Open Request Meme
In honor of the soul-crushing adventure that is "The Final Problem," bakerstreaders is hosting an Open Request Meme. The meme is, as the name suggests, a free-for-all request meme; you can request fic fills, art, fanmixes, icons, picspams, gifs, cunning articles of clothing, or interpretive dance, if the fancy strikes you. Anything goes!
The Rules ( Read more... )
The Rules ( Read more... )
Comments 8
Give us Gregson and Lestrade kvetching over the tea. Hopkins' feud with the inner-office mailboy. The fight over the last bagel. The office pool on how long it takes for Holmes to break the new morgue attendant. Playing darts with the Commish's picture. Everything is fair game, so long as it's the Yardies in their natural habitat.
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***
Lestrade glares down at the tea. The tea glares back. There’s nothing by way of milk, and Lestrade is fairly sure the sugar didn’t so much dissolve as crumple weakly in fear and drown in the wretched liquid rage sitting in his cup. The teaspoons called retreat long ago. Even the mugs have to be thick, ceramic things, built to withstand Yard tea and corrosive acid.
Lestrade swirls the cup. Smells it. Locks his throat open and tells his tastebuds to bugger off. He drinks, finishing the sip with the customary grimace of pain.
Lestrade sighs in satisfaction. It’s perfect.
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I love your fill! It's a very Lestrade thought process and way to start the day, or evening, or just spend that little snatch of quiet in the day.
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***
It’s happening like clockwork. Three, two, one...that entire desk giggles, then shushes themselves as a group, which is louder than the giggling. It’s starting to get distracting.
Three, two, one, giggle, shush. Again. Between the giggling desk...good god, how many of them are over there?...and Sherlock pacing his office, going on and on about something Lestrade tuned out long ago, madness is surely imminent. Next time Sherlock shows up to chat, Dimmock can have him.
Giggle, shush. What the hell is so funny?
“Excuse me,” he says at last, and strides over to the huddled group that, once again, giggles on cue. Then, as he gets closer, looks like a boxful of kicked puppies.
“Brown?” he prompts the nearest constable. Brown looks ashamed.
“We, uh, didn’t mean any harm, sir,” he starts. Lestrade crosses his arms.
“What’s the joke?”
“Lucy was just making whoosh noises, sir.”
“Whoosh noises.”
“When Mr. Holmes turns around, his coat swirls, y’see, and Lucy started saying whoosh ( ... )
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