“Should all be a piece of cake for you, shouldn’t it?”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, but he refused to move. Lestrade was warm — just warm enough to stave off the needy, desperate thoughts.
“With your big brain and all. You should be able to just… talk yourself out of it. Out of wanting…” He faltered. The more he thought about it, the more his lungs ached. The cloudier his mind felt.
Sherlock’s voice was groggy when he spoke up. “It’s just as easy to talk myself into it,” he replied. “To rationalise why a seven percent solution is just what I need.”
Greg rested his head against Sherlock’s. His hand moved up and down the younger man’s arm in what should have been a gesture of comfort — but it wasn’t. It was just restlessness.
His entire body begged for a smoke. His stomach turned. His head ached. His hands wouldn’t stop moving — couldn’t stop jumping around, fiddling with the sheets or Sherlock’s hair — anything they could do to distract him.
Sherlock shifted, nestling his head under Lestrade’s chin. “I couldn’t do this without you, you know.”
Greg exhaled slowly and wrapped both arms tightly around him. “Yeah, you could,” he muttered. “Just gotta find a good enough reason.”
“What’s your reason?”
The corners of his mouth twitched as he kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. “Donno,” he lied. “But I’ll find something.”
Found this in my Saved Drafts. o-o No idea what it was going to be or why it’s there.
“Sher, what are you doing?”
The younger man casually ignored him, continuing to work his fingers deftly over the contours of Greg’s chest. The DI exhaled slowly. It didn’t bother him — the slow, distracting way Sherlock was memorising him — but it did tickle.
“Sherlock…”
He looked up, eyes narrowed slightly. He loved the sound of Greg’s voice — dearly enjoyed the way it resounded in his ears, even when he wasn’t angry. The older man had such a husky, pleasant way of speaking.
“Well, it tickles, lad,” Greg answered — even though Sherlock hadn’t voiced a question. He could read it in his eyes. And such gorgeous, expressive ones, too.
Peanut Butter and Jelly
I have no idea if this is Sherstrade or papa!strade — so I’m just gonna go with an adorable heaping of both. Very fluffy and paternal and SEND HELP, I’m out of peanut butter.
Sherlock wasn’t much for sleeping — but it did happen occasionally. He had a tendency to inopportunely doze off, although he hardly ever did it in a reasonable place. His preferred resting locations were limited to his favourite leather chair, and a worn, green sofa in Lestrade’s sitting room. For reasons inexplicable to science, both offered a unique and incomparable comfort that made his spontaneous napping almost worthwhile.
And his sofa was exactly where Greg Lestrade found Sherlock when he returned home from work. Half past five, and the young consulting detective had curled up under a coat he’d no doubt snatched from the hall closet. A more sensible person might have just wandered into the bedroom and used the blankets — but Sherlock routinely wormed his way into Greg’s clothes for no better reason than he found the scent reassuring.
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Latissimus Dorsi: A Sherstrade Drabble
Also, here. This is the drabble I was working on that accompanies GB’s GORGEOUS DOODLE from yesterday. I was gonna try and edit it, and actually make something of it, but I wrote it in the wee hours, and now I don’t care. WHATEVER BRO, IT’S STILL CUTE & SHERSTRADE.
“Sher…”
Sherlock looked up as Greg’s voice broke the stillness. The old detective lifted his head from his pillow and glanced over his shoulder, blearily trying to find him in the darkness.
“What’re you doin?” He slurred, still half-asleep.
Sherlock shushed him, and returned his hand to the middle of Greg’s back. “There’s something wrong here,” he answered quietly.
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Slightly-porny-Wizlock!Anon, you are wonderful. Slight porn is perfect. Any more and my whiskers would have turned red.
But this is just god damn adorable.
SUBMITTED BY THE MOST WONDERFUL AND PERFECT AND FABULOUS CASTIOWL
—-
Greg gripped his broom tighter as he watched the slim, pallid figure decked in dark green and silver stride toward him and his teammates across the massive Quidditch pitch.
“Shake hands,” Madame Hooch commanded briskly.
Greg stuck out his hand first and Sherlock took it firmly. “Try not to fall off your broom again, Lestrade.” The Slytherin captain sneered at his Gryffindor counterpart.
Greg reddened in spite of himself, but he shot back, “Try keeping your massive ego out of the way of my club.” He shouldered the wooden bat with a smirk.
Madame Hooch cleared her throat. “Keep it fair and clean, please! Don’t want another scene like the last time.” She muttered the last part under her breath. “Mount your brooms!”
Greg and Sherlock backed away towards their respective teams and did as they were told. Sherlock flipped his robe behind him carelessly, Greg swallowed, and they were off.
Greg shot towards the nearest bludger, the wind roaring in his ears so that any commentary from the stands was incomprehensible. He caught up to the black iron ball, flew past it, then whipped around just in time to send his bat cracking down on it, forcing it towards a blond Slytherin girl. He took a breath to check the score. Still zilch to zilch. Greg rushed back into the game.
Sherlock was, as ever, at the height of the action. A quaffle tucked under his arm, he dodged a bludger by twisting upside-down. The crowd cried out and he smiled a little. Something tugged at the back of his mind – a thought he wasn’t quite able to quash down: I wonder if Greg saw that.
It was such an alarming thought, he didn’t notice the brawny Gryffindor chaser speed towards him. They collided and somewhere in the scuffle of gold and green, Sherlock lost the quaffle. He let out his breath with a huff.
Greg hadn’t seen the debacle, but he had heard it from the announcer and he almost didn’t believe it. Sherlock had the best no-fumble record in Hogwarts history, but Greg couldn’t dwell – a bludger was headed straight towards Dimmock.
The game raged on for hours, neither team giving way. With the score at 120 to 130, Slytherin leading, Greg was beginning to wish anything at all would happen. It had been a fairly civil game, too, with only three fouls (Slytherin at fault for each). Anderson, the seeker for the Slytherin team, had come very close to a broken hand; his broom had gotten most of the impact, its splintered tip looking dangerously weapon-like now. Greg took responsibility for that.
Even Sherlock was losing his limelight luster; his usual M.O. of stealth and covert vindictiveness was giving way to blatant cruelty. And he was taking riskier dives and barrel rolls and feints to score goals.
Then, something happened. Taking aim, Greg slammed his bat into a bludger. It was without hesitation – at this point, he was seeing green and aiming – but he regretted it as soon as it happened.
The bludger flew straight and true, right into the small of Sherlock’s back. There was a moment of complete silence, the crowd dying down with bated breath. A Slytherin beater rushed over, too late.
And Sherlock fell.
With the same lack of hesitation that had caused this, Greg dove. The announcer was saying something again, practically screaming, but none of that mattered. This was his fault. If something happened…
Sherlock was ten yards from the ground. Nine. Eight. Seven.
Greg reached out a hand and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist. The extra weight dragged the broom a few yards down before the two finally stopped just a foot above the grass. Greg let Sherlock down slowly and let his own broom fall to the turf.
“Sherlock! Sher- Sherlock, are you all right?”
The Slytherin boy grunted and his forehead was pinched in pain.
“Jesus,” Greg whispered. “I- I’m so sorry. I didn’t-“ But his apology was lost as Madame Hooch shoved him aside, and he watched helplessly as she and a few professors carried Sherlock’s limp body away.
«That’s just the nature of the Sherlock and Lestrade dynamic - the lines are going to blur. The true definition of what they are to one another is always going to be ambiguous, and people are going to give them lots of questioning glances and there will always be whispers of, “Well, are they…?” And even they don’t know how to define their relationship but that’s okay, because they’ve been looking for one another their entire lives without realizing it. Then they found each other, and it’s been wonderful. And that’s all that they need to know.»
— imp had feels in my askbox and now i’m going to cry because perfect feels are perfect
