This is the chapter that ups the rating to M. Sex. Lots of it. With three men. You've been warned ;).

A Study in Triplicate

John woke slowly the next morning, feeling as though he were wrapped in fog. He was only half wrong, he realized as the muddle of sleep began to dissipate. He was sleeping on his stomach, which he almost never did unless he was entirely, bonelessly comfortable, his arms folded beneath his pillow and his face half-submerged in its cloud-soft depths. On his right, a solid warmth was pressed against him, calloused fingers curving over his shoulder and warm breaths puffing rhythmically against the back of his neck. A knee was settled into the back of his, and a foot fit snugly against his ankle. Even with his eyes closed, John knew it was Lestrade.

His left was another story. Hair tickled his nose, and he opened his eyes on black curls and the curving shell of an ear. Letting his eyes follow the line of one sharp cheekbone, John smiled sleepily at the wildly cocked angle of Sherlock's neck and the mouth gaping inelegantly in a soundless snore. He couldn't get a better view without craning his neck, but he didn't really have to; his flatmate's arm was flung across his back, the bony tip of his elbow digging slightly into the groove of John's spine, their legs were an algorithmic tangle. The unforgiving pressure of Sherlock's hip was wedged under John's pelvis. Clearly the consulting detective was not very good at sharing beds. The thought was somehow incredibly endearing.

John would have been content to lie there forever, wrapped securely by the two men he loved best in the world, but his bladder had other ideas. He tried to ignore it for a while; but, in the end, disrupting the peace via exiting the premises won out over the (horrifying) possibility of wetting the bed. He shifted slightly, and paused. How in God's name was he going to manage this?

A deep sigh emerged, tickling the back of his neck, and the hand around his shoulder tightened as Lestrade's deep, sleep-rough voice whispered, "If you've gotta get up, go ahead. He won't wake up."

John slid his elbows toward him, propping his head up enough to turn and meet a pair of very dark, very attractive brown eyes. The deep, worry-carved grooves of the night before had relaxed, and apart from the silver hair and the gray cloud of stubble, Lestrade looked years younger.

"He won't?"

"Promise." Lestrade's snug, perfect mouth stretched into a grin. "He may not sleep often, but when he does, he sleeps like the dead."

"That's convenient," John said, and then, because he just couldn't resist, tipped forward slightly and dropped a kiss on the tip of Lestrade's nose.

The policeman's eyebrows jerked up as if they'd been pulled by marionette strings, lending his smile an adorable air of befuddlement. "Um…"

"Sorry." John glanced away, detangling himself from Sherlock and studiously trying not to blush. "I just –" The touch of slightly roughened fingertips on his shoulder stopped him, and this time when he looked over, Lestrade met him halfway with a chaste kiss.

"Mm. Don't apologize." Stretching, Lestrade sank back against his pillow and smiled lazily up at him. "Hurry up, please, the bed will get cold without you."

"Somehow I doubt that," John muttered as he scrambled off the mattress, glancing over at Sherlock's wild, indiscriminate sprawl. The sound of Lestrade's low chuckle followed him across the landing to the bathroom, tugging an answering smile from his own lips.

He went through the motions swiftly, relieving himself and washing his hands with perfunctory efficiency. His reflection in the mirror was less lobster-like than it had been the night before, and when he patted his chest and stomach with his hands, the pain had dulled to a low ache. Not as bad as he'd expected. John made a face at himself, scrubbed a hand through his hair to straighten it, and went back to the bedroom.

Lestrade was obviously waiting for him. He'd relegated himself to the middle of the bed, his back propped up slightly against the pillow, and the corner of the duvet was turned up in invitation. John couldn't help grinning as he padded across the carpet and slid into bed, pressing close to the other man and wrapping one arm around his solid torso. From there it was pure intuition that drew their mouths together, Lestrade's fingers tangling in John's.

He tasted like stale tea and warmth, and John hummed in approval as they kissed open-mouthed, Lestrade's free hand sliding up his back to press them closer together. It was slow and soft and exploratory, and John's toes curled against Lestrade's leg as the policeman caught his lower lip and sucked gently. Wanting to return the favor, John carded his fingers through Lestrade's unruly spikes and tugged, slanting his head so that he could slide his tongue just inside the other man's upper lip.

He didn't realize he was short of breath until the tightness in his chest was squeezing his ribs near-painfully. John drew back reluctantly, resting his head against Lestrade's collarbone as he sucked in air. "Don't forget to breathe," Lestrade murmured against his cheek, laughing silently beneath him. John pressed his fingers into the divots between his ribs in retaliation, and Lestrade convulsed, scrabbling for John's own sensitive spots.

"Stop – no – stoppit!" His mouth gaped damply, gasping against Lestrade's skin as the policeman found the tender place at the curve of his belly; and then his teeth were scraping, tongue trailing a slick path across a firm, flushed nipple, and he could hear the rumble of Lestrade's groan right through the inner curves of his skull.

At first he thought he was hallucinating, the need in his groin playing with his perceptions. There were so many hands, fifty, a hundred fingers, all skittering over his skin as if they wanted to touch every inch. But then he felt the sharp, precise scrape of half-moon nails marking his shoulder blades, and he knew.

"Sherlock," he breathed against Lestrade's spit-slick skin, and he felt the trembling right down to his bones.

"John." The answer was rough in his ears, and he could feel the curve of a smile against his cheek as Sherlock pressed closer. "Not very kind of you to start without me."

A hiss escaped Lestrade's teeth as Sherlock leaned over John's shoulder and bit down, a flash of gleaming canines out of the corner of his eye. "Making up for lost time," the policeman grinned, sliding his palms down, down to dip beneath the waistband of John's pants. The brush of fingers against his arse made him shudder and arch into the contact, and then Sherlock's hips were there, pressing Lestrade's hands between them.

"What," John panted, laughter bubbling under the surface, "what the actual fuck…"

"Precisely," Sherlock growled, mouthing at the stark tendons of John's neck. "At least, that's the general idea. Greg?"

"Wha – what are you asking?" Lestrade gasped, apparently enjoying the slide of John's thigh against his erection. "Because I'm really not paying attention."

John sniggered into the hollow of Greg's throat, caught in the inescapable slip-slide between laughter and lust. He decided, in a flash of intuitive need, that he really, really would prefer the latter at the moment, so when he felt Sherlock open his mouth again beside his ear, he turned his head and silenced his flatmate with a kiss. It was sloppy and half off the mark, but it was salty and sweet and just the right kind of rough.

"Oh god," Lestrade groaned, fingers tightening on John's hips.

Sherlock smirked against John's mouth and pulled away with a nip. "We're being discourteous to our guest."

"Don't feel like you have to stop on my account," Lestrade demurred, rather glassy-eyed as he slumped further against the pillows. "You two look bloody marvelous together."

"Why, thank you dear," Sherlock drawled, licking an obscene stripe up the side of John's face. "But I'm really not sure John's going to enjoy being the middle man in this scenario."

"Right, as usual," John said when Greg turned a questioning eye on him. Then, over his shoulder, "What are you going to do about it?"

Sherlock ran the flat of his hand along the tender planes of John's back and pressed a quick kiss to his spine before flopping dramatically onto the duvet beside Lestrade. With long white arms striped in blue-violet from the window-blinds, he reached out and tucked the detective inspector against his side, brushing full lips against his brow. "Come then, love. Let's show him how it's done."

"Hell, I don't know how it's done," Lestrade protested. "How is this even going to work?"

"We'll make it up as we go along," John said, settling against the length of Lestrade's body and resting his chin against the man's sternum. "Now, kiss."

Both men glanced down at him, startled, but the wicked glint in his eyes soon had them grinning. "So it's going to be like that," Lestrade observed.

"Of course. He was a captain, you know, in the RAMC. Used to ordering people about," Sherlock told him, placing soft, sucking kisses on Lestrade's lower lip.

Lestrade shot another suggestive look in John's direction. "D'you think we could convince him to wear his dog tags for us?"

Sherlock's eyebrows rose thoughtfully. "Only if he wears the matching camo knickers."

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, pinching his flatmate on his well-rounded bum. "How do you know about those? Snooping through my underwear drawer?"

"Maybe," came the ambiguous reply. John would have protested, but Lestrade suddenly seized Sherlock's angular face in his hands and dragged him to his mouth for a deep, dirty kiss. John watched, rapt, as Lestrade plundered his flatmate's mouth with his tongue, fingers pressing near-painfully into porcelain skin. He could feel himself growing hard against Lestrade's thigh; but when he tried to move away, the policeman shot out a hand and grabbed his hip, holding him firmly in place. He was too busy kissing the hell out of Sherlock to actually speak, but the message was clear: Stay put.

John was only too happy to oblige. Absently, he could feel his pulse speeding up, the blood pounding in his temples and… other areas, his tongue heavy and salivating in his mouth. It was like watching a porno up close and in 3D, only better because he felt so strongly for both men involved. Just the thought sent a fuzzy warmth spreading through his chest, balancing the tension curling in his groin.

Sherlock gave a sudden moan, sharp and bright in John's ear, and the aforementioned tension gave a stab of near-brutal pleasure that left him gasping. Closing his eyes, John swallowed hard and lifted his hips instinctively, seeking the warm, solid pressure of Lestrade's bare thigh.

Lestrade gasped and tightened his fingers, and the last of John's self-control dissolved. With a broken moan he hitched his leg around Lestrade's waist, knee digging into Sherlock's side, and rolled his pelvis forward, thrusting strong and rhythmic against the other man.

"God, yes," Sherlock growled, and suddenly Lestrade had a lapful of consulting detective and army doctor as all three wrestled for the best position. After some panting and moaning and more than one elbow planted in more than one stomach, they settled down: Sherlock on his back, cradling Lestrade between his knees, and John propped against the tanned slope of Lestrade's back, the mound of his erection fitting neatly into the cradle of Greg's arse. From there they set a languid pace, Sherlock leading by way of strong fingers clamped around Greg's hips. The sweet rocking sensation burned a fiery trail through John's belly, and it was all he could do to brace himself on his hands and knees, meeting each backwards roll with a forward thrust that ground his jaws together and drew low sounds from deep in his chest.

Then, suddenly, those vise-like fingers were digging into his biceps. John hissed at the pleasure-pain, almost overwhelmed, and looked up just in time to catch Sherlock's widened gray eyes and the sheen of sweat on his flushed face as he let out a strangled cry and orgasmed. John's heart caught in his throat at the sight, and he reached out to press his hand to the side of Sherlock's cheek. It was damp and flushed under his fingers, and he had a sudden urge to lean down and see what it tasted like. But his flatmate turned his face into the contact, smiling through the post-orgasm haze, mouthing something against the skin that he couldn't quite hear.

I love you.

Long, thin, violinist's fingers came up to squeeze John's, and then Sherlock was squirming, trying and failing to be a prat while still eyeballs-deep in the afterglow. "All right, off. I'm about to suffocate with you both on top of me. Go over there and shag or something." He waved his other hand limply toward the other side of the bed, and John had to stifle a laugh in Greg's shoulder at the twisted half-smile fighting with a frown for dominance of Sherlock's face.

"We love you too, 'Lock," Greg said fondly, dropping a kiss on Sherlock's temple before sliding out from between them.

The full transformation to scowl was instantaneous. "Don't call me that," Sherlock snapped, eyes flashing embarrassedly towards John.

"Do you really call him that?" John asked interestedly, moving to kneel between Greg's knees.

"Only in the bedroom," Greg confided, earning himself a huff from the other half of the mattress.

"I think it's sweet," John said, sliding his palms up Greg's thighs to play with the edge of his pants.

"That's what I was afraid of," Sherlock growled.

Greg's snicker turned into a cut-off gasp as John trailed the pad of his thumb over the damp spot over his erection. He grinned and did it again, following it with a firm push of his palm against the warm hardness, and Greg moaned.

"Draw it out," came Sherlock's interested murmur, barely audible over the rasp of skin on cloth as John continued to fondle him. "He likes that. Perfect. Now lean down and kiss him as you put your hand inside his pants – yes, just like that."

Part of John wanted to tell Sherlock to fuck off and let him figure it out for himself, but only a small part. The rest of him was getting extremely turned on by the low, rumbling directions breathed into his ear like a secret. The irony wasn't lost on him – always following Sherlock, even in the bedroom – and he smiled as he sank his mouth over Greg's, drawing out the other man's tongue and sucking curiously even as he pushed his hand down under the cloth. The flesh that met his hand was stiff and straining against its confinement, so he jerked the fabric down with a twist of his wrist, wrapping his fingers around the base of Greg's cock and sifting through the coarse hair there. At the full contact, Greg gave a strangled shout and arched off the bed, nails biting into the coverlet.

"That's it," Sherlock breathed, his voice ghosting warmly over the side of John's face. "He's so sensitive, it's beautiful."

John moaned, rocking against his own forearm as he worked Greg smoothly, pressing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to the other man's corded neck. It was incredible. The combination of Greg's broken sounds and Sherlock's deep whispers was driving him round the twist.

"I want to fuck you," he managed to choke out, biting the words out into the mound of Greg's shoulder. "Please, let me –"

"Yes, oh god, anything John, please –"

"Fuck him," Sherlock hissed, and John could hear the grin in his voice. "Right now, John, he'll come without even being touched. His prostate is absolutely delightful."

It was, John decided moments later. With his fingers slicked and medically precise, he breached the taut ring of muscle, sliding in easily to find Greg's prostate. Lestrade jerked beneath him, mouth gaping in a soundless 'O,' and John slipped a second finger in. He was remarkably loose already, which said a lot about how often he and Sherlock fucked, and John took advantage of it, twisting his fingers sharply and scissoring them with an abruptness that wrung a gasping whine from Greg's throat.

It had been a while since John had done this with a man, but he was plenty familiar with the process. With Greg opened to his satisfaction, legs sprawled wide for him, John slid a condom over his aching cock and took himself in hand, pressing against the spot where his fingers had been moments before. There was the slightest resistance; and then he was through, sliding easily into Lestrade's taut heat.

The rhythm he set was slow but deep, each roll of his hips ending in a sharp jab against Greg's prostate. Every thrust forced a hitched gasp from the man beneath him, and John pressed against him harder, digging his fingers into Greg's hair and pressing hot, melting kisses to his stubbled mouth. He could feel Greg's muscles tightening around him as he neared the edge, everything in John's being focused on their point of connection; his own thrusts were becoming sloppy as the end rolled toward him like a wave, and he pressed his fisted hand into the mattress for better leverage.

Then, unexpectedly, moist lips on the back of his neck, fingertips spidering down his spine. "Come on, John. Finish for me." It was low and throbbing against his skin, and John cried out into the sweat-dampened breadth of Greg's chest as he came in convulsive shudders. Greg, already at the end of his tether, was quick to follow.

"Oh my god." John stared at the ceiling, still warm with the sweet dregs of afterglow, and tried to absorb what had just happened.

A grunt against his chest drew his attention from the broad swathe of white, and he nuzzled the top of Sherlock's head absently. "What is it now?" his flatmate inquired acidly. "You're not having some kind of sexual-identity breakdown, are you?"

"No…" He fell silent for a moment, distracted by the smooth sweep of Greg's hand on his belly. Then Sherlock nudged him with one bony shoulder, and he snapped back to the present. "No. I just can't understand why I'm so lucky. I mean, forty-eight hours ago I thought I was going to die, and now…" Suddenly overwhelmed, John scooted down to tuck himself against Sherlock's side, drawing Greg's arm over his waist like a blanket. His heart constricted, heavy with a depth of feeling he couldn't express, as Sherlock pulled him closer and Greg bent his head to nuzzle the back of John's neck affectionately. "Now I'm not," he finished lamely, mumbling into Sherlock's chest.

"It's gonna be one hell of a ride," Greg observed.

Sherlock huffed. "Well that's the fun of it, isn't it?"

Greg rolled his eyes, eyelashes brushing against John's nape. "Fun. Yeah. Like corpses and dismemberment are fun."

Under John's ear, Sherlock's chest rumbled with laughter. "Exactly."