Chapter Text
Sgt. Sally Donovan studied the evidence bag in her hand as she approached DI Lestrade in the bullpen. The detective inspector was deep in conversation, explaining to a junior officer what information they needed from the neighbours for their ongoing triple homicide case.
"Sir," Donovan said, clearing her throat to get his attention.
"Sgt. Donovan," Lestrade responded, looking up and drumming his fingers absently on the desk.
"You mentioned last week that you lost your ring during the downpour at the Davis-crime scene. Anderson got back to me... and, well, here’s your ring." She handed him the evidence bag, a curious frown tugging at her lips.
Anderson had bombarded her with questions about it, leaving her just as puzzled as he had been.
"Sally, you’re brilliant. Cheers!" Lestrade grinned as he took the bag, extracting the silver band with a practiced ease. "I was worried I’d lost it for good."
"Anderson—and, well, me too—noticed something... odd," Sally began, hesitating slightly. "There’s an inscription: ‘My Dear.’ "
Her words caused the junior officer at the desk to glance up sharply, his typing momentarily forgotten. In fact, the revelation seemed to ripple through the bullpen, and several officers turned their attention to Lestrade.
"Yeah," Lestrade said absentmindedly, seemingly unaware of the growing interest. He wiped the ring on his jacket before- to everyones growing shocked—slipping it onto his ring finger. It was a simple silver band with an elegant inscription on the inner curve: ‘My Dear,’ the cursive script so delicate it looked handmade rather than something bought from a jewellery shop.
"Sir... are you married?" Donovan asked, her tone equal parts confusion and disbelief.
The question made heads swivel. Everyone in Scotland Yard knew that Greg Lestrade had been married to Carolyn for years—no one knew exactly how many—and that they’d divorced, though the specifics were just as murky. Donovan herself had pieced it together during her first couple of years at the Yard. Divorced and single—that was the established narrative.
And yet, here he was, apparently married.
"Of course I am, Sally. You know that. What’s gotten into you?" Lestrade said, tossing the now empty evidence bag into the bin.
"What?" the junior officer blurted out, eyebrows shooting up.
"Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you lot haven’t noticed this before," Lestrade said grinning, holding up his hand to display the ring as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"With all due respect, sir," Sally said, raising her eyebrows, "this is the first time any of us have seen you wearing a ring."
That made Lestrade pause. He glanced around, finally noticing the sea of stunned faces staring back at him.
"Right, stop pulling my leg and get back to work," he barked, his tone brisk as he turned on his heel, thinking they were just jocking around. "And tell Anderson I want the homicide report on my desk by morning."
"Yes, sir," Sally said slowly, her eyes narrowing in thought.
The moment Lestrade disappeared into his office, she turned to the others. Snatching the junior officer’s mug, she poured the dregs of his coffee into the bin and slammed the empty cup onto the desk.
"Right," she announced. "Bets on who can figure out who the wife is first."
The bullpen erupted in a flurry of whispers and speculation. Someone shouted out a wild guess; another offered a completely implausible theory.
By the end of the shift, a photograph of Greg Lestrade had been pinned to the back of the evidence board. Arrows radiated from the picture like a detective’s flowchart, leading to several empty speech bubbles waiting for names to be filled in.
The Yard was on the case.