Title: Gay Holiday
Author: Prinzeßin Eilís
Original Programme: Sherlock (BBC)
Type(s): One-Off
Genre(s): Romance
Content Rating: M/X
Summary: Greg Lestrade thinks if his wife is going to screw around on him, there's no reason he shouldn't too. This leads to meeting a strange man named Sherlock Holmes who is not at all what Greg expected in a one-off.
A/N: I don't even know. I wanted to write something for NaNoWriMo, and didn't get around to it till about 8pm today, leaving me about 4 hours of November left to crank something out. Ta-dah! I don't know why I am never actually able to write my OTP.
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to BBC, Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss, and Arthur Conan Doyle. -Eilís
The club was stifling. As soon as Greg walked in he was hit with a wall of heat and cigarette smoke. Past that was the smell of beer and liquor and sweat and the chemicals from various perfumes, colognes, body sprays, aftershaves, and deodorants. It was packed, although apparently well within the building's capacity, and the collective body heat was enough for a light sheen of sweat to collect on his brow by the time he reached the bar.
He ordered a pint and looked at the crowd. This particular club was big with the local gay scene, and it was fairly obvious. Couples were seated together on the scattered pieces of furniture, or holed up against the walls where they could find a modicum of privacy. There was a general split between the male and female population on the dance floor. Greg was looking for a man tonight, so he set his sights on the ones who appeared single, and didn't look too young or too flamboyant for his tastes.
More than once Greg allowed his eyes to stray towards the women – he was bisexual and many of them were well endowed and scantily clad, so he could hardly be faulted a look – and tried to ignore the obvious drug deals going on in the dark corners. He could call it in, but it would be too much work, and Drugs isn't his division anyway.
He was nearly finished with his beer, wondering, not for the first time, if he shouldn't just go back home to his wife and have a wank in the shower, when a tall, thin looking man took a seat in the stool on his left. Greg started, and looked him over quickly. He was about a decade Greg's junior, pale despite the poor lighting, and frankly, too thin. Angular in a way that shouldn't be attractive, but the kid obviously knew how to work it with his dark, well groomed hair and tight, black clothes. So far he hasn't said anything, and Greg felt a little uncomfortable under the intensity of this kid's stare. He appeared to take in everything from Greg's hair to his fingernails and the detective could only wonder as to what he saw. Quirking an eyebrow, he decided to simply wait and see.
The man took a sip of his own G&T, before sending Greg a startlingly bright smile that was a little too friendly to be sincere. "Enjoying your gay holiday, Detective Inspector?"
Greg blinked and frowned into his nearly empty glass. Had he really been so obvious? "I – what? How did you know that I -? Gay holiday?"
The man sighed, apparently prepared to explain himself, "Yes. You are married to a woman and looking to have an affair with a man; 'gay holiday'. That might not be the colloquialism, but it seemed a fitting term nonetheless. You've observed the illegal activities around you with a conflicted look on your face, you so either you're wondering whether or not to participate or whether or not to call it in; however, your clothes, your hair, and your body language suggest that you work for the police, so it's obviously the latter. You have an air of confidence around you which says you are not a PC, but rather a detective, and your hair and face betray an over-abundance of stress, so I'll say DI, rather than DS. Would you rather go back to mine or get a hotel room?"
The inspector set his drink down and glared, "How do you know I'm with a woman? And who said I was going anywhere with you?"
His companion smirked and set his drink down as well, turning to face him completely. He leaned forward so that he was well within Greg's personal space. "It's obvious you're bisexual from the way you've been glancing at some of the women, but we are in a gay club, so you're looking for a man. The tan-line on your ring finger suggests either you've just got out of a relationship or you've stashed the ring in your pocket, but you've had a slightly paranoid look on since you've come in, so I'll assume you're still married and looking to have an affair. You're bisexual and looking for a man, which suggests you're currently married to a woman. You are sexually frustrated and don't appear to be adjusted to it yet, so this must be a new development. Traditionally, members of the police force have trouble maintaining a long-term romantic relationship. Your wife is upset that you don't spend enough time at home, but rather than compensate for your lack of emotional presence with sex like usual, she has started shutting you out as well. She's getting her needs met elsewhere now, so you've decided to follow suit. You're not around enough, she's having an affair, you're having an affair; you should get a divorce. The fact that you aren't tells me you probably have young children and won't leave until they're old enough or she takes initiative and leaves you first. Wife and children at home; we can't go back to your place, so that leaves either mine, or a hotel room. You're interested in me, and I'm obviously your type: tall, not overly effeminate, confident, and intelligent. So, where would you like to go, Inspector?"
The man looked at him expectantly but Greg could only stare, mouth gaping slightly. "I... um... I don't... um..." He didn't know what to say, but the man was waiting for a response. "I don't even know your name," he settled on, having finally processed what had just happened. He could admit his companion was attractive, in a weird sort of way, and obviously intelligent. Greg wasn't about to turn him down completely, but really, what the hell kind of pick-up was this?
The man blinked as if he were caught off guard for a moment, and his mouth twitched in what might have been a smile, "Sherlock Holmes".
The detective snorted, "What kind of name is 'Sherlock'?" he asked, half to himself. 'Sherlock' gave an affronted look and Greg mentally slapped himself. "Er, wait, sorry. That was a bit rude. Sorry. I'm Greg. Lestrade. Um..." he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, staring at the bar before glancing back up to Sherlock who appeared slightly mollified. Greg sighed inwardly, relieved. Looking over the brunette once more, Greg shrugged and finished his drink. "So," he said, having composed himself, "how far away is your place?"
Sherlock grinned. "Fifteen by cab. 'Cmon." Sherlock downed his Gin and Tonic and slapped a note on the counter. Greg did the same and was soon following the tall youth through the club to the front doors. Standing, the detective could tell that Sherlock was a good inch or two taller than himself, and from behind he found that the kid had a rather nice arse. All-in-all, he could have done worse.
The two stood at the curb, waiting for a taxi. Sherlock pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket and took one between his lips to light. After his first drag, he offered the pack to Greg, "Inspector Lestrade," his voice rumbled, brow raised in expectation. Greg took the proffered cigarette, allowing Sherlock to light it for him. They didn't have long to wait, and Greg ended up only smoking down half before a cab rounded the corner. Dropping his cigarette and stomping it out with his foot, Sherlock hailed the cab and climbed inside.
Greg slid into the seat beside him as he listed off the address. They continued to sit in silence, and Greg wondered if he should feel awkward. He briefly tried to remember if he'd told his wife to expect him late tonight, but wasn't able to dwell too much before they rolled up to an older building apparently housing his date's flat. Without checking the balance, Sherlock threw a handful of quid toward the driver and bustled out of the cab, leaving the detective trailing behind.
The flat was a third story walk up, and Sherlock didn't look back at him once. He was sure that, logically, Sherlock knew he was behind him and didn't need the verification, but not a small part of him wondered if the man didn't actually remember that Greg was there at all, or if he'd simply forgotten about him.
He needn't have worried, though, for as soon as the door shut, Greg found himself pushed against it with a tongue pushing aggressively into his mouth. The older man groaned and shut his eyes, allowing their tongues to wrestle for dominance, pulling the thin hips of his date to his own. Sherlock growled in response and ground his hips forward, hands tightly gripping Greg's upper arms. Greg hoped there wouldn't be bruises in the morning, but found he really didn't care that much as Sherlock pulled away, panting. Lestrade followed Sherlock's lips with his own, catching his top lip between his teeth, tonguing at the prominent Cupid's-bow. His left hand wandered to grope at Sherlock's arse while his other hand curled around a long neck.
Sherlock insinuated his hands between them, never breaking the contact between their lips and rapidly hardening groins to deftly unbutton Greg's blue work shirt. Unbuttoned, Sherlock ripped the shirt open, running his up his stomach and chest, fingers brushing through the dark brown hair dusting his chest to push the shirt down off of his shoulders. Greg pulled his hands away long enough to allow the shirt to slide down his arms before he was pushing his own hands up the snug black t-shirt hugging the flat planes of the youth's wiry torso.
Sherlock pulled his lips away and began kissing and nipping his way along Greg's jaw and down his neck as his fingers flipped open the button of Greg's trousers, smoothing the palm of his hand along the bulge there. Greg moaned and felt Sherlock smirk against his neck when he bucked up into the warm, confident pressure of the younger man's hand.
Sherlock pulled away then, sweeping a thoughtful, predatory gaze down Greg's body, nodding at his debauched state, lingering on the large bulge straining his open trousers. Snapping his eyes up to Greg's, he pulled a condom from his back pocket and fell seductively to his knees. Lestrade grinned and let his head fall back against the door, eyes falling shut for a moment as Sherlock mouthed his clothed erection. He opened them again when he felt long fingers pulling at his zip, staring into glittering grey eyes as his trousers and boxers were yanked down to his knees.
There was already a bead of precome at his tip, the anticipation of tonight having left him half-hard for much of the evening. Sherlock licked his lips and thumbed at his slit, spreading the moisture along the tip of his glans before fisting him in a few short tugs. Finally he settled his grip on the base of his cock, and tore at the condom rapper with his teeth. Glancing up at him once more, Sherlock winked and popped the condom between his heart-shaped lips before rolling the condom on with his mouth, engulfing his cock in a warm heat.
Greg groaned, his eyes wide as he curled his body around Sherlock's head, gripping onto his broad shoulders for support. Fucking hell, where did he learn to do that? The brunette bobbed his head a couple times, taking him deep and slow, allowing his nose to nuzzle into the coarse hair at his base, his thumb and forefinger keeping him in position. He brought his other hand up to palm at his bollocks, pressing his fingers into the soft, sensitive spot behind them.
Sherlock pulled off a bit, tonguing at the hard flesh in his mouth as he hollowed his cheeks, providing suction as he took him in again and again. He let his tongue swirl around the flushed tip of his head before removing his mouth completely, hand coming back up to stroke him some more before he rolled onto the balls of his feet and propelled himself upright. He toed out of his shoes and socks as he reached back and pulled the t-shirt up over his head, leaving his hair mussed. He allowed Greg enough time to chuck his own clothes before he grabbed Greg's hand and tugged him toward the bed on the far side of what the detective now noticed was a bedsit.
A cursory glance showed a kitchenette to his left with a small table, on which was set massive chemistry equipment and a notebook, and to the right, a fake-leather sofa which had seen better days. There was a coffee-table covered in newspapers and clippings, a skull in the middle of the table which he prayed wasn't real, but might have been trying to be a centrepiece, and a small wooden box he was fairly certain held drug paraphernalia of some sort.
"I am not a murderer, if that's what you're wondering," Sherlock felt the need to point out.
Greg had been wondering. "Do you get that a lot?" he asked.
"Fair bit." He left no room for further discussion, however, and pushed Greg onto the firm mattress, staying behind only long enough to kick off his jeans. Sherlock lithely straddled the detective, leaning over him to press a hard kiss into his lips, mouthing at the stubble on his jaw as he pulled a tube of lubricant from behind the pillow.
He sat back up, kneeling over Greg's thighs, pouring the liquid onto his fingers. One hand propped against Lestrade's chest for leverage, Sherlock reached back and slipped two fingers into his own tight heat. Lestrade groaned and ran a hand down Sherlock's pale flank, his other hand reaching around to squeeze and spread the younger man's arse. Sherlock spread his knees wider and allowed himself to be pulled downward so Greg could rub himself against Sherlock's own hard cock.
Greg took them both in hand, hot flesh against slick rubber which he fisted in tight, quick strokes. Sherlock rocked forward into Greg's hand and then back onto his own fingers, dipping in a third to stretch himself more quickly.
Finally, Sherlock pulled his fingers free and sat back up, wiping the excess lubricant along Greg's shaft. Greg held himself, aiming his head toward the hot, slick hole above him.
"Fuck. Fuck," he gasped when Sherlock finally took him inside. He squeezed the man's pale, bony hips and tried not to just buck up into him. Sherlock exhaled harshly as he tried to get used to the intrusion, sweat dripping from his temple down his long neck. Slowly, he gyrated his hips letting Greg push himself up, deeper. Eventually he rose, bouncing shallowly on Lestrade's cock, slowly pulling off more and more each time until only the head remained inside. His fingers gripped Lestrade's ass as he let gravity pull him back down, Greg thrusting up and they quickly settled into a rhythm.
Sherlock rode him fast, and Lestrade had to pull his knees up for better leverage so he could pound up into him, his hand stroking Sherlock's dripping cock. Sherlock groaned and keened, his low baritone pitching higher when Greg's prick grazed the sensitive bundle of nerves just right. His eyes were closed tight, brow furrowed in pleasure with his head tipped back in abandon, and Greg wondered if his wife ever looked this hot when she rode him.
Greg couldn't last long. His long night and the blow job from earlier had left him full to bursting and he managed a few more harsh thrusts before he pulled on Sherlock's hips and buried himself deep inside, hissing as he came. Sherlock's mouth fell open and he took himself roughly in hand and brought himself to completion, grinding down onto Greg's softening cock. Finally, Sherlock gasped and let out a loud cry as he spilled over his hand and Greg's stomach.
Panting, Sherlock slumped forward, Greg slipping out of him, leaving him feeling slightly bereft. Bonelessly, he rolled himself onto the bed alongside the detective, sidled up against him and the edge of the mattress. Greg felt sweaty and hot as the two men lay side by side on the too-small bed. After a few moments he removed the condom and handed it to Sherlock for disposal. Sherlock wordlessly took the condom and reached over to toss it in the bin, picking up the pack of cigarettes on the way back. He slipped one between his lips, lit it, and passed the pack to Lestrade who accepted it gratefully.
The two lay and smoked in silence for a long while, and as Sherlock was not forthcoming with conversation, Greg found that it was probably time to go. Heaving a sigh, Greg propelled himself up and climbed off the bed. Studiously ignoring the suspiciously illegal looking box on the coffee-table, he located his clothes and dressed quickly. He attempted to straighten himself out, smoothing a hand over his short, cropped hair and sliding his feet into the leather shoes, not bothering with the laces.
Dressed and somewhat presentable, Greg turned toward his host who still lay naked above the covers of his bed, arm thrown up over his eyes. Greg thought he might have forgotten about him again.
"Well, um... I'll just - be off then," he said awkwardly, not sure what one says to strange men after sex.
Sherlock wasn't much help, waving him off carelessly without removing the arm from across his eyes. "Get the light on your way out, would you?"
Greg scowled and huffed. "Yeah, sure," he muttered, flicking the switch and sliding out the door, locking it behind him as he left.
As he climbed into the cab home, he thought that Sherlock Holmes wasn't quite what he expected when he imagined his possible one-off. Frighteningly intelligent, aloof, strangely alluring features, Greg couldn't help but think he might like to get to know the man. He grinned ruefully and thought, mind going back to his strange pick-up, a man like that would make a hell of a detective.