*Important* If you haven't read the prequel to this "A Man in Uniform" in a while, you really need to reread it to read this, because there are a lot of details and little plot points that transfer over that you won't remember if it's been a while. Also, if you've not read it at all, this piece is not a stand alone, so you need to read that to read this.
Enjoy!
Warnings: not canon compliant, desk sex, office sex, anal sex, power dynamics, voice kink, authority kink, mentions of PTSD.
...
"Sherlock, what am I doing here?"
"Assisting me."
John rolled his eyes, ineffectually, since Sherlock was walking ahead of him. "I am not your assistant."
"But I need an assistant!"
It was like arguing with a bloody five year old. John massaged his temples delicately. One day. He'd known this man for one day, and he already had him running all over London. John was seriously beginning to wonder if the flat was worth it, nice as it was. And centrally located. And right by a Tube stop . . . .
Bugger. It was worth it, and he knew it.
As they approached the crime scene, John was struck by how official it all looked. Police cars with bright, flashing lights were parked outside, and yellow crime tape sectioned the area off from any curious pedestrians. It looked straight out of a crime drama from the telly. John couldn't say why he was surprised. Sherlock had told him where they were going during the cab drive over. Perhaps he'd needed to see it to truly believe it. Part of him still wondered if Sherlock was daft, or if maybe his PTSD had started triggering hallucinations. That'd be just his luck.
Without so much as a by-your-leave, Sherlock ducked under the crime tape and held it up for John. He hesitated, and in that brief pause, an attractive young woman stalked over to them. John started to whip out one of his prize chat-up lines, but the look on her face stopped him cold.
"Hello, Freak," she said acidly, eyeing Sherlock. "And just what do you think you're doing here?"
"I was invited."
"By who?"
"Your superior."
"Why?"
Sherlock turned fully towards her, his eyes flashing. "I think he wants me to have a look."
The woman glanced at John. "Who's this, then?"
"A medical professional and none of your business."
"Look," John held up his hands defensively, "I don't want to cause any trouble. Maybe I should just wait out h—ahhh!"
Sherlock fisted a hand in his jumper and pulled him past the crime tape. "Come along, Dr Watson. Don't let Donovan here bother you. She's just being incompetent as per usual."
The woman—Donovan—looked murderous, but she dutifully radioed them in. "Freak's here. And he brought a friend! As if this weren't unprofessional enough."
Sherlock brushed past her as if she hadn't spoken and entered the house where the body had allegedly been found. John hobbled after him as quickly as his leg would allow, which meant he ended up banging his cane on everything from the stair railing to his toes. He only barely managed to bite back a stream of curses.
When they got to the top floor, several men in blue evidence scrubs were waiting for them.
"Sherlock," one of them said as he approached, "good of you to come. Care to take a look?" He paused when he saw John and looked him over. John returned the favour. The man was tall, easily five inches taller than John, with evenly-tanned skin and hair that was almost entirely grey but looked as if it'd been brown in its day. His build suggested that he'd once been quite fit, though he was still in decent shape. Minus a few tell-tale signs of the passing years, he was a handsome man. And familiar. Very familiar.
John would almost swear he'd seen him somewhere before.
Sherlock cleared his throat pointedly, and with a start John realised he was staring. He wasn't the only one, though. The man who'd approached them was giving John a curious look as well.
"Who's this?" he asked Sherlock. His voice was pleasantly deep, and the note of authority made something deep in John twinge.
"Lestrade, meet my colleague, John Watson. He's an army doctor—versed in all manner of injuries and unusual deaths—and I've brought him along so I might benefit from his expertise. John, meet DI Lestrade."
"Pleasure," John said, extending his hand. Lestrade, huh? Bit of an unusual name. John wracked his brain, but as far as he could recall he'd not heard it before. Lestrade grasped his hand and shook it. His palms were large and warm, and John thought he felt a hint of calluses when he drew away. Something about him definitely seemed familiar. Déjà vu, maybe?
John started to pull back only to realise that Lestrade hadn't let go of his hand. The older man was studying his face closely as if he were trying read tiny letters written all over it. John felt his cheeks grow hot, but he couldn't seem to look away.
"I think we might've met before," Lestrade said slowly, still staring at him. "But I can't quite place you . . . ."
"If you're finished," Sherlock interrupted irritably, "I've a body to examine."
They broke apart as if a band connecting them had snapped.
"Right." Lestrade said, looking a touch dazed. "Right. This way."
Lestrade led them to the prone body of a woman wearing an alarming shade of pink, and barely ten minutes later, Sherlock had dismantled her as easily as if she'd sat up and told him her life story. John couldn't quite hold back his amazement. "Brilliant!" he said at least five times. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lestrade watching him, but he was too absorbed in Sherlock's deductions to think anything of it.
When they were finished, they exited the room and walked over to a table were more of the blue scrubs had been stacked. Lestrade began removing his as Sherlock rattled off conclusions to him. Something about a suitcase and a missing phone. John tried to listen, but ultimately, Lestrade's unintentional striptease arrested his attention. Watching him pull off shapeless blue material should not have been as sexy as it was. Maybe it was the revelation of the body underneath that captivated him. Lestrade had deceptively broad shoulders.
"I had to rush here," Lestrade was explaining as he removed the pseudo-trousers and revealed jeans underneath. He seemed mildly embarrassed about his state of dress, which made John think that he probably wore suits to work. Now that was an image he'd have to revisit later. "I was at a pub, watching the Man U match. It's always when we're winning that I get called in."
"You say 'we' as if I've any idea what you're on about," Sherlock replied. He sounded as cool as ever, but something about the way he and the DI conversed gave John the impression that they were friends. Well, as close to friends as Sherlock could get.
John was just about to interject—he was a blue and felt obligated to make the standard anti-red remarks—when Lestrade pulled the rest of his scrubs off. He was wearing a simple black T-shirt that hugged his shoulders and surprisingly trim waist, but that wasn't what caught John's attention.
He had a tattoo of a police shield on his right bicep.
Suddenly, it all came rushing back. The party. The police officer. Mike bloody Stamford being the root of fucking everything.
"Oh, I'm going to kill him," John muttered under his breath. He glanced up and saw that both Sherlock and Lestrade were staring at him as if he'd grown a second head. Lestrade raised an eyebrow, and before John could stop himself, his eyes flickered back to the tattoo. Lestrade glanced down as well and frowned. He clearly hadn't made the connection, and why would he? That was one night nearly twenty years ago. There was no reason to dwell on it at all. Besides, John didn't have any tattoos to distinguish him, and he was a far cry now from his uni days. Why would anyone look at him—cane and limp and all—and think he was anything other than a broken toy soldier?
If John had any luck at all, Lestrade would never remember him.
…
John had shitty luck. Again.
It was several weeks later, and Sherlock had dragged John down to NSY to look over a case file. Lestrade had greeted them at the door and led them to a decent-sized office. John couldn't help but smile. Lestrade had got precisely what he'd told John he wanted all those years ago.
John took a seat across from Lestrade's desk and tried to look at anything but the DI. He was suddenly intensely grateful that Sherlock had helped him become cane-free. Even if Lestrade didn't remember him, it wouldn't do to look like a cripple in front of him. He was still intensely handsome.
Sherlock was prattling on about some detail or other about the case—tree frogs? How the bloody hell could tree frogs be involved?—and John took the opportunity to discreetly examine to DI. Lestrade was dressed in a suit, as John had predicted he would be, last he'd seen him, that was a soft dove grey colour with a silvery blue. It made him look even more tan, but in a healthy way, and the cut fit him beautifully. John felt a pang of envy. I suppose we can't all age gracefully, he thought. Just looking at Lestrade made him feel old, even though the other man had ten years on him, easy. He watched the shape of his mouth as he spoke, completely oblivious to whatever Lestrade was saying.
Sherlock suddenly let out an exasperated growl. "I can't think with you blithering on about laws and search warrants. I'll go to the lab and get the results myself. Won't take more than an hour." He whirled about, and his eyes settled on John. "Doctor, please explain to Lestrade here that the average human cannot survive being buried alive for more than six hours at the most. Wasting time on petty things like 'proper procedure' and 'due process' is simply not an option right now." And with that, he flounced out of the office, presumably on his way to the lab. Or perhaps to have a sulk; John could never tell.
Lestrade sank into his chair with a sigh, scrubbing a hand across his brow. "I'd tell him to bugger off if he weren't so bloody useful."
John chuckled. "That's how I feel about him as well. So, someone's got themselves buried alive, I take it?"
"No!" Lestrade responded irritably. "That's the bloody thing of it. He's talking about an entirely hypothetical situation. Sometimes I think he does it just to wind me up. He thinks the whole legal system's one big joke, so he prods and pokes at it until he finds some inane loophole he can hold up as evidence. I'd like to see him on the wrong side of the law one of these days. That would teach him."
John was still grinning when Lestrade looked over at him. Their eyes met, and it suddenly became glaringly apparent that this was the first time they'd been alone together. Well, since that night twenty years ago, at least.
John glanced at the door. It was closed, and the window shades were drawn. It was as close to privacy as you could get in a bustling office, but someone could still walk in at any time. That made John feel a bit better.
Or, at least, it did, until Lestrade spoke again.
"You think I don't remember."
John startled and glanced back at him. "Remember what?"
"Don't be coy. You think I don't remember that we've met before."
Lestrade's dark eyes were boring into him, but John couldn't quite bring himself to give up the fight.
"Have we?" he asked cautiously. "When?"
Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Back when I still worked patrol, and you were in uni. I pulled you over and helped you get your friend to hospital. Then we met up for drinks, and I fucked you in an alley. Ring any bells?"
John felt his face go red. He'd never considered himself the height of English reticence, but the way Lestrade just said it like that . . . .
This was ridiculous. He was a grown man and a war hero, not a blushing teenager. He could talk about sex like a mature adult.
Or rather, he could, if Lestrade would stop looking at him so intensely.
"Oh," he said lamely. "Right. I remember."
"When did you realise?"
Lestrade seemed perfectly unfazed by the conversation, so John figured there wasn't any harm in answering. "When I saw your tattoo that night at the crime scene. The one with the pink lady. I knew you seemed familiar, but I couldn't place you until I saw it. Then it all came rushing back." He hesitated for a moment before asking, "How about you?"
"That same night. Just took me a bit longer than it did you. After the way you reacted to me, I was certain I knew you from somewhere. I've not had so many one offs in my life that I can't remember them all clearly."
Lestrade's eyes trailed leisurely down him, and he said, "You look good, John."
John managed to keep his face from growing hot this time, but only barely. "So do you." A question nagged at the back of his mind, but he didn't know if he had the nerve to voice it. Grow a pair, John Watson, he mentally scolded. You were a soldier. You can handle this.
"Why was it a one off?" John asked. The second the words left his mouth, he wanted to bite his tongue. Lestrade didn't visibly react, which somehow made it worse. John attempted to backpedal, "I mean, I don't mind or anything, but that night you made it seem like you wanted to see me again. You even came home with me." And by the time I woke up in the morning, you were gone, he thought. No note, no goodbye kiss, nothing.
Lestrade rubbed his brow and didn't answer right away. John felt a tremor run through his left hand.
"You were just—" Lestrade began but then audibly clicked his jaw shut. He gave John a hard look, and John had to fight the urge to shiver from the intensity of it. "You were so young. Just a uni student who had dreams of being a doctor. Dreams you've now realised, clearly."
"You have as well," John said. "You told me you wanted to be DI someday, and here you are."
"Yes, and I very much doubt I'd have got the position if I'd been focussed on lavishing attention on my hot, young boyfriend, as would have undoubtedly been the case. I wasn't the most level-headed back then, but I knew enough to know I should leave you be so you could find someone your own age."
"So, you just made the decision for me?" John asked angrily. "And I got no say in it at all?"
"No," Lestrade said. "You didn't." He voice had an air of finality.
John felt an irrational surge of anger. There was no sense in being upset over something that had happened so long ago, but he was.
"I think I'd better go find Sherlock," John said coldly, rising from his chair. He was just turning towards the door when he heard movement behind him. Before he could react, a large hand grabbed his arm.
"Wait," Lestrade said, suddenly right next to him. "I don't want to leave things like this. It's a hell of a coincidence that we ran into each other again, and so long as we both know Sherlock, we're going to have to work together. Besides, if he finds out—"
"Oh, don't worry about that," John spat. "I'm not going to say anything to him. Or to anyone, for that matter. I'd hate to ruin your undoubtedly sparkling reputation by revealing that you once had a dalliance with a drunk uni student." His voice dripped with sarcasm.
Lestrade's face darkened, and his grip on John's arm grew vice-like. "Are you threatening me?"
"Just the opposite. Your secret's safe with me. Maybe we should just pretend nothing happened. Now let go of my arm."
Lestrade ignored him. "I don't want to pretend nothing happened. We had a great night together, even if it never amounted to anything. Do you honestly think we can just forget about it?"
"Why not? You left in the morning without even saying goodbye. Why do you think I never called you? You made it quite clear you never wanted to see me again." John pulled away, but Lestrade just moved closer, crowding him against the closed door. John's heart was pounding in his chest. He felt as if he were being cornered by a predator, one with dark eyes like chocolate and a deep, rumbling voice. Not as deep as Sherlock's, but pleasant even as it made his skin tingle. All his army training screamed at him to take the offensive, but all he seemed to want to do was pull Lestrade closer.
"John," Lestrade said, his voice a hair above a growl. Suddenly John was 22 again, being scolded by a man who had the power to unravel him, "I left because I knew if I didn't go before you woke up, you were going to look at me with those gorgeous blue eyes of yours, all full of trust and bloody compliance," Lestrade paused, and John saw his jaw working beneath his beautiful skin. It was almost unbearably hot to see him so strained, grasping at his jumper and refusing to meet his gaze as if he couldn't bear it, "and I knew, I bloody well knew, I'd have to have you again, and if that happened, I wouldn't be able to give you up. I had to leave then or not at all, and it was for the best that I did."
John's breathing was erratic, and his blood felt unnaturally hot beneath his skin. Every word from Lestrade, spoken with such confidence, such dominance, made arousal thrum through him like electricity. He'd thought his stint in the military had made him more conducive to giving orders than receiving them, but it seemed he still very much had a thing for Lestrade's particular brand of authority. He could feel the heat radiating from the DI's body, they were standing so closely. Lestrade's fingers were digging painfully into his bicep, but that somehow only excited him more. And Lestrade was so damnably tall, not as tall as Sherlock by far, but he still towered over John. Where Sherlock was all pale, lithe muscle, Lestrade was strength and heft, the kind that felt good on top of you. John was hit by the distant memory of a body laying on top of his, of weight pressed against his back and sweat-slicked skin rolling together. Lestrade had felt so good then, John couldn't help but wonder what he felt like now.
Lestrade finally dragged his gaze up from the floor, having seemingly recovered himself. He cursed the second he locked eyes with John. "Oh Christ, look at you: all flushed with your pupils blown wide, practically gasping for it. How is anyone supposed to resist that?"
John wet his lips and almost moaned when Lestrade's eyes fixated heatedly on them.
"John," Lestrade said quietly, still watching his mouth, "we should go find Sherlock."
"We should," John agreed.
"This is a bad idea." John could hear Lestrade's control slipping with every word he said, and it made him dizzy with arousal. "We could get caught, and we've both moved on with our lives."
"You're right," John agreed again, and he meant it, but watching Lestrade slowly unravel had returned some of his nerve. He spoke without entirely thinking, "You're absolutely right. It would be a horrible idea for you to rip my clothes off and bend me over your desk right here and now, just as you said you wanted to that night."
Lestrade snarled and shoved John harder against the door. John had to take a steadying breath. Fuck, it was hot when he pushed him around. It made John want to shove him back just to see what he would do.
"I was really hoping you'd forgotten about that."
"How could I? I've been fantasizing about it for nearly two decades. And now we finally have our chance. Also, if you happened to pin me down and fuck me hard enough for the whole office to hear, that wouldn't be much amiss."
Lestrade really did growl this time and then said, "Fuck it. You asked for it."
And then they were kissing—hard, angrily, desperately—almost to the point of pain, and John was drowning in how perfect it was. Lestrade's lips were hot and firm against his, making him feel as if he were burning up inside. The older man had him pressed against the door, but he managed to worm his hands between them to get at Lestrade's trousers. He managed to blearily unbuckle his belt and was pulling it out the loops when Lestrade stepped back and yanked John's jumper and undershirt off in one go. John flinched and resisted the urge to cover his shoulder. He wasn't exactly self-conscious about his scar, but he liked to at least warn his lovers about it ahead of time.
Lestrade was staring at it with an unreadable expression. John stood still while his eyes, darkened with lust, roved over it.
"You were invalidated," Lestrade said slowly, eyes still stuck on the gnarled flesh at John's shoulder. "Sherlock mentioned, but he never said why."
"Yeah," John said. "Got shot."
Lestrade abruptly grabbed John's face in his hands and pulled him into a bruising kiss. "Now that," he breathed against his mouth, "is sexy."
John was about to let out a relieved breath, but Lestrade was back to kissing him like he wanted to hurt him, and John was absolutely dizzy with it. He could only follow blurrily as Lestrade manoeuvred him over to his desk and shoved him back until he perched on its surface. Lestrade insinuated himself between his knees and began unbutton his suit jacket and then his shirt, his eyes pinning John in place all the while.
"I've waited years for this," Lestrade hissed, "and I'm going to have you until you can't stand properly. Now get those trousers off."
John almost moaned at the command and hastened to do as he was told, fumbling with his belt until he managed to get the damn thing open. Lestrade watched him hungrily as he popped open the button on his jeans and slid the zip down.
"Lube," Lestrade barked. "Bottom drawer. Get yourself ready. I'm not mucking about with much foreplay when there's a hard and dirty fuck to be had."
John momentarily saw stars and then scrambled to get what he needed. The second he bent over to pull open the drawer, Lestrade smacked his arse. Hard. Open palm. The sound it made was loud and indecent. John whimpered and clutched the desk, and he heard Lestrade whisper, "Fuck."
John recovered himself enough to ask, "Why do you have lube in your work desk?"
Lestrade chuckled. "It's actually oddly innocent. I'll tell you later. Now get a move on."
John shoved his jeans and pants off, freeing his frankly aching erection, and kicked his shoes off. He watched as Lestrade reached into the back pocket of his expensive suit, pulled out his wallet and removed a condom from the centre fold.
"Check the expiration date on that," John said automatically.
Lestrade quirked a brow. "Ever the doctor, eh?" He did as he was told, however, before turning his attention to John, who had just slicked up his fingers and was beginning to work one into himself. Lestrade watched his raptly, and John's cock twitched. He felt exposed, vulnerable, sat on Lestrade's desk like this with his thighs spread wide, and it was delicious. He stretched himself carefully but made a point of putting on a bit of a show, moaning under his breath and grinding his hips. He saw Lestrade's teeth clench and couldn't resist playing it up. He pressed a second finger into himself and sunk down on it, throwing his head back with a long groan. He felt a hand grab his neck and gasped. It didn't squeeze, but the threat was there.
"Enough," Lestrade said darkly. "You're a bloody tease. I'm going to make you regret that."
"Oh, please do," John begged.
Lestrade removed the belt John had unbuckled earlier and opened his trousers, shoving them and his pants down just enough to free his cock. It was just as John remembered it, average length but thick enough to make him hazily wonder if two fingers' worth of preparation was enough.
Lestrade tore the condom open and slid it quickly on before yanking the lube out of John's hand and applying a generous amount to himself. John started to turn around, but Lestrade stopped him and pushed him back until he was fully seated on the desk.
"I want to look at you this time," he said. "I want to see your face when you're full of my cock."
John closed his eyes and repeated the words back to himself in his head. He was so turned on he thought he might actually burst. He scrabbled at the files and offending paperwork on Lestrade's desk, shoving it out of the way. He laid back on his elbows, eyes riveted on Lestrade's prick as he pressed John's thighs open and lined himself up.
John took a breath and forced him to relax, but he was so drunk on arousal and need, it was hard to focus. He felt the blunt tip of Lestrade's cock press into him and moaned helplessly. He needed that hard length to fill him up. He shifted his hips to a better angle, and Lestrade slid unexpectedly into him, making them both gasp. Lestrade grabbed his hips in a death grip and pushed forward until he was as deep as he could get. He was breathing hard, clutching John like he needed him to anchor himself to the world. John wrapped his legs around him, and the movement made Lestrade shift inside him. It was such an odd but satisfying feeling, being full to the brim with someone else. He'd topped before, during a few of his rare sexual encounters with men, and he'd always enjoyed it, but there was something about being on the receiving end that grounded him in a way he needed now more than ever.
"Fuck," Lestrade breathed above him, "you feel incredible. Better than I remember."
John tried to respond, but then Lestrade pulled out of him and thrust back in, shoving his whole body back against the desk. The wood was hurting his elbows, and his legs were getting sore from being wrapped around Lestrade, but all those other sensations just contributed to the hot, obscene feeling of being full.
Lestrade untangled John's legs from around him and pushed them back until his knees were pressed to his chest. Then he leant over him, grabbed his shoulders and began to pound into him. John clapped a hand to his mouth to keep himself from howling as Lestrade set a brutal pace, fucking into him hard and fast. It was all John could do to just keep breathing. The weight of Lestrade on top of him, holding him down with his large hands, was surely going to drive him mad. John could feel Lestrade watching him—watching as his chest heaved and his mouth fell slack beneath the onslaught of pleasure—but he knew he'd come instantly if he met his eyes. He wanted to draw this out, milk this for as long as possible and then burn the memory into his skin.
Lestrade was letting out a steady stream of curses, "Oh fucking hell, John. Christ, you feel so good." John could only moan helplessly in response. He shifted his hips around, searching for the right angle, and when he found it, the first thrust made him cry out as pleasure burst sharp and raw inside him.
Lestrade shoved him down harder and hissed in his ear, "Be quiet. Or do you want someone to come in here and see me fucking you senseless?"
John's head fell back, and he groaned luxuriously. "Oh, Christ, Lestrade."
"I think you can call me Greg now." He punctuated his sentence with a hard thrust that hit John's prostate dead on.
John made a desperate sound, he shook his head. "No. It's Lestrade when we're like this. Greg isn't the one who fucked me in a ginnel all those years ago."
He heard Lestrade chuckle darkly, and it made something clench low in his belly. Lestrade changed his pace to quick, shallow thrusts aimed at hitting John's prostate as often as possible. The desk was rocking slightly from the force of their movements, making sharp, scraping sounds that were sure to carry out into the hall. John was too far gone to care. He could already feel the pleasure coiling tightly inside of him. It wouldn't be long now.
"Shit," John gasped, "I'm close."
Lestrade didn't respond, but his thrusts grew increasingly frantic in a way that told John he wasn't far off either. He started to reach for his cock, but Lestrade smacked his hand away. He wrapped his fingers around it and began to pump with more enthusiasm than actual finesse. John tried to stay quiet, but he couldn't. The dual sensation of Lestrade pounding into him and his strong, callused fingers wanking him off was too much. John felt harsh, sharp pleasure crackle through him, and suddenly he was right on the edge. His toes curled, and his whole body tensed up in preparation for it. Just a few more thrusts and—
"You're so fucking gorgeous," Lestrade grunted, half-drunk with pleasure. "I'm going to feel myself buried in you every time I shut my eyes for weeks."
John came so hard he saw white. He was vaguely aware of shouting, of something jamming against his mouth, of pure, sizzling pleasure lancing through him like lightning, and then the next thing he knew, he was lying boneless on Lestrade's desk. The other man was stock still, eyes pressed shut and mouth hanging open as he gasped for breath. John concluded he must have had a fairly spectacular orgasm as well, if the look of stunned ecstasy on his face was any judge.
After a moment of mutual hard breathing, Lestrade pulled slowly out of him. John grunted but didn't otherwise react. He felt as if a small, localised explosion had just occurred somewhere in his lower abdomen.
It was a long moment before either of them moved again. John final sat up and immediately winced. He had a killer headache. He must have hit his head against the desk a good dozen or so times. Lestrade had removed the condom and tucked himself away, but he was still shirtless. Sweat gleamed on his chest, and John examined it with post-coital, muted interest.
"All right?" Lestrade asked. His expression was neutral, but John could tell from his tone that he was worried. No, more like concerned.
"You didn't hurt me, if that's what you mean," he scoffed good-naturedly. "Always so concerned. I'm not some delicate flower, you know. I was a soldier."
"Oh, I know," Lestrade said, his eyes drifting to John's scar again. John let him look for a moment before standing—his knees nearly buckled; that was a touch embarrassing—and gathering his clothing. Lestrade opened another drawer and offered John a wipe for the semen that had splattered his chest. He took one, and they both spent a moment mopping up and generally righting themselves. They didn't speak, but John wouldn't call the silence awkward. More like . . . companionable.
"So, tell me," John said when he was fully dressed and feeling more recovered, "why is it that you have lube in your desk?"
"Confiscated it off a prisoner," Lestrade answered. "Sodding bastard got it in his head that he could use it to slip out his handcuffs. He bribed a guard into bringing it in, or rather seduced a guard. It seemed like a waste to throw it away."
"But you never thought to take it home?"
Lestrade shrugged. "I tossed it in that drawer and forgot about it until now."
John nodded. "Fair enough." He studied Lestrade's face. "So, what now?"
Lestrade scratched his head. "I just got out of a nasty divorce, to be honest, so I don't know how I'd feel about . . . I dunno, starting anything. Maybe we could take it slow?"
John nodded again. "Fine by me. I've never even dated a bloke before, so maybe friends with an insane attraction to one another is a good starting point for us."
Lestrade smiled, and John felt a weight lift off his chest. "Brilliant. Now, come here you."
Lestrade pulled John into a kiss, a slow and sweet one that was a sharp contrast to what they'd shared just minutes before. John felt himself relax for the first time in months. It seemed his life was starting to sort itself out.
Of course, they'd both forgotten about Sherlock.
The door burst open, and he whirled in, his coat flapping dramatically behind him as he all but shouted, "Less than forty-five minutes that took me. And your police squad would still be caught up in that useless fibre sample if I'd not—"
He stopped and stared at John and Lestrade. They were standing a solid six feet away from each other and had perfectly neutral expressions on their faces.
"Solve the case, Sherlock?" John asked pleasantly.
"I'm happy to look at whatever you've got." Lestrade smiled.
"Oh, God," Sherlock moaned. "Not you two! I leave you alone for a few minutes, and—" Sherlock stopped short and seemed to be thinking. A moment later, he looked at Lestrade and said, "Since you're shagging my flatmate, can I have a look at those cold cases you keep hiding from me?"
"Oh, sure," Lestrade said enthusiastically. "I'll bring them round your flat tonight. You can stay in the sitting room whilst John and I go upstairs and—"
"I changed my mind! John, you'll have to move out immediately. I simply can't have the both of you in Baker Street if you're going to be doing that. The Work is too delicate for—"
Both John and Lestrade burst out laughing. Sherlock looked confused until John yanked Lestrade close and began to snog him furiously. Sherlock shouted something about ringing Mrs Hudson and having her tell them to stop, and they had to break apart to laugh again.
"Don't worry, Sherlock," John said between chuckles, "I'm sure we can work out a way to share your DI."
"We all know how good you are at sharing," Lestrade said, wrapping his arms around John.
Sherlock looked like he was going to have a conniption. Lestrade and John later admitted to each other that they almost felt bad for teasing him. Almost.
…
The end.