Shameless porn. Written at the prodding of two dear friends.
"Picked something up for you from the shops," Greg said as he bustled through the door, loaded down with several grocery bags. When Sherlock merely grunted quietly in response, turning a page in his book without looking up, Greg sighed and began picking through the shopping.
"Don't you want to know what it is?"
"I'm working, Lestrade," Sherlock said shortly, flipping through the pages of the book. Greg frowned. Lestrade; he was always 'Lestrade' when Sherlock had a case, never Greg. And speaking of cases…
"Thought we closed our last case." Sherlock somehow managed to roll his eyes without actually looking away from the book, and Greg straightened up with something small curled in his hand. He rolled it between his fingers, glancing at Sherlock's sharply-intent face and grinning slightly, a mischievous light dashing through his eyes.
"Well, here." With a flick of his wrist Greg sent the object sailing through the air, and Sherlock promptly darted his hand out and caught it. He gave it the briefest of glances, one eyebrow cocked slightly, then snorted softly and dropped the small bottle of lube to the floor.
"You know I'm not that easily distracted."
"It's cherry flavored." A short burst of satisfaction rushed through Greg when Sherlock's tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he continued on. "Want to make it a game?" He asked, casually undoing his jacket and tossing it onto the couch before stalking slowly over to the detective's chair, the small smile on his lips growing wicked.
Sherlock sighed and finally looked up. "What kind of 'game'?" He spoke as if he was humoring a small child. Lestrade bent over and plucked up the bottle, peering innocently at Sherlock, though a slow burn of anticipation was working through him. Their previous case had lasted two weeks, which meant it was all he could do to get Sherlock to pause long enough for a piece of toast, let alone get him in bed for anything, sleep or otherwise.
"Well, you get to educate me about…" Lestrade tilted his head, reading the title emblazoned along the spine of the book. "the upper motor neuron system, while I use this," he waved the bottle briefly in front of Sherlock's face, "on you."
Sherlock swallowed somewhat stiffly but remained otherwise unfazed. "A game has to have rules."
"Oh, of course." Greg pressed one of his knees against Sherlock's, curling his free hand over the top of the book and pushing it down slightly. Sherlock's lips quirked briefly downwards but he held Greg's gaze.
"Like I said. You read that to me, out loud," he emphasized, "while I use this. If you say anything that's not in the book, or if you stop reading before I've finished…" Greg grinned widely, and Sherlock glowered. "I'll leave you here. And you'll have to come to the Yard's party with me on Saturday."
Sherlock blinked and took a moment to inconspicuously unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "And if I adhere to your rules?"
Greg cocked his head to the side, releasing the book and bringing one hand up to stroke his chin in thought, missing how Sherlock's eyes tracked the movement. Two weeks was two weeks, even if what he had on was absolutely enthralling.
"I'll let you have at the cold-case files for an hour." Lestrade glanced down at Sherlock eagerly, who swiftly averted his gaze. A small stretch of silence spread between them; when Sherlock had composed his face he looked up, sighed softly, and nodded his head. Lestrade brightened, the tips of his ears tingeing with pink, and slid between Sherlock's legs, dropping to his knees. "You can start reading." Greg reached out and swiftly popped the button on Sherlock's trousers, yanking them down along with his boxers and letting them pool around his feet.
"…The interface between a motor neuron and muscle fiber is a specialized synapse…"
Sherlock faltered in the slightest as he inhaled the sticky-sweet scent that wafted up to him when Greg uncapped the bottle, then he fixed his eyes determinedly on the page and continued reading steadily. He couldn't, however, keep some amount of interest from kindling between his legs, especially when he heard the soft, wet slipping of Greg warming the lube in his fingers.
Greg kissed Sherlock's inner thigh softly, with a tiny rasp of stubble, then reached out and rolled his fingers along the detective's budding erection. Sherlock's voice immediately cut out, though his lips kept moving, and Greg tutted softly, fingers halting.
"Ah, no. Out loud, darling. I'll forgive it this once."
Sherlock swallowed audibly, coughed, then relocated his voice. "Upon adequate stimulaaaation" – Greg had squeezed a long strip of lube directly onto his cock then encased it completely in his hand – "the motor neuron releases a flood of neurot-transmitters that bind to…"
He kept up fairly sturdily as Greg slowly worked a loose fist up and down his length, and was nearly convinced that this would be far too easy when Greg, without warning, without even a brush of his lips or a flick of his tongue, swallowed him down until his mouth met his own fingers, elongating 'axons' into "a-a-axaaaahnssss" and effectively knocking the wind out of him.
Greg stopped, tongue resting just behind the head of Sherlock's cock, and the detective stuttered in a breath. "T-to the target tissuuuues, which are…" Greg hummed in approval, which turned 'locomotion' into a six-second tangle of the detective's tongue, then he sucked and drew upwards at the same time, spreading-cherry lube and "-" nearly causing the book to plummet from Sherlock's grip and onto the back of his head.
When it got to the point where Sherlock had to restart the same sentence four times he broke just a little, balancing the book in one hand and thrusting the other into Greg's silver hair. The DI grunted and scraped his teeth lightly from base to tip.
"G-Gamma m-mo-motor…" Sherlock gasped wildly, spine stiffening…"motorneurons regulate the seeeeensitivity-" Greg reached up and squeezed his testicles with a slick hand then rolled them in rhythm with his bobbing head. "Of the – the… spi-i-indle to muscle stretchiiiing…" His voice petered off into a soft hissing past his teeth, which were imbedded in his plush bottom lip. When he remained silent, body taut and quivering, Greg pulled off completely, dragging his tongue slowly over his darkened lips and gazing up at him, fingers still gently caressing his scrotum.
Sherlock cast his eyes desperately back to the page. "They dire-rectly innervate visss-visceral muscles and also some gla… gla…" The words slowly began to slip from Sherlock's line of vision as Greg just barely skimmed his lips over his arousal. "Gland celllls – God damn it, Greg." The book toppled over the side of the chair as Sherlock gripped the arm, nails digging into the fabric as Greg groaned in satisfaction and deposited a generous amount of lube directly into his mouth before taking him to the hilt. He angled his head and breathed in deep before swallowing deliberately around Sherlock, who burst into a desperate stream of words that certainly weren't in the abused book lying on the carpet.
Sherlock loosed a visceral moan when Greg didn't stop as expected, instead continuing to torture his sensitive tissues, stimulating him adequately enough that his neurons seemed to stop firing and his body began acting of its own accord, his back lifting from the chair, hips straining, brain disconnecting from his mouth and a flood of expletives and scientific vocabulary flooding the air
"The autonomic – fuck - g-ganglionic – O-o-oh…" His neurons kicked back in, working in overtime, pulses wracking his body, sibilants slipping from his lips as Greg sucked-swallowed-repeated until he was utterly, thoroughly spent.
Sherlock continued to murmur softly, mostly Greg's name this time, until the DI slid up his body and kissed cherry-and-musk into his mouth. "So you'll be joining me this Saturday?"