Disclaimer- I do not own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, this story is not making me or anyone else any money.

Authors note- Since we haven't actually met Greg's wife, I don't actually know what she's like, except for the fact that she is a bitch cause she's cheating on Greg with the PE teacher so, I'm writing her as a bitch. Sorry if it's a little OOC for some people, I've never written anyone real bitchy before, or anything of the sort so, sorry if it's complete and utter shit.

Tell me what you think? I kinda feel as though I want to do more with this story? But only if people like it. Thanks for taking the time to read this :)

Miserable. That was the perfect word to describe the current London weather, Greg's mood and the coffee he was currently giving the 'if looks could kill' stare to. Gloomy, pathetic, sad, tragic, sorrowful, the list of synonyms could go on.

Swinging his sock clad feet up onto his desk, Greg crossed his ankles and lent back in his old swivel chair. The sodding thing would probably break soon, leaning back during even the worst of days was hazardous, the thing could collapse and Greg could be on the ground in a second. But at this present moment in time, Greg couldn't give a single shit.

His arms hung freely, an almost empty Styrofoam cup of lousy coffee was clutched loosely in his fingers, his other set of fingers fiddled with the lever that made his chair go up and down. Closing his eyes, Greg let himself relax for a minuet, choosing to think about last nights football game and a pint of beer instead of the growing stack of files on his desk.

Sherlock and John weren't any help when it came to paper work, Sherlock being a lazy prat and even though John offered, Greg couldn't accept because of his pride. He could handle a few sheets of paper. A few sheets, not an entire desk full. Greg groaned out loud and ran a hand through his silver hair, curling the over grown flick of hair that usually would sit flat against the back of his neck around one of his fingers, Greg groaned out loud again. He needed a hair cut. When the fuck am I going to make time for that.

Bringing his now cold cup of coffee up to his lips, Greg tipped his head and his cup back and swallowed the remainder of the liquid bitterly. Greg stared down into the empty cup and thought about grabbing another one. Deciding against it, Greg threw the empty cup in the general direction of his trash can, a tiny surge of happiness passed through him when he watched the empty cup rebound of his wall and landed in the trash can. The happiness quickly left his system when his cell phone rang.

Sliding his feet of his desk, Greg sprang back up slightly in his chair with a loud creak. His cell phone was somewhere on his desk under the piles of files. Sorting through them in a little bit of a panic, not wanting to miss the phone call in the event it was a new case, Greg managed to knock half a dozen onto the floor and slice the skin on his fingers. Finally retrieving his phone, Greg pulled his hand back clutching the device and took a moment to examine the paper cuts on his fingers with a wince.

His phone was still ringing, the little screen flashing caller I.D for his wife. Fantastic. Greg could already feel the irritation buzzing in his blood stream and the beginnings of a headache behind his eyebrows. Flicking up the little screen with his thumb, Greg held the device to his ear, "hello love," he forced a little cheeriness into his voice.

"Hello love?" The voice that came through the receiver and directly into Greg's ear was high-pitched and angry. "Hello love? You have no right to call me that, you- you p-pervert!" His wife screamed into the phone, pretending to be upset about something that was probably extremely small.

"What's happened?" Greg asked calmly, not wanting to douse the fire is gasoline.

"You know what you did!"

Jaw dropping slightly in astonishment, Greg had to seriously work himself to hold back a laugh. "No I don't know what I did, please, enlighten me."

A high pitch squeal that came from his wife made Greg pull his cell phone away from his ear, "don't take that tone with me you prick! I could have died!"

Mild concern settled in Greg's stomach, sitting up further in his chair, it creaked in protest but he just ignored it, "what?"

"The milk in your fridge Greg!"

Tears sprung to Greg's eyes, the burning sensation made his headache throb. Feeling absolutely ridiculous for feeling even the slightest bit concerned just made himself feel sick. His mouth hung open in real astonishment, "I should have known."

"Yes you should have known! Greg you know I can't drink whole milk! What are you even doing with that stuff?!" She shrieked, honest to god shrieked and Greg had to take a moment to breathe.

Counting to ten, the gears in his mild worked slowly around his headache and clicked into place. "Hold on a minuet, what are you doing in my flat?"

There was a beat of silence before a snobby voice replied, "I was dropping off the divorce papers." She sounded so proud of herself.

"You couldn't have left them in the letter box? Or with the land lady?" Irritation seeped into his voice.

"Your land lady let me in, offered me a cup of tea. Said I could make it myself once I was inside, stupid old women, probably lets anybody in." Greg could hear the shuffling of papers and a drawer being opened and then closed through the phone.

"What are you doing?" He asked irritated.

"Looking for tea bags," she answered innocently enough but Greg knew better.

"Get the hell out of my flat."

"I'm just making tea."

Greg rolled his eyes, "sure, yeah, I can believe that. I'm a detective! A detective who has also known you for a good 20 years, Jesus, I know what it sounds like when you're lying! Your snooping around my flat! You just opened and closed the drawer in my bathroom, I don't keep my tea in the bathroom!"

Greg's wife scoffed into the phone, "how can you think so poorly of me Greg? I'm not lying to you, and I am certainty not snooping! Don't accuse me of something I am not doing!"

With an audible bang, Greg's forehead hit the top of his desk. Ignoring the slight pain, he groaned out loud, seriously pissed off. "Get. The. Hell. Out. Of. My. Flat! Leave the divorce papers by my sodding sink. Put my milk back into my fridge. Then get out. Out! You still have most of my stuff! I haven't inquired anything new! There is nothing to see or touch or smell or anything for you to judge! I have nothing to hide! No secret compartment, or a safe, or anything of the sort! You have no business being in my flat! I moved out to get away from you and your prying eyes! Go shag the fucking PE teacher and don't ever call me even again about something so stupid!" Greg's voice got louder and louder as he spoke, the vein in his forehead throbbed.

Hanging up his cell phone, Greg curled his fingers around it and slammed the fist down onto his desk. Still with his forehead pressed against it, Greg sat, doing nothing, the anger that was making the vein in his forehead throb had died down into a pulse that fueled his headache. Utterly and completely miserable were the perfect words to describe Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

Taking a deep breath in, and then out, and in again, and then out again, Greg sat up straight in his seat. Spine rigid and feet firmly planted on the ground, Greg picked up a pen and opened the closest file to the hand that was still clenched into a fist around his cell phone.

Tired eyes roamed the papers that were in the file, a pale yellow one that was holding last weeks crime scene photos. All this set of paper work needed was Greg's signature and a form for filing. Simple enough.

The next few files were the same, pale yellow and not extremely important. Greg absorbed the words and then spat them back out when he closed the file and opened the next.

It was mechanical, Greg was on autopilot. Scrawling his signature onto one piece of paper to the next, opening and closing his drawers to find the correct form for filing, stapling things together. By the time he had reached the bottom of the pile, a few hours had passed and his silver hair was sticking up in all directions. His suit jacket hung roughly over the back of his breaking swivel chair, bound to be crinkled and in need of a dry clean and his dress shirt sleeves were shoved up to his elbows. His tie was undone and in his top drawer, it could stay there for the rest of its days.

Stomach growling, Greg finally took a break, his back hurt and his ass was numb. Slipping his sock clad feet back into his dress shoes, trying to make himself look at least a little bit presentable, he rolled his sleeves properly and fixed his hair to the best of his ability.

Making his way to stand, his cell phone rang. Glancing down at the cell phone still in his hand, Greg let it ring. Sighing, he answered it without glancing at the screen, expecting it to be his wife, all ready for some more yelling and a fresh set of come backs against his previous rant. "Hello love."

There was a pause on the other side of the phone, then a light chuckle, "Detective Inspector, why, I didn't know you felt that way." Mycroft Holmes was seated in his much nicer swivel chair, in his much nicer office with a smirk on his face, amused by the D.I.

Greg blushed, a spread of warmth creeped up the back of his neck and singed the tips of his ears, "M-Mr Holmes," Greg cleared his throat, embarrassed by calling the younger man love and stuttering, "what can I do for you?"

Mycroft's voice went serious and all at once everything became business, "Sherlock."

"Ah, what's the prat done now?" Greg was full of understanding, this was not the first conversation that the two men had had about the idiotic genius.

"A witness he interrogated is pressing charges."

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose, "and you want me to make them disappear?"

In his office, Mycroft shook his head, "not this time Detective Inspector, I was hoping you could make sure that they don't go away."

"Mycroft, charges are serious, remember last time? It didn't even teach him a lesson, he laughed it off and punched you in the face." Greg ran a hand through his hair and scuffed a shoe against the dirty carpet under his feet.

Mycroft sighed into his phone, "I'd forgotten that little ordeal."

"So, what do you want to do? How serious are the charges?"

"Sherlock verbally abused a murderer, the women wants to make a deal with the DA, she'll do her time happily if Sherlock gets fined or his own jail time or whatever." Mycroft hardly ever said words like whatever, and even though their conversation was kind of serious, Greg cracked a smile. "It's all nonsense, I could easily deal with it but I'm due to board a plane to New Zealand in 13 minuets, I have a meeting with the Prime Minister."

"You want me to do your dirty work," Greg teased lightly. Something the two grown men found doing to each other often.

"When the charges get presented to you, let them pass, Sherlock can handle his own mess for once." Mycroft ignored Greg's jab at dirty work.

"What should I say when John comes asking about it?"

"You'll think of something Detective Inspector."

"Mycroft, how many times have I told you to call me Greg? Jesus, it's been years." Greg sighed loudly into the phone, emphasizing his point.

"You're right Gregory-" Greg could just about see Mycroft's cheeky grin "-it has been years."

"Thanks for the heads up on Sherlock Mycroft, I'll let you go and you can board your fancy plane to New Zealand now, where I'm sure it will be sunny and warm." Greg said grimly, perhaps even a little bet jealous. "Maybe you could even wear shorts, send me pictures and bring me back a souvenir, yeah?"

Mycroft chuckled and Greg smiled, "good evening Gregory."

"You too Mycroft," Greg made his way to hang up his cell phone.

"Oh and love?" Came Mycroft's voice through the receiver, Greg hummed absent-mindedly in reply.

"Don't forget about the files on your office floor," and with that Mycroft hung up his phone. It took a few seconds for Greg to process what Mycroft had just said and he flushed when he realized that of course the sodding British Government would have at least one camera in his office, it made Greg wonder if he had set up cameras else where like his flat, Greg let out a weary chuckle.

Sliding his screen down on his phone and ending his half of the conversation, Greg pushed himself up from his desk and stood. Blood rushed to his ass and it began to gain some feeling, his back cracked as he stretched and his shirt came tucked from his trousers slightly. Reading the time on his watch, Greg was surprised to find almost time to clock out and go home, gingerly picking up the spilt papers on the floor and shoving them back into their respective folders, Greg made a new pile on his desk and then pulled on his coat jacket, those files could wait till tomorrow.

His coat was rumpled and he was right, it would need a dry clean to get the creases out. Removing his car keys from the top draw of his desk, Greg dropped them into his pocket along with his cell phone and gathered the completed files from his desk. Stepping away from his desk, Greg looked back and smiled, it was significantly less cluttered compared to what it was like a few hours ago.

The conversation with Mycroft had left a small smile on Greg's lips and his headache had lessened, he felt as though he would need only one aspirin instead of two once he got back to his flat. Submerging from his office, Greg let the door swing and stay open, walking past Sally Donovan's desk he gave her quick instructions to drop the stack of files off at evidence for filing. Leaving the files on her desk, a weight lifted off his shoulders, biding Sally and the rest of his team good night, Greg exited New Scotland Yard by elevator to the underground parking lot and climbed into his car.