I wrote this for absolutely no reason except that I liked the idea of Lestrade and Sherlock, so I decided I'd write about it, but make it seem plausible. Next mission? John and Lestrade. But anyways, here's a little fic from me. Because sexy, intelligent, British men. (also, I consider this a one shot, but I am not eliminating the possibility of continuing this. However, consider this completed for now.)
His hand twitches. His mouth forms a brief sneer. His tongue wets his bottom lip just before he brings it between his teeth to bite it, if only to hold it there and stop him from swearing.
Nevertheless, his mind only has one thought:
Shit.
He'd tried so damned hard. He really had. He'd used the best of his team, asked them to try again, and even brought in Anderson to see what he could make of it.
But he'd known. He'd known from the moment he'd stepped onto the crime scene. He'd only meant to be there maybe an hour while his top forensics team went in and did what they could. But Greg had sensed it from his first whiff of air in the room.
He was going to have to bring in Sherlock.
It had been a few weeks, but that wasn't nearly enough time for Greg to have regained his dignity. He'd licked his (self-inflicted) wounds clean and he thought he would be okay with seeing Sherlock again after what had happened.
However, now that he's facing the reality of actually seeing him again, Greg isn't so confident.
There is one option. Greg could try to just jump into action. Technically, he is wasting precious and valuable time standing there with his phone in his hand, his thumb brushing over the speed-dial option for Sherlock. He should be hurrying to get the man to the scene, not be debating with himself like a teenage girl avoiding an ex.
That sounded bad.
Come on, you wanker, do your job.
Wrapping his coat back over him, he runs out to the street, getting in the police car and telling them the address. It's already engrained into his skull.
Sherlock would know immediately what he was there for. This was the fourth suicide. As Sherlock had just decided to remind Greg that he was still alive by texting Wrong! to everyone in the conference room, (though he was positive Sherlock meant Greg was wrong about something else entirely), this indicated that Sherlock was paying attention to the case already. That would help.
Undoubtedly, he would beat Greg to the first word. The question was this:
What would that first word be?
As he opens the door to 221B Baker Street and bounds up the stairs, he keeps his eyes down until he absolutely has to. His guess is that Sherlock will be standing right at the window, his eyes upon the police car and his brain already knowing what it was doing there, which means that when Greg looks up, he will see him.
As predicted, Sherlock is inevitably the first thing he notices. He stands there, basking in the light of the window, and it makes Greg lose the chance to even think of the first word (in case he'd wanted to get a leg up on him early). Sherlock's figure is breathtaking. His stance is strong and his suit falls over his frame perfectly. His face is reflecting the white light and making his skin seem completely flawless and highlighting his lips. Even his hair looks immaculate. Greg envies him sometimes for always looking like a Greek statue in motion. To his relief, Sherlock wears an expression Greg knows to be the one he has when he was on a case.
Good: back to business as usual. He's let it go. And so have I. Right.
"Where?"
But, oh the silk on his voice slips out and Greg has to take a breath.
"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."
Their eyes meet for a moment, and to his astonishment, Sherlock looks away.
"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."
"You know how they never leave notes?"
"Yeah."
"This one did."
Sherlock's head rolls back as his astronomically sized mind assesses this information.
"Will you come?" Greg asks, but instantly realizes it's silly for him to do so. Of course Sherlock will come to the crime scene. Of course he will. He can't stay away, not for a case like this. But Greg's insecurity is showing, and he curses himself for momentarily losing face. He knows he's asked that because he thought maybe, just maybe, Sherlock wouldn't go to spite him.
Or worse, offer him a condition or something.
"Who's on forensics?" Sherlock asks, and Greg wants to smile, but refrains from doing so. Mostly because he knows what he is about to say isn't going to sit well.
"It's Anderson."
"Anderson won't work with me." Sherlock sighs.
"Well, he won't be your assistant."
"I need an assistant."
Sherlock's eyes are heavy on Greg, and while he wants to think it's because Sherlock is trying to make a play on words, he knows that's not why. Sherlock is in the zone now. He couldn't care less about anything else. Like Greg. And what Greg had done.
"Will you come?" he tries again.
"Not in the police car; I'll be right behind," Sherlock says, turning away.
Greg acknowledges Sherlock's cooperation with a relieved thank you and, if he were to be totally honest, a nod that seems more like a bow. But he's quick about it.
Then he remembers: the chair. It's to his left.
He wants to look at the chair. The chair. Now's his opportunity. He'll be sneaky about it. Sherlock's not looking, so he might not notice.
Greg is surprised. Not shocked, but definitely surprised. There's a man sitting in the chair. He's an average looking man, nothing too special, and he's holding a cane in his hand. Greg looks up a bit and sees Mrs. Hudson, the landlady he's met earlier. She's smiling.
Maybe it's her son? Bad hips run the family, I guess.
Greg has to turn away before he smiles too much.
Just a regular man, he thinks. It's all right.
But he's still bothered and that bothered him even more. It's a chair!
It's their chair.
No, it's not. Stop it.
He is suddenly glad that he is going back to a dank, dark, abandoned house and is about to hover around a dead woman. It'll get things under perspective.
About five minutes later, as he's standing downstairs and trying to dissuade Anderson from being a total arse, his radio goes off:
"Freak's here. Bringing him in."
Anderson groans and walks out of the house. Greg allows himself a few deep breaths.
And, foolishly, allows himself to remember.
It was the day he'd been chasing after Sherlock and a notorious drug lord. Since Greg had to first find where the two men were, it took him a while. He had Sherlock's phone tracked (and had since Sherlock's brother Mycroft had handed him the device for just such purposes) and was racing through the streets, repeatedly checking his location.
When he got there, he realized he had arrived just in time. He found the drug lord on the ground, his stash of cocaine scattered on the pavement. Obviously, the fight had been something else, because Sherlock was standing there with his shirt torn to shreds. There were small cuts where the fabric was torn, and Greg immediately knew he had to get Sherlock medical attention.
However, he froze when he properly looked at Sherlock's face.
The man in question's eyes were glued to the ground. More specifically, they were trained on the cocaine.
In any other situation, Greg might have restrained himself a bit more. If it were anyone else, really. But this was Sherlock. Greg had been with Sherlock through his rehabilitation and a relapse or two. He wasn't about to let it happen again.
"Sherlock, no!" he screamed and ran forward, wrapping his arms around Sherlock, who instantly started struggling. He was trying to get to the cocaine on the ground, but Greg would not let that happen.
"Stop! Stop it!"
"Let me go!" Sherlock roared, his hands tearing at Lestrade's arms. It was absolutely pointless, as Lestrade had gripped around his upper arms and chest, but that didn't stop Sherlock from digging his fingernails into any flesh he can find.
"No! I will not let you do this to yourself!"
Greg flinched as Sherlock let out an extremely loud scream that sounded like a wild animal. They no doubt looked ridiculous, thrashing around, Greg's tight grasp ripping Sherlock's shirt even more. Sherlock was trying to step on Greg's feet, and they were practically tap-dancing in the alleyway. Greg congratulated himself for keeping Sherlock under his control. Then suddenly, he was turned around and pushed against the bricks of the building they'd been standing next to.
"Sherlock, please, just don't."
Sherlock just breathed heavily and thrust his forearm into Greg's throat some more. His other hand was pushing into Greg's stomach, the fingers each leaving precise dents in his skin. This was the Sherlock Greg had not seen in years. In truth, Sherlock had seemed completely over this. He had actually become something more than himself. He'd become an untouchable sort of figure, to the point that Greg was occasionally intimidated. That was a bit backwards, considering Greg had also seen Sherlock like this: mad and crazed and out of his mind in want for drugs. Yet, after cleaning up his act and somewhat finding a purpose to his life, Sherlock had become something else. He was simply something more, and with Greg's ordinary and depressing life, Sherlock seemed like something like a fictional character. He came in, saved the day, and did it all on his own terms and with his amazing abilities; Greg found himself constantly envious.
"Sherlock, you know better. You don't want to go back to that. I'll give you anything you want. Just don't go back to this. Please."
Sherlock seemed to twitch, and Greg saw his opportunity. He quickly grabbed Sherlock's arm and wrenched it around. He pulled it behind Sherlock's back and turned them around, pressing Sherlock into the wall and fumbling to reach the handcuffs at his hip, but he touched nothing.
A strangled laugh escaped Sherlock, "You know I saw that coming," he mocked and banged his own hip into the wall. There was the unmistakable jingle of the missing handcuffs coming from Sherlock's trouser pocket.
"Bugger off, Sherlock, I won't let you do this. I'll put him in cuffs, collect it myself, and then you go home."
Sherlock jerked his body and then Greg had his back against the wall again. Sherlock pressed his body against Greg's, pinning him, his hands like vice grips on the D.I.'s arms.
For a few seconds, Sherlock just stood there, panting heavily, staring at Greg. Greg just tried not to be afraid. It was a surprisingly difficult task, but considering Sherlock was practically laying on him and breathing like a rabid animal, Greg felt no shame in the rush of adrenaline that was still pulsing through him.
"Sherlock," he said finally, but the grip around his biceps tightened, so he waited some more. His stomach was getting turned around as the rush faded. Just as soon as he started to relax, Sherlock pushed himself off of the wall (and Greg) and stood up straight, putting Greg back on high alert. Sherlock was looking directly at him, glacier blue eyes meeting dark chocolate brown ones and penetrating into Greg's psyche. It was like Sherlock was cataloging a new piece of information.
"You were a rugby player," Sherlock said abruptly, his voice deep.
"Yeah, back in school," Greg confirmed. Sherlock nodded slowly, his mouth tilting slightly to display his self-satisfaction. Greg narrowed his eyes at him, "You're not going to make me throttle you again, are you?"
For a moment, the consulting detective did nothing, and Greg knew why: he wasn't sure. Sherlock was not quite sure whether he was ready to give up going after the drugs. This was an internal battle, the once buried half resurfacing; the addiction rearing its head.
"I thought I'd deleted that need," Sherlock groaned, obviously frustrated, "I was unaware that the sight of cocaine would cause that reaction."
"Addiction isn't something you just forget, Sherlock," Greg rolled his eyes, "I know your brilliant brain can usually just 'delete' things you don't want to remember or don't care to remember, like how to behave like an adult ," Greg mocked, "but you're still human. Addiction is a human problem and you can't just let it go. It's a constant battle."
Sherlock, though Greg hadn't been sure he was even listening with his eyes staring past the concrete ground, whipped his head up. His deductive gaze started up (Greg had no problem recognizing that expression). He felt Sherlock's eyes practically burning him as Sherlock began to dig in.
"You're an alcoholic, recovering," Sherlock's eyes were practically burning with knowledge intake, and his intense look felt hot on Greg's face, "but the longer your wife is away, the easier it is for you to slip. So you know you're wife is having an affair, and you—"
"Sherlock, stop," Greg raised his hand to shut him up, his heart having dropped to his stomach. It's not like hadn't known—of course he had known. But to hear Sherlock say it out loud was just as bad (if not worse) as walking in on his wife in action. To hear Sherlock say it was to confirm it, and Greg hadn't been ready to face it yet. He fought to keep his composure, but Sherlock's critical stare was at work, and he knew that he might as well have been saying his emotions aloud. Sherlock would know exactly what he was thinking.
"I'm…" Sherlock began, "I'm sorry."
Greg's eyes went wide, "I beg your pardon?"
"You're not deaf, Lestrade," Sherlock spat out, "I apologise."
"For what?"
Sherlock looked decidedly uncomfortable, "For…for em…you know..." he abruptly stood up straight and his face went into a mask so obvious that Greg had no trouble spotting it, "you're bleeding," Sherlock pointed to his own cheek. Greg reached his hand up and felt the warm trickle of blood on his face.
"So are you."
"That was partially the reason I was screaming," Sherlock admitted, "It seems the pain made me lose vocal control—"
"You've got to stop talking like that," Greg interrupted him again, "You can't be in control of everything, and especially not if it's a physical thing."
"Yes, I suppose you're right."
"Are you saying you were wrong?"
"Absolutely not. I was just simply less right." Sherlock smirked and Greg found himself smiling back. He tried, in vain, to clear the blood off from his face, but every time he pulled his fingers back, there was still more.
"Oh for God's sake," Sherlock rolled his eyes and stepped up to Greg, pulling a strip from his shirt. He lifted it to the inspector's face and began roughly wiping away the blood. Greg unexpectedly felt a bit awkward. Sherlock had been staring at his face earlier, but he hadn't been this close. Perhaps Sherlock just made him nervous sometimes. This was no exception.
"So you're not going to go after them, again, are you?"
Sherlock paused before dropping the soiled scrap of his shirt to the ground.
"I'll offer you a deal," he said, still unbearably close. This man had no sense of personal space.
"What kind of deal?"
"She's not coming back tonight," Sherlock began, his voice almost apologetic, "you know this and you know why. If you do not drink this evening, I will not use."
Greg stared him down, the challenge being tossed around in his mind. He'd planned on drinking tonight, no doubt Sherlock knew that somehow, and was (to his shame and regret) looking forward to getting nicely plastered. He missed the sweet roll of his head and the heaviness of his steps. He was so ready to turn on the tele and laugh at nothing.
He didn't exactly want to give that up.
"I will be confiscating those drugs. You won't have the chance to—"
"Be assured, Lestrade, I have many ways of acquiring cocaine if the mood so strikes me."
Greg's face went white, "You haven't though, right?"
"In order to get better, of course not. As I said, I thought I had beaten this. I suppose looking the devil in the eyes, however, is too much of a temptation. Now that I've got hell's fire back in my veins and I am thinking I should try again." Sherlock tilted his head sideways, issuing the nonverbal threat of a sadistic smirk and raised eyebrow.
"Bit poetic for you, isn't that?"
"You really want to focus on what I'm saying, Lestrade."
He knew Greg didn't want him to go back on the drugs. Greg, who had been there through his recovery and had literally shed blood and sweat just there to stop him from going back to them.
Greg sighed, "You're using my own weakness of caring against me." Then another thought struck him, "Or you think I'll give in to the bottle."
Sherlock, still unaware that he was invading Greg's personal space, looked him right in the eyes, "You, Detective Inspector, are a man of your word. You are incredibly honest and…decent. If you tell me you won't drink, then I have confidence that you will not and will therefore act the same."
"Then there's no choice," Greg said instantly, his voice strong, "I will not drink tonight."
"In turn, I will not use tonight."
Sherlock stuck his hand out and Greg took it, both men not breaking eye contact to keep the macho stare down going, but Greg faltered.
"This…this doesn't count every night, does it?"
Sherlock laughed in his throat, "Just this evening. I am positive that, by tomorrow, I will have gained plenty of control. Simple meditation, nothing more. She'll be back tomorrow anyways, which will prevent you drinking whether we were continuing this deal past tonight."
Greg then noticed they were still holding hands, as it were. He shook Sherlock's once, hard, for confirmation.
"Deal then. Not tonight," Greg teasingly poked Sherlock's chest, "and for you, no using period. At least alcohol is legal. And a lot less damaging."
"Oh, Inspector," Sherlock's voice was low and dark, and he leaned even closer to Greg's face, "you of all people know that's not true."
Then, just like that, he backed away and began walking towards the street, "Goodnight, Lestrade."
Greg just stood there, a bit unsure of what to do next. Sherlock had somehow made him unexplainably dizzy. Then, he gathered the drugs and called for an ambulance to get the drug lord out of there. He still had work to do, after all.
Greg replayed the night over and over again in his mind that night, trying to analyze every little detail.
So Greg had no one to blame but himself when, that night, he had a dream. He had a certain type of dream. And it was the first of many.
Sherlock walks into the room as he's putting on the decontamination suit.
Sherlock's on a case, so Greg is surprised to see him walk in with a small smirk on his face. Then again, Sherlock smiling at a crime scene is nothing new, but this smirk is different. It's an amused one, rather than his "oh this is getting rather fun" look of insanity.
Oh God; what had he done to Anderson? Only torturing Anderson would make him smirk like that.
Then Sherlock's gaze is meeting his and Greg temporarily forgets how to breathe.
Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes are not in the game at all. Instead they look angry. Very angry. Yet the smirk is still there, and Greg is aware that Sherlock is about to do something mean. He has no idea what it is, but he can feel it.
Sure enough, Sherlock purposely walks in a straight line and then abruptly darts to the right, revealing behind him the man from earlier.
The man who had been on their chair.
"You'll wear one of these." Sherlock informs the man behind him.
Greg wouldn't be doing his job if he didn't ask.
"Who's this?"
Sherlock hesitates a moment, keeping his eyes down as he grabs latex gloves from the table.
"He's with me," he replies in a low voice.
There is that bothering sensation again.
"Yeah, but who is he?"
Sherlock definitely meets his eyes then. They are stern and cold and his voice is just the same:
"I said he's with me."
Sherlock immediately looks away, no matter how much Greg wants to see his face to try and read into his expression, and Greg decides to look over at this man. This man who Sherlock had brought in. This man who had been in Sherlock's flat. This man who had been sitting in their chair.
A spot of bother has now become a raging hot flame in Greg's body.
The man glances right past Greg to look at Sherlock.
"Aren't you gonna put one on?"
Greg pushes back any hint of amusement that threatens to trickle across his face. How long had this guy known Sherlock? Obviously, not long at all, or it would have been easy to know that Sherlock most certainly wouldn't play by the rules like that.
But Greg can't help but notice the lingering gaze Sherlock is giving the man. Instead of letting himself utterly boil over (he had a job to do; now was not the time), he zips up and keeps at it.
"So where are we?" Sherlock asks, his brain doing the same as Greg's and getting back to work.
"Upstairs." He responds instantly. He looks up at Sherlock and sees again his eyes set straight on this man. At first, he fights the internal rage monster, but then it dawns on him why Sherlock is staring the way he is.
Upstairs; the man had a cane that was being used for a very strong limp. This would not bode well for him at all.
"I can give you two minutes," he tells Sherlock, risking a glance back to see the man already struggling. Greg turns back to face forward actually smiles then, not hiding the (completely unfair and irrational) feelings he has towards the man.
"May need longer," Sherlock says, sounding already like he's in another world. He, unlike Greg, is paying attention the task at hand.
Greg. Focus. And keep in mind that you don't even know this guy. He might actually be a good bloke. Now stop being a jealous git and focus on your damn job!
"Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long; some kids found her."
They walk into the room, Greg immediately going off to the side. Sherlock follows behind, walking a little past the door. Greg looks at him a moment, then puts his hands behind his back and clears his throat lightly.
It was almost like a puppy when he thinks about it. Like he's saying "Look Sherlock! I found a dead woman for you! Aren't you proud of me?"
Greg silently berates himself.
He keeps his eyes on the body, but as Sherlock's hand just barely extends out towards the woman, he can't help but use his peripherals to look at it. It was just his hand, and it was even gloved, but Greg accidentally begins thinking. As he begins thinking, he begins remembering. He begins to remember what that hand had done to him just a few weeks earlier.
Here? Now? Stop this, Greg. Stop now.
But it's already too late. Images flash in his mind and he's lost.
Sherlock had stolen his phone. His phone. Of all the bloody things, he needed that. Greg never knew when he was going to be called in. Now what was he supposed to do?
He knew it was Sherlock. Well, of course he did. In place of his mobile, gone from its usual spot on his desk, was a sticky note with the words "221 B Baker St –SH" written on it.
Greg would bet a month's wages that even without the little initials at the end, he would have known exactly who had done this.
What was the address anyway? Let it not be Sherlock's flat. Greg didn't know if he could take going to Sherlock's flat.
Greg knew exactly why he didn't want to go to Sherlock's flat, even if he only admitted it to himself at the latest hour on the darkest nights. There was something about Sherlock that made him uncomfortable. That night with the drug lord had shifted something about their relationship and after the…dreams had begun, he really didn't want to be in Sherlock's home. But now he had no choice.
Why did Sherlock take his phone anyways? For what purpose? Greg was a fairly boring man, so his phone didn't hold any amazing secrets or saucy sexts. He was boring. His wife was gone all the time and didn't bother to text him, his group of friends was laughable—the only things that were on his phone were about work.
Greg took a cab to the address. It stopped outside a rather nice looking place, and he couldn't help but wonder how Sherlock could afford it.
It wasn't too late, so he rang the bell. An older woman answered it, and Greg was immediately reminded of his own mother. She just had that maternal look to her.
"Yes?"
"Hi, I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes."
"Oh, you must be Detective Inspector Lestrade," the woman smiled, "he told me you might be stopping by. I'm Mrs. Hudson."
He nodded his head, "Lovely to meet you."
"He's just up this way. Follow me, but please be careful," she began walking up the steps, "I've got a bad hip, so it's a journey for me. If I'm moving too slow, just give me a little nudge," she giggled.
"Right," he smiled and followed behind her, keeping his distance so that he wouldn't risk stepping on her heels.
"He's just through there," she pointed towards the closed door on the second level.
"Thanks very much, ma'am,"
"Anytime," she waved at him, before he turned to the door.
Sherlock would have heard the doorbell. He knew Greg was there and he knew why.
Greg didn't bother knocking.
"All right, what's this all about?" he asked, stepping into the room, not surprised at all that the place was a bit of a mess.
"Ah, Lestrade," Sherlock smiled up from his laptop at a desk by the window, "lovely to see you this evening."
"Oh don't even play; can you tell me why you decided to take my phone?"
Sherlock stood up and Greg found himself completely thrown off for the silliest of reasons: Sherlock was barefoot. Sure, he was wearing a rather tight, but clearly expensive, purple shirt, the top two buttons undone and the third visibly strained. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing delicate looking arms and wrists. Greg barely had time to wonder why he was noticing that sort of thing at all when he saw the black pants Sherlock was wearing. They weren't tight or anything, but they seemed tailored to his form perfectly.
What Greg could not believe was how taken aback he was by Sherlock being barefoot. Maybe it just seemed too…relaxed. This was an intimate setting for them, only usually seeing each other in Scotland Yard or around a dead body. It made him uneasy.
"Lestrade."
"Sorry," Greg apologized, trying not to go red like an idiot. He'd been staring a bit too long, "just a bit odd seeing you out of your shell."
"Are you suggesting that my outer layers clothes are protection?"
Greg shrugged, "I don't know what I was suggesting. Now, about my phone?"
"Yes, I am sure you'll want it back."
"Well, yeah, but why did you take it in the first place?"
Sherlock smirked and turned away from him and oh dear Lord, Greg would be lying if he said he hadn't just checked out his bum. What in the hell—
"I was correct in thinking it was the only way to get you to speak to me in a private venue," Sherlock mused, his fingers running lightly over his desk.
"You mean you wanted to speak to me alone?" Greg asked, "You could have just, you know, said 'hey want to meet at the pub' or something."
"Wrong, Inspector," Sherlock's head turned so he could see Greg, "because that still means that there are a multitude of people around," he turned back to Greg, his face in a grimace, "and drunken people at that. No, I wanted us to speak alone; where we can't be disturbed."
"Ok then, but you really could have just asked."
"This is incredibly doubtful, as you would have found ways to avoid such a situation if I had simply asked."
Greg made to protest, but something about what Sherlock said seemed eerily right.
"Exactly," Sherlock smirked.
"How'd you deduce that?" Greg huffed.
"Lestrade, I am about to suggest something to you and you are going to do one or all of these things: one, think that I am 100% wrong, which I usually never am. Two, you are going to think I've gone insane. Three, you will be convinced that I am just a very deranged man reading far too into things. Finally, four, you will laugh."
Greg just looked at him and crossed his arms. This was a challenge, and as he already didn't like to be challenged, he was not quite in the mood, "I'm listening."
Sherlock began to walk closer, getting to the point where he was merely a few feet away, before he seemed to purposely stop himself. He took a deep breath in and spoke:
"I believe you have been having a series of sexual dreams regarding myself and have recently been thinking over these dreams and are beginning to find that your attraction to me is slipping into reality."
Greg couldn't think yet. He was beginning to go into shock.
"In other words, Lestrade, I am nearly certain that you are, whether it is consciously or not, sexually attracted to me."
Sherlock was wrong. He didn't think Sherlock had gone mad; he thought he had. Because there was absolutely no way that Sherlock was actually saying that. There was no way. Sherlock didn't even know about sex, did he?
He wanted to say something along the lines of 'no, I'm not'. He wanted to say 'you're wrong'. He wanted to say 'Sherlock, I think you need to take a nice nap'. He wanted to say 'Sherlock you've been misinterpreting my fascination with your talents as attraction'.
He wanted to laugh.
Instead, words slipped out of his mouth and he immediately was outraged that life didn't come with an undo button.
"How did you know about the dreams?"
Fuck.
Sherlock smirked again, "Impressive, Inspector; that wasn't one of the options I provided."
Greg just looked at him, not wanting to repeat his practical word-vomit. He'd already said it, so there was no taking it back, but there was no way he wanted to admit it again.
"Were you purposely trying to avoid the four preconceived notions about your answer that I had? Or were you truly so taken aback that you didn't quite keep control of your first thoughts?"
"Sherlock," Greg sighed, but then Sherlock was right in front of him. Too close, too close. Far too close. His face was inches away.
Greg moved back a step, "You mind respecting personal space?"
"I noticed three months ago," Sherlock said, undeterred by Greg distancing them, "That's when it started, isn't it? It was the day after we busted the drug lord."
Greg ran his tongue along the bottom of his mouth. He could lie. He could say that Sherlock was wrong, just to rub it in his face. But Sherlock wouldn't fall for that. Greg needed to just assure him that it was just dreams.
"Yeah. I had some…odd dreams about three months ago," he nodded, wanting to continue, but Sherlock cut him off.
"Precisely. Do you recall the case the day after?"
Greg, easily bringing up the most awkward day of his life, nodded again, "The old man with the missing hand. I know, but listen—"
"Unfortunately," Sherlock began and started pacing back and forth, "if you had wanted me not to notice, having Sally call me was not the way to do it. She immediately informed me that after hours of trying to not call me onto the scene, you had caved but asked her to do it." Sherlock stopped to give him a slight wink here, which caused instant surprise, "Not your best plan, as she gave me an early warning that something was not quite normal. I assumed that it was because of the case, but I was wrong."
As his annoyance level grew, Greg rolled his eyes. Sadly, Sherlock didn't see him. He was pacing still and his eyes were forward and focused. Sherlock was treating this like a case, Greg understood then, and he was (regrettably) wondering exactly what he was analyzing.
"When I arrived on the scene, I immediately assessed you," Sherlock stopped pacing for a moment and looked to the ground, "I will admit I was…concerned that you were avoiding contact with me because you had, despite your word, broken our deal and was ashamed."
Greg's eyes widened, "You were concerned?"
"I was disappointed, really. I've always been able to count on you to do the decent thing."
Greg half-smiled, nearly touched, but Sherlock instantly started his tirade again and the pacing resumed.
"I was happy to see you had not drank the night before. However, your body language, distant and mainly introverted, indicated that you were was still putout and I had something to do with it. Deciphering that did not become my priority though, as I had work to do. Also, I admit that I was unaware of it being something worth my time until I was next to the body. I made a single comment asking if the body had been tampered with or moved and you answered me but your tone of voice and expression made me actually look at you. You had a slight grimace and seemed reluctant to meet my eyes. When you noticed me looking at you, the grimace became something of disgust and extreme irritation. However, after a few minutes when I looked back at you, your pupils had dilated and your cheeks had flushed. Therefore you were embarrassed by me looking at you and it caused something like arousal. You had never been this way before and that was when the real case began. I knew already the murderer to the body in front of me, child's play, but this was something new."
"That's why you took so long with that body," Greg mused, more talking to himself.
"Exactly. I stayed silent, an attempt to get you to speak or question, but as you did nothing, I began to suspect that something had happened that had truly put you off. Whenever I would look back up to you, you would immediately dart your eyes to another area of the room. When you tried to avoid eye contact, you did not bother looking at the body. This indicated that you were not truly thinking of a way to be discreet, but rather trying to pretend that you had not been looking at all. This happened three times. You were increasingly irritated the more I did this. Carefully examining your person, it was clear you hadn't slept well the night before, going by your eyes, and that you had already had three cups of coffee. The last one you'd made in a hurry with your hands shaking."
"How could you tell that?"
"You still had sugar on your fingers from, presumably, your last cup, which was still in your hand. Going by the fact that you had forgotten your wedding ring that morning, I figured you were having marital troubles, but—"
"Could you just get to the point?"Greg interrupted him, getting more and more aggravated.
"That is the point: you never once interrupted me. If you had, I would have thought you were merely annoyed with some other trivial part of your life and that my initial hypothesis had been wrong. But you were practically acting as though I wasn't in the room."
"And?"
"And then, Inspector, I tested this."
"When? I don't remember any test."
"No, you wouldn't. I am more skilled at discretion than you."
"What did you do?"
"I touched you," Sherlock stopped moving and faced Greg head on, looking at him meaningfully.
"You touched me?"
"Yes. I touched you and you flinched and quietly took in a sharp breath, moving away from me, but you finally looked at me. You didn't just look, you stared. You stared at my face and seemed to be doing what I usually do. You were observing. You were observing for the very first time. Your pupils stayed dilated and your breathing was a bit ragged. Lack of sleep, caffeine intake, and shaking hands indicated you'd had dreams that had kept you awake. Your forgotten wedding ring was not forgotten, but ignored out of guilt. You'd had a dream of a sexual nature and you were extraordinarily ashamed. Your conduct towards me, body language, and general avoidance indicated that you were agitated by me specifically. Therefore, you had dreams last night that featured you and me together in various situations and your observation of me told me you had been a little more than intrigued."
A moment of silence passed by as Greg tried to take all of what he'd just said in.
"That's what you got from that?"Greg forced a laugh.
"It is entirely possible. Was I wrong?"
"Obviously," Greg said, using the word that he'd noticed Sherlock loved using to insult people.
"How so?"
"Because you think that these…dreams," Greg crossed his arms, "have influenced me somehow. They might have thrown me off that first day, but they haven't since then."
"Oh?" Sherlock smirked, and then he suddenly darted forward, grabbing Greg by the hips and pulling their bodies together. Their chests, legs, and groins were all pressed on each other, and Sherlock's face was definitely in the danger zone of a kiss.
"Sherlock!" Greg yelled, and furiously tried to get a hold of Sherlock's arms to pull him away. Sherlock was just staring at him, clearly trying to read Greg's expression.
Greg certainly didn't expect Sherlock to be so strong. Greg certainly didn't expect one of Sherlock's hands to move to the front of his trousers. Greg certainly didn't expect the feeling of Sherlock's hand on his crotch to make him yelp like a dog.
Sherlock certainly didn't expect Greg to head-butt him.
Both of the men fell back, Greg having executed a failure of a head-butt and harming himself in the process. They both had their hand covering their foreheads and were groaning.
"What the hell was that for?" Sherlock whined.
"You know damn well! You invaded more than my personal space!"
"Going off of how you've been the past few months, you shouldn't mind!"
"Well I do!"
"Why?" Sherlock stood up straight, taking his hand away and challenging Greg, "tell me why, Lestrade."
"Oh you're so stupid sometimes, Sherlock," Greg mimicked his stance, "You think for a second that just because my brain decided to torture me every night for months that I am just going to want you?"
Shit.
"Every night?"
"Bugger off."
"I…I didn't think it was—"
"Yeah, well, when the wife stops sleeping with you for half a year, your head starts deciding to do whatever the hell it wants."
"So your head wants to, er, do me?" Sherlock smirked again, but Greg was not amused.
"Seriously, shut up."
"You're telling me you have had these kinds of dreams for weeks and you aren't curious about their subliminal meaning at all? Or rather, their not-so-subliminal meaning?"
"I don't want to have sex with you, Sherlock."
"I don't want to have sex with you."
Greg paused and stared at him, "What?"
"You heard me; stop boring me by asking to hear it again."
"Then what the hell are you playing at?"
"I simply wanted to know if I was correct in my deductions."
"You wanted to know if you were correct?"
"Yes."
"So this has all been to solve the case, has it? To solve the case of Lestrade?"
"Yes."
"No actual interest in me or even in what the dreams were about or what they featured, just whether I was actually attracted to you or not?"
"Precisely."
Suddenly, Greg was angry. He felt angry, offended, and indignant.
"What if I was?"
"What if you were what?"
"What if I was actually attracted to you?"
"Apparently, you're not."
"You don't know that."
"The final test proved that I had read too much into you and credited you with depth you did not possess. You were not becoming sexually frustrated, you're just a naturally…grouchy sort of person."
"Grouchy?"
"Though this could simply be due to work. I haven't seen you in a casual setting. Though it did seem directed at me, mostly. Perhaps I am the cause of your distemper."
Greg clenched his jaw, "I'm not a grouchy person, Sherlock! You're an asshole and I hated my brain because it was plaguing me with these damned dreams! You know how I usually am; we've been working together for some time."
"That's your explanation of your recent attitude?"
"Yeah."
"Well, this was a waste of time."
A feeling of complete anger filled Greg, "Did you even think about the repercussions of that? Testing my level of attraction towards you?"
"Irrelevant."
"Wrong, Sherlock," Greg said, "absolutely wrong! If I was attracted to you and you had done that, what do you think might have happened?"
"Your pupils would have dilated, your pulse would have increased, your skin would have reddened, and the blood would have rushed from your head to—"
"Yeah I know all that!" Greg stopped him, "but after that?"
"I told you, that's irrelevant. Were you listening?"
"What if I had kissed you?"
That seemed to shut Sherlock right up.
"Kissed me?"
"Now who's not listening?" Greg mocked.
"Is that what people do when they admit attraction towards another person?"
"Yes. Usually."
Sherlock looked away, a bit sheepish, "I hadn't thought of that."
"I guess not! Probably too busy in Uni trying to shut off your hormones rather than explore them like everyone else does."
"I've had sex Greg. With both male and female partners. Once with both sexes at the same time."
That shut up Greg.
"Oh my God, really?"
"Yes. The biggest cause of crime is related to passion. I had to know what all the fuss was about."
"And did you enjoy it?"
Sherlock shrugged, in his way, "Not particularly."
"Then you probably just had a quick scientific row."
"What do you mean?"
Sherlock was asking him a question? Now Greg had heard everything.
"You've never been truly attracted to someone and then shagged them. It's a different experience."
"Sentiment?"
"Sentiment."
"Ah."
"If you had just done that, and I'd actually felt something for you, you could have seriously hurt me, you know."
"Hurt you?"
"You would have hurt my…" Greg hesitated in finishing his sentence, but there was no other way, "feelings. You would have seriously hurt my feelings. That could seriously mess things up."
"How would it have hurt your feelings for me to have tested if you were attracted to me?"
"Because, Sherlock, if I'd tried to do something to reciprocate, you would have pushed me away."
Sherlock's jaw suddenly went taut. He said nothing.
"Wouldn't you have?" Greg urged him to reply.
"Possibly."
"Possibly?"
"Lestrade, you think I am incapable of attraction, but I am not incapable of it. I simply ignore it. However, when I don't ignore it, a man like you does not slip past my radar. I can assure you that you have been the subject of relief on mornings in which I have no control over my own body."
Greg's mouth dropped. Did Sherlock just tell him he—
"Had you engaged me, I may have simply continued." Sherlock admitted.
"You—you would have kissed me back?" Greg asked incredulously, his voice cracking a bit at the end.
"Perhaps." Sherlock shrugged, almost waving off a confession that was actually rather important.
"Yeah, but it wouldn't mean anything to you. What if the dreams had meant more to me? What if you broke my heart…or some shit like that?"
"Sex can be emotionally damaging?"
"Sex and emotion coincide frequently."
"This explains the murders."
"Yes. Emotions are key."
"I see. Emotion makes sexual experiences more pleasant."
"Yes."
"Exceptionally so?"
"Positively so."
In an instant, Sherlock's entire confused aura evaporated, and a victorious looking panther made itself known. Sherlock had just won something. His face screamed satisfaction.
"So then the dreams didn't just feature us having sex, there was emotion behind it. You enjoyed the dreams so much that it frightened you. In your fear, you masked it with anger, causing frustration at work. Doubly so, because you were also dealing with the sexual frustration from finding me attractive. However, you don't want to admit that to yourself, so that increases the agitation. The dreams persisted and soon you found yourself caught up with it. You seem to be sleeping a lot more these days, so you go to bed earlier and sleep all the more soundly."
Greg, who was beside himself and physically unable to move, just stood there flabbergasted. This proved to be not very good because Sherlock had begun to smile menacingly at him. Greg was horribly afraid and (good fucking God) becoming slightly turned on.
Sherlock continued, his voice an octave deeper and audibly teasing, "It's a guilty pleasure, isn't it, Lestrade? You enjoy it. It could have been written off as your simple desire to dominate me, or rather see it as your wish be more intelligent and erase the need for me. It could even have been a sign of a need for control, but no. You're actual subconscious attraction took its chance to spring forward into your sight, and now you're attracted to me. You hate it because you identify as straight and because you're married, but you thoroughly take pleasure in it. You revel in it. You don't want me on the crime scenes, but you do, and this game, Lestrade…oh this game has been the most fun you've had in years. Well, now, it's my move, and I know exactly what that move will be."
Sherlock closed the space between them and simply stood in front of Greg. Greg, having had his mind thrown around, was unsure of what to do. He should have backed up again, pushed Sherlock away, but he wasn't quite sure what had just happened. One minute, Sherlock had been clueless, and in the next, he'd hit the nail on the head.
Damn it to hell, what was wrong with him?
He wasn't attracted to Sherlock. Sherlock was a man. Greg was married.
Sure, in the dreams, hearing Sherlock moan and writhe beneath him was a wonderful image, but like Sherlock said, it was just nice to be in control.
But he's not—
There was a hand on his side, beneath his coat. It was sliding behind his back, and another hand had come up under his chin.
Greg pushed him away again, "Quit it, Sherlock!"
"You're attracted to me, Lestrade."
"So what if I bloody was? I can't stand you otherwise."
"So you admit it?"
"What? No!"
Sherlock sighed and his shoulders fell.
"I was right all along. Case solved and closed."
"No you knock it off right now!"
"Here's your phone," Sherlock said, turning away from Greg to reach into his desk.
And there it was. Greg had played over a moment like this over and over in his head in the mornings. Sherlock was right and now Greg could see it. It was attraction. But it was also more than that. Greg needed to have Sherlock. He hasn't realized it before because it had never been an option. But Sherlock had just dangled it in front of his face and then withdrawn it, mocking him the whole way. Sherlock had basically told him he didn't care how Greg felt and it had stirred up a beast in him he hadn't known was there. No. Sherlock didn't get to do that. He didn't get to do that to Greg.
Before he was even aware of it, Greg had whipped Sherlock around, pinned him against the desk, and attacked his mouth.
His hand reached into the curly hair and the other was pushing Sherlock's body into his. Sherlock seemed to fight only for a second before easily giving in. Greg stuck one leg between Sherlock's and pushed in closer, their chests pressed together, before continuing his assault on Sherlock's lips. To his surprise, Sherlock was the first to initiate tongue, but Greg didn't deny him at all. He ran his own tongue along Sherlock's, subconsciously memorizing the taste and the texture of it. His hands began running up and down Sherlock's body, noting how all too solid he felt. This was real. This wasn't a dream. There would be consequences.
But he didn't care. Greg needed this. And so did Sherlock. Sherlock needed to understand.
Sherlock also needed to be fucked. Properly. On the desk. Or bent over it. Moaning. Sweating. Screaming.
Instead, they moved to one of the chairs by the fireplace. Greg had never had an orgasm like that in his life. Any moment during their exchange that Greg thought he would regret his actions were erased within the next moment. And once he'd climaxed, he didn't care about anything except the feeling of it all.
Greg would never be able to enter the flat again without looking at the chair and thinking of it as their chair.
The desire to experience that feeling again enabled them to go continuously two more times before both men passed out unceremoniously.
He'd been worried that he would come to his senses when he woke up with Sherlock next to him on the bed. Instead, he didn't. Instead, Sherlock showed complete nonchalance, immediately standing and walking, if a little bit awkwardly, to the kitchen to make coffee. Greg's eyes followed him, and suddenly realized that Sherlock still didn't understand. Sherlock didn't get it. He had not comprehended the emotion that sometimes went along with attraction. The raw need Greg felt to run his tongue along Sherlock's collarbone or to grip his thigh until it bruised was still a mystery to Sherlock. He didn't understand. Sherlock was still Sherlock. And Greg still needed him. It was Greg's job to teach Sherlock exactly what sex was really about, and he didn't have a problem with that.
Greg then concluded it had been the best sex of his life. Until a few hours later when they both finished their coffee and decided to try again on the kitchen table.
"Shut up."
Sherlock's voice suddenly cuts through all the multiple pictures and flashbacks going through Greg's mind. He snaps his head up to look at the man he'd just been remembering shagging furiously.
"I didn't say anything!"
"You were thinking. It's annoying."
In a moment of total confusion, he looks to the man in the doorway for some sort of clarification. The man looks just as thrown off as he is.
Sherlock walks closer to the body and Greg can see it begin: the science of deduction. Sherlock calls it that.
He watches him, mesmerized by the tiniest movements Sherlock makes. In his defence, he had just been thinking about the first time they'd had sex. He feels electrified. Sherlock hunches over the body, patting his hands over it, staring at the umbrella, and then under the coat collar. He rubs his fingers together and Greg struggles not to sigh.
Sherlock's attention is then drawn to the jewelry the woman is wearing, at one point twirling her wedding band around. Finally, Greg can't stand it anymore.
"Got anything?" he asks, sounding a bit desperate even to his ears.
"Not much," Sherlock replies, but Greg knows that really means that he'd seen more than Greg's silly forensics team could ever dream.
"She's German," Anderson says, suddenly appearing in the doorway. He points to the scrawl by the woman's left hand, "Rache: German for revenge. Now, she could be trying to tell us something—"
But Sherlock is already at the door, phone in hand, "Yes, thank you for your input," he says as he slams the door in Anderson's face.
"Then she's German," Greg tries.
"Course she's not. She's from out of town though, intended to stay in London for one night, before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious."
"Sorry," the man speaks up, "obvious?"
"What about the message?" Greg points to the floor, but he sees instantly that Sherlock's eyes are on the man again.
"Dr. Watson, what do you think?"
So. Dr. Watson. The man has a name. And a PhD.
"About the message?"
"About the body; you're a medical man." Sherlock persists. Greg isn't having it.
"Well, no, we have a whole team outside."
"They won't work with me." Sherlock responds, finally making eye contact with him, but it's brief and Greg feels a bit of a sting as it leaves him again to look at the man, Dr. Watson.
"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here, I—"
"Yes," Sherlock says, letting the 's' slide into his next words, "because you need me."
Dr. Watson immediately looks at Greg, but he doesn't care because Sherlock's eyes are piercing deep into his.
Had he really just said that? Again? Here? In front of Dr. Watson?
Greg's mind is off and running once more.
They were in their chair again. Greg always fell for the polite 'have a seat' line before Sherlock grinned and pounced on him.
"We can't keep doing this, Sherlock," he said, Sherlock getting lower and lower down Greg's body, teasingly playing with the buttons on his trousers.
"You're still able to form coherent sentences?" Sherlock smirked, "Allow me to remedy that."
"No, Sherlock, I mean it .We have to talk."
Sherlock sighed and with catlike reflexes backed up and sat on the chair opposite, "What about?"
Greg was already feeling like he was going to throw up. His stomach hurt and his tongue was heavy. He didn't want to do this, but he had to. They seriously could not keep this up anymore.
Besides, Sherlock wasn't learning a damn thing except that he liked sex a lot more than he previously thought.
"Sherlock, this thing we're doing," he started, "it has to stop."
Sherlock narrows his eyes at him, "Why?"
"Because it's not right. I'm a married man and I've been cheating on my wife and we work together sometimes and it is really not professional for us to be doing this at all."
Sherlock nodded slowly. He sat back on the chair opposite Greg and brought his hands together in a steeple, "These are all fairly logical and sound reasons."
Greg was surprised by that.
"But I don't particularly care."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I don't care. I have no intention of ceasing our actions and I sincerely hope that you're being humorous when you say you want to."
"Why?"
Sherlock cocked his head to the side and wore a confused expression, "Because you don't want to stop. And because I enjoy it. Thoroughly. Why would I stop something so utterly delightful because of some moronic moral code?"
"Moral code?" Greg snorted, "I'm cheating on my wife."
Sherlock's mouth forms a sneer, "I don't think that's too much of a problem, as she is cheating on you."
That stung Greg for a second, "Yeah, it actually damn well is."
"You haven't said anything before this," Sherlock pointed out, "and you've had numerous occasions to."
"I know that, but—"
"Twenty-seven occasions, to be precise."
"You've counted?"
"Obviously."
"Well, I mean it. I am ending this. Us. This."
Something must have appeared a bit suspicious to him, because Sherlock gave him an analytical stare.
"What sort of cataclysmic event happened—" Sherlock stopped himself mid-sentence and then leaned back, looking displeased, "Your wife came home last night and confessed of her affair to you."
Greg didn't even bother lying, "Yeah."
Even though he had guessed correctly, Sherlock did not seem pleased with himself. In fact, he looked disgusted.
"What?"
"It's cheap," said Sherlock, "It's a cop out. She confesses to you the affair with her Tai Chi Instructor—"
"Tai Chi instructor?" Greg shrieked, too shocked to be embarrassed, "She told me it was the airline captain!"
Immediately, Sherlock darted his eyes about the room, looking at tad uncomfortable, "Oh well perhaps I was, erm, wrong then."
Greg practically roared and stood up, bashing the wall with his palm. He pushed his hand through his hair.
"I was wrong. It happens."
"No, Sherlock, you're never wrong! Ever!"
"No, I always get something—"
"Just…stop!"
The consulting detective closed his mouth for a moment as Greg tried to cool down. Blood rushed through Greg's body, and not in the usual way it did in Sherlock's flat. It physically hurt him, like the anger was an actual knife stabbing the arteries in his chest.
"This has to stop, Sherlock. I don't care if my wife is having one affair or two or seventy. I'm not going to sink to her level."
"I could easily be wrong, Lestrade, pay attention. And look at you, resenting your own wife."
"I don't resent her, I'm angry with her."
"No, you are upset that you feel guilty for having an affair with me and yet you know she is having at least two separate affairs."
Greg clenched his jaw, "You had to throw in the 'at least' bit, didn't you?"
Throwing his head to side and shrugging, Sherlock's eyebrow raised, "I can't be sure on the precise number, as I have only ever seen her in passing."
"The point is that it's over. I'm done."
Sherlock's smile was clearly fake, "Of course you are. Now, would you like to tell me another joke?"
Greg filled with rage. Sherlock had told him his wife was having more than one affair and then callously mocked him, "I'm serious, Sherlock. This is no joke. I'm ending it."
"Sure you are."
"I am. In fact, I'm doing it now."
"Lestrade," Sherlock rolled his eyes, "you simply won't. You can't."
"What do you mean I can't? I most certainly can. It's as simple as walking out the door."
"Don't," Sherlock commanded, his tone angry. Greg smirked and narrowed his eyes at him, crossing his arms.
"Give me a reason to stay, then."
"You can't end this. You won't and you can't."
"Other than that nonsense, maybe?"
"It's not nonsense," Sherlock reiterated, "you can't end this."
"If you give me a reason, a reason for you, I'll stay."
Sherlock paused at that, confusion creasing his face, "A reason for me?"
"Yeah, why do you want me to stay?"
To this, Sherlock seemed to have no answer. Greg gave him a few seconds, but it became very clear he didn't know what to say. Greg had failed.
Sherlock was basically just having sex with him. There was no emotion behind it.
"You don't care," Greg accused, "You don't. You like having sex because…it's sex. You don't care who it's with."
"That is false. I have no desire to have sexual relations with anyone else."
"And why not?"
Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but promptly shut it. He looked entirely flummoxed.
"Hmm?" Greg prompted.
"I'm not sure, but I do not…desire anyone else the way I desire you."
"And why is that?" Greg prompted, but Sherlock just waved his hand.
"I know you can't end this, so all of this questioning is irrelevant."
Greg's reserve cracked. He'd done nothing. Sherlock had learned nothing. He was still the emotionless robot he always had been. He felt nothing. No attachment. No sentiment. Nothing.
"You still don't get it."
"What is there to get?"
"Exactly. Goodnight, Sherlock."
"Wait, where are you going?" The concern in his voice made Greg turn back.
"I'm leaving. I told you."
"You can't."
"Can, and am."
"Wait!" Sherlock tried but Greg wasn't having it. He took purposeful steps towards the door. Sherlock's voice was deep and demanding behind him:
"If you walk out that door with the intention of truly ending this, then I will have no choice but to delete a few things from my memory."
Greg stopped in his tracks and turned, "You wouldn't."
"I would."
"You'd get rid of everything? All of it?"
"I would delete every sexual encounter we've had, which would not only be harmful to you, but a grievance to me as they are my only sexual encounters."
"Your only? But you said—"
"I would delete them all. It would be like it never happened, and," Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "I would delete something rather significant to you."
Greg crossed his arms and stared him down, "Such as?"
Sherlock's face did not display any emotion and neither did his voice: "Your name."
Any poker face Greg had before vaporized. Sherlock learning his name had happened about the third time they'd had sex. Sherlock had actually asked, a bit awkwardly, what Greg's first name was. Greg, not even realizing that Sherlock had been moaning out 'Lestrade' the entire time, had laughed. Well, not laughed. He'd burst into hysterics, unable to control himself. Then he'd snogged Sherlock senseless and whispered 'It's Greg, you wanker' before continuing on.
"You'd delete my name?"
"Yes."
"Are you saying that you would no longer remember it at all?"
"Not a hint of it."
"Like how you didn't know the Queen's name?"
"Precisely."
Without his consent, Greg's heart broke a tiny bit.
"Why would you do that?"
"Because, Greg, you are extraordinarily responsive during sex when I happen to say your name."
"Do you analyze everything?" Greg said angrily.
"No, but in trying to make our encounters more pleasurable, I paid attention. Doesn't everyone do that during sex?"
Greg released the tension in his body, "Well, yes."
"You respond most ardently when I say your name. This leads me to believe that in order to make you forget this foolish nonsense of ceasing our passionate exchanges, I must warn you of the consequences."
"In other words, you know right where it would hurt most and you're holding it against me?" Greg clicked his tongue against the inside of his cheek, "Maybe you did learn something."
"Greg," Sherlock purposely said his name in a low register in the way Greg loved to hear, "you cannot honestly be serious in this endeavor. It's pointless. You won't end this."
"How do you know?"
Sherlock stood up with ridiculous grace, before sauntering over to Greg and pushing him against the wall. He attacked his lips and his hands roamed everywhere. Greg thought about protesting, but if it was to be the last time, he didn't want to rush things. Sherlock was furiously whispering and quietly moaning his name over and over again, taking his voice down two glorious octaves to make it cause Greg to tremble when Sherlock bit his earlobe gently.
But as their furious snogging session became more heated (or rather, as Sherlock's hands started messing with Greg's trousers again), Greg put his hands on Sherlock's chest and pushed him away.
"I can't do this anymore, Sherlock."
"You can," Sherlock argued, undeterred and keeping his lips on Greg's neck, "you are just trying to pretend to do what you think is right. But you won't in the end. You won't stop this. You can't."
Greg pushed more fervently, "And why do you think I won't?"
Sherlock stopped then, but it was to look deep into Greg's eyes. Greg's breathing was ragged and he had his mouth open and Sherlock noticed this. Very slowly, Sherlock leaned his head forward, and admittedly curious, Greg did not stop him. Sherlock seemed about to kiss him, but instead stopped. He traced Greg's lips with the tip of his tongue. Then, in an unbelievably seductive manner that shot straight to Greg's cock, he eased his tongue out of his own mouth and slipped it into Greg's, somehow managing not to make their lips touch. Greg knew Sherlock was talented with his tongue, but he hadn't experienced this before. His knees went weak and he groaned at it.
As Sherlock's tongue slipped out of his mouth, Greg's head lolled back of its own accord, arousal overtaking his entire body and making him shake slightly. Sherlock lightly grabbed his chin to make their eyes meet again before sternly answering his question:
"Because, Greg, you can't live without this. Part of you is guilty for it. You know it's wrong. You know it's unprofessional. You know it's…dirty. You know I don't have the feelings you do for me and may never have them. But you don't care because you need this, Greg. You need it. You'll stay."
"I will, will I?" Greg tried.
Sherlock let his tongue dart out once more to lick Greg's lips before breathily, but strongly finishing:
"Yes, because you need me."
Despite the haze of sexual arousal, Greg knew this was it. This was his moment. He had the chance to just forget it and stay there with Sherlock and probably have the best sex of his life again. He could easily just let it go. He could just get over it.
But he was not a pushover. Not even for this. He was not about to let Sherlock take control of him like this.
Sherlock was supposed to understand it. He was supposed to understand more than attraction. He needed to understand the emotional toll of it. And he didn't. Greg had wasted his time.
Well, not wasted.
But Sherlock was getting nowhere fast.
"No," Greg affirmed, "I don't."
Sherlock completely froze at him, stunned.
"You need me." Sherlock tried again.
"No, I don't."
Without allowing himself to think about the repercussions of what he was doing, he pushed Sherlock away firmly, giving him one last look. He tried to take a mental picture of Sherlock like this, lust-filled eyes and reddened cheeks, hair discombobulated. The best part of the picture was the total confusion on his face. He was utterly bewildered and Greg reveled in the victory of causing the bafflement.
Then, he walked out of 221 B Baker Street and hailed the first cab he saw. He took it straight home. When he entered his house, he felt relieved to see his wife sleeping in their bed. He sighed, a sudden urge to cry being fought back, and crawled into bed next to her.
He didn't want to think about Sherlock for a long, long while.
His dreams, however, had other plans. It wasn't sexual. Instead, it was completely unrealistic: Sherlock was crying. He was in a corner. Greg reached out to touch him, and Sherlock whipped around. His eyes were leaking black streaks down his face.
"I don't understand," dream Sherlock cried, "what is this? Why does it hurt in my chest with no wound? Why?"
Dream Greg was unable to speak. Which was lucky, in a way.
Greg didn't want to know what dream Greg had to say.
Greg sees it now. Sherlock is angry. What Sherlock doesn't realize is that he is also hurt. Or maybe he does and that's why he suddenly has a new friend tagging along.
Either way, when Sherlock said that Greg needed him, before he might have been using a play on words. Before, he might have meant that, yes, the department needed him for his skills, but Greg also needed him. But Greg had turned Sherlock down that night in Baker Street and Sherlock had warned him.
The information may have been deleted, but the emotion that had been behind it is still there. Sherlock is hurt, and after weeks of (undoubtedly) thinking over every detail of his and Greg's last conversation, he would have had time to find some form of revenge.
Despite being agitated, Greg can't help but feel a little bit proud. Sherlock really did understand now: what emotions really were. Unfortunately, he's also learned how to use them to hurt other people. He's even more lethal now.
What gets to Greg is that Sherlock had deleted all of their sexual encounters, but it is now clear from Sherlock's words and actions that he hasn't deleted quite everything.
"Yes, I do," he finally says to Sherlock.
Greg hates that when he says this, he doesn't just mean that he needs Sherlock for the case or any cases in the future. He will never just mean the work. He does need Sherlock. He needs him so badly that it physically pains him. He feels the ache in his chest, abruptly aware of the chance he's missed. It's a good thing, and he knows that, but it doesn't stop him from needing Sherlock with every fiber of his being.
"God help me," he says more to himself.
Back to work again. Sherlock helps as he became his persistent, irritating, and then brilliant self. This is a Sherlock Greg can live with. This is the man who he can stand being around and not need him so desperately. He won't let himself be alone with Sherlock again, ever, or in any recreational setting. It was back to work for the both of them.
This time, for good.