warnings : suggestive, reader wants greg bad, nothing explicit tho cause i don't like writing that stuff, greg and reader have a baby, greg in a tank top and maybe slight cursing i don't remember, not proofread
a/n : bro the chokehold this man has on me is cray
wc : 1.1K
summary : greg is fixing things at home with his son resting on his hip, y/n can only focus on his big strong arms
Greg returned home from a long day at the yard. He draped his coat on the couch as he lazily walked into the kitchen. As he pulled his tie off, he glanced around the room, finding no trace of his wife. He made no move to take his shoes off, knowing he had work to do before he could fully settle in for the evening.
“Y/n,” he called softly as he climbed the stairs, conscious that his son might finally be sleeping after a particularly restless night. Receiving no response, he opened the door to his shared bedroom and his gaze settled on Y/n’s sleeping form.
He let a small smile grace his lips and he closed the door. His dress shoes clicked down the hall as he peeked into the nursery. At the sound of quiet babbling, he entered. His smile grew as he crossed the room and found his seven month old staring at the ceiling, kicking his feet and laughing.
“What’s going on, mate?” Greg asked as he picked his baby up. He had Greg’s doe eyes and his perfectly straight nose. The silver haired man pressed a quick kiss to the top of his son’s head and shifted to let him rest on his hip.
“Lets go downstairs before you wake mom up, huh?” He unbuttoned his shirt with one hand as he descended the stairs. Greg grabbed the baby carrier off the floor near the garage and set it on the kitchen counter.
His brown eyes scanned the kitchen before landing on the cabinet that needed fixing. With the baby still settled on his hip, he walked into the garage, retrieved his tools, and returned.
The baby fussed as he was set down and strapped into the carrier. “Just for a minute,” Greg mumbled as he pulled his shirt off, leaving him in his white tank top. He carefully pulled all the dishes out of the cabinet and set them on the counter opposite him.
His son was not having it, he started to cry as Greg continued his work. Setting the last dish down, he returned his attention to his little bundle of tears. “C’mon, mate. It was two seconds.” He smiled softly as he picked his son up, bouncing him slightly as he paced around the kitchen. The cries subsided and Greg returned to the cabinet, screw driver in hand. He shifted the seven month old to his hip and started replacing the damaged screws. His brows pinched together in concentration and he missed the way Y/n appeared in the doorway.
Y/n leaned against the doorframe, taking in her husband's form. His brown trousers hanging low on his hips, white tank top tucked in and secured by a brown leather belt. His hair was slightly mussed, she assumed he was probably running his hands through his hair on the drive home from work, as he usually did. His arms were flexed as he held the baby on his hip with one and tightened screws with the other. There was sweat starting to bead at the nape of his neck.
Suddenly Y/n felt the urge to give her son a sibling. He let out a small grunt as he tightened the final screw. Y/n could feel her cheeks growing warmer by the second.
He let the screw driver clatter to the counter as he turned to his baby. “We did it! Good job, mate!” He held his hand up for a high five, beaming with pride as a small hand collided with his large one.
Greg looked up as a soft sigh reached his ears. He smirked, taking in his wife’s gaze. He looked back at his son. “Time for a nap, I think,” He whispered as he watched a small yawn escape from his baby’s lips.
He smiled to himself as he walked past his wife, letting his warm shoulder brush hers ever so slightly as he retreated to the nursery.
He returned moments later, finding his wife sitting on the kitchen island, taking in his form with a devious smirk on her lips. He walked over, standing between her legs and planted his hands on either side of her.
“What are you plotting, woman?” He teased as he playfully cocked his head to the side.
She smiled and leaned in. “Oh, nothing.” She was centimeters away from his soft lips. He pulled back.
“Lying has never gotten you what you want, love.” He walked back over to the open cabinet and started putting the dishes away. Y/n leaned her head back in frustration and let out a small huff. She hopped off the counter and attempted a different move.
He was reaching up, his tank top stretching, letting his broad shoulders maneuver. His eyes widened as Y/n sat on the counter in front of him, lazily playing with her chain around her neck.
“Can I help you?” He asked, his eyes sweeping over her figure.
“I think he needs a brother, or maybe a sister.” Oh so we’re being honest now, Greg thought.
He leaned in close and said, “You’re far too eager, my love.” His breath ghosted over her ear and she fought back a shiver. Greg smiled as he proved his point.
His quiet control is infuriating, he’s far too calm and composed for his own good.
Y/n peered up at him through her eyelashes. “Please?”
He planted himself in front of her and ran a finger over her jaw. “Well, since you asked so nicely.” He leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Y/n’s lips. He pulled away too soon, Y/n’s lips still chasing his.
“Greg,” Y/n whined. “Don’t be mean.”
He smiled victoriously as he returned to putting the dishes away. “Tell you what,” He started, not looking at her pleading eyes. “Let me finish up and then you and I,” His eyes met hers, “can start coming up with a list of names. He started walking towards a dish set just out of arms reach, when Y/n grabbed hold of one of his belt loops. He turned and let her pull him in.
She let her fingers tighten their hold of the loops on either side of his waist and looked into his eyes, smile gone, the teasing replaced with want.
“Don’t take too long,” She said and pressed a soft kiss to his jaw before releasing her grip on his hips.
summary : greg is on an adrenaline high after winning a soccer match and it's driving his roommates crazy
a/n : so self indulgent i can't, i have so many thought about this man
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“Greg, are you really going to leave this mug in the sink?” John asked, washing his cereal bowl.
“No time, I have to get to class!” Greg shouted as he ran out the door. “I’ll do it later!” The door slammed shut behind him.
John groaned as he began washing his roommate's dishes for what felt like the millionth time that week.
“You know, John,” Sherlock started, appearing from the living room. “I wonder how long he would go without doing dishes if you just stopped doing them. I suspect at least a week and a half.”
“Not now, Sherlock, I’ll talk to him about it later.”
This was it, a tie game and time was running out. A header was just dropped in the corner. He reached the ball first, before he could second guess his actions, he swung his leg into the ball. His heart hammering in his chest was the only reason he knew time didn’t stop. The ball was just out of reach from the goalie. He scored. The whistle blew. Game over.
Greg’s body was faster than his brain. He was running across the field, before he knew it, he pulled his shirt clean off over his head.
In the stands, Sherlock shook his head in disgust. “A primitive display, truly.”
“Oh, shut up Sherlock and just be happy for our friend!” John replied back, clapping for his friend.
Next to John, stood Y/n, her eyes trained on the shirtless midfielder running around looking for her. His eyes finally found her and he was beaming. His face was practically radiating light. His teammates had all shed their jerseys in solidarity and were jumping on him. Greg Lestrade had never felt more alive.
“What a game!” He exclaimed as he opened the door to the apartment. He held it open as his roommates and girlfriend entered. He closed it just as Sherlock cleared the entryway, almost catching the tall man’s scarf in the hinge.
Greg scooped Y/n up in his arms and spun her around. “We won! I can't believe it!”
Y/n giggled as she pushed Greg’s damp curls out of his eyes. “You did it, baby, I’m so proud of you!” She pressed a kiss to his jaw as he set her down.
“Gross.” Sherlock hung up his coat as he turned from the gross display of affection.
Y/n stayed in the brown eyed boy’s embrace for a few more seconds before breaking away. “It’s pretty late,” She started, meeting his excited eyes.
Before she could finish, Greg cut her off. “Stay!” He exclaimed abruptly. “Stay with me, we can talk, eat something, study, whatever!”
She tilted her head gently and gave him a smile. “You know I have to go back home.”
“Well, then I’ll walk you!” He said, grabbing his hoodie that he had left on the couch a few days ago and handing it to his girlfriend. She accepted it gratefully and the pair took off towards her dorm. Before they were gone, John heard Greg say “Race to the end of the hall?” and the sound of rushed footsteps.
It had been two days since the soccer match and Greg was still buzzing with excitement. They had all weekend off and he used all his pent up adrenaline to get the apartment spick and span.
At first, it was a nice surprise. John woke up the day after the match to find all the dishes washed and the living room spotless. On a normal Saturday, Greg wouldn’t be up until noon, so John was flabbergasted when he saw Greg in the bathroom cleaning the shower.
All the rooms were clean and every surface was shining. In two days, Greg had mopped every floor, fixed every loose cabinet, gone grocery shopping twice, and scrubbed every surface in the apartment. By day three, it was too much. Sherlock was on the couch, purposefully knocking things to the floor to watch Greg turn around and put it back. John was attempting to read his textbook for his exam on Thursday without strangling his roommate that kept talking as he completed task after task.
“Do we need more milk? I can go to the sto-“
“Greg, you just bought milk.”
“Then do we need more turkey? I can he-“
“Greg, we do not need anything from the store.”
Greg let out a sigh and walked into the living room. He looked around before dropping to the floor.
“One. Two. Three.” John looked over the coffee table to see what his roommate was doing. “Four. Five. Six.” Pushups, of course he was doing pushups.
“It’s fascinating," Sherlock stated as Greg finished his 43rd push up.
“Forty Five. What is?” Greg asked.
“That the kinetic energy you accumulated from the adrenaline brought on by the most recent match is still flowing through your body.”
Greg ignored his roommate and concentrated on his workout.
He was on push-up 72 when he heard the familiar sound of a key fitting into a lock. He bolted up and rushed to the door.
Before checking to see who it was, he pulled the door open, revealing Y/n.
His smile grew bigger and he pulled her into a warm embrace.
“Hi! You look lovely! Hi! What’s going on? Come inside!” He shut the door and held her hand. “Would you like something? Coffee? Tea?” He questioned as he led her into the kitchen. “John? Do you want anything? Sherlock? Coffee? Tea? Biscuits? Ground beef and ri-“
“Get him out of here!” John snapped suddenly.
Greg’s head snapped up. “What? I’m just being helpful!” He defended.
“Yes, I’m sorry. You’re just trying to be helpful but it’s been three days of non-stop movement!”
“No it hasn’t.”
“Sit on the couch, Gregory.”
Greg walked quickly to the couch. He bounced his knee before standing up and walking around the coffee table.
John turned towards Y/n and sent her a pleading look. “Please. I beg. Take him on a walk.”
Y/n glanced over at Greg.
He was still beaming. “I don’t know how to stop.”
She laughed and pulled him towards the door. “C’mon babe, let’s go.” The pair bounded off out of the apartment.
As they crossed the quad, Greg felt his body stop vibrating. “I’m sorry,” He said after a while.
Y/n stopped walking. “Babe, what are you sorry for?” He turned his body to face her.
“For being too…” He couldn’t think of the word. “I don’t know. I just, I couldn’t control my body. I thought we were going to lose and in my head I was ready to be upset. Then we won and,” He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
She took a step closer and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Greg, you have nothing to be sorry for.” She started lightly trailing her fingernails up and down the nape of his neck. “Your body reacted to an event, it happens. It’s not your fault.”
He rested his forehead against hers, letting his body finally reset.
“Can I tell you a secret?” He whispered.
“Tell me.”
“The last three nights I’ve been doing pushups in my room and rearranging the furniture instead of sleeping.”
Y/n let out a small giggle and leaned her head back. “Oh, Greg,” she breathed as she calmed herself down. He smiled at her, not his bright, beaming, adrenaline induced smile, but a soft, gentle smile. “Ready to go back?”
Greg nodded in response and they slowly walked back to the apartment.
The next afternoon John returned from his class and found Sherlock sitting on the couch. “It’s quiet in here, Greg must still be in class.” He let out a breath and muttered, “God help whoever sits next to him.”
Y/n opened the door a few minutes after John had settled in the living room. “Hey guys! Is Greg here?” She asked.
“No, I figured he was with you or in class.”
Y/n looked between the two friends. “No, I haven’t seen him today,” she muttered.
Sherlock looked around the apartment. “Nothing has been moved since he disappeared into his room last night. Not the norm since his kinetic burst.”
Y/n didn’t wait another minute before checking his room. She darted down the hall, calling his name. “Greg?” She pushed the door open and her eyes landed on the lump underneath a pile of blankets.
Greg was passed out, arm hanging off the side of the bed, face buried in the pillow, snoring softly. Y/n walked over slowly, as though any sudden movement would disturb his peace. “Greg, honey?” No reply.
“It appears his body has forced a reset.” Sherlock analyzed.
“Rest is probably the best thing for him,” John agreed.
Y/n laid down next to him, tucking his arm under the blanket. She curled into his side and brushed a stray hair out of his face.
The next morning Y/n awoke to a pained groan in her ear.
She opened her eyes and found her boyfriend’s eyebrows pinched together and his eyes squeezed shut.
“Good morning sleeping beauty,” She teased.
He let out a hum of protest. As he tried burying his head into his girlfriend's shoulder, John walked into the room with a glass of water and some painkillers.
“Mate, next time you win a match, you can stay with her, got it?” He said as he set down the glass. Greg let out another groan of annoyance.
“Ah, it seems that domestication has overridden the adrenaline, I wond-” Sherlock's observation was cut off as a pillow collided with his face.
“Let me sleep,” He mumbled into Y/n’s shoulder. She let out a quiet laugh and ran her hands through his hair.
warnings : swearing, bullying (not greg), minor descriptions of injuries
a/n : bro he's consuming my brain
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College!greg who is a C student in all his general education classes, but a B+ student on classes pertaining to his major
College!greg who is in tutoring every week during finals, fighting for his life to maintain a somewhat decent GPA
College!greg who is captain of the college rugby team and could have gone pro of he didn’t fracture his shoulder in his junior year
College!greg who also played futbol and would 100% take his shirt off if he scored
College!greg who is roommates with a guy named John Watson who is majoring in medicine and another guy named Sherlock Holmes, who is a complete ass, who is getting his masters in ethical hacking
College!greg who played electric guitar in his rock and roll band during his sophomore year
College!greg who says “lets go study outside”, gets the whole friend group together, brings a soccer ball ‘just in case’, never actually looks at a single book, gets back to the dorm and goes ‘damn i was looking for this!’ and pulls out the book he was supposed to be studying the whole time
College!greg who listens to his friend Molly, who is in his victimology class, ramble on and on about how cute she thinks his roommate, Sherlock, is
College!greg who tries to set them up, but accidentally ended up meeting Sherlock in the cafe for a ‘study date ♡”
College!greg who overhears his rugby teammates planning to lock his roommate Sherlock in the locker room, strip him down, take photos and post them
College!greg who returns to the dorm with a busted lip, a black eye, and bruises all over his body and tells Sherlock not to worry about it and 'go to sleep already' after Sherlock figured out it was about him
College!greg who is now friends with Sherlock Holmes
College!greg who falls in love five times a day during his first year
College!greg who falls in love during his junior year after nearly crashing into the most beautiful woman he has ever seen while booking it to get to class on time after he slept in
College!greg who loves to flirt but is actually horrible at it, who says “I don’t usually do this until after the first date, but hey, you only live once.”
College!greg who is now sitting in class, daydreaming about the girl he fell on, not paying attention to the professor that he was in such a hurry to listen to
College!greg who is also internally dying because why was that the line that his brain decided to use
College!greg who sees the girl again the next day in the library and hides his face in a book so she won’t recognize him
College!greg who is panicking when she notices him anyway and walks right over
College!greg who now has a date for this saturday
College!greg who is quickly realizing that this time it feels different than all the other ladies he's liked before
College!greg who has been dating this girl his entire junior year and is starting to have serious conversations
College!greg who buys a ring his senior year and keeps it somewhere on him at all times
College!greg who is about to strangle one of his best friends sherlock holmes after he nearly tells Y/n about the ring
College!greg who can't sleep for weeks before the proposal, causing a slight dip in his grades
College!greg who proposes shortly before graduation
summary : greg is a dumb college boy who doesn’t know how to talk to women
a/n : he’s so cute i can’t
warning : language, i think one suggestive comment, not proofread.
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Greg was walking out of the library, his good friend John Watson in tow. “I mean,” Greg started, “I just don’t get it.” The pair weaved between the crowds of students walking around the campus. “All he does is sit in the dorm all day. Doesn’t go to the dining hall, doesn’t go to any of the parties, none of the games, hardly attends classes, yet he has the nerve to tell me I’m doing alright for a ‘sub par student’?” Greg veered off the path and walked onto a patch of grass, lazily dropping his backpack.
John let out a sigh and flopped down onto the grass. “I don’t know, look, don’t pay him any mind.” The blonde raked a hand through his hair and pulled a notebook out of his bag. “You and I both know Sherlock doesn’t understand human behaviour.” John paused. “Well at least not on the most basic level.” He opened his textbook and started jotting down notes. Greg pulled a football out of his bag and worked on his juggling. All around them, other students bustled around, the looming cloud of finals dampening the mood worse than a hurricane. Though there was one person this hurricane hadn’t touched. Molly Hooper.
Molly was as cheerful as ever as she plopped down on the grass next to John. “Hi boys!” She said, her tone light and airy.
“Hey Molly.” Greg replied, his eyes never leaving the football. John nodded as he continued reading. “Have any of you seen Sherlock? I finished reading that book he wanted to borrow!” She inquired after their roommate.
“Probably sitting in the dorm, thinking up all the ways he’s going to be a jac-” Greg was cut off by John, who had finally looked up from his textbook.
“In the dorm.” He said politely, attempting to recover Greg’s remarks. “At least, if I had to guess.”
Molly’s smile changed from one of patient listening to a smile with a hint of mischief. She ducked her head and started pretending to read a book. “Don’t look now boys, but here comes Mary and Y/n!” Both John and Greg’s heads snapped from where they were previously looking to the direction that Molly had nodded to. “You boys are so, painfully, obvious.” She huffed.
Greg’s eyes widened and he felt his palms grow slick. He caught the ball in his hand and looked at Molly desperately. “Quiz me!” He whisper-yelled.
“What?” Molly asked, slight exasperation evident from the way she cocked her head to the side.
“Just quiz me from the book!”
“You haven’t even read this book!”
“Please!”
Mary and Y/n were only a few yards away now, soon to be within earshot. Greg sent Molly one last pleading look. She smiled and shook her head, but started asking questions anyway.
“In which year was the periodic table created?”
Greg started juggling the ball again. “Uh, 1936.” He said, eyes trained on the ball.
“Correct!” Molly lied, turning to a random page. “Which metal is so corrosive, it can dissolve glass?”
Greg bit his lip in concentration. “Mm, pretty sure it’s carbon.”
“Right again.”
Y/n and Mary had stopped to discuss something only a few feet away. This was it, this was Greg’s chance to make a move. However, John was faster. John had popped up from his spot in the grass, knocked the ball out of Greg’s foot, and decided to kick it at Mary. It hit her in the leg.
“Ow!” She yelped. She whipped around to see what had hit her. She saw the ball and looked over at the man who had been previously juggling. John jogged over to her. “So sorry about that! My friend,” John looked over at Greg. “He doesn’t always have the best maneuver for getting the ball from his foot to his knee.” Mary picked the ball up and inspected it.
“Your friend fancies himself to be a footballer?” She quipped, tossing the ball to John.
John let out a small laugh as he caught the ball. “Uh, yeah, I suppose so.” He dropped the white and black ball to the ground and pinned it under his foot.
“And what about you?” Mary questioned, biting her lip and looking John up and down. “Are you a footballer?” He let out a panicked, high pitched ‘ha’ and tried to discretely wipe the sweat off his palms.
While John got to stand there and flirt with the girl he had liked for a few weeks now, Greg stood a few feet behind him, dumbfounded at his friend's actions. A gentle voice brought him out of his somewhat brooding thoughts. “You could always go up to her and say hi.” Molly suggested.
“No way!” He replied, moving to sit in the grass. “Go up to her and say what? ‘Hi, I’m Greg. I think you’re really pretty and I’d like to take you out’,” He mocked.
Molly looked around, wondering if this was real. “Yes?” She paused, waiting for her idiot friend to say just kidding or pranked ya or something that would indicate that he wasn’t a complete dummy. “That’s exactly what you say?” She paused and wondered what the alternative was. “What else would you do?” She questioned.
“Kick the ball at her. Then go over and say, “Are you okay? I’m so sorry! I promise I’m better with my hands than I am with my aim.”
Molly threw her book at him. “That is not how we talk to women.”
“Ow! I didn’t even get to say it so it doesn’t matter.” Greg shook his head and started pulling at the grass. “Guess I’ll actually study since that backstabbing slut if a friend stole my ball.” He rolled his eyes and pulled his textbook out of his bag.
He was reading about the different types of profiling techniques when a soccer ball hit him on the side of the head. He whipped his head around to see the prettiest girl in the whole world jogging over to him.
“Are you okay? I’m so sorry!” She exclaimed as she approached the brown haired boy.
He smiled and rose to his feet. “I’m perfect.” He mumbled. The tips of his ears went pink as he realized what he said. “I’m perfectly fine, perfectly fine, thank you.”
Molly slapped herself in the face with her book.
“I swear, I was just trying to pass it back to you! But I guess my aim isn’t as good as I thought.” She started rambling. She was cute when she rambled.
“Hi.” Greg started. “I’m Greg.” He stuck his hand out.
“Y/n.” She shook his hand and offered a small smile.
“Look, I know we don’t really know each other, but I think you’re really pretty.” He took a breath. “Would you like to go get coffee with me some time?”
summary : breakfast at the lestrade house, only nobody told the lestrades
a/n: lowkey a crack fic disguised as a fluff fic. i love this man sm its embarassing
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The early morning sun started to peak through the curtains. Everything in the room was painted in its golden light. The room was silent, except for the light breathing and occasional soft sigh. Y/n was under a mess of blankets and sheets, tangled with her husband’s limbs. He always looked so peaceful in the morning.
His hair was tousled and sticking up in all different directions. The rise and fall of his strong shoulders was deep and slow. He smelled faintly of wood and vanilla.
Weekends were a nice break from the stress. Lestrade would never call himself a morning person. If it were acceptable, he would stay in bed until noon.
Today was no different. It was a slow Saturday morning. Y/n cleared their schedule so her husband could finally get some rest. He had just finished closing three separate cases the night before.
He let out a small grunt of annoyance as the light hit his eyes. Y/n pressed a soft kiss to his nose.
“‘S too early,” he grumbled. His wife merely giggled and cuddled into his side. He let a small smile grace his lips as he tightened his arms around her middle. They remained glued together for another twenty minutes before Y/n pressed a kiss to the side of his jaw and untangled herself.
The shower turned on and Greg sat up just in time to see clothes being tossed from the bathroom to the basket of dirty clothes in the bedroom. Before he could make a comment that would have Y/n Holmes flushing scarlet, the doorbell rang.
“Babe!” Y/n called. “Can you go check the door? I have a new stand mixer arriving and I don’t want it sitting outside!”
The brown eyed man yawned before getting up and shouting a half asleep ‘yeah’. He slowly walked down the stairs and approached the front door. He scratched the side of his head before opening the door.
Rather than a large heavy package at his door, the inspector found a man in a long blue trenchcoat.
“Morning Inspector!” Sherlock was cheerful, far too cheerful for seven thirty in the morning. Behind Sherlock was Mycroft, fighting- and losing- the smirk off his face.
“It’s seven in the morning, why are you here?”
“Seven in the morning is a perfectly acceptable time to accept callers.” Mycroft teased.
Greg stared blankly, hoping he was just having hallucinations. “Goodbye,” He said and started to close the door. However, Sherlock was faster. He shoved his foot in the door and wiggled his head inside.
“I would like to see you in your natural habitat.”
Again, Greg stared. He let out a deep sigh as the brothers entered the home.
“Are we at the stage where we no longer have to try to look our best when we see one another?” Mycroft quipped, looking Greg up and down.
Greg glanced down, for the first time, he realized that he was wearing only a pair of pink boxers that had tigers on them. His ears decided that was the time to color match with his boxers.
“I was asleep,” The D.I. defended.
“Oh we can tell,” Sherlock replied as he walked around the living room. “Hair disheveled, pink lipstick on your collarbone, must’ve been a late night.” He turned and winked at his brother in law.
Greg nearly choked on air. “What-”
“Please, Sherlock!” Mycroft explained. “There is no need to narrate. They are married, we all know what married people get up to.”
“You’re the one who wanted to come and pay them a visit.” Sherlock said in an accusatory tone.
“Did not!” Mycroft argued.
“Did too!”
“Did not”
“Boys!” Greg interrupted. “It is far too early to listen to you guys argue.”
“And it is far too embarrassing for you to be greeting your guests in nothing, yet here we are.” Sherlock teased back.
Greg let out a groan of annoyance.
From upstairs the shower turned off. “Love, who is it?”
“Your favorite brother!” Sherlock yelled up the stairs.
“Mycroft is here?” She teased back.
“Love,” Greg called up the stairs. “How do I get rid of two large rats?”
“You’re the man of the house, kick them out.”
“Ah yes,” Sherlock started. “The man of the house. The floral arrangements look terrified of you.”
“Oh shut up, will ya?” Greg started, he was still tired and Sherlock’s annoying comments were doing nothing to encourage non violent thoughts.
“Leave him alone, Sherlock,” Mycroft agreed. “Just because Greg wants to redefine dressy casual,” He trailed off, trying to swallow a laugh.
Y/n had no clue what was being said, but knowing her brothers, it couldn’t be good. Greg was perfect in almost every way. Her brothers dealt with his resemblance to a knight in shining armour by riling him up as best they could. She decided to give her husband some quiet by shutting her brothers up.
“C’mon babe. Just drop your pants and assert dominance.” She teased.
It wasn’t the silence she was expecting, rather, it was gagging and a series of ‘ew’s.
Downstairs Greg’s entire face was now as pink as his boxers. He was ready to jump in front of a moving car when his wife appeared at the top of the stairs. She was wearing one of his shirts, some shorts, and pink socks. Her hair was wet and she looked like she just got done shooting a commercial for conditioner.
In her hand she held a fluffy blue robe. She tossed it at her husband and watched as he nearly dislocated his shoulder in an attempt to put it on. He pulled the belt as tight as it could possibly go.
"I see your wife wears the pants in this relationship." Mycroft mumbled quietly.
Y/n adjusted his collar and grabbed his hand, ignoring her idiot brothers. “Tea or coffee?” She asked, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
He shook his head, but sent her a small smile. “Tea.”
The group started walking to the kitchen, but before they could get there, there was another knock.
Greg, on instinct, forgetting his predicament, turned around to get the door.
“Hey!” John greeted, looking to the side. He turned to look at his friend as he continued talking. “Sherlock said something about-” He took Greg’s figure in. He stifled a laugh by forcing his lips together and frowning. “Brunch,” He finished. Greg rolled his eyes and let John enter the house. He was about to shut it when he heard a voice call “wait!”.
He let out a breath and reopened the door.
Molly stood in the doorway holding a container of bagels. “Hi I brought the- Oh!” She did a double take. “Didn’t know it was a pajama party!” There was nothing but sincerity in her tone. Greg gestured for her to come in. “Mrs. Hudson was right behind me.”
“Of course she is.” He said, defeat looming in his voice.
He just waited in the doorway, accepting his fate. Mrs.Hudson approached, a casserole dish in her arms. She looked Greg up and down, noting his bare legs. She offered him a knowing smile.
“Don’t worry, dear, my husband used to greet me this exact same way when he was alive.” Greg wanted to die. He closed the door behind Mrs. Hudson and looked at Sherlock expectantly.
“Anyone else coming to my home this morning, or did you only invite the residents of London as opposed to the entire UK?”
John cocked his head. “Sherlock invited? Wait no, he said Y/n invited everyone over for breakfast!”
Y/n sent Sherlock an annoyed look. “Really?” She questioned.
“Whoops!” Sherlock exclaimed cheerfully.
Greg was ready to strangle the middle Holmes child. “Sherlock,” He started. “Just know that if there were no witnesses, I would strangle you with the belt on my robe.”
“Do it.” Sherlock encouraged.
Greg walked into the kitchen. He was moving to grab a cup of tea when Sherlock decided that it was time to step on the hem of the robe and see if Greg would notice.
“Shit! Sherlock!” Greg managed to grab the robe before too much of anything could show.
Mrs. Hudson, unbothered as ever, walked into the kitchen from the dining room. “Come on, my casserole is getting cold.”
As everyone moved to go eat, Greg decided this was the perfect opportunity to sneak upstairs.
“And where are you going, Gavin?” Sherlock greeted, standing on the bottom step, blocking Greg’s path to freedom.
“Sherlock, move, I need my pants!” He attempted pushing past.
“You won’t find any up there.” Sherlock said lazily.
“In my room?” Greg questioned, not believing what he was hearing. “In my dresser? Where I keep my trousers?”
“See, Gordon,” Sherlock started.
“It's Greg!” Everyone in the dining room yelled.
“Irellevant. Gyles, I have decided to use you for my human research.”
Greg’s voice lowered. “What are you talking about?!”
“You spilled something on every single pair of trousers this week. You're all out. The goal of this experiment is to see how people react when they lose a basic piece of their structure.”
“Sherlock!” Greg groaned. “We’re not talking about skipping a morning run here, we’re talking about wearing pants!”
“Not to you, Graham! To you, trousers are stability!”
Greg ran up the stairs and into the laundry room. Every single pair of trousers was in the wash. His idiot brother in law was right.
“I’ll kill him.” He muttered under his breath.
“Oh do come on back down, Geoffrey! Mrs. Hudson’s dish is to die for!” Sherlock taunted.
Greg solemnly walked downstairs. Sherlock was waiting for him at the bottom.
“Anything exciting going on in there?” Sherlock teased.
Greg shot him a dirty look. “Only plotting murder.”
As Greg moved to walk into the kitchen, Sherlock did it. He stepped on the robe and pulled it back just enough that Greg was stripped of his robe, safety, and dignity. He turned around and froze. From the dining room he heard his wife's voice. “I’ll go see what’s keeping them.”
She entered the room, Mycroft hot on her tail, both eager to see who would end up murdering who.
She took in her husband, frozen in defeat. She looked at her brother, shit eating grin plastered on his face.
Y/n wormed her way between her brother and her husband. She picked up the robe, dusted it off, fluffed the sleeves, and draped it over her man. His facial expression shifted from plotting the death of his brother in law to gazing softly into the woman he loved’s eyes. He was head over heels. Seeing her taking her time tying his robe extra tight made him stand a little taller.
She finished tying it, and he wrapped his arms around her waist. “Well, had I known we could've ended up like this, I would’ve taken the robe off ages ago,” He teased.
The Holmes brothers gagged as the DI continued flirting with their sister.
“Well I told you to assert your dominance when they got here,” She quipped, a smirk appearing on her face.
The silver haired man tangled his hands in his wife’s hair as he crashed his lips against hers. They continued until they were both gasping for air. Sherlock’s face had gone white as a sheet, and Mycroft looked as though he was going to puke.
“Shall we?” Greg asked and led his wife to the dining room. “I heard Mrs.Hudson’s dish is to die for.” They left the brothers gagging in the kitchen.
Summary : The death of one of his closest friends leaves Greg feeling numb
wc : 1.9K
warnings : sherlock's death, depression, description of a panic attack, angst with VERY little fluff, mentions of puking
a/n : reader is hardly mentioned at all, it is very Greg-centric
--------------------------------------------
Detective Inspector Lestrade was on the phone. Arguing with the powers that be in the Scotland Yard, justifying his hiring of a certain curly haired PI and his blogger friend. His coat was thrown somewhere around the room, his tie had been loosened, both sleeves had been pushed past his forearms, all in the name of ‘calming down’.
Sherlock was not one of the most approachable people in the world, and his methods were unusual at best, but Sherlock yielded results, there was no doubt about that.
Greg ran a shaky hand through his hair, stopping at the back of his head and gripping it tightly. He yelled through the phone, defending his colleague, his friend, with everything in him. He was so wrapped up in his phone call that he missed a small red dot being pointed at his head. He slammed the phone down and looked out his office window, hands trained on his hips.
He ran a hand over his face, something in the pit of his stomach told him something was very wrong. However, he was exhausted. He hadn’t slept in nearly two days, he hadn’t eaten since the night before, and sleep was threatening to take him before he received the phone call. Now, he was vibrating with angry adrenaline.
He stared out the window, an attempt to still his body, unaware that the red dot was tracking his movements on the back of his head. Suddenly, the dot was gone.
About twenty minutes later, Lestrade received a phone call, one that left him hollow and numb. It wasn’t his friends saying they had a lead. It wasn’t his wife saying she was coming to the office with lunch. This was an unknown number on his phone. That sick feeling in his stomach told him to pick up.
“Hello, is this Mr. Gavin Lestrade?”
“Only if your name is Sherlock Holmes.”
“Mister Lestrade, this is Sergeant Kinslington with the Metropolitan Police, are you available at the moment?”
Greg straightened up, why would Metro call him on his personal phone? “This is Detective Inspector Lestrade, what’s going on?”
“Inspector,” the man on the other line paused. “There’s been an incident at St. Bartholomew’s.”
Greg turned around, immediately searching for his car keys and badge on his desk. He shoved them in his pocket. “What happened?” He demanded, assuming he was needed on scene.
“It’s about Sherlock Holmes.” The inspector froze.
“What happened, did he contaminate the crime scene again?” He was certainly going to get chewed out for this one.
“No sir,” The sergeant took a breath. “He’s fallen.”
Greg started to feel funny again. “What do you mean he’s fallen? Is he alright?” Rather than an immediate answer, the silver haired man heard the sound of rushing sirens, and people screaming in terror far away.
“I’m very sorry sir, he’s gone.”
Greg dropped his phone.
Sherlock Holmes was dead?
No. He couldn’t be. Greg’s body was moving faster than his brain. Next thing he knew he was speeding towards St. Bart’s. He pulled over near the building, jumped out, and rushed to the building.
As distracted as he felt, nothing could have made him miss the pool of blood on the ground. It was too much blood. Sherlock wouldn’t have let himself bleed out that much. No he would have stopped it before it could become lethal. They simply must have misidentified the body. He entered the bustling hospital.
All around him, people were moving. He must have been bumped into at least four times in the time that it took him to reach the front desk.
He whipped his badge out and shoved it on the desk. “I’m looking for Sherlock Holmes.”
“Sorry sir, I nee-”
“Where is Sherlock?” He demanded, his voice steady while his hands shook. His eyes scanned the room wildly. They landed back on the woman at the desk.
“What is your name?”
“Detective Inspector Lestrade, now tell me where Sherlock Holmes is!” His voice grew louder and more impatient with each passing moment.
He looked around once again while the lady talked about some sort of form he needed to fill out.
Then he saw it. Sherlock’s coat was peeking out from under a blanket on a bed. Relief flooded Greg’s body. He picked up his badge and shoved through the crowd.
“Sir you can’t go in there!”
He shouldered the doctor and slipped past the group of nurses that attempted to stop him. He approached the bed, his features relaxing, despite his wobbly knees. The sheet had been pulled over his friend’s head.
“Sherlock after the stress you put me through I’ve earned looking you in the eye and chastising you.” He pulled the sheet back.
There was Sherlock, bloodied, bruised, dead.
Greg’s heart started beating faster. The doctors had finally caught up to him but it was too late. He had already seen enough. His friend was gone.
He heard nothing but the ringing in his ears and the loud thumping of his heart. His breathing quickened, though everything around him seemed to slow down.
Why is the floor moving? He thought, not realizing it was his body shaking.
His vision went blurry, and all he could see was the sheet being pulled back over his friend’s head.
My face is wet. Why is my face wet? He felt his body get lowered into some sort of chair. There were hands on him, far too many hands. Through the ringing he could faintly hear people asking if he was alright. He tried answering, but he was being choked. He couldn’t breathe. He tugged at his collar, but his arms felt heavy. He was going to be sick. Then everything was black. I’m dying.
Greg didn’t remember much about the day Sherlock died. He didn’t remember throwing up in the hospital. He didn’t remember where he dropped his car keys. He didn’t remember taking off his tie and trying to unbutton his shirt with his sweaty hands. He didn’t remember signing form after form to get the body of his dear friend released. He didn’t remember how he got home, or why he was soaked to the bone. He didn’t remember what his wife said as she wrapped his tired frame up in her arms. He didn’t remember much, but he would never forget that Sherlock never closed his eyes.
The funeral was a blur. He vaguely remembered his wife helping him to his feet after he threw up that morning. How she helped him button his black dress shirt, leaving the top two open so he could breathe. How she held his hand tight during the whole ceremony. How she smiled at him when he went up to the pulpit to speak. How she let him fall apart once they were back in the safety of their home.
The days turned into weeks, the weeks into months, and the once strong, composed, inspector had only gotten worse. He was impatient, and irritable, and the shell of the man he once was. He woke up, said nothing, most days he wouldn’t eat, and went to work. At work he was angry. He snapped every time someone spoke. He threw things around in his office, he kicked his tires, he yelled at Anderson anytime he would try to bring up some stupid theory that Sherlock was still out there. He would come home from work, respond in half hearted sentences, and go to sleep.
But not even sleep would give him an escape. Every night was the same nightmare, just slightly different. He was on the roof with Sherlock. He tried talking him out of it. Back in reality, Y/n was trying to gently wake him up as he mumbled “Let me help you, Sherlock,”. Some nights, Sherlock jumped. Some nights, he was pushed. Most recently, though, Sherlock was shoving Greg off the roof, as the PI blamed him for not saving him.
The one thing that remained consistent was Greg waking up in a cold sweat, gasping for air. Every night his wife was right there to hold him through the fog.
Greg Lestrade was numb.
The doe-eyed detective lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He hadn’t gone to work in a week. He berated an officer over something trivial, at this point he couldn’t even remember what, in front of nearly the entire station, his voice loud, body vibrating with anger. His superiors stepped in. They made him take a psychological evaluation. They recommended some time off. An opportunity to rest, just Greg and his thoughts.
Only, just Greg and his thoughts was the very thing that scared him. He was terrified of sitting at home, all by himself while his wife was at work all day, thinking. He should have paid more attention. He should have seen the signs. Maybe then he could have stopped it.
You didn’t save him.
You let him do it.
You failed one of your only friends.
Sitting alone, guilt pressing in his chest, he wanted nothing more than to stop feeling. He jumped every time there was a knock at the door. Every buzz of his phone made his body rattle with nerves. I can’t answer another call like that. I can’t do it again. He wanted nothing more than to be back at work.
Now, as he studied the ceiling, he thought of every shortcoming, and every flaw. He was so consumed by his self loathing that he didn’t notice Y/n walk into the room and set a glass of water on his bedside table. He didn’t notice the tears starting to flood his eyes.
What he did notice was a blanket being pulled over his shaking figure, and a gentle hand running through his hair. He turned his body so he lay facing his wife, who looked at him not as a broken man unworthy to have such a caring wife at his side. No, she looked at him as though he had hung the stars himself. He may have been the shell of the man she married, but he was still her husband.
He let out a shaky breath, the first sound he’d made in two days. He shuffled in the bed, adjusting until he was buried in his wife’s arms, hiding from the rest of the world. His face was pressed against her collarbone.
“I should’ve,” his hands trembled as he spoke. “I should’ve been there.” He forced another breath as Y/n rubbed soothing circles on his tense shoulders. “He needed me,.” Greg choked back a sob disguised as breathing. “And I wasn’t there.”
“Oh sweetheart,” Y/n whispered, cradling his neck with her free hand. “This is not your fault.”
His voice grew ragged as he continued rambling. “I could’ve done something. I-” He was cut off by his own tears. He couldn’t catch his breath.
The gentle shushing from his wife helped ground him. “Greg, you did everything you could.” She adjusted her body so her husband was forced to look into her soft eyes. He didn’t miss the tears that had fallen from her own eyes. “This is not your fault.” She repeated.
He raised a shaking hand and wiped her tears. He hated being the cause of her cries.
She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Don’t carry this by yourself, Greg. Let me help you.”
He gave her a feeble nod in return before hiding in her arms again. He held on tight, forcing his breathing to steady. For the first time in months, Greg drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
