Fic - Gentlemen's Agreement (Sherlock/Lestrade)
Title: Gentlemen's Agreement
Pairings: Sherlock/Lestrade
Rating: NC17
Wordcount: 1,750
Summary: Sherlock kicked his coke habit because he promised Lestrade. Which makes it Lestrade's responsibility to distract him when he's bored and craving. Right?
--
He's stretched out on the bed, duvet pushed to one side, thin, naked frame pressed into the cool sheet. It's not relaxed enough to be termed a sprawl, his arms are flung out rigid, fingers splayed wide, palms pushing down. His face is almost buried in the pillow, head turned just enough to breathe, not enough to see.
Behind him - above him, against him - he feels the other man settling himself, strong, capable hands on his back, a weight on his legs, then the startling contact of warm arousal.
It's familiar, comforting almost, this pressure between his legs, the thick length sliding between his thighs.
Sherlock breathes in, inhaling the smell of fresh laundry with pleasure. He never seems to find the time to change his own sheets, but every time he comes here it reminds him he should.
--
It's been a while, they've been doing this.
Lestrade's fault.
--
Sherlock breathes out as he feels himself entered, hands pushing down against the bed, like he's bracing himself against the world.
If you asked him who he trusted, he'd tell you it was a meaningless question, that you trusted different people with different things. Someone you might trust with your life you wouldn't necessarily trust to neatly darn your socks.
Not that he knew anyone who'd ever bothered to darn a sock. Which he felt rather proved his point.
He trusts Lestrade with his body.
--
It had been a long time ago, now. He'd been younger (although not by as much as it feels) and more careless; too cocky, too confident.
The cocaine had made that worse, of course. Buoyed up by figuring things out where the police hadn't - couldn't - he'd made the mistake, for the first and only time - of underestimating them in other ways.
Lestrade had found him with it. Could have - should have - reported him. Arrested him, even.
He hadn't.
In exchange for a promise that Sherlock would stop, he'd turned a blind eye.
Gratitude? Sherlock had, after all, just solved a messy case for him. But it was more than that. Sherlock just wasn't entirely certain, then, what. He was reasonably sure it wasn't because he was just that likeable.
He's been clean ever since.
--
Lestrade's moving inside him now, hard, urgent thrusts, his hands over Sherlock's wrists, almost holding him down, although it isn't necessary.
Sherlock's breath flutters against the pillow, his own untouched erection rubbing against the cotton beneath with every movement of the man on top of him.
--
It had been agony, at first. The boredom and then the craving.
He could still remember the look of startled surprise of Lestrade's face when he'd turned up at the door to his flat.
--
"Sherlock! What are you doing here?"
He leaned against the door jamb, almost drunkenly, although he wasn't.
"Need - I need - "
Could see in Lestrade's face that he thought he was on something, was dragged unceremoniously inside and slammed back against the door while Lestrade took his pulse, peered suspiciously into his eyes.
Sherlock laughed, batting his hands away, while Lestrade scowled.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"Bored. So bored! I need - stimulus, I need - "
"You promised!" Lestrade interrupted, angrily.
"And I've kept that promise Inspector, I really have. But as it was you that elicited said promise, I was rather hoping you could provide a suitable distraction now it's proving rather more difficult to remember why I made it in the first place."
Lestrade looked baffled. It was, Sherlock reflected, a familiar expression on him. "How?"
"Murder?" he suggested, hopefully.
"There isn't anything." Lestrade hesitated, mentally running through the cases he had on. "Nothing that would interest you," he added, almost apologetically, and Sherlock laughed, taken by the idea of the policeman for once lamenting the lack of particularly brilliant crime.
"Something else then."
"Oh for God's sake just have a drink or something can't you?" Impatient, wrongfooted at him turning up here of all places, hadn't even known Sherlock knew where he lived. But then, this was Sherlock.
"Doesn't help. Makes it worse, in fact." Sherlock dismissed the idea with a shake of his head.
"Sex then."
And Sherlock paused, actually considering.
"Alright. Go on then. I'll try anything once."
"What? I didn't mean - " Lestrade stuttered. Sherlock stepped forward, looking suddenly predatory.
"Oh, but you did Inspector, you did. You want me."
"No I bloody don't - "
"You desire me. I can tell. The way your pupils dilate, the way your breathing and heartrate go up, the way you fidget, hands in pockets and out again like you don't know what to do with them, and then there's the way you're - " he put his head on one side, as if considering something he couldn't properly understand.
"I'm what?" asked Lestrade, half fearful, half fascinated.
"Protective," decided Sherlock after a little deliberation.
"No I'm not!" retorted Lestrade indignantly.
"Yes. You are. And it's not logical. You think I'm a pain in the arse. A valuable one, but still. A thorn in your side more often than not, but you make decisions that aren't strictly professional, you work to keep me out of the dangerous parts even when I could be of service, therefore it's something more. Something emotional. It's always been something more. Obviously."
"It - didn't bother you? Knowing that I - " the words - the admission - coming reluctantly.
Sherlock shook his head. "You're an honourable man, Lestrade." Smiling slightly, as if he considered this a drawback to brilliance. "You'd never have pressed your advantage."
"I wasn't aware I had one. Or so you frequently tell me." Lestrade declared dryly.
"Oh come Inspector, man of your position, the things you know about me - you could have made things very - awkward. But like I say, you're an honourable man." He flung his arms wide and grinned. "And here I am. So how about it?"
"You're insane."
"Not at all."
They looked at each other for a few seconds, consideringly.
"If you've - not - I could hurt you."
"Good."
"What?" Lestrade looked startled.
"Pain's good. Pain's distracting. Come on, what are you waiting for?"
Lestrade stepped forward as if under compulsion, expression saying clearly he didn't believe he was doing this. Started to lean in, then jerked to a halt as Sherlock brought his fingers up in a stop gesture.
"Uh uh. No kissing. We're not lovers, Inspector."
"Are you going to call me Inspector the whole bloody time?"
"Will it bother you?"
"Yes!"
"Then probably."
Sherlock grinned. Lestrade sighed.
"This is a stupid idea. We should forget it. I have no idea why I'm even considering it."
But Sherlock was already unbuttoning his shirt, letting it fall casually to the floor of the hallway.
"Well?"
"Oh for - " Lestrade rolled his eyes, strode off in the direction of the bedroom.
Sherlock followed, smirking.
--
He likes it, like this. Hard, and uncompromising. Lestrade is a good lover, can do this for ages, pounding him, fucking him, until they're both sore and breathless.
He knows Lestrade would like to do it face to face, would like to hold him, perhaps to kiss him.
He shudders inwardly at the thought of such intimacy. This, though, he admits to himself he does like. And he hadn't expected that.
--
That first time, he'd sighed in almost physical relief as he was finally taken, the new sensations crowding in enough to quieten the frantic part of his mind that had been clamouring for distraction.
Lestrade had been hesitant at first, trying to be gentle, holding back, until Sherlock had cried out in frustration "Give it some welly, man!"
Lestrade had fucked him alright then, roughly, almost angrily. And Sherlock had found a release he'd never known before, not just in the physical climax but glorying in the whole base and sordid act of sex and the sense of exultation in surrendering to it.
Afterwards, they'd lain looking at each other, not touching, Lestrade a little wide eyed and faintly relieved at the smile on Sherlock's face.
"I hardly dare ask, but was that good for you?" he murmured.
Sherlock's expression was sleepy and contented.
"It was satisfactory, yes."
Lestrade gave a short laugh, shaking his head. Anyone else, that would have come across as an insult. But Sherlock, he realised, was just being precise. Satisfactory. He had therefore been satisfied. Sated.
"And for you?"
Lestrade looked almost surprised, that he'd returned the enquiry.
Let his head fall back on the pillow. "Oh fuck yes."
Laughter, finally, from both of them.
--
Now, he feels Lestrade peak, shaking against his back, spilling his climax into the condom he always so carefully wears.
Sherlock finally comes soon after, spilling less carefully into the pristine sheets, groaning in release and relief.
He feels Lestrade slide out of him, hands stroking his back, lips pressed briefly to the back of his neck. He smiles, into the pillow, will allow the man this.
--
He knows Lestrade wonders if he's sleeping with John, now. He isn't. John is - too close. Too valuable, as a colleague and an ally, to risk losing. And he would, he knows, feel it his duty as a doctor and a friend to try and make Sherlock learn to like the things he doesn't. To come to terms, to deal with his hang ups. Well meaning. But to be avoided.
Lestrade on the other hand, is willing to indulge his preferences. No kissing (although they've sucked each other, time after time). Certainly no cuddling. No talking (although there is pillow talk, afterwards, if discussing murders and criminal masterminds can be said to count).
--
After that first time, they had become abruptly embroiled in a case that had kept Sherlock happy for weeks.
Lestrade had assumed what had happened was a one off, and if he felt anything other than mildly more protective than before towards Sherlock, he never let it show, was outwardly nothing but professional. Sherlock, for his part, never alluded to it at all.
It was four months, almost to the day, when there was an unlooked for knock on Lestrade's door late one night.
He opened it to find Sherlock, hands in pockets, head on one side looking like a particularly vexatious imp.
He'd smiled, wickedly.
"I'm bored," he'd said.
And Lestrade had let him in.
He always does.
--
Pairings: Sherlock/Lestrade
Rating: NC17
Wordcount: 1,750
Summary: Sherlock kicked his coke habit because he promised Lestrade. Which makes it Lestrade's responsibility to distract him when he's bored and craving. Right?
--
He's stretched out on the bed, duvet pushed to one side, thin, naked frame pressed into the cool sheet. It's not relaxed enough to be termed a sprawl, his arms are flung out rigid, fingers splayed wide, palms pushing down. His face is almost buried in the pillow, head turned just enough to breathe, not enough to see.
Behind him - above him, against him - he feels the other man settling himself, strong, capable hands on his back, a weight on his legs, then the startling contact of warm arousal.
It's familiar, comforting almost, this pressure between his legs, the thick length sliding between his thighs.
Sherlock breathes in, inhaling the smell of fresh laundry with pleasure. He never seems to find the time to change his own sheets, but every time he comes here it reminds him he should.
--
It's been a while, they've been doing this.
Lestrade's fault.
--
Sherlock breathes out as he feels himself entered, hands pushing down against the bed, like he's bracing himself against the world.
If you asked him who he trusted, he'd tell you it was a meaningless question, that you trusted different people with different things. Someone you might trust with your life you wouldn't necessarily trust to neatly darn your socks.
Not that he knew anyone who'd ever bothered to darn a sock. Which he felt rather proved his point.
He trusts Lestrade with his body.
--
It had been a long time ago, now. He'd been younger (although not by as much as it feels) and more careless; too cocky, too confident.
The cocaine had made that worse, of course. Buoyed up by figuring things out where the police hadn't - couldn't - he'd made the mistake, for the first and only time - of underestimating them in other ways.
Lestrade had found him with it. Could have - should have - reported him. Arrested him, even.
He hadn't.
In exchange for a promise that Sherlock would stop, he'd turned a blind eye.
Gratitude? Sherlock had, after all, just solved a messy case for him. But it was more than that. Sherlock just wasn't entirely certain, then, what. He was reasonably sure it wasn't because he was just that likeable.
He's been clean ever since.
--
Lestrade's moving inside him now, hard, urgent thrusts, his hands over Sherlock's wrists, almost holding him down, although it isn't necessary.
Sherlock's breath flutters against the pillow, his own untouched erection rubbing against the cotton beneath with every movement of the man on top of him.
--
It had been agony, at first. The boredom and then the craving.
He could still remember the look of startled surprise of Lestrade's face when he'd turned up at the door to his flat.
--
"Sherlock! What are you doing here?"
He leaned against the door jamb, almost drunkenly, although he wasn't.
"Need - I need - "
Could see in Lestrade's face that he thought he was on something, was dragged unceremoniously inside and slammed back against the door while Lestrade took his pulse, peered suspiciously into his eyes.
Sherlock laughed, batting his hands away, while Lestrade scowled.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"Bored. So bored! I need - stimulus, I need - "
"You promised!" Lestrade interrupted, angrily.
"And I've kept that promise Inspector, I really have. But as it was you that elicited said promise, I was rather hoping you could provide a suitable distraction now it's proving rather more difficult to remember why I made it in the first place."
Lestrade looked baffled. It was, Sherlock reflected, a familiar expression on him. "How?"
"Murder?" he suggested, hopefully.
"There isn't anything." Lestrade hesitated, mentally running through the cases he had on. "Nothing that would interest you," he added, almost apologetically, and Sherlock laughed, taken by the idea of the policeman for once lamenting the lack of particularly brilliant crime.
"Something else then."
"Oh for God's sake just have a drink or something can't you?" Impatient, wrongfooted at him turning up here of all places, hadn't even known Sherlock knew where he lived. But then, this was Sherlock.
"Doesn't help. Makes it worse, in fact." Sherlock dismissed the idea with a shake of his head.
"Sex then."
And Sherlock paused, actually considering.
"Alright. Go on then. I'll try anything once."
"What? I didn't mean - " Lestrade stuttered. Sherlock stepped forward, looking suddenly predatory.
"Oh, but you did Inspector, you did. You want me."
"No I bloody don't - "
"You desire me. I can tell. The way your pupils dilate, the way your breathing and heartrate go up, the way you fidget, hands in pockets and out again like you don't know what to do with them, and then there's the way you're - " he put his head on one side, as if considering something he couldn't properly understand.
"I'm what?" asked Lestrade, half fearful, half fascinated.
"Protective," decided Sherlock after a little deliberation.
"No I'm not!" retorted Lestrade indignantly.
"Yes. You are. And it's not logical. You think I'm a pain in the arse. A valuable one, but still. A thorn in your side more often than not, but you make decisions that aren't strictly professional, you work to keep me out of the dangerous parts even when I could be of service, therefore it's something more. Something emotional. It's always been something more. Obviously."
"It - didn't bother you? Knowing that I - " the words - the admission - coming reluctantly.
Sherlock shook his head. "You're an honourable man, Lestrade." Smiling slightly, as if he considered this a drawback to brilliance. "You'd never have pressed your advantage."
"I wasn't aware I had one. Or so you frequently tell me." Lestrade declared dryly.
"Oh come Inspector, man of your position, the things you know about me - you could have made things very - awkward. But like I say, you're an honourable man." He flung his arms wide and grinned. "And here I am. So how about it?"
"You're insane."
"Not at all."
They looked at each other for a few seconds, consideringly.
"If you've - not - I could hurt you."
"Good."
"What?" Lestrade looked startled.
"Pain's good. Pain's distracting. Come on, what are you waiting for?"
Lestrade stepped forward as if under compulsion, expression saying clearly he didn't believe he was doing this. Started to lean in, then jerked to a halt as Sherlock brought his fingers up in a stop gesture.
"Uh uh. No kissing. We're not lovers, Inspector."
"Are you going to call me Inspector the whole bloody time?"
"Will it bother you?"
"Yes!"
"Then probably."
Sherlock grinned. Lestrade sighed.
"This is a stupid idea. We should forget it. I have no idea why I'm even considering it."
But Sherlock was already unbuttoning his shirt, letting it fall casually to the floor of the hallway.
"Well?"
"Oh for - " Lestrade rolled his eyes, strode off in the direction of the bedroom.
Sherlock followed, smirking.
--
He likes it, like this. Hard, and uncompromising. Lestrade is a good lover, can do this for ages, pounding him, fucking him, until they're both sore and breathless.
He knows Lestrade would like to do it face to face, would like to hold him, perhaps to kiss him.
He shudders inwardly at the thought of such intimacy. This, though, he admits to himself he does like. And he hadn't expected that.
--
That first time, he'd sighed in almost physical relief as he was finally taken, the new sensations crowding in enough to quieten the frantic part of his mind that had been clamouring for distraction.
Lestrade had been hesitant at first, trying to be gentle, holding back, until Sherlock had cried out in frustration "Give it some welly, man!"
Lestrade had fucked him alright then, roughly, almost angrily. And Sherlock had found a release he'd never known before, not just in the physical climax but glorying in the whole base and sordid act of sex and the sense of exultation in surrendering to it.
Afterwards, they'd lain looking at each other, not touching, Lestrade a little wide eyed and faintly relieved at the smile on Sherlock's face.
"I hardly dare ask, but was that good for you?" he murmured.
Sherlock's expression was sleepy and contented.
"It was satisfactory, yes."
Lestrade gave a short laugh, shaking his head. Anyone else, that would have come across as an insult. But Sherlock, he realised, was just being precise. Satisfactory. He had therefore been satisfied. Sated.
"And for you?"
Lestrade looked almost surprised, that he'd returned the enquiry.
Let his head fall back on the pillow. "Oh fuck yes."
Laughter, finally, from both of them.
--
Now, he feels Lestrade peak, shaking against his back, spilling his climax into the condom he always so carefully wears.
Sherlock finally comes soon after, spilling less carefully into the pristine sheets, groaning in release and relief.
He feels Lestrade slide out of him, hands stroking his back, lips pressed briefly to the back of his neck. He smiles, into the pillow, will allow the man this.
--
He knows Lestrade wonders if he's sleeping with John, now. He isn't. John is - too close. Too valuable, as a colleague and an ally, to risk losing. And he would, he knows, feel it his duty as a doctor and a friend to try and make Sherlock learn to like the things he doesn't. To come to terms, to deal with his hang ups. Well meaning. But to be avoided.
Lestrade on the other hand, is willing to indulge his preferences. No kissing (although they've sucked each other, time after time). Certainly no cuddling. No talking (although there is pillow talk, afterwards, if discussing murders and criminal masterminds can be said to count).
--
After that first time, they had become abruptly embroiled in a case that had kept Sherlock happy for weeks.
Lestrade had assumed what had happened was a one off, and if he felt anything other than mildly more protective than before towards Sherlock, he never let it show, was outwardly nothing but professional. Sherlock, for his part, never alluded to it at all.
It was four months, almost to the day, when there was an unlooked for knock on Lestrade's door late one night.
He opened it to find Sherlock, hands in pockets, head on one side looking like a particularly vexatious imp.
He'd smiled, wickedly.
"I'm bored," he'd said.
And Lestrade had let him in.
He always does.
--