"This is the last damn drugs bust I'm doing," Detective Sergeant Greg Lestrade vowed to himself as he went on this new case the DI had given him. "A bloody mess the whole thing is. I'm a homicide Sergeant, for crying out loud! It's not my damn fault the Yard is understaffed. Were I a DI, they'd never make me do this."
Lestrade grumbled all the way to where the PCs were holding a young man handcuffed in the back of a patrol car. From the file he'd been given, this wasn't the man's first arrest, it's just that this time it wasn't only a drugs bust.
He reviewed the file. William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Pretentious name. Youth offenses sealed. Third time since he turned eighteen that he was picked up for drugs. This time the PCs had caught him buying an excessive amount of cocaine, possibly enough to get him with intent to sell. To top it off, he'd been paying with it by blowing the dealer right out in the open. Lestrade had been called in because apparently the kid was from a family that had a lot to do with England's security and the superiors at the Yard hadn't wanted him to be brought in like the street rat he was. Too much red tape from the family.
Lestrade parked the car and went over to the PCs. They were outside the car while the perp was sitting in back. Lestrade could see nothing but a mess of dirty, dark curls in the backseat.
"Oi! Why are you two not in the car with the kid?" Lestrade asked them both.
The two PCs (one of whom was Sally Donovan, who would one day work under Lestrade in homicide) looked weary.
"Sergeant, if you had to listen to this little freak for very long, you'd leave him alone, too," Donovan stated. "He's prattling off about our personal lives, things he can't possibly know. And insulting as anything. If I could, I'd sock him one right in the kisser."
Lestrade was piqued. What was this kid, psychic? "All right, well. He's out of your hands now. Get him out of the car. And don't let him hear you call him a freak. The last thing you want is to be sued by the Holmes family, apparently."
Lestrade watched as they pulled the kid out by the arm. The man (Lestrade had forgotten his name) handed Holmes off to Lestrade.
The young man looked up from under his dark fringe and Lestrade was momentarily dumbstruck. Never, not even in a woman, had he seen such beauty. An angular, drawn face that should not have been attractive but was, a pouty pink mouth, and the brightest, most beautiful eyes Lestrade had ever seen made Mr. Holmes much more ethereal and alluring than a lifelong drug addict should be.
"Well, Mr. Holmes, come on. Can I trust you not to try to jump out of my car on the way to the Yard? Your family wouldn't want to see you coming in handcuffed," Lestrade said, trying to get the words out in their proper order. Holmes' appearance had given him a shock.
Holmes just nodded, standing up straight and looking far too regal for a twenty-something picked up for possession, intent to sell, and public lewdness. The look he gave Lestrade was dark and smouldering, sending a bolt of heat straight to the sergeant's groin. It had been years since he had wanted a man so badly as he wanted Holmes.
Lestrade unlocked the cuffs and led the kid to his car. So far, he hadn't said a word to him. It wasn't until they'd begun driving that he spoke.
"You're the sergeant under DI Dimmock, working on the Powers case." A statement, not a question. His voice was so deep Lestrade felt it reverberate in his chest when he spoke.
"Yes, I am. I assume you've seen the news about it," Lestrade replied. "Poor kid. I don't know why we were called in: it was an accident."
"Wrong."
Lestrade was so stunned he had to pause and be sure he heard right. Was this delinquent actually telling him how to do his job? "And what makes you think that, Mr. Holmes?"
"Sherlock. And I don't think. I know." He proceeded to give Lestrade a concise and completely plausible reason for how Carl Powers was slowly poisoned to death. "I have no idea how you'll find the killer, seeing as how your department has wasted so much time assuming it was an accident. I'd have nothing to go on, unfortunately."
"You'd have-kid, are you out of your bloody mind? Even if you could solve this case, who's to say I'd let you anywhere near it? Not only are you a civilian, you are also under arrest at the moment," Lestrade reminded him.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Really? I hadn't noticed after being handcuffed in the back of a squad car by a man who's going to quit in less than three days to run off to America and a woman who only got the job because she sucked off her superiors." He looked Lestrade up and down. "I really pray that you won't take her up on the offer once you become DI."
Lestrade was going to respond when Sherlock continued, "Mostly I hope that because I can see you're married: unhappily, but married nonetheless. Also because you've got a spotless record and could one day run the whole Yard, so I really think it would be a waste of brainpower to have you caught shagging your employee."
"Christ, they were right: you're bloody crazy. How do you know any of this?" Lestrade asked.
"I also know that if you look for someone who has access to the nearest pharmacy to the pool where Carl Powers was killed, that will be the way you can find the accomplice to the murderer, but probably not the murderer themselves."
Lestrade could say nothing. Rarely was he ever speechless, but this was one of the occasions where he could not think of a thing to say. However...the kid had a good idea. It was something to look into as soon as this was over.
"Also, I should correct you. I am not an addict. I am a user. I like to keep my mind occupied, so I'm not bored. I loathe being bored above all else. My brain requires constant stimulation, and stagnation for any prolonged period of time causes me to seek out a myriad of ways to give my mind what it needs."
Lestrade had heard many different ways that addicts tried to rationalise their addiction, but never did he hear one so plainly spoken. Or for such a reason. It was usually about pain, the past, something that was so clearly an excuse. Never did he hear, "it stimulates my brain". That was something to think about.
When they got to the Yard, Lestrade brought Sherlock to an interview room, instead of a holding cell.
"Someone will be by to pick you up, pay your fine, and negotiate your community service," Lestrade told him. "Can I get you anything? Tea, soda, coffee?"
Sherlock gave him a condescending glare. "What I want, you arrested me for. Remember?"
Lestrade leaned forward, hands gripping the edge of the table to prevent him from punching the little shit in the face. "Listen here, kid: I know your type. Trust fund baby, always got everything you wanted, and so you wanted more. And you take what you want and never have to worry about the consequences, because mummy and daddy will always be there to bail you out of whatever mess you get yourself into.
"Kids like you make me fucking sick, Sherlock. And with a clever mind like yours, you just waste it away. What a bloody shame!"
Lestrade didn't mean to, but even after he heard that Sherlock had been taken home by his older brother, Mycroft (what was with the names in the Holmes family?), Lestrade could not stop thinking about the kid. Not just his delectable appearance, but his brilliant mind.
The day after he met Sherlock, Lestrade told Dimmock and Gregson about what the kid had said...though he claimed it was his own idea, knowing that they wouldn't take it seriously had they known it came from a drug addict.
That night they arrested a pharmacist for aiding and abetting. Who had ordered the killing? The man would not say, and he was found dead in his cell-suicide-the morning after he was arrested. The story made the news, and Lestrade was immediately promoted to Detective Inspector and given his own team.
A week after his promotion, Lestrade was standing around a body that had seemingly fell from the sky. The building the man had fallen from had no roof access, and the building itself was condemned with all of its windows boarded up and no visible sign of forced entry. There was no way the man had died elsewhere and been moved, judging by the amount of blood found at the crime scene, and it was a toss up as to whether or not it was a suicide.
"No note, Inspector," said Sergeant Donovan. "I'm on my way to talk to his family. See if anyone knows something more than this can tell us." She turned around and did a double take. "Uh, boss, that freak we arrested last month? He's coming straight for you."
Lestrade turned and regarded Sherlock Holmes, still tall and imposing, but no longer a dirty addict. He was clean, his hair in perfect curls and his clothes from the posh side of town.
"Inspector Lestrade," he greeted, unsmiling. He did not greet Donovan.
"Mr. Holmes, was it?" Lestrade said. "What brings you here?" This was not a part of town anyone but homeless derelicts spent time in. Even drug dealers wouldn't dare to go here. So what was Sherlock Holmes doing here dressed as he was?
Sherlock was silent, and Lestrade knew he was not going to talk in front of Donovan. He turned to his underling and said, "Go on, you were going to interview the family. Get on it before the day grows any older, eh?"
Donovan nodded and walked away, giving Sherlock the eye all the while.
"Ah, that's better. Her very presence annoys me. Now, the reason for my being here is simple: I heard about this murder and thought you might require my assistance," Sherlock said, stepping around the police tape and walking up to the body.
"Oi! What are you doing, you crazy git? You're contaminating the crime scene!"
Lestrade's words alerted the new forensic tech, Anderson, who walked up to Sherlock with an indignant look on his face.
"Excuse me, but who are you and why are you destroying my crime scene?" Anderson asked in the usual whining, pompous tone he spoke in.
Sherlock regarded him with a look of open contempt. "First of all, back up. I do not need to smell the lunch on your breath. Second of all, there is no way I can contaminate this scene any more than your shoddy work already has. Now, if you'll excuse me-Lestrade?"
Lestrade, feeling dazed, walked up to Sherlock and Sherlock pointed upwards. "Window. Seven stories up, directly above us. The one board is shifted and you can see a telltale mark on the board beneath it, suggesting it has been slid aside numerous times. Your murderer obviously tossed the body out the window from there. As to how they got in, this building's locks are so easy to pick I can do it with my eyes closed-literally. I believe you'll find that the deceased had an incredible amount of morphine or some other opiate in his system, to make it easier for the killer to have tossed him from the window.
"The killer was most likely a man, judging from the amount the deceased weighed: it would be difficult for many women to have lifted him on their own. Most likely he owed someone a lot of money, and this was a way to dispose of him easily and make it look like a suicide. Too bad they were so obvious about it."
Obvious? Greg felt his head spinning. This was the second time he had inadvertently gotten Sherlock's opinion on one of his cases, and this was the second time that the young man had truly astounded him with deductions that seemed to come out of thin air.
"In any case, I suppose I'll be going now. Contact me if you find you require more assistance on this or any other cases." Sherlock handed him a business card and strutted away, leaving Greg in silent shock.
He looked down at the card. It was a black card with a website, an address, and the words "Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective" written on it. What the Hell was a consulting detective? Greg tucked the card into his pocket and went off to call Donovan with this new information.
Thanks to Sherlock Holmes, they had not only solved the murder by that night, they had managed to put away ten men wanted for suspicion of working with a mafia boss. Lestrade made the front page of numerous papers for the second time in a month.
The next day he went to the address on Sherlock's card (not Baker Street, obviously) and knocked on the door. He was met with Sherlock, looking smug.
"Hello, Lestrade. Come to thank me? Or ask me how I do my 'trick'?" he asked, crossing his arms over his obscenely tight purple shirt. Lestrade wanted to lick along that long, graceful neck and into the hollow below his throat, exposed by the unbuttoned top of the shirt.
"Both, I suppose. You helped us immensely, Sherlock. I can't possibly take gratitude for your cleverness. It isn't fair. I want to know if you'd like to go to my superiors and I'll tell them everything. I don't feel right about the promotion, especially, since it was not my deductions that made that arrest."
Sherlock shook his head, curls bouncing against his alabaster cheeks. "No. I don't solve crimes for credit. Yes, the clients I get on my website pay my bills, but those cases are so boring. Lost pets, cheating husbands, landladies dealing drugs...I crave things with more substance. My mind desires them. So I saw a chance and took it. That is all.
"Do not feel bad for taking the credit. I don't want credit , I just crave the adrenaline rush and brain food of difficult cases."
Lestrade was stunned. He thought that Sherlock would have demanded he be given proper credit and immunity for future drug offences. "You intrigue me, Sherlock Holmes," Greg said, leaning against the doorframe.
"I know. I could tell many things about you, and what you thought about me, at our very first meeting," Sherlock said. "You should also know that, even if you were not married, I would in no way be interested in you in a romantic way. All emotion is abhorrent to me. Love is, especially, ridiculous and unnecessary."
At that Greg smirked. Maybe he had a way to shock this seemingly unflappable man. "I have absolutely no interest in anything remotely romantic with you, Sherlock. What I have been thinking of is what you were caught doing by Donovan in that alley. You must have been quite the sight, on your knees with those plump lips wrapped around a thick cock. You might not like emotion, but take it from someone who knows: great sex has the same effect as any high you can get artificially."
Sherlock smirked as well. A mischievous light shined in his bright eyes. "Let's make a deal, Inspector. When I have challenging cases, I don't need to use drugs. If you agree to call me in as a consult, I can promise you that you'll never have to arrest me again."
"And what do I get out of this little deal?" Greg asked.
"Besides a significant turnaround in your work? Getting your name the front page of all the papers? What more do you want?" Sherlock asked.
Greg leaned in, smelling Sherlock's shampoo and cigarette smoke. His lips were at Sherlock's ear and he said, "You." He bit down on his earlobe, causing a sinful moan to rise from Sherlock's lips. Greg put a hand on Sherlock's throat, tilting his head so he could bite that delicious neck, sucking a bruise onto pale flesh.
"Damn you," Sherlock growled, grabbing the edges of Lestrade's jacket and pulling him into the flat by the lapels. Greg kicked the door shut and groaned as Sherlock pushed him flat against the door, those soft lips plundering his like a dying man gasping for oxygen.
"Like I said, the best high," Greg said, feeling Sherlock's considerable erection pressing against his hip. For a skinny addict, Sherlock was strong, and Greg found he could not move. It was not unpleasant.
"I trust you," Sherlock said, his breath against Greg's neck. "I do not trust anyone. If you betray me, I can and will make your life a living Hell."
Greg gripped Sherlock's shoulders and in an instant, it was the consult who was pressed against the door. "You shouldn't threaten an officer of the law, Holmes. I will never betray you. We have a deal. Now, you're either going to let me fuck you into your mattress, or I'll take you right here where we stand, while your windows are open for anyone to see."
"Fuck!" Sherlock groaned. "Straight ahead. Second door on the right."
Greg led Sherlock through his own flat, coming to the bedroom. It was messy, but not the drug den that Greg had expected. He had little time to notice decor as Sherlock's teeth tugged on his bottom lip and he felt cold hands reaching to unbutton his shirt and then running through the dark hair on his chest.
Greg discarded his shirt and jacket, moving to take off Sherlock's. He was a bit disconcerted at his thin Sherlock was. It was unhealthy, but not unusual in addicts. He could count his ribs. If their deal held and Sherlock stayed clean, Greg hoped to help him get healthy in time.
Sherlock reached for Greg's trousers and Greg groaned as a strong hand pressed against his hard cock through the thin fabric of his pants. Sherlock went to his knees and pulled Greg's trousers and pants down to his ankles, letting his erection spring free from its confines.
Greg let out a decidedly undignified yelp as Sherlock's hot mouth engulfed the head, and he felt a long tongue licking around the slit, and then along the thin vein on the underside of his cock. Greg gripped Sherlock's silky curls tightly as the consult slowly swallowed Greg whole, proceeding to give him the most fantastic blowjob of his life.
He felt himself close, and he told Sherlock to stop. He did not want to come just yet. Sherlock pulled back, his lips swollen and his erection showing under his thin black slacks. "Get up," he ordered, "and get rid of those." He gestured to his pants. "You're wearing far too many clothes for today's activities."
Sherlock did as he was told, and Greg took in the sight before him. Sherlock might have been too thin, but he was as healthy as Greg in other areas. The inspector reached out and wrapped his hand around Sherlock's cock, spreading precome down the length to make it easier. Sherlock moaned and bucked his hips up in time with Greg's thrusts.
"You're positively begging for it, aren't you?" Greg asked, reaching around with his free hand and grabbing a handful of Sherlock's surprisingly plush arse. "Get on the bed, on your hands and knees. Where do you keep the lube?"
"Second drawer on the nightstand," Sherlock replied, moving to get on the bed.
"Condoms?"
"Don't have any. I know you're clean."
Greg rolled his eyes. "And I'm supposed to believe that you're clean, too? Come on, I'm not as clever as you are, but I'm not that much of an idiot!"
Sherlock turned his head to look at Greg and said, "I don't swallow when I give head and I am a virgin. Oral sex is my level of expertise. I can assure you, it is impossible for me to have any STDs."
That gave Greg pause. He was a virgin? Greg had never had a virgin save for his first girlfriend in secondary school. "Are you sure you want this, then?"
"Do you I strike you as a man who does things he does not want to do?" Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes. "Now, I must beg of you to give me the release I need, or our deal is off and you'll never rise above your position in the Yard."
"Impertinent bastard." Greg reached out and gave Sherlock a slap on his arse, causing the young man to groan. "I am going to ruin you for any man who comes after me."
"All I'm hearing is talk, Lestrade. Prove it," Sherlock challenged.
Greg slapped his arse again before climbing on the bed and spreading his cheeks apart and pressing a lubed finger against his impossibly tight entrance. "You have to tell me if it gets too much for you," he said. "I don't want your first time to be unpleasant."
Sherlock nodded, and Greg proceeded to slowly stretch his unused hole as wide as possible to fit himself inside of it. He brushed his fingers against Sherlock's prostate three times, teasing the little brat just enough to make him whine in the back of his throat before he lined his cock up with his entrance and slowly pushed in.
Sherlock groaned, and stilled, and Greg stopped till he felt Sherlock was ready. Eventually he seated himself fully inside the tight heat of the detective, holding himself still and letting them both get used to the sensation.
"What are you waiting for? The rest of your hair to go grey? Move already!" Sherlock ordered, earning himself another slap.
Greg did begin to move. Slowly, to give Sherlock just a hint of sensation, but the litany of curses and groans that came from the detective's mouth proved too much for Greg's self-control and he started moving faster, pulling out and going in at a brutal pace.
"Fuck yes, harder, Lestrade!" Sherlock cried, trying to move back and meet Greg's thrusts halfway.
Greg kept steadily pounding into Sherlock, and the only sounds in the room were curses, groans, and skin against skin. Greg felt himself getting close, so he tilted Sherlock's hips up and drove in deeper, hitting his prostate with every single stroke. Sherlock stopped cursing and just moaned wordlessly, hands gripping the sheets for dear life.
Keeping his pace steady, Greg reached around Sherlock's waist and grabbed his cock, stroking it in time with his thrusts. It did not take much time for Sherlock to come, covering the sheets and Greg's hand in the hot fluid.
Feeling the muscles contracting around him, Greg came with a cry, filling Sherlock with his seed.
Greg slowly pulled out, watching his come drip down Sherlock's thighs and then rolled to lay next to the detective. Sherlock was staring blankly at the ceiling, a peaceful expression on his face.
Greg watched him, but what he felt was the love of a brother, despite having just shagged his brains out. "One day, Sherlock, you're going to find someone whose very existence makes you feel like you're feeling right now." He had no idea why he said that, and had no idea how prophetic it would be.
"Gregory!" Mycroft called. "We're supposed to be on our way by now. You know how awful Sherlock will be if we are late."
Greg jumped out of his daydream, remembering his first few encounters with the great Sherlock Holmes. He looked down at the notecards he'd been writing on, and hurriedly crossed out the dirtier parts of their acquaintance. That was not something he'd be talking about in front of an audience, least of all Mycroft or John Watson.
"Coming, love," he called, straightening his tie and putting the cards in his jacket pocket. He was not a great speech writer. He went into the living room of the house he shared with Mycroft Holmes, and the government official looked him up and down as if he were a piece of cake.
"You look stunning," Mycroft said.
"Not as good as you," Greg replied, kissing his fiance. "Let's go, before Sherlock sets the church on fire or something."
Mycroft chuckled. "Yes, that sounds like my brother." They walked to the car hand in hand, heading to St. Bart's Church in London.
They found Sherlock pacing outside, an unlit cigarette between his lips. Greg had to stifle a laugh. "Oi, you, where's John?" he called, waving to Sherlock.
The detective looked up and removed the cig from his mouth. "Inside, with his sister Harry. I never thought this day would make me so fraught."
Greg slapped him on the back. "Quit worrying. Myc, go check on John. I'll make sure this one doesn't pull a Runaway Bride moment."
Mycroft smiled and went into the church.
Greg looked at Sherlock and said, "I was reliving our first few meetings today. Do you remember what I told you, after we...you know?"
Sherlock looked down, blushing. "Yes. I thought you were mad at the time. Now I know it was simply foreshadowing." He looked up at Greg and continued, "You have been there for me even when I did not deserve it. Thank you, Lestrade. Thank you for being there for me then, and here for me today. I might not be here if not for you. I still detest sentiment, but sometimes emotions are...not so bad."
Greg felt a lump in his throat and grabbed Sherlock into a warm hug. "You deserve this. You deserve all the happiness in the world."
"Hey, Greg, are you making a move on my Sherlock?"
Greg laughed, seeing John coming down the church steps. He was wearing a black suit, in contrast to Sherlock's white one. John gave Greg a small hug before slipping his hand into Sherlock's.
"I'm ready, love. Are you?" John asked, looking up into Sherlock's eyes. He brushed his hand across Sherlock's face, and the detective appeard to melt into his touch.
Sherlock nodded, wrapping an arm tenderly around John's waist. "Let's get married."