[fic: sherlock holmes] Inspector Lestrade and the Case of the Self-Esteem Crisis
Title: Inspector Lestrade and the Case of the Self-Esteem Crisis
Rating: PG
Words: 1220+
Summary: Reason number one why the Strand should never be taken seriously.
Author's Note: For linguini17!! Sorry, bb, I turned this into a shameless excuse to write more L/G. But the crisis is still there. If you squiint. :P Written in sort of the same vein as this ridiculous fic.
*
Inspector Lestrade and the Case of the Self-Esteem Crisis
or, How to Convince a Thick-Headed Colleague that he Really Should Not Quit.
*
Friday morning, and Scotland Yard was immersed in a crisis the likes of which hadn’t been seen since the day some poor, unwitting constable stole MacDonald’s teacup, the result of which had been a gaping hole in the roof. (New recruits were still told the tale in the hopes that it would scare the the living daylights out of them.)
“How bad is it?” Gregson grunted as soon as he walked in through the front door. Jones and Hopkins glanced briefly at each other, then back at him.
“Well, it… It’s inconvenient,” Hopkins stammered.
“Inconvenient? Inconvenient? Hopkins, lad, that’s like saying Jack the Ripper harbors a mild dislike of prostitutes.” Jones leaned back with his hands in his pockets and blew out a long, long breath before gesturing behind him. “He’s in his office.”
“And you’re telling me this because…?” Gregson’s eyebrows went up.
“Well, you’re the only one who can handle him, aren’t you?” Hopkins said quietly. “I mean, he blows a gasket, and you’re not ducking for cover, you simply stand there and…chortle.”
Gregson shrugged. “When you put it that way.” He cracked his knuckles and gave his shoulders a little roll. “Once more into the breach.”
Down the hall he went. Behind him, Jones and Hopkins shook their heads in quiet admiration.
“There goes a brave, brave man,” Jones muttered.
Hopkins whistled solemnly in agreement.
--
Lestrade’s office was a shrine to neatness, every file and notebook meticulously organized in alpha-chrono-numerical order. He had records of almost every single case he’d ever worked, categorized by victim and, in some cases, detailed down to the size of the deceased’s right pinkie toe.
Gregson stepped into this temple of good order to find that the altar had been plundered and the sacrificial offerings strewn across Lestrade’s desk. Lestrade himself was staring at them forlornly. In his hand was the Crux of the Matter, the Thing That Started It All, the Devil’s Armpit Hair in Paper Form. In other words, the latest edition of the Strand.
“You know,” Gregson said from the doorway, “They say there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”
No reply. Well, now, if you must be that way, Geoffrey…
He sat down. Lestrade didn’t even glance up. Gregson leaned forward and groaned. “Would you… like… to talk… about… it?” he said, grimacing.
The ensuing silence wasn’t so much defeaning as it was a sonic boom of soundlessness.
“Lestrade. Surely it wasn’t as bad as you’re making it out to be.”
Whack. The Strand slapped right into Gregson’s face. He caught it as it flopped down into his hands and flipped it open. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “The St. Simon case, I remember that. You smelled like fish for a fortnight afterwards.”
“I’m quitting.”
Gregson blinked. Coughed. Scratched his jaw and noted absentmindedly that he needed to shave. “Well, that’s a mite drastic, don’t you think?” he said. “Perhaps a nice vacation. I hear Bath is nice this time of year.”
Lestrade finally looked up. There were shadows under his eyes and he looked pale. Paler than usual, in any case; Lestrade was pasty on the best of days. Something to do with not enough iron in the diet; Gregson had read it somewhere.
“I’m quitting,” Lestrade said again. “Why do you need me, anyhow? You’ve got Sherlock My-Arse-Is-God Holmes to do everything for you now. Solve every cold case in the filing room from the comfort of his armchair, the despicably pompous snob.”
“‘My-Arse-Is-God’; good one, haven’t heard that one yet,” Gregson muttered under his breath.
A low, desperate keen came from Lestrade’s crumpled form.
“Auggggggggggh.”
“Fine. Um. Hum. Ah! No one can file as well as you,” Gregson declared, slamming his palm onto the table. Lestrade had buried his face in his hands and glared out darkly from between his fingers.
“Really, Gregson. Filing.” His foot lashed out underneath the table and collided with Gregson’s shin.
“Oof!”
“Do not pretend you didn’t deserve that. Filing. Honestly. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about…” Lestrade moaned quietly at a timbre that made Gregson twitch. “I have put in my notice already.”
Gregson slapped the Strand down onto the table, throwing a few files out of place. Lestrade didn’t even start to rearrange them. This was telling. This was very, very telling. Any other day, touching Lestrade’s precisely stacked papers was asking for a bullet in every nerve laden area of your body.
“Lestrade.” It was time to pull out the big guns. “Please do not throw your career away over some ridiculous story in the Strand.”
“It’s not just that!” Lestrade exclaimed. “I can’t get anything done right these days. Do you remember the last time I solved anything without his interference?”
“Um.”
“My point precisely. No, no, do not let another word pass your lips unless it is ‘Goodbye.’ I’m quitting and that is that.” Lestrade got to his feet in a rather wobbly manner. “Been a good run, Gregson.”
“Wait!” Gregson lunched forward, hands on Lestrade’s shoulders, pushing him back into his chair. “Now, let’s not be too hasty, Lestrade… What about all… your open cases?”
“Someone more competent is welcome to handle them,” Lestrade replied flatly.
Right. Guns weren’t working. Gregson was going to have to try a different tactic.
“Geoffrey, please. Don’t quit,” he said quietly. Blinked his blue eyes. Lestrade looked at him with blossoming incredulity and squirmed in his seat. “Honestly, you’re… very good at your job.” Lord give me strength. “I mean, who tracked down that old, um, what was he, the, uh… The guy. Who perpetrated that crime. In that place.”
“Uh-huh. Nice try.” Lestrade started to get up once more.
Another lunge. Papers flying everywhere. Lestrade’s lapels in Gregson’s hands. “You. You go nowhere,” he growled. “You are not leaving me here to deal with all the other idiots, because let me be honest, you’re an intelligent bugger despite what certain ex-army doctors choose to write in order to pay their rent. Now will you please walk over to the chief’s office and take back that notice.”
Lestrade was panting and his eyes were wide open. “Why are you in my face?” he asked, somewhat breathless.
“I call it making a point. Well?”
“I’ve no incentive to stay.”
The tiniest whimper of desperation stuttered across Gregson’s lower lip. “Geoffrey. Lestrade. Either you stay or so help me, I will…”
Lestrade’s eyebrows flew up. You will…? his questioning gaze prompted.
Gregson took a deep breath in through his nostrils, closed his eyes, leaned forward, and pressed his mouth to Lestrade’s.
It wasn’t a very exceptional kiss. Neither of them did anything except stand there, glued together, for several short-long seconds, before Gregson pulled back and said, “I will never do that again.” He gripped the fabric of Lestrade’s jacket even harder and tugged, relishing the small grunt of surprise that followed. “Well?”
There was a moment’s reprieve, during which Lestrade’s tongue floundered about inside his mouth. “Ah,” he said at last. “I think I require more. Convincing.”
Gregson smirked.
--
“How did it go?”
The expectant looks on Jones’ and Hopkins’ faces were worth drawing out. Gregson took his sweet time before finally leaning back satisfactorily.
“I think he’s going to be just fine.”
Rating: PG
Words: 1220+
Summary: Reason number one why the Strand should never be taken seriously.
Author's Note: For linguini17!! Sorry, bb, I turned this into a shameless excuse to write more L/G. But the crisis is still there. If you squiint. :P Written in sort of the same vein as this ridiculous fic.
*
Inspector Lestrade and the Case of the Self-Esteem Crisis
or, How to Convince a Thick-Headed Colleague that he Really Should Not Quit.
*
Friday morning, and Scotland Yard was immersed in a crisis the likes of which hadn’t been seen since the day some poor, unwitting constable stole MacDonald’s teacup, the result of which had been a gaping hole in the roof. (New recruits were still told the tale in the hopes that it would scare the the living daylights out of them.)
“How bad is it?” Gregson grunted as soon as he walked in through the front door. Jones and Hopkins glanced briefly at each other, then back at him.
“Well, it… It’s inconvenient,” Hopkins stammered.
“Inconvenient? Inconvenient? Hopkins, lad, that’s like saying Jack the Ripper harbors a mild dislike of prostitutes.” Jones leaned back with his hands in his pockets and blew out a long, long breath before gesturing behind him. “He’s in his office.”
“And you’re telling me this because…?” Gregson’s eyebrows went up.
“Well, you’re the only one who can handle him, aren’t you?” Hopkins said quietly. “I mean, he blows a gasket, and you’re not ducking for cover, you simply stand there and…chortle.”
Gregson shrugged. “When you put it that way.” He cracked his knuckles and gave his shoulders a little roll. “Once more into the breach.”
Down the hall he went. Behind him, Jones and Hopkins shook their heads in quiet admiration.
“There goes a brave, brave man,” Jones muttered.
Hopkins whistled solemnly in agreement.
--
Lestrade’s office was a shrine to neatness, every file and notebook meticulously organized in alpha-chrono-numerical order. He had records of almost every single case he’d ever worked, categorized by victim and, in some cases, detailed down to the size of the deceased’s right pinkie toe.
Gregson stepped into this temple of good order to find that the altar had been plundered and the sacrificial offerings strewn across Lestrade’s desk. Lestrade himself was staring at them forlornly. In his hand was the Crux of the Matter, the Thing That Started It All, the Devil’s Armpit Hair in Paper Form. In other words, the latest edition of the Strand.
“You know,” Gregson said from the doorway, “They say there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”
No reply. Well, now, if you must be that way, Geoffrey…
He sat down. Lestrade didn’t even glance up. Gregson leaned forward and groaned. “Would you… like… to talk… about… it?” he said, grimacing.
The ensuing silence wasn’t so much defeaning as it was a sonic boom of soundlessness.
“Lestrade. Surely it wasn’t as bad as you’re making it out to be.”
Whack. The Strand slapped right into Gregson’s face. He caught it as it flopped down into his hands and flipped it open. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “The St. Simon case, I remember that. You smelled like fish for a fortnight afterwards.”
“I’m quitting.”
Gregson blinked. Coughed. Scratched his jaw and noted absentmindedly that he needed to shave. “Well, that’s a mite drastic, don’t you think?” he said. “Perhaps a nice vacation. I hear Bath is nice this time of year.”
Lestrade finally looked up. There were shadows under his eyes and he looked pale. Paler than usual, in any case; Lestrade was pasty on the best of days. Something to do with not enough iron in the diet; Gregson had read it somewhere.
“I’m quitting,” Lestrade said again. “Why do you need me, anyhow? You’ve got Sherlock My-Arse-Is-God Holmes to do everything for you now. Solve every cold case in the filing room from the comfort of his armchair, the despicably pompous snob.”
“‘My-Arse-Is-God’; good one, haven’t heard that one yet,” Gregson muttered under his breath.
A low, desperate keen came from Lestrade’s crumpled form.
“Auggggggggggh.”
“Fine. Um. Hum. Ah! No one can file as well as you,” Gregson declared, slamming his palm onto the table. Lestrade had buried his face in his hands and glared out darkly from between his fingers.
“Really, Gregson. Filing.” His foot lashed out underneath the table and collided with Gregson’s shin.
“Oof!”
“Do not pretend you didn’t deserve that. Filing. Honestly. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about…” Lestrade moaned quietly at a timbre that made Gregson twitch. “I have put in my notice already.”
Gregson slapped the Strand down onto the table, throwing a few files out of place. Lestrade didn’t even start to rearrange them. This was telling. This was very, very telling. Any other day, touching Lestrade’s precisely stacked papers was asking for a bullet in every nerve laden area of your body.
“Lestrade.” It was time to pull out the big guns. “Please do not throw your career away over some ridiculous story in the Strand.”
“It’s not just that!” Lestrade exclaimed. “I can’t get anything done right these days. Do you remember the last time I solved anything without his interference?”
“Um.”
“My point precisely. No, no, do not let another word pass your lips unless it is ‘Goodbye.’ I’m quitting and that is that.” Lestrade got to his feet in a rather wobbly manner. “Been a good run, Gregson.”
“Wait!” Gregson lunched forward, hands on Lestrade’s shoulders, pushing him back into his chair. “Now, let’s not be too hasty, Lestrade… What about all… your open cases?”
“Someone more competent is welcome to handle them,” Lestrade replied flatly.
Right. Guns weren’t working. Gregson was going to have to try a different tactic.
“Geoffrey, please. Don’t quit,” he said quietly. Blinked his blue eyes. Lestrade looked at him with blossoming incredulity and squirmed in his seat. “Honestly, you’re… very good at your job.” Lord give me strength. “I mean, who tracked down that old, um, what was he, the, uh… The guy. Who perpetrated that crime. In that place.”
“Uh-huh. Nice try.” Lestrade started to get up once more.
Another lunge. Papers flying everywhere. Lestrade’s lapels in Gregson’s hands. “You. You go nowhere,” he growled. “You are not leaving me here to deal with all the other idiots, because let me be honest, you’re an intelligent bugger despite what certain ex-army doctors choose to write in order to pay their rent. Now will you please walk over to the chief’s office and take back that notice.”
Lestrade was panting and his eyes were wide open. “Why are you in my face?” he asked, somewhat breathless.
“I call it making a point. Well?”
“I’ve no incentive to stay.”
The tiniest whimper of desperation stuttered across Gregson’s lower lip. “Geoffrey. Lestrade. Either you stay or so help me, I will…”
Lestrade’s eyebrows flew up. You will…? his questioning gaze prompted.
Gregson took a deep breath in through his nostrils, closed his eyes, leaned forward, and pressed his mouth to Lestrade’s.
It wasn’t a very exceptional kiss. Neither of them did anything except stand there, glued together, for several short-long seconds, before Gregson pulled back and said, “I will never do that again.” He gripped the fabric of Lestrade’s jacket even harder and tugged, relishing the small grunt of surprise that followed. “Well?”
There was a moment’s reprieve, during which Lestrade’s tongue floundered about inside his mouth. “Ah,” he said at last. “I think I require more. Convincing.”
Gregson smirked.
--
“How did it go?”
The expectant looks on Jones’ and Hopkins’ faces were worth drawing out. Gregson took his sweet time before finally leaning back satisfactorily.
“I think he’s going to be just fine.”