"Redemption and Motorbikes"

DI Lestrade sank his head into his hands. This was the third murder in two weeks with the same method. He would have texted Sherlock - could have texted Sherlock - except he'd heard nothing from the man since his return.

Not that Greg could blame him. He'd been the one who went to Baker Street to make the arrest, forcing Sherlock to go on the run, with absolutely no support network (except John), leading to his apparent suicide.

John, of course, got a full reprieve from Sherlock. One, because he'd never stopped doubting him, and two, because he mattered the most to Sherlock in the world. But even though John was married, and should have been happy to have had the chance to date without Sherlock's interference, the doctor, so Greg heard, still hadn't forgiven Sherlock for his disappearing act.

As previously stated, Sherlock hadn't contacted Greg at all. Either he was extremely busy, too busy to be bored, or he simply didn't want to talk to the inspector. And, again, Greg could entirely understand it. But… but it did hurt.

"This is one of those times where the Freak might actually be useful," Donovan piped up from nearby. Greg scowled at her, and she looked taken aback.

"You will stop calling him that," he said. "Don't think I haven't forgotten where your actions led him, led all of us. All right, Donovan?"

She opened her mouth, closed it again, and then decided to speak.

"What I meant to say, sir, is that maybe you should call him. Before the killer has a chance to strike again."

Greg knew this, damn it! Surely Donovan could see that? Surely everybody could see that? He wanted to send Sherlock a message, and hope to God that he might get a response. Even just a negative one would stop this bloody awful suspense, and he might get some work done. And he'd know where he stood, which is more than could be said for him at the moment.

So he nodded, unlocked his phone, and sent a message. The reply was quick.

'Thank God. Going out of mind here. Be there in five minutes. SH'

Greg blinked twice, three times, and wondered where the hell Sherlock could be. How could he possibly get here from Baker Street in less than fifteen minutes, even ten?

Just short of five minutes later, there was the sound of a motorbike, and it rounded the corner into the street. It pulled up to a screech in front of the property, and Greg sighed. Where was the miracle taxi going to park? Or was Sherlock coming by helicopter?

The man on the motorbike climbed off fluidly, legs a mile long encased in leather trousers, a tight shirt showing off defined abs, and a studded leather jacket fitting his upper body perfectly. Even the straightest of men there had to be drooling, and Greg could never honestly claim to have rated zero on the Kinsey Scale. Gloved hands reached up, undid the strap, and removed the helmet.

Even traffic noise went away as Sherlock scrubbed his helmet hair back into its usual disorder. Then he stowed the helmet away, ducked under the crime scene tape, and walked up to Greg. Well, it definitely wasn't leather then. Sherlock had always claimed that the overwhelming scent at close quarters masked subtler odours. Leather shoes were different. But Sherlock wasn't wearing shoes; he was wearing boots which went halfway up to his knees.

"Uh…" Greg trailed off, cleared his throat, and it managed to snap everyone back into action. Whether or not they returned to what they were doing before, he had no idea, and he didn't care.

"Why haven't you called before now?" Sherlock said. He adjusted his jacket, and Greg was distracted for a moment. "Lestrade? Greg? This is the third body! Show me where it is. Come on. Or shall I make an educated guess?"

"You never guess," Greg said, proud of himself for that much. "Aren't you hot? In those clothes, I mean. Hot in those clothes."

"It's not real leather," Sherlock said, glancing down at his getup with obvious confusion. Obvious, because Sherlock Holmes was rarely confused.

"I know that," Greg said. "You'd never wear it, especially not to a crime scene." Sherlock looked mildly impressed, which Greg counted as a victory. "You didn't break the speed limit, did you?"

"I wasn't caught."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Come on." He led Sherlock into the house, but turned back before they entered the room. "If you were bored, why didn't you ask if I had any cases for you? You know I would've been happy to have your help."

Sherlock swallowed, looking uncomfortable. "John has said that I can't just go back to the way things were, and expect people to drop everything at my whim. I did not wish to disturb you, particularly considering that my previous help landed you in a considerably… awkward situation with your superiors. Superiors in name only, I might add."

"So… you were trying to be helpful."

"I was attempting not to irritate you. You are my friend, Lestrade. I have already alienated John. I do not wish to lose you as well."

"Or the cases."

"Damn the cases! It's y— They're important, but friendship is… I suppose it is important as well." Sherlock wasn't looking him in the eye, and there was a flush on his cheeks. Rather than analyse it - especially while Sherlock was still dressed like that - Greg stepped into the room, and Sherlock followed.

"All right," he said. "Do your thing."

He regretted that immediately when Sherlock bent over the corpse, the faux-leather trousers clinging to all the important places.

Now Greg was the one flushing.

Bordering on Sherstrade. Gosh, I love this pairing. Partially inspired by a fic I read where Lestrade was the one on the motorcycle, and Sherlock was the one who was… shall we say affected by it? (And so was everyone else.) But I can't find it anywhere! If anyone knows the name of the story, please tell me. I shall be most indebted to you.