fic: Prince Charming
Title: Prince Charming
Author: fengirl88
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: none
Wordcount: ~1500
Disclaimer: They're still not mine. Nor are the songs.
Summary: It's Lestrade's birthday and Sherlock's got a surprise for him. Sequel to Quiet Storm, and probably makes more sense if you've read that.
A/N: written for the love_bingo prompt square "Prince Charming".
This fic is for marysutherland, who requested that image of Lestrade after reading Quiet Storm. (Yes, I know it's a day early but I wanted to post it in case lj starts playing up again.) Thanks to kalypso_v for the beta.
Prince Charming
It was too much to hope he'd get away with it, though when he finds out who blew the gaff there'll be blood for breakfast.
He knew the game was up when Donovan waltzed in wearing a grin so smug he'd almost rather have had her usual disgruntled expression. Brandishing a dirty great birthday card (he uses the word “dirty” advisedly in this context). Telling him arrangements were already in place for this evening, and a cake - with 48 candles thank you so bloody much - awaiting the ceremonial blowing-out.
Not even chocolate cake, because Dimmock's allergic to chocolate. Pity. Still, better things to do on your birthday than trying to explain to Health and Safety how one of your colleagues ended up in anaphylactic shock. Lestrade had said the nicest things he could about plain vanilla sponge with white glacé icing, the tasteful border of silver balls in a pattern of linked handcuffs, the Met insignia done in black and white candles... It's the thought that counts, right?
Maybe he wouldn't be so grumpy if the day had got off to a better start. If he hadn't woken up alone, for example.
Which used to be normal. Pleasant, even. But the last few weeks since that botched bloody stakeout and the big thunderstorm that followed, he'd got used to waking up with six feet of long-limbed consulting detective sprawled across most of the bed, practically pushing him over the side. Got used to starting the day with a shag, too. Not a habit he should have allowed himself to form, especially when he knew it couldn't last.
He'd banned Sherlock from crime scenes for a month after the near fiasco of the 80s Night raid. But now the ban had ended Sherlock was back in Baker Street, virtuously proclaiming that you can't mix work and sex. He knows it's true, but he's still... missing the bastard. Fuck it.
Lestrade buries himself in paperwork. He is not thinking about sex. He is not thinking about Sherlock. He is absolutely not thinking about sex with Sherlock and how nice it would have been to start his birthday with Sherlock's hands all over him or Sherlock's gorgeous mouth wrapped around his cock. He is so not thinking about it that any minute now he's going to need a cold shower.
Still, better thinking about sex than about the rest of what he's missing. Domesticity with Sherlock Holmes, are you out of your mind, Lestrade?
Nice having him around, though. Even if he is a complete fucking menace with no sense of boundaries, always poking into things that don't concern him. Not to mention having very weird ideas about what kitchens are for. Kitchens and bathrooms...
The beep of an incoming text jolts him out of his daydream:
Happy birthday!
See you tonight.
JW
Oh great. Donovan's invited bloody Baker Street as well, has she? That's all he needs to make this evening perfect. He thinks about trying to do a runner but he knows he'll never make it.
More bloody 80s music playing when he gets to the pub. Rub it in, why don't you? He's going to have words with whichever joker thought it was a good idea to put on Adam & the Ants.
I'm the dandy highwayman who you're too scared to mention.
Used to like them, thirty years ago. Quite a lot. The year he turned eighteen, that was. Legal for all purposes but the one that mattered most, back then. The thrill of sex in the danger zone, being outlaws and rebels.
So fucking innocent, the lot of them, no idea what was just around the corner. He doesn't let himself think too much about the AIDS years, all the friends he lost. He knows he was one of the lucky ones. That journalist from Gay News he'd gone to bed with told him about the first reports coming out of America: it's why I don't fuck any more, but there's plenty of other stuff we can do instead. Saw the guy on a float at Pride last year, 40th anniversary of the GLF. So he'd made it through as well.
Outlaws and rebels. And now -
The devil take your stereo and your record collection
The way you look you'll qualify for next year's old age pension.
Smith and Tyler are mouthing the words and grinning, the cheeky sods. Thanks, guys.
Sherlock's nursing a half-pint glass of water, looking like he'd prefer to be running chemical tests on it. Wouldn't have thought birthday drinks were his idea of a good time any more than Lestrade's. John's in his element, of course, and he's already got Lestrade a pint of - oh. That beer he tried with Sherlock the other night. Very nice. Hadn't expected that. Lestrade glances at Sherlock, who looks a funny mixture of smug and embarrassed. Huh.
Halfway through his pint, Lestrade's finally starting to unwind, feeling the rough edges of the day rubbed away by songs he hasn't thought of in years. Tempted. Tainted Love. Hungry Heart. And then -
Oh shit. Just when you think it's safe to let down your guard.
Drums and chanting and a bunch of tossers, so-called friends and colleagues suddenly up on their feet doing that bloody dance, right arm raised, fist clenched, left arm up to cross it at the wrist, don't you ever, don't you ever stop being a dandy, showing me you're handsome. And an image up on the pub's big video screen, the one they use for the World Cup: Lestrade, aged eighteen, dressed as Adam Ant.
Tight silver breeches. Highwayman coat. Fancy shirt. Haircut someone should have been arrested for, possibly him. Not to mention the bloody make-up. Eyeshadow. Mascara. Lipstick. Beauty spot. Two red streaks on one cheek. Heart-shaped patch over the opposite eyebrow. Black nail polish.
Fuck.
Lestrade takes less than two seconds to remember exactly where in his flat that photograph normally lives. Glares at Sherlock, who is smirking, the bastard. If it's the last thing Lestrade ever does -
“Prince CharMING, Prince CharMING,” his idiot friends and colleagues bawl, “Ridicule is nothing to be scared of.”
Yeah, right.
“Come on,” John yells, pulling Lestrade up out of his seat.
He's stronger than he looks, but that's the Army for you.
Lestrade is not doing this, absolutely not, what kind of prat do they think he is for fuck's sake -
“AAA - HA - EHH - HA!”
Too late. He'll give himself a severe talking-to about peer pressure later, but right now DI Lestrade (48) is up and dancing, strutting, crossing his arms, chanting with the rest.
“You do know I'm going to wring your neck, you interfering git?” Lestrade says, some hours later.
Sherlock grins unrepentantly. “You had fun.”
“Never going to live that down,” Lestrade grumbles. “What you think you were doing going through my drawers in the first place - stop sniggering you pillock!”
“I was bored,” Sherlock says. “You were out.”
“Oh I see, it's my fault, is it?”
“Obviously,” Sherlock says airily.
“Huh.”
“Oh do stop whinging, Detective Inspector. You have twenty minutes left before it's not your birthday any more, so are we going to have sex or not?”
Lestrade blinks a bit, what with the fact they're both fully clothed and he hadn't quite realized this was on offer. Should have known Sherlock wasn't just going to come back for a nightcap, but still.
“What about not mixing sex and work?” he says, half-heartedly.
“Birthdays don't count,” Sherlock says. “And anyway-” He glances at the incriminating photo on the coffee-table. Goes a bit pink, and his eyes seem darker than before.
“I look a complete arse,” Lestrade says explosively.
“A gorgeous arse,” Sherlock corrects him.
That's something Sherlock certainly knows how to appreciate. Lestrade blushes.
Sherlock starts singing under his breath: “Prince Charming, Prince Charming.”
Only one thing to do in the face of such blatant provocation, and Lestrade does it.
The kiss turns into a bit of a wrestling match, which he lets Sherlock win because the next stage of this is more fun when he's on his back, Sherlock holding him down and taking him apart with his mouth and his hands, Lestrade clutching desperately at Sherlock's hair as he comes. There'll be bruises on Lestrade's hips for days and Sherlock kisses the marks he's made, runs his tongue along the creases of Lestrade's thighs till he's limp and groaning, comprehensively undone. Just about enough strength left to bring Sherlock off, doesn't take long by now, grab the nearest garment to clean them both up and then stumble into bed.
Sherlock's arm is heavy across Lestrade's thigh. Must be falling asleep already, Lestrade thinks. They're all tangled up together, and Sherlock's lips press against the back of Lestrade's neck.
“Mmm. 'Night, Sherlock.”
“G'night,” Sherlock mumbles, and then something else Lestrade doesn't quite catch. From the little snort of laughter that follows it, though, he thinks it might just be Prince Charming.
Cheeky git, Lestrade thinks, and falls happily asleep.
***
Prince Charming is here.
Author: fengirl88
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: none
Wordcount: ~1500
Disclaimer: They're still not mine. Nor are the songs.
Summary: It's Lestrade's birthday and Sherlock's got a surprise for him. Sequel to Quiet Storm, and probably makes more sense if you've read that.
A/N: written for the love_bingo prompt square "Prince Charming".
This fic is for marysutherland, who requested that image of Lestrade after reading Quiet Storm. (Yes, I know it's a day early but I wanted to post it in case lj starts playing up again.) Thanks to kalypso_v for the beta.
Prince Charming
It was too much to hope he'd get away with it, though when he finds out who blew the gaff there'll be blood for breakfast.
He knew the game was up when Donovan waltzed in wearing a grin so smug he'd almost rather have had her usual disgruntled expression. Brandishing a dirty great birthday card (he uses the word “dirty” advisedly in this context). Telling him arrangements were already in place for this evening, and a cake - with 48 candles thank you so bloody much - awaiting the ceremonial blowing-out.
Not even chocolate cake, because Dimmock's allergic to chocolate. Pity. Still, better things to do on your birthday than trying to explain to Health and Safety how one of your colleagues ended up in anaphylactic shock. Lestrade had said the nicest things he could about plain vanilla sponge with white glacé icing, the tasteful border of silver balls in a pattern of linked handcuffs, the Met insignia done in black and white candles... It's the thought that counts, right?
Maybe he wouldn't be so grumpy if the day had got off to a better start. If he hadn't woken up alone, for example.
Which used to be normal. Pleasant, even. But the last few weeks since that botched bloody stakeout and the big thunderstorm that followed, he'd got used to waking up with six feet of long-limbed consulting detective sprawled across most of the bed, practically pushing him over the side. Got used to starting the day with a shag, too. Not a habit he should have allowed himself to form, especially when he knew it couldn't last.
He'd banned Sherlock from crime scenes for a month after the near fiasco of the 80s Night raid. But now the ban had ended Sherlock was back in Baker Street, virtuously proclaiming that you can't mix work and sex. He knows it's true, but he's still... missing the bastard. Fuck it.
Lestrade buries himself in paperwork. He is not thinking about sex. He is not thinking about Sherlock. He is absolutely not thinking about sex with Sherlock and how nice it would have been to start his birthday with Sherlock's hands all over him or Sherlock's gorgeous mouth wrapped around his cock. He is so not thinking about it that any minute now he's going to need a cold shower.
Still, better thinking about sex than about the rest of what he's missing. Domesticity with Sherlock Holmes, are you out of your mind, Lestrade?
Nice having him around, though. Even if he is a complete fucking menace with no sense of boundaries, always poking into things that don't concern him. Not to mention having very weird ideas about what kitchens are for. Kitchens and bathrooms...
The beep of an incoming text jolts him out of his daydream:
Happy birthday!
See you tonight.
JW
Oh great. Donovan's invited bloody Baker Street as well, has she? That's all he needs to make this evening perfect. He thinks about trying to do a runner but he knows he'll never make it.
More bloody 80s music playing when he gets to the pub. Rub it in, why don't you? He's going to have words with whichever joker thought it was a good idea to put on Adam & the Ants.
I'm the dandy highwayman who you're too scared to mention.
Used to like them, thirty years ago. Quite a lot. The year he turned eighteen, that was. Legal for all purposes but the one that mattered most, back then. The thrill of sex in the danger zone, being outlaws and rebels.
So fucking innocent, the lot of them, no idea what was just around the corner. He doesn't let himself think too much about the AIDS years, all the friends he lost. He knows he was one of the lucky ones. That journalist from Gay News he'd gone to bed with told him about the first reports coming out of America: it's why I don't fuck any more, but there's plenty of other stuff we can do instead. Saw the guy on a float at Pride last year, 40th anniversary of the GLF. So he'd made it through as well.
Outlaws and rebels. And now -
The devil take your stereo and your record collection
The way you look you'll qualify for next year's old age pension.
Smith and Tyler are mouthing the words and grinning, the cheeky sods. Thanks, guys.
Sherlock's nursing a half-pint glass of water, looking like he'd prefer to be running chemical tests on it. Wouldn't have thought birthday drinks were his idea of a good time any more than Lestrade's. John's in his element, of course, and he's already got Lestrade a pint of - oh. That beer he tried with Sherlock the other night. Very nice. Hadn't expected that. Lestrade glances at Sherlock, who looks a funny mixture of smug and embarrassed. Huh.
Halfway through his pint, Lestrade's finally starting to unwind, feeling the rough edges of the day rubbed away by songs he hasn't thought of in years. Tempted. Tainted Love. Hungry Heart. And then -
Oh shit. Just when you think it's safe to let down your guard.
Drums and chanting and a bunch of tossers, so-called friends and colleagues suddenly up on their feet doing that bloody dance, right arm raised, fist clenched, left arm up to cross it at the wrist, don't you ever, don't you ever stop being a dandy, showing me you're handsome. And an image up on the pub's big video screen, the one they use for the World Cup: Lestrade, aged eighteen, dressed as Adam Ant.
Tight silver breeches. Highwayman coat. Fancy shirt. Haircut someone should have been arrested for, possibly him. Not to mention the bloody make-up. Eyeshadow. Mascara. Lipstick. Beauty spot. Two red streaks on one cheek. Heart-shaped patch over the opposite eyebrow. Black nail polish.
Fuck.
Lestrade takes less than two seconds to remember exactly where in his flat that photograph normally lives. Glares at Sherlock, who is smirking, the bastard. If it's the last thing Lestrade ever does -
“Prince CharMING, Prince CharMING,” his idiot friends and colleagues bawl, “Ridicule is nothing to be scared of.”
Yeah, right.
“Come on,” John yells, pulling Lestrade up out of his seat.
He's stronger than he looks, but that's the Army for you.
Lestrade is not doing this, absolutely not, what kind of prat do they think he is for fuck's sake -
“AAA - HA - EHH - HA!”
Too late. He'll give himself a severe talking-to about peer pressure later, but right now DI Lestrade (48) is up and dancing, strutting, crossing his arms, chanting with the rest.
“You do know I'm going to wring your neck, you interfering git?” Lestrade says, some hours later.
Sherlock grins unrepentantly. “You had fun.”
“Never going to live that down,” Lestrade grumbles. “What you think you were doing going through my drawers in the first place - stop sniggering you pillock!”
“I was bored,” Sherlock says. “You were out.”
“Oh I see, it's my fault, is it?”
“Obviously,” Sherlock says airily.
“Huh.”
“Oh do stop whinging, Detective Inspector. You have twenty minutes left before it's not your birthday any more, so are we going to have sex or not?”
Lestrade blinks a bit, what with the fact they're both fully clothed and he hadn't quite realized this was on offer. Should have known Sherlock wasn't just going to come back for a nightcap, but still.
“What about not mixing sex and work?” he says, half-heartedly.
“Birthdays don't count,” Sherlock says. “And anyway-” He glances at the incriminating photo on the coffee-table. Goes a bit pink, and his eyes seem darker than before.
“I look a complete arse,” Lestrade says explosively.
“A gorgeous arse,” Sherlock corrects him.
That's something Sherlock certainly knows how to appreciate. Lestrade blushes.
Sherlock starts singing under his breath: “Prince Charming, Prince Charming.”
Only one thing to do in the face of such blatant provocation, and Lestrade does it.
The kiss turns into a bit of a wrestling match, which he lets Sherlock win because the next stage of this is more fun when he's on his back, Sherlock holding him down and taking him apart with his mouth and his hands, Lestrade clutching desperately at Sherlock's hair as he comes. There'll be bruises on Lestrade's hips for days and Sherlock kisses the marks he's made, runs his tongue along the creases of Lestrade's thighs till he's limp and groaning, comprehensively undone. Just about enough strength left to bring Sherlock off, doesn't take long by now, grab the nearest garment to clean them both up and then stumble into bed.
Sherlock's arm is heavy across Lestrade's thigh. Must be falling asleep already, Lestrade thinks. They're all tangled up together, and Sherlock's lips press against the back of Lestrade's neck.
“Mmm. 'Night, Sherlock.”
“G'night,” Sherlock mumbles, and then something else Lestrade doesn't quite catch. From the little snort of laughter that follows it, though, he thinks it might just be Prince Charming.
Cheeky git, Lestrade thinks, and falls happily asleep.
***
Prince Charming is here.