A.N. Prompt from mrspencil - Lestrade looks forward to a rare day off, events conspire against him. I think I did the exact opposite of what the prompt intended, but I hope you'll forgive me for that. I couldn't get this out of my head. Sorry!
Lestrade loved his job. He really did. Making the city safer for everyone – it made him a good man. A man who could be proud of himself. That didn't mean that the job wasn't tiring, or sometimes frustrating, or even – when he was swamped in paperwork – boring. It certainly didn't mean that the inspector didn't look forward to his – too rare, if you asked him, but the police couldn't be left in the hands of the likes of Gregson – day off.
He could almost taste it. An armchair in front of the fire, a cigar, a newspaper, and maybe a drink. And his wife, of course – but she usually knew he longed for peace and would sit quietly by him, with her own book or an embroidery or something. When the kids had been younger, peace had been rare – but now they were in college, so his dream seemed like a likely prospect.
But he'd barely woke up, in his free day, when a dear friend of his wife since their college days had come to their door, crying pitifully. Which meant that before he'd even completed his breakfast he'd been roped into going to her husband to 'threaten' him and make clear that beating his wife wouldn't be tolerated anymore, which he did quite willingly because he hated bullies.
That led to a bit of a skirmish, but nothing Lestrade couldn't deal with. Though, it certainly wasn't a restful start of the day. When he went back home, he found out that the whole place still echoed with the harsh sobs of the poor, abused, terrified woman. He tried to awkwardly comfort her, before leaving the matter to his wife.
It might be cowardly, but today he just wanted a bit of rest – to relax, without thinking about the darker side of life he faced daily. Since that was clearly impossible at home, he went to his club – or, tried to. Apparently there'd been an accident, something had burned down and now the place was closed for renovations.
He considered going to his friends, but one was visiting relatives in Scotland, another's wife was ill… he simply couldn't remember one who could offer him the quiet he needed. It didn't help that most of his friends were colleagues too, which day off didn't coincide with his.
Desperate, he opted to search for peace in the most unlikely place to find it. At 221B Baker Street. When he was allowed in, Holmes was slumped on the sofa in his dressing gown, but he still raised his head and asked somewhat eagerly, if a bit slurring, "Case?"
"Not exactly," Lestrade murmured, blushing a bit. Maybe he was imposing. Maybe this had really been a bad idea.
"And anyway, you wouldn't be in any state to go if he asked, Holmes. You did take your morphine not long ago," Watson interjected, clearly disapproving.
At that, the sleuth shut up and sulked, giving the cold shoulder to the whole world.
"Why are you here, then?" the doctor asked Lestrade amiable and curious.
When the inspector confessed his plight, Watson chuckled a bit, but otherwise proved a very accommodating acquaintance. In a short while Lestrade was settled exactly how he'd longed – armchair, newspaper, cigar and brandy. Holmes kept quietly sulking on the sofa (or maybe he was sleeping off the morphine, who knew – at least he didn't snore), while Watson scribbled something at his desk, without a word and with only a rare smile to himself. Lestrade sighed. Perfect.