(no subject)
Title: "Morning Alarm"
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don’t own them.
Word Count: c. 700
Warnings: Inexcusable and pointless fluff; language.
Spoilers: None
Summary: Lestrade doesn’t need an alarm clock. He has Sherlock.
Notes: A fic that was written a few months back for cagedwriter61, who was looking for some S/L cuddling.
“Lestrade.”
“Hm.”
Warm breath ghosted along the shell of his ear. He sighed and burrowed deeper into his pillow, pulling at the blankets until they were at his chin. The body behind him shifted, a long arm tightening its grip around his waist.
“It’s five.”
Lestrade mumbled a thanks and breathed a sigh of relief. There was still time, then. He shuffled closer to the lithe body tucked around him, savoring the warmth radiating off of his companion. There was a bite to the air and the tip of his nose felt cool; even with the heat on, the wintry weather still managed to permeate the flat. And God, was he tired; the type that left an ache in his bones and made his limbs heavy and sluggish. He felt as though he had fallen into bed minutes ago rather than hours, and dreaded already the coming day.
Well. Not all of it, he supposed. He had woken in Sherlock’s arms, after all, which was a fair better start than he normally got most days.
Warm lips brushed across the back of his neck, delivering the barest of kisses. Sherlock’s breath stirred the short hairs there and Lestrade shivered, tucking, if possible, even closer to the detective.
“Five-fifteen,” Sherlock murmured against his skin.
Damn. Already?
Lestrade rolled over so that he was facing Sherlock, putting a hand on his hip and pressing his forehead to Sherlock’s chin. Sherlock looped an arm around his back, drawing him closer, and Lestrade recalled very little of what happened after that. His mind went blank as he settled into a doze once more, and before he knew it lips were pressing against his forehead and Sherlock was saying, “Five-thirty.”
Damn and hell. He found it so much more difficult to get up in the mornings now that he had a good reason to stay behind, and the early hour was no longer a welcome one now that something else besides the work came first in his life. But Sherlock had been uncharacteristically kind to him these past several months, much more so than he deserved, and so he lifted his head, cracked open his eyes, and muttered, “Thank you.”
“I don’t require thanks,” Sherlock pointed out, his voice still low. “It’s practical that I be the one to wake you in the mornings, as I am always awake far earlier than you and can be a good deal more persuasive than an alarm clock.”
“Hmm,” Lestrade muttered, wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s waist and tugging him close. He tucked his head under the sharp chin and added, “You aren’t being very persuasive this morning. I’m finding it rather difficult to justify leaving this bed.”
Sherlock shifted, and two cold feet suddenly wormed their way between his calves. Lestrade gave an undignified yelp and pushed him away; Sherlock stared back at him, eyes glittering with amusement.
“Is that more effective?”
“That was cruel.”
“Then I apologize.” Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his lips to Lestrade’s - chaste, but tender. He drew back. “You still have to get up.”
“Since when did you become so concerned with such mundane aspects of life as work and protocol?” Lestrade muttered, bemused.
“Since I found myself growing uncharacteristically fond of you. The work is important to you; therefore, it is important to me.” Sherlock slipped out of the bed; Lestrade groaned as the blankets were tossed aside and heat began to pour out. May as well get up now, it would seem. “Besides, when you’re gone I can make full use of your kitchen for experiments.”
“Knew there was a catch,” Lestrade grumbled as he stood and stretched. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and was about to head for the bathroom when two arms wrapped around him from behind and Sherlock’s chest pressed against his back. He murmured, “Morning,” against the shell of Lestrade’s ear and, just as quickly as he’d appeared, slipped away again.
He was already halfway out the door, dragging his blue dressing gown across his thin shoulders, by the time Lestrade was able to turn and mutter, “Morning, sunshine,” in his wake.