Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Notes: A 221b ficlet (a story of 221 words, with the last word ending in b) that was inspired by a conversation I had with someone on Tumblr.
"Greg?"
Lestrade had to turn to see who was speaking to him, so unused was he to hearing that name. On Sherlock's lips, it sounded completely foreign.
"Your name is Greg?"
"Thought you knew," Lestrade said as Sherlock sat next to him on the low wall. Lestrade folded his hands, resisting the urge to pull out a cigarette, and returned instead to his study of the mist on the pre-dawn moor.
"I didn't," Sherlock said, a crease appearing between his brows. "It never occurred to me that you might be anything other than dad. Is that absurd?"
"No," Lestrade chuckled. "Not at all, sunshine."
"Would you prefer I use Greg?"
Lestrade considered this for a moment. "If it works for you."
Sherlock scuffed his shoes against a rock by his feet. "You've been dad for six years. I can't picture you as anything else. I don't know that I could change."
"Then that's what I'll be." Lestrade slipped an arm around Sherlock's shoulders; Sherlock leaned into his touch.
"If you're sure."
"I'm always here for you, no matter my name," Lestrade said gruffly, and leaned in to murmur a quiet endearment he hadn't spoken aloud in years, not since Sherlock's withdrawal-wracked body had graced his sofa and his drug-induced demons peppered their nights. "So call me whatever you like, darling boy."