you need someone (but it won't be me), Sherlock/Lestrade, NC-17
Title: you need someone to take care of you (but I know it won't be me)
Rating: NC-17
Length: 5,300 words
Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade
Warnings: BDSM, kink
Summary: The first time he sees Sherlock's driving license, Lestrade is sure it's a skilled forgery, though why Sherlock would want the little black S as his role instead of a D, he has no idea.
Notes:BDSM!AU, for the kinkmeme, prompted and originally posted here, pulling inspiration from helenish's Take Clothes off as Directed and aris_writing's Directed!Verse. Paired with it's easy and followed by everything you won't tell me.
The first time he sees Sherlock's driving license, Lestrade is sure it's a skilled forgery, though why Sherlock would want the little black S as his role instead of a D, he has no idea. There's no way he can be using it to make people underestimate him, not when he comes into a crime scene, calls half the team idiots, and starts giving orders to the other half.
Subs don't do that. Subs don't meet his eyes and dismiss him and tell him imperiously, “Take Anderson off forensics. He's a waste of oxygen.” Subs don't hear his command voice and raise an eyebrow at him, as if he a dog that's just done a mildly interesting trick.
Sherlock, if he tried, could probably out-dominate a good third of his force, and he had no shortage of subs fluttering their lashes at him and asking if he was unattached, or if his current sub didn't mind sharing.
“Are you actually a sub?” Lestrade asks, when Sherlock makes one of his forensics team cry (though, in his defense, the man had managed to destroy a pretty important piece of evidence, and it was going to take a lot of work to get enough other evidence to make up for it).
Sherlock looks at him. “That's what it says on the card.”
“You can fake those,” he points out.
“You think I forged my driving license to make it say I'm submissive? Why in the world would I do that?”
“Kneel,” Lestrade orders; Sherlock doesn't even twitch.
“No. You kneel,” and Lestrade can feel the tug, the slight pull that makes him want to obey; it's rather unpleasant.
So he's a top, then.
But Lestrade has never, not once, seen Sherlock with a sub, with a leash in his hand or a bracelet around his off-wrist to indicate a newly-made claim. He's seen Sherlock pull commands on people, but he's never followed through, never praised a sub for their obedience or ordered one to stay for him.
Sherlock wields command like some sort of exotic weapon he's never bothered to learn, clumsy and poorly-aimed, but still in its own way dangerous.
--
“You need to stop messing with my officers,” Lestrade says finally, when the third top in the same week has refused to work with Sherlock. For all that subs tend to swoon over him, Sherlock drives tops crazy. “Anderson won't work with you anymore.”
“Maybe they shouldn't be so weak-willed,” Sherlock replies, and lifts the dead woman's hand to get a better look at the bracelet on her wrist. He slips it off her hand, and holds a small magnifying glass to it. Examining the inscription. “What does it mean when an unattached sub wears bracelets given to her by her brother?”
Lestrade shrugs. “Uh... He worries about her? He wants to warn potential tops to treat her nicely?”
“Wrong. Wrong.” Sherlock compares his wrist to that of the dead woman, slips the bracelet on and spins it before Lestrade can remind him about not contaminating the evidence. “Wrong size,” he says, eyes widening, and rises to his feet. “It's not a gift, it's his.”
--
And Lestrade would go on thinking that Sherlock's just a top who doesn't keep subs, who doesn't date, except that a week after he gives Sherlock the ultimatum -- cases or drugs, he can't have both, he gets the text on his mobile.
Help. Help me. Please. Just you.
SH
It's followed by a picture of the door to Sherlock's flat, blurred and out of focus as if Sherlock couldn't keep his hands steady long enough to get a proper image.
He breaks several speed limits getting to Sherlock's flat, uses a police car but doesn't turn on his sirens, doesn't call it in. Because Sherlock's never, not once, asked him, personally, for help, and it scares the hell out of him. He hopes, desperately, that he's not going to find a body in there.
There are a pair of keys on the ground -- one to get into the building, one to get into his flat, and he snatches them up. Dropped there, deliberately.
When Lestrade opens the door to Sherlock's flat, Sherlock's pacing back and forth just inside it, movements jerky. His hair's a mess, disheveled from too many runnings of his hand through his mop of curls, and it sticks up in all places.
His pupils are blown when he looks at Lestrade, and there's something wrong with him; he can't stay still.
“Sherlock,” Lestrade says. “What are you on?”
“I don't know.” Sherlock shakes his head, and he seems to crumple in on himself, becoming smaller. There is a frightening vulnerability in his voice. “I -- Something for the cocaine withdrawal,” he says, and offers a small handful of pills to Lestrade. “I -- I don't know. Not what I thought,” and he laughs, bleakly.
Lestrade pockets the pills (he'll send them to the lab later, find out what they are), and grabs Sherlock's shoulder. He has to shake Sherlock's shoulder before Sherlock looks at him, and it's another moment before his eyes focus. “Do you need me to call an ambulance?”
Sherlock shakes his head and drops to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut; for a second, Lestrade's sure Sherlock's collapsed, but that's not it, because he's on his knees, he's kneeling, pressing his face against Lestrade's trousers, trembling under his thin shirt. He's mumbling something, but Lestrade can't make out what it is. It sounds like please.
Lestrade threads his fingers through Sherlock's hair and tugs, gives him pain to focus his thoughts. “Sherlock. Tell me,” he orders, and Sherlock's eyes flicker up to meet his own, then stutter away, gaze dropping.
“The withdrawal's too much. I can't -- I can't handle it. Nothing helps. I can't think, I can't stop thinking about it, help me. Take it away.”
He's heard that plea before. Never from Sherlock. “You really are a sub.”
“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock says, with a fraction of his usual bite; he rises on his knees, sliding a hand up the back of Lestrade's leg.
“Stop,” Lestrade snaps, and Sherlock stops. “Hands behind your back. Hold them there. Don't move.”
Sherlock obeys him, slides his hands behind his back and Lestrade can see his fingers tangle together. And a tiny, tiny fraction of Sherlock's tension eases. It is a drop of peace in an otherwise chaotic pond.
“Are you going to hate me for this in the morning?” Lestrade asks, and Sherlock's gaze skitters across the floor, settles on Lestrade's shoes, climbs up his leg but stops halfway up his torso. Then it drops again, and Sherlock swallows.
“Maybe,” he says to the floor, and Lestrade watches his fingers clench and unclench.
“Do you want me to do it anyways?”
“Yes.”
--
Lestrade has no idea why he's here, in Sherlock's flat -- in Sherlock's bedroom, rifling through his nightstand for gear (none, though he does find a knife and more cocaine, which he flushes).
Oh god, a little voice in his head says hysterically. I'm about to top Sherlock Holmes, who is quite possibly too off his head right now to say no. Oh, he recognizes that feeling in his chest. That's fear, right there next to his heart, because he's terrified he's going to mess up, that he'll say or do something wrong and make things worse. If it's even possible to make things worse.
Sherlock finishes stripping off his clothes, leaving them in a messy pile on the floor. He begins to pace, taking long, agitated strides. His hands are twitching at his sides. He is angular, lightly-muscled, and just a touch too skinny to be healthy -- side effect of the cocaine.
“Stop moving.”
Sherlock stops -- mostly. His hands still twitch, and his eyes dart between Lestrade's face, hands, and the nightstand.
“What are you thinking?”
Sherlock doesn't answer -- deliberately doesn't answer, because he hears the question and his head tilts and his lips tighten and his hands go still.
“Tell me.” He pushes command into his voice, uses the voice he uses when he's talking to a sub who likes to make him fight for it. When Sherlock hesitates, still not answering, he sighs, backs down even though he's hard, even though he's eager to have Sherlock, beautiful and obedient and just a little bit smashed up. “If you don't feel comfortable with this, we don't have to do it. You're allowed to change your mind if you want to stop.”
“No,” Sherlock blurts immediately, vulnerability bleeding into his eyes, making him look wounded. “I -- I.” His face twists, and he drops to his knees, but he looks like he's not sure he wants to be there. “Don't go. I need -- I trust you. Do it.”
And he doesn't look sure, but Lestrade wants him, wants to fuck his arse and grind his face against the floor and hurt him and -- Sherlock's already said yes, even though it means maybe. It's not a no.
Lestrade takes a quick inventory. He has -- two belts, his and the one on Sherlock's jeans. He has exactly one condom, lubricated, in his wallet, two months old. He has Sherlock's knife, but Lestrade doesn't like knives.
“What's your safeword?”
“I don't need one.”
Now is not the time to be lecturing Sherlock about safewords and limits, so Lestrade just undoes his belt and says, “Your safeword is 'safeword'. Say it.”
“Safeword.”
“Good boy.” He pulls the belt through his belt loops and then through his fist, feeling the leather. It's warm from being next to his body all day.
Sherlock had been wavering around half-hard for most of the time he's been naked, but now he's fully hard, and tense, staring at the belt.
“What are you thinking?”
A hesitation, then, “You're going to hit me with your belt. On the back, most likely. You won't do it while I'm kneeling on the floor though, because you're too tall, and it'd be awkward, but you could, and you've done it before.”
“Lie on the bed. On your stomach.”
Sherlock's quiet obedience has Lestrade choking down a groan, because he's never quiet, never obedient. Never submissive, not like this, not for him, and he's never thought about Sherlock like this before, but now the image is burned in his mind, indelible.
On the bed, Sherlock folds his arms under his head and looks at the wall. His shoulders are tense.
“Now what are you thinking about?”
“Cocaine.”
Lestrade brings the belt down on Sherlock's back, and he jumps, rises part-way to turn on his side. Lestrade grabs his shoulder and shoves him back down. Wrong answer, he thinks, but he doesn't say it, because it's not Sherlock's responsibility to forget; it's Lestrade's responsibility to take the thought away.
“Count them,” he says, and brings the belt down again, raising another red line against the planes of Sherlock's back. Sherlock has scars there, and Lestrade's no genius, can't take a glance at them and know who put them there, or when, or with what, but he knows what they mean.
Someone hasn't taken care of Sherlock. Someone took him and used him and damaged him, left him trying to out-top doms to prevent them trying to top him.
Lestrade's not sure he's allowed to know that. He's sure Sherlock doesn't want him to know that.
Sherlock's stopped counting. His eyes are screwed tightly shut, and he jumps, a little bit, each time Lestrade brings the belt down, crisscrossing Sherlock's back with streaks of red that become progressively darker as they overlap. Sherlock's face is flushed, and he's breathing through his mouth.
“What are you thinking?”
“I'm hard, my back hurts, I think I lost count -- sixteen?” Sherlock sounds confused -- and just a little bit lost. But he's not twitching with anxiety anymore, and he's not thinking about cocaine, and he has lost count.
“Eighteen,” Lestrade corrects. He brings the belt down again.
Sherlock's hips jerk against the bed, and there is a strangled noise as he tries to groan and cry out in pain at the same time. “Nine -- nineteen,” he gasps, and buries his face against the pillow.
At twenty, Lestrade stops, sets his belt on the nightstand. His belt buckle clicks against the finished wood and Sherlock raises his head, but slowly, without the usual frenetic energy he displays. But Lestrade can see the way sharp alertness is creeping back into Sherlock's eyes, tension starting to gather in his shoulders.
“I'm not done,” he says curtly, and Sherlock's eyes skitter to his, startled, then drop submissively. “Get over my lap. Now. I'm going to spank you.”
Sherlock moves without challenging him, without saying a word, and drapes himself, loose-limbed, over Lestrade's lap. His erection presses against the inside of Lestrade's thigh, and Lestrade takes a deep, slow, breath.
Sherlock startles when Lestrade's hand makes contact with his arse, and redness blossoms across the pale flesh. “One,” he says.
Lestrade's less careful with his hand -- it's harder to do real damage with his palm against an arse rather than his belt against a back, and with each slap Sherlock's hips stutter against his thighs. By ten, Sherlock's whimpering. By twenty, he's writhing, grinding his cock against Lestrade's inner thigh but not getting any real friction, making greedy, frustrated noises. He's not even pretending to keep count by now.
“What are you thinking?”
“Pain endorphins you your hand your prick I want you to fuck me I want to come I want you to hurt me, please.”
Later, Lestrade pushes into Sherlock -- slowly, painfully slowly, because he hadn't bothered to stretch Sherlock out first, because he'd asked if he'd wanted to be prepared and Sherlock had turned his head away and ground out, “No”.
Sherlock makes noises like he's being torn apart and can't take it, involuntary gasps and whimpers and cries. And Lestrade's not normally a sadistic dom -- he prefers submission, he prefers devotion, but Sherlock in pain is quite possibly the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, because Sherlock throws himself into it completely, embraces it like it's his entire world.
Lestrade fucks Sherlock until he's begging (until “fuck hurts it hurts” becomes “GregpleaseGregGregGreg”). After he comes, he drapes himself over Sherlock's back (and Sherlock whimpers, because his back's still red, and any contact hurts) and makes Sherlock come just by ordering him to, growling the command, gravelly, into his ear while his fingertips dig bruises into Sherlock's right hip.
And even later, after they are both sated and Sherlock is half-conscious, clinging to the edges of subspace, Lestrade gets rid of his police car out front, and comes back in a cab. He lets himself back in because he's still got the keys, and Sherlock's in the same position he'd left him in, sprawled on his stomach on the bed, eyes closed but not asleep. He opens them and his eyes widen when he sees Lestrade in his bedroom (even though he'd said he'd come back, even though he said he was only popping out for a minute, and a part of him wonders how many times Sherlock's heard that before and it's been a lie).
“It's just me,” he murmurs gently, and slides into the bed. Sherlock moves over to give him room, and, when Lestrade puts an arm around his shoulders and tugs, comes quietly, tucking his head under Lestrade's chin and curling peacefully against his chest.
“I've got you, Sherlock,” he says. “Go to sleep."
--
Lestrade wakes up first. He has work in an hour (because of course Sherlock couldn't be bothered to have his crisis on a weekend), and he needs to go home to shower and change clothes. Sherlock is dead to the world, and drooling slightly on his chest. He rouses slightly when Lestrade shakes his shoulder.
“I have to go to work,” Lestrade says. “Are you okay to be left alone?”
There is a long silence as Sherlock looks at him, expression neutral despite the fact that his hair's sticking up in all directions and that he has to crane his neck upwards to meet Lestrade's eyes. But he does meet Lestrade's eyes, holds his gaze unwaveringly, and any thoughts Lestrade may have had, about whatever was between them changing, are dashed to the ground.
“I'm fine,” Sherlock says, and rolls off him; he winces slightly when he moves. “You can see yourself out.”
Lestrade reaches for Sherlock's face -- he's not sure why, doesn't know what he's planning on doing, except that he has the sudden knowledge that for all they've done, they haven't yet kissed.
Sherlock knocks his hand away. “Don't do that,” he says, and tension starts to bleed into his muscles -- defensiveness. Lestrade can recognize it now, and suddenly he's frustrated, so frustrated, because he'd managed to take it away for one night, and now it's coming back as quickly and smoothly as if he'd never been here.
Lestrade raises his hands. “I'm sorry,” he apologizes, and gets out of bed, and chooses to count it as a personal triumph when Sherlock twists to look up at him instead of getting off the bed to stand as well. He runs a hand through his hair.
He's a dom. Sherlock's a sub. He's supposed to know what Sherlock needs, supposed to be able to give it to him, and take care of him, and make things okay. “Look. This doesn't have to mean anything if you don't --”
“I don't,” Sherlock says firmly.
“Alright then. Do you want me to give you a couple more weeks of detox before I start sending you cases, or would you rather I send them as I get them?”
Sherlock lies back down on the bed, and closes his eyes. He takes a breath, and Lestrade watches his chest move. “A week or two will be best.”
“Okay. I'm glad you're alright. I'll see you later.”
--
He goes to home, and then he goes to work, where he focuses on cases and tries to forget the taste of Sherlock's sweat, and the way he'd gasped and groaned his name, and the fact that he'd really like to do it again.
Three days later, he gets another text message.
I don't need you.
SH
I figured that out on my own, thanks, he thinks, and doesn't think anything of it until he gets the second message, an hour later.
It is a picture of Sherlock's bed, sheets rumpled.
7 PM tonight?
SH
I'll be there, he texts back.
--
They don't talk about it -- there really isn't that much to talk about. Sherlock's a sub who needs to be dominated to help him through getting off the drugs, and Lestrade's... well, he's pretty sure he's just got poor judgment, because every time Sherlock texts him a time and location, he says yes.
Part of it is just his natural protectiveness coming through, because he knows that “want” and “need” are on the wrong sides for Sherlock, and that he's possibly the only one Sherlock trusts to dominate him.
He'd asked Sherlock to tell him about his previous tops, once. Sherlock had looked at him consideringly, and thrown out all the work Lestrade had done that night towards getting him into subspace by safewording out. Then he'd calmly gone out to the balcony -- stark naked, and chain-smoked through the rest of the pack of cigarettes he'd nicked from Lestrade's jacket pocket.
So they don't talk about it, and Lestrade calls Sherlock in on crime scenes when they could use his help. If the details of the crime are interesting enough, Sherlock will help -- finding something they overlooked, or finding some solution that seems impossible but turns out to be the truth.
And while they're on the job, Sherlock will act as he's always acted, and Lestrade will act as he's always acted.
And increasingly rarely, he will get a text message from Sherlock that's just a place -- his bedroom, his sitting room, and once, Lestrade's bedroom (Sherlock had picked the lock, of course), and a time.
The offers stop after Sherlock's been clean six months -- presumably when the symptoms of withdrawal have lessened enough for him to deal with it on his own, because Sherlock's fine. He still responds to texts, and he still does things on his website, and he still shows up to crime scenes.
If there are any signs that he misses being on his knees, or tied down to a bed, or paddled until he cries, well.
Lestrade doesn't see them.
--
Lestrade can see the signs of Sherlock's increasing frustration -- it's apparent in the way he paces, taking long strides around the perimeter of Lestrade's office, like a trapped animal, and the way his hands clench, repeatedly, into fists. It's in his words becoming more and more curt, and his eyes, more and more flinty.
The case is not going well. None of Sherlock's leads are panning out, even when he's sure they will, and bodies keep showing up. Each one that appears is another taunt -- You can't stop me. They're getting nowhere.
“When did you last get any sleep?” Lestrade asks.
“I took a nap six hours ago,” Sherlock responds curtly; he doesn't pause in his pacing, lost in thought.
“Well, I'm going home, and I'm not coming back until someone calls me.” He hesitates, then says, “I have food too, and I know you haven't eaten all day. Come with me.”
“I'll eat something when we find the killer.”
“That wasn't why I asked you to come home with me,” Lestrade says.
Sherlock stops abruptly and swivels his head to look Lestrade in the eye. “I'm not your sub.”
“I know.”
“I don't want to be your sub.”
“I don't want you to be my sub either,” Lestrade says honestly, because it's true (because every once in a while, Sherlock feels the need to repeat it, to make sure). Getting Sherlock to submit at all is an ordeal, and Lestrade prefers his subs to be happy belonging to him. There's no way he'd be able to handle Sherlock for an extended period of time, not for anything more than sex.
“No, you don't,” Sherlock agrees, eying him in that way he hates, making him feel vulnerable and exposed. “You're concerned about me.”
“You haven't eaten or slept in days. You're becoming a terror to be around, and I can't have you here if you're going to be picking fights with my officers.”
“He started it.”
“Doesn't matter. We can't work with you when you're like this. You can come home with me, or you can take care of it yourself, but if you're like this tomorrow, I'm sending you home, and I'm going to send you home every day until it changes.”
“You can't do that!”
“Yes, I can! You're a consultant. We can stop consulting with you if you're being impossible to work with. We can, and we will. And I'm going home for some food and rest. Come with me if you want, or go home if you don't. You can't stay here, unless you want to increase the list of people who won't work with you.”
“Fine,” Sherlock says curtly. “I'll go with you.” But I don't have to like it, his eyes protest defiantly.
Frankly, Lestrade doesn't care. If it gets Sherlock fed and rested, that'll be good enough.
--
“There's leftover takeaway in the fridge. Feel free to help yourself,” Lestrade says. “I'm going to take a shower.” Sherlock murmurs something in assent, already going to the kitchen. He's been here before, and knows the layout.
Lestrade brushes his teeth, then shaves, because he knows he won't have the time if they find something and call him back in. He has just stepped into the shower and wet his hair when the door clicks open. He jumps. “Sherlock!”
“I got bored,” Sherlock says, already stripping. Lestrade watches (hungrily, because it's been a while since he's gotten laid, and even longer since he's had Sherlock) as Sherlock reveals more and more slices of pale flesh. “And obviously you want to. This is what you were hoping for when you invited me here.”
Sherlock pauses with his hand on the shower door, so Lestrade pushes it open. He reaches for the back of Sherlock's neck to pull him in, but Sherlock bats his hand away and steps in by himself. The shower is too cramped for two grown men, and they bump against each other. Sherlock puts his hands on Lestrade's chest, and looks at them.
“This is the only way I can -- ” He stops, licks his lips. “I need -- This will -- ”
“I know,” Lestrade interrupts, because Sherlock's starting to look irritated at his inability to explain. “I know.”
,
Lestrade knows first-hand what it feels like, when the stress and frustration of getting nowhere on a case boils up. He knows how it becomes the only thing he can think about, until he's eating and breathing and living the case and there's no space left for anything else. He knows how horrible it is, when the details get blurred and fuzzy, and he starts making mistakes, because he's burning himself out and it's eating him alive.
When it happens, when someone recognizes it (takes him aside, tells him to take a breather), he goes home, takes a long shower, forces himself to eat something and think about something else -- anything else, anything that belongs to him and not the case. Or he'll pick someone up, and take them home, and get lost in them, in finding their tells and peeling away their layers and burying himself in their body.
“You know how I like you,” Lestrade growls, and twists Sherlock's wrists off his chest. “Get on your knees. Hands behind your back.”
Sherlock kneels -- gracefully. Everything he does is graceful until he's broken apart and hurting. Hot water buffets his chest, and Sherlock's eyes trace the trails the it makes as it slides down his body. His hair is wet, curls plastered to his forehead, strands sticking together in thick tendrils. Sherlock's still meeting his eyes.
Lestrade threads his fingers through Sherlock's hair and yanks his head back roughly. Sherlock makes a surprised, pained sound, eyes closing, and he watches as Sherlock's cock snaps to attention. “You like that, don't you,” he growls. “You like it so much when I hurt you.”
“Maybe you should hurt me and find out,” Sherlock says, eyes still closed. Drops of water land on his face, on his eyelids.
Lestrade tugs on Sherlock's hair again, twisting. “Maybe later,” he promises. “Open your mouth. Keep your eyes closed.”
“I don't need my eyes to know what you're going to do next,” Sherlock complains, and Lestrade cuffs the side of his face.
“Shut up. Open your mouth.”
When Sherlock opens his mouth (eyes open, but Lestrade's despaired of actually getting Sherlock to obey him until he's half-gone with need), Lestrade shoves his cock into it. Sherlock's throat works as he suppresses his gag reflex, and presses his tongue against him. Lestrade bites off the groan that threatens to escape.
“You're so good at this,” he mutters softly, as he fucks Sherlock's mouth, first slowly, then faster, pounding against the back of his throat. Lestrade feels warm all over, from the water and how it mists warmly in the air, and from Sherlock, whose mouth is warm and wet and hot. Sherlock makes cut-off, choked noises -- discomfort, pain, but he doesn't stop Lestrade, doesn't take his hands from behind his back to indicate, Wait, or Slow down.
“I don't know anyone else who can take it like this,” he says. “I don't know how you can even breathe. You sound like you're choking. I wouldn't mind choking you. You bring out the worst in me, because you're at your most beautiful when you're in pain. I love hurting you.”
He can feel his orgasm coming as he abuses Sherlock's mouth, and he pulls out before he does so; Sherlock licks his lips, leans towards it (like a whore, Lestrade thinks, but he doesn't say it), lips still parted. Lestrade grabs his cock in his free hand -- the left one, because his other's still caught in Sherlock's hair, holding his head in place. One stroke, two strokes, Sherlock's eyes go wide when he realizes what Lestrade's going to do, and then Lestrade's coming on Sherlock's face, striping semen on Sherlock's cheeks and lips and in his mouth.
Sherlock's tongue darts out and licks his lips slowly, tasting him. Lestrade drags his fingers through the mess on Sherlock's face before the water rinses it away, and moves his thumb on Sherlock's cheek lightly, rubbing it into the skin. He touches Sherlock's lower lip, and Sherlock sucks in his fingers, licking them clean.
He leaves his fingers there for a moment, and lets go of Sherlock's hair to cup his cheek, an odd tenderness in his chest.
Wrong.
Sherlock jerks his head away and his -- whatever it is, his alertness, his tension, his genius, comes rushing back into him, until he's no longer the damaged sub that sometimes shares Lestrade's bed, but instead the consulting detective that terrorizes his staff. There is a tension in him now that experience has taught him Sherlock won't let him touch.
Sherlock rises, still hard, and, turning his back to Lestrade, washes the semen from his face, face tilted into the spray of the still-running water. He rinses his mouth out, and smooths down his hair, and doesn't say a word. The distance between them stretches out, infinitely far.
Sherlock steps out of the shower and gets dressed, then hesitates. “Thank you,” he says softly, and turns around. He steps forward quickly and, with some clumsiness, presses a kiss to the corner of Lestrade's mouth.
It is the first time Sherlock's initiated a kiss, and Lestrade is still standing, speechless, when the door clicks shut.
--
Sherlock has heated the leftover takeaway by the time Lestrade gets out of the shower, feeling much refreshed after the orgasm and a change of clothes, but still somehow unbalanced. There is an extra fork on top of one of the takeaway boxes, and he grabs it. “Thanks,” he mutters, and sits next to Sherlock on the sofa.
Sherlock makes a brief murmur of acknowledgment. His hair is still damp, and has dripped onto the shoulders of his shirt. His shoulders are tense, but his spine is relaxed, and he's slouching forward in the way that he does when he's not trying to impress or intimidate anyone.
He's himself again, but less so. Not peaceful, not content, but he's no longer got that sharp, manic edge to him that frightens Lestrade. (It'll be back by tomorrow, but it's not here now, which is the best that he can hope for.)
They eat in silence for a few minutes, telly on but with the volume turned low. When the food is gone, Lestrade is feeling pleasantly full, and he stretches. “I'm going to sleep for a few minutes,” he announces, looking at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. “You're welcome to join me if you want to lie in a bed, but you can nap on the couch if you'd rather.”
Sherlock dismisses him with a wave of his hand; he's looking at the telly, probably lip-reading the speakers or something, from the way he's staring at it.
Lestrade goes to bed alone.
But when Scotland Yard calls him back in three hours later, he has to crawl over Sherlock to get to his phone.
Rating: NC-17
Length: 5,300 words
Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade
Warnings: BDSM, kink
Summary: The first time he sees Sherlock's driving license, Lestrade is sure it's a skilled forgery, though why Sherlock would want the little black S as his role instead of a D, he has no idea.
Notes:BDSM!AU, for the kinkmeme, prompted and originally posted here, pulling inspiration from helenish's Take Clothes off as Directed and aris_writing's Directed!Verse. Paired with it's easy and followed by everything you won't tell me.
The first time he sees Sherlock's driving license, Lestrade is sure it's a skilled forgery, though why Sherlock would want the little black S as his role instead of a D, he has no idea. There's no way he can be using it to make people underestimate him, not when he comes into a crime scene, calls half the team idiots, and starts giving orders to the other half.
Subs don't do that. Subs don't meet his eyes and dismiss him and tell him imperiously, “Take Anderson off forensics. He's a waste of oxygen.” Subs don't hear his command voice and raise an eyebrow at him, as if he a dog that's just done a mildly interesting trick.
Sherlock, if he tried, could probably out-dominate a good third of his force, and he had no shortage of subs fluttering their lashes at him and asking if he was unattached, or if his current sub didn't mind sharing.
“Are you actually a sub?” Lestrade asks, when Sherlock makes one of his forensics team cry (though, in his defense, the man had managed to destroy a pretty important piece of evidence, and it was going to take a lot of work to get enough other evidence to make up for it).
Sherlock looks at him. “That's what it says on the card.”
“You can fake those,” he points out.
“You think I forged my driving license to make it say I'm submissive? Why in the world would I do that?”
“Kneel,” Lestrade orders; Sherlock doesn't even twitch.
“No. You kneel,” and Lestrade can feel the tug, the slight pull that makes him want to obey; it's rather unpleasant.
So he's a top, then.
But Lestrade has never, not once, seen Sherlock with a sub, with a leash in his hand or a bracelet around his off-wrist to indicate a newly-made claim. He's seen Sherlock pull commands on people, but he's never followed through, never praised a sub for their obedience or ordered one to stay for him.
Sherlock wields command like some sort of exotic weapon he's never bothered to learn, clumsy and poorly-aimed, but still in its own way dangerous.
--
“You need to stop messing with my officers,” Lestrade says finally, when the third top in the same week has refused to work with Sherlock. For all that subs tend to swoon over him, Sherlock drives tops crazy. “Anderson won't work with you anymore.”
“Maybe they shouldn't be so weak-willed,” Sherlock replies, and lifts the dead woman's hand to get a better look at the bracelet on her wrist. He slips it off her hand, and holds a small magnifying glass to it. Examining the inscription. “What does it mean when an unattached sub wears bracelets given to her by her brother?”
Lestrade shrugs. “Uh... He worries about her? He wants to warn potential tops to treat her nicely?”
“Wrong. Wrong.” Sherlock compares his wrist to that of the dead woman, slips the bracelet on and spins it before Lestrade can remind him about not contaminating the evidence. “Wrong size,” he says, eyes widening, and rises to his feet. “It's not a gift, it's his.”
--
And Lestrade would go on thinking that Sherlock's just a top who doesn't keep subs, who doesn't date, except that a week after he gives Sherlock the ultimatum -- cases or drugs, he can't have both, he gets the text on his mobile.
Help. Help me. Please. Just you.
SH
It's followed by a picture of the door to Sherlock's flat, blurred and out of focus as if Sherlock couldn't keep his hands steady long enough to get a proper image.
He breaks several speed limits getting to Sherlock's flat, uses a police car but doesn't turn on his sirens, doesn't call it in. Because Sherlock's never, not once, asked him, personally, for help, and it scares the hell out of him. He hopes, desperately, that he's not going to find a body in there.
There are a pair of keys on the ground -- one to get into the building, one to get into his flat, and he snatches them up. Dropped there, deliberately.
When Lestrade opens the door to Sherlock's flat, Sherlock's pacing back and forth just inside it, movements jerky. His hair's a mess, disheveled from too many runnings of his hand through his mop of curls, and it sticks up in all places.
His pupils are blown when he looks at Lestrade, and there's something wrong with him; he can't stay still.
“Sherlock,” Lestrade says. “What are you on?”
“I don't know.” Sherlock shakes his head, and he seems to crumple in on himself, becoming smaller. There is a frightening vulnerability in his voice. “I -- Something for the cocaine withdrawal,” he says, and offers a small handful of pills to Lestrade. “I -- I don't know. Not what I thought,” and he laughs, bleakly.
Lestrade pockets the pills (he'll send them to the lab later, find out what they are), and grabs Sherlock's shoulder. He has to shake Sherlock's shoulder before Sherlock looks at him, and it's another moment before his eyes focus. “Do you need me to call an ambulance?”
Sherlock shakes his head and drops to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut; for a second, Lestrade's sure Sherlock's collapsed, but that's not it, because he's on his knees, he's kneeling, pressing his face against Lestrade's trousers, trembling under his thin shirt. He's mumbling something, but Lestrade can't make out what it is. It sounds like please.
Lestrade threads his fingers through Sherlock's hair and tugs, gives him pain to focus his thoughts. “Sherlock. Tell me,” he orders, and Sherlock's eyes flicker up to meet his own, then stutter away, gaze dropping.
“The withdrawal's too much. I can't -- I can't handle it. Nothing helps. I can't think, I can't stop thinking about it, help me. Take it away.”
He's heard that plea before. Never from Sherlock. “You really are a sub.”
“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock says, with a fraction of his usual bite; he rises on his knees, sliding a hand up the back of Lestrade's leg.
“Stop,” Lestrade snaps, and Sherlock stops. “Hands behind your back. Hold them there. Don't move.”
Sherlock obeys him, slides his hands behind his back and Lestrade can see his fingers tangle together. And a tiny, tiny fraction of Sherlock's tension eases. It is a drop of peace in an otherwise chaotic pond.
“Are you going to hate me for this in the morning?” Lestrade asks, and Sherlock's gaze skitters across the floor, settles on Lestrade's shoes, climbs up his leg but stops halfway up his torso. Then it drops again, and Sherlock swallows.
“Maybe,” he says to the floor, and Lestrade watches his fingers clench and unclench.
“Do you want me to do it anyways?”
“Yes.”
--
Lestrade has no idea why he's here, in Sherlock's flat -- in Sherlock's bedroom, rifling through his nightstand for gear (none, though he does find a knife and more cocaine, which he flushes).
Oh god, a little voice in his head says hysterically. I'm about to top Sherlock Holmes, who is quite possibly too off his head right now to say no. Oh, he recognizes that feeling in his chest. That's fear, right there next to his heart, because he's terrified he's going to mess up, that he'll say or do something wrong and make things worse. If it's even possible to make things worse.
Sherlock finishes stripping off his clothes, leaving them in a messy pile on the floor. He begins to pace, taking long, agitated strides. His hands are twitching at his sides. He is angular, lightly-muscled, and just a touch too skinny to be healthy -- side effect of the cocaine.
“Stop moving.”
Sherlock stops -- mostly. His hands still twitch, and his eyes dart between Lestrade's face, hands, and the nightstand.
“What are you thinking?”
Sherlock doesn't answer -- deliberately doesn't answer, because he hears the question and his head tilts and his lips tighten and his hands go still.
“Tell me.” He pushes command into his voice, uses the voice he uses when he's talking to a sub who likes to make him fight for it. When Sherlock hesitates, still not answering, he sighs, backs down even though he's hard, even though he's eager to have Sherlock, beautiful and obedient and just a little bit smashed up. “If you don't feel comfortable with this, we don't have to do it. You're allowed to change your mind if you want to stop.”
“No,” Sherlock blurts immediately, vulnerability bleeding into his eyes, making him look wounded. “I -- I.” His face twists, and he drops to his knees, but he looks like he's not sure he wants to be there. “Don't go. I need -- I trust you. Do it.”
And he doesn't look sure, but Lestrade wants him, wants to fuck his arse and grind his face against the floor and hurt him and -- Sherlock's already said yes, even though it means maybe. It's not a no.
Lestrade takes a quick inventory. He has -- two belts, his and the one on Sherlock's jeans. He has exactly one condom, lubricated, in his wallet, two months old. He has Sherlock's knife, but Lestrade doesn't like knives.
“What's your safeword?”
“I don't need one.”
Now is not the time to be lecturing Sherlock about safewords and limits, so Lestrade just undoes his belt and says, “Your safeword is 'safeword'. Say it.”
“Safeword.”
“Good boy.” He pulls the belt through his belt loops and then through his fist, feeling the leather. It's warm from being next to his body all day.
Sherlock had been wavering around half-hard for most of the time he's been naked, but now he's fully hard, and tense, staring at the belt.
“What are you thinking?”
A hesitation, then, “You're going to hit me with your belt. On the back, most likely. You won't do it while I'm kneeling on the floor though, because you're too tall, and it'd be awkward, but you could, and you've done it before.”
“Lie on the bed. On your stomach.”
Sherlock's quiet obedience has Lestrade choking down a groan, because he's never quiet, never obedient. Never submissive, not like this, not for him, and he's never thought about Sherlock like this before, but now the image is burned in his mind, indelible.
On the bed, Sherlock folds his arms under his head and looks at the wall. His shoulders are tense.
“Now what are you thinking about?”
“Cocaine.”
Lestrade brings the belt down on Sherlock's back, and he jumps, rises part-way to turn on his side. Lestrade grabs his shoulder and shoves him back down. Wrong answer, he thinks, but he doesn't say it, because it's not Sherlock's responsibility to forget; it's Lestrade's responsibility to take the thought away.
“Count them,” he says, and brings the belt down again, raising another red line against the planes of Sherlock's back. Sherlock has scars there, and Lestrade's no genius, can't take a glance at them and know who put them there, or when, or with what, but he knows what they mean.
Someone hasn't taken care of Sherlock. Someone took him and used him and damaged him, left him trying to out-top doms to prevent them trying to top him.
Lestrade's not sure he's allowed to know that. He's sure Sherlock doesn't want him to know that.
Sherlock's stopped counting. His eyes are screwed tightly shut, and he jumps, a little bit, each time Lestrade brings the belt down, crisscrossing Sherlock's back with streaks of red that become progressively darker as they overlap. Sherlock's face is flushed, and he's breathing through his mouth.
“What are you thinking?”
“I'm hard, my back hurts, I think I lost count -- sixteen?” Sherlock sounds confused -- and just a little bit lost. But he's not twitching with anxiety anymore, and he's not thinking about cocaine, and he has lost count.
“Eighteen,” Lestrade corrects. He brings the belt down again.
Sherlock's hips jerk against the bed, and there is a strangled noise as he tries to groan and cry out in pain at the same time. “Nine -- nineteen,” he gasps, and buries his face against the pillow.
At twenty, Lestrade stops, sets his belt on the nightstand. His belt buckle clicks against the finished wood and Sherlock raises his head, but slowly, without the usual frenetic energy he displays. But Lestrade can see the way sharp alertness is creeping back into Sherlock's eyes, tension starting to gather in his shoulders.
“I'm not done,” he says curtly, and Sherlock's eyes skitter to his, startled, then drop submissively. “Get over my lap. Now. I'm going to spank you.”
Sherlock moves without challenging him, without saying a word, and drapes himself, loose-limbed, over Lestrade's lap. His erection presses against the inside of Lestrade's thigh, and Lestrade takes a deep, slow, breath.
Sherlock startles when Lestrade's hand makes contact with his arse, and redness blossoms across the pale flesh. “One,” he says.
Lestrade's less careful with his hand -- it's harder to do real damage with his palm against an arse rather than his belt against a back, and with each slap Sherlock's hips stutter against his thighs. By ten, Sherlock's whimpering. By twenty, he's writhing, grinding his cock against Lestrade's inner thigh but not getting any real friction, making greedy, frustrated noises. He's not even pretending to keep count by now.
“What are you thinking?”
“Pain endorphins you your hand your prick I want you to fuck me I want to come I want you to hurt me, please.”
Later, Lestrade pushes into Sherlock -- slowly, painfully slowly, because he hadn't bothered to stretch Sherlock out first, because he'd asked if he'd wanted to be prepared and Sherlock had turned his head away and ground out, “No”.
Sherlock makes noises like he's being torn apart and can't take it, involuntary gasps and whimpers and cries. And Lestrade's not normally a sadistic dom -- he prefers submission, he prefers devotion, but Sherlock in pain is quite possibly the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, because Sherlock throws himself into it completely, embraces it like it's his entire world.
Lestrade fucks Sherlock until he's begging (until “fuck hurts it hurts” becomes “GregpleaseGregGregGreg”). After he comes, he drapes himself over Sherlock's back (and Sherlock whimpers, because his back's still red, and any contact hurts) and makes Sherlock come just by ordering him to, growling the command, gravelly, into his ear while his fingertips dig bruises into Sherlock's right hip.
And even later, after they are both sated and Sherlock is half-conscious, clinging to the edges of subspace, Lestrade gets rid of his police car out front, and comes back in a cab. He lets himself back in because he's still got the keys, and Sherlock's in the same position he'd left him in, sprawled on his stomach on the bed, eyes closed but not asleep. He opens them and his eyes widen when he sees Lestrade in his bedroom (even though he'd said he'd come back, even though he said he was only popping out for a minute, and a part of him wonders how many times Sherlock's heard that before and it's been a lie).
“It's just me,” he murmurs gently, and slides into the bed. Sherlock moves over to give him room, and, when Lestrade puts an arm around his shoulders and tugs, comes quietly, tucking his head under Lestrade's chin and curling peacefully against his chest.
“I've got you, Sherlock,” he says. “Go to sleep."
--
Lestrade wakes up first. He has work in an hour (because of course Sherlock couldn't be bothered to have his crisis on a weekend), and he needs to go home to shower and change clothes. Sherlock is dead to the world, and drooling slightly on his chest. He rouses slightly when Lestrade shakes his shoulder.
“I have to go to work,” Lestrade says. “Are you okay to be left alone?”
There is a long silence as Sherlock looks at him, expression neutral despite the fact that his hair's sticking up in all directions and that he has to crane his neck upwards to meet Lestrade's eyes. But he does meet Lestrade's eyes, holds his gaze unwaveringly, and any thoughts Lestrade may have had, about whatever was between them changing, are dashed to the ground.
“I'm fine,” Sherlock says, and rolls off him; he winces slightly when he moves. “You can see yourself out.”
Lestrade reaches for Sherlock's face -- he's not sure why, doesn't know what he's planning on doing, except that he has the sudden knowledge that for all they've done, they haven't yet kissed.
Sherlock knocks his hand away. “Don't do that,” he says, and tension starts to bleed into his muscles -- defensiveness. Lestrade can recognize it now, and suddenly he's frustrated, so frustrated, because he'd managed to take it away for one night, and now it's coming back as quickly and smoothly as if he'd never been here.
Lestrade raises his hands. “I'm sorry,” he apologizes, and gets out of bed, and chooses to count it as a personal triumph when Sherlock twists to look up at him instead of getting off the bed to stand as well. He runs a hand through his hair.
He's a dom. Sherlock's a sub. He's supposed to know what Sherlock needs, supposed to be able to give it to him, and take care of him, and make things okay. “Look. This doesn't have to mean anything if you don't --”
“I don't,” Sherlock says firmly.
“Alright then. Do you want me to give you a couple more weeks of detox before I start sending you cases, or would you rather I send them as I get them?”
Sherlock lies back down on the bed, and closes his eyes. He takes a breath, and Lestrade watches his chest move. “A week or two will be best.”
“Okay. I'm glad you're alright. I'll see you later.”
--
He goes to home, and then he goes to work, where he focuses on cases and tries to forget the taste of Sherlock's sweat, and the way he'd gasped and groaned his name, and the fact that he'd really like to do it again.
Three days later, he gets another text message.
I don't need you.
SH
I figured that out on my own, thanks, he thinks, and doesn't think anything of it until he gets the second message, an hour later.
It is a picture of Sherlock's bed, sheets rumpled.
7 PM tonight?
SH
I'll be there, he texts back.
--
They don't talk about it -- there really isn't that much to talk about. Sherlock's a sub who needs to be dominated to help him through getting off the drugs, and Lestrade's... well, he's pretty sure he's just got poor judgment, because every time Sherlock texts him a time and location, he says yes.
Part of it is just his natural protectiveness coming through, because he knows that “want” and “need” are on the wrong sides for Sherlock, and that he's possibly the only one Sherlock trusts to dominate him.
He'd asked Sherlock to tell him about his previous tops, once. Sherlock had looked at him consideringly, and thrown out all the work Lestrade had done that night towards getting him into subspace by safewording out. Then he'd calmly gone out to the balcony -- stark naked, and chain-smoked through the rest of the pack of cigarettes he'd nicked from Lestrade's jacket pocket.
So they don't talk about it, and Lestrade calls Sherlock in on crime scenes when they could use his help. If the details of the crime are interesting enough, Sherlock will help -- finding something they overlooked, or finding some solution that seems impossible but turns out to be the truth.
And while they're on the job, Sherlock will act as he's always acted, and Lestrade will act as he's always acted.
And increasingly rarely, he will get a text message from Sherlock that's just a place -- his bedroom, his sitting room, and once, Lestrade's bedroom (Sherlock had picked the lock, of course), and a time.
The offers stop after Sherlock's been clean six months -- presumably when the symptoms of withdrawal have lessened enough for him to deal with it on his own, because Sherlock's fine. He still responds to texts, and he still does things on his website, and he still shows up to crime scenes.
If there are any signs that he misses being on his knees, or tied down to a bed, or paddled until he cries, well.
Lestrade doesn't see them.
--
Lestrade can see the signs of Sherlock's increasing frustration -- it's apparent in the way he paces, taking long strides around the perimeter of Lestrade's office, like a trapped animal, and the way his hands clench, repeatedly, into fists. It's in his words becoming more and more curt, and his eyes, more and more flinty.
The case is not going well. None of Sherlock's leads are panning out, even when he's sure they will, and bodies keep showing up. Each one that appears is another taunt -- You can't stop me. They're getting nowhere.
“When did you last get any sleep?” Lestrade asks.
“I took a nap six hours ago,” Sherlock responds curtly; he doesn't pause in his pacing, lost in thought.
“Well, I'm going home, and I'm not coming back until someone calls me.” He hesitates, then says, “I have food too, and I know you haven't eaten all day. Come with me.”
“I'll eat something when we find the killer.”
“That wasn't why I asked you to come home with me,” Lestrade says.
Sherlock stops abruptly and swivels his head to look Lestrade in the eye. “I'm not your sub.”
“I know.”
“I don't want to be your sub.”
“I don't want you to be my sub either,” Lestrade says honestly, because it's true (because every once in a while, Sherlock feels the need to repeat it, to make sure). Getting Sherlock to submit at all is an ordeal, and Lestrade prefers his subs to be happy belonging to him. There's no way he'd be able to handle Sherlock for an extended period of time, not for anything more than sex.
“No, you don't,” Sherlock agrees, eying him in that way he hates, making him feel vulnerable and exposed. “You're concerned about me.”
“You haven't eaten or slept in days. You're becoming a terror to be around, and I can't have you here if you're going to be picking fights with my officers.”
“He started it.”
“Doesn't matter. We can't work with you when you're like this. You can come home with me, or you can take care of it yourself, but if you're like this tomorrow, I'm sending you home, and I'm going to send you home every day until it changes.”
“You can't do that!”
“Yes, I can! You're a consultant. We can stop consulting with you if you're being impossible to work with. We can, and we will. And I'm going home for some food and rest. Come with me if you want, or go home if you don't. You can't stay here, unless you want to increase the list of people who won't work with you.”
“Fine,” Sherlock says curtly. “I'll go with you.” But I don't have to like it, his eyes protest defiantly.
Frankly, Lestrade doesn't care. If it gets Sherlock fed and rested, that'll be good enough.
--
“There's leftover takeaway in the fridge. Feel free to help yourself,” Lestrade says. “I'm going to take a shower.” Sherlock murmurs something in assent, already going to the kitchen. He's been here before, and knows the layout.
Lestrade brushes his teeth, then shaves, because he knows he won't have the time if they find something and call him back in. He has just stepped into the shower and wet his hair when the door clicks open. He jumps. “Sherlock!”
“I got bored,” Sherlock says, already stripping. Lestrade watches (hungrily, because it's been a while since he's gotten laid, and even longer since he's had Sherlock) as Sherlock reveals more and more slices of pale flesh. “And obviously you want to. This is what you were hoping for when you invited me here.”
Sherlock pauses with his hand on the shower door, so Lestrade pushes it open. He reaches for the back of Sherlock's neck to pull him in, but Sherlock bats his hand away and steps in by himself. The shower is too cramped for two grown men, and they bump against each other. Sherlock puts his hands on Lestrade's chest, and looks at them.
“This is the only way I can -- ” He stops, licks his lips. “I need -- This will -- ”
“I know,” Lestrade interrupts, because Sherlock's starting to look irritated at his inability to explain. “I know.”
,
Lestrade knows first-hand what it feels like, when the stress and frustration of getting nowhere on a case boils up. He knows how it becomes the only thing he can think about, until he's eating and breathing and living the case and there's no space left for anything else. He knows how horrible it is, when the details get blurred and fuzzy, and he starts making mistakes, because he's burning himself out and it's eating him alive.
When it happens, when someone recognizes it (takes him aside, tells him to take a breather), he goes home, takes a long shower, forces himself to eat something and think about something else -- anything else, anything that belongs to him and not the case. Or he'll pick someone up, and take them home, and get lost in them, in finding their tells and peeling away their layers and burying himself in their body.
“You know how I like you,” Lestrade growls, and twists Sherlock's wrists off his chest. “Get on your knees. Hands behind your back.”
Sherlock kneels -- gracefully. Everything he does is graceful until he's broken apart and hurting. Hot water buffets his chest, and Sherlock's eyes trace the trails the it makes as it slides down his body. His hair is wet, curls plastered to his forehead, strands sticking together in thick tendrils. Sherlock's still meeting his eyes.
Lestrade threads his fingers through Sherlock's hair and yanks his head back roughly. Sherlock makes a surprised, pained sound, eyes closing, and he watches as Sherlock's cock snaps to attention. “You like that, don't you,” he growls. “You like it so much when I hurt you.”
“Maybe you should hurt me and find out,” Sherlock says, eyes still closed. Drops of water land on his face, on his eyelids.
Lestrade tugs on Sherlock's hair again, twisting. “Maybe later,” he promises. “Open your mouth. Keep your eyes closed.”
“I don't need my eyes to know what you're going to do next,” Sherlock complains, and Lestrade cuffs the side of his face.
“Shut up. Open your mouth.”
When Sherlock opens his mouth (eyes open, but Lestrade's despaired of actually getting Sherlock to obey him until he's half-gone with need), Lestrade shoves his cock into it. Sherlock's throat works as he suppresses his gag reflex, and presses his tongue against him. Lestrade bites off the groan that threatens to escape.
“You're so good at this,” he mutters softly, as he fucks Sherlock's mouth, first slowly, then faster, pounding against the back of his throat. Lestrade feels warm all over, from the water and how it mists warmly in the air, and from Sherlock, whose mouth is warm and wet and hot. Sherlock makes cut-off, choked noises -- discomfort, pain, but he doesn't stop Lestrade, doesn't take his hands from behind his back to indicate, Wait, or Slow down.
“I don't know anyone else who can take it like this,” he says. “I don't know how you can even breathe. You sound like you're choking. I wouldn't mind choking you. You bring out the worst in me, because you're at your most beautiful when you're in pain. I love hurting you.”
He can feel his orgasm coming as he abuses Sherlock's mouth, and he pulls out before he does so; Sherlock licks his lips, leans towards it (like a whore, Lestrade thinks, but he doesn't say it), lips still parted. Lestrade grabs his cock in his free hand -- the left one, because his other's still caught in Sherlock's hair, holding his head in place. One stroke, two strokes, Sherlock's eyes go wide when he realizes what Lestrade's going to do, and then Lestrade's coming on Sherlock's face, striping semen on Sherlock's cheeks and lips and in his mouth.
Sherlock's tongue darts out and licks his lips slowly, tasting him. Lestrade drags his fingers through the mess on Sherlock's face before the water rinses it away, and moves his thumb on Sherlock's cheek lightly, rubbing it into the skin. He touches Sherlock's lower lip, and Sherlock sucks in his fingers, licking them clean.
He leaves his fingers there for a moment, and lets go of Sherlock's hair to cup his cheek, an odd tenderness in his chest.
Wrong.
Sherlock jerks his head away and his -- whatever it is, his alertness, his tension, his genius, comes rushing back into him, until he's no longer the damaged sub that sometimes shares Lestrade's bed, but instead the consulting detective that terrorizes his staff. There is a tension in him now that experience has taught him Sherlock won't let him touch.
Sherlock rises, still hard, and, turning his back to Lestrade, washes the semen from his face, face tilted into the spray of the still-running water. He rinses his mouth out, and smooths down his hair, and doesn't say a word. The distance between them stretches out, infinitely far.
Sherlock steps out of the shower and gets dressed, then hesitates. “Thank you,” he says softly, and turns around. He steps forward quickly and, with some clumsiness, presses a kiss to the corner of Lestrade's mouth.
It is the first time Sherlock's initiated a kiss, and Lestrade is still standing, speechless, when the door clicks shut.
--
Sherlock has heated the leftover takeaway by the time Lestrade gets out of the shower, feeling much refreshed after the orgasm and a change of clothes, but still somehow unbalanced. There is an extra fork on top of one of the takeaway boxes, and he grabs it. “Thanks,” he mutters, and sits next to Sherlock on the sofa.
Sherlock makes a brief murmur of acknowledgment. His hair is still damp, and has dripped onto the shoulders of his shirt. His shoulders are tense, but his spine is relaxed, and he's slouching forward in the way that he does when he's not trying to impress or intimidate anyone.
He's himself again, but less so. Not peaceful, not content, but he's no longer got that sharp, manic edge to him that frightens Lestrade. (It'll be back by tomorrow, but it's not here now, which is the best that he can hope for.)
They eat in silence for a few minutes, telly on but with the volume turned low. When the food is gone, Lestrade is feeling pleasantly full, and he stretches. “I'm going to sleep for a few minutes,” he announces, looking at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. “You're welcome to join me if you want to lie in a bed, but you can nap on the couch if you'd rather.”
Sherlock dismisses him with a wave of his hand; he's looking at the telly, probably lip-reading the speakers or something, from the way he's staring at it.
Lestrade goes to bed alone.
But when Scotland Yard calls him back in three hours later, he has to crawl over Sherlock to get to his phone.