𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟎 | 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐍

greg lestrade didn’t get hungover. no, scratch that. he got hungover. occasionally. often. semi-regularly. all the time. he didn’t, however, always wake up hungover in the bed of his (favourite) sergeant.

the shock that shot through him was quickly overrun by guilt, the sight of you sleeping beside him, consequence-free and peaceful. he shifted, wincing as the mattress squeaked under his moving weight, eyes glancing towards your sleeping form, just to make sure the noise hadn’t disturbed you. there was a moment of tense silence, greg eyeing you carefully, until you let out a well timed, earth-shattering snore, and rolled onto your back. he hadn’t woken you then.

his eyes flicked to your bedroom door. he couldn’t lie, the thought of leaving had crossed his mind. the idea of being able to move on, without getting in strife was ideal, but your sleepy face pulled on his heartstrings hard enough to keep him planted firmly in your bed.

you looked soft in your sleep. no snarky comebacks, snide remarks or cheeky grins. just your pouty lips, fluttering eyelashes and soft cheeks that greg suddenly had a overwhelming urge to squeeze and kiss and pinch until you made him stop.

until. your eyes fluttered open, staring at greg, who had, admittedly, been staring at you for the past five minutes. caught like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar, greg’s neck almost snapped with the speed he turned away, suddenly fascinated by the colour of your walls.