Fair warning: I slipped... and accidentally... the angst. God. I need to stop writing after drinking binges. My emotions just go everywhere. Is it weird that writing feelings and fluff makes me more self-conscious than smut? That probably says something about me as a person. Ah well. I'll warn you for discussion of self-harm and mentions of suicide. Sherlock is not actually suicidal. It just gets brought up. Other than that... I don't even know. It's fine. There's smut. Everything will be sunshine and rainbows.

Really, Greg didn't mean to do it. He'd told himself over and over again, that no matter what happened in the privacy of their own flats, he had to keep things professional with Sherlock when there was a case on. Even if Sherlock behaved in an utterly bratty and annoying manner—Greg wouldn't treat him any differently than before.

But dear god.

Sherlock was obviously high. Twitching, making rapid, jerky movements. Shouting a lot more than normal. He'd chewed Anderson out thoroughly, made two family members of the deceased cry, and had scared away every single member of the forensic staff. They were all standing in a huddle at the top of the stairs, throwing dark looks at Sherlock and muttering.

Sherlock paced around the body, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

If the case weren't so strange, Greg wouldn't have called. But it appeared that the man had drowned in the middle of the living room. His lungs were full of water. But the rest of him was bone dry.

Sherlock shoved a hand into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He placed one between his lips and pulled out a lighter.

"Sherlock! You can't smoke in here, this is a crime scene!"

"Technically there is a body here, but I doubt this is where the crime was committed," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The man's got freezer burn on his fingertips."

"Put. It. Away," Greg growled.

And yeah, he noticed the way Sherlock stood up a little bit straighter. The way he lowered his head slightly and didn't make direct eye contact. All tiny cues of submission. But the cigarette was still in his hands.

"Sherlock," Greg said in a low voice, "I'm counting to three. If that cigarette is not out of my sight by the time I'm finished, there are going to be serious consequences."

Sherlock's tongue flicked out and ran along his lower lip. He didn't move.

"One…" Greg paused. No sign of motion. He continued. "Two…"

Sherlock slipped the cigarette back into the pack and pocketed it. He raised his other hand to rub at the back of his neck. His scarf slipped down a centimeter or two and Greg saw a flash of leather.

So he was wearing the collar.

Good.

"Now then," Greg took a step towards him. Not close enough to touch, but enough to talk quietly—so that the people on the staircase wouldn't hear them. "You're being an awful little bitch today. And I know you're on something. So you're going to tell me about what happened here, then I'm going to cuff you, and lock you up in my cruiser until you calm down. Questions?"

"No, Sir," Sherlock barely whispered.

"You said the body had freezer burns," Greg prompted, "explain why."

"He didn't drown. He suffocated on snow. Or ice. Something that would melt slowly enough to actually keep him from breathing. It's possible they kept packing it in. There will probably be some trauma in his throat. They were keeping him in some sort of refrigeration unit—since it's obviously not quite cold enough to snow outside. Judging from the tattoo on his ankle, he's in organized crime. He didn't die quickly. He's an example. There might be more."

"Good boy," Greg nodded. "Is that all?"

"The wife is hiding something behind the portrait on the mantelpiece. She couldn't look anywhere else. There's probably a safe. Check it before she has the chance to clean it out. The combination will probably be a family birthday."

Greg slipped out his handcuffs, and nudged Sherlock towards the exit. He waited until they were down the stairs and out of sight before he shoved Sherlock against the wall and snapped the cuffs around his wrists. The younger man gasped and shuddered.

He led Sherlock out on to the street, handling him a bit roughly. Nobody saw Greg shove him into the back of the cruiser. Just as well. He didn't feel like making up an explanation just then.

He closed the door and went back to the crime scene. He ended up having to stay for about another hour while they collected evidence and took photographs. Anderson was in quite the foul mood, grumbling about "that freak" under his breath. Greg shot him a few warning looks before he stopped. They checked behind the portrait on the mantlepiece, and sure enough, there was a safe. The combination was the birthday of the second child. There were several envelopes, full of various documents and financial records that looked a lot like a money laundering operation.

When all was said done, Greg found Sherlock had fallen asleep in the cruiser, leaning against the window. The glass had fogged up with his breath. He awoke when Greg started the car and began to drive, but he didn't say anything.

Greg drove them back to the Yard. He unlocked the handcuffs, but Sherlock still followed him placidly up to his office. Greg shut the door and closed the blinds. He let Sherlock sit in the corner and stare off into space.

He would have allowed Sherlock to leave if he felt so inclined, but he seemed perfectly content to smoke cigarettes out the window and send off about a million texts.

"You know, you're not technically supposed to be smoking in here either," Greg said offhandedly after Sherlock lit his third cigarette.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and said nothing.

Greg decided not to force the issue again. He got a surprising amount of work done, with just the occasional glance in the younger man's direction. He'd come down off whatever he took. It was apparent in his slumped posture. The dark circles under his eyes. The way he seemed to be trying to fold himself into a tiny ball. His feet were up on the chair, arms wrapped around his legs, thighs pressing against his stomach in a sort of upright fetal position.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Greg didn't look up. He continued to write and just let the question hang in the air.

Sherlock didn't respond for a few minutes. Then he let out a long sigh. "My brother came to visit me this morning. He threatened to put me in rehab again."

"So you decided to retaliate by going on a little binge, did you?" Greg tried to keep his voice light. But it was a rather serious situation. He probably shouldn't be enabling Sherlock's drug use. Then again, there probably wasn't a lot he could do to stop it.

"I suppose so," Sherlock shrugged. "I didn't take that much. Just the rest of what I had stashed around my flat… Are you angry?"

"I feel like disappointed might be a better word. It's been a while since you showed up to work high."

Sherlock chewed that over for a little while. Greg continued filling out his report, albeit a bit more distracted.

"So you're not going to try to fix me," Sherlock said flatly.

"Do you want me to?"

"No."

"Well there you have it," Greg shrugged.

"But everyone always tries," Sherlock snapped. "Everyone wants to make me better. You want me to stop doing drugs. Admit it."

"Perhaps I do." Greg said carefully. "But I know I can't make you do anything you don't want to do. My father was an alcoholic. I learned the hard way that it's better to let a person ask for help than to force it on them. All I'm going to say is keep it separate. If you show up at a crime scene high again, I'm going to write you up. They might even take you to court over it. I won't stop them."

Sherlock shifted in his chair. Fidgeting. Perhaps he was looking for a fight. Looking for something to be angry about so he could feel vindicated in further self-destruction. Greg knew that reflex well. He wasn't going to participate.

"You're pathetic. If we weren't fucking, you'd have thrown me in jail a long time ago. Or is it even that? Could you solve a case without me anymore?"

That stung. It was a childish little jab. No real force behind it. But Greg finally glanced up from his paperwork.

Sherlock looked so oddly fragile. Wrapped up in that big coat and scarf of his—all that cloth was just armor covering his used up body. His humanity. Greg set down his pen and looked at him calmly.

"I understand that you're looking for an emotional reaction. But I don't want to fight with you right now. And I don't think you really want to fight with me either. You're upset about your brother trying to control you and you're lashing out at anyone you can reach."

The younger man bit his lip and looked out the window. He lit another cigarette. Silence resumed. Eventually the smoky smell faded. Greg sensed the motion more than he saw it.

Sherlock sat down on the floor next to Greg's chair and rested his head against the DI's thigh. It felt natural, automatic, for slowly card his fingers through Sherlock's curls.

"I just feel like I've been on the verge of falling apart my entire life and I never quite do it," Sherlock whispered. "Is that a bad thing to want? Complete, and total destruction?"

"I don't know… you're not talking about killing yourself, are you?"

"No. I just want to—I just want to fail. I want to ruin everything. I want to do badly. To fuck up royally just to see what happens. I just want to chip away at my mind until it's broken beyond repair, and I don't have to be like this anymore."

The words settled somewhere deep in Greg's chest, tugging at his heart. What it must be like—to have a brain that set you so far apart from the rest of humanity. He wondered about Sherlock's childhood. How many lofty expectations he had set down on him because of his intelligence. He wondered if Sherlock had always been lonely. Distant. Isolated.

Greg slid down off his chair slowly, so he was next to Sherlock on the floor. He drew the younger man into a loose embrace.

"Well, even if you do fall apart completely, I'll put you back together. Or at least, I'll try my best," he sighed.

"Why?" Sherlock said in an odd, thick voice. Was he on the verge of tears?

"Mad as it is, I might be in love with you."

"You shouldn't say that," Sherlock made a little choked noise.

"It's the truth."

"But you won't—you'll stop—it won't last."

"Shhh," Greg soothed.

He wasn't sure how long they stayed there. The sky got slowly darker. Eventually he had to get up, because his back started to hurt. He packed up all his files and Sherlock followed him out of the office. Into a cab. Back to Greg's flat.

The second they made it through the door, Sherlock reached for him. Pulled Greg in by the lapels of his coat and kissed him hungrily. It felt desperate. Like maybe Sherlock was just trying to hang on to reality.

But Greg couldn't help himself. He kissed back, wrapping his arms around the younger man—trying to gentle the rough edges of the kiss. Quell the fire slightly until they relaxed back into a more steady place.

Sherlock trembled against him. Pressing every part of their bodies together. Maybe, Greg should have said no. Maybe he should have realized that they were both a bit too raw.

Then again, maybe a simple, carnal act was the best way to weather the storm together.

They stumbled towards the bedroom, refusing to let go of each other. Somehow they both managed to get rid of their coats and shoes along the way. They unbuttoned each other's shirts clumsily. Fell back onto the bed together. Sherlock wriggled out of his trousers and pants. Greg barely got his off as well before Sherlock pressed up against him again. Clung to him.

Greg slipped a hand between them and wrapped it around Sherlock's prick. The younger man panted into Greg's mouth. Feverish. Animalistic. Greg stroked him in sure, steady motions.

"Let me take care of you," Greg murmured in between kisses.

He slowly migrated to suck on Sherlock's neck, just above the thick leather collar. Then he bit below it, on the shoulder. Then Greg slid down the bed, turning Sherlock onto his back, and pinning his hips to the mattress.

"Oh," Sherlock gasped, "yes."

It struck Greg as odd for a moment that they'd never gotten around to this. He almost felt like a selfish lover. Sherlock had sucked him off god knows how many times, and he'd always been too preoccupied with other things to return the favor.

Well—he'd just have to make up for that now, wouldn't he?

Greg flicked his tongue out and licked a stripe from the base of Sherlock's cock to the tip of it. The younger man's breath went ragged. He squirmed, just a bit. Greg pressed down on his hipbones a bit more firmly, to keep him from moving and parted his lips. He took the head of Sherlock's prick into his mouth, paying special attention to the area on the underside of the glans. The younger man moaned.

Yes. This was good. It felt right, just then.

In the old days, back at Uni, Greg was quite the expert cock sucker. He knew all the party tricks. He could even pull off the occasional deep-throat. But he was severely out of practice. So he took it slow.

He moved one hand to wrap it around the base of Sherlock's cock, and began to take a bit more of him in. Sherlock was by no means small. Greg knew he wasn't going to be able to take the whole thing. But he managed to get about half of Sherlock's prick into his mouth before he started to gag.

He set up a moderate rhythm, stroking Sherlock in time with his motions. Judging by the noises Sherlock made, he didn't do an entirely terrible job. One of Sherlock's hands rested on Greg's head. Not pushing him down. Just encouraging him.

Greg pressed his tongue up along the shaft to add some friction. Took Sherlock in a few times so that the tip of his cock hit the back of Greg's throat. The younger man let out a long moan.

"Oh fuck—Greg—I can't…"

Greg just kept on. Bobbing up and down on Sherlock's cock. He didn't swallow. Let his drool run down his chin. He felt a bit sloppy. But it didn't matter.

Sherlock started to tense underneath him. Breaths growing more frantic.

"Ugh. I'm going to—"

That was Greg's queue to pull away if he wanted to. He let it pass without a second though. Sherlock groaned, then he began to pulse all across Greg's tongue. The taste was a lot like he remembered. Bitter. A bit musky. Really, it was the texture that got him more than anything else. But he swallowed what he could and let the rest spill where it may.

He pulled back slightly and wiped his mouth off on his arm. Sherlock looked utterly wrecked. Eyes closed, hair frizzy, pale skin flushed in the afterglow. Greg suppressed a chuckle flopped back onto the bed.

His erection still throbbed, crying out for attention. But he could wait. He lay there while Sherlock came back to himself. The younger man seemed to blink out of his sex daze like you'd wake up from a dream. He smiled, rolled over onto his side.

"What do you want?" He asked breathlessly, "I'll do anything."

"I don't care," Greg sighed. "Just something… sooner, rather than later…."

Sherlock grinned and slid down, wrapping those perfect lips around Greg's cock. God. His mouth. Greg would never get over it. Not ever. He made the whole thing seem utterly effortless.

Warm, wet tongue, swirling everywhere, slick lips sliding against the sensitive skin. Sherlock put Greg's skills to shame. He knew it. He couldn't be arsed to care at that particular moment. Because Sherlock swallowed him down, and the contractions of his throat were fucking beautiful.

He didn't try to last very long. The slide of Sherlock's mouth pushed him closer and closer to the edge and he followed willingly. The pleasure buzzed through him, building like a nervous sort of anticipation. The lurch at the top of a rollercoaster before the long way down.

"Fuck," he grunted.

He crashed. Burned up. Emptied himself down Sherlock's throat, and maybe went a bit loopy on the endorphin high. It took a few moments before he remembered how to use his lungs. The aftershocks jolted through him, slowly bringing him back down.

Sherlock crawled back up the bed and sprawled out lazily. For a moment, it seemed like maybe everything would be all right. Like maybe they weren't both doomed to a horrible train wreck at the end of whatever this was.

Maybe it didn't have to end.

"You hungry?" Greg asked groggily. "I could make some pasta or something."

Sherlock yawned. "Let's order take-away. I want curry."

"All right. I'll get up in a minute."

Sherlock rolled sideways until he was halfway draped over Greg—a long arm and a leg stretched across the DI's torso.

"I…" Sherlock started and then trailed off.

"That's ok. You don't have to say anything."

Sherlock pressed his face and mumbled something incomprehensible into Greg's shoulder.

"What was that?" Greg chuckled.

Sherlock raised his head slightly. "You're not a complete moron, you're a damn good shag, and I don't do emotions any further than that."

"Uh huh," Greg raised his eyebrows.

"However if I were to, you know, feel things… well you're one of the few people on earth I would miss if you died."

Greg snorted. Some declaration of love. But he still smiled. Coming from Sherlock, that was probably as good as at least twenty mushy romantic sonnets.

Eeeeeeeeeeekkkkkk. Feeeelllliiinnnnngggsss. I'm going to go eat Nutella out of the jar and watch Monty Python's flying circus.

Until next week.

xoxo