In sleep, Sherlock's serenity amazes Lestrade. His brow is smooth and his eyelashes spread out over thin, pale cheeks. He's draped elegantly over the couch, the sash of his favourite blue dressing gown trailing along the red carpet. Lolling sideways, his head nuzzles up to the armrest, and that makes Greg smile. Here, the detective loses his stress and agitation, and his expression clears. Only now he looks peaceful.
Greg's thankful for this small respite during the God-awful detox he's helping Sherlock through. In the momentarily peaceful, shadowy sitting room, Greg can faintly see the steady rise and fall of Sherlock's chest. A ray of moonlight shines on Sherlock's face, illuminating a small square of marble-like alabaster skin. Greg twitches the curtain, blocking it out, so Sherlock isn't disturbed, and a stray curl falls over Sherlock's face.
As a faint frown and sweat beads form on Sherlock's forehead, Greg stands worriedly. He places a wet cloth over the feverish brow, making the black locks cling to his skin. Lestrade resumes his silent post on the chair, watching.
Greg is exhausted. But he loves Sherlock like a father; a relationship Sherlock lacked. He'll never give up on the young man, who'll be great one day. So right now, Lestrade has just one purpose: fix Sherlock, keep him safe, help him get better.
A/N: Thanks for reading! I must say, for someone who usually writes well over the word limit, this has been an interesting exercise. Story is complete, so updates will be regular. As always, I do not own anything, and feedback is very much appreciated!
