Inspired by a post on Tumblr about Lestrade always looking like he's just done with everything. Seriously though, it's true. He deals with so much stuff and just seems to get on with it. I like Lestrade. He's cool.

Sorry for any typos, spelling/grammar mistakes or something wrong with my information about the police. I'm not a policeman so all my information comes from the Internet. Sorry if I got anything wrong.

BBC Sherlock or the characters do not belong to me.

He has no idea how his life has come to this.

He had always wanted to be a policeman, ever since he was a little boy and he saw them on the streets in their smart uniforms and bulky vests and shiny badges. He wanted a uniform like that.

He wasn't the most intelligent of children, but he was practical and determined and knew that if he wanted to be a policeman then he would have to work for it, because he wasn't going to be any old policeman – oh no – he was going to be an Inspector. And that was quite a difficult position to get to, he knew.

So he worked for it. He asked his teachers what subjects would be best to study and he paid attention in lessons and he helped out at the local youth centre and he joined the Police Cadets and he played sports to get fit, and he got in. He became a police officer. And it was wonderful.

And then he found out about being a police detective. It sounded great: investigating, finding out things, just what he liked doing. He had always been rather inquisitive. One of his superiors had suggested it to him, so he had applied, taken the National Investigators' Examination, and passed with flying colours. He was accepted immediately.

He rose through the ranks rather quickly there, and soon enough became Detective Inspector. DI Lestrade. He liked that. He liked everything about that. He wished his wife was a bit more supportive, but then again, you couldn't have everything in life. He had his job, and he was happy with it.

And then he met Sherlock Holmes. And nothing was ever the same.

He didn't even know how it happened. The man just seemed to stroll into his life and his department, making wild accusations all over the place and then proving them to be right, with cold logic and scathing comments. It was like leaving your door slightly ajar and having a horse canter in. Completely unexpected and liable to cause chaos. Now he was comparing men to farm animals. That was the kind of effect the man had.

His colleagues didn't like Holmes, none of them did. He undermined them and insulted them and made them all look like idiots, why would they like him? Heck, he didn't like him! Well, much. His insults were rather funny, and he tried to not to have terribly strong negative emotions towards anybody. It was just too much hassle. You started to dislike people and so they don't like you and then their friends don't like you either and suddenly they've got a family member who has influence or something and your life is in shambles. No, easier to just try to get along.

So now he called in Sherlock for cases he couldn't handle, because it was practical and easy and got the job done, and if it was illegal… well, what his superiors didn't know couldn't hurt them. It wasn't like the man was dangerous, anyway, whatever Donovan or Anderson claimed. What was more dangerous would be offending the elder Holmes brother, which was avoided by just letting Sherlock do his thing.

Less hassle this way, he had thought. Less trouble.

And now he was standing outside a holding cell in a small police station in Kings Lynn, trying to persuade the suspicious little Constable that no, he wasn't a criminal himself and no, the man inside the cell wasn't a psychopath and no, I'm sure he didn't mean to set that building on fire.

The door was finally opened and the man himself stepped out, typical cool expression and dignified air in place. How he managed it with a black eye, singed clothes and no shoelaces Greg didn't know.

He sighed. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"If you're wondering about the muggers then - "

"No. I don't want to hear it." He couldn't even bring himself to try and understand. "Let's just get your things and then we can get out of here."

They walked in silence. The suspicious little man was watching them the whole way, eyes narrowed and freckles scrunched up in an expression that made him look like a ferret. He could see Sherlock eyeing him, probably working out what he had for dinner the night before or something. He would probably get it right, which was a rather depressing thought when Greg hadn't even know where Kings Lynn was.

They reached the desk and an equally suspicious looking woman started sliding items across the top to Sherlock, sniffing in slight disapproval at some of the things there. Greg didn't blame her, he couldn't think of very many legal uses of a bolt cutter. At least, not many legal uses when combined with six candles, a boiling tube and a tub of petroleum jelly. And wait…

"Is that a condom?!"

Holmes sniffed at him. "Condoms can hold up to 12 litres of water. They are extremely useful. I usually carry a few for emergencies. Don't you?"

He snapped his mouth shut. He wasn't even going to touch that one. The woman behind the desk seemed to have a similar opinion, as she had started to shove things at them at a faster rate. The other items didn't spark anymore dangerous conversations, which was a relief, and they were soon on their way out.

As soon as they had escaped the police station - and the suspicious little man, who seemed to have made it his duty to accompany them as far as he could to make sure they didn't do anymore damage – he finally asked.

"Why did you set a building on fire?"

"It was an unfortunate accident. The man I set on fire ran into it and the wall seemed to be highly flammable. I am not sure why it was built with something that could catch fire so easily. I'll have to look into it."

"You set a person on fire?!"

"Of course I did. Do try to keep up, Lestrade."

Once Greg would have pursued the matter, but now he has given up attempting to understand what goes on in Sherlock's mind, mere mortals like him don't seem to understand.

"Please don't get caught next time."

Sherlock seems mildly surprised, from what he can discern from the almost nonexistent facial expression. "Oh? Not going to tell me not to do it again, just not to get caught?"

"Nothing I say is ever going to change your mind, so I'm not even going to try. But I'm the one who has to come and get you out of a holding cell, so please at least try to escape the police so I don't have to drive up to Norfolk."

"Giving advice on how to avoid the police, Lestrade? Your superiors wouldn't be happy about that."

"Yes, well. If you don't get caught, they won't be involved and that won't be a problem."

"Of course."

He always wanted to be a policeman. He didn't think that it would include asking annoying consulting detectives to not get arrested.

Sometimes he wonders why he even bothers to ask.

He has no idea how he ended up this way.

Sometimes it's better to just take it all in stride and keep going.

People think that he's irresponsible because he lets things like this happen.

He's not irresponsible.

He just knows there's no point.

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