Fic: They say it will change
Title: They say it will change
Author: Eiben
Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade
Word Count: 2650
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Oral Fixation, explicit slash, the constant challenge of not smoking
A/N: Written for this prompt in the Sherlock kink meme. I love it. It's great. Thanks to blooms84 for the beta work and all her patience, it was awesome :)
They say it will change
Lestrade is the one who convinces Sherlock to stop smoking. What he doesn't expect is for Sherlock's oral fixation to have such a huge effect on him... or that Sherlock would choose to fixate on him.
They say quitting smoking will change your life. The thing is, Lestrade would have never imagined it would be this significant.
-
Before this, they caught a criminal. Okay, this is not news to anyone.
And now, Lestrade desperately longs for a cigarette; he wants to pull it out and grab for the lighter, seeing his own hands glow for a moment before the tobacco flames, then inhaling the grey smoke deep into his lungs, time after time until he becomes calm and his hands steady, and he does not have to think of murder and torture and the satisfied grin of the murderer he just arrested.
Of course Lestrade knows how it should be. After more than ten years of practice he should have been able to turn around and stop remembering. He should have.
He didn't.
They left that room - Anderson, Sherlock and Lestrade- Anderson and Sherlock fighting as usual.
Lestrade really hopes they really do hate each other, otherwise he might one day make the unpleasant discovery of the two of them shagging their brains out next to a crime scene.
At least they were not doing it today. If they had, that would have finished Lestrade off and he'd have to break the promise he just gave Sherlock to quit smoking when Sherlock did. (And Lestrade is certain that Sherlock just agreed in order to see him suffer.)
But the images just stayed in his mind. Even as they left the house, Lestrade felt as though they were still there. He did not think it would be this hard.
Cigarette, he thinks. I just need a-
"Don't", says Sherlock. "We have a deal."
Lestrade looks at him. "Let's make an exception", he says, realizing Anderson has just left with Donovan. Maybe his Sherlock/Anderson theory was not right at all.
"No exceptions! Addiction is weak," replies Sherlock, quoting Lestrade. Perhaps Sherlock is not the best person to say that, Lestrade tells himself, thinking of the cocaine and ecstasy. Lestrade hates it. He hates the thought of it. He hates that there is evil in this world, and he hates that he is not allowed to have a cig to just forget everything and think about lung cancer instead, before driving home and having a beer. Maybe two, with the television turned on. Something stupid would do now, maybe one of those stupid talk shows where everyone talks about celebrities as if they know them themselves.
Obviously Sherlock does not share his opinion.
"There is an alternative, you know,” Sherlock interrupts the D.I.'s thoughts. "And I intend to use it."
Lestrade is distracted. And he wishes Sherlock would shut up now and leave him alone, because seriously, he might be clever, but as it seems that genius comes along with considerable side effects.
"What?", Lestrade asks, forcing himself to pay Sherlock the attention he is used to, hoping he will get rid of him faster.
"Replacement therapy."
Lestrade wonders if the other man remembers they still are next to a crime scene, even though most of his team is gone and the others are just about to leave right now.
"How do you do that?"
Lestrade wonders if Sherlock will actually have some chewing gum or chocolate or anything else he can carry around unseen. Lestrade has heard many stories about quitting: people who have started to eat apples everytime they wanted to smoke or gained two pounds by sucking candy drops.
All not very successful.
"Use your imagination,” Sherlock replies, and then everything happens fast, because Sherlock takes a step and is right before Lestrade and then lowers his head, and Lestrade is confused. Where is the fucking chewing gum? Then he notices Sherlock's lips are pressed to his. Lestrade opens his mouth to say something, and tries to pull away, but it doesn't work.
Instead, Sherlock's tongue flips into Lestrade's mouth, light and quick and Lestrade responds before he can even think: What does my subconscious want to tell me? And it's great. He is used to kisses which taste like tobacco and smoke, but this one absolutely doesn't. It tastes like Sherlock. Lestrade cannot define this further.
It is over almost before he realizes it has happened.
Sherlock turns around, and his steps are loud against the silence of the little street. They were the last ones at the scene.
At least he doesn't want to smoke anymore.
-
It takes a few days before Lestrade is over it. Not that it hadn't happened before, but in the past Sherlock had been high every time. One time he even tried to seduce Lestrade, but he failed, not in the least because he seemed to have absolutely no idea how do it properly.
Thank goodness Sherlock seems to have no memory of that.
Now Lestrade is sitting in the only room of Sherlock's flat, pressed between a pile of books (all chemistry) and old papers. A Bunsen burner pokes uncomfortably against his back, and he is not sure if his feet are safe where they stand. Lestrade isn't sure if anything is safe in here.
He waits for ten more minutes. He has already waited twenty minutes. And he is angry right now because he fucking knows that Sherlock just wants to prove a point. Screw him.
Everything smells like smoke; the bad kind of smoke, not from cigarettes but from something that burned down in here. Lestrade really wants to know if Sherlock died in his bathroom, until he just appears. Has he used the door? Is this guy a freaking vampire?
"You've got a case?", Sherlock asks, and his look implies And you are far too stupid to solve it alone.
Lestrade swallows his anger and nods, pulls out the files, and hands them to the detective, hoping that he will not put them down somewhere. God knows what his table might do to the paper.
Lestrade watches as Sherlock reads through the report quickly. His brain is working, his eyebrows moving with every line, and his mouth twisting after every short break.
"Interesting,” he says finally. "I need to speak to the doctor."
Lestrade is not sure if it is a good idea to let Sherlock anywhere near normal human beings, but obviously, he has no choice. Except for some blood they found at the crime scene, there seem to be no hints and the blood was obviously spread intentionally, they found the package of the package of blood from the blood bank around the corner.
"I'll give you a ride,” Lestrade answers. He holds out his hand for the case files. "Been smoking lately?"
But Sherlock shakes his head and touches his arm exactly where he would have placed a nicotine patch. "I was distracted," he says and his face suddenly changes. Really, thinks Lestrade, the man is not normal. At least not human. How can anyone look like this? The light causes shadows under his remarkable cheekbones, so his eyes look unbelievably dark, and his skin is so pale. Like he is a doll or something, made out of porcelain.
The look Sherlock gives Lestrade is alarming, and reminds him of what happened when they last spoke about cigarettes.
If he could blush, he would do it now.
But fortunately he is not a thirteen-year-old school girl, so he just rolls up his sleeve. "Neither am I."
That glance!
Get out of this situation, Lestrade thinks, and turns to leave. "Okay, let's go. The quicker we are, the faster this will be over." And then he can go home, where he is alone with no Sherlock within ten miles. Sherlock grabs his arm. "Don't you think I deserve a reward?"
Lestrade's heart stops beating and his thoughts flash back to their kiss. He wouldn't...
"For what? I thought you were helping us for free!"
But Sherlock only grins. "Not for solving your boring cases."
Lestrade can see Sherlock's tongue move over his lips, before he takes the D.I's hand and pulls it up to his mouth.
What the hell...
Lestrade can't think anymore, because Sherlocks lips touch his palm, and he is suddenly both angry and completely torn, because it's Sherlock and it's him, and he doesn't want to pull back.
He doesn't even want to shout.
And now, Sherlock's tongue flickers about his knuckles, carefully circling every every bump, his eyes tracing every millimeter of bare skin, and Lestrade shudders. This is weird and strange and stunning. It feels so rough, wet, like Sherlock. And Lestrade adores the sight of Sherlock's head bent over that hand, fully concentrating and so lovely that Lestrade wants to kiss him again and again and…God, he didn't know his fingertips were this sensitive!
Sherlock traces his fingers, one after another, curving over the tip of his thumb and slowly sucking each into his mouth. It feels sticky. So warm. Lestrade's cock twitches as Sherlock's mouth locks down on each finger. As each disappears, he imagines it is something else and desperately wants to press himself against Sherlock.
"Stop this", Lestrade coughs, his voice husky. He has no desire to come into his pants right now.
And Sherlock stops. (Later, Lestrade will recall that this was the first time Sherlock did what he said.)
"As you wish", he says and smiles.
He turns around and fetches his coat.
Lestrade has never been so hard before.
-
For the next two weeks, Lestrade jerks off to the memory.
-
In the third week, things become very strange.
For some reason, and Lestrade didn't manage to remember how, they ended up in his flat, arguing.
"Don't be so unimaginative," Sherlock shouts. "It isn't that easy!"
"All evidence points put to that, really, Sherlock, even if I believed you, there would be nothing I could do!"
"I don't care, you are wrong!"
Lestrade buries his face in his hands. Sherlock's stubbornness makes him angrier than he usually would be, and he just wants to slap the younger man for that. Besides, not everyone is a genius and sometimes there are boring cases.
"You know, it's not always twisted and fucked up," he answers, trying desperately to stay calm.
"But this one is", Sherlock insists.
"Okay, okay,” Lestrade sighs, "I will try. So please stop shouting." And leave my flat. Lestrade is not over those feelings yet, and he still remembers Sherlock licking his fingers as if they were a bloody lollipop. And he still thinks it was damn hot.
"I hope so. You are just to blind to see that I'm right now."
Arrogant prat, thinks Lestrade.
"Yes. Is there anything else I can help you with?"he asks.
For a moment, there is silence, and Sherlock glances at him, deducing what is going on in Lestrade’s head: Two seconds before he will make an indelicate statement.
"You could hand me a cigarette. I really could use one right now."
He was wrong. It actually was three seconds. "I stopped smoking", Lestrade responds.
"Doesn't mean you don't have cigarettes."
"You quit, too."
"Doesn't mean I'm not going to smoke right now!"
So this is it. Sherlock managed to fuck up his brain for probably the hundredth time in a month. He is soon torn between the memories of their last relapse, the fact that he has nothing against being the replacement- therapy as long as it ends like this, and what consequences his thoughts and his future actions may going to have.
"You were doing well until now. No need to give up."
"As if you wouldn't want it, too."
"No, I don't want it. I do not want to die of lung cancer, and I want to be able to climb up some stairs without being out of breath, and I don't want to smell like an ashtray anymore. So I stopped. And I don't have any cigarettes left."
Sherlock looks unsatisfied. "Offer me an alternative, then", he demands.
"Eat an apple."
"I don't want to eat."
"Buy some chewing gum."
"This is dull..."
"Alright, leave, then!" Lestrade interrupts.
They are silent for a moment and Lestrade knows this is going to be awkward, because Sherlock seems to be staying.
"I think I figured it out," Sherlock finally says.
"What?"
"What I am going to do. What else?"
"Okay, so what are you up to?"
There is it again. That look.
A shudder runs down Lestrade's spine. You really don't have to be genius to deduce what is going to happen next.
Sherlock takes a long step and is right in front of him, then he bends down and kisses Lestrade, rough and uninvited. It is like an implied I'll show you instead. Lestrade opens his mouth and lets the other man in, his tongue running over Sherlock's lower lip, before they find each other. He really likes this taste. The kiss is over quickly, but before Lestrade can say anything, he feels his own arousal, and see Sherlock kneel down and opens Lestrade's belt.
This is not real, he thinks. He is dreaming, a good dream, obviously, but he is asleep, and in a few minutes he will wake up and his bed will be dirty with his own cum. But he doesn't want to stop or wake up or tell Sherlock to stop because seeing him there, gripping Lestrade's erection is the hottest thing he has seen in years now. He hasn't gotten laid in a long, long time.
Before he can waste another thought on brutal reality, Sherlock takes him into his mouth and within five seconds, Lestrade is hard.
He knows Sherlock is smiling.
The younger man swallows Lestrade, whole (What the fuck?) and Lestrade pushes forward into the warmth of his tight mouth while the top of his cock strikes Sherlock's throat and no, this will probably not last as long as a cigarette. Not when Sherlock runs his tongue along the length of his penis and his breath against the wetness is cool and arousing.
Not when he moves down again. And again. And Lestrade uses every bit of self-control he still has not to choke Sherlock with his dick.
Sherlock's pink tongue moves over the reddened flesh of Lestrade's cock, and the sight of Sherlock's head going up and down on him almost brings him over the edge. Just thinking could make him come right now.
Lestrade moans in pleasure, and even if it feels strange to actually let Sherlock know how brilliant he is, he can't hold it back anymore and more noises escape his mouth. Laound and soft, little cries. And he grabs for Sherlock's head, pulling him closer, his hips bucking and oh god, he has to come, he is almost aching and every movement seems so necessary and equally impossible because he feels both heavy and like he is in heaven.
Sherlock closes his fist around Lestrade's cock and strokes with slow and teasing movements which are the complete opposite of the fast movements if his mouth right now. Then his tongue flicks above the tip of Lestrade's penis. He comes hard and falls against his sofa and stumbles while everything is black and white at the same time.
He needs time to come down to earth again.
"Wow,” he mutters.
Sherlock chuckles.
Bastard.
"I suppose this is a decent way to replace the terrible habit of smoking,” Sherlock says, while he cleans himself and Lestrade off.
Lestrade thinks that the worst and also the best thing is, that this means this will happen again.
Lestrade pulls up his trousers.
Yes, everyone told him that everything would change when he would quit smoking. But they didn't mention it was going to be so satisfying.