fic: Playing Patience
Title: Playing Patience
Author: fengirl88
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade UST
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Masturbation; power play (imagined); implied dub-con.
Wordcount: ~1130
Disclaimer: They're still not mine.
Summary: Three days after the disastrous date at Angelo’s, there’s still no sign of Lestrade, with or without the drugs squad, and Sherlock is going up the wall.
A/N: written for the prompt square "greetings: goodnight" on my kissbingo card; sequel to Busted Flush. The card is here. Thanks to blooms84 for the beta. I wasn't sure how to do the warnings for this one; please let me know if you think they are not correct.
Playing Patience
Three days after the disastrous date at Angelo’s, there’s still no sign of Lestrade, with or without the drugs squad, and Sherlock is going up the wall. Would be shooting at the wall if he could work out where John’s hidden his gun. He’s starting to wonder if Lestrade really meant what he said.
You'd better go through that flat of yours with a fine-toothed comb, because you're going to be seeing me very soon.
Sherlock's been through the flat with a fine-toothed comb just the same. Because if Lestrade finds anything this time he’s under no illusions about what will happen. And although Mycroft can make it go away, as he always has, being arrested and charged with possession isn’t any part of Sherlock’s drugs bust fantasy.
He has an uneasy feeling there may still be drugs in the flat that he hid when he was high, and in his experience he tends not to remember where they are when he’s clean and sober. He wonders if getting drunk would do the trick but he’s not sure, and he doesn’t want to be anaesthetized with drink if - no, when, please let it be when - Lestrade finally turns up.
A case would take his mind off the waiting, but there isn't one. And meanwhile he can't keep his mind off Lestrade or his hands off himself. He hasn't been like this since he first discovered how to masturbate and couldn’t get enough of it. Just the thought of the drugs bust is enough to set him off. He worries that it's too much, that the reality won't be able to live up to his fantasies, but he still can’t stop.
Getting some very funny looks from John, who is not as unobservant as you might think. John looks pretty uncomfortable, actually, as if he assumes Sherlock's tossing off thinking about him. Which is absurd, given that John's practically wearing a label saying Straight But Confused. Not Sherlock's fantasy ideal at all, whatever Lestrade might think.
Where is Lestrade? The unfairness of it galls him: being kept waiting like this by a man he had in the palm of his hand for five years. An unfortunate metaphor: the imagined sensation of Lestrade’s cock, hot and heavy in the palm of his hand, makes him almost double up, groaning. But now the tables are turned, the metaphor's reversed. The thought of being in Lestrade’s power gets him more excited than anything not to do with murder has for ages.
The threat that feels like a promise echoes in his mind: this time I'll be searching everywhere.
He wonders how Lestrade will do it: make him get down on all fours, or bend him over the kitchen table or the back of the armchair or the arm of the sofa. Maybe make him grip the overmantel and stare into the mirror over the fireplace, watching himself come undone. He can’t decide which is best - because anything and everything works as long as he imagines Lestrade’s thick fingers pushing into him, Lestrade’s hoarse voice in his ear pouring out a stream of commands, taunting him with his own helplessness.
Three days of fantasising about this is more than enough to bring him to his knees. God knows he imagines that too: Lestrade saying Suck my cock and maybe I’ll let you off. Or sometimes Suck my cock and maybe I’ll let you come. Works either way. His mouth waters, thinking about it. Imagining Lestrade’s hand in his hair, tugging it painfully, making tears start to his eyes. Lestrade’s grip on him, forcing Sherlock to take his whole length till he’s nearly suffocating. He can almost taste Lestrade’s release, salt and bitter and pulsing hot, filling his throat. Just thinking about it has him close to coming without even touching himself.
But he’s starting to be afraid it’s not going to happen at all. That his punishment is an extension of the kiss outside Angelo’s: Lestrade getting him unbearably worked up and then leaving him hanging, so turned on he couldn’t even see straight, much less do anything about it. He’s been waiting five years for this, a voice in his head says, and you’re cracking after just three days. It doesn’t bode well.
The call to a case comes just as Sherlock’s about to do something desperate but as yet undecided on, and the relief of getting a summons from Lestrade makes him giddy with excitement. For just long enough he feels like his old self again: brimming with self-belief, despising lesser minds, piercing the mysteries they find impenetrable. The complicated knots of motive, method and opportunity unravel in his hands like a game of cat’s-cradle. And at the end of it all, after the murderer’s safely under arrest, he insists on tagging along to the pub with Lestrade and the others, sits there ignoring the glares from the rest of the team, until it’s just him and Lestrade alone at last.
In the street outside the pub, Lestrade barely looks at him.
“Are you still pissed off with me about the other night?” Sherlock asks.
Lestrade looks as if he genuinely doesn’t know what Sherlock is talking about, and then says, “Oh, that. Had more important things to think about than your bad behaviour, thanks.”
“So, this drugs bust, is it on or off?” That was meant to sound airy, casual, but it comes out much too eager.
Lestrade looks at him, looks through him, the way he did outside Angelo’s. Sherlock feels naked to his very bones, feels as if it’s written all over him: every movement of his hand on his cock, every push of his fingers into himself, every choking helpless cry at the moment of orgasm. Nowhere to hide. No secrets left.
“Spoil the surprise if I told you that now, wouldn’t it?” Lestrade says.
Oh god. Sherlock feels himself getting hard again, feels sure Lestrade must know it’s happening.
Lestrade looks at his watch and says “Nearly midnight. Time for bed.”
Sherlock cracks; he can’t help it. He hurls himself at Lestrade and kisses him ravenously, clinging to him with one hand twined in Lestrade’s hair and one gripping his waist. Lestrade seems to be responding, pushing his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth and groping his arse, squeezing with both hands. Sherlock moans as his knees start to buckle and his head swims with arousal.
Then there’s nothing but cold air as Lestrade breaks away easily from his loosening grip. He holds Sherlock squirming at arms’ length and kisses him, a quick teasing brush of lips that makes him whine with frustration.
“Goodnight, Sherlock,” Lestrade says mockingly. “Sleep tight.”
And for the second time in a week, he walks away, leaving Sherlock with a raging hard-on and a confused sense of defeat.
Author: fengirl88
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade UST
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Masturbation; power play (imagined); implied dub-con.
Wordcount: ~1130
Disclaimer: They're still not mine.
Summary: Three days after the disastrous date at Angelo’s, there’s still no sign of Lestrade, with or without the drugs squad, and Sherlock is going up the wall.
A/N: written for the prompt square "greetings: goodnight" on my kissbingo card; sequel to Busted Flush. The card is here. Thanks to blooms84 for the beta. I wasn't sure how to do the warnings for this one; please let me know if you think they are not correct.
Playing Patience
Three days after the disastrous date at Angelo’s, there’s still no sign of Lestrade, with or without the drugs squad, and Sherlock is going up the wall. Would be shooting at the wall if he could work out where John’s hidden his gun. He’s starting to wonder if Lestrade really meant what he said.
You'd better go through that flat of yours with a fine-toothed comb, because you're going to be seeing me very soon.
Sherlock's been through the flat with a fine-toothed comb just the same. Because if Lestrade finds anything this time he’s under no illusions about what will happen. And although Mycroft can make it go away, as he always has, being arrested and charged with possession isn’t any part of Sherlock’s drugs bust fantasy.
He has an uneasy feeling there may still be drugs in the flat that he hid when he was high, and in his experience he tends not to remember where they are when he’s clean and sober. He wonders if getting drunk would do the trick but he’s not sure, and he doesn’t want to be anaesthetized with drink if - no, when, please let it be when - Lestrade finally turns up.
A case would take his mind off the waiting, but there isn't one. And meanwhile he can't keep his mind off Lestrade or his hands off himself. He hasn't been like this since he first discovered how to masturbate and couldn’t get enough of it. Just the thought of the drugs bust is enough to set him off. He worries that it's too much, that the reality won't be able to live up to his fantasies, but he still can’t stop.
Getting some very funny looks from John, who is not as unobservant as you might think. John looks pretty uncomfortable, actually, as if he assumes Sherlock's tossing off thinking about him. Which is absurd, given that John's practically wearing a label saying Straight But Confused. Not Sherlock's fantasy ideal at all, whatever Lestrade might think.
Where is Lestrade? The unfairness of it galls him: being kept waiting like this by a man he had in the palm of his hand for five years. An unfortunate metaphor: the imagined sensation of Lestrade’s cock, hot and heavy in the palm of his hand, makes him almost double up, groaning. But now the tables are turned, the metaphor's reversed. The thought of being in Lestrade’s power gets him more excited than anything not to do with murder has for ages.
The threat that feels like a promise echoes in his mind: this time I'll be searching everywhere.
He wonders how Lestrade will do it: make him get down on all fours, or bend him over the kitchen table or the back of the armchair or the arm of the sofa. Maybe make him grip the overmantel and stare into the mirror over the fireplace, watching himself come undone. He can’t decide which is best - because anything and everything works as long as he imagines Lestrade’s thick fingers pushing into him, Lestrade’s hoarse voice in his ear pouring out a stream of commands, taunting him with his own helplessness.
Three days of fantasising about this is more than enough to bring him to his knees. God knows he imagines that too: Lestrade saying Suck my cock and maybe I’ll let you off. Or sometimes Suck my cock and maybe I’ll let you come. Works either way. His mouth waters, thinking about it. Imagining Lestrade’s hand in his hair, tugging it painfully, making tears start to his eyes. Lestrade’s grip on him, forcing Sherlock to take his whole length till he’s nearly suffocating. He can almost taste Lestrade’s release, salt and bitter and pulsing hot, filling his throat. Just thinking about it has him close to coming without even touching himself.
But he’s starting to be afraid it’s not going to happen at all. That his punishment is an extension of the kiss outside Angelo’s: Lestrade getting him unbearably worked up and then leaving him hanging, so turned on he couldn’t even see straight, much less do anything about it. He’s been waiting five years for this, a voice in his head says, and you’re cracking after just three days. It doesn’t bode well.
The call to a case comes just as Sherlock’s about to do something desperate but as yet undecided on, and the relief of getting a summons from Lestrade makes him giddy with excitement. For just long enough he feels like his old self again: brimming with self-belief, despising lesser minds, piercing the mysteries they find impenetrable. The complicated knots of motive, method and opportunity unravel in his hands like a game of cat’s-cradle. And at the end of it all, after the murderer’s safely under arrest, he insists on tagging along to the pub with Lestrade and the others, sits there ignoring the glares from the rest of the team, until it’s just him and Lestrade alone at last.
In the street outside the pub, Lestrade barely looks at him.
“Are you still pissed off with me about the other night?” Sherlock asks.
Lestrade looks as if he genuinely doesn’t know what Sherlock is talking about, and then says, “Oh, that. Had more important things to think about than your bad behaviour, thanks.”
“So, this drugs bust, is it on or off?” That was meant to sound airy, casual, but it comes out much too eager.
Lestrade looks at him, looks through him, the way he did outside Angelo’s. Sherlock feels naked to his very bones, feels as if it’s written all over him: every movement of his hand on his cock, every push of his fingers into himself, every choking helpless cry at the moment of orgasm. Nowhere to hide. No secrets left.
“Spoil the surprise if I told you that now, wouldn’t it?” Lestrade says.
Oh god. Sherlock feels himself getting hard again, feels sure Lestrade must know it’s happening.
Lestrade looks at his watch and says “Nearly midnight. Time for bed.”
Sherlock cracks; he can’t help it. He hurls himself at Lestrade and kisses him ravenously, clinging to him with one hand twined in Lestrade’s hair and one gripping his waist. Lestrade seems to be responding, pushing his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth and groping his arse, squeezing with both hands. Sherlock moans as his knees start to buckle and his head swims with arousal.
Then there’s nothing but cold air as Lestrade breaks away easily from his loosening grip. He holds Sherlock squirming at arms’ length and kisses him, a quick teasing brush of lips that makes him whine with frustration.
“Goodnight, Sherlock,” Lestrade says mockingly. “Sleep tight.”
And for the second time in a week, he walks away, leaving Sherlock with a raging hard-on and a confused sense of defeat.