I neither own nor profit from any of these characters; they are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC.

If you see something that you think ought to be changed or improved, please feel free to let me know, if you'd like. Constructive criticism is always welcome.

Written for ImpishTubist's #waystokilllestrade prompt.

Lestrade sighed, wrapped his coat more firmly around himself, and stepped out of the glass doors of New Scotland Yard and into the London winter.

It was the end of several very long days at work for him, tracking down the origins of an apparent hit-and-run that was, according to Sherlock, far more deliberate than it had appeared at first glance. Having deduced that much, though, the case had immediately become uninteresting to the detective, and he'd left Lestrade and his team to do the actual work of finding and arresting.

In a way, it made him happy. At least this part of his job was his and his alone. Sherlock might be good (all right, all right, absolutely bloody brilliant), but the words "London's finest" still had some meaning.

The evening was chilly, grey skies deepening to darkness, wind soughing down narrow streets, around buildings, and through Lestrade's hair; his coat flapped around his knees as he walked. He could have caught a taxi or taken the Tube, but he liked these walks late in the day. He didn't much mind the cold, and the feel of his feet on the pavement always reminded him of the connection he felt to this place. London had its sworn protectors, after all, but the city repaid its debts.

Besides, the weather was perfect for what he had planned – a calm, quiet evening in with John at Baker Street, curled on the couch together in front of the fireplace, for once taking the opportunity to just relax and talk and spend a bit of time together not fearing for their lives. Though to be fair, Sherlock would be at home as well, and probably experimenting, which meant there was always a modicum of danger.

A slow smile spread across his face as he thought of it. John wouldn't have it any other way, and neither would he.

Tea, he thought. It wasn't something he drank often, preferring the godawful engine fuel the Yard called "coffee," but it might be nice this evening. And John would be making tea anyway; half out of habit, Lestrade suspected, and half because it was the only thing Sherlock would actually eat or drink most of the time. It wasn't the first time he'd wondered if John spiked Sherlock's tea with electrolyte solution from the hospital or something. It wasn't fair how well that man functioned without any caloric intake. If anyone ever discovered the special Holmes protein that made it possible, it'd be worth millions. Maybe one of Sherlock's experiments was looking for it.

Speaking of experiments, he thought, they might not be having any tea at all if Sherlock had used up the milk again. Or not even used up – last time, he insisted he'd left plenty for tea, but had needed John to point out that milk wasn't supposed to be a rather concerning shade of grey and have flecks of… something… floating in it.

They'd had their tea without milk that day.

Not tonight, though. He could pick some up on his way over, surprise John. He loved doing that; there was so little John ever needed, and even less he was willing to ask for, that Lestrade leapt at any opportunity to do something for him. Even if it was something as small as a bottle of milk.

He turned right at Pall Mall instead of continuing on straight; it made the walk a little longer, but there was a Tesco Metro on Regent Street where he could get what he wanted before going on to 221B. There was that jam Mrs. Hudson liked, the kind they didn't stock at the shop around the corner, and he could get Hobnobs for Sherlock (even if the great git would never even consider admitting he liked them).

He pushed open the door to the shop, holding it for the man behind him as well, and had his shopping rounded up in a matter of minutes. Of course, six o'clock on a weekday evening was a terrible time to be buying anything, and as he headed to the front of the shop, he was distracted by thoughts of his open cases, things that had fallen by the wayside in their pursuit of their hit-and-run killer and were now clamouring for attention. He wondered if he could ring Sergeant Donovan for a few details on one of the newer ones.

Instead, he stopped dead in his tracks.

A number of thoughts went through his head at once – the man for whom he'd held the door, the little girl he'd met in the dairy aisle, the shop full of people clearly just on their way home from work – but, ultimately, none of them was any use to him. He should have looked, he thought, should have heard something, should have seen something. He was a police officer. Didn't he have any bloody instincts?

The gun had shifted almost before he realized it, trained on him instead of on the sobbing girl at the checkout. He glanced around – no one was moving, the shop eerily quiet now. Why hadn't he noticed? Too busy thinking about cases, no time for the real world. That was Sherlock's problem, too.

He cleared his throat. "Easy, now," he said, not quite sure whether he was reassuring himself, the people around him or the man holding the gun. "What's going on here?"

Stupid question.

The tall, sturdily-built man with the gun waved it – no, irresponsible, he clearly had no idea how to handle it – and said, "Everyone, on the floor. Now!"

Lestrade nodded; then, watching to see that he was copied by others, he knelt carefully and lay down sideways. He needed a proper line of sight, and he needed the gunman to be able to see his face.

For a moment, he wished that the attacker didn't have a beard, so that he would be able to see tells in his facial expressions, but that was really more Sherlock's game, wasn't it? Lestrade would just have to do his job the best way he knew how.

"What's this about?" he asked softly, making sure his voice was pitched to carry to the checkout. Then, louder, a bit of bravado for the frightened people around him, he said, "Because I can assure you, mate, none of us is happy about the VAT rise."

"Shut up!"

"What do you want?"

"All I want's a bit of my hard-earned cash back!" the man said viciously, and Lestrade noted the tremor in his voice and hands, the rapid breathing, perspiration – damn. Withdrawal symptoms made it painfully obvious exactly why the other man needed money, and if he was to this point already, reasoning with him might not be in the cards.

The hand with the gun twitched again, and Lestrade flinched. It didn't bother him when it was trained on him, but flashed about like this, it might hurt anyone. "So I'm going to take what's mine, understand?"

He hadn't thought this through. Well, then again, he was hardly in a state to think anything through.

Lestrade swallowed and said, "I'm going to stand up now, all right?"

"No! You stay on the floor!"

"All right, all right. But you need someone to unlock that register for you, or you won't get what you're looking for."

The man stared at him for a long time, then jerked his head. Permission to stand.

"What's your name, mate?" he tried, stepping around the checkout barrier and letting himself into the space behind the register. He knew he wouldn't get an answer, though, and continued conversationally, "Well, I've got to call you something. Gonna call you Simon, all right? Simon." He stood with one hand on the cash register, the other resting against the conveyor belt. Both visible; non-threatening. "Simon, let them go, all right? You don't need them. I'm giving you the money."

The other man's eyes widened. Lestrade kept talking.

"I'm getting it for you right now. You can walk out of here with it in a minute. Let them walk out, too."

"They'll call the police!"

A small smile on Lestrade's face. "I am the police. I can make them leave you alone. You can check my ID if you don't believe me." Oh, please, God, let Sherlock not have pickpocketed him since their last crime scene. "I can get out my mobile and ring them up. You can hear me tell them not to come."

The muzzle of the gun nudged his temple. Admitting he was with the Met had been a gamble, and he held his breath now, waiting to see if it would pay off.

"Come on, Simon."

"That's not my name!"

"Fine. That's fine."

The gunman said, low-voiced and without shifting gaze or gun from Lestrade, "They can go. And you tell your police not to come."

"Okay," said Lestrade. "Okay. Everyone clear out, all right? Slowly – walk, don't run. And for Christ's sake, don't ring the police."

The chance that they would actually listen to that instruction was vanishingly small, but he could cross that bridge when he came to it. For now, he stood at the cash and watched the people in the shop walk, most trembling, some openly in tears, to the door and out through it. At one point, someone pushed, and he had to snap at them, "Single file!" He couldn't risk their doing anything that might alarm the man with the gun, not while there were still civilians inside.

Finally, finally, they were all out.

"Thank you," he said, brief nod of the head, and hit the release key on the cash register. "Big bills are on this side." He stepped back, allowing the other man access to the money.

He hadn't expected a discerning selection of bills, and he was right. Grabbing a handful of twenties from the drawer and stuffing them into his pockets, the man looked nonplussed as Lestrade pulled out the tenners as well and stacked them neatly, proffering them across the conveyor belt.

"What's – " but the sentence broke off as the man stared over Lestrade's shoulder at the glass storefront.

Lestrade turned to follow his gaze.

Bugger, he thought, and was surprised he hadn't gone somewhere more profane with that. The police, of course, were to have been expected, but he'd hoped to have at least taken care of the gun by now. As it was, this was infinitely more dangerous than it could have been. The response had been awfully quick. Someone must have sounded the alarm even before he'd managed to get them all out of there.

And there was the loudspeaker. Christ, they weren't going to make his job easy.

He felt a hand prod into the small of his back, and obeyed as he was pushed in the direction of the doors. Not much else he could do, really, not with a handgun still digging into his temple. He was going to have a hell of a headache later on this evening.

Scanning the officers gathered in front of the shop, he recognized none of them. Not surprising, really; they'd all be from CO19, standing there in tactical vests with weapons of their own, and his division hadn't much to do with them.

He raised both arms in a gesture of helplessness – sorry, guys, didn't mean to make your job harder – and shrugged a little. The gun pressed in harder.

Suddenly, he wished they had just gone without the milk. Where was it, anyway? And the biscuits and the jam for Mrs. Hudson? He'd have to go and find them again. He wasn't bloody well leaving them behind, not after all this.

Besides, he'd welcome a couple of biscuits and a cuppa once this was over. Biscuits, tea, and John. John, he missed John; they hadn't spent nearly enough time together lately, with flu season in full swing at the surgery and this bloody hit-and-run case. That was all right. He'd make up for it tonight. They both needed it.

The loudspeaker droned again, words unintelligible, and Lestrade's brain kicked into high gear as the guns outside were lowered and aim taken.

Bugger, he thought as the man behind him tightened his trembling grip on the gun.

John would have to go out and buy milk himself.

Outside the shop, the squad leader had been holding his men back, waiting to safely clear the hostage before taking down the armed man in the shop.

A single gunshot split the air, and when the hostage fell, the CO19 leader dropped his hand.

Hostage not cleared. Proceed with operation.

John shifted uneasily on the couch. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm," came a vague voice from the other side of a stack of glassware on the dining table. "I'm in the middle of something, John."

"I know, but… I was just… have you heard from Lestrade?"

Sherlock moved around the corner of the table, eyedropper in one hand as he measured glycerol into the solution he had stirring on a hot plate. "The inspector is a busy man, John. You, of all people, should be aware of that."

John sighed. "I suppose. It's just… I know he wanted to get off work early tonight. And he's not answering his phone."

"Lestrade is nothing if not reliable. I'm sure he'll be here as soon as he is able."

John nodded, still frowning, and switched on the television for a temporary distraction.

"Oh, and John?"

"Mmm?"

"We're out of milk."