fic: The Old Bad Songs (chapter 10 of 11)
Title: The Old Bad Songs Chapter 10 (of 11)
Author: fengirl88
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: sex, drug references, capture (mostly the first in this bit)
Disclaimer: BBC versions of Sherlock, Lestrade, Watson, Donovan etc. not mine; E.M. Forster's Maurice not mine; nor the version of him in the film. Nor any of the songs quoted here. Finally, very mild SPOILERS for A Study in Pink.
Summary: Lestrade becomes enmeshed in a blackmail case he's working, and has to turn to Sherlock for help.
Big thank you to ginbitch for beta-ing again, particularly this chapter.
Word count for this chapter: 2173
Tags: fic, Sherlock, Lestrade, Maurice, The Old Bad Songs, sherlock/lestrade, lestrade/other, crossover
Chapter 10
Small Hours
A better night's sleep tonight. Until some time round about 4 a.m. when Lestrade wakes up. Wakes up absolutely convinced that he's in bed with Sherlock.
Not really happening, obviously. One of those, what d'you call it, hypnagogic states. Between sleeping and waking.
Though Sherlock is the one person Lestrade knows who might actually turn up in bed with you when you'd gone to bed with someone else altogether.
For a mad moment he almost wonders if Sherlock and Maurice have changed places in order to wind him up. Though he knows that's impossible, and it must just be his mind playing tricks on him. But what a trick to choose. Christ.
He feels horribly exposed and more than a bit sick. Scared to put the light on in case it's really true. Keeps telling himself it isn't and that he'll wake up in a minute.
Maybe the wine's not helping. Get himself a glass of water, some fresh air perhaps. Try to wake up properly.
Lestrade gets out of bed and goes into the sitting-room, breathes in big gulps of cool air from the just-open window. Tries not to think about Michael Hughes jumping out of it. Tries not to look down to where Hughes fell.
Instead, he looks out at the river and the night, London with all its light pollution blotting out the stars. Oddly reassuring. He gets a pint mug of water from the kitchen and sits staring out through the wall of glass, waiting for his mind to return to normal. Waiting to calm down enough to go back to bed with Maurice, who please God will be Maurice again when Lestrade goes back into the bedroom. If he does.
He's had this sort of hallucination once or twice before when he's not quite awake and not quite asleep. Knows it doesn't mean you have to send for the men in white coats to take DI Lestrade away in a plain van. Even if right now he does feel next door to crazy with this fucking awful trick his mind has chosen to play on him. First time in years he gets his end away with a nice man who really likes him, and now this. The unfairness of it almost chokes him.
Lot of unfairness around, mind you. Lestrade would like a word with whoever is running the universe, because the present arrangement is seriously fucked-up. He thinks about Vane and Maurice and Durham; Maurice and himself and Sherlock. Refuses to think about Sherlock and JW. But really: what a mess. Why does everything have to be so complicated?
Vane couldn't handle being rejected by Maurice - well, rejected isn't really the word for someone not even noticing you're in love with them because they're in love with someone else. So the boy had gone looking for oblivion in drugs and the wrong kind of sex, till that life snuffed him out.
Maurice, well, ... Maurice is in with a chance of recovery. Some quite promising signs there, even if it did take a murderous blackmailing lunatic to wake him up at last. But what a waste of thirty years that had been. All the things Maurice could have done, the fun he could have had. The lovers he could have had. Christ. Still, it's not too late for him. Especially given his hidden talents. Lestrade finds he's wearing a silly grin, thinking about his recent experience of Maurice's hidden talents. Not the way to keep a clear head, though, so he tries to get back to his train of thought.
Which brings him to Sherlock and whatever the fuck is going on with Sherlock at the moment. Because even by Sherlock's standards his behaviour recently has been weird.
Breaking into Lestrade's flat - well, that's almost normal for Sherlock, though still bloody annoying. And nearly gave Lestrade a heart attack at the time.
Sherlock ambushing Lestrade for sex was ... not normal at all. And Lestrade is not sure he buys the explanation about shock tactics, even though it does sound fucked-up enough to be something Sherlock would think was a good idea. But there's that other thing Sherlock said about why he'd jumped Lestrade, the thing he said just before the kiss. Thought it might be nice. It was. Lestrade shivers with pleasure, remembering that.
He knows Sherlock enjoyed having sex with him that other time, at 221b Baker Street. With bloody Watson prowling around and getting in the way, but still. Also that Sherlock obviously hadn't had much sexual experience before, going by some of his reactions. Keen but surprised, mostly, Sherlock had been.
Must have had more practice since, given he and bloody Watson are shagging now. At least Lestrade assumes they are. That's certainly the message JW's giving off. Loud and clear.
Might not be very good sex though, Lestrade thinks hopefully. Often isn't, early days of a relationship. Specially if one of you hasn't had sex with a man before - which he'd be willing to bet JW hasn't - and the other one hasn't had much experience of sex with anybody.
Lestrade embarks on a fantasy where sex with JW is really crap and Sherlock is driven into the arms of the only man who has ever made him feel - Oh shit. This is embarrassing. Not fair. The whole point about fantasy, surely, is that you can imagine whatever you like.
Not working now though. Bugger.
There'd be hell to pay if it did happen, he knows that. Happen again, that is.
Not sure what Sherlock thinks the rules of that relationship are, but it's obvious Watson thinks monogamy is the name of the game. Monopoly, more like: Go To Jail, Go Directly To Jail, Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect Two Hundred Pounds. Can't blame the bastard though. Lestrade knows he'd want to monopolize Sherlock himself if he ever got the chance.
But what is it with these looks Sherlock keeps giving him?
Lestrade goes off into another fantasy where Sherlock is jealous of Maurice and has finally realized he wants Lestrade to be with him instead: It darted through Sherlock with the speed of an arrow that DI Lestrade must shag no one but himself. He's blushing again over that one. Sort of thing that belongs in romantic fiction, not in 221b Baker Street.
Simplest explanation, and the most depressing, is that Sherlock's just feeling guilty and embarrassed about having sex with Lestrade the other night. Regretting it. Worrying JW will find out. That sort of thing.
But it didn't look like that sort of thing, the look that made Lestrade's insides turn over. Makes them turn over again now, thinking about it.
No way to make sense of this. Got nothing to go on, he thinks and remembers saying just that to Sherlock about the shooter. The one who killed the taxi-driver and saved Sherlock's life. Who Lestrade is bloody sure was Watson, though he'll never be able to prove it. And doesn't that make him sick?
Got nothing to go on. His own voice, sounding defeated.
And Sherlock's voice, like a big cat's purring growl, pleased with himself: Oh, I wouldn't say that.
Sherlock's not going to help Lestrade out with this one, though, and the clues aren't adding up to anything much at all.
All he knows is that Sherlock's not his normal self at the moment. Which, given that Sherlock is normally rude, obnoxious, arrogant, inconsiderate, shameless, intermittently criminal, manipulative, unscrupulous, uncaring and an infuriating bloody know-all, should be a relief. But somehow isn't.
Lestrade switches on his phone in case there's a text message signed SH. Nothing. Switches it off again. No point in keeping it on.
***
He doesn't know how long he sits there, staring at the view and feeling vaguely unhappy, before Maurice comes in. At least it is Maurice, which is something. Seems to have got some pyjamas on from somewhere, rather nice ones. He's carrying a dressing-gown. Not blue silk, thank Christ. It's warm and soft. He puts it round Lestrade, who suddenly realizes he is cold and probably has been for some time.
“Are you OK?” Maurice asks.
Lestrade doesn't say anything, because he doesn't think he can.
Maurice puts his arms around him, which Lestrade doesn't resist, and they sit like that for a while not saying anything. Lestrade is practically falling down with tiredness and it would be nice to go back to bed where it's warm, but he is afraid the hallucination will happen again and he doesn't think he can cope.
Maurice's breath is on his forehead, stirring his hair. Maurice smells of warmth and sleep and bed. Three of Lestrade's favourite smells. Maurice's arms are holding him with just the right degree of firmness. It ought to feel good. Ought to feel really good. And it just doesn't. The wrong person. Lestrade feels like shit.
Maurice starts stroking his back and kissing him, and Lestrade's body starts saying hopefully well, why not? But he pulls away just the same.
“I thought you were him,” he blurts out. “I woke up, and I thought - ”
Maurice flinches, like he's just been slapped. Not far off it, either, Lestrade thinks. Why did you have to tell him that, you stupid git?
“Sherlock,” Maurice says. Not even a question really.
Lestrade nods. There's a silence. Quite a long silence.
Eventually Maurice says “Well, that's bad luck.” Sounding as if he's talking about a flat tyre or something, but his face doesn't match his voice.
“Isn't it?” says Lestrade.
They contemplate the bad luck for a bit. Seems to be nothing to say.
“I'm not looking for a great romance or anything,” Maurice says after a while.
Lestrade knows; but it doesn't help. Can't fake emotion if it's not there.
“I know I'm probably not much good in bed,” Maurice says, sounding a bit shy for someone who did what he did to Lestrade earlier on, “but I'm sure I'd improve with practice.”
“Nothing wrong with how you are in bed,” Lestrade says firmly. And there isn't. But he can't think about that or he'll get distracted.
Maurice looks happier for a moment, which is nice, but also difficult, because he really shouldn't be getting his hopes up about this one.
“Look,” Lestrade says. “This is all no good. I can't give you what you want. What you need right now.”
Which is true, isn't it? Maurice is only just starting to come to terms with himself after all these years. The last thing he needs is a relationship with some poor stupid fucker who is still in love with someone else.
Lestrade's gut clenches all over again at even thinking in love with, but he doesn't have the strength to reject the idea.
“I'd settle for a fuck buddy,” Maurice says, surprisingly. Then ruins the effect by saying “If that's the correct term.”
Lestrade snorts. “It is,” he says. “But I don't think that would work.”
“Why not?”
“Wouldn't be fair on you.”
Maurice tries to pass it off lightly: “What could possibly be wrong with an arrangement where I get to have lots of sex with my favourite DI?”
Nice try, but his voice shakes a bit, and Lestrade knows he's right about this one. Emotions would get in the way.
Though he thinks some of this is less about him as a person than Maurice's gratitude for making him feel better about being gay. Lestrade's just been a catalyst or a lightning-conductor or something. Can't have a meaningful relationship with one of those.
“Seems to me you need someone who can be with you properly,” Lestrade says. “Partner, boyfriend, that sort of thing.”
“I expect you're right,” Maurice says.
Then, after a pause, he asks “So, can I still have sex with you while I'm looking for one?”
Lestrade knows he should probably say no, but the question takes him off guard, makes him laugh. Plus, Maurice's hand has somehow got in between Lestrade's thighs and is doing things to Lestrade's cock that make it difficult to think clearly. Maurice is kissing Lestrade's neck and then blowing gently in his ear and -
“Not doing this on the sofa,” Lestrade says, with an effort.
“Come back to bed then,” says Maurice. Sounding quite pleased with himself. As well he might be.
He kisses Lestrade's neck again, lingers over it, slight pressure with his teeth, going to leave a mark for sure -
Lestrade groans. Never could resist that spot, especially not like this.
“Just this once, OK?” he manages, and hopes he means it.
“Of course,” Maurice says. “Absolutely understood.”
An obvious lie if ever Lestrade heard one. But he's in no position to insist. He's not sure he's going to make it as far as the bedroom.
Author: fengirl88
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: sex, drug references, capture (mostly the first in this bit)
Disclaimer: BBC versions of Sherlock, Lestrade, Watson, Donovan etc. not mine; E.M. Forster's Maurice not mine; nor the version of him in the film. Nor any of the songs quoted here. Finally, very mild SPOILERS for A Study in Pink.
Summary: Lestrade becomes enmeshed in a blackmail case he's working, and has to turn to Sherlock for help.
Big thank you to ginbitch for beta-ing again, particularly this chapter.
Word count for this chapter: 2173
Tags: fic, Sherlock, Lestrade, Maurice, The Old Bad Songs, sherlock/lestrade, lestrade/other, crossover
Chapter 10
Small Hours
A better night's sleep tonight. Until some time round about 4 a.m. when Lestrade wakes up. Wakes up absolutely convinced that he's in bed with Sherlock.
Not really happening, obviously. One of those, what d'you call it, hypnagogic states. Between sleeping and waking.
Though Sherlock is the one person Lestrade knows who might actually turn up in bed with you when you'd gone to bed with someone else altogether.
For a mad moment he almost wonders if Sherlock and Maurice have changed places in order to wind him up. Though he knows that's impossible, and it must just be his mind playing tricks on him. But what a trick to choose. Christ.
He feels horribly exposed and more than a bit sick. Scared to put the light on in case it's really true. Keeps telling himself it isn't and that he'll wake up in a minute.
Maybe the wine's not helping. Get himself a glass of water, some fresh air perhaps. Try to wake up properly.
Lestrade gets out of bed and goes into the sitting-room, breathes in big gulps of cool air from the just-open window. Tries not to think about Michael Hughes jumping out of it. Tries not to look down to where Hughes fell.
Instead, he looks out at the river and the night, London with all its light pollution blotting out the stars. Oddly reassuring. He gets a pint mug of water from the kitchen and sits staring out through the wall of glass, waiting for his mind to return to normal. Waiting to calm down enough to go back to bed with Maurice, who please God will be Maurice again when Lestrade goes back into the bedroom. If he does.
He's had this sort of hallucination once or twice before when he's not quite awake and not quite asleep. Knows it doesn't mean you have to send for the men in white coats to take DI Lestrade away in a plain van. Even if right now he does feel next door to crazy with this fucking awful trick his mind has chosen to play on him. First time in years he gets his end away with a nice man who really likes him, and now this. The unfairness of it almost chokes him.
Lot of unfairness around, mind you. Lestrade would like a word with whoever is running the universe, because the present arrangement is seriously fucked-up. He thinks about Vane and Maurice and Durham; Maurice and himself and Sherlock. Refuses to think about Sherlock and JW. But really: what a mess. Why does everything have to be so complicated?
Vane couldn't handle being rejected by Maurice - well, rejected isn't really the word for someone not even noticing you're in love with them because they're in love with someone else. So the boy had gone looking for oblivion in drugs and the wrong kind of sex, till that life snuffed him out.
Maurice, well, ... Maurice is in with a chance of recovery. Some quite promising signs there, even if it did take a murderous blackmailing lunatic to wake him up at last. But what a waste of thirty years that had been. All the things Maurice could have done, the fun he could have had. The lovers he could have had. Christ. Still, it's not too late for him. Especially given his hidden talents. Lestrade finds he's wearing a silly grin, thinking about his recent experience of Maurice's hidden talents. Not the way to keep a clear head, though, so he tries to get back to his train of thought.
Which brings him to Sherlock and whatever the fuck is going on with Sherlock at the moment. Because even by Sherlock's standards his behaviour recently has been weird.
Breaking into Lestrade's flat - well, that's almost normal for Sherlock, though still bloody annoying. And nearly gave Lestrade a heart attack at the time.
Sherlock ambushing Lestrade for sex was ... not normal at all. And Lestrade is not sure he buys the explanation about shock tactics, even though it does sound fucked-up enough to be something Sherlock would think was a good idea. But there's that other thing Sherlock said about why he'd jumped Lestrade, the thing he said just before the kiss. Thought it might be nice. It was. Lestrade shivers with pleasure, remembering that.
He knows Sherlock enjoyed having sex with him that other time, at 221b Baker Street. With bloody Watson prowling around and getting in the way, but still. Also that Sherlock obviously hadn't had much sexual experience before, going by some of his reactions. Keen but surprised, mostly, Sherlock had been.
Must have had more practice since, given he and bloody Watson are shagging now. At least Lestrade assumes they are. That's certainly the message JW's giving off. Loud and clear.
Might not be very good sex though, Lestrade thinks hopefully. Often isn't, early days of a relationship. Specially if one of you hasn't had sex with a man before - which he'd be willing to bet JW hasn't - and the other one hasn't had much experience of sex with anybody.
Lestrade embarks on a fantasy where sex with JW is really crap and Sherlock is driven into the arms of the only man who has ever made him feel - Oh shit. This is embarrassing. Not fair. The whole point about fantasy, surely, is that you can imagine whatever you like.
Not working now though. Bugger.
There'd be hell to pay if it did happen, he knows that. Happen again, that is.
Not sure what Sherlock thinks the rules of that relationship are, but it's obvious Watson thinks monogamy is the name of the game. Monopoly, more like: Go To Jail, Go Directly To Jail, Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect Two Hundred Pounds. Can't blame the bastard though. Lestrade knows he'd want to monopolize Sherlock himself if he ever got the chance.
But what is it with these looks Sherlock keeps giving him?
Lestrade goes off into another fantasy where Sherlock is jealous of Maurice and has finally realized he wants Lestrade to be with him instead: It darted through Sherlock with the speed of an arrow that DI Lestrade must shag no one but himself. He's blushing again over that one. Sort of thing that belongs in romantic fiction, not in 221b Baker Street.
Simplest explanation, and the most depressing, is that Sherlock's just feeling guilty and embarrassed about having sex with Lestrade the other night. Regretting it. Worrying JW will find out. That sort of thing.
But it didn't look like that sort of thing, the look that made Lestrade's insides turn over. Makes them turn over again now, thinking about it.
No way to make sense of this. Got nothing to go on, he thinks and remembers saying just that to Sherlock about the shooter. The one who killed the taxi-driver and saved Sherlock's life. Who Lestrade is bloody sure was Watson, though he'll never be able to prove it. And doesn't that make him sick?
Got nothing to go on. His own voice, sounding defeated.
And Sherlock's voice, like a big cat's purring growl, pleased with himself: Oh, I wouldn't say that.
Sherlock's not going to help Lestrade out with this one, though, and the clues aren't adding up to anything much at all.
All he knows is that Sherlock's not his normal self at the moment. Which, given that Sherlock is normally rude, obnoxious, arrogant, inconsiderate, shameless, intermittently criminal, manipulative, unscrupulous, uncaring and an infuriating bloody know-all, should be a relief. But somehow isn't.
Lestrade switches on his phone in case there's a text message signed SH. Nothing. Switches it off again. No point in keeping it on.
***
He doesn't know how long he sits there, staring at the view and feeling vaguely unhappy, before Maurice comes in. At least it is Maurice, which is something. Seems to have got some pyjamas on from somewhere, rather nice ones. He's carrying a dressing-gown. Not blue silk, thank Christ. It's warm and soft. He puts it round Lestrade, who suddenly realizes he is cold and probably has been for some time.
“Are you OK?” Maurice asks.
Lestrade doesn't say anything, because he doesn't think he can.
Maurice puts his arms around him, which Lestrade doesn't resist, and they sit like that for a while not saying anything. Lestrade is practically falling down with tiredness and it would be nice to go back to bed where it's warm, but he is afraid the hallucination will happen again and he doesn't think he can cope.
Maurice's breath is on his forehead, stirring his hair. Maurice smells of warmth and sleep and bed. Three of Lestrade's favourite smells. Maurice's arms are holding him with just the right degree of firmness. It ought to feel good. Ought to feel really good. And it just doesn't. The wrong person. Lestrade feels like shit.
Maurice starts stroking his back and kissing him, and Lestrade's body starts saying hopefully well, why not? But he pulls away just the same.
“I thought you were him,” he blurts out. “I woke up, and I thought - ”
Maurice flinches, like he's just been slapped. Not far off it, either, Lestrade thinks. Why did you have to tell him that, you stupid git?
“Sherlock,” Maurice says. Not even a question really.
Lestrade nods. There's a silence. Quite a long silence.
Eventually Maurice says “Well, that's bad luck.” Sounding as if he's talking about a flat tyre or something, but his face doesn't match his voice.
“Isn't it?” says Lestrade.
They contemplate the bad luck for a bit. Seems to be nothing to say.
“I'm not looking for a great romance or anything,” Maurice says after a while.
Lestrade knows; but it doesn't help. Can't fake emotion if it's not there.
“I know I'm probably not much good in bed,” Maurice says, sounding a bit shy for someone who did what he did to Lestrade earlier on, “but I'm sure I'd improve with practice.”
“Nothing wrong with how you are in bed,” Lestrade says firmly. And there isn't. But he can't think about that or he'll get distracted.
Maurice looks happier for a moment, which is nice, but also difficult, because he really shouldn't be getting his hopes up about this one.
“Look,” Lestrade says. “This is all no good. I can't give you what you want. What you need right now.”
Which is true, isn't it? Maurice is only just starting to come to terms with himself after all these years. The last thing he needs is a relationship with some poor stupid fucker who is still in love with someone else.
Lestrade's gut clenches all over again at even thinking in love with, but he doesn't have the strength to reject the idea.
“I'd settle for a fuck buddy,” Maurice says, surprisingly. Then ruins the effect by saying “If that's the correct term.”
Lestrade snorts. “It is,” he says. “But I don't think that would work.”
“Why not?”
“Wouldn't be fair on you.”
Maurice tries to pass it off lightly: “What could possibly be wrong with an arrangement where I get to have lots of sex with my favourite DI?”
Nice try, but his voice shakes a bit, and Lestrade knows he's right about this one. Emotions would get in the way.
Though he thinks some of this is less about him as a person than Maurice's gratitude for making him feel better about being gay. Lestrade's just been a catalyst or a lightning-conductor or something. Can't have a meaningful relationship with one of those.
“Seems to me you need someone who can be with you properly,” Lestrade says. “Partner, boyfriend, that sort of thing.”
“I expect you're right,” Maurice says.
Then, after a pause, he asks “So, can I still have sex with you while I'm looking for one?”
Lestrade knows he should probably say no, but the question takes him off guard, makes him laugh. Plus, Maurice's hand has somehow got in between Lestrade's thighs and is doing things to Lestrade's cock that make it difficult to think clearly. Maurice is kissing Lestrade's neck and then blowing gently in his ear and -
“Not doing this on the sofa,” Lestrade says, with an effort.
“Come back to bed then,” says Maurice. Sounding quite pleased with himself. As well he might be.
He kisses Lestrade's neck again, lingers over it, slight pressure with his teeth, going to leave a mark for sure -
Lestrade groans. Never could resist that spot, especially not like this.
“Just this once, OK?” he manages, and hopes he means it.
“Of course,” Maurice says. “Absolutely understood.”
An obvious lie if ever Lestrade heard one. But he's in no position to insist. He's not sure he's going to make it as far as the bedroom.