A couple of words about this fic: It isn't going to be clichéd. I personally think that a sin. And hopefully it isn't going to be boring, which I also consider a sin. This is also going to be a proper fic; this isn't a simple oneshot like I'm normally up to on this site. But, bear in mind; I never thought I'd do a fic set in 2008 for Holmes, so I have made little changes to sets and possibly to the appearance and names (for instance I couldn't see Holmes going about with the name Sherlock in 2008, so I had to change that). In core, the characters should be just the same as ever, simply dumped in the present day. It doesn't involve time-travel. It may involve a few things that may seem out of place or at least a little eccentric. But that's the idea I'm going for. They don't actually belong in 2008, they just think they do. Now, I'm excited about this, so I hope you like it. I'll shut up now.
MontyTwain'sSpecialChapterLineBecausetheStupidLineThingyWon'tWork
Giles got into his Ford Fiesta and sat, watching his breath cloud in front of him. He had just scraped the frost from his windscreen. It was January, and it was bitterly cold.
He put the ignition key in, put his safety belt on and turned it. The Fiesta coughed and spluttered, then the engine died. He tried again. The car shivered at the cold, then shook itself off and started.
Giles did 30mph all the way to the Yard. He paid and displayed. Then he parked, took out his radio (he hadn't even played it), put it in the glove compartment and got out. He rubbed his hands together to try to coax some warmth out of them. Straightening his tie, he walked up Victoria Street into the ugly 60's 20-storey HQ building.
Air conditioning blew onto a patch of hair that was beginning to thin.
Giles marched into his private office, exactly 3 minutes early, and sat down for exactly 3 minutes relaxation before the day would begin.
He was forty-five seconds in when a fresh-faced young officer named Stanley Hopkins stood and peered through the single pane of fibreglass in the woodchip door. He blinked nervously and cleared his throat, the sound muffled by the barrier between him and Giles.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade?"
"Come in." Giles regretted it the moment he said it. Hopkins shuffled in front of the desk.
"There's a call for you, sir."
"It's not nine o'clock yet!"
"He says he knew you'd be here early." Giles frowned.
"How? Who is it?"
"A Mr. Samuel Holmes."
Giles Lestrade closed his eyes in quiet frustration. He sighed, looked up at Hopkins, then put his hands in the air dramatically. "Put him though."