Fic: Reinventing DI Lestrade (3/3)
Title: Reinventing DI Lestrade (3/3, complete)
Author: rev02a
Rating: R
Warnings: Offscreen death, discussion of suicide, language, POST TRF story
Pairings: Lestrade/hiswifeOC, John/Sherlock, Lestrade/Mycroft
Word Count: 7,743
Summary: Seven months after Sherlock's death, Greg Lestrade begins to put his life together.
Part One
Part Two
Epilogue
221B was a disaster, and if Greg, the father of two under the age ten, thought so, then it was a mess. There were boxes from John’s other flat and boxes from Mrs. Hudson’s storage and newly delivered boxes of science equipment all mixed in with newspapers, dishes, and men’s shirts. Ellen looked around the flat with interest, but Connor only looked away from his iPod screen to navigate the stairs.
It was Greg’s weekend with the kids, and, of course, this was the one Saturday that Sherlock had texted in a frenzy about moving. Greg knocked on the doorframe and stepped around a milk crate of reference books.
“Come on in, Greg!” John called from the kitchen. Connor somehow found a chair to sit in without looking away from his game, but Ellen followed Greg into the kitchen.
John was unpacking a box of pots and pans. “Hello and welcome to the second coming of 221B.”
Greg slapped John on the back and looked around for Sherlock. “Yes, I’m sure Baker Street wasn’t the same without you.”
Sherlock replied before he had entered the kitchen from the hall, “It’s resale value must have sky rocketed after all the international assassins moved out.”
Ellen leaned closer to a tray of test tubes and pointed at a blue liquid, “Daddy, that’s the colour I want my new pony.”
Greg nodded and wondered how he was going to explain the basics of ponies, the colour spectrum, and financial responsibility.
“John and I were on a case once,” Sherlock began, “in which a scientist spliced genes to create luminous rabbits.”
“Your dad was there too,” John put in. Ellen looked up at Greg for confirmation.
“I didn’t see the bunny. And, no, you can’t have a bunny.”
Sherlock moved a collection of boxes from the kitchen table and offered the chair to Greg. He sat and Ellen climbed into his lap. From this angle, Ellen got a better view of the test tubes and she leaned closer to inspect them.
At the hob, Sherlock slipped an arm around John’s waist and pressed a kiss to the shorter man’s neck. John grinned. Greg was nearly sick from the contentment of it all.
“I read the papers,” he commented, absently.
John’s grin slipped away, slightly. Sherlock looked from Greg back to John. He didn’t seem concerned, but he also didn’t seem happy with the line of conversation.
“He needed brought down, John,” Sherlock stated, as if this line of argument had been established many a time.
John nodded, but seemed to concentrate more than necessary on the pot lids.
“With Moran’s removal,” Sherlock began. He chose his words carefully, while looking at Ellen, “the organization was ended. Also, it brought to light many resources that have provided extensive proof to a number of crimes.”
Ellen slid off of Greg’s lap and headed into living room. Greg glanced after her and wondered if she could get hurt out there.
“And your reputation?” Greg asked.
Sherlock stepped away from John and rested his hip against the table. “I’m more concerned with yours. Also, I need a case. John has decided I’ve stopped smoking again.”
Greg looked at the wood grain on the table. “I’m not sure that the Yard would take me back even then. But a reference would be nice.”
John set down the spatula he had unpacked. “What’s your plan, then?”
Greg shrugged. “I was thinking of a little position in Sussex or someplace. Less high profile cases, far less press conferences.”
Sherlock pursed his lips. “Small villages do have the most bloody crimes.”
Greg stared at Sherlock in contempt. John swatted his arm with the spatula.
“And the divorce?” John asked, even as Sherlock gave John the “what did I do wrong--you stupid normal people” face.
Greg shrugged. “It’s going. I do have a third date, however.”
John grinned in congratulations and Sherlock grimaced. “How is my brother?”
At the mention of Mycroft, as always, John’s face fell to anger. He returned to his box.
“Well enough for him. I never can tell really,” Greg replied, before looking around the kitchen. “How’s the clinic?”
“Safely transitioned into the hands of Greta,” John replied, with satisfaction. “Our next task is to restore Sherlock’s name and, somehow, prosecute all those people who demanded retrials after Moriarty’s ‘Richard Brooks’ claim.”
Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, “Indeed. It shouldn’t be too difficult.”
Greg and John exchanged looks but Sherlock remained steadfast. “I’ve returned from the dead. Nothing could be too troublesome, hereafter.”
Conversation stilled, then, as Greg and his kids helped the two unpack boxes of books.
“It’s probably most of your possessions,” Greg noted, as Connor seemed fixated on a book about astronomy.
John shrugged, “They’re heavy as hell to move.”
Sherlock ignored them all once he’d found a box of papers that related to the creation of Richard Brooks’ identity. He cleared a spot on the coffee table and disappeared into his reading. John rolled his eyes and directed Ellen to open another box of books.
Finally, Greg gathered his children and headed for the Bakerloo Line, he wondered how true Sherlock’s words were--if done successfully, he could possibly resume his duty as Detective Inspector Lestrade, who consulted Sherlock Holmes on particularly interesting cases.
Alternately, he could take up the retrials as an expert witness. He could reestablish the evidence that brought those criminals to trial the first time, while expounding upon the cases.
Or, he could move to Sussex and keep bees. Really, with Sherlock’s evidence-based enthusiasm, anything was possible.
“I’m thinking pizza for supper,” Greg mused. Ellen cheered.
“I don’t want aubergine,” Connor announced.
“Eww, no!” Ellen agreed.
Well, that settled it. Moriarty was dead, and so was his crime network, it seemed. Sherlock Holmes was alive, and, by proxy, so was John Watson. Their names were set to cleared and his children wanted aubergine-free pizza.
“You know,” Greg said, as he pulled Ellen to his side and ruffled Connor’s hair, “I’ve never liked aubergine myself.”
Author: rev02a
Rating: R
Warnings: Offscreen death, discussion of suicide, language, POST TRF story
Pairings: Lestrade/hiswifeOC, John/Sherlock, Lestrade/Mycroft
Word Count: 7,743
Summary: Seven months after Sherlock's death, Greg Lestrade begins to put his life together.
Part One
Part Two
Epilogue
221B was a disaster, and if Greg, the father of two under the age ten, thought so, then it was a mess. There were boxes from John’s other flat and boxes from Mrs. Hudson’s storage and newly delivered boxes of science equipment all mixed in with newspapers, dishes, and men’s shirts. Ellen looked around the flat with interest, but Connor only looked away from his iPod screen to navigate the stairs.
It was Greg’s weekend with the kids, and, of course, this was the one Saturday that Sherlock had texted in a frenzy about moving. Greg knocked on the doorframe and stepped around a milk crate of reference books.
“Come on in, Greg!” John called from the kitchen. Connor somehow found a chair to sit in without looking away from his game, but Ellen followed Greg into the kitchen.
John was unpacking a box of pots and pans. “Hello and welcome to the second coming of 221B.”
Greg slapped John on the back and looked around for Sherlock. “Yes, I’m sure Baker Street wasn’t the same without you.”
Sherlock replied before he had entered the kitchen from the hall, “It’s resale value must have sky rocketed after all the international assassins moved out.”
Ellen leaned closer to a tray of test tubes and pointed at a blue liquid, “Daddy, that’s the colour I want my new pony.”
Greg nodded and wondered how he was going to explain the basics of ponies, the colour spectrum, and financial responsibility.
“John and I were on a case once,” Sherlock began, “in which a scientist spliced genes to create luminous rabbits.”
“Your dad was there too,” John put in. Ellen looked up at Greg for confirmation.
“I didn’t see the bunny. And, no, you can’t have a bunny.”
Sherlock moved a collection of boxes from the kitchen table and offered the chair to Greg. He sat and Ellen climbed into his lap. From this angle, Ellen got a better view of the test tubes and she leaned closer to inspect them.
At the hob, Sherlock slipped an arm around John’s waist and pressed a kiss to the shorter man’s neck. John grinned. Greg was nearly sick from the contentment of it all.
“I read the papers,” he commented, absently.
John’s grin slipped away, slightly. Sherlock looked from Greg back to John. He didn’t seem concerned, but he also didn’t seem happy with the line of conversation.
“He needed brought down, John,” Sherlock stated, as if this line of argument had been established many a time.
John nodded, but seemed to concentrate more than necessary on the pot lids.
“With Moran’s removal,” Sherlock began. He chose his words carefully, while looking at Ellen, “the organization was ended. Also, it brought to light many resources that have provided extensive proof to a number of crimes.”
Ellen slid off of Greg’s lap and headed into living room. Greg glanced after her and wondered if she could get hurt out there.
“And your reputation?” Greg asked.
Sherlock stepped away from John and rested his hip against the table. “I’m more concerned with yours. Also, I need a case. John has decided I’ve stopped smoking again.”
Greg looked at the wood grain on the table. “I’m not sure that the Yard would take me back even then. But a reference would be nice.”
John set down the spatula he had unpacked. “What’s your plan, then?”
Greg shrugged. “I was thinking of a little position in Sussex or someplace. Less high profile cases, far less press conferences.”
Sherlock pursed his lips. “Small villages do have the most bloody crimes.”
Greg stared at Sherlock in contempt. John swatted his arm with the spatula.
“And the divorce?” John asked, even as Sherlock gave John the “what did I do wrong--you stupid normal people” face.
Greg shrugged. “It’s going. I do have a third date, however.”
John grinned in congratulations and Sherlock grimaced. “How is my brother?”
At the mention of Mycroft, as always, John’s face fell to anger. He returned to his box.
“Well enough for him. I never can tell really,” Greg replied, before looking around the kitchen. “How’s the clinic?”
“Safely transitioned into the hands of Greta,” John replied, with satisfaction. “Our next task is to restore Sherlock’s name and, somehow, prosecute all those people who demanded retrials after Moriarty’s ‘Richard Brooks’ claim.”
Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, “Indeed. It shouldn’t be too difficult.”
Greg and John exchanged looks but Sherlock remained steadfast. “I’ve returned from the dead. Nothing could be too troublesome, hereafter.”
Conversation stilled, then, as Greg and his kids helped the two unpack boxes of books.
“It’s probably most of your possessions,” Greg noted, as Connor seemed fixated on a book about astronomy.
John shrugged, “They’re heavy as hell to move.”
Sherlock ignored them all once he’d found a box of papers that related to the creation of Richard Brooks’ identity. He cleared a spot on the coffee table and disappeared into his reading. John rolled his eyes and directed Ellen to open another box of books.
Finally, Greg gathered his children and headed for the Bakerloo Line, he wondered how true Sherlock’s words were--if done successfully, he could possibly resume his duty as Detective Inspector Lestrade, who consulted Sherlock Holmes on particularly interesting cases.
Alternately, he could take up the retrials as an expert witness. He could reestablish the evidence that brought those criminals to trial the first time, while expounding upon the cases.
Or, he could move to Sussex and keep bees. Really, with Sherlock’s evidence-based enthusiasm, anything was possible.
“I’m thinking pizza for supper,” Greg mused. Ellen cheered.
“I don’t want aubergine,” Connor announced.
“Eww, no!” Ellen agreed.
Well, that settled it. Moriarty was dead, and so was his crime network, it seemed. Sherlock Holmes was alive, and, by proxy, so was John Watson. Their names were set to cleared and his children wanted aubergine-free pizza.
“You know,” Greg said, as he pulled Ellen to his side and ruffled Connor’s hair, “I’ve never liked aubergine myself.”