Author's Note: So, after I wrote the porn goodness that was "Apodyopsis", I got propositioned to write some Sherlock/Lestrade. At first I thought, "Deviate from Johnlock? Pfffft, never!" but then I remembered that I have the serious hots for both Benedict Cumberbatch and Rupert Graves, and them together would be a yummy combination. Variety is the spice of life, amirite?

This fic is set before John and Sherlock meet. So, pre-A Study in Pink. It's going to have two parts. The first is written by me (this chapter), and the second will be written by my co-author, LadyElayne, who was also the woman who requested the fic in the first place. The second chapter will feature some voyeurism on the part of Molly Hooper, so there's a lil somefin for everyone.

Enjoy!

Warning: This is straight-up, unmistakable, unabashed porn. Between two men. And you're going to love it. Oh, and there are mentions of cocaine use. But mostly porn.

Lestrade massaged his temples gingerly and tried for the hundredth time to rein in his temper.

Two police officers had barged into his office at New Scotland Yard ten minutes ago, dragging a thrashing man behind them. It hadn't taken more than a glance for Lestrade to identify both the man and the reason why he was causing such a commotion. It was Sherlock Holmes, and he was strung out on cocaine.

Again.

It was obvious from his blown pupils and the way he was babbling out what seemed to be every single thought that popped into his head that he was pretty far gone. He was currently collapsed into a chair opposite Lestrade's desk, his long limbs splayed in a way that would have been elegant had he been the slightest bit less annoying. Lestrade supposed he should be thanking his lucky stars the officers had thought to bring him here instead of taking him straight to booking. Sherlock really didn't need another black mark on his record, and Lestrade was running out of favours to call in. The officers had apparently discovered him wandering the streets, shouting deductions at random people who walked by. Someone had eventually called in a noise complaint.

This was happening far too frequently of late.

"Sherlock," he began, but the lunatic either ignored him or couldn't hear him over the steady stream of verbal nonsense he was producing. He tried again, slightly louder, "Sherlock."

The other man paused long enough to draw a deep breath before continuing his unfettered monologue. Something about hypothermia and the effects of alcohol on putrefied flesh.

Lestrade's patience snapped like a thread. "SHERLOCK!" he bellowed.

Miraculously, Sherlock actually fell silent. He looked dazedly at Lestrade, his body weaving slightly as he struggled to stay upright in his chair.

"That's better," Lestrade commented drily. He walked over to the glass window in his wall by the door and peered through the open blinds at the rest of NSY. The cubicles that lined the main office were all darkened and empty. It was well beyond the end of the work day, and only Lestrade had stayed behind tonight to work on some paperwork that had been piling up for weeks now. That was yet another reason why it was miraculous that Sherlock wasn't in a jail cell right now.

"You can't keep doing this," Lestrade said without turning around. He thought briefly about the lab results he was waiting on before deciding he probably wouldn't get any more work done now that Sherlock had flopped unceremoniously into his evening. "I know you get bored, or whatever other tired excuses you're using these days, but your drug addiction is killing you."

"I'd rather be dead than spend all my time plodding along obliviously like you lot do." Sherlock's voice wavered as he spoke, as if he were focusing very hard on some words while barely remembering others. "You're all so vapid."

Lestrade sighed, walked behind his desk and fell heavily into his chair. He rested his elbows on his armrests a moment later and pressed his palms together, peering over them to study the man sat across from him. Sherlock was dressed somewhat decently this time in a dress shirt and trousers and a thick coat that looked like it might actually enable him to survive a night outside in the freezing cold. That was quite a bit better than usual. He had a streak of dirt on his cheek, however, and his pale irises were so glazed they almost blended in with his eyeballs.

It was such a waste, Lestrade couldn't help but think. Sherlock was easily one of the loveliest men he'd ever seen, yet he chose to destroy his body with drugs. He was so brilliant when he wasn't doped up. If something happened to that incredible brain of his, the world would truly lose a masterpiece.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said again, desperately trying to gather the last tattered remnants of his patience, "you're going to get yourself seriously injured or worse. You can't wander the streets at night in your current state. You're too vulnerable when you're not in your right mind. One of these days, someone is going to take advantage of you."

Sherlock's face underwent a strange metamorphosis at that last sentence. Lestrade couldn't quite tell what it was, but it instantly put him on guard.

Sherlock's voice was low and unreadable when he spoke next. "And of course you wouldn't want that, now would you?"

Lestrade answered cautiously, "No, I wouldn't."

"Because you need me."

Something about his tone made Lestrade's skin prickle. It wasn't entirely unpleasant. "Well, yes, I suppose I do."

Sherlock leant forward, his eyes glittering. "Because without me, all those cases you brought me would still be unsolved. Because without me, you wouldn't be able to take credit for my genius. Because without me, you probably wouldn't have been promoted to DI."

"Stop it, Sherlock," Lestrade said in a warning tone. "You're just trying to wind me up so I'll kick you out and you can go back to burning holes in your brain. You know I care about more than just your ability to solve cases."

He wasn't entirely certain why he'd said that. Sherlock and him had never intimated before that their relationship was anything more than a working one. Now that he'd said it, however, he realised it was true. He did care about Sherlock. He was a stark-raving, inconsiderate, aggravating bastard half the time, but Lestrade knew deep down he was a good man.

Sherlock seemed to have been stunned into silence by his declaration. He was studying him intently, and Lestrade had to fight not to squirm beneath the intensity of his gaze. He felt strange tension building in the air that he couldn't entirely identify.

When Sherlock finally spoke, his words made not a lick of sense to him. "You've never been quite like the others, have you?"

Suddenly, he stood up, and Lestrade was instantly wary. If Sherlock was going to make a run for it, there was little he could do to stop him. He might have to put out an APB.

To his surprise, however, Sherlock took a step to the left. "It's true, what you just said. You do care about more than my brain." He took another step, which brought him around the corner of the desk. "You care about a lot more than that, actually." He moved forward, and Lestrade belatedly realised he was removing the only obstacle between them. His heart started to pound for reasons he refused to acknowledge. "I infuriate you. I antagonise your officers and make you feel inferior. I announce all your secrets to the world and then laugh at the perplexed look on your face." Another step, and Lestrade fought futilely against the heat that was flooding into his cheeks as the distance between them slowly closed. "I cause you endless amounts of trouble, yet you can't stop employing me because I'm the only ace up your sleeve. You need me."

Sherlock was right next to him now, and slowly, achingly slowly, he bent down until his mouth was right by Lestrade's ear. "And you want me."

The Detective Inspector jerked away from him as if he'd been burned. Without thinking about it, he swiveled his chair around so he could face the madman next to him. "Sherlock, that's absurd! I'm married, for God's sake."

"Yes, and your wife is a serial adulterer whom you have not slept with in eight months."

Lestrade's jaw dropped at first, but then he passed a hand tiredly over his eyes. "I don't know how you know that and frankly I don't want to know, but that doesn't make your statement any less ridiculous. I do not want you. I consider you a colleague and maybe even a friend."

"Then why are you half hard from my proximity alone?"

Lestrade glanced down at his lap. God dammit. "Look, whatever you're implying—"

"I'm not implying anything." Sherlock leant over him, forcing him to press back into his chair. He then placed one long-fingered hand on each of the armrests, caging Lestrade in and making his penetrating gaze unavoidable. "I'm telling you what you already know yet stupidly refuse to acknowledge. You. Want. Me. You've wanted me from the moment you laid eyes on me. I saw it in your rapid breathing and the way you couldn't stop fidgeting. It's why you keep consulting me even though your supervisor would never approve. It's why you pull so many strings to keep me out of prison. It's why you're now fully hard and squirming in your chair like a schoolboy. You care a great deal about my brain, but I'd venture to say you care just as much about my body. I'm tired of waiting, Lestrade. I'm ready to do something about it."

Lestrade's mouth was suddenly very, very dry. God, this was humiliating. Here he was letting himself get all hot and bothered over a drugged-up arrogant wanker, and Sherlock looked as calm as if he were reading the dictionary aloud.

Lestrade took a deep, steadying breath and looked the other man square in the eye. "Fine. I admit it. I'm attracted to you. Good on you for riddling it out, but that doesn't change the fact that two of my officers hauled you in here earlier today because you were blitzed and raving like a madman. This has to stop, Sherlock. You're going to really hurt yourself."

"And that would bother you." His voice had dropped to a velvet rumble that shot straight between Lestrade's legs. "I see. I suppose I should get on with it then. I've been rather negligent thus far."

Lestrade started to ask what the bloody hell he was on about, but then his heart stuttered to a halt in his chest.

In one liquid, flowing movement, Sherlock put both knees on either side of his and slid into his chair. And into his lap.

If Lestrade wasn't hard before he was impossibly, achingly hard now. He struggled to keep his hands to himself. "Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?"

"I'm going to make you a deal." The consulting detective drew his hips slowly back only to slide them forward again and press their groins flush together. Lestrade only barely managed to bite back a moan. Fuck if that didn't feel amazing. "I will stay off drugs for one entire month," he leant forward and placed his lips right against Lestrade's ear. His voice vibrated into him and shivered down his spine, "if you throw me over this desk and fuck my pompous, public school brains out."

For one unending moment that seemed to last for decades but was probably more like five seconds, Lestrade's entire brain shut down. Then it rebooted so slowly, it was obviously running Widows XP.

"Sh—" he started, but he choked on the rest of that syllable. He didn't want this. He couldn't want this. God, he wanted this so fucking badly. He glanced at his desk and could perfectly envision Sherlock splayed across it with his cock buried deeply in him. Lestrade swallowed thickly and steeled himself against the desire pumping hot and heavy into his veins. "Sherlock, I am not going to have sex with you while you're on drugs. You're not yourself right now."

"Aren't I?"

And suddenly he was completely different. The glaze was gone from his eyes. He wasn't bobbing like he could barely hold himself up. The feverish sheen of sweat on his forehead had magically evaporated.

Lestrade blinked, utterly confused. "How the fuck did you sober up in an instant?"

"I was sober from the very start. Do keep up."

Sherlock sat back a bit and appeared to be patiently waiting for him to piece it all together. Slowly but surely, he did. "You . . . you pretended to be drugged out of your mind because you knew the officers would bring you to me?"

"Very good. It seems you're not a complete waste as a detective after all."

"But why? Why the hell would you do that?"

"I deduced that if you saw me in a seemingly hazardous state enough times, your inherently protective nature would dictate that you must interfere. You would beg me to stop, and if pressed you'd be willing to make a deal with me. And as you can see, you are currently being pressed quite insistently."

Sherlock rubbed their groins hotly together, and this time Lestrade was too startled to contain his moan. It echoed loudly in the empty office, and he ducked his head down in embarrassment.

Sherlock threaded his long fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and used it to pull his face back up until their eyes met. He'd settled into a steady rhythm of grinding against him in slow, smooth circles, and the friction was bloody amazing.

"Fuck," Lestrade panted despite himself and then gripped the armrests tightly, "that feels good."

"I know it does," Sherlock said in a smug voice. His own erection was pressing up against Lestrade's, heavy and swollen with blood. "So, do we have a deal?"

Lestrade opened his mouth to answer, but with Sherlock thrusting their hips together so tantalisingly, he couldn't seem to get any air in his lungs. He gasped, trying to look anywhere but into the piercing blue eyes that were inches from him and failing miserably. He was so hot and so hard and so impossibly aroused by this, it was incomprehensible.

Sherlock chuckled wickedly, obviously aware of the effect he was having on the DI. "I said: Do. We. Have. A. Deal." He punctuated each word with a rock of their hips together, and Lestrade couldn't stop himself from grabbing him and digging his fingers into his skin. Blast, that torturous touch was going to be the death of him.

Anyone could come in and see them. There could be an emergency and someone could come looking for him. It would be so easy for them to get caught.

And Lestrade didn't care in the slightest.

He fisted his hands in the front of Sherlock's stupid, posh shirt and crushed their mouths together.

Sherlock seemed startled for a half second, as if he hadn't really expected Lestrade to give in that easily, but soon he was kissing him back with fervour. Their tongues slid eagerly against each other's, tasting the honeyed warmth that was their combined mouths. Sherlock nibbled on his lower lip, and Lestrade gasped against him.

His neck came next, and it was all the DI could do to grip Sherlock's back as his teeth and tongue worked themselves over his sensitive flesh. The room suddenly seemed about ten degrees hotter than it had before. Sherlock's mouth was doing amazing things to him—biting his collarbone and lapping at his pulsepoint—and he never wanted it to stop. It worked its way back up to his lips after a brief but highly pleasurable detour to his right ear. When it arrived at its destination, the two men once again made every effort to devour each other.

Sherlock pulled back after what—in Lestrade's opinion—was not nearly enough hot, hungry kissing. A moment later, he shoved a hand between their bodies and began frantically undoing their trousers.

"Too much clothing," he muttered irritably. "We're wearing far too much clothing."

Lestrade could only sit there in a daze, half convinced he'd fallen asleep at his desk and was now having a rather obscene dream. At some point Sherlock had taken off his coat and now he had his pants and trousers off his incredibly thin legs in what had to be record time. Lestrade's erection was inexplicably peering up at him from the open front of his jeans. Sherlock's cock was long and thin, much like the man himself, and was standing straight up between his legs from a nest of black curls.

"Sherlock, slow down," Lestrade sputtered feebly when the other man rose up on his knees and seemed about to impale himself on his prick. "We have to get you ready." Now that he thought about it, he didn't have anything they could use as lube.

"Already taken care of. Feel for yourself." Sherlock took his hand and quite brazenly drew it around his hips and stuck it between his arsecheeks. Much to Lestrade's surprise, he could plainly feel that his entrance was not only slippery with lube but quite well stretched.

He blinked, completely gobsmacked. "You mean to tell me you prepared yourself before you let those officers arrest you in anticipation of me agreeing to fuck you? And then you sat across from me, pretending to be on drugs, with an arse full of lube for fifteen minutes?"

"Precisely."

Lestrade stared at him like he'd sprouted a second head. A moment later, however, he shrugged and said, "Well, thank God for that. I don't think I can wait much longer."

He grabbed Sherlock's slender hips, lined them up with the head of his prick and thrust up into him in one smooth motion, sinking in as far as he could. The cries that erupted from them both were equally startling. Sherlock was so hot and tight and perfect inside, and now he was gripping his shoulders for dear life, trembling against his chest. Lestrade held his hips still through a great exercise of self-restraint, searching for signs that he'd hurt the other man.

"Are you all right?"

"Oh God," Sherlock moaned, his eyes screwed shut, "I swear, Lestrade, if you don't start moving—"

Lestrade huffed out a quick breath of amusement before pulling almost entirely out of Sherlock and plunging back in again with a ragged moan. "Always so demanding. By the way, I think it's all right for you to call me Greg now."

"Well, Greg," Sherlock was gasping and flushed in a delicious way, "kindly fuck me harder."

Lestrade, for once, didn't resent the order. He slid down in his seat to give himself better leverage and then began to piston his hips, driving his prick rapidly in and out of the other man. The sounds that poured from Sherlock were so filthy, they made him even harder. His face was twisted into a look of excruciating ecstasy, his mouth slack and his cheeks flooded with pink. Lestrade couldn't tear his eyes from it, especially when Sherlock matched his rhythm, raising himself up when Lestrade pulled out and shoving himself down when he thrust in, forcing even more of the older man's prick into his body.

"Fuck," Lestrade moaned through clenched teeth. "Oh, fuck, Sherlock, that's good. Just like that."

Sherlock responded with a tortured mewling sound. "It's not enough." He opened his eyes and looked at him through the bleary haze of his arousal. "It's never going to be enough. I need more, harder and faster and more. I need to feel you burning inside of me for days. I need it, Greg. I need you to fuck the thinking out of me."

Lestrade swore as the words reached his erection and made every nerve ending tingle. It had to be impossible to be this turned on. With a growl, he grabbed Sherlock by the hips, lifted him up as he scrambled to his feet and threw him onto his desk, precisely as he'd asked him to. Sherlock was sprawled on his back, blinking at him with surprise, but he didn't have long to look that way. Lestrade was on him in an instant, throwing one of his long legs over each of his shoulders, lining himself up and plunging back into him with enthusiasm.

Sherlock threw his head back and keened. He reached his hands up to grip the edge of the desk above his head as Lestrade pounded into him, cursing all the while. In this position, he could grip Sherlock's thighs and hold him still while he shoved himself into him again and again, making quick, ruthless thrusts that shook the desk and drew loud moans from them both.

God, it felt so good to be buried in that tight heat. It was even better than he'd fantasized. He had to wonder now why he'd forced himself to pretend he didn't want Sherlock. The man was gorgeous, especially spread out in front of him, naked from the waist down, blushing and moaning like a wanton thing.

Lestrade felt a familiar pressure building up inside of him. In a few minutes, an orgasm of near-terrifying magnitude was going to rip through him, but first he needed to see Sherlock come. He reached down, wrapped a hand around his neglected prick and began pumping him in time with his hard thrusts. Sherlock was practically screaming, writhing on the desk like he couldn't stand the pleasure coursing through him. It was by far the most erotic thing Lestrade had ever seen. He already knew he was going to wank to that image for months to come.

Sherlock's eyes shot open when he came, and Lestrade thought he looked surprised by the force of the pleasure spiking through him. His semen coated his stomach in hot globs, and his entire body clenched up. That was all it took for Lestrade to follow right after him, choking on a final moan and struggling to thrust erratically through the ecstasy of it until he was spent.

When it was over, they both gasped for breath. Sherlock's arms were limp above his head, and Lestrade was resting a sweaty forehead against one of the legs still thrown over his shoulder.

Once he'd regained the ability to breathe, the DI said in a quiet voice, "I rather think I'm getting the better end of this deal."

Sherlock chuckled and rubbed his face with one large hand. "Just wait until a month from now when I show up here again."

Greg pulled gently out of him and fell back into his chair, not even bothering to do up his jeans. His whole body ached in a very satisfying way. "Does that mean we can't fuck again in the interim?"

Sherlock raised his head up just enough to look at him. "Would you want to?" His tone suggested the thought had never occurred to him.

"Um, let me think. YES. That was bloody amazing! And not just because it's been eight months for me."

"Hm," Sherlock seemed to be considering the notion, "then I suppose we can."

"I should be deterred by your lack of enthusiasm, but honestly I couldn't care less. If you're okay with it, in about 30 minutes I have every intention of having you on half the desks in this building."

"So long as one of them is Anderson's, that's fine with me."

"Deal."