An Unidentified Female Officer

'I've known him five years and, no, I don't.'

Detective Inspector Lestrade had known Sherlock Holmes for five years. Five frustrating, irritating years and yet Sherlock had never failed him on a case. Sure, lives had been lost and civilians had been scarred, mentally and physically, for life, but the criminal was always caught.

He had that assurance.

Another assurance was that, wherever Sherlock was, strange things followed.

The week after Lestrade, Graeme Lestrade, met Sherlock, he encountered a UFO. Not an Unidentified Flying Object, but an Unidentified Female Officer.

Even stranger was that this 'UFO' had turned up in his bedroom, dressed in nightwear and reading the book from his nightstand…

"Who the bloody hell are you?"

"Oh, hello, Detective Inspector Lestrade! How are you?"

Within moments, of course, he had levelled his standard issue handgun at the woman in his bed, reading his book.

"Who are you and why are you here?"

"I'm a police officer, DI Lestrade," she had informed him, quite happily at that, as she extracted a badge from what could only have been her bra. "See? Badge and all, sir!"

"What's your name? And why are you in my bed?"

"Oh, you don't need my name, Graeme, and I'm in our bed because I'm about to go to sleep… You should come to bed; you were awfully busy with Sherlock today."

Lestrade laughed humourlessly. Oh, surprise, surprise! She knew Sherlock Holmes, the younger 'consulting' detective who had informed him, through text, that his current case was perpetrated by a fifteen year old delinquent who had… tied his laces in a certain way. Graeme hadn't believed him at first, but when he went through the evidence again and checked the teen's alibi again, he'd discovered that the mysterious 'SH' was in fact correct.

He'd been promoted for that, too.

"Wait, what – our bed, that isn't our bed, that's my bed! Did Sherlock Holmes put you up to this?"

"Oh, no… Sherlock doesn't speak to me anymore, you see, we had a bit of a tiff."

Lestrade lowered his weapon. "What, did you break into his house and lie in his bed, too?"

"No, I stole his skull." The infuriating young woman turned the page, adjusting the glasses settled – those were his glasses – on her nose.

"His what?"

"Skull, he has a skull that he talks to."

"I… what?"

"Coming to bed then, Graeme? I know you ate the sandwiches I left out for you! Did you like them? Ham and cheese are your favourite after all!"

"I thought that my siste – how in the hell did you get in here?"

"I came in through the window."

"Window? What window?"

The UFO gestured with a foot towards the open bedroom window, framed with half-closed drapes.

"I closed it this morning!"

"Not very well, DI, not very well!"

"You're some form of joke, aren't you, Holmes is bored and he's sent you to amuse himself." Lestrade strode to the window and yanked open the curtains completely. "Where is he? Is he outside, watching?"

"I told you, Sherlock won't talk to me anymore! By the way, I have to say that I like that you've switched from briefs to boxers. Boxers are so much sexier on a man of your likeness."

"Thank – you saw me in my underwear?"

"You did walk out of the shower in rather plain view, Lestrade! You walked right past me."

"You were here when I had a shower?"

"Yes, yes, Lestrade, aren't you listening? I made the sandwiches, went into the guest bedroom to get changed whilst you ate them and showered, then when you went through to get your nightly hot chocolate, I decided to move into our bedroom so that we could have this delightful chat before sleeping!"

"You are not sleeping in my bed!"

"Oh, but his neighbour won't let me in to annoy Sherlock anymore, Graeme, he's told him about me," the UFO pouted. "I've nowhere to go."

"Go home."

"Can't."

"Why not?"

"I haven't got a home, DI Lestrade," was the reply as she closed the book, replaced it on the night stand along with her – his glasses, they were his – glasses and tucked herself up under the sheets. "Now I do, though!"

Graeme gaped, turned and left the room, literally pouncing on his jacket when he found it on the kitchen table.

When he returned to his bedroom, having procured his mobile from a pocket and dialled the number for the police station, he found the UFO sound asleep. He also found that he hadn't the heart to actually call in the intruder. She wasn't armed, unless her firearm was with her clothing in the spare room, and she hadn't wrecked the house. In fact, Graeme came to realise, she'd tidied out his entire kitchen.

With a sigh, the Detective Inspector once again left the room and, closing the door and flicking the light switch, went to sleep on the couch.

He wasn't going to go near her things in his only other bedroom.