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He's been thinking of changing his name. Not in a serious way, of course. He likes his name, he's grown into it. When he was ten it suited him just fine and then as a teen he tried a period of being cool and dark and interesting, where his Christian name was an embarrassing reminder of just how normal and boring he really was under all that gothic pretension. Then he grew up and old and into the shape he is now, one where his name suits him. It isn't boring or normal, or anything.
It just is.
Until it isn't.
Of course he's not going to change his name. That would be
idiotic.
Which is what he is, after all.
"I'm not changing it," he mutters.
"Talking to yourself now, are you?" Donovan says. "Thought this last case made you happy. Finally got 'em and everything, and the freak didn't even help you."
"He hardly ever helps," Greg Lestrade points out. "You just make a habit of remembering the times he does."
Both of their mobiles chime at the same time. Greg considers shooting himself. Then Sherlock. No, maybe he'll shoot John Watson. Might get Sherlock's attention, he supposes. He pictures Sherlock missing most of his face and tries to make himself happy. Not really working. He knows what the inside of a head looks like and there's nothing pretty about death. Nothing mystical. There is just splintered bone and gobbets of fat and meat, and the smell of blood and shit and piss. Even Sherlock would have to obey the laws of death and soil himself.
Greg shakes the image from his mind. He'd made a terrible goth, really. Red wine and snakebites and sitting around wearing all black listening to The Sisters of Mercy and talking the biggest load of pretentious bollocks outside of a first year Philosophy lecture hall. He's glad all that happened before the days of twitter and instagram. God, Sherlock would have a field day if he ever saw those old pics. Greg thought of the twat he'd been at seventeen. He'd used to call himself Lestrade back then, just the last name. Thought it sounded cooler.
Definitely cooler than Greg.
"Are we not answering this then?" Donovan is looking at her mobile, eyes rolling.
Maybe Graham. No, not Graham. "Huh?"
"This?" Donovan waved her phone. "Cryptic clues, calls for assistance. He probably wants someone to, I don't know, restring his viola."
Violin, thinks Lestrade. He can't listen to them, would never admit to googling stuff about violins just so he could impress some idiot lizard-faced freak with fingers. Because lots of people have fingers. And play violins. And look like starved alien lizard invaders. There is nothing remotely attractive about alien lizards. Right. Attractive. In conjunction with bloody Sherlock? That's it, he's gone mental. He needs a pint and a game of football and he has a wife. Had a wife. Has. It's all a bit uncertain right now.
Greg thumbs his mobile but doesn't read the message. There are ways to get Sherlock to remember things. They have to be important. More important than heliocentricism, at any rate. If Galileo Galilei couldn't get Sherlock to take notice, then it seems rather pointless to try as DI Lestrade. Though he never forgot Dr Watson. Maybe if Greg arrives at 221B with a bunch of helicopters and serenaded him with sirens.... Okay. No. This is madness. "No helicopters." Gavan.
"What?"
Greg shoves the phone back into his jacket. "I don't care what it is this time, no helicopters, and no back up squads." No, Gavan is a prat's name. It sounds like someone who uses tanning beds and drinks Miller Lite. He is many things, has been many things, but he's not a bloody Gavan. Gavan probably listens to that techno rubbish. Oontz oontz oontz. Greg considers going home tonight to an empty flat and sorting his vinyls by band name and year of release. Bauhaus through to Siouxsie and the Banshees. Maybe he'd go through those boxes the wife left. His university trench-coat is still in there, somewhere. Probably still smells like cheap cider and Gauloises. He shakes his head. Sherlock has driven him to an early midlife crisis. Trying to recapture a person he has never been. He's tried not to think of back then, much, beyond the albums. Too many things that are best left unexamined.
Like a penchant for following around tall skinny boys dressed in black. For wanting to be cool like them.
"It just says 'need male spec 35+ taller than john" Donovan says. "Maybe he's shopping."
"If Sherlock needs a male specimen I'm sure he can ask Molly," Greg says. "It's her specialty, providing sociopaths with corpses."
The mobiles chime again.
"'live one'," Donovan reads. "You're definitely ignoring this, then."
Greg nods. "I'm on a case, and Scotland Yard is not at the beck and call of Sherlock Holmes." There. Take that, Sherlock.
Donovan smirks. "If you say so." She slips her mobile back in her coat pocket. "But we are not on a case, we've just solved one-"
"Paperwork," says Greg. "Lots of paperwork."
"Ugh." Donovan scowls. "Suddenly I'm tempted to go help the freak."
Greg takes pity. "You go do a coffee run, I'll get started with forms."
She leaves, looking almost grateful, which for Donovan is a rare occasion. Greg savours her smiles. She's good at what she does, for all her layers of emotional armour, and Greg actually likes her. Has wondered what happened to make her so bitter and thin and hard. But it's never a good idea to start getting too close to the people you work with. Bad things happen. Entanglements. Jealousies. Misunderstandings.
His phone chimes a third time, and now there's no Donovan to stand there and serve as Greg Lestrade's armour. "Shit," he says to no one. It may even be important, he can't just ignore it. Feeling depressed, older and more useless than he has in years, he swipes the screen and thumbs the waiting message.
please, greg - SH
He laughs once. Of course he's bloody going. No helicopters though. Not this time.