Prompty Prompt from tumblr results in a ficlet.
Drunk Lestrade is stumbling home in a storm after a night of drinking without an umbrella. But will someone show up and offer him their's?
There's a black car outside of the pub. There always is. Always the same black car. He may not be Sherlock Holmes, but Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade is not an idiot.
He walks into the bar. Three hours and twice as many beers later he walks out. The car is gone. Like it always is.
He begins the walk back to his flat, stumbling only slightly through the intoxication. Then the rain starts.
He turns another corner. There's the black car. Waiting. Like it always is. Lestrade ignores it, he keeps walking.
He trips.
If there was any doubt about him being soaked from the rain, it was gone. He didn't stand up, he simply didn't care to.
The car door had opened the moment Lestrade began to fall. Something exited the car, not a person. Lestrade stared at the car as an object protruded from it.
Is that an umbrella? Lestrade thought. An arm followed the now open umbrella. A tall, cloaked man followed the arm. He walked over to Lestrade and helped him to his feet. Silently he held out his umbrella. Lestrade took it. The man from the car made a face, almost as if he was forgetting something. Then he remembered, and handed Lestrade a business card with a small smile before retreating back to his car.
He never was good at introducing himself, the man from the car.
Lestrade looked down at the card.
Mycroft Holmes.
Next time he went to the pub, he didn't hesitate to climb into the black car.