A/N: This story will be told in two parts. It's Lestrade centric (obviously) and can be read alongside Little Emily, although you can read them separately, too. It does not fit with My Division's canon, but you should read that too! :)
I own nothing.
Spray Paint
Part One
Gregory Lestrade woke up with a pit in his stomach, and it wasn't long before he realized why. Exactly two months ago, Sherlock Holmes had been 'exposed' as a fraud and jumped from the roof of St Bartholomew's Hospital, to the shock of the entire world. His friends and family were hit hard by grief, but no one took the blow harder than his assistant, flatmate, best friend, and, according to some, lover, John Watson.
Greg had been unable to help John much since in addition to his own grief, he had been facing an inquiry at work because he'd been assisted by the late detective. He'd managed to hold onto his job, but he'd been put on probation. This was enough to give his ex-wife sole custody of his eight year old daughter, Emily. So perhaps he could be excused for not supporting John as much as he might have.
Sherlock's death had shocked all of Britain, including its criminal class. They had all but disappeared! Crimes of passion and desperation were still committed, of course, but the big stuff, the stuff worthy of Scotland Yard, had all but ceased. Some officers worked on old cases, or filed the paperwork they'd neglected, but many of them, including Greg, elected to join the normal police force. There had been a spike in vandalism lately, and the force needed the extra hands. And Greg needed the extra money.
So there he was, behind the wheel of a police car, making his rounds. Greg had to admit it gave him a surprising feeling of power. He was ruminating about this power and its source when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. A figure in black was spray painting an alley wall.
Greg quietly parked his car and slid out. He slunk silently down the street, hoping to catch the vandal off guard. Sixty meters to go... fifty... forty... thirty... twenty... CRASH! He stepped on a metal trashcan lid and fell against the can, knocking it over. The clattering of bottles split the silence of the night. Swearing under his breath, Greg ran to the mouth of the alley, only in time to see the vandal disappearing over a fence at its far end. He braced himself to leap the fence and follow, but at the last minute glanced over at the wall, and stopped dead in his tracks.
The yellow graffiti read "I BELIEVE IN SHERL"
On the ground lay a satchel of paint cans. One lone can rolled slowly toward the mouth of the alley. Greg stooped and picked it up. He knew he should follow the vandal. The figure in black had broken the law which Greg had sworn to uphold. And yet...
Something stopped him. Sherlock had been his friend, as much as Sherlock had been anyone's friend, and in spite of everything, all the evidence to the contrary, Greg did believe in him. The question was, what was he going to do about it?
It was too late to catch the vandal. The rational, dutiful part of Greg's brain told him he should take the paint cans back to headquarters. If the vandal had a criminal history they could find his fingerprints and fine him. But unless the building's owner complained, which was unlikely, going by the state of the building, the satchel and cans would likely sit in the back of some closet somewhere until they crumbled into dust. Besides, turning them in would mean admitting he let the guy get away, and his job was fragile enough right now that such a mistake might kill it.
He could leave everything in the alley. That might be the smart thing to do. There was so much vandalism in London these days that no one would notice or care. But somehow, Greg couldn't bring himself to leave. He knew just how insane his impulse was, just how likely it was to ruin his life, but he couldn't shake it.
Greg nodded his head sharply, internally sealing his fate. He took a step back, aimed the can, and sprayed. "O... C... K..." he muttered to himself. He was surprised at how hard aiming was. "Holmes. That should do it" he whispered. He hefted the bag of cans and, as an afterthought, sprayed the word "THANKS"on the ground where it had lain. He hurried furtively back to his car and stashed the satchel under the passenger seat.
Greg didn't relax until the bag was hidden safely in his closet hours later. The next time he used its contents, he would be cooler about it. Soon, he would be tagging buildings and sidewalks like a hardened criminal. He couldn't know that, though. All he knew was that his life would never be the same.
A/N: Ooooh, big stuff! How exciting! Let's see how Greg does in Part Two!