Those Boys with the Earthly Eyes

Title: Those Boys with the Earthly Eyes
Author: misslucyjane
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: Greg Lestrade/John Watson
Warning/Spoilers: none
Word Count: 1700
Rating: R
Summary: Greg Lestrade kisses with his eyes open.
Notes: Written for this prompt:

There are those boys with earthly eyes
Their eyes are like the ground
You walk and walk, kickin’ up dirt
But they don’t make a sound

And when they kiss you, they sometimes leave ’em open
To make sure you don’t drown
Yeah, the sweetest eyes, the truest eyes are probably dark brown

–Regina Spektor, “Silly Eye Color Generalizations”

The first time Greg Lestrade kissed John Watson, he kept his eyes open.

They weren’t Greg and John at the time, not yet. John still respectfully called him D.I. Lestrade and Greg called him Dr. Watson, and Greg thought of him mostly as Sherlock’s friend (and keeper sometimes, and sometimes “that poor sod who lives with Sherlock” when Sherlock was being particularly disdainful and demanding.) He supposed John thought of him much the same way, the poor sod who needed Sherlock’s help more frequently than he liked to admit.

They both admired Sherlock’s brilliance, of course. That was the first thing they had in common. The second thing was that as much as they admired Sherlock they both could find him wearing, and when Greg found John in a pub ignoring the chirps from his phone Greg didn’t have to ask, since he’d just come from the Baker Street flat and knew the temper Sherlock was in.

The first kiss didn’t happen then. Instead they shared a pint and told each other Sherlock stories, and Greg felt deeply pleased with himself that he’d gotten John to chuckle before they parted ways. The second time they met up in the pub — this time on purpose, John sent a text asking Greg if he was in the neighborhood and would like a drink, and Greg was and did — Greg noticed other things about his companion: the capable hands, the dark blue eyes, the smile that was ready and sincere, the body that was compact and strong. He already knew about the powers of observation (not as keen as Sherlock’s, but still more than an average person’s) and the sense of humor, and this meeting only reinforced that John was an impressive person in his own right.

The first kiss didn’t happen that time, either, though when Greg was walking away from the pub he realized that he wanted it to.

The first kiss happened after a few more pub meetings and an incident of rescuing Sherlock from his own carelessness, and John trembled with fatigue and crashing adrenaline as they climbed the stairs of 221b. Greg knew he had to get to the office and start the paperwork, and that John was a doctor and knew his own limits, but still he stayed behind to … well, Greg told Donovan it was to keep an eye on him, anyway.

“I hate nights like this,” John confessed as he started the kettle (he didn’t ask if Greg wanted tea, and Greg supposed it was a reflex by this point — Sherlock almost gets himself killed, make some tea). “I hate it when he’s–” He stopped, exhaled, and Greg crossed the messy kitchen to cup his hand around John’s face.

He didn’t know why it seemed like the right thing to do, but it did, and he didn’t know why John closed his eyes and turned his face into the cupped palm instead of laughing and stepping back, which was what Greg expected. He felt the prickle from John’s evening beard and even the brush of his eyelashes as he sighed, and from there it was the simplest thing in the world to slide his hand to the back of John’s skull and step closer, press against that solid body and drop a kiss on John’s hair.

When John tipped up his head his eyes were still closed, so Greg kept his open. Someone had to watch this, remember it.

He whispered, “Sorry,” when they parted, even though John’s hand was clutching Greg’s coat lapel and his lips had opened readily to Greg’s tongue.

“Why?” John said, eyes opening at last, the worry receding from them.

“I don’t know,” Greg said, and fortunately John whispered, “Shut up,” and kissed him again before he could say anything more.

The second time Greg Lestrade kissed John Watson, they both kept their eyes open.


The first time Greg Lestrade and John Watson talked about their relationship, they had spent most of the previous night snogging, leaving Greg with a feeling of deep ecstasy that he hadn’t had for years, the thrill of wanting and being wanted.

The morning brought more practical matters to mind.

“Tell me about you and Sherlock,” Greg said. They were not in a pub, not in the flat — they met outside Sherlock’s hospital room where he was wreaking holy hell on the nursing staff in his boredom. John had brought books, Sherlock’s netbook and three different newspapers in the hope of distracting him, as well as his toothbrush and more pyjamas. Greg had brought pictures from another crime scene. It was hard to say what Sherlock was more grateful for, not that he would say so.

They left Sherlock to his own devices — at his request, “I can’t stand you hovering, go away,” — and went to the hospital cantina for coffee. John looked up from his cup, frowning, at Greg’s question. “Tell you what?”

“Do you — are you –” Greg made a vague gesture and John laughed wearily.

“No. God, no.”

“He’s very attractive.”

“He’s utterly wrong for me. For anyone. Don’t get me wrong, he’s my best friend, but our relationship is complicated enough without adding sex to the equation, even if he were interested. Or I were.” He sipped, eyebrow quirking, gazed fixed steadily on Greg. Greg sipped his own coffee, thoughtful, and John added, “You want to be sure you’re not poaching on someone else’s territory.”

“Sherlock seems like he would be the jealous type.”

“Only if it distracted me from assisting him. I doubt it would, since you understand better than most.” He put down his cup and wove his fingers together to rest his chin on them. “So you’re free to ask me out.”

“I wasn’t –“

“Yes, you were, because you’re an old-fashioned gentleman who believes in courtship. Which I think is wonderful,” he added gently, and Greg smiled, wondering why he’d ever thought John Watson was ordinary. It wasn’t a mistake he’d make twice.


The first time Greg Lestrade brought John Watson home was also the first time he’d brought anyone home since Alan left him (some people just aren’t meant to love police, and Alan was one of those), and he had worried what John would think of the Spartan furnishings, the signs of how much work Greg brought home with him. John, of course, laid all those fears to rest with his hand on Greg’s back and a cheeky grin as he said, “Where’s the bedroom?”

Yes. Important things. They’d waited for Sherlock to be out of the hospital before they had their first date. Afterward they went up to John’s room at the flat, and things were just starting to get sexy when the door burst open with Sherlock saying, “John, come along, we — oh, dear God–” and then the door slammed shut again.

Once John stopped laughing he went downstairs to talk to Sherlock. Greg didn’t find it quite as funny and slunk down the stairs, thinking he wouldn’t blame John if it was this first attempt was also the last. However, John called him almost as soon as he got home and reported his conversation with Sherlock, his voice warm with humor. “You’d think I was his teenage son he’d just discovered wanking in the loo, the way he carried on about protection,” he said, which made Greg wince in sympathy, but he felt relieved, too. Keeping secrets from Sherlock was pointless, anyway, and if he knew about them and understood Greg didn’t intend to take John away, there would be no need to sneak around.

This, their second attempt, seemed charmed. Sherlock flapped his hands at them when Greg came to fetch John, saying, “Doors with locks. Look into those,” and Greg blushed like it was his first date all over again.

They knew they were good company for each other, but it was lovely to have it reinforced, to be so comfortable together already, to know each other so well. Greg had even begun to recognize the mischievous look John got when he wanted to be kissed — it always appeared right before John grabbed him and hauled him in and planted a good, long, sloppy kiss on him.

John kissed without fear. Greg loved that.

“Bedroom,” he said, steering John in its direction, “is this way.” He dropped his hands as John dropped his jacket, followed by his shoes, followed by his button-down — and right about then Greg had to grab him, give him one of those fearless kisses John had been giving him all night, and from the way John melted and clung to him, Greg figured he was doing it right.

The first time they had sex, Greg kept his eyes open as much as he could, and so did John.


“Why did you choose me?” Greg said quietly, relaxed under John’s exploratory fingertips along his shoulders and down his spine. “You could have anyone you wanted.”

John chuckled. “You have an unrealistic view of my attractiveness.”


“You want me, I want you, it’s all good, yeah?” He was quiet a moment as Greg sighed under his hand. “So could you, you know. Anyone. It’s the eyes.”

“The eyes.”

“Knickers-melting, those.”

“Bollocks,” Greg repeated. “Everybody likes blue or green. I like blue.”

“I like brown. You can trust brown eyes.”

Greg leaned close to gaze into John’s eyes — which he did like very much, they were deep and dark as a night sky — and John gazed back unblinkingly, smiling. “You’re having me on.”

“Not at all,” John said softly. “You’ve got eyes a bloke can believe. Mind,” he added lightly, hands grasping Greg’s arse and pulling him close again, “the rest of you has a great deal of appeal.”

“Definitely having me on,” Greg said, rocking his hips anyway because he liked the way it made John gasp.

“Don’t be — ah — modest.” John brought his hand up to Greg’s face and Greg stilled, not in the mood to tease. John’s thumb traced under his eye, smoothed his eyebrow, dragged the corner gently. “I want to wake up to these.”

“Yes,” Greg said simply and kissed his palm.

The first time Greg Lestrade woke up with John Watson, they watched each other for a while, serious and then smiling, and then kissed with their eyes open.


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