OOC;

I hate to do this, but my muse for Greg has disappeared. He doesn’t get on well with Felicity. That, and I have a ton of things to try and sort out. But I don’t want to delete, not if I can avoid it. So, wonderful followers of mine, I was wondering if any of you would like a Greg Lestrade blog. Do what you like with it, I’m just far too sentimental to part with it completely. 

I’ll leave this up here for a while, and reblog it every once in a while. I have a side blog for my OOC things, but that can be deleted, or you keep it or whatever. It matters not to me. 

So. Greg Lestrade. Free to a good home.

If you want to contact me, I’ll be at felicityhargreaves.

Thank you everyone for the wonderful RP’s!

Invasion of Privacy is the Highest Form of Flattery.

thegovernmentsassistant:

greglestradeofscotlandyard:

thegovernmentsassistant:

Anthea knew that her boss had a tendency to push his utter disregard for boundaries a bit too far at times. What was worse was that she was starting to realize that he was rubbing off on her in that respect. Before she had ever asked Gregory Lestrade for drinks, she had dug up every bit of information she could access—which was really everything from his birth certificate to his last phone bill—in attempt to get to know him. Most people preferred to attempt a conversation but Anthea found it was easier this way and a lot less anxiety inducing.

As she was going through the CCTV to pass a rather uneventful morning, she happened to pause when she saw Lestrade on the screen. It was a bit grainy and of course black and white, but she couldn’t help but take a moment to admire the view. What happened next, however, made her face pale, a hand flying up to her mouth to restrain any variety of noises threatening to break free. She had to rewatch those few moments of video three times just to make sure what she was actually seeing was real. He’d just been shot and left in the care of other officers.

Hurriedly, she checked the time stamp on the video, her panic rising when she noticed it was quite a number of hours old. That was all she needed to run his name through all of the hospitals in the area, praying the entire time that his name was not listed amongst the recently deceased.

No sooner had she seen a match at Bart’s, she was out of her chair and heading out of the office and to her personal car. She didn’t want to waste time waiting on her driver, nor did she care if Mycroft was angered by her sudden departure. Anthea was far too terrified and worried about Greg to care. It took her twenty minutes to make it to the hospital, pausing in the lobby only to check his updated room number before escorting herself to the proper floor.

According to his chart on the computer, he’d been out of recovery for nearly an hour now and should be conscious. Pausing outside the door, she knocked twice before cautiously peaking in, not wanting to startle him.

Greg looked up groggily, and attempted a smile, which ended up as a pained grimace. ” ‘Lo love. Didn’t expect to see you here. How did you find out?” Greg tried to lift his head from the pillow, but found he couldn’t, and growled unhappily. He was dopey on morphine, but his leg still ached, and all the morphine did was give him a headache and make him woozy.

Anthea made her way into the room, hesitating a moment as he asked how she found out. She was afraid to tell them the truth lest he become angry or label her a stalker, rendering that out of the question. Avoiding the question would only cause him to be more curious, so that wouldn’t do either.

“It’s not important,” she finally said, deciding that was the best course of action. “How are you feeling?” She frowned as she moved across the room and sat down in the chair next to the bed. “According to your cha—the doctors, the bullet hit an artery in your leg. I came as soon as I could.”

Greg nodded slowly. “That’s what they told me. Apparently I’ve been in surgery. I can’t even remember getting here or anything.” 

These Two Kings

wearing-westwood:

greglestradeofscotlandyard:

wearing-westwood:

“That was easy.”  Easier than he’d expected.

He could stop now.

Or he could continue.  Because darkness and sharp things do mix.  And so do blood and silver—all things he has in supply at the moment and Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade as a canvas for his art form.

Why stop?

The ‘M’ cuts in.

“Jesus Christ!” Greg exclaims, frightened and in pain, though he tries his best not to show it. “You monster. I’ve given you what you wanted, why can’t you leave me alone?” 

“Maybe you weren’t quick enough.  Maybe I just like to feel your pain vibrating through this knife.”  Jim’s voice is a soft hiss in the older man’s ear…

The blade slides around the circle of an ‘o’ next to the ‘M’, leaving a thin line of red that neither of them can see in the dark, a thin line that spreads and begins to drip.

“Maybe…I’m leaving a message for someone.”

"There is no one," Greg hisses, his face crumpled in pain. Oh God. Molly. He desperately hoped she was okay. What if Moriarty’s men had gotten to her too? They couldn’t. She was carrying his child. She couldn’t get hurt, she couldn’t. Not now. Greg had only just found Molly. He couldn’t lose her. Not now.

Greg Lestrade of Scotland Yard. And Molly of the Morgue.

ordinarymollyhooper:

“I know, Molls. I know. And it’s okay. I know I’ve been drinking too much, and I know I should stop. But saying and doing are two completely different things.” He stroked her hair happily, beginning to sober up a little.

”You know I’m here to help you,” she nodded, smiling softly as she rested her head on his shoulder with a soft sigh. ”Do you miss her?” She asked, looking up at him, ”Your ex-wife. Do you miss her?”

“I…Sometimes. I mean, I hate what she did to me, hate that she felt she had to run off with other men, hate that she felt she couldn’t talk to me. But I still love her, and I think I always will, because she was my first love. I do miss her sometimes. Especially when I get back from work and the house is empty. It gets me down. But I know that I’m better off without her.” Greg smiled sadly, and leaned his head against Molly’s.

Molly nodded, ”I understand, but when you do feel lonely. When you come home. Just call me, and I can come and keep you company, without drinking,” she suggested warmly. ”But you’re wrong. You won’t always love her. You’ll find someone else, someone caring, who loves you and will never treat you like she did, I promise,” she smiled, but sighed. How could she tell him that she liked him? He was still so sad…it’s best not to, she decided.

Greg sighed, hoping she was right. He liked Molly, he always had. And when he saw her that Christmas Eve at Sherlock’s… Molly was beautiful, and it had saddened him when she had spent all those months pining after Sherlock. “Then you’ll have to move in with me, Molls,” he chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I care about you, Molls. You’re a good friend.” And I wish you were something more, but you’ll probably think you’re just a rebound, and I wouldn’t want that for you. Not ever. 

Invasion of Privacy is the Highest Form of Flattery.

thegovernmentsassistant:

Anthea knew that her boss had a tendency to push his utter disregard for boundaries a bit too far at times. What was worse was that she was starting to realize that he was rubbing off on her in that respect. Before she had ever asked Gregory Lestrade for drinks, she had dug up every bit of information she could access—which was really everything from his birth certificate to his last phone bill—in attempt to get to know him. Most people preferred to attempt a conversation but Anthea found it was easier this way and a lot less anxiety inducing.

As she was going through the CCTV to pass a rather uneventful morning, she happened to pause when she saw Lestrade on the screen. It was a bit grainy and of course black and white, but she couldn’t help but take a moment to admire the view. What happened next, however, made her face pale, a hand flying up to her mouth to restrain any variety of noises threatening to break free. She had to rewatch those few moments of video three times just to make sure what she was actually seeing was real. He’d just been shot and left in the care of other officers.

Hurriedly, she checked the time stamp on the video, her panic rising when she noticed it was quite a number of hours old. That was all she needed to run his name through all of the hospitals in the area, praying the entire time that his name was not listed amongst the recently deceased.

No sooner had she seen a match at Bart’s, she was out of her chair and heading out of the office and to her personal car. She didn’t want to waste time waiting on her driver, nor did she care if Mycroft was angered by her sudden departure. Anthea was far too terrified and worried about Greg to care. It took her twenty minutes to make it to the hospital, pausing in the lobby only to check his updated room number before escorting herself to the proper floor.

According to his chart on the computer, he’d been out of recovery for nearly an hour now and should be conscious. Pausing outside the door, she knocked twice before cautiously peaking in, not wanting to startle him.

Greg looked up groggily, and attempted a smile, which ended up as a pained grimace. ” ‘Lo love. Didn’t expect to see you here. How did you find out?” Greg tried to lift his head from the pillow, but found he couldn’t, and growled unhappily. He was dopey on morphine, but his leg still ached, and all the morphine did was give him a headache and make him woozy.

Greg Lestrade of Scotland Yard. And Molly of the Morgue.

ordinarymollyhooper:

“I know, Molls, I know. And I would do the same if it was you in this position.” Greg sighed softly, and pulled out his mobile to call the restaurant. He made the call quickly, and managed to keep his words relatively slur free. “Right, it’ll be here in twenty minutes tops.” 

Daringly, and unsure if Greg woul be alright with such close contact with Molly, she put an arm around him, leaning into him and looking at the TV screen. ”I like to think you would,” she smiled, ”I’m just looking out for you, you know that.”

“I know, Molls. I know. And it’s okay. I know I’ve been drinking too much, and I know I should stop. But saying and doing are two completely different things.” He stroked her hair happily, beginning to sober up a little.

”You know I’m here to help you,” she nodded, smiling softly as she rested her head on his shoulder with a soft sigh. ”Do you miss her?” She asked, looking up at him, ”Your ex-wife. Do you miss her?”

"I…Sometimes. I mean, I hate what she did to me, hate that she felt she had to run off with other men, hate that she felt she couldn’t talk to me. But I still love her, and I think I always will, because she was my first love. I do miss her sometimes. Especially when I get back from work and the house is empty. It gets me down. But I know that I’m better off without her." Greg smiled sadly, and leaned his head against Molly’s.

Greg Lestrade of Scotland Yard. And Molly of the Morgue.

ordinarymollyhooper:

Greg passed her the remote with a grunt, not at all happy that his twenty year old malt had been poured down the drain. She could have at least let him finish it. “I have forgotten about her. Mostly.” Lies, all lies. To busy his hands, he leaned over to the table and pulled out a handful of takeaway menus. “Here, you pick.”

Molly smiled to herself, putting on a RomCom with a faint, ‘Ohh’. She sighed happily, and took the menus. ”Ooh, okay!” She smiled pointing to her order and handing the menu back to Greg. ”I’m sorry, for being such a bother. But I just care  about you. A lot.” She placed a gentle hand on his leg, patting it gently. ”I hope you can see that.”

“I know, Molls, I know. And I would do the same if it was you in this position.” Greg sighed softly, and pulled out his mobile to call the restaurant. He made the call quickly, and managed to keep his words relatively slur free. “Right, it’ll be here in twenty minutes tops.” 

Daringly, and unsure if Greg woul be alright with such close contact with Molly, she put an arm around him, leaning into him and looking at the TV screen. ”I like to think you would,” she smiled, ”I’m just looking out for you, you know that.”

"I know, Molls. I know. And it’s okay. I know I’ve been drinking too much, and I know I should stop. But saying and doing are two completely different things." He stroked her hair happily, beginning to sober up a little.

Greg Lestrade of Scotland Yard. And Molly of the Morgue.

ordinarymollyhooper:

“All right, all right.” Greg held up his hands in defeat. “Fine. No more alcohol. Hell, I’ll even order a Chinese for us both and we can watch some crappy sitcom or something. How does that sound?” Greg was terrified at the thought of no drinking. It was the only thing that had held him together after Emily had left.

”Perfect,” Molly smiled, taking the glass and taking her own, pouring them both down the sink, moving the bottles to get rid of any temptation. After clearing up she joined Greg in the living room. ”Thank you for this, I promise you I can help. You can forget all about her,” she grinned pulling Greg down onto the sofa next to her. ”Come on then, let’s see what’s on.”

Greg passed her the remote with a grunt, not at all happy that his twenty year old malt had been poured down the drain. She could have at least let him finish it. “I have forgotten about her. Mostly.” Lies, all lies. To busy his hands, he leaned over to the table and pulled out a handful of takeaway menus. “Here, you pick.”

Molly smiled to herself, putting on a RomCom with a faint, ‘Ohh’. She sighed happily, and took the menus. ”Ooh, okay!” She smiled pointing to her order and handing the menu back to Greg. ”I’m sorry, for being such a bother. But I just care  about you. A lot.” She placed a gentle hand on his leg, patting it gently. ”I hope you can see that.”

"I know, Molls, I know. And I would do the same if it was you in this position." Greg sighed softly, and pulled out his mobile to call the restaurant. He made the call quickly, and managed to keep his words relatively slur free. "Right, it’ll be here in twenty minutes tops." 

Rush-Time Stand Still.

Can’t beat the classics! -GL

Greg Lestrade of Scotland Yard. And Molly of the Morgue.

ordinarymollyhooper:

“I don’t like being sober. Everything hurts when I’m sober, and I don’t like it.” Greg stepped out with her, so that he wouldn’t be blowing smoke in her direction. “You don’t need to worry though. I’m okay. I’m always okay, Mollster.” 

Molly tightened her grip. ”Then let me stop it from hurting. If it doesn’t work, you can drink. Just tonight, stop. Please,” she asked, holding onto Greg’s hand. ”But you’re not okay. I can tell. I’m not stupid.”

“All right, all right.” Greg held up his hands in defeat. “Fine. No more alcohol. Hell, I’ll even order a Chinese for us both and we can watch some crappy sitcom or something. How does that sound?” Greg was terrified at the thought of no drinking. It was the only thing that had held him together after Emily had left.

”Perfect,” Molly smiled, taking the glass and taking her own, pouring them both down the sink, moving the bottles to get rid of any temptation. After clearing up she joined Greg in the living room. ”Thank you for this, I promise you I can help. You can forget all about her,” she grinned pulling Greg down onto the sofa next to her. ”Come on then, let’s see what’s on.”

Greg passed her the remote with a grunt, not at all happy that his twenty year old malt had been poured down the drain. She could have at least let him finish it. “I have forgotten about her. Mostly.” Lies, all lies. To busy his hands, he leaned over to the table and pulled out a handful of takeaway menus. “Here, you pick.”