Fic: Red Sky in Morning
Title: Red Sky in Morning
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, DI Lestrade
Rating: NC-17 (to be safe)
Disclaimer: I don’t own them.
Word Count: c. 5,600
Warnings: Sex
Spoilers: for TGG
Betas: sc010f, sidneysussex, canonisrelative, omletlove, mizg
Summary: It takes a madman with a bomb to make Lestrade realize just what Sherlock has become to him - and what John means to Sherlock. Porn with a bit of plot.
Notes: I've been sitting on this one for a while now, so I'm posting before I lose my nerve completely. Many, many thanks to my amazing betas/porn consultants. This is my first foray into anything remotely smutty, so I’m eternally grateful to all of them. Feedback always welcome.
The cab was stifling.
It reeked, too, of blood and sweat, a heavy scent that clung to his clothes and hair and skin. Lestrade wished they could crack open a window, but Mycroft Holmes had been adamant in his instructions.
No open windows.
No phone calls.
Keep Sherlock and John out of sight.
Holmes had pulled the cab from nowhere and the driver was one of his own, a beady-eyed man who was currently speeding them back to Baker Street. Lestrade didn’t want to take the time to contemplate how many traffic laws they were violating as they hurtled through the streets - he didn’t have time to contemplate it, really, because while the cabbie’s eyes were (supposedly) on the road, his were scanning the dark buildings and nearly empty streets, looking -
- looking for what? Something, at any rate; anything out of place. He couldn’t quite wrap his head around the fact that Sherlock and John had nearly been blown to pieces by a bomb, of all things, so how was he supposed to even begin to grasp the fact that there were demons prowling the streets, phantoms that had never even appeared on his radar, and that they were after Sherlock?
It was mad.
“You’re thinking,” Sherlock accused softly from the vicinity of his knees.
“Yeah, well, there’s a lot to think about, isn’t there?” Lestrade found himself saying waspishly. “Not every night I get a call at one in the morning ‘cause you’ve gone and blown up a whole damn city block. Thought you couldn’t surprise me anymore, but there you are. You did. Well done, you.”
He was angry - of course he was, how could he be calm in a situation like this? - and he recognized that it was misplaced. But his outburst landed home, surprisingly enough, because Sherlock said nothing in return.
It wasn’t like Sherlock to back down from a fight - especially when someone was as ready to give it to him as Lestrade was at that moment - and he immediately felt guilty.
“Sorry,” he muttered gruffly, returning his gaze to the window. “That wasn’t fair. How’s John?”
There was a grunt from the floor.
“Fine," Sherlock translated.
They had laid the injured doctor flat on the floor of the cab, where he had immediately curled in on himself. Sherlock was seated on what little floor space was left - not that he needed much - and he had a hand on John’s back, as though to reassure himself that the doctor was still there. His dark curls were likely visible from the cab windows, though, because he was so tall, and this made Lestrade uneasy.
“Duck your head,” Lestrade ordered abruptly. “They’ll see you.”
“Who, exactly?” Sherlock said wearily, in the tone he reserved for when Lestrade was being particularly thick.
“You tell me.”
Sherlock shook his head. “No. He won’t make a move; not tonight.”
“When, then?”
But Sherlock didn’t give an answer to that - perhaps because, for once, he didn’t have one.
They got to Baker Street intact, which Lestrade counted as the night’s third miracle (after Sherlock and John), and the driver helped Lestrade haul the dazed John up the stairs to the flat. Lestrade made Sherlock go ahead of them, his excuse being that someone needed to unlock the door when in reality he just wanted to keep the detective in his sight. Sherlock was slowed by a twisted ankle, and their progress up the stairs wasn’t as quick as Lestrade would have liked. Even the stairwell felt too exposed, and he breathed half a sigh of relief once they were finally inside 221B.
And then it was just the three of them, John leaning heavily against him while Sherlock simply stood there, looking so utterly blank that Lestrade wondered whether he might have suffered a head injury.
“Come on,” he said to Sherlock. “Give me a hand.”
“No,” John said suddenly, pushing away from Lestrade. “No, I’m fine, I’ll just -”
He stumbled, and Lestrade snagged him about the waist to steady him.
“Let’s not try walking just yet, yeah?” he said to the smaller man, and steered him in the direction of the nearest piece of furniture. “C’mon - sofa. Here, lie - yeah, like that - careful, though. Sherlock, grab his legs.”
Together, they settled John onto the sofa, despite his protests. Bruises were beginning to bloom across what little skin was visible beneath the grime - a nasty one across one cheek, two on his arms, and one that started at his jaw and disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt. He hissed when Lestrade put a hand on his chest, and a brief once-over showed him that John’s ribs had taken a pounding as well. He didn’t appear to have been struck in the head, though, so that was one thing they had going for them. He was just going to be very uncomfortable for a while.
“Do you have any painkillers?” Lestrade asked Sherlock, knowing the man kept a heavily-stocked medicine cabinet. It was almost a necessity, given how often Sherlock required medical care and his almost-obsessive refusal to ever go to the hospital. Sherlock nodded and left the room; Lestrade went and got John a glass of water.
“m'fine,” John muttered when they came back and tried to give him the medication. Sherlock stood over him, pills in one hand, looking as though he was at a loss as to how to proceed. Lestrade helped John into a semblance of a sitting position, steadying him with an arm around his shoulders, and took the medicine from Sherlock.
“You are about as close to fine as Sherlock is,” Lestrade muttered, handing John the pills. “I dunno why I allowed the two of you to talk me out of a visit to the hospital.”
“It isn’t safe,” Sherlock spoke up at last, the first sentence he had uttered since stepping out of the cab. “And our injuries are not severe enough to require such a trip. John isn’t even concussed.”
“Still,” Lestrade said, but couldn’t think of anything to come after that. It took several more minutes of coaxing, but eventually they got the medication into John and had him settled back on the sofa, Sherlock’s jacket serving as a makeshift pillow.
“Will it make him sleep?” Lestrade asked in an undertone as they stood there, shoulder-to-shoulder, watching John’s eyelids flutter.
“Yes.”
“Good,” Lestrade said, but neither of them made a move to leave.
John’s face bore the marks of flying debris and his hands were torn from clawing at the rubble. All of their hands were - John’s and Sherlock’s from trying to get out of the rubble and Lestrade’s from trying to get in. Lestrade had found Sherlock first, and the two of them had then dug to John. He had been trickier to get out, and in the process they had nearly brought the rest of the trembling structure down about their heads, but all that mattered at this moment was the fact that they were alive.
Lestrade had been trying to put out of his mind all night how close they - no, be honest, he - had come to losing Sherlock. It was getting harder to do with each passing moment and, as all the might-have-beens started to surface, he gave a violent shudder. His entire body seemed to be quivering, in fact, and he rubbed his hands together in an effort to ease the tension. He recognized this feeling - the nerves brought on by the earlier burst of adrenaline and with nothing to focus it on now that the immediate danger had passed.
“Lestrade.” Fingertips, hesitant, lit upon his shoulder and then vanished.
“Right,” Lestrade said quickly, coming back to himself. He glanced at Sherlock. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
“I’m -”
“If you tell me that you’re fine,” Lestrade said, rounding on him, “then so help me, Sherlock, I will handcuff you to the radiator and lose the key down the sewer. Have you got that?”
He turned without waiting for a response and strode into the kitchen; Sherlock followed him mutely.
Sherlock tolerated Lestrade’s fussing over him for fifteen minutes - his usual limit. Lestrade had learned long ago how to triage Sherlock’s injuries, because the detective would only allow him to care for them for a quarter of an hour before he flapped his hands and sent Lestrade away. Tonight, he took care of the most serious scrapes first - running them under hot water, soaping them up, bandaging them - and had Sherlock lean against the counter in order to get a better look at his ankle.
“How’s it feel?” he asked, probing the purpling flesh gently with the tips of his fingers.
“Tolerable,” Sherlock answered, and Lestrade took that to mean that he was actually in a good amount of pain. It wasn’t broken, though, or else Sherlock wouldn’t have been able to walk on it. He let it go and got to his feet, pulling a slightly banged-up packet from his trousers as he went. He offered it to Sherlock, who raised an eyebrow.
“John wouldn’t approve.”
“Won’t tell if you don’t,” he said, trying and failing to give a small smile. Sherlock hesitated, and then plucked a cigarette from the packet. He took one as well, lit both, and then leaned against the counter. They smoked in silence for a few moments, standing with shoulders just barely touching. Sherlock’s silence was unreadable, and Lestrade felt oddly blank. Sherlock (and John) had nearly died tonight in a chain of events he still didn’t fully understand and the man responsible was still loose. Mycroft Holmes had tripled the surveillance on Baker Street while Sherlock and John were still clambering from the ruined pool, and had posted discreet bodyguards in the vicinity of the flat. This street was, tonight, the most heavily guarded one in Britain.
And all Lestrade could focus on was the immense amount of heat radiating off the body standing next to him.
Sherlock turned and stubbed out the remainder of his cigarette on the edge of the sink and then ran it under the tap before tossing it away.
“You all right?” Lestrade asked as Sherlock resumed his place, hands buried in his pockets.
“Fine.” Sherlock glanced at him, and said, “Blood on your forehead.”
“What?” Lestrade brought a hand to his forehead. He didn’t think he had been struck by anything.
“No, just -” Sherlock swiped a thumb repeatedly across his brow, scrubbing at the skin. “Just there. Not yours, I don’t think.”
“Ah. Thanks.” Lestrade flicked the remains of his cigarette into the sink, his skin smoldering where Sherlock had touched it. He was suddenly aware of Sherlock’s proximity, and this did nothing to temper the heat beginning to simmer in his belly. “I should be going.”
“It’d be better if you stayed.”
Lestrade met his gaze and, oh, that was a mistake. Not his first of the evening; certainly not his last, either, going by how Sherlock’s normally blue eyes were now dark as stormy seas. He licked his lips.
“Is that one of your brother’s instructions,” he said in a low voice, “or yours?”
Sherlock’s answer was to lean forward and dip his head, pressing his lips to Lestrade’s. Lestrade tensed, his mind sputtering - what are you doing, old man? - even as his hands came up reflexively to cup Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s tongue flicked against his upper lip, and a jolt went down his spine.
“Does it matter?” Sherlock muttered, drawing away.
“Shut up,” Lestrade said breathlessly and wound his arms around his lithe form, drawing him in once more and forcing him backward.
He didn’t realize the forcefulness of this kiss until Sherlock hit the wall, head bouncing off of it and slamming their teeth together. Lestrade’s lip got caught between the sharp incisors, drawing blood that was quickly swiped away by Sherlock’s probing tongue.
They were dirty, the both of them, tasting of ash and salt and hours-old tea. Lestrade raked his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and loosed a cloud of dust upon them and Sherlock gave a strangled whimper as their tongues met and glanced off one another, tentative and desperate all at once. His hands fluttered from Lestrade’s shoulder blades to his arse, as though he couldn’t decide where to put them and was trying for everywhere at once.
Lestrade enough sense - though he didn’t bloody well know how, with Sherlock clinging to him like that - to reluctantly break away and gasp, “John?”
The eyes that met his now were raging; a hurricane on the high seas; darker than angry skies. Sherlock, blazing with arousal, dragged a ragged breath and whispered, “Please.”
Hell.
Lestrade reached over and slid the door to the kitchen shut with a decisive click. He ducked his mouth to the curve of Sherlock’s neck, tasting salt and blood, and the detective whined softly.
“I need -” Sherlock’s hands flitted to his face, pulling him up, trailing wet kisses across his cheek and jaw.
“What, Sherlock?” Lestrade whispered. He pulled back slightly and went weak at the sight before him - Sherlock, shirt open because the top two buttons had been ripped away at the pool, chest heaving, lips stark and bruised against his pale skin. “What do you need?”
There was a moment when the world around them stilled - Lestrade wasn’t sure that either of them even drew breath. Then Sherlock hissed, “You, you idiot,” and yanked him close, bringing their mouths together in a sloppy kiss.
Lestrade’s hands landed on Sherlock’s hips and he tugged at the filthy designer shirt, pulling it free from the confines of the trousers and slipping his hands underneath. The sensation of his own calloused hands on velvet skin sent a shiver down his spine and heat coiled in his lower belly as Sherlock grunted at the contact. Lestrade raked his fingers up his side, feeling the flesh tremble beneath his deft hands. Sherlock captured Lestrade’s lower lip between his teeth and sucked; Lestrade gave a half-chuckle, half-groan at the tiny pinpricks of pain.
He forcibly broke the kiss and nudged at Sherlock’s jaw with his nose, tilting his head up and exposing a pale expanse of elegant neck. He dove for it, focusing on the sensitive area just behind Sherlock’s ear, teasing it until red began to bloom across the skin and Sherlock gave a sharp hiss. He threaded a hand through Lestrade’s hair, pulling him closer while Lestrade’s hand palmed the front of his trousers again and Sherlock bucked helplessly, seeking friction.
Lestrade’s hand drifted up to the thin stretch of skin just above Sherlock’s trousers, teasing, leaving feather-light touches along the heated flesh. And then, in several quick movements, he had the trousers open and had slipped his hand inside. Sherlock made an odd sound, attempting words and failing miserably, and Lestrade thought idly that he had never heard him speechless before. He didn’t have long to contemplate this, though, as Sherlock dragged Lestrade’s face to his again and growled, “Get on with it, already!” in a voice roughened by more than the lateness of the hour.
Well. He had never been able to say no to Sherlock before, he mused as they came together again. There seemed little point in breaking that habit tonight.
He slipped a hand under Sherlock’s waistband and the detective rocked against it, desperate, devoid of any kind of rhythm. Lestrade wrapped a hand around him, wresting away control, giving several long pulls whilst simultaneously drawing Sherlock’s bottom lip into his mouth, sucking on it. Sherlock’s low groan became strangled as Lestrade added a quick twist of his wrist to his rhythm. Their lips were barely brushing now, Sherlock breathing raggedly into his mouth as he gave himself over to the sensation, rolling his hips in tandem to Lestrade’s movements.
It didn’t take long, high as the other man was on adrenaline and nerves, and Lestrade would have laughed if it wasn’t so damn gorgeous, watching Sherlock lose himself to this, reduced to raw moans and primal half-words. Sherlock gave a grunt, an erratic jerk, and spent himself over Lestrade’s fist and his own belly, digging his hands into the front of the DI’s shirt once more in an effort to stay upright as he shuddered. Lestrade pressed a kiss to pliant lips and Sherlock tried to reciprocate, his mouth moving loosely against Lestrade’s own. Lestrade took full advantage of the other man’s temporary weakness and plundered the pink mouth shamelessly.
Sherlock broke away when the need for air became too great and rested his sweaty forehead against Lestrade’s, breathing sharply through his nose. Lestrade adjusted his stance to better allow him to lean, as well as to alleviate some of the pressure in his trousers. Sherlock noticed this - of course he did, even when his mind was swimming in a cloud of bliss he couldn’t stop noticing, could he? - and reached for him, but Lestrade deflected the hands and captured them in his own.
“I’m old, sunshine,” he muttered, leaning in to nuzzle Sherlock’s neck, biting gently at the soft skin. Sherlock grunted and tangled a shaking hand in Lestrade’s hair. “And I’m not having it off with you in the kitchen. C’mon.”
Alive.
Lestrade drove the thought home with each stroke; with each slap of skin against skin. One of Sherlock’s impossibly-long legs was hooked around him, and a rough heel dug into his back at every thrust.
Alive.
Sherlock was alive.
A thin sheet of sweat covered Sherlock’s forehead and his face was flushed and each strangled oh that slipped from the saliva-slicked lips was almost enough to make Lestrade come undone right then and there. He glided across Sherlock’s prostate with a powerful snap of his hips, thrusting in tandem with the words that spilled from the bruised lips.
Christ - Lestr - please - I need - there - oh!
Sherlock’s fingers scrabbled for him just as Lestrade felt heat begin to coil and tighten in his lower belly, and he dragged their mouths together as Lestrade rode out the waves of a shattering release, made all the more powerful by Sherlock’s own mere moments later. The detective arched clean off the mattress as he was brought to completion and his neck snapped back, curving elegantly toward the ceiling while a ragged cry slipped from his throat. Lestrade ducked his head, capturing the fine lips and kissing him through the aftermath.
He had forgotten what this felt like, to need and be needed. He’d forgotten what it was like to have hands clawing at him and a raw voice pleading, desperate, wanting more - and wanting it from him.
They dozed lightly for a while after, foreheads brushing, ears pricked for sound from John or unexpected movements in the flat. They were still hyper-aware and too exhausted for full sleep, with the threat of Moriarty hanging over them like a summer storm just spotted on the horizon. Twice they were roused by an unexpected creak that their minds imagined was a foot on the stair; the opening of a door. But a quick inspection revealed nothing more sinister than Mrs. Hudson bustling about downstairs, as sleepless as her tenant, and so they fell back into bed and into the relative safety offered by the rumpled blankets.
Lestrade became aware at some point of Sherlock’s lips on his shoulder, and then on the hollow of his throat, nipping and sucking gently at the skin. He wondered idly whether the marks that would inevitably arise could be covered by the collar of a t-shirt, and then decided he simply didn’t care as Sherlock traced his jaw with his tongue, nose scraping against Lestrade’s stubble.
“What are you doing?” he whispered hoarsely, and felt Sherlock smirk against his skin.
“Cataloging.”
“Cata - what?” Lestrade fought his way through the growing buzz of arousal and turned to look at Sherlock, dislodging the man’s lips from his jaw.
“Cataloguing, Lestrade.” Sherlock ducked his head again, and murmured against his neck, “I was curious as to whether your skin would have varying tastes. It was necessary to test different areas.”
“Oh,” Lestrade managed weakly as Sherlock began to tease the sensitive point just behind his ear. He felt his eyelids flutter. “And - uh - what have you decided?”
“Further experimentation is required.” The warm lips suddenly left his skin, and Sherlock returned his head to the pillow. “But for another time.”
They were very close still. He thought idly that all he had to do to kiss the teasing mouth would be to duck his head - and did so. Sherlock hummed against his lips, and when he pulled back he saw that the blue eyes were glittering.
“You should sleep,” Sherlock decided, and Lestrade snorted.
“Is that right? Only if you do as well, then.”
But, as usual, Sherlock had the final say on the matter.
Lestrade shut his eyes for a moment and saw flashes; felt the explosion’s percussive blast deep in his chest. He opened them and saw nothing; felt only the cool of the air and an empty bed that signaled his companion had been gone for some time - and that he had fallen into a deeper sleep than he’d intended. He got up and fished for his trousers, pulling them on along with an over-sized cotton tee that belonged to Sherlock. He scrubbed a hand through his hair as he left the bedroom, feeling grit between his fingers, and grimaced.
Sherlock was in the kitchen, leaning against the door frame and staring out into the living room. Lestrade paused before he approached, raking his eyes over the rail-thin frame, seeing him properly for the first time since the explosion. In the harsh light of the room Sherlock looked as old as Lestrade felt, skin gone ashen and limbs heavy with weariness. Bruises were beginning to bloom up his back, most of them thanks to being blown up only a few hours ago, though Lestrade could see a few fresh ones on Sherlock’s hips that were courtesy his own hands seeking leverage as the body beneath him had moved and bucked.
Christ, what a night.
“He’s all right, you know,” he said in an undertone. Sherlock didn’t turn as Lestrade came up behind him, but he did tilt his head to one side to show that he had heard.
“Yes, I’m aware.”
He was dressed only in pajama bottoms; Lestrade put a hand on his hip, thumb and forefinger touching the cool flesh. Sherlock’s skin jumped under his touch and then he relaxed, leaning some of his weight into Lestrade. They both watched John for some minutes. He hadn’t moved in the intervening hours, not even to roll onto his side or turn his head. Lestrade supposed that was a good sign; evidence of deep and much-needed sleep.
“You never answered my question,” he said at last.
“Hm.”
“About what it is we’re dealing with,” Lestrade pressed. He squeezed Sherlock’s hip and then, feeling bold, wrapped his arm around his middle so that his hand rested flat against Sherlock’s stomach, tugging the detective closer. Sherlock allowed himself to be pulled.
“I did answer,” Sherlock pointed out. “You just weren’t satisfied with it.”
“In light of recent events,” Lestrade said, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s shoulder and murmuring against the sweet skin, “I think my dissatisfaction was justified.”
The curtains hanging over the windows in the living room were sheer; Lestrade lifted his eyes from Sherlock's shoulder and noted through them the thin sliver of horizon visible between the buildings. He saw dawn fast approaching; the sky shot through with red and pink.
A storm was coming.
Sherlock twisted his head around suddenly and captured Lestrade’s lips in a bruising kiss. He was practically thrumming beneath Lestrade’s hand, entire body vibrating, so very alive. Lestrade kissed back with an intensity that startled him, one hand cupping Sherlock’s jaw while the fingers of his other dug into Sherlock’s skin, feeling the muscles of his abdomen tighten beneath the pads of his fingers. Sherlock covered the hand with his own and pushed it half a centimeter lower - slight enough to be ignored, if so desired, but a hint all the same.
“Christ,” Lestrade whispered, breaking off with a chuckle and rubbing his face against the junction between Sherlock’s shoulder and neck. His stubble - when had he last even shaved? - burned the skin there, causing it to leap up, red and angry. He cooled it with a touch of his lips and flick of his tongue; Sherlock groaned at the touch, low and filthy. His fingers skimmed along Sherlock’s waistband, teasing, and the detective whimpered, writhing against him, trying to get the hand to drift lower.
Lestrade wrapped both arms around Sherlock's waist from behind to still his movements and rested his forehead against the back of his neck, breathing in musk and sweat, his own cock twitching as Sherlock pressed back against him.
“Right, you," he ordered finally, "back to bed.”
Sherlock broke out of his grip and pushed him back around the corner, out of sight of the living room, and when Lestrade’s back hit the wall he pressed a ferocious kiss to the already-ravaged lips, fingers tugging at his shirt while Lestrade’s made quick work of the pajama bottoms.
It was a few stumbling steps to the bedroom, and they began anew.
“Would you have gone?”
“Hm?” Lestrade said drowsily. He was lying boneless on the bed, body humming with the memory of the wicked tongue that burned a path from his jaw to the backs of his knees to the insides of his ankles; of the fingers that probed him, breached him, opened him wide; of Sherlock, hovering above him, gasping as they moved as one.
“If I hadn’t prevented you from doing so, would you have gone?” Sherlock repeated.
He had to fight through the dull haze of bliss that had settled over his brain before he could recall what Sherlock was referring to.
“I s’pose that depends on your definition of leaving,” Lestrade said eventually. “I’d’ve gone no farther than the street, if that’s what you’re wondering. I’d be out there watching this flat, same as the rest of them.”
“Why?”
“‘Cause you need me,” Lestrade said with a private smile, but the silence Sherlock gave him indicated that this wasn’t enough. “So long as I’m still alive, nothing’s happening to you. Or to John.”
“I understand that, Inspector, but when did you decide that my life was one for which you would risk yours?”
Lestrade turned his head finally to look at Sherlock in the dark. He was staring at the ceiling, and Lestrade could make out very little of the sharp profile - just the outline of the proud nose; a few of his curls. He reached out a hand and traced Sherlock’s brow by way of answering, and hoped that said enough. It had to be enough; he wasn’t sure words even existed to answer Sherlock’s question, and if they did they certainly eluded him.
“Always thought you weren’t interested in sex,” Lestrade muttered some minutes or hours later, because it was easier to talk about others than it was to talk about himself. He had unconsciously twined the fingers of his right hand through Sherlock’s; neither of them had bothered to draw away, though they could hardly claim ignorance of the gesture since neither had fallen asleep.
Sherlock was regarding the darkened room now through heavy-lidded eyes that slipped closed and dragged themselves open every few minutes. The blankets were twisted around his waist, and Lestrade resisted the urge to lean over and brush his lips against a bare shoulder.
“I’m not, usually. Now and again, however, I like to...indulge.” He turned his head, and there was that wicked smile, the one that should be illegal in nine countries. Lestrade reached out and brushed his thumb across the cupid’s bow of his lip.
“But not with John?” Lestrade asked, raising an eyebrow. It was a valid question - even Sherlock had picked up on everyone’s suspicions, though he didn’t see the point in acknowledging them.
“No,” Sherlock said, warm mouth moving against Lestrade’s finger, and flicked his tongue against the pad of the DI’s thumb; Lestrade shuddered.
“I’ve seen the way you look at him; the way you looked at him earlier tonight, in fact,” Lestrade pressed gently, withdrawing his hand. “You love him.”
“Yes.” It startled Lestrade how easily the admission slipped from Sherlock’s lips; as though it were obvious. “But that hardly means I want to sleep with him. And why are you operating under the delusion that he’s the only one I’ve become...fond of?”
“Hey?”
“You sound surprised; how dull. I thought it would have been obvious.” Sherlock sniffed, and then appeared to consider his next words for a moment. “Besides, I prefer my partners...older.”
“John is older.”
“And a tad more gray,” Sherlock went on, and a hand slid out from the blankets to bury itself in Lestrade’s hair.
“Is that right?” Lestrade said weakly.
“Mmm. Taller, as well.” And now the perfect mouth was against his ear, voice reduced to a warm purr that should also be illegal. “With powerful thighs - ” a hand slid up the inside of his leg, coming to rest in the hollow of his hip, “ - and a talented tongue -” and then there were teeth scraping against his earlobe, insistent, and the most Lestrade could manage was a growl low in the back of his throat.
He gave into the temptation and turned his head until their lips met, and drew Sherlock close for a languid exploration of his mouth.
“Bloody hell, but you’re gorgeous,” he said roughly, breaking away and tugging Sherlock over until the man was on top of him, long legs stretched out between his own.
Sherlock ducked his head to nip at Lestrade’s neck by way of response. He stifled a moan as the mouth traced searing lines across his skin, marveling at the fact that he was in bed with a man nearly eighteen years his junior and Sherlock Holmes to boot.
And then Sherlock began to move, rocking their hips together, and for several heavy moments Lestrade lost all sense of himself. Sherlock’s head dipped and their cheeks pressed together, his hot and stuttering breaths ghosting across Lestrade’s neck.
It was nothing short of glorious, being able to witness Sherlock in this moment of complete and utter abandon; to witness him unguarded and completely lost to sensation. But when the detective’s hand slipped between them, Lestrade reluctantly gripped Sherlock’s hips and stilled his movements.
“Flattered as I am,” he rumbled in a gruff voice, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s temple apologetically as he raised his head, “I’m not thirty anymore. However - ” and he rolled suddenly, tipping Sherlock off of him and pinning him to the bed, flat on his back, wrists above his head, “- I’m also not dead.”
He dipped his head and grazed his teeth along Sherlock’s collarbone before sucking a mark into his shoulder, pulling back to watch as blood pooled just under the surface of the alabaster skin. His gaze met Sherlock’s, and Lestrade could see in the dim light of dawn that his eyes were dark again with arousal, and also lit with an inkling of curiosity.
Lestrade flashed him a grin, and then ducked under the blankets.
“Lestrade! What are - you - I don’t - Christ.”
He felt Sherlock’s hands hit the mattress, on either side of his body, and twist the blankets into his fists. Lestrade gave a chuckle, and the vibrations had Sherlock curling his toes.
“Greg!”
And then all it took was a combination of lips and tongue, of deep moans and wet heat, and Sherlock came so violently that he knocked Lestrade in the back of the head with a bony knee.
“Careful there, sunshine,” Lestrade muttered as he surfaced, swiping the back of his hand across mouth before leaning down and stealing a gentle kiss. Sherlock numbly returned it, limbs splayed haphazardly across the mattress like a discarded rag doll.
“That was - you are -” Sherlock’s words were coming in half-gasps, and he panted against Lestrade’s mouth.
“Lazy?” Lestrade murmured affectionately, pressing his lips to the fine jaw, teeth catching the smooth skin in gentle bites. “Incompetent? ‘The best of a bad lot’?”
“Extraordinary,” Sherlock interrupted between heavy breaths, catching Lestrade’s face in one of his long hands. They stared at one another for a long moment, Sherlock’s chest heaving as he struggled to bring his breathing under control and Lestrade held in place by the frightening blue eyes; by the sight of the man beneath him. Sherlock’s normal reservation had been ripped away and torn to shreds with the chaos of the previous evening, and here he was laid bare and open for only Lestrade to see.
Sherlock slowly slid his palm up to rest against the side of Lestrade’s face, and gave the morning’s first genuine smile as Lestrade turned into the touch and kissed it.
“I was going to say...extraordinary.”
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, DI Lestrade
Rating: NC-17 (to be safe)
Disclaimer: I don’t own them.
Word Count: c. 5,600
Warnings: Sex
Spoilers: for TGG
Betas: sc010f, sidneysussex, canonisrelative, omletlove, mizg
Summary: It takes a madman with a bomb to make Lestrade realize just what Sherlock has become to him - and what John means to Sherlock. Porn with a bit of plot.
Notes: I've been sitting on this one for a while now, so I'm posting before I lose my nerve completely. Many, many thanks to my amazing betas/porn consultants. This is my first foray into anything remotely smutty, so I’m eternally grateful to all of them. Feedback always welcome.
The cab was stifling.
It reeked, too, of blood and sweat, a heavy scent that clung to his clothes and hair and skin. Lestrade wished they could crack open a window, but Mycroft Holmes had been adamant in his instructions.
No open windows.
No phone calls.
Keep Sherlock and John out of sight.
Holmes had pulled the cab from nowhere and the driver was one of his own, a beady-eyed man who was currently speeding them back to Baker Street. Lestrade didn’t want to take the time to contemplate how many traffic laws they were violating as they hurtled through the streets - he didn’t have time to contemplate it, really, because while the cabbie’s eyes were (supposedly) on the road, his were scanning the dark buildings and nearly empty streets, looking -
- looking for what? Something, at any rate; anything out of place. He couldn’t quite wrap his head around the fact that Sherlock and John had nearly been blown to pieces by a bomb, of all things, so how was he supposed to even begin to grasp the fact that there were demons prowling the streets, phantoms that had never even appeared on his radar, and that they were after Sherlock?
It was mad.
“You’re thinking,” Sherlock accused softly from the vicinity of his knees.
“Yeah, well, there’s a lot to think about, isn’t there?” Lestrade found himself saying waspishly. “Not every night I get a call at one in the morning ‘cause you’ve gone and blown up a whole damn city block. Thought you couldn’t surprise me anymore, but there you are. You did. Well done, you.”
He was angry - of course he was, how could he be calm in a situation like this? - and he recognized that it was misplaced. But his outburst landed home, surprisingly enough, because Sherlock said nothing in return.
It wasn’t like Sherlock to back down from a fight - especially when someone was as ready to give it to him as Lestrade was at that moment - and he immediately felt guilty.
“Sorry,” he muttered gruffly, returning his gaze to the window. “That wasn’t fair. How’s John?”
There was a grunt from the floor.
“Fine," Sherlock translated.
They had laid the injured doctor flat on the floor of the cab, where he had immediately curled in on himself. Sherlock was seated on what little floor space was left - not that he needed much - and he had a hand on John’s back, as though to reassure himself that the doctor was still there. His dark curls were likely visible from the cab windows, though, because he was so tall, and this made Lestrade uneasy.
“Duck your head,” Lestrade ordered abruptly. “They’ll see you.”
“Who, exactly?” Sherlock said wearily, in the tone he reserved for when Lestrade was being particularly thick.
“You tell me.”
Sherlock shook his head. “No. He won’t make a move; not tonight.”
“When, then?”
But Sherlock didn’t give an answer to that - perhaps because, for once, he didn’t have one.
They got to Baker Street intact, which Lestrade counted as the night’s third miracle (after Sherlock and John), and the driver helped Lestrade haul the dazed John up the stairs to the flat. Lestrade made Sherlock go ahead of them, his excuse being that someone needed to unlock the door when in reality he just wanted to keep the detective in his sight. Sherlock was slowed by a twisted ankle, and their progress up the stairs wasn’t as quick as Lestrade would have liked. Even the stairwell felt too exposed, and he breathed half a sigh of relief once they were finally inside 221B.
And then it was just the three of them, John leaning heavily against him while Sherlock simply stood there, looking so utterly blank that Lestrade wondered whether he might have suffered a head injury.
“Come on,” he said to Sherlock. “Give me a hand.”
“No,” John said suddenly, pushing away from Lestrade. “No, I’m fine, I’ll just -”
He stumbled, and Lestrade snagged him about the waist to steady him.
“Let’s not try walking just yet, yeah?” he said to the smaller man, and steered him in the direction of the nearest piece of furniture. “C’mon - sofa. Here, lie - yeah, like that - careful, though. Sherlock, grab his legs.”
Together, they settled John onto the sofa, despite his protests. Bruises were beginning to bloom across what little skin was visible beneath the grime - a nasty one across one cheek, two on his arms, and one that started at his jaw and disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt. He hissed when Lestrade put a hand on his chest, and a brief once-over showed him that John’s ribs had taken a pounding as well. He didn’t appear to have been struck in the head, though, so that was one thing they had going for them. He was just going to be very uncomfortable for a while.
“Do you have any painkillers?” Lestrade asked Sherlock, knowing the man kept a heavily-stocked medicine cabinet. It was almost a necessity, given how often Sherlock required medical care and his almost-obsessive refusal to ever go to the hospital. Sherlock nodded and left the room; Lestrade went and got John a glass of water.
“m'fine,” John muttered when they came back and tried to give him the medication. Sherlock stood over him, pills in one hand, looking as though he was at a loss as to how to proceed. Lestrade helped John into a semblance of a sitting position, steadying him with an arm around his shoulders, and took the medicine from Sherlock.
“You are about as close to fine as Sherlock is,” Lestrade muttered, handing John the pills. “I dunno why I allowed the two of you to talk me out of a visit to the hospital.”
“It isn’t safe,” Sherlock spoke up at last, the first sentence he had uttered since stepping out of the cab. “And our injuries are not severe enough to require such a trip. John isn’t even concussed.”
“Still,” Lestrade said, but couldn’t think of anything to come after that. It took several more minutes of coaxing, but eventually they got the medication into John and had him settled back on the sofa, Sherlock’s jacket serving as a makeshift pillow.
“Will it make him sleep?” Lestrade asked in an undertone as they stood there, shoulder-to-shoulder, watching John’s eyelids flutter.
“Yes.”
“Good,” Lestrade said, but neither of them made a move to leave.
John’s face bore the marks of flying debris and his hands were torn from clawing at the rubble. All of their hands were - John’s and Sherlock’s from trying to get out of the rubble and Lestrade’s from trying to get in. Lestrade had found Sherlock first, and the two of them had then dug to John. He had been trickier to get out, and in the process they had nearly brought the rest of the trembling structure down about their heads, but all that mattered at this moment was the fact that they were alive.
Lestrade had been trying to put out of his mind all night how close they - no, be honest, he - had come to losing Sherlock. It was getting harder to do with each passing moment and, as all the might-have-beens started to surface, he gave a violent shudder. His entire body seemed to be quivering, in fact, and he rubbed his hands together in an effort to ease the tension. He recognized this feeling - the nerves brought on by the earlier burst of adrenaline and with nothing to focus it on now that the immediate danger had passed.
“Lestrade.” Fingertips, hesitant, lit upon his shoulder and then vanished.
“Right,” Lestrade said quickly, coming back to himself. He glanced at Sherlock. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
“I’m -”
“If you tell me that you’re fine,” Lestrade said, rounding on him, “then so help me, Sherlock, I will handcuff you to the radiator and lose the key down the sewer. Have you got that?”
He turned without waiting for a response and strode into the kitchen; Sherlock followed him mutely.
Sherlock tolerated Lestrade’s fussing over him for fifteen minutes - his usual limit. Lestrade had learned long ago how to triage Sherlock’s injuries, because the detective would only allow him to care for them for a quarter of an hour before he flapped his hands and sent Lestrade away. Tonight, he took care of the most serious scrapes first - running them under hot water, soaping them up, bandaging them - and had Sherlock lean against the counter in order to get a better look at his ankle.
“How’s it feel?” he asked, probing the purpling flesh gently with the tips of his fingers.
“Tolerable,” Sherlock answered, and Lestrade took that to mean that he was actually in a good amount of pain. It wasn’t broken, though, or else Sherlock wouldn’t have been able to walk on it. He let it go and got to his feet, pulling a slightly banged-up packet from his trousers as he went. He offered it to Sherlock, who raised an eyebrow.
“John wouldn’t approve.”
“Won’t tell if you don’t,” he said, trying and failing to give a small smile. Sherlock hesitated, and then plucked a cigarette from the packet. He took one as well, lit both, and then leaned against the counter. They smoked in silence for a few moments, standing with shoulders just barely touching. Sherlock’s silence was unreadable, and Lestrade felt oddly blank. Sherlock (and John) had nearly died tonight in a chain of events he still didn’t fully understand and the man responsible was still loose. Mycroft Holmes had tripled the surveillance on Baker Street while Sherlock and John were still clambering from the ruined pool, and had posted discreet bodyguards in the vicinity of the flat. This street was, tonight, the most heavily guarded one in Britain.
And all Lestrade could focus on was the immense amount of heat radiating off the body standing next to him.
Sherlock turned and stubbed out the remainder of his cigarette on the edge of the sink and then ran it under the tap before tossing it away.
“You all right?” Lestrade asked as Sherlock resumed his place, hands buried in his pockets.
“Fine.” Sherlock glanced at him, and said, “Blood on your forehead.”
“What?” Lestrade brought a hand to his forehead. He didn’t think he had been struck by anything.
“No, just -” Sherlock swiped a thumb repeatedly across his brow, scrubbing at the skin. “Just there. Not yours, I don’t think.”
“Ah. Thanks.” Lestrade flicked the remains of his cigarette into the sink, his skin smoldering where Sherlock had touched it. He was suddenly aware of Sherlock’s proximity, and this did nothing to temper the heat beginning to simmer in his belly. “I should be going.”
“It’d be better if you stayed.”
Lestrade met his gaze and, oh, that was a mistake. Not his first of the evening; certainly not his last, either, going by how Sherlock’s normally blue eyes were now dark as stormy seas. He licked his lips.
“Is that one of your brother’s instructions,” he said in a low voice, “or yours?”
Sherlock’s answer was to lean forward and dip his head, pressing his lips to Lestrade’s. Lestrade tensed, his mind sputtering - what are you doing, old man? - even as his hands came up reflexively to cup Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s tongue flicked against his upper lip, and a jolt went down his spine.
“Does it matter?” Sherlock muttered, drawing away.
“Shut up,” Lestrade said breathlessly and wound his arms around his lithe form, drawing him in once more and forcing him backward.
He didn’t realize the forcefulness of this kiss until Sherlock hit the wall, head bouncing off of it and slamming their teeth together. Lestrade’s lip got caught between the sharp incisors, drawing blood that was quickly swiped away by Sherlock’s probing tongue.
They were dirty, the both of them, tasting of ash and salt and hours-old tea. Lestrade raked his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and loosed a cloud of dust upon them and Sherlock gave a strangled whimper as their tongues met and glanced off one another, tentative and desperate all at once. His hands fluttered from Lestrade’s shoulder blades to his arse, as though he couldn’t decide where to put them and was trying for everywhere at once.
Lestrade enough sense - though he didn’t bloody well know how, with Sherlock clinging to him like that - to reluctantly break away and gasp, “John?”
The eyes that met his now were raging; a hurricane on the high seas; darker than angry skies. Sherlock, blazing with arousal, dragged a ragged breath and whispered, “Please.”
Hell.
Lestrade reached over and slid the door to the kitchen shut with a decisive click. He ducked his mouth to the curve of Sherlock’s neck, tasting salt and blood, and the detective whined softly.
“I need -” Sherlock’s hands flitted to his face, pulling him up, trailing wet kisses across his cheek and jaw.
“What, Sherlock?” Lestrade whispered. He pulled back slightly and went weak at the sight before him - Sherlock, shirt open because the top two buttons had been ripped away at the pool, chest heaving, lips stark and bruised against his pale skin. “What do you need?”
There was a moment when the world around them stilled - Lestrade wasn’t sure that either of them even drew breath. Then Sherlock hissed, “You, you idiot,” and yanked him close, bringing their mouths together in a sloppy kiss.
Lestrade’s hands landed on Sherlock’s hips and he tugged at the filthy designer shirt, pulling it free from the confines of the trousers and slipping his hands underneath. The sensation of his own calloused hands on velvet skin sent a shiver down his spine and heat coiled in his lower belly as Sherlock grunted at the contact. Lestrade raked his fingers up his side, feeling the flesh tremble beneath his deft hands. Sherlock captured Lestrade’s lower lip between his teeth and sucked; Lestrade gave a half-chuckle, half-groan at the tiny pinpricks of pain.
He forcibly broke the kiss and nudged at Sherlock’s jaw with his nose, tilting his head up and exposing a pale expanse of elegant neck. He dove for it, focusing on the sensitive area just behind Sherlock’s ear, teasing it until red began to bloom across the skin and Sherlock gave a sharp hiss. He threaded a hand through Lestrade’s hair, pulling him closer while Lestrade’s hand palmed the front of his trousers again and Sherlock bucked helplessly, seeking friction.
Lestrade’s hand drifted up to the thin stretch of skin just above Sherlock’s trousers, teasing, leaving feather-light touches along the heated flesh. And then, in several quick movements, he had the trousers open and had slipped his hand inside. Sherlock made an odd sound, attempting words and failing miserably, and Lestrade thought idly that he had never heard him speechless before. He didn’t have long to contemplate this, though, as Sherlock dragged Lestrade’s face to his again and growled, “Get on with it, already!” in a voice roughened by more than the lateness of the hour.
Well. He had never been able to say no to Sherlock before, he mused as they came together again. There seemed little point in breaking that habit tonight.
He slipped a hand under Sherlock’s waistband and the detective rocked against it, desperate, devoid of any kind of rhythm. Lestrade wrapped a hand around him, wresting away control, giving several long pulls whilst simultaneously drawing Sherlock’s bottom lip into his mouth, sucking on it. Sherlock’s low groan became strangled as Lestrade added a quick twist of his wrist to his rhythm. Their lips were barely brushing now, Sherlock breathing raggedly into his mouth as he gave himself over to the sensation, rolling his hips in tandem to Lestrade’s movements.
It didn’t take long, high as the other man was on adrenaline and nerves, and Lestrade would have laughed if it wasn’t so damn gorgeous, watching Sherlock lose himself to this, reduced to raw moans and primal half-words. Sherlock gave a grunt, an erratic jerk, and spent himself over Lestrade’s fist and his own belly, digging his hands into the front of the DI’s shirt once more in an effort to stay upright as he shuddered. Lestrade pressed a kiss to pliant lips and Sherlock tried to reciprocate, his mouth moving loosely against Lestrade’s own. Lestrade took full advantage of the other man’s temporary weakness and plundered the pink mouth shamelessly.
Sherlock broke away when the need for air became too great and rested his sweaty forehead against Lestrade’s, breathing sharply through his nose. Lestrade adjusted his stance to better allow him to lean, as well as to alleviate some of the pressure in his trousers. Sherlock noticed this - of course he did, even when his mind was swimming in a cloud of bliss he couldn’t stop noticing, could he? - and reached for him, but Lestrade deflected the hands and captured them in his own.
“I’m old, sunshine,” he muttered, leaning in to nuzzle Sherlock’s neck, biting gently at the soft skin. Sherlock grunted and tangled a shaking hand in Lestrade’s hair. “And I’m not having it off with you in the kitchen. C’mon.”
Alive.
Lestrade drove the thought home with each stroke; with each slap of skin against skin. One of Sherlock’s impossibly-long legs was hooked around him, and a rough heel dug into his back at every thrust.
Alive.
Sherlock was alive.
A thin sheet of sweat covered Sherlock’s forehead and his face was flushed and each strangled oh that slipped from the saliva-slicked lips was almost enough to make Lestrade come undone right then and there. He glided across Sherlock’s prostate with a powerful snap of his hips, thrusting in tandem with the words that spilled from the bruised lips.
Christ - Lestr - please - I need - there - oh!
Sherlock’s fingers scrabbled for him just as Lestrade felt heat begin to coil and tighten in his lower belly, and he dragged their mouths together as Lestrade rode out the waves of a shattering release, made all the more powerful by Sherlock’s own mere moments later. The detective arched clean off the mattress as he was brought to completion and his neck snapped back, curving elegantly toward the ceiling while a ragged cry slipped from his throat. Lestrade ducked his head, capturing the fine lips and kissing him through the aftermath.
He had forgotten what this felt like, to need and be needed. He’d forgotten what it was like to have hands clawing at him and a raw voice pleading, desperate, wanting more - and wanting it from him.
They dozed lightly for a while after, foreheads brushing, ears pricked for sound from John or unexpected movements in the flat. They were still hyper-aware and too exhausted for full sleep, with the threat of Moriarty hanging over them like a summer storm just spotted on the horizon. Twice they were roused by an unexpected creak that their minds imagined was a foot on the stair; the opening of a door. But a quick inspection revealed nothing more sinister than Mrs. Hudson bustling about downstairs, as sleepless as her tenant, and so they fell back into bed and into the relative safety offered by the rumpled blankets.
Lestrade became aware at some point of Sherlock’s lips on his shoulder, and then on the hollow of his throat, nipping and sucking gently at the skin. He wondered idly whether the marks that would inevitably arise could be covered by the collar of a t-shirt, and then decided he simply didn’t care as Sherlock traced his jaw with his tongue, nose scraping against Lestrade’s stubble.
“What are you doing?” he whispered hoarsely, and felt Sherlock smirk against his skin.
“Cataloging.”
“Cata - what?” Lestrade fought his way through the growing buzz of arousal and turned to look at Sherlock, dislodging the man’s lips from his jaw.
“Cataloguing, Lestrade.” Sherlock ducked his head again, and murmured against his neck, “I was curious as to whether your skin would have varying tastes. It was necessary to test different areas.”
“Oh,” Lestrade managed weakly as Sherlock began to tease the sensitive point just behind his ear. He felt his eyelids flutter. “And - uh - what have you decided?”
“Further experimentation is required.” The warm lips suddenly left his skin, and Sherlock returned his head to the pillow. “But for another time.”
They were very close still. He thought idly that all he had to do to kiss the teasing mouth would be to duck his head - and did so. Sherlock hummed against his lips, and when he pulled back he saw that the blue eyes were glittering.
“You should sleep,” Sherlock decided, and Lestrade snorted.
“Is that right? Only if you do as well, then.”
But, as usual, Sherlock had the final say on the matter.
Lestrade shut his eyes for a moment and saw flashes; felt the explosion’s percussive blast deep in his chest. He opened them and saw nothing; felt only the cool of the air and an empty bed that signaled his companion had been gone for some time - and that he had fallen into a deeper sleep than he’d intended. He got up and fished for his trousers, pulling them on along with an over-sized cotton tee that belonged to Sherlock. He scrubbed a hand through his hair as he left the bedroom, feeling grit between his fingers, and grimaced.
Sherlock was in the kitchen, leaning against the door frame and staring out into the living room. Lestrade paused before he approached, raking his eyes over the rail-thin frame, seeing him properly for the first time since the explosion. In the harsh light of the room Sherlock looked as old as Lestrade felt, skin gone ashen and limbs heavy with weariness. Bruises were beginning to bloom up his back, most of them thanks to being blown up only a few hours ago, though Lestrade could see a few fresh ones on Sherlock’s hips that were courtesy his own hands seeking leverage as the body beneath him had moved and bucked.
Christ, what a night.
“He’s all right, you know,” he said in an undertone. Sherlock didn’t turn as Lestrade came up behind him, but he did tilt his head to one side to show that he had heard.
“Yes, I’m aware.”
He was dressed only in pajama bottoms; Lestrade put a hand on his hip, thumb and forefinger touching the cool flesh. Sherlock’s skin jumped under his touch and then he relaxed, leaning some of his weight into Lestrade. They both watched John for some minutes. He hadn’t moved in the intervening hours, not even to roll onto his side or turn his head. Lestrade supposed that was a good sign; evidence of deep and much-needed sleep.
“You never answered my question,” he said at last.
“Hm.”
“About what it is we’re dealing with,” Lestrade pressed. He squeezed Sherlock’s hip and then, feeling bold, wrapped his arm around his middle so that his hand rested flat against Sherlock’s stomach, tugging the detective closer. Sherlock allowed himself to be pulled.
“I did answer,” Sherlock pointed out. “You just weren’t satisfied with it.”
“In light of recent events,” Lestrade said, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s shoulder and murmuring against the sweet skin, “I think my dissatisfaction was justified.”
The curtains hanging over the windows in the living room were sheer; Lestrade lifted his eyes from Sherlock's shoulder and noted through them the thin sliver of horizon visible between the buildings. He saw dawn fast approaching; the sky shot through with red and pink.
A storm was coming.
Sherlock twisted his head around suddenly and captured Lestrade’s lips in a bruising kiss. He was practically thrumming beneath Lestrade’s hand, entire body vibrating, so very alive. Lestrade kissed back with an intensity that startled him, one hand cupping Sherlock’s jaw while the fingers of his other dug into Sherlock’s skin, feeling the muscles of his abdomen tighten beneath the pads of his fingers. Sherlock covered the hand with his own and pushed it half a centimeter lower - slight enough to be ignored, if so desired, but a hint all the same.
“Christ,” Lestrade whispered, breaking off with a chuckle and rubbing his face against the junction between Sherlock’s shoulder and neck. His stubble - when had he last even shaved? - burned the skin there, causing it to leap up, red and angry. He cooled it with a touch of his lips and flick of his tongue; Sherlock groaned at the touch, low and filthy. His fingers skimmed along Sherlock’s waistband, teasing, and the detective whimpered, writhing against him, trying to get the hand to drift lower.
Lestrade wrapped both arms around Sherlock's waist from behind to still his movements and rested his forehead against the back of his neck, breathing in musk and sweat, his own cock twitching as Sherlock pressed back against him.
“Right, you," he ordered finally, "back to bed.”
Sherlock broke out of his grip and pushed him back around the corner, out of sight of the living room, and when Lestrade’s back hit the wall he pressed a ferocious kiss to the already-ravaged lips, fingers tugging at his shirt while Lestrade’s made quick work of the pajama bottoms.
It was a few stumbling steps to the bedroom, and they began anew.
“Would you have gone?”
“Hm?” Lestrade said drowsily. He was lying boneless on the bed, body humming with the memory of the wicked tongue that burned a path from his jaw to the backs of his knees to the insides of his ankles; of the fingers that probed him, breached him, opened him wide; of Sherlock, hovering above him, gasping as they moved as one.
“If I hadn’t prevented you from doing so, would you have gone?” Sherlock repeated.
He had to fight through the dull haze of bliss that had settled over his brain before he could recall what Sherlock was referring to.
“I s’pose that depends on your definition of leaving,” Lestrade said eventually. “I’d’ve gone no farther than the street, if that’s what you’re wondering. I’d be out there watching this flat, same as the rest of them.”
“Why?”
“‘Cause you need me,” Lestrade said with a private smile, but the silence Sherlock gave him indicated that this wasn’t enough. “So long as I’m still alive, nothing’s happening to you. Or to John.”
“I understand that, Inspector, but when did you decide that my life was one for which you would risk yours?”
Lestrade turned his head finally to look at Sherlock in the dark. He was staring at the ceiling, and Lestrade could make out very little of the sharp profile - just the outline of the proud nose; a few of his curls. He reached out a hand and traced Sherlock’s brow by way of answering, and hoped that said enough. It had to be enough; he wasn’t sure words even existed to answer Sherlock’s question, and if they did they certainly eluded him.
“Always thought you weren’t interested in sex,” Lestrade muttered some minutes or hours later, because it was easier to talk about others than it was to talk about himself. He had unconsciously twined the fingers of his right hand through Sherlock’s; neither of them had bothered to draw away, though they could hardly claim ignorance of the gesture since neither had fallen asleep.
Sherlock was regarding the darkened room now through heavy-lidded eyes that slipped closed and dragged themselves open every few minutes. The blankets were twisted around his waist, and Lestrade resisted the urge to lean over and brush his lips against a bare shoulder.
“I’m not, usually. Now and again, however, I like to...indulge.” He turned his head, and there was that wicked smile, the one that should be illegal in nine countries. Lestrade reached out and brushed his thumb across the cupid’s bow of his lip.
“But not with John?” Lestrade asked, raising an eyebrow. It was a valid question - even Sherlock had picked up on everyone’s suspicions, though he didn’t see the point in acknowledging them.
“No,” Sherlock said, warm mouth moving against Lestrade’s finger, and flicked his tongue against the pad of the DI’s thumb; Lestrade shuddered.
“I’ve seen the way you look at him; the way you looked at him earlier tonight, in fact,” Lestrade pressed gently, withdrawing his hand. “You love him.”
“Yes.” It startled Lestrade how easily the admission slipped from Sherlock’s lips; as though it were obvious. “But that hardly means I want to sleep with him. And why are you operating under the delusion that he’s the only one I’ve become...fond of?”
“Hey?”
“You sound surprised; how dull. I thought it would have been obvious.” Sherlock sniffed, and then appeared to consider his next words for a moment. “Besides, I prefer my partners...older.”
“John is older.”
“And a tad more gray,” Sherlock went on, and a hand slid out from the blankets to bury itself in Lestrade’s hair.
“Is that right?” Lestrade said weakly.
“Mmm. Taller, as well.” And now the perfect mouth was against his ear, voice reduced to a warm purr that should also be illegal. “With powerful thighs - ” a hand slid up the inside of his leg, coming to rest in the hollow of his hip, “ - and a talented tongue -” and then there were teeth scraping against his earlobe, insistent, and the most Lestrade could manage was a growl low in the back of his throat.
He gave into the temptation and turned his head until their lips met, and drew Sherlock close for a languid exploration of his mouth.
“Bloody hell, but you’re gorgeous,” he said roughly, breaking away and tugging Sherlock over until the man was on top of him, long legs stretched out between his own.
Sherlock ducked his head to nip at Lestrade’s neck by way of response. He stifled a moan as the mouth traced searing lines across his skin, marveling at the fact that he was in bed with a man nearly eighteen years his junior and Sherlock Holmes to boot.
And then Sherlock began to move, rocking their hips together, and for several heavy moments Lestrade lost all sense of himself. Sherlock’s head dipped and their cheeks pressed together, his hot and stuttering breaths ghosting across Lestrade’s neck.
It was nothing short of glorious, being able to witness Sherlock in this moment of complete and utter abandon; to witness him unguarded and completely lost to sensation. But when the detective’s hand slipped between them, Lestrade reluctantly gripped Sherlock’s hips and stilled his movements.
“Flattered as I am,” he rumbled in a gruff voice, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s temple apologetically as he raised his head, “I’m not thirty anymore. However - ” and he rolled suddenly, tipping Sherlock off of him and pinning him to the bed, flat on his back, wrists above his head, “- I’m also not dead.”
He dipped his head and grazed his teeth along Sherlock’s collarbone before sucking a mark into his shoulder, pulling back to watch as blood pooled just under the surface of the alabaster skin. His gaze met Sherlock’s, and Lestrade could see in the dim light of dawn that his eyes were dark again with arousal, and also lit with an inkling of curiosity.
Lestrade flashed him a grin, and then ducked under the blankets.
“Lestrade! What are - you - I don’t - Christ.”
He felt Sherlock’s hands hit the mattress, on either side of his body, and twist the blankets into his fists. Lestrade gave a chuckle, and the vibrations had Sherlock curling his toes.
“Greg!”
And then all it took was a combination of lips and tongue, of deep moans and wet heat, and Sherlock came so violently that he knocked Lestrade in the back of the head with a bony knee.
“Careful there, sunshine,” Lestrade muttered as he surfaced, swiping the back of his hand across mouth before leaning down and stealing a gentle kiss. Sherlock numbly returned it, limbs splayed haphazardly across the mattress like a discarded rag doll.
“That was - you are -” Sherlock’s words were coming in half-gasps, and he panted against Lestrade’s mouth.
“Lazy?” Lestrade murmured affectionately, pressing his lips to the fine jaw, teeth catching the smooth skin in gentle bites. “Incompetent? ‘The best of a bad lot’?”
“Extraordinary,” Sherlock interrupted between heavy breaths, catching Lestrade’s face in one of his long hands. They stared at one another for a long moment, Sherlock’s chest heaving as he struggled to bring his breathing under control and Lestrade held in place by the frightening blue eyes; by the sight of the man beneath him. Sherlock’s normal reservation had been ripped away and torn to shreds with the chaos of the previous evening, and here he was laid bare and open for only Lestrade to see.
Sherlock slowly slid his palm up to rest against the side of Lestrade’s face, and gave the morning’s first genuine smile as Lestrade turned into the touch and kissed it.
“I was going to say...extraordinary.”