Title: A Study in Green
Author: fanficwriter101
Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade
Fandoms: Sherlock
Disclaimer: The characters from the show aren't mine, they belong to others. No copyright infringement intended. Any characters you don't recognize are mine. Feedback would be nice, positive feedback would be nicer. Enjoy!
Category: Sherlock 2010 short angsty PWP ficlet
Rating: G
Series: No
Spoilers: None intended, not canon but anything in to the current season might get mentioned
Summary: I saw him first. And I don't limp. Or have a dodgy shoulder.
Archive: Just tell me where it's going
Additional 'stuff': This plot bunny just wouldn't go away. And the title's silly. I know. Lestrade's POV.


When I got back to my desk, there was a message scrawled in Donovan's usual haphazard fashion: 'Mycroft. At the office. Call him."

Steeling myself, I picked up my phone and dialed. Three rings and then: "Mycroft Holmes."

"It's Lestrade. What's he done now?"

I can hear him laughing, but it's forced. He's not amused.

"Sherlock has a new address. You might want to make a note."

I write down what he tells me: 221B Baker Street, W1. That's odd. All his previously flats have been in less expensive areas - when someone else is paying your rent, you don't argue with the location - but this time it's right in the centre of town and I can't help wondering how and why he's moved there. Okay, the why's probably not too difficult - he did something to piss his landlord off - probably destroyed the flat in a weird experiment involving body parts and chemicals - but the how - Mycroft's only so generous and a flat in W1's got to be expensive, that's more difficult to guess.

"Um...thanks...I'll drop by later."

"No hurry. He's still unpacking."

I don't bother asking how Mycroft knows that. I've stopped asking how Mycroft Holmes knows anything. I'm scared he'll tell me what I had for dinner last night. The line goes dead and I'm left with the phone in one hand and Sherlock's new address in the other. Then Anderson bustles in to tell me there's been another suicide and I'm actually pleased I know where Sherlock is.


I didn't really notice the other two people in the room - an old woman - most likely the landlady and a guy sitting in a chair. I was in a bit of a hurry so I didn't exactly give Sherlock time to introduce them but if I'd known who the guy in the chair was I'd probably have paid him more attention.


"He's with me." That's all I get when I try to ask who Sherlock's new...companion is. He's the guy from the flat, so maybe he's...I don't know...someone from Sherlock's past and Sherlock's just bought him along to show off...I don't know that 'why' either. But it doesn't take long for me to work out he's a doctor. I'm a detective after all. That and the fact that Sherlock asks 'Doctor Watson' to look at the body of Jennifer Wilson. I should argue, but I can't be bothered.


Mycroft's amused by my accusation. That he deliberately 'forgot' to tell me that this Dr Watson is Sherlock's new flat mate. This time his laughter is genuinely amusement at my expense.

"Thanks for that Micky." I can almost see his scowl down the phone. He hates being called anything other than his full name. The brother's are the same in that respect. Not that there's an easy contraction for Sherlock.

So...new flat, new flat mate, where does that leave me? Five years we've been...not friends...more...mutually dependent. I need his brain and he needs the stimulation of the cases I get him involved in. He's petulant, demanding, needy, childish and brilliant. Sometimes all of the above in the same five minutes.

If Anderson, or Donovan, knew how long it's been since I last went on a date, they'd laugh. And probably not believe me. But it's been five years. Until today I haven't needed anyone else.

There's a phrase: 'the green eyed monster'. I don't have green eyes and I'm definitely not a monster but when I open the file I've started on the murder of the taxi driver there's only one name I write under 'Suspects'. Doctor John Henry Watson.

Mycroft might be able to make inconvenient things disappear. I've seen him do it on more than one occasion. But I can make things disappear too. A decade or two in jail for murder, if he survives, and Doctor John Watson will be nothing more than a blurred face in Sherlock's memory. If that.


"Sir?" Donovan totters in on those stupidly high heels a few seconds after I shout through into the office.

"Pull Dr Watson in for questioning in the taxi driver murder."

She smiles, perhaps sharing my wish to see the distraction removed from Sherlock's life. Or for some other reason. I don't care.

My stomach rumbles, reminding me I missed lunch, and I head over to the canteen to make sure it doesn't disturb the interrogation I'm planning.


John's been shown into the interrogation room. One step closer to a prison cell. And I'm looking forward to this.

He looks up as I walk in, probably wondering how much I know. I knew the moment Sherlock looked at him that night. Described him perfectly then tried to backtrack. Too late, Dr Watson.

A shrink would probably say it's because I'm an only child. Or some other crap about my upbringing. Plain truth is, Sherlock's mine. And I don't share.