Third Time's the Charm
Lestrade is sure that he's about to die. They've been following whatever instructions Sherlock sends by text (Follow the man with the twisted lip standing on the Russell Square platform; it had led Lestrade and his men to a pocket of Moriarty's old lackeys) for five months, without so much as a thank you or even a glimpse of the idiot's face. And now, suddenly, having tracked a name Sherlock had sent to him (Sebastian Moran), he and his squad find themselves pinned under deadly fire from above. One's already been killed, and two more are bleeding out on the asphalt.
The bullet that should have killed him finds itself embedded in the side of a blue police box.
Lestrade hardly has time to mutter "What in God's name—?" before the doors open and a pretty redhead and John Watson himself grab Lestrade by the lapels and pull him into the box.
He barely hears some other bloke calling out through the doors "Come on chaps! And ladies, all of you, in the box! Tactical retreat! Follow your captain! Er, Detective Inspector. Doesn't quite have the same sort of ring, does it?"
John drags Lestrade further into the impossibly huge space (he stepped into a box, surely it should be at least box-shaped inside?), makes room for the PCs and sergeants that follow him in, one clutching her arm where a bullet manages to graze her on the way in.
The barmy-looking chap slams the door shut behind them once they're all safe inside—he looks like a nutty professor with a uni boy's face, grinning and utterly mad.
And this place. It's mad, it's all mad, and Lestrade runs a hand down his face as he turns on heel and tries to take it all in. All flashing lights and humming and noises that shouldn't even make sense, and a mad centerpiece to take the goddamn cake right at the middle of all this unbridled chaos.
"Lestrade," says a familiar voice by his ear, and Lestrade snaps to attention to look none other than Sherlock Holmes in the face. "Are you quite all right?"
"Oh, he's got that look," warns a bloke with a long nose, standing beside the barmy-looking chap.
"Catch him, catch him, catch him!" the professor in the fez is shouting as all the lights become too much and Lestrade finally pitches backward under the pressure it's all putting on his brain (and oddly, the last thing careening through his brain is: why a fez?).
It feels like seconds before Lestrade is back on his feet, grabbing for safe footing and pulling himself back up (fainting in front of the boys like that, oh, he'll never live it down), and he's halfway through an order for a headcount before he realizes he's not where he left off. He'd been in some sort of foyer room, all yellows and bright lights and all sorts of other things that had no right to be inside a police box. But now he's in some sort of infirmary
"Feeling all right, then?" John Watson asks, smirking lightly when he comes into focus. "Me and the nurse 've been looking after you."
"The nurse has a name, you know," the bloke with the long nose says, coming into view. He holds out a hand. "Rory Pond. Er. Williams. Rory. Hello."
"Watson, what the hell is going on?" Lestrade demands fiercely, and he attempts to sit up. John keeps him down on the observation table.
"First thing's first. Rory, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade." John gives a wave to his assistant.
"Oh, Lestrade," Rory says, edging on a revelation. "Sherlock talks about you all the time. About how… pleasant… you are." The last comes off with a grimace.
John laughs, and Lestrade scoffs. "Look, I don't care who's saying what about me, but I've got men and women to look after, and I can't do it from here."
"All taken care of," says a new voice quite suddenly from the doorway of the infirmary. It's the barmy-looking chap, the one in the fez, but the fez is gone now. "No need to worry, all dropped back off safe and sound at Scotland Yard. With all the paperwork." And the humor drops off his face in a quick move that could have been comical if it didn't carry so much weight. "Atherton didn't make it, I'm sorry."
Lestrade's eyes drop to his knees, and he gives a weary sigh. "All right, you've got your thanks for getting us out. But if I don't get answers and right quick, you're all subject to a good shake-down. I can do an interrogation anywhere, even a box that doesn't make sense."
He swears that he hears the barmy-looking chap murmur, "He doesn't mean it, old girl, you make all the sense," whilst stroking the doorway arch softly. Then he steps forward, and the eyes that stare Lestrade down don't look as though they belong to a mad uni boy or a mad professor. They look like an old man's eyes, a very old man. Very smart and very clever. And all he says is, "Hello. I'm the Doctor."
"Just the Doctor," John cuts in.
"Don't ask," Rory supplements.
Lestrade doesn't look away from the Doctor once he's fixed under those eyes (they can't be human, there's no way anyone human can pull that off). "Okay. Doctor. You've got a box that doesn't work right."
"She works just fine." The Doctor sounds audibly, physically hurt.
"And you picked us up in the middle of a fire fight. So thanks. But you've got Sherlock Holmes and John Watson on board, and I've been looking all over bloody Europe for these blokes."
"Yes. Sorry about that. Amy likes them, so we keep them around." The Doctor grins. "Amy Pond, by the way, redheaded girl hiding in the doorway behind me." He waves a thumb over his shoulder, and all eyes are suddenly on her. She bites back an exclamation and steps forward when bidden. "She's working on the sneaking. Not very good yet. We've gone to Feudal Japan to see what we could do about it, but she's really quite rubbish."
"Doctor," both Amy and Lestrade say at the same time, both with the same amount of peevishness.
"Right, Detective Inspector Lestrade," the Doctor says with a giddy sort of clap. "Heard all about you!" He falters, jerking his eyes from Rory to John and back to the DI just as quickly, compelling an unsure smile onto his lips. "All about how good you are with kids! Good cook? Sorry, I'm not a very good liar. You'd think I might be, after 909 years of it. Really quite hopeless, actually," he finishes, drawing it out. "You have a question."
"Why am I still here?" Lestrade all but growls, wondering just how Sherlock and this babbling Doctor ever let anyone else get a word in edgewise.
"Oh, yes, well, you see," the Doctor begins. "John asked me to."
"Because Sherlock asked him to ask the Doctor," Amy says from Rory's side.
"Because John's the Doctor's favorite," Rory quips.
"I am not," John protests, ears a sudden red.
"That's preposterous," the Doctor mutters, waving his hands nonsensically. "I like all my children exactly the same amount. Now!" He rounds to the other side of Lestrade's observation table, helping the man off and to the ground. "Sherlock would like a word. I'm not sure which word he'd like. I like 'banana', personally."
The Doctor guides Lestrade through a series of corridors he's sure he'd get lost in at the drop of a hat until they find themselves in a library. A big one, too. With a fully-furnished lounge by a fireplace big enough to drive a bus through. And a chemistry set, a good one, set up right in the middle.
"You've got your own room, you know," the Doctor says peevishly, leaving Lestrade and peering like an irate father at Sherlock.
"Dull," Sherlock murmurs without looking up.
The Doctor clears his throat. Sherlock rolls his eyes before tearing them away from the instruments, then his eyebrows quirk up. "Inspector. You look well-rested."
"Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade growls.
"I'll leave you boys to it, then," the Doctor says, grinning awkwardly and handing them a thumbs-up. "Don't hurt yourselves. Or anything else. Or each other. You know." And he backs out the way he'd come.
"Calm down," Sherlock instructs, leaning back onto the table with his chemistry set and folding his arms whilst facing Lestrade. "You're in a time machine. It does space, too, but that's less important. It's bigger on the inside than the outside, and it's got a bit of a mind of its own. I had little idea that looking for Moran would get you into the sort of trouble it did, but the TARDIS knew. She's the one who saved you, you should direct your thanks architecture-ward."
"Wait." Lestrade presses his hand to his face again. "No, I can't understand a lick of it. The ship knew I'd be in trouble. And it—"
"She," Sherlock corrects. "She's rather sensitive about pronouns."
Lestrade presses his lips together, thinking hard enough to form another line on his forehead. "She. Your ship's a girl."
"What have you learned about Moran? Is he trying to rebuild what Moriarty had?"
"No, hold on, your ship saved my life."
"There are rather more important things to worry about, I think," Sherlock says with a frown. "Moran, Inspector?"
"God, you haven't torn each other apart yet, have you?" John says, entering from the corridor with the look of a rushed man. "I haven't missed it?" He grins unashamedly.
Sherlock smirks. "Not yet. I'm still trying to get information from him, if you don't mind."
"I do mind." John gives Sherlock a quick kiss. "We've got the Emperor on the line, and he'd like to know if you're coming, too. Or if you're sticking around with the Yarders, doesn't that sound like a trip and a half?"
"Oh. Right," Lestrade mutters, and there's an awkwardness in his tone as he averts his eyes. "Couple of months without the two of you, it was almost nice. No flirting at my crime scenes anymore."
"I don't have to flirt with him," Sherlock replies flatly. "I'm married to him."
John can't quite hold in the snort of laughter. "You're civil partnershipped to me."
"Shut up, I'm trying to interrogate." But the smirk on Sherlock's face is really growing to ridiculous proportions.
"If you don't mind," Lestrade cuts in loudly.
"Of course," Sherlock says and all joviality is gone. "I have little doubt that Moran is moving to take Morarty's place as head of this—"
Then the TARDIS shifts and tilts and all the lights flicker off in the library. Lestrade slams into a bookcase, is showered by leaflets advertising this fellow named Poor Richard and his almanac, and Sherlock throws one arm around John and the other around the pipettes on the table.
"Doctor!" John shouts once the floor is stable enough to walk on, charging through the door and headed for the console room.
"Keep up, Inspector!" Sherlock calls, following John at a jog.
"Oh for the love of—" And Lestrade rolls up his cuffs and follows.
When the Doctor throws open the front doors to vent the smoke pouring from the console, Lestrade stares blank-faced and dumbfounded out at sixteenth-century Madrid.
"Sorry Inspector," the Doctor says, coughing smoke from his lungs like a dragon, "but we've got to take a bit of a detour. Hope you don't mind. Stay in the TARDIS, won't you?"
Lestrade is the first after the Doctor when he bolts into the cobbled street, shouting: "Oh no! I'm not letting you outta my sight!"
John is after him, tugging Sherlock along by the hand. Rory gives a shrug and he and Amy go after.
It's all a bit complicated for the DI to take in properly (everyone tries to explain, even the leggy ginger—between all the running, that is). Out of the blue, some royal bloke named Philip moves the capital to Madrid and everything's in a bit of a tumult, and the Doctor finds a couple aliens hanging about in courtesan's robes (disrobes them in front of everyone; he's a bit rude, this Doctor). One of them grabs a sword in its tentacle and John ends up leaping in with his own sword and fighting the thing off.
And the strangest thing is when John gets knocked aside, Lestrade dives in, grabs the sword, and slices the thing's tentacle right off. Not Rory or Amy or Sherlock, but the new kid in the TARDIS. Trying to catch his breath, sabre in hand, dripping with green gore as the alien thing shrieks and retreats, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade hears the clapping start. The entire court picks it up, and someone is cheering. He learns later that the man who shakes his hand and kisses both of his cheeks is the King himself. He might have been knighted.
Lestrade is still holding the sword in one hand by the time they get back to the TARDIS (which isn't smoking any more), and the Doctor takes it out of Lestrade's fingers with a handkerchief. "We can just throw this in the trophy room, then," the Doctor murmurs.
"You've got a trophy room?" John asks, eyebrows furrowing.
"Well, yes. Sort of. It's got some trophies in it. Mostly junk. It's a junk room."
"You can't junk that," Amy protests, yanking it out of the Doctor's grip. "It's Greg's first spoil of war!" She bats her big brown eyes. "I can call you Greg, can't I?"
"Ah—yes?" The DI seems more confused than ever.
"We're not keeping him, are we?" Sherlock asks, lip curling.
"No, no, no," the Doctor mutters, circling the five of them. "TARDIS is crowded enough as it is. Couldn't possibly. He's got work to do, a family to get back to. He probably plays football and has five kids."
"I'm gonna wake up," Lestrade says, shaking his head when Amy hands the sabre back to him. "I was shot, and I'm in the hospital, and I'm gonna wake up."
"Not a chance," Amy says with a grin.
"No," Lestrade cuts in again, "I've got to be. I can't be in fifteenth-century—"
"Sixteenth!" the Doctor shouts from the console.
"I can't be in bloody Spain in any point in history fighting off aliens with a goddamn sword!" Lestrade protests.
"But you are," Amy reminds him.
"And you did," John adds. "Thanks, by the way. For backing me up."
Lestrade shakes his head even further, his mind blown and finally accepting it. "Any time," he says with a wild shrug and a sigh.
"Stay in the TARDIS," Sherlock demands flatly.
The Doctor blinks, unbelieving. "Sherlock," he says in his best fatherly voice.
"Stay in the TARDIS," Sherlock repeats, his face dark and unreadable. "And keep Amy and Rory with you."
"Are you telling me to stay in my own TARDIS?"
"Have you cleaned your ears in the past 909 years?" Sherlock snaps, and then he immediately backs off. "You won't fight this fight, Doctor."
The Doctor inspects him closely, frowns. "I've been all over space and time, twice in some places. I've fought Daleks and Cybermen, people with guns and there's been some magic, but mostly the guns. Don't tell me what I can't do, Sherlock."
There's a flash of something candid in the detective's eye, and the Doctor is quick enough to catch it. He gives Sherlock a careful smile. "I know you're fond of me, but that doesn't mean I don't know how to take care of myself."
"Shut up," Sherlock says suddenly, harshly, and he's not looking at the Doctor. "I miscalculated once, and I nearly—I won't lose any of you."
"It's sweet, Sherlock, it really is," the Doctor continues. "But you're not stopping John, and you won't stop Amy. No one stops Amy, especially when they tell her to stop. Bit of a problem, that."
"John has a gun, and he's not afraid to use it."
"Yeah, well, we've got chutzpah," the Doctor says, spreading his arms wide with the proclamation. "And you won't get rid of us, and you most definitely won't tell me when I can and can't stay in my own TARDIS. Got that?"
Sherlock's mouth turns down in a white, sad line, and it looks almost painful when he averts his eyes and he nods.
"Good! Now, stand back, I'm going to hug you." And the Doctor sweeps him up in a tight embrace, both arms pinning Sherlock's and preventing any and all escape. And then, cautiously, Sherlock holds him back.
"Oh," Rory says from somewhere nearby. "They're hugging. That's bit weird."
"What, are you feeling left out?" the Doctor asks, keeping hold of Sherlock even when he tries to squirm away.
"Got it," John says, suddenly behind Rory and wrapping his arms around the nurse.
Lestrade lets his mouth fall open, and he turns to Amy for hope of explanation, but she seems far too engrossed in watching the four boys with a greedy sort of look in her eyes. It's over quickly, though, and all six of them fall into a huddle by the doors (Lestrade isn't used to the close camaraderie that the others share, slinging arms about one another and leaning in conspiratorially).
"All right, now that we've established that we're not staying behind," the Doctor begins, "what's your plan?"
"Do I get to make the plan this time?" Sherlock asks, a smirk finally returning to his face.
"Plan away," the Doctor motions.
"Are you just saying that so you can ignore the plan?" Amy asks.
"Yes. I mean. Mostly." The Doctor falters. "I can follow a plan. I just… keep my options open for opportunities to step in and fix the plan. When it goes wrong."
"Sounds like my job," John says with a grin.
"It won't go wrong," Sherlock assures them. "But I swear to all of you, if you're not careful, I will kill you."
Amy kisses his cheek. "We love you too, you big weirdo."
They plan out everything. Lestrade wants to ask but why am I here? but he doesn't. He's still holding the sword. He'd thought about setting it down somewhere, but there's almost a sort of magnetism that keeps them together. The sword he used to defend the Doctor, defend John Watson, and save Madrid from a couple of slimy aliens. He doesn't think it'll be any use against a gang of international criminals, not really. But it certainly makes him feel better about the situation.
"I want to deal with Moran myself," Sherlock says, frowning deeply.
"No way," John growls. "You did Moriarty, and look how that turned out." Rory stifles a chuckle. "Moran's mine. You keep the Doctor company."
"John," Sherlock warns.
"Yeah, well, I can't lose you, either. Idiot."
It's only because Lestrade is there and watching that Sherlock doesn't yank John across the huddle and kiss him senseless. Sherlock sure Lestrade would thank him if he knew.
Thanks to Lestrade's help, they manage to lock on precisely where Moran's been holed up (fled from the warehouse at the scene of the firefight, now in an abandoned manor house outside Sheffield, which is technically outside Lestrade's jurisdiction, but he's not the one holding a gun—or a green, flashing screwdriver Lestrade still doesn't understand the purpose of). They don't know exactly how many they'll be up against, and it's clear that the Doctor and Lestrade are at least on the same page of wanting as many as possible arrested rather than killed.
(The Doctor can see it in John's eyes, the need to make sure every single one of them is dead, because the spring will come and they'll pop up like last year's daisies stronger than ever. They won't be afraid to kill, and John isn't either. He'll protect Sherlock. He'll protect his family.)
The first part of the plan is to materialize inside the old servant's quarters of the dilapidated manor house. And Sherlock takes the long walk to the front doors alone. Because Moran wants him, wants Sherlock above all else because Sherlock killed Moriarty. Sherlock knows he won't be shot, not immediately. Not until Moran can get him and do his very worst.
It's while they're all distracted by Sherlock's grand entrance at the front that Lestrade and John (the sabre and the gun) circle around the back, followed by Amy and Rory and, taking up the rear with his sonic screwdriver, the Doctor.
They don't bother with stealth overmuch. John shoots in the lock of the back door and Lestrade kicks it in. He blocks the incoming swing from the butt end of a rifle with his sabre (momentary look of triumph rewritten as he dodges a punch and drives his assailant back to make way for the Doctor).
Most of him wonders exactly what the hell he's doing. The same sort of thoughts that ran through his head when he stood over John Watson with a sabre in his hand, holding a defensive position he didn't know he knew and striking out against the alien that had tried to kill the King of Spain. It's not the same as kicking in the back door of the manor home where the world's second most dangerous criminal is holed up with all of his army. This somehow seems like less of a dream, like the consequences in sixteenth-century Spain didn't matter. But there's the same stupid bravery jumping in Lestrade's heart, whether he's facing down the consulate from Tibrula or the scared eyes of a man with a gun.
"Go on, Doctor," Lestrade barks. "Me and Watson 've got this."
Good God, Lestrade thinks as he and John wrestle the man with the rifle to the ground and pin him so the other three can dash by, he's enjoying himself.
By the time they get to the top floor, the Doctor is trying to use his screwdriver to open up the big fancy door that Lestrade knows has Sherlock and Moran. Amy is securing the bonds on what Lestrade presumes is, or was, the door guard, and Rory is clutching to a broom handle like the next person to step into its range is a dead man.
"Wait, wait, shh," the Doctor says, and he suddenly looks like an animal on alert.
They all quiet down and they listen.
"What's that noise?" Rory asks, clutching the broom closer.
"Doctor?" John asks.
"Oh dear," the Doctor says. "Everyone, behind me. This is going to get interesting."
Almost as soon as they follow his instructions, the door bursts outward in a concussion that knocks the five of them to the ground. Lestrade holds a hand to his eyes, trying to see through the cloud of smoke, and he's up on one knee before any of the others.
It's Moran. And the weapon in his hand certainly isn't anything Lestrade's ever seen before. It's almost as large as he is, slung over one shoulder, and the lights around the muzzle are flashing brightly by Moran's crooked smile. The humming sound starts again, the same one that doesn't sound like a real sort of sound at all.
"Didn't expect to see you again, Detective Inspector," Moran says over the gathering noise of the alien weapon.
"You're under arrest," Lestrade shouts, coming to his feet slowly and taking a stand directly in front of Amy and Rory, who haven't yet left the ground. The air is compressing, almost as if Moran's strange weapon is sucking the life out of it for its own gains. The noise is getting louder. "Give up now and I'll read your rights all peaceful-like. But if you don't put down that weapon right this second—"
"You'll what, Lestrade?" Moran laughs. "Brandish your sword at me? Very nice, though, bit of an antique."
Lestrade grits his teeth. Oh, he did not just make fun of his sword.
"Where's Sherlock?" John asks suddenly, joining Lestrade on his feet, and now Moran has a gun leveled at his head. A very steady arm, even steadier eyes, and the sort of sneer Lestrade isn't used to seeing on the doctor's face.
"In my office," Moran says genially. "If he wasn't blown to bits by the explosion, that is. We'll see, once I'm finished with the circus." The noise is really maddening by now, thrumming through the air and sapping the strength from Lestrade's knees. But both he and John stay standing, a wall of defense.
"Inspector, get down, if you don't mind!" the Doctor shouts from the ground, and suddenly the sonic is flashing green, and the whole world is full of noise. Amplified by the growling of Moran's weapon, the sonic vibrates the very air, stinging Lestrade's ears and pulling a long shout out of Rory as he throws his hands over Amy's ears. Moran gives a terrifying scream as the weapon in his hands glows bright red—overheating, dangerously—and he throws it to the ground just in time for it to violently implode upon itself with a loud crack and a cloud of greenish smoke.
"Sebastian Moran," the Doctor says with a bit of a swagger as he comes up alongside the man gasping for breath on the floor. "And you didn't even change your name—did you think no one 'd come looking for you?"
(John really doesn't care, he's long brushed by the Doctor and their quarry and into the office after his husband, and Amy and Rory rush in after him.)
"What're you on about, Doctor?" Lestrade asks, stepping up to the Doctor's side and keeping the tip of the sabre at Moran's throat.
"This is Sebastian Moran, yes, but he's not just the normal sort of criminal mastermind. He's a rogue time agent. Must've got stranded on Earth somehow without a working vortex manipulator. No wonder he managed to get his hands on this little old thing." The Doctor kicks at the gun smoking and useless on the ground. "No wonder he took up second-in-command, he didn't want anyone seeing his name in a newspaper anywhere to come and fetch him. And I bet that's how you got your good friend Moriarty set up so well, isn't it, Sebastian?"
"Don't you talk about him," Moran spits, trying to shift to his elbows, but Lestrade keeps him down.
"Wait, is he an alien?" Lestrade asks, his eyebrows leaping into his hairline.
"No, no," the Doctor says with a wave of his hand. "Human enough. Just rotten under the collar."
"He your jurisdiction, then?" Lestrade asks with a lopsided smirk, catching the Doctor's eye.
The Doctor matches him. "I think I rather like you, Detective Inspector Lestrade."
"Try to hug me and you bloody won't."
They share a laugh.
"We should get him to the TARDIS. Judoon will take care of him once I let them know we have a time runner for them to lock up. Better not hang around though. They don't much like me, the Judoon. Not at all, in fact."
"Allow me," Lestrade says, and he whips out the handcuffs from his coat and snaps them over Moran's wrists.
"Sherlock is fine, by the way," Rory says as the rest of them emerge from the wreckage of Moran's office. John is wiping the blood out of Sherlock's eyes, but apart from the bleeding head wound (probably from shrapnel) and the limp the detective tries to play off, he looks unharmed.
"You knew, didn't you?" Sherlock asks, removing John's hand from his vision and clutching it instead at his side, bloody fingers intertwined.
"Of course I did," the Doctor mutters proudly, stretching his braces with his thumbs.
"Of course you did," Amy says with a roll of her eyes.
The Doctor fixes her with a glare but lets it go. "I didn't know about the shooty thing, though. That could've been bad. Good show, Inspector. Yes, could've been very bad. Does anyone else hear all that ringing?"
John gives Lestrade a smile as they pass. "You could fit in real nice here."
Lestrade doesn't know why he feels a sudden swell of pride.
They land outside a two-storey house in Upminster, and it's long past bedtime. All the lights are out, save the one in the master bedroom, and Lestrade gives it a weary stare—what exactly do you tell your wife when you disappear from a fire fight for two days to fight an alien in Spain and a time agent in Sheffield?
The Doctor comes up quickly and shakes his hand before he can claim it back. "Nice working with you. Quality stuff. Keep it up." And he gives an awkward salute before he disappears back inside the TARDIS.
"How long are you two planning on flying with that nutter?" Lestrade asks when John and Sherlock come to see him off.
"Don't know," John says with a shrug. "It never really ends up how we plan it."
Lestrade shuffles his feet. "With that Moran chap gone, most of the organization's like to fall apart. You probably won't have much trouble to look forward to if you get back to London."
"Yes," Sherlock says with a mad grin, "but where's the fun in that?"
"See you, er, sometime," John adds as he follows Sherlock back inside, their hands inextricably linked.
It's just Amy and Rory left to say their goodbyes, and Amy is lingering.
"Come on, Ponds, don't keep the man," the Doctor says when his head reappears through the crack in the TARDIS door.
"Come with us," Amy asks finally, smiling generously. "You might like it."
He thinks about it. He honestly does. That mad box with all those mad people inside. He thinks about saying yes for seventeen seconds. But then he shakes his head.
"Had quite enough adventure, thanks," Lestrade answers. And he hands his sabre over to Amy, whose face has gone cloudy. "Take care of this, all right? Can't have it at home, not where the kids can get at it."
"How many?" Rory asks.
"Four," the DI answers. "Another on the way."
The Doctor gives a mad grin.
And when the newest Lestrade comes into the world, a pink and screaming baby girl, they name her Amelia.
AN: I have no idea how many of these I'm going to write. But someone mentioned the idea of Lestrade in the TARDIS and I literally had no choice but to write this. Literally. My brain took me hostage. But oh my god I suppose I'll keep these up as long as they're SO INCREDIBLY FUN TO WRITE. Thanks to everyone who'se read so far, it really lifts my heart to hear all you crazy kids like what I have to write. Let me know if this stands up, leave us some love, and don't forget to STAY AWESOME!