BBC Sherlock Imagines

Lestrade: Sick Day

Request for fandom_beau

(There's so many handsome pictures of Rupert and I just wanted to pick them all.)
~

You heard the hacking coming from down the hall once again and a disgruntled moan followed. After filling a glass of orange juice and buttering a piece of toast, you made your way down the hall to your bedroom. Morning light sifted in through the windows and you observed the still form tangled in the sheets.

"Looks like someone won't be going into work today." A mess of silver poked itself up from the sheets. Greg groaned and rubbed his face with both hands, hoping to wipe away the tiredness, and the sickness.

"I'm fine I'm fine," he assured. His voice was raspy and you could tell he was on the verge of losing it. He ran a hand through his hair and attempted to hoist himself out of the bed. You set the orange juice and toast on the nearest surface and rushed over, gently pushing him back down.

"Stay," you ordered, pointing a finger at him.

"(Y/n)," he whispered in a pleading voice while wrapping his arms around your waist, " I'm fine, really, I'm as healthy as I've ever been." Your knees felt weak at his touch, but you soon recoiled, unwrapping his tan, defined arms from around you. He looked hurt, a slight puppy dog face mixed into his features.

"Greg, I love you, but you're contagious." He flopped backwards onto the bed, exhaling a sigh worthy of an Oscar and dramatizing his movements by flailing his arms out above him.

"You're not my mother you know," he snapped gruffly, a snotty sniffle added onto the end.

"But I am your wife so you still have to listen to me," you teased. He sat up suddenly in a fit of coughs, which somehow turned into sneezing. You ran to the bathroom to grab him tissues, and he murmured a dark "thank you" to you when you returned. When he was done blowing his nose, he stood up from bed, and you caught him as he wobbled slightly. He clenched his eyes closed for a couple seconds while he regained his composure.

"Dizzy?" you questioned. He just nodded, slowly opened his eyes, and walked towards the bathroom door in your room. He shut the door, but that didn't drown out the sounds that slipped out of the crack in the bottom. You cringed as you heard him heaving and throwing up what water he had in his body. You heard the toilet flush, and then the sink turn on. He stayed bustling around in the bathroom for a couple minutes, then finally emerged, a weak smirk on his face.

"See, I'm fine." You shook your head and couldn't help but let a smile slip through; his stubbornness amazed you at times.

"Sherlock would not approve of working with someone in your state right now and John, I'm sure, would prescribe you some bed rest."

"To hell with Sherlock," he cursed under his breath. You led him back to bed and even in that short trip he was coughing his guts out by the time he laid down.

"Need anything?" you asked once he was settled.

"Just a kiss from my favorite girl," he offered cheekily.

"No," you answered flatly.

"Please," he begged, flashing you the best smile he could. His grin was cheesy, like a little kid's, and you let out a low chuckle, but seconds later you turned serious again.

"No."

"Pretty please."

"No."

"Pretty please with sugar on top?"

"No. You're sick and I have that big meeting for my promotion coming up and-"

"If I remember correctly our vows specifically said 'in sickness and in health'." You shook your head, another smile breaking on your lips.

"That doesn't apply to kissing." And on that note, you turned to walk out of the room, calling behind you, "Holler if you need me, I'll be in the kitchen." Before you were inches from the bed though, an arm swooped out and pulled you back onto the bed.

"Gregory!" you yelled, scrambling under his hold. He began to tickle you and you were plagued by bodily spasms and uncontrollable laughter. The tickling continued, as did your constant fighting, until he had you facing him, both of you lying on your side. He kissed you and you pushed him away, jumping off the bed and using your sleeve to wipe off the germs.

"GREGORY LESTRADE YOU JUST THREW UP," you accused, breathing heavily.

"And?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at you.

"That's disgusting." You stomped towards the bathroom door, deciding then and there to spend the next 5 years washing your mouth out with soap.

"Honey, it was a joke. I brushed my teeth like 5 times and used mouthwash 3 times. Why do you think I was in the bathroom for so long?" You ignored him, applying a glob of toothpaste onto your brush and angrily scrubbing at every inch of your mouth. Finally, you decided to peak out at him from the bathroom, and you found him already looking at you. He was sat up halfway on the bed, a pillow as his backrest. Even from here his broad shoulders looked muscular and the brown of his eyes soft. He smirked at you, and you rolled your eyes, still partially mad, but also humored by the situation.

"C'mon (y/n) don't be mad," he whined, the smirk still stuck to his face.
"I just wanted a kiss from my favorite girl."

A/N

Grupert (Greg + Rupert) is my OTL. One true love.

*ponders what's new in life*

Senior year is stressful. And busy. And tiring. Almost done though, less than 2 months! (42 days of school to be exact, not counting weekends)

I've got a number of requests so patience is key. My writing will be slowed down for awhile due to the excessive amount of homework and events I have and also due to my excessive tiredness.

Random: What are your favorite and least favorite words? (My favorite words include "imploding", "authoress", and "potpourri")

Again just want to thank you guys for the support on these imagines that I've gotten. You all are amazing and continue make my day EVERYDAY with your comments.

Sleep tight and wake up in the morning knowing that you can conquer whatever the day throws at you. And if you're in the middle of the day reading this, then finish the day strong.

You got this.

Night.