The office of Inspector Greg Lestrade, usually buzzing with the voices of subordinates and the ringing of telephones, is today enveloped in an unusual silence. Greg himself sits at his desk, buried under piles of documents, his typically confident expression replaced by mild irritation. He hated paperwork.

Spread out before him are reports, forms, and requests from higher-ups—each demanding attention, a signature, or completion. Lestrade mutters under his breath as he shifts one folder onto another, searching for that one document that was due yesterday. His handwriting, usually neat, grows increasingly sloppy as he fills out yet another form.

"Bloody paperwork" he grumbles, leaning back in his chair. "I should be out catching criminals, not stuck here like some clerk."

But rules were rules, and even an experienced inspector like Lestrade had to bow to the bureaucratic machine of Scotland Yard. He sighs, picks up the next folder, and dives back into the sea of documents, dreaming of the moment he can finally step back onto the streets of London, where his work truly matters.