Disclaimer : Sherlock etc. etc. MM. Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss, Thompson. Archea etc. etc. fun and feedback.
A/N : A series of Lestrade/Sherlock ficlets posted on my LiveJournal in answer to various prompts. Title and quote courtesy of Cervantes.
The Reason for the Unreason
The reason for the unreason with which you treat my reason so weakens my reason that with reason I blame your natural charms.
1. Manacled
Prompt : Hand-wooing
Rating : PG-13
This is something done in a slip of the - mind? Nah, scratch that. Mind is Sherlock's realm, undisputed till Lestrade pushes himself into this pristine land, hard naked and breathing hard, moulding Sherlock's thighs to the bend of his hips, and Sherlock abdicates for an hour.
Slip of the heart, then. Call it that, once they're done and spent, every glass pane dawnescent around them and Sherlock's black hair still pooling amid the paperwork (some of which he'll use nonchalantly to clean them). Oh, how heart slips at the sight, beating amiss, and Greg's hand with it as it lands on Sherlock's in their brief afterglow.
Hand on hand, palm to back if Sherlock is still clutching the desk sides, their – how to call them? Intervals. Night shifts. Closed cases. Whatever they are to Sherlock, Greg entwines their fingers, encompassing every slender metacarpal with his own flesh and sweat, and presses his mouth to the side of Sherlock's neck, once, before releasing him.
Slippery fingers, moist with effort, their own strength giving away how much Sherlock has a hold on him. Others use handcuffs in bed - the best-worn joke among the force – but this hand-wooing is the best he can do. It is enough that he is allowed the gesture, something to be taken home as the sky whitens under the first press of day. While he wonders if Sherlock's memories (junkie's leaf thin hand shaking in his clutch) have deleted the warmth that kept this, their brief encounters, alive from the first.
He knows he cannot expect anything else, but he will not settle for anything less.
And thus he is rather taken by surprise when, two days later, Sherlock takes his hand while reminding Anderson that DNA in his case really stands for Diminished Neuronal Array, and carelessly interweaves their fingers. Lestrade's reflex is to take his back but Sherlock is putting every nerve and tendon into the grasp, toned up by five years of incessant texting.
Lestrade gives up and concentrates on keeping the blood tide away from his face - with a little help from his fickle libido.
(Sadly, fortunately, his field manager choses this same moment to bring him Budget's latest sweet ticket on expenditure cuts, to be read, glossed, signed and returned by yesterday morning. Ah, well. He's not adverse to another night of desk duty, all things considered.)