Fic for flubber2kool: Denigrating, Pejoratice, Disapproving (or, Greg's Big, Gay Midlife Crisis),
Denigrating, Pejoratice, Disapproving (or, Greg's Big, Gay Midlife Crisis), Part 1
As soon as he opened the door, Greg knew something was off. He rushed upstairs and threw open the bedroom door to the sight of Diane packing clothes into her old tartan suitcase.
"Di, what are you doing?"
"I can’t do this anymore, Greg."
"What do you mean?"
She threw down an armful of clothing. "This, our marriage. I love you, but I’m tired of pretending."
This was not happening. This couldn’t be happening, not to them. "But things are getting better. I’m not drinking anymore. Christ, Di, we actually had sex today."
"And you were hardly there!" she cried. "Look, I’m glad you’re getting help, Greg. I really, really am. I don’t want to see you drink yourself to death like your dad did, but I don’t want you to stay with me when all it does is make you miserable."
"What are you talking about? I’m not-this is just a rough patch. It happens. You can’t seriously be thinking of throwing away twenty-five years just because-"
"It’s not just one thing, Greg," Di said. She sat heavily on the edge of the bed. "It’s everything. It’s the drinking, it’s the way you hardly look at me anymore. And I know, I know you love me, but things haven’t been all right for a long time now."
Greg took a seat next to her on the bed.
"When we first got married, I thought even if it might take a while, you’d start thinking of me as your wife, but the thing is, you haven’t. It’s like we’re still ten and I’m your best friend," she said. "And, I mean, that’s good, in some ways, but I can’t be married to my best friend. That isn’t enough for me and I don’t think it’s enough for you, either." She squeezed his hand in hers. "We deserve to be happy. Both of us."
"I don’t know how to be happy without you," he said. He knew exactly how ridiculous it sounded, but the words just poured out of him. "I don’t know how to be without you. How am I supposed to handle the work and the meetings when I don’t have you to come home to? Jesus, Di, I can’t even balance the accounts. You know how shit I am at maths. Oh, God." He buried his face in his hands. "Oh, God, oh God oh God, please don’t do this to me."
Her arm wrapped around him, her head coming to rest on his shoulder.
"This is a good thing. You’ll find someone else, someone, well… more your own speed. You’ll see, love."
"Are you going to your mum’s?"
"I’ll leave the number on the fridge," she promised. She kissed his cheek. "I’ve got to catch the train. Promise me you’ll take care of yourself?"
"Yeah, okay."
"You can always ring me, all right?"
Greg listened to the sound of her footsteps down the stairs. As soon as he heard the door close, he let out the sob he’d been holding in.
***
It was a story he’d heard a thousand times. A story everyone knew. You made a mistake, and God, or the universe, or whatever it was inside a man that turned him wrong, punished you for it. Five people were dead and he didn’t know a thing about how to stop it from happening again, his wife had walked out on him, he’d practically assaulted his training sergeant, and now he was sat back at the pub where it all began.
Greg slid his fingers through the condensation. He could smell it. God, he could practically feel it running down his throat. It was a hell of a thing to be staring down a pint glass, knowing there was no solution at the bottom of it and being tempted to try anyway.
I don’t want to see you drink yourself to death like your dad did.
His hands balled into fists. Good man, his dad. A good copper, too. At least, that’s what mum used to tell him. He’d been so young when it happened, it was hard to remember what he was like.
Greg fished a fiver out of his pocket and left it on the bar along with the pint.
It was a nice enough night. Cold, but clear enough to see the stars over London. He walked past shops and cafés and takeaways and hoped a bit of fresh air-well, as fresh as air got in this city, anyway-might clear his head. There were probably meetings tonight, somewhere he could check in. If he looked in enough church basements, he’d probably find one.
He chuckled to himself, but his heart wasn’t in it. He didn’t want to be steeped in other people’s misery tonight. He just wanted someone to talk to. You can always ring me, all right? Di would likely still be on the train. Anyway, he didn’t much feel like bothering her. I know you love me, but things haven’t been all right for a long time now.
He’d barely paid attention to where he’d wandered. Nothing but shops down here. An offie on the corner caught his eye. It would be easy. No shame in it, really-if a man couldn’t get good and pissed the night his wife left him, when could he? He probably looked mad, or homeless, standing there on the pavement with his hands in his coat pockets staring through the window not knowing whether he was strong enough to resist a second time.
He hadn’t meant to end up like his old man. It’d been stress, at first. Stress he’d always blamed on the job, but it was more than that, really. They used to go places together, used to take the trains out somewhere they’d never been and just sit kissing and laughing in the back car. They’d made love, too, but it had got harder and harder. Stress, Greg had said. Ordinary stress, and if drinking had given him a convenient excuse not to perform, well, who could blame him? He’d fucked Di enough to keep her happy, at least in the beginning.
Funny, how things turned out. You thought love was enough and sometimes it was, until it wasn’t anymore.
"It won’t bring her back, you know."
Greg suppressed the urge to lead his response with a fist to the face. "Funny, how you just keep popping up, pretending to know something about me."
"I don’t pretend, Inspector. That your wife left you tonight is as plain to me as your wedding band. Only slightly less obvious is your repressed homosexuality, which no doubt played a key role in your wife’s choice to try her hand elsewhere."
"You’ve got three seconds to make a run for it before I beat your arse, you spoiled, puffed-up junkie bastard."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You haven’t denied it."
"What?"
"You’ve not bothered to deny it because you know I’m right. It’s all finally caught up with you and I can see that you’re tired of running," he said, taking a slow step toward Greg. "There’s no need to run any longer."
Greg stumbled backwards, his back hitting brick. Shit. "You get the hell away from me, or-"
"You’ll put me in cuffs?" Sherlock braced a hand on the wall next to him, his voice a low rumble. "Not the best course of action, Inspector. I might even like it."
Sherlock’s lips touched his neck and Greg’s knees went to jelly. A second later, he found himself crushed against the brick, Sherlock pinning his wrists overhead. His mouth was chapped and feverish, his body all angles. One hand snaked down to squeeze Greg’s crotch roughly.
There was barely any time at all to process it before Sherlock was pulling back. "My accommodations are this way."
Greg’s heart thudded with every thump of his heels as he followed Sherlock through side-streets and byways, not knowing what the hell he was doing and helpless to do anything else. By the time they made it back to Sherlock’s "accommodations"-a dingy-looking squat-he was harder than he’d ever been in his life.
Sherlock kissed him again, pulling at his clothes and driving him backwards. His thighs hit the edge of something. Table, maybe, or a desk. Glass crunched under his heel. His mind immediately supplied the image of a needle and he tensed.
"They used to manufacture test-tubes here," Sherlock said.
"So you’re clean."
"I’ve not been anywhere you’d need to worry about."
It wasn’t what he’d meant, not really, but Greg didn’t get a chance to protest before Sherlock dropped to his knees, heedless of the broken glass. Greg gripped the edge of whatever it was he was leaning against with both hands as Sherlock lowered his zip.
"You’re not, you know, for hire, are you?"
"Please," he sneered as he fished out Greg’s cock. He gave it a long, firm stroke and Greg bit back a grunt. "For future reference, I’d prefer it if you came in my mouth and not on my face. Provided it’s all the same to you."
With one swift motion, he swallowed Greg’s cock. One hand, he kept wrapped around the base. Deft fingers tugged lightly at his foreskin and Greg’s knees quaked. His eyes rolled to the ceiling and shut of their own accord. It only seemed to magnify the sloppy, suckling noises coming from below.
His forearms quivered with the effort to hold himself up against the warm, strong hand cupping his balls. The mouth sliding along his cock slipped off and then down further. He moaned at the warm wetness as his balls were sucked on, the hand viciously tugging his cock in time. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been sucked off like this. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been sucked off, full stop. The hot mouth sucking at his balls switched back to the head of his cock and he nearly collapsed at the tight suction.
He finished with a grunt, fingernails scratching against the tabletop. Once his cock slipped free, it was only the arm curling around his waist that kept him from sagging to the floor. A hand turned his face to the side, his mouth meeting with lips rubbed raw. Greg shuddered as the rough fabric of Sherlock’s trousers grazed his softening prick.
Sherlock ran his nails lightly over the back of Greg’s neck. "There’s a mattress in the corner."
Half a dozen steps was enough to jumpstart his better judgment. Separated-if that’s what this really was-didn’t mean ‘not married’. And there’d been that comment the last time he’d seen Sherlock, about there being another homicide. For all he knew, he’d just been sucked off by a serial killer with an exceptionally talented-
"Be it far from me to discourage you from engaging in what little brain activity you’re capable of," Sherlock interrupted, "but at the moment, I would prefer that you cease your tedious consideration of whatever circumstantial evidence has led you to conclude, erroneously I might add, that I’m the madman responsible for your last two homicides simply because I possess the ability to extrapolate beyond the obvious. I did rather hope to spend the evening otherwise occupied."
He dove in for a fierce kiss, his tongue pushing into Greg’s mouth. Right, well, he could give Sherlock the benefit of the doubt for the moment, albeit grudgingly, but Greg wasn’t about to take him off the suspect list entirely. Not even if he did feel fantastic. Greg reached tentatively between them, fingers skirting the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers a moment before daring to dip inside. Christ, he hadn’t been so frightened since-well, ever. It wasn’t as if there was a pistol or a viper or something down there. It was just a cock. Another bloke’s cock, but a cock all the same.
Greg firmed up his grip and gave Sherlock a good pull. His mouth went slack against Greg’s. Relief coursed through him. He could do this. Hell, he could do this well. Bit obvious, wasn’t it? All the bits right there on the outside and no mystery at all as to what to do with them. You’ll find someone else, someone, well… more your own speed. You’ll see, love. The angle was all wrong, of course, not to mention the unfamiliar girth, but the rest was exactly his speed.
Sherlock wriggled his trousers down a bit and it was even easier. His hand curled warmly around Greg’s cock, still hanging out the front of his trousers. Greg laughed a bit as he broke away.
"You’re laughing. Why?"
"I am just a bit older than you."
"State of mind," Sherlock said. "Completely and utterly irrelevant. I’ll prove it."
He batted Greg’s hand aside and wrapped his own around the both of them. Good luck with that-he hadn’t got it up twice in the same day since he was Sherlock’s age. Still, he had to admit it did feel nice, Sherlock pumping them both in his hand as he sucked kisses into Greg’s neck. Greg ran his hands up beneath Sherlock’s shirt. Ribs like slats, smooth. He thumbed over a nipple and Sherlock bucked against him. Greg’s cock gave a sympathetic throb.
Feeling bold, Greg turned his face towards Sherlock’s wandering mouth, catching him in a kiss. There was just nothing like it, was there? Someone breathing into you, and your lips so full of sensation it was almost as painful as it was exquisite. There were tastes there Greg didn’t want to think about, but it was easy enough to push them from his mind as his cock plumped under Sherlock’s attentions and their grind grew more frantic. God, it was going to happen, wasn’t it? There was a warm gush of fluid as Sherlock came and before he’d even had the chance to slow, Greg was following, coming so hard it hurt.
"I told you," Sherlock said.
"Yeah, all right," Greg conceded, tiredly. He felt he’d been wrung dry. "But you’re still a smug twat."
***
"Your mobile rang while you were asleep. A woman named Sally. She left a message. Several, in fact," Sherlock said, as if the moment Greg opened his eyes was the perfect moment to begin this conversation. "You’ve another body, if I’m not mistaken."
Greg rolled onto his back and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "What’s this about Sally?"
Sherlock dropped Greg’s mobile on his chest. Rather unceremonious, that. Greg blearily opened up his voice messages, cringing at the increasingly shrill register of Donovan’s voice as she asked, rather fairly in all honesty, where the fuck he’d fucked off to with a madman on the loose.
Greg glanced over at Sherlock, who was doing God only knew what with a hot plate. He still wasn’t entirely certain he hadn’t fucked off with the madman himself, but that may have been the guilt creeping in. The sour taste in his mouth made him grimace. He needed a cup of coffee and a hot shower, preferably in that order, before he even considered checking out their perp’s latest Christmas present.
"When did you wake up, anyway?"
"I didn’t sleep," came the reply. "Do you take sugar in your coffee?"
"No."
"Good, because I don’t have any." Sherlock presented him with a chipped mug filled to the brim. Greg eyed it, warily. "If I’d wanted to drug you, I’d have done it while you were snoring on my mattress."
Greg snatched the mug from him. "I do not snore."
"You have a deviated septum. Of course you snore."
"Yeah? You get a good look at that last night?" Greg rolled his eyes and cautiously sampled the coffee. It was, surprisingly, not bad. He took another sip. Not bad at all. Good, even. "I didn’t mean to put you off your sleep."
Sherlock waved him off. "I’ve been thinking about your case. The last victims-all three of them women, yes?"
"Yeah, but the first two-"
"Were men," Sherlock said. "Not important. Have you identified the victims? Were they local?"
"I really can’t tell you anything that’s not been in the papers."
Sherlock’s eyes were flat and cold. "You still think I’m responsible."
"No," Greg said. Not really. "But you’ve got to admit you don’t make it easy to believe you’re innocent, telling me it’s not over and bringing it up all the time. What’s it to you, anyway?"
"A puzzle with a missing piece."
"And I suppose you think you can find that piece."
"I think I’ve already found it. I’ll need to see your most recent crime scene for verification, of course."
He had a feeling he was going to need more than a cup of coffee to deal with this. "Now, hold on a minute. I’m not about to let a civilian poke about in one of my crime scenes. You’re not qualified, for one, and even if you were, I barely know you, let alone whether I can trust you."
"You trusted me enough to fall asleep knowing I could potentially turn out to be your serial murderer," Sherlock pointed out, "which suggests you were never wholly convinced by your own theory. It would be convenient, to be able to single me out as the killer, yes, but as desperate as you are for this to be over, you’ve been a police officer far too long to let your desperation get in the way of your need to know, to be correct. You don’t want just any man behind bars, Inspector. You want the right man," Sherlock said, taking Greg’s cup out of his hands, "and I am more than qualified to deliver him to you should you permit a minor breech in protocol."
God, he couldn’t believe he was even considering this. "As much as I’d like to think you’re doing this on account of me being such a bloody fantastic shag, I’ve got to ask-are you expecting some kind of compensation?"
Sherlock snorted. "Hardly."
"You’re just gonna do it, then. Out of the goodness of your heart, I suppose. Holiday spirit and all that?"
"Get your coat, Inspector."
***
"Come on, Sally, don’t look at me like that. Forensics has had a week on this and they haven’t turned up anything."
"And you think he will?"
"Worth a shot, isn’t it?"
Sally shook her head in disbelief. "You’ve gone mad. Absolutely bloody mad."
Greg was beginning to suspect she wasn’t too far off. He didn’t even know what Sherlock was doing anymore, circling the body with his hands clasped behind his back. It was like watching a dog chasing its own tail, the way he’d been going round and round since Greg had let him loose.
"Gloves! Someone bring me gloves!" Sherlock shouted, abruptly crouching next to the body. Forensics wasn’t buying it. Anderson scowled sourly in his direction, arms crossed over his chest.
"Sod it all," Greg muttered.
It had taken him years to make detective inspector and in the span of five minutes he’d been demoted to errand boy. He grabbed a pair of gloves and passed them to Sherlock, who promptly snapped them on and shoved his hand down the front of the victim’s trousers.
"Sherlock, what in God’s name-"
"Rings."
"Rings?" Greg looked at her hands. "She’s not got any."
"Not on her fingers," Sherlock said, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. Apparently satisfied with her other orifices, he stuck his fingers in the girl’s mouth and fished around a bit. Greg grimaced. "Ah, there we are." Sherlock dropped them on the pavement one by one. Greg counted four. "She must have swallowed the last one before succumbing."
"What makes you think that there weren’t just four? And how the hell did you know to look for them in the first place?"
Sherlock hummed a snatch of music that sounded vaguely familiar.
"Is that meant to be an answer? Because I don’t follow."
"Your third set of victims. They were French ex-patriots, weren’t they?"
"How did you-but that wasn’t the third," Greg protested. "This is the third. And what’s being French got to do with anything?"
Sherlock scooped up the rings, letting them jingle in his palm. "The first was likely unremarkable, easy to overlook, but the rest are quite obvious. She wanted someone to notice. Five golden rings, three French hens, two turtledoves-those would have been your lovers."
Suddenly, it clicked. "Are you telling me these are patterned after that song, what is it, ‘Twelve Days of Christmas’? And what do you mean, ‘she’?"
"The victim isn’t wearing lipstick and yet there are traces of it on the back of her hand, presumably where she attempted to fight off her assailant, who was wearing a rather garish shade of red. You can see it here." Greg crouched down next to him and there it was, smudged right over her knuckles. "Your murderer is a woman. Not a very clever one, I might add. She seems to have forgotten the four colly birds entirely, unless she’s baked them into a pie somewhere. Blackbirds," he said, at Greg’s look of confusion. "You’ll need to find your first victim, likely someone with the surname ‘Partridge’, but locating your killer should be simple enough."
He straightened. Greg stood up next to him. "So, you think she’s left DNA behind with the lipstick?"
"Of course not. That would be absurd."
"Right," Greg said. "Right, because stuffing a dead girl’s mouth full of gold rings is just an ordinary day, but what I said, that’s just mad."
"You’d start killing people too if you had to listen to Christmas music twelve hours a day," Sherlock said. "All three incidents we know of have been executed late in the evening, but before midnight. That says morning shift. The events of the song are spaced over twelve days but the murders have been spaced unevenly-she’s had to fit them around her work schedule, which says odd hours, which almost certainly means shop assistant. Going by her lipstick, she’s been hired part-time for the holiday rush, likely at one of the larger, cheaper chains. You’d never see that shade of red on the high street."
Greg looked back and forth between Sherlock and the victim, trying to wrap his head around it. "I hardly know whether to kiss you or take my fist to your face."
"I’d prefer not to be a part of your public spectacle."
"Right. Well… I suppose I’ll run that name, then. Call around and see what shops’ve been playing that song," Greg said. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. Sherlock didn’t seem like the sort to shake hands and anyway, it was a bit formal, shaking hands with a man who’d sucked you off. "Thank you, Sherlock. I mean it."
"I’ve programmed my number into your phone. Text me when you’ve brought your murderess to justice."
Greg watched him walk away. Sally appeared at his side a moment later. "You’ve found something worthwhile, then?"
"Yeah," he said, eyes still on Sherlock. "Yeah, I think I have."
***
"You were right about us," Greg said, as soon as she picked up. "I can’t keep lying to myself, or to you. You need someone who treats you right. I’ve been selfish, Di, thinking I could be that person."
She was silent for a long moment. "No hard feelings, then?"
"I care about you too much for that. I do love you, you know, just…"
"You don’t need to say it."
"Probably figured it out a long time ago."
"I had my suspicions," she said. There was another lapse. "So, how are you keeping without me? Not in too much trouble, I hope."
"No, it’s good. I’m good. Got my case sorted. Still going to the meetings."
"I’m happy to hear that."
"How’s your mum?"
"Oh, you know her. There’s nothing a cup of tea won’t fix and all that." Greg could hear her exhale. "Don’t take it the wrong way, but I miss you. Just a bit."
Greg smiled. "I know. I miss you, too. Look, um, I’ve got a few things to take care of, but why don’t you pop in at the weekend. We’ll sort the flat, take care of the tricky bits. I love you, Di."
It had taken a week to hammer things out. They’d found victim zero without much difficulty. By some stroke of luck, Sherlock’s shop assistant had left a bit of DNA under his fingernails. They’d had her in custody within twenty-four hours and her confession a day later, but they were still taking care of the paperwork, taking care to leave Sherlock well out of it.
Greg fiddled with his mobile a minute before finding Sherlock’s number, listed as "Holmes, S.".
You want to get a Chinese or something? GL
Less than thirty seconds later: Not hungry. SH
"Git." He was in the middle of typing an appropriately affronted reply when the second text came.
Address? SH
So much for an attempt to ease into things. Greg sent his address and received I trust your wife isn’t home. SH in return. Not merely a git, but a cheeky one at that. He was about to tuck his mobile away when it buzzed again.
Nudity preferable. SH
Greg snorted. Not a chance. GL
:(
Put the kettle on. SH
Ten minutes later, Sherlock swept in without so much as a knock. He walked right past the kitchen. "Hey, where do you think you’re going? I made us a cuppa."
"Upstairs. That is where the bed is, isn’t it?"
"You’re not getting me naked," Greg shouted after him. "And don’t you dare go through my stuff, Sherlock!"
He gathered up the mugs and trotted up the stairs after Sherlock. He’d made the damn tea and Sherlock was going to drink it whether he liked it or-
"Wow."
"Is there a problem, Inspector?"
"It’s just that you’re very…" Fit, hung, pale. "Uh, very naked."
"Yes, thank you for your thrilling rendition of the obvious."
"I’ve got hot tea in my hands," Greg warned. "Don’t tempt me."
Sherlock rolled onto his front and gave Greg what he had to admit was a spectacularly fetching view of his arse. Greg set the mugs on the bedside and took a seat on the bed next to him. Sherlock mumbled something into the pillows.
"Sorry, didn’t catch that."
Sherlock lifted his head. "You’re concerned about sleeping with someone else in the bed you and your wife shared, falsely mistaking it as a sign of the state of your marriage when in fact it was more to do with what you did out of bed than what you ever did in it that has culminated in your separation and impending divorce."
"It could be that," Greg said. "Or it could just be that I wasn’t expecting you to run up here and shuck your kit." Sherlock harrumphed. Greg gave him a good smack on the arse, delighting in his indignant yelp. "I only did it because you deserved it."
Sherlock turned onto his back. "Are you not naked yet?"
"What is it with you and your determination to get me out of my clothes?"
"You only shared the pertinent details about your case with me after we’d slept together."
"Yeah, and?"
"I assumed you’d be interested in my assistance on your next case."
That one took a bit to piece together, but once Greg got the shape of it, he almost wished he could bring himself to dump a mug of tea on Sherlock.
"Are you seriously telling me you thought I was planning to trade cases for sex?"
"Is it the thought of sharing your cases or continued sexual relations with me that upsets you?"
"You are unbelievable. Has anyone ever told you that?"
Sherlock rearranged himself primly. "I very much doubt there is anything denigrating, pejorative, or disapproving that you could possibly say that someone has not already said to me."
There was no hope for this one. None whatsoever. Greg flopped back on the bed. "What the hell am I doing?"
"Accepting what is not within your power to change. Surely you’ve made the connection?"
"Are you quoting that damn serenity prayer at me?"
Sherlock walked his fingers along Greg’s arm. "It seemed appropriate."
Appropriate was just about the last word Greg would ever assign to any conversation with Sherlock, past, present, or future. They lay in silence for several minutes, Sherlock continuing to run his fingers lightly over Greg’s arm and chest.
"Why do you do it? The drugs, I mean."
"Because the world is tedious."
Greg rolled over to face him. "And being coked out of your mind changes that?"
"It does nothing to cut through the tedium, but it does have the effect of speeding things up. That’s the difference between you and me, Inspector. Well, one difference. I flee the center, the calm, the ordinary life. Centrifugal motion. You seek it out, in the hopes that by slowing down you might find enough time to catch a glimpse of the world outside your mind. Centripetal motion."
"So it’s physics, then. Why we’ve cocked-up our lives so much. Not psychology at all."
Sherlock smiled, just at the corners of his mouth. "Physics of the mind. The will in motion."
"Well, thank god we got that sorted."
Sherlock slid his hands up under Greg’s t-shirt. "Now to get you naked."
"I’d say you were tenacious, but honestly, I think you just might be the single most stubborn person I’ve ever met."
"Says the man who practically needs a written invitation to-"
"Yeah, okay, I get it. Enough with the melodrama."
Greg pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it to the carpet before letting Sherlock push him back on the bed. He sat across Greg’s hips, surprisingly heavy despite the sleek look of him. And, of course, naked as the day he was born. Greg ran his hands up and down Sherlock’s thighs, enjoying the crinkle of hair against his palms. The position provided a rather up close and personal view of his cock, which was just beginning to swell past the foreskin. The sight was far more fascinating than it had any right to be.
As Greg watched, Sherlock rolled his foreskin back to reveal the head, red and glistening against a backdrop of dark hair. Emboldened, he tugged at Sherlock’s hips. He’d never sucked a cock before, but how hard could it be, really?
"Just, a bit closer, so I can…yeah, that’s good."
Sherlock wrapped a hand around the base of his cock, as if offering it to him. His own cock stirred appreciatively, pulse thudding as Sherlock smeared thin, sticky fluid over his lips with the head of his cock. He’d never really been one to make a show of his masculinity or to enjoy the sort of domineering command some of his superiors seemed so fond of, but he hadn’t ever thought of himself as the sort to enjoy being toyed with like this, pushed outside of his comfort zone.
Finally, he worked up the courage to let his tongue slip against the head. Sherlock pushed a bit against that and Greg put a little more pressure into the motion as he licked over the slit. He found himself with a mouthful of cock in rapid order. He gagged slightly and Sherlock squeezed his shoulder.
"Relax your jaw."
As soon as Greg did, Sherlock began to rock slowly in and out of his mouth. Oh, God, God… Greg closed his eyes and swallowed the saliva welling in the back of his mouth, his face flushed with embarrassment and arousal as Sherlock fucked his mouth. That he might have some minor-minor, mind-submissive tendencies was somehow even more startling than the fact that, after twenty-five years of marriage to the same woman, he was finally figuring out he’d rather roll around in bed with a bloke than with a bird. Better late than never, he supposed.
Just as he’d started getting the hang of it, Sherlock extracted himself. Greg wiped away the spit slicking his chin with the back of a hand.
"Wasn’t that bad, was I? No, on second thought, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know."
Sherlock smiled. "Turn over. I’ve something else in mind."
"Hang on just a minute. You’re not-because I haven’t and I’m not entirely sure-"
"Anal intercourse was not actually what I had in mind."
"Oh. Right, then." Greg rolled onto his front with a slight feeling of trepidation. "Still, not sure I quite like the idea of not being able to keep an eye on you."
Sherlock’s lips were hot against his ear. "Don’t you trust me?"
"About as far as I can throw you." Something cold dripped onto the back of his leg. "Ugh, what the hell is that?"
"I don’t want this to chafe," Sherlock said. He squeezed a hand between Greg’s thighs, smearing him with cold jelly from mid-thigh all the way up behind his balls. Those he rolled in his hand briefly before withdrawing. "It will be easier on your knees."
Greg shifted position, wondering what he’d got himself into when Sherlock settled against his back, bringing his cock up between Greg’s thighs.
"You can grip me more tightly," he murmured, as he began to move. "I’ll inform you of any discomfort."
"Course you will."
It was odd, the first few thrusts. He’d never had anything slipping in and out of his legs like that and he wasn’t sure how to hold himself for it, but once they settled into a sort of rhythm, he began to see the appeal. Sherlock’s cock slipped over his balls with every pass, rubbing just enough to get him moving back into it, but not enough to bring him off. His cock bounced against his stomach as Sherlock thrust between his legs with little grunts and moans.
Greg bit back a moan. "This what they teach you public school boys?"
"Among other things," Sherlock said, sounding only slightly out of breath as he gave a particularly firm thrust. "How does it feel to have a spoiled Harrow boy like me fucking you, Inspector?"
Inspector, Christ. The title had never done much for him before, but hearing it from that mouth, at this moment, was like a little jolt of electricity right to Greg’s cock. He dropped his forehead against his forearms with a groan and pushed back into it. Sherlock slapped his hip with a resounding crack and his cock started to dribble.
"Come on," Greg panted, "bring me off."
Sherlock’s hand snaked past his hip and wrapped around his cock. Greg thrust gratefully into the tight grip, fucking himself back and forth between Sherlock’s hand and Sherlock’s prick, still wedged up between his thighs. Sherlock mouthed at his shoulder, sucking at the skin. He sank his teeth in and Greg spilled into his hand without warning, unable to help himself.
He caught his breath as Sherlock rocked to a slow stop, his come bursting hot and sticky between Greg’s legs. He folded down against Greg’s back, breathing harshly against the back of his neck as they lay chest to back, sticky and blissful.
"You can stay if you want. Over, I mean. Only if you want to."
"I wouldn’t mind the use of your shower."
"Sure, yeah. Make yourself at home."
Sherlock nuzzled the nape of his neck. He hadn’t looked like much of a cuddler before, but then it was always the odd ones, wasn’t it? In any case, Greg didn’t mind. He yawned into the pillows.
"What time is it, anyway?"
"Time to sleep."
Now there was an idea he could get behind. They’d solved the case, he was working things out with Diane, he was starting to get comfortable in his own skin again, and even if Sherlock was without a doubt the most irritating super genius junkie-cum-detective he’d ever had the privilege of meeting, Greg thought he might be just the person to get him through the rest of AA without trying to drown himself in a bottle.
It was exhausting work, this midlife crisis business, but it was well worth it.
As soon as he opened the door, Greg knew something was off. He rushed upstairs and threw open the bedroom door to the sight of Diane packing clothes into her old tartan suitcase.
"Di, what are you doing?"
"I can’t do this anymore, Greg."
"What do you mean?"
She threw down an armful of clothing. "This, our marriage. I love you, but I’m tired of pretending."
This was not happening. This couldn’t be happening, not to them. "But things are getting better. I’m not drinking anymore. Christ, Di, we actually had sex today."
"And you were hardly there!" she cried. "Look, I’m glad you’re getting help, Greg. I really, really am. I don’t want to see you drink yourself to death like your dad did, but I don’t want you to stay with me when all it does is make you miserable."
"What are you talking about? I’m not-this is just a rough patch. It happens. You can’t seriously be thinking of throwing away twenty-five years just because-"
"It’s not just one thing, Greg," Di said. She sat heavily on the edge of the bed. "It’s everything. It’s the drinking, it’s the way you hardly look at me anymore. And I know, I know you love me, but things haven’t been all right for a long time now."
Greg took a seat next to her on the bed.
"When we first got married, I thought even if it might take a while, you’d start thinking of me as your wife, but the thing is, you haven’t. It’s like we’re still ten and I’m your best friend," she said. "And, I mean, that’s good, in some ways, but I can’t be married to my best friend. That isn’t enough for me and I don’t think it’s enough for you, either." She squeezed his hand in hers. "We deserve to be happy. Both of us."
"I don’t know how to be happy without you," he said. He knew exactly how ridiculous it sounded, but the words just poured out of him. "I don’t know how to be without you. How am I supposed to handle the work and the meetings when I don’t have you to come home to? Jesus, Di, I can’t even balance the accounts. You know how shit I am at maths. Oh, God." He buried his face in his hands. "Oh, God, oh God oh God, please don’t do this to me."
Her arm wrapped around him, her head coming to rest on his shoulder.
"This is a good thing. You’ll find someone else, someone, well… more your own speed. You’ll see, love."
"Are you going to your mum’s?"
"I’ll leave the number on the fridge," she promised. She kissed his cheek. "I’ve got to catch the train. Promise me you’ll take care of yourself?"
"Yeah, okay."
"You can always ring me, all right?"
Greg listened to the sound of her footsteps down the stairs. As soon as he heard the door close, he let out the sob he’d been holding in.
***
It was a story he’d heard a thousand times. A story everyone knew. You made a mistake, and God, or the universe, or whatever it was inside a man that turned him wrong, punished you for it. Five people were dead and he didn’t know a thing about how to stop it from happening again, his wife had walked out on him, he’d practically assaulted his training sergeant, and now he was sat back at the pub where it all began.
Greg slid his fingers through the condensation. He could smell it. God, he could practically feel it running down his throat. It was a hell of a thing to be staring down a pint glass, knowing there was no solution at the bottom of it and being tempted to try anyway.
I don’t want to see you drink yourself to death like your dad did.
His hands balled into fists. Good man, his dad. A good copper, too. At least, that’s what mum used to tell him. He’d been so young when it happened, it was hard to remember what he was like.
Greg fished a fiver out of his pocket and left it on the bar along with the pint.
It was a nice enough night. Cold, but clear enough to see the stars over London. He walked past shops and cafés and takeaways and hoped a bit of fresh air-well, as fresh as air got in this city, anyway-might clear his head. There were probably meetings tonight, somewhere he could check in. If he looked in enough church basements, he’d probably find one.
He chuckled to himself, but his heart wasn’t in it. He didn’t want to be steeped in other people’s misery tonight. He just wanted someone to talk to. You can always ring me, all right? Di would likely still be on the train. Anyway, he didn’t much feel like bothering her. I know you love me, but things haven’t been all right for a long time now.
He’d barely paid attention to where he’d wandered. Nothing but shops down here. An offie on the corner caught his eye. It would be easy. No shame in it, really-if a man couldn’t get good and pissed the night his wife left him, when could he? He probably looked mad, or homeless, standing there on the pavement with his hands in his coat pockets staring through the window not knowing whether he was strong enough to resist a second time.
He hadn’t meant to end up like his old man. It’d been stress, at first. Stress he’d always blamed on the job, but it was more than that, really. They used to go places together, used to take the trains out somewhere they’d never been and just sit kissing and laughing in the back car. They’d made love, too, but it had got harder and harder. Stress, Greg had said. Ordinary stress, and if drinking had given him a convenient excuse not to perform, well, who could blame him? He’d fucked Di enough to keep her happy, at least in the beginning.
Funny, how things turned out. You thought love was enough and sometimes it was, until it wasn’t anymore.
"It won’t bring her back, you know."
Greg suppressed the urge to lead his response with a fist to the face. "Funny, how you just keep popping up, pretending to know something about me."
"I don’t pretend, Inspector. That your wife left you tonight is as plain to me as your wedding band. Only slightly less obvious is your repressed homosexuality, which no doubt played a key role in your wife’s choice to try her hand elsewhere."
"You’ve got three seconds to make a run for it before I beat your arse, you spoiled, puffed-up junkie bastard."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You haven’t denied it."
"What?"
"You’ve not bothered to deny it because you know I’m right. It’s all finally caught up with you and I can see that you’re tired of running," he said, taking a slow step toward Greg. "There’s no need to run any longer."
Greg stumbled backwards, his back hitting brick. Shit. "You get the hell away from me, or-"
"You’ll put me in cuffs?" Sherlock braced a hand on the wall next to him, his voice a low rumble. "Not the best course of action, Inspector. I might even like it."
Sherlock’s lips touched his neck and Greg’s knees went to jelly. A second later, he found himself crushed against the brick, Sherlock pinning his wrists overhead. His mouth was chapped and feverish, his body all angles. One hand snaked down to squeeze Greg’s crotch roughly.
There was barely any time at all to process it before Sherlock was pulling back. "My accommodations are this way."
Greg’s heart thudded with every thump of his heels as he followed Sherlock through side-streets and byways, not knowing what the hell he was doing and helpless to do anything else. By the time they made it back to Sherlock’s "accommodations"-a dingy-looking squat-he was harder than he’d ever been in his life.
Sherlock kissed him again, pulling at his clothes and driving him backwards. His thighs hit the edge of something. Table, maybe, or a desk. Glass crunched under his heel. His mind immediately supplied the image of a needle and he tensed.
"They used to manufacture test-tubes here," Sherlock said.
"So you’re clean."
"I’ve not been anywhere you’d need to worry about."
It wasn’t what he’d meant, not really, but Greg didn’t get a chance to protest before Sherlock dropped to his knees, heedless of the broken glass. Greg gripped the edge of whatever it was he was leaning against with both hands as Sherlock lowered his zip.
"You’re not, you know, for hire, are you?"
"Please," he sneered as he fished out Greg’s cock. He gave it a long, firm stroke and Greg bit back a grunt. "For future reference, I’d prefer it if you came in my mouth and not on my face. Provided it’s all the same to you."
With one swift motion, he swallowed Greg’s cock. One hand, he kept wrapped around the base. Deft fingers tugged lightly at his foreskin and Greg’s knees quaked. His eyes rolled to the ceiling and shut of their own accord. It only seemed to magnify the sloppy, suckling noises coming from below.
His forearms quivered with the effort to hold himself up against the warm, strong hand cupping his balls. The mouth sliding along his cock slipped off and then down further. He moaned at the warm wetness as his balls were sucked on, the hand viciously tugging his cock in time. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been sucked off like this. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been sucked off, full stop. The hot mouth sucking at his balls switched back to the head of his cock and he nearly collapsed at the tight suction.
He finished with a grunt, fingernails scratching against the tabletop. Once his cock slipped free, it was only the arm curling around his waist that kept him from sagging to the floor. A hand turned his face to the side, his mouth meeting with lips rubbed raw. Greg shuddered as the rough fabric of Sherlock’s trousers grazed his softening prick.
Sherlock ran his nails lightly over the back of Greg’s neck. "There’s a mattress in the corner."
Half a dozen steps was enough to jumpstart his better judgment. Separated-if that’s what this really was-didn’t mean ‘not married’. And there’d been that comment the last time he’d seen Sherlock, about there being another homicide. For all he knew, he’d just been sucked off by a serial killer with an exceptionally talented-
"Be it far from me to discourage you from engaging in what little brain activity you’re capable of," Sherlock interrupted, "but at the moment, I would prefer that you cease your tedious consideration of whatever circumstantial evidence has led you to conclude, erroneously I might add, that I’m the madman responsible for your last two homicides simply because I possess the ability to extrapolate beyond the obvious. I did rather hope to spend the evening otherwise occupied."
He dove in for a fierce kiss, his tongue pushing into Greg’s mouth. Right, well, he could give Sherlock the benefit of the doubt for the moment, albeit grudgingly, but Greg wasn’t about to take him off the suspect list entirely. Not even if he did feel fantastic. Greg reached tentatively between them, fingers skirting the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers a moment before daring to dip inside. Christ, he hadn’t been so frightened since-well, ever. It wasn’t as if there was a pistol or a viper or something down there. It was just a cock. Another bloke’s cock, but a cock all the same.
Greg firmed up his grip and gave Sherlock a good pull. His mouth went slack against Greg’s. Relief coursed through him. He could do this. Hell, he could do this well. Bit obvious, wasn’t it? All the bits right there on the outside and no mystery at all as to what to do with them. You’ll find someone else, someone, well… more your own speed. You’ll see, love. The angle was all wrong, of course, not to mention the unfamiliar girth, but the rest was exactly his speed.
Sherlock wriggled his trousers down a bit and it was even easier. His hand curled warmly around Greg’s cock, still hanging out the front of his trousers. Greg laughed a bit as he broke away.
"You’re laughing. Why?"
"I am just a bit older than you."
"State of mind," Sherlock said. "Completely and utterly irrelevant. I’ll prove it."
He batted Greg’s hand aside and wrapped his own around the both of them. Good luck with that-he hadn’t got it up twice in the same day since he was Sherlock’s age. Still, he had to admit it did feel nice, Sherlock pumping them both in his hand as he sucked kisses into Greg’s neck. Greg ran his hands up beneath Sherlock’s shirt. Ribs like slats, smooth. He thumbed over a nipple and Sherlock bucked against him. Greg’s cock gave a sympathetic throb.
Feeling bold, Greg turned his face towards Sherlock’s wandering mouth, catching him in a kiss. There was just nothing like it, was there? Someone breathing into you, and your lips so full of sensation it was almost as painful as it was exquisite. There were tastes there Greg didn’t want to think about, but it was easy enough to push them from his mind as his cock plumped under Sherlock’s attentions and their grind grew more frantic. God, it was going to happen, wasn’t it? There was a warm gush of fluid as Sherlock came and before he’d even had the chance to slow, Greg was following, coming so hard it hurt.
"I told you," Sherlock said.
"Yeah, all right," Greg conceded, tiredly. He felt he’d been wrung dry. "But you’re still a smug twat."
***
"Your mobile rang while you were asleep. A woman named Sally. She left a message. Several, in fact," Sherlock said, as if the moment Greg opened his eyes was the perfect moment to begin this conversation. "You’ve another body, if I’m not mistaken."
Greg rolled onto his back and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "What’s this about Sally?"
Sherlock dropped Greg’s mobile on his chest. Rather unceremonious, that. Greg blearily opened up his voice messages, cringing at the increasingly shrill register of Donovan’s voice as she asked, rather fairly in all honesty, where the fuck he’d fucked off to with a madman on the loose.
Greg glanced over at Sherlock, who was doing God only knew what with a hot plate. He still wasn’t entirely certain he hadn’t fucked off with the madman himself, but that may have been the guilt creeping in. The sour taste in his mouth made him grimace. He needed a cup of coffee and a hot shower, preferably in that order, before he even considered checking out their perp’s latest Christmas present.
"When did you wake up, anyway?"
"I didn’t sleep," came the reply. "Do you take sugar in your coffee?"
"No."
"Good, because I don’t have any." Sherlock presented him with a chipped mug filled to the brim. Greg eyed it, warily. "If I’d wanted to drug you, I’d have done it while you were snoring on my mattress."
Greg snatched the mug from him. "I do not snore."
"You have a deviated septum. Of course you snore."
"Yeah? You get a good look at that last night?" Greg rolled his eyes and cautiously sampled the coffee. It was, surprisingly, not bad. He took another sip. Not bad at all. Good, even. "I didn’t mean to put you off your sleep."
Sherlock waved him off. "I’ve been thinking about your case. The last victims-all three of them women, yes?"
"Yeah, but the first two-"
"Were men," Sherlock said. "Not important. Have you identified the victims? Were they local?"
"I really can’t tell you anything that’s not been in the papers."
Sherlock’s eyes were flat and cold. "You still think I’m responsible."
"No," Greg said. Not really. "But you’ve got to admit you don’t make it easy to believe you’re innocent, telling me it’s not over and bringing it up all the time. What’s it to you, anyway?"
"A puzzle with a missing piece."
"And I suppose you think you can find that piece."
"I think I’ve already found it. I’ll need to see your most recent crime scene for verification, of course."
He had a feeling he was going to need more than a cup of coffee to deal with this. "Now, hold on a minute. I’m not about to let a civilian poke about in one of my crime scenes. You’re not qualified, for one, and even if you were, I barely know you, let alone whether I can trust you."
"You trusted me enough to fall asleep knowing I could potentially turn out to be your serial murderer," Sherlock pointed out, "which suggests you were never wholly convinced by your own theory. It would be convenient, to be able to single me out as the killer, yes, but as desperate as you are for this to be over, you’ve been a police officer far too long to let your desperation get in the way of your need to know, to be correct. You don’t want just any man behind bars, Inspector. You want the right man," Sherlock said, taking Greg’s cup out of his hands, "and I am more than qualified to deliver him to you should you permit a minor breech in protocol."
God, he couldn’t believe he was even considering this. "As much as I’d like to think you’re doing this on account of me being such a bloody fantastic shag, I’ve got to ask-are you expecting some kind of compensation?"
Sherlock snorted. "Hardly."
"You’re just gonna do it, then. Out of the goodness of your heart, I suppose. Holiday spirit and all that?"
"Get your coat, Inspector."
***
"Come on, Sally, don’t look at me like that. Forensics has had a week on this and they haven’t turned up anything."
"And you think he will?"
"Worth a shot, isn’t it?"
Sally shook her head in disbelief. "You’ve gone mad. Absolutely bloody mad."
Greg was beginning to suspect she wasn’t too far off. He didn’t even know what Sherlock was doing anymore, circling the body with his hands clasped behind his back. It was like watching a dog chasing its own tail, the way he’d been going round and round since Greg had let him loose.
"Gloves! Someone bring me gloves!" Sherlock shouted, abruptly crouching next to the body. Forensics wasn’t buying it. Anderson scowled sourly in his direction, arms crossed over his chest.
"Sod it all," Greg muttered.
It had taken him years to make detective inspector and in the span of five minutes he’d been demoted to errand boy. He grabbed a pair of gloves and passed them to Sherlock, who promptly snapped them on and shoved his hand down the front of the victim’s trousers.
"Sherlock, what in God’s name-"
"Rings."
"Rings?" Greg looked at her hands. "She’s not got any."
"Not on her fingers," Sherlock said, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. Apparently satisfied with her other orifices, he stuck his fingers in the girl’s mouth and fished around a bit. Greg grimaced. "Ah, there we are." Sherlock dropped them on the pavement one by one. Greg counted four. "She must have swallowed the last one before succumbing."
"What makes you think that there weren’t just four? And how the hell did you know to look for them in the first place?"
Sherlock hummed a snatch of music that sounded vaguely familiar.
"Is that meant to be an answer? Because I don’t follow."
"Your third set of victims. They were French ex-patriots, weren’t they?"
"How did you-but that wasn’t the third," Greg protested. "This is the third. And what’s being French got to do with anything?"
Sherlock scooped up the rings, letting them jingle in his palm. "The first was likely unremarkable, easy to overlook, but the rest are quite obvious. She wanted someone to notice. Five golden rings, three French hens, two turtledoves-those would have been your lovers."
Suddenly, it clicked. "Are you telling me these are patterned after that song, what is it, ‘Twelve Days of Christmas’? And what do you mean, ‘she’?"
"The victim isn’t wearing lipstick and yet there are traces of it on the back of her hand, presumably where she attempted to fight off her assailant, who was wearing a rather garish shade of red. You can see it here." Greg crouched down next to him and there it was, smudged right over her knuckles. "Your murderer is a woman. Not a very clever one, I might add. She seems to have forgotten the four colly birds entirely, unless she’s baked them into a pie somewhere. Blackbirds," he said, at Greg’s look of confusion. "You’ll need to find your first victim, likely someone with the surname ‘Partridge’, but locating your killer should be simple enough."
He straightened. Greg stood up next to him. "So, you think she’s left DNA behind with the lipstick?"
"Of course not. That would be absurd."
"Right," Greg said. "Right, because stuffing a dead girl’s mouth full of gold rings is just an ordinary day, but what I said, that’s just mad."
"You’d start killing people too if you had to listen to Christmas music twelve hours a day," Sherlock said. "All three incidents we know of have been executed late in the evening, but before midnight. That says morning shift. The events of the song are spaced over twelve days but the murders have been spaced unevenly-she’s had to fit them around her work schedule, which says odd hours, which almost certainly means shop assistant. Going by her lipstick, she’s been hired part-time for the holiday rush, likely at one of the larger, cheaper chains. You’d never see that shade of red on the high street."
Greg looked back and forth between Sherlock and the victim, trying to wrap his head around it. "I hardly know whether to kiss you or take my fist to your face."
"I’d prefer not to be a part of your public spectacle."
"Right. Well… I suppose I’ll run that name, then. Call around and see what shops’ve been playing that song," Greg said. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. Sherlock didn’t seem like the sort to shake hands and anyway, it was a bit formal, shaking hands with a man who’d sucked you off. "Thank you, Sherlock. I mean it."
"I’ve programmed my number into your phone. Text me when you’ve brought your murderess to justice."
Greg watched him walk away. Sally appeared at his side a moment later. "You’ve found something worthwhile, then?"
"Yeah," he said, eyes still on Sherlock. "Yeah, I think I have."
***
"You were right about us," Greg said, as soon as she picked up. "I can’t keep lying to myself, or to you. You need someone who treats you right. I’ve been selfish, Di, thinking I could be that person."
She was silent for a long moment. "No hard feelings, then?"
"I care about you too much for that. I do love you, you know, just…"
"You don’t need to say it."
"Probably figured it out a long time ago."
"I had my suspicions," she said. There was another lapse. "So, how are you keeping without me? Not in too much trouble, I hope."
"No, it’s good. I’m good. Got my case sorted. Still going to the meetings."
"I’m happy to hear that."
"How’s your mum?"
"Oh, you know her. There’s nothing a cup of tea won’t fix and all that." Greg could hear her exhale. "Don’t take it the wrong way, but I miss you. Just a bit."
Greg smiled. "I know. I miss you, too. Look, um, I’ve got a few things to take care of, but why don’t you pop in at the weekend. We’ll sort the flat, take care of the tricky bits. I love you, Di."
It had taken a week to hammer things out. They’d found victim zero without much difficulty. By some stroke of luck, Sherlock’s shop assistant had left a bit of DNA under his fingernails. They’d had her in custody within twenty-four hours and her confession a day later, but they were still taking care of the paperwork, taking care to leave Sherlock well out of it.
Greg fiddled with his mobile a minute before finding Sherlock’s number, listed as "Holmes, S.".
You want to get a Chinese or something? GL
Less than thirty seconds later: Not hungry. SH
"Git." He was in the middle of typing an appropriately affronted reply when the second text came.
Address? SH
So much for an attempt to ease into things. Greg sent his address and received I trust your wife isn’t home. SH in return. Not merely a git, but a cheeky one at that. He was about to tuck his mobile away when it buzzed again.
Nudity preferable. SH
Greg snorted. Not a chance. GL
:(
Put the kettle on. SH
Ten minutes later, Sherlock swept in without so much as a knock. He walked right past the kitchen. "Hey, where do you think you’re going? I made us a cuppa."
"Upstairs. That is where the bed is, isn’t it?"
"You’re not getting me naked," Greg shouted after him. "And don’t you dare go through my stuff, Sherlock!"
He gathered up the mugs and trotted up the stairs after Sherlock. He’d made the damn tea and Sherlock was going to drink it whether he liked it or-
"Wow."
"Is there a problem, Inspector?"
"It’s just that you’re very…" Fit, hung, pale. "Uh, very naked."
"Yes, thank you for your thrilling rendition of the obvious."
"I’ve got hot tea in my hands," Greg warned. "Don’t tempt me."
Sherlock rolled onto his front and gave Greg what he had to admit was a spectacularly fetching view of his arse. Greg set the mugs on the bedside and took a seat on the bed next to him. Sherlock mumbled something into the pillows.
"Sorry, didn’t catch that."
Sherlock lifted his head. "You’re concerned about sleeping with someone else in the bed you and your wife shared, falsely mistaking it as a sign of the state of your marriage when in fact it was more to do with what you did out of bed than what you ever did in it that has culminated in your separation and impending divorce."
"It could be that," Greg said. "Or it could just be that I wasn’t expecting you to run up here and shuck your kit." Sherlock harrumphed. Greg gave him a good smack on the arse, delighting in his indignant yelp. "I only did it because you deserved it."
Sherlock turned onto his back. "Are you not naked yet?"
"What is it with you and your determination to get me out of my clothes?"
"You only shared the pertinent details about your case with me after we’d slept together."
"Yeah, and?"
"I assumed you’d be interested in my assistance on your next case."
That one took a bit to piece together, but once Greg got the shape of it, he almost wished he could bring himself to dump a mug of tea on Sherlock.
"Are you seriously telling me you thought I was planning to trade cases for sex?"
"Is it the thought of sharing your cases or continued sexual relations with me that upsets you?"
"You are unbelievable. Has anyone ever told you that?"
Sherlock rearranged himself primly. "I very much doubt there is anything denigrating, pejorative, or disapproving that you could possibly say that someone has not already said to me."
There was no hope for this one. None whatsoever. Greg flopped back on the bed. "What the hell am I doing?"
"Accepting what is not within your power to change. Surely you’ve made the connection?"
"Are you quoting that damn serenity prayer at me?"
Sherlock walked his fingers along Greg’s arm. "It seemed appropriate."
Appropriate was just about the last word Greg would ever assign to any conversation with Sherlock, past, present, or future. They lay in silence for several minutes, Sherlock continuing to run his fingers lightly over Greg’s arm and chest.
"Why do you do it? The drugs, I mean."
"Because the world is tedious."
Greg rolled over to face him. "And being coked out of your mind changes that?"
"It does nothing to cut through the tedium, but it does have the effect of speeding things up. That’s the difference between you and me, Inspector. Well, one difference. I flee the center, the calm, the ordinary life. Centrifugal motion. You seek it out, in the hopes that by slowing down you might find enough time to catch a glimpse of the world outside your mind. Centripetal motion."
"So it’s physics, then. Why we’ve cocked-up our lives so much. Not psychology at all."
Sherlock smiled, just at the corners of his mouth. "Physics of the mind. The will in motion."
"Well, thank god we got that sorted."
Sherlock slid his hands up under Greg’s t-shirt. "Now to get you naked."
"I’d say you were tenacious, but honestly, I think you just might be the single most stubborn person I’ve ever met."
"Says the man who practically needs a written invitation to-"
"Yeah, okay, I get it. Enough with the melodrama."
Greg pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it to the carpet before letting Sherlock push him back on the bed. He sat across Greg’s hips, surprisingly heavy despite the sleek look of him. And, of course, naked as the day he was born. Greg ran his hands up and down Sherlock’s thighs, enjoying the crinkle of hair against his palms. The position provided a rather up close and personal view of his cock, which was just beginning to swell past the foreskin. The sight was far more fascinating than it had any right to be.
As Greg watched, Sherlock rolled his foreskin back to reveal the head, red and glistening against a backdrop of dark hair. Emboldened, he tugged at Sherlock’s hips. He’d never sucked a cock before, but how hard could it be, really?
"Just, a bit closer, so I can…yeah, that’s good."
Sherlock wrapped a hand around the base of his cock, as if offering it to him. His own cock stirred appreciatively, pulse thudding as Sherlock smeared thin, sticky fluid over his lips with the head of his cock. He’d never really been one to make a show of his masculinity or to enjoy the sort of domineering command some of his superiors seemed so fond of, but he hadn’t ever thought of himself as the sort to enjoy being toyed with like this, pushed outside of his comfort zone.
Finally, he worked up the courage to let his tongue slip against the head. Sherlock pushed a bit against that and Greg put a little more pressure into the motion as he licked over the slit. He found himself with a mouthful of cock in rapid order. He gagged slightly and Sherlock squeezed his shoulder.
"Relax your jaw."
As soon as Greg did, Sherlock began to rock slowly in and out of his mouth. Oh, God, God… Greg closed his eyes and swallowed the saliva welling in the back of his mouth, his face flushed with embarrassment and arousal as Sherlock fucked his mouth. That he might have some minor-minor, mind-submissive tendencies was somehow even more startling than the fact that, after twenty-five years of marriage to the same woman, he was finally figuring out he’d rather roll around in bed with a bloke than with a bird. Better late than never, he supposed.
Just as he’d started getting the hang of it, Sherlock extracted himself. Greg wiped away the spit slicking his chin with the back of a hand.
"Wasn’t that bad, was I? No, on second thought, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know."
Sherlock smiled. "Turn over. I’ve something else in mind."
"Hang on just a minute. You’re not-because I haven’t and I’m not entirely sure-"
"Anal intercourse was not actually what I had in mind."
"Oh. Right, then." Greg rolled onto his front with a slight feeling of trepidation. "Still, not sure I quite like the idea of not being able to keep an eye on you."
Sherlock’s lips were hot against his ear. "Don’t you trust me?"
"About as far as I can throw you." Something cold dripped onto the back of his leg. "Ugh, what the hell is that?"
"I don’t want this to chafe," Sherlock said. He squeezed a hand between Greg’s thighs, smearing him with cold jelly from mid-thigh all the way up behind his balls. Those he rolled in his hand briefly before withdrawing. "It will be easier on your knees."
Greg shifted position, wondering what he’d got himself into when Sherlock settled against his back, bringing his cock up between Greg’s thighs.
"You can grip me more tightly," he murmured, as he began to move. "I’ll inform you of any discomfort."
"Course you will."
It was odd, the first few thrusts. He’d never had anything slipping in and out of his legs like that and he wasn’t sure how to hold himself for it, but once they settled into a sort of rhythm, he began to see the appeal. Sherlock’s cock slipped over his balls with every pass, rubbing just enough to get him moving back into it, but not enough to bring him off. His cock bounced against his stomach as Sherlock thrust between his legs with little grunts and moans.
Greg bit back a moan. "This what they teach you public school boys?"
"Among other things," Sherlock said, sounding only slightly out of breath as he gave a particularly firm thrust. "How does it feel to have a spoiled Harrow boy like me fucking you, Inspector?"
Inspector, Christ. The title had never done much for him before, but hearing it from that mouth, at this moment, was like a little jolt of electricity right to Greg’s cock. He dropped his forehead against his forearms with a groan and pushed back into it. Sherlock slapped his hip with a resounding crack and his cock started to dribble.
"Come on," Greg panted, "bring me off."
Sherlock’s hand snaked past his hip and wrapped around his cock. Greg thrust gratefully into the tight grip, fucking himself back and forth between Sherlock’s hand and Sherlock’s prick, still wedged up between his thighs. Sherlock mouthed at his shoulder, sucking at the skin. He sank his teeth in and Greg spilled into his hand without warning, unable to help himself.
He caught his breath as Sherlock rocked to a slow stop, his come bursting hot and sticky between Greg’s legs. He folded down against Greg’s back, breathing harshly against the back of his neck as they lay chest to back, sticky and blissful.
"You can stay if you want. Over, I mean. Only if you want to."
"I wouldn’t mind the use of your shower."
"Sure, yeah. Make yourself at home."
Sherlock nuzzled the nape of his neck. He hadn’t looked like much of a cuddler before, but then it was always the odd ones, wasn’t it? In any case, Greg didn’t mind. He yawned into the pillows.
"What time is it, anyway?"
"Time to sleep."
Now there was an idea he could get behind. They’d solved the case, he was working things out with Diane, he was starting to get comfortable in his own skin again, and even if Sherlock was without a doubt the most irritating super genius junkie-cum-detective he’d ever had the privilege of meeting, Greg thought he might be just the person to get him through the rest of AA without trying to drown himself in a bottle.
It was exhausting work, this midlife crisis business, but it was well worth it.