A/N: So this has been a long time coming, but this Greg Lestrade's Little Black Book
Greg would like to say he'd lost count of the number of times he'd stared down into the whiskey glass wondering if this was the end of the marriage but he hadn't. After the first attempt at divorce Greg learned to make a note of every time they had a hiccup. In one of his battered police notebooks there was usually a date and a reason as to why they had fought. It ranged over the three years of 'marital issues', which usually meant who his wife was sleeping with this time, to she shouted at him for spending time with Sally… entirely ignoring that was his colleague and that she was banging Anderson.
Feeling tired of just about everything Lestrade had dumped his sorry arse in a grotty pub on the outskirts of London and stared balefully down at the cheap whisky. Digging in his coat pocket he found the book and flicked through the contents.
9th of September, Lorraine home late from yoga class.
18th September, Lorraine home after midnight from yoga class smelling of aftershave.
21st September, blazing row with Lorraine over yoga classes, slept on sofa.
1st October, Lorraine moved out to stay with 'friend' to help ease tensions.
5th October, Lorraine moved back in tearfully.
Occasionally his wife seemed to forget she was married to a policeman. It gave him a lot of opportunities to sort of abuse his power and look into who her classes were run by – the pottery class, the aerobics class, yoga, spinning, painting, reading clubs, salsa dancing. Greg had seen all of the instructors and they fitted the same profile – chiselled good looks, abs you could bounce coins off, beards, all below the age of 28. His 49 year old wife was a cougar in a mid-life crisis. If the Audi TT was anything to go by, she was hitting mid-life crisis at 90mph and free-wheeling her way through it. If she had been male it would have been seen as lewd or moronic but her female status meant it was almost ignored and the hen-pecked husband remained bound to his police desk.
"Hey sweetheart." A throaty female voice had him looking up, he had deliberately chosen a pub that any clever woman would avoid. Staring at the brunette in front of him he sighed.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm buying." She grinned, taking the bar stool next to him.
"I'm not drinking." He tipped his still full glass towards her.
"Not that crap you're not." She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "I say I am, my friend is. Come and join us?" She indicated to a private room off the side of the bar.
"Look love, I'm a copper. I'm a tired copper who is giving you a chance to fleece someone else in a different pub." Greg rubbed his stubbled chin with one hand still swirling the contents of the glass with the other.
"Look darling, I'm a PA. I'm a tired PA that has been sent over by her boss to collect you so he can get you home safely. No-one else puts up with Sherlock like you do and my boss wants to make sure you're safe." The brunette huffed and Greg groaned out loud.
"Bloody Mycroft." He grunted quietly. "Couldn't have just paid the cabby off like normal could he?"
"You know he does that?" She asked surprised.
"Like I said, I'm a copper. Sherlock might make me look quite thick but I'm surprisingly not." Lestrade sighed and stretched his back out before standing. "Come on then, lets go and see what he wants." Lestrade snapped the black book shut and stuffed it back into his pocket again, making a mental reminder to make an addition.
7th March, caught Lorraine shagging the gardener in the shed.