Authors Note:
This is just a bit of fun based on the 'law' that pregnant women can request the use of a policeman's helmet if she's desperate and there's no where else to go. I don't know if it's a real law or not but I thought it would be funny if it happened to the poor Gregory Lestrade.
This may be the last thing I write in a while because I've got exams next week. *sighs* So...yeah, sorry. Or, more likely, I might update my stories mainly because of my procrastinating. ;)
Ta xx
I'd Let You Piss in My Helmet
"The thing you don't understand, John is that the way the garden was situated, and in particular the apple tree, it made it virtually impossible for Mrs. Edwards to see into the upper window in the MacDonald's house, therefore –"
"Sherlock, do us a favour, shut up and drink your Babycham." John said just before throwing the rest of his pint down his throat. Sherlock looked petulant but did indeed shut his gob.
The side of Lestrade's mouth twisted into a smile; John looked as withered as he felt. The day had been harrowing to say the least but not without its rewards. They'd caught a steadily growing gang that had embedded itself onto the streets of London and caught twenty grand worth of drugs in the process, not bad at all considering it did take them two fucking hours to even get Sherlock out of his pyjamas and by that point John had all but shoved his boot up Sherlock's arse.
"Another pint?" Greg asked John, not bothering to even glance in Sherlock's direction, which, the man in question had turned his head and most of his body away to look out of the window.
"Yeah go on then, I'll buy the next round if you want?"
"Nah, it's fine. You can pay for my taxi home when I'm too pissed to walk." He grinned mischievously.
John gave a guttural snort. "I didn't realise we were planning on getting that drunk."
"What else is there to do on Saturday night? UEFA championship doesn't even start until the spring."
"True." John looked around the surprisingly empty pub; it was quiet for a Saturday night, too quiet. And if the man was honest it unnerved him slightly. "Where the hell are all the twenty-somethings? Why aren't they getting drunk and starting pub brawls over girls with no knickers and less brains?"
"Oh, those were the good old days." Greg said with a genuine smile. He downed the last of his pint with one swift motion and stood, wiping the excess foam off his mouth with the back of his hand. "You will tend to find in this day and age that rohypnol is considerable cheaper than alcohol." Greg winked before heading up to the bar.
John laughed a little too loudly, causing him to hiccup. Sherlock turned away from the window and frowned at him.
"Why am I here, John? Tell me, exactly why I am here."
"Because," John sighed. "Greg is our mate and mates go to the pub and have fun."
Sherlock stared at him blankly. "Fun. You call this fun."
"Well I'm sorry our mere mortal pastimes bore you. Maybe you'd care to read the entire collection on maps of the 16th century in the British Library, Oh no! I forgot, you're barred."
Sherlock glowered at John with all of his might but nothing could sway the ex-army doctor into doing exactly what Sherlock wanted to do, and leave.
Greg returned back a few seconds later, placing a pint in front of John.
"Cheers."
"I got you the same is that alright?" Greg took another sip of his.
"Yeah, grand, thanks."
Greg's eyes drifted from Sherlock to John and back again. The tension between the two men was palpable. Sherlock was seething about something and John was slowly but surely losing his patience with the man next to him.
Greg certainly didn't want to be there when he exploded, not Sherlock…John.
"I joined the police training college when I was twenty-four, in eighty-seven."
And so began Greg's monologue on the parts of life he hadn't bothered to tell them about. Even Sherlock had begun to listen at Greg recalled his first murder enquiry and smirked when Greg said he's fainted at the sight of the dead man's blood on his shoes.
Which, he realised some days later, was quite good blackmail material which could and probably would inevitably be used against him.
As the night progressed, Greg and John got considerably more drunk, so much so that they had all but ceased to have any form of a logical conversation and began laughing about Daleks and Tom Baker's hair.
Eventually the two men became so out of it that Sherlock had to all but emotionally blackmail the bartender into helping him carrying John and Greg out into the street so he could take them home.
The two men – two grown men, one a respected Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard, the other a doctor and a veteran of Afghanistan were reduced to giggling school children sitting on the curb whilst trying to tie each other's shoes – which had somehow magically become undone.
That was why Sherlock stuck to Babycham.
Sherlock hailed a cab for Lestrade first, but after the first cabbie saw the state of the Inspector he'd all but told Sherlock to piss off…in fact he did tell Sherlock to piss off.
After three attempts at trying to persuade, persuade, mind you, taxi drivers, one relented and agreed to take the police inspector home for twice the amount the fare would cost.
Sherlock begrudgingly shoved the notes into the smarmy git's hands and pushed the Inspector indignantly onto the floor of the taxi.
"John! John! Come here mate!" Lestrade called with his face leaning on the seat.
Somehow, John appeared swaying at Sherlock's side, grinning wildly and looking a lot unlike John.
"Yeah?" He beams, seemingly not noticing how Sherlock had wrapped his arm around the shorter man's waist in order to keep him upright.
"I just – just –" He hiccupped. "want you to know that, and you too Sherlock…that I'd let you piss in my helmet, any time."
John burst out laughing, almost hysterically as he wobbled backwards. Sherlock leapt forward to keep the man from banging his head into a lamppost whilst shutting the cab door with his foot.
The Detective Inspector, however, had already passed out.
A fresh-faced twenty-six-year-old Gregory Lestrade sat on a bench in the locker room polishing the buttons on his uniform. He'd spent the last half an hour polishing his boots to death.
Once he was satisfied that the buttons simply couldn't gleam with more shine, he turned to his pride and joy; his helmet. He handled it carefully and placed it delicately on his lap.
He pulled out a new cloth and started to wipe it gently, smiling as he did so. Greg took pride in his uniform, when he wore it, he got a sense of righteousness, duty and justice; like he was actually doing something right in the world.
But the pièce de résistance of his uniform was his helmet. It was the true symbol of the police force. No self-respecting copper would be seen without it. It was everything the police force stood for; pride, protection and a symbol of penalty for those who disobey the law.
His eyes glazed over as he remembered the first time he wore his uniform in front of his family. He remembered the way his mother had cried with joy and how his father had patted him on the back claiming he'd become a man.
"Lestrade. Oi! Greg. Snap out of it." Clicking fingers were waved under his nose and Greg looked up, startled.
"Come on, the Sergeant is waiting for you. You're doing foot work today 'member?"
Jack Collins was standing in front of him, grinning mischievously. "Sorry mate, I didn't mean to interrupt you during your…alone time…with your helmet."
"Piss off Jack."
Collins laughed. "I always know how to hit you were it hurts, don't I Greggy?"
Greg shoved two fingers up at Jack just before he disappeared, his laughter echoing down the corridor.
Greg changed quickly into his uniform and headed to the front desk, carrying his helmet under his arm. And he was greeted by his largely unimpressed Sergeant and a miserable custody sergeant.
"Christ, lad, my wife's quicker at changing than you." The Sergeant or 'Sarge' as he was normally called was leaning against the front desk. He straightened and drew himself up to his full height, which was a good seven inches taller than Greg.
"Sorry, Sarge." Greg muttered, staring down at his shoes, which he saw his reflection staring back in.
Greg could practically feel the custody sergeant smirking at him, the condescending, antagonising old prat.
"Right well, strap your helmet on and we'll get cracking. We're on route 'round Slough."
Greg did as he was told quickly, not wanting to piss off the Sarge any more as possible.
The two police officers walked down High Street past Slough museum conversing. Well, Greg talked, Sarge didn't pay any notice. They passed a group of teenage punks sat on an electricity mains box chatting to one another.
As the police men approached they stopped chatting and glared at the two men in stony silence. Greg smiled awkwardly at them, in returned they just glowered back at him.
They turned round a corner and continued their route down an alley where hooligans normally resided but today the alleyway was all but empty – except for a ginger tabby meowing for all its worth.
As they walked halfway down the alley a woman rounded the corner – a pregnant woman, all but crossing her legs as she walked. As she walked, her hand against a wall, she was clearly struggling to hold herself upright.
Greg and the Sarge hurried over to her.
"Madam? Are you alright? What's wrong?" The Sarge put his hand on the woman's shoulder.
"Oh God, Oh God, Oh God…" The woman said between breathes which were more like panting.
"A-are you in labor? Is she going into labor?" Greg stuttered at the women and then at his Sarge.
"No you stupid git," The woman shouted. "I need a piss!"
"Ah," Sarge said, pulling himself up. "Right, well, go on lad. Take your helmet off."
Greg looked horrified at his Sarge. "W-what?"
"You heard me, take your helmet off."
"Why?"
"So this lady can use it."
"Use it for what?"
"So I can piss in it!" The woman practically screamed. "Now hurry up and get it off."
"What? No!"
"Listen Greg, a pregnant woman can, by law, request the use of a policeman's helmet if she is desperate, now I'd say you were desperate, aren't you love?"
"Yes I fucking well am!" The woman howled.
"Right, now get it off." Sarge said smoothly.
"But – but –"
"I said, take it off!"
"But it's my helmet! Why can't you use yours sir?"
"Because," Sarge said through gritted teeth. "I am your superior officer and I'm telling you to take it off."
Greg felt his heart fall in his chest as he thought of the atrocity he was about to commit. As if he was handing over an innocent man to be executed, he slipped his helmet off his head and handed it to the pregnant woman in need.
As the sound of pissing filled the alleyway Greg knew that in that moment he would most definitely become a Detective.
There was no way pregnant women were going to piss in his helmet ever again.