AN: Consider this my version of PWP. It's a pointless, plotless session of nonsexual sensual intimacy.
Asexual!Sherlock and Gray-Asexual!Lestrade. Ambiguous relationship. (Romantic? Gray area? Nonromantic but intensely emotional? Who knows. I don't care.)
Set some time after Sherlock's return from the dead.
Suspended in Desire
Lestrade's sitting at the foot of the bed, wearing socks but no shoes, a t-shirt and pajama pants. Weak light filters through the window to his right; it's late afternoon and overcast outside. He feels a strange sense of calm, except for a few butterflies in the pit of his stomach.
Sherlock appears in the doorway and pauses there, peering at him with those bright blue eyes. He's only shed his suit jacket and his shoes. He's still wearing his expensive shirt buttoned to his collarbones, his belt, his trousers, and his socks.
Lestrade gives him a reassuring look. "Ready?" he says.
Sherlock doesn't answer for a beat.
"If you changed your mind, it's okay. I promise."
Sherlock comes into the bedroom turns around to shut the door behind him. He steps up to Lestrade, their knees almost brushing, and says, "I don't know what to do here. You're going to have to lead."
Lestrade stands up, looking into Sherlock's eyes. They're so close, he can see the tiny streaks of dark blue in Sherlock's irises and the freckles so faint on his skin, they're almost nonexistent. Lestrade smiles a little, both to encourage himself and Sherlock. He's not entirely sure how to start either, but he's going to have to figure it out.
"Do you want to just…. touch like this for now or should we get undressed?" Lestrade murmurs.
"I don't know how undressed I want to be," says Sherlock.
Lestrade nods. "Okay. We can go slow."
He lifts his hands to Sherlock's hips, and Sherlock looks down at their feet. Lestrade can tell he's nervous, though he isn't sure how much. Lestrade finds Sherlock hip bones through the fabric of his trousers and runs his thumbs along their curves, squeezing Sherlock's waist a little.
"What if one of us gets aroused?" Sherlock asks, still not looking at Lestrade.
"It can happen in response to touch," says Lestrade. "Doesn't mean we have to do anything about it."
Sherlock glances up at him.
"Hey. Do you trust me?" Lestrade asks him.
"Yes," Sherlock says.
"Look at me."
Sherlock does.
"I do not want to have sex with you," Lestrade says. "If I did, you would know."
Sherlock, who hasn't openly doubted his own abilities to deduce motives and desires in the nine years Lestrade's known him, doesn't reply or look completely convinced. Lestrade can understand his anxiety. Sherlock's an asexual and a virgin who adamantly wants to stay that way. He's never been this close or this physical with someone before. He knows Lestrade is a gray-asexual, and he knows Lestrade's only ever felt sexual desire for women. But intellectual knowledge isn't always enough to assuage emotional unease.
"You have to tell me if you want to stop or if something doesn't feel right," Lestrade says to him. "I'm not you. I can't just look at a person and know what they want."
"This is the third time you've given me that instruction," Sherlock says.
"Well, it's important. You being comfortable is important. To me."
Sherlock just nods.
Lestrade loops his arms around Sherlock's waist and pulls Sherlock to his body, looking into his eyes for a long moment. He tilts his head forward to rest his brow against Sherlock's, and they just stand there like that for a while, Sherlock's arms folded onto Lestrade's chest.
Lestrade can feel a heat beginning to materialize in his body. He's aware of his hips and Sherlock's pressed together, their lower bellies pressed together. It isn't the kind of heat he's felt when he's having sex with a woman—but it does feel similar in a way. He doesn't feel aroused or horny, but he realizes that the heat must be a kind of desire. A desire to touch Sherlock, to be intimate with him, to show him love.
Lestrade's never felt this way about anyone before. He's never loved anyone the way he loves Sherlock or wanted to be close to someone the way he wants to be close to him. He can't describe his feelings for the younger man.
"Your body temperature's risen," Sherlock says, his hands flat on Lestrade's chest.
"You feel a little more relaxed," says Lestrade.
He pulls his arms back from around Sherlock's waist, and space reopens between them. Lestrade reaches up and starts to undo the buttons on Sherlock shirt, just the first two. He pauses to look into Sherlock's eyes again, reading him as best as he can. Sherlock doesn't look any more nervous or uncomfortable than he did a minute ago, so Lestrade decides to keep going.
Sherlock places his hands on Lestrade's hips, and the younger man's strong but loose grip feels good there.
Lestrade rests his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and leans in to kiss the curve of Sherlock's neck. He feels Sherlock's body stiffen, hears Sherlock's sharp intake of breath and briefly wonders if he's overstepped his bounds.
But Sherlock's hands stay with Lestrade hips, and Sherlock says, "Mmmm," in pleasure.
Lestrade kisses the knob of Sherlock's breastbone, below his throat. The skin there is so delicate and pale. Lestrade can smell faded cologne. He kisses the top of Sherlock's sternum, bending at the waist now. He opens the next button, his other hand still on Sherlock's shoulder, and kisses the middle of Sherlock's chest.
Lestrade sits down again on the bed and looks up at Sherlock to find the younger man's face pinker than it was a few minutes ago. "All right?" he says.
"Yes," says Sherlock.
Lestrade's hands go to Sherlock's belt buckle. "I'm going to take this off, if that's okay. Just to make cuddling more comfortable."
He unbuckles the belt and pulls it out of Sherlock's belt loops, dropping it on the floor. He slowly continues to unbutton the younger man's shirt the rest of the way, until he's pulling the tails out of Sherlock's trousers to get at the last buttons. He takes Sherlock's hips in his hands and starts to kiss Sherlock's belly, eye level with it.
He hears Sherlock gasp softly, then feels the younger man's hands come to rest on his shoulders. Lestrade's kisses are lazy and tender. The skin of Sherlock's belly is taut, not an ounce of fat on him, the muscles firm but not defined. Lestrade inhales the smell of Sherlock's skin and barely nuzzles his belly, liking the warmth of it.
Sherlock sheds his shirt, leaving it on the floor behind him. "Lie down," he says to Lestrade. "I want you to hold me."
Lestrade, momentarily surprised by Sherlock's assertiveness, blinks, nods, and lies back on the bed with his legs hanging over the end. Sherlock climbs on top of him, tucking his arms against Lestrade's sides and curling his hands around Lestrade's shoulders, folding his legs on either side of Lestrade's. Lestrade wraps his arms around Sherlock, pressing his palms flat to the bare skin of Sherlock's back.
Sherlock takes a breath and relaxes, his head resting on Lestrade's left shoulder.
Lestrade closes his eyes and holds him, feeling the weight of the other man, the warmth, the intimacy Sherlock's allowed between them. Has anyone else every touched Sherlock's bare skin like this?
He can feel Sherlock's muscles and bones, their bellies pressed together, their hearts beating against each other's chest. Lestrade moves one hand down Sherlock's back, rubs his thumb into the dip of Sherlock's spine at the small, feels Sherlock breathing deeper breaths.
Lestrade starts to stroke Sherlock's back with both his hands, long and steady strokes from his shoulders to his lower back. Up and down. Up and down. Gliding over the smooth skin. Sherlock's breathing quickens just a little, now deep enough that Lestrade can hear it.
"Are you all right?" Lestrade asks after a few minutes, stopping his hands in the middle of Sherlock's back.
"Yes," Sherlock says, sounding winded.
Lestrade can feel Sherlock's body still heaving against him. "What's going on?"
"I—I don't know. I just feel so…. connected. To you."
Lestrade knows what he means. He can feel it too, an energy deep in his belly that seems to hook into Sherlock's. He's warm all over now and loose. If he lies still like this much longer, he's going to fall asleep. "Let me up," he says to Sherlock.
Sherlock reluctantly obeys, after stalling a moment. Lestrade gets on his feet and paces around the bed a bit, trying to decide what to do next. Sherlock sits cross-legged, watching him. He looks smaller than he usually does, shirtless and seated with none of his usual arrogance or aloofness. Maybe it's an effect of his vulnerability, which is greater than Lestrade's ever seen.
"How 'bout I give you a massage?" Lestrade says.
Sherlock nods.
Lestrade climbs onto the bed and sits behind Sherlock. He starts to rub Sherlock shoulders, and after a few minutes, he leans forward and to kiss Sherlock's neck while his hands keep working the tense, hard muscles. Sherlock purrs. Lestrade's nose brushes into his dark curls as he plants little kisses all over the nape of Sherlock's neck, not quite smiling when a shiver runs through Sherlock's whole body.
Lestrade presses his thumb into Sherlock's spine, just above the shoulder blades, and rubs the bone. He wraps his arms around Sherlock's torso and pulls Sherlock back into his chest, hugging him snugly and kissing the sensitive skin high on Sherlock's neck, near his hairline and his ears.
"Lestrade," Sherlock says, smooth and almost sighing.
They sit like that for a while, the older man holding Sherlock with his eyes closed and his face down in Sherlock's shoulder. Eventually, he lifts his head and murmurs in Sherlock's ear, "Why don't you lie down on your stomach?"
Sherlock lies down with his head just below the pillows and his hands folded one on top of the other beneath his cheek, his trousers slipping just a little down his hips without his belt. Lestrade straddles Sherlock's thighs and rubs Sherlock's shoulders for a while longer, then sweeps his hands in wide strokes up and down the length of Sherlock's back. He decides to focus on the lower back, using his thumbs and the meaty part of his palms.
"Feels good," Sherlock says, his voice deep and thick.
Lestrade doesn't answer, just continues to work the younger man's lower back.
"Can I touch you?" Sherlock asks.
"Of course," says Lestrade. "When I'm done with you."
Sherlock's quiet for a minute or two, then says, "I'm inexperienced."
"You're worried about not getting it right."
Sherlock doesn't answer.
Lestrade's rubbing circles into the middle of Sherlock's back. "This isn't the sort of thing you get right or wrong," he says. "I'll tell you if I'm uncomfortable…. or if I like something you do. Roll on your side."
Sherlock rolls onto his right side, and Lestrade lies down behind him, wrapping his arm around Sherlock's waist and holding him close. They're quiet for a long time.
"Lestrade," Sherlock says.
"Mmm," says Lestrade. He has his eyes closed, and he's beginning to doze off.
"Why are you doing this?"
"What?"
"This. This physical intimacy. With me."
"Because I want to be close to you."
"Why? In what way?"
"In every way that makes sense for us. I have feelings for you."
Sherlock pauses, then says, "What kind of feelings?"
"Why all these questions? Haven't you figured it all out, like you always do?"
"No."
The word comes out so soft, Lestrade almost misses it.
"You're worrying about sex again," the older detective says.
"Not entirely," says Sherlock. "I'm also wondering if you consider me your…. romantic interest."
Lestrade rests his face against Sherlock's upper back and squeezes him closer. "For the thousandth time, I don't want to shag you. I've never thought of us doing that. I'm not much into sex generally, which I'm sure you've known a while. Romantic interest…. I don't know. What difference does it make?"
"It seems to make a lot of difference. There's a script, Lestrade. If we were in a romantic relationship, we'd have to behave in certain ways, and answer the question of where it's going. And then you'd have certain expectations of me. There would be demands on my time, on my attention. We would have to define our monogamy and tell everyone we know and even people we don't know."
Lestrade sighs. "When have you ever done anything by the world's book?" he says. "We don't have any obligations. Nothing has to change. I'm not saying I do want to be your romantic partner, but if we were a couple, it wouldn't have to look any different than it does. And if we're not having sex, I'm not sure monogamy's relevant."
Sherlock's silent.
"Do you want to be a couple?" Lestrade asks, realizing that maybe the younger man's skirting around his own desire.
"Not like other people are," Sherlock says.
"Of course. What do you want? Do you know?"
Again, Sherlock doesn't speak for a bit. "I think I'd like to continue exploring this. Touching. Perhaps spend more time together. That's all."
"Mmm. Sounds fine to me."
Sherlock turns around to face Lestrade and circles his arm around the older man's waist. Lestrade curls his arm around Sherlock, in turn. They look into each other's eyes.
"I don't know if my feelings for you are romantic," Sherlock says.
"We're even," says Lestrade, barely smiling. "I don't think it matters."
"Lestrade."
"Yeah."
"Can I give you a kiss to see what it's like?"
Lestrade closes his eyes. "Go ahead."
Sherlock inches his face toward Lestrade's and tentatively touches his lips to Lestrade's. Then again, for an extra second. Soft, dry, brief kisses. He pulls back again, and Lestrade opens his eyes to look at him.
"Not bad," says Sherlock. He moves the arm he has around Lestrade and slips his hand underneath Lestrade's t-shirt.
Lestrade isn't expecting it and he hums deep in his throat at the feeling of Sherlock touching his bare skin. Sherlock arches his fingers and feathers them in and out from his palm against Lestrade's back. He flattens his hand and runs it up and down Lestrade's back. Lestrade tips his forehead to touch Sherlock's, and they close their eyes, as Sherlock strokes Lestrade's back.
Sherlock hooks his top leg around Lestrade's legs and grips Lestrade's hip in his hand, rubbing it with his thumb. The aggression of the move surprises Lestrade. He reaches up and lays his hand over Sherlock's curls, cupping the side of his head.
"Are you cold?" Lestrade asks. "Want to get under the covers?"
"All right," Sherlock says.
Lestrade can tell he's reluctant to break body contact.
As they stand on either side of the bed and turn the blanket and the sheets down, Sherlock unhooks his trousers and drops them. "Take off your shirt," he says to Lestrade.
Lestrade nods and obeys, suddenly a little shy. He's nowhere near as lean or muscular as Sherlock. He has an average build with a bit of fat on his belly that he can't seem to shed, despite his morning runs every other day. He takes his t-shirt off slowly and drops it on the floor, as Sherlock slips into bed. He leaves his pajama pants on.
As soon Lestrade's next to him, Sherlock's facing him on his side and curling his arm around Lestrade. They make eye contact, and Lestrade returns the one-armed embrace with an encouraging smile. They have the sheets and blanket pulled up around their shoulders, and it won't be long before they're warm.
"Why'd you lose your trousers?" Lestrade asks.
"We're going to sleep," says Sherlock. "I don't want them to wrinkle any more than they already have." He suddenly moves to kiss the curve of Lestrade's neck, his arm still around the older man.
Lestrade takes a sharp breath in that's half-surprise and half-pleasure. He hugs Sherlock tighter, as the younger man plants kisses all up and down his neck and the slope of his shoulder. When the kisses stop, Sherlock lingers, holding Lestrade close and burying his face in Lestrade's neck.
They're holding each other with their bare skin pressed together, sharing body heat, and the intimacy of it leaves Lestrade almost reeling.
Sherlock pulls away and coaxes Lestrade to lie on his back. He props himself up on his elbow and strokes Lestrade's side with his hand, watching Lestrade's face. "I don't care what you look like," he says. "And you look fine."
He stills his hand and leans down to kiss Lestrade's chest, right in the dip between his pectorals. He slowly leaves a trail of kisses down to Lestrade's belly, making no comment or acknowledgment of the dark hair on Lestrade's chest.
His kiss to the middle of Lestrade's belly, just above the navel, is the most tender. Lestrade closes his eyes and clenches his teeth a little. The skin there is sensitive.
Sherlock lowers his body to the bed, curling up like a cat with his head resting on Lestrade's abdomen. He lays his hand on Lestrade's knee, and Lestrade tangles his fingers into Sherlock's hair.
"I can hear your pulse," Sherlock says.
Lestrade scrapes the nape of Sherlock's neck with his fingers, and the younger man purrs. They're silent and motionless for several minutes, until Lestrade begins to suspect Sherlock's fallen asleep.
"Greg," Sherlock says.
Lestrade smiles. "You never call me that."
"I love you in some way."
"I love you, too."
Sherlock slides up to lay his head on Lestrade's shoulder and flings his top leg over Lestrade's. The older man wraps his arm around Sherlock, and Sherlock drapes his arm across Lestrade's chest, clutching his shoulder.
"Do you?" Sherlock says.
Lestrade turns his head just slightly, touching his face to Sherlock's. "Yeah. I do."
Sherlock moves his hand down to Lestrade's belly and pets it gently. Lestrade's chest rises and falls with his breath, slow and shallow. He's had a small handful of lovers during his life, but he's never felt as close to another person as he does right now.
"On your side," Sherlock says.
Lestrade rolls away from him, and Sherlock hooks his arm around his waist, presses his chest to Lestrade's back, and tucks his face into the other man's freckled shoulder.