“So where are you going this year?” Greg asked casually, picking up their plates from the kitchen table.
Iain leaned back in his chair slightly. “What?”
“Venice? Timbuktu? New York City?”
Some were!strade for my Pooneybb. <3
Iain sat down across from Greg.
He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to say. Who would, in that situation? Sure, he was a wizard. He’d graduated from one of the most prestingious institutions of magical learning in the world.
But even Hogwarts wasn’t exactly werewolf friendly.
He hadn’t lived what you could call a solitary life. He’d always had plenty of mates — his sister and her kids, his nearest and dearest like Sally, and sometimes — sometimes — a bloke that he was exceptionally keen on.
But despite all of that, he’d gotten rather used to being alone. To having his own space — his own things. He had a very old, very trusted record player that even Sherlock didn’t touch, though why that was, Greg couldnt say. Maybe the idiot boy recognised the sacredness of the little machine — something at last. But it was more likely that it just didn’t hold any interest for him. Greg didn’t have many classical records — and for Sherlock it was generally a case of why bother listening when he could easily play it himself.
A DAY IN THE LIFE, I. Dimmock & Lestrade [1/6]
drabble before sleeps; magic!lock au werewolf problemmmms
With his arm magically stitched up but still limp in his lap, Greg looked up from the floor Iain. Iain seemed panic-stricken, despite the better part of their crisis being over.
“You’ve— you lost a lot of blood,” he murmured, running his hand through his hair. “A lot. You’ll need— a replenishing potion. Or a transfusion, but that’d be hard to explain…”
oh and i wrote this at work (8 but i did it on the computer, in my e-mail teehee tricksy bastard i am
As a police officer, he’d been trained to handle a variety of dangerous, emotionally compromising situations. Grace under fire was an asset, and he had it.
Or, he thought he did. He couldn’t recall a bloody handprint on the door to his own home being in any of the Met’s training programmes.
He was a creature of habit. Of routine, and changeless comfort, and doing the same thing the same way a thousand times because it worked — because new was unnecessary.
Habit was the reason he could open his front door without touching the handle.
Greg had his arms full when he hipchecked the door in just the right place. With a little pressure on the frame, it swung right open, and he grinned — as he always did — when he stepped inside.
idk i should go to sleep