Title: Sherlock and the Art of Public Speaking
Author: fengirl88
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade
Wordcount: ~2800
Rating: M
Warnings: sexual content, embarrassment, semi-public sex
Disclaimer: These characters are still not mine. No matter how hard I stare at them.
A/N: sequel to Dressing the Part (in which Sherlock takes Lestrade clothes shopping).
Thanks to warriorbot and ginbitch for beta wisdom on this one and to warriorbot for a timely question without which the final score would have been 3-0.
Summary: Sherlock helps Lestrade to prepare his speech for the Police Federation lunch.
Sherlock and the Art of Public Speaking
This really isn't how Lestrade thought he was going to be spending his day off. It's not as if he gets a lot of them, and he'd looked forward to a little relaxation. Some hopes.
Having to go clothes shopping to buy a new suit he didn't want, didn't need, for fuck's sake, and anyway can't afford, was bad enough in the first place without bloody Sherlock interfering. Though interfering doesn't seem quite the right word for Sherlock giving Lestrade an unexpected blowjob in the posh department store's fitting-room cubicle and then jumping him again minutes later in the lift on the way out.
But it's not over yet. Now they're in the taxi Sherlock insisted on, hurrying back to Lestrade's flat because Sherlock's had some bright idea about the speech Lestrade's got to make at that fancy Police Federation lunch next week and wants to test it out on Lestrade. Lestrade can't remember when he last saw Sherlock this excited, which is a worrying thought in itself.
The way Sherlock's behaving, Lestrade wouldn't be surprised if the driver stopped the taxi any minute now and threw the pair of them out. He remembers the acronym he heard some of the older ladies using about men who behaved like this, back in the days when he worked at the big house, before he joined the Force. NSIT: Not Safe In Taxis. Sherlock, on this showing, is about as NSIT as they come.
Lestrade doesn't have the energy to protest though. Too busy trying to remember how to breathe, with Sherlock's hands all over him and Sherlock's mouth against his neck. Lestrade tries to suppress a moan. Very nearly succeeds.
Sherlock goes on misbehaving all the way to Lestrade's flat, and Lestrade can't do much more than cling on to his resolution that he is not going to come in the back of a taxi, he absolutely isn't. By the end of the ride, Lestrade is starting to feel faint and has to hand his wallet and his keys over to Sherlock because there's no way he's in a fit state to cope with either.
It's up to Sherlock, too, to deal with the shopping and shut the door of the flat behind them once they've stumbled inside, because Lestrade is having quite enough trouble managing to stand up. Sherlock grabs him and kisses him, which is enough to throw Lestrade off balance at this point, and they end up in a bit of a muddle on the sofa. Before Lestrade can get his breath back, Sherlock's on top of him, one thigh pressing between his, and pushing hard against him in a way that means Lestrade's really not likely to get his breath back any time soon even if Sherlock wasn't already taking more of it away with kiss after kiss.
Bloody hell, Lestrade thinks dizzily, what's brought all this on?
Might be Lestrade's new designer suit, which had definitely got Sherlock going in that fitting-room cubicle. Though Lestrade hadn't still been wearing that by the time they got in the lift. Or in the taxi. It's out there in the hall where Sherlock hung it up carefully before he grabbed Lestrade again. Not the suit, then, or not just the suit. Something about having an audience, or the danger of discovery? But there's no-one here now except the two of them. And what the fuck was all that about testing out an idea?
Lestrade gives up trying to work it out, which is just as well because his brain seems to be short-circuiting. Sherlock's kisses are ruthless and never quite long enough, so that eventually Lestrade has to grab Sherlock's neck and his hair and hold on tight to get Sherlock where he wants him. Sherlock's thrusting against him as if he's trying to fuse their bodies together regardless of the clothes in the way. Everything's suddenly very focused and concentrated and then just as suddenly shattering and dispersed, and Lestrade can't breathe, has to cling on for dear life as he comes hard, feeling like he's being shaken to pieces.
Can't do much for a bit after that. Takes a while for the room to stop spinning. When it does, Lestrade finds that Sherlock is sitting up again, looking unfairly calm and composed and characteristically pleased with himself.
"So," Sherlock says, "this speech of yours, then."
Shit.
Lestrade was hoping Sherlock might somehow have forgotten about that in the heat of the moment. Can't think why, because Sherlock notoriously never forgets anything. One reason he's such a whizz at solving crimes and such a complete fucking menace in almost every other area of life.
Reluctantly, and with a much less clear head than he'd like for dealing with this sort of thing, Lestrade produces the note-cards he's scribbled for his speech. Which Sherlock proceeds to shred, metaphorically if not literally, like the bloody pedant he is.
"It's supposed to sound like me, not you," Lestrade protests.
"What, ignorant and semi-literate? They'll love that."
"Sherlock, if I'd wanted to talk like a tight-arsed public schoolboy I'd have had fucking elocution lessons twenty years ago," Lestrade snaps.
Sherlock looks as if he's about to say You leave my arse out of this. Settles for making a cheap crack about Lestrade's Weston-super-Mud accent.
"What is this, My Fair Lady?" Lestrade asks. "Next thing you'll be putting marbles in my mouth and making me recite poetry."
That really wasn't a good move.
Sherlock looks intrigued, and goes on looking altogether too interested once he's had the reference explained to him. Speaking clearly with one's mouth full is obviously good practice for an orator, which is why Demosthenes (who Sherlock has heard of, even if he's not so well up on twentieth-century musicals) used to put pebbles in his mouth.
Now it's just a matter of working out what to use in the absence of marbles. (And yes, thank you, Lestrade's already thought of the joke about how being around Sherlock has made him lose all his marbles, so let's not go there, shall we?)
You don't need to be Sherlock Holmes to see what's coming next; it's inevitable, really. Lestrade can't talk very clearly with his mouth full, and soon stops trying. Other things seem more urgent right now, like the way Sherlock's cock feels in his mouth, the way Sherlock's breathing catches as he sucks and licks him, the way Sherlock's hands clutch at his hair, the way Sherlock's whole body suddenly goes taut and still in that moment right before he comes.
About time Sherlock got to come this afternoon, given that Lestrade's two up already.
Doesn't take the ginger out of Sherlock for long though, Lestrade observes ruefully. All too soon the loose-limbed, cloudy-eyed, post-orgasmic Sherlock disappears and the blasted pedant is back with a vengeance.
Eventually after a fair amount of wrangling and some colourful language on both sides, of the kind Lestrade probably won't be using in his speech on Monday, they manage to agree on a script, more or less.
But that, according to Sherlock, is only half the battle. He's been reading some bloody website about how to improve your performance as a public speaker and he is just full of helpful tips. Lestrade isn't as grateful for this as he might be. And the more Sherlock goes on regaling him with the expert's list of Dos and Don'ts, the more tense Lestrade becomes.
"Delivery," Sherlock says. "It can make or break a speech, so you've got to get it right. Which means practice. Come on, let's hear you."
Takes quite a few goes before Sherlock's satisfied with Lestrade's delivery, but there's still no rest for the wicked. Apparently it's also very important to check out the venue, said so on the website, see if there's a lectern for example.
Lectern? For fuck's sake. If Lestrade ever gets hold of that website bloke he'll have a few choice words to say to the bastard. Possibly accompanied by a good slap.
But it's no good arguing with Sherlock. Never is. So they go to the big hotel where the fancy lunch will be. Flashing yet another warrant card nicked from Lestrade – this really is getting beyond a joke – Sherlock impresses on the staff how important it is that DI Lestrade and his colleague shouldn't be disturbed in their investigation and should have absolute privacy in the function room.
Looking at the long tables with their fine linen tablecloths and display of silverware and multiple glasses for each place setting makes Lestrade go hot and cold all over. Monday seems hideously close.
Sherlock insists Lestrade needs to run through the speech several times, till it's second nature. Needs to become so focused on the speech that nothing can put him off.
"For Christ's sake, Sherlock, they're not going to heckle," Lestrade says desperately.
"You never know," Sherlock says darkly. "If you start squeaking again the way you were earlier they might."
"This is just another fucking excuse for you to be rude to me, isn't it?" Lestrade flares up.
Sherlock indicates that he is wounded by the very suggestion. "Just trying to help. Some people have no gratitude."
"All right," Lestrade says. "Let's get on with it. Shit, how many people can they fit in this room?" He's starting to panic again.
"Don't think about that," Sherlock says. "Find one person to make eye contact with, preferably at the back of the room."
Lestrade barely restrains himself from expressing his ripe opinion of the speechmaking expert's bloody tips. Just manages to hold it in.
Before today, the only advice anyone ever gave him about public speaking was "When you get nervous, imagine your audience is naked."
Since his audience at present consists entirely of Sherlock, that's really not very helpful.
As an audience, Sherlock is distractingly mobile. He keeps wandering around the vast function room and stopping in different places to check how well Lestrade's projecting his voice. Lestrade goes on practising against a running commentary of Can't hear you, still can't hear you and What are you, a DI or a mouse?
Finally the heckling stops and Lestrade thinks at last he's getting into his stride. He's almost starting to enjoy himself when he feels hands at his waist, unbuttoning and unzipping his trousers. Christ. When – fuck – how did Sherlock get down there without Lestrade seeing him?
"Keep going, you idiot," Sherlock says.
"I don't believe this," Lestrade groans.
"I said, keep going," Sherlock says irritably.
Right. Lestrade gets it now, the big idea that made Sherlock so excited in the lift and the taxi and at Lestrade's flat. Always knew being involved with Sherlock would make him certifiably insane sooner or later and it looks like today's the day. Because Lestrade doesn't even try to argue, just goes on rehearsing the speech as Sherlock takes him in his mouth.
This is definitely the craziest thing Sherlock has ever got him into. There isn't even a bolt on the door in this place, for fuck's sake. God help them if any of the hotel staff come in. Gross indecency, Lestrade thinks wildly, can't remember how long you get for that, but no way is a court going to buy this as consenting adults in private, not without stretching the definition of private so far it snaps. And that really ought to be a turn-off, shit, what is wrong with him?, but it isn't, he just keeps going, can't seem to stop, maybe Sherlock is right and he's finally got the bloody speech so hard-wired in his system that nothing can stop it.
Nothing but Sherlock, that is. Sherlock's extraordinary mouth and Sherlock's long hands, pushing Lestrade closer and closer to the point where he can't go on speaking or thinking or breathing or anything at all. Lestrade can hear his own voice becoming ragged, stumbling over words, losing his thread, it's madness, it's impossible, but he keeps on, doesn't want it to end, can't believe he's managed to hold out this long, almost half way through now and oh Christ that thing Sherlock's doing right there -
Lestrade's speech collapses into noisy incoherence, overtaken by his third orgasm of the afternoon.
"You bastard," Lestrade says, eventually. "How am I supposed notto think about that when I'm back here on Monday trying to make a fucking speech?"
Sherlock wipes his mouth on the back of his hand – no spare handkerchief this time – and grins.
"Give you something else to think about apart from stage fright," he explains helpfully, like this is just another tip from that sodding website.
Lestrade glares at him – not as fiercely as he'd like to, because his head is still swimming and it's distracting.
Sherlock, meanwhile, is looking thoughtful again. Always a bad sign.
"Not bad for a run-through," he says. "But I think you're going to need a dress rehearsal as well. The website said -"
"Fuck the website," Lestrade snaps. "I am not doing this again and certainly not in that bloody suit."
"It's a very nice suit," Sherlock says. His eyes have gone all dark again and he's looking a bit flushed.
Lestrade makes a mental note to be very careful when and where he wears that suit.
"Oh well, if you're not going to have a dress rehearsal I suppose I'll just have to come to the real thing," Sherlock says.
"You dare," Lestrade gasps. Then, recovering himself a bit: "And anyway you're not invited."
"I could be your plus one," Sherlock suggests, with that innocent look that always means very big trouble.
"It's not that sort of do," Lestrade says desperately, "and no you couldn't."
"Just have to sneak in then," Sherlock says cheekily, fingering the long fall of the tablecloth in a way that makes Lestrade's stomach tie itself in knots.
Looks like he was wrong about Sherlock's big idea after all. It wasn't just the rehearsal. Shit. The mad bastard really does want to suck him off while Lestrade's making that speech on Monday, wearing his beautiful new designer suit, at the sodding Police Federation's fancy lunch, with a bloody big audience watching Lestrade trying not to fall apart.
"You wouldn't," Lestrade says. "Even you wouldn't."
Doesn't sound very convinced, though, even to himself. There's a reason for that.
"Won't know till it happens, will you?" Sherlock says, glinting with malice. "Or till it doesn't. I expect uncertainty's quite good for producing adrenalin."
"It's a long lunch," Lestrade says, clutching at straws now. "You'd be bored, and you know you hate being bored."
"Oh, I don't think so," Sherlock says. "I'm never bored if there's something interesting to watch."
He looks meaningly at Lestrade's crotch. Oh god.
"And if I do get bored I'm sure I can find something to do," Sherlock muses, with a gesture that isn't subtle at all.
Lestrade groans. He knows Sherlock is just crazy enough to do it, too.
This really wasn't how Lestrade had planned to spend his day off. Bloody clothes shopping and then bloody speechmaking. Now officially his two least favourite things in the world.
Lestrade's feeling pretty shagged out, which is hardly surprising. Hasn't had sex for months and now all this in one afternoon. He's been sucked off in a fitting-room, jumped and groped in a lift, seriously messed about in a taxi, hopelessly undone on his own bloody sofa, and now comprehensively sabotaged in the function room where he's got to make a fucking speech. On Monday. With Sherlock, quite possibly, lurking under the tablecloth waiting to interfere all over again.
Lestrade wonders yet again why he always lets Sherlock talk him into things. Wishes he had more willpower. Is also quite surprised that he has this much stamina. Wonders whether there is some equation that correlates the loss of willpower and the increase in stamina, like a heat exchange diagram. Decides it's best not to think about heat exchange.
Maybe it would be safest to see if he can wangle Sherlock an official invitation to the do on Monday.
At least then Lestrade would know where Sherlock was.
Would probably know where Sherlock was.
Even Sherlock hasn't developed the ability to be in two places at once.
Not yet.