Fair warning: I had an awful day, so I decided to write something sickeningly fluffy to make myself feel better. Also, sorry this is going up so much later than usual. But alas. They keep changing the schedule at work and I got called in for a morning shift unexpectedly. But it's still Saturday! And there is still smut (but mostly fluff, because sometimes I write fluff too, damn it). Enjoy.

When Greg started occasionally finding Sherlock waiting in the bed instead of on the couch, he hardly batted an eye at it. Sometimes Sherlock would be fully clothed, sitting on top of the duvet, chain smoking and ashing into one of Greg's best mugs. Other times he'd be completely nude and quite impatient.

Greg's favorite scenario by far was to find Sherlock touching himself. That had only happened once or twice, but my, it had been glorious.

The DI unlocked his door and stepped into the flat, shrugging out of his coat. The place smelled like cigarettes. A sure sign that Sherlock had come round. Nobody on the couch. Nobody in the kitchen. Greg made his way to the bedroom, running a hand through his hair absentmindedly.

Sometimes he still wondered how exactly this had happened. Why Sherlock had chosen him of all people. Perhaps he wasn't the only one Sherlock was having an affair with. He didn't know. He didn't ask.

He'd like to think that maybe what they had was special. But he also didn't really want to delude himself. One day, Sherlock would get bored. It was inevitable as things like sunrise and the change of seasons.

Sherlock lay, sprawled across the mattress, in nothing but his pants. His eyes were closed, but they fluttered open when Greg stepped into the room and a floorboard creaked.

"You're late," Sherlock scoffed.

"Wasn't aware we'd arranged for me to be home at a certain time," Greg snorted. He lingered for a moment, appreciating the bizarre, striking beauty that was a mostly naked Sherlock Holmes. All fine, sharp lines and pale skin. More like a sculpture than an actual, breathing person.

Sherlock let out a sigh and closed his eyes again. "Usually you're back by eighteen-hundred."

"We just closed up the Henly murders. Big case. Lots of paperwork," Greg shrugged. "Didn't know you'd be here."

The younger man simply grunted in reply. Greg couldn't help but smile slightly. He walked the long way around and toed off his shoes before sitting down on the bed, leaning against the headboard. Sherlock rolled towards him lazily, resting his cheek on Greg's thigh.

"Why are you still wearing clothes?" He mumbled.

"Because it looks like you're more ready for a nap than a shag." The DI reached down and slowly began carding his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

"Why can't I do both at the same time?"

Greg rolled his eyes. He sometimes got the urge to tell Sherlock he should see a doctor about his insomnia. Even when they passed out together, Greg usually awoke a few hours later to find Sherlock in process of climbing off the mattress, to go smoke a cigarette. It seemed he never got more than a solid four hours at a time.

"Lestrade," Sherlock grunted.

"What?"

"The least you could do is lie down. You're a better pillow when you're horizontal."

Greg chuckled. But he slid down and sprawled out. Sherlock crowded against him, draping an arm and a leg across him.

"When was the last time you slept, Sherlock?" Greg asked softly as he traced his fingers across the skin on the other man's back.

"What day is it?"

"Thursday?"

"I think I had a nap on Tuesday evening."

"Go to sleep."

"Is that an order?"

"Yes."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "You really don't mind me just coming over here to rest?"

"Of course not."

"It's… my flat is too silent." Sherlock said vaguely. "My thoughts all crowd in around me the second I close my eyes."

"Well, it's ok. You can stop thinking for a while. I've got you."

Sherlock huffed. But his breathing slowed. He dozed off within a few minutes. Greg didn't really mind. It was peaceful. Quite relaxing after a long, hard day.

It felt nice, to have Sherlock's dead weight sprawled across him. Comfortable. Safe. He wondered, if maybe that's what Sherlock meant, but didn't know it. There was a strange sort of security in cuddling up with another person. An odd moment of mutual vulnerability. An odd moment of mutual shelter.

"You can sleep here any time you like," he murmured, even though he knew Sherlock wouldn't hear. "For as long as you like."

And privately, perhaps Greg hoped Sherlock might fall into a rut of routine… and they could stay like this forever.

Greg's forty-fourth birthday party wasn't supposed to be much. Just him, his mates from Uni, and few boys from the Yard getting properly knackered. No fancy dinner. Nothing special. Just free pints at his favorite Pub.

He'd invited Sherlock. More as a gesture than anything. He didn't really expect him to come. After all, a night out drinking didn't exactly seem like it would be his type of thing. And he'd probably hate all of Greg's friends.

How would he even introduce a man like Sherlock Holmes? Colleague? Friend? Lover? He was bound to get it wrong. It probably wasn't the best idea to let on that he was in some sort of romantic entanglement with a man thirteen years his junior, anyway. Bad if the Yarders found out—because even though Sherlock wasn't on salary, he'd still probably get in trouble for mixing work and carnality. Bad if his Uni Friends found out because… as far as anybody knew, Greg was a straight arrow.

Nah. Probably better that Sherlock hadn't shown up.

Though Greg had gotten deep enough in the pints that he did feel slightly rejected. A bit lonely. He was glad to see his friends. Glad to be out. But he still found part of himself wondering whether or not Sherlock might be waiting back at the flat when he stumbled home.

They all sat at a large table in the middle of the room. Laughing, joking, at the point of drunken merriment, when everybody was quite a bit friendlier—even if they'd never met each other or hadn't talked in months.

One minute the seat next to Greg was empty, because Dimmock had gotten up to buy the next round. The next it was full. Of a very tall figure. In a long black coat. Sherlock raised his eyebrows in greeting, and perhaps Greg's mouth dropped open just a little.

"Sherlock…" Greg blinked.

"Happy birthday," the younger man offered flatly.

"Uh… thanks…"

Sherlock looked around the table, nodding wordlessly at the Yarders, and skimming over the unfamiliar faces. Greg shook himself a bit.

He cleared his throat, "everybody, this is Sherlock Holmes. He's a consulting detective. Works with us down at the Yard."

A few people offered greeting. Some held out their hands across the table and introduced themselves. Sherlock smiled, though it was faked. Greg had gotten to the point where he could tell the difference sometimes. In fact, he was rather proud of it. Mostly, the company was far too intoxicated to carry on a proper introduction. Soon the conversation delved right back into Football, where it had been. Sherlock settled back into the chair and examined his nails.

"Did you want something to drink?" Greg asked. His face felt hot. He didn't really have anything to be embarrassed about. But, well, Sherlock had never really seen him drunk before.

Sherlock shrugged, "if I must."

"Only if you want to."

Sherlock looked up at him and a tiny smirk twitched across his face. He pulled his mobile out of his coat and his thumbs flew over the keyboard. Greg's pocket vibrated a second later. He looked down at the small screen underneath the table.

Don't worry. I'm not going to out you in front of all your friends. And I'll try not to insult them either - SH

Greg frowned. He wasn't spectacularly great at drunk texting. In fact, usually his typing skills were the first thing to go. His texts broke down long before he started slurring his speech... but he did his best.

Im not worrieed. Just din't think youd come.

My. Had a bit to drink haven't we? Would you like your birthday present now, or shall we wait a while? - SH

What isit?

That would be telling. Finish your pint, then I'll give it to you - SH

Greg tried not to rush it. Not to seem too eager. He did manage to participate in the conversation to some degree. Sherlock sat silently, texting, or doing god knows what on his mobile. For the most part, he blended in to the background noise.

It wasn't quite as awkward as it could have been.

Greg drained his pint within about ten minutes. His pocket vibrated again.

Men's toilet. Don't get up immediately. Wait a few minutes - SH

And with that, he excused himself quietly. If Greg hadn't been staring he might not have even noticed Sherlock had left. Greg shifted back and forth slightly in his impatience. He ticked off exactly three minutes on his mobile before he got up and headed for the door at the back of the Pub.

He stepped through into the men's toilet. Sherlock was leaning on the counter, grinning. He produced a long, thin, box from his coat and held it out. Greg took it carefully. The parcel was wrapped in black ribbon. He resisted the urge to shake it, for a hint as to what might be inside.

"Go on," Sherlock waved his hand. "You're just aching to see what it is."

Greg snorted. But he tugged on the ribbon carefully and opened the lid of the box. He stared for a moment before he realized what he was seeing.

It was a leash. Simple. Strong, intricately braided leather. He took it out of the box and held it, appreciating the feel of it. Quite an odd birthday present. He looked up, with the question on his tongue—why. But he didn't need to ask. Because Sherlock had removed his scarf.

A thick leather collar sat low on his long neck, gold buckle facing forward. It was the same color as the leash.

"It's a set," Sherlock said quietly. "I figured, perhaps you could hold on to that part for me. At least… for a while."

A thousand sentences jumped to the front of Greg's mind. All probably the wrong thing to say. Does this mean you're actually mine? Do you care about me? Can I want you in all the ways that I do? Is it finally ok?

He gathered himself together and smiled. "Thank you, Sherlock. This is… this is lovely."

Sherlock nodded. Almost looked relived. He dropped a slight tension from his shoulders. Then he took a step forward, closing the gap between them, and planted a small, closed-mouthed kiss on Greg's lips.

"You'd best get back to your party. They'll miss you," Sherlock murmured.

Greg hadn't been aware of placing his hands on Sherlock's waist. But he tugged him closer. Pulled them together. "I'm sure they could wait just a bit longer."

The DI pressed their mouths together again. This time a bit more firmly. Sherlock slid into submission so easily. Opened his mouth to let Greg's tongue swirl in. Shuddered just the right way when Greg threaded his fingers in those dark curls and tugged.

Yes. This was happening.

Greg walked Sherlock backwards carefully, steering him into the largest of the stalls. He bolted the door behind them. The younger man dropped to his knees, looking up at him with wide eyes. Greg still had the leash in his hand. He reached down and clipped it to the gold ring on the front of the collar. Sherlock's breath caught.

"So pretty," Greg smiled, cupping Sherlock's delicate jaw and tilting his head upwards.

The younger man drank in the praise. Licking his lips. He could feel the heat of Sherlock's breath through the fabric of his trousers.

"Thank you, sir… may I suck you? I've been thinking about it all evening."

"Yes," Greg groaned.

Sherlock unbuckled Greg's trousers, unbuttoned them, and pulled down the zip. He reached into Greg's pants and pulled out his cock.

The younger man flicked his tongue out, just barely lapping against the crown of Greg's prick. Greg leaned against the door, already panting. Already a mess. God.

Sherlock teased for a little while. Greg was in a fairly indulgent mood, so he endured it. The little fluttering licks, all along his shaft. Sherlock paid extra attention to the bundle of nerves on the underside of the glans. Making Greg bite back the unruly moans that wanted to jump out of his throat.

"May I touch myself, sir?" Sherlock breathed.

"As long as you put on a nice show for me."

Sherlock got his cock out and began to stroke it languidly as he slid Greg's prick all the way into his mouth. Greg had to bite down on his fist when Sherlock started moaning around him. Too much to handle. Jesus.

The younger man swallowed him all the way down, letting the tip of Greg's cock hit the back of his throat. Sherlock's muscles contracted beautifully. Greg drowned in the wonderful, wet heat.

Sherlock began to stroke himself more rapidly, focusing his motion around the head of his prick. Greg doubted there'd ever be a more beautiful sight than Sherlock Holmes getting himself off while he had a mouth full of cock.

The heat began to build. Under Greg's skin. At the core of him. He grabbed a hold of Sherlock's head and took control. Sherlock relaxed. Went slack. He let Greg fuck his mouth without so much as a hint of protest. He pressed his tongue along the underside of Greg's shaft and hollowed his cheeks. The drool ran down his chin. His eyes stayed focused on Greg's face.

"Oh god," Greg grunted. "Your mouth is fucking perfect. You know that?"

Sherlock hummed his response and Greg's knees nearly buckled. Building tension. The grand crescendo. Greg's nerves buzzed in anticipation. The fire writhed inside him. Almost too much to handle.

And then, release. He shuddered and emptied himself down Sherlock's throat. Pleasure blooming steady and bright through his whole body. Sherlock swallowed every drop, still stroking himself.

"On your feet," Greg grunted.

It seemed to take a minute for the order to register. But then Sherlock stood, unsteadily. Greg pressed him up against one of the stall walls and shoved his hand out of the way. He took a hold of the younger man's cock and established a steady, rapid pace. Sherlock squirmed. Panted. Greg sank his teeth into the skin on Sherlock's neck, just above the collar.

"Sir," Sherlock whimpered.

"It's ok. Come for me. I want to see it."

Greg leaned back just enough to watch. Just enough so that when Sherlock gasped and began to pulse in his hand, he didn't get covered in come. The white viscous liquid dribbled across his fingers, messed the bottom of Sherlock's shirt. They stayed like that for just a moment. A perfect moment.

The DI cleaned them off with toilet tissue to some degree. Sherlock tucked himself back into his trousers, and buttoned his jacket to hide the rest of the mess. They exited the stall. Greg washed his hands and unhooked the leash, folding it up and placing it in his pocket. Sherlock re-tied his scarf so that the collar was no longer visible.

Before they walked through the door, back into the pub, they caught hold of each other. One more quick kiss.

Greg couldn't remember ever having a better birthday.

Well, my exhaustion writing isn't exactly like my drunk writing. But meh.

See ya'll next week :)