Fair warning: mentions of blood play and knives.

Really, Lestrade had only tackled Sherlock to save his life. He would swear it on a bible—his intentions had been entirely innocent. Altruistic, even. Plenty of people from the Yard wouldn't have done it. They would have let Sherlock get shot.

But when the murderous maniac they'd been chasing all evening was finally cornered, and started firing at them from the window on the top floor of a town house, Greg hadn't thought. He'd just reacted.

He'd launched himself and dragged Sherlock to the ground behind his squad car. Everybody else was in the midst of their own duck and cover. Sally was around the corner, crouched behind a lorry. Dimmock was on the other side of the street, sheltering behind a beat up sedan.

Nobody saw Lestrade fall on top of Sherlock as the second bullet whizzed over their heads.

Just like nobody saw how Sherlock wrapped his arms around Lestrade's neck and began kissing him feverishly—despite the utter inappropriateness of such a reaction to getting shot at. The adrenaline of near death was still pounding through Greg's veins. It was an awful moment for any sort of rational cognitive function.

All that really registered was a pair of warm, soft lips moving against his, and in the moment of dazed terror and elation, Greg was more than happy to oblige. Before he knew what was happening, their tongues were tangled, and Sherlock was panting into his mouth, bucking his hips and—dear god—blazing erection up against Greg's thigh.

Greg pulled away for a moment and the shock threatened to set in.

"Stop thinking," Sherlock whispered.

And then Greg was drowning again. Drowning in Sherlock. And fuck. This wasn't good at all. This was so terribly wrong. Why was it turning him on? It really shouldn't be. But Sherlock's mouth. It was fucking perfect… really, Greg couldn't help but imagine what those wonderfully pouty lips would feel like wrapped around his cock…

Another gunshot shattered the silence. Greg was jolted out of the kiss once more, and rolled off of Sherlock, cursing.

In the aftermath of the shootout, the criminal running out of bullets, and them having to go into the building and subdue him with their nightsticks—Greg didn't have a lot of time to dwell on what had happened.

The rest of the day was a complete blur.

It wasn't until he was lying in his bed, about to fall asleep, that his mobile buzzed on the nightstand beside him. He picked it up and squinted at the screen with bleary eyes.

It displayed a fuzzy picture of a thin, pale wrist, wrapped in a pair of police-issue handcuffs. His handcuffs. They had to be.

Greg groaned out loud. But he didn't delete the photograph. He just set his phone aside, and proceeded not to think about the fact that Sherlock was handcuffed to his bed right now. And most likely touching himself. God damn it. This wasn't fair. Greg was popping erections like a man half his age and he couldn't feel much besides incredible frustration because Sherlock bloody Holmes, of all people, was the one causing it.

His mobile vibrated again. He should have known better than to open another picture message. But really, he was tired. It had been a rough day. Wasn't he entitled to a moment of weakness? Or two? Or how ever many it would take to get him off so he could fall into sweet unconsciousness?

Oh Jesus. That was a cock. And extremely erect, long, and pale cock, framed by a patch of dark curls.

That was a picture of Sherlock bloody Homes's cock.

Greg had always considered himself to be more sexually opportunistic than anything. But after being married to a woman for nearly ten years, the sight of another man's rock hard prick was a bit startling. And slightly arousing. Fine. Very arousing.

Tell me what to do - SH

There weren't enough words in the English language to express all the things Greg wanted Sherlock to do. Just like there weren't words for what Greg wanted to do to Sherlock in that moment. Strangle, slap, bite, hold, lick, and fuck into the mattress were the ones that floated immediately to mind.

Finger yourself.

Well, that actually summed up what Greg wanted Sherlock to do quite nicely.

Predictable - SH

Greg read the reply twice, slightly miffed. Well fine then.

Hold your breath until you're on the verge of passing out, while fingering yourself.

Better - SH

There was a long pause between replies. Then Greg's mobile was buzzing repeatedly. Phone call, not a text. He picked up, and all he needed to hear was Sherlock's ragged breathing before he slid a hand down the front of his pajama trousers.

"I held my breath until my vision went splotchy, is that acceptable?" Sherlock was talking in a voice Greg had never heard before. It wasn't calculated or sarcastic. It was fucking frantic.

"I guess so." Greg wrapped his fingers around his cock in a loose fist and started slowly fucking it.

"Is that what you'd do to me? Would you choke me?"

"Oh yes," Greg licked his lips unconsciously, "I'd throttle the fight right out of you."

Sherlock groaned. "I want you to hold a straight razor against my throat while you fuck me. I want you to cut me and lick up the blood so I can taste the iron on your lips when you kiss me."

Greg really shouldn't be getting off to this. But he couldn't help it. Perhaps it was just the power of suggestion, how clearly aroused Sherlock was. But he didn't remember the last time his cock had leaked this much pre-come.

"I'm close, Lestrade," Sherlock practically growled.

"Stop." Greg continued to languidly fuck his own fist as the racket on the other end of the line ceased suddenly. It was possible that Sherlock had just ignored Greg's instructions and come anyway. But he was still breathing quite heavily. Greg could practically feel the tension in the silence. "You can start up again when you've calmed down enough."

He heard movement. Mattress springs creaking.

"You're wondering what I'm doing," Sherlock somehow sounded strained and condescending at the same time. "I'm sprawled out on my back. Your handcuffs are wrapped around my left wrist, though the other side is not attached to anything, and I'm fucking myself on a 20 centimeter long dildo."

Greg squeezed his cock just a little bit harder, and there was no point in bothering to pretend he wasn't wondering what Sherlock's arse would feel like. No doubt, tight, and hot as sin.

Sherlock started to let out all these breathy little keening noises. Each one pushed Greg dangerously close to the edge.

"Please, sir," Sherlock moaned. "May I come?"

"Not quite yet. But don't stop fucking yourself."

"I can't hold on much longer. Please. Oh god. It feels so good, Greg. But I bet your cock would feel even better."

"Wait..." Greg counted to ten. "All right. Come. Now."

Sherlock let out a broken little grunt. It was all Greg needed. The orgasm ripped through him. He was crashing on a wave of tingling pleasure. It was only when his ejaculate started to cool on his stomach, and he came down from the rapid endorphin spike, that he realized what had just happened.

He'd just participated in actual phone sex with the world's smugest consulting detective.

God. Fucking. Damn. It.

"Good night, Detective Inspector." Sherlock sounded spent, and entirely too amused.

"Good night," Greg said stiffly before ringing off.

See you on Saturday my darlings! :)