Warning: Some Swearing and a bit of violence
Chapter 2.
For the first few days of his suspension, Greg Lestrade decided to treat it as an unexpected holiday. He would ignore that sick feeling in his stomach, ignore the outside world, ignore everyone and everything, eat crap food, drink real ale (from a can), slob out whilst watching premier league football matches, re-runs of Doctor Who, especially Doctor 4 and Leila, the gorgeous tribal warrior with the skimpy outfits and the bad ass attitude.
As a young lad he had wanted to marry Sarah Jane Smith, she had been his ideal woman, but Leila, oh boy Leila had awakened his….. well never mind, that was a long time ago but it had been fun. Then he was going to work his way through his entire collection of old Sci-fi DVD's including Star Trek, Next Gen, Voyager, (Seven of Nine was bloody hot!) DS9, Blake's Seven, Space 1999, Forbidden Planet and The Quatermass experiment.
He wanted his mind to stop thinking, he wanted his heart to stop hurting, he wanted his boys home to watch them with him, they would laugh and jeer at the crappy special effects but the stories would enthral them as they had done him, he just wanted to pretend his life hadn't gone down the toilet, that everything hadn't gone to hell in a hand basket without him even knowing why.
To pretend that he hadn't just lost his family, his career, his friends, Sherlock, his reputation, his whole fucking life because of a frightened little girl's scream and the personal antagonism and professional jealousy of his own team. To pretend that he hadn't had his heart burnt out of him in a power play he knew nothing about.
So by God he was going to wallow right now and enjoy it before having to face the real world again.
Greg Lestrade had always been a fighter and he knew he would come out swinging soon, but this was his time, he needed to lick his wounds in private before he could summon the anger, determination and outrage back. He knew they were there waiting in his subconscious for him to get back to them, but right now he needed this interlude, time-out, this break so that he could recharge his batteries and not weep like a little kid at the slightest provocation.
He turned off his mobile phone, unplugged his landline, closed his curtains and locked all the doors.
He didn't wash, shave, change his pants or socks for three days, and he revelled in it.
He even slept on the sofa because he couldn't face that king size bed by himself. Damn what he wouldn't have given just to have his wife's arms around him one last time, just to comfort him when he woke up from dreaming of that horrible day, and seeing Sherlock's body in the morgue. Simple human comfort even if she hated his guts now.
He thought about smoking, he lost count of the number of times he put his coat on and went to go out for a packet, but the image of the pair of them, in the living room at 221B Baker Street, he and Sherlock during that drugs bust, flashing those damn nicotine patches at each other like a big boy's pissing contest, and the reluctant amused acceptance in Sherlock's eyes that lasted all of a minute before Anderson irritated him again, made him smile painfully, and feel like he was defiling his memory in some crazy way and wasn't that a bloody good boot to the bollocks, and his idiot brain, so he ignored the irritating craving and concentrated on his crap TV instead.
He woke up on the fourth morning to a pounding on his front door, which matched the pounding in his head from the days old hangover. He fell off the sofa in surprise which did nothing improve his mood.
"Oh for the love of God, Shut the fuck up" he shouted in fury, then grabbed his temples and groaned aloud as the noise he made reverberated through his poor aching head.
The pounding on the door stopped for all of thirty seconds, and then continued with renewed vigour.
"I'm a professional mate, I know how to get rid of dead bodies, and no-one will ever find you because Sherlock is not here anymore"
He muttered viciously under his breath, as he stumbled angrily towards that bloody noisy door, who knew a PVC door could sound so loud when someone was hitting it, he knew he was not exactly dressed appropriately for visitors, in his grey fan-boy Tardis tee (his boys had bought it for him on fathers day the year before and he bloody loved it) and a rancid pair of grey baggy boxer shorts, with bare feet, wild man hair, bloodshot eyes, unwashed body and stinky breath. He didn't give a shit. They wanted attention; they were going to get it.
But he did at least have the presence of mind to check for those bastards from the press, he was under no illusions that the Chief Inspector had already thrown him to the wolves, before he opened the door and repeatedly punched the stupid inconsiderate sod who was using a battering ram to get his attention.
He couldn't see any obvious signs of the media hordes which had dogged him previously, so he flung open the door and the stupid inconsiderate sod fell through with his body's own momentum and landed on his face in front of Greg's bare feet.
God he was so tempted, a swift kick to the temple to replicate the pounding pain in his own head would be poetic justice, just one satisfying kick, one little satisfying kick, but he reluctantly and bitterly remembered that he was an officer of the law (suspended) and put his half raised foot back down again.
He slammed the front door shut, and winced at the sound.
He focused his bleary, gritty eyes on the lad lying on the floor in front of him, Black DM boots on his feet, black jeans, black hoody pulled up over his head, short, slender build for a lad.
"Who are you and what the fuck do you want?" he growled with real menace at the prone lad.
The lad made no answer, just started to push himself up off the ground, but Greg's foot landed on the back of his neck, and pushed his head unceremoniously back into the hallway tiles with a nasty thud.
"I asked you a question sunshine and you aren't moving from there until I get an answer". He pressed his foot harder into the lad's neck in warning.
There was a muffled groan from the lad, but he made no attempt to struggle, keeping his arms relaxed and hands wide apart in an odd horizontal version of the position normally adopted by suspects being searched. So the lad had form did he?
The foot pressed hard enough to hurt and with the potential to do real damage and the lad knew it. Greg could feel the pulse in the lad's neck speed up through his bare foot and hear the laboured breathing. He smiled with vicious satisfaction.
The lad tried to say something but it was muffled by having his face ground into the black and white tiles. Greg eased his foot back but kept enough pressure on him for the lad to know he was in serious trouble if he tried anything.
"For Christ sake Guv, let me up please" pleaded Sally Donovan with a gasp.
AN: So what do you think? "Having form" is slang for being in trouble with the police previously. "Guv" is short for Governor, used by London police especially as a way to address their Boss (or so they always said on the wonderful TV programme The Bill)
My lovely Lestrade is wallowing, but not for much longer. Please review, it would be much appreciated.
Disclaimer: Based on the BBC Sherlock characters, no infringement intended, just playing til Series 3.