Orphan on Baker Street

Fifth: Lestrade

The wheelchair-bound Sherlock and I sit in a cafe, sipping tea. Mine is lavender with plenty of sugar; Sherlock has black tea with a delicate sprinkle of sugar. I turn my attention from the window and watch him set his cup of tea down. He's about to say something.

"Yes," he says, an air of finalization in his voice.

"Pardon?" I tilt my head. Maybe I asked a question. No; I'm sure I would remember asking him something.

"Yes, you can help me," Sherlock explains, rubbing his fingers on a napkin. My face lights up like the sun.

"Really? I can?"

"But not if you're going to be annoying or happy about it," he says. Then he smiles at me.

"Thank you," I say genuinely. This is something I've wanted to do for a while - detective work, not helping Sherlock Holmes. Ever since I was little, I'd question and investigate. Life truly was great then.

After we've finished our tea, Sherlock passes over his wallet so I can leave a tip for our waitress. I hand the wallet back to him and roll him out onto the street. He realizes I'm taking him to Baker Street.

"Wait," he says, holding the wheels. Quickly, I stop, not wanting to hurt his hands. "Let's go to the station, please," Sherlock tells me over his shoulder.

"Alright," I say, looking around for a cab. I roll him right up to the curb and start to wave at a black car coming toward us. The driver pulls over onto the curb quickly, the window sliding down.

My back hunches as I look through it. "Do you mind helping us with this wheelchair?"

"Not at all," he says, showing off perfect teeth beneath his gray mustache.

We manage to get Sherlock into the car and the wheelchair in the trunk. In no time, we're driving off to the police station. It doesn't take long, and the cab driver helps me get Sherlock out and into the wheelchair.

"Thank you," I call after him with a smile. He just nods and gets back into the car, driving off. I roll Sherlock up a side-ramp into the station.

"Just keep going past the receptionist," he says, pointing past the desk. The receptionist looks up momentarily, notices his face, and then looks back down at her phone, typing away.

I lean down to whisper something to Sherlock. "Who's she texting?"

He glances over his shoulder momentarily before looking back in front of him, saying quietly, "Someone she's having an affair with. He works with her husband." I smile.

"That office," he says firmly, and I roll him into an office, the open door holding a nameplate that reads "Lestrade".

"Sherlock," the man behind the desk says, standing. His confused look at the wheelchair brings Sherlock's voice.

"This is Mickey," Sherlock explains, pointing a thumb at me behind him, "and I have a fractured knee," he taps his right knee, "and a twisted ankle," he gestures down at his left foot where a cast is.

"Where's the cast for your knee?" Lestrade questions.

"Oh, they were going to put that on 10 minutes or so after I left," Sherlock says with a smile. I can't help but smile as well.

"Alright," Lestrade says simply, glancing between Sherlock and me.

"She's 16 by the way," Sherlock says. Staring down at him, I see him scowl.

"Why does that matter?" I say defensively. Not everyone needs to know my age.

"It doesn't," Sherlock says, but I can tell he's lying. My eyes roll around in my head. "I'm here to find out the connection between the victims," he says, wheeling himself closer to the desk.

"We already found it. All of them are addicts," Lestrade says, positioning the laptop on his desk so it's easier for Sherlock to access.

"No," the man says simply. "There's a human connection. The killer's main concern is the person." Sherlock opens up multiple windows, each showing a face of the victims. "Therapist."

He rolls backward and to the side a bit to leave. "Wait," Lestrade calls before Sherlock can roll through the doorway. "The first victim didn't have a therapist."

"Not that you know of," Sherlock points out, rolling around to face him again. "He had private sessions, and it was kept quiet from friends and the sort. They were probably close - cousins, perhaps."

Again, Sherlock rolls around and out the door. Lestrade stares off at him in awe. I quickly follow behind Sherlock, helping to roll him out of the building.