100 More One Shots ✔️

Consulting Girlfriend >> Greg Lestrade X Reader

He nods. "Ah, yes, you are. You're just a secretary. But it's your instinct that I need. So, are you in?" The consulting detective asks you. "Or are you out?"

You huff. "Mr Holmes, I'm supposed to be working right now -,"

"Nobody will notice. It's not a problem if you're busy with me. So? What is your answer, Miss _________?"

Your eyes drift to the picture on your desk, framed away from the eye of the public. It's a shot of yourself and Greg, on one of the first dates he took you on. The both of you looked so happy; his eyes sparkling in the camera flash light that the waiter snapped, your smile unreserved and bright.

Greg would be okay with this.

Wouldn't he?

"If I accept, will it interfere with my work hours?" You probe.

Sherlock takes a moment to think, and leans his elbows on the tall bench that separates him from you. "No. But it happens late at night."

You hesitate. It's been years since anything exciting or fun has happened to you - and no, having a shooter rush in five months ago and blow up half of your foyer wouldn't count as fun.

"Sure." You agree. "I'm in. Where am I required to be, Mr Holmes?"

The curly haired detective rolls his eyes. "Please, don't call me that, I'm not my brother. As for the details of the case, I've them in this envelope here." Sherlock slid a crisp periwinkle blue package toward you. It's the size of a regular envelope, but this seems to bulge with contents, swollen with possibilities. "My phone number is in the inside. Text it when you are ready to undergo this."

There's a kerfuffle upstairs and for a moment you wonder if that's Greg dealing with press and the precocious serial killer of the month. He'd be swamped with telephone interviews and paperwork until midnight. At least.

He wouldn't notice much if you went gallivanting around for the greater good.

"Gotcha," you beam. "Text you, keep it on the DL from my boss, be a love guru."

Sherlock sighs. "I wouldn't -," but he's interrupted by his phone, screeching a factory-set ringtone from his greatcoat. From his numerous pockets, he withdraws a small phone, and answers just as smoothly - ,"...John, I'm working. Yes, actually working, not pretending this time, I told you I am busy this week, with the -,"

He's silent.

In fact, everything is silent. The phone isn't ringing for a change, and the hubbub upstairs has lowered their din. Even London outside the doors and the sprawling city has held its breath in Sherlock Holmes' pause, waiting.

"On my way. Miss ________, you're required far earlier than I previously expected, we have to go." He hangs the phone up, and shoves the blue envelope to your now-standing chest.

Over your shoulder, you call out to your fellow secretary co-worker, Magellan. "I'm just popping out, you have to man the desk!"

And then you're off.

The evening went on to become something you never expected; Sherlock dragged you into a boutique for a evening dress, and a handed you a wig a shade opposite to your natural colour. Maybe it was then, or the fact he handed you the tickets to an opera soon after, when you felt slightly off.

"What exactly do you require me for, Mr - Sherlock?" you ask, trying to keep up with his long legs. "I thought I was on as a ... romance consultant. Not a spy."

He clucks. "You're just an accomplice, _______. I need you to observe a couple we will be seated with for the show. They are serial killers, and based on their mood swings, the more casualties. I've you with me to assess what they are going through." Sherlock pauses, and adds in a lower voice, "I'm no good at reading emotions like that."