Pre-John stuff. Because that, Coulson, and Papastrade are the only things I’ve been thinking about this week. No really.
———
For three weeks the drug addict had been holed up in his flat, always complaining of boredom but never leaving, even when Greg offered him a key to get back in. (“As if I’d need a key to get back here.”)
The kid—couldn’t barely be out of uni—simply sat on his sofa refusing food and raiding his refrigerator in the middle of the night and the only personal information he’d given out was that his name was “Sherlock.” (Who the hell named their kid Sherlock? Probably a street name, though a weird choice. Though he was a weird kid.)
“Sherlock is missing.”
“I told you I wouldn’t keep him on a leash, Mycroft. He’s left my flat, that doesn’t mean he’s relapsing.”
“He is no longer in sight.”
“Have some faith. He’s your brother for godssake.”
“It’s charming you think you know Sherlock so well. Just because he has an affinity for your sofa does not mean you understand the psychology of a drug addict.”
“I can see why he doesn’t like you.”
“Call him, Sergeant. He won’t pick up.”
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The never ending battle against love.
Guys, idek. This is about a season too late but whatever.
oftortoises: Drunkstrade? I have a special place in my heart for him.
It got a bit angsty, but I hope you like it!
———
When Greg got drunk, he got oblivious. And then the rest of Scotland Yard, living up to every reputation they’d created for themselves over the years, would take advantage of drunk Greg. However, the more drunk Lestrade got, the more protective Sherlock got, and at the end of the night it’s always became a battle of wits between tipsy officers and the sober detective. Generally Sherlock won, leaving Greg none the wiser.
An Everstrade fic because I’ve wanted to write one for awhile, and this sorta fit in with the spirit of April Fool’s Day.
———
Greg’s first visitor was some pompous, prissy, prat in a three-piece suit bringing an assistant with a box of muffins and posh coffee to present to the haggard DI. Lestrade’d barely been at his desk for five minutes—barely had the chance to lament skipping breakfast, before the man was strolling out of the elevator and delivering the drink and pastries.
No one knew who he was or where he came from, but it was obvious he was smitten with the inspector. He rarely came round, but when that posh little umbrella did swing its way down the halls of New Scotland Yard, everyone knew Greg had missed a meal. It was all rather stalkerish, actually, but he never seemed to notice the strange behavior.
This was supposed to be random crack, but then it got serious and broke 2,000 words. Idek where the plot went. It ran away.
evawrites: EVERYONE IS A BALLERINA
———
“Anderson, get rid of the toe cushions!”
“Piss off!”
“It does you no good to rely on the handicap,” Sherlock shot back before being dragged away, ducking in time to miss the roll of gauze chucked at his head.
Chai
American
Gravesdigger
I get bored and love to talk, so please feel free to message me at anytime about anything. I'll try to be as helpful as I can in any way I can be. Also, I write ficlets and make GIFs, so if you ever have any suggestions or requests you can just drop an ask.
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Ships: All of them
Fandoms: Not enough of them
