fic: Sherlock and the Art of Public Speaking (1/2)
Title: Sherlock and the Art of Public Speaking
Author: fengirl88
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade
Wordcount: ~2800
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: sexual content, embarrassment, semi-public sex
Disclaimer: These characters are still not mine. No matter how hard I stare at them.
A/N: sequel to Dressing the Part (in which Sherlock takes Lestrade clothes shopping)
fengirl88.livejournal.com/7337.html
Thanks to warriorbot and ginbitch for beta wisdom on this one and to warriorbot for a timely question without which the final score would have been 3-0.
Summary: Sherlock helps Lestrade to prepare his speech for the Police Federation lunch.
Sherlock and the Art of Public Speaking
This really isn't how Lestrade thought he was going to be spending his day off. It's not as if he gets a lot of them, and he'd looked forward to a little relaxation. Some hopes.
Having to go clothes shopping to buy a new suit he didn't want, didn't need, for fuck's sake, and anyway can't afford, was bad enough in the first place without bloody Sherlock interfering. Though interfering doesn't seem quite the right word for Sherlock giving Lestrade an unexpected blowjob in the posh department store's fitting-room cubicle and then jumping him again minutes later in the lift on the way out.
But it's not over yet. Now they're in the taxi Sherlock insisted on, hurrying back to Lestrade's flat because Sherlock's had some bright idea about the speech Lestrade's got to make at that fancy Police Federation lunch next week and wants to test it out on Lestrade. Lestrade can't remember when he last saw Sherlock this excited, which is a worrying thought in itself.
The way Sherlock's behaving, Lestrade wouldn't be surprised if the driver stopped the taxi any minute now and threw the pair of them out. He remembers the acronym he heard some of the older ladies using about men who behaved like this, back in the days when he worked at the big house, before he joined the Force. NSIT: Not Safe In Taxis. Sherlock, on this showing, is about as NSIT as they come.
Lestrade doesn't have the energy to protest though. Too busy trying to remember how to breathe, with Sherlock's hands all over him and Sherlock's mouth against his neck. Lestrade tries to suppress a moan. Very nearly succeeds.
Sherlock goes on misbehaving all the way to Lestrade's flat, and Lestrade can't do much more than cling on to his resolution that he is not going to come in the back of a taxi, he absolutely isn't. By the end of the ride, Lestrade is starting to feel faint and has to hand his wallet and his keys over to Sherlock because there's no way he's in a fit state to cope with either.
It's up to Sherlock, too, to deal with the shopping and shut the door of the flat behind them once they've stumbled inside, because Lestrade is having quite enough trouble managing to stand up. Sherlock grabs him and kisses him, which is enough to throw Lestrade off balance at this point, and they end up in a bit of a muddle on the sofa. Before Lestrade can get his breath back, Sherlock's on top of him, one thigh pressing between his, and pushing hard against him in a way that means Lestrade's really not likely to get his breath back any time soon even if Sherlock wasn't already taking more of it away with kiss after kiss.
Bloody hell, Lestrade thinks dizzily, what's brought all this on?
Might be Lestrade's new designer suit, which had definitely got Sherlock going in that fitting-room cubicle. Though Lestrade hadn't still been wearing that by the time they got in the lift. Or in the taxi. It's out there in the hall where Sherlock hung it up carefully before he grabbed Lestrade again. Not the suit, then, or not just the suit. Something about having an audience, or the danger of discovery? But there's no-one here now except the two of them. And what the fuck was all that about testing out an idea?
Lestrade gives up trying to work it out, which is just as well because his brain seems to be short-circuiting. Sherlock's kisses are ruthless and never quite long enough, so that eventually Lestrade has to grab Sherlock's neck and his hair and hold on tight to get Sherlock where he wants him. Sherlock's thrusting against him as if he's trying to fuse their bodies together regardless of the clothes in the way. Everything's suddenly very focused and concentrated and then just as suddenly shattering and dispersed, and Lestrade can't breathe, has to cling on for dear life as he comes hard, feeling like he's being shaken to pieces.
Can't do much for a bit after that. Takes a while for the room to stop spinning. When it does, Lestrade finds that Sherlock is sitting up again, looking unfairly calm and composed and characteristically pleased with himself.
“So,” Sherlock says, “this speech of yours, then.”
Shit.
Lestrade was hoping Sherlock might somehow have forgotten about that in the heat of the moment. Can't think why, because Sherlock notoriously never forgets anything. One reason he's such a whizz at solving crimes and such a complete fucking menace in almost every other area of life.
Reluctantly, and with a much less clear head than he'd like for dealing with this sort of thing, Lestrade produces the note-cards he's scribbled for his speech. Which Sherlock proceeds to shred, metaphorically if not literally, like the bloody pedant he is.
“It's supposed to sound like me, not you,” Lestrade protests.
“What, ignorant and semi-literate? They'll love that.”
“Sherlock, if I'd wanted to talk like a tight-arsed public schoolboy I'd have had fucking elocution lessons twenty years ago,” Lestrade snaps.
Sherlock looks as if he's about to say You leave my arse out of this. Settles for making a cheap crack about Lestrade's Weston-super-Mud accent.
“What is this, My Fair Lady?” Lestrade asks. “Next thing you'll be putting marbles in my mouth and making me recite poetry.”
That really wasn't a good move.
Sherlock looks intrigued, and goes on looking altogether too interested once he's had the reference explained to him. Speaking clearly with one's mouth full is obviously good practice for an orator, which is why Demosthenes (who Sherlock has heard of, even if he's not so well up on twentieth-century musicals) used to put pebbles in his mouth.
Now it's just a matter of working out what to use in the absence of marbles. (And yes, thank you, Lestrade's already thought of the joke about how being around Sherlock has made him lose all his marbles, so let's not go there, shall we?)
You don't need to be Sherlock Holmes to see what's coming next; it's inevitable, really. Lestrade can't talk very clearly with his mouth full, and soon stops trying. Other things seem more urgent right now, like the way Sherlock's cock feels in his mouth, the way Sherlock's breathing catches as he sucks and licks him, the way Sherlock's hands clutch at his hair, the way Sherlock's whole body suddenly goes taut and still in that moment right before he comes.
About time Sherlock got to come this afternoon, given that Lestrade's two up already.
Doesn't take the ginger out of Sherlock for long though, Lestrade observes ruefully. All too soon the loose-limbed, cloudy-eyed, post-orgasmic Sherlock disappears and the blasted pedant is back with a vengeance.
Part 2