This is the first of three chapters.
This story will obviously focus heavily on Lestrade.
I hope you enjoy the story!
Greg Lestrade had always prided himself on being a fairly patient man. He had to be, obviously, to be successful at his job. Patience was important when suspects were being snippy, or when Anderson (again!) failed to determine the actual cause of death. He had to be patient when he listened to Donovan's constant complaining of just about anything, all from Anderson's reluctance to leave his wife, to Sherlock's deductive powers.
"He is obviously fibbing!" she would say scatchingly "Why are you still letting him work with us?"
It wasn't so much her rudeness to Sherlock that bothered him, hell, Sherlock,for all his brilliance, wasn't known to be the nicest of people. No, it was the fact that she let her personal feelings get in the way of seeing what an invaluable help Sherlock was to them. Things they'd spend days investigating, he'd have solved in half and hour. But Donovan still wanted him to stop Sherlock from getting onto crime scenes.
"You know he gets off on this, he's a bloody psychopath!"
Still, he listened patiently, and explained (time and time again) the reasons why he went to Sherlock for help, and his reasons for actually liking the man, all help aside.
Yes, Greg Lestrade was the most patient of men. And he knew that would come back to bite him in the arse one day.
Like the day he allowed Sherlock Holmes to stay at his flat for one night.
XXxX
"Gary?" he heard Sherlock shout from his living room.
"How many times, Sherlock? It's Greg!" Lestrade shouted from the bathroom. "What is it now?"
"My experiment doesn't fit on the table, don't you have a larger one?"
At this Lestrade poked his head out of the bathroom, only to see Sherlock with a blow torch, five dead mice, a carton of milk, a bag of tomatoes, and a box of matches. The genius was trying to fit it all on Lestrade's coffee table, with little luck. Lestrade ran out of the bathroom, and looked down at Sherlock, who in turn was glaring up at him from his spot on the sofa.
"You're impossible, you are!" Lestrade yelled. "One night, Sherlock! One night you're staying here! Is it too much to ask that you don't blow up my flat while you're here?"
"I can assure you that the outcome of this experiment, no matter the factors, will not result in an explosion." Sherlock drawled, as though he was talking to an obtuse child.
"I should have made my meaning more clear. I will not tolerate any experimenting in my flat. I will not have this place smelling like 221B."
"And how exactly does 221B smell?"
"Like toxic waste!"
"That's Mrs. Hudson's perfume."
"I..no, that's your stinking flat!" the grey haired man yelled "I've been kind enough to let you stay here on the eve of your wedding, God knows I regret it, and all I ask in return is that you do not conduct experiments whilst here, understood?"
"But I'm bored." Sherlock said, suddenly sounding quite irritated. Truth be told, he had seemed unusually on edge ever since he got here. There was somethintg tense about the way he held himself, like he was constantly frustrated with something. Most likely, it was just Sherlock being Sherlock
Lestrade sighed. Why couldn't it have been John who stayed here? It would've been so nice and easy with John. They'd watch som telly, talk about the big day tomorrow, and maybe have a beer or two. But no, he was stuck with the world's only consulting detective, a man who wanted to experiment on dead mice in his living room.
He should never have agreed to this. But John had asked, and Lestrade always found it difficult to say no to John. The doctor had explained that they wanted to do it the traditional way, and stay at different places on the eve of their wedding. He went on to explain that he always got nightmares when he slept other places than his own flat. John had looked so vulnerable when he shared this information, obviously finding it difficult to admit to this weakness, and Lestrade couldn't find it in his heart to say no.
So, now he was stuck with Sherlock Holmes for the night. And Sherlock was in no pleasant mood either, he was scowling and sitting so stiffly that it looked like someone had shoved a stick up his arse.
"Look, Sherlock, I know you're bored" he began cautiously "But I will have no experiments in my flat. It's nine o'clock, I'm sure you can find something on the telly to occupy yourself with. Poirot is starting any minute, and you can have fun solving the case before he does, ok? I'm going to take a shower."
Sherlock just scowled and placed all his long limbs on the couch, and sighed deeply.
Lestrade still thought something was off about him, but he couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was.
XXxXX
When Lestrade got out of the shower 30 minutes later, it was wonderfully quiet. He smiled. It seemed like Sherlock had finally settled in and abandoned his experimenting. The inspector hadn't meant to be hard on him, but there was only so much a man could take, and Sherlock Holmes certainly was a handful at times.
"Sherlock, I know you don't eat much, but there's bread in the kitchen if you're hungry!" he yelled out into the living room.
No answer.
"You're not hungry, then?"
It was still deadly quiet.
"Sherlock?"
Not a sound.
Lestrade wrapped a towel around his waist, and poked out the door.
The sofa was empty. The table had been cleared of all experimenting. There was no sign of Sherlock.
"Sherlock?" he tried again, once again met with nothing but silence.
Where the hell was the idiot now? A part of him wondered if Sherlock was sulking somewhere in the flat. The detective could be the most stubborn child at times, and it wouldn't surprise him to find Sherlock curled up on his bed, with his face turned from the rest of the world. There was only one person who could bring him out of a sulk, and that person was currently at 221B, and the one person Sherlock wasn't allowed to see tonight. Ah, this was just perfect.
"Sherlcok!" he said "If you're sulking somewhere, just stop it! You're not a fucking child!"
There was no indication that Sherlock had heard him. He wrapped the towel more securely around his waist, and stepped out into the living room.
Sherlock was not in the kitchen. Nor the bedroom. Nor the hall. He felt his heart begin to pound. What the fuck? Where had the insuferrable prat gone off to?
That's when Lestrade noticed a yellow post-it note on the fridge.
I'm sorry.
I tried to do this for John, but I just can't.
I have to go
Lestrade felt numb.
Gone?
GONE?
Did this mean what he thought it meant? Had Sherlock Holmes run off on the eve of his own wedding?
He tried Sherlock's number, but all he got was voicemail
"Hello, you've reached Sherlock Holmes, obviously. Leave a message, and don't be boring!"
Sherlock had fucking left!
Shit, shit, shit!
He couldn't breathe.
John! What about John? The poor man was currently at 221B, blissfully unaware that the man he loved had just bolted from their life together. How was Lestrade supposed to break this to him? Sherlock had spent one night at his flat, and he had managed to make him run away from his own wedding! What would John even say? Stupid, Greg! He would be heartbroken, obviously (great, now he even sounded like Sherlock). John loved the tall git. This would ruin him!
How could Sherlock even do this? He was obviuously head over heels in love with the army doctor. Lestrade couldn't for the life of him figure out what had prompted Sherlock to do something like this. He had noticed that the tall man had been unusually on edge tonight, but he'd just passed it off as excitement about the upcoming wedding. Maybe it had been cold feet?
He tried to picture John's huge blue eyes as they filled with tears at what Lestrade told him. Mrs. Hudson would try and comfort him, but there would be no solace for the poor man.
No, stop it! It was of no use to picture scenarios like this!
Maybe...
Maybe he didn't have to tell John at all.
If he could find Sherlock, and convince him to come back, then there was no reason for John to ever know about any of this!
He needed to find Sherlock before it was too late! He ran to the bathroom to put on some clothes. He had work to do.
Sherlock Holmes wasn't going to get away that easily!
I am going to include a love interest for Lestrade.
Either Mycroft or Molly, I'm not sure yet.
If you want to give your opinion as to who you'd like me to pair him with, feel free to do so, I'll be delighted :)