Morgue Attendance
Morgue Attendance
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock / Lestrade
Warnings: Initial dubcon, D/s elements
Summary: Dark!Lestrade has Sherlock brought to the morgue to punish him for being an arrogant sod. He soon realizes that Sherlock may be an arrogant sod because he WANTS punishment.
Status: Completed
As he paced back and forth in the chilly room, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade knew that he really shouldn’t be getting this excited. He was here to punish someone: an acerbic young man who had nearly shattered his last nerve yesterday and couldn’t be allowed to get away with it any longer. Punishment was supposed to be necessary, not arousing, yet here he was, adjusting his trousers to accommodate his swelling cock.
He checked his watch. Anthea had texted him five minutes ago, saying that Sherlock had been ‘indelicately placed’ in a car while leaving Angelo’s and was now en route. They’d be here soon. Mycroft Holmes would manipulate every traffic light between the restaurant and Bart’s to make sure that his rebellious sibling was punished as quickly as possible.
Everything was ready. Molly had the night off and her substitute -who worked for Mycroft, naturally- had sterilized the dissection table and placed the requested supplies on the countertop before leaving. When Lestrade saw her set down the condoms and lube, he chuckled: those were two items that definitely didn’t belong in a morgue. Maybe he’d leave them there afterward and give Molly a shock. Or a thrill.
His mobile emitted a text alert noise. Lestrade took it out of his pocket and read the message:
SH being brought up in lift now. A
The heat that had been simmering in his belly for over an hour now flared into something white-hot. The room, kept cool for obvious reasons, was now uncomfortably warm. Lestrade took off his coat, loosened his tie, and wiped sweat from his brow. His cock aggressively prodded his zip; he gave it a quick squeeze, but the need only intensified.
The small part of his brain that hadn’t completely yielded to adrenaline-fuelled lust regretted what he was about to do. He cared about Sherlock, and not just because the consulting detective was his secret weapon against unsolvable crime. He’d rescued the younger man from a degraded end in a Brixton crack house, and saw him develop into a great man. But for all his greatness, Sherlock was not a good man, and that was the problem. He was callous, dismissive, and at times downright cruel. Last week, his acid tongue had gotten him thrown into a brick wall by a grieving husband who didn’t like Sherlock’s deductions about his dead wife. Maybe the next person he aggravated would be carrying a gun.
This is for his own good, Lestrade told himself. Getting my hands on him at last will be only a secondary benefit.
He heard the lift doors down the hall slide open, followed by a brisk ring of the bell. Footsteps strode down the hall. A moment later four men entered the room, carrying a black canvas body bag whose contents were very much alive, judging from the violent squirming and muffled curses. Anthea followed, smiling warmly at Lestrade.
“Text me when you’re done,” she said while the men laid the bag on the floor at Lestrade’s feet. He nodded, but his eyes were on the struggling form. His entire body pulsed with anticipation.
After Mycroft’s crew left, Lestrade crouched down and unzipped the ventilated bag. Sherlock’s head and shoulders immediately poked through the opening. The consulting detective’s face was dominated by a thick leather blindfold and a silicone bit gag. The latter restricted his speech but not his attitude: he flushed and shook with rage, and the garbled noises he made sounded like death threats.
Lestrade grasped his finely sculpted chin. “Hello, Sherlock.”
Sherlock immediately stilled. His distinctive brows shot so high above the blindfold that they nearly collided with his hairline.
“I see. You thought you were going to ‘meet’ your brother instead. Well, Mycroft did have you picked up for me. He’s a gentleman. Unlike you.” Lestrade’s grip tightened. “No, you are an obnoxious and arrogant sod and it’s time you learned some manners.”
Sherlock jerked his chin away, nostrils flaring and teeth bared. Lestrade stared at that porcelain skin and those wild curls, and imagined his come splashing all over both after a face-fucking that brought the consulting detective repeatedly to choking point. He swallowed a groan as his erection made his trousers unbearably tight.
“Still got that attitude, even though you can’t see or talk and came here in a fucking body bag?” Lestrade grabbed a fistful of that surprisingly silky hair and leaned forward until his lips hovered above Sherlock’s. “You’re making me feel better about this already.”
The younger man growled and tried to kick him, but the bag kept the lower part of his body confined. Lestrade grabbed his shirt, hauled him to his feet, and slammed him against the wall. Christ, he’s frail, was the DI’s initial thought, but he rapidly corrected himself. Sherlock was painfully thin, but his razor mind and sharp tongue made up for the physical shortcomings.
Which was why he was here now.
“Do you know why I wanted to see you?”
Sherlock shrugged and shook his head- just before he raised one bony knee toward Lestrade’s crotch. The DI anticipated that move- with his hands cuffed behind his back, Sherlock had no other way of striking out. He slapped the younger man’s leg down and pinned him to the wall using a carefully-placed forearm across that pale throat. Then he pushed his pelvis against Sherlock’s, melding their bodies together from the waist down.
“I’m not going to damage you,” he growled, flushing as his cock twitched violently at the new stimulation. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at his use of the word ‘damage’ as opposed to ‘hurt’. “But I will teach you a lesson. You’ve been an insufferable prat nonstop, and I’ve had enough. I’m surprised that John hasn’t had you stuffed and mounted yet.”
Stuffed. Mounted. Both words evoked imagery that nearly made him come in his trousers on the spot.
Lestrade decided to stop talking before he bent Sherlock over the dissection table and fucked that lanky body without punishing it first. Mycroft’s words still echoed in his head, those posh tones making the advice offered sound even more pornographic.
My brother needs a firm hand, Detective Inspector. He didn’t get it from my parents, who also refused to let me discipline him. Force him to acknowledge boundaries, and he’ll be yours. He’ll want you, and anything you wish to do to him.
Clearing his throat, Lestrade continued. “We’re in the morgue, in case you haven’t deduced that already. Right behind me is the table where I caught you cropping the corpse of that man found on Hampstead Heath yesterday. His wife was with me, remember?” He thrust his hips more forcefully against Sherlock’s trapped pelvis. “His wife. And you told her -as well as me- to sod off and not interrupt your experiment.”
Sherlock snorted. Lestrade swore, grabbed the back of his neck, and shoved him face down onto the steel table.
“And how about the time John and I found you in here with that drug mule’s body? What was it you said you were doing? Determining the maximum mass that the human rectum could hold? Christ almighty, Sherlock, these are games you play with living bodies, not dead ones!”
Something I intend to show you tonight.
The consulting detective actually laughed at that.
“So that’s funny, is it? I’m not wasting my breath on you any longer. The only thing you seem to understand is action.”
Keeping Sherlock pinned to the table, he used his other hand to undo the younger man’s belt and zipper and haul his trousers and pants down. Sherlock kicked out again, and actually caught Lestrade in the knee, aggravating an old wound. Hissing in pain, the DI snatched the crop off the nearby countertop -not Sherlock’s original, but its newness ensured that its bite would be sharp- and brought it down hard on one flawless white arse cheek. The leather implement cut the air with a crisp noise before slicing into Sherlock’s skin and leaving a red mark that would bruise later.
Sherlock yelled around the latex stuffing his mouth and struggled, but Lestrade was well-versed in the art of subduing prisoners and held him firmly in place while ten more blows were administered. Then the DI lowered his aching arm and said, “Your arse looks like the American flag right now- red, white, and blue. Bet it hurts like hell, too. But no more than that poor woman felt when she saw what you did to… what the fuck?”
A widening pool of fluid was on the floor, between Sherlock’s legs. While Lestrade watched, more droplets added to it. Had the pain caused him to piss himself?
His eyes travelled upward, past those taut and trembling thighs, and widened when he saw that the younger man’s cock was extremely hard and drizzling pre-come. Sherlock’s face was contorted into a hazy expression of mingled pain and pleasure.
Lestrade had given him a solid enough thrashing to reduce most tough guys to tears, and this beautiful, insane genius was getting off on it. He grabbed Sherlock’s hair and jerked his head back.
“Liked that, did you? Want more?”
Sherlock nodded eagerly despite the tight grip on his hair. His cock twitched in unison with his racing pulse.
Lestrade bent down and whispered into his ear, “You’re going to suck me, and swallow what I give you. Then I’ll decide what you deserve.”
Sherlock nodded again. Lestrade guided him off the table and onto his knees. The younger man tipped his head forward until his face collided softly with Lestrade’s dampening bulge. He nuzzled at it eagerly, his own cock still hard and dripping. When the DI felt the warm breath on him, he undid the gag with unsteady fingers and said, “Have you done this before?”
“Yes,” Sherlock croaked, licking his lips as the latex bit slipped away from them. Lestrade grinned broadly as he unzipped his trousers and lowered the waistband of his ruined pants.
“Good. I’m going to fuck your face,” he said, keeping his tone menacing despite his excitement. “And if you bite me, I’ll break you into pieces your own brother won’t recognize.”
“You promise?”
Sherlock might have said more, but talking was rendered impossible when his jaw was pulled open and his mouth filled with stiff cock. Surprised, he made a choking noise and briefly recoiled, but Lestrade seized the back of his head and ordered, “Make it good.”
Sherlock growled lightly in response and waited until Lestrade had pulled partly out in preparation for a rough inward plunge. Then he drew back, pursed his lips, and pressed a drool-wet kiss to the darkly flushed tip. Lestrade caught his breath sharply and watched, transfixed, as Sherlock ran his tongue over the fat, glistening head before consuming its entire length. Saliva and pre-ejaculate trickled down his chin as he sucked loudly and enthusiastically.
He definitely wasn’t new to this. As he worked his hips in and out of that incredible heat, Lestrade wondered who the hell had taught him to give such amazing head. Surely not John, who climbed into a black car every time a pretty woman asked him to. Then his cock was nudging the back of Sherlock’s throat, and he wasn’t wondering about anything except how long he could make this last.
Lestrade groaned as Sherlock bobbed his head and widened his throat, and then suddenly the tip of the consulting detective’s nose was brushing against the DI’s pubic hair. He’d never had anyone take him so deep before, and his control broke. He threw his head back, tugged on that soft dark hair, and yelled as he shot one wad after another down that incomparable throat.
He felt rather than saw Sherlock’s smirk as he slid out of that wet mouth. Lestrade looked down, prepared to warn him against being smug, and saw Sherlock brush his stiff cock against his trouser leg. The younger man hadn’t gotten off yet, and was trembling with need.
Looking at the table, Lestrade suddenly had an idea. Thinks he’s going to top from the bottom. Well, let’s see how much his bottom can take.
He bent down, grabbed Sherlock under the arms, and positioned him on his back on the steel table. With one swift movement he pulled the detective’s trousers and pants all the way off, followed by his shoes and socks.
“Roll onto your side,” he ordered.
Sherlock obeyed, too intrigued to protest or ask questions. Lestrade released one of his hands and secured the cuff to his own wrist, just in case the younger Holmes had no compunctions about running away half-naked. Lestrade wouldn’t have put it past him.
“Now on your back,” he ordered, slapping one pale thigh for emphasis. “Feet on the table, legs apart.”
Sherlock didn’t hesitate. Lestrade’s eyes greedily devoured the sight of the haughty, rude consulting detective lying before him, legs spread and cock tapping and leaking against that soft, flat stomach. Seeing the tight pink ring of muscle between those upturned, bruised buttocks rejuvenated his erection almost instantly.
“Have you ever had anything in your arse, Sherlock?”
The DI thought he could detect a faint blush as the younger man shook his head.
“Not even your own fingers?”
“No. Solo pleasuring is such a pathetic concept and-”
“Shut up and give me your hand.”
After a fractional hesitation, Sherlock held his uncuffed hand out. His chest was rising and falling rapidly.
Not so bored now, are you?
Lestrade picked up the lube from the counter top and squirted a generous amount on Sherlock’s fingers. “Now play with the outside of your hole. Massage it.”
After catching his breath, Sherlock reached down between his splayed legs and started to stroke his sphincter in a circular motion. The muscle, which soon shone wetly with lube, gradually relaxed under the gentle pressure.
“Nice,” Lestrade hissed, his cockhead prodding the air. “Now push two fingers in. I know you can take it. Christ, you’ve got such an eager arse.”
Sherlock obeyed. When both digits were inserted up to the second knuckle, he raised his narrow hips off the table and bit his lip to suppress a moan.
“Like that, do you?”
“Yes,” Sherlock gasped, bearing down onto his fingers as he plunged them in and out. “Feels so good... Oh!” Judging from the look of amazement that was discernible even under the blindfold and the sharp upward thrust of his pelvis, he’d just grazed his prostate.
“I can show you how to make it even better. But I want to hear you beg.”
“Please.”
“That’s pathetic.” Lestrade dealt another one-handed slap to his arse. The blow jostled those probing fingers, making Sherlock whimper. “Do better.”
“Please… I’m sorry if I offended you. Please.” His long white body writhed on the table, slicking its surface with sweat. “Lestrade, please, I’m begging you.”
Lestrade knew that beneath the blindfold, Sherlock’s eyes were afire with excitement. The younger man was expanding his sexuality’s previous limits and marvelling at -as well as revelling in- the resulting pleasure. Knowing how obsessive Sherlock was when it came to activities that stimulated his mind as well as his body, the DI anticipated that he would walk out that door a nymphomaniac.
Maybe I’d better warn John.
Or maybe not.
“Fine. Still weak, but it will have to do.” Lestrade’s gruff voice concealed the real reason: he couldn’t wait any longer to see that tight arse get a bigger stretching.
Confident now that Sherlock was enjoying their session too much to make a run for it, he removed the cuffs that joined their wrists and dropped them on the table, chuckling when Sherlock jumped at the loud clang of metal on metal. The movement drove the detective’s fingers even deeper into his hole, making him cry out.
“Hush,” Lestrade smirked as he turned to the counter, picked up the beaded dildo, and drizzled lube over it. “You’ll have an audience of more than one if you can’t control yourself. Would you like that? Maybe I’ll call Donovan and Anderson in, and ask them to be sure to bring their camera phones.”
Sherlock swallowed heavily. “You wouldn’t.”
Lestrade didn’t answer, which seemed to unnerve him more than a direct threat. He started to rise onto one elbow but the DI was back between his legs in an instant.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going? Hmm?” He pushed Sherlock onto his back again. “Take your fingers out.”
Sherlock obeyed, anticipation quashing his resentment. Lestrade placed the tip of the dildo -a ten-inch silicone shaft dotted with beads of escalating size - against his entrance. When the tip, which was the width of a man’s finger, nudged against his opening, Sherlock thrust his hips forward, greedily drawing the bead in. A moan rumbled in his chest and he made a noise that sounded like “More.”
Holy fuck- he’s gagging for it. Mycroft was right.
“My turn to experiment now, Sherlock. Let’s see how many of these you can take before you’re begging for me to do anything I want with you.”
Lestrade guided two more beads into him, forcing the first one to slide over his prostate. The noise Sherlock made delighted the predator in him. The DI used his other hand to massage his aching prick: God, he was almost as wet as Sherlock right now, and he’d come only moments before.
“Oh…” Sherlock’s pelvis shot off the table again. “Please, more… harder….there.” He threw his head back, exposing his long white neck. When Lestrade didn’t increase the force of his thrusts, he clenched his teeth in frustration and drove his hips harder against the toy.
“Not so fast,” Lestrade ordered, keeping his voice firm only via massive effort. He took his hand away from his own crotch, reached between Sherlock’s legs, and tugged his balls sharply. The younger man shuddered all over as he was forcibly pulled back from the edge.
“Orgasm’s a reward, Sherlock. Not a right.” But even as he spoke, Lestrade continued to bugger that delectable body, driving the beads deeper and harder. His other hand cupped Sherlock’s hardening testicles, ready to prevent any undeserved release. “I decide when you’ve earned it. But do feel free to squirm like a rent boy all you want. Makes for a really nice view.”
He twisted his wrist a little, now sliding the dildo slowly and teasingly across Sherlock’s prostate. The younger man whimpered, “Please. I need it harder. Please.”
Lestrade was amazed: a heavy thrashing had elicited only defiance, but controlling Sherlock’s pleasure had a humbling effect.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so surprised. Sherlock was a former intravenous drug user and now a reckless adventurer who thought nothing of playing with dangerous chemicals, leaping barbed-wire fences, and jumping in front of moving cars. Pain held no terror for him. But pleasure… if what Mycroft had told Lestrade was true, Sherlock knew more about getting hurt than getting laid. Rationing and controlling his pleasure was the key.
"You like this, do you?” The DI shifted the toy’s angle and rotated it, ruthlessly massaging Sherlock’s sweet spot. “Want me to let you come?”
Sherlock nodded wildly. “Please. Fuck.”
“Fine.” Lestrade threaded the dildo out carefully. He tossed it into the nearly sink and climbed onto the steel table, rolling on a condom and positioning himself on his knees between those long white thighs. “But me first. Christ, I’m hard as a bloody rock again, and I came less than fifteen minutes ago. It’s your fault, you bastard. That little performance made me want to fuck you. Hard.”
He lowered his trousers and pants to his knees, lowered himself onto that eager body, and pushed his cock into Sherlock’s wet, stretched hole. Sherlock was furnace-hot, and slippery, and tight.
“That’s it,” he snarled, “take every inch of my cock, like you did all those beads.”
“Yes!” Sherlock cried, lifting himself onto his elbows. His lips found Lestrade’s easily. While they growled and panted into each other’s mouths, Sherlock raised his legs and gripped Lestrade’s waist between them. The DI could feel the younger man’s erection slide between their tightly pressed bellies, sweat and pre-come acting as a natural lubricant.
“You’ve needed my cock for ages, haven’t you?” Lestrade demanded as he pounded that tight arse.
“I’ve needed someone’s cock.”
“No. Mine.” With that, the DI sank his teeth into Sherlock’s smooth white shoulder, so hard that he bit muscle as well as skin in his ecstasy. “You’re mine. No one else has the bloody balls to take you in hand like this. Like you desperately need.”
“Yes!” Sherlock grunted eagerly. Lestrade wondered which was turning him on more: the fucking or the declaration of ownership. “Yes, just you!” His moans escalated in pitch and he began to shake all over when Lestrade shifted his angle.
“Found the spot again, have I?”
“Yes! Please! Harder!”
Lestrade pounded into him, narrowing their world down to a vivid medley of sensations: the warm steel surface beneath them, the grasp of their fingers against sweaty, rippling flesh, the explosion of pleasure that resulted each time their joined hips collided. Sherlock’s virgin arse was so tight that the slippery suction quickly built up, and soon Lestrade was coming hard, spilling load after load into the condom. Sherlock wrapped both arms around him and keened as his own orgasm hit, coating both their stomachs with one thick rope of fluid after another. They shuddered and rolled against each other until exhaustion forced their bodies to go still, although their breathing remained rapid and deep.
Sherlock spoke first. “Mind if I take the blindfold off?”
“What?” Lestrade opened his eyes. “Oh. Yeah, go ahead.”
He started to slide out, but Sherlock’s legs tightened around his waist.
“No,” the detective urged as he tossed the blindfold to the floor. “Stay. I’ll be ready to go again soon. I never thought penetrative sex would be so marvellous. You were also better with the crop than I’d expected, considering your age and fitness level.”
His eyes shone brightly and his tone bore no trace of fatigue. Lestrade knew that he’d created a monster, and there was only one way to keep it from discovering his weakness (in this case, an age-induced inability to keep up with Sherlock sexually). He had to show it who its Master was.
His hand reached out and seized the younger man’s throat. While Sherlock gaped at him in shock, he rasped, “I don’t give a shit how ready you are to go again. I decide what you get, and when. And I’m not interested in your fucking feedback. Understood?”
Sherlock nodded slowly, eyes wide with fear and excitement.
“Good.” Lestrade released him. “So you want more, do you?”
“Yes…. Please.”
“Well, I’ve had enough of you for tonight. So you’ll have to entertain yourself. I’ve got nothing better to do, so I suppose I’ll watch.”
He pulled out of Sherlock -who reluctantly let him go this time- and slid to the floor on unsteady legs. After binning the loaded condom, Lestrade pulled up his trousers and pants, picked up a black silicone butt plug, and ordered, “Slide off the table and bend over.”
Sherlock obeyed eagerly. The DI slicked the plug up and forced it into that still-sensitive hole so abruptly that Sherlock squealed.
“Now sit on that chair and fuck yourself on this.”
The younger man did as he was told, and was soon writhing in obvious bliss, rejuvenated erection prodding the air. As Lestrade watched and scolded and barked orders, he congratulated himself for successfully staying in charge.
For now.