Fic: Object of Desire [Sherlock]
Title: Object of Desire
Fandom: BBC’s Sherlock
Pairing: Lestrade/Sherlock
Rating: R
Summary: Lestrade watches. Sherlock permits him.
Notes: PWP for the kink_bingo prompt ‘voyeurism’.
Object of Desire
It takes Lestrade seventeen seconds to break into the flat. There’s a key, of course-hidden not in plain sight but in his pocket, but to use it at this time seems wrong. So the key remains in his pocket, and he jiggles the lock until, with a quiet snick, it opens.
He enters the flat, pushing the door shut behind him. One day soon he’ll have to have a conversation on the practicalities of fitting locks that actually keep people out, but not now.
The hallway is a cold mass of shadows. Four o’clock in the morning, the time of lowest ebb, of vulnerabilities and insecurities; a time for thieves and lovers. Lestrade never knows which category he inhabits. Perhaps both; perhaps neither. He fumbles through the darkness, suddenly too warm in his coat. Anxiety and anticipation make his nerves prick, and he takes a deep breath as he moves towards the end of the hall. His fingers brush against a door. It opens to his touch, the hinges oiled and silent as requested.
Sherlock stands in the centre of the living room, his back to the door, gazing down at the spread pages of four magazines arranged across the coffee table. His stance suggests he’s been waiting a while. He must be aware of the change in atmosphere, of the weight of Lestrade’s gaze; his shoulders stiffen slightly and he lifts his head, but doesn’t turn around, doesn’t speak.
Lestrade takes another step. A floorboard creaks beneath his feet.
A tilt of the head, and Sherlock moves, turns away to the battered old sofa pushed against the wall. He’s wearing his dressing gown, a dark plum colour with a tatty gold trim, sleeves fraying at the cuffs, the fabric worn thin and grey at the elbows. He’s barefoot, bare-legged, probably naked under the robe, and Lestrade sucks in a breath, lets it out in a yearning, whispered sigh.
Sherlock pauses for a moment in front of the only source of light in the room-a standard lamp, 1970s style with a tasselled shade of red velvet, placed on an occasional table-and Lestrade sees the shape of his body beneath the robe. Sherlock adjusts the angle of the lampshade, arranging the pool of light so as to illuminate the length of the sofa.
Lestrade sits on the armchair opposite, easing himself in the shadows. He leans forward, forearms on his knees, feet pressed flat against the floor. Something with sharp corners pokes into his hip; a stack of old newspapers slides down into the space behind him. He ignores these distractions, caught up in watching the young man in front of him.
Sherlock hasn’t looked at Lestrade yet. Probably won’t look at him at all. To acknowledge his presence is to ruin the illusion. Since Sherlock doesn’t like to fuck, and Lestrade isn’t certain he wants to fuck a man anyway, not even a man as odd and aggravating and haunting as Sherlock Holmes, this arrangement is mutually rewarding. They both get an audience, they both get a flicker of intimacy, they both have the satisfaction of honesty-and perhaps best of all, they don’t need to dissect the performance afterwards. In pleasing themselves, they please the other. For Lestrade at least, it’s the most fulfilling relationship in his too-busy, too-fractured life.
A moment passes, seconds counted by the ticking of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. Sherlock reclines on the sofa, stretching out. He rocks and wriggles a little to get comfortable, settling his head against the armrest. His eyes close. He’s motionless, gilded by the lamplight, relaxed, the robe open at the neck enough to expose a teasing sliver of pale skin.
Lestrade shifts, hands on his knees now before sliding up his thighs. There’s no grace in his movements, but it doesn’t matter-Sherlock has enough grace for them both, and that’s why Lestrade comes here and does this, seeking sanctuary, seeking grace.
Sherlock sighs, the sound sleepy; he turns his head towards the back of the sofa, the motion drawing Lestrade’s attention to the elegance of his neck. He rolls his shoulders, undulates slightly, and the robe slithers and slips over naked skin. Shadows sharpen and fade; light trespasses. Lestrade’s gaze strokes a line from Sherlock’s lips to his chin to his throat, and from there into the soft, concealing folds of fabric.
Lestrade palms his erection. He presses down with the heel of his hand, gasping a little at the leap of arousal. It seems unfair that he can have this when Sherlock can’t. It’s difficult to imagine the absence of lust when it fills him so completely. He wishes he could share, divide up his desire and the tangled skeins of need and offer them as a gift, but he’s certain Sherlock wouldn’t want such a sacrifice.
Sherlock fidgets, raising himself up onto one elbow. He brushes his free hand through his hair, disordering the untidy dark curls. He half-twists his body, the dressing gown whispering over his skin, sliding back to reveal pale flesh. Just a glimpse, the outside of one leg, the delicacy of an inner thigh shrouded in shadow, and then Sherlock moves again, restless, covering himself with the robe as he turns onto his side to face the room. He keeps his gaze lowered; he still hasn’t acknowledged his silent visitor.
Lestrade unzips his trousers, heart pounding at the quiet noise. He reaches clumsily into and around his underwear and takes his cock in his hand. He smells his need above the mustiness from the walls and the scent of newspapers and the underlying stink of cigarettes. He looks down at his cock, hot and hard and sticky, pre-come glistening in the half-light. For a moment he rubs at himself, watching, mind blank, just feeling, and then he looks again at Sherlock sprawled on the sofa, pale and languid and still, so still, so vulnerable, so innocent, as innocent as the dead, and lust overwhelms Lestrade, makes him open his mouth in a soundless cry.
He fucks his own hand and stares at Sherlock. Even in repose, Sherlock’s energy is tangible, his thoughts almost audible inside the silent room. Even passive, a beautiful object to be regarded, desired, projected upon, Sherlock is more than Lestrade could ever be.
When he comes, Lestrade closes his eyes; briefly, like the click of an aperture. Orgasm flashes, brutal sparks on a snapshot of pleasure. He can’t look at Sherlock in the moment of climax. Some things are still private, and Lestrade fears losing his soul.
The pattern of his hitched breathing and rapid heartbeats returns to normal. Lestrade opens his eyes. He mustn’t linger. With head lowered, he goes about the ritual of cleaning up. He uses a wad of tissues taken from his coat pocket, balling up the soiled pieces before wrapping them in a clean handkerchief. He’ll dispose of them later, at home.
He tucks himself away, zips up, gives a self-conscious pull at his belt. Then he looks up and with a shock to the heart as vicious as a gunshot, he realises Sherlock is watching him, cat’s-eyes narrowed in an almost indefinable expression. Not judgement, not interest, but faint curiosity, wondering and dismissive both at once.
The illusion breaks, and Lestrade feels awkward. It’s not supposed to be like this. Trying to retain some measure of control, he stands, crushing the ball of tissues between his fingers, all too aware of the comforting heat of orgasm leaching from him. He wants to speak, but can’t think of anything to say.
Sherlock moves on the sofa, a subtle shift of the hips, one leg stirring against the other. He smiles slightly. “Same time next week?”
Lestrade, still silent, still tongue-tied, nods.
“Goodnight, Inspector.” Still smiling, Sherlock reaches an arm above his head and switches off the lamp. The room is plunged into darkness.
It takes Lestrade a while to find his way out.
Fandom: BBC’s Sherlock
Pairing: Lestrade/Sherlock
Rating: R
Summary: Lestrade watches. Sherlock permits him.
Notes: PWP for the kink_bingo prompt ‘voyeurism’.
Object of Desire
It takes Lestrade seventeen seconds to break into the flat. There’s a key, of course-hidden not in plain sight but in his pocket, but to use it at this time seems wrong. So the key remains in his pocket, and he jiggles the lock until, with a quiet snick, it opens.
He enters the flat, pushing the door shut behind him. One day soon he’ll have to have a conversation on the practicalities of fitting locks that actually keep people out, but not now.
The hallway is a cold mass of shadows. Four o’clock in the morning, the time of lowest ebb, of vulnerabilities and insecurities; a time for thieves and lovers. Lestrade never knows which category he inhabits. Perhaps both; perhaps neither. He fumbles through the darkness, suddenly too warm in his coat. Anxiety and anticipation make his nerves prick, and he takes a deep breath as he moves towards the end of the hall. His fingers brush against a door. It opens to his touch, the hinges oiled and silent as requested.
Sherlock stands in the centre of the living room, his back to the door, gazing down at the spread pages of four magazines arranged across the coffee table. His stance suggests he’s been waiting a while. He must be aware of the change in atmosphere, of the weight of Lestrade’s gaze; his shoulders stiffen slightly and he lifts his head, but doesn’t turn around, doesn’t speak.
Lestrade takes another step. A floorboard creaks beneath his feet.
A tilt of the head, and Sherlock moves, turns away to the battered old sofa pushed against the wall. He’s wearing his dressing gown, a dark plum colour with a tatty gold trim, sleeves fraying at the cuffs, the fabric worn thin and grey at the elbows. He’s barefoot, bare-legged, probably naked under the robe, and Lestrade sucks in a breath, lets it out in a yearning, whispered sigh.
Sherlock pauses for a moment in front of the only source of light in the room-a standard lamp, 1970s style with a tasselled shade of red velvet, placed on an occasional table-and Lestrade sees the shape of his body beneath the robe. Sherlock adjusts the angle of the lampshade, arranging the pool of light so as to illuminate the length of the sofa.
Lestrade sits on the armchair opposite, easing himself in the shadows. He leans forward, forearms on his knees, feet pressed flat against the floor. Something with sharp corners pokes into his hip; a stack of old newspapers slides down into the space behind him. He ignores these distractions, caught up in watching the young man in front of him.
Sherlock hasn’t looked at Lestrade yet. Probably won’t look at him at all. To acknowledge his presence is to ruin the illusion. Since Sherlock doesn’t like to fuck, and Lestrade isn’t certain he wants to fuck a man anyway, not even a man as odd and aggravating and haunting as Sherlock Holmes, this arrangement is mutually rewarding. They both get an audience, they both get a flicker of intimacy, they both have the satisfaction of honesty-and perhaps best of all, they don’t need to dissect the performance afterwards. In pleasing themselves, they please the other. For Lestrade at least, it’s the most fulfilling relationship in his too-busy, too-fractured life.
A moment passes, seconds counted by the ticking of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. Sherlock reclines on the sofa, stretching out. He rocks and wriggles a little to get comfortable, settling his head against the armrest. His eyes close. He’s motionless, gilded by the lamplight, relaxed, the robe open at the neck enough to expose a teasing sliver of pale skin.
Lestrade shifts, hands on his knees now before sliding up his thighs. There’s no grace in his movements, but it doesn’t matter-Sherlock has enough grace for them both, and that’s why Lestrade comes here and does this, seeking sanctuary, seeking grace.
Sherlock sighs, the sound sleepy; he turns his head towards the back of the sofa, the motion drawing Lestrade’s attention to the elegance of his neck. He rolls his shoulders, undulates slightly, and the robe slithers and slips over naked skin. Shadows sharpen and fade; light trespasses. Lestrade’s gaze strokes a line from Sherlock’s lips to his chin to his throat, and from there into the soft, concealing folds of fabric.
Lestrade palms his erection. He presses down with the heel of his hand, gasping a little at the leap of arousal. It seems unfair that he can have this when Sherlock can’t. It’s difficult to imagine the absence of lust when it fills him so completely. He wishes he could share, divide up his desire and the tangled skeins of need and offer them as a gift, but he’s certain Sherlock wouldn’t want such a sacrifice.
Sherlock fidgets, raising himself up onto one elbow. He brushes his free hand through his hair, disordering the untidy dark curls. He half-twists his body, the dressing gown whispering over his skin, sliding back to reveal pale flesh. Just a glimpse, the outside of one leg, the delicacy of an inner thigh shrouded in shadow, and then Sherlock moves again, restless, covering himself with the robe as he turns onto his side to face the room. He keeps his gaze lowered; he still hasn’t acknowledged his silent visitor.
Lestrade unzips his trousers, heart pounding at the quiet noise. He reaches clumsily into and around his underwear and takes his cock in his hand. He smells his need above the mustiness from the walls and the scent of newspapers and the underlying stink of cigarettes. He looks down at his cock, hot and hard and sticky, pre-come glistening in the half-light. For a moment he rubs at himself, watching, mind blank, just feeling, and then he looks again at Sherlock sprawled on the sofa, pale and languid and still, so still, so vulnerable, so innocent, as innocent as the dead, and lust overwhelms Lestrade, makes him open his mouth in a soundless cry.
He fucks his own hand and stares at Sherlock. Even in repose, Sherlock’s energy is tangible, his thoughts almost audible inside the silent room. Even passive, a beautiful object to be regarded, desired, projected upon, Sherlock is more than Lestrade could ever be.
When he comes, Lestrade closes his eyes; briefly, like the click of an aperture. Orgasm flashes, brutal sparks on a snapshot of pleasure. He can’t look at Sherlock in the moment of climax. Some things are still private, and Lestrade fears losing his soul.
The pattern of his hitched breathing and rapid heartbeats returns to normal. Lestrade opens his eyes. He mustn’t linger. With head lowered, he goes about the ritual of cleaning up. He uses a wad of tissues taken from his coat pocket, balling up the soiled pieces before wrapping them in a clean handkerchief. He’ll dispose of them later, at home.
He tucks himself away, zips up, gives a self-conscious pull at his belt. Then he looks up and with a shock to the heart as vicious as a gunshot, he realises Sherlock is watching him, cat’s-eyes narrowed in an almost indefinable expression. Not judgement, not interest, but faint curiosity, wondering and dismissive both at once.
The illusion breaks, and Lestrade feels awkward. It’s not supposed to be like this. Trying to retain some measure of control, he stands, crushing the ball of tissues between his fingers, all too aware of the comforting heat of orgasm leaching from him. He wants to speak, but can’t think of anything to say.
Sherlock moves on the sofa, a subtle shift of the hips, one leg stirring against the other. He smiles slightly. “Same time next week?”
Lestrade, still silent, still tongue-tied, nods.
“Goodnight, Inspector.” Still smiling, Sherlock reaches an arm above his head and switches off the lamp. The room is plunged into darkness.
It takes Lestrade a while to find his way out.