(Warning for Aggressive sexy times)
"Hello Mrs. Hudson!" Greg Lestrade smiled his most charming smile as he walked through the front hallway of 221 Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson popped her head around the corner of her flat and gestured excitedly at the DI. "Lestrade! Why don't you pop in for a moment! I have jam tarts cooling right now and I think the boys are distracted right now." There was a thump upstairs as if furniture was being moved around, and Mrs. Hudson looked at the ceiling with mild concern.
Lestrade ran his hand through his silver hair. He had never thought of Sherlock as the sort who would take to the idea of redecorating. Must be John's influence, he thought as he smiled down at her. "Don't get me wrong Mrs. Hudson, I'd love one, but I really have to see Sherlock. He's…" he lowered his voice. "He's not going to like this."
There was a thump and a shout from upstairs. "GET ON YOUR KNEES SHERLOCK, DAMN IT."
Greg was up the stairs and running without thinking, drawing his gun as he entered the upstairs flat.
The room was trashed, for lack of a better word. Papers and books were strewn everywhere, and several chairs, including John's were knocked on their side. Sherlock was kneeling on the coffee table, breathing heavily, his face slightly flushed. He was held in position by a fist in his hair, and the barrel of a gun was pressed to his temple.
Lestrade's eyes widened in horror as he saw Sherlock's attacker. John Watson was holding the gun easily with a downright predatory expression on his normally mild, friendly face. "If I hear you say bored one more time, Sherlock…"
"John! What the hell!" Lestrade shouted, raising his gun to the shorter man. He could imagine that living with a bored Sherlock would get irritating, but…
John yelped, dropped his gun, and dove behind his armchair. Now that he was in control of the situation the DI came to a startling realization. Sherlock's blue dressing gown was open, and he was both naked and visibly erect underneath. "Oh God," the consulting detective muttered with disdain. "And things were just getting interesting. Please tell me you have something for me that will make up for it, Lestrade."
Sherlock didn't seem to particularly mind his state of undress, and stood up on the coffee table before stepping down to the couch, the furl of his dressing gown revealing that his penis was even more sizable when seen in profile and that he had bite mark on his thigh that Lestrade promptly attempted to scrub from his memory with disinfectant.
"It's unloaded." John said weakly from behind the chair. "I check it several times before we, uh…"
"Not that he would pull the trigger anyway." Sherlock said, resigned to the fact that the DI would need a little reassurance before the purpose of his visit was revealed. "It is the whole point behind the whole exercise; reassuring John that he would not pull the trigger on me by mistake."
"That didn't look like the point to me," Lestrade muttered, sliding his gun back in the holster. Sherlock smirked and nodded to John who stood up, turned his chair up right, and, as is customary in Britain when one really doesn't know what to say, dashed off to the kitchen to make tea. The transformation was startling, when he had been standing over Sherlock with the gun, John's movements had been smooth, almost mechanical, and now he was bustling around like an overwrought house-wife. Lestrade tried not to notice that Sherlock was staring after the smaller man with narrowed, slightly glazed eyes and that there was still the hint of a pink flush on his chest.
"While I'm touched that you would go out of your way to protect my virtue Lestrade, there must be another reason for your visit. I assume it is serious but not urgent, as you are about to sit down. It probably has something to do with me in particular, as you were acting protective enough to narrow your focus on John's aggressive behavior without noticing my erection despite the fact that you are aware that John and I have been "shagging" as you put it, for four months now."
Lestrade fulfilled Sherlock's prediction and sat down in the armchair, which apparently sagged into the back without a cushion. "For the record, Sherlock, I knew about the shagging, but I didn't know about the kink. That was a little startling. And unorthodox."
"You're avoiding telling me exactly what is going on." Sherlock stopped staring after John, pulling himself from his aroused state sharply and refocusing his attention on Lestrade. "What is it. It must be bad."
Lestrade drew in a breath. "Sherlock. Moriarty is alive. I'm not sure how, and I'm not sure why we haven't heard of it before now. But there have been whispers, and we know that whispers that speak of Moriarty are usually true."
"Novel." Sherlock murmured. "I was skeptical. I didn't think he would kill himself so easily. But I'm surprised that he was able to fake it so thoroughly that even I wasn't able to tell whether or not the body was alive."
John came in with three cups on a tray, offering one to Lestrade. His jaw was set, and he was silent, sitting on the other end of the couch. Lestrade sipped his tea and became increasingly uncomfortable as the two men stared into space, lost in their own thoughts. It was strangely intimate, they didn't touch but the expressions on their faces complemented each other's. John's face was stoic, his jaw set, eyes hard and determined, Sherlock's oddly wistful, as if considering an abusive lover that he had been mind-numbingly attracted to.
"I'd have thought the two of you would be more surprised."
"Very little surprises me. John and I have discussed this possibility before. If I decided to fake my death, it is only natural to assume that Jim Moriarty, whether he be consulting criminal impersonating an actor, or actor taking on the role of consulting criminal, would fake his own."
"You took down his web though. Will he be weakened?"
"He took out the main strands." John said, grimly, "But there are bound to be some leftovers. This is assuming that Moriarty would want his web back in the first place. We do not know what he wants. He may want his power back, or he may be more focused on revenge."
"Or he may be bored again." Sherlock's voice was full of breathy longing.
"It'll be difficult keeping you down to earth if that's the case," John muttered, grimacing. He shoved crumpled fabric at his flatmate. "And put on your pants, you nutter, you're putting Greg off his tea."
