Hi there, I'm Jamie, and it's a pleasure to meet you.
I am frequently active in the Whoniverse and in Sherlock, sometimes take jaunts into Glee and am occasionally discovered wandering around Buffy and Harry Potter.
I live for Rupert Graves, Darren Criss and Benedict Cumberbatch and sometimes I spam ice cream. Welcome aboard :D
This was written by the incredibly sexy wonderful Suellen, who is detective-sdl-cumberbitch on Tumblr.
***
After the case of the consulting criminal, Jim Moriarty, the usually obstreperous and frantic police station was subjected to silence. No interesting cases; no hazards, but endless and prolonged meetings with the press.
“We have provided enough evidence to hand into the court for the trial of Jim Moriarty. However, it is not our priority to decide whether he is guilty or not…” Before the detective finished his sentence, the media came roaring like a tidal wave with impossible questions. Beside him, a woman in her early 30s demanded the crowd to remain silence. However, the crows just won’t stop cawing and screeching.
Impatience hit the detective; he begged for stillness. Unfortunately, an intern opened the door and his yell echoed through the corridor; passing-by walkers stopped to glare.
“Sorry.” his light apology regained the press’ approval and recovered them from shock, “As I was saying… Look, we’ve done our best. If you have any problem with the case, it is not our department to sort it out. We are as uncertain and confused as you are.” After the stressful and uptight interview, the detective left the common-room feeling undermined and doubted, he returned to the last place where he could get some peace- home.
Greg Lestrade was not an easy man at all. He has caught many murderers and solved numerous cases. Once in a while, he would consult a great friend of his, to help him solve the case. But the meaning of ‘help’ is defined as “watching, learning, understanding, providing information and explain everything else to the press”. Work or social life, he’s the master of both. But when it comes to marriage, his wife begs to differ. The last thing he wants is a new relationship; in his mind, all women are a pain. Not to mention the time when he was drunk after the discovery of “the affair” and called them “bastards”.
‘Home is where the heart is.’ But where’s the brain? For Detective Inspector Lestrade, he left it at work and as he arrived at his street, in case of any midnight calls from the station, he parked casually in front of the garage. Silently, he walked slowly and with lack of energy, then he reached the door.
It didn’t take him two seconds to realise that the lock on his door has been picklocked. Habitually, he took out his gun from his waist and placed it upwards and two inches beside the side of his face. Letting go, his least dominant hand was carefully placed on the half closed door-knob, and peeking through the tainted glass as he slowly opened the door. In the speed of light he pointed the gun towards the vacant space- no one was there. Quietly but with a sense of relief, he closed the door behind him, but kept his vigilance by firmly gripping onto his gun. Step by step he reached the living-room.
Just as he pointed his gun into the vacant space (again), a gentle feminine voice killed the tension, “You can put the gun down, Detective Lestrade.” Slightly confused but still tensed, he pointed the gun at the place where the voice came from.
Unexpectedly, he saw a woman. She spoke, “Greg, I said put the gun down. Look, I’m not armed.”
With no sense of relief, he replied, “Police! Don’t move!” He flashed his badge at her, “Who are you? What are you doing at my house?”
The woman didn’t reply.
He surveyed her: She was rather smexy fetching and she stood under the kitchen doorway, leaned against the door-frame with one hand. From standing next to Sherlock for 5 years and “observing”, he gained a few lesson from him. He deduced that the woman was an academic from her late-night eye-bags and the callus on the side of her middle finger. She could have been a writer; however, the smartness of her outfit and her heels suggested that she worked in an office or in high-flown academia. Reddish and watery eyes suggested long-period of time spent on computer. Yellow teeth, suggested coffee-drinker.
Wait, that’s not important…
As Greg took his time deducing her nonchalantly, the woman spoke, again, “It’s me- Jamie from Oxford University.” Still feeling confused, Lestrade finally recognised the woman. He and Jamie had a long history, but it was too complicated and still unresolved.
With a hint of unwillingness, he put his gun back into the holder and said, “What are doing here? Uninvited and at…” he looked down at his watch to make his point,” It’s two in the morning?!”
Casually replying to his reaction, she began to walk forward. “I know, I waited 3 hours for you.” She noticed the white-framed photograph on the shelf, “Is that your wedding photo? Your wife looked fat.”
“Ex-wife.” he corrected her and showed his spite towards his previous wife by slamming the photo-frame down.
“Sorry. What happened to Jane?”
“I broke up after with her as soon as you…” Jamie looked up at the addressing ‘you’, “Look, you still haven’t answered my question, what…”
“I came to see you.” At that point, Jamie was two centimetres away from him and their noses were nearly touched. Her warm sweet breath gently hit his face. Still confused, he replied, “Why?”
Her hand reached up smoothly and ran her fingers around his tie, “Oh, I don’t know, maybe I just miss that adorable and cute little face of yours.”
Before Greg could react to her tactics, she hushed him and gently placed her index finger and whispered, “I would love to stay and reminisce about our…. history. But, sweetie, I have to go. Call me.” She slipped her card into his pocket and her hand brushed against his. Then she turned around and walked slowly and playfully towards the door, leaving him in shock and puzzled. He looked back and sub-consciously and intentionally stared at her backside.
The woman stopped, and said flirtatiously, “I could feel you looking at my arse, you know.” Still reacted faster than him, the woman added and began walking again, “Good night, sweetie. I might run into you tomorrow.”
After around five minutes, Greg finally realised what had happened. He looked back to make sure that she’d left. Feeling like his head was in the clouds but hopeful, he took out the card. Looking down at the eleven digit number, he grinned.
