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Rising Damp

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The last time Lestrade got this wet on a case was with those mad buggers from the Peculiar Crimes Unit.

Well, to be fair, John May wasn't mad - he was obviously the Watson of that duo. But even Sherlock might blench at some of the things Arthur Bryant kept in the fridge at the PCU's offices over Mornington Crescent tube station. Just as well Bryant and Sherlock had never met: the chaos they could cause between them didn't bear thinking about. It had taken Dimmock a fortnight to stop his computer playing Country and Western at maximum volume after Bryant's last calamitous brush with police electronic equipment.

May had been apologetic when Lestrade was nearly drowned in the Fleet tunnels. Bryant had been too busy spouting arcane facts about the lost rivers of London, which as far as Lestrade was concerned could stay lost. And no, he didn't find it consoling to think that in the eighteenth century there'd have been dead dogs floating in the Fleet.

Today, it's just the Thames, which people say is getting cleaner, though it doesn't taste that way. It's Sherlock's fault Lestrade fell in, of course. Lestrade glares at the smug bastard as Sherlock grabs John's phone to take a photograph of a sopping wet, spitting furious DI Lestrade wrapped in a bright orange blanket.