Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock (sadly), it is property of ACD and BBC's Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss.

A/N: I'm supposed to be working on other non-Sherlock related things...but they wouldn't leave me alone. I've been seeing quite a few 'how they met' fics for Lestrade and Sherlock and I have kind of hinted at my idea of it in my other Sherlock stuff so I thought I'd have a go. I'm not sure how often this will get updated - I have a lot of other stuff I should be doing so it'll probably get done faster than normal (hey, I'm nothing if not irresponsible).

I have no idea what the canon Lestrade's wife's name is or if they have children etc but we do know as of S2.E1 that he DOES have a wife and that they've been separated at some point. Oddly enough though, I wrote this before seeing that but I think everyone assumed he'd had a wife at some point anyway. Erm, it is going to turn into a 'how they met' fic but there's no Sherlock in this chapter, sorry.

Anyway, as always let me know what you think. Negative reviews are just as helpful as positive ones although I'd rather have ConCrit than random 'Your fic sucks' reviews.

2007

Newly promoted Detective Inspector Lestrade's good mood (having nailed a very nasty young man for a particularly vicious double murder) dissipated as he entered his front door. His first thought on entering his hallway was 'Shit.' His second was that he was being burgled. His third was that his second had been a stupid thought because in his experience, burglars rarely packed their loot into cardboard boxes and colour co-ordinated suitcases with Hannah Montana on them. His mind came full circle and arrived back at his first thought.

"Shit…" Out loud this time. Lowering his briefcase to the floor, he stood uncertainly at the foot of the stairs and gazing up. He raised one hand to his face and rubbing the stubble he found there, glancing longingly at the front door. He wondered if it was worth going out and coming in again – he might just find his little girl dashing down the stair in pyjamas to greet him as usual. Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he took the stairs two at a time arriving at his bedroom door slightly out of breath.

"Charlotte?" He asked, grinning nervously at her, "Charlotte, what're you doing? Where're you – where are the kids?"

"Nick's at a friend's house. Katy's with my Mum." She bit out, not even pausing in her packing. She did not look up even as he approached, only stopping when he reached out and stilled her hands himself.

"Can we talk about this?" Even to his own ears, his voice sounded pathetic. It wasn't what he had been aiming for, it was supposed to be reasonable with a hint of anger. It had come out as defeated with a hint of desperation.

Glancing away first, she met his eyes tearfully. "We have talked, Greg. 'When I make DI I'll be home more, there'll be people under me, we can do Christmas at my Mum's in Dorset.' Remember that?" She pulled away from him, wrapping her arms around herself and sniffing loudly. "We talked, Greg," she repeated, stronger this time, "and I warned you – I warned you I would do this!"

"Well, yeah! But I didn't think you'd actually – "

"Actually what?" He winced as her voice seemed to enter the ultrasonic. "Leave you? Why the Hell not? Would you even notice?"

"Of course I'd bloody notice! Charlotte, you're my wife – you can't just leave!" He exclaimed, raising his voice to be heard over hers. Christ, they were going to have some green young constable showing up soon about noise complaints.

Returning to her packing, she carried on muttering abuse under her breath. He caught the occasional word such as 'absent-father' and 'workaholic'. He began his own tirade mixed with desperate pleas and promises of change. Out of desperation, he began unpacking things and flinging them across the room as fast as she could put them into the case. If they hadn't both been so distraught it might have looked comical – like when they had taken the kids to his Mum's for the weekend and Nick spent the day emptying buckets of water out of a hole he had dug on the beach even as the tide came in and filled it to his knees with every wave. Grabbing the half-full suitcase off the bed – he couldn't help himself; it was childish he knew but he just could not help himself – he hurled it at the wall ignoring her scream of protest as he did so and grabbed her by the shoulders.

"You can't just leave me," he growled, trying to ignore the voice in his head that was appalled at the way he was making her whimper in his grip, "You're not taking my kids away! They're our kids, Charlotte!"

She held his gaze for perhaps a fraction of a moment then sobbed once, reaching up and curling her hands around his wrists and turning her head to lay on one of his hands. He felt his hands loosen around her shoulders and leaned in wearily, their foreheads resting against each other. Without really thinking about it, he could hear himself whispering her name like a prayer.

"Greg…" He felt her breath, hot on his face as she spoke. One syllable – his own name – and just like that his world was about to end. He nodded against her face, releasing her suddenly and stumbling away from her to slide down against the open door. She stayed on the other side of the bed, watching him warily. After a few moments of listening to each other trying and failing to stifle their crying she crept past him, and lifted the case back on to the bed. He could not look at her as she set to packing once again, feeling his hands shaking as he buried his face in them.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there in silence while the love of his life packed a suitcase, ready to walk away from him and the thirteen years they had spent together. Finally, he heard her forcing the zip closed and glanced up just in time to see her knock a crystal ornament flying off the dresser as she heaved the case onto the floor.

She swore for the umpteenth time and bent to pick it up.

"Leave it," he heard himself croak, "I'll clean it up in a bit, after you've…" he trailed off and they were left gazing at each other from opposite sides of the room in silence.

"We need a break, Greg," She told him brokenly, "Just…just a break and we'll talk later." She forced a smile for him and he nodded numbly. Neither of them mentioned the fact that she had packed everything in their room that belonged to her as well as every piece of clothing she and the kids had.

He heaved himself to his feet, ignoring the popping in his joints as he did so. Passing a hand over his face, he gestured vaguely towards the case. "D'you want a hand with the um…?"

"Yeah," she replied, clearly on the verge of tears again. "Thanks."

He wondered, as he lugged the huge suitcase down the stairs whether the feeling he was experiencing was similar to that of the murder vic from last year who had been made to dig his own grave. He tried to tell himself not to be so melodramatic but at that moment it seemed fitting. A sudden thought occurred to him as he finally reached the bottom of the stairs and shoved the case on to its feet.

"How are you getting to your Mum's with all this stuff?"

His wife looked stunned, as if the thought had not occurred to her. She glanced hopefully towards the bowl where they kept the keys.

"You're not taking my car." He told her immediately, bitterness beginning to set in. She was taking everything important away from him – surely she could leave him with the bloody car?

"I suppose," she said hesitantly, "I'll call a cab."

"Fine. I'll stick the kettle on." If you've left me any mugs… He said abruptly, already heading for the kitchen.

When he emerged, it was ten minutes and four smashed mugs later. His wife sat rigidly on the sofa that they had bought with some of the extra from his first paycheck as a DI. He handed her a mug and took the seat next to her. We always sit together, he mused. Othercouples he knew sat opposite or on different seats – or in different rooms – but he and his Charlotte? Always together. They sipped coffee in silence but for the occasional tremulous breath and somehow their hands found each other's.

When the taxi man rang the doorbell they both jumped. As she made to stand, he held her hand tighter and she paused.

"Stay?" He breathed, staring straight ahead.

She squeezed his hand, "Greg…" He nodded, taking the hint and releasing her hand. "I can't. I'm…we'll work this out."

He stood too, forcing a tight smile for her. "Yeah," was all he said. She hesitated then went left to answer the door, leaving him alone in their front room.

Gazing at the marks they'd left on the coffee table, he reached down and placed the mugs on the coasters Charlotte had had to have during the last January sales. Rising again, he caught sight of the mirror on the chimneybreast. The man he saw in it had hair that was greying at the temples and had dried at all funny angles and was still wearing the beige trench coat he had had on when he entered the house that night. An eternity ago. He looked exhausted, pale and very much like a man whose wife was leaving him. That wouldn't do. He shrugged off his damp coat and removed his tie, kicked off his shoes and slapped his cheeks a few times to try to get some colour back into them. There, he thought dejectedly, now he looked like a man who was pretty laid back about the fact that his missus was leaving him. Oh, also like a man who had just been slapped by said missus. He sighed resignedly and wandered into the hallway where the cabby was dragging suitcases into the boot of the car. He leant against the bannister, glancing at his wife who was sat at the foot of the stairs.

"I'll bring the boxes round after work."

"Thanks."

He paused, then: "I won't work so much." She just smiled wanly, standing and dusting herself off.

"Yeah."

"I mean it."

"Okay."

They watched the cabby heaving the last of the cases outside, shooting glares at Lestrade seemingly annoyed that he was not helping.

"Pick the kids up from school tomorrow?" She asked hopefully.

"I can't, there's a press conference for – " He said before he could think about it.

She said nothing, but her eyes filled once more and he could see her jaw clench. He wanted to reach out – hold her – but he found himself stuck, unmoving.

"If I could get out of it – but it's my case, there's no one else to – "

"It's fine."

"That's it, love. You'll not get any more in – it's chocker." She smiled tightly at the driver and nodded. He floundered for a minute in the doorway, glancing between them. "Right, well, I'll just leave you to…right." He lumbered away, leaving them alone.

Lestrade stood against the bannister, arms folded and staring at nothing. His wife stood, hugging herself, in the doorway. She kept taking hesitant steps towards him before thinking better of it. "Right…well, I'll give Katy a night-night kiss from you."

"Yeah."

"And I'll try and give Nick a hug when I see him but well…hello! teenager!" She waved her hands around, laughing manically, clearly trying to relieve the tension. He winced.

"Fine."

She stood awkwardly for a moment longer, then seemed to sag. "I'm not going to apologise, Greg," she sighed, "but well…I love you, so look after yourself."

"Will do." He said tightly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Well, bye."

He did not look up again until he hears the car door slam shut. He did not go to the door – or even the window – to wave her off as he usually would. Instead, he returned to the lounge and reached for the liquor cabinet in the corner, not bothering to take a glass. He removed his suit jacket and hung it on the end of the bannister as usual then headed up the stairs.

As always, he looked in on his son's room as he passed and for the first time, he went in and turned off the machine that was casting the solar system on to the ceiling – 'It's the only way anyone can ever see all the stars in the middle of London, Dad.' He had always meant to take him to Greenwich, now it was going to be one of those bloody weekend access things.

Weaving out of one room and into the next, he gazed around his daughter's room. Katy was still at the age where everything was pink and unicorns and Hannah bloody Montana, had he really allowed Charlotte to paint the room like this? The walls were so fluorescently pink he was surprised his daughter didn't have some kind of vision impairment. He picked up her pink, fluffy clock; it read 4:17 AM – only three hours till he had to be up again for work. Sighing, he dropped down onto the Disney Princess adorned bedding and closed his eyes.

On the bright side, thanks to the press conference, he might actually make it home before Katy's bedtime let alone Nick or Charlotte's. On the downside, who would be there to notice?

At 4:53 he got up and carried Katy's clock, Nick's solar system thingy and the bottle of scotch into his own room.

By 6:12 AM, he had entered his office at Scotland Yard wearing yesterday's suit, made a mug of what the Yard optimistically called 'coffee' and started going through paperwork for his current case. By the time his children would usually be home from school, he had three new suspicious deaths and a missing-person-turned-murder case on his desk. Flicking disinterestedly through the first case, he sighed mournfully.

Didn't the criminal classes realise he had domestic problems?