It was a bit strange to see Detective Inspector Lestrade outside of the context of a case. The strangest thing, perhaps, was that he dressed near identically; John would have had difficulty distinguishing personal wear from professional wear had he not known that Lestrade was certainly not on a case at just that moment. As far as he could tell, the only real difference, at least from a cursory glance, was the fact that he was wearing a pair of jeans instead of slacks. Or did he normally wear jeans? As he settled himself onto a chair, John puzzled over it, and ultimately decided that he couldn't remember and it wasn't overall that important anyhow.
To be fair, he didn't look much different from his usual attire either. Not that Lestrade ever saw him at the surgery, where he was dressed professionally, but for all intents and purposes, anyone who took a glance at them might have assumed that they were simply working out the particulars of a case over some tea and sandwiches. That was all to the better, as far as John was concerned, because if he was correct on his hunch about the meeting, it wouldn't do to have the news of it spread all over the place.
He offered Lestrade a small but friendly smile, tapping the fingertips of his right hand against the table. "Good to see you. I caught your e-mail just as I was making breakfast, so I hope you don't mind if I eat something."
Lestrade looked surprised, then apologetic, reaching up to rub a hand across the back of his neck. "Ah, there was no rush like that. I appreciate it, though. Coming to see me. I know it's an off day for you."
"Off day for you as well," John returned, perusing the paper menu before him. A bit early for lunch, but he didn't really fancy breakfast anymore now that he'd gotten out of the flat. "And I don't mind. I was just going to putter around the flat and get annoyed by Sherlock's experiments again."
Though John could tell that he was a bit nervous and uncomfortable, Lestrade smiled, and the effort was appreciated. "Well, yeah. In for a penny with that guy, in for a pound. You're doing all right, though?"
The question - followed by a searching gaze - well, it wasn't one that John was exactly used to, but he'd begun to wonder when he would hear it. He wouldn't deny that Sherlock was a lot to handle on a good day, but he really wasn't as bad as they all made him out to be. Or was it that John was just better able to tolerate all manner of bullshit after growing up with Harry and invading Afghanistan? Either way, though he'd initially thought that he would have a lot more difficult time adjusting to life with his new flatmate, they'd fallen into a rhythm near seamlessly and very quickly. It surprised him sometimes to realize how absolutely content he was when he woke up, knowing that his day would be filled with the mundane and the ordinary, pushing aside Petri dishes to make his tea before he went to the surgery and flirted a bit with Sarah, with just a little dash of chaos on the side. His life had a balance now, as precarious as it seemed to other people, and he found that it quite worked for him.
Now, he wouldn't say that his balance was precisely normal. There was a fair bit of risk to his own personal well-being, life, and health that most people would find frankly frightening, but it worked for John. It wasn't constant danger and a pressure at the back of his mind wondering, each and every day, if he would be breathing his last - that had been Afghanistan - and though he'd thrived on the near-addictive, constant swell of adrenaline, he couldn't possibly continue living that way. Not for long, not if he wanted to grow to a ripe old age and eventually settle down in the countryside with a dog and a family of some sort. However, he couldn't simply leave that life behind him and dive fully back into being a civilian either, now could he?
He'd tried that, and he'd gone to therapy and he'd done his level best to be a quiet, unobtrusive, normal citizen. He'd woken up, he'd gone through the motions of his day, and he'd stared at an empty blog page to keep himself from staring at the illegal firearm in his bedside drawer. A life of peace and quiet, no matter how much he might have professed to wanting it, was the surest way to drive himself absolutely barking mad in the shortest possible time.
It seemed perverse and backward. It was true that he treasured the quiet moments, the times when he got back to the flat and he could sit stretched out on the sofa and watch crap telly with a cup of tea. An undisturbed night's sleep, a casual lunch with friends... of course he enjoyed those things. Of course he craved them, needed them. But without danger and violence peppering his life, disrupting the peace and showing him what it was really worth, he wouldn't value it. He would just feel bored, listless. Useless.
Like another anonymous face moving through the drudgery of life. And oh, God, he shuddered to think of going back to that, of remembering what it was like to wake up without any excitement. Without any mysteries in his life.
So, taking a bit longer than he perhaps ought to have, John finally settled for, "More than all right."
Lestrade relaxed a bit, apparently satisfied by this. "Good. Glad to hear it, Dr. Watson."
"Please," he said, raising his hand and waving it as their sandwiches were set in front of him. "John is fine."
It took a bit to get to the heart of the matter, but John didn't really expect Lestrade to launch straight into it; it was always a bit difficult to talk about awkward things, and preserving a bit of normality for at least part of the outing would help them both. Honestly, John had no idea what sort of personal problem Lestrade could possibly have that he wanted John's advice on, but he was willing to do his level best to help him out. They were friends, of a fashion, and if it was something medical, John would know best where to direct him for more thorough care. If it wasn't medical, well...
He actually hadn't fully considered that it might not be medical. What else would someone want his specific advice for?
About halfway through their meals, Lestrade set aside his ham and cheese sandwich with some gravity. "I'm sure you're wondering why I've asked you here. Truth be told, I'm not sure how to broach the subject. It's a bit awkward."
Definitely some sort of medical problem, then. John cleared his throat, but didn't set aside his sandwich - he wanted a prop in case he needed to take a healthy bite to consider his words before speaking - and replied, "Best just spit it out as fast as you can. Like a plaster."
"All right, well. It's about Sally." John's eyes widened a fraction, but Lestrade barreled on before he could consider commenting. "She and Anderson have this - this thing. Everyone knows it's happening, everyone ignores it, and rightfully so, as it's no one's business but their own. Well, that's what I've always said, because personal life is personal, and as long as it's not interfering with the work then I've got no bloody business putting my nose into it and mucking things up."
His cheeks were getting a bit red, but his expression was so earnest that John couldn't find it in himself to be amused by that. Lestrade took another steadying breath, and John decided this would be a good time to take a bite of his sandwich. Preventive measure.
"The thing is, though, Sally's been..." He waved his hand around, searching for words. Not finding them, apparently. "Well Anderson's back on with his wife, as he generally is, and Sally's taking it hard, and I'm not certain... I'm no good at relationships, you know."
He looked down at his hand, and John discreetly looked away.
"But I hate to see her like this, and I'm not sure how to, well. How do you express to someone that they deserve better than a philandering arsehole without insulting them at at the same time?"
This was so far from what John had been expecting that he took a great deal of time to chew his bite of sandwich. Personal indeed - personally personal. He didn't know Donovan or Anderson very well, and didn't exactly have a high opinion of them given how they tended to treat Sherlock, but that didn't mean he would dismiss the situation out of hand. (After all, Sherlock gave as good as he got.) The very idea that he was being asked about something like this sort of dumbfounded him, if he was honest with himself. He hadn't exactly had the best track record since returning to London, no matter what he'd gotten up to in his younger years.
Ah, his younger years.
Lestrade was looking at him so expectantly, though, and so he swallowed, took his time in wiping his face with a napkin. When there was no longer any humanly way he could put off responding, he began awkwardly, "Well, there's... there's not really a way to express that, in so many words, inoffensively. Really."
His companion visibly deflated, shoulders dropping a good inch in disappointment.
"Not that you can't approach it from another angle." In his pocket, his phone vibrated, and out of habit John reached for it and slid it open without really thinking. "Sergeant Donovan is your friend, yes? You can always sit her down and let her know that you're worried about her, and available to talk if she needs anything."
He glanced down at his phone, and his polite, helpful expression suddenly turned entirely irritated.
READ THE E-MAILS. YOU KNEW I WOULD. PERSONAL PROBLEM? SH
John typed back a response, hitting each key a little harder than he strictly had to out of annoyance. Extremely poor taste. Not your business. Stay off my computer.
"All right, there?" Lestrade asked, shredding a piece of lettuce absently.
"Oh, just Sherlock being... Sherlock." He took a deep breath, set his mobile on the table. "Where was I? Right. It is, of course, ultimately her decision and business if she wants to continue to have an on-again-off-again affair? I assume that's what's going on?"
Lestrade nodded, frown deepening. "More off than on."
"Right." John got another text, couldn't help but glance at it. "So, don't go into this trying to tell her what to do. That's exactly the wrong approach for... well, just about anyone, but in my experience, women especially. Women and Sherlock," he amended, looking a little mystified.
Lestrade's lips twitched. "Women and children, then."
"Women and children," he agreed.
IF YOU'D TOLD ME WHERE YOU WERE GOING I WOULDN'T HAVE HAD TO LOOK. HOW LONG WILL THIS TAKE? SH
The Inspector sighed, running a hand down the front of his face. "Sally... I'm not going to lie to you, I'm closer to Sally than I am Anderson. He's brilliant at what he does, and he's a decent man and I like him, but on a personal level, I'm more invested in Sally's well being than his. He's the one cheating on his wife," he added, expression darkening.
"She's the one helping him cheat," John replied gently, and Lestrade sighed again.
"I know it. It's difficult to not be a bit biased; Sally's been around for ages, and she's like a sister to me."
"Well-" His phone went off again.
NOT A CONSULTING DOCTOR. SH
"Excuse me a moment," John said, frowning impressively. "Flatmate's acting like a six year-old."
Lestrade settled back in his chair and John sent Sherlock a very short, terse text. That done, he stuffed his phone in his pocket, lacing his fingers in front of him. "Let her know you're concerned, but you don't want to pry. Offer to go out for a pint or something, just to talk, and let her vent if she needs to. Don't push her if she doesn't want to," he added, shaking his head. "But really, the best advice I can give you is just be a friend. Absolutely do not try to set her up with anyone else."
At Lestrade's guilty look, John's expression became more stern. "Meddling like that is just going to backfire. You haven't already done it, have you?"
"Considered," Lestrade admitted. "Haven't done anything. Ah, I knew I was right to come to you, Dr.-John."
John laughed, but it quickly died off. "And why is that, exactly?"
"Well." Lestrade rubbed his chin, looking thoughtful. "You have a very friendly internet voice. Seem to really care about the people you're writing about when you draft up those cases. Which are always a pleasure to read, I think we all keep up on your blog religiously now."
Ears burning, he replied, "Well, thank you."
"But what's even more compelling is how bloody nice you've made Sherlock." John couldn't help it; he laughed outright, shaking his head in disbelief. "No, I understand it's hard for you to believe, but he was a nightmare before you. Absolutely terrible. I managed him as best I can, but like I said - not the best at this kind of thing. I know how people think in a committing-crimes-and-trying-to-get-away-with-it kind of way, not in the... touchy-feely fashion."
Grimacing, John muttered, "Well that's very.."
"I don't mean to insult!" After a beat, Lestrade said meaningfully, "See? Permanent foot in mouth, if you ask my mum."
"It's fine." His phone was really having a field day in his pocket. "And I am glad, really... if I can help, I'd like to."
Smiling, John leaned forward a bit, hands flat on the table. "Let me know how it goes?"
"Of course." Lestrade slapped his palm against the tabletop, smile broad. "I'll grab the bill for this one. Your help has been invaluable, John. Thanks again."
Amused despite himself, when Lestrade offered a hand, he took it and shook briskly. "Not at all. Any time, Inspector."
"Greg," he said warmly, laugh lines fanning out at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. "I do believe we've earned a first-name basis."
"Quite right," John agreed, happily.