Fair warning: this chapter has some implied Sherlock/Victor Trevor. It's not described in detail, but it's there. We also skipped ahead to the start of the show's cannon. I feel like I should warn you, as the rest of this story had been decidedly pre-cannon. There are a few minor Johnlock feelings here, but this is a Sherstrade story and I've decided to stick to my guns on that. Also, this chapter is Sherlock's POV. Because of reasons.
Five years.
It seemed like such a long time, but it had all passed so quickly. Certain things changed slowly. Other things remained the same.
When Greg placed his hand on the small of Sherlock's back and whispered filthy things in his ear, the same lurch of arousal still shot through the younger man's body. He still liked it when Greg threw him around. Fucked him against the wall. Handcuffed him to the furniture. And yet… he'd also grown to like it when they woke up first thing in the morning and had that slow, lazy sex. The gentle, languid rutting, punctuated by sweet, murmured nothings and satisfied sighs.
Greg still said it all the time. I love you. And with each iteration, it never seemed less true. Sherlock could feel it in the way Greg kissed him when they were both too tired to do anything else. He could see it in the way Greg looked at him—how the DI's eyes would soften slightly, no matter the circumstances.
They fought. Quite often. About stupid, inconsequential things. Mostly because Sherlock wasn't easy to put up with.
He'd disappear for days on end and refuse to pick up his mobile. He still kept cocaine stashed around his flat (he hadn't used in over a year, but he liked to have it available in case of emergencies). He refused to ever move in with Greg entirely, even though he slept at the DI's flat more often than he didn't.
He disliked the idea of permanent cohabitation, partly because he needed space to store all his various lab equipment, but mostly because he knew that they would argue constantly if they lived together. Sherlock needed a lot of time to simply be alone. He liked quiet. Greg didn't mean to be annoying, but he'd often interrupt when Sherlock was in the middle of a very important train of thought. Greg didn't like sitting in silence for more than a few hours. It made him uncomfortable.
They needed regular time away from each other. At first, Greg seemed hurt by it. But eventually he accepted it, like he'd accepted everything else. He never really liked it when Sherlock had flat mates. But usually he got over it.
Greg tended to object less to female flat mates than male ones. But Sherlock often scared women away quicker, with the body parts in the microwave, and loud noises in the middle of the night. He lived alone whenever possible, but he always had a hard time hanging on to flats. He was a horrible tenant, and occasionally his reputation preceded him.
When Mrs. Hudson told him she had a flat available, he'd been thrilled. But it was far too big to live in by himself. Greg started talking about how his lease would be up soon. Sherlock had to fill the space before Greg did so "out of convenience" and never left.
John Watson came at exactly the right time. So Greg, of course, had a grudge against him from the start.
Sherlock could tell the first time he brought John to a crime scene. Greg was startled. Then annoyed. The work had always been a thing that he and Sherlock did together. He wasn't very good at sharing.
The drugs bust that Greg preformed the night John moved in sent the message loud and clear. Of course, Greg had used some kind of pretext—the pink suitcase. But that hadn't been at the heart of things.
Partly it was about Greg flaunting his power, trying to intimidate John out of encroaching on his territory. Mostly it was an echo of the early days. It still made Sherlock's blood run a bit warmer, to see Greg barking orders. He felt a bit helpless. Subjugated. Flustered like he hadn't been in a long while.
He got so distracted, he didn't catch on the first time Mrs. Hudson mentioned a cabbie.
But then of course, the game was on. He rode recklessly into the sunset. Both John and Greg chased after him.
In the aftermath of the cabbie's death, Sherlock felt giddy. High on adrenaline. Lestrade managed to pull him aside for a minute, but then he had a lot of work to do. All of the detectives would no doubt be staying at the crime scene for hours. Sherlock got something to eat with John and then they both headed home to collapse from exhaustion.
Sherlock went over to Greg's flat the next evening and they fucked like animals.
"You're a bloody idiot," Greg growled. He had Sherlock sprawled across the living room floor. They'd pounced on each other the second Sherlock got through the door. The bed seemed like much too far of a destination, so they'd simply collapsed where they stood.
The carpet prickled against the skin of Sherlock's back. No doubt it would be red and sore by morning. Greg hadn't spent nearly as much time fingering Sherlock open as he usually did. Each fevered thrust burned slightly.
"Don't you ever run after a serial killer by yourself again," Greg bit into Sherlock's neck.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock whined breathily.
"No you fucking aren't. But you will be. After this, I'm going to give you such a thrashing."
Sherlock whimpered. Greg drove into him, relentless, punishing—but at the same time, he kissed Sherlock gently. Almost tenderly. And Sherlock's brain short-circuited. His entire body vibrated with it. The intoxicating pleasure rolled through him in crashing waves. He could hardly breathe. His heart pounded wildly.
Greg began to rock into him with rapid shallow thrusts, and he managed to hit the right spot often enough. Sherlock felt it. The horrible tension welling deep inside him.
"Sir…" he gasped, "I'm going to… ah…"
"That's it." Greg wrapped his hand around Sherlock's cock and stroked it slowly. "Come for me."
The younger man crashed over the edge of orgasm, trembling, moaning unabashedly. Greg lasted out perhaps another minute before he went still.
They lay together on the floor. Sticky. The soreness would no doubt set in soon. And it didn't seem like Greg actually planned on carrying out his threats of punishment. Greg's cock softened and slipped out of Sherlock's body. They shifted, to lay on their sides, still tangled up in each other.
Usually Sherlock let Greg say it first—because he wasn't very good at that sort of thing. Sentiment. It still made him feel odd. Vulnerable. Exposed.
The post-coital flood of hormones and reward chemicals made it a bit easier. He pressed a soft kiss against Greg's cheek and barely mumbled it.
"Love you."
Greg pulled him in a bit tighter. He smiled. "I love you too."
In the beginning everything had been volatile and exciting. Sherlock resisted any notions of an actual relationship for a long time—partly because he was afraid it would get boring. He was afraid he'd get tired of Greg, like he'd gotten tired of almost everybody else.
But it hadn't happened yet.
The sex wasn't exactly full of wild passion every time it happened. Sometimes it was rather mediocre, because they were both exhausted, or Sherlock had his mind on other things. He'd trained Greg not paw at him if a case was on. He'd learned not to pester Greg when he got into a sulk.
For the most part, however, things settled at a steady simmering. Maybe once or twice a month, they'd have a truly fantastic shag. Other than that, Sherlock still enjoyed himself. Mostly because of the way Greg would hold him afterwards. It made him feel oddly secure. He'd never liked the idea of forever before. He hated permanence, tried to live in a state of flighty change. In Greg's arms, however, he felt that maybe having one constant in life wasn't such a bad thing. Maybe he could be happy hanging on to one person for a very long time.
Greg didn't trust Sherlock completely—and with very good reason. Sherlock wanted to stay faithful. He did his best, but sometimes it wasn't enough.
There'd been that time Victor came to visit. The last time Sherlock did cocaine.
He and Victor hadn't ever been a proper sort of thing. But they'd grown up down the road from each other. They'd discovered sex together, in that playful, meaningless way young friends sometimes do. He didn't really have feelings for Victor beyond nostalgic fondness.
But still. When Victor pulled out an eight ball of coke Sherlock couldn't say no. When Victor started kissing him, Sherlock didn't want to say no. The drugs made it so easy not to think about the consequences.
The next morning, however, Sherlock felt horrible. Guilt wasn't an emotion he had a lot of experience with. It was like a stomachache that refused to dissipate. It ate at him until he went to Greg and admitted what he'd done.
For a few days, it seemed like Greg might leave him for good. Maybe part of Sherlock hoped that he would. Just because he knew how much pain he'd already caused, and he'd undoubtedly put Greg through a lot more if they stayed together.
However, Greg just kept forgiving him.
And that, more than anything, made Sherlock want to be good. He'd never cared about behaving himself when past partners got angry or offended. But when Greg looked at him in that sad, resigned way, and said—there isn't anything you could do to make me stop caring about you—Sherlock wished he were a better person.
He did try. He got sober. When people from his old life called, Sherlock didn't answer the phone. He and Greg quit smoking cigarettes at the same time. They had wonderful hate sex for three days until the nicotine craving started to dissipate somewhat.
Still, it made sense that Greg worried about John. Because Sherlock and John spent an awful lot of time together. They became very good friends. It was a meaningful relationship in its own right.
Sometimes Sherlock and John held eye contact for a few seconds too long. Sometimes Sherlock thought about leaning forward and trying to steal a filthy kiss from the doctor's lips—but he stopped himself. Because even if John's gaze sometimes lingered, he was mostly interested in women (brought home a different one every month). It was tempting, but Sherlock didn't want to ruin everything he had with Greg for a filthy one off. He didn't want to ruin things with his best friend either. If they had sex everything would change. For once in his life, he desprately wanted things to stay the same.
He just didn't know how to explain that. So Greg stayed jealous. He seemed to put an effort into covering it up. John didn't notice. Almost nobody noticed. But of course Sherlock did.
"Relax, John will be at the surgery for another hour." Sherlock rolled his eyes as he pulled off his coat. But Greg still lingered in the parlor doorway.
The older man didn't come to 221B very often—and when he did it was usually about a case. It was more convenient meeting at Greg's flat. He lived alone. They could have more privacy.
But they'd just come from a crime scene. Greg had managed to slip away, and Sherlock felt flushed with the adrenaline of a good solve. His flat was within walking distance. He didn't want to wait for a cab.
"Come on," Sherlock crowded up against the older man, slipping his hands under Greg's suit jacket, "I was brilliant."
"A bit," Greg smiled.
"I'm fantastic and clever and you want to fuck me so badly." Sherlock gave Greg a quick peck on the lips.
Greg's hands slid around Sherlock's waist. He caught Sherlock in a deeper kiss. Slow, tongues sliding together. The younger man's cock began to fill out rapidly.
Sherlock's heart raced. Because sometimes, kissing Greg felt brand new. It had the same excitement as the first time. Then somehow it got better, because it fed into the fire of old passion.
Sometimes, he felt dizzy with it. Drunk, almost. Because he'd gone his entire life without needing anybody, and he'd never understood how nice it could feel. When he pressed up against Greg like this, his brain flooded with oxytocin. Chemical attachment, like any other sort of addiction. He didn't think he'd ever be able to get enough of it.
Greg unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt slowly. He slid it off the younger man's shoulders like there wasn't any rush. Sherlock often walked about his flat in nothing but a sheet—but having Greg undress him right there in the middle of the parlor felt oddly thrilling. Afternoon sunlight streamed in the window. Traffic buzzed by in the street below. Greg unbuckled Sherlock's belt, flipped open the button of his trousers and pulled down the zip. Sherlock toed off his shoes and stepped out of the pile of clothes. Then he was completely naked while Greg remained entirely clothed.
The older man wrapped his hand around Sherlock's erection and stroked slowly.
"We've never fucked on this couch before," Sherlock groaned. "Do you want to?"
"You're sure John's not going to be back soon?" Greg grazed his teeth across the skin on Sherlock's neck.
And really, Sherlock was reasonably certain. He'd put it at about eighty percent, if he had to pick a number. They'd fucked in Sherlock's bed before, and that wouldn't be nearly as exciting. He wanted to be filthy. Exposed. Out in the open.
Really, the twenty percent chance that John may walk in the door at any moment only made him harder.
"Yes," he gasped.
Greg let go of Sherlock's prick. His hands slid to the younger man's hips.
"Well then, best go get your collar," Lestrade's voice dropped into that low, threatening tone that made Sherlock's skin prickle with anticipation.
The DI stepped back, gave Sherlock a quick swat on the arse, and then walked towards the couch. Sherlock watched for a moment, as Lestrade settled down, took off his jacket and loosened his tie. So calm. So collected. He'd slipped into the dominant role seamlessly.
"Hurry up, slut," Lestrade commented offhandedly. "I'm going to start counting and you're going to get smacked for every second you dawdle. One… two… three…"
Sherlock still didn't hurry. He walked into his bedroom at a leisurely place. He cock throbbed. He felt a bit giddy. They hadn't shagged in almost ten days because of back to back cases and the general chaos of their lives. The built up tension only made it more exciting.
He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out his thick leather collar. Lestrade hadn't said to put it on, so he didn't. He paused, and listened to Greg count for a few beats. On the way back to the couch, he grabbed the lube off his bedside table.
"Twenty nine… thirty." Lestrade smiled as Sherlock kneeled before him, holding out the collar.
The DI took the collar and unfastened the buckle. He slid the strip of leather around Sherlock's neck and buckled it just a little bit too tight—so that it pressed into Sherlock's skin enticingly. So that there might be a few red marks, depending on how long they left it on.
"What else do you have there?" Lestrade half raised an eyebrow. Sherlock presented the lubricant wordlessly. Lestrade set it aside and shook his head. "Eager little slut, aren't you? Well, business before pleasure. Come up on my lap and accept your punishment like a good boy."
Sherlock draped himself across Lestrade's thighs and stretched across the couch. His feet dangled off the edge, as did one of his arms. His cock fit between the DI's parted legs. He rocked his hips experimentally, but wasn't able to get much friction.
Lestrade took his time, running his hands across Sherlock's naked skin. He grabbed a handful of Sherlock's arse and squeezed gently. Sherlock's cock twitched. He hated the anticipation as much as he loved it.
The first blow came without much warning. Sherlock gasped as Lestrade's palm came into swift contact with his skin at the top of his right thigh. It wasn't particularly forceful, though it did sting a bit. He couldn't help but squirm slightly. He couldn't quite control his instinct to rut against something until the horrible tension inside him dissipated.
"Stay still," Greg growled.
Sherlock bit his lip and tried his best. Three more blows came in rapid succession. The sound of the slaps echoed around the otherwise quiet room. The blood began to rush to the surface of Sherlock's skin. His arse cheeks felt increasingly warm. Lestrade kept on.
The younger man didn't really try to keep count. He simply focused on the sensation. The tingling pain, that morphed into a pronounced throbbing. He couldn't breathe properly, and before too long, he couldn't contain the little moans and whines that pushed themselves out of his mouth.
Lestrade paused. He gently massaged Sherlock's arse cheeks—causing flares of intensity in the constant thrum of discomfort.
"Well that was thirty for taking your own sweet time to get the collar… but let's see now, you were rather rude to my team today, weren't you?" The smirk curled through Greg's voice. Sherlock shuddered.
"Yes, Sir," he said quietly.
"How many do you deserve for calling Sgt Donovan a blithering idiot?"
"As many as you'd like, Sir."
"I'd say at least ten. You'll get another five for insulting Anderson's haircut, and fifteen because you decided to fellate an ice lolly in front of me two days ago while we were walking to a crime scene."
Sherlock whimpered.
Greg started up again. It felt like he was hitting harder. But perhaps Sherlock had simply become oversensitive. He couldn't keep from squirming and letting out small noises of distress.
The sting of each blow fed into Sherlock's arousal. It hurt, and yet he got strange flickers of perverse pleasure from it. The world narrowed down to pure sensation. Stinging skin. Sweat. Blood. Heat.
He heard himself begging. Please, please, yes, I need…
Sherlock felt entirely wrecked and raw by the time Lestrade stopped. No doubt his arse was a wonderful shade of pink. Lestrade didn't tell him to sit up, so Sherlock stayed put. He heard the snick of a plastic cap opening. Then Greg spread Sherlock's arse cheeks apart with one hand. The younger man felt a slick finger nudge at his entrance.
"Oh," he all but sobbed.
"Is that what you want, whore?" Greg asked condescendingly. "Do you want to be opened up and fucked until you can't walk?"
"Please, Sir."
Greg's finger circled, and teased, until finally it slid inwards. He was relentless. Working his finger in and out, slow and steady, just barely grazing against the right spot over and over. Sherlock didn't try to keep quiet. He panted and groaned and pushed back against Greg's hand shamelessly until he got rewarded with another finger.
"So greedy. What am I going to do with you?" Greg sighed. But Sherlock could hear the heat in his voice. He could hear the desire.
Lestrade worked in a third finger before very long. Sherlock shivered, almost unable to cope with the sloppy mesh of sensations.
"Lovely," Greg murmured under his breath. He withdrew his fingers and gave Sherlock's arse a final slap. "Come on. Get up."
Sherlock struggled to a seated position. He stayed in Greg's lap, straddling the older man. Greg's eyes were dark. His breath quickened as Sherlock reached down and unbuckled Greg's belt. He flicked open the button and pulled down the zip of Greg's trousers. He pushed down the waistband of the older man's pants and pulled out his cock. Sherlock slicked Greg's cock up and gave him a few slow strokes before moving forward.
The younger man kept a firm hold on Greg's prick as he lined it up and began to sink down onto it.
It was always a rather alarming stretch at first. But Sherlock breathed through it. Focused on relaxing. He focused on the way Greg's face went slack with pleasure. The older man's hands drifted up to grab Sherlock's arse. They both groaned as Sherlock lowered himself further onto Greg's cock.
Sherlock started to roll his hips slowly, taking the rest of Greg's prick in small increments. He still felt tense. The motions burned a bit. But the older man leaned forward and began sucking at Sherlock's neck, right above the collar, and that was a lovely distraction.
Soon Sherlock relaxed. Each downward thrust was punctuated with a tiny spark of pleasure. He pressed their bodies together so that his cock rubbed against Greg's abdomen through the fabric of his shirt. Greg held him close, gasped and mumbled endearments. Sherlock began to experiment with the angle. Shifting around, trying to find it. He knew Greg loved watching this part—watching Sherlock try to maximize his own pleasure.
The younger man moaned loudly when he managed to get it right. Greg's cock dragged against Sherlock's prostate deliciously. Just the right balance of too much and not enough. He repeated the motion. Shallow thrusts, slowly picking up speed.
"There we are," Greg growled, "you love bouncing on my cock don't you?"
"Yes, Sir," Sherlock barely mumbled.
His thighs began to burn from the exertion. Sherlock clutched at the back of the couch for leverage. But he didn't really want to risk changing positions when he'd just found the perfect edge of bliss.
Each breath came labored and jerky. His little cries started to sound more like sobs. He couldn't help it. He was vocal during sex anyway. But when he could have Greg's cock exactly the way he wanted it—he completely lost control.
They'd left the parlor door open because Mrs. Hudson was out at her weekly book club meeting. The curtains weren't drawn. They were exposed. Entirely shameless.
Greg squeezed Sherlock's arse again, and the flare of pain created a wonderful contrast to the intense bursts of pleasure. Sherlock let his mouth fall open. He closed his eyes, threw his head back, and he rode Greg's prick for all he was worth.
"Jesus… Sherlock… I… fuck," Greg groaned.
Sherlock felt it. The gathering tension. The throbbing ache. It was a lot like free fall. Like the lurch before a long drop. Part of him wanted to slow down, try to draw it out and make the feeling last forever.
But then Greg wrapped a hand around Sherlock's cock and that was it. Just a few slow strokes and Sherlock toppled over the edge.
He shuddered helplessly. His muscles clamped down on Greg's prick. His cock jerked, painting ribbons of come on Greg's shirt. He drowned in the wash of reward chemicals. The pleasure rippled through him. He felt it all the way in his toes.
He slumped forward. Greg held onto the younger man's hips and thrust up into him just a few more times. Then he went still, letting out a soft groan.
They were sticky, covered in sweat. The air smelled like sex. Sherlock's arse was still unpleasantly warm. The pain had dropped to a dull throb—easy enough to ignore—but no doubt he'd be sleeping on his side for a few nights, and avoiding chairs whenever possible.
Greg ran his hands down Sherlock's back soothingly. The quiet pressed in around them. Sherlock shifted up enough for Greg's cock to slide out of him, but then he settled right back down. He liked this part. He liked being held while they came down off the endorphin high.
Greg planted a small kiss on Sherlock's cheek. The younger man drew back enough so that their mouths could press together. Kissing after sex always felt different than kissing before it. The urgency was gone. Everything went slow, warm and hazy. Their tongues brushed against each other unhurriedly.
It felt like being cared for. Even though the novelty of the sensation had long since worn off, it still made Sherlock's heart beat irregularly.
Sherlock heard the scuff of a door opening. He heard the creak on the stairs. Lestrade obviously didn't. Maybe there was enough time to run to Sherlock's bedroom and shut the door. It was a split-second decision.
But he thought about how Lestrade asked, "does John know about us?" in that sad, detached way. He thought about the night John moved in, when the doctor had asked if Sherlock had a boyfriend and he'd said no as a reflex. Sometimes he still debated with himself. Maybe I could have them both. But he couldn't, really. Not without hurting them. He thought about eventuality. He'd have to make a definitive choice at some point.
He made his decision there, on the couch, naked, and filthy. Instead of running, he stayed put, kissing Lestrade softly.
"Jesus!" John yelped.
Sherlock suppressed a chuckle. Lestrade jumped slightly. He turned to the parlor doorway with a look of horror in his eyes.
John stood there, with a bag of groceries in each hand, a half open mouth, and an expression of utter shock.
Sherlock calmly covered himself with Lestrade's jacket and smiled at John innocently.
"Sorry, John, we didn't think you'd be home so soon."
John stared in silence for almost a full thirty seconds before he recovered enough to speak. "Um… right. I'll just…I'll leave you to it, then."
He walked to the kitchen, set the groceries on the table and bolted upstairs to his bedroom.
"Fuck," Lestrade groaned. "Excuse me while I die of embarrassment."
"Oh shut up," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "He's a doctor. It's nothing he hasn't seen before. Come on, let's have a shower."
Sherlock stood and Lestrade allowed himself to be dragged to the bathroom. Sherlock let the water run for a moment until it warmed. Lestrade stripped off his messy clothes, still grumbling under his breath. Sherlock removed the collar and threw it in the pile with Greg's clothes. They stepped into the shower and rinsed off thoroughly. When they finished and dried off, Greg started to mumble things about needing to get back to the Met, Sherlock just kissed him and headed for the bedroom. Of course, Greg followed.
They closed the door and climbed under the duvet. It was still light outside. Soon, Greg would probably get hungry. Perhaps they'd go out for dinner.
Right then, however, it was nice to sprawl across the mattress. Sherlock lay on his stomach, with his head on Greg's chest.
Five years.
It seemed like such a long time, but it had all passed so quickly. Perhaps that was the natural progression of life. Things would keep happening quicker and quicker until the sudden stop and long stillness at the end. It used to be a thing that worried him a great deal—running out of time. Getting old. Not being clever and sharp forever.
Now, it didn't bother him as much. He felt that maybe, it all wouldn't be so bad as long as he didn't have to do it alone.
AHHHHH. IT'S FINISHED. I CAN'T. WHAT EVEN.
I'm sorry it's been like a month since I updated, but this ending was really hard to write. I have like three different versions of it saved in my writing folder. I debated with myself endlessly about whether or not I had the balls to jump headlong into cannon and sail this glorious ship into the sunset. But I did, and I'm not sorry.
Thanks to everybody that's been here from the beginning. Without your support, I probably would have abandoned this fic a long time ago.
Thanks to newcomers, I hope you enjoyed yourself. Comments and favorites will always be sexy, even months and years from when this is posted.
I may or may not write more one-shots in this verse. If you want to stay updated about my evil plots you should come hang out on my tumblr (taylorpotato . tumblr . com).
I love you guys. It's been great.
xoxo
Taylor