I neither own nor profit from any of these characters; they are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC.
If you see something that you think ought to be changed or improved, please feel free to let me know, if you'd like. Constructive criticism is always welcome.
Lestrade sits at home sometimes and thinks about what might have been.
He's no grand philosophizer, and he isn't keeping himself awake at night considering the problems of the world. No, Lestrade has enough problems of his own.
Sometimes, he thinks about what it might have been like if Sherlock Holmes had shown up to his latest crime scene. That unassuming, dark brown fibre might have been found earlier, or might not have been necessary at all. Doubtless, Sherlock could have deduced the deliveryman's guilt from the state of the welcome mat or the contents of the third drawer down on the left in the kitchen. Either way, perhaps the killer would be behind bars at Scotland Yard now, instead of – well, not behind bars.
Sometimes, he thinks about what it might have been like if Sherlock Holmes hadn't shown up to his latest crime scene. Donovan might not have stormed off in a huff; Anderson might not have followed shortly thereafter. He and his team would definitely not have spent the majority of their evening off in a pub, drinking too many beers and waxing poetic about the many, many things that were difficult about Sherlock. (Well, mostly poetic. Anderson had had more beers than most, and his complaints had been reduced to little more than the word "git," proclaimed loudly, repeatedly and without context. Still, Lestrade found that he could sympathize.)
Sometimes, he wonders what it would be like if Sherlock and Anderson ever did come to blows. It will never happen – he keeps a tighter leash on Anderson than that, and he'd like to think John does the same to Sherlock – but, it has to be admitted, both men are highly skilled at testing the limits of Lestrade's tolerance, and picturing them taking their frustrations out on one another (Sherlock verbally, of course, and Anderson probably with ineffective attempts at a punch) occasionally provides him with the private amusement he needs to survive a case with the two of them. (He also likes to imagine Anderson's sulk after he has lost the battle, though he prefers not to consider the triumphant smirk Sherlock would wear.)
Sometimes, he thinks he'd like to have a pint with John and share that particular private fantasy with him. He'd like to know what the doctor is like when he's not being overshadowed by his flatmate; John seems like a stand-up fellow, and it would be nice for once to be able to complain about Donovan and Anderson the way they all complain about Sherlock. John would be a sympathetic ear, at least, and Lestrade thinks – given the way Sherlock just takes over – that he probably hasn't got anyone else to have a drink with and complain about Sherlock, either. And if he turned out to be good at billiards, well, so much the better.
Sometimes, he shakes his head at himself and wonders why he spends so much time thinking about things that haven't happened, will never happen. Then he gets up, fetches himself a cold drink, and settles in on the couch to watch his football team lose. Again. He never wonders what it might be like if they actually won, because that's just too unlikely to consider.
Tonight, he's out of beer, the couch is cluttered and there isn't a match. The pub will be quiet. Good time to buy himself a drink.
He thinks about that for a moment, then smiles, picks up the phone and dials John Watson's number.