After John and Sherlock had gone to bed early, Greg decided he would do the same. He had an early start tomorrow, after all. So he brushed his teeth and trudged up to John's room. He dug around in John's wardrobe for a clean t-shirt and comfortable boxer shorts and undressed quickly. Slipping between the soft cotton sheets, he savoured their clean smell. And maybe there was a hint of John's smell in there, too.
Greg wasn't tired at all. He had slept in late, and after ... well, that was a weird day if he had ever seen one. After that conversation he had hardly known how to interact with John and Sherlock. Thankfully, John had tried to act like nothing out of the ordinary had happened and had tried to establish some normality at Baker Street. Then Mrs. Hudson had come up with freshly baked biscuits. Apparently it was her Sunday ritual, as she told them in so many words. Everyone had been distracted by tea and small talk, which Sherlock had hated but he had eaten at least a dozen biscuits, anyway. John had nudged them in his direction unobstrusively.
It was hard to look at them both, exchanging little discreet touches all day. They were tantalizing together. They embodied all the intimacy he had lost. Greg was torn. He was happy for them and he was jealous of them at the same time. Not that he begrudged them their happiness – but he wanted that, too. And it was even more difficult looking at it from the outside.
He found that a tiny part of him had retained an admiration of Sherlock through the years that wasn't always entirely professional, though he never indulged it. Greg was of the opinion that anyone who didn't at least fall a little bit in love with the remarkable, tall detective at first sight was either blind or lying. At least until Sherlock opened his sensual mouth to dissect someone's life with scathing observations. Most people snapped out of it then. But Greg hadn't.
Now that he was unattached again, he was free to do whatever he wanted – and pursue whomever he wanted. But Greg had been telling himself for years that it was a spectacularly bad idea to mess around with Sherlock and he had kept it up, because he was right. Not to mention married. And now John had Sherlock, and Greg's common sense couldn't completely assuage the tiny sting of disappointment he'd felt at John's confirmation of that fact.
So what the hell happened today? Sherlock had candidly asked Greg to show him how to have sex. The way he had said "teach me" could have been taken straight out of the corny porn he had most likely watched for his "research". Was Sherlock trying to manipulate him? He genuinely cared for John, he had demonstrated that today. But did he care for Greg, too? Was he just planning to use him as a means to an end? John would never allow it. Probably. Best to forget it had happened at all.
Still, Greg couldn't help but imagine John and Sherlock together. How would their first kiss have taken place? Maybe they had come off a case, still strung out and grinning, crashing their lips together enthusiastically? Or maybe one night Sherlock was bored and decided to try something new and seduced John, who had told Greg that he wasn't into blokes before? Would their first time have been frantic or unhurried? More like a quick handjob in an alley or a good long snogging session on the sofa that ended with hands down their pants? Or perhaps they rubbed their cocks against each other until they both gasped and shuddered. Or maybe Sherlock used his mouth on John, those ridiculous lips wrapped around his cock …
Greg tried to clamp down on the uninvited images rapidly flooding his mind. He had to think about something else, something unsexy … But it was already too late. He was hard. In John's bed. Hell, that was inappropriate. Had John been tossing and turning at night, unable to stop thinking about Sherlock's pale skin, the way his muscles stretched under it? Had he touched himself here, thinking about touching Sherlock? Did he come in these sheets ...
Greg finally gave up. He turned onto his back and thrust his hand into his boxers. His cock was hard and ready. He inhaled as he curled his fingers around his glans and squeezed. God, that felt good. Working his thumb over it, he smeared around the wetness he found there. Oh, but he could do with a mouth on him, anything, as long as it was hot and wet and willing. He tried thinking about someone giving him head. That one guy he met at a club once. Greg had been 21. They had snuck off to the loo where he had taken Greg's cock into his mouth and made all sorts of filthy noises while he sucked him off.
Greg started to masturbate himself with small, rapid jerks, imagining fucking his mouth. But the face that had been eroded by too much time morphed into Sherlock's, bright grey eyes staring up at him. Breathing heavily, he stopped moving. Greg was ashamed. This was so wrong.
But Sherlock had basically invited Greg into their bed. Of course, he wouldn't take them up on the offer. It was just proof that Sherlock had a lot to learn about relationships yet. But one could think, right? The possibilities … As long as this didn't bleed over into his life, Greg could still imagine what it would be like to watch them fuck. That didn't hurt anyone, right? It would be his secret. And maybe he just needed to get this out of his system so he could make rational decisions again.
How would John's arse look naked and stuffed with cock? Sherlock had wanted to fuck him today, but with a little preparation, John would have been okay. Greg could help with that. He would tell him to lie down on the bed, legs spread wide. John would look spectacular that way. Greg would spread lube on him and slip his fingers in carefully, telling Sherlock what to look out for. Maybe he would tell Sherlock to try it himself and let him squeeze three fingers into John's hole before even allowing him to think about putting his cock in. By the time John would be wet and worked open sufficiently, maybe Greg could suck Sherlock's cock for a bit, getting him nice and slippery.
Greg wanked himself faster.
Sherlock would taste great, the musky manly smell filling his nose while he licked and sucked his prick. Maybe Sherlock would even seize his head to show Greg he enjoyed it. Later, Greg would tell John to get on his knees and guide Sherlock into John's dripping hole. He would talk John through the initial discomfort and tell Sherlock to keep pushing until he bottomed out, and keep very still. Maybe John would screw his eyes shut and Greg would pet him while he got used to the sensation of having his arse filled. When Sherlock would start to move, small thrusts at first, Greg would kneel beside him and admire the point where they were joined, lube glistening on John's cheeks and his hole stretched around Sherlock's cock. Gradually, they would pick up speed, and soon enough, maybe John would find that he liked it, his erection hanging heavy between his legs and swinging slightly while Sherlock fucked into him.
Maybe Greg would start to jerk himself off watching them. Maybe he would ejaculate all over John's arse, providing additional, sticky lubricant for them while Sherlock made his final, hard thrusts into John.
Greg's hand flew over his cock briskly and firmly.
Or maybe, when Sherlock was done, he would allow Greg to have a go at John. He would slip his hard and aching cock into John's hole, fucked open and soaked with Sherlock's cum. John would moan at the repeated intrusion but Greg would angle himself so that he hit his prostate with every thrust and fuck John and himself to orgasm ... Greg turned around in John's bed and thrust his hips urgently while he fucked his own hand. With a moan muffled by the pillow, his orgasm tore through him and he felt warm semen pulsing into his hand and his shorts. He lay there for what felt like an eternity, riding out aftershocks. Greg hadn't come like that in ages.
With a groan, he disentangled his hand from his soiled boxers and turned to get up. He hoped he hadn't got anything on John's sheets. Cleaning himself with his boxers wasn't perfect, but he didn't have anything else at hand. Greg considered going down to the bath room – he had made a right mess of himself. But he decided against it. He couldn't have another shower in the middle of the night, that was too suspicious. Besides, if he was unlucky and he encountered Sherlock, he was going to see right through him. There was always something. Greg's cheeks were already flushed, but now he turned crimson at the idea of Sherlock finding out he had just had a magnificent wank thinking about them. Hell, he would have to control himself severely if he was going to get through his stay here intact. Greg went to the wardrobe and put on clean boxer shorts. His legs were wobbly and he was glad when he was in bed again. At least he would be able to fall asleep quickly now, and not stay up thinking about what he couldn't have.
