Lestrade came home at 3am on New Year’s Day. New Years Eve was often a busy time for the Met. All hands on deck to deal with any sort of crime that might occur on New Year’s Eve. There were multiple parties everywhere where heavy drinking was involved, often a few bar fights, drug use and people generally being stupid. So after all the paper work had been done and all the minor hooligans were processed, Lestrade arrived exhausted and tired in his flat at 4am.
“Happy New Years, Gregory,” said a voice from the dark.
“Sherlock! You scared me to death,” exhaled Lestrade. He turned on the lights. “What are you doing here in the dark?”
“Picked your locks,” Sherlock replied.
“I didn’t ask how, I asked why,” said Lestrade. “Don’t you have random spores to observe?”
Sherlock got off from the sofa and planted a warm kiss on Lestrade’s lips. “Ridiculous. Spores are boring when I have an exhausted Detective Inspector to harass. Shut the door and come in, I’ve brought your favourite whiskey to celebrate.”
“How is it that I allow you to invite me to my own flat?” asked Lestrade as he closed the door. “And isn’t sparkling wine more appropriate for New Years?”
Sherlock scoffed, taking the scotch and the two shot glasses into the sitting room. “Sparkling wine? How typically common, unlike this well aged 30 year old single malt whiskey I stole from Mycroft.”
Lestrade took off his coat and undid his tie. He sat next to Sherlock as he poured him a generous shot glass of the expensive spirit and handed to Lestrade.
“That’s quite a shot full, Sherlock,” said Lestrade, settling next to Sherlock comfortably. He turned on the telly. “Are you trying to get me sloshed?”
“I’m trying to get into your bed, actually,” replied Sherlock. “I’m not picky. Sex or sleep is optional. Come here, shut up and enjoy your scotch and bad telly.”
“Only sleep would be optional for you, Sherlock,” retorted Lestrade.
Sherlock put his head on Lestrade’s shoulder and sighed. “Sex it is then.”
“Wh-what?”
Sherlock kissed Lestrade’s cheek. “Sex. You’re being stroppy again; you obviously hadn’t had a proper orgasm in a long time.”
“And sex cures my stroppiness, doesn’t it?”
“Of course it does,” Sherlock simply replied. “Both of us are too tired for anything vigorous, so I will give you a choice of either oral sex or manual stimulation. Which do you prefer?”
He got up and began to unbutton his shirt. “Come on Lestrade, get into the bedroom. I’d much rather we do it on your bed where we can fall asleep comfortably after I perform fellatio on you.”
“What about you?” asked Lestrade numbly, following Sherlock into the bedroom. “I’m not protesting, but isn’t this all a bit one sided?”
Sherlock shut the door as soon as Lestrade entered the bedroom. Sherlock kissed him tenderly and then continued to strip down to his pants. He sat on the bed with a look of waiting. Lestrade quickly stripped out of his clothes and sat beside Sherlock, who continued to kiss Lestrade.
“I’m not quite in the mood for any sex tonight,” murmured Sherlock. “Stop asking questions, you idiot. I have no ulterior motive other than providing myself with some new masturbatory images to be filed away for a later date.”
Nothing was said after that. Sherlock continued to kiss Lestrade deeply, his hand trailing to his penis. He took it and stroked it slowly; he paid careful attention to Lestrade’s relaxed face and increased breath. Sherlock lowered his lips down Lestrade’s chest, caressing him lovingly until his mouth was on his penis. It was an obscenely arousing sight for Lestrade to see Sherlock bent over him, his lips over the head while his hands slowly and methodically caressed his shaft. He felt his breath quicken, his eyes fell shut as the warm feeling of pleasure came over him. A quiet moan and a few gasps left his mouth as he felt his orgasm rack his body. When it was over, he felt wonderfully and bonelessly relaxed. Sherlock reached for some tissues to clean Lestrade off. He pulled the covers over him and the bedroom to brush his teeth in the bathroom that was beside the bedroom.
Lestrade was almost asleep before he felt Sherlock get into bed to embrace him, his body heavy and warm against him. He was too tired to protest and smiled tiredly against Sherlock. Sherlock gave Lestrade a quick kiss, turned off the light and slept soundly next to him.
“Lestrade, what are you doing here?” asked John when he opened the door of 221B to find Lestrade at his door.
“Ah, the infuriating git didn’t tell you did he?” asked Lestrade affectionately. He held out a box tied with ribbon for John to see. “I’ve brought cake.”
“Cake for what?”
“John! Stop interrogating the poor Detective Inspector and let him in,” called out Sherlock from the sitting room.
John did so, numbly shutting the door behind him as Lestrade entered the flat and put the box down in the kitchen.
“It’s Sherlock’s birthday today,” replied Lestrade with a cheeky grin. “Thirty-five today and he still pouts like a twelve year old. Come in here you silly sod! I’ve brought you cake and candles.”
“He never told me that,” said John in dismay.
“Of course he wouldn’t,” replied Lestrade. “Because he knows I will conspire with you to do this to him every year. God knows the posh git embarrasses me enough throughout the year, this is just my petty little revenge.”
Sherlock petulantly entered the kitchen with John following behind. Lestrade gave Sherlock a chaste kiss on the cheek before undoing the ribbon and taking the cake out of the box. It was a chocolate cake with decorative pink and violet roses.
“Sorry, it was the last cake they had in the shop,” said Lestrade, though he didn’t sound very sorry.
“Liar. You picked out this cake intentionally,” accused Sherlock.
“That I won’t deny,” said Lestrade with a grin. “Serves you right, you hide your birthday from me for four years. I am determined to make a bloody fool of you for that alone.”
“We don’t have any candles,” said Sherlock shortly.
“No need, I brought them with me,” said Lestrade, taking a small packet of them out of his pocket. He put ten of them around the cake, carefully lighting each one. The candles gave a warm glow to the dim kitchen. With cheeky smiles and embarrassing cheeriness, John and Lestrade loudly sang happy birthday to Sherlock with Sherlock covering his eyes with his hands in embarrassment.
“Happy Birthday!” they cried.
Sherlock reluctantly blew out the candles. Lestrade and John loudly clapped and yelped in joy.
“Did you make a wish?” asked John. He got out some plates and forks while Lestrade cut the cake.
“No need to make a wish,” said Sherlock. “It was obvious that it didn’t come true with this idiot at the door harassing me with candles and cake.”
“Don’t be such a baby Sherlock,” replied Lestrade. “I’ve brought your favourite cake from your favourite bakery. It is chocolate with a hint of espresso, generously coated with chocolate butter cream.”
“If this is my favourite cake, then why are there pink and violet roses littering the cake?” retorted Sherlock.
Lestrade smiled smugly. “Revenge. John, give Sherlock the slice with the biggest pink rose.”
“This one here?” asked John, showing him the slice.
“Yup, that’s the one,” answered Lestrade as he took the plate and put it in front of Sherlock with a fork. Sherlock was still frowning petulantly with his arms crossed.
“Come on Sherlock, don’t be such a spoil sport,” pleaded Lestrade gently. “It is your favourite, with or without the pink rose.”
“Fine,” responded Sherlock after a prolonged childish pause.
Lestrade and John settled down to eat their cake. Sherlock ate the cake with quiet methodical relish. It really was his favourite and he couldn’t hold the childish grudge for long. He murmured an awkward thank you.
“You’re very welcome, Sherlock,” said Lestrade quietly.
The three of them eventually fell into an easy banter about the statistical crime rate of London. John could only sigh. The two were always so obsessed their work, they were probably together because no one else could handle their workaholicism. After the cake was finished and the left over slices were put away in the refrigerator, the three of them settled on the sofa for a night of bad telly.
After the third hour of crap television, Lestrade announced that he was leaving for the night. He had to get up early for work tomorrow. Sherlock showed him out the door. He kissed Lestrade softly.
“Thank you,” Sherlock said very quietly against Lestrade’s ear. “Don’t be a stranger and come by tomorrow. You won’t regret it.”
Lestrade felt himself flush at those soft words and quickly left 221 B Baker Street and into the quiet London night.
“Happy New Years, Gregory,” said a voice from the dark.
“Sherlock! You scared me to death,” exhaled Lestrade. He turned on the lights. “What are you doing here in the dark?”
“Picked your locks,” Sherlock replied.
“I didn’t ask how, I asked why,” said Lestrade. “Don’t you have random spores to observe?”
Sherlock got off from the sofa and planted a warm kiss on Lestrade’s lips. “Ridiculous. Spores are boring when I have an exhausted Detective Inspector to harass. Shut the door and come in, I’ve brought your favourite whiskey to celebrate.”
“How is it that I allow you to invite me to my own flat?” asked Lestrade as he closed the door. “And isn’t sparkling wine more appropriate for New Years?”
Sherlock scoffed, taking the scotch and the two shot glasses into the sitting room. “Sparkling wine? How typically common, unlike this well aged 30 year old single malt whiskey I stole from Mycroft.”
Lestrade took off his coat and undid his tie. He sat next to Sherlock as he poured him a generous shot glass of the expensive spirit and handed to Lestrade.
“That’s quite a shot full, Sherlock,” said Lestrade, settling next to Sherlock comfortably. He turned on the telly. “Are you trying to get me sloshed?”
“I’m trying to get into your bed, actually,” replied Sherlock. “I’m not picky. Sex or sleep is optional. Come here, shut up and enjoy your scotch and bad telly.”
“Only sleep would be optional for you, Sherlock,” retorted Lestrade.
Sherlock put his head on Lestrade’s shoulder and sighed. “Sex it is then.”
“Wh-what?”
Sherlock kissed Lestrade’s cheek. “Sex. You’re being stroppy again; you obviously hadn’t had a proper orgasm in a long time.”
“And sex cures my stroppiness, doesn’t it?”
“Of course it does,” Sherlock simply replied. “Both of us are too tired for anything vigorous, so I will give you a choice of either oral sex or manual stimulation. Which do you prefer?”
“Sherlock!”
Sherlock smirked. “Oral sex it is.”
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“What about you?” asked Lestrade numbly, following Sherlock into the bedroom. “I’m not protesting, but isn’t this all a bit one sided?”
Sherlock shut the door as soon as Lestrade entered the bedroom. Sherlock kissed him tenderly and then continued to strip down to his pants. He sat on the bed with a look of waiting. Lestrade quickly stripped out of his clothes and sat beside Sherlock, who continued to kiss Lestrade.
“I’m not quite in the mood for any sex tonight,” murmured Sherlock. “Stop asking questions, you idiot. I have no ulterior motive other than providing myself with some new masturbatory images to be filed away for a later date.”
Nothing was said after that. Sherlock continued to kiss Lestrade deeply, his hand trailing to his penis. He took it and stroked it slowly; he paid careful attention to Lestrade’s relaxed face and increased breath. Sherlock lowered his lips down Lestrade’s chest, caressing him lovingly until his mouth was on his penis. It was an obscenely arousing sight for Lestrade to see Sherlock bent over him, his lips over the head while his hands slowly and methodically caressed his shaft. He felt his breath quicken, his eyes fell shut as the warm feeling of pleasure came over him. A quiet moan and a few gasps left his mouth as he felt his orgasm rack his body. When it was over, he felt wonderfully and bonelessly relaxed. Sherlock reached for some tissues to clean Lestrade off. He pulled the covers over him and the bedroom to brush his teeth in the bathroom that was beside the bedroom.
Lestrade was almost asleep before he felt Sherlock get into bed to embrace him, his body heavy and warm against him. He was too tired to protest and smiled tiredly against Sherlock. Sherlock gave Lestrade a quick kiss, turned off the light and slept soundly next to him.
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“Lestrade, what are you doing here?” asked John when he opened the door of 221B to find Lestrade at his door.
“Ah, the infuriating git didn’t tell you did he?” asked Lestrade affectionately. He held out a box tied with ribbon for John to see. “I’ve brought cake.”
“Cake for what?”
“John! Stop interrogating the poor Detective Inspector and let him in,” called out Sherlock from the sitting room.
John did so, numbly shutting the door behind him as Lestrade entered the flat and put the box down in the kitchen.
“It’s Sherlock’s birthday today,” replied Lestrade with a cheeky grin. “Thirty-five today and he still pouts like a twelve year old. Come in here you silly sod! I’ve brought you cake and candles.”
“He never told me that,” said John in dismay.
“Of course he wouldn’t,” replied Lestrade. “Because he knows I will conspire with you to do this to him every year. God knows the posh git embarrasses me enough throughout the year, this is just my petty little revenge.”
Sherlock petulantly entered the kitchen with John following behind. Lestrade gave Sherlock a chaste kiss on the cheek before undoing the ribbon and taking the cake out of the box. It was a chocolate cake with decorative pink and violet roses.
“Sorry, it was the last cake they had in the shop,” said Lestrade, though he didn’t sound very sorry.
“Liar. You picked out this cake intentionally,” accused Sherlock.
“That I won’t deny,” said Lestrade with a grin. “Serves you right, you hide your birthday from me for four years. I am determined to make a bloody fool of you for that alone.”
“We don’t have any candles,” said Sherlock shortly.
“No need, I brought them with me,” said Lestrade, taking a small packet of them out of his pocket. He put ten of them around the cake, carefully lighting each one. The candles gave a warm glow to the dim kitchen. With cheeky smiles and embarrassing cheeriness, John and Lestrade loudly sang happy birthday to Sherlock with Sherlock covering his eyes with his hands in embarrassment.
“Happy Birthday!” they cried.
Sherlock reluctantly blew out the candles. Lestrade and John loudly clapped and yelped in joy.
“Did you make a wish?” asked John. He got out some plates and forks while Lestrade cut the cake.
“No need to make a wish,” said Sherlock. “It was obvious that it didn’t come true with this idiot at the door harassing me with candles and cake.”
“Don’t be such a baby Sherlock,” replied Lestrade. “I’ve brought your favourite cake from your favourite bakery. It is chocolate with a hint of espresso, generously coated with chocolate butter cream.”
“If this is my favourite cake, then why are there pink and violet roses littering the cake?” retorted Sherlock.
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“This one here?” asked John, showing him the slice.
“Yup, that’s the one,” answered Lestrade as he took the plate and put it in front of Sherlock with a fork. Sherlock was still frowning petulantly with his arms crossed.
“Come on Sherlock, don’t be such a spoil sport,” pleaded Lestrade gently. “It is your favourite, with or without the pink rose.”
“Fine,” responded Sherlock after a prolonged childish pause.
Lestrade and John settled down to eat their cake. Sherlock ate the cake with quiet methodical relish. It really was his favourite and he couldn’t hold the childish grudge for long. He murmured an awkward thank you.
“You’re very welcome, Sherlock,” said Lestrade quietly.
The three of them eventually fell into an easy banter about the statistical crime rate of London. John could only sigh. The two were always so obsessed their work, they were probably together because no one else could handle their workaholicism. After the cake was finished and the left over slices were put away in the refrigerator, the three of them settled on the sofa for a night of bad telly.
After the third hour of crap television, Lestrade announced that he was leaving for the night. He had to get up early for work tomorrow. Sherlock showed him out the door. He kissed Lestrade softly.
“Thank you,” Sherlock said very quietly against Lestrade’s ear. “Don’t be a stranger and come by tomorrow. You won’t regret it.”
Lestrade felt himself flush at those soft words and quickly left 221 B Baker Street and into the quiet London night.
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