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seren_ccdTitle: Preludes
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
seren_ccd
Fandom: Doctor Who/Sherlock BBC
Pairing/Characters: Amy Pond, DI Lestrade
Rating: PG-13 for mild language
Word Count: 3,900
Spoilers: This is pre-series for both, but let's say there are spoilers for everything that's been aired.
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Beta: The brilliantfringedweller
A/N: So, I saw the recent trailer for the new Doctor Who season and noticed that Rupert Graves is going to be in this season. And I got to thinking. (Dangerous, I know) Remember pre-series Amy Pond who was mad and impossible? What if she met Detective Inspector Lestrade?
Summary: Lestrade had just wanted to sneak a cigarette. He hadn't counted on company. Especially not company wearing a fake police costume.
Greg closed his eyes in relief as he took a drag of his cigarette. He held in the breath until it burned just a little and then exhaled.
He shouldn’t have come.
Not that he didn’t wish Tony all the best and Carol was an incredible woman, but Greg didn’t really have the time to be away from the Met. And yet here he was, lurking outside in an empty backyard at a house owned by someone he didn’t know while a bloody bachelor party carried on while he snuck a fag and checked his messages.
He took another drag, this one shorter and a bit gentler than the last, then he leaned against the back of the house and squinted at his phone in the dark.
The kitchen door opened and closed and he looked up when a female voice said, “Oh, hi. Do you have a light? I keep forgetting that if I’m going to take this smoking thing seriously, I should carry a lighter.”
Greg looked over and blinked at the frankly gorgeous young woman in a fake police costume with legs that went on for miles. She smiled at him, waved a cigarette in the air and he blinked.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said wedging his phone next to his ear and shoulder and awkwardly retrieving his lighter. “Here you go.”
He flicked the lighter and she leaned forward lighting the end of the fag.
“Thanks,” she said.
Greg nodded and slipped his lighter back into his pocket and turned away just enough to listen to his messages; two from officers on his squad, one from Holmes the Elder blandly thanking Greg for his concern, but he needn’t worry, all was under control.
“Wanker,” Greg said under his breath. He pressed End and shoved his phone back in his pocket.
When he turned back around, he saw the girl still there. He blinked. She was still gorgeous and her brow was furrowed she puffed on her cigarette; clearly a novice.
His amusement must have shown on his face because she rolled her eyes and said, “I know, I know. I’m not very good at it yet.”
“How long have you been smoking?” he asked.
She exhaled a tiny puff of smoke and grimaced. “This is my third cigarette,” she said making a face.
“What? Today?”
“No,” she said looking sheepish. “In total. It’s sort of a rebellion thing.”
“Ah,” he said nodding. “I did that once.” He held up his fag. “I stopped counting otherwise I’ll want to stop. Again.”
“When did you start?” she asked taking a seat on the concrete steps and leaning against the metal handrail.
“When I was seventeen,” Greg said instantly remembering the crinkled pack of cigarettes that his mate Paulie had managed to nick from his old man. They’d felt and tasted awful but he’d pretended that it was the best thing he’d ever experienced. It wasn’t long until that wasn’t a lie. “Are you sure you want to get started? They’re hard to quit. Believe me.”
She waved her hand. “Oh, I probably will. I just broke up with my boyfriend, who’s a nurse and hates it when people smoke. Like I said: it’s a stupid rebellion thing.”
“To get back at him?” Greg asked, thinking to himself, Ever the detective, you swot. Can’t turn it off for a bloody minute, can you?
She shook her head though and puffed again on her cigarette before making another face and stubbing it out. “Not really. He’s wonderful and I’m… Oh, I don’t know what I am.” She turned and looked up at the sky. “I do this, you see.”
“Talk to strange men in backyards?” Greg said feeling the waves of, God, was that youth he felt emanating from her? Was he ever that young?
She grinned at him. “You’d be surprised. I meant the whole trying new things to see if they take. I do it with everything. From cigarettes to jobs to,” she sighed, “to breaking up with Rory. Nothing has fit me yet.”
“You’re young,” Greg said shrugging his shoulders. “It’ll come. Whatever it is.”
Bawdy music blared out of the open kitchen window and Greg winced. The girl chuckled. He gestured at the house. “Is that your cue?”
“Oh, I’m not the stripper,” she said. “That’s Lucy. She’s fantastic. And if I remember the routine, she’s about to get her kit off in about five minutes, if you want to head back in.”
“I think I’m all right out here,” Greg said shaking his head.
“You sure?” she asked looking surprised. “I’m not kidding. Lucy with her kit off is pretty amazing. I’m jealous, to be honest.” She held up her hands in front of her chest and waggled her eyebrows.
Greg burst out laughing. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m Amy,” she said holding out her hand. “Your Kiss-o-gram for the evening.”
He shook her hand, telling the pervy voice in his head to shut up about her delicate fingers and asked, “A Kiss-o-gram? That’s a thing?”
“Well, it better be,” she said. ”Otherwise I’m not sure what I’m getting paid to do.”
“I’m Greg,” he said. “Your average bloke for the evening.”
“Well, Greg,” Amy said her accent working the ‘g’ and the ‘r’. “Bride or groom?”
“I would’ve thought that’d be obvious,” he said smirking.
She rolled her eyes again and took off her policewoman’s cap. “I meant, are you a friend of the bride or the groom?”
“Uh,” Greg tried to talk over the sock to the gut seeing all that red hair had given him. Christ, she was bloody lovely. “Tony, the groom, is a mate. I’m just here for the party tonight.”
“Ah, not a local, then?” she asked flipping her hair over her shoulder.
“No, no,” he said shaking his head. “I’m up from London.”
She sighed and slumped back against the handrail. “Now there’s a place where things happen.”
Greg chuckled. “Too many things happen, if you ask me.”
“What do you do?” she asked. Then said, “No wait!”- when he opened his mouth. “I want to guess.”
He raised his eyebrows and took a drag from his cigarette while Amy stared at him.
“Solicitor?”
He choked on the smoke. “Never in a million years.”
“Right,” she said with a laugh. “Not a solicitor. Um, own a shop? No. You look like you’d be a right good pub owner.”
Greg grinned at that, thinking of his dad and the old pub he’d managed for donkey’s years.
“Sorry,” he said. “Try again.”
“Can I have a hint?” she asked looking winsome and flirty and Christ she was too young for him and yet he couldn’t seem to stop grinning.
“Well, let’s just say that that outfit you’ve got on is a familiar sight,” he said gesturing at her.
Her eyes widened. “Holy crap, you’re a copper? Oh, Lord.”
“Detective Inspector, if we’re getting technical,” he said.
“I should’ve guessed,” she said tilting her head to the side. “You’ve got that tired, seen-it-all look about you.”
“Thanks ever so,” he said drily knowing she was right.
“So tell me Greg-the-detective,” she said crossing her legs and propping her chin in her hand. “Why are you out here, in the dark, talking to a mere Kiss-o-gram, when you could be in there, in the light, watching Lucy do her thing?”
“Partly for a nicotine fix,” he said. He sighed. “And partly because I’m sadly not in the mood to watch a woman get her kit off.”
“Yikes,” Amy said wincing. “Sooo, it’s either job or relationship woes.”
Greg laughed and let his head fall back to thud on the house.
“Oh, hell, it’s both?” Amy asked leaning forward.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s both.” He held up his hand and Amy squinted at it in the dark.
“Married?” she asked.
“Barely,” he said. “Don’t know why we’re even bothering anymore. Habit, I think.”
“I’m sorry,” she said and meaning it, he could tell. “I mean, it’s one thing if it’s a good habit, but if it’s bad?”
“Or indifferent?” he said. “Christ, I don’t know. I’m almost positive her weekend away is not with the girls.”
Amy winced. “Ouch.”
“Yeah.” Greg frowned. “Why am I telling you this?”
“It’s the costume,” Amy said. “People tell me all sorts of stuff when I wear it. . One guy confessed to me about all the times he stole sweets from the Spar when he was a kid. It’s very strange.”
“Must be,” he said looking her over.
Amy stared back, a tiny smile hovering on her lips. It spread and she said, “You can sit down, you know. I won’t bite. I don’t get paid for that.”
Greg chuckled and took a seat next to her on the step. He could smell lager from what the lads had been drinking and something like cinnamon that had to be just her.
“So, it’s your wife and your job that’s making you sit in the dark and miss the show?” she asked nudging him with her shoulder.
“Yeah, well, it’s not my job exactly,” Greg said. “There’s this bloke.”
“Ohhh,” Amy said.
“Not like that, cheeky miss,” he said nudging her back. She giggled and he said, “He’s just this guy that I sort of” -chase around London, listen to even though I’m damned if I know why, brought back from the dead after he od’d last week all ran through his mind, but he settled on- “work with. He’s been in a bad way lately and I’m worried about him. God knows why,” he said under his breath.
She nodded. “You’re a fundamentally good person and you’re worried and therefore, you can’t in good conscience watch someone take their clothes off. I understand.”
He looked at her. “I can’t tell if you’re taking the piss.”
“I’m not!” she said her eyes widening but a smile crept across her face. “I swear, Greg-the-Detective. I’m not. I get it.”
Greg laughed and leaned back against the kitchen door stretching his legs out so they rested on the step below. “I believe you, Amy-the-Kiss-o-gram.”
Amy mimicked his position and he had to force himself to look away from her legs.
Instead, he looked up at the sky and just breathed in and out, catching a whiff of Amy on every inhale.
“So this friend of yours?” she said after a few minutes of staring up at the sky. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Christ, I don’t even know,” he said thinking about the way Sherlock’s eyes darted all over everything, even when he wasn’t high. “He’s mad, that’s for sure. Mad and brilliant and his mind is this, this, this repository of everything and I don’t know how he copes knowing and seeing all of it.”
Greg huffed out a breath. “Well, actually I do know how he copes which is why he’s in rehab right now. At least, I hope he’s in rehab.” He pulled out his phone and glared at the lack of messages. “He better fucking be in rehab. I’m not helping him through another withdrawal on my own.”
Which was a lie and Greg knew it. He’d help the ungrateful bastard get clean if it was the last thing he did.
“What’s his name?” Amy asked quietly.
“Holmes,” Greg said putting his phone back in his pocket. “Sherlock bloody Holmes. Twenty-two years old and the necessary bane of my existence.”
“He’s twenty-two?” she asked, still quiet and looking out into the dark backyard, staring at the overturned green plastic chairs.
“Yeah, thereabouts, why?” he asked.
She shook her head looked resigned. “No reason. He just…sounded like someone I met once. A long time ago.”
There was a story there, Greg knew it. But before he could ask anything further, she leaned into him and rested her head on his shoulder.
“And I was right,” she said. “A fundamentally good man.”
“Because I’m worried about this fella and I won’t watch someone take her clothes off?” Greg asked feeling amused and hoping that she didn’t rest her head on just any bloke’s shoulder.
“Yep,” she said, popping the ‘p’ and he felt the puff of her breath on his neck. Goosebumps prickled his skin and for the first time since he’d arrived, he was grateful he’d come.
After they’d stared out into the dark for awhile, Amy sat up and pinned him with a look.
“So, tell me, Greg-the-detective,” she said narrowing her eyes. “This outfit I’ve got on. How close to the real thing is it?”
He eyed the costume and snorted. “Not very, I’m afraid.”
She frowned and looked down at it. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Well, for starters,” he flicked at the radio on her shoulder. “The numbers on this are just stickers. That baton looks like it weighs next to nothing and the reflective patch there isn’t actually reflective. Not to mention the skirt.”
“What’s wrong with the skirt?” she asked around a laugh.
“That is hardly regulation length,” he said eyeing the hemline and then looking away with a flush.
“Well, if you’ve got the goods…” she said crossing her legs and smirking.
“You’ll notice that I did not say I minded,” he said feeling warm.
She patted his arm. “What about these?” She held up her handcuffs.
“Wow,” he said taking the cuffs. “Well, considering they’re plastic, I highly doubt they’re regulation either.”
“I know,” she said taking them back with a disappointed sigh. “It takes me less than a minute to get out of them.”
He stared at her. “You pick locks?”
“Is that something I shouldn’t mention to a copper?” she asked tilting her head.
“Probably,” he said. Then ignoring the sensible voice in his head, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his own handcuffs. “Try getting out of these.”
The smile on her face was wicked as she took the cuffs from him and she said, “Goodness me, Greg-the-Detective. Are you always so prepared?”
“Not really,” he said. “I forgot to put them in my bag before coming here.”
He watched her hold the cuffs up and play with the clasps before saying, “You can keep them if you want.”
Eyes wide, she looked at him. “What? Really?”
“Yeah,” he said shrugging. “They’re more authentic than those kiddie ones you’ve got.”
“Isn’t that against the rules or something?” she asked dangling the cuffs off her finger.
“Definitely,” he said, “but it’s amazing how many of these go missing every year.”
“Thank you,” she said smiling before she kissed his cheek.
He sat feeling a bit daft before he reached into his pocket again and pulled out the key. “You’ll need this.”
“No, keep it,” she said grinning. “I may have a use one day for a pair of handcuffs and no key.”
“Just don’t get caught,” he warned her before pocketing the key.
She looked offended. “Please. I never get caught.”
“Right,” he said. “I have to ask.”
Amy smiled, a knowing close-mouthed smile.
“Why a Kiss-o-gram?” she said. “It’s okay. Everyone does.”
“Sorry to be a bore,” he said.
She shrugged. “No, I don’t mind. It’s not like it’s an everyday sort of occupation. Which is probably part of the reason I’m doing it.”
“Trying to buck every trend that you can think of?” he asked.
“I’ve never been very good at following rules and ‘living up to expectations’,” she said in a mock-serious tone. “And I like the costumes and making people laugh.”
“Why not a clown, then?” he asked.
“Ugh,” she shuddered. “Those things creep me out. No thank you.”
“Never liked them myself, to be honest,” he said. “No one should wear shoes that big.”
“Not unless they’re indicative of other lengths,” she said. Then she looked down at his size elevens and smirked.
Greg chuckled and leaned in. “That’s a myth, you know.”
“That’s what they all say,” she said leaning in, too.
He grinned. “So, a Kiss-o-gram. You just, what, give kisses?”
“Yeah,” she said still close to him. “You know…”
Greg only had a second to twig onto what was happening before her lips met his. They were soft and slightly slick from her fruity lippie. His lower lip slid between hers and there was just the slightest hint of suction and an even tinier flicker of her tongue, before she pulled away. He followed her and prolonged the kiss, just long enough for him to return the pressure and capture her lower lip between his.
They pulled away at the same time and stared at each other and Greg couldn’t remember the last time he’d been kissed and it hadn’t been a prelude to anything else.
“Kisses,” she finished softly, before smiling.
And I’m absolutely mad, he thought.
The night was unseasonably close for March and there was sweat building up under his button-down that he didn’t have a chance to change out of between work and coming up here. He was pretty sure he needed a shave and there are bags under his eyes.
But she’s lovely and bizarre and tasted like a Polo mint and so Greg just smiled back, utterly content for the first time in ages.
“Did you always want to be a policeman?” she asked, sprawled on the steps, her arm linked through his, with her hands resting on her stomach.
Greg shook his head, his position mirroring hers. “I wanted to be a footballer.”
Amy groaned. “Of course, you did. All blokes want to be footballers.” The corners of her mouth turned down. “Except Rory. He always wanted to be a nurse.” Her voice turned sad and so very young. “Not a doctor. A nurse.”
She sighed and it sounded so full of self-loathing that Greg instantly wanted to pull her into his arms and make it better somehow.
White knight complex strikes again, Lestrade, a voice, not dissimilar to Sherlock, taunted inside his head.
“You love this fella, eh?” he asked, squeezing their linked arms gently.
Amy squeezed back. “Yeah. I do. But, I couldn’t be with him, be the girl he wants when I’m so, so, so whatever I am. It’s not fair.”
“Never is,” he said with a sigh of his own, thinking of his wife and the distant tone she always seemed to have these days, knowing his voice wasn’t always clear and present either.
“Mission accomplished,” he said as he edged out the door with two lagers and a large packet of crisps.
“Wahey!” Amy said grinning. “I knew you could do it. All those years on the beat prepared you for this very task, didn’t they?”
“It prepared me for something,” he said as she took her pint and the crisps. He resettled on the step. “God knows what though.”
For a few minutes the only sounds were the sipping of lager and crunching of salt and vinegars.
“Maybe I should be a copper,” Amy said thoughtfully.
“How’s your tolerance for idiots and running around after them and beating your head against brick walls when the evidence falls through and you have to let them go?” he asked.
She frowned. “Probably pretty low. Although, I’m okay with the running bit.”
“I bet,” he eyed her legs openly, having lost the desire to hide his appreciation somewhere between giving her his handcuffs and her kissing him.
“Perv,” she said fondly.
He grinned and took a long drink of his lager.
Amy smiled. “We’re so not going to bed with each other, are we?”
Greg sputtered around his drink and stared at her. She just kept grinning at him. “Uh, no?” he said with a nervous laugh. “No, I don’t think we are.”
“Fair enough,” she said before crunching down on a crisp.
“Do you mind that we’re not going to go to bed with each other?” he asked, ignoring the part of his brain that was staring at him aghast at the conversation material.
“Not really,” she said. “I mean, I bet it would be pretty good.” She honest-to-God leered at him. “I can tell.”
“I’ve had few complaints,” he had to add.
She snorted. “I haven’t had any.”
He watched as she took off the fake vest and snickered when she moaned a little in relief.
“The real one would weigh more, by the way,” he said nodding at the vest as she draped it over the railing.
“No doubt,” she said unbuttoning the top button of her blouse and pulling the bottom of it out of her skirt.
He won’t lie, his mouth went a little dry when she unbuttoned the bottom three buttons, and then leaned back against the door.
“Comfortable?” he asked bemused and, aw hell, let’s face it, a little aroused, because Christ. Legs.
“Getting there,” she said. She held out a hand and made a grabbing motion. “Hand me the rest of the crisps.”
“So, there I am,” he said another cigarette in his hand. “Holding this guy back from punching the lights out of the other guy. And the officer holding the other guy back loses his grip on him and he comes barrelling at my guy and me.”
He took a drag.
“And? Then what?” Amy asked grabbing his thigh and shaking it.
“All three of us went over the side,” he said. “Splash.”
“Into the Thames?”
“Yep.”
“In the winter?”
“Yep.”
“Did you swallow the water?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, good God.”
Greg shook his head. “I think I threw up for a week afterwards.”
“Did you get the bad guys?” she asked.
“’Course,” he said nonchalantly, beaming like a smug bastard on the inside.
Amy laughed. “Of course, he says. You numpty.”
Greg laughed as well and wondered if she’d like the one about the time he’d had to chase someone through Harrods, when the back door opened behind them, smacking into their backs.
“Fuck!”
“Ow!”
“Oh, god! Oh Amy, I’m so sorry!” a pretty young woman in a long coat said. “I’m really sorry. I’m just leaving now. Are you ready to go?”
“Oh, um, yeah,” Amy said looking confused. “I, um. Yes. I guess I am. Thanks, Lucy.”
Greg stood up and helped her up from her seat on the steps.
“I’ll just be out front then,” Lucy said looking back and forth between Amy and Greg. Then she was gone, the door closing softly behind her.
“Um,” Amy said looking around the yard and anywhere but him. “She’s my ride.”
“Yeah. No, yeah, I mean,” he shoved a hand through his hair. “I should probably get back in there. Make sure Tony’s still compos mentis.”
Amy huffed out a little laugh and grabbed her discarded vest. She slid it on, but didn’t fasten it. Then she finally looked up at him.
They just stared at each other for a few moments. Then without thought they both stepped forward and their arms slid around each other.
She was tall enough so that her head was level with his and she tucked her face against his neck and he pressed his forehead to her shoulder.
“Thank you for the handcuffs,” she mumbled into his skin.
“Thank you for the kiss,” he said into hers.
Then she pulled away, gave him a small smile and then she was gone.
Greg found the key to his handcuffs in his pocket when doing laundry later that week. Glorious red hair and the taste of a Polo mint flashed in his mind and he grinned.
The key went into his wallet and stayed there.
Author:
seren_ccdFandom: Doctor Who/Sherlock BBC
Pairing/Characters: Amy Pond, DI Lestrade
Rating: PG-13 for mild language
Word Count: 3,900
Spoilers: This is pre-series for both, but let's say there are spoilers for everything that's been aired.
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Beta: The brilliant
fringedwellerA/N: So, I saw the recent trailer for the new Doctor Who season and noticed that Rupert Graves is going to be in this season. And I got to thinking. (Dangerous, I know) Remember pre-series Amy Pond who was mad and impossible? What if she met Detective Inspector Lestrade?
Summary: Lestrade had just wanted to sneak a cigarette. He hadn't counted on company. Especially not company wearing a fake police costume.
Greg closed his eyes in relief as he took a drag of his cigarette. He held in the breath until it burned just a little and then exhaled.
He shouldn’t have come.
Not that he didn’t wish Tony all the best and Carol was an incredible woman, but Greg didn’t really have the time to be away from the Met. And yet here he was, lurking outside in an empty backyard at a house owned by someone he didn’t know while a bloody bachelor party carried on while he snuck a fag and checked his messages.
He took another drag, this one shorter and a bit gentler than the last, then he leaned against the back of the house and squinted at his phone in the dark.
The kitchen door opened and closed and he looked up when a female voice said, “Oh, hi. Do you have a light? I keep forgetting that if I’m going to take this smoking thing seriously, I should carry a lighter.”
Greg looked over and blinked at the frankly gorgeous young woman in a fake police costume with legs that went on for miles. She smiled at him, waved a cigarette in the air and he blinked.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said wedging his phone next to his ear and shoulder and awkwardly retrieving his lighter. “Here you go.”
He flicked the lighter and she leaned forward lighting the end of the fag.
“Thanks,” she said.
Greg nodded and slipped his lighter back into his pocket and turned away just enough to listen to his messages; two from officers on his squad, one from Holmes the Elder blandly thanking Greg for his concern, but he needn’t worry, all was under control.
“Wanker,” Greg said under his breath. He pressed End and shoved his phone back in his pocket.
When he turned back around, he saw the girl still there. He blinked. She was still gorgeous and her brow was furrowed she puffed on her cigarette; clearly a novice.
His amusement must have shown on his face because she rolled her eyes and said, “I know, I know. I’m not very good at it yet.”
“How long have you been smoking?” he asked.
She exhaled a tiny puff of smoke and grimaced. “This is my third cigarette,” she said making a face.
“What? Today?”
“No,” she said looking sheepish. “In total. It’s sort of a rebellion thing.”
“Ah,” he said nodding. “I did that once.” He held up his fag. “I stopped counting otherwise I’ll want to stop. Again.”
“When did you start?” she asked taking a seat on the concrete steps and leaning against the metal handrail.
“When I was seventeen,” Greg said instantly remembering the crinkled pack of cigarettes that his mate Paulie had managed to nick from his old man. They’d felt and tasted awful but he’d pretended that it was the best thing he’d ever experienced. It wasn’t long until that wasn’t a lie. “Are you sure you want to get started? They’re hard to quit. Believe me.”
She waved her hand. “Oh, I probably will. I just broke up with my boyfriend, who’s a nurse and hates it when people smoke. Like I said: it’s a stupid rebellion thing.”
“To get back at him?” Greg asked, thinking to himself, Ever the detective, you swot. Can’t turn it off for a bloody minute, can you?
She shook her head though and puffed again on her cigarette before making another face and stubbing it out. “Not really. He’s wonderful and I’m… Oh, I don’t know what I am.” She turned and looked up at the sky. “I do this, you see.”
“Talk to strange men in backyards?” Greg said feeling the waves of, God, was that youth he felt emanating from her? Was he ever that young?
She grinned at him. “You’d be surprised. I meant the whole trying new things to see if they take. I do it with everything. From cigarettes to jobs to,” she sighed, “to breaking up with Rory. Nothing has fit me yet.”
“You’re young,” Greg said shrugging his shoulders. “It’ll come. Whatever it is.”
Bawdy music blared out of the open kitchen window and Greg winced. The girl chuckled. He gestured at the house. “Is that your cue?”
“Oh, I’m not the stripper,” she said. “That’s Lucy. She’s fantastic. And if I remember the routine, she’s about to get her kit off in about five minutes, if you want to head back in.”
“I think I’m all right out here,” Greg said shaking his head.
“You sure?” she asked looking surprised. “I’m not kidding. Lucy with her kit off is pretty amazing. I’m jealous, to be honest.” She held up her hands in front of her chest and waggled her eyebrows.
Greg burst out laughing. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m Amy,” she said holding out her hand. “Your Kiss-o-gram for the evening.”
He shook her hand, telling the pervy voice in his head to shut up about her delicate fingers and asked, “A Kiss-o-gram? That’s a thing?”
“Well, it better be,” she said. ”Otherwise I’m not sure what I’m getting paid to do.”
“I’m Greg,” he said. “Your average bloke for the evening.”
“Well, Greg,” Amy said her accent working the ‘g’ and the ‘r’. “Bride or groom?”
“I would’ve thought that’d be obvious,” he said smirking.
She rolled her eyes again and took off her policewoman’s cap. “I meant, are you a friend of the bride or the groom?”
“Uh,” Greg tried to talk over the sock to the gut seeing all that red hair had given him. Christ, she was bloody lovely. “Tony, the groom, is a mate. I’m just here for the party tonight.”
“Ah, not a local, then?” she asked flipping her hair over her shoulder.
“No, no,” he said shaking his head. “I’m up from London.”
She sighed and slumped back against the handrail. “Now there’s a place where things happen.”
Greg chuckled. “Too many things happen, if you ask me.”
“What do you do?” she asked. Then said, “No wait!”- when he opened his mouth. “I want to guess.”
He raised his eyebrows and took a drag from his cigarette while Amy stared at him.
“Solicitor?”
He choked on the smoke. “Never in a million years.”
“Right,” she said with a laugh. “Not a solicitor. Um, own a shop? No. You look like you’d be a right good pub owner.”
Greg grinned at that, thinking of his dad and the old pub he’d managed for donkey’s years.
“Sorry,” he said. “Try again.”
“Can I have a hint?” she asked looking winsome and flirty and Christ she was too young for him and yet he couldn’t seem to stop grinning.
“Well, let’s just say that that outfit you’ve got on is a familiar sight,” he said gesturing at her.
Her eyes widened. “Holy crap, you’re a copper? Oh, Lord.”
“Detective Inspector, if we’re getting technical,” he said.
“I should’ve guessed,” she said tilting her head to the side. “You’ve got that tired, seen-it-all look about you.”
“Thanks ever so,” he said drily knowing she was right.
“So tell me Greg-the-detective,” she said crossing her legs and propping her chin in her hand. “Why are you out here, in the dark, talking to a mere Kiss-o-gram, when you could be in there, in the light, watching Lucy do her thing?”
“Partly for a nicotine fix,” he said. He sighed. “And partly because I’m sadly not in the mood to watch a woman get her kit off.”
“Yikes,” Amy said wincing. “Sooo, it’s either job or relationship woes.”
Greg laughed and let his head fall back to thud on the house.
“Oh, hell, it’s both?” Amy asked leaning forward.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s both.” He held up his hand and Amy squinted at it in the dark.
“Married?” she asked.
“Barely,” he said. “Don’t know why we’re even bothering anymore. Habit, I think.”
“I’m sorry,” she said and meaning it, he could tell. “I mean, it’s one thing if it’s a good habit, but if it’s bad?”
“Or indifferent?” he said. “Christ, I don’t know. I’m almost positive her weekend away is not with the girls.”
Amy winced. “Ouch.”
“Yeah.” Greg frowned. “Why am I telling you this?”
“It’s the costume,” Amy said. “People tell me all sorts of stuff when I wear it. . One guy confessed to me about all the times he stole sweets from the Spar when he was a kid. It’s very strange.”
“Must be,” he said looking her over.
Amy stared back, a tiny smile hovering on her lips. It spread and she said, “You can sit down, you know. I won’t bite. I don’t get paid for that.”
Greg chuckled and took a seat next to her on the step. He could smell lager from what the lads had been drinking and something like cinnamon that had to be just her.
“So, it’s your wife and your job that’s making you sit in the dark and miss the show?” she asked nudging him with her shoulder.
“Yeah, well, it’s not my job exactly,” Greg said. “There’s this bloke.”
“Ohhh,” Amy said.
“Not like that, cheeky miss,” he said nudging her back. She giggled and he said, “He’s just this guy that I sort of” -chase around London, listen to even though I’m damned if I know why, brought back from the dead after he od’d last week all ran through his mind, but he settled on- “work with. He’s been in a bad way lately and I’m worried about him. God knows why,” he said under his breath.
She nodded. “You’re a fundamentally good person and you’re worried and therefore, you can’t in good conscience watch someone take their clothes off. I understand.”
He looked at her. “I can’t tell if you’re taking the piss.”
“I’m not!” she said her eyes widening but a smile crept across her face. “I swear, Greg-the-Detective. I’m not. I get it.”
Greg laughed and leaned back against the kitchen door stretching his legs out so they rested on the step below. “I believe you, Amy-the-Kiss-o-gram.”
Amy mimicked his position and he had to force himself to look away from her legs.
Instead, he looked up at the sky and just breathed in and out, catching a whiff of Amy on every inhale.
“So this friend of yours?” she said after a few minutes of staring up at the sky. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Christ, I don’t even know,” he said thinking about the way Sherlock’s eyes darted all over everything, even when he wasn’t high. “He’s mad, that’s for sure. Mad and brilliant and his mind is this, this, this repository of everything and I don’t know how he copes knowing and seeing all of it.”
Greg huffed out a breath. “Well, actually I do know how he copes which is why he’s in rehab right now. At least, I hope he’s in rehab.” He pulled out his phone and glared at the lack of messages. “He better fucking be in rehab. I’m not helping him through another withdrawal on my own.”
Which was a lie and Greg knew it. He’d help the ungrateful bastard get clean if it was the last thing he did.
“What’s his name?” Amy asked quietly.
“Holmes,” Greg said putting his phone back in his pocket. “Sherlock bloody Holmes. Twenty-two years old and the necessary bane of my existence.”
“He’s twenty-two?” she asked, still quiet and looking out into the dark backyard, staring at the overturned green plastic chairs.
“Yeah, thereabouts, why?” he asked.
She shook her head looked resigned. “No reason. He just…sounded like someone I met once. A long time ago.”
There was a story there, Greg knew it. But before he could ask anything further, she leaned into him and rested her head on his shoulder.
“And I was right,” she said. “A fundamentally good man.”
“Because I’m worried about this fella and I won’t watch someone take her clothes off?” Greg asked feeling amused and hoping that she didn’t rest her head on just any bloke’s shoulder.
“Yep,” she said, popping the ‘p’ and he felt the puff of her breath on his neck. Goosebumps prickled his skin and for the first time since he’d arrived, he was grateful he’d come.
After they’d stared out into the dark for awhile, Amy sat up and pinned him with a look.
“So, tell me, Greg-the-detective,” she said narrowing her eyes. “This outfit I’ve got on. How close to the real thing is it?”
He eyed the costume and snorted. “Not very, I’m afraid.”
She frowned and looked down at it. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Well, for starters,” he flicked at the radio on her shoulder. “The numbers on this are just stickers. That baton looks like it weighs next to nothing and the reflective patch there isn’t actually reflective. Not to mention the skirt.”
“What’s wrong with the skirt?” she asked around a laugh.
“That is hardly regulation length,” he said eyeing the hemline and then looking away with a flush.
“Well, if you’ve got the goods…” she said crossing her legs and smirking.
“You’ll notice that I did not say I minded,” he said feeling warm.
She patted his arm. “What about these?” She held up her handcuffs.
“Wow,” he said taking the cuffs. “Well, considering they’re plastic, I highly doubt they’re regulation either.”
“I know,” she said taking them back with a disappointed sigh. “It takes me less than a minute to get out of them.”
He stared at her. “You pick locks?”
“Is that something I shouldn’t mention to a copper?” she asked tilting her head.
“Probably,” he said. Then ignoring the sensible voice in his head, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his own handcuffs. “Try getting out of these.”
The smile on her face was wicked as she took the cuffs from him and she said, “Goodness me, Greg-the-Detective. Are you always so prepared?”
“Not really,” he said. “I forgot to put them in my bag before coming here.”
He watched her hold the cuffs up and play with the clasps before saying, “You can keep them if you want.”
Eyes wide, she looked at him. “What? Really?”
“Yeah,” he said shrugging. “They’re more authentic than those kiddie ones you’ve got.”
“Isn’t that against the rules or something?” she asked dangling the cuffs off her finger.
“Definitely,” he said, “but it’s amazing how many of these go missing every year.”
“Thank you,” she said smiling before she kissed his cheek.
He sat feeling a bit daft before he reached into his pocket again and pulled out the key. “You’ll need this.”
“No, keep it,” she said grinning. “I may have a use one day for a pair of handcuffs and no key.”
“Just don’t get caught,” he warned her before pocketing the key.
She looked offended. “Please. I never get caught.”
“Right,” he said. “I have to ask.”
Amy smiled, a knowing close-mouthed smile.
“Why a Kiss-o-gram?” she said. “It’s okay. Everyone does.”
“Sorry to be a bore,” he said.
She shrugged. “No, I don’t mind. It’s not like it’s an everyday sort of occupation. Which is probably part of the reason I’m doing it.”
“Trying to buck every trend that you can think of?” he asked.
“I’ve never been very good at following rules and ‘living up to expectations’,” she said in a mock-serious tone. “And I like the costumes and making people laugh.”
“Why not a clown, then?” he asked.
“Ugh,” she shuddered. “Those things creep me out. No thank you.”
“Never liked them myself, to be honest,” he said. “No one should wear shoes that big.”
“Not unless they’re indicative of other lengths,” she said. Then she looked down at his size elevens and smirked.
Greg chuckled and leaned in. “That’s a myth, you know.”
“That’s what they all say,” she said leaning in, too.
He grinned. “So, a Kiss-o-gram. You just, what, give kisses?”
“Yeah,” she said still close to him. “You know…”
Greg only had a second to twig onto what was happening before her lips met his. They were soft and slightly slick from her fruity lippie. His lower lip slid between hers and there was just the slightest hint of suction and an even tinier flicker of her tongue, before she pulled away. He followed her and prolonged the kiss, just long enough for him to return the pressure and capture her lower lip between his.
They pulled away at the same time and stared at each other and Greg couldn’t remember the last time he’d been kissed and it hadn’t been a prelude to anything else.
“Kisses,” she finished softly, before smiling.
And I’m absolutely mad, he thought.
The night was unseasonably close for March and there was sweat building up under his button-down that he didn’t have a chance to change out of between work and coming up here. He was pretty sure he needed a shave and there are bags under his eyes.
But she’s lovely and bizarre and tasted like a Polo mint and so Greg just smiled back, utterly content for the first time in ages.
“Did you always want to be a policeman?” she asked, sprawled on the steps, her arm linked through his, with her hands resting on her stomach.
Greg shook his head, his position mirroring hers. “I wanted to be a footballer.”
Amy groaned. “Of course, you did. All blokes want to be footballers.” The corners of her mouth turned down. “Except Rory. He always wanted to be a nurse.” Her voice turned sad and so very young. “Not a doctor. A nurse.”
She sighed and it sounded so full of self-loathing that Greg instantly wanted to pull her into his arms and make it better somehow.
White knight complex strikes again, Lestrade, a voice, not dissimilar to Sherlock, taunted inside his head.
“You love this fella, eh?” he asked, squeezing their linked arms gently.
Amy squeezed back. “Yeah. I do. But, I couldn’t be with him, be the girl he wants when I’m so, so, so whatever I am. It’s not fair.”
“Never is,” he said with a sigh of his own, thinking of his wife and the distant tone she always seemed to have these days, knowing his voice wasn’t always clear and present either.
“Mission accomplished,” he said as he edged out the door with two lagers and a large packet of crisps.
“Wahey!” Amy said grinning. “I knew you could do it. All those years on the beat prepared you for this very task, didn’t they?”
“It prepared me for something,” he said as she took her pint and the crisps. He resettled on the step. “God knows what though.”
For a few minutes the only sounds were the sipping of lager and crunching of salt and vinegars.
“Maybe I should be a copper,” Amy said thoughtfully.
“How’s your tolerance for idiots and running around after them and beating your head against brick walls when the evidence falls through and you have to let them go?” he asked.
She frowned. “Probably pretty low. Although, I’m okay with the running bit.”
“I bet,” he eyed her legs openly, having lost the desire to hide his appreciation somewhere between giving her his handcuffs and her kissing him.
“Perv,” she said fondly.
He grinned and took a long drink of his lager.
Amy smiled. “We’re so not going to bed with each other, are we?”
Greg sputtered around his drink and stared at her. She just kept grinning at him. “Uh, no?” he said with a nervous laugh. “No, I don’t think we are.”
“Fair enough,” she said before crunching down on a crisp.
“Do you mind that we’re not going to go to bed with each other?” he asked, ignoring the part of his brain that was staring at him aghast at the conversation material.
“Not really,” she said. “I mean, I bet it would be pretty good.” She honest-to-God leered at him. “I can tell.”
“I’ve had few complaints,” he had to add.
She snorted. “I haven’t had any.”
He watched as she took off the fake vest and snickered when she moaned a little in relief.
“The real one would weigh more, by the way,” he said nodding at the vest as she draped it over the railing.
“No doubt,” she said unbuttoning the top button of her blouse and pulling the bottom of it out of her skirt.
He won’t lie, his mouth went a little dry when she unbuttoned the bottom three buttons, and then leaned back against the door.
“Comfortable?” he asked bemused and, aw hell, let’s face it, a little aroused, because Christ. Legs.
“Getting there,” she said. She held out a hand and made a grabbing motion. “Hand me the rest of the crisps.”
“So, there I am,” he said another cigarette in his hand. “Holding this guy back from punching the lights out of the other guy. And the officer holding the other guy back loses his grip on him and he comes barrelling at my guy and me.”
He took a drag.
“And? Then what?” Amy asked grabbing his thigh and shaking it.
“All three of us went over the side,” he said. “Splash.”
“Into the Thames?”
“Yep.”
“In the winter?”
“Yep.”
“Did you swallow the water?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, good God.”
Greg shook his head. “I think I threw up for a week afterwards.”
“Did you get the bad guys?” she asked.
“’Course,” he said nonchalantly, beaming like a smug bastard on the inside.
Amy laughed. “Of course, he says. You numpty.”
Greg laughed as well and wondered if she’d like the one about the time he’d had to chase someone through Harrods, when the back door opened behind them, smacking into their backs.
“Fuck!”
“Ow!”
“Oh, god! Oh Amy, I’m so sorry!” a pretty young woman in a long coat said. “I’m really sorry. I’m just leaving now. Are you ready to go?”
“Oh, um, yeah,” Amy said looking confused. “I, um. Yes. I guess I am. Thanks, Lucy.”
Greg stood up and helped her up from her seat on the steps.
“I’ll just be out front then,” Lucy said looking back and forth between Amy and Greg. Then she was gone, the door closing softly behind her.
“Um,” Amy said looking around the yard and anywhere but him. “She’s my ride.”
“Yeah. No, yeah, I mean,” he shoved a hand through his hair. “I should probably get back in there. Make sure Tony’s still compos mentis.”
Amy huffed out a little laugh and grabbed her discarded vest. She slid it on, but didn’t fasten it. Then she finally looked up at him.
They just stared at each other for a few moments. Then without thought they both stepped forward and their arms slid around each other.
She was tall enough so that her head was level with his and she tucked her face against his neck and he pressed his forehead to her shoulder.
“Thank you for the handcuffs,” she mumbled into his skin.
“Thank you for the kiss,” he said into hers.
Then she pulled away, gave him a small smile and then she was gone.
Greg found the key to his handcuffs in his pocket when doing laundry later that week. Glorious red hair and the taste of a Polo mint flashed in his mind and he grinned.
The key went into his wallet and stayed there.
