Greg rolls over and lets out a loud groan. He feels like death itself.
Major headache, nausea, and to top it off he can smell his own body odour.
No wait…
Greg draws in a deep breath through his nose.
"Bacon," he says, shooting up in bed. "Sherlock!" Greg panics and starts shaking Sherlock by the hip. "Your housekeeper is making bacon!"
"Oh, God," Sherlock groans and presses his face against his pillow. "Just let me die in peace!"
"If she finds us-"
The door opens without warning and Greg dives under the covers.
"Breakfast is on the table, boys!" Mrs Hudson calls out, with the door half cracked open.
"Shit, shit, shit," Greg mutters under his breath. "I need to go. NOW."
Sherlock points in the direction of the door.
Greg gathers his things, stuffs his mobile in his jeans' pocket, and scurries out the door.
It was a long walk of shame, the longest a man has ever had to endure. And to make matters worse, he'd offended the housekeeper by not staying for breakfast.
That's how things were with Sherlock though, every night was a one night stand. In his eight or so years of knowing him, they'd shared nearly a hundred one night stands.
The sex, if you could call it that, was mostly for Greg's sake. Sherlock didn't need any of it. Sherlock had two fully functional hands and all the means necessary to please himself, he chose to let a broken man slip through the cracks and into his bed.
It was positive reinforcement for Greg's negative behaviour.
He came to Sherlock when he was desperate (and he was always desperate).
He covered it all up with alcohol; passed it off as drunken mistakes. But a hundred times? Who is he fooling?
Only himself, surely.
It started out as harmless fondling. Nothing two public school boys wouldn't do behind closed doors. Then it progressed, but only to oral, for a time…
Things had only recently become more heated. Sherlock was back and Greg aimed to keep it that way. Only… he had no idea what Sherlock liked and Sherlock didn't seem to like anything.
It was nearly impossible to please him; worse than any woman, in Greg's book. There's nothing worse than giving a bloke a blow job and having his prick go limp in your mouth halfway through.
Nothing turned Sherlock on either. And to make matters worse, Sherlock was the most unresponsive lover on the face of this planet.
Greg just wanted him to do more than wince and give the occasional grunt during sex.
That bastard could give a hell of a blow job. No teeth, not ever, and down to the fucking hilt. Greg liked it when he gagged… more than liked it. And when Sherlock's chest would hit the mattress and his pale arse would stick up in the air for all the world to see… It was fucking Christmas.
That posh arse… any man would kill to get a piece of that. For fucks sake, Greg drooled over the sight of it, literally drooled over it. He'd never seen such a perfect arse; with just a bit of a curve to give a nice handle to it while he shows him who's boss.
This didn't make him gay by any means. No, he still liked women, loved women even. Had himself more than a few since his wife left, but he always came round to Sherlock in the end.
What, did he enjoy sexual humiliation? No. What man does?
Sherlock was a project; one he meant to see through.
He'd already gotten this far and Greg planned to take him much further.