Sherlock Imagines

My Lestrade. (LestradexReader)

It was just coming on night time, you, Lestrade, and some coworkers went to a pub to relieve some of the day's stress. It wasn't something you did often, you really didn't enjoy Anderson and Donovan's company all that much, but today has been hard. The body of a child has shown up, mutilated in every sense of the word. His hair had been yanked from the roots, and chunks had been bitten out of him. The teeth were from a dog. A domesticbreed, at that. The killer had a dog eat the kid alive. It was devastating. Lestrade ordered the first round and you began drinking. You weren't a fan of getting drunk; hated not being in control of you; but you had one beer, and stayed with your coworkers and boyfriend until they seemed like they were at a stag party. They were on their fourth, perhaps fifth, when you excused yourself to use the restroom. You just needed some space from your smashed 'friends'. You and Greg had been a thing since you returned from (current place of residence, unless that's Britain, then use America) to move back with your little brother, Sherlock. You had the talent which your younger and older brothers showed off so often, but chose to keep it to yourself. Sherlock had invited you on a case, a simple murder, and that's when you met Greg. The first time you met, he seemed so sweet and kind, it was hard not to develop a crush on him, to be honest. He was handsome, with that salt and pepper speckled hair, those caring brown eyes, not to mention his smile. It was soft and gentle like a teddy bear's, but shine brighter than a diamond. It was award winning, and you loved it. Actually, you loved him. He was charming, and charismatic, which balanced your shy, and tend-to-fail-at-flirting demeanor. He was funny and sarcastic, he always made you laugh when you were about to cry. Sherlock and Mycroft (even yourself at one point) had believed you'd fall for someone as extraordinary as yourself, someone who wasn't a goldfish. And in your mind, you had done that. Greg wasn't ordinary. Anyone who could make the girl who had spent her entire life with tears sticking like glue in her eyes, smile, laugh, and overall be happy was extraordinary. He completed you in the best ways, loved your flaws, and you loved his. That's why you were so quick to just accept his tendency to go to the pub. He usually didn't get hammered, per say, but he did drink one or two before he went home. Or to your place. Either, or. You picked up your courage to deal with you sputtering, stuttering, slurring peoples, and exited the restroom. You walked around large herds of drunks, just to make it back to your table. Just to find a burning sensation in your chest. A woman, about your height, with cascading blonde hair and clown-like makeup, was flirting with your boyfriend. She twirled a long, h/c lock around her pointer finger until you swore it'd fall right off. She was leaning in front of him on the table, showing off her obviously fake breasts, and Greg seemed to be having none of it. Even in his slurred speech patterns, it was clear he was saying he was taken, but the lady kept pushing. You strode calmly up to the table, where Donovan was grinding herself on Anderson's lap in a disgusting display. You stood defiantly next to your DI, and stared with a small, amused smile at the woman. Your eyes flickered to different clues about who she was. She didn't see what was happening, but Greg knew that look. It was Sherlock's look while he was deducing.
"So, how long ago did your fiancé begin sleeping with your soon-to-be-maid of honour?" You chirped perkily, throwing the woman off guard. The once steamy make-out session between the two lovers had come to an abrupt end as they stared at you in shock, even Greg did. Lestrade figured you could deduce, just perhaps not as well as your siblings. Donovan and Anderson, however, thought you were "normal". You smirked maniacally at her panicked expression.
"He didn't. We just had a falling out!" She defended. You dropped your smirk into a bored expression, rolling your eyes.
"Yes he did. The engagement ring is in your back pocket. If it had been 'just a falling out' you would've put it in a keepsake box, or if he had died, on a chain around your neck. No, you keep it in your back pocket. Front means someone you don't know- more hope for resolution- you purposefully chose the boyfriend of the only woman in this bar with any physical similarities to yourself; me. That means the woman he cheated on you for looks like you, therefore, your sister. Aka, your maid of honour. You're retaliating, proving you can beat her. Sorry, but breast plants don't actually help in these cases. I have a feeling he just finds you deplorable, but started dating you for your looks. Looks similar to your sister's. It was elementary, at best." Tears began pricking the woman's eyes, and she looked at you with complete hatred. Her eyes fueled with hell's flames as they attempted to burn your impenetrable shell. She spun on her heal, and walked straight out of the pub. Greg looked at you, drunkenness beginning to succumb to curiosity's stare.
"I thought you didn't like using your deducing-powers!" He began to laugh harder than you'd ever seen before. You slapped his shoulder, and laughed a bit yourself.
"I don't, but..." You pulled your arms around his shoulders protectively, and he turned his head to face you. You stared him directly in the eyes, forehead resting placidly on his.
"My-strade."

Sorry this isn't that good, but I kinda liked the Mystrade pun, so, too bad.