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When Y/N had received a text inviting her to John Watson’s stag night, she didn’t know what to expect, but certainly not this. John was here, of course, Sherlock and Greg. No one else. She first thought other people would come later, but two hours in, they were still four, and she was wondering if they would stay that way till the end of the night.
“Could someone tell me why I’m the only woman here?”
Y/N didn’t want them to believe she was feeling uneasy, that was wrong. She was very happy, honoured, even, to have been invited to this party; knowing the three specimens she was with, it was a great show of trust and affection from them. But… Spending so much time with Greg, it was dangerous. Here, in this pub, drinking joyfully, almost tucked up his side on the little booth by the window, she was alarmingly feeling the urge to lay her head on his shoulders already. He would not say a thing, maybe even give a little kiss to her hair if she was lucky, but her feelings for the Inspector would be painfully obvious and it would be a foolish thing to do in front of Sherlock Holmes. Maybe the foolish thing had already been done.
“Why? Is there a problem, Y/N? I think I read somewhere it was a tradition to invite girls to bachelor parties?” Sherlock gave her a lopsided grin; he had something in his mind, that was certain.
If Y/N wasn’t being paranoid and there was truly a trap hidden in this sentence, well… She walked straight in it: “Yeah, you’re right, several girls, not only one, and usually very little dressed and keen to wiggle for a few bills; but if you think I’m gonna undress and then dance for you, my friends, you’re making a huge mistake because it’s not gonna happen!” She had said her remark with humor, but she saw it, the glimmer in Sherlock’s eyes while John and Greg were laughing their ass off. She had exactly said what he wanted to.
“Oh, for John and I, certainly not, but I’m sure you - how did you put it already? - would be “keen to wiggle” in the nude for Graham, here.”
Lestrade, used to be called anything beginning by a “G” but his own name, fiercely blushed and tried to brush it off with a mumbled “Don’t be a jerk, Sherlock.” and a few good swallows of his pint. Watson simply falls off his chair - God, he had only had two beers and he was wasted already, what about being a soldier?! - and Holmes, the bastard, smiled wolfishly. An epic crisis reunion took place in Y/N’s head during the few seconds she managed to gain by laughing herself. Her first move, if she hadn’t taken the time to think, would have been to punch Holmes, but it was a stupid idea. First of all, he was her friend and one doesn’t punch a friend when he’s making a joke, even a borderline one. Then, if she punches Sherlock, Y/N would be seen as overreacting and it wouldn’t be a joke anymore. No, she had to play the game until the end. “Why, are you jealous, Sherlock?”
Bad move. Better than a fist in the nose, but bad move anyway, judging by Holmes’ smirk.
“No, quite the contrary, I’m pleased you aren’t trying to deny it.”
Abort. Abort the f*cking plan or you won’t have any dignity left to save.
“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s embarrassing and not funny anymore.”
The little knowing smile never left Sherlock’s lips, the game wasn’t over. “I’m not being ridiculous Y/N, I’m afraid you are, as you are embarrassing yourself by denying the obvious. Look at you, you’re so near Gordon you’re almost on his lap and you’ve been purring at him since the first second you sat up on the booth, just to talk about tonight, and while it’s better than if you had sat up in front of him - for you would have eye fuc-”
“Shut up, you damn fool!” Y/N was always displeased to hear someone being rude to Sherlock - how many times did she gave shit to Donovan for it - but, for once, she had to agree with John and pray the consulting detective to shut up. He was right, of course. Y/N had had a crush for Lestrade since the very first day she had joined his team at Scotland Yard and she had done her best to hide her infatuation since. Oh, Greg would never be rude to her, even if he didn’t entertain the same feelings towards Y/N, he would find a way to kindly turn her down and would remain his friend, she was sure about it. But it wouldn’t be appropriate to let such a thing happen, they were colleagues and friends, police officers. Y/N genuine feelings would probably make things awkward and she wouldn’t allow it; never. The only way to escape was a) to deflect better than her previous attempt b) Sherlock being kind enough to let the subject drop. Option a) it is: “I’m too sober for this.”
“On my way to get you another drink; mojito?”
Greg, God bless him, made a beeline to the bar and Sherlock was too busy arguing with John to pay attention to Y/N. Deflection achieved.
***
If it had been the only problem of the night, there wouldn’t have been anything to recount. However, when it rains, it pours, so not only were John and Sherlock absolutely hammered, but a drunken asshole had managed to spill his drink on Y/N’s shirt and trousers. The moron hadn’t even apologized, he had however been sorry when Greg, spotting the guy ready to get behind the wheel while inebriated, had taken his keys and given him a nice fine. “You don’t piss my partner off and get on with it, not if I can prevent it”, he had grumbled, and Y/N’s heart had fluttered a little. In another age, Gregory Lestrade would have made an ideal knight in his shining armour; dashing white spirited steed available as an option.
So, now, Y/N had to find a way to get rid of one smashed consulting Detective and his equally smashed friend, preferably in the safety of their own flat, to get back to Scotland Yard to get changed, for no cabbie would accept to drive her anywhere in her current state - slightly drunk AND stinking of cheap ale - and, last but not least, to not look too much like a fool in Lestrade’s presence, if such a thing still was possible. Challenge accepted.
Ten minutes later, she was trying to convince a taxi driver to take Holmes and Watson: “Hear me, mate, I know they’re drunk, but it’s not so bad”, she slightly stuck her head trough the open window and raised her voice to be heard by the men on the backseat, “and they will behave otherwise I will beat their ass! 221B Baker Street, I know your numberplate, I saw your face, if anything happens to them, it’s your ass I will beat, understood?” The driver was nonplussed and a little aggravated by this woman who was threatening him. He thought he was very kind to agree to drive them already. “Yeah, yeah, it’s ok, don’t get your panties in a twist.” But it wasn’t the cab driver’s lucky night for Lestrade, who had stayed longer in the pub to make sure no wallet or phone had been left behind, just came up to the car at that very moment. And he wasn’t amused. “Good evening, citizen, Detective Inspector Lestrade, may I enquire what is the matter here?”. Y/N saw her chance and dashed onto it. “It’s nothing, Inspector, my friends, here, had drunk a little too much and I’m asking this gentleman to be sure they make it safely to their home.” Y/N knew Greg was doing his best to not outright laugh at the situation, but nobody else - except Sherlock - could have seen it; he was a great actor, when he wanted to. “I see, that’s very courteous of you, Miss.”, he amiably said; then, he turned to the driver, and all trace of sympathy had gone, “I trust you’ll do as the Lady ask without a fuss or shall I inspect the vehicle and ask for your papers?”. Two drunk men on his backseat, a crackpot promising him a good spank and an inspector threatening to immobilize his car! Oh, what a night! The taxi driver flew away as fast as the traffic laws allowed him to, running no red light, opening the windows wide to be sure his passengers wouldn’t become ill and even getting out of his car to walk them to their door. Better being sure than sorry.
Holmes and Watson gone on their taxi, Y/N attempted to search her bag to find her Oyster Card. She didn’t use it very often, but she always had one with her, for an occasion like this. One never knows when one will have to go on an unplanned subway ride. Lestrade, however, didn’t seem to agree with the program; “And where do you think you’re going?”, he said, snatching the card out of Y/N’s hands. “Well, it appears the night is over and I drank too much to drive back home. As I stink of crummy bear, no cabbie will allow me aboard; so I’m going to take the tube to Scotland Yard, get change, and then take a cab to my flat. Is the interview complete, officer? Can I go?” She wanted her answer to be playful, maybe even a little demure, but it hadn’t the expected effect; “No, Miss, I’m afraid you can’t go. Do you really think I’ll let you take the subway at this ungodly hour? In your state? My, my, certainly not. I’ll have to escort you myself to the police station.”, it was even better.
Yes, the walk to Whitehall Place was a solid one and, yes, Y/N was exhausted when she finally got in the station, but in all honesty, she couldn’t have complained about it even if she had wanted to. Greg had been gallant; almost exceedingly so, offering Y/N his arm, being careful to not walk too fast to spare her feet - more used to boots than high heels -, lending her his coat when, the alcohol receding, Y/N had started to shiver. He had been sweet, and funny, and protective, and Y/N was intoxicated, not on liquor but on him. It was too much and yet, she couldn’t get enough. She had to get away from Greg or she would do something equally stupid and sappy, such as shoving him on a wall and tiptoeing to kiss him in a dark hall. No, no. Lestrade was his superior. Kind of. He was the leader of the team, the more ancient as well. And NO, Y/N didn’t have a thing for authority figures, neither had she a Daddy kink! Ok, stop, she really needed to get away from Greg and to catch up with her sanity, which had obviously thought enough was enough and already was on its own way. Smiling awkwardly to her partner; Y/N made a beeline to the locker room. The plan was for Lestrade to do whatever he needed to in here and go back home while she was changing into something dry and clean; not for him to enter said locker room a few seconds after Y/N.
It may be a little unclear to understand why Lestrade coming in the locker room was such a big problem; the reason is quite simple and had already been illustrated, suggested and plainly repeated higher: Gregory Lestrade is, always had been and will always be, a gentleman. Under no circumstances would he enter a room where a lady is disrobing, never! Except to save the lady’s life; of course. Or, maybe, to save his own life - but he would write a note on his phone to remind him to deliver flowers to the woman in a way to apologize before getting in the room. Or, if the lady is disrobing somewhere she isn’t supposed to be, well, Lestrade can’t send someone into every room he needs to get to be sure no one is naked inside; but it wouldn’t be his fault and, therefore, it couldn’t be held against him. There would be three good reasons to enter a room where a woman is undressing while still being a gentleman. But Y/N was not dying, Lestrade didn’t seem to be neither, and he was very aware of Y/N presence in the locker room. Conclusion: there had to be a fourth reason.
As a Detective, it was Y/N’s job to find the reasons of a lot of things and she had intended to discover Lestrade’s to be less than two steps from her while she was without any shirt but she didn’t have the time to. No. Not when her mentor was throwing himself at her, looking like a man who decided to hurl himself out the window to avoid what was coming by the door. He just had the time to mutter “I’m sorry” before roughly cupping Y/N’s cheeks and kissing her, right against her locker.
Y/N was very aware she had drunk a little too much, but not so much as to have hallucinations; and she was also sure Greg didn’t drink enough to lose all his inhibitions like this. She wasn’t complaining, mind you! But there was something fishy going on. And then, like it wasn’t already a mess, Anderson got in the room in turn. Rightfully overwhelmed by her crush devouring her mouth, Y/N hazily heard the forensic stammering apologies (thanks God the moron was too impressed by Lestrade to do or say something even sillier than usual) before her lips were given back to her, nipped and deeply red. She knew she should have said something like “What the f*ck is going on here?!” or “What the Hell had gotten into you?!”, but she couldn’t, she was speechless. Greg took the prolonged silence for horror, or shame or whatever stupid idea induced by panic had gotten into his head and started to explain himself.
“I’m sorry, Y/N, I’m deeply sorry, I was waiting for you across the door and I saw Anderson coming my way. For the moment, each time he gets me, he wants to explain me how Sherlock did manage to survive his fall from the roof of St Bart’s, it obsess him! Every of his theories are weirder than the previous ones, I can’t stand him anymore! If I tried to sneak to the men’s restroom, I knew he would see me and follow me and I would be trapped in there with him for God knows how much time! I thought… I thought if I were in there, busy enough with you, he would leave me alone… I-I didn’t want to… God, this is stupid…”
Still shocked - and while half her brain was classifying Anderson as “the fourth reason Lestrade could get in a room where a lady is getting undress” - Y/N just muttered: “What is stupid?”. Seeing she wasn’t mad at him, neither hysterically crying, Greg relaxed a little. He smiled to her, tenderly. “I didn’t want this night to be spoiled by a jackass like Anderson. I had such fun with you, Y/N. Kissing you looked such like the best idea ever when I got in the room…”
As a proper gentleman, Lestrade would have carried on with his apologizes until Y/N granted him forgiveness; she simply decided to grant it before the end of the sentence, with a kiss. And another. And then, another. And another one. They were both two old to make out against lockers, but, hey, who cares?
***
The sun is rising over New Scotland Yard, the station never truly sleeps, but the phone rings, the manic typing on computers, the smell of bad coffee and the grumbling of officers are the ritual announcements of a new day. Today is not so different, but a voice can be heard over all the other noises near the door to the detention cells.
“If you go there, he will know.”
“I read the report, he was hammered, he will be too busy trying to remember his own name to notice.”
“Don’t underestimate it, Greg, you know how he is. Can’t you send anyone else in?”
“I can send you.”
“No, anyone else BUT you and me!”
“If I ask Donovan, she won’t free them or she will be a pure pain in the arse; they spent the night in detention, they already had been punished enough.”
“You’re soft.”
“Well, not all the time…”
“Tell me you didn’t say what I think you just said…”
“I can’t, baby, I would be lying.”
“Ok, you know what? Go ahead, but if we get caught, I’m blaming you.”
“We had already been caught.”
“You know very well what I mean.”
“I do. A little fortifying kiss?”
Greg had everything planned: enter the cell, scream hard enough for Sherlock to be overwhelmed, exit the cell, call a cab, bye Sherlock. While Y/N was calling Mrs. Hudson to know if they would need to drown a taxi driver in the Thames or if Holmes and Watson were responsible for their sh*t. And the Detective Inspector was sure he had managed to follow his plan to perfection, right until Sherlock was sat in the cab. Lestrade leant over to tell the address to the driver when Holmes simply said: “I was right, weren’t I?” and the police officer was so used to that question he automatically asked “About what?”. It had been a mistake.
“About Y/N.”
“What about Y/N?”
“She willingly undressed for you.”
“What the- For God sake, SHERLOCK!”
THE END.