"I think – we can – stop – running now," he gasped, grimacing as he reached down to rub his leg. "We've got to be a couple of miles away now."

"Just because you're tired."

"We can't all be ex-military. Some of us are poor cripples," he whined. John smiled thinly despite his anxiety.

"Fine then, we can walk for a bit. Just try not to attract attention."

"Could be difficult. I'm kind of a big deal, after all."

The pair walked through twisting streets, with no real sense of direction or focus – all that mattered was putting distance between themselves and the ringing alarm bells of the British museum. At the bottom of House's rucksack, the skull burned: as incriminating as a bloodied knife or a finger-print plastered gun. John couldn't help but glance around uneasily at every corner they came to; the adrenaline still pounded through his veins, but it was mixed with fear, and a terrible feeling of rising panic. House seemed unperturbed, still grinning like a madman as he limped along with a hint of swagger.

"What are we going to do with it, then?"

"What?"

"Well, we can hardly carry it around with us. And I know airport security isn't always the best, but I think they might notice if you try and smuggle it home in your hand-luggage. Has it got any fingerprints on it?"

"No, I wore gloves; I'm not a moron," House sighed derisively, rolling his eyes. "But you're right, we need to get rid of it." He broke off, frowning slightly as he gazed around at the concrete apartment blocks as though searching for inspiration. "Somewhere it'll be found, but not traced back to us..." John caught a glimpse of the expression on House's face – the faraway look in his eyes that denoted that he was working on a problem – and decided that it was probably best not to interrupt him with ideas which would inevitably be shot down as idiotic.

It was as they turned another corner that they heard it – the slow, terrible wail of a police siren. John's stomach dropped, lurching in time with the distinctive screech as it dipped and climbed through the grey London air. House glanced across at him.

"It's fine, there are hundreds of police cars in London. It's not coming after us," he said, the breezy tone not entirely masking the note of concern that crept into his voice. The siren grew louder.

"It's getting closer."

"Still doesn't mean it's after us." They quickened their pace, the siren doggedly pursuing them as they turned down another street.

The police car came screeching around the corner, bathing them in jolting blue light as the air split with its howl. John felt every muscle in his body tense – it's going to just drive past, it's going to just drive past, look now it's almost gone past us, it's going to just...

The car squealed to an abrupt halt by the pavement ten metres in front of them. John just caught the profile of the driver as he turned the siren off and opened the car door: the silver hair, the black coat, the weary lined face...

"Oh shit..." he groaned to himself, as Detective Inspector Lestrade stepped out of the car and strode towards them. The DI was looking frazzled – as he did more often than not – his coat collar turned up and his hair sticking out at an angle that might have looked comical if it wasn't for the grim look in his deep brown eyes. Behind him, Sergeant Sally Donovan stepped out of the car, an expression of distaste flashing across her unforgiving features as she caught sight of John. Lestrade, on the other hand, broke into a relieved smile as he addressed the ex-army doctor.

"John, thank God, we were just on our way to Baker Street now. There's been a break in at the British Museum, absolute fucking nightmare. I've been trying to get hold of Sherlock, I think he should have a look, but he's not answering his bloody phone –"

"He's not at Baker Street anyway. Besides, simple break-in, Sherlock won't look at it," John managed to croak, as he tried to arrange his features into something other than an expression of guilt. The sheer absurdity of the situation, mixed with the relief that flooded his stomach when he realised that he wasn't being treated as a suspect, almost made him want to laugh; he bit his tongue.

"I know, but he's not had a case in a while and I thought he might want to get out of the house. Besides, it's hardly a simple break-in, it's the British bloody Museum!" Lestrade exclaimed. He blinked suddenly and peered at John. "Hang on a sec, where is Sherlock? If he's not at Baker Street and he's not with you –"

"We're not Siamese twins, you know! We do occasionally part company," John retorted hotly, his ears turning pink. From behind Lestrade's back, Donovan smirked slightly.

"Could have fooled us. I always assumed you accompanied the freak on toilet breaks –"

"What the hell are you implying?!" John started fiercely, but Lestrade cut through him.

"Enough, Donovan!" He sighed, with the weary tone of a schoolteacher separating two squabbling toddlers. "I don't have time for your snide little comments today. And I told you not to call him that."

"For what it's worth, I'm pretty sure they're a couple too. You should see their matching pyjamas." House, who had until this point remained mercifully silent, piped up; John raised a hand despairingly to his face. Lestrade, who seemed to have only just noticed the American doctor, started slightly and squinted into his face.

"OK, who are you then? What are you doing with John?" He said suspiciously, looking House up and down. House opened his mouth to reply, but John hastily interrupted.

"So I'm not allowed to have other friends? This is Dr House, he's staying at Baker Street. In London for a medical conference. I was just showing him around." Lestrade looked rather sceptical as House held out his hand in a surprising show of manners. As he took it distractedly, House leant in closer.

"So you're Lestrade? Are you as incompetent as I've been led to believe?" Lestrade snatched his hand away, a look of incredulity on his face. House continued in a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm actually with the CIA. Don't worry, I'm already on the case – I already have a pretty good idea who broke in."

"What the –"

"Sorry, he's just joking – please – ignore that," John implored, shooting House a despairing glare. Lestrade turned to face John, his expression one of sheer disbelief.

"Bloody hell, do you specialise in befriending obnoxious people?"

"Apparently," John muttered.

"Clearly you have a bit of a thing for freaks," Donovan added snidely. This time, Lestrade did not admonish her. Sighing heavily, he looked rather pleadingly to John.

"Look, do you have any idea where I could find Sherlock?"

"I'm afraid not, no. Just keep trying his phone?"

"Right, well I will do. And if you see him, tell him there's a case if he wants it." Lestrade nodded a terse goodbye, before turning back towards the car. Donovan lingered for a moment, offering John a look which might have been pity, and House one of uttermost contempt – to which he waved back cheerily – before she hurried after Lestrade.

"You know, we can handle this without the freak."

"Oh right, like all the other cases we could 'handle on our own'".

"Strange how you can't contact him though? You never know, he might even be involved," Donovan continued, only half-sarcastically, as she climbed into the passenger seat.

"Oh shut-up, Donovan." Lestrade irately slammed the door shut.

As the police car pulled away – lights flashing – John rounded on House.

"What the hell? Is it your goal in life to piss off every other human-being on the planet? He's a policeman!" But House wasn't listening: he gazed after the police car with a strange, distant expression.

"Maybe he's involved..." he muttered vaguely. Suddenly he snapped to face John, a grin spreading across his face. "John, I know what to do with the skull."