Sherlock Fic: Still Alive for You, Love
I'm steering pretty clear of LJ until I've had a chance to watch A Scandal in Belgravia. I know I have comments to respond to, and a bunch of New Year's related posts to catch up on! I'll get to all that! But in the meantime, I'm swinging by to drop of some of my recently-revealed fic.
Title: Still Alive for You, Love
Author: brighteyedjill
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John/Lestrade
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: violence
Word Count: ~2300
Author’s note: Originally written for alafaye for holmestice and originally posted here. Thanks to jaune_chat for looking this over for me. Title from this lovely song.
Summary: Lestrade and John vigorously demonstrate their displeasure at Sherlock’s running off and getting himself into trouble.
“How long?” John whispered.
Lestrade cupped his hand over his phone to lessen the tell-tale glow in the dimness of the sewers. He glared at his display and shook his head. “Ten minutes, at least.”
John leaned forward to peer around the side of the tunnel at their quarry. “We can’t wait that long.”
Lestrade pulled his truncheon off his belt and gave John a curt nod.
“On three.” John’s voice was barely audible over the rush of water. “One.” He lifted his gun from the pocket of his jacket. “Two.” Slowly, quietly as he could, he flipped the safety. “Three.”
--
“What do you say?” Lestrade prompted. Sherlock squirmed beneath him.
From his place wedged between Sherlock's back and the headboard, John pinned Sherlock’s wrists down more tightly. He glanced up and rolled his eyes at Lestrade before nudging his chin against Sherlock’s shoulder. “He asked you a question,” John pointed out.
“I didn’t do anything wrong!” Sherlock bucked up against them both.
Lestrade easily stayed where he was, kneeling astride Sherlock’s hips. “That doesn’t sound like an apology.”
“Because it’s not,” Sherlock snapped. “I shouldn’t need to apologize.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” John whispered in his ear. “Because you’re not getting any release until you say you’re sorry.”
“What if I don’t care?”
Lestrade leaned back against his heels and shrugged. “Then I’ll tie you to the bed, and you can watch while John and I shag each other rotten.”
--
They both moved silently along the dry ground at the edges of the tunnel: no battle cries, no warning. Lestrade made it to the first man just as he turned, and something in the man’s leg made an unpleasant snapping sound as Lestrade’s baton made contact.
That was all John had time to see before splashing from the far end of the sewer tunnel distracted him. When he turned, he saw a man standing over a prone Sherlock with a gun in his hand.
John’s Sig leveled at its target. He breathed out as he squeezed the trigger. The man dropped. John whirled to assess the remaining threats.
Lestrade was kicking the knees out from under one man as he pinned another man to the floor. In the midst of the chaos, the look of fierce concentration on Lestrade’s face stood out as a thing of beauty.
--
“Actually,” said John. “That doesn’t sound half bad.” He tore his eyes away from Sherlock to smile up at Lestrade. “Earlier, the way you took down three men by yourself. I liked that.”
“John.” Lestrade shook his head in mock concern. “Seeing me do violence to criminals turned you on?”
“A bit, yeah. I don’t think it was the violence, actually, so much as the… Well.” John rested his head back against the headboard and considered. “You. The look in your eyes. It was… predatory. Like you wanted to rip something apart.”
“I see.” Lestrade leaned forward a bit, pressing the bulge in his trousers against Sherlock. “Well, they were trying to drown our boyfriend.”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“I am still here,” Sherlock asserted. “And naked. Shouldn’t we be paying a little more attention to me?”
--
John stepped past the crumpled form of Sherlock’s attacker and whirled around the corner. Two men were fleeing, splashing into the darkness of a branching tunnel, but they didn’t turn back, so they weren’t a threat. John glanced once more to Lestrade-securing the men he’d felled with zip ties-before racing over to where Sherlock lay face down and dripping.
“Sherlock?” John pulled him onto a dry patch of brickwork and tipped the man onto his side, where he immediately began coughing up water. “He’s breathing,” John called to Lestrade.
After expelling an unhealthy amount of brackish water from his lungs, Sherlock glared up at John and croaked, “Why did you two have to barge in? I’d just got them where I wanted them.”
--
“I think someone’s already got his fair share of attention today,” Lestrade said. His eyes narrowed, and he wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s erection where it strained against his belly. “And incidentally, haring off to confront a gang of bank robbers without informing either of us where you’ve gone is not an appropriate way to get attention.”
“I knew you’d follow." Sherlock craned his neck around so he could see John. "You got there in time, after all."
"Not the point, Sherlock," John said sternly, but he couldn't resist dropping a kiss onto Sherlock's forehead, which was plastered with dark curls, wet from the thorough shower that had removed the sewer stench from all of them. "Also, that's not an apology."
"Fine. It’s Plan B, then." Lestrade leaned forward, pressing against Sherlock as he curled a hand around the back of John's neck and drew him in for a kiss.
--
"Right, stay put." Lestrade pressed a foot into the back of one of the suspects: the one who'd been swearing nonstop since Lestrade had secured his hands. "Stay, I said!"
"How's your breathing?" John rested his hand on Sherlock's chest, watching his face for any sign of distress.
"I'm fine. Let me up."
"No." John's other hand braceleted Sherlock's wrist tightly. "No running off."
Sherlock's eyes drifted to the burglars' dead ring-leader, who lay on his back half-in, half-out of the shallow water. The blood from the gaping bullet wound in his chest was dying the water a rusty brown."That's two, now," Sherlock said quietly.
"If it had to be a hundred, I'd still not regret it," John said grimly. He daren't kiss Sherlock, not here, but he tightened his fingers in Sherlock's shirt and held on.
--
"I'm sorry!" Sherlock said. His wrists tugged fruitlessly against John's grip. "Please, I'm sorry."
Lestrade pulled away from John's mouth reluctantly, just far enough that he could see John's face. They watched each other for a moment, communicating in that silent language Sherlock had never quite mastered. At last John's eyes darted across to Sherlock, and he quirked an eye brow at Lestrade.
"All right." Lestrade swung his leg around to kneel on Sherlock's right, and shimmied down the bed a bit.
John pushed Sherlock onto his side. He kissed the back of his neck first, then began kissing his way down Sherlock's spine.
Lestrade lay in a promising position: on his side, his mouth tantalizingly near to Sherlock's prick. He glanced up once, with a wicked smile on his face, then nudged his head between Sherlock’s thighs. Lestrade licked a stripe up the side of Sherlock's cock, ending with a solid swipe across the head.
John kissed the swell at the top of Sherlock's arse, and then his tongue was also on Sherlock, swiping down the seam in his buttocks to tease against his hole.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock said again, because those were apparently magic words that led to the fulfillment of all fantasies. "I'm so, so sorry."
--
"Alright?" Lestrade knelt on the filthy ground before Sherlock and John. His eyes darted back and forth between them, as if he weren't sure who most needed his help.
"Uninjured, at least." John reached out to brush his thumb against Lestrade's cheek, where a small cut stood out in the midst of a larger bruise. "You?"
"Three in custody, two escaped, one...” He glanced at the dead man. “…Shot by his mates as they fled. Sally's team should be here in five." His wandering gaze landed on Sherlock. "You could've been done in, this time."
"Well I wasn't," Sherlock snapped, but he kept his eyes trained resolutely on the ground.
Lestrade spared a quick glance for his prisoners, who were all nursing their own injuries and paying the three of them no mind. He quickly grabbed Sherlock by the chin to tip his head up. "I'm not done with you yet, love." His eyes drifted to John. "Either of you. So stop trying so bloody hard to take this away from me."
--
Sherlock couldn't calculate how to move his body for the maximum amount of stimulation. In fact, he found he couldn't calculate anything. He was stuck writhing between Lestrade's mouth engulfing his cock and John's tongue delving inside him.
When John made an impatient sound in the back of his throat, Lestrade grabbed Sherlock's thigh to bend one leg over Lestrade's shoulder. That allowed John better access, of which he took immediate advantage.
Sherlock's right hand curled into the sheets; his left grabbed the headboard. His body felt volatile, like an unknown chemical reaction: as if Lestrade and John, added to his bed along with a measure of post-case endorphins and a judiciously applied apology, had created a compound that might explode at any moment.
"Please," Sherlock whined. "Close."
Lestrade pulled back just far enough to look up at Sherlock from under dark lashes. The breath from his words ghosted against the hot tip of Sherlock cock. "Let it go, Sherlock. Show us."
As Lestrade swallowed him down and John tongued him relentlessly, Sherlock let the chemical response bubble up within him, washing away the awareness of all else.
--
"Can you finish the paperwork later?" John asked.
Lestrade glanced over at Sally, who was taking charge of the scene with her usual efficiency, delegating tasks to the rest of the team in between exchanging barbs with Sherlock. "I want to wrap this up."
"Please.” John’s hand came up, then drifted back down without reaching for Lestrade. “Come back with us now."
"That sounds nice."
"Then come with us.” John took a small step closer. “Besides, I can't guarantee we won't get started without you, otherwise."
Lestrade’s gaze snapped to John, who had a playful smile simmering under the surface of his serious expression. "That's low, Watson."
"I know.” John shoved his hands in his pockets, but he didn’t seem at all contrite. “Plus it's easier to chastise him with both of us there."
Lestrade recognized a losing battle when he saw one. "Well, if there's chastising involved, how could I resist?"
John’s smile broke through, bright even in the dim light. "We love you."
--
When Sherlock's mind wandered back from trying to compare his orgasm to other chemical reactions he'd seen in his work, he found John and Lestrade kneeling over him, hands sliding though each other's hair as they kissed.
He gave a displeased grunt at being left out, then promptly went about rectifying the situation. He butted his head in between them, sending them far enough apart that he could mouth the bulge in Lestrade's trousers while pushing his ass back against John.
Their long acquaintance with Sherlock's methods of communication aided them, and in short order, Sherlock had what he wanted: Lestrade's long cock sliding past his lips while John's impressive girth filled him from behind. John and Lestrade worked well as a team, setting up a rhythm that had both of them gasping and clutching at each other's hands before long.
Lestrade went first, closing his eyes and finishing with an open-mouthed gasp, then fisting a hand in Sherlock's hair as Sherlock sucked him through the aftershocks.
John pulled Sherlock up against his chest. Lestrade crowded in close to grip Sherlock's hips, and worked him up and down on John's dick. "That's it," Lestrade breathed, his voice hoarse and low in the aftermath of his orgasm. "Come on, John." He leaned past Sherlock to claim John's mouth for a kiss.
The sound of that so near sent a groan rattling through Sherlock. Lestrade turned his head to kiss Sherlock's neck, his ear, any of his naked skin that he could reach, before turning his attention back to John. “Please,” Sherlock moaned.
John thrust up into him once more. His fingers curled against Sherlock's chest and shouted into Lestrade's mouth. His entire body shivered, close along Sherlock’s back as he reached the end.
They stayed there, suspended in a moment of pure satisfaction, until John slumped forward, which sent them all pitching onto their sides in a hopeless tangle.
--
"Alright." John locked the door to their bedroom, and turned to regard Lestrade and Sherlock with a perfectly serious expression. "We shouldn't start this while we're angry."
"Should we not?" Lestrade looked from John to Sherlock. "I'd have thought that'd be a perfect way to start."
"I concur.” Sherlock said. He was already stripping off his dressing gown. “In fact, I see no alternative but to start where we are."
"Outvoted, then.” John sighed. “All right, can we at least aspire not to end angry?"
"Agreed," Lestrade said immediately.
"Agreed." Sherlock climbed onto the bed. “And hurry up.”
John raised his eyebrows at Lestrade, who only shrugged. "Angry it is, then."
--
When Sherlock had sprawled lengthwise over his bedmates, his eyes long since closed, and his breath evened out into sleep, Lestrade curled his fingers over John's shoulder. "You alright?"
"Alright." John squirmed across the tangled bedclothes to tuck his head against Lestrade's neck. Now that his mind had had time to sift through the night’s events, some of the floating calm he’d felt had begun to evaporate. "It doesn't get easier, all this death."
"I'd be worried if it did get easier."
"I'm grateful, though,” John said into the safety of the darkness. “I couldn't do this alone."
"You could, if you had to, John.” Lestrade’s grip tightened on John’s shoulder, his fingers brushing the edge of John’s scar. “You're stronger than you give yourself credit for."
"Yes, well. I don't have to do it alone."
"No." Lestrade caught John's hand and held it tightly, resting on Sherlock's chest, just over his heart. "We're in this together."
Title: Still Alive for You, Love
Author: brighteyedjill
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John/Lestrade
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: violence
Word Count: ~2300
Author’s note: Originally written for alafaye for holmestice and originally posted here. Thanks to jaune_chat for looking this over for me. Title from this lovely song.
Summary: Lestrade and John vigorously demonstrate their displeasure at Sherlock’s running off and getting himself into trouble.
“How long?” John whispered.
Lestrade cupped his hand over his phone to lessen the tell-tale glow in the dimness of the sewers. He glared at his display and shook his head. “Ten minutes, at least.”
John leaned forward to peer around the side of the tunnel at their quarry. “We can’t wait that long.”
Lestrade pulled his truncheon off his belt and gave John a curt nod.
“On three.” John’s voice was barely audible over the rush of water. “One.” He lifted his gun from the pocket of his jacket. “Two.” Slowly, quietly as he could, he flipped the safety. “Three.”
--
“What do you say?” Lestrade prompted. Sherlock squirmed beneath him.
From his place wedged between Sherlock's back and the headboard, John pinned Sherlock’s wrists down more tightly. He glanced up and rolled his eyes at Lestrade before nudging his chin against Sherlock’s shoulder. “He asked you a question,” John pointed out.
“I didn’t do anything wrong!” Sherlock bucked up against them both.
Lestrade easily stayed where he was, kneeling astride Sherlock’s hips. “That doesn’t sound like an apology.”
“Because it’s not,” Sherlock snapped. “I shouldn’t need to apologize.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” John whispered in his ear. “Because you’re not getting any release until you say you’re sorry.”
“What if I don’t care?”
Lestrade leaned back against his heels and shrugged. “Then I’ll tie you to the bed, and you can watch while John and I shag each other rotten.”
--
They both moved silently along the dry ground at the edges of the tunnel: no battle cries, no warning. Lestrade made it to the first man just as he turned, and something in the man’s leg made an unpleasant snapping sound as Lestrade’s baton made contact.
That was all John had time to see before splashing from the far end of the sewer tunnel distracted him. When he turned, he saw a man standing over a prone Sherlock with a gun in his hand.
John’s Sig leveled at its target. He breathed out as he squeezed the trigger. The man dropped. John whirled to assess the remaining threats.
Lestrade was kicking the knees out from under one man as he pinned another man to the floor. In the midst of the chaos, the look of fierce concentration on Lestrade’s face stood out as a thing of beauty.
--
“Actually,” said John. “That doesn’t sound half bad.” He tore his eyes away from Sherlock to smile up at Lestrade. “Earlier, the way you took down three men by yourself. I liked that.”
“John.” Lestrade shook his head in mock concern. “Seeing me do violence to criminals turned you on?”
“A bit, yeah. I don’t think it was the violence, actually, so much as the… Well.” John rested his head back against the headboard and considered. “You. The look in your eyes. It was… predatory. Like you wanted to rip something apart.”
“I see.” Lestrade leaned forward a bit, pressing the bulge in his trousers against Sherlock. “Well, they were trying to drown our boyfriend.”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“I am still here,” Sherlock asserted. “And naked. Shouldn’t we be paying a little more attention to me?”
--
John stepped past the crumpled form of Sherlock’s attacker and whirled around the corner. Two men were fleeing, splashing into the darkness of a branching tunnel, but they didn’t turn back, so they weren’t a threat. John glanced once more to Lestrade-securing the men he’d felled with zip ties-before racing over to where Sherlock lay face down and dripping.
“Sherlock?” John pulled him onto a dry patch of brickwork and tipped the man onto his side, where he immediately began coughing up water. “He’s breathing,” John called to Lestrade.
After expelling an unhealthy amount of brackish water from his lungs, Sherlock glared up at John and croaked, “Why did you two have to barge in? I’d just got them where I wanted them.”
--
“I think someone’s already got his fair share of attention today,” Lestrade said. His eyes narrowed, and he wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s erection where it strained against his belly. “And incidentally, haring off to confront a gang of bank robbers without informing either of us where you’ve gone is not an appropriate way to get attention.”
“I knew you’d follow." Sherlock craned his neck around so he could see John. "You got there in time, after all."
"Not the point, Sherlock," John said sternly, but he couldn't resist dropping a kiss onto Sherlock's forehead, which was plastered with dark curls, wet from the thorough shower that had removed the sewer stench from all of them. "Also, that's not an apology."
"Fine. It’s Plan B, then." Lestrade leaned forward, pressing against Sherlock as he curled a hand around the back of John's neck and drew him in for a kiss.
--
"Right, stay put." Lestrade pressed a foot into the back of one of the suspects: the one who'd been swearing nonstop since Lestrade had secured his hands. "Stay, I said!"
"How's your breathing?" John rested his hand on Sherlock's chest, watching his face for any sign of distress.
"I'm fine. Let me up."
"No." John's other hand braceleted Sherlock's wrist tightly. "No running off."
Sherlock's eyes drifted to the burglars' dead ring-leader, who lay on his back half-in, half-out of the shallow water. The blood from the gaping bullet wound in his chest was dying the water a rusty brown."That's two, now," Sherlock said quietly.
"If it had to be a hundred, I'd still not regret it," John said grimly. He daren't kiss Sherlock, not here, but he tightened his fingers in Sherlock's shirt and held on.
--
"I'm sorry!" Sherlock said. His wrists tugged fruitlessly against John's grip. "Please, I'm sorry."
Lestrade pulled away from John's mouth reluctantly, just far enough that he could see John's face. They watched each other for a moment, communicating in that silent language Sherlock had never quite mastered. At last John's eyes darted across to Sherlock, and he quirked an eye brow at Lestrade.
"All right." Lestrade swung his leg around to kneel on Sherlock's right, and shimmied down the bed a bit.
John pushed Sherlock onto his side. He kissed the back of his neck first, then began kissing his way down Sherlock's spine.
Lestrade lay in a promising position: on his side, his mouth tantalizingly near to Sherlock's prick. He glanced up once, with a wicked smile on his face, then nudged his head between Sherlock’s thighs. Lestrade licked a stripe up the side of Sherlock's cock, ending with a solid swipe across the head.
John kissed the swell at the top of Sherlock's arse, and then his tongue was also on Sherlock, swiping down the seam in his buttocks to tease against his hole.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock said again, because those were apparently magic words that led to the fulfillment of all fantasies. "I'm so, so sorry."
--
"Alright?" Lestrade knelt on the filthy ground before Sherlock and John. His eyes darted back and forth between them, as if he weren't sure who most needed his help.
"Uninjured, at least." John reached out to brush his thumb against Lestrade's cheek, where a small cut stood out in the midst of a larger bruise. "You?"
"Three in custody, two escaped, one...” He glanced at the dead man. “…Shot by his mates as they fled. Sally's team should be here in five." His wandering gaze landed on Sherlock. "You could've been done in, this time."
"Well I wasn't," Sherlock snapped, but he kept his eyes trained resolutely on the ground.
Lestrade spared a quick glance for his prisoners, who were all nursing their own injuries and paying the three of them no mind. He quickly grabbed Sherlock by the chin to tip his head up. "I'm not done with you yet, love." His eyes drifted to John. "Either of you. So stop trying so bloody hard to take this away from me."
--
Sherlock couldn't calculate how to move his body for the maximum amount of stimulation. In fact, he found he couldn't calculate anything. He was stuck writhing between Lestrade's mouth engulfing his cock and John's tongue delving inside him.
When John made an impatient sound in the back of his throat, Lestrade grabbed Sherlock's thigh to bend one leg over Lestrade's shoulder. That allowed John better access, of which he took immediate advantage.
Sherlock's right hand curled into the sheets; his left grabbed the headboard. His body felt volatile, like an unknown chemical reaction: as if Lestrade and John, added to his bed along with a measure of post-case endorphins and a judiciously applied apology, had created a compound that might explode at any moment.
"Please," Sherlock whined. "Close."
Lestrade pulled back just far enough to look up at Sherlock from under dark lashes. The breath from his words ghosted against the hot tip of Sherlock cock. "Let it go, Sherlock. Show us."
As Lestrade swallowed him down and John tongued him relentlessly, Sherlock let the chemical response bubble up within him, washing away the awareness of all else.
--
"Can you finish the paperwork later?" John asked.
Lestrade glanced over at Sally, who was taking charge of the scene with her usual efficiency, delegating tasks to the rest of the team in between exchanging barbs with Sherlock. "I want to wrap this up."
"Please.” John’s hand came up, then drifted back down without reaching for Lestrade. “Come back with us now."
"That sounds nice."
"Then come with us.” John took a small step closer. “Besides, I can't guarantee we won't get started without you, otherwise."
Lestrade’s gaze snapped to John, who had a playful smile simmering under the surface of his serious expression. "That's low, Watson."
"I know.” John shoved his hands in his pockets, but he didn’t seem at all contrite. “Plus it's easier to chastise him with both of us there."
Lestrade recognized a losing battle when he saw one. "Well, if there's chastising involved, how could I resist?"
John’s smile broke through, bright even in the dim light. "We love you."
--
When Sherlock's mind wandered back from trying to compare his orgasm to other chemical reactions he'd seen in his work, he found John and Lestrade kneeling over him, hands sliding though each other's hair as they kissed.
He gave a displeased grunt at being left out, then promptly went about rectifying the situation. He butted his head in between them, sending them far enough apart that he could mouth the bulge in Lestrade's trousers while pushing his ass back against John.
Their long acquaintance with Sherlock's methods of communication aided them, and in short order, Sherlock had what he wanted: Lestrade's long cock sliding past his lips while John's impressive girth filled him from behind. John and Lestrade worked well as a team, setting up a rhythm that had both of them gasping and clutching at each other's hands before long.
Lestrade went first, closing his eyes and finishing with an open-mouthed gasp, then fisting a hand in Sherlock's hair as Sherlock sucked him through the aftershocks.
John pulled Sherlock up against his chest. Lestrade crowded in close to grip Sherlock's hips, and worked him up and down on John's dick. "That's it," Lestrade breathed, his voice hoarse and low in the aftermath of his orgasm. "Come on, John." He leaned past Sherlock to claim John's mouth for a kiss.
The sound of that so near sent a groan rattling through Sherlock. Lestrade turned his head to kiss Sherlock's neck, his ear, any of his naked skin that he could reach, before turning his attention back to John. “Please,” Sherlock moaned.
John thrust up into him once more. His fingers curled against Sherlock's chest and shouted into Lestrade's mouth. His entire body shivered, close along Sherlock’s back as he reached the end.
They stayed there, suspended in a moment of pure satisfaction, until John slumped forward, which sent them all pitching onto their sides in a hopeless tangle.
--
"Alright." John locked the door to their bedroom, and turned to regard Lestrade and Sherlock with a perfectly serious expression. "We shouldn't start this while we're angry."
"Should we not?" Lestrade looked from John to Sherlock. "I'd have thought that'd be a perfect way to start."
"I concur.” Sherlock said. He was already stripping off his dressing gown. “In fact, I see no alternative but to start where we are."
"Outvoted, then.” John sighed. “All right, can we at least aspire not to end angry?"
"Agreed," Lestrade said immediately.
"Agreed." Sherlock climbed onto the bed. “And hurry up.”
John raised his eyebrows at Lestrade, who only shrugged. "Angry it is, then."
--
When Sherlock had sprawled lengthwise over his bedmates, his eyes long since closed, and his breath evened out into sleep, Lestrade curled his fingers over John's shoulder. "You alright?"
"Alright." John squirmed across the tangled bedclothes to tuck his head against Lestrade's neck. Now that his mind had had time to sift through the night’s events, some of the floating calm he’d felt had begun to evaporate. "It doesn't get easier, all this death."
"I'd be worried if it did get easier."
"I'm grateful, though,” John said into the safety of the darkness. “I couldn't do this alone."
"You could, if you had to, John.” Lestrade’s grip tightened on John’s shoulder, his fingers brushing the edge of John’s scar. “You're stronger than you give yourself credit for."
"Yes, well. I don't have to do it alone."
"No." Lestrade caught John's hand and held it tightly, resting on Sherlock's chest, just over his heart. "We're in this together."