There was a sharp knock on Greg's door. He awoke with a start. These days he dozed off on the couch watching telly as often as he actually went to bed. Did that mean he was getting old? He'd always considered himself a "young" forty-three, despite his graying hair.

His thoughts were interrupted by another knock at the door. Oh. Right.

He stood, stretching and yawning. Who the hell would be dropping by at 1:00 on a Saturday morning? It wasn't like Greg had a lot of mates that would come over unannounced—especially in the middle of the night. Sometimes his friends from Uni would all get together for a pick-up football game at the park and hit the pubs afterwards. But it wasn't like any of them were particularly close.

Greg's questions were all answered when he looked through the spy-hole of the door and was greeted by a mess of dark curls. Sherlock had a ridiculously haughty expression hitched across his face. Damn it.

Greg debated not opening the door, but he figured Sherlock might just pick the lock and come in anyway. Best do this on his own terms. He unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door slowly. Sherlock smelled like cigarettes as he pushed past Greg—walking into the flat without waiting to be invited.

"Quaint little place you've got here," Sherlock said dryly. Like all of this was perfectly normal. Like he hadn't showed up out of the blue at a completely indecent hour.

"Um… thanks?" Greg closed the door and walked back over to the couch. But he did not sit down.

Sherlock removed his scarf and coat, draping them over the back of the sofa. His eyes flicked over the walls and the carpet of the flat, drinking in the information. Greg's stomach jumped uncomfortably. He didn't even want to think about what he'd accidentally revealed by the state of his dingy little flat.

It was sparsely furnished. No pictures on the walls. The bare minimum for functionality and nothing else. This was not his home. His wife had taken that in the divorce. This flat was just a transition that Greg had yet to get out of.

Greg cleared his throat. "Was there something I can help you with or did you just show up to stare at my wallpaper?" Said wallpaper was an off-yellow color, and Greg despised it.

Sherlock turned to face him and the corners of his mouth twitched upwards.

"I got tired of waiting."

"For what?" Greg snorted.

"For you to show up at my place, push me up against a wall, and ravage me thoroughly. Really, that's what I would have preferred. But you were taking too long—so I decided to come here."

Sherlock began to walk towards him, slowly, calmly, and really the advance shouldn't have felt nearly as predatory as it did. Greg couldn't look away. He wasn't sure if he was holding his ground defiantly, or frozen to the spot.

When they were almost within reaching distance, Greg braced himself for a kiss.

Maybe Sherlock saw it and just wanted to be contrary. Maybe it had been his plan from the beginning.

But Greg was quite taken aback when Sherlock dropped to his knees on the soft carpet, putting his mouth right at the level of Greg's belt buckle. There were still maybe 20 centimeters separating them. Sherlock looked up at him from underneath his eyelashes, and ran his tongue across his lower lip.

"Do you like me this way?" Sherlock's biting drawl had gone soft, almost pliant. "Or would you prefer it if I struggled?"

Well that was a loaded bloody question wasn't it? Sherlock leaned in just enough so Greg could feel the heat of his breath through his trousers. His cock was swelling rapidly.

"You seem like the type that might enjoy the show… no officer, please… stop… I don't want this," Sherlock almost sounded bored.

"I think the illusion might be ruined by the fact that showed up at my flat in the middle of the night and asked for this." Greg realized his fingers were tangled in Sherlock's curls, and he had no recollection of reaching out for them.

"You remember my safeword?" Sherlock smiled, leaning into Greg's touch just the right amount.

"Vivaldi," Greg said through gritted teeth, "you know I'm quite frusterated right now. I might actually hurt you."

"Please do. That would be infinitely more interesting than just kneeling here while you have an internal crisis."

Greg tugged at Sherlock's hair experimentally. The taller man's body went taught—at complete attention. He was breathing a little faster.

"Take what you want… Detective Inspector."

And that was it. Greg's self control just shattered into a million tiny pieces. Because Sherlock had been pushing all of his buttons for months, and there was only so much one man could be expected to endure. He grabbed a more firm hold of Sherlock's hair and pulled his face closer, so the other man's nose was pressing into Greg's crotch.

"Unzip my trousers, and suck you filthy whore."

Greg was a bit surprised at himself—at the way his voice dropped into a frankly menacing growl. However, Sherlock's obedience was nearly instantaneous. Greg didn't know it was possible to unbuckle a belt and unzip trousers so fast. But Sherlock was already nuzzling at his swollen erection through the thin fabric of his pants. Mouthing the wet spot that was forming around the tip of his cock.

Sweet Jesus.

Greg was going to die of a heart attack right here, wasn't he? He steadied himself by yanking on Sherlock's hair even harder, eliciting a small yelp.

"I said suck it, you disgusting little tart. And be quick about it or I'm going to break that pretty face of yours."

Sherlock pulled Greg's pants down and wrapped those unfairly plump lips around the head of the DI's cock. Greg let out a low moan at the contact. Clearly, Sherlock had sucked quite a few cocks before. Because he swirled his tongue around just so, massaging the tense little bundle of nerve endings underneath the glans, lapping at it in an entirely unsavory manner.

And Greg could not take it. God, it was too much. It was bloody fantastic. But he could feel Sherlock smirking around his prick, and something had to be done about that right away.

He shoved himself into Sherlock's mouth until he felt the smug bastard start to gag.

"Is this what you wanted?" Greg growled. "Did you want me to fuck your throat so hard that you can't talk properly for days? Really, it might be an improvement. I might do this every time you tamper with evidence, or insult my team members. Because you're damn pretty when you're choking on my cock—and this way you can't say anything infuriating."

Sherlock moaned around him. It was like a wordless challenge. Is that all you've got? Greg began to fuck his mouth in earnest. And even if it was painful, Sherlock didn't let on. He just hollowed his cheeks, hummed, and let Greg use him.

The drool was running down Sherlock's chin. His eyes were half closed. His body had gone almost limp. He was still kneeling upright, but just barely. Greg was dizzy with the adrenaline rush. He could do anything. Sherlock would certainly let him.

"Such a lovely little cock slave," Greg pulled back out of Sherlock's mouth to let him breathe.

Sherlock gasped for air raggedly. Greg's mind raced. He didn't have any rope around the flat. He had his belt, and his handcuffs. No. Going to get the handcuffs would take too much time. He'd start thinking about what was happening.

Greg grasped the end of his belt and slowly slid it out. "Let's see those fragile wrists of yours."

Sherlock stared up at him for a moment, not saying anything. Not directly defiant. But he didn't show any signs of motion.

Well now.

Greg drew his hand back and slapped Sherlock across the face. The sound of the blow echoed through the quiet flat. Sherlock's looked a bit startled. His cheek began to color where Greg had hit him.

"I said give me your wrists!" Greg barked. And he slapped Sherlock again. Angling for the exact same place.

Sherlock snapped to attention. Raising his hands in front of him, and avoiding direct eye contact.

"There's a good boy." The older man cooed softly, grabbing a hold of Sherlock's wrists and beginning to wind the belt around them. He looped it in a sort of figure eight, with another circle around it for good measure, before latching the buckle. It was something Sherlock could definitely squeeze out of if he wanted to. But he wouldn't slip out of it by accident.

Once the latch was secure, he placed both of his hands on Sherlock's broad shoulders and pushed him gracelessly back onto the floor. Sherlock fell with a small gasp, perhaps the air got knocked out of him just a little bit. But he scrambled to rearrange himself so his feet were on the floor, rather than awkwardly bent underneath him.

Greg slid comfortably between Sherlock's thighs, supporting himself on one arm, while using the other to pin Sherlock's wrists down above him. The younger man's eyes were wide, irises a barely visible rim of dark blue around the engorged dark pupils.

Sherlock began to squirm slightly. Like he was fighting it. Like maybe he was trying to buck Greg off of him. Like a horse that hadn't been properly broken. But Greg chuckled, because he knew better. He could feel Sherlock's erection pressing into him, seeking out heat and friction.

Greg dipped down to nip at Sherlock's neck, and the younger man instantly stilled. Greg bit down a little harder and Sherlock moaned.

"Want me to leave bruises?" Greg nearly growled. "I'm going to either way. By the time I'm done with you, your entire neck is going to be a lovely shade of purple, so everyone will be able to see what I've done to you—and know what a whore you are."

"Yes, please, sir," Sherlock didn't quite sound condescending anymore. No. More like breathy and decidedly aroused.

Greg bit down again and started sucking a large bruise on the side of Sherlock's neck. Somewhere, at the back of his mind, he was glad that Sherlock usually wore a scarf. It wouldn't look like he was trying to hide something.

"Keep your hands above your head." Greg sat back and began unzipping Sherlock's trousers. Cheeky bastard. Sherlock wasn't even wearing pants. He wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's long, slender cock and began to stroke it languidly.

He watched with detached interest as a drop of pre come pooled at the tip of the taller man's cock, and made a small wet spot on his silk shirt. Sherlock was dead still except for each ragged breath he took.

Greg pushed up the edge of his shirt so he could see a band of milky, soft skin. Then he dragged his thumb along the sharpness of Sherlock's hip-bone before digging in with his nail and tracing a dark red scratch. Sherlock shivered.

"If you keep doing that, I'm going to come, sir." His voice was thin and shaky.

"Not without permission you won't."

Sherlock writhed around a bit, biting on his lips and fighting the inevitable. But Greg just kept stroking, slowly picking up speed, and squeezing down a bit harder.

The DI mused vaguely, wondering if he should strip Sherlock's clothes off. But he did rather like the contrast. His usually crisp shirt and trousers rumpled. Sweaty. And his cock out, cheekily dripping a trail of pre-come onto the purple silk button down.

Besides. If Sherlock were naked, Greg would want to fuck him just that much more. He didn't have any condoms or lubricant. Not the sort of thing you kept around when you were divorced and too busy to start dating again.

"Please," Sherlock whimpered, "I'm so close."

"You can do better than that."

"Sir, if you let me come, I'll deep throat you. I bet I could take it all."

"Would you like swallowing my entire cock?"

"Yes. I'd love it. Just... ugh..."

Sherlock was starting to tense. Greg saw it. He let go of Sherlock's cock and wrapped a strong hand around the other man's throat instead. He stared to choke him. Cutting off his air supply. Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head.

Greg barely slid their cocks together. Rutted up against Sherlock ever so slightly—and Sherlock was coming. His cock jerked and he painted his shirt with little stripes of ejaculate. Greg groaned at the sight. Then promptly released Sherlock's throat and slapped him again.

"Did I say you could come?" He growled.

"I'm sorry, sir. I couldn't—I couldn't control myself."

Greg dipped down and bit the side of Sherlock's neck that wasn't purple yet. He didn't stop until he tasted blood. Sherlock shuddered and moaned beneath him.

Then, before Greg knew what he was doing, he slid off of Sherlock and dragged himself up to sit on the edge of the couch. His rock hard cock jutted out into the cold air of the flat, still throbbing.

"Get up here, whore. Drape yourself over my knees. I can see you're going to have to learn who's in charge the hard way."

Sherlock kneeled timidly and shuffled over to Greg. With a rather uncertain look, he leaned over so that his stomach was pressed against Greg's thighs. Greg pulled him up, shifting him and arranging his body until Sherlock's deliciously plump arse was sticking out. Just begging to be smacked. Greg pushed Sherlock's trousers down enough to reveal the two pale globes of bare flesh. He traced his fingers across the exposed skin for a moment before he drew his hand back, and brought it down swiftly against Sherlock's left cheek. The taller man jolted, perhaps whimpered slightly, but he made no move towards escape.

"Who's your master?" Greg barked. He brought his hand down again. Sherlock's pale arse had the first faint hints of crimson painted across it. Good.

"You are, sir."

"Say my name!" Greg smacked the younger man with the palm of his hand a bit more enthusiastically. He got three strokes in before Sherlock managed a reply.

"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade."

"You're my slut."

"Oh yes." Sherlock cried as Greg slapped him again.

"Do you want to suck my cock again?"

"Yes, sir."

"Beg for it." More brutal blows. Sherlock's skin was a lovely variety of pale pinks and deeper reds.

"Please let me suck you off, sir. I want to feel your rock hard prick violating the back of my throat. I want to taste your come."

A few more swift blows, then Greg allowed Sherlock to slide off and crowd up between his knees to dive down onto his cock. Greg was entirely too exited. The second he felt the heat of Sherlock's mouth wrap around him again, he knew he wouldn't last long. He didn't give any warning. Just a thick cry. Then the heat ripped through him. He was pulsing. Emptying himself down the other man's throat. Sherlock swallowed it all greedily.

Then greg slumped back onto the couch. They were both panting.

The weight of everything they'd just down settled down around him, and Greg's eyes snapped down to where Sherlock was leaning against the coffee table—grinning.

"Well, that was quite interesting." Sherlock tucked himself back inside his trousers and zipped them up.

Greg just nodded weakly. He wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to look Sherlock in the eyes again. Not after all those thing's he'd just said.

But then Sherlock stood, pulled on his coat, and tied the scarf around his neck. He walked towards the doorway, and didn't turn around until it was open and he was halfway out.

"Until next time then, Gregory."

He was gone before Greg could reply.

Oh my. Apparently, being drunk is quite conducive to writing smut. I'll have to try it more often. I'd apologize for my general naughtiness, but I know that none of you mind. Sorry if there are mistakes. I didn't get a lot of time to edit.

I might be able to manage Tuesday. If not, Thursday it is :)