[fic: sherlock holmes] The Oddest Little Thing
Title: The Oddest Little Thing
Rating: R
Words: 2,600+ (so far)
Summary: Gregson gets an odd present in the mail. Shenanigans ensue.
Author's Notes:
So I wrote a thing with sex pollen. I understand if this means you wish to see other people. For this prompt on the kinkmeme. (Hey, at least the muse is singing again, even if she is singing a burlesque.) Also, I cannot write porn. I'm just bad at it. Period. Call this... a writing exercise.
*
It started off innocently enough.
Gregson stepped into his office at exactly half past seven, with a cup of tea in one hand and the morning paper in the other, and flicked the electric light switch on with his elbow. The day had only just started and already, there was a stack of papers and envelopes on his desk, waiting to be opened.
He sat. Set the teacup down. Tossed the newspaper into the wastebasket. (Which was all the press was good for those days, anyhow.) Pulled out his letter opener from his desk drawer and picked up the first envelope.
There came a knock. Lestrade stepped in without a single pleasantry exchanged, slamming the door shut behind him, and sat down in the spare chair, all bony angles with a pinched expression on his angular face. “Are they finally letting you handle sharp objects again?” he said, glancing warily at the letter opener in Gregson’s hand.
“Bugger off. It’s too early in the morning for me to deal with you. And I can handle sharp objects whenever I want to, thanks.” As if to drive home his point, Gregson opened the first letter with a well-practiced flick of the wrist.
Zzziip, went the paper.
“Hmph,” went Lestrade. “You needn’t worry. I’ll be gone in a moment. I came to collect my notes on the latest burglary on Sawyer Street.”
“Tough, I haven’t got them.”
“Yes, you do. I explicitly remember giving them to you-Good God, what is that?”
The newly opened envelope was leaking. A thin stream of white powder came dribbling down to land upon the desk in a neat and sparkling little pile. Gregson shook his head and scratched his chin. “I haven’t the slightest,” he muttered.
“Who’s it from?”
Gregson glanced at the envelope. “Miss… Oh, heavens. Lucy Tills.”
“Pardon?” Lestrade leaned forward, cautiously poking the dust with his index finger. The powder stuck to his skin; he impatiently blew it off with a huff of air. The particles danced about, before dissipating.
“Oh, you remember,” Gregson was saying. “That woman whose jewels I helped recover a few weeks ago.”
Lestrade snickered. “Ah, of course. You mean the one who all but snogged you in front of everyone when you gave her her diamonds back.”
Turning a frightful shade of pink, Gregson scowled and reached into the envelope, pulling out a letter and giving it a shake. White dust flew everywhere.
“Oy, watch it!” Lestrade snapped. Gregson’s only response was to give the paper one final rustle in Lestrade’s general direction, before beginning to read.
My dear Inspector Gregson, the letter ran.
I have taken the liberty of sending you a small present, as a token of my gratitude for your assistance in helping me recover my precious diamonds. It was first introduced to me by a great friend of mine who has often traveled to the tropics in search of exotic plants, and has proven immensely satisfactory in certain situations.
May you put it to good use with whomever you see fit.
Warm regards,
Lucy Tills.
“…the oddest thing.”
“Pardon?”
Suddenly starting to feel very, very warm about the collar, Gregson glanced up from the missive and cleared his throat. “Apparently it’s a gift,” he said, his voice unusually hoarse.
Lestrade held his hand out for the letter. Gregson handed it over cautiously, his fingers brushing against Lestrade’s. The contact sent a sharp shudder up his arm and down his spine, making his head spin.
Lestrade, on the other hand, seemed entirely oblivious. He scanned the letter, eyes flicking from line to line, then chuckled teasingly as he held the paper out again. “It seems you’ve gotten yourself quite the little admirer,” he said. Gregson nodded absentmindedly and made to take the letter back. Out of some curious trick of fate, he missed entirely and ended up grabbing Lestrade’s wrist instead.
“Ngk!” said Lestrade.
“Sorry?” said Gregson.
“What are you doing?” Lestrade squeaked.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Gregson replied evenly.
“Taking my hand hostage. I’d like it back now, thank you.”
Gregson glanced down at his fingers, which were still wrapped tightly around Lestrade’s slender wrist and didn’t seem to be in any rush to leave.
At that exact moment, all the blood seemed to go out of his head in one mutinous wave, making him feel as tipsy as a toper, and his heart began launching a vigorous campaign to spring out of his chest.
“Are you quite alright?” Lestrade asked. He made a half-hearted attempt at pulling his arm away, which only prompted Gregson to grip harder.
“No,” he replied emphatically. “No, I am not.”
“Oh, pity that,” Lestrade muttered. “Gregson, is the stove burning?”
“What? No, of course not, it’s March.” Automatically, Gregson’s thumb had started rubbing small circles against the thin flesh over Lestrade’s wristbone, causing the other man to shudder and try to twitch away once more, to no avail.
“Then why’s it hot as a boiler-room in here?” Lestrade said, tugging at his collar with his free hand and exposing a stretch of neck whose existence Gregson hadn’t even considered before.
“My thoughts exactly,” Gregson mumbled, before glancing up and peering into Lestrade’s face, which had gone an odd shade of red. The room by all rights should’ve been silent at this point, but for the ragged sound of their breathing.
“Gregson? Gregson, old fellow, why are you looking at me in that manner?”
Gregson’s thumb stopped moving. “What manner?”
“…it’s rather hard to explain.” The haze of red had migrated from Lestrade’s fine cheekbones to his ears. “You look rather keen about something.”
“Keen? Keen, yes, that just about sums it up,” Gregson decided, before finally letting go of Lestrade’s wrist and moving to the other side of the desk, so close that he could feel small waves of a peculiar energy coming off of Lestrade. The other man had jerked his arm back and was clutching it to his chest somewhat possessively.
“What are you up to, Gregson?” he asked.
“Investigating.”
“You look like you’re about to faint.”
Gregson’s reply to this perspicacious little observation was to reach out, grip one of Lestrade’s shoulders, and walk him backwards, (none too gently, in Lestrade’s opinion,) until he’d made hard contact with the wall.
“This is rather queer,” Lestrade declared, staring at Gregson with a bewildered, doe-in-an-opium-den expression on his face. “I don’t think we should be-”
“How do you feel?” Gregson asked nervously. “Right now, I mean.”
“P-pardon?” Lestrade’s voice had gone up at least an octave, mostly because Gregson’s hand had gone down to rest casually upon Lestrade’s hip.
“It’s a perfectly harmless question,” Gregson insisted. “I simply need to make sure I’m not alone in all this. Better to have a compatriot.”
“In all what?”
“Oh, just answer the question, Geoffrey.”
It was not without some satisfaction that Gregson felt Lestrade vibrate at the mention of his given name. The shorter man floundered for a few moments, mouth agape and small sounds coming out, none of them coherent.
“I feel… erm. I feel… rather… quaint?” he supplied.
“Oh, jolly good!” Gregson exclaimed, a broad grin sliding across his face. Lestrade relaxed at this and would probably have made his escape just then, had it not been for the fact that Gregson suddenly leaned down and pressed their mouths together in what had to have been the sloppiest version of a kiss either of them had ever experienced.
“Mnf!”
“Nk!”
Thunk!
Gregson pulled back only when Lestrade made him, with a shove and a sharp, bony knee ramming into his thigh. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Lestrade blithered, leaning against the wall for much-needed support. “Have you gone insane? Is this you finally cracking? Do I need to get a Black Maria and haul you off to Bedlam?”
“No, no, now be quiet.” Gregson glanced at the door, still closed but very much unlocked. “I’m perfectly sane, thank you.”
“My mouth and I both beg to differ!”
“I thought you said you felt quaint.”
“Not that sort of quaint, you blighter!” Lestrade let out a little whimper as Gregson stepped up to him again, eyes burning a brighter blue than usual, a strand of blond hair loose and falling across his creased brow.
“You know,” he was saying, “I don’t think this was what quite Miss Tills meant by ‘satisfactory results.’ I’m rather curious as to what exactly she was referring to.”
Lestrade attempted to formulate an appropriate response. Words had failed him, however. He settled with a quiet, barely audible, “Oh,” before blinking hard, trying to dispel the odd phenomenon that had overtaken his vision. It didn’t obstruct anything, mind; quite the contrary, everything seemed enhanced, sharpened, blown utterly out of proportion.
“Is that really all you have to say?” Gregson murmured, leaning in closer, one hand boldly curling around Lestrade’s waist. A small whimper of desperation tiptoed through his lips.
“Pretty much, yes.” If Lestrade’s voice was high before, it had reached ultrasonic by that point. He bit back a yelp as Gregson suddenly reached up to place his other hand at his nape, fingers curving to rest between neck bones.
“Should I take it as acquiescence?” Gregson asked quietly.
“To do what?”
With a wry little smile, Gregson reached out with one impossibly long arm and locked the door.
Click.
Then he returned his steady, near predatory gaze to Lestrade, who was starting to wriggle under the scrutiny. There was a near uncontrollable heat in the pit of his stomach, and it was obvious cahoots with that one, wee little part of his brain that was cajoling him to reciprocate the attentions he was currently receiving.
The rest of his head was screaming for him to get out, get out, getoutgetoutgetout.
“You know, Gregson,” he started to say, “I really think we ought to at least discuss this before oh bloody Christ.”
Gregson had just taken it upon himself to duck his head down and press his warm, wet mouth to the base of Lestrade’s neck and suck. Had it not been for the combined support of the wall and Gregson’s steady grip, Lestrade would have doubtless collapsed to the floor in a boneless heap.
The ‘get outs’ were gone, vanished, replaced in their entirety by… well, he wasn’t exactly sure what it was. He rather hoped it was shock, but something told him that wasn’t quite the case.
“Gregson, what the bloody hell’s gotten into you?” he hissed, nails clawing futilely at the wall behind him.
“Dust?” Gregson supplied, lips still pressed to the over-sensitive skin of Lestrade’s neck, vibrations humming through the smaller man’s body the way lightning buzzes up and down a metal rod. “An odd variety of dust. In any case, I don’t think it matters all that much. You said you were warm?”
Lestrade licked his suddenly dry lips and nodded stiffly. “A tad.” He regretted it as soon as he felt Gregson’s mouth widen into a smile, and made a stuttered attempt at clarification: “Wait, no, I didn’t mean-”
He was quickly jerked away from the wall, albeit briefly, and only far enough for Gregson to pull his jacket from his shoulders. Lestrade suddenly found himself in his shirtsleeves, pressed so close to his colleague that he could literally feel every rise and dip of Gregson’s body against his own and hear their hearts pound in simultaneous concert.
“Better?” Gregson was saying, before coughing politely into his hand.
“Decidedly,” Lestrade found himself agreeing. He chalked it up to terror. It might have worked, had Gregson not pressed another kiss to his mouth, this one far better than the last. Sensual was the only adequate word Lestrade’s fried brain could conjure to describe it. Why, why was he wanting this? He felt himself make contact with the wall again, and Gregson collided with him, teeth clacking and mouths bruised.
“Ofgh!”
“Khf!”
Gregson pulled back of his own accord this time. He was flushed and breathless and his hair was all in a mess and Lestrade suddenly glanced down to note that he was wearing far too much clothing. “Do that again,” he snapped, small hands already tangled with the fabric of the other man’s jacket.
“Do what again?” Gregson panted.
“Kiss me again.” He might as well have said Punch me again, there was such a cringe in his voice, as if he were expecting something painful-it all still felt so foreign, not to mention illegal, and Lestrade was still warring with himself over the whole affair. Where they really planning on blaming this all on dust?
Gregson blinked, so fiercely that sparks of white popped in front of his eyes when he opened them again. Then ducked down and pressed his mouth to Lestrade’s once more, a motion now accompanied with the warmth brought by familiarity.
Lestrade pushed away from the wall, steering them both towards the desk-or the general vicinity, in any case, his sense of direction had gone bottom up for some reason. They ended up lurching into it rather suddenly.
Bump. The dust flew into the air in a small storm, particles floating about. Lestrade briefly broke lip contact to bat it away impatiently-they really were getting everywhere, weren’t they, clinging to his skin and clothing, and a few had somehow gotten in Gregson’s blond eyelashes, which was making every rapid, dazed blink of his even more ridiculous.
Lestrade sneezed violently off to the side.
“God bless you,” Gregson said gravely.
“I should hope not,” Lestrade muttered, tone very low and very, very serious. He looked back at Gregson and suddenly felt a twitch in the oddest of places.
Oh. Oh, of course. It all made sense now.
“Er,” said Lestrade.
“Bugger it,” said Gregson, and he meant every word. For some reason, Lestrade had progressed, in the span of the past half an hour, from forgetfully plain to mildly attractive to utterly devastating, and the fact that he still had clothing on him seemed the greatest sacrilege ever committed in the history of man. It was up to Gregson to rectify the situation. He set about it the way he set about most things: with blind determination.
He dove at Lestrade with the attitude of a charging bull. Surprisingly, the other man didn’t seem to mind all that much, opening his mouth to receive Gregson’s and submissively allowing the buttons of his waistcoat to be undone in methodical disarray.
“That’s better,” Gregson muttered, sliding the fabric away from Lestrade’s shoulders with a flourish.
“Very,” Lestrade agreed emphatically. He pushed Gregson back against the desk once more, hips grinding forward, driving home a long-awaited point. Gregson bit back a low moan, hands gripping the nearest available anchor, which happened to be Lestrade’s bony, narrow shoulders, eliciting a sharp hiss of pain.
More dust flew into the air. Gregson’s eyes started to water. He was thoroughly aroused at this point; there was no point in denying it. His fingers trembled as he removed Lestrade’s tie and undid the buttons of his shirt, the skin underneath pale and unblemished.
“Interesting,” Gregson muttered, splaying one hand across the warm, sweaty chest before him.
“Interesting?” Lestrade panted, before nodding and shrugging one shoulder absentmindedly. He glared at Gregson fiercely. “Why are you still dressed?” he demanded.
“Good question.”
“Thank you.”
“I really don’t know.”
Lestrade grunted and batted Gregson’s large hands away, his own small and active ones pushing the heavy fabric of Gregson’s jacket off and onto the desk. Papers rustled in objection. Neither of them paid them any mind. The criminal population of London was going to have to wait, damn it.
Faster than he could say Jack Robinson, Gregson’s waistcoat was gone, off, vanished-probably dropped and kicked under the desk. Lestrade was enthusiastically scraping his teeth against the hard ridge of Gregson’s collarbone, catching occasionally on a raised line of scar tissue.
“Now that,” Lestrade surmised, drawing back with eyebrows arched and mouth smiling, “That’s interesting.”
“I’m glad you find me so,” Gregson choked as teeth were unceremoniously replaced with tongue. He slid his hands down from Lestrade’s shoulders to his hips, gripping just hard enough to brace himself against the onslaught. A thread of warmth was crawling up his spine to sit at the base of his head and coil there like an insistent squatter. “Where did you even learn how to-”
“Picked it up here. There.” Lestrade ducked down and teasingly flicked his tongue over one nipple, still grinning all the while. Gregson involuntarily slid down a good three inches, a strangled yelp forming in the back of his throat.
“Be quiet,” Lestrade hissed, already fumbling with Gregson’s belt. He stopped very suddenly however, lithe fingers stilling and head cocking towards the door. “Did you hear something?” he whispered.
“What? No. Now hurry up and finish what you’ve started.”
“No, no, I could’ve sworn… There it is again.”
Knock, knock. A very muffled voice was saying something on the other side of the door: “Gregson? Gregson, are you alright?”
“Bloody… Mnf. It’s Hopkins.” Gregson glanced over at a blank-faced Lestrade, who shrugged wordlessly as if to say, Not my problem to deal with.
“Gregson? Gregson?” Hopkins knocked again. “I thought I heard a shout.”
Gregson floundered momentarily, then called out in reply, “Nothing to worry about, simply cut myself with the letter opener.”
The doorknob jiggled. “Why’s the door locked?” Hopkins asked. Curse the lad. Gregson could have throttled him, had he been in any state to do so.
“Erm.” Find an excuse, Tobias, hurry up, hurry up… “There’s a… capricious bit of evidence in here.” He glanced at Lestrade, who was snorting into his sleeve. “Best I handle it alone.”
On the other side of the door, Hopkins was silent for a grand total of thirty torturous seconds. Gregson’s head was throbbing. Another part of him was throbbing as well, but he’d rather not think about that at the moment. And Lestrade was smirking in a way that screamed of things to come.
“Well, if you’re sure,” Hopkins called out at last.
“Positive!” Gregson replied, voice cracking.
There was a quiet shuffling, then nothing. Gregson counted slowly in his head:
One…
Two…
Three…
Four…
Fi-
“What are you doing?” he gasped.
“Finishing what I started,” Lestrade said flatly from his new position on the floor. He had knelt and placed one hand on either of Gregson’s thighs, softly kneading the muscle as if attempting to calm him down. It wasn’t working. The fact that Geoffrey Lestrade was about to bring him off, and with his mouth, no less, was sending Gregson’s head for a ride on a whirligig.
“Um!” went Gregson.
“Hush,” went Lestrade, and he neatly undid Gregson’s flies with a flick of his pale, active fingers. “Before I change my mind.”
“This would be… rather…”
“Unfortunate, yes, I know.” Lestrade’s expression was, for all intents and purposes, completely unreadable. He had a little crease in the center of his brow, but then, that was often present. He seemed to be a perpetually frustrated individual.
“No, what I meant to say was-”
“Do you ever stop talking?” Lestrade said, before unceremoniously taking Gregson’s full length into his mouth in one go.
Obviously not the sort of thing one picked up here, there.
At this point, Gregson was gripping the edge of the desk with such vigor, his knuckles looked ready to burst through the skin. One thin rivulet of blood trickled down from his lip, the result of clamping his teeth down upon it in an attempt to hold back a shout.
“Ggg!”
Lestrade’s tongue suddenly stopped doing what it had been doing. He pulled back and licked his lips. He seemed almost worried.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“No.”
“Do you want me to-”
“Decidedly not.” It was Gregson’s turn to squeak. Lestrade shrugged and resumed with even more enthusiasm than before.
Nowhere along the line had Gregson expected Lestrade to pick up the activity with such panache. His knees were threatening to give out, and he strongly suspected he was going to go blind, so numerous were the pops of white light that were dancing in front of his eyes at the moment.
The desk was no longer adequate support. In any case, it was threatening to crack, which would’ve been unfortunate. Gregson was rather attached to his desk. He relocated one hand to Lestrade’s pristine head of dark hair and ran his fingers through it, attempting to find distraction in the warmth and texture.
Lestrade almost hummed in response, the vibration making Gregson pant and let out a ragged, “Guh,” fingers clamping down and tugging involuntarily. So odd, this state between lucidity and utter confusion. Part of him wanted Lestrade to keep going forever and another wished he’d never begun in the first place.
It was a tad late for regrets, however.
He lasted for fifteen seconds longer, but it felt like fifteen weeks of agonizing pleasure, culminating in a low, desperate keen that rounded off nicely into a groan.
Lestrade pulled back and coughed politely. His hair was all a-mess and his cheeks were a fascinating shade of red. He looked thoroughly debauched. He wordlessly pulled his handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his mouth with it.
“How’s that for interesting,” he said, grinning, obviously immensely pleased with himself. Gregson wobbled for a few moments longer, then let the boneless sensation take over and slid down to the ground with a very undignified thump.
His head was starting to clear. Odd, he’d not recalled it ever being all too murky in the first place. Mildly confused, yes. Terrified. Insistent. Murky, decidedly not.
Lestrade was looking at him curiously, having now sat down properly, leaning back on his hands. His trouserfront was damp. Gregson couldn’t help but look and wonder how it’d gotten that way. He was positive he himself had had nothing to do with it.
“I’ve a spare pair in my office,” Lestrade said, answering the question he thought Gregson must’ve been asking. He wasn’t smiling anymore. Quite the opposite. “Why do I feel like I’ve just been plowed over by a freight train?” he muttered.
Freight train. That about summed the situation up.
Gregson quickly buttoned up his pants and trousers once more. Any self-worth he’d ever possessed was now sitting underneath the desk with his waistcoat. He must’ve looked petrified, because Lestrade was eying him warily as he tucked the edge of his shirt into the waistband of his trousers.
“So,” he said. “Doubtless that was your Miss Tills’ ‘satisfactory result.’”
“Doubtless,” Gregson replied, eyebrows raising.
“Well, was it?”
“Was it what?”
Lestrade clucked his tongue impatiently. “Satisfactory,” he said.
“Um.” Gregson blinked. Lestrade’s face had somehow reverted to plain. But no longer forgetful.
“Still undecided?” He smelled dusty and faintly damp and radiated warmth. His very proximity made Gregson drowsy.
“No-”
“Hm. The oddest thing,” Lestrade murmured, for reasons only he seemed to know. He stood, shook his head dazedly, and started retrieving his scattered clothing, donning them quickly, efficiently. Gregson watched him with what could only be described as mounting frustration.
“Would you look at the time,” Lestrade was saying, straightening his tie. He sounded patently insincere and more than a little woozy. “And I still need those notes.”
“Lestrade.”
“I’m very, very certain I gave them to you. In fact, Bradstreet can act as witness.”
“Lestrade.”
“And I don’t need to tell you how important they are, Gregson; you saw the state of that poor family’s home-”
“Lestrade!” Gregson bellowed.
“What!?” Lestrade bellowed back.
Gregson stumbled to his feet, swaying as he attempted to find his balance, before dusting himself off and staring at the other man angrily. “Give me some credit,” he panted. “I’m not heartless.”
Lestrade seemed more than a little taken aback at this. Caught off guard, even-what a rare and interesting occurance. He finished straightening his cuffs and cleared his throat.
“I’ve not the slightest idea what you’re getting at,” he said stiffly.
“Are you always like this after sex?” Gregson snapped, against his better nature, deriving a sick sort of pleasure from watching the blood drain out of his colleague’s face.
“That was not sex,” he growled, before reaching out, grabbing a stack of files, and holding them strategically in front of him, covering the stain. Cover, cover, cover. Lestrade was very good at that.
Gregson frowned and felt like sneezing again. He could still remember the past half hour very, very well, but in a disembodied sense. Out of mind, even. He wouldn’t have deemed it eerie, but strange certainly fit the bill. He was rather happy to see it go.
That didn’t make the sight of a bristly Lestrade getting ready to charge from the room any easier to handle.
“What was it, then,” Gregson said, flat and quiet. He watched Lestrade run a hand through his hair, which was already quite the mess-I did that, I did that, I did that- and groan.
“An accident,” he said at last, before wrenching the door open. “Don’t make too much of it Gregson, for it shan’t happen again. And be more careful about opening your mail in the future.”
BANG went the door.
“Mph,” went Gregson.
A little bit of dust flew into the air.
Rating: R
Words: 2,600+ (so far)
Summary: Gregson gets an odd present in the mail. Shenanigans ensue.
Author's Notes:
So I wrote a thing with sex pollen. I understand if this means you wish to see other people. For this prompt on the kinkmeme. (Hey, at least the muse is singing again, even if she is singing a burlesque.) Also, I cannot write porn. I'm just bad at it. Period. Call this... a writing exercise.
*
It started off innocently enough.
Gregson stepped into his office at exactly half past seven, with a cup of tea in one hand and the morning paper in the other, and flicked the electric light switch on with his elbow. The day had only just started and already, there was a stack of papers and envelopes on his desk, waiting to be opened.
He sat. Set the teacup down. Tossed the newspaper into the wastebasket. (Which was all the press was good for those days, anyhow.) Pulled out his letter opener from his desk drawer and picked up the first envelope.
There came a knock. Lestrade stepped in without a single pleasantry exchanged, slamming the door shut behind him, and sat down in the spare chair, all bony angles with a pinched expression on his angular face. “Are they finally letting you handle sharp objects again?” he said, glancing warily at the letter opener in Gregson’s hand.
“Bugger off. It’s too early in the morning for me to deal with you. And I can handle sharp objects whenever I want to, thanks.” As if to drive home his point, Gregson opened the first letter with a well-practiced flick of the wrist.
Zzziip, went the paper.
“Hmph,” went Lestrade. “You needn’t worry. I’ll be gone in a moment. I came to collect my notes on the latest burglary on Sawyer Street.”
“Tough, I haven’t got them.”
“Yes, you do. I explicitly remember giving them to you-Good God, what is that?”
The newly opened envelope was leaking. A thin stream of white powder came dribbling down to land upon the desk in a neat and sparkling little pile. Gregson shook his head and scratched his chin. “I haven’t the slightest,” he muttered.
“Who’s it from?”
Gregson glanced at the envelope. “Miss… Oh, heavens. Lucy Tills.”
“Pardon?” Lestrade leaned forward, cautiously poking the dust with his index finger. The powder stuck to his skin; he impatiently blew it off with a huff of air. The particles danced about, before dissipating.
“Oh, you remember,” Gregson was saying. “That woman whose jewels I helped recover a few weeks ago.”
Lestrade snickered. “Ah, of course. You mean the one who all but snogged you in front of everyone when you gave her her diamonds back.”
Turning a frightful shade of pink, Gregson scowled and reached into the envelope, pulling out a letter and giving it a shake. White dust flew everywhere.
“Oy, watch it!” Lestrade snapped. Gregson’s only response was to give the paper one final rustle in Lestrade’s general direction, before beginning to read.
My dear Inspector Gregson, the letter ran.
I have taken the liberty of sending you a small present, as a token of my gratitude for your assistance in helping me recover my precious diamonds. It was first introduced to me by a great friend of mine who has often traveled to the tropics in search of exotic plants, and has proven immensely satisfactory in certain situations.
May you put it to good use with whomever you see fit.
Warm regards,
Lucy Tills.
“…the oddest thing.”
“Pardon?”
Suddenly starting to feel very, very warm about the collar, Gregson glanced up from the missive and cleared his throat. “Apparently it’s a gift,” he said, his voice unusually hoarse.
Lestrade held his hand out for the letter. Gregson handed it over cautiously, his fingers brushing against Lestrade’s. The contact sent a sharp shudder up his arm and down his spine, making his head spin.
Lestrade, on the other hand, seemed entirely oblivious. He scanned the letter, eyes flicking from line to line, then chuckled teasingly as he held the paper out again. “It seems you’ve gotten yourself quite the little admirer,” he said. Gregson nodded absentmindedly and made to take the letter back. Out of some curious trick of fate, he missed entirely and ended up grabbing Lestrade’s wrist instead.
“Ngk!” said Lestrade.
“Sorry?” said Gregson.
“What are you doing?” Lestrade squeaked.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Gregson replied evenly.
“Taking my hand hostage. I’d like it back now, thank you.”
Gregson glanced down at his fingers, which were still wrapped tightly around Lestrade’s slender wrist and didn’t seem to be in any rush to leave.
At that exact moment, all the blood seemed to go out of his head in one mutinous wave, making him feel as tipsy as a toper, and his heart began launching a vigorous campaign to spring out of his chest.
“Are you quite alright?” Lestrade asked. He made a half-hearted attempt at pulling his arm away, which only prompted Gregson to grip harder.
“No,” he replied emphatically. “No, I am not.”
“Oh, pity that,” Lestrade muttered. “Gregson, is the stove burning?”
“What? No, of course not, it’s March.” Automatically, Gregson’s thumb had started rubbing small circles against the thin flesh over Lestrade’s wristbone, causing the other man to shudder and try to twitch away once more, to no avail.
“Then why’s it hot as a boiler-room in here?” Lestrade said, tugging at his collar with his free hand and exposing a stretch of neck whose existence Gregson hadn’t even considered before.
“My thoughts exactly,” Gregson mumbled, before glancing up and peering into Lestrade’s face, which had gone an odd shade of red. The room by all rights should’ve been silent at this point, but for the ragged sound of their breathing.
“Gregson? Gregson, old fellow, why are you looking at me in that manner?”
Gregson’s thumb stopped moving. “What manner?”
“…it’s rather hard to explain.” The haze of red had migrated from Lestrade’s fine cheekbones to his ears. “You look rather keen about something.”
“Keen? Keen, yes, that just about sums it up,” Gregson decided, before finally letting go of Lestrade’s wrist and moving to the other side of the desk, so close that he could feel small waves of a peculiar energy coming off of Lestrade. The other man had jerked his arm back and was clutching it to his chest somewhat possessively.
“What are you up to, Gregson?” he asked.
“Investigating.”
“You look like you’re about to faint.”
Gregson’s reply to this perspicacious little observation was to reach out, grip one of Lestrade’s shoulders, and walk him backwards, (none too gently, in Lestrade’s opinion,) until he’d made hard contact with the wall.
“This is rather queer,” Lestrade declared, staring at Gregson with a bewildered, doe-in-an-opium-den expression on his face. “I don’t think we should be-”
“How do you feel?” Gregson asked nervously. “Right now, I mean.”
“P-pardon?” Lestrade’s voice had gone up at least an octave, mostly because Gregson’s hand had gone down to rest casually upon Lestrade’s hip.
“It’s a perfectly harmless question,” Gregson insisted. “I simply need to make sure I’m not alone in all this. Better to have a compatriot.”
“In all what?”
“Oh, just answer the question, Geoffrey.”
It was not without some satisfaction that Gregson felt Lestrade vibrate at the mention of his given name. The shorter man floundered for a few moments, mouth agape and small sounds coming out, none of them coherent.
“I feel… erm. I feel… rather… quaint?” he supplied.
“Oh, jolly good!” Gregson exclaimed, a broad grin sliding across his face. Lestrade relaxed at this and would probably have made his escape just then, had it not been for the fact that Gregson suddenly leaned down and pressed their mouths together in what had to have been the sloppiest version of a kiss either of them had ever experienced.
“Mnf!”
“Nk!”
Thunk!
Gregson pulled back only when Lestrade made him, with a shove and a sharp, bony knee ramming into his thigh. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Lestrade blithered, leaning against the wall for much-needed support. “Have you gone insane? Is this you finally cracking? Do I need to get a Black Maria and haul you off to Bedlam?”
“No, no, now be quiet.” Gregson glanced at the door, still closed but very much unlocked. “I’m perfectly sane, thank you.”
“My mouth and I both beg to differ!”
“I thought you said you felt quaint.”
“Not that sort of quaint, you blighter!” Lestrade let out a little whimper as Gregson stepped up to him again, eyes burning a brighter blue than usual, a strand of blond hair loose and falling across his creased brow.
“You know,” he was saying, “I don’t think this was what quite Miss Tills meant by ‘satisfactory results.’ I’m rather curious as to what exactly she was referring to.”
Lestrade attempted to formulate an appropriate response. Words had failed him, however. He settled with a quiet, barely audible, “Oh,” before blinking hard, trying to dispel the odd phenomenon that had overtaken his vision. It didn’t obstruct anything, mind; quite the contrary, everything seemed enhanced, sharpened, blown utterly out of proportion.
“Is that really all you have to say?” Gregson murmured, leaning in closer, one hand boldly curling around Lestrade’s waist. A small whimper of desperation tiptoed through his lips.
“Pretty much, yes.” If Lestrade’s voice was high before, it had reached ultrasonic by that point. He bit back a yelp as Gregson suddenly reached up to place his other hand at his nape, fingers curving to rest between neck bones.
“Should I take it as acquiescence?” Gregson asked quietly.
“To do what?”
With a wry little smile, Gregson reached out with one impossibly long arm and locked the door.
Click.
Then he returned his steady, near predatory gaze to Lestrade, who was starting to wriggle under the scrutiny. There was a near uncontrollable heat in the pit of his stomach, and it was obvious cahoots with that one, wee little part of his brain that was cajoling him to reciprocate the attentions he was currently receiving.
The rest of his head was screaming for him to get out, get out, getoutgetoutgetout.
“You know, Gregson,” he started to say, “I really think we ought to at least discuss this before oh bloody Christ.”
Gregson had just taken it upon himself to duck his head down and press his warm, wet mouth to the base of Lestrade’s neck and suck. Had it not been for the combined support of the wall and Gregson’s steady grip, Lestrade would have doubtless collapsed to the floor in a boneless heap.
The ‘get outs’ were gone, vanished, replaced in their entirety by… well, he wasn’t exactly sure what it was. He rather hoped it was shock, but something told him that wasn’t quite the case.
“Gregson, what the bloody hell’s gotten into you?” he hissed, nails clawing futilely at the wall behind him.
“Dust?” Gregson supplied, lips still pressed to the over-sensitive skin of Lestrade’s neck, vibrations humming through the smaller man’s body the way lightning buzzes up and down a metal rod. “An odd variety of dust. In any case, I don’t think it matters all that much. You said you were warm?”
Lestrade licked his suddenly dry lips and nodded stiffly. “A tad.” He regretted it as soon as he felt Gregson’s mouth widen into a smile, and made a stuttered attempt at clarification: “Wait, no, I didn’t mean-”
He was quickly jerked away from the wall, albeit briefly, and only far enough for Gregson to pull his jacket from his shoulders. Lestrade suddenly found himself in his shirtsleeves, pressed so close to his colleague that he could literally feel every rise and dip of Gregson’s body against his own and hear their hearts pound in simultaneous concert.
“Better?” Gregson was saying, before coughing politely into his hand.
“Decidedly,” Lestrade found himself agreeing. He chalked it up to terror. It might have worked, had Gregson not pressed another kiss to his mouth, this one far better than the last. Sensual was the only adequate word Lestrade’s fried brain could conjure to describe it. Why, why was he wanting this? He felt himself make contact with the wall again, and Gregson collided with him, teeth clacking and mouths bruised.
“Ofgh!”
“Khf!”
Gregson pulled back of his own accord this time. He was flushed and breathless and his hair was all in a mess and Lestrade suddenly glanced down to note that he was wearing far too much clothing. “Do that again,” he snapped, small hands already tangled with the fabric of the other man’s jacket.
“Do what again?” Gregson panted.
“Kiss me again.” He might as well have said Punch me again, there was such a cringe in his voice, as if he were expecting something painful-it all still felt so foreign, not to mention illegal, and Lestrade was still warring with himself over the whole affair. Where they really planning on blaming this all on dust?
Gregson blinked, so fiercely that sparks of white popped in front of his eyes when he opened them again. Then ducked down and pressed his mouth to Lestrade’s once more, a motion now accompanied with the warmth brought by familiarity.
Lestrade pushed away from the wall, steering them both towards the desk-or the general vicinity, in any case, his sense of direction had gone bottom up for some reason. They ended up lurching into it rather suddenly.
Bump. The dust flew into the air in a small storm, particles floating about. Lestrade briefly broke lip contact to bat it away impatiently-they really were getting everywhere, weren’t they, clinging to his skin and clothing, and a few had somehow gotten in Gregson’s blond eyelashes, which was making every rapid, dazed blink of his even more ridiculous.
Lestrade sneezed violently off to the side.
“God bless you,” Gregson said gravely.
“I should hope not,” Lestrade muttered, tone very low and very, very serious. He looked back at Gregson and suddenly felt a twitch in the oddest of places.
Oh. Oh, of course. It all made sense now.
“Er,” said Lestrade.
“Bugger it,” said Gregson, and he meant every word. For some reason, Lestrade had progressed, in the span of the past half an hour, from forgetfully plain to mildly attractive to utterly devastating, and the fact that he still had clothing on him seemed the greatest sacrilege ever committed in the history of man. It was up to Gregson to rectify the situation. He set about it the way he set about most things: with blind determination.
He dove at Lestrade with the attitude of a charging bull. Surprisingly, the other man didn’t seem to mind all that much, opening his mouth to receive Gregson’s and submissively allowing the buttons of his waistcoat to be undone in methodical disarray.
“That’s better,” Gregson muttered, sliding the fabric away from Lestrade’s shoulders with a flourish.
“Very,” Lestrade agreed emphatically. He pushed Gregson back against the desk once more, hips grinding forward, driving home a long-awaited point. Gregson bit back a low moan, hands gripping the nearest available anchor, which happened to be Lestrade’s bony, narrow shoulders, eliciting a sharp hiss of pain.
More dust flew into the air. Gregson’s eyes started to water. He was thoroughly aroused at this point; there was no point in denying it. His fingers trembled as he removed Lestrade’s tie and undid the buttons of his shirt, the skin underneath pale and unblemished.
“Interesting,” Gregson muttered, splaying one hand across the warm, sweaty chest before him.
“Interesting?” Lestrade panted, before nodding and shrugging one shoulder absentmindedly. He glared at Gregson fiercely. “Why are you still dressed?” he demanded.
“Good question.”
“Thank you.”
“I really don’t know.”
Lestrade grunted and batted Gregson’s large hands away, his own small and active ones pushing the heavy fabric of Gregson’s jacket off and onto the desk. Papers rustled in objection. Neither of them paid them any mind. The criminal population of London was going to have to wait, damn it.
Faster than he could say Jack Robinson, Gregson’s waistcoat was gone, off, vanished-probably dropped and kicked under the desk. Lestrade was enthusiastically scraping his teeth against the hard ridge of Gregson’s collarbone, catching occasionally on a raised line of scar tissue.
“Now that,” Lestrade surmised, drawing back with eyebrows arched and mouth smiling, “That’s interesting.”
“I’m glad you find me so,” Gregson choked as teeth were unceremoniously replaced with tongue. He slid his hands down from Lestrade’s shoulders to his hips, gripping just hard enough to brace himself against the onslaught. A thread of warmth was crawling up his spine to sit at the base of his head and coil there like an insistent squatter. “Where did you even learn how to-”
“Picked it up here. There.” Lestrade ducked down and teasingly flicked his tongue over one nipple, still grinning all the while. Gregson involuntarily slid down a good three inches, a strangled yelp forming in the back of his throat.
“Be quiet,” Lestrade hissed, already fumbling with Gregson’s belt. He stopped very suddenly however, lithe fingers stilling and head cocking towards the door. “Did you hear something?” he whispered.
“What? No. Now hurry up and finish what you’ve started.”
“No, no, I could’ve sworn… There it is again.”
Knock, knock. A very muffled voice was saying something on the other side of the door: “Gregson? Gregson, are you alright?”
“Bloody… Mnf. It’s Hopkins.” Gregson glanced over at a blank-faced Lestrade, who shrugged wordlessly as if to say, Not my problem to deal with.
“Gregson? Gregson?” Hopkins knocked again. “I thought I heard a shout.”
Gregson floundered momentarily, then called out in reply, “Nothing to worry about, simply cut myself with the letter opener.”
The doorknob jiggled. “Why’s the door locked?” Hopkins asked. Curse the lad. Gregson could have throttled him, had he been in any state to do so.
“Erm.” Find an excuse, Tobias, hurry up, hurry up… “There’s a… capricious bit of evidence in here.” He glanced at Lestrade, who was snorting into his sleeve. “Best I handle it alone.”
On the other side of the door, Hopkins was silent for a grand total of thirty torturous seconds. Gregson’s head was throbbing. Another part of him was throbbing as well, but he’d rather not think about that at the moment. And Lestrade was smirking in a way that screamed of things to come.
“Well, if you’re sure,” Hopkins called out at last.
“Positive!” Gregson replied, voice cracking.
There was a quiet shuffling, then nothing. Gregson counted slowly in his head:
One…
Two…
Three…
Four…
Fi-
“What are you doing?” he gasped.
“Finishing what I started,” Lestrade said flatly from his new position on the floor. He had knelt and placed one hand on either of Gregson’s thighs, softly kneading the muscle as if attempting to calm him down. It wasn’t working. The fact that Geoffrey Lestrade was about to bring him off, and with his mouth, no less, was sending Gregson’s head for a ride on a whirligig.
“Um!” went Gregson.
“Hush,” went Lestrade, and he neatly undid Gregson’s flies with a flick of his pale, active fingers. “Before I change my mind.”
“This would be… rather…”
“Unfortunate, yes, I know.” Lestrade’s expression was, for all intents and purposes, completely unreadable. He had a little crease in the center of his brow, but then, that was often present. He seemed to be a perpetually frustrated individual.
“No, what I meant to say was-”
“Do you ever stop talking?” Lestrade said, before unceremoniously taking Gregson’s full length into his mouth in one go.
Obviously not the sort of thing one picked up here, there.
At this point, Gregson was gripping the edge of the desk with such vigor, his knuckles looked ready to burst through the skin. One thin rivulet of blood trickled down from his lip, the result of clamping his teeth down upon it in an attempt to hold back a shout.
“Ggg!”
Lestrade’s tongue suddenly stopped doing what it had been doing. He pulled back and licked his lips. He seemed almost worried.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“No.”
“Do you want me to-”
“Decidedly not.” It was Gregson’s turn to squeak. Lestrade shrugged and resumed with even more enthusiasm than before.
Nowhere along the line had Gregson expected Lestrade to pick up the activity with such panache. His knees were threatening to give out, and he strongly suspected he was going to go blind, so numerous were the pops of white light that were dancing in front of his eyes at the moment.
The desk was no longer adequate support. In any case, it was threatening to crack, which would’ve been unfortunate. Gregson was rather attached to his desk. He relocated one hand to Lestrade’s pristine head of dark hair and ran his fingers through it, attempting to find distraction in the warmth and texture.
Lestrade almost hummed in response, the vibration making Gregson pant and let out a ragged, “Guh,” fingers clamping down and tugging involuntarily. So odd, this state between lucidity and utter confusion. Part of him wanted Lestrade to keep going forever and another wished he’d never begun in the first place.
It was a tad late for regrets, however.
He lasted for fifteen seconds longer, but it felt like fifteen weeks of agonizing pleasure, culminating in a low, desperate keen that rounded off nicely into a groan.
Lestrade pulled back and coughed politely. His hair was all a-mess and his cheeks were a fascinating shade of red. He looked thoroughly debauched. He wordlessly pulled his handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his mouth with it.
“How’s that for interesting,” he said, grinning, obviously immensely pleased with himself. Gregson wobbled for a few moments longer, then let the boneless sensation take over and slid down to the ground with a very undignified thump.
His head was starting to clear. Odd, he’d not recalled it ever being all too murky in the first place. Mildly confused, yes. Terrified. Insistent. Murky, decidedly not.
Lestrade was looking at him curiously, having now sat down properly, leaning back on his hands. His trouserfront was damp. Gregson couldn’t help but look and wonder how it’d gotten that way. He was positive he himself had had nothing to do with it.
“I’ve a spare pair in my office,” Lestrade said, answering the question he thought Gregson must’ve been asking. He wasn’t smiling anymore. Quite the opposite. “Why do I feel like I’ve just been plowed over by a freight train?” he muttered.
Freight train. That about summed the situation up.
Gregson quickly buttoned up his pants and trousers once more. Any self-worth he’d ever possessed was now sitting underneath the desk with his waistcoat. He must’ve looked petrified, because Lestrade was eying him warily as he tucked the edge of his shirt into the waistband of his trousers.
“So,” he said. “Doubtless that was your Miss Tills’ ‘satisfactory result.’”
“Doubtless,” Gregson replied, eyebrows raising.
“Well, was it?”
“Was it what?”
Lestrade clucked his tongue impatiently. “Satisfactory,” he said.
“Um.” Gregson blinked. Lestrade’s face had somehow reverted to plain. But no longer forgetful.
“Still undecided?” He smelled dusty and faintly damp and radiated warmth. His very proximity made Gregson drowsy.
“No-”
“Hm. The oddest thing,” Lestrade murmured, for reasons only he seemed to know. He stood, shook his head dazedly, and started retrieving his scattered clothing, donning them quickly, efficiently. Gregson watched him with what could only be described as mounting frustration.
“Would you look at the time,” Lestrade was saying, straightening his tie. He sounded patently insincere and more than a little woozy. “And I still need those notes.”
“Lestrade.”
“I’m very, very certain I gave them to you. In fact, Bradstreet can act as witness.”
“Lestrade.”
“And I don’t need to tell you how important they are, Gregson; you saw the state of that poor family’s home-”
“Lestrade!” Gregson bellowed.
“What!?” Lestrade bellowed back.
Gregson stumbled to his feet, swaying as he attempted to find his balance, before dusting himself off and staring at the other man angrily. “Give me some credit,” he panted. “I’m not heartless.”
Lestrade seemed more than a little taken aback at this. Caught off guard, even-what a rare and interesting occurance. He finished straightening his cuffs and cleared his throat.
“I’ve not the slightest idea what you’re getting at,” he said stiffly.
“Are you always like this after sex?” Gregson snapped, against his better nature, deriving a sick sort of pleasure from watching the blood drain out of his colleague’s face.
“That was not sex,” he growled, before reaching out, grabbing a stack of files, and holding them strategically in front of him, covering the stain. Cover, cover, cover. Lestrade was very good at that.
Gregson frowned and felt like sneezing again. He could still remember the past half hour very, very well, but in a disembodied sense. Out of mind, even. He wouldn’t have deemed it eerie, but strange certainly fit the bill. He was rather happy to see it go.
That didn’t make the sight of a bristly Lestrade getting ready to charge from the room any easier to handle.
“What was it, then,” Gregson said, flat and quiet. He watched Lestrade run a hand through his hair, which was already quite the mess-I did that, I did that, I did that- and groan.
“An accident,” he said at last, before wrenching the door open. “Don’t make too much of it Gregson, for it shan’t happen again. And be more careful about opening your mail in the future.”
BANG went the door.
“Mph,” went Gregson.
A little bit of dust flew into the air.