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Pardon my French

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Lestrade had got overconfident, of course. Once he'd managed to kick smoking, he'd reckoned he should tackle some other bad habits. And Personnel had been complaining again about a 'hostile verbal environment' in his office. Though to Lestrade's way of thinking, if coppers couldn't handle people swearing, they were dickheads.

But he'd agreed that his whole team would clean up their mouths this month. Donovan and DC Climpson weren't doing badly, but he was still a flipping disaster area. He'd tried the obvious dodge, swearing in foreign languages, but thanks to Google Translate, even Personnel had eventually worked out what 'menj a faszba' meant in Hungarian.

And - flipping blooming heck - it was about to get worse. Sherlock had just walked into the office, a smirk on his face even bigger than last night. Last night had been flipping marvelous, with some marvelous flipping, but he'd pay for it now, wouldn't he?

"You left these in 221B," Sherlock announced, waving Lestrade's silk boxers in front of an obviously fascinated Donovan. "I was distracted yesterday, didn't realised you habitually ironed your underwear. The obvious deduction is-"

"Sally, you need to find someone to interview," Lestrade said hastily. "But first, do me a favour, please." He pulled a twenty pound note from his wallet. "Go and put this right away in the swear box."