Remix of unovis: “Talking in Bed”
Original Story:
Author: unovis
Title & Link: The Bastard's Back
Pairings & Rating: Sherlock/Lestrade, explicit
Warnings/Content Notes: none
Remix Story:
Author: blueonblue
Title: Talking in Bed
Pairings & Rating: Sherlock/Lestrade, explicit
Warnings/Content Notes: none
Beta: none
Britpicker: none
Summary: The copper, frustrated by a case, talks to the dead.
Scotland Yard wasn’t designed for the private, contemplative cigarette. The car park, CCTV dutifully minding the rows of vehicles, oblivious to the road that led outside, was the closest serenity Greg could find, a contemplative path where he could unravel his day. Donovan had taken the uniforms to tear apart some lockups in Camden, which left him with too much overtime to approve. It was such a film cliché: the copper, frustrated by a case, returns to his nicotine habit for comfort. He lit his cigarette.
“Those things will kill you.”
Another film cliché: the copper, frustrated by a case, talks to the dead.
Sherlock’s ghost was older and more battered than the one Greg had been fighting with for the past two years. That ghost may have argued with him and tormented him, but he always called him by his name. This wasn’t a ghost, it was a miracle. He wrapped his arms around the miracle’s shoulders. It was real. The imagined conversations and unrealised possibilities bloomed; this time he would say everything he wanted to say. He ignored the comments about his competency and his hair because he’d been given a second chance.
The next morning, Greg reconsidered his decisions. He’d been given a second chance, yes, but fucking Sherlock had always been easier than talking to him. Greg dumped the coffee beans in the grinder. Last night had been a struggle, but it had been easy as well, rediscovering Sherlock’s body, deceptively strong muscles under the soft skin, his voice both eager and demanding. He’d wanted to be careful of Sherlock; aside from the visible bruises there were injuries he couldn’t see, but Sherlock had wanted him, and Greg had been drunk on Sherlock’s presence. He hunted for the sugar, resisting the urge to make the way the man took his coffee into a metaphor for the man himself. Bitter and sweet; sweet and bitter. This was dangerous, much too close to the way his thoughts cycled in the weeks after Sherlock’s death. Genius, criminal; genius, martyr.
Sherlock had rolled over on to his stomach during Greg’s absence. He sprawled diagonally across the bed, face buried in the pillows, duvet pushed to the side, perfect and desired arse directly in the middle. An invitation? Sherlock’s back was a mess, deep lines of pain; it raised uneasy memories of all the times he’d marked Sherlock, possessively scratching memories into his skin as Sherlock moved inside him.
“Good morning. There’s coffee.” He set the mug down next to the bed.
Sherlock mumbled a response in a language that might not have been English. Eventually he turned his head, eyes still closed. “John always brings me tea,” he said.
“Does he? How’s that been working for you lately?”
Sherlock’s face disappeared into the pillows.
Their old moves, protective jabs as they circled each other warily. Greg was wasting the miracle. He was breaking the promise he’d made to himself that if things were different, he’d tell Sherlock he wanted. But old habits had returned and feelings refused to give birth to words.
“Get dressed and I’ll drive you back. Mrs Hudson’s sure to have a cuppa.”
Sherlock’s face emerged again, but his eyes were distant, already racing ahead to his new case, the resurrection of his career, and the solution to the problem of John. Sherlock was always so far ahead, leaving Greg admiring from behind, which if he were being completely honest, was not a bad view.
“I can talk to John for you,” Greg hesitated. “Five years is a lot to bridge.”
“I wasn’t gone-”
“Two-and-a-half years of new experiences on his side, two-and-a-half on yours, five years of things you would know if you’d spent them together. Will you tell him everything? Will he?”
“Stop thinking, Gary.” Sherlock’s kiss, mouth slightly open, his impatient tongue brushing against his bottom lip. Greg wanted it to last, this welcome distraction, but Sherlock pulled back. “You want to talk so much, I’ll give your mouth something to do.”
Greg buried his laughter in Sherlock’s neck. “You spent your two-and-a-half years watching a lot of hotel porno, didn’t you?”
“Not really, much too expensive when you can use the hotel’s wi-fi and visit any site you want. I did see a good one, there was a businessman about your age, grey hair like yours, or what your hair used to be… why did you cut it?” Sherlock moved his hand over Greg’s head. “Nothing to hold on to now.”
“I wasn’t thinking about pleasing you, not with you being dead and all.” Greg caught Sherlock’s hand in his own, long, elegant fingers, equally beautiful when picking over the details of a crime scene or committing themselves to pleasure.
“The businessman orders a prostitute, when he comes to his room, he’s ordered to strip. What do you think happens next?”
“They have sex.”
“The businessman spanks him.”
“Shocking plot twist that.”
“When I imagined telling you this, your reactions were a lot sexier. You’d get really hard, then tell me to strip and-”
“You’re already naked, so telling you to get your kit off would be pointless, wouldn’t it?”
“Never mind. I’m getting dressed now.” Sherlock stood up quickly, with only the slightest pause as evidence of his pain. “Did you happen to keep the suit I left at your old house? Of course not, you thought I was dead.”
Greg ached to feel Sherlock in his arms again, to take away his anger and drown it in lust. He settled for finding Sherlock something somewhat presentable to wear. “I do have work soon.”
“I know. Criminals wake up early; Inspector Lestrade wakes even earlier,” Sherlock said. He smiled. “If you were the sort to skive off work for sex, I’d probably like you less.”
The tenderness in Sherlock’s voice hurt Greg more than anything else he’d said or done since his return.
***
Before Greg could ask, “How was the dinner party?” or even manage “Hello”, Sherlock was in his arms, fumbling at his belt, tugging his shirt free. Sherlock tasted of whisky and his hair carried faint traces of smoke.
“Candles, bloody candles all over the table. Strictly non-smoking, it’s not organic,” Sherlock said, answering Greg’s unspoken question. Greg tried to return the favour, sliding his hands under Sherlock’s shirt, reaching down to cup his arse. They did their best to make it over to the sofa without breaking the kiss, but that was impossible.
“They looked happy, John and Mary, surrounded by Noah’s Ark, everyone two by two. They sat me next to not-so-shy Violet, remember her? The one with the terrible employer. Did I ever thank you for your help with that? Consider this a thank you.”
Greg moaned as Sherlock took him in his mouth, that intense brilliance focused on his cock. One of Sherlock’s hands kept his hips steady, while the other explored, confident fingers pressing against unexpected sensitivity.
After, dizzy and grateful, Sherlock’s head resting on his stomach, Greg remembered. They’d been talking about John and Mary’s dinner party.
“It wasn’t so bad,” Sherlock said. “Next time, I’ll save them the trouble of pairing me up and bring you.”
Greg’s world stopped at Sherlock’s words, flooded with light, it restarted.
“But it won’t be for a while. I’m working on a new case, so I won’t be able to see you.”
Sherlock’s change in tone was too sharp, too abrupt. Greg focused on the physical sensations, the weight on Sherlock’s body on his. Sherlock had never warned him about anything before.
“I wasn’t going to tell you, but I don’t want you looking for me. Promise me you won’t look for me, no matter what you hear. If anything goes seriously wrong, Mycroft will fetch you. He likes being useful.”
“What are you going to do?”
It sounded like Sherlock said he was going to keep a promise, but his voice was dozy, thick with contentment, ready to drift to sleep in their awkward embrace. There was nothing for Greg to do except trust that miracles could happen more than once.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Remember to leave feedback for both authors!
Author: unovis
Title & Link: The Bastard's Back
Pairings & Rating: Sherlock/Lestrade, explicit
Warnings/Content Notes: none
Remix Story:
Author: blueonblue
Title: Talking in Bed
Pairings & Rating: Sherlock/Lestrade, explicit
Warnings/Content Notes: none
Beta: none
Britpicker: none
Summary: The copper, frustrated by a case, talks to the dead.
Scotland Yard wasn’t designed for the private, contemplative cigarette. The car park, CCTV dutifully minding the rows of vehicles, oblivious to the road that led outside, was the closest serenity Greg could find, a contemplative path where he could unravel his day. Donovan had taken the uniforms to tear apart some lockups in Camden, which left him with too much overtime to approve. It was such a film cliché: the copper, frustrated by a case, returns to his nicotine habit for comfort. He lit his cigarette.
“Those things will kill you.”
Another film cliché: the copper, frustrated by a case, talks to the dead.
Sherlock’s ghost was older and more battered than the one Greg had been fighting with for the past two years. That ghost may have argued with him and tormented him, but he always called him by his name. This wasn’t a ghost, it was a miracle. He wrapped his arms around the miracle’s shoulders. It was real. The imagined conversations and unrealised possibilities bloomed; this time he would say everything he wanted to say. He ignored the comments about his competency and his hair because he’d been given a second chance.
The next morning, Greg reconsidered his decisions. He’d been given a second chance, yes, but fucking Sherlock had always been easier than talking to him. Greg dumped the coffee beans in the grinder. Last night had been a struggle, but it had been easy as well, rediscovering Sherlock’s body, deceptively strong muscles under the soft skin, his voice both eager and demanding. He’d wanted to be careful of Sherlock; aside from the visible bruises there were injuries he couldn’t see, but Sherlock had wanted him, and Greg had been drunk on Sherlock’s presence. He hunted for the sugar, resisting the urge to make the way the man took his coffee into a metaphor for the man himself. Bitter and sweet; sweet and bitter. This was dangerous, much too close to the way his thoughts cycled in the weeks after Sherlock’s death. Genius, criminal; genius, martyr.
Sherlock had rolled over on to his stomach during Greg’s absence. He sprawled diagonally across the bed, face buried in the pillows, duvet pushed to the side, perfect and desired arse directly in the middle. An invitation? Sherlock’s back was a mess, deep lines of pain; it raised uneasy memories of all the times he’d marked Sherlock, possessively scratching memories into his skin as Sherlock moved inside him.
“Good morning. There’s coffee.” He set the mug down next to the bed.
Sherlock mumbled a response in a language that might not have been English. Eventually he turned his head, eyes still closed. “John always brings me tea,” he said.
“Does he? How’s that been working for you lately?”
Sherlock’s face disappeared into the pillows.
Their old moves, protective jabs as they circled each other warily. Greg was wasting the miracle. He was breaking the promise he’d made to himself that if things were different, he’d tell Sherlock he wanted. But old habits had returned and feelings refused to give birth to words.
“Get dressed and I’ll drive you back. Mrs Hudson’s sure to have a cuppa.”
Sherlock’s face emerged again, but his eyes were distant, already racing ahead to his new case, the resurrection of his career, and the solution to the problem of John. Sherlock was always so far ahead, leaving Greg admiring from behind, which if he were being completely honest, was not a bad view.
“I can talk to John for you,” Greg hesitated. “Five years is a lot to bridge.”
“I wasn’t gone-”
“Two-and-a-half years of new experiences on his side, two-and-a-half on yours, five years of things you would know if you’d spent them together. Will you tell him everything? Will he?”
“Stop thinking, Gary.” Sherlock’s kiss, mouth slightly open, his impatient tongue brushing against his bottom lip. Greg wanted it to last, this welcome distraction, but Sherlock pulled back. “You want to talk so much, I’ll give your mouth something to do.”
Greg buried his laughter in Sherlock’s neck. “You spent your two-and-a-half years watching a lot of hotel porno, didn’t you?”
“Not really, much too expensive when you can use the hotel’s wi-fi and visit any site you want. I did see a good one, there was a businessman about your age, grey hair like yours, or what your hair used to be… why did you cut it?” Sherlock moved his hand over Greg’s head. “Nothing to hold on to now.”
“I wasn’t thinking about pleasing you, not with you being dead and all.” Greg caught Sherlock’s hand in his own, long, elegant fingers, equally beautiful when picking over the details of a crime scene or committing themselves to pleasure.
“The businessman orders a prostitute, when he comes to his room, he’s ordered to strip. What do you think happens next?”
“They have sex.”
“The businessman spanks him.”
“Shocking plot twist that.”
“When I imagined telling you this, your reactions were a lot sexier. You’d get really hard, then tell me to strip and-”
“You’re already naked, so telling you to get your kit off would be pointless, wouldn’t it?”
“Never mind. I’m getting dressed now.” Sherlock stood up quickly, with only the slightest pause as evidence of his pain. “Did you happen to keep the suit I left at your old house? Of course not, you thought I was dead.”
Greg ached to feel Sherlock in his arms again, to take away his anger and drown it in lust. He settled for finding Sherlock something somewhat presentable to wear. “I do have work soon.”
“I know. Criminals wake up early; Inspector Lestrade wakes even earlier,” Sherlock said. He smiled. “If you were the sort to skive off work for sex, I’d probably like you less.”
The tenderness in Sherlock’s voice hurt Greg more than anything else he’d said or done since his return.
***
Before Greg could ask, “How was the dinner party?” or even manage “Hello”, Sherlock was in his arms, fumbling at his belt, tugging his shirt free. Sherlock tasted of whisky and his hair carried faint traces of smoke.
“Candles, bloody candles all over the table. Strictly non-smoking, it’s not organic,” Sherlock said, answering Greg’s unspoken question. Greg tried to return the favour, sliding his hands under Sherlock’s shirt, reaching down to cup his arse. They did their best to make it over to the sofa without breaking the kiss, but that was impossible.
“They looked happy, John and Mary, surrounded by Noah’s Ark, everyone two by two. They sat me next to not-so-shy Violet, remember her? The one with the terrible employer. Did I ever thank you for your help with that? Consider this a thank you.”
Greg moaned as Sherlock took him in his mouth, that intense brilliance focused on his cock. One of Sherlock’s hands kept his hips steady, while the other explored, confident fingers pressing against unexpected sensitivity.
After, dizzy and grateful, Sherlock’s head resting on his stomach, Greg remembered. They’d been talking about John and Mary’s dinner party.
“It wasn’t so bad,” Sherlock said. “Next time, I’ll save them the trouble of pairing me up and bring you.”
Greg’s world stopped at Sherlock’s words, flooded with light, it restarted.
“But it won’t be for a while. I’m working on a new case, so I won’t be able to see you.”
Sherlock’s change in tone was too sharp, too abrupt. Greg focused on the physical sensations, the weight on Sherlock’s body on his. Sherlock had never warned him about anything before.
“I wasn’t going to tell you, but I don’t want you looking for me. Promise me you won’t look for me, no matter what you hear. If anything goes seriously wrong, Mycroft will fetch you. He likes being useful.”
“What are you going to do?”
It sounded like Sherlock said he was going to keep a promise, but his voice was dozy, thick with contentment, ready to drift to sleep in their awkward embrace. There was nothing for Greg to do except trust that miracles could happen more than once.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Remember to leave feedback for both authors!