Hey look at that, I'm finally writing a multichaptered Sherlock fic. I originally wanted to do a kidlock thing, but this idea popped into my head in the middle of Physics class and I feel that it's one of the greatest ideas I've ever had. It'll be the first comedy fic I've written, as well as the first time I've written any Sherlock character but John and Sherlock. I'm really excited to finally do something centering around Lestrade and the rest of Scotland Yard and all their shenanigans.

Also, even though it's a comedy, beware of smatterings of angst. I see Lestrade as a pretty sad character, underneath it all. It's like when there's comic relief in a tragedy, except backwards.

"Really, Lestrade—you'd think that with your amount of experience in the field, you and your teams would be able to spot the obvious clues that mark the difference between a break-in and a domestic murder…."

Greg huffed and hid his annoyance behind a sip of coffee, but he was too used to Sherlock's rude comments to feel genuinely offended anymore. He'd accepted long ago that Sherlock was far too intelligent for his own good, and it would take something more powerful than a god to get him off his high horse and maybe get him to stop acting like a five year-old.

But then he'd realized relatively recently that maybe all it took was an army doctor with a rather tough exterior—especially now, since he saw John give him a "not okay" look and Sherlock roll his eyes. He might not have been the world's only consulting detective, but Greg still had an eye for details.

"Yes, well, it's all set and done—the wife has been arrested and her supposed lover is in custody. So all I really need you for at this point is to look at the case details and maybe clear some things up for us—"

But before he could finish, Sherlock Holmes was straightening his scarf and turning around to head toward the door of the office, pulling a slightly disgruntled (but not exactly confused, Greg could tell) John away from the desk and the case file he was opening.

"I don't have time for trivialities—"

"Sherlock!" Greg said, exasperated.

But he continued leaving and simply explained the rest as he did. "I realized the wife's sister was unknowingly in on it, but I don't see why that matters because there's no legal ramifications for having your sister take a poison from you." John looked between them as he was urged out of the office, and Greg simply stepped out to slump his shoulders in defeat and watch them leave.

As though he could sense him watching (well, he had probably figured it because he hadn't heard the office door slam shut yet), Sherlock called back without looking, "I've really got to be off, Lestrade—things much more important than petty murders to take care of."

It was a bit faint at this distance now, but he could have sworn that he saw John punch him in the arm and heard him say, "You liar, you haven't got anything to do."

When they got to the far end of the floor and were at the door that led into the corridor, he could distinctly see Sherlock opening the door and letting John go first. That hit him as quite an extraordinary thing for them to do, and when they were gone from sight, he simply leaned back against the threshold, folded his arms, and smirked. That John Watson had really changed him, hadn't he?

And he was truly glad to see it. The first time he met Sherlock was when the man had walked right onto a crime scene to tell the Met that they'd been idiots about that old serial killer case and that all the facts were right there in front of them, but they just couldn't see it. He'd arrested him for trespassing. The second time he met him was when he'd realized that a lot of the things that mad had said were true and then broke his own rules to get Sherlock out of jail and get him to look at the evidence again. After that, Mycroft Holmes had made a point of contacting him (if you could even call arranging a clandestine meeting in an empty warehouse without his actual consent that) and telling him about Sherlock's drug problem and why he apparently needed to be careful.

The man really was a genius, but he was an arrogant sod and emotionally a five year-old. And not much had seemed to change about him these past few years—until John Watson just came along out of nowhere, that is.

Sally interrupted his train of thought by coming around the corner with a few files in her hand. "Is the Freak gone?"

Greg felt he really should have told her to stop calling him that, but there was just no point in trying to get her to respect him.

"Yeah—walked right out on me, too, the wanker. But if he says we haven't got anything else significant going on with the case, then I suppose we've got to leave it…." Sally gave him a look of disbelief, but before he could say anything, he glanced at the door he'd been facing for the past minute and decided to say, "Hey, if you didn't know Sherlock, would you think—well, would you guess that he and John Watson were… I dunno, boyfriends?"

She snorted and folded her own arms. "I do know him, and I still think so…. Have you seen how he'll have absolutely no regard for John's personal space and John'll just let him stand there? Half the time we see them they're close enough to be kissing. They might as well be having constant eye-sex in the middle of Scotland Yard."

Greg let out a short, breathy laugh at her clear enthusiasm for the subject. "You almost sound like you're happy for him."

"What—no!" she insisted, her cheeks going slightly pink (though it was hard to tell for her skin tone). "I just know the obvious when I see it."

"Sherlock would argue with that, I think," he laughed.

"Well… I doubt even the Freak has noticed this yet, since I think we'd all know if he and John were actually together…. I mean, I know a few people in here have asked, and he always denies it. But—well, come on, they've got to at least be in love with each other. It's kind-of-actually-very obvious."

Greg chuckled again, really unable to stop thinking about it now. Was it weird of him to get overly interested in someone else's relationship? Or—whether or not they were in one, really. He couldn't deny that it frustrated him that John and Sherlock weren't officially a thing yet, even though he knew it was none of his business and that it kind of even went against the personal morals he should have had as a policeman.

Then again, he supposed it could have also been some sort of desire manifested by his mind to take the place of his rapidly failing relationship with his wife. If he couldn't have a romantically fulfilled life, he at least wanted the people around him to have them.

"Did I just hear the Freak and love in the same sentence?"

And seemingly out of nowhere, Anderson had arrived to butt into the conversation. Not that Greg really minded, as he and Sally were both being unproductive anyway—but having Sherlock around so much had made him find Anderson a bit annoying.

Neither of them did anything but open and close their mouths like fish for a second, as it was slightly awkward to explain that you were hypothesizing on the relationship status of two men, both of whom either denied being gay or having any sexual attraction at all—but then Sally figured it out.

"Well, perhaps not actually love, since I'm pretty sure he's not capable of that, but Holmes has definitely got a thing for John."

Anderson smirked, and for a second it looked more like a "you're looking really attractive today" smirk than otherwise. Greg realized he didn't find the idea of Sally and Anderson together as fulfilling as Sherlock and John.

"He brings John with him everywhere like a little pet," he agreed with a laugh, and Greg frowned a bit at the derisive tone in it. "He's got a thing for him, all right—it's called possessiveness. That's the closest thing a psychopath—oh wait, sorry, high-functioning sociopath—can feel to love. Really, Lestrade, I don't see why you think it's safe to let him—"

At that point Greg was just getting fed up, and he suddenly remembered the—

"Sherlock jar, Anderson. Go put a pound in," he told him, feeling that he sounded like a stern father. The man in question made a sort of "frustrated child" face and marched, a bit hunched over, to the huge glass jar in the office they were standing in front of.

A while ago, Greg had gotten tired of hearing complaints about Sherlock when the man wasn't even on the premises, so he'd decided to start a jar in which anytime anyone said anything unnecessary and negative about the man—especially if they regarded his judgments as well, they'd have to put money in the jar. Whenever it got full, he donated it to charity. He'd always wondered how Sherlock would feel if he knew that there was technically a donation fund in his name—well, he would have wondered if he wasn't sure that Sherlock must have already known about it.

He watched Anderson just to make sure that he actually did put the note in the jar, and then he was surprised when the man returned from the office with a bit of a grin that looked ready to just start something.

"Alright—if we're still paying just to talk about Holmes, why don't we make it more productive and turn it into a bet, huh?" Anderson already looked pretty enthusiastic about this, and Greg noticed that smiling didn't look all that good on his face. Maybe if he'd get a bloody normal haircut…. "We'll bet on when Watson and Holmes start shagging—or whatever the Freak equivalent to sex is."

"Ooh—that actually sounds like a good idea…," Sally agreed, her voice getting higher in pitch in her excitement as he turned to her boyfriend. "You and I should be a team."

It registered to Greg that he should have called this off before it even started and just told them both to get back to their desks at the mention of shagging, but he found himself intrigued and let himself fold his arms to show it.

"Whoa, hold on there—then who else is on my team? I don't—wait, no, why are we already talking about teams?" Finally, he caught himself—not necessarily realizing that this bet idea was ridiculous, but just feeling irresponsible for having stood around when there were much more important things that should have been demanding his focus. Such as the safety of London. "Ugh. Alright. Well. You two, we can talk about this later, but for now, just… Donovan, I'm sure there's case files you need to sort, and Anderson, you've got something or other to analyze. Off you pop."

For the second time in one evening, they looked like disappointed children. But really only for a split second, since they were also professionals who knew how to do their jobs, whatever Sherlock had to say about it.

Once they were leaving his sight, Greg sighed and returned to his office, shutting the door with a sigh. The idea of this bet and just Sherlock Holmes and John Watson in general really made him hope that there weren't any crimes his division covered for the rest of the evening. His mind was simply too preoccupied.

The traffic the next morning was terrible (but then again, when was the morning traffic in London not terrible?), not to mention the ache in Greg's back from having slept on the couch again. His wife hadn't made any implication that she didn't want him sleeping in the same bed—it was him who didn't want to sleep near her. He just felt that bed-sharing was intimate, and he didn't want that with a woman whom he knew was cheating on him.

But as he drove to Scotland Yard, Greg gradually put on his Detective Inspector persona as he did every day. It wouldn't be professional to let his personal problems affect even the slightest of feelings while on the job.

Right when he'd entered the building, he briefly passed someone he recognized from Dimmock's division—or it would have been brief if the man hadn't stepped back and said—

"Morning, Lestrade—I heard you were starting a bet?"

Rather surprised to hear that, he woke up as fully as possible in that second and frowned. It only occurred to him that they must have been referring to yesterday a second later. "What—who told you that?"

"Finnigan," he told him, grinning. "Just passed him on my way down on the lift. Well, good luck with that—but I've got several hours of sleep to catch up on after the night shift…. I'd rather like to know what happens with Holmes and Watson in the end, though!" he called out to finish as he left. Greg was left staring in his direction, and things started to piece together in his mind.

At least two people who couldn't possibly have even overheard the conversation about a bet over John and Sherlock knew about it. He had not told anyone about it. So that left two suspects, a man in a woman in particular, and he was really beginning to get rather annoyed with them.

Disgruntled, Greg huffed and jerkily adjusted his suitcoat before heading over to the lift and pressing 7. He walked out of the lift a minute or so later as though he'd expected to automatically be bombarded with people, Sally and Anderson included.

Well, it wasn't sudden, at least. But the first desk he passed, one of the members of the drug forensics team stood up and said, "Lestrade—what's the word on that bet people've been talking about? Are you actually—"

"Spare me a minute, please, I need to find Donovan," he interrupted, a bit too frustrated to care about being rude at the moment. Somewhat frantic, he kept up a fast-walk to her office, and seemingly everyone he passed mentioned "something about Holmes and a bet."

When he was finally able to open Sally's door (which he did without knocking), the frustration dissipated at the sight of Anderson leaning over her desk with a grin that made him uncomfortable. But then, as they both looked toward him with a sense of being caught, he'd forgotten about nearly walking in on a very unprofessional snog-fest and also the fact that he'd walked in without knocking.

"How many people did you tell?" was the first thing he said, sounding exasperated, though not exactly angry. He saw realization and a bit of guilt in their eyes, then looked down briefly to sigh at the floor. "Good Lord, you two—it was just a casual evening chat, and now everyone's expecting me to do something about it!"

Their looks of slight shock turned to sheepish smiles, and Sally finally stood up from her chair and walked around the desk to explain properly—hand gestures and everything.

"Well—for the record, Lestrade, we did think you were serious…. You seemed rather on board with the whole idea, and we were excited."

He couldn't even deny that much, but the issue still stood: "You didn't answer my question—how many people, you two?" Greg looked between them and made sure to give them a disapproving frown.

"Perhaps, well… everyone," Anderson decided to answer, standing up straight as well. He re-tied his tie while he was at it. "Or at least, everyone knows, now. We told a few people, they told others, and they—"

"Yes, I understand how this works," said Greg dryly, his hands on both hips now as he glanced mindlessly around the room, trying to figure out a solution.

Well, it was pretty obvious now that he thought about it—

"I don't see what the problem is, really. It's pretty obvious that everyone in Scotland Yard wants the Freak and his Doctor to shag." Sally shrugged and leaned back to sit on her desk, and Greg looked her sharply in the eye for using the word "shag." She could at least have just said "be together."

"I'm not saying they don't, and I don't know whether or not I should be slightly disturbed by that," he told her. Or glad, actually. Since he clearly wasn't the only one minorly obsessing over someone else's relationship. "But you have to admit it's a bit unprofessional."

"Actually," Anderson started, raising a finger pointedly and stepping towards him, "I looked it up last night. There's absolutely nothing even alluding to there being a rule against the coworkers in Scotland Yard being part of a bet, even if work-related. And Holmes isn't even officially work related, so for the law's sake, this is personal and perfectly allowed."

He smiled, clearly feeling proud of himself, and Greg sighed again. Not that he really wanted to, but he couldn't think of any other excuse to not to it. So he stuffed his hands into his pockets and relented.

"Fine. And you know, this is all on my head. So if this somehow does start something, I'll be in trouble and it's going to be on your conscience."

Straightening his suitcoat again, Greg pushed Sally's door open—and was promptly stopped by one of the receptionists.

"D. I. Lestrade, I've been hearing about a bet—is it true that—?"

"Yes, it is, and don't worry, I'll get it cleared up soon enough—actually, you know what—could you ring up everyone on the floor in an hour and have them come to Conference Room D?"

In his seven years so far of having had this promotion to Detective Inspector, Greg Lestrade had never seen a Conference Room so full and excited. Not even back when those serial suicides were going on. Of course, though, this was a different sort of excitement.

Sally seemed to be grinning more than anyone. Meanwhile, Greg couldn't help but feel a sort of nervousness—not from having to talk to everyone or anything ridiculous like that (he hadn't had that fear for a good twenty-five years), but because he somehow feared that Sherlock might be able to deduce what was going on from all the way across London. He honestly wouldn't have been surprised if the man just walked right through that door in the middle of all of this.

No more than a minute later, it seemed that everyone was here now, so he made no hesitation to clear his throat loudly. Everyone who was talking excitedly to others shut up and looked eager to him at once. It was nice to know he could command this much order and respect—more so than he did while they were on cases.

"Alright, as most of you probably heard, I've decided to start a bet. For some of you, that's all you heard. And some of you heard it was concerning the relationship between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson—speaking of which, I'd like to advise you not to put money down for a bet that hasn't even been confirmed yet. For those of you who've done that… I returned the money to your own mailboxes." He refrained from looking at anyone in particular, but he did notice them go a bit red and shuffle uncomfortably.

"But as most of you are aware," he went on, "this"—he gestured to the jar on the table to his left—"is the Sherlock jar. Plenty of people in here, one time or another, have put money into it. And I'm sure some people have purposely said unnecessary things about Sherlock simply to have the excuse to donate. Which is great, by the way. But because this is in place, Donovan, Anderson, and I have developed another idea as to what to spend our money on, Sherlock-wise.

"Now, I'm sure I hardly even have to mention it. But, well—a show of hands, who here has seen Sherlock and John either here at the Yard or on a scene?" Every single person raised their hands. "And who here has at least wondered at some point or another where they were in a romantic relationship?" Once again, he had everyone. A smile twitched on the edge of his lips, and Greg continued: "Excellent. Then we're all on board here. The bet is going to be on when Sherlock and John officially get together—just hold on, I'm getting to details," he added as some people squirmed where they stood, quite obviously holding back questions.

"As far as we know, our favorite arrogant sod and ex-army doctor are no more than flatmates and very close friends who are most likely in love with each other. But then again, I can't really say that I expect Sherlock Holmes to engage in the physical normalities of relationships, so who knows? But I'll get to that, too. What I've figured," he said as he pulled up a yellow notepad, "is that I'll set a five-month mark. Five months from now, that is. And everyone puts down a date with their name, along with the money they're putting down. You can change your date so long as nobody's won and your date hasn't passed yet, and obviously, whoever ends up right gets all of the money. Sound good?"

A couple people frowned slightly, and CID officer Stoker stepped forward to say, "So we're all just supposed to wait around for five months on the off-chance that Holmes realizes his feelings for Watson and snogs him? What about proof, too? Are we allowed to interfere?

Actually, that was a rather good idea. Suddenly land mines were going off in his brain and setting a chain of them, and Greg was almost pleased enough with himself for having this idea to jump. But he refrained from doing that and instead just clapped once, loudly, to dispel the sudden conversation around the room.

"New plan, then! We can't just wait around for Sherlock and John to happen—so, what do we do? We make Sherlock and John happen. Now, let's see… there's going to be two sides to this bet. There'll be the 'matchmakers' and the audience. The matchmakers are allowed to interfere in Sherlock's and John's lives in order to either help them realize their feelings and to catch proof of a romantic relationship between them. The audience, however, will be those who choose not to take any initiative themselves—but they can choose a matchmaker to place their money on and thus technically be on their team.

"Now… er—rules. Right. We'll definitely need some of those." Greg looked quickly to both sides until he remembered that there was a notepad in his hands, and people could practically see the lightbulb above his head as he grabbed a pen from his pocket and began to write as he spoke, bulleting each rule. "First off, this all starts officially tomorrow. Nothing goes on today, or else it doesn't count. Oh—and obviously, Sherlock and John cannot, under any circumstances, know about the bet. I know it might be difficult simply because it's Sherlock, but we all need to keep the utmost secrecy. So telling either of them directly would put you—well, all of us, out of the running. Er—oh, and every single person who decides to be a matchmaker must put down their name and at least fifteen quid beforehand—and anyone who chooses to be in the audience has to put down at least ten quid and they aren't allowed to do anything practical. If they decide to do anything, they have to change their status to a matchmaker and give up an extra fifteen. The audience can also change the matchmaker they're rooting for so long as no one's actually won yet. And of course, no one is allowed to interfere with another matchmaker's plans."

"Can matchmakers be in teams?" Sally interjected before he could go on, and when he looked back at her, she added, "As in, they work together to do the matchmaking—not counting the audience."

After pausing for a moment, Greg nodded and marked that down. "Alright, matchmakers are also allowed in teams. I'll say… alright—no, there's no limit to the number of people on a team, but of course I wouldn't advise it if you don't want to share the winnings with too many other people. Ooh—also, for strategy's sake, I suppose, teams can merge if everyone of both parties, including the audience, agrees." He heard a whispered exclamation of "Yes!" from Anderson, which confirmed his assumptions about Sally's request—and then another question from someone in the crowd:

"What exactly does 'evidence' encompass?"

Greg looked up to see who it was—Gideon—and think for a few seconds. He figured it was a rather important thing to have a rule about…. "Anything that proves, without a doubt, that Sherlock and John are romantically involved. This can be—I dunno, pictures of them kissing or doing something else intimate—but actually, please don't get pictures of anything sexual, even if it's unintentionally that you see it. Because, well, it's illegal—and because I do respect the both of them enough not to invade their sex lives. Also, an audio recording of something they say either to you or each other would work if they say something regarding their relationship. And you know what, all this being said, all evidence will be tossed in a fire once it's all over. Just to make sure that no one gets blackmailed.

"As far as interfering goes, everything is allowed except mentioning the bet to either of them, as I've said, and… anything that interferes with a case. Oh, and I don't suppose I should have to mention this, but tricking either of them to say something in a context that doesn't at all prove anything doesn't count either. That includes physically forcing their heads together so they'll kiss or what have you.

"Now, I can't really set a time limit—but that's mostly because I don't believe it'll take more than five months to do this. So everyone who bets, they'll be betting on the team and not a date. Also, I suppose that you're perfectly entitled to drop out of the bet, but you don't get your first deposit back. Teams must sign in together, and I've got to know for sure that everyone actually knows what team they're on, if any. And as Detective Inspector, I'm assigning myself as the designated person to ask about the rules of this bet and otherwise. So… any other questions?"

One woman raised her hand slightly in order to be acknowledged and began talking a second before he looked at her. "Is this restricted to Scotland Yard, or could others who know Holmes and Watson be a part of it?"

He had his usual good question expression as he capped his pen with purpose and told her, "Anyone can be involved, so long as they still sign up for the bet. Just make sure to bring them here on your off time, so they can sign up.

She resumed her previous sitting position, and everyone was focusing on him and silent. So Greg decided to say one last thing before accepting the sign-ups: "Anyone who fails to comply to all of these rules will either be disqualified entirely, or their attempt to win will not count. If you think you've got proof, bring it to me at once. And… now that we're at the last of it, I'm expecting most of you to choose your groups in between now and tomorrow—if not now and the next twenty minutes. But of course it's not necess—"

Letting himself get quieter, Greg decided that the rules were done with. Most people were already discussing teams with each other, and a couple strategy-sounding words even stuck out to him already. It was to be expected.

And it wasn't all that unexpected, he later supposed, that Anderson approached him to ask, "So does this mean the Sherlock jar isn't a thing anymore?"

Whoop, there it is. And just so you know, my headcanon full name for Anderson is Anderson Anderson. You know, like Montgomery Montgomery. His parents were either stupid or cruel. (Actually, my old woodshop teacher's name is Steven Stevens. Not even kidding.)

I'm not sure how long this fic is going to end up being, but I do promise to carry it out! And in the meantime, reviews are greatly appreciated, so tell me what you think! :D