Greg didn't like having to do drugs busts on Sherlock's flat. The first time he'd done it, the way Sherlock had looked at him made his stomach turn, and try to cringe in on itself. It was a desperate measure. Sherlock had shown up high to crime scenes twice more, and people were starting to ask questions.
But when Sherlock first opened the door, and his face blanched, it felt like Greg's heart had dropped out through his stomach.
He was used to Sherlock barging in, wrecking things, fixing them, insulting everybody, and being generally insufferable before barging back out. Sherlock was a man in constant control. But when his eyes fixed on the drug squad—Sherlock looked utterly helpless.
It had only been for a moment. Greg had seen the actual fear flash across his face. The same thing he saw in every criminal's eyes when they knew there was nowhere to run. Of course, Sherlock had reverted into yelling and acting indignant very quickly. But it had been an obvious defense mechanism.
He'd stayed relatively calm when they'd found a small bag in the kitchen, sealed in a mason jar under the sink. But he hadn't really thrown a fit until they'd gone for his bedroom. Sherlock had stood in the doorway, and turned all his shouting directly at Greg, saying there were no drugs just private things.
Of course, they were obligated to look when Sherlock said that. Greg managed to talk Sherlock down from hysteria by promising he'd look himself. Sherlock just went and sat on the couch, utterly listless.
It hadn't taken Greg long to find what Sherlock had been so upset about. It was a wooden chest in the corner of his closet. When Greg opened it, he'd tried not to gasp. It was full of dildos—big ones—and a ball gag, and padded leather cuffs, and a dog collar, and a set of horse whips, and all manner of high-end bondage gear.
Greg closed the lid of the chest quietly, and informed the rest of the drug squad that they were done. He took the mason jar of cocaine, and told Sherlock to get his bloody act together. Sherlock did not respond.
Of course, Sherlock got a written warning, but no real consequences were carried out. Things reverted back to their normal order soon enough.
Except the contents of that chest haunted Greg's dreams. He'd wake up in the middle of the night with a start—jolted out of sleep by a falling sensation, accompanied by the imagined echoing sound of a riding crop whistling through the air to make contact with pale skin. And when he saw Sherlock the next day, he sometimes couldn't help imagining what he'd look like with that thick leather collar wrapped around his elegant, long neck.
Teehhee. I'm such a tease. I'll see you on Tuesday :)