I kind of got jossed by the awesomeness that is Cheryl Gregson, and to a lesser extent (because meh) by the Elementary-Lestrade from 2x01. But I might still write it as an AU. Or something.
The day he met Tommy Gregson, Lestrade was wearing a hat. It was the only explanation, really.
"Hey! Excuse me. 'Scuse me."
"Yes?" Lestrade had been at a crime scene. It was his crime scene. He was directing his people. He was, in fact, directing Anderson to stop being an ass, when a broad-shouldered type in plain clothes demanded his attention.
"Tom Gregson, NYPD. I'm attached to Scotland Yard. Can you point me to Detective Inspector Lestrade?"
"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade," he'd said flatly. Scotland Yard at his crime scene meant a jurisdictional tussle in the making. He hoped that sending an American meant that said tussle would be short and result in his own triumph.
"You? Really?" The American's face cracked into a broad smile and he actually chuckled. Lestrade would have been mystified if it hadn't been so damn annoying. Apparently it showed, because the American, Gregson, held up both hands, palms turned out. "Sorry, sorry. I was looking for someone older. You've got a bit of a babyface, there."
"Do I?" Lestrade said. It wasn't anything he hadn't heard before but he was on the high side of forty these days and he'd been a DI for eight years. Gregson himself wasn't much older than Lestrade. His hair wasn't even completely gray. He was six foot, barely taller than Lestrade, with sandy brown hair being rapidly faded by age. He had a boxer's build, wide shoulders and trim waist, though starting to thicken around the middle, Lestrade though with an unbecoming but unapologetic viciousness. But what stuck with you about Gregson was the eyes. Pale blue and intense, the kind that seem to gaze right through you because of the peculiar color and the way they react to light. Disconcerting, or would be if Lestrade didn't know folks far more disconcerting. He was immune.
"Look, I don't want to get off on the wrong foot here," Gregson said, sticking out a paw. "Tom Gregson. NYPD. Thanks for letting me on your crime scene."
Lestrade shook his hand to avoid the appearance of rudeness. "Which begs the question," he said. "What are you doing on my crime scene?"
And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, would have required me to write an actual crime. So yeah.
This entry was originally posted at http://smittywing.dreamwidth.org/9559.h