(Holy shit. So I totally switched Chapter 9 with Chapter 8 and ho dang, that scared me. I thought I couldn't fix it)

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Sherlock or any of the characters based off of Sir Conan Doyle's most excellent work. I make absolutely no money off of this.

Warnings: Lestrade's too sexy for his shirt.


Gregory Lestrade was a gentleman of the force.

Presently, he was the Chief Inspector of one of the most efficient and qualified squads in Her Majesty's policing forces. He was gritty, witty, and a tough detective with kilometres long track record of exemplary service. He was willing to drop everything to help a civilian in distress and made the streets of London a bit safer every day. The elite detective was driven by the desire to do good in the world (and just maybe to make amends for some of the shit he got up to in his youth). He wasn't perfect, but he was perfect for his work.

DI Lestrade was happily married to his career, and that was why his unhappy wife left him six months ago.

No one knew about it, though how he managed it with the Met's notorious gossip grapevine was astounding. His commanding officers knew, of course, but they respected him enough to keep it to themselves. He disguised court hearings, lawyer visits, and moving his boys to their aunts' with vacation time, conveniently placed off-days, and cashing in the sick days he'd never used before. The less the rest of the world knew about his private life, the better he felt.

It was never safe to announce the dramatic changes in one's life when internal and external forces could easily harm or destroy the things important to you. No one, not even Dimmock, had ever met his kids. Oly and Roi, seven and ten respectively, knew their daddy was a cop and a good one too, but they were too busy with school or their lessons to insist upon anything much other than stories. They were good kids. The best, in his humble opinion.

They didn't deserve the great upheaval their foolish parents were thrusting upon them. So it was easy, very easy, to act like nothing was wrong most of the time. Mum wanted to move out of London, and didn't care to take her children with her. Her youth was squandered by being married to her husband's sorry ass all these years. She was more than ten years younger than him, she still had time to really find herself.

She'd lost it all when she became a cop's wife, she said. She wanted to go back home, to be with her family and to forget his. She'd visit, she said. She'd take the kids for the summers, she said. After a while it all became so utterly fake. Greg wanted to punch her but he'd never hit a woman. Finally manning up to the fact that the mother of your children didn't want anything to do with said children anymore was a big pill to swallow. He'd had enough marriage counselling to understand this fact of life.

Instead Aunt Jacqui and Auntie Rose took on the role of mother for their nephews while their father was busy running about after serial killers and kidnappers. He tried to not feel guilty about it. The family he had left insisted he had to do his job. Oly said he wouldn't play with him anymore if he stopped being a superhero. Roi didn't speak to him for a week when he mentioned he might retire from the force to Rosemarie over coffee.

The statement didn't go over well with anyone, not even himself after he suggested it. He thanked his stars his kids and little sisters had better sense than he did. He'd have ruined his life and made them all miserable if he'd gone through with submitting those papers.

Besides, Sherlock would never have forgiven him, the bloody nuisance.

"What is it Sherlock? You've been texting me for the last hour in crazy half-sentences that don't make a lick of sense to the rest of us," Gregory said to his closest friend aside from his sometimes partner, but mostly subordinate, DI Dimmock. The bastard had been making cryptic allusions to something or another, but the detective hadn't had the chance to decipher them in between taxi rides to and from the London Zoo (Oly's school trip) and piano lessons (Roi's current artistic obsession).

"Of course they wouldn't. If you'd care to pick up your phone when one calls you, four times I might add, you'd know that I'm headed your way. I estimate I'll arrive in precisely fifteen minutes if the tube permits. I know it will, so expect to meet me at the coffee house across from your sister's flower shop. I'll have an espresso, black, one sugar," came the concise cadence over the detective's cellular.

Greg rolled his eyes to the ceiling of the cab, trying to fight the grin threatening to stretch across his features, "Is this about the poodle case?" Of course Sherlock knew where he lived now. And, surprisingly, it didn't scare him like it should.

"...What else would it be about?" the snark reply made the inspector bark a laugh.

Roi sitting beside him shot his father an odd look, brow arching in a very prim fashion. Greg wondered idly where his son ever learned such an expression. Hecertainly hadn't taught him. Being the mature one of the bunch Lestrade stuck his tongue out, making Oly bouncing on his other side giggle. The seven-year-old stuck his own tongue at his brother, mimicking their father precisely.

"You seem to be in a cross mood, Sherlock. Care to elaborate?" the greying cop inquired, musing his youngest's black curls to stop him from harassing his older brother. Royce looked particularly murderous today.

The huff heard on the other end of the line was exceptionally put upon. Now Greg really was interested to hear what the genius was so bothered for. Sherlock certainly didn't sound like it was just the murder case twisting his knickers about.

"I'm not well enough for the games you want to play, Lestrade. Get yourself to the cafe and I might be a bit more inclined to satisfy your curiosity."

"Very well. I'm dropping off these vagabonds I just apprehended, then I'll be there," Greg countered as he shifted his briefcase and jacket over his arm.

"Hey! We're not vaga-baga-" his littlest protested.

"Vagabonds, Oliver. Papa's just being silly. Ignore him like usual."

"Hey! I'm not silly!" the detective exclaimed, feigning hurt and frowning dramatically. Roi sighed in exasperation.

"I rather agree with your largest offspring, Lestrade. Now get out of the cab and go across the damn street. I'll be there in seven. You have just enough time to make an order-"

The resounding click of the call severing was the definitive end to that conversation. Greg gave up all pretences then and rushed his little brood out of the taxi. He paid the cabbie their fair, and passed the boys off to Jacqueline who'd come out to meet them watering bucket in hand. She must have had to water the spindly honeysuckle. Rose would be home any minute to start dinner. The boys would be fine for whatever nonsense Sherlock was gong on about.

Who knows? The consultant might have actually done his job in a legal enough manner this time for them to use whatever he'd uncovered. That would be the day. It was getting harder and harder on his reports to tweak evidence processing enough to be acceptable. Someone (usually the bad guy) had to do something overly dramatic, most likely dangerous to give them the more solid of their past cases.

With a quick explanation, and a few hugs and kisses, Gregory was off running across the busy street to meet up with the only person not in his family to ever figure the situation out. After all, how do you keep secrets from the man famous for uncovering them at a glance?


AN: So a little bit on Lestrade. This the the fist insert to a sequence of scenes I've had floating in my head. I had a lovely reviewer give me their input and decided to go with Lestrade first, then onward back to Mycroft in the next chapter. I love duality, and am interested in the parallels of story writing. You'll see what I mean.

As always, please, READ and REVIEW~! Thank you!