FIC: Impact. 3a/3 Mycroft/Lestrade
Title: Impact 3a/3
Author: Elf
Summary: Impact: The action of one object coming forcibly into contact with another.
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade
Rating: NC17
Length: this part: 11350. Total 21,700
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: They're not mine. Or yours. But we'll share, right?
Author's Note: Massive 'thank you' to randomly_rusted for long chats into the night and beta-reading. Also thank you to yminga for the translation work. I'm nothing without them. Thanks for the lovely comments, too. This part is a bit of a monster - what can I say, Mycroft and Lestrade got carried away!
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Lestrade skidded around the corner, his boots slipping on the mud, then threw himself after the two boys he had been chasing for some minutes now. He could hear the thud of footfalls and panting breath of Garaghan behind him, but he knew they'd be lucky to catch their suspects - who knew the area well, and were young and reasonably fit.
He threw himself onwards, pressing the button on his radio and shouting out their location as he ran, hoping for backup to arrive and cut off the kids.
And then his prayers were answered - a building site fence, cutting off the road. The panic was obvious, the boys turning, desperate to find a way out.
Lestrade stopped, hands out, updating their position again, asking for urgent assistance. Garaghan stopped next to him, panting.
"Just give it up," Lestrade said. "Come on, no way out now, just stay calm."
One of the boys made as if to move, and Lestrade reacted instantly. The boy stopped, and they were engaged in a stupid game, each trying to guess the other's next move. Lestrade just knew that they had to stay strong, stay where they were, keep the boys trapped until help arrived.
And then one of them, shakily, pulled a knife from his belt.
Lestrade sighed. "Don't bother, mate. Put it down. You've done enough damage."
The other boy turned and ran for the fence, his hands just grabbing the top, feet scrabbling against the wood.
Lestrade threw himself at the knife-wielding one, knocking him aside, relying on years of experience that told him the kid would be too scared to use it against him.
He was, thankfully, right. He shoulder-barged the boy aside, into the wall, knowing that Garaghan would deal with him, and ran for the other one, grabbing his legs, pulling. He collected a few hard kicks to the shoulder, narrowly avoiding his face, but in the end the boy couldn't hang on, and they both ended up in a heap on the floor, Lestrade clambering on top of him, using his entire bodyweight to pin him down, grabbing for his wrists and putting him in an armlock, only then looking back to check Garaghan was coping okay. He smiled when he saw that the other boy was indeed subdued, standing against the wall, having given up without much of a struggle.
"I'm arresting you for the murder of Joseph Kuffay, You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."
"Get off me you fuckin' poof," Lestrade's prisoner struggled. "Batty boy, getting off on this, are ya? Get the fuck off me."
Lestrade ignored it, having heard it all before. He merely increased the pressure of his hold in response to the renewed struggling. He wondered what the kid would do if he told him he was correct in his accusations.
"Ah, aaaaah, you're gonna break my arm! My fuckin' arm! I ain't done nuffin'! I'll fuckin' sue you, you cunt!"
The tirade continued until it was drowned out by the wail of sirens as cars pulled up at the end of the road, uniformed officers spilling out.
He finally relaxed his hold very slightly as two constables arrived, one grabbing the man's legs, the other brandishing handcuffs and fixing them around the wrist which Lestrade held.
Once back at the station he began the long process of booking the young men in, then collating the evidence for ready for his interviews. He was certain they had the right men, and knew they needed to ensure they had a solid case ready so they could sort it out swiftly.
"Any calls?" he asked, as he walked through the CID office.
"Yup," Janes answered, from the desk next to his.
Lestrade couldn't help it - his heart gave a little clench in the hope that it would be from Holmes.
"Forensics…forensics again…coroner…message from someone called Dewey, wouldn't say what it was about…um, yeah, that's it."
"Oh, right," Lestrade sank into his chair, opening up the laptop, checking his email, and feeling his heart drop a little further when there was nothing from addresses he didn't recognise and expect.
"Sorry to disappoint," Janes smiled, obviously fishing for further information.
Lestrade smiled back. "No, I was just sort of expecting something, doesn't matter."
"Look like you've been having fun this morning, anyway," she pointed at the muddy footprints over his shoulder and the filthy knees of his jeans.
"Got the bastards, didn't we? No loyalty amongst the criminals these days, thank God."
"Well done. Have you told the family yet?"
Lestrade shook his head. "Get them charged first - but the forensics is tight. They weren't careful. I'm sure it'll stand up. Just got them all processed, so we'll do the matches this afternoon."
He worked through the new information that had arrived whilst he'd been out, occasionally glancing at the telephone, willing it to ring.
Three days later Holmes still hadn't been in touch. Lestrade flopped onto his sofa, after a long day all he wanted was to spend a bit of time relaxing, enjoying company of the posh, nervous, adorable man who'd literally crashed into his life. Instead he was alone in the heat of the city, his flat a mess and photos of a badly burned body spread across his coffee table. He was suddenly glad that Holmes had declined his offer to come up a few days previously. His small, messy, flat was a world away from the stylish class of Holmes' house. Lestrade was, in fact, certain his entire flat would fit into the kitchen and living room of Holmes' townhouse. And he wondered once again what he was getting himself into. Normally he was good at this sort of thing - yes, it was more difficult being a police officer - clubs he would have been tempted to visit, where he in another profession, were definitely off limits now. He wasn't 'scene', he tried to be discreet about his preference for dating men. He didn't need the hassle of any extra grief from his workmates or anyone else. So he went out, sometimes set up by his friends, sometimes meeting people through the job, sometimes he ventured into the odd gay-friendly pub, or cruising Old Compton Street with mates. He knew people were attracted to him - he was confident enough in himself to flirt and tease, to date - but anything more, anything that involved commitment, he found harder. He was wary of giving too much of himself away.
Yet now he found he wanted more - he didn’t want a one-night stand with Mycroft Holmes. And the thought scared and intrigued him in equal measure. He wondered if he should call, and sat forward, looking at his 'phone. He hit the 'dial' button and waited.
Two rings and a female voice answered.
"Hello."
"Uh, hi, I was wondering if I could speak to Mycroft Holmes?" he said, assuming he was speaking to a secretary or PA.
"May I ask what it is regarding?"
He swallowed, unsure of what to say. "It…He just said he'd call me, and he hasn't…and…"
"Well, Sir, if I could take your name and your company I'll ask him to get in touch."
"Right, yeah, it's Greg Lestrade, no company. He'll know what it's about."
"Very well, Sir. Goodbye."
Lestrade looked at the phone as the screen blanked out.
Maybe he'd been too forward. Maybe he shouldn't have pushed as far as he did - but he'd been sure, the second time, that it was what the man wanted. He remembered the lips opening under his, soft, pliable. The tentative swipe of the tongue against his own, the hands sliding over his waist. And then the hesitation and finally being turned down. Too much, too soon? Maybe this wasn't how it worked in the upper classes. Maybe he should have waited, spent more time getting to know the man, instead of blundering straight in.
He sighed. The damage was done, the ball was in Holmes' court now. He'd go back to hoping for a phonecall and dreaming of tailored suits, fine cloth and pocket watches all encasing the perfect body and fantastic brain.
It was three days later that his phone rang, as he was walking through a dingy estate, on the trail of a man who'd been fingered for a brutal drunken fight, leaving the victim barely clinging to life.
He glanced at the screen. Withheld number. Probably someone trying to sell something, then.
"Lestrade," he answered.
"Ah, sergeant." The smooth voice was immediately recognisable. "I'm so sorry for not being in touch sooner. I was unexpectedly sent abroad."
Lestrade stopped walking, signalling to Garaghan that he needed to take the call. He leant back against the wall, trying to fit into the tiny patch of shade.
"No problem," he answered, guarded, wary. He wanted to ask if 'abroad' had been a country devoid of phones or computers, but he held his tongue, knowing it would be stupid and petty.
"I think I have solved the issue regarding the motorcycle. I was wondering if you'd do me the honour of dining with me tonight - just something simple, at mine?"
Lestrade smiled to himself. "Yeah, that'd be nice."
"Excellent. Shall I have my car pick you up at the Yard again?"
"Um, y'know, I'm not sure when I'll finish up today. Shall I just turn up whenever I'm done? Or…I mean, is there a good time?"
"Of course, please, just arrive whenever is convenient."
"Right, great, I look forward to it."
"Take care then, Sergeant," Holmes said softly and the phone went dead.
"Must be good news," Garaghan called. "You've got a face like the Cheshire Cat now."
Lestrade laughed. "It was, yeah - should be getting a bike back soon, if I can find something I can afford."
"Should ask the bloke that sent you flying - sounds like he's not short of a penny if he's being driven around in a Merc."
"Nah, insurance is dealing with it all - and I know she wasn't worth that much. Still, there'll be something out there, someone else being forced to sell. I dunno, I've been thinking about finding something new for a while, but…well, no spare cash means it's all pipe dreams."
Lestrade's mood had improved greatly since the call, and he didn't even mind when they once again found themselves chasing a suspect through the baking hot London streets. Sweat ran down his face and body, his shirt sticking to him, breath rasping in his throat. He had a smile of grim determination as they leapt walls, dodged traffic and threw themselves down stairs. He could hear Garaghan behind him again - this time the other man was the one trying to keep up the commentary on the radio.
The man span around a corner and Lestrade swore as he slid on the dry, dusty pavement - the rain from previous days seemed as if it had never happened, and grass was once more baked dry. He fell, skidding sideways before scrabbling to his feet, Garaghan overtaking him. But he was the fitter man, and the gap between them and their quarry was closing rapidly as the other man reached the end of his endurance. Lestrade brought him down in a flying tackle, arms and legs tangling as they crashed to the ground, sliding on the grass of a small park.
The man didn't fight, just panted heavily and held his hands out, shaking his head.
Lestrade just leant on him, a good handful of t-shirt in his fist for security, not bothering to get up.
"Two runners, in a week like this?" Garaghan said, leaning on his knees. "Has everyone gone insane?"
Lestrade nodded. "Thought the heat was meant to make everyone lazy."
"Fucking right." Garaghan wiped his face on the sleeve of his t-shirt, then answered a radio call to guide the van to their current position.
Lestrade kept a hand on the 'cuffs, but closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the sun on his face and the smell of the sweet grass they had trampled and crushed.
Finally the van turned up, and he and Garaghan began the long walk back to their car, stopping only to buy themselves cold cans of Coke in one of the small newsagents. Lestrade ran the cold can over his face, down his neck, the condensation and sweat mingling and running down to soak into his collar.
~~~~~~~~
Holmes had prepared food, ensured the house was tidy (it was never anything but, thanks mainly to the efforts of Mrs Francis), but paid special attention to the bedroom, throwing the windows open wide to air the place. He couldn't help a little frisson of fear running through him as he thought about what might happen, later.
After his exertions in the kitchen Holmes went upstairs and stood under the shower, allowing the water to rush over him from the massive showerhead. It felt like the heavy summer rain of a few nights previous, and he allowed himself to reach down and caress himself, imagining the heat and taut muscles pressing against him, the strong hands touching him and the dark eyes watching his every move. He could feel his cock filling out in his hand, hanging heavily between his legs and he began stroking it, his free hand rubbing over his chest, through the soap and bubbles.
He gave a satisfied sigh as his hand closed around his shaft and he set a rhythm, occasionally pushing his thumb and foreskin over the tip, enjoying the extra jolt of sensation.
And then he was leaning against the wall with one hand, head bowed, water running over his face and down his body as he raced toward orgasm, the sensation wrenching a noise from deep inside him, a gasping, panting whimper. He didn't allow himself to give in to such base feelings often, and the sensation, along with the new images in his head, made him worry that what he hoped for wasn't what he should be doing.
He washed thoroughly, then dried and dressed in a clean pair of trousers and a crisply ironed shirt, which he left open at the neck in deference to the sticky London heat.
He looked at himself in the mirror, adjusting the fall of the cloth of his shirt. It was hard for him to see what Lestrade seemed to find attractive. His hair was thinning slightly, his face…unusual was the best he could come up with. He had none of the classic good-looks Lestrade did. None of the effortless fluidity of movement. He worked hard to be charming, polite and sophisticated but feared occasionally it came across all wrong. He hoped tonight, here, out of the public eye and with his staff dismissed for the evening, he could relax in Lestrade's company.
He wasn't very good at waiting, he realised, and numerous checks of the clock showed time to be ticking by at a truly glacial rate. He fiddled with the tableware, the silver and lit a candle. Then blew the candle out again, deciding it was far too light outside, wafting the air to try to eradicate the distinctive smell of smoke. He poured himself a drink, but was afraid of having too much, so only sipped at the drink, barely wetting his lips.
He finally sat at his desk, working through some of the easier paperwork - things he could drop in an instant. And finally the doorbell chimed.
Holmes stood abruptly, pushing the documents marked 'Top Secret' back into his desk drawer and locking it, glancing around, checking everything was just so, then went to the door.
He smoothed his shirt, fixed a smile on his face and opened it.
"Your guest, Mr Holmes," one of his men said - he had forgotten to warn Lestrade that the intercom on the front gate didn't go to the house, but to the security lodge in the basement.
Lestrade smiled, nodded his thanks to the man and stepped inside the house.
Holmes pushed the door closed and turned to Lestrade, almost dazzled by the smile.
"Good evening," he said, wishing his voice didn't sound so odd. He wanted to lean in, to kiss the smiling lips with the slow confidence Lestrade had shown, but something held him back, something inside which still held a nagging doubt.
"Evening."
"You seem to have been in the wars once more," Holmes allowed his fingers to gently touch Lestrade's shirt, which was still stained green. A small trade off, nothing like the feel of breathing the same air as they kissed, but a tiny promise, a taste.
He noticed that Lestrade smelt slightly of some type of cheap soap - the sort found in toilets and washrooms, not one's home. He assumed the other man had made some attempt to have a wash before leaving Scotland Yard, although it seemed as if one packed, hot Tube journey had put paid to most of his work.
"Please, do come through, can I offer you a drink?"
"Beer?" Lestrade asked. "Bitter or something? Lager in a pinch."
Holmes felt his heart drop a little. Why hadn't he thought of that? Of course the man would want a cold beer.
"I'm…sorry, I have wine…or soft drinks. Um, I have spirits, and mixers…"
"Wine's fine," Lestrade leant back against the worktop. "And maybe some water?"
"Of course, yes," Holmes fetched glasses and put some ice and water in a tall glass, too.
He couldn't help but run his tongue over his lips as Lestrade pressed the cool glass to his neck, rolling his head back as the cold chilled the blood in his veins. He wanted to reach out again, to touch, but as Lestrade's eyes opened lazily he lost his confidence.
"So, are you hungry?" he asked. "It looks like you've been busy today."
"Yeah - and yeah, bloody criminals decided today was the day to run. Had to take him down in a tackle. Could've done without it, in this heat."
Holmes pulled a face. "Well, whilst I admit to being glad there are people like who you are willing to throw themselves around to protect the rest of us, I can't say I would enjoy it."
"How about you - been anywhere nice?" Lestrade's tone suggested he imagined the opposite was true.
"Ah, a small issue in Uzbekistan. Very tedious, I'm afraid. I barely saw anything outside of offices, meeting rooms and hotels."
Lestrade gulped some water down. "Couldn't do that. Not all the time. I'd go stir crazy, throw myself out of a window or something. Don't you ever just want to crack people's heads together?"
Holmes couldn't help but smile. "Indeed, it is tempting, but…I fear people wouldn't approve."
"No, they don't seem to," Lestrade smiled. "Even if it'd probably be the best option sometimes."
Holmes smiled. "I have some crab, to begin - I hope you like it?"
"Not sure I've ever tried it, to be honest," Lestrade answered. "'Fraid I'm not really that adventurous with food - I mean, when I cook."
"Here, try some - I can always make something else, if you'd like?" Holmes took out a fork and slid it into the pot, scooping some up and then holding it out. To his surprise, instead of taking the fork, Lestrade's fingers wrapped around his hand and guided the fork to his mouth.
He watched as Lestrade's lips slid over the silver, eyes widening as the flavour hit him. "Lovely," Lestrade said, swallowing.
Holmes smiled. "Excellent. I shall just do some toast for it."
He was aware of Lestrade sitting down at the table, leaning his elbow on the top, hooking the nearest chair toward him and resting his foot on the rung.
"So you cooked all this?" he asked, gesturing to the crab.
"Yes - I enjoy cooking, I find it very relaxing," Holmes smiled.
"I never seem to find the time. Try to eat at the Yard, then just make myself something simple at home. And shiftwork doesn't help, either."
"Indeed, I can sympathise. Work does tend to get in the way of one's diet regime. I can only imagine how you must fare."
Holmes carried the food to the table and couldn't help but raise his eyebrows slightly as, instead of Lestrade moving to the place set opposite his own, he instead dragged the placemat, complete with cutlery, across the table to where he was sitting, meaning they would be positioned at right angles to one another. He was glad, however, that Lestrade did it - suddenly realising that being so far apart, across the empty expanse of wood, would indeed be too formal, too remote.
Lestrade tucked in, and Holmes took great pleasure in watching the man enjoy his food. He cleared up the plates, although Lestrade insisted on helping, and he also charged their glasses once more.
As he served the main course - seared tuna made into a salad, with cold seasoned beans and potatoes, he could feel a slight twist of nerves in his gut. He wasn't sure he had done the right thing at all - the man in front of him was so down-to-earth, so devoid of airs and graces, and Holmes feared he had made a terrible error in judgement. It had seemed such an obvious choice, when he was high on the feeling of being kissed and having had one of the best evenings of his life. But now, when it was far too late, he was assailed with doubt.
"This is lovely," Lestrade said, pointing down with his fork, breaking Holmes' train of thoughts.
"Yes? Good, I mean, I'm glad."
"So, got any plans for the weekend?" Lestrade asked. "I mean, do you get a weekend?"
"Yes - well, unless something unexpected comes along, I tend to try to regulate my work as best I can. Generally the people I find myself working with are rather precious about working over the weekend, so I often have the time off. But I don't really have any plans, no."
Lestrade nodded, and Holmes wished he could read the other man's mind - somehow he was finding it very hard to work out what was going on behind the brown eyes.
"And yourself?" he asked.
"No, worked last weekend, cleaned up a case today so should get a clear run until Monday now - barring anyone getting done in that's linked to one of mine."
Holmes found himself smiling now, pleased at the prospect of Lestrade being potentially available all weekend.
As Lestrade put the last forkful of food in his mouth Holmes knew he had to act quickly, or lose his nerve.
"I, um, as I said, I have made arrangements, regarding your motorcycle. It…it might be easier if you just came with me."
Lestrade looked slightly surprised, but stood up and followed him.
Holmes hoped he wasn't about to make a horrific mistake.
~~~~~~~~
Lestrade expected to be led to an office, but Holmes turned down the steps to the garage instead. He felt a little bit of hope, deep inside him, that somehow Holmes had managed to get the old bike fixed - although remembering the damage he was certain that wasn't possible.
Holmes pushed open the door, stepping inside and gesturing across the room.
Lestrade felt his mouth drop open. In front of the battered, broken, old bike, the one he had left two weeks before, there stood a beautiful, gleaming, brand new model. The same bike…well, no, a better bike - six years newer, with the improved brakes and the new colour scheme and the suspension system that was supposed to make it ride like a dream... The one that had only been out for a few months. The one he'd seen pictures of in a magazine and had lusted after.
And then it hit him - it must be a mistake. He couldn't be understanding correctly. The bike was probably on loan, or something. Something for him to get around on whilst he waited for the insurance money. Holmes had got him a loan bike and was about to tell him that the cheque would be in the post.
"That's…that's not mine," he said, flatly, more to tell himself than any other reason.
Holmes seemed to be shifting around, nervous, anxious. If he'd been a criminal, Lestrade would have said he was guilty.
"It is. I mean, if you want it to be. You see, the money for the old bike was…well, it wasn't enough. And, I just didn't think that would do. So I sort of…well, bought this one. For you. It seemed like the proper thing to do, as I feel responsible for the old one being damaged beyond repair."
Lestrade dragged his gaze from the gleaming machine to the man next to him. "No…no, you can't…" he held out his hands. "That's too much, that's…that's ridiculous, it's brand new!"
"It…please, I thought…I thought you'd like it. I mean, you don't have to…obviously."
"No, I like it - I fucking love it, but…it's too much. You must be nuts, seriously, it's…" and he found himself walking towards it, sliding his hand over the new seat. "I can't accept this - Christ, it's…worth thousands. I hardly know you…shit." And he couldn't take his hand off the bike, even vaguely noting there was a new helmet hanging from the bars. And as he looked down he realised the gearing had also been adjusted - just as he had it on his old bike. And a similar cooler fitted, too. "You…you had it modified?"
Holmes walked up beside him and gave a small nod. "I asked for them to replicate your old one as best they could. I thought it would be what you wanted."
"I…" Lestrade just shook his head, lost for words.
And then he felt a hand on his shoulder, sliding slightly to the centre of his back. "Please, accept it. I…I wanted to do it, very much. I wanted you to have it. I understand if you don't wish to accept it, but…it would mean a lot to me, if you did."
Lestrade turned to look into Holmes' eyes, but there was no mockery, no humour, just a sincere look, and some obvious nerves.
"I'd love it, but…I don't know, it's just…" he pushed his hand through his hair.
"I…I don't know, it's so much." He didn't know what was happening. He didn't know if it was the most generous gift he was probably ever going to receive, or if it was a bribe to drop the whole matter, or even if this was Holmes' clumsy way of ensuring that he got him into bed - as if the signals hadn't been clear enough that that was going to happen without stupid far-too-large-and-fucking-ridiculous presents.
And the hand dropped from his back, Holmes moving away. "I didn't, look, it's fine, it can go back. I don't want you to think…I'm not trying to…show off, or…or buy you, or something. Please believe that. It was, perhaps it was silly, and I can just get you a cheque, for the old bike, and we can just…leave it at that, if you'd prefer. But please, come back inside, forget about it, I can sort it out."
Lestrade realised that Holmes was rapidly backpedalling - not just about the bike, but about everything, about the whole…whatever it was they had. He was following him out of the garage and up the stairs, but at the top he grabbed Holmes' arm, turning him around. "I didn't mean…but you don't have to do this, you know? Let's just…forget about the bike, forget about the last five minutes, and…" he leant in, looking into the blue eyes, trying to read the expression, and kissed him. When he stopped he didn't move away, feeling the warmth of Holmes' breath on his lips.
"I…" Holmes' started.
Lestrade kissed him again, silencing him. "Forget about everything, except me, you and right now."
And finally tentative hands touched his waist, holding him. He slid a hand up to Holmes' neck, gently kneading the flesh, holding him close and kissing him again, tongue sliding over lips, then dipping into the warm wet mouth, waiting to feel an answering movement, feeling the tension in Holmes’ body slowly receding.
He hoped he wasn't going to be pushing too far, and he released Holmes' arm and moved his hand to the waistband of Holmes' trousers, tugging at the shirt, pulling it free and slipping his hand inside, feeling the naked flesh under his fingertips and wanting more.
Holmes seemed to be following his lead, as his own shirt was pulled up, warm hands on his skin, palms flat, then fingers digging into his back, pulling him close, the kiss never ending, even though they were now panting into each other's mouths, breathing the same air.
"Bedroom?" Holmes asked, tentatively, the end of the word caught in a new kiss from Lestrade.
Lestrade nodded, claiming another kiss before he moved away, hand still entangled in Holmes' shirt, allowing the other man to lead the way.
As they walked up the stairs he couldn't help but run his palm over the taut buttocks mere inches in front of him, and at the top of the stairs hook his fingers over the waistband of the trousers to stop Holmes so he could press against him from behind, mouth working over the exposed neck, reaching up to suck an earlobe, hand sliding inside the shirt once more, working around until he found the soft hair on Holmes' stomach, the dip of his navel and the hollow above his hip bone, leading down to his groin.
"I…" Holmes managed, then his breath hitched as Lestrade gently pinched a nipple between two fingers, through the soft fabric of his shirt.
He managed to spin out of Lestrade's grasp, and walk backwards, hand tentatively moving to the front of Lestrade's shirt, toying with the buttons, leading them into a large airy room, with a bed Lestrade would swear the entire Government could have an orgy on, with room to spare.
Lestrade pushed his hands away, impatience getting the better of him, and began unbuttoning the shirt, shrugging it off his shoulders and toeing his boots off all at once. And then noticing that Holmes was still fully dressed, watching with something verging on fear in his eyes. Lestrade slowed, kicking his boots to the side of the room, shirt still hanging off his forearms. He finally dropped it and stepped forward, now only in his trousers and socks. "What?" he asked, softly, fingers working the buttons on Holmes' shirt, taking more care than with his own.
"I haven't done…this, before," Holmes answered, looking down, away, out of the window, anywhere but at him.
"This…oh, well, we'll go slow. No worries, it's not much different to being with a woman, not really," he tried to reassure, although he'd never really tried that, so couldn't say so with absolute certainty.
"I mean," and Holmes' hands found his, stilled them, palms sweaty, a slight tremor running through him. "I've never done it with…anyone."
And Lestrade swallowed, not moving, not knowing what to say and suddenly feeling immensely responsible, and the pressure he'd been trying to ignore doubling - hell, tripling - because suddenly this wasn't a bit of nice, sweaty fun, this was Holmes' first time, with all the baggage that carried. And Lestrade could remember his own, and how ultimately unsatisfying that had been.
"Right," he said. And he allowed his hands to move again, more slowly, more carefully. Every button which came free was punctuated by a kiss to Holmes' lips, each new bit of exposed flesh was touched, rubbed, caressed, and at some point Holmes' hands began to match the movements, sliding up over Lestrade's stomach, up his breastbone, across his collarbones, noticeably avoiding his nipples.
He undid the last button, then caught Holmes' hand, guiding the fingertips, letting the rub over the hard flesh of the nipple and the solid steel of the ring. He closed his eyes in pleasure, releasing Holmes' hand and feeling the second hand match the first, touching, exploring.
"They don't…hurt?" Holmes' voice sounded unsure, although the movement didn't stop.
"No," Lestrade assured, opening his eyes and starting to push the shirt off Holmes' shoulders, stepping closer, kissing him again, and once the shirt was gone reaching around to undo the front of Holmes' trousers.
"I just need to…" Holmes pointed to his shoes, and moved away, sitting on the bed. Lestrade took the opportunity to ditch his own trousers, and boxers, then crawled up the bed, settling on his knees behind Holmes and lightly running his fingers down the bumps of his spine, then over the curve of his shoulders, leaning over to follow the trail his hand left with gentle kisses and the occasional swipe of tongue. He could taste the slight saltiness of sweat, and the fragrance of soap and knew he could spend hours just exploring Holmes' body.
Finally Holmes' shoes were off, neatly unlaced, unlike Lestrade's own. And Holmes was standing, moving away from Lestrade, dropping his trousers and finally his briefs, hanging the clothing carefully over the back of a chair, in contrast to Lestrade's, which was puddled on the floor at random.
Lestrade stretched out, luxuriating on the soft bedding and the acres of space, he tucked his arm behind his head and allowed himself to look Holmes up and down, making no attempt to hide it. He was pleased to see that Holmes' dick, whilst not totally hard, was at least showing some interest in proceedings.
Holmes climbed onto the bed and lay next to him, one hand out hesitantly, softly stroking over his jaw, then down over his throat, causing Lestrade to swallow, and continuing down over soft chest hair, detouring around the bruises still visible on his side, until he reached the soft skin over Lestrade's hip. Then he started again, this time down the other side, immediately finding the grazes over his collarbone. "From the accident?" Holmes asked, eyes wide.
Lestrade shook his head. "Someone who didn't want to be caught," he said. Holmes nodded and his hand continued, this time the fingers bumping over his nipple, but stopping short of his hip, avoiding his cock hanging heavily over it.
Lestrade moved slightly, reaching for a kiss, allowing his free hand to roam over Holmes' chest, around his rib cage and onto his back, pulling him closer, feeling Holmes' hand copying, ending up on his back, fingers digging in as he tightened the hold. Then he shifted, planting kisses down Holmes' chin, seeking out and kissing the pulse points on his neck, sliding the flat of his tongue over a collarbone, followed by another kiss, and then scooting further down, kissing through the soft chest hair and then very very gently catching the nipple in his teeth before bathing it with his tongue. If the pressure of the fingers on his back were anything to go by he assumed he was still on the right path.
~~~~~~
Holmes shifted his hand, pushing his fingers through Lestrade's thick, soft hair, forcing his mouth to remain on his nipple, revelling in the feel of the wet heat and slight shiver of pain as teeth grazed over the hardened nub.
He somehow couldn't believe he was here, now, after years of very formal dates, of dinners and courting and theatre outings, never amounting to anything…and now he had somehow ended up with a man who he'd found literally lying in the street.
He gasped as the mouth moved from one nipple to the other, a gentle bite, teeth scraping over flesh, and he wasn't even sure when he'd got an erection, but it was there, and it both excited and terrified him.
Lestrade moved up the bed again, planting more kisses as he went, finally licking over Holmes' own lips, begging for access. And when he opened his mouth Lestrade's strong arms were wrapped around him and he found himself lifted and rolled, legs tangling, arm reaching for balance. And then he was lying on top of Lestrade, and his groin was…and Lestrade's…he closed his eyes, trying to take deep breaths, remain in control, even as Lestrade's hands were on his buttocks, kneading the flesh, pulling him closer, tighter, shifting so they were locked together.
He looked down at Lestrade's face, the smile there soft and relaxed, eyes half closed.
"Just relax," Lestrade whispered. "Enjoy it."
And he smiled back, knowing his was slightly strained, because he was always uncomfortable when he wasn't in control, and he had never felt less so in his life.
"We won't do anything you don't want to," Lestrade continued, and Holmes could feel him dragging his nails very gently over his back, and it was relaxing. Then he felt the twitch of Lestrade's erection at his hip, and it all came flooding back - he knew the mechanics, obviously, but the prospect of putting it into practice seemed terrifying.
"What's up?" Lestrade stretched up to kiss him, the tendons in his neck standing out as he did so. And Holmes moved down slightly, following Lestrade's earlier example, kissing his neck, feeling the rough stubble under his lips. He moved tentatively, dropping small kisses, occasionally tracing with the tip of his tongue. And Lestrade moved underneath him, stretching, groaning, hands finding his buttocks again and then a gently rocking his hips. Holmes froze for a second as the gentle friction on his erection made him jump, and a moan was pulled from deep inside him.
"Like that?" Lestrade whispered in his ear, then bit and sucked on the lobe.
"Mmmm," he groaned, all words abandoning him - almost all coherent thought abandoning him. And Lestrade's hands were sliding over his back, holding him tightly, reaching for a kiss.
And then it stopped, Lestrade panting underneath him, eyes closed. And he worried.
"Are…is something wrong?" he asked.
Lestrade shook his head. "Just…need a moment. Way too close," he blew out a breath, opening his eyes, and it took Holmes a moment to understand, to realise that Lestrade had nearly orgasmed. And another moment to realise he had caused that - the gorgeous man underneath him had been so turned on…by him. He moved his legs, leaving just his chest resting on Lestrade, noticing, out of the corner of his eye, Lestrade's dick, rigid in the air, a slight curve to it. He dipped his head and ran the flat of his tongue over Lestrade's nipple, hand splayed on his stomach. His tongue slid over flesh and metal, and he kept his eyes open, trying to read the expressions, follow the clues.
"God, yeah, like that," Lestrade's voice was rough, almost hoarse and he couldn't help but push his own groin into the soft bedding slightly, hips jerking.
Lestrade's hands found his arms and urged him upwards, grabbing a kiss before pushing him over, onto his back. And then, a few kisses and Lestrade was heading down his body, detouring around nipples and to dip his tongue into Holmes' navel, and then, just when Holmes was certain what was going to happen, Lestrade was laying kisses and licking the crease between his thigh and his body, up on his hands and knees, crawling down the bed, mouth never stopping its steady work.
Holmes' could feel his erection twitching, seeking touch, and he couldn't help but lift his head to see what Lestrade was doing - just in time to see the tip of his cock disappearing between Lestrade's lips. And he could swear Lestrade was smiling.
He gasped as the heat and wet engulfed him, his hands bunching the covers underneath him into fists. Then the suction of Lestrade lifting his head, cheeks hollowed, lips wet, and he felt the muscles in his legs begin to shake.
Lestrade finally let the tip slide through his lips and then immediately sank straight back down, seeming to take the entire length into his mouth. Holmes could hear himself making noises - noises he was sure sounded utterly pornographic. And as the feelings intensified it was as if Lestrade somehow knew - could read his mind, and he moved, tongue and then lips on his balls, and then Lestrade's arms wriggling under his thighs, lifting them, pushing his legs up, resting them over his shoulders, as the warm mouth moved ever lower.
His eyes snapped open as the tongue went where, in Holmes' opinion, tongues were not supposed to go.
"Jus' think 'bout how good it feels," Lestrade mumbled, between licks.
And Holmes once again wondered if Lestrade was actually a mind reader. But he did close his eyes again, and the feelings were sensational as Lestrade kissed, licked and groaned, with what sounded like pleasure. Which just made it all feel so much better, because it really did seem as if Lestrade was enjoying it too.
Another shift, a wriggle from Lestrade and his legs were released and his dick once again engulfed with the heat and pressure of lips, tongue and the soft scrape of teeth. He was powerless to stop his hips jerking - even more so when he felt a gentle pressure against his wet hole as a finger or thumb stroked over and around it. The feeling of his muscles turning to water seemed to spread outward from his groin, along with the inexorable heat and pressure.
"I…I'm going to…" and he tried to grab Lestrade's hair, to urge him to stop and move, but Lestrade stubbornly stayed where he was, one hand encircling the base of Holmes' cock, moving in time with his mouth.
The orgasm felt as if it ripped through him, wringing every bit of life from him in a huge wave of unimaginable pleasure and he wasn't sure if it was him making the noise or Lestrade. His legs were weak, shaking and the feel of Lestrade's tongue lapping over him and lips gently sucking him clean. He tried to say something, but couldn't form the words.
Lestrade crawled back up the bed, half lying on top of Holmes', and Holmes' could taste the slightly salty flavour of his own essence as Lestrade kissed him.
He could feel the steely hardness pressing against his hip, and realised, despite his post-orgasmic haze, he should try to do something about it.
He reached down, and Lestrade rolled away, onto his back, so Holmes followed, his fingers closing around Lestrade's erection, reaching for another kiss. Mentally cataloguing the cock now in his hand - a little thicker than his own, different bumps of veins, the foreskin less generous, the curve less pronounced.
"Mmm," Lestrade moaned, hips bucking into the touch. Holmes looked down, unsure what to do, whether to try to follow Lestrade's lead.
"Just…" Lestrade's own hand closed around his, stroking. Then Lestrade glanced around, his gaze resting on a tube of hand lotion. "Grab that," he said, and Holmes immediately obeyed, watching as Lestrade dumped some of the lotion into his hand, then slicked it over his erection, re-taking Holmes' hand and setting a rhythm.
Holmes watched for a moment, before a gasp of pleasure attracted his attention and he kissed Lestrade again, then dipped to kiss and lick his nipples, Lestrade's free hand threading through his hair.
Another groan and Lestrade was coming, grip around Holmes' hand tight, muscles and tendons corded, thrusts erratic, breath coming in gasps as the come spurted over his stomach and both their hands.
Lestrade dropped his arms to the bed, and Holmes gently rested his head onto Lestrade's chest, hearing the heart inside beating wildly.
He stroked his fingers over Lestrade's thigh, then felt the heavy weight of Lestrade's arm around him, holding him close, snuggling up to him and kissing the top of his head.
He had never got far enough in any fantasy to think about this sort of thing, and he relaxed into the touch, enjoying it almost as much as what had gone before.
Finally, after dozing for some time, fingertips gently stroking the skin on his upper arm, Lestrade moved, tucking his arm behind his head and looking down at him slightly.
"Could do with a shower," Lestrade said softly. "Before I fall asleep like this," he gestured down at his body with the arm that was wrapped around him.
"Of course," Mycroft moved, immediately missing the embrace and allowing Lestrade to sit up.
"Of course," Lestrade smiled at him. "You could always join me."
Mycroft found himself smiling back. He didn't know how, but Lestrade was making him feel totally at ease - nothing like he imagined he would feel. He was aware that they hadn't quite done what he had assumed they would, and there was a lot for him still to experience and learn, but it seemed Lestrade was in no rush and for that he was ridiculously grateful.
He rolled off the bed, muscles still feeling a little weak, and allowed Lestrade to take his hand and lead him into the large en suite. The shower stall was large - a whole area cut off from the rest of the room by a glass screen, and he leant in, turning the water on and allowing it to heat up before stepping under, leading Lestrade in with him. He turned, wrapping his arms around the other man, pulling him close.
"Thank you," he said softly, his words almost drowned out by the shower.
He could feel Lestrade's cheek move, and knew the other man was smiling. "For what?" he asked.
Holmes could feel his cheeks reddening, and was glad that Lestrade couldn't see his face.
"For...being kind to me," he said, haltingly. "For making it special."
And then Lestrade was moving away, and Holmes ducked his head, not wanting Lestrade to see his blush. But strong hands slid over his cheeks and he was kissed, water flowing over their faces.
"You deserved nothing less. And anyway, we're only just starting." And the smile returned, Holmes unable to stop himself mirroring it.
After the shower Holmes pulled on his toweling robe whilst Lestrade wrapped one of the huge fluffy bath sheets around his waist.
TBC...( in part B!)
Author: Elf
Summary: Impact: The action of one object coming forcibly into contact with another.
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade
Rating: NC17
Length: this part: 11350. Total 21,700
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: They're not mine. Or yours. But we'll share, right?
Author's Note: Massive 'thank you' to randomly_rusted for long chats into the night and beta-reading. Also thank you to yminga for the translation work. I'm nothing without them. Thanks for the lovely comments, too. This part is a bit of a monster - what can I say, Mycroft and Lestrade got carried away!
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Lestrade skidded around the corner, his boots slipping on the mud, then threw himself after the two boys he had been chasing for some minutes now. He could hear the thud of footfalls and panting breath of Garaghan behind him, but he knew they'd be lucky to catch their suspects - who knew the area well, and were young and reasonably fit.
He threw himself onwards, pressing the button on his radio and shouting out their location as he ran, hoping for backup to arrive and cut off the kids.
And then his prayers were answered - a building site fence, cutting off the road. The panic was obvious, the boys turning, desperate to find a way out.
Lestrade stopped, hands out, updating their position again, asking for urgent assistance. Garaghan stopped next to him, panting.
"Just give it up," Lestrade said. "Come on, no way out now, just stay calm."
One of the boys made as if to move, and Lestrade reacted instantly. The boy stopped, and they were engaged in a stupid game, each trying to guess the other's next move. Lestrade just knew that they had to stay strong, stay where they were, keep the boys trapped until help arrived.
And then one of them, shakily, pulled a knife from his belt.
Lestrade sighed. "Don't bother, mate. Put it down. You've done enough damage."
The other boy turned and ran for the fence, his hands just grabbing the top, feet scrabbling against the wood.
Lestrade threw himself at the knife-wielding one, knocking him aside, relying on years of experience that told him the kid would be too scared to use it against him.
He was, thankfully, right. He shoulder-barged the boy aside, into the wall, knowing that Garaghan would deal with him, and ran for the other one, grabbing his legs, pulling. He collected a few hard kicks to the shoulder, narrowly avoiding his face, but in the end the boy couldn't hang on, and they both ended up in a heap on the floor, Lestrade clambering on top of him, using his entire bodyweight to pin him down, grabbing for his wrists and putting him in an armlock, only then looking back to check Garaghan was coping okay. He smiled when he saw that the other boy was indeed subdued, standing against the wall, having given up without much of a struggle.
"I'm arresting you for the murder of Joseph Kuffay, You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."
"Get off me you fuckin' poof," Lestrade's prisoner struggled. "Batty boy, getting off on this, are ya? Get the fuck off me."
Lestrade ignored it, having heard it all before. He merely increased the pressure of his hold in response to the renewed struggling. He wondered what the kid would do if he told him he was correct in his accusations.
"Ah, aaaaah, you're gonna break my arm! My fuckin' arm! I ain't done nuffin'! I'll fuckin' sue you, you cunt!"
The tirade continued until it was drowned out by the wail of sirens as cars pulled up at the end of the road, uniformed officers spilling out.
He finally relaxed his hold very slightly as two constables arrived, one grabbing the man's legs, the other brandishing handcuffs and fixing them around the wrist which Lestrade held.
Once back at the station he began the long process of booking the young men in, then collating the evidence for ready for his interviews. He was certain they had the right men, and knew they needed to ensure they had a solid case ready so they could sort it out swiftly.
"Any calls?" he asked, as he walked through the CID office.
"Yup," Janes answered, from the desk next to his.
Lestrade couldn't help it - his heart gave a little clench in the hope that it would be from Holmes.
"Forensics…forensics again…coroner…message from someone called Dewey, wouldn't say what it was about…um, yeah, that's it."
"Oh, right," Lestrade sank into his chair, opening up the laptop, checking his email, and feeling his heart drop a little further when there was nothing from addresses he didn't recognise and expect.
"Sorry to disappoint," Janes smiled, obviously fishing for further information.
Lestrade smiled back. "No, I was just sort of expecting something, doesn't matter."
"Look like you've been having fun this morning, anyway," she pointed at the muddy footprints over his shoulder and the filthy knees of his jeans.
"Got the bastards, didn't we? No loyalty amongst the criminals these days, thank God."
"Well done. Have you told the family yet?"
Lestrade shook his head. "Get them charged first - but the forensics is tight. They weren't careful. I'm sure it'll stand up. Just got them all processed, so we'll do the matches this afternoon."
He worked through the new information that had arrived whilst he'd been out, occasionally glancing at the telephone, willing it to ring.
Three days later Holmes still hadn't been in touch. Lestrade flopped onto his sofa, after a long day all he wanted was to spend a bit of time relaxing, enjoying company of the posh, nervous, adorable man who'd literally crashed into his life. Instead he was alone in the heat of the city, his flat a mess and photos of a badly burned body spread across his coffee table. He was suddenly glad that Holmes had declined his offer to come up a few days previously. His small, messy, flat was a world away from the stylish class of Holmes' house. Lestrade was, in fact, certain his entire flat would fit into the kitchen and living room of Holmes' townhouse. And he wondered once again what he was getting himself into. Normally he was good at this sort of thing - yes, it was more difficult being a police officer - clubs he would have been tempted to visit, where he in another profession, were definitely off limits now. He wasn't 'scene', he tried to be discreet about his preference for dating men. He didn't need the hassle of any extra grief from his workmates or anyone else. So he went out, sometimes set up by his friends, sometimes meeting people through the job, sometimes he ventured into the odd gay-friendly pub, or cruising Old Compton Street with mates. He knew people were attracted to him - he was confident enough in himself to flirt and tease, to date - but anything more, anything that involved commitment, he found harder. He was wary of giving too much of himself away.
Yet now he found he wanted more - he didn’t want a one-night stand with Mycroft Holmes. And the thought scared and intrigued him in equal measure. He wondered if he should call, and sat forward, looking at his 'phone. He hit the 'dial' button and waited.
Two rings and a female voice answered.
"Hello."
"Uh, hi, I was wondering if I could speak to Mycroft Holmes?" he said, assuming he was speaking to a secretary or PA.
"May I ask what it is regarding?"
He swallowed, unsure of what to say. "It…He just said he'd call me, and he hasn't…and…"
"Well, Sir, if I could take your name and your company I'll ask him to get in touch."
"Right, yeah, it's Greg Lestrade, no company. He'll know what it's about."
"Very well, Sir. Goodbye."
Lestrade looked at the phone as the screen blanked out.
Maybe he'd been too forward. Maybe he shouldn't have pushed as far as he did - but he'd been sure, the second time, that it was what the man wanted. He remembered the lips opening under his, soft, pliable. The tentative swipe of the tongue against his own, the hands sliding over his waist. And then the hesitation and finally being turned down. Too much, too soon? Maybe this wasn't how it worked in the upper classes. Maybe he should have waited, spent more time getting to know the man, instead of blundering straight in.
He sighed. The damage was done, the ball was in Holmes' court now. He'd go back to hoping for a phonecall and dreaming of tailored suits, fine cloth and pocket watches all encasing the perfect body and fantastic brain.
It was three days later that his phone rang, as he was walking through a dingy estate, on the trail of a man who'd been fingered for a brutal drunken fight, leaving the victim barely clinging to life.
He glanced at the screen. Withheld number. Probably someone trying to sell something, then.
"Lestrade," he answered.
"Ah, sergeant." The smooth voice was immediately recognisable. "I'm so sorry for not being in touch sooner. I was unexpectedly sent abroad."
Lestrade stopped walking, signalling to Garaghan that he needed to take the call. He leant back against the wall, trying to fit into the tiny patch of shade.
"No problem," he answered, guarded, wary. He wanted to ask if 'abroad' had been a country devoid of phones or computers, but he held his tongue, knowing it would be stupid and petty.
"I think I have solved the issue regarding the motorcycle. I was wondering if you'd do me the honour of dining with me tonight - just something simple, at mine?"
Lestrade smiled to himself. "Yeah, that'd be nice."
"Excellent. Shall I have my car pick you up at the Yard again?"
"Um, y'know, I'm not sure when I'll finish up today. Shall I just turn up whenever I'm done? Or…I mean, is there a good time?"
"Of course, please, just arrive whenever is convenient."
"Right, great, I look forward to it."
"Take care then, Sergeant," Holmes said softly and the phone went dead.
"Must be good news," Garaghan called. "You've got a face like the Cheshire Cat now."
Lestrade laughed. "It was, yeah - should be getting a bike back soon, if I can find something I can afford."
"Should ask the bloke that sent you flying - sounds like he's not short of a penny if he's being driven around in a Merc."
"Nah, insurance is dealing with it all - and I know she wasn't worth that much. Still, there'll be something out there, someone else being forced to sell. I dunno, I've been thinking about finding something new for a while, but…well, no spare cash means it's all pipe dreams."
Lestrade's mood had improved greatly since the call, and he didn't even mind when they once again found themselves chasing a suspect through the baking hot London streets. Sweat ran down his face and body, his shirt sticking to him, breath rasping in his throat. He had a smile of grim determination as they leapt walls, dodged traffic and threw themselves down stairs. He could hear Garaghan behind him again - this time the other man was the one trying to keep up the commentary on the radio.
The man span around a corner and Lestrade swore as he slid on the dry, dusty pavement - the rain from previous days seemed as if it had never happened, and grass was once more baked dry. He fell, skidding sideways before scrabbling to his feet, Garaghan overtaking him. But he was the fitter man, and the gap between them and their quarry was closing rapidly as the other man reached the end of his endurance. Lestrade brought him down in a flying tackle, arms and legs tangling as they crashed to the ground, sliding on the grass of a small park.
The man didn't fight, just panted heavily and held his hands out, shaking his head.
Lestrade just leant on him, a good handful of t-shirt in his fist for security, not bothering to get up.
"Two runners, in a week like this?" Garaghan said, leaning on his knees. "Has everyone gone insane?"
Lestrade nodded. "Thought the heat was meant to make everyone lazy."
"Fucking right." Garaghan wiped his face on the sleeve of his t-shirt, then answered a radio call to guide the van to their current position.
Lestrade kept a hand on the 'cuffs, but closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the sun on his face and the smell of the sweet grass they had trampled and crushed.
Finally the van turned up, and he and Garaghan began the long walk back to their car, stopping only to buy themselves cold cans of Coke in one of the small newsagents. Lestrade ran the cold can over his face, down his neck, the condensation and sweat mingling and running down to soak into his collar.
~~~~~~~~
Holmes had prepared food, ensured the house was tidy (it was never anything but, thanks mainly to the efforts of Mrs Francis), but paid special attention to the bedroom, throwing the windows open wide to air the place. He couldn't help a little frisson of fear running through him as he thought about what might happen, later.
After his exertions in the kitchen Holmes went upstairs and stood under the shower, allowing the water to rush over him from the massive showerhead. It felt like the heavy summer rain of a few nights previous, and he allowed himself to reach down and caress himself, imagining the heat and taut muscles pressing against him, the strong hands touching him and the dark eyes watching his every move. He could feel his cock filling out in his hand, hanging heavily between his legs and he began stroking it, his free hand rubbing over his chest, through the soap and bubbles.
He gave a satisfied sigh as his hand closed around his shaft and he set a rhythm, occasionally pushing his thumb and foreskin over the tip, enjoying the extra jolt of sensation.
And then he was leaning against the wall with one hand, head bowed, water running over his face and down his body as he raced toward orgasm, the sensation wrenching a noise from deep inside him, a gasping, panting whimper. He didn't allow himself to give in to such base feelings often, and the sensation, along with the new images in his head, made him worry that what he hoped for wasn't what he should be doing.
He washed thoroughly, then dried and dressed in a clean pair of trousers and a crisply ironed shirt, which he left open at the neck in deference to the sticky London heat.
He looked at himself in the mirror, adjusting the fall of the cloth of his shirt. It was hard for him to see what Lestrade seemed to find attractive. His hair was thinning slightly, his face…unusual was the best he could come up with. He had none of the classic good-looks Lestrade did. None of the effortless fluidity of movement. He worked hard to be charming, polite and sophisticated but feared occasionally it came across all wrong. He hoped tonight, here, out of the public eye and with his staff dismissed for the evening, he could relax in Lestrade's company.
He wasn't very good at waiting, he realised, and numerous checks of the clock showed time to be ticking by at a truly glacial rate. He fiddled with the tableware, the silver and lit a candle. Then blew the candle out again, deciding it was far too light outside, wafting the air to try to eradicate the distinctive smell of smoke. He poured himself a drink, but was afraid of having too much, so only sipped at the drink, barely wetting his lips.
He finally sat at his desk, working through some of the easier paperwork - things he could drop in an instant. And finally the doorbell chimed.
Holmes stood abruptly, pushing the documents marked 'Top Secret' back into his desk drawer and locking it, glancing around, checking everything was just so, then went to the door.
He smoothed his shirt, fixed a smile on his face and opened it.
"Your guest, Mr Holmes," one of his men said - he had forgotten to warn Lestrade that the intercom on the front gate didn't go to the house, but to the security lodge in the basement.
Lestrade smiled, nodded his thanks to the man and stepped inside the house.
Holmes pushed the door closed and turned to Lestrade, almost dazzled by the smile.
"Good evening," he said, wishing his voice didn't sound so odd. He wanted to lean in, to kiss the smiling lips with the slow confidence Lestrade had shown, but something held him back, something inside which still held a nagging doubt.
"Evening."
"You seem to have been in the wars once more," Holmes allowed his fingers to gently touch Lestrade's shirt, which was still stained green. A small trade off, nothing like the feel of breathing the same air as they kissed, but a tiny promise, a taste.
He noticed that Lestrade smelt slightly of some type of cheap soap - the sort found in toilets and washrooms, not one's home. He assumed the other man had made some attempt to have a wash before leaving Scotland Yard, although it seemed as if one packed, hot Tube journey had put paid to most of his work.
"Please, do come through, can I offer you a drink?"
"Beer?" Lestrade asked. "Bitter or something? Lager in a pinch."
Holmes felt his heart drop a little. Why hadn't he thought of that? Of course the man would want a cold beer.
"I'm…sorry, I have wine…or soft drinks. Um, I have spirits, and mixers…"
"Wine's fine," Lestrade leant back against the worktop. "And maybe some water?"
"Of course, yes," Holmes fetched glasses and put some ice and water in a tall glass, too.
He couldn't help but run his tongue over his lips as Lestrade pressed the cool glass to his neck, rolling his head back as the cold chilled the blood in his veins. He wanted to reach out again, to touch, but as Lestrade's eyes opened lazily he lost his confidence.
"So, are you hungry?" he asked. "It looks like you've been busy today."
"Yeah - and yeah, bloody criminals decided today was the day to run. Had to take him down in a tackle. Could've done without it, in this heat."
Holmes pulled a face. "Well, whilst I admit to being glad there are people like who you are willing to throw themselves around to protect the rest of us, I can't say I would enjoy it."
"How about you - been anywhere nice?" Lestrade's tone suggested he imagined the opposite was true.
"Ah, a small issue in Uzbekistan. Very tedious, I'm afraid. I barely saw anything outside of offices, meeting rooms and hotels."
Lestrade gulped some water down. "Couldn't do that. Not all the time. I'd go stir crazy, throw myself out of a window or something. Don't you ever just want to crack people's heads together?"
Holmes couldn't help but smile. "Indeed, it is tempting, but…I fear people wouldn't approve."
"No, they don't seem to," Lestrade smiled. "Even if it'd probably be the best option sometimes."
Holmes smiled. "I have some crab, to begin - I hope you like it?"
"Not sure I've ever tried it, to be honest," Lestrade answered. "'Fraid I'm not really that adventurous with food - I mean, when I cook."
"Here, try some - I can always make something else, if you'd like?" Holmes took out a fork and slid it into the pot, scooping some up and then holding it out. To his surprise, instead of taking the fork, Lestrade's fingers wrapped around his hand and guided the fork to his mouth.
He watched as Lestrade's lips slid over the silver, eyes widening as the flavour hit him. "Lovely," Lestrade said, swallowing.
Holmes smiled. "Excellent. I shall just do some toast for it."
He was aware of Lestrade sitting down at the table, leaning his elbow on the top, hooking the nearest chair toward him and resting his foot on the rung.
"So you cooked all this?" he asked, gesturing to the crab.
"Yes - I enjoy cooking, I find it very relaxing," Holmes smiled.
"I never seem to find the time. Try to eat at the Yard, then just make myself something simple at home. And shiftwork doesn't help, either."
"Indeed, I can sympathise. Work does tend to get in the way of one's diet regime. I can only imagine how you must fare."
Holmes carried the food to the table and couldn't help but raise his eyebrows slightly as, instead of Lestrade moving to the place set opposite his own, he instead dragged the placemat, complete with cutlery, across the table to where he was sitting, meaning they would be positioned at right angles to one another. He was glad, however, that Lestrade did it - suddenly realising that being so far apart, across the empty expanse of wood, would indeed be too formal, too remote.
Lestrade tucked in, and Holmes took great pleasure in watching the man enjoy his food. He cleared up the plates, although Lestrade insisted on helping, and he also charged their glasses once more.
As he served the main course - seared tuna made into a salad, with cold seasoned beans and potatoes, he could feel a slight twist of nerves in his gut. He wasn't sure he had done the right thing at all - the man in front of him was so down-to-earth, so devoid of airs and graces, and Holmes feared he had made a terrible error in judgement. It had seemed such an obvious choice, when he was high on the feeling of being kissed and having had one of the best evenings of his life. But now, when it was far too late, he was assailed with doubt.
"This is lovely," Lestrade said, pointing down with his fork, breaking Holmes' train of thoughts.
"Yes? Good, I mean, I'm glad."
"So, got any plans for the weekend?" Lestrade asked. "I mean, do you get a weekend?"
"Yes - well, unless something unexpected comes along, I tend to try to regulate my work as best I can. Generally the people I find myself working with are rather precious about working over the weekend, so I often have the time off. But I don't really have any plans, no."
Lestrade nodded, and Holmes wished he could read the other man's mind - somehow he was finding it very hard to work out what was going on behind the brown eyes.
"And yourself?" he asked.
"No, worked last weekend, cleaned up a case today so should get a clear run until Monday now - barring anyone getting done in that's linked to one of mine."
Holmes found himself smiling now, pleased at the prospect of Lestrade being potentially available all weekend.
As Lestrade put the last forkful of food in his mouth Holmes knew he had to act quickly, or lose his nerve.
"I, um, as I said, I have made arrangements, regarding your motorcycle. It…it might be easier if you just came with me."
Lestrade looked slightly surprised, but stood up and followed him.
Holmes hoped he wasn't about to make a horrific mistake.
~~~~~~~~
Lestrade expected to be led to an office, but Holmes turned down the steps to the garage instead. He felt a little bit of hope, deep inside him, that somehow Holmes had managed to get the old bike fixed - although remembering the damage he was certain that wasn't possible.
Holmes pushed open the door, stepping inside and gesturing across the room.
Lestrade felt his mouth drop open. In front of the battered, broken, old bike, the one he had left two weeks before, there stood a beautiful, gleaming, brand new model. The same bike…well, no, a better bike - six years newer, with the improved brakes and the new colour scheme and the suspension system that was supposed to make it ride like a dream... The one that had only been out for a few months. The one he'd seen pictures of in a magazine and had lusted after.
And then it hit him - it must be a mistake. He couldn't be understanding correctly. The bike was probably on loan, or something. Something for him to get around on whilst he waited for the insurance money. Holmes had got him a loan bike and was about to tell him that the cheque would be in the post.
"That's…that's not mine," he said, flatly, more to tell himself than any other reason.
Holmes seemed to be shifting around, nervous, anxious. If he'd been a criminal, Lestrade would have said he was guilty.
"It is. I mean, if you want it to be. You see, the money for the old bike was…well, it wasn't enough. And, I just didn't think that would do. So I sort of…well, bought this one. For you. It seemed like the proper thing to do, as I feel responsible for the old one being damaged beyond repair."
Lestrade dragged his gaze from the gleaming machine to the man next to him. "No…no, you can't…" he held out his hands. "That's too much, that's…that's ridiculous, it's brand new!"
"It…please, I thought…I thought you'd like it. I mean, you don't have to…obviously."
"No, I like it - I fucking love it, but…it's too much. You must be nuts, seriously, it's…" and he found himself walking towards it, sliding his hand over the new seat. "I can't accept this - Christ, it's…worth thousands. I hardly know you…shit." And he couldn't take his hand off the bike, even vaguely noting there was a new helmet hanging from the bars. And as he looked down he realised the gearing had also been adjusted - just as he had it on his old bike. And a similar cooler fitted, too. "You…you had it modified?"
Holmes walked up beside him and gave a small nod. "I asked for them to replicate your old one as best they could. I thought it would be what you wanted."
"I…" Lestrade just shook his head, lost for words.
And then he felt a hand on his shoulder, sliding slightly to the centre of his back. "Please, accept it. I…I wanted to do it, very much. I wanted you to have it. I understand if you don't wish to accept it, but…it would mean a lot to me, if you did."
Lestrade turned to look into Holmes' eyes, but there was no mockery, no humour, just a sincere look, and some obvious nerves.
"I'd love it, but…I don't know, it's just…" he pushed his hand through his hair.
"I…I don't know, it's so much." He didn't know what was happening. He didn't know if it was the most generous gift he was probably ever going to receive, or if it was a bribe to drop the whole matter, or even if this was Holmes' clumsy way of ensuring that he got him into bed - as if the signals hadn't been clear enough that that was going to happen without stupid far-too-large-and-fucking-ridiculous presents.
And the hand dropped from his back, Holmes moving away. "I didn't, look, it's fine, it can go back. I don't want you to think…I'm not trying to…show off, or…or buy you, or something. Please believe that. It was, perhaps it was silly, and I can just get you a cheque, for the old bike, and we can just…leave it at that, if you'd prefer. But please, come back inside, forget about it, I can sort it out."
Lestrade realised that Holmes was rapidly backpedalling - not just about the bike, but about everything, about the whole…whatever it was they had. He was following him out of the garage and up the stairs, but at the top he grabbed Holmes' arm, turning him around. "I didn't mean…but you don't have to do this, you know? Let's just…forget about the bike, forget about the last five minutes, and…" he leant in, looking into the blue eyes, trying to read the expression, and kissed him. When he stopped he didn't move away, feeling the warmth of Holmes' breath on his lips.
"I…" Holmes' started.
Lestrade kissed him again, silencing him. "Forget about everything, except me, you and right now."
And finally tentative hands touched his waist, holding him. He slid a hand up to Holmes' neck, gently kneading the flesh, holding him close and kissing him again, tongue sliding over lips, then dipping into the warm wet mouth, waiting to feel an answering movement, feeling the tension in Holmes’ body slowly receding.
He hoped he wasn't going to be pushing too far, and he released Holmes' arm and moved his hand to the waistband of Holmes' trousers, tugging at the shirt, pulling it free and slipping his hand inside, feeling the naked flesh under his fingertips and wanting more.
Holmes seemed to be following his lead, as his own shirt was pulled up, warm hands on his skin, palms flat, then fingers digging into his back, pulling him close, the kiss never ending, even though they were now panting into each other's mouths, breathing the same air.
"Bedroom?" Holmes asked, tentatively, the end of the word caught in a new kiss from Lestrade.
Lestrade nodded, claiming another kiss before he moved away, hand still entangled in Holmes' shirt, allowing the other man to lead the way.
As they walked up the stairs he couldn't help but run his palm over the taut buttocks mere inches in front of him, and at the top of the stairs hook his fingers over the waistband of the trousers to stop Holmes so he could press against him from behind, mouth working over the exposed neck, reaching up to suck an earlobe, hand sliding inside the shirt once more, working around until he found the soft hair on Holmes' stomach, the dip of his navel and the hollow above his hip bone, leading down to his groin.
"I…" Holmes managed, then his breath hitched as Lestrade gently pinched a nipple between two fingers, through the soft fabric of his shirt.
He managed to spin out of Lestrade's grasp, and walk backwards, hand tentatively moving to the front of Lestrade's shirt, toying with the buttons, leading them into a large airy room, with a bed Lestrade would swear the entire Government could have an orgy on, with room to spare.
Lestrade pushed his hands away, impatience getting the better of him, and began unbuttoning the shirt, shrugging it off his shoulders and toeing his boots off all at once. And then noticing that Holmes was still fully dressed, watching with something verging on fear in his eyes. Lestrade slowed, kicking his boots to the side of the room, shirt still hanging off his forearms. He finally dropped it and stepped forward, now only in his trousers and socks. "What?" he asked, softly, fingers working the buttons on Holmes' shirt, taking more care than with his own.
"I haven't done…this, before," Holmes answered, looking down, away, out of the window, anywhere but at him.
"This…oh, well, we'll go slow. No worries, it's not much different to being with a woman, not really," he tried to reassure, although he'd never really tried that, so couldn't say so with absolute certainty.
"I mean," and Holmes' hands found his, stilled them, palms sweaty, a slight tremor running through him. "I've never done it with…anyone."
And Lestrade swallowed, not moving, not knowing what to say and suddenly feeling immensely responsible, and the pressure he'd been trying to ignore doubling - hell, tripling - because suddenly this wasn't a bit of nice, sweaty fun, this was Holmes' first time, with all the baggage that carried. And Lestrade could remember his own, and how ultimately unsatisfying that had been.
"Right," he said. And he allowed his hands to move again, more slowly, more carefully. Every button which came free was punctuated by a kiss to Holmes' lips, each new bit of exposed flesh was touched, rubbed, caressed, and at some point Holmes' hands began to match the movements, sliding up over Lestrade's stomach, up his breastbone, across his collarbones, noticeably avoiding his nipples.
He undid the last button, then caught Holmes' hand, guiding the fingertips, letting the rub over the hard flesh of the nipple and the solid steel of the ring. He closed his eyes in pleasure, releasing Holmes' hand and feeling the second hand match the first, touching, exploring.
"They don't…hurt?" Holmes' voice sounded unsure, although the movement didn't stop.
"No," Lestrade assured, opening his eyes and starting to push the shirt off Holmes' shoulders, stepping closer, kissing him again, and once the shirt was gone reaching around to undo the front of Holmes' trousers.
"I just need to…" Holmes pointed to his shoes, and moved away, sitting on the bed. Lestrade took the opportunity to ditch his own trousers, and boxers, then crawled up the bed, settling on his knees behind Holmes and lightly running his fingers down the bumps of his spine, then over the curve of his shoulders, leaning over to follow the trail his hand left with gentle kisses and the occasional swipe of tongue. He could taste the slight saltiness of sweat, and the fragrance of soap and knew he could spend hours just exploring Holmes' body.
Finally Holmes' shoes were off, neatly unlaced, unlike Lestrade's own. And Holmes was standing, moving away from Lestrade, dropping his trousers and finally his briefs, hanging the clothing carefully over the back of a chair, in contrast to Lestrade's, which was puddled on the floor at random.
Lestrade stretched out, luxuriating on the soft bedding and the acres of space, he tucked his arm behind his head and allowed himself to look Holmes up and down, making no attempt to hide it. He was pleased to see that Holmes' dick, whilst not totally hard, was at least showing some interest in proceedings.
Holmes climbed onto the bed and lay next to him, one hand out hesitantly, softly stroking over his jaw, then down over his throat, causing Lestrade to swallow, and continuing down over soft chest hair, detouring around the bruises still visible on his side, until he reached the soft skin over Lestrade's hip. Then he started again, this time down the other side, immediately finding the grazes over his collarbone. "From the accident?" Holmes asked, eyes wide.
Lestrade shook his head. "Someone who didn't want to be caught," he said. Holmes nodded and his hand continued, this time the fingers bumping over his nipple, but stopping short of his hip, avoiding his cock hanging heavily over it.
Lestrade moved slightly, reaching for a kiss, allowing his free hand to roam over Holmes' chest, around his rib cage and onto his back, pulling him closer, feeling Holmes' hand copying, ending up on his back, fingers digging in as he tightened the hold. Then he shifted, planting kisses down Holmes' chin, seeking out and kissing the pulse points on his neck, sliding the flat of his tongue over a collarbone, followed by another kiss, and then scooting further down, kissing through the soft chest hair and then very very gently catching the nipple in his teeth before bathing it with his tongue. If the pressure of the fingers on his back were anything to go by he assumed he was still on the right path.
~~~~~~
Holmes shifted his hand, pushing his fingers through Lestrade's thick, soft hair, forcing his mouth to remain on his nipple, revelling in the feel of the wet heat and slight shiver of pain as teeth grazed over the hardened nub.
He somehow couldn't believe he was here, now, after years of very formal dates, of dinners and courting and theatre outings, never amounting to anything…and now he had somehow ended up with a man who he'd found literally lying in the street.
He gasped as the mouth moved from one nipple to the other, a gentle bite, teeth scraping over flesh, and he wasn't even sure when he'd got an erection, but it was there, and it both excited and terrified him.
Lestrade moved up the bed again, planting more kisses as he went, finally licking over Holmes' own lips, begging for access. And when he opened his mouth Lestrade's strong arms were wrapped around him and he found himself lifted and rolled, legs tangling, arm reaching for balance. And then he was lying on top of Lestrade, and his groin was…and Lestrade's…he closed his eyes, trying to take deep breaths, remain in control, even as Lestrade's hands were on his buttocks, kneading the flesh, pulling him closer, tighter, shifting so they were locked together.
He looked down at Lestrade's face, the smile there soft and relaxed, eyes half closed.
"Just relax," Lestrade whispered. "Enjoy it."
And he smiled back, knowing his was slightly strained, because he was always uncomfortable when he wasn't in control, and he had never felt less so in his life.
"We won't do anything you don't want to," Lestrade continued, and Holmes could feel him dragging his nails very gently over his back, and it was relaxing. Then he felt the twitch of Lestrade's erection at his hip, and it all came flooding back - he knew the mechanics, obviously, but the prospect of putting it into practice seemed terrifying.
"What's up?" Lestrade stretched up to kiss him, the tendons in his neck standing out as he did so. And Holmes moved down slightly, following Lestrade's earlier example, kissing his neck, feeling the rough stubble under his lips. He moved tentatively, dropping small kisses, occasionally tracing with the tip of his tongue. And Lestrade moved underneath him, stretching, groaning, hands finding his buttocks again and then a gently rocking his hips. Holmes froze for a second as the gentle friction on his erection made him jump, and a moan was pulled from deep inside him.
"Like that?" Lestrade whispered in his ear, then bit and sucked on the lobe.
"Mmmm," he groaned, all words abandoning him - almost all coherent thought abandoning him. And Lestrade's hands were sliding over his back, holding him tightly, reaching for a kiss.
And then it stopped, Lestrade panting underneath him, eyes closed. And he worried.
"Are…is something wrong?" he asked.
Lestrade shook his head. "Just…need a moment. Way too close," he blew out a breath, opening his eyes, and it took Holmes a moment to understand, to realise that Lestrade had nearly orgasmed. And another moment to realise he had caused that - the gorgeous man underneath him had been so turned on…by him. He moved his legs, leaving just his chest resting on Lestrade, noticing, out of the corner of his eye, Lestrade's dick, rigid in the air, a slight curve to it. He dipped his head and ran the flat of his tongue over Lestrade's nipple, hand splayed on his stomach. His tongue slid over flesh and metal, and he kept his eyes open, trying to read the expressions, follow the clues.
"God, yeah, like that," Lestrade's voice was rough, almost hoarse and he couldn't help but push his own groin into the soft bedding slightly, hips jerking.
Lestrade's hands found his arms and urged him upwards, grabbing a kiss before pushing him over, onto his back. And then, a few kisses and Lestrade was heading down his body, detouring around nipples and to dip his tongue into Holmes' navel, and then, just when Holmes was certain what was going to happen, Lestrade was laying kisses and licking the crease between his thigh and his body, up on his hands and knees, crawling down the bed, mouth never stopping its steady work.
Holmes' could feel his erection twitching, seeking touch, and he couldn't help but lift his head to see what Lestrade was doing - just in time to see the tip of his cock disappearing between Lestrade's lips. And he could swear Lestrade was smiling.
He gasped as the heat and wet engulfed him, his hands bunching the covers underneath him into fists. Then the suction of Lestrade lifting his head, cheeks hollowed, lips wet, and he felt the muscles in his legs begin to shake.
Lestrade finally let the tip slide through his lips and then immediately sank straight back down, seeming to take the entire length into his mouth. Holmes could hear himself making noises - noises he was sure sounded utterly pornographic. And as the feelings intensified it was as if Lestrade somehow knew - could read his mind, and he moved, tongue and then lips on his balls, and then Lestrade's arms wriggling under his thighs, lifting them, pushing his legs up, resting them over his shoulders, as the warm mouth moved ever lower.
His eyes snapped open as the tongue went where, in Holmes' opinion, tongues were not supposed to go.
"Jus' think 'bout how good it feels," Lestrade mumbled, between licks.
And Holmes once again wondered if Lestrade was actually a mind reader. But he did close his eyes again, and the feelings were sensational as Lestrade kissed, licked and groaned, with what sounded like pleasure. Which just made it all feel so much better, because it really did seem as if Lestrade was enjoying it too.
Another shift, a wriggle from Lestrade and his legs were released and his dick once again engulfed with the heat and pressure of lips, tongue and the soft scrape of teeth. He was powerless to stop his hips jerking - even more so when he felt a gentle pressure against his wet hole as a finger or thumb stroked over and around it. The feeling of his muscles turning to water seemed to spread outward from his groin, along with the inexorable heat and pressure.
"I…I'm going to…" and he tried to grab Lestrade's hair, to urge him to stop and move, but Lestrade stubbornly stayed where he was, one hand encircling the base of Holmes' cock, moving in time with his mouth.
The orgasm felt as if it ripped through him, wringing every bit of life from him in a huge wave of unimaginable pleasure and he wasn't sure if it was him making the noise or Lestrade. His legs were weak, shaking and the feel of Lestrade's tongue lapping over him and lips gently sucking him clean. He tried to say something, but couldn't form the words.
Lestrade crawled back up the bed, half lying on top of Holmes', and Holmes' could taste the slightly salty flavour of his own essence as Lestrade kissed him.
He could feel the steely hardness pressing against his hip, and realised, despite his post-orgasmic haze, he should try to do something about it.
He reached down, and Lestrade rolled away, onto his back, so Holmes followed, his fingers closing around Lestrade's erection, reaching for another kiss. Mentally cataloguing the cock now in his hand - a little thicker than his own, different bumps of veins, the foreskin less generous, the curve less pronounced.
"Mmm," Lestrade moaned, hips bucking into the touch. Holmes looked down, unsure what to do, whether to try to follow Lestrade's lead.
"Just…" Lestrade's own hand closed around his, stroking. Then Lestrade glanced around, his gaze resting on a tube of hand lotion. "Grab that," he said, and Holmes immediately obeyed, watching as Lestrade dumped some of the lotion into his hand, then slicked it over his erection, re-taking Holmes' hand and setting a rhythm.
Holmes watched for a moment, before a gasp of pleasure attracted his attention and he kissed Lestrade again, then dipped to kiss and lick his nipples, Lestrade's free hand threading through his hair.
Another groan and Lestrade was coming, grip around Holmes' hand tight, muscles and tendons corded, thrusts erratic, breath coming in gasps as the come spurted over his stomach and both their hands.
Lestrade dropped his arms to the bed, and Holmes gently rested his head onto Lestrade's chest, hearing the heart inside beating wildly.
He stroked his fingers over Lestrade's thigh, then felt the heavy weight of Lestrade's arm around him, holding him close, snuggling up to him and kissing the top of his head.
He had never got far enough in any fantasy to think about this sort of thing, and he relaxed into the touch, enjoying it almost as much as what had gone before.
Finally, after dozing for some time, fingertips gently stroking the skin on his upper arm, Lestrade moved, tucking his arm behind his head and looking down at him slightly.
"Could do with a shower," Lestrade said softly. "Before I fall asleep like this," he gestured down at his body with the arm that was wrapped around him.
"Of course," Mycroft moved, immediately missing the embrace and allowing Lestrade to sit up.
"Of course," Lestrade smiled at him. "You could always join me."
Mycroft found himself smiling back. He didn't know how, but Lestrade was making him feel totally at ease - nothing like he imagined he would feel. He was aware that they hadn't quite done what he had assumed they would, and there was a lot for him still to experience and learn, but it seemed Lestrade was in no rush and for that he was ridiculously grateful.
He rolled off the bed, muscles still feeling a little weak, and allowed Lestrade to take his hand and lead him into the large en suite. The shower stall was large - a whole area cut off from the rest of the room by a glass screen, and he leant in, turning the water on and allowing it to heat up before stepping under, leading Lestrade in with him. He turned, wrapping his arms around the other man, pulling him close.
"Thank you," he said softly, his words almost drowned out by the shower.
He could feel Lestrade's cheek move, and knew the other man was smiling. "For what?" he asked.
Holmes could feel his cheeks reddening, and was glad that Lestrade couldn't see his face.
"For...being kind to me," he said, haltingly. "For making it special."
And then Lestrade was moving away, and Holmes ducked his head, not wanting Lestrade to see his blush. But strong hands slid over his cheeks and he was kissed, water flowing over their faces.
"You deserved nothing less. And anyway, we're only just starting." And the smile returned, Holmes unable to stop himself mirroring it.
After the shower Holmes pulled on his toweling robe whilst Lestrade wrapped one of the huge fluffy bath sheets around his waist.
TBC...( in part B!)