Sherlock woke with a start, feeling slightly disorientated until he worked out that the bed and sheets belonged to a certain Greg Lestrade, and that in all likelihood the warm body beside him and the solid weight of an arm draped over his waist were all due to the same man. Sherlock relaxed again, then wriggled to peer at the clock on Greg’s bedside table.
‘Wh’ time is it?’ Greg asked into the pillow, chasing away the last of Sherlock’s doubts on that matter. He knew he’d get used to waking by Greg’s side- at least he sincerely hoped he’d get the chance to get used to it.
‘Three-sixteen,’ Sherlock replied when Greg nudged him gently out of his reprieve.
‘Too early,’ Greg told him, pulling him back down. ‘Go back to sleep.’
So Sherlock did.
Greg woke up much later to an armful of blearily-blinking Sherlock and the sound of his phone, abandoned hours before in the living room somewhere between getting in and snogging Sherlock senseless. ‘Sorry, sweetheart,’ he murmured. ‘I’d better get that.’
Sherlock grumbled slightly, but let Greg extract himself from their warm nest to retrieve his mobile. Sherlock could hear him chatting to the caller as he made his way through to the kitchen. His sister, he guessed, from Greg’s tone of voice. He lay there for a few more seconds before getting out of bed himself and padding to the bathroom, vaguely wondering what he was supposed to do next. He’d spent the night at Greg’s before, on cases and when he was temporarily homeless or had just needed somewhere to sleep, and he he'd had spare clothes and a toothbrush stashed away in Greg's cupboards for years. But he’d never stayed over in this way.
Luckily, Greg had reappeared when Sherlock re-entered the bedroom. ‘Sorry about that. My sister, can’t stop her chatting when she starts,’ Greg said, giving Sherlock a brief kiss, which Sherlock deftly turned into something much longer.
Greg definitely didn't object.
Afterwards, lying dozily together and idly contemplating getting up for breakfast, Sherlock asked, ‘we will do this again?’
Greg grinned at him. ‘Of course.’
The peace, was, fairly predictably, interrupted by a case. One of Sherlock’s private ones, consisting, as John tersely put it, ‘your bloody brother and about half-a-dozen minions.’
It didn’t really help when Sherlock deduced they must all be men. Greg confiscated the phone, apologised to John and ended the call while Sherlock huffily showered and got dressed, cursing his brother in six different languages for not just texting like everyone else did.
‘At least he didn’t turn up here half-an-hour earlier,’ Greg said, pulling on a dressing gown and wandering after Sherlock to the front door. ‘Try not to get into too much trouble, yeah?’
Sherlock smiled and gave him a goodbye kiss. ‘Since when have I got into trouble?’ he said with a more-or-less straight face.
Greg shook his head fondly. ‘Go on, you. Do your best.’
Sherlock left with a smirk, and Greg went to get dressed. It had been a good morning, even if he was called into work later to save his madcap boyfriend from whatever mayhem he was more than likely to get himself into this time. Very good, in fact.
There was no doubt they'd do it again.