A Case Of Identity: Part Three - Analysis
Title: A Case Of Identity (Part Three of Five)
Pairings: Sherlock/Lestrade
Rating: NC17
Wordcount: 3,500
Summary: In which Mycroft puts in an appearance, sex is attempted, and Lestrade makes a decision.
Part One: Legwork
Part Two: Deduction
Part Three: Analysis
Part Four: Hypothesis
Part Five: Verdict
--
Lestrade was leaning back in his chair, rocking it idly with one foot propped against the bottom of his desk. He tapped his pen against his lips and wished for the umpteenth time that morning that it was a cigarette.
It had been over a week since his ill-fated attempt to kiss Sherlock, and despite the fact they'd parted on good terms he hadn't been back since. It had felt - awkward, somehow, in daylight. So he'd made a string of excuses to himself why he didn't have time to drop round and tried not to wonder if Sherlock spared a thought for him at all.
His telephone rang, startling him out of his reverie, and he listened to the voice on the other end with a puzzled frown. Grunted his understanding and hung up, pushing back his chair and going to stand in the doorway to his office, one hand resting above his head on the door frame, surveying the outer office with a proprietorial eye. Raised his voice.
"Alright you lot, stand by your beds, that was the ACC's office, apparently he's on his way down here with some big cheese from the Ministry, so try and at least look competent for the next few minutes, eh?"
Sally Donovan looked up enquiringly from the desk nearest his door. "Which one?"
"What?"
"Which Ministry? Justice? Transport? What do they want with us?"
Lestrade shrugged. "I dunno. They didn't say. You can bet it won't be the Ministry for giving us all a well-deserved pat on the back though, can't you?" He looked over the top of the partitions to the far door and sighed. "Guess we're about to find out."
Donovan got to her feet curiously, and stood with her arms folded watching the little group approach. Of the three people she recognised only one - the balding, rather portly uniformed figure of the Assistant Chief Constable. Accompanying him were a young woman in expensively smart clothing tapping obliviously away on a phone and a tall, thin man carrying a tightly rolled umbrella, who was looking about him with a rather pinched expression of distaste.
"Someone's been licking piss off a nettle," she murmured, and behind her heard Lestrade hastily turn a snort of laughter into a cough.
"Ah, Lestrade." The ACC drew up in front of them and mopped his expansive forehead with a handkerchief. Lestrade wondered what was making the man so visibly nervous, and stared at the newcomers with unveiled curiosity.
"I'd like you to meet Mr Mycroft Holmes, from the Ministry. Mr Holmes, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade."
"Holmes?" interjected Donovan, sharply, looking even more suspicious than she had a moment before.
Mycroft turned to look at her, and she got the fleeting impression of a lizard eyeing its prey. Glared back at him on principle.
He took in her defensive stance, the way she was standing a couple of paces in front of Lestrade, her desk's position by his office - and then turned back to Lestrade with a thin smile, effectively dismissing her.
"Is this your guard dog? Does she fetch?"
Lestrade narrowed his eyes. "No but she does bite, so I'd be careful if I were you."
"How - interesting." Mycroft gave a moue of distaste, while behind him the ACC tried to convey the message that Lestrade had better bloody well behave if he knew what was good for him, through the medium of glaring round Mycroft's shoulder.
Lestrade pretended not to notice. "So what can we do for you sir?"
"I'd like a word, if that's alright."
"Of course."
"Just you."
Lestrade exchanged a look with Donovan and lead the way into his office, closing the door behind them.
Outside, the ACC cleared his throat and tried not to look annoyed that he'd essentially been turned into a messenger boy by someone far more important than he was. The girl hadn't once looked away from her phone.
"Which one?" Donovan asked, belligerently.
The girl glanced up, impatiently enquiring.
"Which Ministry?"
"Sorry. That's on a need to know basis. And you don't."
--
"Inspector. I'm sorry it's taken me a while to get round to making contact, but you know how it is." Mycroft went to stand at the window, staring out at the pigeon infested roofs below.
"Yeah, right. No, sorry, what? Who are you?"
"I believe you know my brother."
"Your - oh God. Really?"
"Indeed." Mycroft turned, and Lestrade wondered whether he'd picked the position on purpose, as with the window behind him it made it very difficult to make out his expression.
"You've been seeing rather a lot of him lately."
"He's quite - useful," Lestrade said carefully. "Insightful. He's been - a help to us."
"Oh yes, I'm aware he's been playing cops and robbers with you for a while. No, I can keep tabs on that through the police files. I'm referring to the fact you appear to have started - socialising with him, if we can call it that?"
Lestrade pushed away the nagging thought that was asking how the hell this man had access to his files and made himself concentrate.
"We're - friends. I suppose."
"Oh, do you think so? Sherlock doesn't have friends. He has people he uses. As do I. And I'm here to make you an offer. I'll pay you. For information. His whereabouts, his comings and goings. The things that don't get written up in the files."
"You what?"
"Money, Inspector. A lot of money. For some harmless information. I worry about him, you see. As I'm sure you'll be aware, he's not very good at - looking after himself."
"And I'm sure you'll be aware," said Lestrade slowly, "that attempting to bribe a police officer is a criminal offence. So unless you have a legitimate reason for being here, sir, may I respectfully request you get the hell out of my office?"
Mycroft, rather than looking angry, gave an unpleasantly amused smile. "Oh very good Inspector, very good. Are you aware I could have you out of a job with one phonecall?"
"Bribery and bullying eh? Definitely public school background then." Lestrade thrust his hands into his pockets and stared back impassively, pulling the cold anger round himself protectively and trying not to think about the fact he might just have ended his career.
But Mycroft only laughed, and twirled his umbrella, leaving it pointing meaningfully at Lestrade's throat. "If you are determined to be intransigent, then I have no use for you. Stay away from him, Inspector. If you know what's good for you."
"What?" Lestrade was having a hard time keeping up, and Mycroft was already turning to leave.
"If you are not for me, then you are against me. And I won't have people around him I cannot trust." He pulled open the door and stepped out, calling back over his shoulder as he did so. "Stay away from my brother, Inspector. That's an order. Come, Anthea. We're done here."
Once they'd gone, Donovan wandered over to lean in the doorway.
"Brother?"
Lestrade sank into his chair, suddenly weary. "Yep. Apparently."
"You're fucking kidding me. There can't be two of those freaks out there. A whole family of them? Sir? Where are you going?"
"I have to be somewhere." Lestrade had got up again with a sudden purpose and was pulling on his coat. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Yeah. Right. Bye sir." She watched him go, dubiously, still shaking her head at the unsettling thought of more than one Sherlock in the world. "Freaks," she muttered, going back to her desk.
--
When Sherlock pulled open his door, Lestrade was ninety nine percent sure he didn't imagine the fleeting look of pleasure on his face. It was swiftly replaced by Sherlock's usual rather more impassive mask, but it served both to reassure him that he was still welcome here, and make him feel guilty that he hadn't been back before.
"Lestrade. It's been a while."
"Yeah, sorry, I've been busy. You know how it is," he mumbled, unconsciously echoing Mycroft.
"Mmmn," Sherlock replied, non-committally, standing back to let him in.
"I had a visitor."
"Oh, really?" Sherlock wandered over to flick the kettle on, wondering if it was too much to hope Lestrade had brought biscuits.
"You know you told me once you had an interfering family?"
Sherlock stopped in his tracks. "Mycroft," he said flatly.
"Does he do this a lot?"
Sherlock gave a tight laugh. "Not as often as you might think. There aren't that many people close enough to me for him to bother with."
Lestrade's faint feelings of guilt returned tenfold and kicked sharply him in the kidneys. He crossed to where Sherlock was still standing motionless staring at the wall and put a hand on his shoulder.
"I'm sorry."
"Whatever for?"
"I've been avoiding you."
Sherlock turned then, and gave a small nod. "Not any more?"
"Not any more."
They looked at each other.
Smiled, slowly.
--
In an office in the heart of the city, Anthea walked up to Mycroft's desk and dropped a report on it.
"He went straight from Scotland Yard to Sherlock's flat."
"Did he. Did he. Good." Mycroft nodded, slowly.
"You instructed him not to. Do you want me to - "
"No, no, that's quite alright."
"Sir?"
"Mycroft looked up and gave her a rare genuine smile. "I wouldn't want my dear brother to be associating with people capable of being put off by a mere threat..."
--
They resumed their earlier pattern of late night meetings, gradually becoming more and more used to the other's company, and reliant on their input. Lestrade found he was frequently besieged by texts from Sherlock at all hours of the day and night whenever a salient point occurred to him, regardless of how long had passed since the original conversation had taken place. Vainly, he struggled to try and keep some distance between them for the sake of his job. He was already dangerously close to telling Sherlock too many things that he really shouldn't divulge about current cases, as it was. Sherlock in full flow was a hard man to resist.
The other thing he had to deal with was his growing physical attraction to the man. Sherlock could be very tactile when he was in the mood, and seemed to take Lestrade's acknowledged feelings for him as permission to indulge this; he would frequently put his arm through Lestrade's if they were walking, or lean against him on the sofa, or drape his arms over his shoulders when he was sitting at a desk. Lestrade found this more and more of a torture as he had to repeatedly fight off the overwhelming urge to back him into the nearest wall and attempt to kiss him senseless.
Despite his best efforts to understand Sherlock's reticence when it came to more intimate physical contact, he couldn't rid himself of the idea that he could make Sherlock enjoy himself, if only he had the chance. Was plagued by thoughts of the man, both dreaming and waking, until he thought he'd go crazy.
"Don't you ever wonder what it would be like?" he finally wondered aloud one night, settled on Sherlock's sofa with Sherlock's feet in his lap. "Between us, I mean."
Sherlock sighed, and considered his response.
"I care for you. Rather a lot. Why can't that be enough?"
Lestrade sat up straighter, looking pained. "If you feel the way I do, how could it possibly?"
"You're not trying to see it from my point of view. You're distracted by lust, you don't see things clearly," Sherlock replied, in what he felt was an eminently patient and sensible tone of voice.
"Well maybe you're not looking at it from my point of view, had you thought about that?" Lestrade snapped back, more sharply than he'd intended. "You think you understand how people work, what makes them tick, but how can you when half of the human condition is a closed book to you?"
Sherlock shook his head, dismissing the idea. "Emotions complicate things. They're nothing but a distraction from the proper exploration of life."
"They're what make it worth living in the first place!"
"And would you argue also that they don't cause people to lie, cheat and kill? We'd be better off without something as dangerous and messy as 'love', Lestrade, don't tell me we wouldn't."
"Oh, don't come over all superior - just because you never get all hot and bothered by someone doesn't somehow make you better than me!"
"It doesn't make me less of a person either," Sherlock contested angrily, curling in on himself. "Or does it, in your eyes? What do you think of me Lestrade, really? That I'm what? Inferior? Broken? A freak?"
Lestrade flinched as if he'd been slapped. "No! God, you don't think I - "
Sherlock subsided slightly, his shoulders falling in surrender. "No. No okay, that was unfair," he conceded. Lestrade shifted closer to him, put a hand over his, hesitantly.
"I just - I just want to make you feel good. I want to try."
"How very selfless of you," remarked Sherlock dryly, and Lestrade threw up his hands.
"Okay! You drive me crazy - is that such a bad thing?"
Sherlock regarded him narrowly. Seemed to come to a decision. "Fine. Fine." He got to his feet and strode into the bedroom, pausing at the door to look back. "Are you coming or what?"
"I - what?" Lestrade followed him, almost in a daze and not wholly believing what it seemed like Sherlock was offering.
In the bedroom, Sherlock was already sitting curled on the bed. He held out a hand, silently, and drew Lestrade down to join him.
"Are you sure?" Lestrade stroked Sherlock's cheek with a shaking hand, his voice hoarse. Having been offered exactly what he wanted, he immediately started feeling guilty that he'd pressured Sherlock into it.
But then Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him, full on the mouth, and his reservations went out of the window.
Reaching up, he slid his hands over Sherlock's shoulders, gradually wrapping his arms around him and pulling him into a close embrace, giving in to the fantasy that had plagued his daydreams for far too long and burying his face in Sherlock's neck, pressing a string of kisses to the smooth pale skin.
Sherlock folded his own arms loosely around him, one hand cradling the back of Lestrade's head as he mouthed at Sherlock's earlobe, throat, collarbone, undoing the shirt as he travelled down, finally flicking the tip of his tongue over one warm nipple, returning to suck at it a moment later, hands still blindly working at undoing buttons.
He was hard, so hard already, his trousers uncomfortably tight over his straining erection, and had the brief qualm that at this rate he might not last long enough to be any use at all.
He looked up, questioningly, unsure still as to what Sherlock would allow. "Can I - "
"Anything," Sherlock confirmed gently, watching him with a calm gaze that Lestrade was too far gone to recognise as anything other than what he wanted to see there.
He undressed with unseemly haste, Sherlock mirroring the action more slowly, before climbing into the bed. Lestrade scrambled in after him, straddling his thighs and leaning forward, his cock pressed against Sherlock's, one achingly hard, one barely semi-erect. He settled over him, kissing him again, softly, encouragingly, exploring with his hands.
Sherlock echoed his movements, not instigating anything for himself, but responding well enough to the touches. Lestrade was relieved and quietly triumphant to feel Sherlock hardening further under the strokes of his hand, and after a while felt sufficiently confident to suggest in a murmur that might they try something else?
Sherlock acquiesced without argument, turning onto his front, and indicating that Lestrade might find anything he needed in the bedside drawer. If this surprised him, it was soon mitigated by the odd collection of other things he found in there, and anyway the seal on the tube was unbroken.
He tried to be gentle, realising it might have been a long time since Sherlock had done this, easing into him gradually, holding back on the temptation to thrust recklessly hard. Once he was all the way in, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's chest once more, spooning round him, rocking with the waves of arousal washing over him, breathing in the scent of Sherlock's skin, the intoxicating warmth of being inside him, revelling in the feeling of having him in his arms at last, naked and spread and his for the taking.
It didn't take him long at all to reach the point of climax, although in the event he managed longer than he'd feared. It had been a good while since he, too, had done this, and the sensations of hot, tight heat around his cock unravelled him with devastating swiftness. Eyes closed and head resting against Sherlock's back he found himself wondering far, far too late whether they should have used a condom. Still, Sherlock hadn't suggested it, and then he was incapable of further thought as his orgasm shuddered through him and he spilled helplessly into the pliant body beneath.
When he could breathe again, he withdrew carefully and turned Sherlock back to face him, gathering into his arms and kissing him hard. It was obvious Sherlock hadn't yet come - hadn't so much as touched himself either, now he came to think about it - but that didn't have to be a problem. He slid a hand down between them, palming Sherlock's waning erection and set about trying to bring him off.
A few minutes later he was feeling rather less certain of himself, as the pleasant warm flush of his own climax faded into cooling sweat and rising embarrassment.
His hand kept moving stubbornly on Sherlock's cock, trying to revive his erection, until Sherlock gently lifted his hand away, kissed his fingers.
"It's not going to happen," he said softly.
Lestrade just stared at him, increasingly wild-eyed, finally believing what Sherlock had been telling him and with the realisation, the crushing knowledge of what he'd just put him through dawning.
"Fuck. Fuck!" he whispered, somehow not enough air in his lungs for anything louder.
"Hey. It's alright." Sherlock tried to pull him closer but Lestrade struggled out of his grip.
"No, no it's not. For God's sake why didn't you stop me?" he pleaded desperately.
"I thought you were enjoying it. No, you were."
"God, I just practically - "
Sherlock put his hands either side of Lestrade's face and forced him to look into his eyes.
"Listen - listen to me. Whatever you're thinking right now chances are it's wrong. Which is nothing new for you, but just think for once, do you seriously imagine I would have let you do something I was violently opposed to? No I didn't come, I didn't expect to. That wasn't the point - "
"What was the point then? To teach me a lesson?" Lestrade interrupted bitterly, pulling away and reaching shakily for his trousers.
"Oh don't be so stupid!" yelled Sherlock in frustration, but Lestrade wouldn't, couldn't listen.
"I'll go. I - I have to go." Hastily dressing, fingers fumbling on shirt buttons, scrabbling on the floor for his shoes, stuffing his socks and pants into his pocket.
"Please don't," Sherlock said, quietly.
Lestrade hesitated in the doorway, looking down at the man on the bed and hating himself.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock," he said in a voice only just this side of cracking. "Really, I am. For everything."
And he left.
--
A day passed.
Sherlock lay on the sofa, staring into space. Had been there for hours, unmoving, unblinking, almost.
This, he reflected, was why he didn't do people. You thought you'd made a connection with someone and they turned out to be like all the rest, preoccupied with things he couldn't bring himself to care about.
It crossed his mind more than once to call Lestrade, or to go and see him. To attempt a reconciliation. To give in and be what the man apparently needed. He could force arousal, fake interest. He'd done it before, with others.
But he realised this time he didn't want to have to lie. Not to him.
When it came, the unlooked for knock at the door surprised him, and he went to open it with a puzzled frown.
Lestrade stood there, hands in pockets, looking sheepish.
Sherlock blinked. "Oh. I - didn't hear the car?"
"Parked in the next street. Wasn't sure if I had the guts to come up."
"Oh. Right. Well - I'm - glad you did."
"Yeah?" Lestrade sighed. "I'm going about this arse backwards aren't I?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but let him in anyway.
Lestrade leaned back against the door, and held his gaze.
"Why don't you tell me what you do like?"
--
Pairings: Sherlock/Lestrade
Rating: NC17
Wordcount: 3,500
Summary: In which Mycroft puts in an appearance, sex is attempted, and Lestrade makes a decision.
Part One: Legwork
Part Two: Deduction
Part Three: Analysis
Part Four: Hypothesis
Part Five: Verdict
--
Lestrade was leaning back in his chair, rocking it idly with one foot propped against the bottom of his desk. He tapped his pen against his lips and wished for the umpteenth time that morning that it was a cigarette.
It had been over a week since his ill-fated attempt to kiss Sherlock, and despite the fact they'd parted on good terms he hadn't been back since. It had felt - awkward, somehow, in daylight. So he'd made a string of excuses to himself why he didn't have time to drop round and tried not to wonder if Sherlock spared a thought for him at all.
His telephone rang, startling him out of his reverie, and he listened to the voice on the other end with a puzzled frown. Grunted his understanding and hung up, pushing back his chair and going to stand in the doorway to his office, one hand resting above his head on the door frame, surveying the outer office with a proprietorial eye. Raised his voice.
"Alright you lot, stand by your beds, that was the ACC's office, apparently he's on his way down here with some big cheese from the Ministry, so try and at least look competent for the next few minutes, eh?"
Sally Donovan looked up enquiringly from the desk nearest his door. "Which one?"
"What?"
"Which Ministry? Justice? Transport? What do they want with us?"
Lestrade shrugged. "I dunno. They didn't say. You can bet it won't be the Ministry for giving us all a well-deserved pat on the back though, can't you?" He looked over the top of the partitions to the far door and sighed. "Guess we're about to find out."
Donovan got to her feet curiously, and stood with her arms folded watching the little group approach. Of the three people she recognised only one - the balding, rather portly uniformed figure of the Assistant Chief Constable. Accompanying him were a young woman in expensively smart clothing tapping obliviously away on a phone and a tall, thin man carrying a tightly rolled umbrella, who was looking about him with a rather pinched expression of distaste.
"Someone's been licking piss off a nettle," she murmured, and behind her heard Lestrade hastily turn a snort of laughter into a cough.
"Ah, Lestrade." The ACC drew up in front of them and mopped his expansive forehead with a handkerchief. Lestrade wondered what was making the man so visibly nervous, and stared at the newcomers with unveiled curiosity.
"I'd like you to meet Mr Mycroft Holmes, from the Ministry. Mr Holmes, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade."
"Holmes?" interjected Donovan, sharply, looking even more suspicious than she had a moment before.
Mycroft turned to look at her, and she got the fleeting impression of a lizard eyeing its prey. Glared back at him on principle.
He took in her defensive stance, the way she was standing a couple of paces in front of Lestrade, her desk's position by his office - and then turned back to Lestrade with a thin smile, effectively dismissing her.
"Is this your guard dog? Does she fetch?"
Lestrade narrowed his eyes. "No but she does bite, so I'd be careful if I were you."
"How - interesting." Mycroft gave a moue of distaste, while behind him the ACC tried to convey the message that Lestrade had better bloody well behave if he knew what was good for him, through the medium of glaring round Mycroft's shoulder.
Lestrade pretended not to notice. "So what can we do for you sir?"
"I'd like a word, if that's alright."
"Of course."
"Just you."
Lestrade exchanged a look with Donovan and lead the way into his office, closing the door behind them.
Outside, the ACC cleared his throat and tried not to look annoyed that he'd essentially been turned into a messenger boy by someone far more important than he was. The girl hadn't once looked away from her phone.
"Which one?" Donovan asked, belligerently.
The girl glanced up, impatiently enquiring.
"Which Ministry?"
"Sorry. That's on a need to know basis. And you don't."
--
"Inspector. I'm sorry it's taken me a while to get round to making contact, but you know how it is." Mycroft went to stand at the window, staring out at the pigeon infested roofs below.
"Yeah, right. No, sorry, what? Who are you?"
"I believe you know my brother."
"Your - oh God. Really?"
"Indeed." Mycroft turned, and Lestrade wondered whether he'd picked the position on purpose, as with the window behind him it made it very difficult to make out his expression.
"You've been seeing rather a lot of him lately."
"He's quite - useful," Lestrade said carefully. "Insightful. He's been - a help to us."
"Oh yes, I'm aware he's been playing cops and robbers with you for a while. No, I can keep tabs on that through the police files. I'm referring to the fact you appear to have started - socialising with him, if we can call it that?"
Lestrade pushed away the nagging thought that was asking how the hell this man had access to his files and made himself concentrate.
"We're - friends. I suppose."
"Oh, do you think so? Sherlock doesn't have friends. He has people he uses. As do I. And I'm here to make you an offer. I'll pay you. For information. His whereabouts, his comings and goings. The things that don't get written up in the files."
"You what?"
"Money, Inspector. A lot of money. For some harmless information. I worry about him, you see. As I'm sure you'll be aware, he's not very good at - looking after himself."
"And I'm sure you'll be aware," said Lestrade slowly, "that attempting to bribe a police officer is a criminal offence. So unless you have a legitimate reason for being here, sir, may I respectfully request you get the hell out of my office?"
Mycroft, rather than looking angry, gave an unpleasantly amused smile. "Oh very good Inspector, very good. Are you aware I could have you out of a job with one phonecall?"
"Bribery and bullying eh? Definitely public school background then." Lestrade thrust his hands into his pockets and stared back impassively, pulling the cold anger round himself protectively and trying not to think about the fact he might just have ended his career.
But Mycroft only laughed, and twirled his umbrella, leaving it pointing meaningfully at Lestrade's throat. "If you are determined to be intransigent, then I have no use for you. Stay away from him, Inspector. If you know what's good for you."
"What?" Lestrade was having a hard time keeping up, and Mycroft was already turning to leave.
"If you are not for me, then you are against me. And I won't have people around him I cannot trust." He pulled open the door and stepped out, calling back over his shoulder as he did so. "Stay away from my brother, Inspector. That's an order. Come, Anthea. We're done here."
Once they'd gone, Donovan wandered over to lean in the doorway.
"Brother?"
Lestrade sank into his chair, suddenly weary. "Yep. Apparently."
"You're fucking kidding me. There can't be two of those freaks out there. A whole family of them? Sir? Where are you going?"
"I have to be somewhere." Lestrade had got up again with a sudden purpose and was pulling on his coat. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Yeah. Right. Bye sir." She watched him go, dubiously, still shaking her head at the unsettling thought of more than one Sherlock in the world. "Freaks," she muttered, going back to her desk.
--
When Sherlock pulled open his door, Lestrade was ninety nine percent sure he didn't imagine the fleeting look of pleasure on his face. It was swiftly replaced by Sherlock's usual rather more impassive mask, but it served both to reassure him that he was still welcome here, and make him feel guilty that he hadn't been back before.
"Lestrade. It's been a while."
"Yeah, sorry, I've been busy. You know how it is," he mumbled, unconsciously echoing Mycroft.
"Mmmn," Sherlock replied, non-committally, standing back to let him in.
"I had a visitor."
"Oh, really?" Sherlock wandered over to flick the kettle on, wondering if it was too much to hope Lestrade had brought biscuits.
"You know you told me once you had an interfering family?"
Sherlock stopped in his tracks. "Mycroft," he said flatly.
"Does he do this a lot?"
Sherlock gave a tight laugh. "Not as often as you might think. There aren't that many people close enough to me for him to bother with."
Lestrade's faint feelings of guilt returned tenfold and kicked sharply him in the kidneys. He crossed to where Sherlock was still standing motionless staring at the wall and put a hand on his shoulder.
"I'm sorry."
"Whatever for?"
"I've been avoiding you."
Sherlock turned then, and gave a small nod. "Not any more?"
"Not any more."
They looked at each other.
Smiled, slowly.
--
In an office in the heart of the city, Anthea walked up to Mycroft's desk and dropped a report on it.
"He went straight from Scotland Yard to Sherlock's flat."
"Did he. Did he. Good." Mycroft nodded, slowly.
"You instructed him not to. Do you want me to - "
"No, no, that's quite alright."
"Sir?"
"Mycroft looked up and gave her a rare genuine smile. "I wouldn't want my dear brother to be associating with people capable of being put off by a mere threat..."
--
They resumed their earlier pattern of late night meetings, gradually becoming more and more used to the other's company, and reliant on their input. Lestrade found he was frequently besieged by texts from Sherlock at all hours of the day and night whenever a salient point occurred to him, regardless of how long had passed since the original conversation had taken place. Vainly, he struggled to try and keep some distance between them for the sake of his job. He was already dangerously close to telling Sherlock too many things that he really shouldn't divulge about current cases, as it was. Sherlock in full flow was a hard man to resist.
The other thing he had to deal with was his growing physical attraction to the man. Sherlock could be very tactile when he was in the mood, and seemed to take Lestrade's acknowledged feelings for him as permission to indulge this; he would frequently put his arm through Lestrade's if they were walking, or lean against him on the sofa, or drape his arms over his shoulders when he was sitting at a desk. Lestrade found this more and more of a torture as he had to repeatedly fight off the overwhelming urge to back him into the nearest wall and attempt to kiss him senseless.
Despite his best efforts to understand Sherlock's reticence when it came to more intimate physical contact, he couldn't rid himself of the idea that he could make Sherlock enjoy himself, if only he had the chance. Was plagued by thoughts of the man, both dreaming and waking, until he thought he'd go crazy.
"Don't you ever wonder what it would be like?" he finally wondered aloud one night, settled on Sherlock's sofa with Sherlock's feet in his lap. "Between us, I mean."
Sherlock sighed, and considered his response.
"I care for you. Rather a lot. Why can't that be enough?"
Lestrade sat up straighter, looking pained. "If you feel the way I do, how could it possibly?"
"You're not trying to see it from my point of view. You're distracted by lust, you don't see things clearly," Sherlock replied, in what he felt was an eminently patient and sensible tone of voice.
"Well maybe you're not looking at it from my point of view, had you thought about that?" Lestrade snapped back, more sharply than he'd intended. "You think you understand how people work, what makes them tick, but how can you when half of the human condition is a closed book to you?"
Sherlock shook his head, dismissing the idea. "Emotions complicate things. They're nothing but a distraction from the proper exploration of life."
"They're what make it worth living in the first place!"
"And would you argue also that they don't cause people to lie, cheat and kill? We'd be better off without something as dangerous and messy as 'love', Lestrade, don't tell me we wouldn't."
"Oh, don't come over all superior - just because you never get all hot and bothered by someone doesn't somehow make you better than me!"
"It doesn't make me less of a person either," Sherlock contested angrily, curling in on himself. "Or does it, in your eyes? What do you think of me Lestrade, really? That I'm what? Inferior? Broken? A freak?"
Lestrade flinched as if he'd been slapped. "No! God, you don't think I - "
Sherlock subsided slightly, his shoulders falling in surrender. "No. No okay, that was unfair," he conceded. Lestrade shifted closer to him, put a hand over his, hesitantly.
"I just - I just want to make you feel good. I want to try."
"How very selfless of you," remarked Sherlock dryly, and Lestrade threw up his hands.
"Okay! You drive me crazy - is that such a bad thing?"
Sherlock regarded him narrowly. Seemed to come to a decision. "Fine. Fine." He got to his feet and strode into the bedroom, pausing at the door to look back. "Are you coming or what?"
"I - what?" Lestrade followed him, almost in a daze and not wholly believing what it seemed like Sherlock was offering.
In the bedroom, Sherlock was already sitting curled on the bed. He held out a hand, silently, and drew Lestrade down to join him.
"Are you sure?" Lestrade stroked Sherlock's cheek with a shaking hand, his voice hoarse. Having been offered exactly what he wanted, he immediately started feeling guilty that he'd pressured Sherlock into it.
But then Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him, full on the mouth, and his reservations went out of the window.
Reaching up, he slid his hands over Sherlock's shoulders, gradually wrapping his arms around him and pulling him into a close embrace, giving in to the fantasy that had plagued his daydreams for far too long and burying his face in Sherlock's neck, pressing a string of kisses to the smooth pale skin.
Sherlock folded his own arms loosely around him, one hand cradling the back of Lestrade's head as he mouthed at Sherlock's earlobe, throat, collarbone, undoing the shirt as he travelled down, finally flicking the tip of his tongue over one warm nipple, returning to suck at it a moment later, hands still blindly working at undoing buttons.
He was hard, so hard already, his trousers uncomfortably tight over his straining erection, and had the brief qualm that at this rate he might not last long enough to be any use at all.
He looked up, questioningly, unsure still as to what Sherlock would allow. "Can I - "
"Anything," Sherlock confirmed gently, watching him with a calm gaze that Lestrade was too far gone to recognise as anything other than what he wanted to see there.
He undressed with unseemly haste, Sherlock mirroring the action more slowly, before climbing into the bed. Lestrade scrambled in after him, straddling his thighs and leaning forward, his cock pressed against Sherlock's, one achingly hard, one barely semi-erect. He settled over him, kissing him again, softly, encouragingly, exploring with his hands.
Sherlock echoed his movements, not instigating anything for himself, but responding well enough to the touches. Lestrade was relieved and quietly triumphant to feel Sherlock hardening further under the strokes of his hand, and after a while felt sufficiently confident to suggest in a murmur that might they try something else?
Sherlock acquiesced without argument, turning onto his front, and indicating that Lestrade might find anything he needed in the bedside drawer. If this surprised him, it was soon mitigated by the odd collection of other things he found in there, and anyway the seal on the tube was unbroken.
He tried to be gentle, realising it might have been a long time since Sherlock had done this, easing into him gradually, holding back on the temptation to thrust recklessly hard. Once he was all the way in, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's chest once more, spooning round him, rocking with the waves of arousal washing over him, breathing in the scent of Sherlock's skin, the intoxicating warmth of being inside him, revelling in the feeling of having him in his arms at last, naked and spread and his for the taking.
It didn't take him long at all to reach the point of climax, although in the event he managed longer than he'd feared. It had been a good while since he, too, had done this, and the sensations of hot, tight heat around his cock unravelled him with devastating swiftness. Eyes closed and head resting against Sherlock's back he found himself wondering far, far too late whether they should have used a condom. Still, Sherlock hadn't suggested it, and then he was incapable of further thought as his orgasm shuddered through him and he spilled helplessly into the pliant body beneath.
When he could breathe again, he withdrew carefully and turned Sherlock back to face him, gathering into his arms and kissing him hard. It was obvious Sherlock hadn't yet come - hadn't so much as touched himself either, now he came to think about it - but that didn't have to be a problem. He slid a hand down between them, palming Sherlock's waning erection and set about trying to bring him off.
A few minutes later he was feeling rather less certain of himself, as the pleasant warm flush of his own climax faded into cooling sweat and rising embarrassment.
His hand kept moving stubbornly on Sherlock's cock, trying to revive his erection, until Sherlock gently lifted his hand away, kissed his fingers.
"It's not going to happen," he said softly.
Lestrade just stared at him, increasingly wild-eyed, finally believing what Sherlock had been telling him and with the realisation, the crushing knowledge of what he'd just put him through dawning.
"Fuck. Fuck!" he whispered, somehow not enough air in his lungs for anything louder.
"Hey. It's alright." Sherlock tried to pull him closer but Lestrade struggled out of his grip.
"No, no it's not. For God's sake why didn't you stop me?" he pleaded desperately.
"I thought you were enjoying it. No, you were."
"God, I just practically - "
Sherlock put his hands either side of Lestrade's face and forced him to look into his eyes.
"Listen - listen to me. Whatever you're thinking right now chances are it's wrong. Which is nothing new for you, but just think for once, do you seriously imagine I would have let you do something I was violently opposed to? No I didn't come, I didn't expect to. That wasn't the point - "
"What was the point then? To teach me a lesson?" Lestrade interrupted bitterly, pulling away and reaching shakily for his trousers.
"Oh don't be so stupid!" yelled Sherlock in frustration, but Lestrade wouldn't, couldn't listen.
"I'll go. I - I have to go." Hastily dressing, fingers fumbling on shirt buttons, scrabbling on the floor for his shoes, stuffing his socks and pants into his pocket.
"Please don't," Sherlock said, quietly.
Lestrade hesitated in the doorway, looking down at the man on the bed and hating himself.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock," he said in a voice only just this side of cracking. "Really, I am. For everything."
And he left.
--
A day passed.
Sherlock lay on the sofa, staring into space. Had been there for hours, unmoving, unblinking, almost.
This, he reflected, was why he didn't do people. You thought you'd made a connection with someone and they turned out to be like all the rest, preoccupied with things he couldn't bring himself to care about.
It crossed his mind more than once to call Lestrade, or to go and see him. To attempt a reconciliation. To give in and be what the man apparently needed. He could force arousal, fake interest. He'd done it before, with others.
But he realised this time he didn't want to have to lie. Not to him.
When it came, the unlooked for knock at the door surprised him, and he went to open it with a puzzled frown.
Lestrade stood there, hands in pockets, looking sheepish.
Sherlock blinked. "Oh. I - didn't hear the car?"
"Parked in the next street. Wasn't sure if I had the guts to come up."
"Oh. Right. Well - I'm - glad you did."
"Yeah?" Lestrade sighed. "I'm going about this arse backwards aren't I?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but let him in anyway.
Lestrade leaned back against the door, and held his gaze.
"Why don't you tell me what you do like?"
--