Fair warning: one day, I will run out of kinks to write about. Today is not that day. Prepare for cross-dressing and feels!

Sherlock's new flat wasn't anywhere near as nice as the old one. Greg could tell from the outside. The building was taller, but everything looked small and cramped. The lift was old and creaky. The shag carpeting was worn down and stained.

Still, he dutifully arrived at 628 and knocked. He was a bit early. But he figured it probably wouldn't matter.

"Hold on," Sherlock called from behind the door.

Greg stood for about five minutes before he knocked again.

"I'm not ready yet! I told you what time to get here!" Sherlock's voice sounded farther away and slightly peevish.

Not ready yet.

Greg's mind instantly began to race. What was Sherlock doing? What did he have planned? Should he be bracing for something frightening?

The minutes trickled by. Greg shifted back and forth from one foot the other. A small mousy woman, probably another tenant, walked past him. She raised an eyebrow and he smiled, giving a half shrug. She walked just a little bit faster, hurriedly shoving the key into the door of her lock.

Maybe this was one of Sherlock's experiments. To see exactly how long Greg would wait in the hall for him.

"Come on Sherlock," the DI groaned, "how long are you going to make me stand here?"

There was no reply. But perhaps a minute or two later, the doorknob turned. The door opened slowly.

It took Greg a moment to process what he saw.

Still Sherlock. But… dressed in… women's clothes? Greg's brain quite nearly overheated. His mouth dropped open slightly.

Knee-high black stiletto boots. Fishnet stockings. Short skirt—red plaid with black lace draped over it. And then. God. And then he had on a leather corset. He'd obviously had it padded, but it almost looked like he had breasts. To top it all off, Sherlock had on a waxy, bright red lipstick and a startling amount of eyeliner.

"Well don't just stand there," Sherlock rolled his eyes. He grabbed a hold of Greg's wrist and tugged him through the door.

Sherlock shut the door and folded his arms. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards slightly. "You like it." Not a question. Statement. Greg wasn't about to argue.

"Um… yeah… god… could you turn around?" The DI asked uncertainly.

Sherlock looked entirely too smug. But he complied, turning around slowly, so that Greg could see the tightly cinched lacing of the corset. Appreciate the way it forced Sherlock's body into a decidedly more feminine shape. If Greg didn't know better, if he hadn't seen how utterly thin Sherlock was naked—he'd be fooled into thinking the bastard had curves.

And fuck. That skirt. It barely covered him. Greg could almost see the hints of what might lie underneath.

He couldn't help himself. He didn't even think about it. He just reached out and gently brushed his fingers along the bottom of the lace skirt, lifting it slightly, to see black silk lingerie…

Sherlock turned abruptly and slapped his hand away, grinning.

Well, that was certainly a new game. Greg ruffled slightly. He'd gotten used to being in control. Being able to take whatever he wanted. It was jarring to suddenly have that rug pulled out from underneath him.

What was he supposed to do here?

Sherlock waved his hand vaguely towards the couch. "Sit down."

Then the younger man disappeared into what was presumably the bedroom. Greg shrugged and sank down onto the couch. The springs creaked slightly.

The flat was small. Smaller than Greg's. The living room barely fit the couch and a television. Sherlock's bookshelves were crammed in all the other available wall space.

There were only two doors to other rooms. The one Sherlock had disappeared into, and one that probably led to a bathroom. The kitchen and the living room weren't really separated. From the looks of it, he only had a microwave and a refrigerator anyway.

Great. More excuses for him not to eat. Greg sighed internally.

Sherlock re-emerged carrying a thin, wicked looking riding crop. Greg's heart beat a little bit faster. He wasn't sure how he felt about the idea of Sherlock hitting him. Causing somebody pain was a delicate issue of trust. He barely trusted himself with Sherlock. He definitely didn't trust the volatile young man with handling a heady power rush in a decent manner.

Thankfully, Sherlock held out the handle of the riding crop, for Greg to grasp. The DI breathed out a sigh of relief.

Sherlock sank to his knees in front of Greg and shuffled forward.

"I'm sorry for making you wait outside, Sir," he lowered his eyes demurely. "I only wanted to make sure that I'd look nice for you."

Ah. It all clicked into place. Sherlock was behaving badly on purpose so they'd have a pretext for some punishment.

Greg ran the leather tongue of the crop along Sherlock's jaw line, using it to tilt his chin upward slightly.

"You do look very pretty, pet," he smiled, "but it was rude of you to leave me outside the door for so long. You should have invited me in and finished dressing in your bedroom."

Sherlock nodded meekly, sliding his cherry-red lips together, as if he weren't used to the feeling of the lipstick. Greg absently wondered how often Sherlock had dressed like this before. He'd obviously had practice. He was quite good.

"I'm afraid I'll have to whip you, darling," Greg said gently. "On your feet, now."

Sherlock stood slowly, gracefully. How did anybody manage to be graceful in heels that tall? Greg slowly ran the crop up underneath Sherlock's skirt, lifting it slightly, then stroking back down his thigh. Hmm.

A rather wonderful idea struck him.

"You're quite lovely walking in those shoes, slut," he smiled, "but let's see how good your balance really is. Bend over and grasp your ankles."

Sherlock's breath caught slightly, but he obeyed. He bent at the waist, and folded himself forward, wrapping his fingers around his leather-clad ankles. It was quite a beautiful image. Almost artful.

Bent over that far, Sherlock's skirt did nothing to cover him. Greg saw the black silk pants. The way they clung to Sherlock's form oh so enticingly. The lace edging was almost too much. Even crisscrossed by the fishnet stockings… god. Focus.

Greg rose and took a step forward, running his hand along the curve of Sherlock's arse. He slipped a finger under the elastic band of the stockings and gently tugged them downward, until they rested around the tops of Sherlock's thighs. He repeated the motion with the silk pants—pulling them down just enough to they exposed most of Sherlock's arse.

He grabbed a handful of the soft skin and squeezed.

Then he drew back, walking in a slow circle around his little masterpiece. Sherlock stayed nearly motionless. Hardly breathing. That angle was probably difficult to keep with a corset on. Greg would have felt guilty. Except it was clear how badly Sherlock wanted this.

He reached under the young man and cupped his erection.

"What a naughty whore," he sighed, "you're not supposed to be enjoying this. It's not punishment if you're having fun."

Sherlock shuddered slightly.

"I'm sorry, sir," he whispered, "I can't help it. It's just… you excite me."

Well that went straight to Greg's cock. Made it throb. It felt like all of his blood had rushed to the surface of his skin. It made him feel drunk. Elated. It shouldn't be possible to feel this aroused. It wasn't decent.

He took one step back. A few deep breaths. Then the riding crop sang through the air and made harsh contact with Sherlock's arse. The younger man jolted forward slightly, but he quickly regained his balance. Greg smiled, watching the red line slowly fill in across his pale skin.

"Tell me why you dressed up like this, pet," Greg said softly. "Did you do it for me? Or was it for you?"

"Both, sir," Sherlock whispered breathily.

"Do you want to be my naughty little girl?"

"Yes."

Greg snapped the riding crop against Sherlock's skin again, aiming for the exact same place. He fell pretty close to the mark. Sherlock nearly overbalanced, but he managed to right himself.

"Well darling, I'll take care of you, if you take care of me. You're going to look so lovely bouncing up and down on my cock."

"Please, sir," Sherlock nearly moaned, "I've already stretched myself. I've gotten ready for you."

"Is that so?"

Greg brushed a finger between Sherlock's arse cheeks and traced around his fluttering hole. It did feel slick. He pressed inside slowly. Sherlock's body accepted his finger without protest. He added another. Sherlock let out a small whine when Greg nudged against his prostate.

"Such an eager girl," he bit his lip. "I bet you can't wait for me to fill you. I bet you're just aching with anticipation."

He withdrew his fingers slowly. Sherlock made a small noise of protest. Then Greg laid three sharp strikes with the cop and caught hold of Sherlock's hip to keep him from falling over.

Greg gave the younger man a moment to steady himself. He reached underneath him once again, and grasped Sherlock's prick through the fine silky fabric of the lingerie. He squeezed lightly. Sherlock made a small, choked sound.

"Does it feel nice?" Greg murmured.

Sherlock nodded emphatically.

"I bet it makes you feel dirty, doesn't it? To be so nicely dressed and so exposed at the same time."

Greg began to languidly trail his hand over Sherlock's erection. Not giving him nearly enough stimulation. Teasing terribly. He gave him another two strokes with the riding crop before he let it fall to the floor. He slid two fingers back inside Sherlock. He set up a slow rhythm. Stroking his cock, and fucking him with his fingers. Sherlock couldn't seem to decide what to do. Occasionally he'd push back, impaling himself further. Then other times he'd tilt forward, trying to get more contact on his prick.

"You're such a filthy young lady," Greg inserted another finger. "I don't think I've ever met somebody that needed to be fucked, filled, and used as badly as you do."

Greg leaned into Sherlock's hip slightly, letting him feel the heat of his erection through the fabric of his trousers.

"Your hole is so greedy," Greg nudged against Sherlock's prostate, lingering on the tense little bundle of nerves. "It's like you were made to have my cock inside you."

"Yes, sir," he gasped, "I need it."

Greg withdrew his fingers and slapped Sherlock's arse. "Stand up," he growled.

Sherlock stood. He we so much taller than Greg with heels on. Somehow, it didn't really effect the power dynamic. Greg still felt completely in control. He grabbed the waistband of the pants and pulled them back up, covering Sherlock's arse once again.

"Best get my cock wet before I fuck you," he smiled. Then he sat back on the couch, spread his legs apart, and waited.

Sherlock dropped to his knees almost instantly. He unbuckled Greg's belt, pulled down the zip and had his cock out with a practiced efficiency. He wrapped his waxy red lips around Greg's prick and began to bob up and down on him. God. From this angle, with the lipstick and the eyeliner, the longish, wayward curls… Sherlock could have been a woman. A damn pretty one too. With that delicate bone structure and those wide blue eyes—he was nothing short of beautiful. So fucking beautiful.

The lipstick rubbed off on Greg's cock. The DI found he didn't mind in the slightest. Before long he tugged on Sherlock's curls, pulling him upwards. Sherlock shoved his stockings down below his knees, and then climbed up onto the couch, straddling Greg.

"I think we should leave your pants on, don't you?" Greg smiled, allowing his hands to roam over Sherlock's body. The contrasting textures of his clothing. Smooth leather. Rough lace. Then finally silk.

"Whatever you'd like, sir," Sherlock answered softly.

Greg pulled the lingerie off to the side, enough to allow him entrance, and tugged Sherlock forward until he was situated right above Greg's prick. Sherlock smiled and he slowly sank down.

He took his time. Greg didn't rush him. He occasionally stroked the younger man's cock through the silky fabric. It was pulled tight. Probably a real interesting sort of stimulation.

Eventually, Sherlock seated himself fully on Greg's cock. The DI leaned forward, to capture the younger man's mouth in a languid kiss. Their tongues danced together eagerly for a moment, before Sherlock began to move, rolling his hips, fucking himself slowly on Greg's prick.

Greg let his hands rest on Sherlock's cinched waist. The skirt was in the way. Covering Sherlock's cock. Hiding the penetration. If Greg simply looked, and didn't think, he could almost imagine he was sliding into an incredibly tight, hot, virgin pussy.

"Such a good girl," he whispered, running a hand up the length of Sherlock's back. Over the lacing, onto the bare skin of his shoulders. "You're so warm and slick for me. You feel so good."

Sherlock stared back at him with wide eyes. Pupils dark, a nearly unreadable expression on his face.

"Do you like having me inside you? Claiming you?"

The younger man leaned forward slightly, whispered past Greg's ear, "yes. I love it."

Greg wasn't sure what it was about that response that caught him off guard. Was it the way Sherlock said it? The word love on his lips? To be fair, it was hard to think clearly when fucking such a perfectly sinful creature. Still, Greg's hips jerked upwards of their own accord. He began to match Sherlock's motions.

"God," Greg breathed, "you're perfect."

Sherlock kissed him.

It was like completing an electrical circuit. A strange jolt coursed through Greg's entire body. Sherlock moaned into his mouth and began moving faster. He seemed to have found the angle he liked. Greg did his best to keep steady. Keep from falling apart. Keep from coming before Sherlock could get off.

But it was so bloody difficult.

He reached down and started stroking Sherlock's cock again. The younger man shuddered.

"Oh," he gasped. "Greg."

Shit. Fuck. Damn it all to hell. It felt like Greg's heart was going to explode out of his chest. The rush of affection he felt threatened to drown him. But in that moment, he just wanted to be with Sherlock like this forever. Make him feel good. Keep him safe. Take care of him in all the ways Sherlock would never take care of himself.

Their eyes locked together. The world went on pause. They continued in slow motion. Driving their bodies together in some vague effort to become a single entity.

Sherlock blinked. Eyes wide, almost frantic. Greg saw a single drop of moisture drop from the corner of his eye and run down his cheek. He reached up to wipe it away. Sherlock clutched at him. Arms around Greg's shoulders. Holding on for dear life.

One collective gasp.

And then the moment shattered. Sherlock groaned and clenched down around him in a wave of spasms. His cock jerked, making his silk pants sticky with come. Greg followed directly after him. Giving over to the crashing wave of pleasure that rumbled across his nerve endings, empting himself inside Sherlock.

They stayed like that, panting, spent, wrecked.

Sherlock's pressed his face into the place where Greg's neck met his shoulder. Greg wrapped his arms around the younger man, holding on to him.

"I'm not good for you," Sherlock whispered. "I'm not good for anybody."

"Hush," Greg soothed. "You're a bit of a mess, but who isn't?"

"I'm going to hurt you."

"I know."

"But I don't want to." He squeezed Greg a little bit tighter. "God, I don't want to. I can't help it. I'll say something... or I'll do something... and then you won't want me anymore and I..."

Greg kissed Sherlock's neck softly. Gently ran his fingers through the younger man's curls.

"I know you, Sherlock. I think it's fairly safe to say I've seen you at your worst. Strung out and insane. I know exactly what that sharp tongue of yours is capable of. And have you scared me off yet?"

"No," Sherlock barely breathed.

"Well there you have it," Greg shrugged simply.

Eventually, he helped Sherlock lift his hips, so he could withdraw. Greg helped unlace the corset. Then they laid down, sprawled across the couch. Greg on his back, and Sherlock on top of him.

Greg should feel panicked. Should feel something about the odd weight that had settled over the room. But he didn't. All he felt was the heat of Sherlock's skin. All he saw was how beautiful and utterly debauched the young man looked with smeared makeup and slightly swollen lips.

He'd just helped put the last nail in his own coffin.

And he didn't give a single fuck about it.

I honestly don't know what happened. There I was, writing a perfectly porny scene, and then somehow all those emotions got in there. Ah well. These things happen.

I'll see you next Saturday, darling smut friends :)