Fic Drabble: Perfect Mornings (Greg)
THINGS YOU NEED TO KNOW:
Rating: Safe. Implied shagging but hey, that's all I seem to do. And frying fingers.
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC). Because that's all I seem to do, also.
Word Count: I didn't keep track because it's a drabble, but I can guess about ~400-500 words.
Summary: For everyone, there are always variables for the ‘perfect morning’. Location, position, lighting, the smell of breakfast, the activities from the previous night. Some people have more than one ‘perfect combo’. Greg was one of those people.
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade, and my Sherstrade parentlock kid Everett Holmes-Lestrade :3
Pairing: TAKE A GUESS. Sherstrade, obviously.
Notes: I own zilch! Except Everett! He's mine.
Tumblr Summary:
I was thinking Sherstrade needed a morning drabble fic.
And then it turned into Parentlock sorry yet not sorry In this story, Everett is five.
I’ll probably do Sherlock’s ‘perfect morning’ later. Maybe.
For everyone, there are always variables for the ‘perfect morning’. Location, position, lighting, the smell of breakfast, the activities from the previous night. Some people have more than one ‘perfect combo’. Greg was one of those people.
Some mornings, Greg would wake up lying on his stomach in bed, next to a Sherlock who had been reading the same book all night long. Half the time, he was alone. Sometimes, he had Everett with him, curled up against his hip with a hand under his chin as he slept. It was quiet, and Sherlock would turn his head to give Greg a smile.
Some mornings, when Everett was younger and it was an off-day, Greg would lay on the couch with the baby sleeping on his chest while he watched an early-morning football game on the telly. Sometimes, he’d fall asleep the previous night there and Sherlock would place Everett on his chest as a surprise for when he woke up. Everett was five now, and he sometimes climbed up on Greg’s abdomin for attention, and it always ended in either one or both of them sleeping.
Some mornings, when Everett was away with Uncle John, the DI would wake up snuggled close to Sherlock (or vise versa) after a night of pleasant doings, and it was always a few minutes after Sherlock awoke. No words would be passed between them. Instead, they would take turns giving back rubs and just enjoying each other’s company without a five-year-old running around screaming.
Those are perfect mornings to Greg. And he wouldn’t change it for the world.
Though, if you asked Greg what the perfect morning had been, he would say his birthday four, almost five years before.
He had violently woken up to the smell of smoke, and the sound of a fire alarm and a wailing eleven-month-old Everett in his cot. Knowing that Sherlock, who was obviously the cause of whatever the smoke came from, could take care of himself, Greg made his way to the nursery. Picking Everett up, he bobbed around and patted the boy’s back in an attempt to calm him. It took a bit of time, but Everett finally settled, his round, brown eyes staring around the room as Greg continued to pat his back. They might not had been biologically connected, but Greg still loved Everett like he was his own.
Sherlock had been experimenting with frying fingers in a frying pan. Though the small argument that ensued was not fun, the agreement they came to on Everett’s behalf was still intact to this day, five years later.
The morning ended with the three of them on the couch, Everett in Sherlock’s lap, and Greg smiling at the events of the day that brought them here to that moment.
Greg didn’t have to have everything go right for a perfect morning.