Lestrade was the only man in London with fifteen bank accounts.
They started popping up when he agreed to let a pale, but now relatively steady Sherlock Holmes onto his crime scenes. That night Lestrade went to bed with just enough for regular orders of Chinese and the hope of retirement someday. He awoke to a second account labeled "Damages" that had more zeroes in it than Lestrade had pairs of socks.
Ten minutes later he got the call that their new "Consulting Detective" had crashed three squad cars. Two hours later it was Lestrade's car that was totaled. The account suddenly split into two: "Damages—Met" and "Damages—Personal."
"My brother's paying you off." Sherlock growled, looking far too put out considering that this was all his fault. Lestrade was just relieved to find out where the hell the money was coming from. "Next he'll be supplementing your wardrobe."
That afternoon another account appeared—"Wardrobe." Feeling spiteful, Lestrade went and bought more socks.
"Food." "Lab Equipment." "Overtime" (ha). One was ominously titled "Incentive" which Lestrade never, ever touched. The rest was fair game.
The night of John's stage party his phone dinged in a way he'd only heard fifteen times before. Lestrade checked the new account and laughed, knowing his friends were having a great time.
It was labeled "Bail."