childish wonder, case one, irish tourists:

Aka. Common themes and common people
'I get bored pretty easily'

Rosalie sat comfortably on Lestrade's desk, legs swinging casually, one booted foot tapping against the edge of a pile of paperwork. The office was a typical cluttered mess, with files everywhere and an air of long days spent trying to piece together puzzles no one else could solve. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead buzzed softly, filling the otherwise quiet space as Lestrade flipped through a set of case file.

She was bored, as usual, tapping her fingers against the side of the desk, her lighter still in hand, flicking the flame on and off absentmindedly. Her eyes wandered around the room, noting the various police insignia and the worn leather chair that Lestrade always seemed to use when he was too tired to stand. Rosalie had been in this office countless times, but today, something was different. The air felt heavy, like they were on the verge of something new.

Lestrade finally slammed a folder down in front of him, his brow furrowed as he took in the details.

"Another Irish tourist," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to her. He rubbed his eyes, clearly frustrated.

Rosalie perked up, her interest piqued. She pushed herself off the desk and leaned over, reading the case notes from where she stood. "What, another one? How many now?"

Lestrade sighed, flipping through more files. "Five. All found dead in the last two weeks. All Irish, all tourists. It's starting to look like it's connected, but we don't have a clear motive yet."

Rosalie tilted her head, intrigued. "Huh. That's strange. Are they all in the same area?"

"No," Lestrade replied, pausing to run a hand through his hair. "Different parts of the city. It's all over the place, but there's something about it that doesn't sit right with me."

Rosalie's lips curled into a small grin as she leaned back against the desk, arms crossed. "Well, if the pattern's right, I'm next, aren't I?" She paused, glancing at Lestrade out of the corner of her eye, as if waiting for him to catch on. "Irish, migrant, same thing... I'm pretty sure the dead tourist quota's got my name on it."

Lestrade's expression immediately darkened, his eyes narrowing at her. "Rosalie, that's not funny."

She blinked at him, feigning confusion. "What? I thought I was hilarious." Her voice was light, but there was a flicker of something darker beneath her playful tone.

Lestrade didn't crack a smile. His eyes remained steady, but there was a quiet seriousness in his gaze that made her pause. "It's not a joke, Rosalie. People are dead. Irish tourists are turning up all over London, and we need to figure out why. Not everything's a joke, especially when it involves someone losing their life."

Rosalie looked at him for a moment, her expression unreadable. The flicker of amusement in her eyes dimmed as she took in his serious tone. "Yeah, alright. Sorry." She glanced down, shifting uncomfortably, but then shrugged, trying to shake off the tension. "I just... you know. Sometimes it feels like it's always something, and I can't exactly change what happens around me. So, I joke."

Lestrade leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. He watched her carefully, noting the shift in her demeanor. "I get that you cope with humor, Rosalie. But jokes like that, especially in this kind of situation... it's not just about you anymore. It's about respect for the victims, and the people who are trying to make sense of it all."

She met his gaze again, her face softening just slightly. "Yeah. I get it. I'm not good at... thinking about things that matter, I guess."

Lestrade's eyes softened, just a bit, but his voice was still firm. "You're more capable of it than you think. But you need to learn that there's a time for jokes and a time for focus. Right now, we've got a case to crack."

Rosalie sighed, leaning back against the desk again. She didn't respond, but she could tell Lestrade wasn't going to let this one go. He wasn't mad, not exactly—but it was clear he wasn't going to humor her this time. She supposed that was fair. People dying wasn't funny, not to anyone.

"So, what's the next step?" Rosalie asked, her voice a little quieter now, no longer playful.

Lestrade paused for a second, clearly thinking. "We're going to review the connections. The locations, the timing, who was around them, what they were doing—everything. We need to figure out if this is one person, or if something larger's at play here."

Rosalie nodded. "Sounds like a lot of work."

"It is," he agreed, looking back at her. "And, Rosalie, I mean it when I say you need to stay out of this one. It's dangerous. These kinds of things get messy, and I don't want you involved in any more than you have to be."

She rolled her eyes, though there was no real defiance in the gesture. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm just here for the fun of it."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "You might be, but for some people, it's not fun at all."

Rosalie bit the inside of her cheek, her gaze momentarily flitting to the case files again. There was a lot of information in front of them—too much for her to ignore completely. But she also didn't know if she wanted to dig deeper. She never did. People always got hurt in these kinds of things. She knew that better than anyone.

"Fine, I'll back off," Rosalie said, swinging her legs a little as she tried to act nonchalant. But the truth was, something about this case gnawed at her. The way the victims were connected by something as simple as their nationality—it felt too close to home in a way she didn't want to explore.

Lestrade nodded, relieved that she was at least acknowledging his request. "Good. But if you do find yourself getting curious, you let me know, alright? I'll keep you in the loop when I can. Just... don't push it."

Rosalie smirked, swinging off the desk and standing up, her boots thudding lightly on the floor. "Yeah, yeah. I'll be good. But you know me, Lestrade... I get bored pretty easily."

"Try to stay out of trouble, alright?" he warned, though there was a hint of affection in his voice.

She grinned at him, her usual bravado returning. "I'll try. But no promises."