Summary: For capt_spork on the prompt of "Fuck off, I'm on holiday."
He could have an ice cream, he realised. The idea, amusing at first, gradually solidified into a definite desire, one that only required him finding the motivation to get up off this seat and walk the few yards across the park to the kiosk.
It was too hot to move though, and Lestrade briefly wished there was someone around he could send on his behalf. The mental image of Donovan's expression if he ordered her to fetch him an ice cream made him laugh out loud, and he looked around guiltily in case the people around him started peering at the madman laughing to himself on a bench with suspicion.
None of the passing families gave him a second glance, but the quick look revealed an altogether more disturbing presence striding towards him.
Lestrade groaned and closed his eyes in the hope that if he ignored it the tall flapping shape would go away.
He didn't move. Heard the new arrival tut irritably and sit down heavily next to him.
"I know you're not asleep."
Lestrade opened one eye. "Fuck off, I'm on holiday."
"I thought the law never slept?" Sherlock smirked at him.
"Well this particular part of it is having a well deserved day off. What do you want Sherlock?"
"I need a favour."
"Why doesn't that fill me with a sense of joy and expectation?" he grumbled sourly. Sat up, accepting the inevitable, that there wasn't a hope of getting Sherlock to go away until he gave him his full attention.
"Because you're a cynical and institutionalised member of the Establishment?"
"Or possibly because I've met you." Lestrade frowned. "And why the hell are you still wearing that coat in this weather? You must be sweltering in that."
Sherlock sniffed. "Petty concerns like comfort are of secondary importance. Besides, I need the pocket space."
Lestrade grinned. "I'm sure if you asked nicely Doctor Watson would buy you a man-bag."
Sherlock looked upwards into the leaves of the plane tree overhanging the bench as if searching for patience. "I don't know why you persist in these implications that there is anything untoward about my relationship with John. We are friends. Colleagues. Why you have to make cheap insinuations when you know perfectly well - "
"Because I know it annoys you?" Lestrade interrupted. "What do you want Sherlock?"
"Come with me."
Lestrade groaned in protest. "No. It's hot and I'm on holiday and I'm not chasing about all over London with you in this weather."
Sherlock looked at him craftily. "It's only to the other side of the park. And I'll buy you an ice cream?"
The look Lestrade gave him was one of mingled suspicion and resentment. "Hundred years ago you'd have been burned at the stake."
"I think in 1911 they were a little more advanced that that," Sherlock retorted.
"Pedantic twat," Lestrade muttered, hauling himself to his feet. Having got his way, Sherlock pretended not to hear him.
Walking side by side slowly across the wrapper-littered grass towards the lake, Lestrade shot a look at Sherlock over the top of his newly acquired ice cream.
"So go on then. Spill it."
"I need you to arrest someone for me," Sherlock said casually. Lestrade stopped in his tracks and Sherlock looked back at him with a little sigh. "You're not going to be difficult about this are you?"
"Difficult?" Lestrade gaped at him. "Just like that? You want me to arrest someone? On your say so?"
"Well done, yes."
"Well - what's he done?"
"She, actually. And nothing, as a matter of fact."
Lestrade just carried on staring at him and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Over there, on that bench. Feeding the ducks."
Following the line of Sherlock's long finger, Lestrade picked out a dainty and respectable looking young woman sitting by the water, blonde hair gleaming in the sunshine.
"Well I can see she's an obvious danger to society."
"You're not listening," Sherlock huffed impatiently. "She's got nothing to do with this, it's the boyfriend I'm interested in - " he paused to glare as Lestrade snorted with laughter. "He's the one over there."
Lestrade looked away from the bench to see a man about twice the size of him, all tattoos and sunglasses, talking into a mobile phone.
"What's he done?"
"You remember the Chartwell murder?"
Lestrade frowned. "That was two years ago. I didn't work on it, but I know they never caught him. You're saying - "
"Yes. But I have no proof. Her on the other hand - there's a tenuous link placing her nearby at the time."
"But you said she wasn't involved."
"Oh, she isn't."
"You're banking on the fact he'll step in to save her? Isn't that a bit overly hopeful?" asked Lestrade sarcastically.
Sherlock looked scandalised. "My predictions are based on solid data, observation and behavioural patterns. Hope doesn't come into it."
Lestrade looked again at the size of the man they were discussing and wondered faintly what the odds were against him getting through the rest of the day with all his limbs intact. Sherlock could probably have supplied them, he thought irritably.
"Well?" Sherlock was looking expectant. "You'll do it, of course?"
Lestrade swallowed the last of his cone and licked his fingers. "What does your observation of my behavioural patterns suggest, smartarse?"
Sherlock looked consideringly at him for a moment, then laughed.
"That this is going to cost me a lot more than an ice cream."