On the First Day of Sherlockmas... "Consolation" (Part 1 of 2), a gift for archea2
Title: Consolation (Part 1 of 2)
A gift for: archea2
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade, Sherlock/John (ust), John/Mary Morstan
Category: Slash
Rating: R
Warnings: soft core sex, ust, angst, language
Word count: 18,493
Summary: Faced with spending Christmas Day alone watching Christmas repeats on telly, Greg Lestrade decides to check on Sherlock, because he’s alone too, isn’t he?
Based on recipient’s prompt: 2. Sherlock and Lestrade get closer after Sherlock's return, when Sherlock has to face living alone again. Bonding, gen or slash. I'd love it if Sherlock's later decision to move to Sussex coincided with Lestrade's retirement from the force.
(Plus a happy ending as requested :) )
Author's Notes: Thanks to my beta T! Happy Sherlockmas Archea2, sorry it’s so long, I got a bit carried away. Hope you like!
Consolation
Part 1 - December
Greg Lestrade had to push hard on the front door to 221B Baker Street. A week's worth of post was piled up on the other side. He didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to know that Mrs Hudson must be away but the fact that Sherlock himself hadn't been through the front door in that long was worrying. Which was why he was here anyway. He'd been trying to contact Sherlock for help on a case for the last few days but even a detailed message about the shrunken severed hand in the hotel swimming pool hadn't elicited a response. So here he was, idiot that he was, actually a bit concerned about the pompous git.
He'd been a bit concerned about Sherlock for a while, actually, but had done his best to bite his tongue. So what if John Watson wasn't around to look after Sherlock anymore; he was a grown man, he'd managed somehow while he'd been off pretending to be dead, and just because he was looking skinnier than ever and a bit...well...empty didn't mean anything was wrong. But this week -- first the unanswered calls and then, just now, he'd been sitting at home watching repeats of Christmas specials on telly, and thinking -- thinking, hadn't he, that he'd have the kids tomorrow and he'd at least seen them this morning when he'd popped over to Katherine's with their presents, but what about those poor bastards spending the whole day entirely alone? And he'd thought of Sherlock. And, well, he'd thought, hadn't he? (Sherlock always told him not to try doing that).
Greg took the stairs up to the flat two at a time. He knocked, but when there was no response he fished out the second key he'd purloined off Sherlock (two can play at that game) and opened the door.
He almost gagged on the smell.
"Good God, what the fuck is that?" he gasped, covering his nose, depositing the bag he’d brought on the one small clean bit of surface and opening the kitchen window. It looked like an experiment was in progress on the table and the detritus of week old takeaway sat mouldering on the countertop. Greg had seen the homes of deceased loners who’d been eaten by their cats that were in better shape. The worry gnawed at him just a bit more. Bloody idiot -- after all the business with his faked death, he'd better not have bloody topped himself.
"Christ, it's freezing in here. Sherlock!" he called. "Bloody hell, Sherlock, you here?" He poked his head into the living room, relief as much as irritation flooding him as he took in the sight of one lanky bastard half-hanging off an armchair, staring up into space. "For fuck's sake, would it have killed you to answer the bloody phone?"
"Oh, Lestrade, how good of you to invade my privacy. Happy holidays." Sherlock didn't even glance at him but kept staring at the ceiling. "Ex-wife wouldn't let you have the children, then, after you made sure you were rostered off for the day and all. How unfortunate."
"Happy fucking Christmas to you too, you wanker. I thought you'd--" he was going to say “overdosed,” but it seemed tactless, "--blown yourself up or something."
"Never fear, I'm sure if I came to a sticky end my dear brother would be the first to let you know. He does so love being the bearer of happy tidings."
"Well, Ebenezer Scrooge," said Greg, running out of steam now that Sherlock was not only all right but in fine acerbic form, "I'm here now, so sit up, then, I brought us something to share. Bit sad to sit at home drinking by yourself at Christmas." He retrieved the bag he’d brought from the kitchen and held it aloft.
"I would have thought Christmas to be the one day of the year that it's de rigueur for the 'sad' to indulge in a bit of alcohol-induced escapism," muttered Sherlock, not moving a muscle.
"Yeah, well, are you going to have a drink with me and show off your brilliance with this severed hand case or are you going to be an arse?" Greg lifted out the bottle of quite good single malt scotch he'd been given in the Yard's Secret Santa, as well as two clean glasses.
Sherlock's eyes glittered and he did actually swing his legs around the chair. "Why? So you can feel good about yourself? Doing a good deed, spending time with the freak? Sherlock Holmes, you thought, there's someone sadder than I am, I'll go inflict my company on him. After all, it's Christmas."
He was obviously trying to drive Greg away, and for exactly that reason Greg was going to dig his heels in. Fuck him. If he didn't want people checking to be sure he was alive, he should answer his bloody phone. "Shut it, Sherlock. Now, are you going to sit there wallowing in some sort of pity party or are you going to sit the fuck up and drink some fifty year old scotch with me?"
Sherlock righted himself, long legs sliding gracefully to the ground, and pulled his dressing gown around him. Greg noticed bright red knitted bed socks on his feet. Present from Mrs Hudson?
"Why's it so bleeding cold in here anyway? Heating on the blink?"
"Broken." Sherlock waved his hand. "John used to fix it. Irrelevant."
"Well, freezing your balls off might be irrelevant to you but I'd rather not." He took in Sherlock's filthy dressing gown, his mop of snarled hair and -- dear Lord -- a three-day growth of stubble.
"Good God, you're a mess. No offence, but when did you last shower?"
"Not only do I have to endure your company, but now you're passing judgement on my hygiene. No one asked you to be here." Sherlock pulled his knees up under his chin, wrapping his arms around himself, whether in defence or to keep warm, Greg wasn't sure.
He sighed. "Look, you go and have a shower, and I'll see what I can do with the heating, or at least get a fire going."
"Or you could just go home."
Greg grinned. "Nope, because that's exactly what you'd want and I'm not feeling very charitable suddenly. Shower; you reek."
Sherlock glared but did actually unfold himself from his seat and stomp off towards the bathroom. Greg looked around the room. It was the worst he'd ever seen it. Paper mountains towered in corners and on most surfaces. Things -- random shit that wouldn't look out of place on some lifestyle programme about sad acts who kept random shit -- filled all the space in between. There was literally a path from Sherlock's chair, to the sofa, to his violin at the window and then to the hall and kitchen. It was quite spectacular, actually, this manifestation of letting yourself go.
People had underestimated the positive effect John Watson had had on Sherlock. What had it been? Only two months back without him, and already Sherlock was on track to having his flat declared a hazardous site by the Health Department.
Greg had a look at the heating but, after poking it and kicking it a bit, gave it up as a bad joke and decided the fire was a better option. There was a small pile of firewood in the foyer by the stairs (thank you, Mrs Hudson) and he raked out the cinders, used what he hoped was just old newspaper and not some vital evidence, and got a nice little fire going. Then he found a trash bag under the sink, dumped all the perishable debris in it, and took it downstairs.
Feeling very self-righteous with thoughts of doing good deeds on Christmas, helping the less fortunate and what-not, he washed his hands, poured out two large nips of scotch and settled down to enjoy the fire before Sherlock came back and said something to spoil it.
Sherlock stalked out a few minutes later, shaven and fully dressed in a suit. His hair was still slightly damp.
He snatched up the scotch glass Greg held out to him and sat down in his armchair opposite. Sniffing the scotch suspiciously, he took a delicate sip. "Passable."
"You’re welcome. So. No Christmas plans, then?"
Sherlock scowled. "Tell me about the case."
Greg did, providing as much detail as he could, enduring snapped questions and imprecations about his intelligence -- and then watched as Sherlock wove his magic, mentally dancing through the data, making deductive leaps, pulling in information and tugging at threads until the answer was revealed. It was the first time since he'd arrived that he'd seen Sherlock's face at all animated.
"...so unless Mrs Harris owns a chihuahua, it has to be the son." As Sherlock finished, his gaze fell on Greg's face and suddenly seemed to focus, where before it had been off somewhere, sifting through information and strings that only he could see.
"Bloody genius!" said Greg, staring back. Sherlock's expression froze and he looked away sharply, into the fire, long fingers gripping the glass tightly.
"Not really, just observation. I keep telling you, you just need to pay attention. John was--" Silence descended. Greg cleared his throat and then had another sip of scotch. John. Greg couldn't blame the man. Greg had been rightly pissed at Sherlock too and they hadn't been -- whatever Sherlock and John had been; close partners at least. And Sherlock had let John think he'd died, for fuck's sake. For three years. John had been a mess but then he'd sorted himself out, bought a practice, took up being a proper doctor again, ended up getting married last year.
Who could blame him for not wanting to get caught up with Sherlock again? His wife was expecting a baby. Hardly a fit life for a father, chasing after Sherlock. That was obviously what was bothering Sherlock.
Well, if Greg had learned anything from the interminable counselling sessions he'd gone to with Katherine, it was that it was better to talk about things. He doubted Sherlock had said word to anybody about this.
"John -- you're not seeing him this Christmas, then?" he asked, deciding to take the bull by the horns.
"No. He's busy, with his wife." The disdain, dislike was palpable.
"Ah. Yeah, nice girl. What's her name? M-something -- Melissa, Megan--"
"Mary." Tone flat, hard.
So Sherlock didn't like the wife. Still, it would be hard, accepting your ex had moved on and wasn't going to drop his new life just because you weren't dead after all. "He must have been pleased you're back, though," said Lestrade.
"If by 'pleased' you mean irate, then yes. It doesn't matter. It's better that he doesn't forgive me."
Oh. Bit unfair; after all, Sherlock had saved all their lives: his, John’s, Mrs Hudson’s -- probably countless others, given Moriarty's crimes. "But you explained, yeah? About the snipers, the network?"
"John doesn't want to understand and it's better if he doesn't."
Lestrade didn't push the point. He poured them both another glass. "It's a load of bollocks, this 'staying friends,' anyway; one party only does it out of guilt and the other hopes to get back together. Maybe you can be friends later, I don't know. I've never managed it."
Sherlock looked at him sharply, eyes drawn away from the fire. "I-- No. We can't be friends. He has a new life. Normal and boring and safe."
Greg swirled his glass. It was easier to look at the amber liquid than Sherlock's face as he asked, "What about you? Did you meet anyone else, when you were, um, away?"
Sherlock looked at the fire again. "No. There was only ever John."
Oh, God. Greg knew what Sherlock had been doing when he was away: risking his life, doing bloody stupid things. Probably thought about coming back to John the whole time, and then he gets back and John's gone and got married. And now won't even talk to him. Fuck. That's a bit hard.
"You'll meet someone else. Just give it time." Greg grimaced into his glass. Poor bastard. Heartbroken. That explained a lot.
Sherlock swallowed and wouldn't look at him. "I won't and I don't want to. You don't understand. There'll never be another John."
Greg bit the inside of his mouth. God. Was this Sherlock's first break-up? He sounded like a teenager. "Sherlock, hate to tell you this, but what you're feeling, everyone feels. And eventually everyone moves on, and you'll meet someone else and you'll wonder what you saw in him in the first place."
Sherlock glared at his scotch. "Thank you. That makes it even more pathetic."
Greg fiddled with his glass. He'd never really seen Sherlock like this, open, talking about himself. He seemed oddly vulnerable and Greg felt a strong urge to help. "What you need is a rebound shag. You know, one night stand, fuck someone else. Help you move on."
Sherlock's lips quirked into a mocking smile. "Are you offering, Lestrade?" he asked sardonically.
Greg prided himself that he didn't spit out the sip of scotch he'd just taken. Instead he swallowed it down and took the time to compose himself. "Ah, no. Thanks all the same. I have enough of you belittling my intelligence without you rating my sexual performance as well."
Sherlock looked at him, assessingly. "You've thought about it, then."
Greg shook his head firmly. "No! I'm not -- no."
Sherlock sniffed. "Huh."
Greg knew that tone; it meant Sherlock thought he knew something you didn't. "Oh, God," he said, resigning himself.
"Your pulse rate quickened and your pupils dilated when I made the suggestion."
Greg shrugged and took a sip of scotch. "Doesn't mean anything."
"You've never thought about it?" Sherlock frowned, obviously curious.
"Not deliberately, no," he said, not sure exactly why he hadn't just said a flat-out no.
Sherlock chuckled. Greg looked at him steadily, not about to let Sherlock rattle him -- or let on that he had.
"For the record," said Sherlock with apparent nonchalance, "you wouldn't have to worry about my judging your performance. I've very little to compare it to."
"Except for the love of your life, apparently.”
A look of understanding dawned on Sherlock's face and Greg wondered what he'd missed. "Oh. You think -- John -- No. We weren't -- we weren't like that. We weren't a 'couple'." It sounded like he was quoting someone.
"Oh. So you two were never --"
"In a sexual, romantic relationship? No." Sherlock's face twisted a little into something Greg recognised as self-mockery. "John was too resolutely heterosexual for that."
"But you--?"
"In a heartbeat."
"Fuck. So, what are you saying? Never been with a bloke before?"
"No."
"Well, neither have I."
"You are considering it."
Greg felt his face heat. "Let's just say hypothetically." Sherlock leaned back in his chair. He was winding Greg up, he just knew it. Fine. "So, what about birds, then? Before the missus there were three, and since then a grand total of two sexual encounters. So I'm pretty sure my experience is vanilla compared to yours."
"Well, unless you count seeing a dominatrix naked, I'd say, there's been....ooh...no women I've had sexual encounters with, as you put it."
Greg replayed that in his head to make sure he'd gotten it right. "Sherlock fucking Holmes, bloody hell -- are telling me you're a fucking virgin?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please. Why is that such a surprise? No one likes me; I can't stand anyone, either. How do you think I'd tolerate sex?"
"Does John know what he turned down?"
"I made it clear at the start of our friendship that it wasn't my area."
He ran his tongue over his teeth. Deflowering Sherlock Holmes. He had to admit it had appeal. "So, apart from the fact that you are actually just winding me up, does that mean I've joined an exclusive club of the two people Sherlock Holmes would deign to fuck?"
Sherlock's lip quirked into a half smile. "Apparently. Hypothetically."
"Shame I don't fancy you then, isn't it."
Sherlock snorted. "Lestrade, your tells are giving you away. You're hotter for me than you were for Constable Jones dressed as Santa's naughty elf at the Yard Christmas party."
"Jones' legs in that number are better than yours."
Sherlock studied him for a long moment, his gaze flickering down his body for a second before returning to his face, analysing, assessing. Very deliberately, Sherlock set his glass on the coffee table. He leaned forward, eyes not leaving Greg's face.
"One-time offer, Lestrade. Sex, now."
Greg felt his ears heat and licked his lips before draining his glass. "Good one, Sherlock," he said, managing a grin.
Sherlock frowned, then his expression cleared. "It's not a joke, Lestrade. Don't tell me you've never wanted to stop up my mouth with your cock, bend me over your desk and give it to me, have me kiss your arse?"
Greg stared at him. God, it was tempting. "You're serious?"
Sherlock stood up with feline grace and crossed the space between them, leaned both hands on the back of the chair beside Greg's head, insinuated a knee between his thighs, dipped his head, and very deliberately kissed him.
Greg responded before he had time to consider that this was a particularly bad idea and what the bloody hell was he doing? Soft, full lips, a teasing tongue and actual intimate, sexual touch for the first time in God knows how long had him finding purchase on Sherlock's shoulders and snogging back. It was a challenging kiss -- too much teeth and tongue -- and lacked finesse, but Sherlock's knee nudged at his groin and long fingers wound in his hair and Greg found himself leaning into Sherlock, sliding his own hand through thick, still-damp curls.
Sherlock pulled back, eyes narrowed questioningly.
"Yeah, all right," said Greg, breathless.
Sherlock half-laughed. "So that's all I had to do," he said. The words sounded bitter.
The way Lestrade had taken control -- started the fire, cleaned up the kitchen -- had been disconcertingly familiar, and how much it had hurt had set Sherlock back a pace.
Lestrade -- someone Sherlock wouldn't see die by sniper bullet, not just so he could take John with him into exile -- a colleague, a nearly-friend. Someone who knew too much about him but kept most of it to himself anyway. He knew he could trust Lestrade. He was easy to understand and easy to circumvent.
And maybe he had a point, that maybe this craving for John Watson could be solved with other human touch. Satisfy this unrequited urge somewhere else and maybe it would go -- maybe it would leave Sherlock in peace.
He could trust Lestrade. He wasn't unappealing and he was tolerable in appearance and temperament. He cared. Sherlock knew that much. He would be safe with Lestrade.
It was also amusing, this verbal game of seduction. Flirting? Maybe, or provoking, probably. It was intriguing to see Lestrade respond, react, as if the concept was enticing. Dilated pupils, can't feel his pulse but a shift in his seat -- Yes. Interested.
Now to prove the hypothesis.
In the firelight, Lestrade's short grey hair glinted gold, close enough in colour to John's that for a moment Sherlock could pretend this was another man, another friend. John's hair, John's lips, John's hands grasping at his shoulders, sliding into his hair, kissing him back, pulse racing under his fingertips.
Sherlock steadied himself and pulled back. No. It was not John. But?
Lestrade looked up at him. Licked his lips. Reduced yet unashamed. Trust?
And then agreement; want. So simple. So many opportunities ignored. Would John have accepted this so easily?
Sherlock took Lestrade's hand and pulled him from his seat. "Bedroom," he said shortly. He realised he didn't have any of the necessary paraphernalia for this act. "You have a condom in your wallet? Yes?"
Greg patted his pockets and pulled out his wallet, retrieving a foil-wrapped square. "Yeah, yes. Should be in-date."
"I have lubricant," said Sherlock and pushed open the door to his bedroom.
How? Passionate or clinical? How would he do it with John? Passionate, emotional, not giving him time to change his mind, to think, to reconsider--
Lestrade smiled at him. Fondly, ruefully? He gripped Sherlock's collar and pulled him down into a kiss.
"Stop thinking. It's just a shag, yeah?"
Ah. This. Deft hands pushing off his jacket, tugging his shirt from his trousers. Warm, capable hands on his bare waist. Touch making him shiver. He followed the kiss, followed suit, pulling away for a moment. Off with Greg's jumper, up and under his long-sleeved shirt. Lestrade's body was surprisingly fit, slightly padded but still firmly muscled. It was cold in the bedroom but this touching, this kissing, made it negligible.
Then Lestrade was steering him towards the bed, pushing him onto it, still kissing, following him there. Would John have done this? Taken charge, pushed him down and made love to him? Or would he have let Sherlock lead? Sherlock wanted John to want him, to want this, to take him.
Yes, this was better.
Lestrade's thigh was between his, hip rubbing against his groin. Pleasurable, arousing; Sherlock noted his own growing erection, Lestrade's answering one against his hip. He needed to see more, feel more skin, touch, taste. Data -- all data.
He pushed up Lestrade's shirt, tugging and pulling until Lestrade sat up and tore it off over his head. Then Sherlock sat up under him, hands to his ribs, lips to sternum. Breathe in -- scent: musky, mildly pleasant; taste: slightly salty; touch: the odd texture of smooth skin against his tongue, ribs, abdomen, soft, smooth, ah -- nipples, erectile tissue, puckering at stimulation -- positive effect on subject -- no, not subject, Lestrade/John.
And then Lestrade pushed him back down, pinned his arms above his head and kissed him, hard and demanding. He gasped. John, wanting him, strong hands, holding him down, showing how much he wanted this. Warm golden skin, tanned around the arms and neck. Groin thrusting against his. Would John take him? Open him up and be inside him? Or would he press cock to cock, mouth to cock, take Sherlock's mouth? So many variables.
Lips on his throat, oh! Oh! That -- and combined with pressure on his erection -- Yes -- Sherlock groaned. He clung to Lestrade, moved desperate fingers downwards, unbuttoned denim, followed the smooth line of hip bone to pelvis, feeling the firm evidence of arousal against his hands, hips rubbing into his hands now, smooth skin beside coarse hair, pushed away fabric further, free. Smooth buttocks, flexing--
"God, Sherlock." Against his ear, a lick against his throat. "What do you want to do?"
Thought? Can't think. Need not to think. "Anything. You decide. You can have me."
A low groan, a thrust of hips.
Sherlock's hands fell to his own trousers, unbuttoning, unzipping, down and off, kicking them away. And then Lestrade was on him, above him, smooth, hard flesh against his own, the sensation spiking his arousal, making him clutch John/Lestrade to him tighter. Lips, mouths; sloppy, heated kisses, hard breathing.
"Roll over then," murmured Lestrade and Sherlock complied, pillowing his face in his arms and lifting his hips. Yes. John would take him, he would be John's, have him inside, part of him for this moment, at least.
Greg had had anal sex before, during an adventurous period with his ex-wife; he knew the theory even though the actual attempt had been resoundingly awkward and abandoned halfway through. Hopefully it would be different with a male body, what with a prostate and all -- that could feel pretty bloody nice as he’d discovered one late Saturday night many years ago, when he’d hooked up with that girl with purple hair and Docs -- Becca. Somehow he and Katherine had never gotten around to that particular adventure.
Trying not to think too much about either previous failure or the fact that this was Sherlock's first time (although elements of this certainly helped sustain his hard-on), he picked up the lube. He paused; condom first? Until his divorce he hadn’t used a condom for years, Katherine had been on the pill, and then with the two post-divorce shags, his partners had been happy to do the honours. Usually he’d see about it after foreplay, but how did it work with anal sex? In the end he settled for opening the packet before his hands got all slippery. He lubed up the fingers of his right hand. Rubbing soothing circles on the small of Sherlock's back with his left and murmuring praise and encouragement, he worked him open until he accidentally brushed the prostate and Sherlock's deep groan turned his knees to water. He found the spot again and repeated the action until Sherlock was cursing him in unflattering terms and telling him to get on with it before he came.
Fumbling a bit with the condom, he blew a puff of air on the circle of latex to make sure he had it the right way and then rolled it on carefully; suddenly aware that it was the only one they had and his ego wouldn’t survive the ignominy of breaking it. Successfully sheathed, he gripped Sherlock's hips, pulling him up on his knees, and then very steadily pushed inside. Oh fucking bloody hell, that felt good: tight, warm heat, and a pale, slim body bucking under his own. He began to move, slowly, carefully. Like this, he could imagine he was with a woman, a woman with skinny hips and dark curls. Or he could remember it was Sherlock Bloody Holmes and he had his cock so far up his arse the man could feel it in his throat.
"All right?" he gasped.
"Yes." The word was bitten out. "Less talk, more -- just more."
Greg grinned and picked up the tempo, angling his hips to try and hit that spot until he did and was rewarded with another deep groan. It felt so bloody good. Sherlock was tight and responsive and it had been too long between drinks. Pleasure pooled low in his belly, building in pressure. He was close, so close.
"Sherlock, fuck, you feel so good. Fuck -- close, don't want to come yet--"
He was answered with a groan and hips rocking back to meet his. He slid his right hand around from Sherlock's hip, cupping him, eliciting a long, low keen. He brushed his hand over Sherlock's erection, making him sob and then buck back with a cry, and Greg’s climax overtook him as Sherlock's body clenched in pulses with his orgasm.
Sherlock collapsed on the bed with Lestrade falling heavily on him. They lay panting for a moment, and then the warm weight was gone from Sherlock's back and he felt oddly bereft until he reminded himself it was Lestrade, not John. Not John who had broken him apart and undone him with tender hands and gentle, amused words. No.
He felt a gentle hand rub his back.
"You all right, mate?"
Sherlock swallowed. "Yes, I'm fine," he said, mustering all his reserve. He pulled himself up and slipped off the bed, grabbing up his dressing gown. He washed in the bathroom, then padded into the living room. Snatching up his phone, he noted the unanswered call. It was from John.
He played the message.
"Ah. Hi. Um. Sherlock, it's me, John. John Watson --" there was a pause. "Look, it's Christmas, and um, I realised this morning that you -- it was good to know, this Christmas, that you're alive. Um, yeah. I was glad. Anyway -- I just wanted to wish you a Happy Christmas. I mean, you're probably out solving some case, won't even notice what day it is. But yeah. Happy Christmas...Bye."
He stared at the phone, realised his hands were shaking.
Lestrade came out of the bedroom, pulling on his jumper.
"All right?" he asked.
"Get out," said Sherlock.
For a moment Lestrade looked taken aback, his face flushed (embarrassed? annoyed? Sherlock didn't care), but then he rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you great prat. It was good for me too. Right, then. Thanks for the help with the case. I'll see myself out."
"Do that."
He typed a text and hit send.
Merry Christmas, John -SH
Part 2 - January
John, case you would find interesting. 44 Harcourt Road, Euston. I'm here now. - SH
I've moved on, Sherlock. I really can't get involved in all that again. Sorry. Maybe catch up sometime for a drink when I'm not so busy. Cheers, John.
It was the kind of case John found interesting: no bodies, no one else’s life in danger, just a mystery to solve and a criminal to catch. The kind of case where John would look at him as if he was something wonderful and magnificent. The look that made Sherlock think for a wild, impulsive moment that perhaps--
Sherlock shoved his phone into his pocket. But maybe it hadn't been the cases John had found interesting after all, it had been him, and John did not like him anymore and no case could tempt him.
His phone rang. Stupid hope flaring, he snatched it out of his pocket.
"Lestrade," he said, ignoring the clench of disappointment as the wrong voice rattled off details of a case. "Address?"
The man's tone was the same as always: harassed and profanity-laden, but something about it cast Sherlock back to a cold December evening when someone had bothered enough to share a drink, when warm hands had touched him and hazel eyes had been blown wide and wanting. He thrust the memory aside. "I'm on another case. I'll be there in an hour," he said and disconnected.
Greg went upstairs to his tiny flat, the best he could afford this close to NSY, rubbing his hands against the cold winter's night. It was mid-January and he'd just spent the better part of five hours stuck out near the Thames where a body had been dragged from the river, followed by the better part of three hours finishing up the paperwork after he'd given in and called Sherlock Bloody Holmes to help -- not including the bloody hour and a half waiting for Sherlock to even show.
That had gone well, in a not-at-all way. At least the great prat hadn't been tactless enough to mention their Christmastime shag -- that was the last thing Greg needed, but somehow he'd always trusted Sherlock to keep that to himself. No, instead he belittled Greg and his team to the point that two officers had to be forcibly restrained and Greg himself was two words from ordering him off the crime scene.
But he'd solved the case and then waltzed off without a backwards glance.
Greg let himself in and flipped the light switch and then nearly backed into the door. Sherlock was standing in his living room. "What the buggering fuck are you doing here?"
Sherlock's expression was closed. He looked around, fiddled a bit with the back of the sofa, then glanced at Greg. "I'd like to do that again."
"Do what again, rile my officers up and irritate the bollocks off me at a crime scene?" He didn't have time for this shit.
Sherlock looked at the floor. "No. Christmas. The sex, Lestrade. I'd like to do that again. With you."
Greg gaped. "You've got to be kidding me? After today's stunt -- actually sure, get over here and suck my cock; you bloody owe me."
And then Sherlock's eyes flickered to his face, and Greg's mouth went dry at the look in them: dark and hungry. In two steps Sherlock was in front of him and sinking to his knees.
Greg ran his hands through his hair. "Sherlock," he said, trying to be calm, sensible, gentle. "I was bloody joking."
Hands stilled on Greg's belt. "Yes or no, Lestrade? I want to."
"Oh." Greg swallowed and closed his eyes. "Fuck. Fuck yes, all right."
And Sherlock did, pushed him back against the door, and not so much sucked as explored his cock, licked, tasted, savoured him. It was good, and it was even better because it was that smart mouth doing it, those dark curls Greg laced his hand through, and those odd eyes looking up at him obscenely and when Greg came Sherlock fucking swallowed and didn't that do his head in?
He tugged Sherlock up, kissed him hard and reached for his trousers, pulling them open, freeing the straining erection within. He tugged him off, quick and filthy and all over himself, all the while kissing those dirty lips, that shocking mouth.
Sherlock drew back after he'd come, one final graze of kiss red lips against his own, watching Greg carefully. "That was...good."
Greg huffed. "It was a bit, yeah. Thanks--" he waved his hand. "For that."
Sherlock hesitated as if he was about to say something, then bit his lip, nodded, and tidied himself away. "Good night," he said.
"Wait, Sherlock -- you want to have a beer, grab something to eat? Something?"
Sherlock did that same thing with his lip. "I'm not hungry. Maybe next time."
Greg nodded and stepped aside to let him go, and it was only as the door shut in his face that he had the sense to notice. "Next time?"
I uncovered an art theft ring today. You would have liked the gallery owner; appalling taste in jumpers. -SH
Mary hates my jumpers too. She has renovated my wardrobe, you'd be impressed. John
Sherlock threw his phone across the room.
He masturbated later, angry, quick. He refused to think of John and instead remembered a firm, tanned hand dragging him to completion, thought of a genial handsome face and of hard, demanding kisses and a tongue inside his mouth.
Next time was a week later and Sherlock had broken into his flat again, which would have been embarrassing except Greg knew it was a piece of shit building with poor security anyway. This time Greg wasn't quite as surprised and dragged him into the bedroom for a proper buggering.
Afterwards Greg kissed his shoulder and smoothed dark hair away from his ear, but then Sherlock abruptly got to his feet and disappeared into the bathroom to shower and dress.
Greg had pulled on some clothes by the time he emerged and had had time to think about what to do next. All the same, Sherlock looked so much like the twenty-nine year old kid Greg had met years ago, a poor mask of cocky arrogance hiding defensiveness and insecurity, that he was momentarily floored. "Takeaway then?" Greg asked when he'd recovered himself. "You said you would this time."
Sherlock frowned. Then his expression cleared. "I won't eat much. I'll annoy you."
"Sherlock, I'm fucking buying you dinner. Go on and sit on the bloody sofa while I order in."
A faint flush stained Sherlock's cheekbones. "It's not a date, Lestrade," he said acidly. "It's sex, nothing more."
He refused to let Sherlock get to him. "Yeah, and if I picked you up at a club, I'd have at least bought you a drink, so -- manners, Sherlock, let me buy us dinner, yeah?"
"And if I don't?"
"Up to you. Depends on if you want a next time or not."
"Uncertain," said Sherlock with a frown, as if he was considering it seriously. "I'd -- this is becoming something of a habit, one I had no intention of forming."
He shrugged. "Suit yourself. Might be nice not coming home and getting a heart attack once a week because some git's sitting in my living room."
A smile tugged at Sherlock's lips and he huffed a soft laugh. Greg smiled in return.
"Fine, dinner then," said Sherlock. "I'd hate to miss the opportunity to give you a cardiovascular workout."
"Git."
"Idiot."
And shaking his head, Greg brushed past him to order some Chinese. They watched telly in silence until it arrived, despite Greg's best efforts to have a conversation.
Then Sherlock sat hunched over his plate and poked at his food until finally he stood up. "Can I go now?"
And Greg sighed and waved his hand towards the door.
Sherlock watched the surgery from across the road, effectively concealed by some poorly designed streetscaping. At five-thirty John finally emerged, holding hands with a woman -- her. John said something and she laughed and replied and John laughed and leaned over and kissed her, briefly but familiarly.
They got into her car; not John's, couldn't be John's choice.
John had been wearing a suit -- grey, blue shirt. It suited him. Mary's taste. Not John's.
Mary leaving her fingerprints all over John. His John. No. Not his John. Not anymore.
Sherlock peeled off the tiled pillar he'd been leaning against and flagged down a cab.
He had every intention of following the yellow Prius, but instead he told the driver to take him to another address, another part of town. He wasn't even sure why. He had been careful not to think closely about that subject.
It was a satisfactory arrangement. Lestrade was lonely, Sherlock knew this was his motivation -- agreeable, casual, safe sex with someone known yet not from his place of work, trustworthy to a degree and unlikely to demand that strings be attached. Lestrade's equal need for intimacy and companionship, as illustrated by his attempts to add social interactions to their sexual encounters, disconcerted Sherlock somewhat but it was not intolerable or entirely unavoidable.
Lestrade had provided food last time. Sherlock had accepted. Lestrade had likened it to buying a potential sexual partner a drink, which meant it was a reciprocal arrangement or could potentially lead to a power imbalance.
"Pull over," Sherlock ordered the cabbie.
Greg was half-expecting to see Sherlock the next Tuesday evening, so he wasn't as surprised when he opened the door and found the man sitting on his sofa.
"I brought food," Sherlock said, holding up two carrier bags. "Thai."
Greg blinked. "All right. Thanks. That's good of you."
"Let's eat first so I can leave after I fellate you."
"Sherlock--" Greg sighed, trying to rein in the part of his mind that had gone straight to that appealing image.
"No? You fellate me, then. It's your turn anyway."
Greg rubbed his eyes. "No, I mean, not that I'm disputing that, but -- let's have dinner, then see what happens, yeah?"
Sherlock's expression was impassive and he sat down at the table as if he was there under sufferance, which he probably was.
Greg shook his head, fetched plates, cutlery, and two beers, and dished out the meal. He was starving and the Thai was good, so he ate quickly while once more Sherlock made a show of eating.
"No wonder you're so bloody skinny. You need to eat more than that."
Sherlock scowled and deliberately ate a large forkful. "Happy?" he asked putting his fork down.
He snorted. "My kids have better appetites than you."
Sherlock pulled a face. "Isn't it lucky you aren't my father," he commented.
"How old do you think I am?"
"Forty-nine, according to your driver's license. Don't worry, Detective Inspector, I'm not fucking you because of unresolved daddy issues."
Greg snorted. "Bloody hope not."
"No, I'm just using you for sex." A smirk played around the corners of Sherlock's mouth.
"Nice. Really nice, Sherlock. Good thing I know you secretly like me."
Sherlock sniffed. "’Tolerate’ is the word I'd use."
"I tolerate you too, Sherlock." He grinned "God, you're a grumpy bastard to be around. Lucky you're such a decent shag."
"Hm, three encounters is hardly sufficient data to make that judgement."
Greg shrugged. "Do you see me complaining?"
Sherlock pushed back his chair. "Shall we continue gathering data on that point?"
Greg set down his knife and fork and drained his glass. "I'll be up for that."
Sherlock didn't understand this need. He thought once would be sufficient, would satisfy his curiosity, assuage this tedious desire that had been gnawing at him, but the heady mix of chemicals that touch and orgasm released in his brain had been more addictive than cocaine, and without negative consequences to temper it he had no external reason not to indulge it. And Lestrade was letting him, encouraging him, enjoying it too. Lestrade knew him, knew nearly everything that any outside observer would know, aside from John (but John was different, that's why John was special), and he tolerated him, accepted him and respected him. He didn't mock or ridicule; he was a practical and straightforward lover but gentle and accepting and that was enough and good and Sherlock could pretend.
Except his thoughts of John, in between these encounters, were confused now with the reality of a man with silver hair, still handsome, with straight white teeth and the weight of responsibility hanging about him like a mantel. Because it was Lestrade who was now stripping off his shirt and pushing him back on the bed. Lestrade, not John, whose deft fingers were unfastening his trousers and divesting him of his pants. And it was Lestrade's mouth and tongue and hands making Sherlock roll his eyes back into his head and grip the bedsheets with both hands and hang on. And when his mind drifted, consumed by pleasure and sensation, John's face became blurred with another’s and John's voice took on a different tone and John's limbs were more golden and there was no scar where there should have been and this wasn't John.
But oh, Lestrade's mouth was warm and made his breath come in gasps, wound pleasure through him, tightening him like a spring, and it was better than his own hand had ever been and better than Lestrade's hand and Sherlock knew he would want this again. And what would it be like to sink inside Lestrade's body, if this was how a warm, wet mouth felt?
The pleasure, the pressure made him buck and pump his hips, more, more and he was babbling nonsense and his fingers found short silver hair and then his orgasm overtook him, bright and overwhelming, and left him trembling and gasping. Lestrade climbed up the bed to kneel beside him, tugging on his own cock, gripping Sherlock's thigh with his free hand and then coming in bursts over his stomach in some sort of animalistic display -- and oddly Sherlock found it desirable, good.
He shut his eyes and felt Lestrade collapse on the bed beside him. He felt a hand on his shoulder. Comfortable? Comforting?
"Don't call it a blowjob for nothing," said Lestrade, and Sherlock heard him cracking his jaw and flexing his shoulders and neck. "Was that all right? Yours was bloody nice."
Sherlock realised a response was expected. "It was extremely pleasurable," he said, not opening his eyes. "You can do that again sometime."
"Oh, cheers, mate," said Lestrade a touch sarcastically. He chuckled. "Glad it was acceptable."
Sherlock reached out and brushed his knuckles over Lestrade's side. It was easier than saying anything at this moment.
Greg got home early the next Tuesday. Sherlock was not there, which in a way was a relief; for a moment Greg had suspected the other man spent all day camped in his home waiting for him to return. Of course there was no guarantee the rangy prat would even show up. Greg changed out of his suit and ordered pizza.
The pizza arrived before Sherlock did, but Greg was just sitting down in front of the telly with it when there was a knock at the door.
Sherlock stood side-on to the door, as if he wasn't sure if he wanted to come in.
"Sherlock.”
"Lestrade," he said with a frown.
"In or out?"
Sherlock followed him inside.
"Pizza?" Greg sat back down on the couch while Sherlock hung up his coat.
Sherlock eyed him carefully, obviously decided it hadn't actually been a question, and picked up a slice, sitting down at the other end of the sofa.
"That Wilson case is coming to trial a week next Friday. Don't imagine you'll be called, but just a heads up," Greg said.
"Oh. Tedious."
"It's even more tedious when they get off, so if you do get on the stand, don't be an arrogant arse about it, right?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that, shall we? Surely your forensics team has done an exemplary job."
Greg narrowed his gaze and pointed the pizza at him. "Careful. I might like your arse but I won't have you bashing my team in my house, great sex or not."
Sherlock looked amused. "Heaven forbid I let Anderson get in the way of your cock, Detective Inspector."
Greg winced. "Okay and that right there is an image I don't need if you want me to get it up tonight." And then he made the mistake of catching Sherlock's eye and they both sniggered.
Greg shook his head and took another bite of pizza and Sherlock began eating his slice. The silence was actually companionable.
"Tell me about when you were away," Greg said suddenly. "You must have some stories of being a bloody James Bond type -- I saw some of the report, the bits that weren't censored."
Sherlock shook his head. "It mostly involved sitting around airports, if you go by percentage of time spent."
"Oh, my mistake, I was under the impression you were using your deductive reasoning to destroy a major international crime syndicate."
"You really want to know," said Sherlock incredulously. "Why?"
"Because, believe it or not, I actually find what you do pretty bloody interesting. There's a reason I let you hang around my crime scenes bothering me."
Sherlock stared at him for a long moment. "All right," he said, and started telling Greg about the operation in Madrid.
Greg packed up the empty pizza box and shoved it on the floor before lounging back on the couch to listen to the rest of Sherlock's story. He rattled off facts and deductions like he did at a crime scene, but this was all from memory. It was fascinating.
"And so the local police arrived, but luckily Annabella had disappeared with the gun and I was able to climb out the toilet window before any difficult questions were asked."
"You are fucking incredible, you mad bastard," Greg said with a grin. "How on earth you survived I have no idea."
Sherlock blinked and the way he looked at Greg -- startled, with a faint blush on his cheekbones -- made him pause. Greg cleared his throat and decided to aim for levity.
"I think you turned me on just a bit there," he said, rubbing his sock-clad foot against Sherlock's shin. "Want to do something about that?"
Sherlock's expression cleared and then his gaze darkened, drawing up over the entirety of Greg's body. "Any suggestions?" he drawled.
Greg coughed and shifted slightly. "I was thinking, since you've never done it before, maybe you ought to have a go, you know, doing me. Only if you're careful, though; I quite like my arsehole the way it is."
The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up. "I'm always very careful, Lestrade," he purred, and didn't that sound go straight to Greg's groin.
This would be the last time. It had to be the last time, because what man would let Sherlock do this to him, reduce him to a whimpering, trembling, wanting, begging mess and then look him in the eye again? No. Lestrade would avoid him after this, he'd have to; so now, tonight, Sherlock would do everything, have everything. He tasted and licked and explored, opened and soothed and then, when Lestrade was pleading and cursing, he pushed inside him. Sherlock had never felt anything like this incredible tight warmth; it was too much, it was unbearably good and he took, throwing himself over the edge, pressing his face to Lestrade's shoulder, holding him tight and letting the sensation and pleasure overwhelm him. And Lestrade was biting out obscenities and humping back against him and forward into his hand and then he was coming and the clenching of his muscles made everything go white.
Sherlock opened his eyes against Lestrade's shoulder. He drew sensitive lips across salty skin and then shifted off, collapsing beside him on the bed.
With a groan, Lestrade rolled onto his side facing Sherlock. He had a grin that Sherlock would categorise as positively goofy.
"That, was bloody good," he murmured, and stretched languidly and groaned.
Sherlock swallowed. Lestrade was still looking at him, with that same fond, gooey expression. He had no words so he moved closer and kissed him, softly, and then pulled back before he could embarrass himself further.
He sat up, looking away, and felt Lestrade's hand on his arm. "Sherlock, don't just bugger off. Enjoy the afterglow for once, would you?"
Sherlock paused. The urge to curl back into bed and share more soft kisses was treacherously tempting. To be looked at like that, as if he was beautiful and loved.
He didn't look at Lestrade. "I have to go."
He heard Lestrade sigh but there was no further argument and Sherlock discarded the condom, found his clothes and dressed without meeting the other man's gaze or saying another word.
"Good night, Lestrade," he said, when he was ready to leave, finally glancing in the other man's direction.
Lestrade hadn't moved from the bed. He looked debauched: naked, spent cock flopping against his thigh, traces of ejaculate on his stomach, one forearm cast over his eyes. He waved his other hand. "’Night, Sherlock. Lock the door on your way out."
Well. That had been. Fuck. Bloody illuminating, that's what that was. Greg found himself thinking again about blue eyes and sharp cheekbones, an impossible mouth, and the feel of long, large hands on his hips, his arse. He shifted onto his stomach, enjoying the friction on his sensitive cock. This refusal of Sherlock’s to just enjoy the intimacy of the moment, though, was bloody frustrating. Greg was old enough and ugly enough not to feel rejected by Sherlock's postcoital awkwardness but it would be nice for a cuddle after, a bit of a snog. Was Sherlock that afraid he'd get all mushy on him? The flashes of vulnerability Greg has seen in Sherlock's expression indicated that perhaps it was the opposite, a protective measure to guard against rejection.
Greg sighed and stretched his stiff muscles. He hadn't had such good sex in who knew how long.
Sherlock...who'd have thought?
Sherlock toyed with his phone. Lestrade's reaction to his anecdote had been far too gratifying. To have his work appreciated again had affected him more than it should have. He didn't need approbation, he didn't need praise, he just needed to know he was right. Yet...it had been too long since someone had admired him. It had made him think of John, of course.
Sherlock flicked his thumb over the phone. Perhaps it was worth another try. Perhaps John had had time to digest the news that he was alive.
John, would like to meet, explain. - SH
Greg braced himself for the inevitable acerbic comment about his intelligence when Sherlock arrived at the crime scene: a posh townhouse where the owner had been kidnapped, according to her ex-husband.
"Lestrade," was all he said instead, and gave Greg a questioning look.
Greg was used to Sherlock reading him like a book so he just shrugged and stared back, but he couldn't help let slip a brief grin. "See what you can make of this one, all right?" Greg said, shaking his head to clear it -- bloody hell, how old was he? Couldn't keep his mind out of his pants.
Sherlock's expression was unreadable but he hesitated a moment before stalking off to investigate the kidnapping.
Later, when Sherlock had pointed them towards the whereabouts of Mrs Montrey's remains, Greg pulled him to one side before he could nick off somewhere.
"Thanks for that," he said. "Appreciate it. Listen, once they find the Missus's body, I'm going to call it a day. Don't fancy meeting later for a pint or something, do you?"
Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, his gaze never leaving Greg's eyes. "What I'd like, Detective Inspector, is to have you on your knees -- location is irrelevant but I imagine here would be inappropriate."
Greg prided himself that only his ears went pink. "I'll come round to yours then, once I'm done. Fancy doing you on that leather chair of yours."
It was Sherlock's turn to go a bit pink but he only faltered for a moment. "I'll be waiting," he said, and then turned on his heel with a swirl of bloody overcoat and strode off.
John, are you going to make me do this by text? - SH
There were three snipers, for you, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson. I couldn't take you, tell you, without endangering them. - SH
You're a terrible liar. I couldn't have told you. You would have tried to stop me. -SH
You would have been in danger. - SH
I cared about you more than was prudent. Moriarty knew it, knew he could get to me through you. He'd done it once already. Semtex, remember? - SH
Caring was not an advantage. - SH
It's all done now. I destroyed his network. Every last piece. I came home. - SH
Sherlock was waiting when Greg took the stairs two at a time up to the flat; sitting on his black leather armchair, naked but for the strategically placed violin that he was plucking tunelessly.
Greg's mouth went dry and he shoved off his overcoat and jacket and made short work of his tie.
"Lestrade," said Sherlock looking up.
"Sherlock.” Greg’s voice came out a bit rough.
Sherlock set the violin carefully on the coffee table and looked at him expectantly. Greg closed the distance between them, and in a reversal of that night at Christmas, he pushed his knee on the chair between Sherlock's parted thighs and leaned in for a kiss.
Afterwards, after Lestrade had knelt between his thighs and done delicious things to his cock, after Sherlock had pulled him up and kissed him and then jerked him off as he leaned over him, panting and red-faced, Lestrade had kissed him hard and straightened, tucking himself away, collecting his tie, his jacket, and Sherlock meant to let him go, just go.
"Are you hungry?" he heard himself ask, getting to his feet on wobbly legs, Lestrade's ejaculation fluid running down his stomach until he grabbed up the towel he'd been sitting on and wiped himself.
"Haven't eaten yet," Lestrade said. "Are you offering?"
Sherlock picked up his pants as he started to dress. "Yes. I'll get something. Stay here if you like."
Lestrade grinned and plopped on the sofa. He reached for the remote. "Don't mind if I do; feeling a bit shagged."
Sherlock checked his phone as he left the flat, taking the stairs two at a time, feeling strangely light and buoyant. Nothing.
While he waited for the curry he tapped out another text, meaning it, really meaning it.
I'm glad you moved on. I'm glad you are happy. It's better this way. Fewer complications. - SH
As the cab was turning the corner into Baker Street he received a reply, the first. It made his stomach lurch uncomfortably.
Sherlock, stop this. I'll meet you. Okay? Just don't do this by text. John
( Read Part 2)
A gift for: archea2
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade, Sherlock/John (ust), John/Mary Morstan
Category: Slash
Rating: R
Warnings: soft core sex, ust, angst, language
Word count: 18,493
Summary: Faced with spending Christmas Day alone watching Christmas repeats on telly, Greg Lestrade decides to check on Sherlock, because he’s alone too, isn’t he?
Based on recipient’s prompt: 2. Sherlock and Lestrade get closer after Sherlock's return, when Sherlock has to face living alone again. Bonding, gen or slash. I'd love it if Sherlock's later decision to move to Sussex coincided with Lestrade's retirement from the force.
(Plus a happy ending as requested :) )
Author's Notes: Thanks to my beta T! Happy Sherlockmas Archea2, sorry it’s so long, I got a bit carried away. Hope you like!
Consolation
Part 1 - December
Greg Lestrade had to push hard on the front door to 221B Baker Street. A week's worth of post was piled up on the other side. He didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to know that Mrs Hudson must be away but the fact that Sherlock himself hadn't been through the front door in that long was worrying. Which was why he was here anyway. He'd been trying to contact Sherlock for help on a case for the last few days but even a detailed message about the shrunken severed hand in the hotel swimming pool hadn't elicited a response. So here he was, idiot that he was, actually a bit concerned about the pompous git.
He'd been a bit concerned about Sherlock for a while, actually, but had done his best to bite his tongue. So what if John Watson wasn't around to look after Sherlock anymore; he was a grown man, he'd managed somehow while he'd been off pretending to be dead, and just because he was looking skinnier than ever and a bit...well...empty didn't mean anything was wrong. But this week -- first the unanswered calls and then, just now, he'd been sitting at home watching repeats of Christmas specials on telly, and thinking -- thinking, hadn't he, that he'd have the kids tomorrow and he'd at least seen them this morning when he'd popped over to Katherine's with their presents, but what about those poor bastards spending the whole day entirely alone? And he'd thought of Sherlock. And, well, he'd thought, hadn't he? (Sherlock always told him not to try doing that).
Greg took the stairs up to the flat two at a time. He knocked, but when there was no response he fished out the second key he'd purloined off Sherlock (two can play at that game) and opened the door.
He almost gagged on the smell.
"Good God, what the fuck is that?" he gasped, covering his nose, depositing the bag he’d brought on the one small clean bit of surface and opening the kitchen window. It looked like an experiment was in progress on the table and the detritus of week old takeaway sat mouldering on the countertop. Greg had seen the homes of deceased loners who’d been eaten by their cats that were in better shape. The worry gnawed at him just a bit more. Bloody idiot -- after all the business with his faked death, he'd better not have bloody topped himself.
"Christ, it's freezing in here. Sherlock!" he called. "Bloody hell, Sherlock, you here?" He poked his head into the living room, relief as much as irritation flooding him as he took in the sight of one lanky bastard half-hanging off an armchair, staring up into space. "For fuck's sake, would it have killed you to answer the bloody phone?"
"Oh, Lestrade, how good of you to invade my privacy. Happy holidays." Sherlock didn't even glance at him but kept staring at the ceiling. "Ex-wife wouldn't let you have the children, then, after you made sure you were rostered off for the day and all. How unfortunate."
"Happy fucking Christmas to you too, you wanker. I thought you'd--" he was going to say “overdosed,” but it seemed tactless, "--blown yourself up or something."
"Never fear, I'm sure if I came to a sticky end my dear brother would be the first to let you know. He does so love being the bearer of happy tidings."
"Well, Ebenezer Scrooge," said Greg, running out of steam now that Sherlock was not only all right but in fine acerbic form, "I'm here now, so sit up, then, I brought us something to share. Bit sad to sit at home drinking by yourself at Christmas." He retrieved the bag he’d brought from the kitchen and held it aloft.
"I would have thought Christmas to be the one day of the year that it's de rigueur for the 'sad' to indulge in a bit of alcohol-induced escapism," muttered Sherlock, not moving a muscle.
"Yeah, well, are you going to have a drink with me and show off your brilliance with this severed hand case or are you going to be an arse?" Greg lifted out the bottle of quite good single malt scotch he'd been given in the Yard's Secret Santa, as well as two clean glasses.
Sherlock's eyes glittered and he did actually swing his legs around the chair. "Why? So you can feel good about yourself? Doing a good deed, spending time with the freak? Sherlock Holmes, you thought, there's someone sadder than I am, I'll go inflict my company on him. After all, it's Christmas."
He was obviously trying to drive Greg away, and for exactly that reason Greg was going to dig his heels in. Fuck him. If he didn't want people checking to be sure he was alive, he should answer his bloody phone. "Shut it, Sherlock. Now, are you going to sit there wallowing in some sort of pity party or are you going to sit the fuck up and drink some fifty year old scotch with me?"
Sherlock righted himself, long legs sliding gracefully to the ground, and pulled his dressing gown around him. Greg noticed bright red knitted bed socks on his feet. Present from Mrs Hudson?
"Why's it so bleeding cold in here anyway? Heating on the blink?"
"Broken." Sherlock waved his hand. "John used to fix it. Irrelevant."
"Well, freezing your balls off might be irrelevant to you but I'd rather not." He took in Sherlock's filthy dressing gown, his mop of snarled hair and -- dear Lord -- a three-day growth of stubble.
"Good God, you're a mess. No offence, but when did you last shower?"
"Not only do I have to endure your company, but now you're passing judgement on my hygiene. No one asked you to be here." Sherlock pulled his knees up under his chin, wrapping his arms around himself, whether in defence or to keep warm, Greg wasn't sure.
He sighed. "Look, you go and have a shower, and I'll see what I can do with the heating, or at least get a fire going."
"Or you could just go home."
Greg grinned. "Nope, because that's exactly what you'd want and I'm not feeling very charitable suddenly. Shower; you reek."
Sherlock glared but did actually unfold himself from his seat and stomp off towards the bathroom. Greg looked around the room. It was the worst he'd ever seen it. Paper mountains towered in corners and on most surfaces. Things -- random shit that wouldn't look out of place on some lifestyle programme about sad acts who kept random shit -- filled all the space in between. There was literally a path from Sherlock's chair, to the sofa, to his violin at the window and then to the hall and kitchen. It was quite spectacular, actually, this manifestation of letting yourself go.
People had underestimated the positive effect John Watson had had on Sherlock. What had it been? Only two months back without him, and already Sherlock was on track to having his flat declared a hazardous site by the Health Department.
Greg had a look at the heating but, after poking it and kicking it a bit, gave it up as a bad joke and decided the fire was a better option. There was a small pile of firewood in the foyer by the stairs (thank you, Mrs Hudson) and he raked out the cinders, used what he hoped was just old newspaper and not some vital evidence, and got a nice little fire going. Then he found a trash bag under the sink, dumped all the perishable debris in it, and took it downstairs.
Feeling very self-righteous with thoughts of doing good deeds on Christmas, helping the less fortunate and what-not, he washed his hands, poured out two large nips of scotch and settled down to enjoy the fire before Sherlock came back and said something to spoil it.
Sherlock stalked out a few minutes later, shaven and fully dressed in a suit. His hair was still slightly damp.
He snatched up the scotch glass Greg held out to him and sat down in his armchair opposite. Sniffing the scotch suspiciously, he took a delicate sip. "Passable."
"You’re welcome. So. No Christmas plans, then?"
Sherlock scowled. "Tell me about the case."
Greg did, providing as much detail as he could, enduring snapped questions and imprecations about his intelligence -- and then watched as Sherlock wove his magic, mentally dancing through the data, making deductive leaps, pulling in information and tugging at threads until the answer was revealed. It was the first time since he'd arrived that he'd seen Sherlock's face at all animated.
"...so unless Mrs Harris owns a chihuahua, it has to be the son." As Sherlock finished, his gaze fell on Greg's face and suddenly seemed to focus, where before it had been off somewhere, sifting through information and strings that only he could see.
"Bloody genius!" said Greg, staring back. Sherlock's expression froze and he looked away sharply, into the fire, long fingers gripping the glass tightly.
"Not really, just observation. I keep telling you, you just need to pay attention. John was--" Silence descended. Greg cleared his throat and then had another sip of scotch. John. Greg couldn't blame the man. Greg had been rightly pissed at Sherlock too and they hadn't been -- whatever Sherlock and John had been; close partners at least. And Sherlock had let John think he'd died, for fuck's sake. For three years. John had been a mess but then he'd sorted himself out, bought a practice, took up being a proper doctor again, ended up getting married last year.
Who could blame him for not wanting to get caught up with Sherlock again? His wife was expecting a baby. Hardly a fit life for a father, chasing after Sherlock. That was obviously what was bothering Sherlock.
Well, if Greg had learned anything from the interminable counselling sessions he'd gone to with Katherine, it was that it was better to talk about things. He doubted Sherlock had said word to anybody about this.
"John -- you're not seeing him this Christmas, then?" he asked, deciding to take the bull by the horns.
"No. He's busy, with his wife." The disdain, dislike was palpable.
"Ah. Yeah, nice girl. What's her name? M-something -- Melissa, Megan--"
"Mary." Tone flat, hard.
So Sherlock didn't like the wife. Still, it would be hard, accepting your ex had moved on and wasn't going to drop his new life just because you weren't dead after all. "He must have been pleased you're back, though," said Lestrade.
"If by 'pleased' you mean irate, then yes. It doesn't matter. It's better that he doesn't forgive me."
Oh. Bit unfair; after all, Sherlock had saved all their lives: his, John’s, Mrs Hudson’s -- probably countless others, given Moriarty's crimes. "But you explained, yeah? About the snipers, the network?"
"John doesn't want to understand and it's better if he doesn't."
Lestrade didn't push the point. He poured them both another glass. "It's a load of bollocks, this 'staying friends,' anyway; one party only does it out of guilt and the other hopes to get back together. Maybe you can be friends later, I don't know. I've never managed it."
Sherlock looked at him sharply, eyes drawn away from the fire. "I-- No. We can't be friends. He has a new life. Normal and boring and safe."
Greg swirled his glass. It was easier to look at the amber liquid than Sherlock's face as he asked, "What about you? Did you meet anyone else, when you were, um, away?"
Sherlock looked at the fire again. "No. There was only ever John."
Oh, God. Greg knew what Sherlock had been doing when he was away: risking his life, doing bloody stupid things. Probably thought about coming back to John the whole time, and then he gets back and John's gone and got married. And now won't even talk to him. Fuck. That's a bit hard.
"You'll meet someone else. Just give it time." Greg grimaced into his glass. Poor bastard. Heartbroken. That explained a lot.
Sherlock swallowed and wouldn't look at him. "I won't and I don't want to. You don't understand. There'll never be another John."
Greg bit the inside of his mouth. God. Was this Sherlock's first break-up? He sounded like a teenager. "Sherlock, hate to tell you this, but what you're feeling, everyone feels. And eventually everyone moves on, and you'll meet someone else and you'll wonder what you saw in him in the first place."
Sherlock glared at his scotch. "Thank you. That makes it even more pathetic."
Greg fiddled with his glass. He'd never really seen Sherlock like this, open, talking about himself. He seemed oddly vulnerable and Greg felt a strong urge to help. "What you need is a rebound shag. You know, one night stand, fuck someone else. Help you move on."
Sherlock's lips quirked into a mocking smile. "Are you offering, Lestrade?" he asked sardonically.
Greg prided himself that he didn't spit out the sip of scotch he'd just taken. Instead he swallowed it down and took the time to compose himself. "Ah, no. Thanks all the same. I have enough of you belittling my intelligence without you rating my sexual performance as well."
Sherlock looked at him, assessingly. "You've thought about it, then."
Greg shook his head firmly. "No! I'm not -- no."
Sherlock sniffed. "Huh."
Greg knew that tone; it meant Sherlock thought he knew something you didn't. "Oh, God," he said, resigning himself.
"Your pulse rate quickened and your pupils dilated when I made the suggestion."
Greg shrugged and took a sip of scotch. "Doesn't mean anything."
"You've never thought about it?" Sherlock frowned, obviously curious.
"Not deliberately, no," he said, not sure exactly why he hadn't just said a flat-out no.
Sherlock chuckled. Greg looked at him steadily, not about to let Sherlock rattle him -- or let on that he had.
"For the record," said Sherlock with apparent nonchalance, "you wouldn't have to worry about my judging your performance. I've very little to compare it to."
"Except for the love of your life, apparently.”
A look of understanding dawned on Sherlock's face and Greg wondered what he'd missed. "Oh. You think -- John -- No. We weren't -- we weren't like that. We weren't a 'couple'." It sounded like he was quoting someone.
"Oh. So you two were never --"
"In a sexual, romantic relationship? No." Sherlock's face twisted a little into something Greg recognised as self-mockery. "John was too resolutely heterosexual for that."
"But you--?"
"In a heartbeat."
"Fuck. So, what are you saying? Never been with a bloke before?"
"No."
"Well, neither have I."
"You are considering it."
Greg felt his face heat. "Let's just say hypothetically." Sherlock leaned back in his chair. He was winding Greg up, he just knew it. Fine. "So, what about birds, then? Before the missus there were three, and since then a grand total of two sexual encounters. So I'm pretty sure my experience is vanilla compared to yours."
"Well, unless you count seeing a dominatrix naked, I'd say, there's been....ooh...no women I've had sexual encounters with, as you put it."
Greg replayed that in his head to make sure he'd gotten it right. "Sherlock fucking Holmes, bloody hell -- are telling me you're a fucking virgin?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please. Why is that such a surprise? No one likes me; I can't stand anyone, either. How do you think I'd tolerate sex?"
"Does John know what he turned down?"
"I made it clear at the start of our friendship that it wasn't my area."
He ran his tongue over his teeth. Deflowering Sherlock Holmes. He had to admit it had appeal. "So, apart from the fact that you are actually just winding me up, does that mean I've joined an exclusive club of the two people Sherlock Holmes would deign to fuck?"
Sherlock's lip quirked into a half smile. "Apparently. Hypothetically."
"Shame I don't fancy you then, isn't it."
Sherlock snorted. "Lestrade, your tells are giving you away. You're hotter for me than you were for Constable Jones dressed as Santa's naughty elf at the Yard Christmas party."
"Jones' legs in that number are better than yours."
Sherlock studied him for a long moment, his gaze flickering down his body for a second before returning to his face, analysing, assessing. Very deliberately, Sherlock set his glass on the coffee table. He leaned forward, eyes not leaving Greg's face.
"One-time offer, Lestrade. Sex, now."
Greg felt his ears heat and licked his lips before draining his glass. "Good one, Sherlock," he said, managing a grin.
Sherlock frowned, then his expression cleared. "It's not a joke, Lestrade. Don't tell me you've never wanted to stop up my mouth with your cock, bend me over your desk and give it to me, have me kiss your arse?"
Greg stared at him. God, it was tempting. "You're serious?"
Sherlock stood up with feline grace and crossed the space between them, leaned both hands on the back of the chair beside Greg's head, insinuated a knee between his thighs, dipped his head, and very deliberately kissed him.
Greg responded before he had time to consider that this was a particularly bad idea and what the bloody hell was he doing? Soft, full lips, a teasing tongue and actual intimate, sexual touch for the first time in God knows how long had him finding purchase on Sherlock's shoulders and snogging back. It was a challenging kiss -- too much teeth and tongue -- and lacked finesse, but Sherlock's knee nudged at his groin and long fingers wound in his hair and Greg found himself leaning into Sherlock, sliding his own hand through thick, still-damp curls.
Sherlock pulled back, eyes narrowed questioningly.
"Yeah, all right," said Greg, breathless.
Sherlock half-laughed. "So that's all I had to do," he said. The words sounded bitter.
The way Lestrade had taken control -- started the fire, cleaned up the kitchen -- had been disconcertingly familiar, and how much it had hurt had set Sherlock back a pace.
Lestrade -- someone Sherlock wouldn't see die by sniper bullet, not just so he could take John with him into exile -- a colleague, a nearly-friend. Someone who knew too much about him but kept most of it to himself anyway. He knew he could trust Lestrade. He was easy to understand and easy to circumvent.
And maybe he had a point, that maybe this craving for John Watson could be solved with other human touch. Satisfy this unrequited urge somewhere else and maybe it would go -- maybe it would leave Sherlock in peace.
He could trust Lestrade. He wasn't unappealing and he was tolerable in appearance and temperament. He cared. Sherlock knew that much. He would be safe with Lestrade.
It was also amusing, this verbal game of seduction. Flirting? Maybe, or provoking, probably. It was intriguing to see Lestrade respond, react, as if the concept was enticing. Dilated pupils, can't feel his pulse but a shift in his seat -- Yes. Interested.
Now to prove the hypothesis.
In the firelight, Lestrade's short grey hair glinted gold, close enough in colour to John's that for a moment Sherlock could pretend this was another man, another friend. John's hair, John's lips, John's hands grasping at his shoulders, sliding into his hair, kissing him back, pulse racing under his fingertips.
Sherlock steadied himself and pulled back. No. It was not John. But?
Lestrade looked up at him. Licked his lips. Reduced yet unashamed. Trust?
And then agreement; want. So simple. So many opportunities ignored. Would John have accepted this so easily?
Sherlock took Lestrade's hand and pulled him from his seat. "Bedroom," he said shortly. He realised he didn't have any of the necessary paraphernalia for this act. "You have a condom in your wallet? Yes?"
Greg patted his pockets and pulled out his wallet, retrieving a foil-wrapped square. "Yeah, yes. Should be in-date."
"I have lubricant," said Sherlock and pushed open the door to his bedroom.
How? Passionate or clinical? How would he do it with John? Passionate, emotional, not giving him time to change his mind, to think, to reconsider--
Lestrade smiled at him. Fondly, ruefully? He gripped Sherlock's collar and pulled him down into a kiss.
"Stop thinking. It's just a shag, yeah?"
Ah. This. Deft hands pushing off his jacket, tugging his shirt from his trousers. Warm, capable hands on his bare waist. Touch making him shiver. He followed the kiss, followed suit, pulling away for a moment. Off with Greg's jumper, up and under his long-sleeved shirt. Lestrade's body was surprisingly fit, slightly padded but still firmly muscled. It was cold in the bedroom but this touching, this kissing, made it negligible.
Then Lestrade was steering him towards the bed, pushing him onto it, still kissing, following him there. Would John have done this? Taken charge, pushed him down and made love to him? Or would he have let Sherlock lead? Sherlock wanted John to want him, to want this, to take him.
Yes, this was better.
Lestrade's thigh was between his, hip rubbing against his groin. Pleasurable, arousing; Sherlock noted his own growing erection, Lestrade's answering one against his hip. He needed to see more, feel more skin, touch, taste. Data -- all data.
He pushed up Lestrade's shirt, tugging and pulling until Lestrade sat up and tore it off over his head. Then Sherlock sat up under him, hands to his ribs, lips to sternum. Breathe in -- scent: musky, mildly pleasant; taste: slightly salty; touch: the odd texture of smooth skin against his tongue, ribs, abdomen, soft, smooth, ah -- nipples, erectile tissue, puckering at stimulation -- positive effect on subject -- no, not subject, Lestrade/John.
And then Lestrade pushed him back down, pinned his arms above his head and kissed him, hard and demanding. He gasped. John, wanting him, strong hands, holding him down, showing how much he wanted this. Warm golden skin, tanned around the arms and neck. Groin thrusting against his. Would John take him? Open him up and be inside him? Or would he press cock to cock, mouth to cock, take Sherlock's mouth? So many variables.
Lips on his throat, oh! Oh! That -- and combined with pressure on his erection -- Yes -- Sherlock groaned. He clung to Lestrade, moved desperate fingers downwards, unbuttoned denim, followed the smooth line of hip bone to pelvis, feeling the firm evidence of arousal against his hands, hips rubbing into his hands now, smooth skin beside coarse hair, pushed away fabric further, free. Smooth buttocks, flexing--
"God, Sherlock." Against his ear, a lick against his throat. "What do you want to do?"
Thought? Can't think. Need not to think. "Anything. You decide. You can have me."
A low groan, a thrust of hips.
Sherlock's hands fell to his own trousers, unbuttoning, unzipping, down and off, kicking them away. And then Lestrade was on him, above him, smooth, hard flesh against his own, the sensation spiking his arousal, making him clutch John/Lestrade to him tighter. Lips, mouths; sloppy, heated kisses, hard breathing.
"Roll over then," murmured Lestrade and Sherlock complied, pillowing his face in his arms and lifting his hips. Yes. John would take him, he would be John's, have him inside, part of him for this moment, at least.
Greg had had anal sex before, during an adventurous period with his ex-wife; he knew the theory even though the actual attempt had been resoundingly awkward and abandoned halfway through. Hopefully it would be different with a male body, what with a prostate and all -- that could feel pretty bloody nice as he’d discovered one late Saturday night many years ago, when he’d hooked up with that girl with purple hair and Docs -- Becca. Somehow he and Katherine had never gotten around to that particular adventure.
Trying not to think too much about either previous failure or the fact that this was Sherlock's first time (although elements of this certainly helped sustain his hard-on), he picked up the lube. He paused; condom first? Until his divorce he hadn’t used a condom for years, Katherine had been on the pill, and then with the two post-divorce shags, his partners had been happy to do the honours. Usually he’d see about it after foreplay, but how did it work with anal sex? In the end he settled for opening the packet before his hands got all slippery. He lubed up the fingers of his right hand. Rubbing soothing circles on the small of Sherlock's back with his left and murmuring praise and encouragement, he worked him open until he accidentally brushed the prostate and Sherlock's deep groan turned his knees to water. He found the spot again and repeated the action until Sherlock was cursing him in unflattering terms and telling him to get on with it before he came.
Fumbling a bit with the condom, he blew a puff of air on the circle of latex to make sure he had it the right way and then rolled it on carefully; suddenly aware that it was the only one they had and his ego wouldn’t survive the ignominy of breaking it. Successfully sheathed, he gripped Sherlock's hips, pulling him up on his knees, and then very steadily pushed inside. Oh fucking bloody hell, that felt good: tight, warm heat, and a pale, slim body bucking under his own. He began to move, slowly, carefully. Like this, he could imagine he was with a woman, a woman with skinny hips and dark curls. Or he could remember it was Sherlock Bloody Holmes and he had his cock so far up his arse the man could feel it in his throat.
"All right?" he gasped.
"Yes." The word was bitten out. "Less talk, more -- just more."
Greg grinned and picked up the tempo, angling his hips to try and hit that spot until he did and was rewarded with another deep groan. It felt so bloody good. Sherlock was tight and responsive and it had been too long between drinks. Pleasure pooled low in his belly, building in pressure. He was close, so close.
"Sherlock, fuck, you feel so good. Fuck -- close, don't want to come yet--"
He was answered with a groan and hips rocking back to meet his. He slid his right hand around from Sherlock's hip, cupping him, eliciting a long, low keen. He brushed his hand over Sherlock's erection, making him sob and then buck back with a cry, and Greg’s climax overtook him as Sherlock's body clenched in pulses with his orgasm.
Sherlock collapsed on the bed with Lestrade falling heavily on him. They lay panting for a moment, and then the warm weight was gone from Sherlock's back and he felt oddly bereft until he reminded himself it was Lestrade, not John. Not John who had broken him apart and undone him with tender hands and gentle, amused words. No.
He felt a gentle hand rub his back.
"You all right, mate?"
Sherlock swallowed. "Yes, I'm fine," he said, mustering all his reserve. He pulled himself up and slipped off the bed, grabbing up his dressing gown. He washed in the bathroom, then padded into the living room. Snatching up his phone, he noted the unanswered call. It was from John.
He played the message.
"Ah. Hi. Um. Sherlock, it's me, John. John Watson --" there was a pause. "Look, it's Christmas, and um, I realised this morning that you -- it was good to know, this Christmas, that you're alive. Um, yeah. I was glad. Anyway -- I just wanted to wish you a Happy Christmas. I mean, you're probably out solving some case, won't even notice what day it is. But yeah. Happy Christmas...Bye."
He stared at the phone, realised his hands were shaking.
Lestrade came out of the bedroom, pulling on his jumper.
"All right?" he asked.
"Get out," said Sherlock.
For a moment Lestrade looked taken aback, his face flushed (embarrassed? annoyed? Sherlock didn't care), but then he rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you great prat. It was good for me too. Right, then. Thanks for the help with the case. I'll see myself out."
"Do that."
He typed a text and hit send.
Merry Christmas, John -SH
Part 2 - January
John, case you would find interesting. 44 Harcourt Road, Euston. I'm here now. - SH
I've moved on, Sherlock. I really can't get involved in all that again. Sorry. Maybe catch up sometime for a drink when I'm not so busy. Cheers, John.
It was the kind of case John found interesting: no bodies, no one else’s life in danger, just a mystery to solve and a criminal to catch. The kind of case where John would look at him as if he was something wonderful and magnificent. The look that made Sherlock think for a wild, impulsive moment that perhaps--
Sherlock shoved his phone into his pocket. But maybe it hadn't been the cases John had found interesting after all, it had been him, and John did not like him anymore and no case could tempt him.
His phone rang. Stupid hope flaring, he snatched it out of his pocket.
"Lestrade," he said, ignoring the clench of disappointment as the wrong voice rattled off details of a case. "Address?"
The man's tone was the same as always: harassed and profanity-laden, but something about it cast Sherlock back to a cold December evening when someone had bothered enough to share a drink, when warm hands had touched him and hazel eyes had been blown wide and wanting. He thrust the memory aside. "I'm on another case. I'll be there in an hour," he said and disconnected.
Greg went upstairs to his tiny flat, the best he could afford this close to NSY, rubbing his hands against the cold winter's night. It was mid-January and he'd just spent the better part of five hours stuck out near the Thames where a body had been dragged from the river, followed by the better part of three hours finishing up the paperwork after he'd given in and called Sherlock Bloody Holmes to help -- not including the bloody hour and a half waiting for Sherlock to even show.
That had gone well, in a not-at-all way. At least the great prat hadn't been tactless enough to mention their Christmastime shag -- that was the last thing Greg needed, but somehow he'd always trusted Sherlock to keep that to himself. No, instead he belittled Greg and his team to the point that two officers had to be forcibly restrained and Greg himself was two words from ordering him off the crime scene.
But he'd solved the case and then waltzed off without a backwards glance.
Greg let himself in and flipped the light switch and then nearly backed into the door. Sherlock was standing in his living room. "What the buggering fuck are you doing here?"
Sherlock's expression was closed. He looked around, fiddled a bit with the back of the sofa, then glanced at Greg. "I'd like to do that again."
"Do what again, rile my officers up and irritate the bollocks off me at a crime scene?" He didn't have time for this shit.
Sherlock looked at the floor. "No. Christmas. The sex, Lestrade. I'd like to do that again. With you."
Greg gaped. "You've got to be kidding me? After today's stunt -- actually sure, get over here and suck my cock; you bloody owe me."
And then Sherlock's eyes flickered to his face, and Greg's mouth went dry at the look in them: dark and hungry. In two steps Sherlock was in front of him and sinking to his knees.
Greg ran his hands through his hair. "Sherlock," he said, trying to be calm, sensible, gentle. "I was bloody joking."
Hands stilled on Greg's belt. "Yes or no, Lestrade? I want to."
"Oh." Greg swallowed and closed his eyes. "Fuck. Fuck yes, all right."
And Sherlock did, pushed him back against the door, and not so much sucked as explored his cock, licked, tasted, savoured him. It was good, and it was even better because it was that smart mouth doing it, those dark curls Greg laced his hand through, and those odd eyes looking up at him obscenely and when Greg came Sherlock fucking swallowed and didn't that do his head in?
He tugged Sherlock up, kissed him hard and reached for his trousers, pulling them open, freeing the straining erection within. He tugged him off, quick and filthy and all over himself, all the while kissing those dirty lips, that shocking mouth.
Sherlock drew back after he'd come, one final graze of kiss red lips against his own, watching Greg carefully. "That was...good."
Greg huffed. "It was a bit, yeah. Thanks--" he waved his hand. "For that."
Sherlock hesitated as if he was about to say something, then bit his lip, nodded, and tidied himself away. "Good night," he said.
"Wait, Sherlock -- you want to have a beer, grab something to eat? Something?"
Sherlock did that same thing with his lip. "I'm not hungry. Maybe next time."
Greg nodded and stepped aside to let him go, and it was only as the door shut in his face that he had the sense to notice. "Next time?"
I uncovered an art theft ring today. You would have liked the gallery owner; appalling taste in jumpers. -SH
Mary hates my jumpers too. She has renovated my wardrobe, you'd be impressed. John
Sherlock threw his phone across the room.
He masturbated later, angry, quick. He refused to think of John and instead remembered a firm, tanned hand dragging him to completion, thought of a genial handsome face and of hard, demanding kisses and a tongue inside his mouth.
Next time was a week later and Sherlock had broken into his flat again, which would have been embarrassing except Greg knew it was a piece of shit building with poor security anyway. This time Greg wasn't quite as surprised and dragged him into the bedroom for a proper buggering.
Afterwards Greg kissed his shoulder and smoothed dark hair away from his ear, but then Sherlock abruptly got to his feet and disappeared into the bathroom to shower and dress.
Greg had pulled on some clothes by the time he emerged and had had time to think about what to do next. All the same, Sherlock looked so much like the twenty-nine year old kid Greg had met years ago, a poor mask of cocky arrogance hiding defensiveness and insecurity, that he was momentarily floored. "Takeaway then?" Greg asked when he'd recovered himself. "You said you would this time."
Sherlock frowned. Then his expression cleared. "I won't eat much. I'll annoy you."
"Sherlock, I'm fucking buying you dinner. Go on and sit on the bloody sofa while I order in."
A faint flush stained Sherlock's cheekbones. "It's not a date, Lestrade," he said acidly. "It's sex, nothing more."
He refused to let Sherlock get to him. "Yeah, and if I picked you up at a club, I'd have at least bought you a drink, so -- manners, Sherlock, let me buy us dinner, yeah?"
"And if I don't?"
"Up to you. Depends on if you want a next time or not."
"Uncertain," said Sherlock with a frown, as if he was considering it seriously. "I'd -- this is becoming something of a habit, one I had no intention of forming."
He shrugged. "Suit yourself. Might be nice not coming home and getting a heart attack once a week because some git's sitting in my living room."
A smile tugged at Sherlock's lips and he huffed a soft laugh. Greg smiled in return.
"Fine, dinner then," said Sherlock. "I'd hate to miss the opportunity to give you a cardiovascular workout."
"Git."
"Idiot."
And shaking his head, Greg brushed past him to order some Chinese. They watched telly in silence until it arrived, despite Greg's best efforts to have a conversation.
Then Sherlock sat hunched over his plate and poked at his food until finally he stood up. "Can I go now?"
And Greg sighed and waved his hand towards the door.
Sherlock watched the surgery from across the road, effectively concealed by some poorly designed streetscaping. At five-thirty John finally emerged, holding hands with a woman -- her. John said something and she laughed and replied and John laughed and leaned over and kissed her, briefly but familiarly.
They got into her car; not John's, couldn't be John's choice.
John had been wearing a suit -- grey, blue shirt. It suited him. Mary's taste. Not John's.
Mary leaving her fingerprints all over John. His John. No. Not his John. Not anymore.
Sherlock peeled off the tiled pillar he'd been leaning against and flagged down a cab.
He had every intention of following the yellow Prius, but instead he told the driver to take him to another address, another part of town. He wasn't even sure why. He had been careful not to think closely about that subject.
It was a satisfactory arrangement. Lestrade was lonely, Sherlock knew this was his motivation -- agreeable, casual, safe sex with someone known yet not from his place of work, trustworthy to a degree and unlikely to demand that strings be attached. Lestrade's equal need for intimacy and companionship, as illustrated by his attempts to add social interactions to their sexual encounters, disconcerted Sherlock somewhat but it was not intolerable or entirely unavoidable.
Lestrade had provided food last time. Sherlock had accepted. Lestrade had likened it to buying a potential sexual partner a drink, which meant it was a reciprocal arrangement or could potentially lead to a power imbalance.
"Pull over," Sherlock ordered the cabbie.
Greg was half-expecting to see Sherlock the next Tuesday evening, so he wasn't as surprised when he opened the door and found the man sitting on his sofa.
"I brought food," Sherlock said, holding up two carrier bags. "Thai."
Greg blinked. "All right. Thanks. That's good of you."
"Let's eat first so I can leave after I fellate you."
"Sherlock--" Greg sighed, trying to rein in the part of his mind that had gone straight to that appealing image.
"No? You fellate me, then. It's your turn anyway."
Greg rubbed his eyes. "No, I mean, not that I'm disputing that, but -- let's have dinner, then see what happens, yeah?"
Sherlock's expression was impassive and he sat down at the table as if he was there under sufferance, which he probably was.
Greg shook his head, fetched plates, cutlery, and two beers, and dished out the meal. He was starving and the Thai was good, so he ate quickly while once more Sherlock made a show of eating.
"No wonder you're so bloody skinny. You need to eat more than that."
Sherlock scowled and deliberately ate a large forkful. "Happy?" he asked putting his fork down.
He snorted. "My kids have better appetites than you."
Sherlock pulled a face. "Isn't it lucky you aren't my father," he commented.
"How old do you think I am?"
"Forty-nine, according to your driver's license. Don't worry, Detective Inspector, I'm not fucking you because of unresolved daddy issues."
Greg snorted. "Bloody hope not."
"No, I'm just using you for sex." A smirk played around the corners of Sherlock's mouth.
"Nice. Really nice, Sherlock. Good thing I know you secretly like me."
Sherlock sniffed. "’Tolerate’ is the word I'd use."
"I tolerate you too, Sherlock." He grinned "God, you're a grumpy bastard to be around. Lucky you're such a decent shag."
"Hm, three encounters is hardly sufficient data to make that judgement."
Greg shrugged. "Do you see me complaining?"
Sherlock pushed back his chair. "Shall we continue gathering data on that point?"
Greg set down his knife and fork and drained his glass. "I'll be up for that."
Sherlock didn't understand this need. He thought once would be sufficient, would satisfy his curiosity, assuage this tedious desire that had been gnawing at him, but the heady mix of chemicals that touch and orgasm released in his brain had been more addictive than cocaine, and without negative consequences to temper it he had no external reason not to indulge it. And Lestrade was letting him, encouraging him, enjoying it too. Lestrade knew him, knew nearly everything that any outside observer would know, aside from John (but John was different, that's why John was special), and he tolerated him, accepted him and respected him. He didn't mock or ridicule; he was a practical and straightforward lover but gentle and accepting and that was enough and good and Sherlock could pretend.
Except his thoughts of John, in between these encounters, were confused now with the reality of a man with silver hair, still handsome, with straight white teeth and the weight of responsibility hanging about him like a mantel. Because it was Lestrade who was now stripping off his shirt and pushing him back on the bed. Lestrade, not John, whose deft fingers were unfastening his trousers and divesting him of his pants. And it was Lestrade's mouth and tongue and hands making Sherlock roll his eyes back into his head and grip the bedsheets with both hands and hang on. And when his mind drifted, consumed by pleasure and sensation, John's face became blurred with another’s and John's voice took on a different tone and John's limbs were more golden and there was no scar where there should have been and this wasn't John.
But oh, Lestrade's mouth was warm and made his breath come in gasps, wound pleasure through him, tightening him like a spring, and it was better than his own hand had ever been and better than Lestrade's hand and Sherlock knew he would want this again. And what would it be like to sink inside Lestrade's body, if this was how a warm, wet mouth felt?
The pleasure, the pressure made him buck and pump his hips, more, more and he was babbling nonsense and his fingers found short silver hair and then his orgasm overtook him, bright and overwhelming, and left him trembling and gasping. Lestrade climbed up the bed to kneel beside him, tugging on his own cock, gripping Sherlock's thigh with his free hand and then coming in bursts over his stomach in some sort of animalistic display -- and oddly Sherlock found it desirable, good.
He shut his eyes and felt Lestrade collapse on the bed beside him. He felt a hand on his shoulder. Comfortable? Comforting?
"Don't call it a blowjob for nothing," said Lestrade, and Sherlock heard him cracking his jaw and flexing his shoulders and neck. "Was that all right? Yours was bloody nice."
Sherlock realised a response was expected. "It was extremely pleasurable," he said, not opening his eyes. "You can do that again sometime."
"Oh, cheers, mate," said Lestrade a touch sarcastically. He chuckled. "Glad it was acceptable."
Sherlock reached out and brushed his knuckles over Lestrade's side. It was easier than saying anything at this moment.
Greg got home early the next Tuesday. Sherlock was not there, which in a way was a relief; for a moment Greg had suspected the other man spent all day camped in his home waiting for him to return. Of course there was no guarantee the rangy prat would even show up. Greg changed out of his suit and ordered pizza.
The pizza arrived before Sherlock did, but Greg was just sitting down in front of the telly with it when there was a knock at the door.
Sherlock stood side-on to the door, as if he wasn't sure if he wanted to come in.
"Sherlock.”
"Lestrade," he said with a frown.
"In or out?"
Sherlock followed him inside.
"Pizza?" Greg sat back down on the couch while Sherlock hung up his coat.
Sherlock eyed him carefully, obviously decided it hadn't actually been a question, and picked up a slice, sitting down at the other end of the sofa.
"That Wilson case is coming to trial a week next Friday. Don't imagine you'll be called, but just a heads up," Greg said.
"Oh. Tedious."
"It's even more tedious when they get off, so if you do get on the stand, don't be an arrogant arse about it, right?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that, shall we? Surely your forensics team has done an exemplary job."
Greg narrowed his gaze and pointed the pizza at him. "Careful. I might like your arse but I won't have you bashing my team in my house, great sex or not."
Sherlock looked amused. "Heaven forbid I let Anderson get in the way of your cock, Detective Inspector."
Greg winced. "Okay and that right there is an image I don't need if you want me to get it up tonight." And then he made the mistake of catching Sherlock's eye and they both sniggered.
Greg shook his head and took another bite of pizza and Sherlock began eating his slice. The silence was actually companionable.
"Tell me about when you were away," Greg said suddenly. "You must have some stories of being a bloody James Bond type -- I saw some of the report, the bits that weren't censored."
Sherlock shook his head. "It mostly involved sitting around airports, if you go by percentage of time spent."
"Oh, my mistake, I was under the impression you were using your deductive reasoning to destroy a major international crime syndicate."
"You really want to know," said Sherlock incredulously. "Why?"
"Because, believe it or not, I actually find what you do pretty bloody interesting. There's a reason I let you hang around my crime scenes bothering me."
Sherlock stared at him for a long moment. "All right," he said, and started telling Greg about the operation in Madrid.
Greg packed up the empty pizza box and shoved it on the floor before lounging back on the couch to listen to the rest of Sherlock's story. He rattled off facts and deductions like he did at a crime scene, but this was all from memory. It was fascinating.
"And so the local police arrived, but luckily Annabella had disappeared with the gun and I was able to climb out the toilet window before any difficult questions were asked."
"You are fucking incredible, you mad bastard," Greg said with a grin. "How on earth you survived I have no idea."
Sherlock blinked and the way he looked at Greg -- startled, with a faint blush on his cheekbones -- made him pause. Greg cleared his throat and decided to aim for levity.
"I think you turned me on just a bit there," he said, rubbing his sock-clad foot against Sherlock's shin. "Want to do something about that?"
Sherlock's expression cleared and then his gaze darkened, drawing up over the entirety of Greg's body. "Any suggestions?" he drawled.
Greg coughed and shifted slightly. "I was thinking, since you've never done it before, maybe you ought to have a go, you know, doing me. Only if you're careful, though; I quite like my arsehole the way it is."
The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up. "I'm always very careful, Lestrade," he purred, and didn't that sound go straight to Greg's groin.
This would be the last time. It had to be the last time, because what man would let Sherlock do this to him, reduce him to a whimpering, trembling, wanting, begging mess and then look him in the eye again? No. Lestrade would avoid him after this, he'd have to; so now, tonight, Sherlock would do everything, have everything. He tasted and licked and explored, opened and soothed and then, when Lestrade was pleading and cursing, he pushed inside him. Sherlock had never felt anything like this incredible tight warmth; it was too much, it was unbearably good and he took, throwing himself over the edge, pressing his face to Lestrade's shoulder, holding him tight and letting the sensation and pleasure overwhelm him. And Lestrade was biting out obscenities and humping back against him and forward into his hand and then he was coming and the clenching of his muscles made everything go white.
Sherlock opened his eyes against Lestrade's shoulder. He drew sensitive lips across salty skin and then shifted off, collapsing beside him on the bed.
With a groan, Lestrade rolled onto his side facing Sherlock. He had a grin that Sherlock would categorise as positively goofy.
"That, was bloody good," he murmured, and stretched languidly and groaned.
Sherlock swallowed. Lestrade was still looking at him, with that same fond, gooey expression. He had no words so he moved closer and kissed him, softly, and then pulled back before he could embarrass himself further.
He sat up, looking away, and felt Lestrade's hand on his arm. "Sherlock, don't just bugger off. Enjoy the afterglow for once, would you?"
Sherlock paused. The urge to curl back into bed and share more soft kisses was treacherously tempting. To be looked at like that, as if he was beautiful and loved.
He didn't look at Lestrade. "I have to go."
He heard Lestrade sigh but there was no further argument and Sherlock discarded the condom, found his clothes and dressed without meeting the other man's gaze or saying another word.
"Good night, Lestrade," he said, when he was ready to leave, finally glancing in the other man's direction.
Lestrade hadn't moved from the bed. He looked debauched: naked, spent cock flopping against his thigh, traces of ejaculate on his stomach, one forearm cast over his eyes. He waved his other hand. "’Night, Sherlock. Lock the door on your way out."
Well. That had been. Fuck. Bloody illuminating, that's what that was. Greg found himself thinking again about blue eyes and sharp cheekbones, an impossible mouth, and the feel of long, large hands on his hips, his arse. He shifted onto his stomach, enjoying the friction on his sensitive cock. This refusal of Sherlock’s to just enjoy the intimacy of the moment, though, was bloody frustrating. Greg was old enough and ugly enough not to feel rejected by Sherlock's postcoital awkwardness but it would be nice for a cuddle after, a bit of a snog. Was Sherlock that afraid he'd get all mushy on him? The flashes of vulnerability Greg has seen in Sherlock's expression indicated that perhaps it was the opposite, a protective measure to guard against rejection.
Greg sighed and stretched his stiff muscles. He hadn't had such good sex in who knew how long.
Sherlock...who'd have thought?
Sherlock toyed with his phone. Lestrade's reaction to his anecdote had been far too gratifying. To have his work appreciated again had affected him more than it should have. He didn't need approbation, he didn't need praise, he just needed to know he was right. Yet...it had been too long since someone had admired him. It had made him think of John, of course.
Sherlock flicked his thumb over the phone. Perhaps it was worth another try. Perhaps John had had time to digest the news that he was alive.
John, would like to meet, explain. - SH
Greg braced himself for the inevitable acerbic comment about his intelligence when Sherlock arrived at the crime scene: a posh townhouse where the owner had been kidnapped, according to her ex-husband.
"Lestrade," was all he said instead, and gave Greg a questioning look.
Greg was used to Sherlock reading him like a book so he just shrugged and stared back, but he couldn't help let slip a brief grin. "See what you can make of this one, all right?" Greg said, shaking his head to clear it -- bloody hell, how old was he? Couldn't keep his mind out of his pants.
Sherlock's expression was unreadable but he hesitated a moment before stalking off to investigate the kidnapping.
Later, when Sherlock had pointed them towards the whereabouts of Mrs Montrey's remains, Greg pulled him to one side before he could nick off somewhere.
"Thanks for that," he said. "Appreciate it. Listen, once they find the Missus's body, I'm going to call it a day. Don't fancy meeting later for a pint or something, do you?"
Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, his gaze never leaving Greg's eyes. "What I'd like, Detective Inspector, is to have you on your knees -- location is irrelevant but I imagine here would be inappropriate."
Greg prided himself that only his ears went pink. "I'll come round to yours then, once I'm done. Fancy doing you on that leather chair of yours."
It was Sherlock's turn to go a bit pink but he only faltered for a moment. "I'll be waiting," he said, and then turned on his heel with a swirl of bloody overcoat and strode off.
John, are you going to make me do this by text? - SH
There were three snipers, for you, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson. I couldn't take you, tell you, without endangering them. - SH
You're a terrible liar. I couldn't have told you. You would have tried to stop me. -SH
You would have been in danger. - SH
I cared about you more than was prudent. Moriarty knew it, knew he could get to me through you. He'd done it once already. Semtex, remember? - SH
Caring was not an advantage. - SH
It's all done now. I destroyed his network. Every last piece. I came home. - SH
Sherlock was waiting when Greg took the stairs two at a time up to the flat; sitting on his black leather armchair, naked but for the strategically placed violin that he was plucking tunelessly.
Greg's mouth went dry and he shoved off his overcoat and jacket and made short work of his tie.
"Lestrade," said Sherlock looking up.
"Sherlock.” Greg’s voice came out a bit rough.
Sherlock set the violin carefully on the coffee table and looked at him expectantly. Greg closed the distance between them, and in a reversal of that night at Christmas, he pushed his knee on the chair between Sherlock's parted thighs and leaned in for a kiss.
Afterwards, after Lestrade had knelt between his thighs and done delicious things to his cock, after Sherlock had pulled him up and kissed him and then jerked him off as he leaned over him, panting and red-faced, Lestrade had kissed him hard and straightened, tucking himself away, collecting his tie, his jacket, and Sherlock meant to let him go, just go.
"Are you hungry?" he heard himself ask, getting to his feet on wobbly legs, Lestrade's ejaculation fluid running down his stomach until he grabbed up the towel he'd been sitting on and wiped himself.
"Haven't eaten yet," Lestrade said. "Are you offering?"
Sherlock picked up his pants as he started to dress. "Yes. I'll get something. Stay here if you like."
Lestrade grinned and plopped on the sofa. He reached for the remote. "Don't mind if I do; feeling a bit shagged."
Sherlock checked his phone as he left the flat, taking the stairs two at a time, feeling strangely light and buoyant. Nothing.
While he waited for the curry he tapped out another text, meaning it, really meaning it.
I'm glad you moved on. I'm glad you are happy. It's better this way. Fewer complications. - SH
As the cab was turning the corner into Baker Street he received a reply, the first. It made his stomach lurch uncomfortably.
Sherlock, stop this. I'll meet you. Okay? Just don't do this by text. John
( Read Part 2)