I don't quite know what this is. Which is always a comforting thing to hear the author say, right? But in all seriousness, I don't really know. It can definitely be read as slash, but I honestly didn't really intend it as slash. I tend to look at the relationship between Lestrade and Sherlock as being kind of a father/son relationship, so I kind of feel like if I had written this as slash I would be supremely creeped out. So basically, it's slashy if you want it to be.

My main point in writing it, though, is this: I firmly believe that every single character in this show is in love with Sherlock in some way. For most of them it's probably not romantic. For most of them it's probably far from romantic. But somehow, some way, I believe that they are all in love with at least the concept of Sherlock.

And since I'm on a Lestrade kick, I thought I would examine his relationship with Sherlock some more.

I don't know why his wife's name is Helen. It seemed like a good idea at the time when I started writing this. Which, to be fair, was at about one A.M.

I don't own Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes belongs to ACD. Sherlock belongs to Moffat and Gatiss. I don't want to steal the glory from them. CBS is already trying that.

Please please please review and let me know what you think! It means a lot to me and inspires me to keep writing!

After spending the day in Hell, Greg Lestrade gets home and tries to shut down his mind. He is almost asleep when he gets the phone call. He swears tenderly at the name on that shows up on his phone's screen, but hits send and says "Hello?" all the same.

"Are the news reports true?"

"Which ones?" he asks gruffly, trying to avoid the question.

"The ones about Sherlock Holmes committing suicide today."

"Yes, it's all true," he confirms. The tiredness in his voice is almost tangible. The last person he wants to be dealing with right now is his wife.

"So he really was some sort of criminal mastermind? He invented Moriarty?"

"Apparently."

"Blew up all those people last year?"

"Yes, Helen," he is starting to lose his patience. "Any particular reason you're calling? I've had a hell of a day and—"

"I never liked him," she says quietly.

"Yes, I know," he hisses at her. If she has called to criticize Sherlock Holmes like the rest of the world, he will hang up on her. "How is that teacher you're seeing?" he asks, trying to change the subject.

He feels her stiffen, even across the phone line. But she sounds completely relaxed when she says "I loved you until the day I left," just like she's saying that the weather has been nice.

"Yeah?" he is suddenly shouting at her. Not because she is telling him this, but because she is telling him this now, on what is already one of the worst days of his life. "Well, you did a damn good job of fooling me!"

"I loved you until the day I left," she repeats. "You just didn't love me enough. You couldn't."

"Helen, I gave you everything. I worked for you, and when you wanted me to come home and spend time with the kids, I did that, too. I did everything I could for you. You can't believe I would put my job—"

"Not your job, Greg," she whispers to him.

"What?"

"You loved something more than me, but it wasn't your job. It was him."

"Who? Sher—" he can't finish.

"Sherlock Holmes!" she says. "Don't deny it, Greg. You gave him all of your time, everything."

He can't argue that fact. Something about Sherlock Holmes, on that night when he had found him half-frozen in the gutter, shaking from both the cold and withdrawal, had made him pity the boy and he had dragged him home that night and let him sleep on the sofa. Helen had not been pleased.

In retrospect, it might have been because it was her birthday.

He bought her roses later.

"The kid was dying, Helen. You saw him."

"Yes, I saw him," she says quietly. "And I kept seeing him."

"Are you trying to say—"

"I'm not saying you're in love with him, Greg. I'm just saying you love him. More than you love me right now."

"That's not true," he mutters.

"Do you believe that he was a criminal?"

He can't answer at first. He knows what she wants him to say. He knows what everyone wants him to say. But the truth is that he can't believe what the newspapers are saying. He saw the way Sherlock was shaking when they left the swimming pool. How he was pretending to support John, but in all reality it was John who was supporting him. "No, I don't."

"Okay," she says softly.

"Okay," he agrees.

"I want a divorce."

"I know."

"Goodbye, Greg."

"Helen—wait!"

"Yes?"

"Do you love him?"

"Who?"

"That teacher from the kids' school."

"I don't know," she admits.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"I know."

She texts him a week later and all it says is yes, but he understands what it means, and he's oddly grateful.

I'm sorry, he tells her again.

I know, she says. And he thinks she means it.

Keep believing in him, Greg.

He always has.