SiS Day 3: blooms84: Lestrade Understands that Sherlock Needs
Name:blooms84
Type of work: fic
Category: slash
Title: Lestrade Understands that Sherlock Needs
Prompt(s) used: Lestrade Understands Sherlock’s Needs
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: explicit sex
Notes/Acknowledgments: thanks to fengirl88 for general support and encouragement
Consider this work for voting?: No
Lestrade Understands that Sherlock Needs
. . . an Audience
“Incredible. Just bloody incredible. It’s like watching a fucking magician or a mentalist.”
The young man’s red-rimmed eyes opened wide and one corner of his mouth curled upward for no more than a second, just long enough to betray his delight at the unexpected compliment. He nodded at Lestrade, who stood with his arms folded, still shaking his head in disbelief and admiration.
“There’s more, of course, Inspector. Don’t put away your notebook just yet,” he said, stepping around to the far side of the two bodies that lay face down, stiffening on the polished marble floor of the jewelry shop.
Lestrade had been irritated at first when he discovered how easily the bloke had talked his way past the police tape, claiming to be an employee of the shop and a friend of the two women who had been killed. After fabricating a stunning web of lies that completely fooled Lestrade’s brightest rookie, Sally Donovan, the fellow had begun slinking around the shop, peering at everything and every one from odd angles, sometimes with a pretentious prop-a magnifying glass---in hand. When the intruder failed to produce the identification Lestrade requested and the shop owner confirmed there was no Sherlock Holmes (an alias if ever Lestrade had heard one) employed there, the D.I. grinned at Sally’s rage and promised he’d handle shuffling the kid on his way. No need to throw charges of obstructing police work at him. Seemed like just a mischievous, clever twenty-something, after all.
But as Lestrade was trying to firmly toss the young man out on his arse, Sherlock began listing characteristics of the victims, details of their deaths, and-most important-perfectly plausible deductions about the murderer, with such confidence that Lestrade could not help himself-he began taking notes as if he were listening to one of his own investigators.
“Amazing. Wait, how do you know that?” “Why do you think he was a musician? And you’re sure there were two killers, not just one?”
Lestrade eventually took the interloper’s mobile number for future reference and shooed him away, then continued wrapping up his work, letting officers go home as they completed their own tasks, leaving Lestrade the last to head out the door at half three in the morning. Rounding the corner on the way to his car, Lestrade heard noises in a narrow walkway between two shops and peered in to investigate. He saw Sherlock (that, god help him, was his real name, apparently), trousers around his ankles, cock buried in Sergeant Carter, one of Lestrade’s handsomer young recruits.
Lestrade meant to walk away, leave the pair in peace. None of his business how his officers put the day’s carnage out of their minds. But try as he might, he couldn’t look away. He was cemented in place. And suddenly Sherlock turned to look at him, unembarrassed, holding Lestrade’s gaze with bewitching grey eyes as he stood behind Carter, managing slow, deep thrusts while grasping the copper’s hip with one hand and ministering to his stiff pink cock with the other. Lestrade stepped sideways into a shadow, not wanting Carter to catch his eye too. No need for that kind of threesome. Lestrade’s mouth felt parched and the back of his neck was hot and prickly as he watched Sherlock’s movements quicken and listened to the pitch of Carter’s moans get higher. “Yes, yes . . . so good. Don’t stop . . . please . . . please . . . god, yes!”
The firmness in Lestrade’s trousers begged to be touched and a wave of desire left him short of breath, but he refused to give in to it. He watched Sherlock bring Carter to climax, the poor boy’s knees buckling, hands pressed to the wall in front of him for support. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment as he came too, then opened them again to grin at Lestrade. Withdrawing, he tossed the condom on the pavement, and tucked himself back into his trousers with what the D.I. would have sworn was a slight bow. As his partner sank to the ground, gasping, eyes closed, Sherlock walked towards Lestrade, who wanted to bolt, wanted to reach out to touch him, and perhaps more than anything, wanted to laugh at the street theater he had just witnessed.
That night he bolted. But in the months that followed, Lestrade became Sherlock’s most appreciative audience.
. . . Obstacles
Lestrade never unlocked the door when Sherlock pounded and bellowed in the middle of the night, voice rough and needy, hiding behind some pretext of an ongoing murder investigation or indignities he had suffered at the hands of Gregson or Dimmock.
“Let me in, Lestrade! Unlock the door immediately.”
Lestrade usually got out of bed and pulled on a t-shirt and trousers to make himself feel a little less vulnerable during the ensuing attack, while Sherlock continued hurling an almost musical litany of insults at the door. The D. I. was not made of money, so in the first months of what he would later ruefully call their “courtship,” he would curse each time he heard the tapping, twisting, and prying of Sherlock’s penknife at work, destroying another £40 lock. But recently, instead of a lock that could be picked, Lestrade had installed an electronic keypad that operated a deadbolt.
Yes, of course, Sherlock would work out the password and break in as usual, but it would be a little more amusing for him to break in after solving a small numerical puzzle-and Lestrade could change the password often, getting progressively more obscure each time.
Lestrade understood now-going on three years of working with Sherlock Holmes, including almost a year in what could loosely be called a personal “relationship” with the man-that when there was no worthwhile case to be had, the genius desperately searched for an alternative fix. He needed the force of resistance in his life, an obstacle, something to push against that would not yield immediately or easily. Something-or someone-to wrestle. Tonight the first resistance he met was a new lock on the door. Next, it would be the D. I. himself.
“Hah! Done!” Sherlock announced triumphantly, four minutes and twenty-three seconds after Lestrade heard the initial pounding cease. Sherlock shoved the door open and tossed his overcoat on a chair, then whinged, “It’s absurd that you insist on trying to keep me out with such primitive means, Lestrade. Surely you can improve on that narcoleptic security guard downstairs and your mother’s birthday as a password. It’s pathetic.”
But the glint in Sherlock’s eyes and the flush in his cheeks belied the complaints. He had enjoyed the new challenge, and was ready for the next.
Lestrade had played his role dozens of times, so fell easily into the required gruff, beleagured voice.
“What the hell are you here for Sherlock?”
“I want access to Dimmock’s files on the murder at H & M last week.”
“Not a chance. I’m not touching any of Dimmock’s cases. Go wake him up if you’re so keen to get involved.”
“He won’t answer my texts or agree to a meeting with me. You have to intervene. I can solve that case in half a day. I just need . . .”
“Jesus Christ, you’re an annoying prick. I said no. And get out of my flat, you bloody criminal, before I call someone to throw you in the cells for breaking in.” Lestrade walked to the door, opened it, and grunted, “Out. Now.”
He wondered, given his own long, difficult, sleepless week, whether time in the cells might be the better option for Sherlock tonight-better than a wrestling match with such a predictable outcome. But on second thought . . .
When the wrestling was over, the two men lay naked and flaccid on the sitting room carpet. Sherlock was asleep with one leg thrown across Lestrade’s hips, as the older man looked around to survey the damage. One broken lamp, a small bookcase overturned, and rug-burned knees for the pair of them. Not bad, all things considered.
The first time Sherlock had come at him spoiling for a fight, there was some blood and more bruises, Lestrade recalled, and the outcome had been anything but predictable.
Sherlock had been back in London for a couple of weeks, fresh out of four months’ detox and rehab his mysterious brother had arranged. The now thoroughly clean consulting detective had taken to stalking Lestrade, demanding a new case. But all the mysteries were wrapping up too quickly, with no challenge worthy of calling in Sherlock, so cries of “I’m bored!” lit up Lestrade’s mobile and email hourly.
Late one evening, Lestrade was alone in the gents at the Yard. He zipped up his flies and turned to wash his hands, starting in surprise when he saw a familiar long, pale face in the mirror.
Lestrade had never felt afraid of Sherlock-even during his drug-addled rants and threats, but suddenly there was a hint of fear in the fine hairs rising on his arms. Sherlock looked like a hungry predator-a panther, or some such sinewy feline-and Lestrade felt like the prey.
“Fuck. You startled me. What are you doing here so late, Sherlock?”
Without answering, Sherlock threw Lestrade against the tile wall with such sudden force that he thought he could actually feel his teeth loosen in their sockets. His assailant held Lestrade’s wrists immobile above his head, pressing them hard against the wall, and fiercely began to bite and suck the D. I.’s Adam’s apple and the tender spot just beneath the angle of his jaw.
Lestrade half expected a fist to his gut when Sherlock let go of one of his wrists and drew back. Instead, there was a hand fumbling at the front of his trousers. Lestrade felt the heat of anger, not arousal at that moment. He preferred not to be mauled by a lunatic in a public washroom, thank you very much. So he pushed back hard with the heel of his hand against Sherlock’s jaw, sending him reeling across the room, banging his head against the waste bin.
Sherlock rose from the floor in a fury, throwing himself against Lestrade again and reaching for the handcuffs clipped to the back of the copper’s belt. Grinning and breathing hard into Lestrade’s mouth he clicked the cuffs open and scraped them over Lestrade’s left wrist, on the verge of snapping them closed just before Lestrade bit down on Sherlock’s lip and wrested himself free. Back in control while Sherlock pressed fingers to his bloody mouth in disbelief, Lestrade leaned against the sink and tried to catch his breath.
He had warned the man about this before, but it seemed to bear repeating, “I am not stupid, Sherlock. There is no fucking way you’re ever putting me in handcuffs. I’ll never trust you enough for that.”
Sherlock’s look was vaguely amused as he stood at the other sink, cleaning his lip and chin before walking silently to the door. Without turning around, as he made his exit, Sherlock tossed off a low growl that turned Lestrade’s cock hard and eager in an instant, “See you later tonight, Inspector.”
When Sherlock broke into Lestrade’s flat that night, he could tell the genius still wanted resistance, so held out as long as he could, shoving, punching, twisting out of that powerful grip. But at last Lestrade was exhausted, and Sherlock was lowering himself to his knees and licking at the thin, delicate skin at the base of Lestrade’s cock, pulling his balls into his mouth and stroking up and down his thighs with long, uncalloused fingertips. The last thing Lestrade remembered about that night was the delicious feel of those black curls wrapped around his fingers and his own voice pleading for Sherlock to take him deeper, faster, and having all his wishes granted.
. . . a Conscience
Lestrade’s instincts were rarely wrong. Damn near never wrong when it came to reading Sherlock. And he had a feeling in his gut now, as he watched the man in his sharply tailored black suit and “look-at-me” purple silk shirt pacing up and down the corridor at Bart’s. Scowling. Waiting for the voices in Molly’s tiny office to fall silent. Lestrade leaned against the wall, arms folded, jaw tensed, knowing Sherlock was certainly about to engage in some unacceptable behaviour, but not yet knowing what form the foolishness would take.
They could both hear Molly’s gentle, tentative words, wrapping each phrase about trauma, hemorrhage, and fractures in expressions of regret and condolence. Poor girl. She always drew the short straw. Her colleagues inevitably assigned her to explain “cause of death” when family members demanded to speak to a “real doctor” at the morgue.
Finally, the door opened and three nuns, all in dark modest skirts and white blouses, tiny gold crosses at each of their necks, followed Molly out of the office. Two held hands, heads bowed, tears still flowing. The other shook hands with Molly and thanked her. She then turned to Lestrade and nodded.
Lestrade addressed the tallest of the women, the one who had spoken to him earlier, making the request that the autopsy be expedited and the body released back to the Sisters as soon as possible so that they could get on with the mass and burial. He had agreed without argument. Having spent half his youth with such women, he was constitutionally incapable of saying no to them. He took the report and release papers Molly handed him and shook each Sister’s hand gently, mumbling “So sorry for your loss.” He was about to leave them on their own to move the body downstairs to the waiting hearse, when Sherlock pushed in front of him, breathing hard, clearly frustrated.
“Ladies. Please. You mustn’t remove the body yet. I need to examine it. I work with Detective Inspector Lestrade, and I’m sure he’ll agree that I . . .”
“Sherlock. Stop it. This instant. I’m sorry, Sister Margaret. Please feel free to collect Sister Dominique and leave as soon as you’d like. You’re all done here.”
“No! I haven’t had my chance at the remains yet,” insisted Sherlock. “You want to know who did this to her, don’t you? You want to catch the man who bashed in her skull and . . .”
“Sherlock. Not another word or you’ll spend two nights down in the cells. Molly has done her work and filed a report. I trust her.”
“Molly’s a fool. I’m trying to . . .”
Among Sherlock’s many flaws, the one Lestrade could never seem to manage was his lack of empathy, lack of a normal human conscience. Seemed no one had ever bothered to coach him on right and wrong, tell him when his behavior was simply not right, not good. Lestrade thought maybe he could get through to him eventually-bring out the decent man that surely lay buried deep within-if he made it his full-time job, but that was impossible.
The D.I. often threatened the lunatic with incarceration, but only on rare occasions like this made good on the threat, using three officers to subdue him and drag him in for two nights, just as promised.
Lestrade counted it as a nice bonus to see Donovan’s broad grin when she saw the Freak arrive at the Yard in cuffs that afternoon.
. . . and a New Partner
Lestrade dropped his feet to the cold floor and pushed himself out of bed, still naked and damp with sweat, belly sticky, raw inside and out after a rough-as-usual night with the genius. He looked down at the young man’s long limbs and fine muscled torso. True to form, the selfish bastard was claiming almost every inch of the sagging mattress.
“How long since you’ve known it was the neighbor?” asked Lestrade quietly.
Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open for a moment, then closed again as he turned and pulled the duvet over his shoulders. “Jenkins case? A few weeks, maybe. It’s not even dawn yet, why are you up?”
“Go to sleep, Sherlock.”
Hints of moonlight filtered through the curtains, bouncing off planes and angles of translucent white skin amidst a tangle of bedsheets that were only a shade paler. Even after five years, the sheer beauty of an image like this caught Lestrade by surprise, forcing him to pause to take it all in. At times he wondered what good deed he had done in a past life that had got that gorgeous body and even more gorgeous mind entrusted to his care.
At other times, of course, listening to Sherlock insult the intelligence of a random sergeant, the Met, or the entire English-speaking world, Lestrade wondered instead what past life sins he was paying for.
Turning away from the picture, he pulled on threadbare pyjama bottoms and a grey sweatshirt, took his mobile from the bedside table, and padded to the kitchen. After arranging for the arrest, he texted Sally to ask her to come in early and help him with the questioning, then made a pot of coffee before heading for the bathroom.
The D. I.’s mind jumped to the mysterious deaths that had seized his attention- and that of every other sentient Londoner- for weeks. What new accusations would the reporters throw at him today, he wondered. Would he be able to convince them that the deaths were simple suicides, not freakish serial murders-even if he wasn’t sure he believed that official line himself?
He closed his eyes and stepped into the shower, letting hot water and steam melt away reminders of the night’s many awkward flexes and stretches. Lestrade congratulated himself that he hadn’t made any stupid promises about access to bodies and evidence that he would regret come morning, despite all Sherlock’s usual wicked enticements.
The D. I. soaped his chest and neck and then let one hand stray down between his thighs to gently massage himself. He was utterly spent, but couldn’t resist replaying a highlights reel in his head while the memory was fresh: Sherlock swallowing and pulling off Lestrade’s cock with a satisfied smirk. Rising from the sofa, his lips pink, full, and wet. Kissing him hungrily while inching towards the bedroom.
Then the slow, burning thrusts that seemed to push all the oxygen from Lestrade’s lungs, leaving him dizzy and gasping, but wanting more. Lestrade’s nails pressed deep into the flesh of those slim hips, so desperate to pull Sherlock deeper. Surprised to find himself hard and aching again so soon, Lestrade had shamelessly circled Sherlock’s long fingers around his erection. And Sherlock had responded with a giddy laugh, fucking Lestrade faster and tightening his grip around the D.I. while the bed frame creaked in sympathy beneath them.
Sherlock closed his eyes when he came, but Lestrade kept his open, watching his lover’s head arch back slowly and then snap forward again. On his own lips, Lestrade tasted beads of salty sweat falling from Sherlock’s chin, then felt a dozen small tremors run through the man’s body. Felt Sherlock’s fingers pulling and twisting insistently again.
Brushing his lips against Lestrade’s ear, Sherlock whispered, “Come now, Lestrade. Come while you’re still tight around me . . . listen to me . . .”
As he peaked, thrusting into Sherlock’s fist, Lestrade barely heard a breathy whisper in his ear, revealing the name of the murderer and the location of a missing weapon in a case that had plagued the Met, unsolved for more than three months.
Replaying it all as he stood beneath the spray, Lestrade splayed one hand against the tile and worked himself harder. Thighs tensed and shaking, warm water flowing down his shoulders and back, he vividly recalled the surrender he had felt when Sherlock climaxed, then pulled Lestrade-completely open and vulnerable beneath him- over the edge too.
It had felt almost like drowning, being tugged under a warm wave of pleasure. Then suddenly choking when he realized what Sherlock had said. Trying to surface. Trying to breathe again. Gasping. Roughly pushing Sherlock away.
Now, feeling himself go limp and small again, turning off the relentless pounding of the water, Lestrade was overcome by a sense of finality. He thought of Sherlock-still asleep, oblivious to how he had altered their relationship. Lestrade knew Sherlock didn’t realize he had crossed a line; he didn’t know the line existed. Maybe the D.I. should have texted the meaning of right and wrong in capital letters. But it was too late now. The lunatic could not hold up the resolution of a case-a case with two victims, two families, and a killer still on the streets-because it was all just a game, because it made him come harder, or whatever bloody psychotic reason drove him.
After dressing in the dark, Lestrade sat at the kitchen table, sipping black coffee and scratching down notes for the morning’s interrogation and for the afternoon press conference. Then he looked at the clock: still not even five a.m. He’d have to wait until he got to the office. As a reminder, he jotted one last note to himself: Call M. Find someone else to take care of Sherlock.
Type of work: fic
Category: slash
Title: Lestrade Understands that Sherlock Needs
Prompt(s) used: Lestrade Understands Sherlock’s Needs
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: explicit sex
Notes/Acknowledgments: thanks to fengirl88 for general support and encouragement
Consider this work for voting?: No
Lestrade Understands that Sherlock Needs
. . . an Audience
“Incredible. Just bloody incredible. It’s like watching a fucking magician or a mentalist.”
The young man’s red-rimmed eyes opened wide and one corner of his mouth curled upward for no more than a second, just long enough to betray his delight at the unexpected compliment. He nodded at Lestrade, who stood with his arms folded, still shaking his head in disbelief and admiration.
“There’s more, of course, Inspector. Don’t put away your notebook just yet,” he said, stepping around to the far side of the two bodies that lay face down, stiffening on the polished marble floor of the jewelry shop.
Lestrade had been irritated at first when he discovered how easily the bloke had talked his way past the police tape, claiming to be an employee of the shop and a friend of the two women who had been killed. After fabricating a stunning web of lies that completely fooled Lestrade’s brightest rookie, Sally Donovan, the fellow had begun slinking around the shop, peering at everything and every one from odd angles, sometimes with a pretentious prop-a magnifying glass---in hand. When the intruder failed to produce the identification Lestrade requested and the shop owner confirmed there was no Sherlock Holmes (an alias if ever Lestrade had heard one) employed there, the D.I. grinned at Sally’s rage and promised he’d handle shuffling the kid on his way. No need to throw charges of obstructing police work at him. Seemed like just a mischievous, clever twenty-something, after all.
But as Lestrade was trying to firmly toss the young man out on his arse, Sherlock began listing characteristics of the victims, details of their deaths, and-most important-perfectly plausible deductions about the murderer, with such confidence that Lestrade could not help himself-he began taking notes as if he were listening to one of his own investigators.
“Amazing. Wait, how do you know that?” “Why do you think he was a musician? And you’re sure there were two killers, not just one?”
Lestrade eventually took the interloper’s mobile number for future reference and shooed him away, then continued wrapping up his work, letting officers go home as they completed their own tasks, leaving Lestrade the last to head out the door at half three in the morning. Rounding the corner on the way to his car, Lestrade heard noises in a narrow walkway between two shops and peered in to investigate. He saw Sherlock (that, god help him, was his real name, apparently), trousers around his ankles, cock buried in Sergeant Carter, one of Lestrade’s handsomer young recruits.
Lestrade meant to walk away, leave the pair in peace. None of his business how his officers put the day’s carnage out of their minds. But try as he might, he couldn’t look away. He was cemented in place. And suddenly Sherlock turned to look at him, unembarrassed, holding Lestrade’s gaze with bewitching grey eyes as he stood behind Carter, managing slow, deep thrusts while grasping the copper’s hip with one hand and ministering to his stiff pink cock with the other. Lestrade stepped sideways into a shadow, not wanting Carter to catch his eye too. No need for that kind of threesome. Lestrade’s mouth felt parched and the back of his neck was hot and prickly as he watched Sherlock’s movements quicken and listened to the pitch of Carter’s moans get higher. “Yes, yes . . . so good. Don’t stop . . . please . . . please . . . god, yes!”
The firmness in Lestrade’s trousers begged to be touched and a wave of desire left him short of breath, but he refused to give in to it. He watched Sherlock bring Carter to climax, the poor boy’s knees buckling, hands pressed to the wall in front of him for support. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment as he came too, then opened them again to grin at Lestrade. Withdrawing, he tossed the condom on the pavement, and tucked himself back into his trousers with what the D.I. would have sworn was a slight bow. As his partner sank to the ground, gasping, eyes closed, Sherlock walked towards Lestrade, who wanted to bolt, wanted to reach out to touch him, and perhaps more than anything, wanted to laugh at the street theater he had just witnessed.
That night he bolted. But in the months that followed, Lestrade became Sherlock’s most appreciative audience.
. . . Obstacles
Lestrade never unlocked the door when Sherlock pounded and bellowed in the middle of the night, voice rough and needy, hiding behind some pretext of an ongoing murder investigation or indignities he had suffered at the hands of Gregson or Dimmock.
“Let me in, Lestrade! Unlock the door immediately.”
Lestrade usually got out of bed and pulled on a t-shirt and trousers to make himself feel a little less vulnerable during the ensuing attack, while Sherlock continued hurling an almost musical litany of insults at the door. The D. I. was not made of money, so in the first months of what he would later ruefully call their “courtship,” he would curse each time he heard the tapping, twisting, and prying of Sherlock’s penknife at work, destroying another £40 lock. But recently, instead of a lock that could be picked, Lestrade had installed an electronic keypad that operated a deadbolt.
Yes, of course, Sherlock would work out the password and break in as usual, but it would be a little more amusing for him to break in after solving a small numerical puzzle-and Lestrade could change the password often, getting progressively more obscure each time.
Lestrade understood now-going on three years of working with Sherlock Holmes, including almost a year in what could loosely be called a personal “relationship” with the man-that when there was no worthwhile case to be had, the genius desperately searched for an alternative fix. He needed the force of resistance in his life, an obstacle, something to push against that would not yield immediately or easily. Something-or someone-to wrestle. Tonight the first resistance he met was a new lock on the door. Next, it would be the D. I. himself.
“Hah! Done!” Sherlock announced triumphantly, four minutes and twenty-three seconds after Lestrade heard the initial pounding cease. Sherlock shoved the door open and tossed his overcoat on a chair, then whinged, “It’s absurd that you insist on trying to keep me out with such primitive means, Lestrade. Surely you can improve on that narcoleptic security guard downstairs and your mother’s birthday as a password. It’s pathetic.”
But the glint in Sherlock’s eyes and the flush in his cheeks belied the complaints. He had enjoyed the new challenge, and was ready for the next.
Lestrade had played his role dozens of times, so fell easily into the required gruff, beleagured voice.
“What the hell are you here for Sherlock?”
“I want access to Dimmock’s files on the murder at H & M last week.”
“Not a chance. I’m not touching any of Dimmock’s cases. Go wake him up if you’re so keen to get involved.”
“He won’t answer my texts or agree to a meeting with me. You have to intervene. I can solve that case in half a day. I just need . . .”
“Jesus Christ, you’re an annoying prick. I said no. And get out of my flat, you bloody criminal, before I call someone to throw you in the cells for breaking in.” Lestrade walked to the door, opened it, and grunted, “Out. Now.”
He wondered, given his own long, difficult, sleepless week, whether time in the cells might be the better option for Sherlock tonight-better than a wrestling match with such a predictable outcome. But on second thought . . .
When the wrestling was over, the two men lay naked and flaccid on the sitting room carpet. Sherlock was asleep with one leg thrown across Lestrade’s hips, as the older man looked around to survey the damage. One broken lamp, a small bookcase overturned, and rug-burned knees for the pair of them. Not bad, all things considered.
The first time Sherlock had come at him spoiling for a fight, there was some blood and more bruises, Lestrade recalled, and the outcome had been anything but predictable.
Sherlock had been back in London for a couple of weeks, fresh out of four months’ detox and rehab his mysterious brother had arranged. The now thoroughly clean consulting detective had taken to stalking Lestrade, demanding a new case. But all the mysteries were wrapping up too quickly, with no challenge worthy of calling in Sherlock, so cries of “I’m bored!” lit up Lestrade’s mobile and email hourly.
Late one evening, Lestrade was alone in the gents at the Yard. He zipped up his flies and turned to wash his hands, starting in surprise when he saw a familiar long, pale face in the mirror.
Lestrade had never felt afraid of Sherlock-even during his drug-addled rants and threats, but suddenly there was a hint of fear in the fine hairs rising on his arms. Sherlock looked like a hungry predator-a panther, or some such sinewy feline-and Lestrade felt like the prey.
“Fuck. You startled me. What are you doing here so late, Sherlock?”
Without answering, Sherlock threw Lestrade against the tile wall with such sudden force that he thought he could actually feel his teeth loosen in their sockets. His assailant held Lestrade’s wrists immobile above his head, pressing them hard against the wall, and fiercely began to bite and suck the D. I.’s Adam’s apple and the tender spot just beneath the angle of his jaw.
Lestrade half expected a fist to his gut when Sherlock let go of one of his wrists and drew back. Instead, there was a hand fumbling at the front of his trousers. Lestrade felt the heat of anger, not arousal at that moment. He preferred not to be mauled by a lunatic in a public washroom, thank you very much. So he pushed back hard with the heel of his hand against Sherlock’s jaw, sending him reeling across the room, banging his head against the waste bin.
Sherlock rose from the floor in a fury, throwing himself against Lestrade again and reaching for the handcuffs clipped to the back of the copper’s belt. Grinning and breathing hard into Lestrade’s mouth he clicked the cuffs open and scraped them over Lestrade’s left wrist, on the verge of snapping them closed just before Lestrade bit down on Sherlock’s lip and wrested himself free. Back in control while Sherlock pressed fingers to his bloody mouth in disbelief, Lestrade leaned against the sink and tried to catch his breath.
He had warned the man about this before, but it seemed to bear repeating, “I am not stupid, Sherlock. There is no fucking way you’re ever putting me in handcuffs. I’ll never trust you enough for that.”
Sherlock’s look was vaguely amused as he stood at the other sink, cleaning his lip and chin before walking silently to the door. Without turning around, as he made his exit, Sherlock tossed off a low growl that turned Lestrade’s cock hard and eager in an instant, “See you later tonight, Inspector.”
When Sherlock broke into Lestrade’s flat that night, he could tell the genius still wanted resistance, so held out as long as he could, shoving, punching, twisting out of that powerful grip. But at last Lestrade was exhausted, and Sherlock was lowering himself to his knees and licking at the thin, delicate skin at the base of Lestrade’s cock, pulling his balls into his mouth and stroking up and down his thighs with long, uncalloused fingertips. The last thing Lestrade remembered about that night was the delicious feel of those black curls wrapped around his fingers and his own voice pleading for Sherlock to take him deeper, faster, and having all his wishes granted.
. . . a Conscience
Lestrade’s instincts were rarely wrong. Damn near never wrong when it came to reading Sherlock. And he had a feeling in his gut now, as he watched the man in his sharply tailored black suit and “look-at-me” purple silk shirt pacing up and down the corridor at Bart’s. Scowling. Waiting for the voices in Molly’s tiny office to fall silent. Lestrade leaned against the wall, arms folded, jaw tensed, knowing Sherlock was certainly about to engage in some unacceptable behaviour, but not yet knowing what form the foolishness would take.
They could both hear Molly’s gentle, tentative words, wrapping each phrase about trauma, hemorrhage, and fractures in expressions of regret and condolence. Poor girl. She always drew the short straw. Her colleagues inevitably assigned her to explain “cause of death” when family members demanded to speak to a “real doctor” at the morgue.
Finally, the door opened and three nuns, all in dark modest skirts and white blouses, tiny gold crosses at each of their necks, followed Molly out of the office. Two held hands, heads bowed, tears still flowing. The other shook hands with Molly and thanked her. She then turned to Lestrade and nodded.
Lestrade addressed the tallest of the women, the one who had spoken to him earlier, making the request that the autopsy be expedited and the body released back to the Sisters as soon as possible so that they could get on with the mass and burial. He had agreed without argument. Having spent half his youth with such women, he was constitutionally incapable of saying no to them. He took the report and release papers Molly handed him and shook each Sister’s hand gently, mumbling “So sorry for your loss.” He was about to leave them on their own to move the body downstairs to the waiting hearse, when Sherlock pushed in front of him, breathing hard, clearly frustrated.
“Ladies. Please. You mustn’t remove the body yet. I need to examine it. I work with Detective Inspector Lestrade, and I’m sure he’ll agree that I . . .”
“Sherlock. Stop it. This instant. I’m sorry, Sister Margaret. Please feel free to collect Sister Dominique and leave as soon as you’d like. You’re all done here.”
“No! I haven’t had my chance at the remains yet,” insisted Sherlock. “You want to know who did this to her, don’t you? You want to catch the man who bashed in her skull and . . .”
“Sherlock. Not another word or you’ll spend two nights down in the cells. Molly has done her work and filed a report. I trust her.”
“Molly’s a fool. I’m trying to . . .”
Among Sherlock’s many flaws, the one Lestrade could never seem to manage was his lack of empathy, lack of a normal human conscience. Seemed no one had ever bothered to coach him on right and wrong, tell him when his behavior was simply not right, not good. Lestrade thought maybe he could get through to him eventually-bring out the decent man that surely lay buried deep within-if he made it his full-time job, but that was impossible.
The D.I. often threatened the lunatic with incarceration, but only on rare occasions like this made good on the threat, using three officers to subdue him and drag him in for two nights, just as promised.
Lestrade counted it as a nice bonus to see Donovan’s broad grin when she saw the Freak arrive at the Yard in cuffs that afternoon.
. . . and a New Partner
Lestrade dropped his feet to the cold floor and pushed himself out of bed, still naked and damp with sweat, belly sticky, raw inside and out after a rough-as-usual night with the genius. He looked down at the young man’s long limbs and fine muscled torso. True to form, the selfish bastard was claiming almost every inch of the sagging mattress.
“How long since you’ve known it was the neighbor?” asked Lestrade quietly.
Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open for a moment, then closed again as he turned and pulled the duvet over his shoulders. “Jenkins case? A few weeks, maybe. It’s not even dawn yet, why are you up?”
“Go to sleep, Sherlock.”
Hints of moonlight filtered through the curtains, bouncing off planes and angles of translucent white skin amidst a tangle of bedsheets that were only a shade paler. Even after five years, the sheer beauty of an image like this caught Lestrade by surprise, forcing him to pause to take it all in. At times he wondered what good deed he had done in a past life that had got that gorgeous body and even more gorgeous mind entrusted to his care.
At other times, of course, listening to Sherlock insult the intelligence of a random sergeant, the Met, or the entire English-speaking world, Lestrade wondered instead what past life sins he was paying for.
Turning away from the picture, he pulled on threadbare pyjama bottoms and a grey sweatshirt, took his mobile from the bedside table, and padded to the kitchen. After arranging for the arrest, he texted Sally to ask her to come in early and help him with the questioning, then made a pot of coffee before heading for the bathroom.
The D. I.’s mind jumped to the mysterious deaths that had seized his attention- and that of every other sentient Londoner- for weeks. What new accusations would the reporters throw at him today, he wondered. Would he be able to convince them that the deaths were simple suicides, not freakish serial murders-even if he wasn’t sure he believed that official line himself?
He closed his eyes and stepped into the shower, letting hot water and steam melt away reminders of the night’s many awkward flexes and stretches. Lestrade congratulated himself that he hadn’t made any stupid promises about access to bodies and evidence that he would regret come morning, despite all Sherlock’s usual wicked enticements.
The D. I. soaped his chest and neck and then let one hand stray down between his thighs to gently massage himself. He was utterly spent, but couldn’t resist replaying a highlights reel in his head while the memory was fresh: Sherlock swallowing and pulling off Lestrade’s cock with a satisfied smirk. Rising from the sofa, his lips pink, full, and wet. Kissing him hungrily while inching towards the bedroom.
Then the slow, burning thrusts that seemed to push all the oxygen from Lestrade’s lungs, leaving him dizzy and gasping, but wanting more. Lestrade’s nails pressed deep into the flesh of those slim hips, so desperate to pull Sherlock deeper. Surprised to find himself hard and aching again so soon, Lestrade had shamelessly circled Sherlock’s long fingers around his erection. And Sherlock had responded with a giddy laugh, fucking Lestrade faster and tightening his grip around the D.I. while the bed frame creaked in sympathy beneath them.
Sherlock closed his eyes when he came, but Lestrade kept his open, watching his lover’s head arch back slowly and then snap forward again. On his own lips, Lestrade tasted beads of salty sweat falling from Sherlock’s chin, then felt a dozen small tremors run through the man’s body. Felt Sherlock’s fingers pulling and twisting insistently again.
Brushing his lips against Lestrade’s ear, Sherlock whispered, “Come now, Lestrade. Come while you’re still tight around me . . . listen to me . . .”
As he peaked, thrusting into Sherlock’s fist, Lestrade barely heard a breathy whisper in his ear, revealing the name of the murderer and the location of a missing weapon in a case that had plagued the Met, unsolved for more than three months.
Replaying it all as he stood beneath the spray, Lestrade splayed one hand against the tile and worked himself harder. Thighs tensed and shaking, warm water flowing down his shoulders and back, he vividly recalled the surrender he had felt when Sherlock climaxed, then pulled Lestrade-completely open and vulnerable beneath him- over the edge too.
It had felt almost like drowning, being tugged under a warm wave of pleasure. Then suddenly choking when he realized what Sherlock had said. Trying to surface. Trying to breathe again. Gasping. Roughly pushing Sherlock away.
Now, feeling himself go limp and small again, turning off the relentless pounding of the water, Lestrade was overcome by a sense of finality. He thought of Sherlock-still asleep, oblivious to how he had altered their relationship. Lestrade knew Sherlock didn’t realize he had crossed a line; he didn’t know the line existed. Maybe the D.I. should have texted the meaning of right and wrong in capital letters. But it was too late now. The lunatic could not hold up the resolution of a case-a case with two victims, two families, and a killer still on the streets-because it was all just a game, because it made him come harder, or whatever bloody psychotic reason drove him.
After dressing in the dark, Lestrade sat at the kitchen table, sipping black coffee and scratching down notes for the morning’s interrogation and for the afternoon press conference. Then he looked at the clock: still not even five a.m. He’d have to wait until he got to the office. As a reminder, he jotted one last note to himself: Call M. Find someone else to take care of Sherlock.