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Greg returned to his flat exhausted. He threw his coat in the general vicinity of the the front closet and headed towards the kitchen, hoping for a beer and some crap telly to take the edge off his night.
Upon entering the sitting room, he noticed a mess of dark curls emerging from a large, blanket-covered mass on the sofa.
“Sherlock?”
“Mmph,” came the reply from beneath the blanket.
Lestrade rolled his eyes and went into the kitchen, opening the fridge and retrieving a bottle of beer. He opened the bottle and threw the cap in the sink, returning to the sitting room.
“Right. Move, you,” he said as he grappled with what he assumed was the foot end of the blanket.
Sherlock lifted his legs up, allowing Greg to claim a spot on the end of the sofa. Fairly quickly, though, he brought his legs back down, his feet landing on Greg’s lap, poking out from underneath the blanket.
Greg smiled and reached down to massage the other man’s feet.
“Nice socks you’ve got there, Sherlock.”
Sherlock poked his head out from under the blanket. “Found them in your room, liked the pattern. Plus they’re warm.”
Greg chuckled. “Never pegged you for a rainbow sock kind of fellow, Sherlock.”
