Title: Consulting Girlfriend
Paring: Greg Lestrade X Reader
Warnings: violence, sherlock and you on a case, fluff
Spoilers: none~
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It began when someone blurted out to Anderson that you had banged the boss and won his heart over. Those exact words bled from Donovan's mouth, and forever in Scotland Yard thereon you were no longer the administrator, the gopher, the coffee collector: you were _______ ________, girlfriend of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, and now immune to their complimentary jabs.
You were _______, a tea lover and enthusiast (a passion shared with Triplet and Rogers) and nobody nicked your nice brews anymore.
And, most importantly, you were ________. The best relationship advice giver (according to Nina Lordy from HR, who you accidentally got to split from her abusive ex).
The funny thing was, though, that everyone went out of their way to just speak to you, in the most inconspicuous ways for your words of unadulterated pure wisdom. It had been known around the Yard that if a someone bought you a bribe of exotic tea, or faxed you a sneakily-taken, attractive photo of DI Lestrade, you would take the case. It had been almost a year of this; your locker was jammed with jars for your tea bags, and unsorted loose papers of your hot boyfriend the cop all over the place.
And maybe that was going to end.
"I heard from two people that knew people that you are a good relationship advice-giver," a familiar voice entered the foyer of your administration desk. "So I've come for a consultation."
At this, you glance up. And your face pales.
"Mr - Holmes," you stutter.
Sherlock Holmes was notorious for not caring. Or, maybe caring too much and not telling anyone he felt different. But with him and his cheekbones and tall collar and smirk; you almost felt the shadow of greatness mixed with a smidge of arrogance had swallowed you whole and was going to gargle you out.
"Yes, that's my name. You're _______, the administrator John couldn't help babbling about?" He demands.
Your lip twitches in a sort of smile. Only last fortnight John accompanied Greg to the station (something about seeing crime scene evidence to help write his blog). And before you knew it, Bob was your uncle and John had handed you a nicely crafted teapot for advice to keep the love alive with himself and Mary.
"Well, Mr Holmes," you start, gazing at his mass of midnight curls, "If you'd just read my name badge," you tap it with a green pen, "you'd know it. What can I do you for? You usually forgo me and go straight to the Detective Inspector."
He tilts his head. "Yes, I suppose you're correct. I'm not here for George -,"
"Greg."
"But for you. It's for a case. I'm not so...good at attachments in love like I would like to be, and I was wondering..." He trailed off. For a moment all you could think about was how annoying and egocentric he was, and how Sherlock possibly would rank number one in the most selfish men list. All he talked about was his all-important cases, even now to your face. "...you just need to assess some people for me."
You take a deep breath.
"Mr Holmes," you start, "you do know that I'm not a professional love expert, or dating advisor," you remind him. "I'm a secretary. For Scotland Yard."
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."
You nod. "It's okay. Not everyone are."
Sherlock manages a small smile. "Thank you, _______. Gareth is lucky to have you."
"Greg and I are lucky to have each other," you blush, noticing where the two of you have marched yourselves. "Holy shit, this is the seriously posh end of London, Sherlock, what in God's name are we doing here? I can't afford to breathe here, let alone pretend to be your fiancé for this case!" A bead of sweat falls behind your neck. "I don't think I can do this. I'm no silver spoon."
Sherlock takes a deep breath, and turns to you. "Take a deep breath, and ... pretend you're about to go meet the Queen of England." he tells you. "You wouldn't mess around if you were about to see Her Majesty, would you?"
You shake your head.
"Good. Think of the royal family and those babies. Now, here's where we go. Remember, you're Carrie Branson, and I am -,"
"Henry William Reuben," you parrot, and taking a breath, get into character. "Are you ready, my darling? I'm positively dying to see the opera tonight."
Nearly three hours later, and in the observation section, there still was no couple. Every second you focus on the fact that Sherlock keeps pointing out people; snipers, fake opera watchers, security guards turning a blind eye, and you feel your pulse escalating.
After he gestures that there is someone behind you, you realise that speaking is out of the question.
We should leave, you write on his trouser leg.
"I know you need to relieve yourself, darling," Sherlock drawls, his voice sickly sweet in a way you'd never expected him to be able to act, "But it's nearly over, and my favorite part is the end. You know that."
You nod. "Yes, dear."
Not five minutes later, though, your phone silently buzzes, your little screen filled with texts from Greg.
Where are you?
______, Maggie says you went off with Sherlock, where are you?
Don't tell me you're at the opera!
Oh f-
______ text me back as soon as you get this.
It's a hostage situation-to-be. Get out if you're in. Greg
"Dear," you tell Sherlock under your breath, "I have to insist on going to the ladies' room."
But just as you stand, you feel a hard barrel placed against the small of your back. Slowly, you raise your hands in defeat. You know a gun against your body, anywhere. "And I have to insist otherwise, Mrs Sherlock Holmes."
"Actually, she's Mrs Greg Lestrade," a familiar voice rejoins. Greg. "I have the place surrounded. Tell your people to stand down in the next thirty seconds or I will arrest you."
Twenty three hours later, and you're in Greg's bathtub, ears underneath the water, nearly submerged. After writing and giving the statements as to why you were at the almost-siege and not your post at the front desk, you are doing your best to try and forget the feeling of seeing the end so close.
"Love? Is now a good time to come in?" Greg calls out. He knocks twice.
"Yeah, come on in," you reply. Your hair is all wet, and drips down your nose. "I'm sorry."
The face of your boyfriend steps into the room. He's out of his tactical gear (not that that isn't a bad look on his body) and into a pair of pajamas you'd picked out for his birthday. You remember thinking they would bring out the brown in his eyes in a better way. Now, they only make his eyes wider, sadder.
"Don't apologise," Greg whispers. He sits beside the tub, head level with yours. "You're just like me, wantin' to fix things the best way you possibly can. I don't blame you for going out with Sherlock and doin' what you did, but ..." He takes a breath.
"I really thought that man was going to shoot me," you breathe. "I felt like he was going to blow me away and I wouldn't have said goodbye or anything to you. I -," you choke. "I love you, Greg."
He nods. "I know, ______. I can't bear the idea of losing you."
"It's almost funny, you know?" You sniffle. "We both live such dangerous lives."
Greg smiles. "Yeah. But I just can't picture m'self as the next Bond, you know?" he nudges your head lightly. A smile spreads. "There she is. My gorgeous girlfriend."
That's when you remember. "Greg?"
He hums.
"Back in the siege, you said something, about me being married to you, or something?" you prompt. "What was that about? Are we - do you really think you're going to do that one day?"
Greg rests his head on the bath tub ledge. "Of course, _______. I'm going to marry the shit out of you. Do you? Want to -,"
You nod. If you didn't know any better, there's a ripe red blush across your face. "One day. I've had enough excitement for one today, but Gregory Lestrade, I will marry the shit out of you too."
"I love you," He reaches over, and kisses your nose, and goes to rise. "Now, don't stay too long in the tub, consulting girlfriend, fiancée to be, future wife. You'll catch a cold." Greg winks.
"I love you more!" you shout back.