I think, that by this point, you've probably realized that this story is just my kink exploration playground. I have no remorse. And so far, you people have been delightfully un-squickable. But that being said, this chapter is an homage to Desperation and Water Sports. Yes. Piss. There's lots of it here. If that sounds gross to you, don't worry about it. You can safely read down to the page break for happy fluff times and skip the rest. But otherwise, buckle up for the wonderfully filthy ride!

Sometimes Greg wouldn't see Sherlock for weeks. No phone calls. No texts. Absolutely nothing. Then he'd come home to find Sherlock perched on his couch, chain smoking. Whenever he showed up, Sherlock had fallen into the habit of staying the night. Sometimes he'd stay at Greg's apartment for a few days. Other times he'd be gone in the morning before Greg woke up. Almost like Sherlock was living there, but only part-time.

Whenever Sherlock disappeared, he came back with puckered little bumps in the squishy pocket of his elbow. Still using. Not quite a junkie. He'd cut down considerably in the time that Greg had known him. The drugs were only a "once in a while" endeavor, it seemed. Sherlock only relapsed when there were no interesting cases on, and Greg was otherwise occupied. Too busy to tie Sherlock down. Hurt him. Force the man out of his own head for a little while.

Sure, he worried about Sherlock's health. He worried that the thin, pale man didn't eat enough. Didn't sleep enough. Seemed to have a perverse attraction towards all things dangerous.

But usually he kept his mouth shut. Sherlock wasn't the type that wanted saving. After dealing with too many addicts over the course of his life, he knew better. You'll never be able to help anybody that doesn't want to be saved.

And then, one day, Greg went by Sherlock's flat looking for him… to find it completely empty.

For a moment, Greg panicked. Worried that something horrible had happened. And the twist in his stomach was frantic. Sick. Before he knew what he was doing, he pulled out his mobile and pressed the call button.

"Hello?" Sherlock drawled, somewhat petulantly.

"Sherlock…" Greg breathed a sigh of relief, "you're… I'm at your flat. Did you move?"

There was a long silence. "I suppose that would be one way of phrasing it."

"What? Did you get evicted?"

Another pause.

"Sherlock?"

"My financial circumstances changed abruptly. I had to relocate."

The pieces started to fall together in Greg's head. He knew Sherlock didn't pay for his own flat. Perhaps the family had cut him off? Greg had never met any of Sherlock's relatives. But he knew about an older brother. One that was apparently fond of giving these sorts of ultimatums. Get clean, or no more money for you.

"Oh… well… right then," Greg said awkwardly. Realizing he was quite showing his hand. He shouldn't have reacted so viscerally. After all, people moved. It wasn't a strange occurrence.

"It's nothing to concern yourself with," he could hear Sherlock rolling his eyes, "I'm not out on the streets or something."

Silence held.

"Was there something you wanted, Lestrade?"

"Um, no, I guess."

"I'm hanging up then."

Greg held his quiet phone for about thirty seconds before he realized that Sherlock had actually hung up on him. He got a text about three hours later, just when he was sitting down to dinner.

You don't have to worry about me - SH

I know.

Will you stop it, then? - SH

No.

Leave your door unlocked unless you want me to break in again - SH

Greg smiled. He never knew what the right answer was. But perhaps he'd guessed it right. At least this time. That, or Sherlock would come over no matter what he said. Either way was fine with him.

It started with Sherlock squirming. Well no. Greg supposed it started with Sherlock accepting a beer when Greg offered it—which almost never happened. Then Sherlock drank two cups of tea. And a large glass of water.

It would have registered, if Greg weren't so painfully used to Sherlock doing bizarre things. For all Greg knew, the detective had forgotten to drink anything all day, and had only just realized he was thirsty.

The squirming came perhaps an hour after all the liquid consumption. They were still in the watching telly and pretending that we're normal people part of the evening. He never knew why Sherlock allowed him this. To just sit in silence, without making condescending remarks about Greg's poor choice in entertainment material.

But the squirming was distracting.

Greg felt the vibrations of it on the cushions. Saw it in the corner of his eye. When he finally chanced a look, he saw that Sherlock was pressing his thighs together. His whole body was tense. He leaned forward slightly, and shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

Wait.

That was a familiar motion. That was what Greg's daughter used to do when she was very small—and still figuring out the concept of using the toilet when the pressure in her bladder became uncomfortable.

It looked like Sherlock needed to take a piss.

Greg didn't understand. The toilet was less than four meters away. There was nothing stopping him from getting up and going.

Except, perhaps, the erection straining quite obviously against the front of Sherlock's tight trousers.

Greg allowed himself a minute or two to contemplate the situation. He'd heard of this sort of thing, but he didn't know much about it. Intellectually, he understood that some people derived an odd sort of pleasure from being absolutely desperate and denying themselves up until the very last minute.

Come to think of it, Sherlock almost never excused himself to use the toilet. Was he in the habit of waiting until he couldn't stand it? It seemed like the sort of thing Greg would notice. Or that Sherlock would have brought up before. After all, Sherlock was never shy about springing new kinks on him.

Perhaps Sherlock simply didn't indulge in this one all that often?

Greg's thoughts were interrupted when Sherlock let out a soft noise. Almost a moan—but choked off and breathy. He looked at Greg, then he slid a hand down to squeeze his own cock. He bit his lip and grunted.

"Something wrong, pet?" Greg raised an eyebrow.

"Sir, I… I really need to relive myself."

"Well," Greg smiled, "perhaps you shouldn't have guzzled down so much tea. It would be rude of you not to sit here and finish watching this program with me."

The way Sherlock looked at him, the way his eyes widened and his mouth fell open, Greg knew he'd figured out how this particular game worked. If Sherlock had wanted to go to the toilet, he would have gone. The only possible reason for him to sit there and squirm, was because he wanted Greg to help him along in his flirting with the edge.

The idea of Sherlock pissing all over the couch was less than appealing. But then again, he could always make him clean it up afterwards.

Sherlock squeezed his own cock again, cupping it, holding onto it. Not stroking. It seemed more like he was making an effort to hold it all in. Or perhaps to distract himself from the mounting discomfort that was undoubtedly throbbing through him.

Greg reached up and wrapped his fingers around the back of Sherlock's neck. He applied a firm, but gentle pressure. Sherlock stilled.

"You're distracting me from the program, whore," Greg said evenly. "Stay still."

Sherlock made another small noise. But he stayed almost completely immobile. His breaths grew ragged.

"Sir," he said quietly, "I… I'm not sure how much longer I'll be able to last."

"Oh really?" Greg said with detached interest. "You're going to wet yourself, like a child?"

Sherlock whimpered and nodded.

Greg let out a long suffering sigh, but he stood up and pulled Sherlock to his feet. Sherlock winced and doubled over. Obviously unprepared for the added pain of standing. Greg waited patiently until Sherlock was able to waddle towards the bathroom.

The DI followed. Sherlock didn't bother to close the door behind him. He didn't even get near the toilet before Greg pinned him against the wall. Sherlock grunted. He looked almost shocked. Greg kept a small distance between them.

Yes. This would do. Tile floor, easy clean up. Greg had never been particularly squeamish about bodily fluids. And if Sherlock wanted this, he could give it to him.

"Sir," the younger man gasped, wincing slightly.

"Go on," Greg half raised an eyebrow. "Piss yourself like the filthy little slut you are."

Sherlock shuddered. His cheeks began to flush. Like he was embarrassed. He gazed longingly towards the toilet. So close. But so far. He didn't struggle. Probably didn't have the energy for it just then.

Greg waited. Surprised at how intriguing this game was. He didn't think he would enjoy it. But he did like it when Sherlock gave him this sort of power. Perhaps that was the aspect of it that had his cock half hard.

"I…" Sherlock whispered, "I don't know if I can."

"Of course you can. We just have to stand here long enough. Then you're going to completely lose control."

Sherlock shut his eyes tight. He moaned, through Greg couldn't really tell if it was a sound of pain or pleasure. Sherlock obviously had to go quite badly.

"I've never…" Sherlock panted, "god. Not when someone was watching."

Greg wondered if Sherlock was telling the truth or not. He supposed it didn't really matter. "So you've done this by yourself? Drank too much water, then waited. Tried to hold out until you just couldn't take it anymore? Have you ever messed your clothes before?"

"Yes," Sherlock squeaked.

"In your own flat?"

"I… I was doing an experiment in the kitchen… and I didn't realize… I didn't make it to the toilet. I pissed myself in the living room."

"Liar," Greg breathed. "You knew exactly what you were doing. You did it on purpose. Because you like feeling desperate and I bet you loved pissing in your trousers. Did you touch yourself afterwards?"

Sherlock nodded meekly.

"Well, then, whore, we're going to wait here for as long as it takes. And afterwards, I'm going to pull down your wet clothes just enough to fuck you. And then you're going to wear your shame for the rest of the night."

"Oh god."

That, apparently, was just what Sherlock needed to go over the edge. There was a sharp intake of breath. And Greg saw it. The dark spot on the front of Sherlock's trousers. It spread rapidly. Down Sherlock's inner thighs. The younger man made several near pornographic noises. Soon they were standing in a puddle of Sherlock's urine. Greg found he was a lot less put off by it than he thought he would be.

Or maybe it was that Sherlock dropped to his knees the second he finished, pulled Greg's cock out and began to suck it like he was starving. Greg rested his hand gently on Sherlock's head. Not forcing him to take more. Simply reassuring him.

"Such a good boy," Greg murmured. "Just look at you. So dirty."

Sherlock moaned around Greg's cock. And damn. He wasn't going to last very long like this at all. He pulled back. Sherlock stayed on his knees, looking up at him. He looked thoroughly debauched. Filthy in every sense of the word.

Yes. Greg could do this. No problem.

"Stay," he said firmly.

Then he walked out of the bathroom, back towards his bedroom. He grabbed the lubricant from the bedside table and returned. Sherlock was exactly where Greg had left him. Kneeling in the puddle.

Greg pushed Sherlock forward, so that he was on all fours and reached underneath him to unbuckled his belt and unzip his trousers. Sherlock was still painfully hard. Greg gave the younger man's cock a small squeeze before he carefully pulled down his trousers, just enough to expose that delicious arse of his.

The DI kneeled behind Sherlock, slicked a finger, and slowly circled Sherlock's arsehole. Not pushing inside just yet. Just flirting with the idea of it.

"Please, sir," Sherlock all but squeaked.

"What's that?"

"Please fuck me. I need to feel your cock inside me."

Jesus.

How was Greg supposed to say no to that? How was anybody ever supposed to say no to that?

He pressed his finger into Sherlock's entrance slowly and carefully. He took his time adding another. Sherlock bucked back against his motions. Trying to get more. But Greg liked to draw this part out. Make him really ache for it. Wait until he was a moaning, writhing mess.

Sherlock didn't seem to need very much to get to that point. He was already quite on edge. So it wasn't long before Greg slicked his cock and positioned it. He grasped Sherlock's hip with one hand, and slowly slid inside.

God.

The heat. He didn't understand how it got more fantastic every time they did this. It didn't make sense. But he never wanted it to stop.

He established a slow, steady rhythm that seemed to drive Sherlock completely up the wall. He made noises Greg had never heard before. Almost like he was crying.

"Oh fuck," Sherlock whimpered.

"You like this don't you?" Greg picked up his pace a bit. "Being fucked in a puddle of piss. You're disgusting."

"Yes," Sherlock breathed.

Greg slapped his arse. His motions became more brutal. Sherlock didn't seem to mind. In fact, he seemed to rather love it.

"What other twisted little fantasies do you have, slut? Tell me."

"Sometimes when I masturbate, I go in the shower, and I turn the warm water on just a trickle... and I imagine it's you pissing on my face."

Wow. Greg digested that for a moment. His rhythm stuttered sightly, but he found it again without much trouble.

"Why imagine? You should have just asked," Greg grunted.

"Really?"

"Anything for my little come whore."

Sherlock moaned. He was trembling. It didn't seem like he could take a whole lot more. Greg was right there with him. Surfing dangerously close to the edge.

"Go on, slut," he grunted, "finish your mess. Come on the floor. Perhaps I'll make you lick it up afterwards."

The younger man tensed. His muscles squeezed down deliciously, milking Greg for all he was worth. He let go. Letting the pleasure course through him as he emptied himself into Sherlock arse.

He pulled out slowly. He decided he'd kept true enough to his heat of the moment promise without actually making Sherlock wear his messy clothes all night. So he helped the younger man strip. He pushed Sherlock towards the shower to rinse off and mopped up the mess as best he could with a few towels. Tomorrow was laundry day anyway. He threw Sherlock's dirty clothes in the hamper, along with the towels and joined him in the shower.

They rinsed quickly. Sherlock didn't seem to be in the mood to talk. They dried off and made their way towards the bedroom. Greg laid down and gathered the younger man into his arms. He'd begun to drift off to sleep before Sherlock spoke.

"I wasn't lying."

"Hmm?" Greg blinked.

"I've really never done that in front of another person before."

"Oh." Greg really wasn't sure how to process that particular information.

"I didn't think you'd actually take it that far. You're wonderfully indulgent, do you know that?" Sherlock chuckled slightly.

"Yeah... well... you're a bit hard to resist," Greg sighed.

Sherlock shifted against him slightly. Pressing into him just a little bit more. He didn't say anything else. Greg simply appreciated the silence. The warmth of Sherlock's body against him. It was perfect. Too perfect. It wouldn't last. But Greg fully intended to savor every moment of it.

Yep. More drunk writing. For you, my lovely friends.

See you next Saturday! :D