Silly, silly, silly...
Title: Bow-Chicka-Wow-Wow
Characters: Lestrade, John, Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Word Count: Approx. 1,400
Genre: Humor
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: No, these poor, sweaty characters do not belong to me.
Author's Note: A silly little fill for this kinkmeme prompt, where Lestrade's every visit to 221B "resembles the beginning of porn". The prompt itself is rather fun, and I've still got my fingers crossed for more fills!
Lestrade allows himself a series of slow, calming breaths as he stares at the brass numbers in front of him.
In through the nose, and out through the mouth.
It’s Sherlock and John. Just Sherlock and John. He sees them at least once a week. He works with them often.
Inhale- one, two, three, four, five. Exhale- one, two, three, four, five.
This is not difficult. There is no issue, there is no discomfort. Just Sherlock and John.
Breathe in, breathe out.
He's seen them hundred of times with no problems.
Breathe in, slow. Breathe out, slow.
Sherlock and John. Just Sherlock and John.
In, slow, slow... and out, slowly, that's it.
Just Sherlock, slowly, oh so slowly, dragging a hand down John's chest as he-
God fucking damnit.
Lestrade beats his forehead into the door of 221 Baker Street hard. It is close enough to a knock that he hears thumps from upstairs that most definitely do not sound like a headboard knocking against a wall, stop it right now, as John rouses himself from wherever he was lounging, limbs damp with sweat and spread wide, oh fucking hell please stop, to answer the door.
The door opens to reveal John's bare chest, and Lestrade is obscenely jealous where he isn't painfully beating back his arousal. Even looking at his suit jacket as he was leaving his office made him want to pass out from heat stroke; his antiperspirant was having plenty trouble as it is, with just the white button up on.
Of course, a half naked John Watson is enough to make him pass out all on his own. It's stupidly unfair, really, that Lestrade knew John for months before he ever realized how fucking attractive the man was. He was surprisingly slim, under the bulky jumpers he favored all the way into late April, all lean muscle slightly softened with age, with golden body hair scattered lightly on his chest and trailing from his belly button downwards.
The current temperature had also given him a lovely sheen of sweat, and Lestrade feels a desperate urge to hold him down and lick it off his entire body as John smiles his stupidly adorable smile in greeting and turns to lead the way upstairs.
"Thank god you're here," John says as he ascends, "Between the heat and the boredom, I think Sherlock might literally go mad."
John certainly did his arse no favors with the trousers Lestrade usually sees him in. Tight boxers, though... Lestrade makes the mistake of looking up as he follows John, and is treated to his fabulous arse, right at eye level. It looks nice and firm, just like the rest of him. Lestrade twists his hands in his trousers and swallows a whimper.
The flat is stifling and silent, except for the whirring of fans, as Sherlock lays unmoving in his armchair. He sits in profile to the door; his head is tilted back displaying that gorgeous pale neck of his, arms draped over the side with bare legs emerging from the chair to stretch out before him. He must have finally traded those loose pajama pants for a pair of shorts, then, and it makes Lestrade want to cry in anguish when he thinks about those mile long legs posturing about.
"I see you've got a large package for us, Inspector."
Sherlock's sinfully low voice rumbles across the room, short circuiting Lestrade's brain before it catches up to the words and promptly short circuits again. Oh you fucking bet I've got a large package for you, you utter tease- his hand is halfway to his belt buckle before it encounters an obstacle, oh, right, the case folder. His hope crashing, he gives the file a mournful look as he holds it out.
Sherlock sighs heavily before levering himself out of the chair with all the elegance of a badly manned marionette puppet. Of course, Lestrade was able to recognize how attractive Sherlock was immediately upon introduction; he'd be an idiot not to notice. That knowledge is entirely unhelpful, though, when six feet of naked consulting detective is standing before you.
Decided to forgo the shorts, then. Lestrade feels a bit faint.
Like John was surprisingly slim, Sherlock turned out to be surprisingly broad- at least, his shoulders were. Beautifully sculpted, and just as pale as the rest of him, watching Sherlock pace shirtless was like watching a pair of shoulders float along a horizontal, while the rest of his long, defined body dangles below.
Quite a bit of Sherlock is dangling today. Lestrade lets out a low chuckle that borders on hysterical.
Sherlock blinks at him as he retrieves the file, "Are you quite alright, Lestrade? You look a little pale." He places his free hand on Lestrade's shoulder in order to steer him backwards, towards the kitchen. "Perhaps you should sit."
In an effort to not fall to the floor, Lestrade twists his neck to see that he was being led: a kitchen chair, excellent idea. He flops into it without ceremony, righting his head just in time to see that long fingered hand slide off his shirt. He could see himself sucking on those fingers, nibbling at that wrist; Lestrade shuts his eyes and pinches his thigh instead.
"Must be the heat," he hears John sigh behind him, "Don't worry, Lestrade, I'll take good care of you."
And doesn't that sound excellent. Oh God, yes, John, I've seen you licking your lips, and I know exactly what I'd love to put between them- something cool is pressed into his hand. Lestrade's eyes snap open, and he bites back the urge to sob. A glass of ice water, then, and not a tube of lubricant. He takes a sip, and wonders if it would be bad form to just pour the entire thing on his crotch.
John exits the kitchen with his own glass, before laying himself across the sofa, arms spread apart, with one leg trailing along the floor while the other rests on the back. Sherlock, meanwhile, takes to sitting on the arm of the chair he had recently vacated, directly across from the kitchen, his legs spread wide for balance as he flips through the case file.
Lestrade sullenly drinks his water and focuses on a spot by the window. At least it couldn't possibly get worse, right?
Just as that thought crosses his mind, music filters in through the walls, subtle, like background music. A bass guitar, sounds like, trying to sound funky, but mostly it just seems… cheesy. But oddly familiar at the same time.
Then there was a moan. An incredibly loud, incredibly fake moan that startles Lestrade into standing.
John shifts from his prostrate position on the sofa, "The neighbors are attempting to spice up their sex life again."
And Lestrade automatically looks at him as he says this, but never gets farther than John’s crotch and thighs when he realizes how easy it would be to climb onto the couch, pull off his boxers, slide those legs apart, and-
"Sounds like a new release," Sherlock hummed, "Ah, yes, 'In and Out Again: The Tail of Dildo Daggins'."
“I get it- tail as a euphemism for arse, right? Sounds like it ought to be a gang bang film.”
“Of course it’s a gang bang film, John.”
"Of course," Lestrade mumbles, turning his head towards Sherlock and most definitely not thinking about how easy it would be to step between those spread legs, grab a handful of that absolutely luscious bum, and-
There is the sound of something snapping. Technically, it is a latex condom in the porn film, but Lestrade likes to think it’s his self control. He slams his empty water glass onto the table with a bang.
"That's it. I can't- I can't take this anymore. Either I'm fucking the both of you within the next couple hours, or you two need to put some fucking clothes on- lots of fucking clothes- else I can't be held responsible for my actions."
Which earns him two wide-eyed blue stares. He stares right back.
"Right," Says John, nodding as Sherlock closes the case file with a snap and a glare. "Right, well, let me just get these pants off and- Sherlock, don't start without me!"
THE END.
Characters: Lestrade, John, Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Word Count: Approx. 1,400
Genre: Humor
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: No, these poor, sweaty characters do not belong to me.
Author's Note: A silly little fill for this kinkmeme prompt, where Lestrade's every visit to 221B "resembles the beginning of porn". The prompt itself is rather fun, and I've still got my fingers crossed for more fills!
Lestrade allows himself a series of slow, calming breaths as he stares at the brass numbers in front of him.
In through the nose, and out through the mouth.
It’s Sherlock and John. Just Sherlock and John. He sees them at least once a week. He works with them often.
Inhale- one, two, three, four, five. Exhale- one, two, three, four, five.
This is not difficult. There is no issue, there is no discomfort. Just Sherlock and John.
Breathe in, breathe out.
He's seen them hundred of times with no problems.
Breathe in, slow. Breathe out, slow.
Sherlock and John. Just Sherlock and John.
In, slow, slow... and out, slowly, that's it.
Just Sherlock, slowly, oh so slowly, dragging a hand down John's chest as he-
God fucking damnit.
Lestrade beats his forehead into the door of 221 Baker Street hard. It is close enough to a knock that he hears thumps from upstairs that most definitely do not sound like a headboard knocking against a wall, stop it right now, as John rouses himself from wherever he was lounging, limbs damp with sweat and spread wide, oh fucking hell please stop, to answer the door.
The door opens to reveal John's bare chest, and Lestrade is obscenely jealous where he isn't painfully beating back his arousal. Even looking at his suit jacket as he was leaving his office made him want to pass out from heat stroke; his antiperspirant was having plenty trouble as it is, with just the white button up on.
Of course, a half naked John Watson is enough to make him pass out all on his own. It's stupidly unfair, really, that Lestrade knew John for months before he ever realized how fucking attractive the man was. He was surprisingly slim, under the bulky jumpers he favored all the way into late April, all lean muscle slightly softened with age, with golden body hair scattered lightly on his chest and trailing from his belly button downwards.
The current temperature had also given him a lovely sheen of sweat, and Lestrade feels a desperate urge to hold him down and lick it off his entire body as John smiles his stupidly adorable smile in greeting and turns to lead the way upstairs.
"Thank god you're here," John says as he ascends, "Between the heat and the boredom, I think Sherlock might literally go mad."
John certainly did his arse no favors with the trousers Lestrade usually sees him in. Tight boxers, though... Lestrade makes the mistake of looking up as he follows John, and is treated to his fabulous arse, right at eye level. It looks nice and firm, just like the rest of him. Lestrade twists his hands in his trousers and swallows a whimper.
The flat is stifling and silent, except for the whirring of fans, as Sherlock lays unmoving in his armchair. He sits in profile to the door; his head is tilted back displaying that gorgeous pale neck of his, arms draped over the side with bare legs emerging from the chair to stretch out before him. He must have finally traded those loose pajama pants for a pair of shorts, then, and it makes Lestrade want to cry in anguish when he thinks about those mile long legs posturing about.
"I see you've got a large package for us, Inspector."
Sherlock's sinfully low voice rumbles across the room, short circuiting Lestrade's brain before it catches up to the words and promptly short circuits again. Oh you fucking bet I've got a large package for you, you utter tease- his hand is halfway to his belt buckle before it encounters an obstacle, oh, right, the case folder. His hope crashing, he gives the file a mournful look as he holds it out.
Sherlock sighs heavily before levering himself out of the chair with all the elegance of a badly manned marionette puppet. Of course, Lestrade was able to recognize how attractive Sherlock was immediately upon introduction; he'd be an idiot not to notice. That knowledge is entirely unhelpful, though, when six feet of naked consulting detective is standing before you.
Decided to forgo the shorts, then. Lestrade feels a bit faint.
Like John was surprisingly slim, Sherlock turned out to be surprisingly broad- at least, his shoulders were. Beautifully sculpted, and just as pale as the rest of him, watching Sherlock pace shirtless was like watching a pair of shoulders float along a horizontal, while the rest of his long, defined body dangles below.
Quite a bit of Sherlock is dangling today. Lestrade lets out a low chuckle that borders on hysterical.
Sherlock blinks at him as he retrieves the file, "Are you quite alright, Lestrade? You look a little pale." He places his free hand on Lestrade's shoulder in order to steer him backwards, towards the kitchen. "Perhaps you should sit."
In an effort to not fall to the floor, Lestrade twists his neck to see that he was being led: a kitchen chair, excellent idea. He flops into it without ceremony, righting his head just in time to see that long fingered hand slide off his shirt. He could see himself sucking on those fingers, nibbling at that wrist; Lestrade shuts his eyes and pinches his thigh instead.
"Must be the heat," he hears John sigh behind him, "Don't worry, Lestrade, I'll take good care of you."
And doesn't that sound excellent. Oh God, yes, John, I've seen you licking your lips, and I know exactly what I'd love to put between them- something cool is pressed into his hand. Lestrade's eyes snap open, and he bites back the urge to sob. A glass of ice water, then, and not a tube of lubricant. He takes a sip, and wonders if it would be bad form to just pour the entire thing on his crotch.
John exits the kitchen with his own glass, before laying himself across the sofa, arms spread apart, with one leg trailing along the floor while the other rests on the back. Sherlock, meanwhile, takes to sitting on the arm of the chair he had recently vacated, directly across from the kitchen, his legs spread wide for balance as he flips through the case file.
Lestrade sullenly drinks his water and focuses on a spot by the window. At least it couldn't possibly get worse, right?
Just as that thought crosses his mind, music filters in through the walls, subtle, like background music. A bass guitar, sounds like, trying to sound funky, but mostly it just seems… cheesy. But oddly familiar at the same time.
Then there was a moan. An incredibly loud, incredibly fake moan that startles Lestrade into standing.
John shifts from his prostrate position on the sofa, "The neighbors are attempting to spice up their sex life again."
And Lestrade automatically looks at him as he says this, but never gets farther than John’s crotch and thighs when he realizes how easy it would be to climb onto the couch, pull off his boxers, slide those legs apart, and-
"Sounds like a new release," Sherlock hummed, "Ah, yes, 'In and Out Again: The Tail of Dildo Daggins'."
“I get it- tail as a euphemism for arse, right? Sounds like it ought to be a gang bang film.”
“Of course it’s a gang bang film, John.”
"Of course," Lestrade mumbles, turning his head towards Sherlock and most definitely not thinking about how easy it would be to step between those spread legs, grab a handful of that absolutely luscious bum, and-
There is the sound of something snapping. Technically, it is a latex condom in the porn film, but Lestrade likes to think it’s his self control. He slams his empty water glass onto the table with a bang.
"That's it. I can't- I can't take this anymore. Either I'm fucking the both of you within the next couple hours, or you two need to put some fucking clothes on- lots of fucking clothes- else I can't be held responsible for my actions."
Which earns him two wide-eyed blue stares. He stares right back.
"Right," Says John, nodding as Sherlock closes the case file with a snap and a glare. "Right, well, let me just get these pants off and- Sherlock, don't start without me!"
THE END.