always trying to outdo itself. I find it rather hard to believe that nothing’s surfaced that requires my assistance.” 

John rolled his eyes in Greg’s direction and placed a hand on his partner’s crisp sleeve.

  “Thanks, Greg. Thought we’d give it a shot. Let’s go, Sherlock.”

As Sherlock wheeled toward the door, John spared a backward glance at the DI seated behind his desk. Greg tipped him a wink as the pair disappeared out the door.

It was the truth. Things had been quiet of late; petty crimes, mostly, a few civil disputes, drunk crashes, nothing out of their league. Hell, nothing even for Homicide to deal with. Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to see that as an unfortunate situation. With nothing better to do, Greg settled back in his chair with a newspaper and a coffee. The calm warranted a bit of rest.

When his door burst open four hours later, he jolted awake. Sally Donovan stood leaning through the opening, her face grim. From the hall, Greg could hear the sound of shouting and running.

  “Detective Inspector, there’s been a body found near Vincent Street.”

  “When?”

  “About ten minutes ago, sir.”

Greg grabbed his coat and made to follow her as she disappeared through the door.  He couldn’t help but think of Sherlock as Homicide gathered. He’s going to be pleased, at least.