fic: A Nice Lie-In
Title: A Nice Lie-In
Author: fengirl88
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: John/Lestrade
Rating: R
Warnings: none
Wordcount: 930
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine.
Summary: Sherlock comes back early from a case. Nobody is pleased about this.
A/N: Contains very mild spoilers for series 3 of Sherlock. This one is for impishtubist and thesmallhobbit; I thought it was time I wrote you some fluffy established John/Lestrade for a change.
Lestrade's just making an enormous pot of tea to take up to John (because if ever a man earned himself tea in bed it was John Watson last night) when he hears the front door open and slam.
Oh no. Bloody Sherlock.
Occupational hazard of staying the night at 221b, of course. But he'd thought Sherlock would be safely in Latvia for at least another twenty-four hours.
It's always annoying, the way Sherlock's brain works ten times faster than anyone else's. Most of the time it's also invaluable, and enough to make Lestrade put up with a lot of crap he wouldn't take from anyone else. But every now and then it really is a serious fucking nuisance.
Last night was the first time in ages he and John had had a proper night in, what with one thing and another, mostly work. They'd made remarkably full use of it, considering how knackered they both were. But he'd counted on having a rare chance for a lie-in this morning, and a lot more of the same.
Bugger.
Sherlock thunders up the stairs and bursts into the kitchen talking nineteen to the dozen as usual about how obvious the Riga case was to anyone but an idiot.
“But of course the Latvian police are idiots, hadn't even thought of checking what books he'd been reading in the library -”
He breaks off, staring with a mixture of shock and indignation that Lestrade hasn't seen since the time John introduced him to the Jeremy Kyle Show.
“What the hell is that?” Sherlock demands.
Lestrade looks behind him to see what he's on about now. Kitchen looks much the same as usual, maybe a little bit tidier, but nothing out of the ordinary. Not that ordinary is really a word you can use in this context…
“What?” he says.
Sherlock is still doing a convincing impression of a spooked horse, and probably with about as much reason.
“That,” he says, pointing straight at Lestrade's head.
Oh, for crying out loud.
“Are you referring to my haircut?” Lestrade asks, fighting a strong urge to throttle him. Bad enough having the cockblocking bastard turn up this morning, but if he's going to start throwing a strop about something that is frankly none of his fucking business…
“You look like a convict,” Sherlock says.
“Fuck off,” Lestrade says. “Who asked you, anyway?”
“Is he complaining about my handiwork?” John asks, coming up behind Lestrade and putting his arms around his waist.
Didn't even hear him coming downstairs. Too busy dealing with Sherlock acting up.
Lestrade leans back against John and sighs. John feels warm, and he smells good, and they could be going back to bed right now if it weren't for bloody Sherlock…
“You did this?” Sherlock says accusingly.
He did indeed. Turned the tables on Lestrade, black silk blindfold and all. Lestrade shivers a little, remembering the feel of John's fingers on his neck, the whisper of the scissors and the buzz of the clippers. They'd both been dying for it by the time John finished - so desperate to get to bed that there was no time to clear up after themselves. Did that first thing this morning before he put the kettle on, which is why Sherlock had caught him in the kitchen in the first place.
“That's right,” John says. “Good, isn't it?” He kisses the back of Lestrade's neck, just below the hairline, and then blows on the same spot, which is really unfair.
Lestrade clears his throat. “Told you you'd taken too much off,” he says.
“I like it,” John says smugly. “And it feels amazing.”
You can say that again, Lestrade thinks, remembering John's enthusiastically vocal response to the feel of the new haircut against his thighs, cock and balls...
“Oh, for fuck's sake!” Sherlock explodes, obviously picking up on the dangerously high level of pheromones about the place.
“Mm,” John agrees. “'Course, it's not as good for gripping when it's that short, but -”
“I'm going out,” Sherlock announces, not looking at either of them. “I may be some time.”
“OK, Captain Oates,” Lestrade says breezily. “Mind how you go.”
Sherlock doesn't do anything as undignified as run from the room, but he gets out of there pretty fucking sharpish.
“Well, that's one way of doing it,” Lestrade says, surprised and relieved. Clearly even Sherlock is susceptible to embarrassment, at least on this subject. Worth knowing.
“Seriously,” John says. “I could have sworn he said he'd be gone till tomorrow.”
“Wrapped the case up early,” Lestrade says.
“Typical,” John says. “No consideration for others.”
“Tea should be brewed by now,” Lestrade says. “D'you want it down here, or...?”
“Don't be daft,” John says. “Why do you think I got rid of Sherlock? I haven't had a lie-in for weeks, and I'm going to enjoy this one.”
Some days, Lestrade still can't quite believe his luck. Landing someone who's not only gorgeous and bloody marvellous in bed, but who can actually get Sherlock to fuck off and leave them in peace…
“You've got that look again,” John says.
“What look?”
“The why me? look,” John says, and grins. “Well, if you still don't know, I'd better explain it to you again. Bring your tea, you're going to need it.”
If this is what happens when John cuts his hair, Lestrade doesn't think he'll be going back to the barber's any time soon. Checking first for any suspicious residue, because you can't be too careful in this kitchen, he pours two huge mugs of tea and follows John happily back to bed.
***
The previous hair-cutting incident referred to is the one in Trust.
This fic was inspired in part by discussions on Tumblr of Lestrade's new haircut.
Also posted at http://fengirl88.dreamwidth.org/128289.html with
comments.
Author: fengirl88
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: John/Lestrade
Rating: R
Warnings: none
Wordcount: 930
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine.
Summary: Sherlock comes back early from a case. Nobody is pleased about this.
A/N: Contains very mild spoilers for series 3 of Sherlock. This one is for impishtubist and thesmallhobbit; I thought it was time I wrote you some fluffy established John/Lestrade for a change.
Lestrade's just making an enormous pot of tea to take up to John (because if ever a man earned himself tea in bed it was John Watson last night) when he hears the front door open and slam.
Oh no. Bloody Sherlock.
Occupational hazard of staying the night at 221b, of course. But he'd thought Sherlock would be safely in Latvia for at least another twenty-four hours.
It's always annoying, the way Sherlock's brain works ten times faster than anyone else's. Most of the time it's also invaluable, and enough to make Lestrade put up with a lot of crap he wouldn't take from anyone else. But every now and then it really is a serious fucking nuisance.
Last night was the first time in ages he and John had had a proper night in, what with one thing and another, mostly work. They'd made remarkably full use of it, considering how knackered they both were. But he'd counted on having a rare chance for a lie-in this morning, and a lot more of the same.
Bugger.
Sherlock thunders up the stairs and bursts into the kitchen talking nineteen to the dozen as usual about how obvious the Riga case was to anyone but an idiot.
“But of course the Latvian police are idiots, hadn't even thought of checking what books he'd been reading in the library -”
He breaks off, staring with a mixture of shock and indignation that Lestrade hasn't seen since the time John introduced him to the Jeremy Kyle Show.
“What the hell is that?” Sherlock demands.
Lestrade looks behind him to see what he's on about now. Kitchen looks much the same as usual, maybe a little bit tidier, but nothing out of the ordinary. Not that ordinary is really a word you can use in this context…
“What?” he says.
Sherlock is still doing a convincing impression of a spooked horse, and probably with about as much reason.
“That,” he says, pointing straight at Lestrade's head.
Oh, for crying out loud.
“Are you referring to my haircut?” Lestrade asks, fighting a strong urge to throttle him. Bad enough having the cockblocking bastard turn up this morning, but if he's going to start throwing a strop about something that is frankly none of his fucking business…
“You look like a convict,” Sherlock says.
“Fuck off,” Lestrade says. “Who asked you, anyway?”
“Is he complaining about my handiwork?” John asks, coming up behind Lestrade and putting his arms around his waist.
Didn't even hear him coming downstairs. Too busy dealing with Sherlock acting up.
Lestrade leans back against John and sighs. John feels warm, and he smells good, and they could be going back to bed right now if it weren't for bloody Sherlock…
“You did this?” Sherlock says accusingly.
He did indeed. Turned the tables on Lestrade, black silk blindfold and all. Lestrade shivers a little, remembering the feel of John's fingers on his neck, the whisper of the scissors and the buzz of the clippers. They'd both been dying for it by the time John finished - so desperate to get to bed that there was no time to clear up after themselves. Did that first thing this morning before he put the kettle on, which is why Sherlock had caught him in the kitchen in the first place.
“That's right,” John says. “Good, isn't it?” He kisses the back of Lestrade's neck, just below the hairline, and then blows on the same spot, which is really unfair.
Lestrade clears his throat. “Told you you'd taken too much off,” he says.
“I like it,” John says smugly. “And it feels amazing.”
You can say that again, Lestrade thinks, remembering John's enthusiastically vocal response to the feel of the new haircut against his thighs, cock and balls...
“Oh, for fuck's sake!” Sherlock explodes, obviously picking up on the dangerously high level of pheromones about the place.
“Mm,” John agrees. “'Course, it's not as good for gripping when it's that short, but -”
“I'm going out,” Sherlock announces, not looking at either of them. “I may be some time.”
“OK, Captain Oates,” Lestrade says breezily. “Mind how you go.”
Sherlock doesn't do anything as undignified as run from the room, but he gets out of there pretty fucking sharpish.
“Well, that's one way of doing it,” Lestrade says, surprised and relieved. Clearly even Sherlock is susceptible to embarrassment, at least on this subject. Worth knowing.
“Seriously,” John says. “I could have sworn he said he'd be gone till tomorrow.”
“Wrapped the case up early,” Lestrade says.
“Typical,” John says. “No consideration for others.”
“Tea should be brewed by now,” Lestrade says. “D'you want it down here, or...?”
“Don't be daft,” John says. “Why do you think I got rid of Sherlock? I haven't had a lie-in for weeks, and I'm going to enjoy this one.”
Some days, Lestrade still can't quite believe his luck. Landing someone who's not only gorgeous and bloody marvellous in bed, but who can actually get Sherlock to fuck off and leave them in peace…
“You've got that look again,” John says.
“What look?”
“The why me? look,” John says, and grins. “Well, if you still don't know, I'd better explain it to you again. Bring your tea, you're going to need it.”
If this is what happens when John cuts his hair, Lestrade doesn't think he'll be going back to the barber's any time soon. Checking first for any suspicious residue, because you can't be too careful in this kitchen, he pours two huge mugs of tea and follows John happily back to bed.
***
The previous hair-cutting incident referred to is the one in Trust.
This fic was inspired in part by discussions on Tumblr of Lestrade's new haircut.
Also posted at http://fengirl88.dreamwidth.org/128289.html with
comments.