fic: Quiet Storm
Title: Quiet Storm
Author: fengirl88
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: none
Wordcount: ~1650
Disclaimer: They're still not mine. Nor are the songs.
Summary: He's always known that Sherlock could talk him into anything. But it was a mistake to think he'd be safer in a situation where Sherlock couldn't talk at all.
A/N: written for the kissbingo prompt square "time: long". This one is for blooms84, who knows where to find me, and who requested Sherlock's silent seduction of Lestrade during a stakeout. Many thanks to kalypso for crucial beta suggestions, and to ginbitch for her encouragement; their assistance was invaluable in dealing with a fic that could give John Watson a masterclass in stubbornness.
Not part of the Busted Flush sequence; the next story for that will be along as soon as I can manage to write it...
Quiet Storm
He's always known that Sherlock could talk him into anything. But it was a mistake to think he'd be safer in a situation where Sherlock couldn't talk at all.
A surprisingly warm night for September. The air's heavy: feels like there could be a storm later. Lestrade hopes it holds off till this job is safely over. At which point he'll breathe a big fucking sigh of relief.
Being on a stakeout with Sherlock was never going to be a good idea in the first place. Next chance he gets, Lestrade's going to have words with John Watson about his choice of DVD rentals. He wishes that just once someone would make a film or a TV series that shows how arse-achingly dull most police work really is. If Sherlock and John had watched that instead of The Wire, he wouldn't be squeezed into a narrow doorway with Sherlock right now. Dominic West has a lot to answer for.
Probably wasn't a great idea having Dimmock and Donovan pretend to snog, either. Sherlock's clearly dying to point out that he and Lestrade could have made a much more convincing job of it.
Doesn't say anything, though; he'd sworn he wouldn't make a sound.
“You'd better not,” Lestrade had warned. “Because I will personally break your fucking neck if you do.”
Sherlock seemed unconvinced, but had gone a bit pale when Lestrade also threatened to bar him from crime scenes for a month.
“You wouldn't.”
“Wouldn't I?” Lestrade had said grimly. “Try it and see.”
It's barely half an hour into the stakeout, and Sherlock's already dangerously bored, grinding his teeth and huffing. Breathing heavily down the back of Lestrade's neck -
Correction: kissing the back of his neck. Shit.
Lestrade wants to tell the mad bastard to fuck off, but he daren't say anything in case it draws attention to them. Same goes for treading hard on Sherlock's toes or elbowing him in the stomach. He's trapped, and Sherlock knows it, oh god -
Stop panicking, Lestrade, that's not going to help. Act calm, for fuck's sake. He pulls away from the kiss, shaking his head like a horse trying to get rid of flies.
Sherlock goes back to breathing heavily. Seems to have given up for the time being. But Lestrade can feel him sulking. Christ only knows what he'll take it into his head to do next. And if Dimmock and Donovan catch him arsing around like that -
Visions of a career in ruins, disciplinary proceedings, maybe even dismissal, flash before Lestrade's eyes. If Sherlock fucks up this stakeout...
He's not even going to let himself think about that. Just try to stay focused and hope to God they get the signal to move in before Sherlock decides to have another go.
The windows of the pub where their target's currently drinking are wide open, and music's pouring out into the warm evening air. 80s night. Brilliant. Nostalgia's the last thing Lestrade needs right now.
And then it suddenly gets much worse, because someone's put on Sade. Which takes him right back to the summer of '84, just before he moved to London to join the Met. Getting back in shape after he'd been laid up with a broken leg, stupid bloody accident, tripped over a low wall during a chase. Exercise class at the local polytechnic, most of them twice his age. Only other young one was the instructor, Mike. Tall, dark, skinny, with extraordinary pale eyes and sharp cheekbones -
Oh fuck.
He hasn't thought about Mike for years. Didn't even clock the resemblance when he first met Sherlock: too busy noticing Sherlock's drug habit and his eye-watering rudeness and the breathtaking way he'd solved that case.
Lestrade reminds himself of all the things he hated about the 80s. Dungarees. Mrs Thatcher. Criminal hairdos. Miami Vice, the first time around. Prats with early mobile phones the size of house bricks. City boys with red braces waving their wads of cash about. Clause 28.
It's all no good: the music's got him in its grip and he's back in the room doing stretches and dance moves with the older generation, getting sweaty and out of breath and trying not to be distracted by Mike's thighs and buttocks as he demonstrates the next exercise. Sade's voice pouring out of the big stereo cassette player, singing We move in space with minimum waste and maximum joy. Listen to the music, Mike would say, it's telling you what to do. Lestrade never felt he got there but it was fun trying.
Something in his response to the music now must be registering with Sherlock, because Sherlock's hand slides round him, long fingers moving lightly, teasingly to and fro just above Lestrade's waistband.
Lestrade breathes hard and grips Sherlock's wrist, wrenching his hand away.
Sherlock kisses Lestrade's neck again, a string of kisses along the side this time. Presses hopefully against Lestrade from behind.
Just ignore him, Lestrade tells himself, pulling away. He'll get bored and give up again if he doesn't get a response.
Not much chance of that. Sherlock's next move is a lingering kiss at the base of the neck, just above the collarbone, right on that spot that always makes Lestrade's knees want to give way and -
Fuck. The fingers of Sherlock's other hand slide tantalizingly along the curve of Lestrade's cock. Lestrade bites his lip and tries to pull that hand away too, but it's getting difficult to concentrate, especially with Sherlock squirming behind him. He tries not to think about the part of Sherlock that's currently pushing insistently against his arse, because that's really not helping.
He must be losing his grip, because Sherlock pulls both hands free and starts groping him again. One hand undoes the top buttons of Lestrade's shirt and pushes inside to pinch a nipple, the other strokes and squeezes Lestrade's now rather uncomfortable erection as Sherlock kisses him behind the ear.
Obviously a myth that men can't multitask, Lestrade thinks dizzily.
His knees are starting to buckle as another Sade song comes drifting out into the warm evening air: There's a quiet storm, and it never felt this hot before, giving me something that's taboo. Oh great. Whoever's providing the soundtrack to DI Lestrade's life this evening has a warped fucking sense of humour, that's for sure.
He turns round to glare at Sherlock, which is a mistake, because Sherlock grabs him by the shoulders and kisses him. It's clumsy at first, jarring lips and teeth against each other, and then Sherlock's tongue is pressing between his lips, and Lestrade's opening to him, can't stop himself. Sherlock pulls him closer and it feels like time has stopped and everything stands still, everything except Sherlock's mouth against his, Sherlock's tongue pushing and circling and licking and teasing, Sherlock's lips pulling and sucking at his lower lip, sucking his tongue greedily; the hard and soft, fast and slow pressures that build till he moans into Sherlock's mouth, a tiny sound, but he can feel Sherlock smirking at it, the bastard.
Which is, of course, the moment when it all kicks off with the stakeout. No thanks to Sherlock and Lestrade that the whole thing isn't a complete fuck-up. Lestrade's going to owe Donovan in particular a very big drink when this is over. But the luck is with them tonight. Which is more than can be said for the man they're after, who is flushed out of the pub looking distinctly unhappy in his Andrew Ridgeley-wannabe white suit.
Sherlock looks at the rolled-up jacket sleeves and string tie, the loafers worn with no socks; he tuts, pained. Lestrade reminds himself that Sherlock was still at primary school for much of the 80s, and if ever there was a thought guaranteed to reduce a stubborn erection it's that one.
Dimmock and Donovan take the Wham!-loving criminal away, and Lestrade glares at Sherlock.
“What?” Sherlock says indignantly. “I didn't make a sound.”
“You bastard,” Lestrade says. “I ought to break your fucking neck. Are you trying to get me thrown off the Force?”
Sherlock looks faintly abashed.
“You're barred,” Lestrade says. “I mean it, Sherlock.”
For a moment it looks like Sherlock's going to argue the toss. Then he brightens up, which is seriously unnerving.
“If we're not going to be working together for a month, we can have lots of sex and it won't get in the way,” he says.
Lestrade wonders if he's looking as gobsmacked as he feels. Probably.
“And then you can tell me all about the cases and I can solve them for you,” Sherlock says, beaming.
“Sherlock, I am not going to discuss cases with you in bed,” Lestrade says.
Sherlock gives him a look that says That's what you think.
“Let's go back to your flat,” he says. “That storm's about to break.”
Oh god. Can't remember the last time he had a fuck in a thunderstorm, and the idea of having one with Sherlock -
“Come on then,” he says unsteadily. “Thank God the neighbours are away.”
“I can be quiet,” Sherlock says, rather boastfully. “The question is, can you?”
“Oh yeah?” Lestrade says. “We'll see about that.”
At which point there's a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder. The storm's right overhead. No way they're going to make it back to Lestrade's.
Seems like thunderstorms have the same effect on Sherlock as they do on him, though, because he drags Lestrade back into the doorway and snogs the living daylights out of him. This time Lestrade doesn't try to resist. Not even when Sherlock unzips him and embarks on something Lestrade's pretty sure is pictured in the dictionary under “knee-trembler”. By the time Lestrade's finished with him, Sherlock can hardly stand up either.
It's not a quiet storm, by any stretch of the imagination. It's louder than both of them. But only just.
***
The Sade songs implicated in this fic are here and here.
Author: fengirl88
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: none
Wordcount: ~1650
Disclaimer: They're still not mine. Nor are the songs.
Summary: He's always known that Sherlock could talk him into anything. But it was a mistake to think he'd be safer in a situation where Sherlock couldn't talk at all.
A/N: written for the kissbingo prompt square "time: long". This one is for blooms84, who knows where to find me, and who requested Sherlock's silent seduction of Lestrade during a stakeout. Many thanks to kalypso for crucial beta suggestions, and to ginbitch for her encouragement; their assistance was invaluable in dealing with a fic that could give John Watson a masterclass in stubbornness.
Not part of the Busted Flush sequence; the next story for that will be along as soon as I can manage to write it...
Quiet Storm
He's always known that Sherlock could talk him into anything. But it was a mistake to think he'd be safer in a situation where Sherlock couldn't talk at all.
A surprisingly warm night for September. The air's heavy: feels like there could be a storm later. Lestrade hopes it holds off till this job is safely over. At which point he'll breathe a big fucking sigh of relief.
Being on a stakeout with Sherlock was never going to be a good idea in the first place. Next chance he gets, Lestrade's going to have words with John Watson about his choice of DVD rentals. He wishes that just once someone would make a film or a TV series that shows how arse-achingly dull most police work really is. If Sherlock and John had watched that instead of The Wire, he wouldn't be squeezed into a narrow doorway with Sherlock right now. Dominic West has a lot to answer for.
Probably wasn't a great idea having Dimmock and Donovan pretend to snog, either. Sherlock's clearly dying to point out that he and Lestrade could have made a much more convincing job of it.
Doesn't say anything, though; he'd sworn he wouldn't make a sound.
“You'd better not,” Lestrade had warned. “Because I will personally break your fucking neck if you do.”
Sherlock seemed unconvinced, but had gone a bit pale when Lestrade also threatened to bar him from crime scenes for a month.
“You wouldn't.”
“Wouldn't I?” Lestrade had said grimly. “Try it and see.”
It's barely half an hour into the stakeout, and Sherlock's already dangerously bored, grinding his teeth and huffing. Breathing heavily down the back of Lestrade's neck -
Correction: kissing the back of his neck. Shit.
Lestrade wants to tell the mad bastard to fuck off, but he daren't say anything in case it draws attention to them. Same goes for treading hard on Sherlock's toes or elbowing him in the stomach. He's trapped, and Sherlock knows it, oh god -
Stop panicking, Lestrade, that's not going to help. Act calm, for fuck's sake. He pulls away from the kiss, shaking his head like a horse trying to get rid of flies.
Sherlock goes back to breathing heavily. Seems to have given up for the time being. But Lestrade can feel him sulking. Christ only knows what he'll take it into his head to do next. And if Dimmock and Donovan catch him arsing around like that -
Visions of a career in ruins, disciplinary proceedings, maybe even dismissal, flash before Lestrade's eyes. If Sherlock fucks up this stakeout...
He's not even going to let himself think about that. Just try to stay focused and hope to God they get the signal to move in before Sherlock decides to have another go.
The windows of the pub where their target's currently drinking are wide open, and music's pouring out into the warm evening air. 80s night. Brilliant. Nostalgia's the last thing Lestrade needs right now.
And then it suddenly gets much worse, because someone's put on Sade. Which takes him right back to the summer of '84, just before he moved to London to join the Met. Getting back in shape after he'd been laid up with a broken leg, stupid bloody accident, tripped over a low wall during a chase. Exercise class at the local polytechnic, most of them twice his age. Only other young one was the instructor, Mike. Tall, dark, skinny, with extraordinary pale eyes and sharp cheekbones -
Oh fuck.
He hasn't thought about Mike for years. Didn't even clock the resemblance when he first met Sherlock: too busy noticing Sherlock's drug habit and his eye-watering rudeness and the breathtaking way he'd solved that case.
Lestrade reminds himself of all the things he hated about the 80s. Dungarees. Mrs Thatcher. Criminal hairdos. Miami Vice, the first time around. Prats with early mobile phones the size of house bricks. City boys with red braces waving their wads of cash about. Clause 28.
It's all no good: the music's got him in its grip and he's back in the room doing stretches and dance moves with the older generation, getting sweaty and out of breath and trying not to be distracted by Mike's thighs and buttocks as he demonstrates the next exercise. Sade's voice pouring out of the big stereo cassette player, singing We move in space with minimum waste and maximum joy. Listen to the music, Mike would say, it's telling you what to do. Lestrade never felt he got there but it was fun trying.
Something in his response to the music now must be registering with Sherlock, because Sherlock's hand slides round him, long fingers moving lightly, teasingly to and fro just above Lestrade's waistband.
Lestrade breathes hard and grips Sherlock's wrist, wrenching his hand away.
Sherlock kisses Lestrade's neck again, a string of kisses along the side this time. Presses hopefully against Lestrade from behind.
Just ignore him, Lestrade tells himself, pulling away. He'll get bored and give up again if he doesn't get a response.
Not much chance of that. Sherlock's next move is a lingering kiss at the base of the neck, just above the collarbone, right on that spot that always makes Lestrade's knees want to give way and -
Fuck. The fingers of Sherlock's other hand slide tantalizingly along the curve of Lestrade's cock. Lestrade bites his lip and tries to pull that hand away too, but it's getting difficult to concentrate, especially with Sherlock squirming behind him. He tries not to think about the part of Sherlock that's currently pushing insistently against his arse, because that's really not helping.
He must be losing his grip, because Sherlock pulls both hands free and starts groping him again. One hand undoes the top buttons of Lestrade's shirt and pushes inside to pinch a nipple, the other strokes and squeezes Lestrade's now rather uncomfortable erection as Sherlock kisses him behind the ear.
Obviously a myth that men can't multitask, Lestrade thinks dizzily.
His knees are starting to buckle as another Sade song comes drifting out into the warm evening air: There's a quiet storm, and it never felt this hot before, giving me something that's taboo. Oh great. Whoever's providing the soundtrack to DI Lestrade's life this evening has a warped fucking sense of humour, that's for sure.
He turns round to glare at Sherlock, which is a mistake, because Sherlock grabs him by the shoulders and kisses him. It's clumsy at first, jarring lips and teeth against each other, and then Sherlock's tongue is pressing between his lips, and Lestrade's opening to him, can't stop himself. Sherlock pulls him closer and it feels like time has stopped and everything stands still, everything except Sherlock's mouth against his, Sherlock's tongue pushing and circling and licking and teasing, Sherlock's lips pulling and sucking at his lower lip, sucking his tongue greedily; the hard and soft, fast and slow pressures that build till he moans into Sherlock's mouth, a tiny sound, but he can feel Sherlock smirking at it, the bastard.
Which is, of course, the moment when it all kicks off with the stakeout. No thanks to Sherlock and Lestrade that the whole thing isn't a complete fuck-up. Lestrade's going to owe Donovan in particular a very big drink when this is over. But the luck is with them tonight. Which is more than can be said for the man they're after, who is flushed out of the pub looking distinctly unhappy in his Andrew Ridgeley-wannabe white suit.
Sherlock looks at the rolled-up jacket sleeves and string tie, the loafers worn with no socks; he tuts, pained. Lestrade reminds himself that Sherlock was still at primary school for much of the 80s, and if ever there was a thought guaranteed to reduce a stubborn erection it's that one.
Dimmock and Donovan take the Wham!-loving criminal away, and Lestrade glares at Sherlock.
“What?” Sherlock says indignantly. “I didn't make a sound.”
“You bastard,” Lestrade says. “I ought to break your fucking neck. Are you trying to get me thrown off the Force?”
Sherlock looks faintly abashed.
“You're barred,” Lestrade says. “I mean it, Sherlock.”
For a moment it looks like Sherlock's going to argue the toss. Then he brightens up, which is seriously unnerving.
“If we're not going to be working together for a month, we can have lots of sex and it won't get in the way,” he says.
Lestrade wonders if he's looking as gobsmacked as he feels. Probably.
“And then you can tell me all about the cases and I can solve them for you,” Sherlock says, beaming.
“Sherlock, I am not going to discuss cases with you in bed,” Lestrade says.
Sherlock gives him a look that says That's what you think.
“Let's go back to your flat,” he says. “That storm's about to break.”
Oh god. Can't remember the last time he had a fuck in a thunderstorm, and the idea of having one with Sherlock -
“Come on then,” he says unsteadily. “Thank God the neighbours are away.”
“I can be quiet,” Sherlock says, rather boastfully. “The question is, can you?”
“Oh yeah?” Lestrade says. “We'll see about that.”
At which point there's a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder. The storm's right overhead. No way they're going to make it back to Lestrade's.
Seems like thunderstorms have the same effect on Sherlock as they do on him, though, because he drags Lestrade back into the doorway and snogs the living daylights out of him. This time Lestrade doesn't try to resist. Not even when Sherlock unzips him and embarks on something Lestrade's pretty sure is pictured in the dictionary under “knee-trembler”. By the time Lestrade's finished with him, Sherlock can hardly stand up either.
It's not a quiet storm, by any stretch of the imagination. It's louder than both of them. But only just.
***
The Sade songs implicated in this fic are here and here.