Fair warning: after last week I just wanted to write something cute and fluffy. So pretty much, we're revisiting cross-dressing. But I'd argue it's different. Because this is more just domesticity kink. Yes. That's a thing. I think. Shhh. Here's your porn.

Sherlock showed up at Greg's flat early on a Monday morning, with a rather large suitcase. Greg stared at it pointedly as he stepped aside to allow the younger man in. The DI had a thermos of coffee in one hand, and a tie draped around his neck. He'd missed the interval where he could still take the tube and get to work on time. He'd have to catch a cab.

"I got evicted again," Sherlock offered casually. "The rest of my things are in storage. I'll start looking for a new flat tomorrow."

"So you're… moving in—"

"Just for a day or two," Sherlock cut him off. "If you want, I'll even sleep on the sofa. Friends do that sort of thing, right? What's the word, couch-surfing?"

"For christsake, you don't have to sleep on the sofa," Greg rolled his eyes. "And I'd say we're a bit more than friends at this point, wouldn't you?

"Yes."

The younger man smiled and dragged his suitcase into the bedroom.

Greg took a moment to marvel at the fact that Sherlock had showed up here rather than going to a hotel. It seemed to say something important. Though with Sherlock, you could never really know. After all, this was probably just a convenience thing.

He gave a small, mental shrug. Playing house for a few days might be fun, anyway. Not so very different from the normal arrangement of things. This wasn't a step and Greg shouldn't make it one.

No… he should just enjoy it… what?

Sherlock walked back out of the bedroom wearing nothing but a sheet.

"Getting comfortable, are we?" Greg snorted.

"Most of my clothes are dirty. What day do you do laundry?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows placidly.

Greg let out a long sigh. "I suppose I could just put yours in with mine but—"

"Thank you."

Sherlock flopped down on the couch, pulling the thin sheet in around his creamy skin. He looked entirely too fuckable.

Ah well. Something to look forward to on the way home.

Greg took a long swig of coffee and finished putting on his tie. He pulled on his jacket and threw one more wistful look in Sherlock's direction.

"I have to go to work…"

"I know. Call if there's anything interesting. I promise not to set your flat on fire. Leave. You'll be late." Sherlock waved his hand absently.

Against his better judgment, Greg gave Sherlock exactly one kiss before he left. It was a slow, lingering brush of tongues. But really, what difference did a few minutes make?

Greg managed to force himself out the door before things escalated. He wasn't sure what Sherlock was going to do alone in his flat all day. He probably didn't actually want to know. But perhaps on the cab ride to work, he let himself imagine that Sherlock would spend the entire day teasing himself so that he'd be desperate for a fuck the second Greg walked in the doorway.

A man could dream, right?

The workday dragged on long and listless. Greg had a hard time focusing. There weren't any particularly interesting cases. Just a few small time thieves and drug dealers. Sgt. Donovan was in a worse mood than usual. Greg didn't dare ask why, but she told him anyway.

"Stupid, idiot, rat-bastard," Sally muttered under her breath. "Could have told me he was married. Never wears his goddamned wedding ring…"

"Want me to punch him for you?" Greg asked mildly as they strolled through the aisle in the evidence locker.

"I already punched him," Sgt. Donovan huffed, "fat lot of good it did me."

"Yeah well… Anderson's a prick."

"Don't you even start. I know that. How could I not? I just didn't think he was a lying prick. Usually the slimy ones are at least honest."

Greg shrugged as they reached the confiscated gun lock-up. He opened the cabinet and began rooting through it. Sally continued to grumble, but for the most part, he didn't listen.

"So what about you, then?" She asked out of the blue. "You're obviously seeing someone."

"Hmm?" Greg asked absently.

"You were a wreck after your ex-wife left you. Then suddenly you weren't. Why have none of us met her?"

"Who?"

"Your girlfriend"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I bet she's real young and pretty," Sally sneered. "That's what all men go for after a nasty divorce. A cute little trophy fuck. But there's got to be some reason you're embarrassed to bring her around. Is she stupid? "

"Hardly," Greg snorted.

"So there is someone," Sally raised her eyebrows.

"Come off it. We've got work to do."

"I'll find out. Don't think I won't. There aren't any secrets at the Yard. You should know better by now."

"It's only hard to keep secrets if your run your mouth constantly, Donovan," Greg smiled.

It probably didn't help her anger issues for the day. But she did quiet down a bit. Greg left his office at exactly 17:00 and caught a cab back home.

When he opened the door to his flat, he expected to smell the smoke that usually lingered in the air when Sherlock stayed over. Instead, however, the rather enticing aroma of sautéed vegetables washed over him.

"Sherlock?" He called tentatively.

"In the kitchen."

Greg shrugged off his coat and followed the wonderful smell.

Sherlock stood over the stove, with his back to Greg. No longer in a sheet. He'd changed. The view from behind was breathtaking.

Sherlock had on a pale green, short-sleeved, knee-length dress. The fabric looked soft, perhaps cotton, with dusky pink roses printed on it. The dress cinched in to show the younger man's slim waist, but otherwise hung fairly loose. He'd shaved. His legs were smooth. Instead of his usual dress shoes, he had on a pair of sensible black heels that only added a few centimeters to his height.

He half turned to face Greg and looked up. At first glance, it seemed like he didn't have any makeup on. But then Greg saw it a bit. The faint eyeliner, light lipstick, and hint of blush on the cheeks. The dress was slightly padded around the chest. Just a suggestion of small breasts.

With his longish dark hair and narrow face… Sherlock could have been a woman. A tall one, with very broad shoulders. But still…

"You didn't have much in the refrigerator to work with, but I went shopping for a few things and managed to put together something halfway decent." Sherlock spoke in a soft voice. Higher than normal, but not over-exaggerated.

"That's—that's fine. I didn't know you cooked," he said dumbly.

"Of course I can cook," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What? You think I eat nothing but take away? Open the wine. This should be ready in a few minutes."

Greg was more than a bit distracted. But he took his wine opener out of a drawer and screwed it into the bottle sitting on the counter. A nice Shiraz. Sherlock must have gotten it when he went shopping.

The DI poured two glasses and set the table. After that he lingered, watching Sherlock over his shoulder, while the younger man kept waving him away—I already said there's nothing you can do to help.

Sherlock poured the pasta through a strainer and piled it onto two plates. Then he divided the delicious-smelling sauce over it. From what Greg could see, it had onions, eggplant, zucchini, tomatoes and bell peppers cooked in plenty of olive oil.

"Ratatouille," Sherlock shrugged. "Simple enough. It's what my mother used to make when the cook when on vacation."

"Your family had a personal cook?" Greg raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, shut up and be thankful I learned a few things from him." Sherlock reached for his glass of wine and sipped it daintily.

They sat down on the table and had a leisurely dinner. The food was, of course, delicious as it smelled. Perhaps they went through the bottle of wine a bit quickly. But Sherlock had apparently bought two.

They opened the second one as Greg did the dishes. Sherlock hovered, leaning on the counter, rambling about the history of English Serial Killers. It was only when his words became slightly less crisp—that Greg realized he'd seen Sherlock high on cocaine before, but he'd never seen him drunk.

"Are you tipsy?" Greg grinned.

"Not all of us are in the habit of drinking three beers before bed, thank you very much," Sherlock replied a bit haughtily.

Greg put the last plate on the drying rack and kissed Sherlock on the cheek. They wandered into the living room. Greg put on an old Billie Holiday record before settling down next to Sherlock on the couch.

Sherlock half-draped his legs over Greg's lap and leaned into him slightly. Greg circled his arm around the younger man's waist.

"You look very nice tonight," the DI smiled as he softly ran his fingers over the other man's thigh.

"I thought you'd like it. I still have quite a few dresses from the old days."

"The old days? You're only thirty. You're not supposed to have those yet."

"Please. Age is meaningless. If we're going by life experience, I'll bet I've got quite a bit on you."

"Is that so?"

Sherlock hummed quietly in reply. He finished the wine in his glass and set it on the coffee table. "Did you know that I lived as a woman for six months?"

"No."

"Right after I graduated from college. I took some time off before university. Traveled. Mycroft got me a passport that said my name was Sharon Holmes." Sherlock nuzzled into Greg's neck.

The DI couldn't do much but smile. That was quite a thought. Sherlock wandering about Europe, dressed like this.

"So are you… well I dunno. Do you feel like a woman sometimes?"

"Gender is such a messy issue," Sherlock shrugged. "I don't see why people are so obsessed with being one thing or the other."

"Fair enough," Greg chuckled.

"I don't usually tell people about all of that," Sherlock said absently, "I might be a bit drunk."

"I certainly don't mind."

"No… you're quite the easy going man, aren't you?" Sherlock murmured. "And you're always in a good mood when things are like this—like we're a real couple. Do you want to be?"

"Pardon?"

"Do you want to be a real couple?" Sherlock hiccupped slightly.

"Don't get me wrong, Sherlock, but how is that different from what we are right now?"

"I don't know," Sherlock shrugged. "I always thought I was more of your fuck toy than anything else."

"I said I loved you."

"No. You said you might love me—when I was about to cry, to stop me from crying. You think I'm too young for you. And you think I'll get bored and wander off. You think I'm a mess that can't make any real decisions. But that's ok… because… you still want me around most of the time… am I making any sense? I can't tell."

"Yes," Greg said softly, "but maybe we should have this conversation when you're not drunk?"

"Might be for the best," Sherlock sighed. "Do you want to have sex now, though? I'm about ready."

"Well when you put it like that…" Greg slid his hand up underneath Sherlock's dress to trace his fingers across the younger man's smooth skin. He'd shaved his legs all the way up. He trailed his hand upwards until he brushed across the edge of something silky. Sherlock had on a pair of women's knickers as well. The heat began to rush to the surface of Greg's skin.

He leaned in for a soft kiss. Sherlock's lips met his eagerly. The slightly spicy taste of the wine lingered in Sherlock's mouth. Greg licked at it slowly. Until they simply tasted like each other.

The DI reached back and fumbled with the zipper of the dress. It took him a few tries, but he eventually got it down. Sherlock wriggled out of the sleeves and let the dress pool around his waist. He had on a padded red lacy bra. Greg kissed him again and cupped the padded bra with one hand and squeezed. Definitely not the right texture. But the motion made Sherlock whimper into Greg's mouth.

Sherlock kicked off his heels and lifted his hips so he could get the dress the rest of the way off. His pants were the same color as the bra. They were a high-waisted affair—high enough so that Sherlock's erection didn't poke out the top, even though it was still clearly visible.

He settled into Greg's lap, straddling him, arms wrapped around the older man's shoulders. Greg took his time. Ran his hands over the other man's bare skin. Pulled him in close so that Sherlock could squirm against him in feverish impatience.

"You're so lovely," Greg whispered.

He let his hand slip down. He grabbed Sherlock's arse and squeezed before slipping his fingers under the edge of his knickers. He trailed his index finger between Sherlock's arse cheeks, not pushing in, just tracing over Sherlock's arsehole so it clenched.

"Do you want me inside you?" Greg asked in a husky voice. "Do you want my cock right there?"

"Yes," Sherlock breathed. "Please."

With his other hand, Greg reached for the side table. He pulled the drawer open. His fingers wrapped around a tube of lubricant.

The more sane parts of him probably found it funny that he'd taken to stashing lube all over the house for these spur of the moment fucks. But right then, he couldn't feel much but grateful to have it in such easy reach.

He slicked his fingers and pulled Sherlock's pants to the side. Just enough to he could tease at his hole unobstructed. He slid his finger inside slowly. Perhaps Sherlock's intoxication had something to do with it, but he pushed back eagerly for more. Greg squirmed his finger, pushed it in and withdrew it a few times before adding a second one.

Sherlock kissed him. Sloppy. Distracted. It didn't matter.

Before very long, Greg added more lube and a third finger. Sherlock moaned and panted just a bit louder than usual.

"I'm ready," he mumbled against Greg's lips. "Come on. I want it."

"Slutty little drunk, aren't you?" The DI slapped Sherlock's arse teasingly.

"Only for you."

Sherlock unbuttoned Greg's trousers and managed to get the zipper down. He reached into Greg's pants and pulled his cock out. Greg slicked himself up and tugged Sherlock forward, lining him up.

Greg kept Sherlock's knickers pulled to the side. The younger man sank slowly onto Greg's cock. He paused once he was fully seated, taking a few deep breaths. Then he rolled his hips and began to fuck himself on Greg's prick.

The DI wrapped his hands around Sherlock's waist, supporting him. Everything felt like slow motion. Like the world had narrowed down to just the two of them.

"So pretty," Greg panted.

And it was true. Sherlock's curls got a bit frizzy and wild as he started riding Greg's cock faster. His make-up started to sweat away.

He pressed up closer to Greg's torso. Greg could feel Sherlock's erection rubbing against his stomach.

"Oh," Sherlock breathed. Perhaps the shift forward had changed the angle for the better.

"Is that the spot?" Greg mouthed at Sherlock's neck.

"Yes… fuck… I really… I love your cock."

"I think the feeling is mutual," Greg grunted.

"I like the rest of you too—I mean—all of you…"

"You're fantastic."

"Ah—"

"And sexy."

Sherlock made a small choked noise.

"I could just fuck you forever."

"I'm going to come," Sherlock groaned.

And he did. Perhaps a minute or so later. He clenched down around Greg and shuddered against him, creating a wet spot between them. Greg held Sherlock steady and thrust up into him, following him over the edge. Giving into the crashing wave of pleasure.

Sherlock slumped against him. He pressed his face into Greg's shoulder.

"Tired now," he mumbled.

"I'm sure you are," Greg ran a hand down his back soothingly.

"Let's go to bed."

"Al right, just give me a second."

Greg managed to catch his breath. Sherlock shifted off of him and they stood. Greg kept an arm around Sherlock's waist as they made their precarious way to the bedroom. He helped the younger man out of his remaining clothes before depositing him on the mattress and letting him crawl under the duvet.

"You might have a hangover in the morning," Greg chuckled, "you should drink some water."

Sherlock grunted. But when Greg fetched two glasses of water, Sherlock gulped his down gratefully before falling into near-immediate unconsciousness.

Greg didn't fall asleep right away. But he was content to sit next to Sherlock and go over case files for the morning. Hopefully Sherlock would wake up before Greg had to go to work. He got the feeling they should probably talk about some of the things the younger man had said.

A real couple.

Greg did rather like the sound of that. Even if he had no idea what that would look like between him and Sherlock. It would be fun to figure it out.

Fluffy times, oh fluffy times. I don't know what I'm doing. What day is it? More coffee. Sleep is for the weak.

Xoxo