Title: Not Built in a Day
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade
Rating: K
Word Count: 400
Warnings: none really, randomness, written by me?
Summary: Changes don't happen overnight, and it's the effort that really counts.
A/N: Yes, I finally overcame my leeriness of a new Holmes incarnation after the 2009 movie killed my Holmes!muse, and broke down and watched Sherlock a few days ago. And promptly fell in love. :) Just a warmup into the new fandom for now; more I am sure are forthcoming.

Lestrade had learnt by now to tune out any sentences containing the words "imbeciles" and "pathetic" and – by far his favorite – "tiny little brains." One must make sacrifices, after all, if one were to avail one's self of the dubious privilege of associating with London's only consulting detective/amateur specialist/private pain-in-the-neck. If that meant being belittled at every turn, it was only to be expected; and most of them had learnt to give as good as they got, anyway.

But he never forgot the day that changed.

It was only the usual it-must-be-nice-not-being-brilliant-like-me-but-don't-you-ever-get-tired-of-your-own-idiocy, but he watched with interest as Sherlock faltered to a halt mid-stride at a look from his companion.

"Bit not good, then?"

An eyeroll. "Just a bit."

"Ah." Dark eyebrows contracted thoughtfully before a second attempt. "Well, it is not as if you can help it, Lestrade."

The doctor cleared his throat.

"And you have managed so far to not spectacularly bungle this case, at least?"

John shook his head.

The detective looked highly affronted. "What, then?"

"Sherlock, we talked about this." Lestrade's eyebrows rose at the coaxing tone.

"Yes, well, I no doubt –"

"If the words deleted it come out of your mouth one more time, you will be taking out your own laundry for a month, I swear. I don't care how utterly boring you think it is."

Right, Lestrade thought, this is getting a bit too awkward for all of us. "If you two've quite finished with the domestics, then?" he asked dryly.

"Not helping yourself, Inspector," John sighed, as Sherlock threw up his hands in true melodramatic fashion before grasping at his chaotic hair.

"Very well," the detective sniffed, clearing his throat. He continued in a monotonous tone of recitation, a languid hand gesturing dismissively. "Inspector Lestrade, thank you for requesting my involvement in this most mundane of cases which only an idiot could not have solved from the inception. It most likely will be a capital waste of my time, but the offer is appreciated."

Half the Yard watched, fascinated, as John Watson's head impacted the nearby wall with a muted clunk. Multiple times.

"Now what?" Sherlock's indignant tone trailed down the corridor behind Lestrade as he left, well ahead of them both so that neither could see he was laughing his head off.

Rome wasn't built in a day, and neither was a good man – but it had to start somewhere.