Sherlock: Riding The Tiger, Sherlock/Lestrade NC-17
Title: Riding The Tiger
Sequel to: Bored!
Fandom & Pairing: Sherlock BBC, Sherlock/Lestrade
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: mild D/s, spanking, object insertion, incest fantasy, breath-play
Genre: humour, pwp
Word Count: Around 6600
Beta: the ever-obliging imachar, even though she's not even in this fandom.
Summary:Follows on immediately after Bored!. Now that Lestrade has so unexpectedly got Sherlock's attention, sexually speaking, how the hell is he going to keep it?
"John is still out, I'm still bored and you've proved unexpectedly interesting. So you're going to entertain me."
Greg stares up at Sherlock, who is kneeling across his thighs and running curious fingers across the soft skin surrounding Greg's throbbing cock. For once Greg finds himself completely at a loss for words.
It's not that Greg has some hopeless love-lorn crush on Sherlock. Oh, he's not blind. He sees the pale skin, the silky curls, the swell of that sweet bum. But mostly he just finds Sherlock profoundly annoying although sadly indispensable for his more obscure cases. He's had the occasional fantasy about Sherlock, obviously he has, but then he's done the same for most of his acquaintances.
For a few weeks after John shot that cabbie - of course Greg knows that John did it, Sherlock was practically shouting out John's name at the time - Greg indulged in some steamy fantasies involving soldier John and some very intimate gun porn. He's indulged in some arrest fantasies involving Donovan too. He knows just how much she enjoys slapping handcuffs on big rough men and he's imagined being pushed face-first onto the bonnet of a car while she cuffs him. Imagined being interrogated by her while she runs her baton under his bared bollocks and in that no-nonsense voice of hers threatens to push it right up his arse.
Being abducted by Mycroft Holmes had been a good one too. Except he'd put that scary bird with the great legs into the chair instead - assistant, his arse, he knew Special Branch security when he saw it - and put himself on his knees in front of her. So all in all, Greg enjoys a healthy and varied fantasy life, although possibly with a degree of kink and violence that he's not entirely comfortable with examining.
The point is that none of this happens in real life. In real life he is a gentleman, kind, considerate and loving, as undemandingly vanilla as his wife - ex-wife - could ever have wanted. Real life does not involve being mostly naked on his couch with a fully clothed consulting detective astride his thighs, examining his weeping prick with detached curiosity as if it is a possibly interesting, but not yet conclusively crucial, piece of evidence at a murder scene.
Sherlock trails long pale fingers down through Greg's pubic curls - grey curls, God, no one had ever mentioned that your head wasn't the only place you went grey, he's old enough to be Sherlock's father, well if he'd been precocious at school that is, what the hell is he doing here - and his rush of panic is derailed as those nimble fingers wrap round his balls and roll them slowly in their sac. He's always been sensitive there, and when Sherlock pulls down, bringing just an edge of pain to the light touch, Greg finds himself arching up under Sherlock's weight, futilely looking for something, anything, to rub his cock against.
Sherlock runs the back of his fingers up the underside of Greg's cock. Those fine fastidious fingers are smeared in his pre-come, God! "Approximately 5.7 inches, so in the upper end of the average range of length, a little more than average in girth, uncut, slight upward curve...." Sherlock, cataloguing the features of his prick in that rough velvet voice of his, oh bloody hell. Sherlock wraps his hand firmly around Greg's shaft, presses his thumb against the frenulum, strokes firmly upwards--
Greg is coming, groin convulsing, thighs trembling under Sherlock's weight, pulsing strings of pearly come over Sherlock's hand, over his own stomach, over John's bloody phone. His head is buzzing with the rush of his own blood, his body pulsing with sweet relief. And through the blurred haze of sated lust he can see Sherlock looking at him.
Looking disappointed.
The look he gets when a case has proved too obvious. When a motive has proved pedestrian - jealousy, petty greed. The look he gives to a world he finds banal and commonplace. Sherlock is about to get off him, without having removed any clothing beyond his coat and shoes, without having touched Greg with more than one hand, without having any signs of a hard-on.
Sherlock is going to walk away, with Greg firmly categorised as mundane and mediocre. Every time they meet at a crime scene, every time Greg comes to Baker Street to request help, they'll both know he was the man who couldn't last more than a minute in the face of Sherlock's presence. They'll both despise him just that little bit more.
So much for being unexpectedly interesting.
Fuck it, no! Greg is not giving up this easily. His pride won't stand for it. He pushes aside his post-coital haze and surges upwards, grabbing Sherlock, using the advantage of surprise and speed to twist them both so that he gets Sherlock face down on the couch, with one long arm twisted up behind his back. Greg may have got a little broader and a little softer with age, but his bulk is still made up of muscle, muscle he exercises regularly at the Yard's gym.
Sherlock recovers from his surprise and starts to thrash. Greg throws off the last of his sentiment and lets his copper persona drop back into place. He jerks Sherlock's arm up hard, just to the edge of where it'll really start to hurt, puts his face right up against Sherlock's ear and hisses, "Now that you've taken the edge off, sunshine, we can get started on the main event."
Sherlock stills, lying quiescent but tense under him. Greg takes a few deep breaths and tries to quell his rising panic. What the hell is he going to do now? Greg has always been very careful to put down the tough copper at the door of his home, let the man who walks into the flat be the loving husband, the good mate, the easy-going all-round nice guy. He's all too familiar with what happens when a cop brings the frustration and aggression of the job back into the home. He's seen the subdued wives who walk into doors with mysterious frequency, the withdrawn children who cringe when anyone raises their voice. He's always been determined never to go down that road.
He knows people play dominance games with sex - he's had to clean up the messy aftermath of a few in his time - but he's got no personal experience and he's quite sure that Sherlock will not appreciate time out to discuss boundaries. Neither safe nor sane are in Sherlock's vocabulary. However considerable physical strength and a cutting tongue that has never seemed to have any qualms about saying no definitely are.
He eases off the pressure on Sherlock's arm and waits. Sherlock waits. Greg swallows hard. Right. Game on.
He puts his mouth back against Sherlock's ear, aiming for his very best intimidate the suspect tone. "Right, now this all began with your need for a good hard beating across your arse. Time to get back on track, I think." Is he imagining it or did Sherlock's breath hitch at the mention of discipline? Greg frantically tries to think about logistics. He's wearing too few clothes and Sherlock too many for this. God, it is so much easier in porn films where you can just have a convenient cut between scenes while clothes are removed and bodies rearranged.
"You're going to take your free hand, unzip your pants and push them down onto your thighs. Do it!"
He keeps Sherlock's other arm locked behind his back, Sherlock may appear to be acquiescing but Greg's quite sure he's going to push the limits again as soon as he can. He must have been a nightmare as a toddler. He spares a very brief sympathetic thought for big brother Mycroft while he watches as Sherlock wriggles and pushes at his pants. It is easier than it might have been, given that Sherlock has apparently decided underwear is optional.
"You little slut," hisses Greg as he runs his free hand over Sherlock's newly exposed buttocks. "Running around London with your bits dangling free. Hoping one of those criminals you chase after will turn and catch you, are you? Hoping they'll show you what for?" Sherlock's arse is just as perfect as Greg imagined it would be, two peachy mounds of the palest cream, giving beautifully under the pressure of his hand. "Or is it the police you're hoping to flash. Hoping your continual perversions of the course of justice will result in a little personal interrogation?"
Greg's very glad that Sherlock's face is firmly pressed against the cushions of the couch. He's never actually said anything like this aloud before. He's laughed at the cheesy dialogue in porn films. He's let such dialogue run through his private fantasies. But he's never let his lips curl around such words in cold, hard daylight. He's trembling lightly, feeling as if he's running a fever, hot and cold at the same time. He's no idea how he's going to be able to look Sherlock in the eye once they're done. He might be going to end up in that shack in Thailand after all.
He begins to understand what people mean when they talk about riding a tiger. Once you're on it, there is no safe way off again. All you can do is cling on tight and hope. "I think this slutty behaviour is just one more area where you need some discipline." He runs his hand lightly over Sherlock's porcelain cheeks, feeling the tiny hairs prickle against his palm. Then he uses his nails to pinch hard at the soft skin on the inner thigh. "Let's get you in position."
Fucking logistics again. He doubts that Sherlock is going to fancy a light touch and if the other man is spread along the couch, Greg won't be able to get much swing with his arm. He releases Sherlock's arm and swivels round so Sherlock legs spill onto the floor. Now he's got the other man with his knees on the carpet, his arse curved conveniently over Greg's thighs and his face still buried in the cushions. Greg buries his left hand in Sherlock's abundant curls, twisting them round his fingers to pull hard on the hair. It lets him keep Sherlock's face pushed into the cushions. His biggest fear is that Sherlock is going to suddenly pronounce the whole thing "dull" in his most disdainful posh-boy accent.
He lets his simmering nervousness feed into anger. Without warning, he hits down hard with his free hand. He shivers - the impact, the sting, the way Sherlock's flesh quivers - dear God, this is hot. He hits again, trying to remember what little he knows about erotic discipline. Vary the pace, vary the placement, that's about all he can think off. Oh yeah, and making people count but he can't see himself managing to impose that on Sherlock. To get his attention, you'd probably have to get him to count up with prime numbers only or some such nonsense.
Speaking of Sherlock... there's a loud and quite clearly ostentatious yawn from the sofa. "Good God, Inspector, is that the best you can do? The girls at my nursery school could hit harder than that." Little Sherlock at nursery school, now there's a bizarre thought. Greg is sure he'd been the master of the six-hour screaming tantrum. Or maybe he'd specialised in the epic sulk, holding his breath until he passed out. Ever the fucking prima-donna. Suddenly Greg is furious at being manipulated like this. Whatever happened to normal, gentle, reciprocal sex? Why can't Sherlock just be nice for once?
It is all flooding over him now. Every time Sherlock has been condescending about his abilities. Every time Sherlock has been rude to his team. Every time Sherlock has handed him an answer having got the evidence in ways that make it inadmissible in court. Every time Sherlock has swept away from a crime scene, bat-coat flapping, John trailing dutifully behind, having left them in more of a mess than before he'd arrived.
Greg pulls back his arm and hits down with every ounce of force he can muster, driving Sherlock's body hard against his thighs, pushing Sherlock's face deep into the cushions. He hopes the bastard suffocates. Breathing is for the weak, after all. He stops thinking, stops worrying, just lets every ounce of frustration flow into giving Sherlock the thrashing he's undoubtedly deserved ever since those nursery school days. Legions of traumatised school-mates will doubtless thank him.
Parts of it work beautifully. Sherlock's pale skin reddens just as he'd imagined it might. First a blush of rosy pink, then with repeated applications deepening into a warm ruby red. Sherlock's not a screamer or even much of a moaner, but as Greg gets into it, he's rewarded by little grunts and shudders of panting that feed directly into his own simmering arousal. Less helpful is the discovery that his hand bloody hurts. He begins to see why people use paddles and things. Sadly his living room is equipped for lounging around and watching telly, not for sexual discipline, so there's nothing to hand he can use. He doubts the telly remote will work too well and he can't really afford to break it.
Finally he has to take a break, flexing his aching fingers, rubbing his stinging palm gently over the reddened skin. On impulse he pulls his other hand out of Sherlock's hair and slides it round to stroke the side of his face. He's expecting a scathing rebuke about sentiment but Sherlock simply turns his head and sucks two fingers deep into his mouth. His hot, wet, velvet soft mouth. Christ! That cutting tongue is seductively soft as it licks round the fingers, teeth scraping right on the edge between gentleness and danger.
Greg wants to climb right inside Sherlock, bugger him from the inside out. He wants to fuck that lovely wet mouth, but even more he wants to part those red cheeks and shove his cock deep in between them. He wants to screw bloody Sherlock - with his cutting words and disdainful looks, his brilliant mind and willowy body - he want to screw him in the most literal sense possible. Lube! Fuck, he doesn't have any. He finished the tube in the bedroom and couldn't be arsed to replace it. Mostly he just wanks in the shower. What the hell can he use? He's not taking Sherlock dry. He's got his limits. Head & Shoulders 2 in 1, would that work? Cooking oil? Finished that too. He's been living on take-away for weeks. Ketchup is probably not good.
He trails his fingers down Sherlock's cleft as he quietly panics. Slides a finger over Sherlock's pucker - slides a finger right into Sherlock's arse. Sherlock's stretched, slick arse.... What the fuck?
His brain short-circuits for a minute. Has Sherlock come straight from someone else's bed? Was he texting Greg while being pounded full by some other man's cock? Somehow Greg can visualise that. Some bloke grunting and grafting at the back end while Sherlock lies on his stomach, thumbs speeding over his keyboard, quite unconcerned. Multi-tasking at its finest.
Get a grip. He's a detective - and actually a pretty good one, whatever bloody Holmes Minor may think - he can reach a few conclusions from the evidence at hand. Sherlock is not stretched enough for this to have been much of a cock. And he's not wet enough to be dripping with another man's come. This was fingers and lube. Not likely to have been the painfully straight John. No other obvious candidates. So that means what? Sherlock had been texting Greg with one hand while having his trousers down and his other hand up his own arse, opening himself up?
Greg's vision blurs briefly as he considers this picture. Oh God, he'd never going to be able to receive another text from Sherlock without having this in the back of his mind.
And he'd done this why? Prepared a little surprise for Greg but one that he had to discover for himself. He'd been so sure Sherlock was about to walk out. A test, a reward, something Greg had to rise to the occasion to uncover. Bloody Sherlock and his bloody games. Greg pulls out, puts together three fingers and shoves back in hard. Sherlock gasps gratifyingly around the fingers in his mouth and then sucks with all the enthusiasm of a porn star.
Greg bites down on his lip to try and stop his own groan. He suspects he's doing enough whimpering for both of them. He'd tried anal sex with his wife. It'd been her idea, he suspected she read about it in some women's mag, one of those awful articles about how to spice up your flagging sex life. He'd loved the feel of it, fascinated by how slippery soft her rectum was. But she'd been so tense and unsure about it that it had all ended in yet another bitter row and three days of icy silence. He's done a few things with men, tentative groping back in secondary school, some anonymous back-of-pub encounters conducted with anger and guilt during the several separations that characterised the dying years of their marriage. Hand jobs and blow jobs. But he's never done this.
He twists his fingers, loving the way Sherlock groans as his knuckles drag inside the tight passage. He needs to keep things confident and controlled, he can't bear to have sodding Sherlock realise that he's sort of a virgin at this. He takes a deep breath. Fake it 'til you make it, mate, that's what it takes. He knows there's supposed to be a prostate in there somewhere but he's damned if he knows where to go looking for it. Not the sort of thing they covered in school in his day. You got your information from the older boys sniggering together behind the bike shed and the old Playboys under your dad's bed.
He's desperate to sink his cock into that tight hot space but that's the other problem with his school years being quite so long ago. It doesn't just pop right back up these days, the way it did back in his teens when he was still trying to be a punk rocker. He needs to keep Sherlock occupied for a bit and he doubts a cup of tea and an invitation to watch a rerun of Come Dine With Me is going to cut it. The finger fucking is good - bloody marvellous actually - but he suspects he'll need to keep switching things around to keep that twitchy mind fully engaged.
The texts that had lured Sherlock here so unexpectedly had been all about using him for Greg's pleasure, so he suspects now is not the time to get concerned about Sherlock's welfare. He pulls his fingers out with a squelchy pop, obscenely loud in the quiet room, does a quick grope of Sherlock's groin to confirm that the man is actually hard, and contemplates his next move.
"Get up and strip," he orders. "You're going down on your knees and you're going to suck me hard again." Sherlock levers himself languidly off the couch and obeys with an easy elegance that leaves Greg dry mouthed, shrugging off a clearly expensive silky grey shirt and dropping it casually on the floor. There is a sardonic curl to his lip that makes Greg suspect that Sherlock considers this all rather pedestrian. Fucker, what can he do to surprise him? He'd love to shove something up that arse, keep Sherlock on edge while he sucks. But he doesn't exactly have butt-plugs or dildos lying around his flat. He's never had this kind of love-life before.
Next time he'll be better prepared. Lube, paddle, buttplugs, vibrator, maybe a bit of rope, perhaps a blindfold, all stuffed down the back of the couch. And won't that go down well if he happens to bring some nice girl home instead?
So what can he use? One of the phones? Wrong shape. And John really would never forgive him for that one. Telly remote? Awkward. Beer bottle? Nice long smooth neck. But no, he knows the horror stories about odd objects being stuck up there and the consequences. Police do get called out for some very strange things now and then.
Suddenly he has a wild idea. But he'll have to leave Sherlock for a moment to make it work. "Kneel," he orders Sherlock - a very naked Sherlock, oh God, no don't get derailed now. He summons up his very best Officer of the Law voice. "Kneel, wrists crossed behind your back, eyes closed. And wait for me." Sherlock gives him a curious look, a considering stare as if he's deducing what Greg's up to. Greg keeps his face as blank as possible and thinks about the soil comparison studies Anderson had been wittering on about yesterday. Finally Sherlock slides down onto his knees with a liquid sensuality that leaves Greg breathless.
Trying to keep on track, he hurriedly gets rid of his t-shirt and boxers and pads into the entrance way, pulling open the drawer of the little desk where he dumps post and keys and spare change. Yes! He'd remembered correctly. At that awful Yard Christmas party someone - probably Donovan - had filled his wallet with tacky bright red ribbed condoms with pictures of mistletoe on the packaging. He'd dumped them all in the drawer and forgotten about them. He grabs two, one for now, one for later. If only Sally could know what he was going to use her present for. The thought of the look on her face gives him slightly hysterical giggles.
He heads into the kitchen, to the fridge. There in the largely empty depths, next to a tub of yoghurt past its sell-by date, a hunk of slightly mouldy Gouda cheese, and some half-eaten pizza, is a courgette. Mrs Henderson next door had given it to him, had told him she'd grown it in her allotment, had told him he was a nice young man and he needed to take better care of himself. She'd told him you could use it to make a very nice veggie pasta bake. He wonders if he should tell her that he is contemplating shoving it up the arse of his much younger and very male lover. Perhaps not.
Having carefully rolled one of the condoms down over the courgette, he heads back to the living room, stopping at the door. Sherlock is on his knees as instructed, wrists crossed behind his back, head bent forward, his dark hair parting to show the delicate arch of his neck. He looks ethereally beautiful and gloriously submissive. Well, looks always were deceiving with Sherlock. Still, Greg can't quite grasp that all this is laid out for him to use as he wishes. How did this get to be his life?
He walks quietly into the room, keeping his treasures carefully hidden behind his back. He certainly doesn't trust Sherlock not to peek. He kneels down behind him, runs a hand gently, reverentially down the prominent bumps of his spine, squeezes the taut buttocks, still reddened from the spanking. He gently pushes Sherlock to lean forward and then carefully slides in his improvised buttplug. Sherlock gasps, tenses around it for a moment, relaxes... and laughs suddenly. "I suppose I did tell you to surprise me."
Greg leans his face against Sherlock's shoulder for a minute and tries to suppress his own chuckles. "I always knew you'd be nothing but trouble but even I couldn't imagine just how much." He drops a soft kiss onto the sharp nob of the shoulder bone and then moves around to sit in front of Sherlock on the edge of the couch. He buries both his hands in Sherlock's hair and tries to rediscover his voice of authority.
"Open your eyes."
Sherlock looks up at him, grey eyes framed with long dark lashes, his full lips with their prominent Cupid's bow slightly parted. Greg is momentarily speechless as he contemplates what he's about to do. What Sherlock is about to let him do. Sherlock casually wets his lips with his tongue, a deliberate tease. Greg's always wondered just how sexual Sherlock is, or isn't. He suspects Sherlock may not be as obsessed with the act the way most people are supposed to be. He may have better control than most and be able to shut it off as irrelevant. But when he turns it back on... God, he's liquid sex poured into human form and Greg is about to defile that perfection.
"I'm going to fuck your mouth," he says hoarsely. "I'm going to force my cock into you until I'm lodged halfway down your throat, 'til I've got my balls crushed to your lips. Until you're so full of me you're choking on it." Sherlock gives him a faint smile as if he is well aware of just how embarrassed Greg is to be talking like this, aware of how aroused Greg is by his own taboo-breaking. He drops his mouth open, letting Greg see into the shadowy red depths, a sweet offer, an edgy dare. Greg runs a thumb across the full lower lip, letting his nail scrape across the soft interior. "Get me hard," he orders.
Sherlock bends to the task, suckling Greg's half-hard cock, rolling it in his mouth, sucking and licking. Just the act of watching Sherlock's head in his groin is almost as arousing as the feel of his mouth. Greg is still very aware of the need to keep Sherlock engaged. He's not yet ready for the kind of rough throat-fuck he suspects Sherlock may want and he doubts slow and loving is Sherlock's default setting. Gathering up his courage, he begins to talk.
"You look beautiful like this. You're made for this, aren't you. The perfect little cock-sucker, made to be plugged up at both ends, shut up your hoity-toity opinions with my cock, fill up your slutty little hole."
Greg sucks in a deep breath. It's hot and it's true. And it's all a cliche and utterly banal. Sherlock deserves something a little more creative than this. Something a little more personal.
"What does it feel like to be so clever, so superior? Looking down on us mere mortals, trapped by our petty confusions. Why are you doing this? Letting yourself be fucked by me? Do you like the idea of being defiled by the proles? We can't keep up with you but we can use you. Would you like to be spitted between me and someone else? Who shall we put behind you, hmm?"
Greg leans forward over Sherlock's head and runs a hand down his spine, down to the firm mass protruding out of Sherlock's arse. He runs his fingers along the stretched pucker, using his nails to scape along the wrinkled skin, and then pumps gently with the courgette. Sherlock gasps and whines round his mouthful. God, Greg's going to get to put his cock in there. He's shivering at the thought.
"Shall we put you in one of the interrogation rooms at the Yard?" he says hoarsely. "After a drugs bust, maybe? Just like this, your mouth plugged with my cock, Donovan doing an intimate cavity search with her fingers. Then filling up your hungry hole with her truncheon."
Looking down, Greg can see Sherlock wrinkling his nose with distaste at this idea. He chuckles. "How about Anderson then? I'd bet he'd love to screw you six ways to Sunday, give you the buggering he thinks you so richly deserve." Sherlock's teeth pressing down dangerously on Greg's cock give him a good idea of what Sherlock thinks of this.
Who else? John? No, too straight and possibly too close to the bone for Sherlock. Greg's not really sure what's going on there and he's no wish to genuinely hurt the man. Suddenly he has a dirty dirty idea. Oh God yes! This might just get his cock bitten off but he's going to try it anyway.
"Or how about the damned warehouse your brother is so fond of? I've come across some piece of information that implicates your brother. He's had me kidnapped off the street by that scary bird of his, as he does. He could have me eliminated of course but he's going to try bribery first. He's sitting in a chair, impeccably dressed naturally, umbrella in one hand, other hand on your head. You're naked, kneeling at his feet, face pressed in his groin, mouth full of his cock, sucking diligently like the good baby brother that you are."
Sherlock's breath hitches. No teeth though. Okay, keep on going.
"He does his whole smarmy greeting thing. Tells me he'd like to make a deal with me. You've been down on your haunches but now he tells you to get your creamy bum up in the air, spread your thighs to reveal your hole. He tells me that if I keep quiet I can have you. I can sink my cock into your perfect bum, fuck you open until you're gaping, until my come is dripping out of your arsehole."
Sherlock is panting round Greg's cock now, a cock that has grown to fill his mouth very nicely. Saliva is drooling down over his swollen lips. His eyes are squeezed shut and he's making small moaning sounds. The little shit is getting off on this. Well, so is Greg so they can burn in hell together. Mycroft will no doubt be running hell anyway - just a demon with a minor administrative position, of course.
"Hell yeah I'm going say yes, I may be a mostly honest copper but everyone's got their price and getting to roger Mycroft Holmes' little sex pet is pretty much mine!" Sherlock moans and swallows his prick as deep as he can take it.
God, he can't manage much more of this. He's as hard as he would ever have been at twenty and he needs to fuck. He stands up on his feet, dragging Sherlock up off his haunches so he's upright on his knees. And of course that is going to make his arse clamp tight around the vegetable that Greg has stuck up there.
Greg has both hands in Sherlock's hair and pulls that infuriating face down onto his cock, one swift movement until he feels his glans bumping against the soft palette. And then, overriding his own natural concern, he pulls some more until he can hear Sherlock gagging for breath. Sherlock seems to have his gag reflex well subdued, Greg's not surprised, he's probably like a Vulcan or something, complete conscious bodily control. He loses himself in the fucking for a while, sinking into the one thing that seems guaranteed to shut Sherlock up, looking down as if hypnotised by that slim face trapped slack-jawed round his cock. The one great advantage of this being his round two is that he'll be able to keep at it for quite a while.
Still in the end, this isn't what he really wants. He doesn't want to be distanced from Sherlock like this. He wants to be plastered right up against him. He needs to sink his prick into Sherlock's pretty arse and he needs it now. He pulls out. "Lean against the couch," he orders. Sherlock shuffles up against it with alacrity, his arse with its obscene contents tilted engagingly over the edge of the seat, his face buried in the cushions of the backrest. Greg kneels down behind him, fingers shaky as he opens the second condom and smooths it over his cock, eases it down with the slick of Sherlock's saliva. He gently pulls the condom-wrapped courgette out of Sherlock's arse and puts it on the coffee table. It seems largely unharmed by its walk on the wild side. Maybe he will try Mrs Henderson's courgette pasta bake recipe after all.
He holds Sherlock's buttocks open with both hands as he admires the stretched pucker, that softly gaping hole waiting for him to breach it. "Good God, get on with it," orders Sherlock. His voice is low and raspy, throat roughed by the hammering from Greg's cock. Greg feels an odd squirming mix of guilt and satisfaction. He grabs Sherlock's hips firmly with one hand, lines up his cock - in its bright red Donovan-gifted Christmas condom - with the other, and punches in hard and deep. Sherlock throws back his head and whines. Greg pulls right out again, and shoves back in, pushing Sherlock into the couch, pushing the couch hard against the wall. "Fuck yes!" mumbles Sherlock.
God, this is good. So bloody tight, pushing into a fist of death. So hot. So smooth. So... Sherlock! The long nobbled line of his spine, the sweaty mess of dark curls, the pale skin that is going to bruise from the impact against the couch, from the death grip of Greg's fingers.
He's fucking Sherlock in a haze of lust, losing track of time. Thirty years of careful, considerate sex and now he's pouring every ounce of aggression, of frustration, of latent violence into this man's body and Sherlock is arching up under him, daring him to give even more. He can feel his second orgasm beginning to build and it occurs to him that maybe he should finally give some thought to Sherlock's climax. "Touch yourself." He tries to make it an order but it comes out like a desperate plea.
Sherlock squirms back from the couch, bracing against one arm while he slides the other between his legs. "Need more," he rasps after a few minutes. "Please. More."
"What more?" Greg gasps. He's not surprised that he's down to singe syllables and two word sentences but he's pretty chuffed that Sherlock is too.
"Neck. Breath. Please."
Greg stills. Breath play? He's investigated his share of accidental deaths thanks to autoerotic asphyxiation. He knows the wheres and whyfores of how a chokehold works to subdue a suspect but he's never fancied trying it on a lover.
"You don't actually need to strangle me, Lestrade. Just press down with your fingers on the carotid arteries on either side of the neck." Right, so not actually monosyllabic after all. Pity that. And come to think of it, he's rather fancied strangling Sherlock on more than one occasion. Still, he's not doing this without considerably more control than their wild fucking has offered to date.
"Okay then, ups-a-daisy." Greg pushes Sherlock to lie sprawled on the couch, one leg tucked up so Sherlock can still get a hand to his prick. Greg curls behind him and pushes slowly back in, half on top of him now, with a hand curled round him to grasp his neck from the front. Luckily Sherlock has a slim neck and Greg has broad hands. He carefully finds the arteries and squeezes gently. Sherlock gasps and pushes back against him.
God, this is something else again. If the fucking had been rough and hard, somewhat detached from each other, this is shockingly personal, curled round Sherlock like the most intimate of protection wrapped round the most intimate of dangers. Sherlock tilts his head back, exposing the fine white line of his neck, the vulnerable passageways of breath and blood that are required to keep his great brain working. Greg is left breathless by Sherlock's trust in him. He can feel the rapid hammer of Sherlock's pulse melding in with the frantic beat of his own, tingling in the tips of his fingers.
The fucking is mutual now, Greg pressing forward with a rhythmic wave of his hips, Sherlock grinding backwards, trying to sink ever deeper into Greg's lap. Greg's a little dizzy from the sheer wealth of bare skin pressed against his own, the heat and the scent of it rising up all around him. He finds himself gnawing on Sherlock's shoulder bone, slowly working up a blood bruise that he hopes will still be there tomorrow.
He presses down on Sherlock's arteries with great care. Too much care apparently. Sherlock finally manages to put his own hand over Greg's, pushing down to show the pressure he wants. His other hand has disappeared between his legs, where he seems to be letting Greg's slow rhythm fuck him into his own fist.
Sherlock has been reduced to soft rapid pants. Greg finds himself muttering words against Sherlock's skin, hot urgent whispers, long past caring whether it's corny or cliched. "God Sherlock, so beautiful... so hot, want you, oh God, want... fuck!"
His orgasm crashes over him in long shuddering waves. Without thinking his hand tightens round Sherlock's throat. Sherlock gasps, arching up against him. Greg regains enough thought to pull his hand hastily away as he feels Sherlock's body jerking underneath him, long shivers running up the slender spine pressed against Greg's chest. Finally Sherlock collapses limply against the cushions. Greg's going to spend the rest of his days watching telly on a tatty couch stained with Sherlock Holmes' semen. Fucking hell, what has his life come to?
* * *
Greg grabs some clothing to wipe the worst of the mess off himself and Sherlock. He's vaguely regretful when he realises it's his The Cure t-shirt. He'd really liked that one and now he'll never be able to wear it again without feeling some weird combination of turned on and mortified.
He pushes Sherlock to one side, slumps onto the sofa and firmly closes his eyes. He feels as if he's just finished a particularly trying case, days spent chasing frantically round London, nights spent fighting paperwork piles, success ephemeral in the haze of exhaustion. Trust sex with Sherlock to be as stressful as it is satisfying. He has no idea how one is supposed to close down a scene like this and he hasn't the energy to try and work it out. Let bloody Sherlock do whatever he wants. He will anyway.
Except that apparently what Sherlock wants is to clamber on top of him, wriggle around so he settles firmly between Greg's thighs and lay his head down on Greg's chest, his curls a messy sprawl that tickle Greg's nose. With a happy little sigh Sherlock curls his hand around Greg's bicep. Greg lifts his head and peers at the other man with incredulity. Sherlock is draped across him with all the boneless contentment of a sleepy cat.
What Sherlock wants to do after edgy sex is.... cuddle?
Greg has felt off-balance for the entire event but now he feels as if he's wobbling like a coin about to come to rest, but with no idea whether he's going to land heads up or tails up. Sherlock butts his head against Greg's chin, just like a bloody cat, like a sodding panther pretending to be a domestic pussy. Apparently Greg is no longer riding the tiger but rather being sat on by it. He shakes his head at himself. Enough with the fucking cat metaphors. He's always thought himself more of a dog person really.
Although he's beginning to realise that a lot of things he's thought about himself may not be entirely true. That's a rather disconcerting realisation for a man in his late forties. But in a sneaky way it's also rather an exciting one. Just like Sherlock really. Disconcerting as hell but pretty exciting if you have the courage to hang on for the ride.
Greg begins to card his fingers through Sherlock's hair, gently eliminating the tangles. Sherlock makes little huffs of contentment. Finally he lifts his head to murmur, "You show unexpected potential, Inspector. I may be able to make something of you yet."
Greg snorts with laughter. Oh yes, he's going to hang on to this as long as he can.
- THE END -
Sequel to: Bored!
Fandom & Pairing: Sherlock BBC, Sherlock/Lestrade
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: mild D/s, spanking, object insertion, incest fantasy, breath-play
Genre: humour, pwp
Word Count: Around 6600
Beta: the ever-obliging imachar, even though she's not even in this fandom.
Summary:Follows on immediately after Bored!. Now that Lestrade has so unexpectedly got Sherlock's attention, sexually speaking, how the hell is he going to keep it?
"John is still out, I'm still bored and you've proved unexpectedly interesting. So you're going to entertain me."
Greg stares up at Sherlock, who is kneeling across his thighs and running curious fingers across the soft skin surrounding Greg's throbbing cock. For once Greg finds himself completely at a loss for words.
It's not that Greg has some hopeless love-lorn crush on Sherlock. Oh, he's not blind. He sees the pale skin, the silky curls, the swell of that sweet bum. But mostly he just finds Sherlock profoundly annoying although sadly indispensable for his more obscure cases. He's had the occasional fantasy about Sherlock, obviously he has, but then he's done the same for most of his acquaintances.
For a few weeks after John shot that cabbie - of course Greg knows that John did it, Sherlock was practically shouting out John's name at the time - Greg indulged in some steamy fantasies involving soldier John and some very intimate gun porn. He's indulged in some arrest fantasies involving Donovan too. He knows just how much she enjoys slapping handcuffs on big rough men and he's imagined being pushed face-first onto the bonnet of a car while she cuffs him. Imagined being interrogated by her while she runs her baton under his bared bollocks and in that no-nonsense voice of hers threatens to push it right up his arse.
Being abducted by Mycroft Holmes had been a good one too. Except he'd put that scary bird with the great legs into the chair instead - assistant, his arse, he knew Special Branch security when he saw it - and put himself on his knees in front of her. So all in all, Greg enjoys a healthy and varied fantasy life, although possibly with a degree of kink and violence that he's not entirely comfortable with examining.
The point is that none of this happens in real life. In real life he is a gentleman, kind, considerate and loving, as undemandingly vanilla as his wife - ex-wife - could ever have wanted. Real life does not involve being mostly naked on his couch with a fully clothed consulting detective astride his thighs, examining his weeping prick with detached curiosity as if it is a possibly interesting, but not yet conclusively crucial, piece of evidence at a murder scene.
Sherlock trails long pale fingers down through Greg's pubic curls - grey curls, God, no one had ever mentioned that your head wasn't the only place you went grey, he's old enough to be Sherlock's father, well if he'd been precocious at school that is, what the hell is he doing here - and his rush of panic is derailed as those nimble fingers wrap round his balls and roll them slowly in their sac. He's always been sensitive there, and when Sherlock pulls down, bringing just an edge of pain to the light touch, Greg finds himself arching up under Sherlock's weight, futilely looking for something, anything, to rub his cock against.
Sherlock runs the back of his fingers up the underside of Greg's cock. Those fine fastidious fingers are smeared in his pre-come, God! "Approximately 5.7 inches, so in the upper end of the average range of length, a little more than average in girth, uncut, slight upward curve...." Sherlock, cataloguing the features of his prick in that rough velvet voice of his, oh bloody hell. Sherlock wraps his hand firmly around Greg's shaft, presses his thumb against the frenulum, strokes firmly upwards--
Greg is coming, groin convulsing, thighs trembling under Sherlock's weight, pulsing strings of pearly come over Sherlock's hand, over his own stomach, over John's bloody phone. His head is buzzing with the rush of his own blood, his body pulsing with sweet relief. And through the blurred haze of sated lust he can see Sherlock looking at him.
Looking disappointed.
The look he gets when a case has proved too obvious. When a motive has proved pedestrian - jealousy, petty greed. The look he gives to a world he finds banal and commonplace. Sherlock is about to get off him, without having removed any clothing beyond his coat and shoes, without having touched Greg with more than one hand, without having any signs of a hard-on.
Sherlock is going to walk away, with Greg firmly categorised as mundane and mediocre. Every time they meet at a crime scene, every time Greg comes to Baker Street to request help, they'll both know he was the man who couldn't last more than a minute in the face of Sherlock's presence. They'll both despise him just that little bit more.
So much for being unexpectedly interesting.
Fuck it, no! Greg is not giving up this easily. His pride won't stand for it. He pushes aside his post-coital haze and surges upwards, grabbing Sherlock, using the advantage of surprise and speed to twist them both so that he gets Sherlock face down on the couch, with one long arm twisted up behind his back. Greg may have got a little broader and a little softer with age, but his bulk is still made up of muscle, muscle he exercises regularly at the Yard's gym.
Sherlock recovers from his surprise and starts to thrash. Greg throws off the last of his sentiment and lets his copper persona drop back into place. He jerks Sherlock's arm up hard, just to the edge of where it'll really start to hurt, puts his face right up against Sherlock's ear and hisses, "Now that you've taken the edge off, sunshine, we can get started on the main event."
Sherlock stills, lying quiescent but tense under him. Greg takes a few deep breaths and tries to quell his rising panic. What the hell is he going to do now? Greg has always been very careful to put down the tough copper at the door of his home, let the man who walks into the flat be the loving husband, the good mate, the easy-going all-round nice guy. He's all too familiar with what happens when a cop brings the frustration and aggression of the job back into the home. He's seen the subdued wives who walk into doors with mysterious frequency, the withdrawn children who cringe when anyone raises their voice. He's always been determined never to go down that road.
He knows people play dominance games with sex - he's had to clean up the messy aftermath of a few in his time - but he's got no personal experience and he's quite sure that Sherlock will not appreciate time out to discuss boundaries. Neither safe nor sane are in Sherlock's vocabulary. However considerable physical strength and a cutting tongue that has never seemed to have any qualms about saying no definitely are.
He eases off the pressure on Sherlock's arm and waits. Sherlock waits. Greg swallows hard. Right. Game on.
He puts his mouth back against Sherlock's ear, aiming for his very best intimidate the suspect tone. "Right, now this all began with your need for a good hard beating across your arse. Time to get back on track, I think." Is he imagining it or did Sherlock's breath hitch at the mention of discipline? Greg frantically tries to think about logistics. He's wearing too few clothes and Sherlock too many for this. God, it is so much easier in porn films where you can just have a convenient cut between scenes while clothes are removed and bodies rearranged.
"You're going to take your free hand, unzip your pants and push them down onto your thighs. Do it!"
He keeps Sherlock's other arm locked behind his back, Sherlock may appear to be acquiescing but Greg's quite sure he's going to push the limits again as soon as he can. He must have been a nightmare as a toddler. He spares a very brief sympathetic thought for big brother Mycroft while he watches as Sherlock wriggles and pushes at his pants. It is easier than it might have been, given that Sherlock has apparently decided underwear is optional.
"You little slut," hisses Greg as he runs his free hand over Sherlock's newly exposed buttocks. "Running around London with your bits dangling free. Hoping one of those criminals you chase after will turn and catch you, are you? Hoping they'll show you what for?" Sherlock's arse is just as perfect as Greg imagined it would be, two peachy mounds of the palest cream, giving beautifully under the pressure of his hand. "Or is it the police you're hoping to flash. Hoping your continual perversions of the course of justice will result in a little personal interrogation?"
Greg's very glad that Sherlock's face is firmly pressed against the cushions of the couch. He's never actually said anything like this aloud before. He's laughed at the cheesy dialogue in porn films. He's let such dialogue run through his private fantasies. But he's never let his lips curl around such words in cold, hard daylight. He's trembling lightly, feeling as if he's running a fever, hot and cold at the same time. He's no idea how he's going to be able to look Sherlock in the eye once they're done. He might be going to end up in that shack in Thailand after all.
He begins to understand what people mean when they talk about riding a tiger. Once you're on it, there is no safe way off again. All you can do is cling on tight and hope. "I think this slutty behaviour is just one more area where you need some discipline." He runs his hand lightly over Sherlock's porcelain cheeks, feeling the tiny hairs prickle against his palm. Then he uses his nails to pinch hard at the soft skin on the inner thigh. "Let's get you in position."
Fucking logistics again. He doubts that Sherlock is going to fancy a light touch and if the other man is spread along the couch, Greg won't be able to get much swing with his arm. He releases Sherlock's arm and swivels round so Sherlock legs spill onto the floor. Now he's got the other man with his knees on the carpet, his arse curved conveniently over Greg's thighs and his face still buried in the cushions. Greg buries his left hand in Sherlock's abundant curls, twisting them round his fingers to pull hard on the hair. It lets him keep Sherlock's face pushed into the cushions. His biggest fear is that Sherlock is going to suddenly pronounce the whole thing "dull" in his most disdainful posh-boy accent.
He lets his simmering nervousness feed into anger. Without warning, he hits down hard with his free hand. He shivers - the impact, the sting, the way Sherlock's flesh quivers - dear God, this is hot. He hits again, trying to remember what little he knows about erotic discipline. Vary the pace, vary the placement, that's about all he can think off. Oh yeah, and making people count but he can't see himself managing to impose that on Sherlock. To get his attention, you'd probably have to get him to count up with prime numbers only or some such nonsense.
Speaking of Sherlock... there's a loud and quite clearly ostentatious yawn from the sofa. "Good God, Inspector, is that the best you can do? The girls at my nursery school could hit harder than that." Little Sherlock at nursery school, now there's a bizarre thought. Greg is sure he'd been the master of the six-hour screaming tantrum. Or maybe he'd specialised in the epic sulk, holding his breath until he passed out. Ever the fucking prima-donna. Suddenly Greg is furious at being manipulated like this. Whatever happened to normal, gentle, reciprocal sex? Why can't Sherlock just be nice for once?
It is all flooding over him now. Every time Sherlock has been condescending about his abilities. Every time Sherlock has been rude to his team. Every time Sherlock has handed him an answer having got the evidence in ways that make it inadmissible in court. Every time Sherlock has swept away from a crime scene, bat-coat flapping, John trailing dutifully behind, having left them in more of a mess than before he'd arrived.
Greg pulls back his arm and hits down with every ounce of force he can muster, driving Sherlock's body hard against his thighs, pushing Sherlock's face deep into the cushions. He hopes the bastard suffocates. Breathing is for the weak, after all. He stops thinking, stops worrying, just lets every ounce of frustration flow into giving Sherlock the thrashing he's undoubtedly deserved ever since those nursery school days. Legions of traumatised school-mates will doubtless thank him.
Parts of it work beautifully. Sherlock's pale skin reddens just as he'd imagined it might. First a blush of rosy pink, then with repeated applications deepening into a warm ruby red. Sherlock's not a screamer or even much of a moaner, but as Greg gets into it, he's rewarded by little grunts and shudders of panting that feed directly into his own simmering arousal. Less helpful is the discovery that his hand bloody hurts. He begins to see why people use paddles and things. Sadly his living room is equipped for lounging around and watching telly, not for sexual discipline, so there's nothing to hand he can use. He doubts the telly remote will work too well and he can't really afford to break it.
Finally he has to take a break, flexing his aching fingers, rubbing his stinging palm gently over the reddened skin. On impulse he pulls his other hand out of Sherlock's hair and slides it round to stroke the side of his face. He's expecting a scathing rebuke about sentiment but Sherlock simply turns his head and sucks two fingers deep into his mouth. His hot, wet, velvet soft mouth. Christ! That cutting tongue is seductively soft as it licks round the fingers, teeth scraping right on the edge between gentleness and danger.
Greg wants to climb right inside Sherlock, bugger him from the inside out. He wants to fuck that lovely wet mouth, but even more he wants to part those red cheeks and shove his cock deep in between them. He wants to screw bloody Sherlock - with his cutting words and disdainful looks, his brilliant mind and willowy body - he want to screw him in the most literal sense possible. Lube! Fuck, he doesn't have any. He finished the tube in the bedroom and couldn't be arsed to replace it. Mostly he just wanks in the shower. What the hell can he use? He's not taking Sherlock dry. He's got his limits. Head & Shoulders 2 in 1, would that work? Cooking oil? Finished that too. He's been living on take-away for weeks. Ketchup is probably not good.
He trails his fingers down Sherlock's cleft as he quietly panics. Slides a finger over Sherlock's pucker - slides a finger right into Sherlock's arse. Sherlock's stretched, slick arse.... What the fuck?
His brain short-circuits for a minute. Has Sherlock come straight from someone else's bed? Was he texting Greg while being pounded full by some other man's cock? Somehow Greg can visualise that. Some bloke grunting and grafting at the back end while Sherlock lies on his stomach, thumbs speeding over his keyboard, quite unconcerned. Multi-tasking at its finest.
Get a grip. He's a detective - and actually a pretty good one, whatever bloody Holmes Minor may think - he can reach a few conclusions from the evidence at hand. Sherlock is not stretched enough for this to have been much of a cock. And he's not wet enough to be dripping with another man's come. This was fingers and lube. Not likely to have been the painfully straight John. No other obvious candidates. So that means what? Sherlock had been texting Greg with one hand while having his trousers down and his other hand up his own arse, opening himself up?
Greg's vision blurs briefly as he considers this picture. Oh God, he'd never going to be able to receive another text from Sherlock without having this in the back of his mind.
And he'd done this why? Prepared a little surprise for Greg but one that he had to discover for himself. He'd been so sure Sherlock was about to walk out. A test, a reward, something Greg had to rise to the occasion to uncover. Bloody Sherlock and his bloody games. Greg pulls out, puts together three fingers and shoves back in hard. Sherlock gasps gratifyingly around the fingers in his mouth and then sucks with all the enthusiasm of a porn star.
Greg bites down on his lip to try and stop his own groan. He suspects he's doing enough whimpering for both of them. He'd tried anal sex with his wife. It'd been her idea, he suspected she read about it in some women's mag, one of those awful articles about how to spice up your flagging sex life. He'd loved the feel of it, fascinated by how slippery soft her rectum was. But she'd been so tense and unsure about it that it had all ended in yet another bitter row and three days of icy silence. He's done a few things with men, tentative groping back in secondary school, some anonymous back-of-pub encounters conducted with anger and guilt during the several separations that characterised the dying years of their marriage. Hand jobs and blow jobs. But he's never done this.
He twists his fingers, loving the way Sherlock groans as his knuckles drag inside the tight passage. He needs to keep things confident and controlled, he can't bear to have sodding Sherlock realise that he's sort of a virgin at this. He takes a deep breath. Fake it 'til you make it, mate, that's what it takes. He knows there's supposed to be a prostate in there somewhere but he's damned if he knows where to go looking for it. Not the sort of thing they covered in school in his day. You got your information from the older boys sniggering together behind the bike shed and the old Playboys under your dad's bed.
He's desperate to sink his cock into that tight hot space but that's the other problem with his school years being quite so long ago. It doesn't just pop right back up these days, the way it did back in his teens when he was still trying to be a punk rocker. He needs to keep Sherlock occupied for a bit and he doubts a cup of tea and an invitation to watch a rerun of Come Dine With Me is going to cut it. The finger fucking is good - bloody marvellous actually - but he suspects he'll need to keep switching things around to keep that twitchy mind fully engaged.
The texts that had lured Sherlock here so unexpectedly had been all about using him for Greg's pleasure, so he suspects now is not the time to get concerned about Sherlock's welfare. He pulls his fingers out with a squelchy pop, obscenely loud in the quiet room, does a quick grope of Sherlock's groin to confirm that the man is actually hard, and contemplates his next move.
"Get up and strip," he orders. "You're going down on your knees and you're going to suck me hard again." Sherlock levers himself languidly off the couch and obeys with an easy elegance that leaves Greg dry mouthed, shrugging off a clearly expensive silky grey shirt and dropping it casually on the floor. There is a sardonic curl to his lip that makes Greg suspect that Sherlock considers this all rather pedestrian. Fucker, what can he do to surprise him? He'd love to shove something up that arse, keep Sherlock on edge while he sucks. But he doesn't exactly have butt-plugs or dildos lying around his flat. He's never had this kind of love-life before.
Next time he'll be better prepared. Lube, paddle, buttplugs, vibrator, maybe a bit of rope, perhaps a blindfold, all stuffed down the back of the couch. And won't that go down well if he happens to bring some nice girl home instead?
So what can he use? One of the phones? Wrong shape. And John really would never forgive him for that one. Telly remote? Awkward. Beer bottle? Nice long smooth neck. But no, he knows the horror stories about odd objects being stuck up there and the consequences. Police do get called out for some very strange things now and then.
Suddenly he has a wild idea. But he'll have to leave Sherlock for a moment to make it work. "Kneel," he orders Sherlock - a very naked Sherlock, oh God, no don't get derailed now. He summons up his very best Officer of the Law voice. "Kneel, wrists crossed behind your back, eyes closed. And wait for me." Sherlock gives him a curious look, a considering stare as if he's deducing what Greg's up to. Greg keeps his face as blank as possible and thinks about the soil comparison studies Anderson had been wittering on about yesterday. Finally Sherlock slides down onto his knees with a liquid sensuality that leaves Greg breathless.
Trying to keep on track, he hurriedly gets rid of his t-shirt and boxers and pads into the entrance way, pulling open the drawer of the little desk where he dumps post and keys and spare change. Yes! He'd remembered correctly. At that awful Yard Christmas party someone - probably Donovan - had filled his wallet with tacky bright red ribbed condoms with pictures of mistletoe on the packaging. He'd dumped them all in the drawer and forgotten about them. He grabs two, one for now, one for later. If only Sally could know what he was going to use her present for. The thought of the look on her face gives him slightly hysterical giggles.
He heads into the kitchen, to the fridge. There in the largely empty depths, next to a tub of yoghurt past its sell-by date, a hunk of slightly mouldy Gouda cheese, and some half-eaten pizza, is a courgette. Mrs Henderson next door had given it to him, had told him she'd grown it in her allotment, had told him he was a nice young man and he needed to take better care of himself. She'd told him you could use it to make a very nice veggie pasta bake. He wonders if he should tell her that he is contemplating shoving it up the arse of his much younger and very male lover. Perhaps not.
Having carefully rolled one of the condoms down over the courgette, he heads back to the living room, stopping at the door. Sherlock is on his knees as instructed, wrists crossed behind his back, head bent forward, his dark hair parting to show the delicate arch of his neck. He looks ethereally beautiful and gloriously submissive. Well, looks always were deceiving with Sherlock. Still, Greg can't quite grasp that all this is laid out for him to use as he wishes. How did this get to be his life?
He walks quietly into the room, keeping his treasures carefully hidden behind his back. He certainly doesn't trust Sherlock not to peek. He kneels down behind him, runs a hand gently, reverentially down the prominent bumps of his spine, squeezes the taut buttocks, still reddened from the spanking. He gently pushes Sherlock to lean forward and then carefully slides in his improvised buttplug. Sherlock gasps, tenses around it for a moment, relaxes... and laughs suddenly. "I suppose I did tell you to surprise me."
Greg leans his face against Sherlock's shoulder for a minute and tries to suppress his own chuckles. "I always knew you'd be nothing but trouble but even I couldn't imagine just how much." He drops a soft kiss onto the sharp nob of the shoulder bone and then moves around to sit in front of Sherlock on the edge of the couch. He buries both his hands in Sherlock's hair and tries to rediscover his voice of authority.
"Open your eyes."
Sherlock looks up at him, grey eyes framed with long dark lashes, his full lips with their prominent Cupid's bow slightly parted. Greg is momentarily speechless as he contemplates what he's about to do. What Sherlock is about to let him do. Sherlock casually wets his lips with his tongue, a deliberate tease. Greg's always wondered just how sexual Sherlock is, or isn't. He suspects Sherlock may not be as obsessed with the act the way most people are supposed to be. He may have better control than most and be able to shut it off as irrelevant. But when he turns it back on... God, he's liquid sex poured into human form and Greg is about to defile that perfection.
"I'm going to fuck your mouth," he says hoarsely. "I'm going to force my cock into you until I'm lodged halfway down your throat, 'til I've got my balls crushed to your lips. Until you're so full of me you're choking on it." Sherlock gives him a faint smile as if he is well aware of just how embarrassed Greg is to be talking like this, aware of how aroused Greg is by his own taboo-breaking. He drops his mouth open, letting Greg see into the shadowy red depths, a sweet offer, an edgy dare. Greg runs a thumb across the full lower lip, letting his nail scrape across the soft interior. "Get me hard," he orders.
Sherlock bends to the task, suckling Greg's half-hard cock, rolling it in his mouth, sucking and licking. Just the act of watching Sherlock's head in his groin is almost as arousing as the feel of his mouth. Greg is still very aware of the need to keep Sherlock engaged. He's not yet ready for the kind of rough throat-fuck he suspects Sherlock may want and he doubts slow and loving is Sherlock's default setting. Gathering up his courage, he begins to talk.
"You look beautiful like this. You're made for this, aren't you. The perfect little cock-sucker, made to be plugged up at both ends, shut up your hoity-toity opinions with my cock, fill up your slutty little hole."
Greg sucks in a deep breath. It's hot and it's true. And it's all a cliche and utterly banal. Sherlock deserves something a little more creative than this. Something a little more personal.
"What does it feel like to be so clever, so superior? Looking down on us mere mortals, trapped by our petty confusions. Why are you doing this? Letting yourself be fucked by me? Do you like the idea of being defiled by the proles? We can't keep up with you but we can use you. Would you like to be spitted between me and someone else? Who shall we put behind you, hmm?"
Greg leans forward over Sherlock's head and runs a hand down his spine, down to the firm mass protruding out of Sherlock's arse. He runs his fingers along the stretched pucker, using his nails to scape along the wrinkled skin, and then pumps gently with the courgette. Sherlock gasps and whines round his mouthful. God, Greg's going to get to put his cock in there. He's shivering at the thought.
"Shall we put you in one of the interrogation rooms at the Yard?" he says hoarsely. "After a drugs bust, maybe? Just like this, your mouth plugged with my cock, Donovan doing an intimate cavity search with her fingers. Then filling up your hungry hole with her truncheon."
Looking down, Greg can see Sherlock wrinkling his nose with distaste at this idea. He chuckles. "How about Anderson then? I'd bet he'd love to screw you six ways to Sunday, give you the buggering he thinks you so richly deserve." Sherlock's teeth pressing down dangerously on Greg's cock give him a good idea of what Sherlock thinks of this.
Who else? John? No, too straight and possibly too close to the bone for Sherlock. Greg's not really sure what's going on there and he's no wish to genuinely hurt the man. Suddenly he has a dirty dirty idea. Oh God yes! This might just get his cock bitten off but he's going to try it anyway.
"Or how about the damned warehouse your brother is so fond of? I've come across some piece of information that implicates your brother. He's had me kidnapped off the street by that scary bird of his, as he does. He could have me eliminated of course but he's going to try bribery first. He's sitting in a chair, impeccably dressed naturally, umbrella in one hand, other hand on your head. You're naked, kneeling at his feet, face pressed in his groin, mouth full of his cock, sucking diligently like the good baby brother that you are."
Sherlock's breath hitches. No teeth though. Okay, keep on going.
"He does his whole smarmy greeting thing. Tells me he'd like to make a deal with me. You've been down on your haunches but now he tells you to get your creamy bum up in the air, spread your thighs to reveal your hole. He tells me that if I keep quiet I can have you. I can sink my cock into your perfect bum, fuck you open until you're gaping, until my come is dripping out of your arsehole."
Sherlock is panting round Greg's cock now, a cock that has grown to fill his mouth very nicely. Saliva is drooling down over his swollen lips. His eyes are squeezed shut and he's making small moaning sounds. The little shit is getting off on this. Well, so is Greg so they can burn in hell together. Mycroft will no doubt be running hell anyway - just a demon with a minor administrative position, of course.
"Hell yeah I'm going say yes, I may be a mostly honest copper but everyone's got their price and getting to roger Mycroft Holmes' little sex pet is pretty much mine!" Sherlock moans and swallows his prick as deep as he can take it.
God, he can't manage much more of this. He's as hard as he would ever have been at twenty and he needs to fuck. He stands up on his feet, dragging Sherlock up off his haunches so he's upright on his knees. And of course that is going to make his arse clamp tight around the vegetable that Greg has stuck up there.
Greg has both hands in Sherlock's hair and pulls that infuriating face down onto his cock, one swift movement until he feels his glans bumping against the soft palette. And then, overriding his own natural concern, he pulls some more until he can hear Sherlock gagging for breath. Sherlock seems to have his gag reflex well subdued, Greg's not surprised, he's probably like a Vulcan or something, complete conscious bodily control. He loses himself in the fucking for a while, sinking into the one thing that seems guaranteed to shut Sherlock up, looking down as if hypnotised by that slim face trapped slack-jawed round his cock. The one great advantage of this being his round two is that he'll be able to keep at it for quite a while.
Still in the end, this isn't what he really wants. He doesn't want to be distanced from Sherlock like this. He wants to be plastered right up against him. He needs to sink his prick into Sherlock's pretty arse and he needs it now. He pulls out. "Lean against the couch," he orders. Sherlock shuffles up against it with alacrity, his arse with its obscene contents tilted engagingly over the edge of the seat, his face buried in the cushions of the backrest. Greg kneels down behind him, fingers shaky as he opens the second condom and smooths it over his cock, eases it down with the slick of Sherlock's saliva. He gently pulls the condom-wrapped courgette out of Sherlock's arse and puts it on the coffee table. It seems largely unharmed by its walk on the wild side. Maybe he will try Mrs Henderson's courgette pasta bake recipe after all.
He holds Sherlock's buttocks open with both hands as he admires the stretched pucker, that softly gaping hole waiting for him to breach it. "Good God, get on with it," orders Sherlock. His voice is low and raspy, throat roughed by the hammering from Greg's cock. Greg feels an odd squirming mix of guilt and satisfaction. He grabs Sherlock's hips firmly with one hand, lines up his cock - in its bright red Donovan-gifted Christmas condom - with the other, and punches in hard and deep. Sherlock throws back his head and whines. Greg pulls right out again, and shoves back in, pushing Sherlock into the couch, pushing the couch hard against the wall. "Fuck yes!" mumbles Sherlock.
God, this is good. So bloody tight, pushing into a fist of death. So hot. So smooth. So... Sherlock! The long nobbled line of his spine, the sweaty mess of dark curls, the pale skin that is going to bruise from the impact against the couch, from the death grip of Greg's fingers.
He's fucking Sherlock in a haze of lust, losing track of time. Thirty years of careful, considerate sex and now he's pouring every ounce of aggression, of frustration, of latent violence into this man's body and Sherlock is arching up under him, daring him to give even more. He can feel his second orgasm beginning to build and it occurs to him that maybe he should finally give some thought to Sherlock's climax. "Touch yourself." He tries to make it an order but it comes out like a desperate plea.
Sherlock squirms back from the couch, bracing against one arm while he slides the other between his legs. "Need more," he rasps after a few minutes. "Please. More."
"What more?" Greg gasps. He's not surprised that he's down to singe syllables and two word sentences but he's pretty chuffed that Sherlock is too.
"Neck. Breath. Please."
Greg stills. Breath play? He's investigated his share of accidental deaths thanks to autoerotic asphyxiation. He knows the wheres and whyfores of how a chokehold works to subdue a suspect but he's never fancied trying it on a lover.
"You don't actually need to strangle me, Lestrade. Just press down with your fingers on the carotid arteries on either side of the neck." Right, so not actually monosyllabic after all. Pity that. And come to think of it, he's rather fancied strangling Sherlock on more than one occasion. Still, he's not doing this without considerably more control than their wild fucking has offered to date.
"Okay then, ups-a-daisy." Greg pushes Sherlock to lie sprawled on the couch, one leg tucked up so Sherlock can still get a hand to his prick. Greg curls behind him and pushes slowly back in, half on top of him now, with a hand curled round him to grasp his neck from the front. Luckily Sherlock has a slim neck and Greg has broad hands. He carefully finds the arteries and squeezes gently. Sherlock gasps and pushes back against him.
God, this is something else again. If the fucking had been rough and hard, somewhat detached from each other, this is shockingly personal, curled round Sherlock like the most intimate of protection wrapped round the most intimate of dangers. Sherlock tilts his head back, exposing the fine white line of his neck, the vulnerable passageways of breath and blood that are required to keep his great brain working. Greg is left breathless by Sherlock's trust in him. He can feel the rapid hammer of Sherlock's pulse melding in with the frantic beat of his own, tingling in the tips of his fingers.
The fucking is mutual now, Greg pressing forward with a rhythmic wave of his hips, Sherlock grinding backwards, trying to sink ever deeper into Greg's lap. Greg's a little dizzy from the sheer wealth of bare skin pressed against his own, the heat and the scent of it rising up all around him. He finds himself gnawing on Sherlock's shoulder bone, slowly working up a blood bruise that he hopes will still be there tomorrow.
He presses down on Sherlock's arteries with great care. Too much care apparently. Sherlock finally manages to put his own hand over Greg's, pushing down to show the pressure he wants. His other hand has disappeared between his legs, where he seems to be letting Greg's slow rhythm fuck him into his own fist.
Sherlock has been reduced to soft rapid pants. Greg finds himself muttering words against Sherlock's skin, hot urgent whispers, long past caring whether it's corny or cliched. "God Sherlock, so beautiful... so hot, want you, oh God, want... fuck!"
His orgasm crashes over him in long shuddering waves. Without thinking his hand tightens round Sherlock's throat. Sherlock gasps, arching up against him. Greg regains enough thought to pull his hand hastily away as he feels Sherlock's body jerking underneath him, long shivers running up the slender spine pressed against Greg's chest. Finally Sherlock collapses limply against the cushions. Greg's going to spend the rest of his days watching telly on a tatty couch stained with Sherlock Holmes' semen. Fucking hell, what has his life come to?
* * *
Greg grabs some clothing to wipe the worst of the mess off himself and Sherlock. He's vaguely regretful when he realises it's his The Cure t-shirt. He'd really liked that one and now he'll never be able to wear it again without feeling some weird combination of turned on and mortified.
He pushes Sherlock to one side, slumps onto the sofa and firmly closes his eyes. He feels as if he's just finished a particularly trying case, days spent chasing frantically round London, nights spent fighting paperwork piles, success ephemeral in the haze of exhaustion. Trust sex with Sherlock to be as stressful as it is satisfying. He has no idea how one is supposed to close down a scene like this and he hasn't the energy to try and work it out. Let bloody Sherlock do whatever he wants. He will anyway.
Except that apparently what Sherlock wants is to clamber on top of him, wriggle around so he settles firmly between Greg's thighs and lay his head down on Greg's chest, his curls a messy sprawl that tickle Greg's nose. With a happy little sigh Sherlock curls his hand around Greg's bicep. Greg lifts his head and peers at the other man with incredulity. Sherlock is draped across him with all the boneless contentment of a sleepy cat.
What Sherlock wants to do after edgy sex is.... cuddle?
Greg has felt off-balance for the entire event but now he feels as if he's wobbling like a coin about to come to rest, but with no idea whether he's going to land heads up or tails up. Sherlock butts his head against Greg's chin, just like a bloody cat, like a sodding panther pretending to be a domestic pussy. Apparently Greg is no longer riding the tiger but rather being sat on by it. He shakes his head at himself. Enough with the fucking cat metaphors. He's always thought himself more of a dog person really.
Although he's beginning to realise that a lot of things he's thought about himself may not be entirely true. That's a rather disconcerting realisation for a man in his late forties. But in a sneaky way it's also rather an exciting one. Just like Sherlock really. Disconcerting as hell but pretty exciting if you have the courage to hang on for the ride.
Greg begins to card his fingers through Sherlock's hair, gently eliminating the tangles. Sherlock makes little huffs of contentment. Finally he lifts his head to murmur, "You show unexpected potential, Inspector. I may be able to make something of you yet."
Greg snorts with laughter. Oh yes, he's going to hang on to this as long as he can.
- THE END -