Prequel to Monster and Speechless

DISCLAIMER: I do not own BBC Sherlock in any way whatsoever. Nor do I own Lestrade, as much as I wish I did. This is for entertainment only, and I love and respect the creators. Please do not sue my ass.

Chapter One: The Mission

In retrospect, thought Gregory Lestrade as he slid off his hot pink kitten heels, his life probably would have been a lot less complicated had he never slipped into bed with Libby Frost in the first place. That had been his first mistake. His second had been getting caught.

He sighed, shaking his head as he eased into his armchair. All of this. For what?

The phone rang, startling him from his reverie. He ran to it, nearly dropping it as he pulled it from the wall.

"Hello," he said in a soft, feminine voice.

"I need you. Please."

He bit his lower lip, frowning in spite of himself.

This should be good news, you dolt. This is exactly what you've been waiting for. Don't screw it up.

"I'll be right there. Hang on."


Detective Sergeant Lestrade sauntered into his new office, looking pleased as punch. Detective Sergeant. Finally. Well, it had only taken two years of persistence. He was so, so glad to be off Narcotics finally. It seemed that he was on his way, which was not bad for a man not yet in his thirties.

He had barely eased into his chair when there was a knock at the door. He sighed.

"Yes, what is it?

"Sir," piped a DC, leaning in. "Meeting."

He nodded. "I'll be right there, James."

He smiled slightly to himself. Sir. That would take some getting used to.

By the time he got to the meeting, his superior was beginning to look rather exasperated. This turned to mild disgust as Lestrade walked in.

"Lestrade, I don't know what it was like under Morris, but here, I expect my officers to be prompt, is that understood?"

"Yes, sir." He looked up at his new boss with a slight smile which faded quickly as he recognized the man.

Detective Inspector Davis Frost was a well-built man in his mid-fifties, far older than most men of his rank. But he had an air of deep-rooted authority that radiated from the tips of his loafers to the steely grey eyes that were currently in the process of shish-kabobing Lestrade. The same steel grey eyes that his flirt of a college-age daughter had.

The men glared at each other for what felt like an eternity before Frost coughed, passing the evidence folder around.

"Gentlemen. I regret to inform those of you who are naïve that corruption is rife in our world. No more so than in our very government. We have reason to believe that several members of parliament are involved in a major human trafficking operation."

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. Most of the others looked confused.

"That's whores, you bloody idiots," growled Frost.

"Oh, right yeah," retorted DC Peters, a thin, weak-jawed lad.

Frost shook his head. "Human trafficking is a serious criminal offence. And it is our job to put a stop to it. We will need to send someone undercover into the Hellhole, a club we suspect is used as a front. This requires discretion, intelligence, and willingness to deal with uncomfortable and compromising situations."

He looked around the room, sighing. "Well, one out of three isn't terrible, I guess. Lestrade."

He stared at the man in shock. "Sir?"

Frost smiled wickedly at him. "Oh, did I mention that you'll have to go in as a woman?"

Lestrade gulped, ignoring the snickers of his colleagues. "We do have women in the CID, sir."

"Pah! Never trust a woman to do a man dressed as a woman's job."

"But sir, why me?"

Frost shot him a knowing glare. He knew full well why. The man hated him.

"Because, Lestrade, you have the best legs."

The snickers intensified. Lestrade kicked Peters under the table.

Frost stood, leading him out the door with a hand on his shoulder.

"Come now, Lestrade," he hissed. "You can borrow my daughter's clothes. I know how eager you've been to get in them."

Lestrade wanted nothing more at that moment than to die.