fic: Consequences (1/?)

[fengirl88]

Title: Consequences (1/?)
Author: fengirl88
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: John/Lestrade/?Sherlock
Disclaimer: These characters are still not mine.  No matter how hard I stare at them.  Spoilers later for A Study in Pink.
Thanks to blooms84 for beta reading and encouragement.
Wordcount: 970 for this part.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: sexual content, fallout from threesome
Summary: John is confused again and this time it's not about Sherlock.
A/N:  This is all blooms84's fault for writing The Unbearable Fineness of Lestrade and making me sad about Lestrade all over again.

The events John is recollecting here take place in  Triple Jump


Consequences

This whole thing is Sherlock's fault. John knows that, but it doesn't make it any easier.

He never used to be able to see the point of Lestrade.  Could see the point of him as a copper, obviously: Lestrade's good at his job, as good as they come. And John doesn't share Sherlock's basic contempt for the police, so he's always respected Lestrade. Grudgingly. But he's never seen the attraction, even though he knows Sherlock does. To put it mildly. Some sort of affair between the two of them before John and Sherlock got together, and something still going on there, always an atmosphere between them. It used to make John furious and resentful, God knows, wishing Lestrade didn't exist, or could be promoted to Chief Constable of ... Wales, or somewhere. Somewhere suitably remote.

And then it all changed. Which is definitely Sherlock's fault. So why is John the one who feels guilty?

Not that Sherlock ever feels guilty about anything, of course.

The threesome had been Sherlock's idea, and John and Lestrade were both pretty sceptical about the whole thing, though they'd gone along with it, because Sherlock has a way of talking you into things you'd never have thought you'd say yes to in a million years. But for John, and for Lestrade too, he thinks, the point was to have sex with Sherlock. Having sex with each other was the price they had to pay.

Which really wasn't how it turned out, because of the kissing. John gives a little moan, thinking about it again. Ridiculous that it could have that effect on him, but it does. Ever since that night ten days ago, it's all he's been able to think about. The feeling of Lestrade's mouth on his, Lestrade's tongue teasing his lips and then probing deeper, caressing, exploring. Making John feel as if he was falling through space and also somehow as if the space was inside him, aching to be filled.

He doesn't let himself think about what followed: undressing Lestrade with frantic eagerness, taking Lestrade's cock in his mouth and sucking him hungrily, Lestrade's cries and gasps as he came in John's mouth. Doesn't let himself think about it, but flashes of it keep ambushing him at inconvenient moments just the same.

And he feels guilty. Oh god, yes.

He's been waiting for Sherlock to suggest another threesome, but it hasn't happened yet. Not surprising, really, the way Sherlock ended up losing control of that one. Sherlock hadn't been pleased about that at all, though he'd been defeated even in his attempts to complain about it. Which was Lestrade's doing, again. First he'd broken the deadlock between Sherlock and John by making them both come, don't think about that, John tells himself, blushing at the memory of Lestrade's hands pumping their two cocks, John's and Sherlock's, together. And then when Sherlock got annoyed that Lestrade had wrested control from him, Lestrade had done it all over again with that crazy tickle-fight. John squirms, remembering how that had ended, with him sucking Sherlock's cock and Lestrade fucking Sherlock. Something that should have been all about Sherlock and yet somehow wasn't, as if he and Lestrade were also having sex with each other, and Sherlock was just a kind of - of medium for that.

God, this is weird.

He supposes he could suggest another threesome himself, but he knows Sherlock would see through that, and he doesn't feel up to dealing with whatever Sherlock's reaction would be. He wonders how Lestrade feels about it all and what he's thinking and whether Lestrade thinks about him the way he's been thinking about Lestrade. He hasn't felt like this for years. It's almost like having a crush on someone. So like it, that he has to recognize, miserably, that that's exactly what it is .

A crush on Lestrade. Oh great. Does it get any worse than this? If it does, John doesn't want to know.

He imagines inventing some pretext to turn up at Lestrade's flat, finding Lestrade about to have an early night, already in his - what would Lestrade be wearing? pyjamas? dressing-gown? - shit, even fantasy is harder than it used to be. Well, anyway, wearing something warm and soft and pleasing to the touch, oh god... Imagines himself saying to Lestrade I had to see you and Lestrade saying I know. It's the same for me, ever since that night, and then the kiss, another kiss like that one and falling into space and -

This really is getting embarrassing. He's going to have to do something about it. Maybe if he talked to Lestrade -

Well, that's a stupid idea for a start.

Can't talk to Sherlock about it, obviously.

Maybe a run and a cold shower will take his mind off it.

Not that that's worked for the last week, even though John's kept religiously to his exercise regime.

Walking past Lestrade's office in his lunch-hour really isn't sensible at all.

Going into the building is definitely a very bad idea.

But it seems to be what he's doing anyway.

That was a very odd look Donovan just gave him.

Probably because Sherlock's just leaving Lestrade's office. And looks really surprised, understandably, to see John there. Surprised, and not too pleased.

John's never been sure if Sherlock can actually read his mind. He really hopes Sherlock can't, given what's been going through it recently.

“Were you looking for me?” Sherlock asks.

The temptation to lie is almost overwhelming, but John resists it.

“No,” he says, wishing his mouth weren't so dry. “I just - just wanted a word with Lestrade about something.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says, sounding uncharacteristically disconcerted. “Well, be my guest.”

And he walks away towards the lift, leaving John standing outside Lestrade's door.

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