Yes, yes, get them out!  Come join the Lestrade Fanciers Society, where Lestrade feels will never be snubbed and Lestrade headcanons will always made welcome!

Now I want to hear peoples’ Lestrade headcanons.  Any good ones to share?

Mmm, yes, Lestrade.

Headcanon: He tried really hard not to cheat on his wife. It’s just one of those moral things he has, you know? He’s never cheated on any of his relationships. It’s his one rule. Break things off before bad things happen. And, to be fair to him, that’s what he’s always done before. Because it’s the right thing to do.

But as the years wear on and she pulls further and further away from him, he finds himself ‘window-shopping’ a bit more openly. And at first, he gives himself a talking to about it, but then he thinks… I mean, it’s fine so long as he doesn’t touch, right? Just looking is fine. So he looks. And sometimes he admires. And it’s all good. Because he doesn’t touch. And if sometimes in the shower he pictures strong thighs and short sandy hair when he’s jerking off, well. It’s not like you can hold people responsible for their fantasies.

And besides. It’s safe to look at John. Because John is straight. And if he sits too close in crowded bars and their knees knock together, it’s just because there are ladies walking by, and John is too much of a gentleman to let his legs clutter up the aisle. And if Greg finds himself falling asleep in the cramped spare bed soothed by the memory of heat against his thigh and a warm laugh in his ear, it’s just because it’s cold and the duvet is too thin and he has to be at work in a few hours anyway. John is friend. And friends are comforting.

So it’s not until the end that Greg lets himself touch. After the fighting and the tears, when desperation and failure are clawing at his rib-cage, trying to climb out, that’s when he finds himself inviting John out for a pint. And then another. And another. And of course John drags the story out of him, slowly and gently, in a manner that suggests he’s done this a hundred times before. It’s not the story that does it though. It’s John’s hand sliding over the nape of his neck as he walks Greg out of the door of the pub. It’s John inviting him upstairs, and bypassing the sitting room door to coax Greg up to his room. It’s John sitting him down on the bed and the heat that bleeds out of him as he runs his hands over Greg’s shoulders. It’s the way John hesitates, just for a moment, before kissing him, slow and thorough and perfect, like it’s something he’s been waiting to do forever.

In the end, falling feels more like sinking, and Greg shudders apart in John’s arms with a smile on his face that he hasn’t felt in years.

Ahahahah, I trixed Trix into fic. 😀

A+ headcanon, would headcanon again.

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