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Sherlock Holmes knows many, many things about Greg Lestrade.
From the start, he knows that Greg had been an alcoholic before the Met, and still struggles with it. He knows Greg has two grown children, one named Peter and the other Natalie, due to the pictures and letters he has scattered around his flat. He deduces that Greg has one brother, his name David but whom prefers Dave, just like how Greg prefers that name over Gregory.
Whatever he doesn’t know, he learns.
He learns that Greg prefers coffee over tea during his forty-ninth birthday party. He learns that Greg is allergic to bananas in a talk Greg has had with him about bringing certain foods home. He learns that Greg owned two cats as a child, one named Adelle and the other named Christine.
He finds out about the one spot that, when poked, makes Greg double over in hoots. He learns that Greg’s had surgery twice on his left leg, and has a slight limp during the winter. He even learns what arouses Greg, and it fascinates him. A lot of things fascinate Sherlock about him.
The one thing he’s most intrigued about is Greg’s heritage.
He didn’t know, at first, but he learned rather quickly.
It had happened at a crime scene. Double homicide, both women, one child. Children involved always got Greg into the worst of moods, and it showed as he barked orders at Anderson to let Sherlock, a newly-clean drug addict that Greg had found in the streets that practically no one trusted, into the crime scene in the first place. It was only Anderson’s job, and no one could blame him for that, but everyone seemed to anyway.
Sherlock pranced around the room like a gazelle, deducing that the flower pot in the corner was hiding the murder weapon due to the different in the soil levels, and that the woman was the mother of the child. Inside that flower pot had been a vial of arsenic. He pointed to a snare in the wall and determined that it was planted by the killer, as the tears were spaced too far apart for a woman’s or a child’s hands.
Greg was obviously getting annoyed at Sherlock’s boasting, not oddly enough. This was Sherlock’s third case, yet he seemed to be more cocky than usual, and it made Greg want to slap the man in the face. He’d frequently sigh and cover his own face with his hands, hoping this would all be over and that he could just go out and get a drink or two. Or four.
“Detective, you’re not going to get anything out of this if you don’t listen to me. You’re not going to be able to get pissed drunk until you-“
“What did you just say?” Greg growled. No one knew about this, or was suppose to know.
“It’s obvious, Detective, in the way you hold yourself. You’re impatient; you want something. Obviously, that something cannot be your wife since you two are in the fringes of divorce, nor can it be drugs. I have deduced from several papers in your desk drawer that you’ve had problems with-“
“Sherlock, no, I’m not in the mood for this,” Greg snapped, his hand clenching into a fist several times. His voice had the edge of… something. Something familiar, but Sherlock couldn’t place it quite yet.
“You can’t honestly expect me to not notice. You need to-“
“Pour l’amour de Dieu, Sherlock Holmes! Out of this crime scene this instant!”
The sudden French outburst caught Sherlock mildly off-guard, but enough to shut him up and stare at Greg with the most confused yet thoughtful expression he had ever mustered. “You know French.” Without saying more, he turned and was gone.
Greg found Sherlock at his flat much later that night, looking through old photo albums and journals. Sherlock said nothing. Greg just stared.
“Care to explain?”
“I don’t need to explain.” Greg sat on the bed next to Sherlock, peering at one of the old photos. The one Sherlock was holding showed Greg and Dave, fishing, the former with a huge grin on his face and the latter holding up a fish in delight. Greg was sure he could hear Sherlock think.
“Why didn’t I deduce this before?”
“I act as English as an Englishman can get. Mum moved to the States when I was seventeen. I moved to London in hopes of a good career as a policeman.” Sherlock was oddly silent for a few seconds before placing the photo back into the photo album and rubbing his back. “Well, now you know. Tea?”
Sherlock learns that his favorite word in French, specifically coming from Greg, is merde.
And boy, does he yell that a lot.