Fic: Slow Burn
Title: “Slow Burn”
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade, John
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I don’t own them.
Word Count: c. 5,500
Warnings: Language, sexual content
Spoilers: None
Beta: kim_j_8472
Summary: Fifteen days into the heat wave, Lestrade began to wonder if Sherlock was going to murder them all out of sheer misery. Eighteen days in, he wasn’t sure if that was really such a bad thing after all.
***Yes, I do know a heat wave like this in London is completely implausible (though not impossible). So sue me.
It was bloody hot out.
It was abysmally, dreadfully hot. It was crack-an-egg-on-the-pavement-and-watch-it-sizzle hot (and yes, they had done that, just to be sure).
If there was a hell, Lestrade thought, then it was London this July. In fact, hell itself was probably more temperate than London at the moment.
The city was plodding through day fifteen of a three-day heat wave, and at this point Lestrade thought that, if nothing else, all the weathermen in the country needed to be sacked. The populace needed someone to take their frustrations out on, after all, as the weather sure as hell didn’t care.
Everyone reacted to the heat in different ways. John was remarkably level-headed about it all, and had traded his usual jumpers for t-shirts as the cool June turned into a blistering July. It was the only concession he needed to make to the heat wave. Lestrade supposed his army training had something to do with the fact that he handled the heat so well, and envied the fact that John never even seemed to break a sweat.
Mrs Hudson had left Baker Street during that first week of the heat wave and sought relief at her sister’s in the country. Sally Donovan took refuge in the conference room whenever possible, as the high windows at NSY caused the main floor to heat quickly, even with the air conditioning on. Daniel Anderson rarely left his lab anymore.
Lestrade, who didn’t have the luxury of remaining in his office all day, had to bear the heat as best as he could. He would sweat through the shirts he wore to the Yard in a matter of hours, and usually had to change them once or twice before the end of his shift. But there was truly no escaping the dampness that clung to his skin every moment of every day. He went to bed warm and woke up steeped in sweat, and his only moment of relief was the ten-minute shower that began his mornings. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been this miserable.
And Sherlock, to absolutely no one’s surprise, was handling the heat with all the grace of a two-year-old.
“It’s entirely possible that it was the sister -”
“It wasn’t the sister, Anderson, the angle of the knife attack is all wrong for that!” Sherlock snapped. He was kneeling by their latest victim, his back to Lestrade. A bead of sweat slid down the back of his neck. “You’re looking for a killer who’s at least five centimeters taller, obviously. Are you really that much of an idiot?”
Anderson swept the back of his hand across his forehead; it came away damp. “But if you look at the depth of the wounds -”
“Finish that sentence,” Sherlock snarled, “and I swear on John’s life that I will end you!”
“All right.” Lestrade flipped his notebook shut and leveled a glare at Sherlock. “You’re done. Get out.”
Sherlock’s eyes flashed. He drew himself up to his full height and stared Lestrade down. The effect of his glare was diminished somewhat by his flushed cheeks and sweat-damp hair, though, and Lestrade returned the look evenly.
“Out,” he repeated in a low voice. Sherlock’s hand curled into a fist, and he looked as though he might strike someone.
“Come on, John,” he bit out finally, and swept from the room. John shot Lestrade a weary glance and followed. Lestrade lingered long enough to make sure his team got back to work, and then went after them both.
Sherlock was pacing restlessly in the corridor outside the room where their victim had been murdered while John waited patiently nearby.
“It’s the aunt,” Sherlock said the moment he saw Lestrade approaching. “I’m sure of it, if you could just give me -”
“No,” Lestrade said, holding up a hand and cutting him off. “I meant it. You’re done for today. Go home.”
“Lestrade -”
“You can disagree with my team all you like, but I won’t tolerate threats directed at them. Go home, Sherlock.”
John paused for a moment at Lestrade’s side after Sherlock left them. Downstairs, a door slammed shut in his furious wake.
“This one’s on your head, mate,” John warned quietly. Lestrade sighed. This was the first case since the heat wave started that he had needed Sherlock’s help for. He had been hopeful it would be enough to break Sherlock’s foul mood.
If anything, he had just compounded the problem.
“Yeah, don’t I know it.”
----
Lestrade wasn’t sure what he’d find when he finally made it back to Baker Street later that night.
Sherlock’s behavior had become increasingly more erratic--and his mood exponentially worse--as the heat wave dragged on. Extreme heat stifled him, plugged up his mind like a stopper on a pressure cooker, and as a result he was more insufferable than was normal.
Five years of sleeping with Sherlock hadn’t truly prepared Lestrade for this, and he was coping only because work kept them apart most hours of the day. He didn’t know how John put up with it, in all honesty.
“I’ve got the clinic,” John said when Lestrade mentioned that to him. “And Mary rescues me when she can. Plus, I’ve seen worse.”
“Worse,” Lestrade repeated dully. He honestly couldn’t fathom that. John merely shrugged and gave a vague smile, and Lestrade had a feeling John had more stories about his army days than he was letting on. “Ah. Well, where is the bastard, anyway?”
“Shower.”
Of course. Sherlock’s latest coping mechanism. It was proving just about as effective as all the others, but at least this one didn’t involve breaking inanimate objects.
During the first week of the heat wave, Sherlock’s behavior had changed only slightly. His sentences became more clipped, and he traded out his expensive shirts for plain, snug t-shirts--which Lestrade had minded not in the least. In fact, he had been guilty in those first few days of wishing that the heat wave would drag on just a little bit longer than the predicted three days, just so he could enjoy the sight of those rarely-bared arms and broad chest.
He had never regretted a wish so much in his life.
Things quickly became worse as three days turned into a week and a half. Sherlock’s mood deteriorated rapidly, and he became downright unbearable where usually he was simply impatient. He started snapping at the slightest provocation, taking issue with everything from the way John made his coffee (which he had never complained about before) to how loudly Lestrade turned the pages of the book he was reading. He also started using the wall for target practice, and Lestrade couldn’t figure out how he kept obtaining bullets.
By the end of the second week, Sherlock largely didn’t speak unless it was to yell at someone, and when he was at Baker Street he spent his time either holed up in his room or in the sanctuary of a cold shower. The sliver of patience he managed to cling to was reserved only for Lestrade, and usually it manifested itself in the form of a morning kiss or a press of a hand to the small of Lestrade’s back. Sometimes, though, it merely meant that Sherlock wouldn’t snap at Lestrade that day.
And he started to swear all the time.
Sherlock had been known to let out the occasional curse, but as his limited patience was worn away by the heat and his miniscule tact washed away with the increasing humidity, it was now becoming an every-sentence occurrence.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Case in point.
Lestrade turned around to see a half-naked Sherlock standing in the kitchen, skin damp from his shower and a towel secured around his waist. Normally the sight would have sent a shiver down Lestrade’s spine, but the oppressive heat had taken care of that, too, in recent weeks.
“I live here,” Lestrade said wearily. It wasn’t entirely the truth, but not much of a lie, either, given the fact that he spent maybe three nights a month at his own flat anymore.
“Get the hell out.”
Behind him, Lestrade heard John gather his laptop and make a quick exit to his room.
“Nice try, Sherlock.” Lestrade shed his suit jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. He went into Sherlock’s bedroom to discard the clothing. Sherlock followed, and started rooting around in his wardrobe for clothes. “I know you’re angry about me throwing you out of my crime scene, but the circumstances are different here.”
“I would have solved it -”
“You did solve it.”
That brought Sherlock up short, and he blinked. His anger appeared to melt away in an instant.
“You were right, it was the aunt,” Lestrade went on. He gave a faint smirk, and tentatively teased, “I get to take credit for it, though, seeing as you had to be put in a time-out.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
Sherlock looked mildly amused, though, and his words were said without any heat. He finished dressing and ducked his head for a kiss, which Lestrade gladly gave. Sherlock tasted of salt, and his upper lip was damp already with perspiration. His breath was hot, almost scalding, and Lestrade had to draw away much sooner than he would have liked.
“Is that a promise?”
Sherlock’s face darkened suddenly.
“Too bloody hot,” he muttered, and stalked away.
They didn’t speak after that for close to three hours. Lestrade fixed dinner in the kitchen, which had been blessedly free of Sherlock’s experiments for nearly two weeks now. He felt a stab of guilt at the thought, even though it was nice to not have to worry about contaminating his food or coffee with poison or God-knew-what-else Sherlock had lying around the place.
The heat had robbed Sherlock not only of his ability to think, but also of his ability to perform experiments. He retaliated by nicking John’s gun and shooting holes into the wall. When that failed--or when John had been particularly clever about hiding the weapon--he took to throwing knives at various targets around the flat.
“If this heat doesn’t break soon, I’m gonna kill him,” Lestrade groaned. He had retreated to the living room with John while Sherlock took out a row of beakers in the kitchen with his knives, sending them crashing to the ground. Lestrade sighed as the sound of breaking glass assaulted his ears and dropped his head onto his arms, feeling the beginnings of a headache just behind his eyes.
“Or he’s going to kill both of us in our sleep,” John said absently, pecking away at his blog.
That hadn’t occurred to Lestrade. “Christ, there’s a wonderful thought.”
“Though if we’re honest about it, he’ll probably only manage to off you.”
Lestrade lifted his head off his arms and glared at John. “Cheers, John.”
John shrugged.
“I sleep upstairs and with a gun under my pillow. You’re the one who risks his neck by sharing a bed with the bastard every night. Don’t come crying to me when it’s your throat he’s slitting because he’s bloody miserable.”
“Yeah, well, if he’d so much as let me touch him, maybe he wouldn’t be so bloody miserable.”
“And that’s way too much information.” John closed his laptop with a grimace. “Hope you get that sorted soon, mate, but next time keep it to yourself, yeah? G’night.”
Lestrade snorted and gave a half-wave as John departed. In the kitchen, three mugs met their demise as Sherlock bellowed, “Damn it all to hell!”
He sighed. It was going to be a very long night.
----
Once, a little over four years ago, Lestrade worked a case with Sherlock that had them stumped for weeks.
It had resulted in long nights at the Yard; brutal, marathon sessions in which the two of them pored over every piece of evidence, every handwritten note, every picture even remotely related to the case. They had only started sleeping together a few weeks before, and their slowly-shifting dynamic was still tinged with newness and uncertainty, and more than a little bit of awkwardness.
They had been alone in a tiny office at two in the morning one night, Lestrade twirling a pen through his fingers when he wasn’t madly scribbling down Sherlock’s deductions, and Sherlock growing increasingly distracted by something Lestrade couldn’t identify. He kept stopping mid-sentence, sometimes cutting off before he’d even finished a word, and his gaze kept straying from Lestrade’s face to his fidgeting hand. It was the first time he had seen Sherlock so obviously flustered.
Lestrade didn’t put it together until some weeks after that night, when he finally realised that Sherlock seemed to enjoy the feel of Lestrade’s fingers in his mouth almost as much as he did Lestrade’s cock, and that he spent an inordinate amount of time staring at Lestrade’s hands even when they weren’t in bed together.
On their nights together Sherlock explored Lestrade’s hands with all the meticulousness of a scientist, mapping the veins and valleys, teasing Lestrade’s sensitive fingertips with a flick of his tongue to see what the reaction would be. He enjoyed Lestrade fingering him as much as he did being fucked, and had this strangled keening noise that he would make whenever Lestrade drew his long fingers into the wet heat of his mouth, sucking on them until Sherlock writhed.
He was kneeling over Sherlock on the bed this night, head bent over Sherlock’s hand, which he was holding palm-up on the mattress. He took Sherlock’s forefinger into his mouth, all the way down to the third knuckle. He hollowed his cheeks and pressed his tongue flat against the underside of the finger, drawing back slowly until he released it with a quiet pop. Sherlock gave a whimper that he tried to cover as a cough, and Lestrade smirked to himself. He repeated the motion, this time with two of Sherlock’s fingers, and when he took three fingers in his mouth Sherlock gave an involuntary jerk of his hips.
Lestrade let his free hand come to rest on Sherlock’s stomach, feeling the hard muscles leap at his light touch. He slowly slid his hand lower as he continued to tease Sherlock’s fingers, finally cupping him through his boxers. Sherlock groaned and arched into the touch. A thin sheen of sweat covered Sherlock’s face and chest, and his skin was flushed with arousal, darker than Lestrade had ever seen. There was a growing wet spot on his boxers, and Lestrade slid his hand lower, curling his hand around Sherlock’s balls and giving a light squeeze. Sherlock lifted his hips, pressing back into his touch.
“Steady,” Lestrade murmured. He shifted his weight, moving his attentions from Sherlock’s hand to his mouth. Sherlock’s lips were dry and soft, and he slid both hands into Lestrade’s hair. He spread his legs and made an encouraging noise in the back of his throat, and Lestrade slid his hand underneath the waistband of Sherlock’s boxers.
Sherlock whimpered and rocked into his hand when Lestrade closed it around him, and for some moments there was little noise apart from his breathy gasps as Lestrade increased the pace of his strokes.
But then Sherlock’s hips slowed and stilled, and he was pushing Lestrade’s hand away before Lestrade had fully realised what had happened.
“God damn it,” Sherlock hissed. He let his head fall back against his pillow in frustration as his cock softened, drawing several sharp, deep breaths through his nose. His hand remained curled around Lestrade’s wrist, holding it away from him. Lestrade carefully freed himself and pressed a kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, his own arousal fading as well. “Damn it.”
It wasn’t the first time this had happened. The way things were going, it was far from the last, either.
They were in the midst of a two-week dry spell thanks to the heat, and it certainly wasn’t for lack of effort. Sherlock’s sweltering bedroom made them both sluggish, and their heat-swollen fingers weren’t usually up to anything nimble. Lestrade found he was prone to headaches in the stifling room while Sherlock’s once-dormant asthma had reared its nasty head on more than one occasion, rendering them both mostly useless.
Still, most nights they tried to soldier on despite all of that. The desire was there, of course, and usually so was the arousal. Trouble was, it was also fleeting, and more than once Sherlock had gone soft in Lestrade’s hand or Lestrade in Sherlock’s mouth as their bodies overheated, and they didn’t exactly have the energy to mount a successful rally.
They didn’t have the energy to mount anything, come to think of it.
“S’all right,” Lestrade murmured. He ducked his head and pressed his lips to the side of Sherlock’s throat.
“I know it’s all right,” Sherlock snarled in irritation, twisting his head away, but Lestrade wasn’t going to let the night end like that.
He brushed his lips over Sherlock’s mouth and licked his bottom lip, gently, and when Sherlock didn’t shove him away Lestrade kissed him. Sherlock didn’t respond at first, but after a moment the tension left his limbs and he parted his lips. They kissed for a long while, until Lestrade’s heart rate finally slowed and Sherlock’s pupils returned to their normal size. Only then did Lestrade finally roll off of Sherlock and stretch out next to him on the bed, the space between them not large enough to keep him from feeling the heat radiating off Sherlock’s body.
It was too damn hot in this bed, in this flat, and he wasn’t sure how much more either of them could take.
----
By day seventeen, Lestrade came to the conclusion that John was probably right, and Sherlock was going to murder them out of sheer misery.
By day eighteen, he decided that he wouldn’t mind it all that much, if only it meant he didn’t have to be so bloody hot anymore.
The nights in Baker Street were marginally tolerable, but that wasn’t exactly saying much when, during the day, the flat was little better than sitting inside an oven. Sherlock and Lestrade kept to opposite sides of the shared bed and tried their damnedest not to touch one another, which actually wasn’t all that unusual. The whole sleeping-in-your-partner’s-arms nonsense was not only impractical but downright uncomfortable, especially when Sherlock slept as though he was waging a war in his subconscious and Lestrade usually woke with bony joints being jabbed into uncomfortable places.
On blistering day twenty, John and Mary gave up and finally fled to a hotel in the country where, presumably, they had air conditioning. Lestrade would have done the same, but he couldn’t get away from the Yard at the moment. He half-expected Sherlock to follow John, though, invited or not, and was surprised to find him stretched out on Baker Street’s sofa later that night. He was clad only in a t-shirt and boxers, and was sweating even with the pedestal fan turned on him.
“Don’t even think about it,” he grumbled when Lestrade bent over him.
“Too bad,” Lestrade said, though he settled for kissing Sherlock’s forehead instead before seeking temporary relief in the form of a cold shower.
That night was worse than the others, for some reason, and the heat pressed down on them like a heavy blanket. Sherlock didn’t sleep and Lestrade didn’t think he was going to be able to, either, but at some point his body stopped noticing the tiny rivulets of sweat that snaked down his flesh and he wasn’t aware of the world for some time after that.
He woke all at once to Sherlock shaking his shoulder.
“Wha’ s’matter?” he muttered.
“Listen,” Sherlock said briskly, sounding more alert than Lestrade had heard in weeks.
He obligingly fell silent, trying to pick out a sound that wasn’t the pedestal fans or their own breathing. After a moment, he could pick out a faint pinging on the roof, and the windowpane was rattling -
“Is that rain?” he whispered. He slid off the bed and went over to the window, pressing his hand against the screen. Moisture dampened his palm almost instantly, and a swift, cool breeze swept around him.
It was raining.
They dragged the fans over to the open window, forcibly drawing the cool, rain-scented air into the bedroom, and for the first time in weeks, they both slept soundly.
----
The rain continued on through the next day. It was a steady, driving rain, relentless, and though it didn’t dispel the heat entirely it was still enough to break summer’s oppressive grip on London. And the effect was immediate. Moods at the Yard were lighter than they had been in nearly a month, and Lestrade didn’t feel like he was simply slogging through his workday.
When Lestrade returned to Baker Street that night he was soaked to the bone, but this time it had nothing to do with his own sweat and he couldn’t have been more delighted. He found Sherlock in the kitchen, not on the sofa or in the shower, and he was peering at something through his microscope.
“Anything interesting?” Lestrade asked, running a hand through his wet hair.
“Yes,” Sherlock said distractedly, “but it’s far beyond your comprehension so don’t bother asking what it is.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Lestrade spun Sherlock’s stool around and bent to give him a thorough kiss, swallowing his yelp of indignation. “I’m going to bed.”
“You've only just got here.”
Lestrade was pleased to note that Sherlock actually sounded a tad breathless, and a faint flush now covered his cheekbones.
“Yeah, and it’s almost eleven, in case you didn’t notice.” To be fair, Sherlock probably hadn’t. Lestrade smirked at the bemused look on his face and absently curled a few strands of Sherlock’s hair around his finger. The humidity in the air had caused his curls to fray, and they were even more untamable than was normal. “So, unless you’d like to join me, I’m going to sleep.”
For a moment, Sherlock actually looked torn, but then he shook his head. “I need to finish this.”
Lestrade would have actually been surprised had Sherlock agreed to abandon his experiment, in all honesty, and this refusal to do so was yet further proof that their world had finally gone back to business as usual. He gave Sherlock a lingering kiss, and then nipped at the underside of his jaw. He pulled away just as Sherlock’s breath started to catch in his chest and made for the bedroom, smirking to himself at the sound of Sherlock’s soft, disappointed groan.
Lestrade knew that Sherlock would always choose the work.
That didn’t mean he was going to make the decision an easy one, however.
The rain continued to fall steadily, and Lestrade stripped down to only his t-shirt and pants before crawling into Sherlock’s bed. The room was blissfully cool, and he only had a moment to savour it before sheer comfort pulled him down into sleep.
He wasn’t sure what woke him later on, and indeed it might have been nothing in particular. But when he opened his eyes, he was no longer alone in the room. Sherlock was standing by the window, clad only in his boxers, watching the rain. The dull yellow light from the lap outside highlighted the taut planes of his bare back and his well-defined biceps. He was leaning more weight on his right leg than his left, and for a moment Lestrade admired the tight curve of his arse and the sharp muscles of his calves.
“Well, now,” he said quietly, breaking the silence, “there’s a sight I could get used to.”
Sherlock turned, and Lestrade could feel his smirk in the dark.
“It’s been five years, Lestrade,” he pointed out, walking over to the bed. Lestrade raked his eyes down Sherlock’s muscled torso, taking in his flat stomach and the tiny curve that started just below his navel and disappeared beneath the waistband of his boxers--the only fat Sherlock carried on his body. “Presumably you grew used to it long ago.”
“Never. Get over here.”
Sherlock knelt over him on the bed and leaned down. Lestrade tilted his face up to meet the soft lips, but at the last second Sherlock dodged the kiss and licked the side of his face instead.
“You child,” Lestrade burst out, but he couldn’t keep from laughing. Sherlock offered him a too-pleased grin, and Lestrade curled a hand around the back of his neck. “Come on, give us a proper kiss this time, eh?”
He could still feel Sherlock’s smirk when their mouths finally met, but it melted soon enough, replaced by a sharp intake of breath and then the relentless press of lips and tongue.
“Easy,” Lestrade whispered when he could finally pull away, holding Sherlock’s head just centimeters from his own. He flicked his tongue against Sherlock’s lower lip and then drew back. Sherlock, breathing heavily, tried to follow. Lestrade held him firmly in place and then, for good measure, locked his knees around Sherlock’s hips. “We’ve got all night.”
“Greg -”
Lestrade flipped him without warning, rolling on top of Sherlock and pinning him to the bed. He straddled Sherlock’s waist and drew away only long enough to shed his own shirt. Sherlock groaned and reached for him; Lestrade grabbed his wrists and pressed his hands against the mattress. Sherlock didn’t struggle; if anything, his breathing grew more rapid, and when Lestrade shifted lower he could feel that Sherlock was already hard in his shorts. He chuckled, leaned down, and murmured, “You like that, eh?” against Sherlock’s lips.
“I - Yeah.” Sherlock was already so breathless that he could barely get the word out. Lestrade kissed him again, hard enough to bruise, and Sherlock whimpered. He tasted of stale mint, and smelled of spice and sweat. What remaining blood Lestrade had left in his head fled south, and he groaned. Their kisses turned frantic and sloppy, and Lestrade finally had to pull away before he lost all sense of himself.
Sherlock was panting, staring up at him out of glassy eyes, and confusion flashed across his features.
“What -”
Lestrade didn’t give him a chance to finish. He gave a slow twist of his hips, and the question was chased from Sherlock’s mind. His back arched in immediate response to the contact and he made a guttural noise in the back of his throat, his hips jerking upward. Lestrade smirked and repeated the movement, grinding down slowly against him. Sherlock’s fabric-clad erection slid against his own, and heat spiked low in Lestrade’s belly at the sensation. Sherlock gave a low groan and twisted his hips; Lestrade matched the movement until they were both rocking against one another.
“Jesus - Greg... no, wait,” Sherlock panted. “Keep - keep that up, and this is going to be over before it starts.”
He had a point. They were both painfully hard and leaking already. This wasn’t going to last much longer as it was, and they were still partially-clothed.
Lestrade raised himself off Sherlock long enough to shed his underwear while Sherlock lifted his freed hips to slide his boxers off, kicking them away with a grunt of success. Lestrade then sank down on top of him again, settling so that they were pressed together, chests to hips to thighs. Their cocks slid together in the tight heat between their stomachs, and Sherlock groaned at the contact.
“Fucking finally,” he whispered. He lifted his hips, seeking friction. “I need - Greg -”
“I know,” Lestrade said breathlessly. He fumbled for the lube, groping in the bedside table until he closed his hand around it. “God, I know. Just -”
He recapped the bottle and tossed it aside before reaching between their bodies, taking them both in hand. Sherlock hissed as Lestrade’s hand closed around him, and thrust into the slick heat of his palm. Their cocks slid together, hot and heavy, and Lestrade grunted, hips snapping forward. Sherlock fisted one hand into the sheets, twisting them in a white-knuckled grip, and grabbed the headboard with the other.
“Sh - fr - dei... holy -”
Lestrade gave a breathy chuckle at the broken, nonsense words that spilled from Sherlock’s lips. But then Sherlock pressed a hand to his backside, trailing a fingertip along the cleft of his arse, and it quickly dissolved into a moan. Lestrade loosened his grip, releasing them both, and Sherlock gave a growl of frustration.
“If you - if you stop now,” he hissed, fighting for coherent thought, “I’m going to... to fucking kill you.”
Lestrade gave a breathless huff of laughter.
“If I stop now... you have my permission to do so.” He braced his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head, allowing himself better leverage. He ground down against Sherlock, and added a twist at the end of each thrust. “God.”
Sherlock swallowed back a moan, Adam’s apple bobbing visibly, and Lestrade leaned down to mouth at the side of his throat.
“Come on,” he rasped. “Come on, let me see...”
He drew back, rocking their hips together, watching Sherlock’s face with every thrust. Sherlock’s head fell back against the pillow, neck arching towards the ceiling, and his eyelids fluttered. He rolled his hips to meet each of Lestrade’s thrusts, quickening the pace.
Lestrade nipped Sherlock’s earlobe and then pressed a kiss to the curve of his jaw, lips rasping over the evening stubble there. He teased a sensitive patch of skin just below Sherlock’s ear with his teeth. Sherlock let out a sharp whine and cupped the back of Lestrade’s head, holding him there, and the motion of his hips soon began to fall out of the steady rhythm Lestrade had set. He thrust upwards unevenly, desperately. His breaths hitched in his throat, and Lestrade stole a greedy kiss, murmuring encouragements against Sherlock’s pliant lips.
“Wanna see you,” he whispered. Sherlock grabbed his waist, pulling their bodies tighter together. “God, you should see yourself right now, so desperate -”
Sherlock’s hips stuttered, and he suddenly tensed against Lestrade’s body. He grunted, shuddering through his orgasm, his fingers digging into Lestrade’s back so hard that they were sure to leave bruises.
“Jesus, Greg,” he gasped when he finally went limp. “Fuck -”
He shoved an elbow into the mattress and reached for Lestrade with his other hand, meeting him halfway for a clumsy kiss, and let his legs fall open wider as Lestrade continued to slide against him. He followed Sherlock over the edge half a dozen thrusts later, hips jerking erratically as he came in pulses, his vision whiting out at the edges. Sherlock swallowed his cry and kissed him through his climax.
Lestrade’s arms gave out when the aftershocks finally ceased and he sprawled out next to Sherlock, drawing great lungfuls of air as his heart threatened to break free of his chest. His vision eventually cleared, and he glanced over at his bedmate. Sherlock’s eyes were closed and he was breathing heavily through his nose. He had one arm flung up over his head and his tanned skin glistened with sweat, and he appeared as though he could not be persuaded to move for a very long time. Lestrade was just about to conclude that he had fallen asleep when Sherlock cracked open an eye to give him an appraising look.
“Was that - best you could do?” he murmured, trying to sound haughty and failing miserably because he still hadn’t caught his breath.
Lestrade slid a hand over Sherlock’s sweat-slick chest. He ran his fingers through the smattering of dark hair before tweaking a nipple. Sherlock gave a broken whimper, and gooseflesh erupted across his chest.
“Arse,” Lestrade said, without heat. “Give me a minute, and I’ll give you a proper fuck. I’m not nineteen anymore, you know. For that matter, neither are you.”
“I’m twenty-nine, it’s not that much different,” Sherlock said with a huff. Lestrade gave a bark of laughter.
“You realise no one actually believes you when you say that, right?”
“No reason why they shouldn’t,” Sherlock muttered darkly, and Lestrade snorted.
The flush of arousal was starting to fade from Sherlock’s chest, and his previously damp hair was now sticking to his forehead. Lestrade was just now beginning to notice the cool air again, as the breeze from the window dried the sweat on his body. But Sherlock’s lips were still pink and bruised, and there was a breathless quality to his words. Lestrade took no small amount of pleasure in knowing that he was responsible for it.
He reached out and traced the thin bow of Sherlock’s upper lip with his finger, and Sherlock’s eyes flicked to him. He pressed his tongue against the tip of Lestrade’s finger before taking it into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks as he sucked. Lestrade gave a sharp intake of breath, and his cock gave a twitch of interest.
Christ, it had been too long.
“Come on, then,” he whispered. Sherlock released his finger and moved to straddle him, and Lestrade pulled him down for a salt-filled kiss, the perspiration on his upper lip mingling with Sherlock’s own. “Come here and show me how you’re not thirty-five.”
Sherlock started to mutter something about, “You’re the one who’s almost fifty -” but Lestrade flipped him onto his back and put a swift, decisive end to that line of thinking.
And the rain continued well into the night.
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade, John
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I don’t own them.
Word Count: c. 5,500
Warnings: Language, sexual content
Spoilers: None
Beta: kim_j_8472
Summary: Fifteen days into the heat wave, Lestrade began to wonder if Sherlock was going to murder them all out of sheer misery. Eighteen days in, he wasn’t sure if that was really such a bad thing after all.
***Yes, I do know a heat wave like this in London is completely implausible (though not impossible). So sue me.
It was bloody hot out.
It was abysmally, dreadfully hot. It was crack-an-egg-on-the-pavement-and-watch-it-sizzle hot (and yes, they had done that, just to be sure).
If there was a hell, Lestrade thought, then it was London this July. In fact, hell itself was probably more temperate than London at the moment.
The city was plodding through day fifteen of a three-day heat wave, and at this point Lestrade thought that, if nothing else, all the weathermen in the country needed to be sacked. The populace needed someone to take their frustrations out on, after all, as the weather sure as hell didn’t care.
Everyone reacted to the heat in different ways. John was remarkably level-headed about it all, and had traded his usual jumpers for t-shirts as the cool June turned into a blistering July. It was the only concession he needed to make to the heat wave. Lestrade supposed his army training had something to do with the fact that he handled the heat so well, and envied the fact that John never even seemed to break a sweat.
Mrs Hudson had left Baker Street during that first week of the heat wave and sought relief at her sister’s in the country. Sally Donovan took refuge in the conference room whenever possible, as the high windows at NSY caused the main floor to heat quickly, even with the air conditioning on. Daniel Anderson rarely left his lab anymore.
Lestrade, who didn’t have the luxury of remaining in his office all day, had to bear the heat as best as he could. He would sweat through the shirts he wore to the Yard in a matter of hours, and usually had to change them once or twice before the end of his shift. But there was truly no escaping the dampness that clung to his skin every moment of every day. He went to bed warm and woke up steeped in sweat, and his only moment of relief was the ten-minute shower that began his mornings. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been this miserable.
And Sherlock, to absolutely no one’s surprise, was handling the heat with all the grace of a two-year-old.
“It’s entirely possible that it was the sister -”
“It wasn’t the sister, Anderson, the angle of the knife attack is all wrong for that!” Sherlock snapped. He was kneeling by their latest victim, his back to Lestrade. A bead of sweat slid down the back of his neck. “You’re looking for a killer who’s at least five centimeters taller, obviously. Are you really that much of an idiot?”
Anderson swept the back of his hand across his forehead; it came away damp. “But if you look at the depth of the wounds -”
“Finish that sentence,” Sherlock snarled, “and I swear on John’s life that I will end you!”
“All right.” Lestrade flipped his notebook shut and leveled a glare at Sherlock. “You’re done. Get out.”
Sherlock’s eyes flashed. He drew himself up to his full height and stared Lestrade down. The effect of his glare was diminished somewhat by his flushed cheeks and sweat-damp hair, though, and Lestrade returned the look evenly.
“Out,” he repeated in a low voice. Sherlock’s hand curled into a fist, and he looked as though he might strike someone.
“Come on, John,” he bit out finally, and swept from the room. John shot Lestrade a weary glance and followed. Lestrade lingered long enough to make sure his team got back to work, and then went after them both.
Sherlock was pacing restlessly in the corridor outside the room where their victim had been murdered while John waited patiently nearby.
“It’s the aunt,” Sherlock said the moment he saw Lestrade approaching. “I’m sure of it, if you could just give me -”
“No,” Lestrade said, holding up a hand and cutting him off. “I meant it. You’re done for today. Go home.”
“Lestrade -”
“You can disagree with my team all you like, but I won’t tolerate threats directed at them. Go home, Sherlock.”
John paused for a moment at Lestrade’s side after Sherlock left them. Downstairs, a door slammed shut in his furious wake.
“This one’s on your head, mate,” John warned quietly. Lestrade sighed. This was the first case since the heat wave started that he had needed Sherlock’s help for. He had been hopeful it would be enough to break Sherlock’s foul mood.
If anything, he had just compounded the problem.
“Yeah, don’t I know it.”
----
Lestrade wasn’t sure what he’d find when he finally made it back to Baker Street later that night.
Sherlock’s behavior had become increasingly more erratic--and his mood exponentially worse--as the heat wave dragged on. Extreme heat stifled him, plugged up his mind like a stopper on a pressure cooker, and as a result he was more insufferable than was normal.
Five years of sleeping with Sherlock hadn’t truly prepared Lestrade for this, and he was coping only because work kept them apart most hours of the day. He didn’t know how John put up with it, in all honesty.
“I’ve got the clinic,” John said when Lestrade mentioned that to him. “And Mary rescues me when she can. Plus, I’ve seen worse.”
“Worse,” Lestrade repeated dully. He honestly couldn’t fathom that. John merely shrugged and gave a vague smile, and Lestrade had a feeling John had more stories about his army days than he was letting on. “Ah. Well, where is the bastard, anyway?”
“Shower.”
Of course. Sherlock’s latest coping mechanism. It was proving just about as effective as all the others, but at least this one didn’t involve breaking inanimate objects.
During the first week of the heat wave, Sherlock’s behavior had changed only slightly. His sentences became more clipped, and he traded out his expensive shirts for plain, snug t-shirts--which Lestrade had minded not in the least. In fact, he had been guilty in those first few days of wishing that the heat wave would drag on just a little bit longer than the predicted three days, just so he could enjoy the sight of those rarely-bared arms and broad chest.
He had never regretted a wish so much in his life.
Things quickly became worse as three days turned into a week and a half. Sherlock’s mood deteriorated rapidly, and he became downright unbearable where usually he was simply impatient. He started snapping at the slightest provocation, taking issue with everything from the way John made his coffee (which he had never complained about before) to how loudly Lestrade turned the pages of the book he was reading. He also started using the wall for target practice, and Lestrade couldn’t figure out how he kept obtaining bullets.
By the end of the second week, Sherlock largely didn’t speak unless it was to yell at someone, and when he was at Baker Street he spent his time either holed up in his room or in the sanctuary of a cold shower. The sliver of patience he managed to cling to was reserved only for Lestrade, and usually it manifested itself in the form of a morning kiss or a press of a hand to the small of Lestrade’s back. Sometimes, though, it merely meant that Sherlock wouldn’t snap at Lestrade that day.
And he started to swear all the time.
Sherlock had been known to let out the occasional curse, but as his limited patience was worn away by the heat and his miniscule tact washed away with the increasing humidity, it was now becoming an every-sentence occurrence.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Case in point.
Lestrade turned around to see a half-naked Sherlock standing in the kitchen, skin damp from his shower and a towel secured around his waist. Normally the sight would have sent a shiver down Lestrade’s spine, but the oppressive heat had taken care of that, too, in recent weeks.
“I live here,” Lestrade said wearily. It wasn’t entirely the truth, but not much of a lie, either, given the fact that he spent maybe three nights a month at his own flat anymore.
“Get the hell out.”
Behind him, Lestrade heard John gather his laptop and make a quick exit to his room.
“Nice try, Sherlock.” Lestrade shed his suit jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. He went into Sherlock’s bedroom to discard the clothing. Sherlock followed, and started rooting around in his wardrobe for clothes. “I know you’re angry about me throwing you out of my crime scene, but the circumstances are different here.”
“I would have solved it -”
“You did solve it.”
That brought Sherlock up short, and he blinked. His anger appeared to melt away in an instant.
“You were right, it was the aunt,” Lestrade went on. He gave a faint smirk, and tentatively teased, “I get to take credit for it, though, seeing as you had to be put in a time-out.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
Sherlock looked mildly amused, though, and his words were said without any heat. He finished dressing and ducked his head for a kiss, which Lestrade gladly gave. Sherlock tasted of salt, and his upper lip was damp already with perspiration. His breath was hot, almost scalding, and Lestrade had to draw away much sooner than he would have liked.
“Is that a promise?”
Sherlock’s face darkened suddenly.
“Too bloody hot,” he muttered, and stalked away.
They didn’t speak after that for close to three hours. Lestrade fixed dinner in the kitchen, which had been blessedly free of Sherlock’s experiments for nearly two weeks now. He felt a stab of guilt at the thought, even though it was nice to not have to worry about contaminating his food or coffee with poison or God-knew-what-else Sherlock had lying around the place.
The heat had robbed Sherlock not only of his ability to think, but also of his ability to perform experiments. He retaliated by nicking John’s gun and shooting holes into the wall. When that failed--or when John had been particularly clever about hiding the weapon--he took to throwing knives at various targets around the flat.
“If this heat doesn’t break soon, I’m gonna kill him,” Lestrade groaned. He had retreated to the living room with John while Sherlock took out a row of beakers in the kitchen with his knives, sending them crashing to the ground. Lestrade sighed as the sound of breaking glass assaulted his ears and dropped his head onto his arms, feeling the beginnings of a headache just behind his eyes.
“Or he’s going to kill both of us in our sleep,” John said absently, pecking away at his blog.
That hadn’t occurred to Lestrade. “Christ, there’s a wonderful thought.”
“Though if we’re honest about it, he’ll probably only manage to off you.”
Lestrade lifted his head off his arms and glared at John. “Cheers, John.”
John shrugged.
“I sleep upstairs and with a gun under my pillow. You’re the one who risks his neck by sharing a bed with the bastard every night. Don’t come crying to me when it’s your throat he’s slitting because he’s bloody miserable.”
“Yeah, well, if he’d so much as let me touch him, maybe he wouldn’t be so bloody miserable.”
“And that’s way too much information.” John closed his laptop with a grimace. “Hope you get that sorted soon, mate, but next time keep it to yourself, yeah? G’night.”
Lestrade snorted and gave a half-wave as John departed. In the kitchen, three mugs met their demise as Sherlock bellowed, “Damn it all to hell!”
He sighed. It was going to be a very long night.
----
Once, a little over four years ago, Lestrade worked a case with Sherlock that had them stumped for weeks.
It had resulted in long nights at the Yard; brutal, marathon sessions in which the two of them pored over every piece of evidence, every handwritten note, every picture even remotely related to the case. They had only started sleeping together a few weeks before, and their slowly-shifting dynamic was still tinged with newness and uncertainty, and more than a little bit of awkwardness.
They had been alone in a tiny office at two in the morning one night, Lestrade twirling a pen through his fingers when he wasn’t madly scribbling down Sherlock’s deductions, and Sherlock growing increasingly distracted by something Lestrade couldn’t identify. He kept stopping mid-sentence, sometimes cutting off before he’d even finished a word, and his gaze kept straying from Lestrade’s face to his fidgeting hand. It was the first time he had seen Sherlock so obviously flustered.
Lestrade didn’t put it together until some weeks after that night, when he finally realised that Sherlock seemed to enjoy the feel of Lestrade’s fingers in his mouth almost as much as he did Lestrade’s cock, and that he spent an inordinate amount of time staring at Lestrade’s hands even when they weren’t in bed together.
On their nights together Sherlock explored Lestrade’s hands with all the meticulousness of a scientist, mapping the veins and valleys, teasing Lestrade’s sensitive fingertips with a flick of his tongue to see what the reaction would be. He enjoyed Lestrade fingering him as much as he did being fucked, and had this strangled keening noise that he would make whenever Lestrade drew his long fingers into the wet heat of his mouth, sucking on them until Sherlock writhed.
He was kneeling over Sherlock on the bed this night, head bent over Sherlock’s hand, which he was holding palm-up on the mattress. He took Sherlock’s forefinger into his mouth, all the way down to the third knuckle. He hollowed his cheeks and pressed his tongue flat against the underside of the finger, drawing back slowly until he released it with a quiet pop. Sherlock gave a whimper that he tried to cover as a cough, and Lestrade smirked to himself. He repeated the motion, this time with two of Sherlock’s fingers, and when he took three fingers in his mouth Sherlock gave an involuntary jerk of his hips.
Lestrade let his free hand come to rest on Sherlock’s stomach, feeling the hard muscles leap at his light touch. He slowly slid his hand lower as he continued to tease Sherlock’s fingers, finally cupping him through his boxers. Sherlock groaned and arched into the touch. A thin sheen of sweat covered Sherlock’s face and chest, and his skin was flushed with arousal, darker than Lestrade had ever seen. There was a growing wet spot on his boxers, and Lestrade slid his hand lower, curling his hand around Sherlock’s balls and giving a light squeeze. Sherlock lifted his hips, pressing back into his touch.
“Steady,” Lestrade murmured. He shifted his weight, moving his attentions from Sherlock’s hand to his mouth. Sherlock’s lips were dry and soft, and he slid both hands into Lestrade’s hair. He spread his legs and made an encouraging noise in the back of his throat, and Lestrade slid his hand underneath the waistband of Sherlock’s boxers.
Sherlock whimpered and rocked into his hand when Lestrade closed it around him, and for some moments there was little noise apart from his breathy gasps as Lestrade increased the pace of his strokes.
But then Sherlock’s hips slowed and stilled, and he was pushing Lestrade’s hand away before Lestrade had fully realised what had happened.
“God damn it,” Sherlock hissed. He let his head fall back against his pillow in frustration as his cock softened, drawing several sharp, deep breaths through his nose. His hand remained curled around Lestrade’s wrist, holding it away from him. Lestrade carefully freed himself and pressed a kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, his own arousal fading as well. “Damn it.”
It wasn’t the first time this had happened. The way things were going, it was far from the last, either.
They were in the midst of a two-week dry spell thanks to the heat, and it certainly wasn’t for lack of effort. Sherlock’s sweltering bedroom made them both sluggish, and their heat-swollen fingers weren’t usually up to anything nimble. Lestrade found he was prone to headaches in the stifling room while Sherlock’s once-dormant asthma had reared its nasty head on more than one occasion, rendering them both mostly useless.
Still, most nights they tried to soldier on despite all of that. The desire was there, of course, and usually so was the arousal. Trouble was, it was also fleeting, and more than once Sherlock had gone soft in Lestrade’s hand or Lestrade in Sherlock’s mouth as their bodies overheated, and they didn’t exactly have the energy to mount a successful rally.
They didn’t have the energy to mount anything, come to think of it.
“S’all right,” Lestrade murmured. He ducked his head and pressed his lips to the side of Sherlock’s throat.
“I know it’s all right,” Sherlock snarled in irritation, twisting his head away, but Lestrade wasn’t going to let the night end like that.
He brushed his lips over Sherlock’s mouth and licked his bottom lip, gently, and when Sherlock didn’t shove him away Lestrade kissed him. Sherlock didn’t respond at first, but after a moment the tension left his limbs and he parted his lips. They kissed for a long while, until Lestrade’s heart rate finally slowed and Sherlock’s pupils returned to their normal size. Only then did Lestrade finally roll off of Sherlock and stretch out next to him on the bed, the space between them not large enough to keep him from feeling the heat radiating off Sherlock’s body.
It was too damn hot in this bed, in this flat, and he wasn’t sure how much more either of them could take.
----
By day seventeen, Lestrade came to the conclusion that John was probably right, and Sherlock was going to murder them out of sheer misery.
By day eighteen, he decided that he wouldn’t mind it all that much, if only it meant he didn’t have to be so bloody hot anymore.
The nights in Baker Street were marginally tolerable, but that wasn’t exactly saying much when, during the day, the flat was little better than sitting inside an oven. Sherlock and Lestrade kept to opposite sides of the shared bed and tried their damnedest not to touch one another, which actually wasn’t all that unusual. The whole sleeping-in-your-partner’s-arms nonsense was not only impractical but downright uncomfortable, especially when Sherlock slept as though he was waging a war in his subconscious and Lestrade usually woke with bony joints being jabbed into uncomfortable places.
On blistering day twenty, John and Mary gave up and finally fled to a hotel in the country where, presumably, they had air conditioning. Lestrade would have done the same, but he couldn’t get away from the Yard at the moment. He half-expected Sherlock to follow John, though, invited or not, and was surprised to find him stretched out on Baker Street’s sofa later that night. He was clad only in a t-shirt and boxers, and was sweating even with the pedestal fan turned on him.
“Don’t even think about it,” he grumbled when Lestrade bent over him.
“Too bad,” Lestrade said, though he settled for kissing Sherlock’s forehead instead before seeking temporary relief in the form of a cold shower.
That night was worse than the others, for some reason, and the heat pressed down on them like a heavy blanket. Sherlock didn’t sleep and Lestrade didn’t think he was going to be able to, either, but at some point his body stopped noticing the tiny rivulets of sweat that snaked down his flesh and he wasn’t aware of the world for some time after that.
He woke all at once to Sherlock shaking his shoulder.
“Wha’ s’matter?” he muttered.
“Listen,” Sherlock said briskly, sounding more alert than Lestrade had heard in weeks.
He obligingly fell silent, trying to pick out a sound that wasn’t the pedestal fans or their own breathing. After a moment, he could pick out a faint pinging on the roof, and the windowpane was rattling -
“Is that rain?” he whispered. He slid off the bed and went over to the window, pressing his hand against the screen. Moisture dampened his palm almost instantly, and a swift, cool breeze swept around him.
It was raining.
They dragged the fans over to the open window, forcibly drawing the cool, rain-scented air into the bedroom, and for the first time in weeks, they both slept soundly.
----
The rain continued on through the next day. It was a steady, driving rain, relentless, and though it didn’t dispel the heat entirely it was still enough to break summer’s oppressive grip on London. And the effect was immediate. Moods at the Yard were lighter than they had been in nearly a month, and Lestrade didn’t feel like he was simply slogging through his workday.
When Lestrade returned to Baker Street that night he was soaked to the bone, but this time it had nothing to do with his own sweat and he couldn’t have been more delighted. He found Sherlock in the kitchen, not on the sofa or in the shower, and he was peering at something through his microscope.
“Anything interesting?” Lestrade asked, running a hand through his wet hair.
“Yes,” Sherlock said distractedly, “but it’s far beyond your comprehension so don’t bother asking what it is.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Lestrade spun Sherlock’s stool around and bent to give him a thorough kiss, swallowing his yelp of indignation. “I’m going to bed.”
“You've only just got here.”
Lestrade was pleased to note that Sherlock actually sounded a tad breathless, and a faint flush now covered his cheekbones.
“Yeah, and it’s almost eleven, in case you didn’t notice.” To be fair, Sherlock probably hadn’t. Lestrade smirked at the bemused look on his face and absently curled a few strands of Sherlock’s hair around his finger. The humidity in the air had caused his curls to fray, and they were even more untamable than was normal. “So, unless you’d like to join me, I’m going to sleep.”
For a moment, Sherlock actually looked torn, but then he shook his head. “I need to finish this.”
Lestrade would have actually been surprised had Sherlock agreed to abandon his experiment, in all honesty, and this refusal to do so was yet further proof that their world had finally gone back to business as usual. He gave Sherlock a lingering kiss, and then nipped at the underside of his jaw. He pulled away just as Sherlock’s breath started to catch in his chest and made for the bedroom, smirking to himself at the sound of Sherlock’s soft, disappointed groan.
Lestrade knew that Sherlock would always choose the work.
That didn’t mean he was going to make the decision an easy one, however.
The rain continued to fall steadily, and Lestrade stripped down to only his t-shirt and pants before crawling into Sherlock’s bed. The room was blissfully cool, and he only had a moment to savour it before sheer comfort pulled him down into sleep.
He wasn’t sure what woke him later on, and indeed it might have been nothing in particular. But when he opened his eyes, he was no longer alone in the room. Sherlock was standing by the window, clad only in his boxers, watching the rain. The dull yellow light from the lap outside highlighted the taut planes of his bare back and his well-defined biceps. He was leaning more weight on his right leg than his left, and for a moment Lestrade admired the tight curve of his arse and the sharp muscles of his calves.
“Well, now,” he said quietly, breaking the silence, “there’s a sight I could get used to.”
Sherlock turned, and Lestrade could feel his smirk in the dark.
“It’s been five years, Lestrade,” he pointed out, walking over to the bed. Lestrade raked his eyes down Sherlock’s muscled torso, taking in his flat stomach and the tiny curve that started just below his navel and disappeared beneath the waistband of his boxers--the only fat Sherlock carried on his body. “Presumably you grew used to it long ago.”
“Never. Get over here.”
Sherlock knelt over him on the bed and leaned down. Lestrade tilted his face up to meet the soft lips, but at the last second Sherlock dodged the kiss and licked the side of his face instead.
“You child,” Lestrade burst out, but he couldn’t keep from laughing. Sherlock offered him a too-pleased grin, and Lestrade curled a hand around the back of his neck. “Come on, give us a proper kiss this time, eh?”
He could still feel Sherlock’s smirk when their mouths finally met, but it melted soon enough, replaced by a sharp intake of breath and then the relentless press of lips and tongue.
“Easy,” Lestrade whispered when he could finally pull away, holding Sherlock’s head just centimeters from his own. He flicked his tongue against Sherlock’s lower lip and then drew back. Sherlock, breathing heavily, tried to follow. Lestrade held him firmly in place and then, for good measure, locked his knees around Sherlock’s hips. “We’ve got all night.”
“Greg -”
Lestrade flipped him without warning, rolling on top of Sherlock and pinning him to the bed. He straddled Sherlock’s waist and drew away only long enough to shed his own shirt. Sherlock groaned and reached for him; Lestrade grabbed his wrists and pressed his hands against the mattress. Sherlock didn’t struggle; if anything, his breathing grew more rapid, and when Lestrade shifted lower he could feel that Sherlock was already hard in his shorts. He chuckled, leaned down, and murmured, “You like that, eh?” against Sherlock’s lips.
“I - Yeah.” Sherlock was already so breathless that he could barely get the word out. Lestrade kissed him again, hard enough to bruise, and Sherlock whimpered. He tasted of stale mint, and smelled of spice and sweat. What remaining blood Lestrade had left in his head fled south, and he groaned. Their kisses turned frantic and sloppy, and Lestrade finally had to pull away before he lost all sense of himself.
Sherlock was panting, staring up at him out of glassy eyes, and confusion flashed across his features.
“What -”
Lestrade didn’t give him a chance to finish. He gave a slow twist of his hips, and the question was chased from Sherlock’s mind. His back arched in immediate response to the contact and he made a guttural noise in the back of his throat, his hips jerking upward. Lestrade smirked and repeated the movement, grinding down slowly against him. Sherlock’s fabric-clad erection slid against his own, and heat spiked low in Lestrade’s belly at the sensation. Sherlock gave a low groan and twisted his hips; Lestrade matched the movement until they were both rocking against one another.
“Jesus - Greg... no, wait,” Sherlock panted. “Keep - keep that up, and this is going to be over before it starts.”
He had a point. They were both painfully hard and leaking already. This wasn’t going to last much longer as it was, and they were still partially-clothed.
Lestrade raised himself off Sherlock long enough to shed his underwear while Sherlock lifted his freed hips to slide his boxers off, kicking them away with a grunt of success. Lestrade then sank down on top of him again, settling so that they were pressed together, chests to hips to thighs. Their cocks slid together in the tight heat between their stomachs, and Sherlock groaned at the contact.
“Fucking finally,” he whispered. He lifted his hips, seeking friction. “I need - Greg -”
“I know,” Lestrade said breathlessly. He fumbled for the lube, groping in the bedside table until he closed his hand around it. “God, I know. Just -”
He recapped the bottle and tossed it aside before reaching between their bodies, taking them both in hand. Sherlock hissed as Lestrade’s hand closed around him, and thrust into the slick heat of his palm. Their cocks slid together, hot and heavy, and Lestrade grunted, hips snapping forward. Sherlock fisted one hand into the sheets, twisting them in a white-knuckled grip, and grabbed the headboard with the other.
“Sh - fr - dei... holy -”
Lestrade gave a breathy chuckle at the broken, nonsense words that spilled from Sherlock’s lips. But then Sherlock pressed a hand to his backside, trailing a fingertip along the cleft of his arse, and it quickly dissolved into a moan. Lestrade loosened his grip, releasing them both, and Sherlock gave a growl of frustration.
“If you - if you stop now,” he hissed, fighting for coherent thought, “I’m going to... to fucking kill you.”
Lestrade gave a breathless huff of laughter.
“If I stop now... you have my permission to do so.” He braced his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head, allowing himself better leverage. He ground down against Sherlock, and added a twist at the end of each thrust. “God.”
Sherlock swallowed back a moan, Adam’s apple bobbing visibly, and Lestrade leaned down to mouth at the side of his throat.
“Come on,” he rasped. “Come on, let me see...”
He drew back, rocking their hips together, watching Sherlock’s face with every thrust. Sherlock’s head fell back against the pillow, neck arching towards the ceiling, and his eyelids fluttered. He rolled his hips to meet each of Lestrade’s thrusts, quickening the pace.
Lestrade nipped Sherlock’s earlobe and then pressed a kiss to the curve of his jaw, lips rasping over the evening stubble there. He teased a sensitive patch of skin just below Sherlock’s ear with his teeth. Sherlock let out a sharp whine and cupped the back of Lestrade’s head, holding him there, and the motion of his hips soon began to fall out of the steady rhythm Lestrade had set. He thrust upwards unevenly, desperately. His breaths hitched in his throat, and Lestrade stole a greedy kiss, murmuring encouragements against Sherlock’s pliant lips.
“Wanna see you,” he whispered. Sherlock grabbed his waist, pulling their bodies tighter together. “God, you should see yourself right now, so desperate -”
Sherlock’s hips stuttered, and he suddenly tensed against Lestrade’s body. He grunted, shuddering through his orgasm, his fingers digging into Lestrade’s back so hard that they were sure to leave bruises.
“Jesus, Greg,” he gasped when he finally went limp. “Fuck -”
He shoved an elbow into the mattress and reached for Lestrade with his other hand, meeting him halfway for a clumsy kiss, and let his legs fall open wider as Lestrade continued to slide against him. He followed Sherlock over the edge half a dozen thrusts later, hips jerking erratically as he came in pulses, his vision whiting out at the edges. Sherlock swallowed his cry and kissed him through his climax.
Lestrade’s arms gave out when the aftershocks finally ceased and he sprawled out next to Sherlock, drawing great lungfuls of air as his heart threatened to break free of his chest. His vision eventually cleared, and he glanced over at his bedmate. Sherlock’s eyes were closed and he was breathing heavily through his nose. He had one arm flung up over his head and his tanned skin glistened with sweat, and he appeared as though he could not be persuaded to move for a very long time. Lestrade was just about to conclude that he had fallen asleep when Sherlock cracked open an eye to give him an appraising look.
“Was that - best you could do?” he murmured, trying to sound haughty and failing miserably because he still hadn’t caught his breath.
Lestrade slid a hand over Sherlock’s sweat-slick chest. He ran his fingers through the smattering of dark hair before tweaking a nipple. Sherlock gave a broken whimper, and gooseflesh erupted across his chest.
“Arse,” Lestrade said, without heat. “Give me a minute, and I’ll give you a proper fuck. I’m not nineteen anymore, you know. For that matter, neither are you.”
“I’m twenty-nine, it’s not that much different,” Sherlock said with a huff. Lestrade gave a bark of laughter.
“You realise no one actually believes you when you say that, right?”
“No reason why they shouldn’t,” Sherlock muttered darkly, and Lestrade snorted.
The flush of arousal was starting to fade from Sherlock’s chest, and his previously damp hair was now sticking to his forehead. Lestrade was just now beginning to notice the cool air again, as the breeze from the window dried the sweat on his body. But Sherlock’s lips were still pink and bruised, and there was a breathless quality to his words. Lestrade took no small amount of pleasure in knowing that he was responsible for it.
He reached out and traced the thin bow of Sherlock’s upper lip with his finger, and Sherlock’s eyes flicked to him. He pressed his tongue against the tip of Lestrade’s finger before taking it into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks as he sucked. Lestrade gave a sharp intake of breath, and his cock gave a twitch of interest.
Christ, it had been too long.
“Come on, then,” he whispered. Sherlock released his finger and moved to straddle him, and Lestrade pulled him down for a salt-filled kiss, the perspiration on his upper lip mingling with Sherlock’s own. “Come here and show me how you’re not thirty-five.”
Sherlock started to mutter something about, “You’re the one who’s almost fifty -” but Lestrade flipped him onto his back and put a swift, decisive end to that line of thinking.
And the rain continued well into the night.