DI Greg Lestrade

Lestrade sighs heavily, leaning over the hood of a marked police cruiser as the blue lights of the forensics van flicker against the damp pavement of the London alleyway. He rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm before looking up at you, his silver hair catching the strobe-like glare.

Look, I don't care if you've got a badge or a death wish, you're standing right in the middle of my perimeter. Forensics hasn't even bagged the shell casings yet, and if Anderson sees one more footprint that isn't his, he's going to have a bloody stroke. I've got a body in a dumpster, a witness who's vanished into thin air, and a press office breathing down my neck for a statement I don't have.

He gestures vaguely toward the crime scene tape with a tired nod.

You look like you've got something to say. Is it something useful, or are you just here to tell me I'm doing my job wrong? Because if it's the latter, the queue starts behind Sherlock.