Lestrade is fairly sure this day is contending for the absolute worst day of his life. And yes, that includes the day of his divorce. (AND his wedding day, for that matter, but that's an entirely different story.)
But neither, really, can compare to the absolute horror that is Sherlock-bloody-Holmes at a crime scene.
"But of course the corpse has been moved, Lestrade, can you not see it? The blood streaks on the left heel, the tear on the cloth near the knee—"
"There's no tear on the cloth sir," Anderson scoffs, folding his hands. "He's just making stuff up—"
"Did you actually turn over the body and look, Anderson, or are you merely wallowing in your usual level of incompetence—"
"Alright, children, settle down, settle down," John snaps. He turns to his flat mate and raises his eyebrows in a way that clearly means "behave yourself."
Well, John can go ahead and do that, because John is a far braver man than Lestrade will ever be. Lestrade is perfectly fine with the knowledge—doesn't bother him, no sir, and John can just settle all the petty arguments around here too, while he's busy being the brave one, because Lestrade wants no part of dealing with a sulky Sherlock.
That's not being cowardly, that's just survival instinct.
Because Sherlock Holmes is terrifying, brilliant, and possesses less social skills than a socially-inept 6 year old. He's also, in Lestrade's humble opinion, madder than the mad hatter.
The mad man in question huffs petulantly and Lestrade braces himself for a minor tantrum. But then John tugs at his sleeve and, to Lestrade's utter amazement, he quiets instantly, his eyes still fixed resentfully upon Anderson
Lestrade pauses, hardly able to believe it.
Quiet. Bliss. At one of HIS crime scenes.
It's bloody Christmas.
He's going to buy John a drink if he gets out of this case alive, he decides. Or maybe eight drinks. Because the short, sweet, bejumpered little man is clearly nothing short of miraculous, if he can get Sherlock Holmes to shut up.
"You were saying something, Lestrade?" John says now, crossing his arms confidently across his chest. "Go on then." He nods encouragingly.
Lestrade suspects that if his only contribution to the conversation is to blurt out "So does that mean you two ARE shagging then?", it might not reflect too well on his reputation as a detective. And worse, there's a very good possibility that with Sherlock there, he'll get the honest answer as well as the scathing one and he might not be ready for that, just yet. So he merely shrugs and grins (a slightly sickly grin if there ever was one, but it's not like he's fucking Daniel Day-Lewis or something).
John shoots him a concerned look before nodding at Sherlock, who's busy chewing his lip, as if he has to physically stop the words from pouring out from his mouth. As he catches John's eyes, though, they begin flying out again, almost too fast to catch.
"The murderer was above 6ft in height, not a particularly small man in weight either—"
"Oh, HOW would you know that?" Anderson interrupts, rolling his eyes. "No seriously," he demands, turning to Lestrade. "How would he know that?"
Fucking Anderson.
"It's obvious, " Sherlock snaps. He strides forwards until he's standing uncomfortably close to Anderson and leers intimidatingly over him. "Just like it's OBVIOUS that you're cheating on Sally and also your wife with that blonde bimbo who works in forensics and that John ran out of butter for his toast this morning and that Lestrade is a remarkably oblivious parent."
"OYE," Lestrade protests, finally feeling the need to intercede. "You can't just—I'm not a bad father Sherlock—"
Bad idea. Sherlock whirls on him now, his eyebrows in danger of disappearing into his hairline. "OH?" he says. "But you brought your little girl to work today, left her in the car with her favorite doll and expected her to sit there during the entirety of your investigation and yet, you don't understand her enough to realize there is absolutely no chance of that happening—"
"Oh for Christs' sake," Lestrade snaps, finally at the end of his tether. "I don't know how you figured that, but she'll do as I tell her—"
"No, she won't."
"SHERLOCK. Even you can't possibly predict the future-"
"Er—Lestrade—"
"No, John, I don't need his help raising my children—"
"Right, not saying you do mate, but—""
"And he doesn't know her, what, is he psychic now? God, help me, psychic Sherlock Holmes, that's just what I FUCKING well need around here—"
"She's behind you, you utter imbecile," Sherlock drawls.
Lestrade's jaw drops.
"Daddy," says a clear, high voice from behind him. "What does 'fucking' mean?"
…..
"Char, please do your old da a favor and go back to the car."
"No."
"Look darling, you can't be here, all right? Daddy's got work—"
"NO."
"I'll get you a present, hey? How that? Now go back, there's a sweetheart—"
"I don't WANT a present," Charlotte Anne Lestrade says, her lower lip trembling as she clutches her doll. "I want to stay with you."
She blinks accusingly at him. "You LEFT me," she wails and god, this is the beginnings of a temper tantrum. He can sense it by now, the way cats can sense storms and his ex-wife can sense when he's about to get his paycheck—he just KNOWS.
"No, now Char, please," he says desperately, aware that he's begging in front of half his team. Well, fuck it. Char's worse than anything they can throw at him.
"I've got this," a female voice says confidently. Sally materializes as if out of thin air, and determinedly pushes them all out of the way. She kneels next to Char, who eyes her with no small amount of trepidation.
"Here lovely, is he being a big ole meanie?" she croons. "Come here, don't let the bad man frighten you—"
Char glares at her. "He's not a big ole meanie, he's my DA," she says crossly.
Sally hastily changes tactics. "Here, would you like some ice cream?" she says, her voice terrifyingly bright. "Let's go get some for you, hmm? What's your favorite flavor?"
"Pumpkin-blueberry," Char says dubiously. Lestrade waits with bated breath as Sally offers Char her hand.
"Well come along then, cupcake, we'll get you a—um—well maybe a strawberry—"
Char plops on the ground. "NO," she announces, cradling the doll to her chest. "I wan' to stay with da. It's his day with me an' he promised."
And now Lestrade can feel the accusing stares of his entire team boring into his skull. Anderson looks particularly disgusted with him.
"Look, I thought we'd just wrap this one up and then we'd go out—" he protests, raising his hands guiltily. "Get some ice cream—"
"Pumpkin-blueberry," Char announces happily.
"Do they even sell that flavor?" Anderson mutters loudly. A bit too loudly.
Fucking ANDERSON, good God.
"I saw it on telly," Char says, as if that's the final word on the matter. Her lips begins trembling again. "They have to have it—"
"Oh for goodness sakes, this is absurd," an all-too familiar voice snaps irately. "Can we please get on with the case?"
"We've already got one child running about this crimescene, don't need another one," Sally snaps back at him.
Frankly, Lestrade's amazed that he's managed to remain quiet for so long. A quick glance over his shoulder reveals John, just letting go of his hold on Sherlock's sleeve. He shrugs apologetically at Lestrade in a 'well-what-can-you-do-it's-Sherlock' sort of way, as Sherlock bulldozes his way to the front.
"Look, Sherlock," Lestrade begins, "I've got a bit of a problem here, so if you could—the HELL are you doing? No—no put her down-"
Because Sherlock's scooped up Char in his arms, doll and all, and is heading straight for the crime scene. "Come on," he says impatiently over his shoulder. "Haven't we wasted enough time for the day?"
"Oh my god—Sherlock? Sherlock!" Lestrade yells frantically. He chases after him, but Sherlock's strides are far too long to catch up to.
"Freak you can't," Sally screeches. "She can't see the corp—"
Too late.
Lestrade groans as Sherlock approaches the yellow tape. He can just hear his wife now, going on about her poor, traumatized darling and Char's screaming—
There is no screaming. It's silent again.
Char looks down curiously at the bloody, mangled corpse from her newly gained height of six feet, two inches.
"It was more interestin' on telly," she remarks disdainfully.
…..
"So you see, Lestrade, the mud on his shoes clearly indicates where the murder ACTUALLY occured—" Sherlock bends down and points out the mud, Char still cradled firmly against his chest.
"Why's the dirt red?" she asks, peering down with interest.
"Ah, very good question. Just the question to ask, in fact- You must get your brains from your mother," Sherlock declares approvingly. "It's red because it has metallic, oxide-bearing impurities that are excreted during the refinement of aluminum. Now, where does one get aluminum?"
Sherlock looks at them all expectantly, for all the world like a cat that's just brought in a dead mouse and now wants its due share of praise. Instead, he's met with a row of shell-shocked faces.
He frowns and hitches Char up on his bony hip.
"An aluminininian tree!" Char cries, triumphantly crashing together more syllables than ought to be humanely possible.
Sherlock considers her thoughtfully. "An aluminum PLANT, not-entirely-unintelligent-offspring-of-Lestrade, but quite close, all things considered."
"Oh my god," Lestrade murmurs shakily. "They're—they're—"
"They're cute together, aren't they?" John sighs fondly from besides him. Cute isn't the word Lestrade would have used. Disturbing, sure.
He tries to see the scene through John's eyes. Sherlock with a child—(his child, maybe, terrifying thought- blue-eyed and impossible)-lovingly showing her the ropes at a gruesome murder scene ('and yes, delinquent offspring of mine, that's the large intestine and normally it's INSIDE the body-')
Lestrade shudders and eyes John's lovesick expression warily.
Definitely fucking.
"And so you see," Sherlock says happily, twirling about with Char cooing contentedly in his arms, "That is precisely why he was murdered."
Lestrade shakes his head. "Sorry, sorry—could you go over that again?"
Sherlock's lower lip protrudes slightly. "Weren't you listening?" he asks.
"Daddy, you made Uncle Sherly sad," Char cries, leaning forwards to hug him. Sherlock eyes her balefully, but allows her to tuck her chubby arms around his neck.
Lestrade, meanwhile, might be choking.
"Bloody hell—uncle—UNCLE Sher—" No, he decides. He can't handle this today. Or any day.
"Sherlock," he says firmly. "You can deposit my daughter in my office along with the solution to the case once you're done. I—I need to rest. " Or hang myself, he thinks as he strides away. Behind him, he can hear Sherlock starting in on what promises to be a truly spectacular rant.
Just what he needs.
Another temper tantrum on his hands.
…..
It's John that deposits both his daughter AND Sherlock at his office 30 minutes later. They're wearing identical expressions of malcontent and Lestrade steels himself for the inevitable sulking (Sherlock) and the whining (also potentially Sherlock).
Sure enough, the door barely slams behind them before it starts.
"I want—" Sherlock begins crossly.
"Pumpkin-blueberry ice cream," Char interrupts. It's practically seamless and Lestrade can't help himself. There's a loud, grating snort and Lestrade realizes to his horror that it's him. He's falling over himself laughing, tears streaming down his face and he barely restrains himself from pounding the desk and outright howling.
John gives him another concerned look.
"You sure everything's all right, mate?" he asks gently.
That only sets Lestrade off again.
…
When he finally manages to calm down, Sherlock's already deposited Char carefully on his lap ("Bring her next time, Lestrade, she's more useful than your entire team") and flounced off in a huff, leaving a rather worried John alone in his office.
"So you sure-"
"Yeah, I'm fine," Lestrade assures him. "Just- tired."
John nods as if he doesn't quite believe him. "Right- well, let me know if you need anything, yeah? I'll be about."
"Sure, sure-" Suddenly, the curiosity is overwhelming. Well, fuck it. The day can't get much worse at this point, so there's always that in his favor.
"Hey John," Lestrade begins, determinedly.
"Yeah, what's up?"
"Are you and Sherlock—well. You know. Are you—"
John frowns at him. "Are we what?"
"Well, you know—" He looks helplessly at Charlotte, who's quietly playing with something soft and blue, her doll forgotten at her side.
"Oh," John says abruptly. He glances after Sherlock's retreating form, his expression almost shy. "Yeah, he's something, isn't he?"
"I don't know how you put up with it," Lestrade says frankly. "He's like an overgrown child and—good god, it must be impossible."
John shrugs. "Yeah, sometimes. But you put up with her—" he says, indicating Char with a nod of his head.
Lestrade stiffens. "Well, 'course I do, but she's actually a child."
"And?" John prompts patiently.
"And I lov—oh. Well, then."
"Yeah." John agrees softly and then sighs.
"Well, best be off. Can't have him setting fire to the cab or something ." He tosses Lestrade a sardonic, two-fingered salute and turns away.
"You know," Lestrade says, turning to Char. "He never did answer my question."
She looks at him brightly. "Maybe 'twas silly," she says seriously. "I don't like answering questions that aren' important."
Lestrade stares at her.
"Humph. You might have something there," he says finally, rubbing his chin.
Char grins back at him and he notices, for the first time, a familiar blue scarf wrapped around her little neck.
"Time for ice cream?" she asks hopefully.