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Beta: Sidney Sussex
Notes: Takes place in the same 'verse as "They're Gonna Be All Right," but can stand alone. I've been a bit behind cross-posting everything between LJ, AO3, and here, so my apologies. Originally written and posted September, 2011.
They wake, independent of one another, at four in the morning, and though they started the night out on separate sides of the bed, they have since migrated into practically the same space. Limbs tangled and noses pressed together, they breathe the same air, sharing breath, and each has woken for no reason in particular except that the other has as well.
"All right?" one whispers, and the other replies with, "Yes," and, having assured one another, they both pull closer and tuck deeper, trying to hold onto the hazy world between sleep and consciousness where there are no crimes or paperwork; where hospitals are a long-forgotten nightmare and tedium falls away to nothingness.
But each breath brings them closer to awareness, and soon the shadows begin to have meaning. They are in a bed in a room in a flat, rather than inside some nebulous existence. The shadows solidify – bookcase, desk, chair – and become real. The clock begins also to have significance and 4:09 is no longer an abstract idea; no longer a senseless series of numbers painted onto the darkness. With each passing moment the time takes on more and more layers of implication – one hour until Lestrade needs to rise for the day; three before he needs to be at the Yard; two before Sherlock's natural waking hour on nights that he actually sleeps.
Lestrade, realizing finally that hope of sleep has been lost for him, allows his gaze to rest on his once-more sleeping partner. Cool, grey light from the approaching dawn seeps through the not-quite-opaque blinds, highlighting Sherlock's cheekbones and nose until he is all sharp edges and severe lines. He looks as though he has been carved from stone, an illusion that's shattered when two glittering eyes fly open and fix on Lestrade's.
"You're staring," he observes.
"Can't help it, love," Lestrade whispers back, his normal reticence erased by the early hour. He presses a chaste kiss to the soft lips and adds, "You should go back to sleep."
"Dull," Sherlock points out, and then returns the gesture. It isn't often that he permits such contact; it's a strange feature of the night that allows them such intimacy. Here, the shadows are concealing; the darkness makes them bold. They are stripped bare before it and made shades of their usual selves. It wears at their defenses and eats away at their hesitance until, in their complete weariness, there is nothing but one another. There is nothing beyond the tangled limbs that bleed together; there is nothing beyond the cocoon of the blankets and the press of Sherlock's lips, quick and gentle, at the older man's temple.
"Sherlock -" Lestrade whispers, and he isn't sure what he was about to say but it doesn't matter because then Sherlock's lips are against his and all else is chased from his brain. The kiss is slow and languid and they breathe as one, tasting sighs and swallowing whispers and trading murmurs as their lips skim over one another. There's never anything more than this, these delicate kisses and gentle touches, but to say it like that implies that more is needed. It would be inadequate, even, to say that it's enough, because it's so much more than that. Lestrade has Sherlock, and that is everything.
He says the name again, murmuring against the pliant mouth that curves into a smile as Sherlock feels his name on Lestrade's lips and Lestrade would do anything - anything - for that smile, so weak it makes him, and so he says it for a third time.
Give thanks each morning for what the Lord has provided, his mother drilled, but Sherlock's name long ago replaced his morning prayers.
The dark head has tucked itself next to his shoulder once more and Lestrade rearranges himself, scooting down in the bed until their foreheads are level. They don't often touch in these rare conscious minutes before the alarm, but if Lestrade's knuckles brush Sherlock's wrist or Sherlock's hand finds his nightshirt - well, that's all right, too.
Sherlock sighs and Lestrade breathes, catching the sharp scent that usually lingers on the sheets and pillows after the two men have spent a night together in the bed. It smells of tea and chemicals with an underlying musk, and it's so very Sherlock that it makes him ache. It's the Sherlock that only Lestrade is allowed to see - not the one who whirls about his crime scenes but the one who prefers the flat cold so that he can pile under blankets at night; the one who sweats; the one who snores lightly; the one who's a terrible cook but who makes an effort for Lestrade.
The one he loves, and so blindly and deeply and fiercely that it's terrifying. He feels as though he's perpetually standing on a precipice, always in danger of taking a fatal plunge but equal parts mad and giddy with the anticipation of it.
Sherlock gives a faint, "Greg," that is answered by Lestrade's reverent, "Sherlock," and brown eyes fix on steel-grey as elegant fingers thread through calloused ones. They won't sleep, not now; not now that reality has taken root and they're aware that every hour asleep is one more taken away from this - one more taken away from them.
"All right?" one of them whispers eventually, and the second answers with, "Of course," and, having once more assured one another, they pull closer and tuck deeper, each one content with the world that has settled around him simply because the other is in it, and that's all he's ever needed.