A/N: This chapter is rated M for sexual content.
Lestrade left St. Bart's, grumbling under his breath. His arms held a parcel, given to him by Molly, to be then given to Sherlock, poste haste, were Molly's exact words. Delivery boy he was not and yet there he was, hurrying over to Sherlock's flat with a mysterious package in his arms. He adjusted the parcel as he entered Sherlock's building, damp with perspiration. Not even April but the weather had been kind to them for once. Still, he couldn't wait to remove his jacket. He bounded up the stairwell and knocked on Sherlock's door. He heard a muffled come in so he turned the knob and walked inside.
The first thing he noticed was that Sherlock was in the midst of packing. He walked to and fro, gathering items, and depositing them on his sofa next to a large suitcase. He went in and out of the bedroom, carrying various articles of clothing and other effects. The second thing he noticed was the noxious fumes coming from the direction of the kitchen. He sniffed in disgust and placed Sherlock's package on the table, finally removing his jacket. "Got something for you. From Molly." Sherlock peeked his head out of the bedroom, eyes going wide.
"Ah, yes! My spleen. Perfect timing." And he ducked back out of sight. Lestrade stood still for a moment.
"Sherlock. Mind telling me why I carried a spleen three blocks to your flat?" he said, hands on hips. Sherlock returned, socks in hand. He carelessly dropped them into the open suitcase, glancing down for a beat in contemplation. Then he noticed Lestrade.
"Oh that. Nothing to concern yourself with. Merely experimenting. Molly's been most helpful." And he was off again.
"I'm sure she has," Lestrade said with a disbelieving smirk. "So, you going somewhere?"
Sherlock's voice resonated from the other room. "Florida. Where is my belt?" Lestrade blinked and went to find Sherlock in his room. The younger man was on his knees, searching under his bed for his belt...apparently.
"Florida? Thought you needed a holiday?" he joked, leaning against the doorframe. Sherlock's head popped up, scowling. "Don't be obtuse, Lestrade. I have a case there. And it sounds entirely delightful." He huffed, standing up, eyes roaming the room. They landed on Lestrade. "Why are you here again?"
Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Doing you a favour, apparently, cause you couldn't be arsed to pick up your own bloody body parts at Bart's." Sherlock ignored his sarcasm. "I don't have time to run errands, Lestrade. I have to pack and finish up my experiment and solve that Dillard's case for you." Lestrade huffed. "Don't bother, why do you think I was at Bart's? Confirmed suicide. Overdose."
Sherlock's eyebrows dipped, confusion reigning on his face for a split second. Lestrade had come to enjoy that look, so rare it was to see it on the younger man's face. "I see. Well, if it's confirmed..." he trailed off, glancing at Lestrade, who nodded assuredly. "You are now officially free from any further obligations for the Yard."
Sherlock gave him a look he knew all too well. The don't-be-an-idiot look. He grinned good naturally. "So how long you'll be away for?"
Sherlock sighed, and resumed his hasty packing. "Not sure. Not too long, I hope. I have a few details from the wife. Seems extremely anxious to meet with me."
"If she lives in Florida, how'd she even hear of you?" Lestrade asked.
"She moved to Florida after getting married. She's originally from here, and some relation or other recommended me to her. I'm leaving early tomorrow morning." They had moved back to the living room, Sherlock snapping his luggage closed.
"Well, bring sunscreen," Lestrade mentioned. Sherlock visibly grimaced. "Never could abide that stuff." He blinked at Lestrade. "Oh, did you want tea or something?"
Lestrade laughed, shaking his head. "Nah, gotta get back to work. Listen, you stay out of trouble, you hear? And for God's sake clean up whatever you're working on before the landlord evicts you while you're away." Sherlock sat down on the arm of the sofa, looking drained.
"God, I already miss London. Traveling is so tedious. How am I going to survive the eight hour flight?" he asked morosely. Lestrade thought it over and mentally cringed.
"Sleeping pills," he deadpanned eventually, though Sherlock looked at him curiously. He slapped him on the shoulder. "Right then, I'm sure you'll manage. Keep in touch, yea?"
"What for?" Sherlock asked lazily.
"Cause I'll miss my assistant, that's why," Lestrade quipped, resulting in another eye-roll.
"Whatever will the Yard do without me?" Sherlock replied mockingly. Lestrade grabbed his jacket, hastily pulling it on. "Well, there's always Anderson," he taunted, and walked away without seeing Sherlock's expression.
He was in a good mood as he took a cab back to work. Things had been going well, both with work and in regards to Sherlock. The man showed up whenever Lestrade texted him, and got the job done. He never showed up high, and Lestrade never asked him if he was still clean. He didn't want to open up that can of worms again. So long as he remained his lovable, arrogant self he was welcome to his crime scenes.
Sherlock wasn't an idiot. He knew Lestrade meant business. Furthermore, random visits to Sherlock's flat revealed nothing nefarious or dangerous. If Sherlock was at home, he was usually idling over a microscope, or lazing on the couch, large tome in hand. Or browsing the internet or madly texting away on his new mobile. "It's called an iPhone, Lestrade, and I've increased the rate with which I text by forty percent. I suggest you purchase one as well."
They never spoke about their previous arguments, or things said out of hostility and malice. Truthfully he was glad it wasn't awkward and that things resumed as they were. Though the atmosphere started off tense upon Sherlock's first visit back to a crime scene with a frosty reception from Donovan, Sherlock ignored her and everyone else in favour of the work, conversing only with Lestrade when he reviewed his findings. Since then, Sherlock hadn't faltered or given any indication that things weren't copacetic.
He looked healthy, he looked...good, completely put together. Lestrade didn't want to hope too much, knowing how much one little setback could alter things dramatically. Sherlock texted him sometimes, randomly at all hours of the day. Lestrade didn't really feel like putting an end to it. The alternative was radio silence and Lestrade hated that feeling. He liked being in constant contact with Sherlock; it made him feel better about things.
Of course two days after Sherlock's departure Lestrade still hadn't heard a whisper from him. Thinking he was just too engrossed in whatever, Lestrade let it go. A week went by before he caved, fingers at his keys.
How's Florida?
He got back an almost instant reply.
Not now. Busy. SH
Lestrade blinked down at his mobile. "Arse," he grumbled, mildly relieved at a response of any kind.
A new case kept him mostly busy, though he wouldn't mind the input from a certain Consulting Detective. His team at the Met had a laugh about that. The only one of his kind. Sherlock bloody Holmes. Of course, the joke was entirely on them as Sherlock's little business kept blooming. He'd been off to Lisbon, and to Prague and recently came back from Stockholm.
He never really spoke of any of his cases to Lestrade, unless the Inspector specifically asked after them. It wasn't that Lestrade didn't feel inquisitive, it was just that he didn't like to pry, knowing how Sherlock could be. Still, whenever Lestrade called him for a case matter, he was there, unless he was out of town. The Met didn't pay him of course. Hell, some of Lestrade's superiors didn't even know what Sherlock did for them, but Sherlock never seemed to mind. In fact he enjoyed it. The anonymity was ideal for him, as long as he got to do the work.
The next day after Sherlock's brush off he returned home to find his wife making tea in the kitchen. He was struck dumb for a moment before finally shutting the door.
"Hello, Greg."
He stared at her as he took off his jacket and dumped his keys on the table.
"Deb. Wha' you doing here?"
"I still live here, you know."
He scoffed. "You haven't set foot here in months, as much as I can tell. So what are you doing here now?"
She nervously fiddled with her mug, bringing it over to the table and taking a seat. She looked up at her husband, beseeching. "Greg...I wanted to apologize. For the way things played out. I never meant- I didn't want to hurt you. And I know I did. But, I've had a lot of time to think things over and I feel- I just feel like being here again is- well, it feels right. Like the right thing to do."
Lestrade stared at her, incredulous. She saw what was on his face and stood, walking over to stand right in front of him. "I am so sorry, Greg. I truly am. I didn't even think of what I was doing, and how much it would hurt you. I...I'm going to go to therapy. I really want to make this work again. Please believe me. I don't want to give this up." And then she placed her hand on his shoulder. When he finally realized what she was doing he recoiled, anger burning in his eyes.
"Have you gone insane? What do you mean you want to work things out? After what you've done! You left me for another man, Deb! You moved out to be with another man! How can you expect me to just be okay with that!" He was shaking so much he didn't even realize it until he rubbed at his jaw in frustration and noticed the tremors.
Deb's eyes were filling and he couldn't stand the sight suddenly. He made a sound of disgust, hastily grabbing his keys and storming out. His heart was pounding madly and his ears were filled with the ominous sound of blood pumping. He walked without purpose but soon found himself inside the corner shop, paying for a packet of smokes. He didn't even wait before he was fully out of the shop before lighting up, for once not hating himself for it. He leaned against the brick of the building and inhaled, eyes shut, desperately trying to ignore what just transpired. Breathing returning to normal, he dropped his fag and scrunched it with his shoe. Then he took out his mobile.
Busy?
Yes. SH
He sighed, his chest aching. He reached for another cigarette, placed it between his lips.
Sorry. Bad day.
He didn't even know why he was telling Sherlock. He was a million miles away and it wasn't like he would care anyway. He lit up, waiting for a response. It came later than expected.
What's happened? SH
Surprised to find the younger man so inquisitive, he didn't know how to respond. He took a deep puff, loathing his wife with every fibre of his being. Not even Sherlock could drive him to this, he thought, bewildered. But one conversation with Deb and months and months of restraint gone in an angry flash.
Lestrade? SH
He hadn't realized he was blankly gazing down at his screen, the cool air biting at his fingertips.
Sorry. It's nothing, Sher. Sorry to bother you. Hope things are going well in sunny Florida.
He shut his mobile, stuffing it into his jacket. He finished his second cigarette and hailed a cab to the Yard. He refused to go back to his flat in his current state. At least he could be by himself for a while at work, unmolested.
It was coming to one a.m. and Lestrade was still at his desk, halfheartedly looking over a case file. A sudden shrill sound filled the quiet of the room before he realized it was his phone. He glanced at the caller ID, frowning. Swallowing, he flipped it open.
"Hey, Sherlock."
"Inspector. Working late this evening?"
Lestrade rolled his eyes. "How do you know where I am, Sherlock?" He could almost hear the sigh from across the Atlantic.
"Nevermind the boring details. I'm assuming you came in contact with your wife today," the voice stated. Now it was Lestrade's turn to sigh. He was too tired and long past impressed with Sherlock's deductions to ask him how he figured that out. Instead he dug his fingertips into his scalp.
"Yeah...yes. She paid me a little visit today. For all I know, she's still there in my fucking flat, drinking my fucking tea," he bit out. There was silence on the other end. Lestrade pressed his forehead to the cool metal of his desk.
"Bitterness doesn't suit you, Lestrade," Sherlock said finally. Then, "She came back because she wants to work things out with you. Obviously. And you're hiding at work to avoid another confrontation, hence at this particular time you have no wish to reconcile with her. You can just ask her to leave, you know," he finished.
Lestrade shut his eyes and clenched the phone tight to his ear. "Even you know it isn't that simple, Sherlock. Anyway, I'd rather not talk about it right now," and meant it.
"Then why did you text me?"
Lestrade sighed, sitting back in his chair. He felt a migraine coming on as he rubbed his tired eyes. "Not for marital advice," he weakly joked. Why had he contacted Sherlock?
Because you miss him, his brain provided. Inwardly groaning, knowing it was true and knowing he couldn't possibly ever say that to Sherlock, he tried to come up with another explanation. Fortunately, Sherlock beat him to it. "Look, I have to go, there are...things falling into place this evening and I really must get back. If all pans out, I shall be back by weeks' end."
Lestrade brightened at that. "Sounds good. Stay safe, Sherlock."
"Always, Inspector," Sherlock responded, exasperated. They hung up, Lestrade feeling strangely better. Just hearing the other man's voice brought about a moment's respite from the madness in his head. It grounded him and he looked forward to Sherlock's return. In the meantime, he really had to deal with matters at home.
When he made it home at two in the morning, his flat was blissfully empty. Deb had left a note on the refrigerator stating she would be at her mother's house and when he felt up for it, to get in contact with her. He crumpled the note and binned it. He grabbed a couple of pills for his head and passed out on the couch.
By weeks' end actually turned out to be two weeks later. Lestrade was at his desk engrossed with paperwork when a shadow fell over his desktop. He looked up and grinned.
"Christ, you look red." He stood and slapped Sherlock on the shoulder, earning him a glare. "Didn't I tell you to use sunscreen? You're all flushed and lobster-like." It was mostly true. Sherlock's cheeks and forehead had a bright, rosy glow, while some slight peeling was going on with the tip of his nose. The younger man looked miffed at Lestrade's amused expression.
"I did use the damned sunscreen. I just never reapplied," he bemoaned with a huff, finally taking a seat. He was wearing his typical expensive suit ensemble, complete with his favourite overcoat. The only difference to his appearance was his colourful face and his hair, which looked to be recently clipped. Sherlock noticed him staring.
"Mycroft's barber." He shuddered." I don't understand why Mycroft continues to use him, he's practically ninety years old," he drawled. Lestrade sat back in his chair. "Then why'd you go to him to get your hair cut?"
Sherlock lazily looked up at the ceiling. "Because I don't have time to waste searching for a barber and he's on call all the time." He sighed dramatically. "It was getting a bit long anyway," he said, running his long fingers hazardly through the freshly shorn locks. Lestrade fought not to look away. He coughed, shuffling paperwork. "So everything went well did it? Got your man?" he asked lightly.
"Of course. Took a bit longer than expected but they're looking at the death penalty. Might get the chair," he said with a mischievous gleam in his eye. Lestrade stilled his movement and stared.
"The chair? Sherlock, what in God's name have you been getting involved with over there? That's capital punishment! How did you even get tangled in something like this?" he asked, incredulous. Sherlock had settled comfortably in his chair, shoulders relaxed, head cocked at Lestrade with a languid expression.
"I'm starved. Indian?"
Lestrade blinked at the segue but, shaking his head in disbelief, he grabbed his coat and indicated for Sherlock to get up from his comfortable perch. They walked to a place nearby that Lestrade had always liked. After placing their orders, Lestrade leaned forward across from Sherlock and said: "Alright. Spill. Now."
Sherlock grinned Cheshire-like, and proceeded to tell Lestrade, in intricate detail mostly everything that had happened upon arriving in Miami, including complaints about the heat, the people, the food and the accommodations. The parts about the actual case horrified Lestrade. Drug cartels, prostitutes, guns for hire, murder. With every word Sherlock grew more animated and Lestrade could only stare in distressed silence. Sherlock was suddenly ripping into the naan, biting off a huge chunk and Lestrade hadn't even realized they'd brought the food out.
"Oh if you were only there Lestrade, you would have loved it! The way it was done, so ingenious and elegant- it's no wonder nobody knew for months what was going down." He stopped to dip his naan into the mango curry sauce.
"Jesus, Sherlock." He had nothing else to say, or at least nothing he could say without risking Sherlock's wrath. A drug cartel? Not a good mix. And as if by cue Sherlock had leveled a look at Lestrade, almost plucking his thoughts from his mind.
"I'm clean," he emphasized with an annoyed billow, his eyes never leaving Lestrade's. The Inspector waved the admission away, somehow knowing he was being told the truth. "I know you are, Sherlock. It's just this whole thing sounds completely insane. And just a bit dangerous."
Sherlock scoffed, already diving into his next bite. "Please. The police in Florida are even more incompetent than your guys, if you can imagine that."
Lestrade ignored the jibe. "Well, I'm just glad you're back. Burnt and all," he grinned. Sherlock pursed his lips but said nothing. Then his eyes lit up. "Oh! I haven't even told you the best part yet." He paused to wipe his mouth and then leaned forward on the table, fingers laced together. "The wife of the accused, Mrs. Hudson...She's actually going to be moving back to London to take up residence in her family's home which she inherited after her father died. She's already told me I can take the flat above her if I wanted to." He looked jovial and not unlike a child at the moment. Lestrade couldn't stop the smile from forming.
"That's great, Sherlock. Where abouts?"
"Baker Street. Prime location. Really ideal. I wasn't exactly thinking of moving. So tedious, plus I'm currently near Bart's so that will be an annoyance. But the rent she's offering is too enticing to pass up. We shall see. In the meantime, I have to go!" And with that he stood up, dropped some bills on the table and buttoned his coat. Lestrade sat, still eating, mouth full.
"Oy! Can you at least wait til I'm done over here!" Sherlock was already moving away. "No time, Inspector. I've got things to see to. Call me when you have a case!" He was out of the restaurant before the last word was heard, and Lestrade sat there wide-eyed, swearing under his breath.
To his annoyance, he started receiving daily texts from his wife. While at work, during briefings, in the loo, getting out of the cab. They all revolved around a central theme: How sorry she was, how wrong she was, how badly she wants to go back to the way things were.
He never responded because he had no clue what to say to her. He didn't know what he wanted to do. But every time his phone made a sound he'd cringe and soon started turning it to silent just for a bit of peace. He was constantly thinking about the dilemma and it only increased his smoking habit.
He was outside, near the Met's side alleyway lighting up for the second time that hour, when a voice startled him.
"Got a light?"
His hand went instinctively to his gun. "Christ, Sherlock! You can't just sneak up to someone like that in a fucking alleyway!" He could almost hear the grin.
"I did no such thing. I was told you were out here. I approached. It's not my fault you were brooding and didn't notice me."
"Wasn't brooding," he mumbled automatically. Sherlock walked up next to Lestrade, back against the wall. He took out his own cigarette and Lestrade automatically passed him his lighter.
"I thought you'd quit," Sherlock said, not at all surprised. Lestrade shrugged. "Thought you'd like some company once in a while. Figured I'd start back up again."
Sherlock stared ahead, puffing slowly on his cigarette. Lestrade could only fathom what he was thinking about. The silence stretched until Lestrade stomped his own fag out. Stuffing his hands in his coat pockets he shuffled his feet, not really wanting to get back to his desk so soon. "So what brings you here?" he asked Sherlock.
The younger man looked strangely comfortable, leaning against the hard stone, expertly taking drag after drag of his expensive cigarette. Sherlock always was a snob. Claimed he knew everything there was to know about ash, like it was relevant to anything. Even had a website listing them all... Lestrade looked away from the dark hair, stirring slightly in the cool breeze, the steel eyes, lidded slightly, taking pleasure in his addiction.
"Had nothing on," Sherlock replied softly with another shrug. For some reason Lestrade thought there was more that Sherlock wanted to say. Or hoped he might say. Lestrade hoped Sherlock stopped by just to see him. Why else would he bother to seek him out? Sherlock was avoiding his eyes as well.
Lestrade knew Sherlock didn't do social visits. He supposedly didn't do a lot of things, but now Lestrade wasn't so sure. There were chinks in the armor, Lestrade himself had seen them. He suddenly wanted to know what else he could discover about the mysterious young detective.
"Well, I'm almost finished here. Thought about going to the pub after. Wanna join me?" he asked as nonchalantly as he could manage. Sherlock let out one last puff and dropped his own cigarette, using the point of his overpriced shoe to crunch it. Hands stuffed into his great overcoat he didn't react in any way to Lestrade's proposal, choosing to glance around, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Lestrade raised his brows. "Sherlock?"
A deep sigh followed as blue-green eyes met Lestrade's. Whatever Sherlock thought he saw in the older man's face must have made his mind up because suddenly he was standing tall away from the wall, brows low, a resigned look to his face.
"Fine. Just nothing loud or annoying." He walked out of the alleyway, leaving a stunned Lestrade to follow after him.
After finishing things up in his office they made their way back towards Lestrade's flat and a pub he knew quite well. It being a Wednesday evening he doubted it would be terribly busy but they still chose a quieter booth spot away from the ruckus of the bar patrons.
Lestrade shrugged off his light jacket while Sherlock kept his on, tight around his frame like a security blanket. They each ordered a pint to start, Lestrade chugging half of his down in the first five minutes. Sherlock sipped on his like he wasn't used to the taste, but never complained. He was quiet and Lestrade knew he'd stay that way unless he made the first move. Sherlock didn't believe in social conversations and this certainly qualified. He polished off his pint and quickly ordered another.
"So how're your cases going?" Better start with a safe topic, he thought. Didn't want to annoy Sherlock so soon into their evening.
"Steady. I've had a few interesting phone calls. No murders or anything but at this point I can't exactly pick and choose." He shrugged, taking another sip. "I assume you didn't ask me here to discuss work however," Sherlock said knowingly. He pushed his glass aside and leaned forward, intertwining his long fingers together. Lestrade sighed.
"I just needed a night out. Company's always nice." He looked down at his nearly empty glass, all the while feeling Sherlock's icy gaze on him.
"You have friends at work, Lestrade. Why not one of them? Sally even?"
Lestrade had no answer to that. He actually didn't even consider asking any of them out tonight. He'd known most of them for years. Some since before he made Detective. Why was it Sherlock's company he wanted? The one person on the planet that didn't give a shit about anyone's personal issues or feelings. Now it was his turn to shrug.
"I actually wanted to be alone but then you showed up. Figured you already know all about my problems so there's no point in pretending. Like I said, I like the company, even if it is the silent type."
Sherlock appeared to mull this over. "I don't have to be silent. But you won't like what I have to say."
Lestrade grinned into his raised glass. "I almost never do." He finished it off, setting it back down on the table with a loud ding. "Course I did sit through you puking your guts out for days so I suppose an hour of me rambling won't do you much harm," he smirked jokingly at Sherlock. The younger man inclined his head as if to say proceed, and actually drained his own glass in one go. Lestrade was impressed. They ordered another round and Lestrade started to speak.
Two hours later, Sherlock had unwound his scarf and actually unbuttoned his coat while Lestrade rolled his shirt sleeves to his elbows. His hands were gesticulating wildly while Sherlock occasionally looked down at his glass, at the other patrons, at the sticky floor, and from time to time, at Lestrade.
"For years it was only her. Just her. No one could compare and no one else mattered. And I was bloody stupid to think she thought the same. And all this time! God!" He paused for a drink, his throat parched. "And who's to say she's telling the truth now? How many other men were there that I don't know about? And what's to stop her from going off again in a year. In six months...And I'll be the fool who took her back." He shook his head in self-loathing, peeking over at Sherlock, who was nursing his third pint, finger running along the rim, over and over. He looked utterly bored but Lestrade could tell his words were being heard at least. He'd never seen him refrain so long from speech. He felt a bit silly for going on so long. Also, he felt a bit tanked-up.
"Sorry, I don't mean to drop my troubles on your lap. God if only I had you around when I met her. You would have seen right through her," he said, shaking his head and wishing it were true. He could have saved himself years of wasted time. "I did love her once. I'm not even sure when I stopped. Do you just stop loving someone?" he asked rhetorically. His words were starting to slur but his mouth wouldn't stay shut.
"I'm afraid you're asking the wrong person", Sherlock said, eyeing disdainfully the scene at the bar.
"Yea, but you've been with people. You know how it feels," Lestrade replied with droopy eyes. Sherlock's eyes darted over to his, cold and irate.
"Yes, I've been with people, but let's not bring love into this conversation, shall we? Love is nothing more than a fairy tale told to young children, like Father Christmas or the Tooth Fairy. It's just a chemical reaction that you can either give in to, knowing it's false and temporary, or fight and be intelligent about it." He pushed his glass away in disgust. "You are the perfect example, Lestrade. Your mind has been warped and twisted into believing something that's not there. You let another person have control of you, body and mind, and look where it's led you. Sitting in a pub for nearly three hours cursing her every which way you know how and still not able to let go of her, even after knowing what she did. I can't comprehend that."
Lestrade leaned back in his booth and stared at Sherlock. That was the most he'd spoken all night and even with his alcohol ladled mind he was sure it all made sense. Except the part about love being a myth. Love was real. He knew it. Hell if you loved your parents you knew it was real, there was no other word for it. Yes, love made you do crazy, insane things. People died for love. Maybe that was Sherlock's point. Did his love for Deb cloud his mind so much he wasn't aware of what she was doing to him? He couldn't even bear to think of it. How does one trust again after being with someone so heartless?
"Do you not love your brother? Or your parents?" he boldly asked Sherlock. The other man frowned. "Don't be dense, Lestrade. Familial love is not what we are discussing here. The need to protect your family, to honor your family, that does not equate to losing your mind and falling into a pit of self despair and pity. This is just pathetic," he gestured at Lestrade with a wrinkle of his nose.
"Do you think I should tell her to fuck off? Once and for all?" He swayed as he leaned forward, needing badly to hear Sherlock's answer.
The younger man heaved with impatience, eyeing Lestrade with contempt. "I think you know me well enough by now not to ask me stupid questions. What's the point of asking me something you already know the answer to?"
Lestrade's brows rose in despair and he watched Sherlock's face soften marginally. "She is a fool to choose another man," he said with conviction. Then he pulled out his billfold and dropped some money on the tabletop. Lestrade watched him in detached wonder and didn't say another word. Sherlock stood, wrapped his scarf around his neck and buttoned his coat up. Then he looked down and pursed his lips at Lestrade.
"Come on." He stretched out his arm and Lestrade lazily grabbed it, getting to his feet. His vision swam and the room definitely tilted. He held on with his fingertips to the edge of the table as Sherlock tried to help him with his coat. Christ he was pissed. He had no idea how many pints he'd had but it was probably quite a bit if he couldn't even get his coat on by himself. Then he felt a firm hand on his shoulder, leading him out of the pub.
The brisk air woke him up a bit as they walked. He noticed they weren't getting a cab which meant more walking than he cared for in his present state. Sherlock said nothing, just stayed close in case he stumbled or tripped. When they reached Lestrade's flat, Sherlock held open the door and walked behind him as they got into the lift. When they reached his door, Lestrade fumbled for the keys but they were swiped away by Sherlock's cold fingers. Door open, Sherlock waited for Lestrade to enter first before closing the door behind them.
Lestrade groaned from the effort of removing his coat as Sherlock turned the overhead lights on. He squinted at the sudden harshness. The brisk walk had cleared his head a bit but now, back at home he was just feeling sleepy. His phone suddenly buzzed and he reached into his trouser pocket and grabbed it, squinting at the caller ID. It was her. Something must have shown on his face for Sherlock was suddenly in front of him, expertly retrieving the phone from his grasp. He didn't say anything as he blindly hit the End button, his eyes never leaving Lestrade's. Then Sherlock chucked the phone across the room to land on the sofa. Lestrade didn't even bother to look to see if it landed safe. Not when Sherlock's face was less than a foot away.
Even in his inebriated state his heart pounded wildly in his chest, his cheeks prickled with warmth and his breathing was becoming harder to regulate. From his current distance he could see that Sherlock's checks were also flushed, though he expected that was more from the cold than anything. His eyes were guarded but alert, dilating slowly. His hair was a mess, strands scattered all over from the late spring breeze and Lestrade resisted the urge to fix it. He was staring and he knew it. His smile was crooked as he said, "Thanks for that."
Sherlock slowly blinked. "She doesn't deserve you." Lestrade's heart flipped at the softly spoken words, his breath hitching. He didn't know what to do with his hands; they were suddenly shaking. Sherlock still hadn't moved away and Lestrade saw the slightest quirk of his brow, inquisitive, perceptive. His eyes remained curiously blank, not giving Lestrade much to work with. And yet, he wasn't backing away.
Lestrade knew, somewhere deep in his alcohol-addled brain, as he glimpsed Sherlock's long eyelashes flutter, that this was a bad idea. One of his worst, no doubt. But something about Sherlock's words, spoken with surety and twinged with a sorrow he hoped he wasn't imagining, was unhinging a small part of his brain he vowed he'd never give in to.
The five plus pints he slaughtered made him bold then. He could see himself reflected in Sherlock's stunning eyes, the different flecks of blue and gold and greeen swirling, hypnotizing...His head swooned but before he could lose his nerve he moved- his hands came up and found Sherlock's cheeks and he crossed the few inches remaining as his mouth found Sherlock's.
Totally and completely numb he pressed his lips against the younger man's, almost reverently. He could feel Sherlock stiffen in surprise but he didn't back away and that only emboldened him further. His fingers slowly moved from his cheeks to his silky black hair, sliding along his scalp, pulling him closer. The mouth under his was pliant, yet deliciously firm. He couldn't remember the last time he'd kissed another man but surely it hadn't felt this good. It was like a dam bursting free and he poured all his hunger into the kiss, never wanting it to end and fearing what might happen when it did.
Finally, after what felt like moments of agony but in reality was probably only seconds long, Lestrade released Sherlock's supple lips, breath leaving his parted mouth, shaky and vulnerable. His hands were still touching Sherlock's face, his cheeks, tracing the obscene cheekbones, down to the now swollen lips, past his chin, feeling the stubble just beginning to form, and finally settling on his shoulders, more for support than anything else.
Eyes half-lidded he feared what he would see in those frigid eyes. But he dared a glimpse and found them inviting, pupils blown in a way that had nothing to do with drugs or alcohol. If he wasn't so plastered he could have tried to decipher the secrets that were contained within the glowing orbs that now stared at Lestrade with an intensity he'd never before imagined possible.
In a split second however it was gone, shuttered with the blink of an eye. Sherlock slowly reached his arm up, placing his hand over Lestrade's, still glued to his shoulder. He carefully disengaged himself and wordlessly led Lestrade to his bedroom. Calmly, he walked him to the edge of his bed and made him sit. He crouched down and unlaced his shoes, first one, then the other. Getting the hint, Lestrade sighed, eyes getting heavier by the second in the darkness, and laid down flat against the pillows. Eyes already closed he could feel the heavy blankets being pulled over him. Nearly passed out he hoped he hadn't imagined the feel of cool fingers running through his short hair, lulling him to sleep.
His first thought upon waking was holy fucking headache. His second, which came precisely six seconds later was oh my fucking god. He shot up, his pulse racing, his heart hammering in his chest, threatening to tear free. He shut his eyes as a wave of nausea mixed with a deep feeling of mortification overcame him and he leaned forward, willing the horrible feeling away. It was useless. He mentally cursed.
His memory might have been a bit fuzzy around the edges but he could never forget the feel of Sherlock's lips against his own. Could never forget his coarse fingers grazing over the sculpted face or the heat of his mouth so warm and inviting, burning his tongue as he breached the swollen lips. It had been part desire and part agony, his alcohol infused self fighting for control and quickly losing. And Sherlock, standing there, not backing away and not really encouraging him either.
He cringed, his hand coming up to rub at his brow, at the headache that was part hangover, part his mind simply rebelling from visualizing the scene from the last night. Despair and embarrassment coursed through him and a sudden panic seized him as he thought, now what? What had he done? He had invited Sherlock out and then practically assaulted him right in his kitchen, like a drunken teenager, desperate for a snog. And Sherlock hadn't said a word, had looked at Lestrade with what? Pity? Sadness? Indifference? He didn't know which was worse.
He might have potentially ruined whatever friendship he had with Sherlock, with a stupid, drunk, lust-filled performance. And Sherlock would have every right not to speak to him again. God and he knew how Sherlock was! He knew the man didn't lightly tolerate anyone getting near him. And to place him in an intimate situation, practically against his will was just unforgivable. Lestrade knew better, and thought his restraint was greater than that. God he was forty two years old and Sherlock was so...young. Beneath the stoic figure and the acerbic wit and eyes of steel, he was still so damn young. He couldn't forget the man's vulnerability. Lestrade, as long as he's known him has tried to protect him, even took him into his own home. And it all had led to this.
He remembered Sherlock taking him to bed, removing his shoes beforehand. Probably out of pity. Helping the old man to bed so he doesn't pass out and hit his head on the floor. He groaned, not thinking it possible for him to feel even more mortified. His head pounded mercilessly and he still needed to actually work today. There was nothing for it but to get up, shower and face the day. But could he face Sherlock? Sherlock, whose eyes were forever a mystery, a Pandora's Box that he dared to open and suddenly wished he hadn't. He was sure the fallout was soon to come.
His hands shook as he grabbed his coffee in the break room, officers milling about. "Is it true you and Freak went to the pub last night?" Sally's voice had a shrill quality to it this morning, he thought. That or his head was still fighting with him. He carefully turned to her, feigning ignorance.
"Wha' of it?"
She blinked but didn't say anything further, shaking her head as if asking merely out of curiosity and nothing more challenging. He carefully gripped his cup and walked slowly to his office, the various noises assaulting his senses unpleasantly. His mobile lay on his desk with no missed calls or texts. Periodically he would glance down at it with a nervous energy. Hours passed. He couldn't eat a thing and he went through two more cups of coffee which did nothing but make his hands jitter uncontrollably.
He realized he was staring at his computer screen without actually reading anything on it. The words all blurred together anyway, the grip of hangover not quite finished with him just yet.
He had a lot of time to think. Sherlock wasn't going to call him. Or text him. Or see him. Why should he? It was Lestrade's own fault for what happened. He's the one who needed to do something about it. Apologize, at the very least. But what to say? I'm sorry I couldn't keep my hands off you? I'm sorry I sullied your perfection with my drunken ass? I'm sorry I even invited you out? His head smacked the top of his desk. Repeatedly.
It was getting past five and he was shutting down his computer when his mobile pinged. Blood pumping in his ears he grabbed the phone, clumsily prying it open.
Going to County Down on a case. Sounds tedious but the groundskeeper keeps bees. Will return in two days. SH
Lestrade stared at the letters, none of it making much sense to him. When the sentence still wouldn't spell out: 'I don't ever want to speak to you again', he exhaled with relief, breath going ragged.
Didn't know you liked bees? Stay safe.
He snapped his phone shut and breathed properly for the first time that day.
True to his word, Sherlock came back two days later, swooping into the Yard like he owned the place, earning glares as he passed by. His hair was windswept and his scarf was wound tight around his long throat, his hands perpetually stuffed into his Belstaff. He wrenched open Lestrade's door without knocking, even though the Inspector was on the phone. He frowned in annoyance as Sherlock plopped loudly into the chair he usually occupied. Lestrade tried to glare but he couldn't concentrate on his important phone call and on Sherlock looking all flushed and bright-eyed, lashes fanning on his cheekbones with every slow blink. Christ, he was losing it. He looked down, picking up a pen just so the jitters wouldn't be so obvious.
"Right, thanks. Keep me posted." He hung up and fixed Sherlock with a look.
"Can you please knock next time, I was on a private business call," he said with a stern look. Sherlock merely shrugged. "Nothing is private."
Lestrade groaned and rubbed at his eyes. "You are unbelievable, Sherlock." That earned him a self-righteous smirk. His heart unclenched a bit after realizing that Sherlock wasn't going to be talking about that night. Fine, he could play ignorant too.
"Have a nice time in Ireland?"
Sherlock cringed in mild disgust. "Waste of time, really. Such a dull case. Worse than the rubbish Mycroft keeps assailing me with. Not worth the airfare. I really don't know how people could live in such a place."
He was rambling. Sherlock never rambled. Lestrade stared blankly at the other man as if expecting more dialogue. When none came, he coughed a bit. "Well, not everyone prefers city living, Sherlock."
"And not everyone prefers the dull solitude of Brighton either," came the automatic response. When Sherlock noticed him staring he rolled his eyes. "Of course I remember what you told me about it being your favorite place to go. Honestly Lestrade, I'm not completely socially inept." He looked annoyed.
Lestrade declared, "I never said that. Just surprised is all that you remembered. Thought you might have deleted all the boring data associated with me," he said in jest, but really actually thrilled that Sherlock had kept that minor detail. Sherlock didn't meet his eye, scanning the room as if he hadn't already memorized it by heart from his first visit. Lestrade's collar felt a bit snug suddenly. The silence was palpable as they both searched for something to speak of.
"So I had this crazy idea," Lestrade blurted completely on a whim. Sherlock finally met his eyes, disinterest blooming.
"Yes?" he asked lazily even as his body tensed imperceptibly. Lestrade noticed and thought Sherlock might be impressed that he was paying attention. Then disregarded that notion as preposterous. He coughed.
"Next time you go brawling, or whatever it is you do, I thought I might tag along."
Sherlock's brows rose then fell in wary confusion. "What for?"
Lestrade didn't actually know why he brought it up. But ever since he found out about Sherlock's extracurricular activity, he'd always been a bit curious as to what goes on in the underground brawling circuit. Nevermind the fact that it was most likely highly illegal.
"Maybe I wanna give it a try myself," he said with a half smirk. Sherlock's expression hadn't changed, he was still regarding the older man with a calculating look, wariness brimming around the edges. Lestrade smirked wider, thinking Sherlock thought him incapable of hand to hand combat.
"You. Want to try fighting?" He enunciated each word like he couldn't believe he was even saying it. Lestrade shrugged.
"Sure, why not? So can I come to this secret club of yours?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's hardly a secret. And it's not a club, anyone who wants to fight is welcome. So tell me, Inspector. Who do you want to fight?"
Lestrade met his eyes, a challenge blazing from them. "You."
Sherlock wasn't as surprised as Lestrade thought he'd be. He looked at Lestrade, his eyes tinged with dark humour, one side of his mouth quirking, almost mocking. Lestrade waited, hands clasped, eyes glued to Sherlock's.
After a moment Sherlock broke eye contact and stood, chin down, contemplating further. "Very well. My flat. Tomorrow evening, six. And don't be late." He swept out of Lestrade's office, plunging his hands deep into his pockets, practically sauntering down the hall. Lestrade could never have imagined that when he woke up that morning, he would be agreeing to enter into a bare-knuckled fight at some undisclosed location, with Sherlock Holmes as his partner.
They walked side by side along the darkening streets of London, Sherlock in his workout garb and Lestrade in his own sweats and faded tee. He was a bit cold and his zip up wasn't really doing the trick. The place in question was actually not far from Sherlock's flat, about a fifteen minute walk.
"So you just show up and tell them you want to fight? Is that how it works?"
"More or less," Sherlock replied without looking at Lestrade.
"And I assume there's betting involved."
"Of course there is. But that isn't why I do it. I enjoy the sport. It's..therapeutic."
Lestrade cast a sideways look, a grin settling on his face. "Kinda like Fight Club?"
"What's fight club?"
Lestrade stared in disbelief, then thought better of responding. No doubt Sherlock hadn't heard of that particular film. Or book for that matter. He wasn't quite up to date with current events.
They rounded a corner at Newgate Street and walked another minute before Sherlock led them to a side street that was more of an alleyway than anything else. The streetlights were few in between and Lestrade would not have found this place on his own. It wasn't even really out of the way, it was just so nondescript he wouldn't even think anything of it in passing.
The door was black and not all that interesting, crisscrossed with various markings. There was no number on the door or anywhere abouts. Sherlock walked right through without knocking so Lestrade suspected it really was open to anyone. Down a narrow stairwell they went and then down a dank corridor. At the end was a wider door. There was a large man standing there, looking stern and imposing. He nodded as he saw Sherlock, though.
"Welcome back, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock acknowledged him with a nod of his own but said nothing, nor did he bother explaining Lestrade's presence. He supposed guests were allowed entry if they knew someone who was a standing member of the 'club'. They passed through the door and suddenly the room opened up into a large hall. In the center was a proper boxing ring, wooden benches surrounding the perimeter. Lestrade gaped, suddenly realizing how very real all this was.
People were milling about, mostly dodgy looking folk, old and young. There were big brutish blokes and tall skinny ones, tattooed and pierced, clean shaven and bushy bearded. It was too surreal, something straight out of an old movie. He leaned in towards Sherlock.
"So is this it, for people?"
Sherlock smirked. "No. It's still early, but it's Sunday too. Friday and Saturday evenings are much busier." They walked further into the large hall and found an empty section of wall to stand against. More people were coming in. Women too. Lestrade viewed the scene with a sense of wonder. He watched as people exchanged cash, eagerly making deals. The volume had turned up drastically too since they'd got there. Sherlock stood, arms crossed and watched with a detached air, every once in a while nodding in someone's direction.
After a few more minutes of just standing around, Sherlock whispered in his ear, "wait here", and walked away towards a man giving out directions, clearly in charge of things around here. He couldn't hear what was said, but he saw Sherlock point over to him and the other man looking a bit put off and unsure. Whatever Sherlock said convinced him eventually because he came back with a pleased expression on his face.
"What's going on?" Lestrade asked.
"Normally, we don't get to pick who we fight. It's actually a bit more structured than it appears. But they know me well around here. I was very convincing. Told them you were a copper and it was your first time." He stopped to smirk at Lestrade. "He was fine with the fight proceeding. We'll probably be up first. It's better that way. Less blood on the mat to deal with."
Lestrade blinked and inwardly groaned, not for the first time wondering what exactly possessed him to do this in the first place.
Word apparently spread very quickly because in no time at all bets were placed, people waving the money through the air, screaming indecipherable words out to anyone who would listen. It was a mad house. Sherlock stood in silence, aware of the scene before him. Lestrade's stomach was doing uncomfortable flips and he was just glad he ate nothing beforehand.
He wasn't afraid of fighting with Sherlock. In fact he was looking forward to it. He knew Sherlock could move and he knew he could fight. But knowing it and experiencing it are two different things. Lestrade wasn't a slouch either. You don't get to be Detective Inspector by sitting on your arse all day. When he was much younger he actually wrestled in school. Was pretty good at it too. He wondered if Sherlock knew that. Probably.
He felt a slight touch on his arm. "Come. It's time."
Lestrade followed Sherlock down to the ring, pulse pounding loudly in his ears. Adrenaline was kicking in as he crouched down to fit under the ropes. The crowd was closing in, yelling raucously. So many faces surrounded them, and Sherlock seemed non pulsed as he disrobed, tugging his tee off like he'd done it a hundred times. He tossed both his hoodie and t-shirt out of the ring somewhere and stood tall and lean, fair skin glistening with the slightest hint of perspiration. His dark hair was wild and his eyes glittered with an excitement Lestrade had only seen during very interesting murder cases.
After realizing he'd been staring far too long, he too removed his zip-up and tee, leaving him suddenly self-conscious and awkward. He dropped his clothing off the side as well and turned back to find Sherlock stretching. Heart beating a hair faster than necessary, Lestrade casually gazed away and began stretching himself. Arms, legs, torso. Suddenly someone jumped into the ring with them. It was the important man Sherlock spoke with earlier. The man in charge. He began loudly explaining the rules, asking them if they understood. Lestrade nodded dumbly, not remembering a word he'd said.
Blood was pumping in his ears, through his veins, searing him. He was anxious to get started. Sherlock was looking at him intently, bouncing up and down slightly on the balls of his feet, staying loose. His cheeks were flushed as he approached, reaching his arms out. Lestrade followed, and as they clacked their knuckles together, Sherlock leaned forward, whispering in his ear, "Don't hold back." He quickly stepped back with a challenging gleam, still bopping up and down like an excited puppy. Lestrade smirked back, eyes glittering darkly. If that's the way Sherlock wanted to play...
He only somewhat heard the sound of the bell before the crowd went wild and Sherlock was stalking up to him. After that, things were mostly a giant blur of movement and pain.
Sherlock dodged an uppercut, crouching down and hitting Lestrade right in his lower left side. Lestrade grunted but shook it off, advancing once more. He didn't know how long they'd been at it, but he was starting to get tired and he hadn't got a good hit on Sherlock yet. Sherlock side-stepped his jab with a smirk and ended up kicking Lestrade in the shin. Pain coursed up his leg. Swearing he crouched low and ended up catching Sherlock off guard when he suddenly dove right at him, grappling him to the mat. Then they were a tangle of legs and arms, fighting for dominance.
So far, neither of them managed to get a face hit in, though Lestrade suspected Sherlock was avoiding his on purpose, simply for that fact that if Lestrade showed up at work tomorrow, black and blue, questions would be raised. Lestrade grabbed an elbow, pulling it taut against him. Sherlock let out a hiss of pain before his long leg ended up kneeing Lestrade dangerously close to his groin. He assumed the fight would end with either a pin or knockout and was about to revel in his position, when the bell suddenly rang.
Cursing, he regretfully released his hold on Sherlock, huffing and puffing. He felt tender all over and had the slightest bit of satisfaction as he watched Sherlock walk back to his corner, massaging his now aching arm. He leaned back against the ropes for a breather, watching Sherlock through lidded eyes. For a skinny bloke, Sherlock sure could fight. He had the speed and agility and certainly some experience. But he wasn't just skin and bones. He had a fine layer of taut muscle over that lanky skeleton of his, wiry veins up and down his arms and Lestrade could only imagine what his legs looked like beneath his loose jogging bottoms. Probably sculpted and lean, like the rest of him. The bell rang and he jumped, unaware of his daydreaming.
Sherlock advanced, that challenging look plastered on his face. Lestrade wanted nothing more than to smack it off him. His knuckles stung but he clenched his fists and went after him. Sherlock didn't utilize many kicks, figuring it wouldn't be fair since Lestrade wasn't able to and certainly didn't know how. It was true, he was no martial artist. But if he could get Sherlock on the mat again, he could show him what he did know. Sherlock had other plans. He was like a beast that couldn't be toppled, his energy never failing.
Lestrade punched, and Sherlock dodged, sidestepping mostly everything Lestrade gave out. He was getting frustrated. Sherlock was toying with him now, realizing that Lestrade was getting tired and lagging.
Suddenly, out of the blue Sherlock swiped his leg forward and knocked Lestrade off balance. He went down on his arse, hitting the mat hard. Sherlock was on top of him now, trying to twist his long limbs around Lestrade's. Furious he was so caught off guard, he did the only thing that sprang to mind: he punched Sherlock in his jaw. As the younger man staggered from the sudden blow, Lestrade took the opportunity to grab around his torso, which was slick with sweat, and tried to roll him over on his back. But Sherlock had realized what he meant to do and with a feral look in his eyes and with a strength Lestrade couldn't fathom he possessed he somehow managed to get Lestrade pinned on his stomach.
Both his arms were suddenly pulled back, painfully awkward, and his legs refused to cooperate as Sherlock was practically sitting on them and had his ankles clenched tight around Lestrade's. It fucking hurt and the louder he grunted, the harder Sherlock pulled and he felt like his shoulders would pop out of their sockets.
"Yield!" Sherlock screamed in his ear as the crowd went rabid. It was beyond humiliating as he had little choice left. The pressure on his arms increased and he had to bite his tongue from screaming.
"Alright! Stop, I yield, damn it!"
Immediately the pressure eased as Sherlock jumped off him. Lestrade couldn't move for a moment, his arms protesting the slightest movement. Suddenly he felt arms from behind, wrapping around his upper torso. He was being lifted up, since his own appendages couldn't currently support him. Finally on his wobbly feet he turned to glare at Sherlock but his face froze as he gazed at the exuberance on Sherlock's face. It was lit up with pure elation, a wide grin spreading on his face as he clasped Lestrade on his shoulder, leading him towards the edge of the ring.
His heart pounding erratically which had nothing to do with the fight, he allowed Sherlock to lead him away, crouching under the ropes as Sherlock lifted them and taking a seat on an unoccupied bench near the ring. His ears were still ringing from all the blood pumping and the sheer volume of the place. Around him people were smacking his back, almost as if he had won. People kept coming, some even spoke to him.
"Incredible fight! Can't believe how long it lasted!"
"You were lucky, mate. Should see the other blokes he fights. Practically tears them apart!"
"You coming back, yeah?"
On it on it went until Sherlock returned. He wasn't even aware he had gone off somewhere until he was back, a wad of cash in his hands. He also brought back Lestrade's clothing and was already donning his own, stuffing the money in his pockets.
"Come on, I doubt you want to stay for the rest of the fights."
Lestrade huffed a laugh. He grabbed his tee and put it on over his sweaty body, cringing at the prickles of pain coursing up and down his arms. He'd be sore for days. After getting his hoodie zipped up, he stood, his whole body protesting. Sherlock had him by the shoulder as he led them out, past the noise of the crowd, past the large man at the door, until they were suddenly breathing the cool London air. If felt like heaven. They stood still for a moment.
He expected some gloating but when nothing was forthcoming he just said, "Come on," and they stepped out to the kerb, their footsteps echoing in the dark.
Pain coursed through his limbs, leaving him achy and lethargic with each step he took. He cast a sideways glance at his companion, walking silently beside him.
"Well that was something."
Sherlock shot him a sidelong smirk, eyes still ahead. "You should see it on a real busy evening." A pause. "You're quicker than you appear, for an old man," he grinned.
Lestrade gave him an half-hearted glare. "You little shit."
Sherlock's grin grew wider. He inclined his head in acceptance and they continued in their steady pace. The cold air felt nice against his raw skin though he'd be feeling every bit of it tomorrow morning. They were soon coming upon Sherlock's building, people passing by them as they walked.
When they came to the stoop Sherlock said, "I suppose you want a shower before you head home."
Lestrade hadn't actually been expecting an invite but now that it was offered, he wasn't going to refuse it. A hot shower sounded positively blissful.
"Yea, thanks. Some tea would be nice too." Sherlock nodded in assent and inclined his head at the doorway. The climb up to Sherlock's flat was torturous, his legs protesting with every tread. He was practically out of breath by the time they reached the landing. Sherlock retrieved from his trouser pocket a single key and unlocked the door.
He gestured for Lestrade to come in and immediately proceeded to remove his zip up and his tee, dropping them onto the floor without another glance. Then he walked over to the sink and started on the tea. Lestrade slowly unzipped his own hoodie, placing it more carefully over one of the dining chairs before plopping down hard onto the seat. He tried not staring at the large expanse of naked flesh as Sherlock made the task of tea-making an erotic affair.
His head ached miserably, a fact he was only starting to notice, so consumed with the rest of his aches. He suddenly noticed Sherlock by his side, his pale smooth torso leaning forward, setting a steaming tea cup down in front of him. Then he sat down diagonally across from Lestrade at the small table and settled his elbows on top. He drooped his head forward, almost as if stretching his neck, then swiftly twisted his head to the right, then the left, cracking it with a sickening pop. Lestrade cringed at the sound, so loud it was in the stillness of the flat.
He took a sip of the scalding tea, burning his tongue instantly. Placing the cup back down he glanced over at the pale arms resting on the table; the smooth, white skin, blue veins stretching underneath the fine dermis. He saw the faded marks, pale and nearly invisible, almost indiscernible to the casual observer. But Lestrade would always know what they meant, would always see them, no matter how faded they got. Cautiously, he reached forward and grazed a fingertip to the juncture where elbow met wrist, lightly tracing one. Sherlock's head jerked up at the touch, arms going stiff.
Lestrade didn't meet his eyes, just kept gently gently circling the marks, wishing his mind wouldn't conjure the horrible images he kept seeing.
"Stop that." Sherlock's voice was low and dark, and wasn't referring to the touching.
Lestrade frowned, blinking away the images. "Sorry. I-" His voice caught and he removed his hand, placing it back onto his warm mug. "I keep seeing..."
"Don't," came the stern reply, more a plea than anything. Lestrade slowly glanced over, at the pale hands inches from his own. His gaze went higher as his heart rate sped up, noticing goosepimples rising all over the naked skin. His mind refused to obey as he caught sight of Sherlock's lean torso, slightly hunched over, a very light dusting of hair on his chest, nipples pinched from the cold; erect. His head was pounding as his eyes roamed higher still, over the long, elegant neck, carotid artery pulsing underneath the fair skin. If not for that Sherlock was like a statue, not budging an inch under the obvious scrutiny. Lestrade felt emboldened.
Surely Sherlock was not completely unaware of Lestrade's...inclinations. He had kissed him for Christ's sake. And that was at the frontmost of his mind suddenly, playing on repeat- and he wasn't even lucid at the time. Now, now he was aware of everything. The closeness to Sherlock, his body heat radiating off him, their knees practically touching under the table, the stillness of the room, the pounding in his chest that escalated as his eyes finally met Sherlock's.
It hurt. How could he not have seen it before? Was he so blinded by Sherlock's past faults and mistakes that he never realized precisely what he did see in Sherlock? The extraordinary genius, yes. Everyone saw that. But only he was privy to this. These quiet moments of just them. Sherlock's arresting eyes boring into his. A million different emotions warring with each other, his armour slowly chipping at the seams. Sherlock was never this casual. Not with anyone. Not even his own brother. How many people had he let into his life so intimately? He could probably guess and be right.
And now they sit, Sherlock's body taut like the strings on his precious violin. Waiting. One wrong move could ruin everything. Was it worth it? How did he let Sherlock in so deeply? How did he become so consumed? Even before the kiss. He knew, deep, deep down, he must have known. The kiss was just inevitable. It merely reminded him of what could be. Would it still have happened if he wasn't drunk out of his mind? Who knows. But just the flash of remembrance, the warmth of his mouth...and Lestrade ached with need. He wasn't thinking anymore.
He braced his arm on the table and leaned over, swallowing hard. "Sherlock," he whispered, almost silently, and touched his lips to the younger man's. It was firm, yet chaste. It was intoxicating. The endorphins from the fight were taking over again and he brought his other arm up and cupped the side of Sherlock's face, his tongue begging for entrance. A cold hand clenched onto his wrist, unyielding. He immediately froze and backed off a bit, staring into Sherlock's dark eyes.
"You don't want this," Sherlock said matter of factly. Lestrade could have laughed.
"Yes, I do." His breath mingled with Sherlock's as the younger man flicked out his tongue, wetting his lips in contemplation.
"What if I don't want this?"
Lestrade went very still, staring into Sherlock's eyes with a burning intensity. "Then I stop right now. But you could have stopped me before, too," he countered.
Sherlock blinked, eyes downcast in thought. "I don't do this." But it sounded weak even to him as he frowned at his own choice of words. He looked back at Lestrade. "You'll despise me tomorrow. You'll despise yourself more."
Lestrade curled his lip. "I think you've given me plenty of reasons to despise you, Sherlock. And yet..." He hovered over Sherlock's face, his free hand reaching forward again, this time lightly tracing the forming bruise on his jaw. Sherlock's breathing remained even, though his eyes told another story. Lestrade dared another glimpse before lowering his face once more to get as close as he could to Sherlock.
The iron grip remained on his wrist as he pressed his lips again to Sherlock's, his free hand slowly shifting to his ears, to his silky hair, still damp with sweat. The smell was intoxicating. Everything about Sherlock was. His breath tasted mildly of cigarettes and cloves and he found himself nuzzling along the curve of his jaw, his lips mapping their way to his neck, pulsating with life. He didn't even realize his other arm was free then as he brought it up, planting it towards the back of Sherlock's neck, feeling the tickle of dark strands.
Suddenly he felt and heard the chair scrape back harshly and Sherlock had his fist clenched onto the front of Lestrade's tee, pushing him forward out of his awkward position. He found himself in between Sherlock's spread legs, the sensation going straight to his cock like a bolt of lightening.
He leaned forward, plundering Sherlock's mouth as Sherlock held on to his clothing with one hand while the other raked up the back of his neck, bracing at the nape, curving long fingers through his short hair. He moaned into the open mouth, leaning forward and crushing his thigh in between Sherlock's legs, eliciting the barest of gasps. His blood boiled at the sound and it suddenly felt like an inferno in the kitchen. He withdrew from Sherlock's mouth, kissing his way to his flushed ear.
"Get up," he groaned as his cock strained against the confines of his pants. He leaned away from the inviting body and reached forward, grabbing Sherlock's hand. He hoisted him up and maneuvered him around the table, away from the kitchen and towards the leather easy chair. There he sunk into it first and pulled Sherlock down on top of him, straddle-style. He sighed at the contact; could feel Sherlock's hard prick through the cloth against his own. His arms were everywhere, on Sherlock's slick back, running up his arms, grabbing onto his arse hard, digging him further into his lap. He was a man gone insane, too long without physical contact and too long without a partner he actually wanted to fuck and consume.
Sherlock's arms rested on the back of the chair, on either side of Lestrade's head. He leaned forward, his mop of hair damp with sweat, drooping over his forehead, obscuring the intensity of his eyes as he arched his back into Lestrade's lap, the grip tightening, knuckles bone white.
Lestrade suckled on his collarbone, licking a path to the juncture where neck meets shoulder blade, grinding up into Sherlock like a dog in heat. He was simply too far gone for proper thought or reasoning. He wanted Sherlock and that's all he could focus on. Sherlock placed one hand on Lestrade's chest and bent his neck, his head falling back, eyes squeezed shut with pleasure. Lestrade had never seen anything so erotic in his life.
He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's torso, pulling him close. "Oh my god..." His lips captured Sherlock's, sucking, biting. Sherlock was a fine kisser, though hesitant at first. Lestrade wondered when the last time he was with another person. Truth be told, it was a while for him too. And now he was making up for that. His tongue felt seared as he plundered Sherlock's mouth, grappling for dominance. The heat was shocking, turning him to mush, Every time Sherlock's tongue flicked over his own, he felt it deep down in his groin. He was so damn hard he felt he would die if he didn't get relief soon.
Mouth still on Sherlock's, he reached down with one hand, cupping the erection pressing eagerly against him. The man above him moaned into his mouth, a heat filled sound that throbbed through every nerve ending Lestrade possessed. Eager now, he reached into the waistband of Sherlock's jogging trousers and then inside his boxer briefs and grabbed. Sherlock shuddered above him, mouth gasping with overwhelmed shock.
Lestrade groped the silky cock, lead hot and slick and tugged slowly, eliciting another exquisite sound from Sherlock. His thumb circled the head and felt the sticky warmth of the pre-come, so slippery and hot against him.
"Greg..." came the pleading moan, Sherlock's grip on his arm painful and desperate. Lestrade's breath caught as his name passed Sherlock's lips, body shuddering above him. If he had any doubts about any of this they were quickly eviscerated by the raw intensity in Sherlock's voice.
He grabbed Sherlock's jaw, fingers pressing roughly into his cheeks. Wild, dark eyes leered back at him, challenging. Lestrade lunged forward, mouth on mouth, teeth clashing, tongues swirling. He extracted his hand from Sherlock's pants, eliciting a disappointed moan, and used whatever strength he had remaining to lift them both off the chair. Sherlock let out a tiny squeak of surprise, but held on as Lestrade carefully lowered him back to the floor, feet touching.
"Bed. Now please."
Sherlock's mouth quirked in a lazy half smile and inclined his head towards the bedroom, almost acquiescing to what would potentially happen. Lestrade removed his clothing on his way to the bedroom, leaving him standing by the bed in just his boxers. Sherlock took the hint and removed the rest of his clothing, leaving him flushed and naked from head to toe, his erection proudly protruding. Lestrade nearly forgot to breathe as he carefully nudged Sherlock to the edge of the bed, hand splayed on his chest for pressure. Sherlock sat, legs over the edge, and leaned back on his elbows in a fuck me pose, if Lestrade had ever seen one.
He dropped to his knees in between Sherlock's long legs, fingers running up and down, past muscle and downy hairs. He rested his forehead on his thighs, giving himself a moment to get his beating heart under control. He felt the slightest pressure on his head, then fingers running through, grazing his scalp deliciously. He needed no further encouragement.
He nuzzled the soft skin, breathing in the scent that was Sherlock. Sweat mixed with expensive body wash mixed with arousal. He could get used to it. Sherlock's cock jutted outward, completely hard and leaking. Not that he'd had numerous experiences with penises, but as far as this one went, he had absolutely nothing to complain about. He had often wondered. He would've sighed if he wasn't salivating. He took a swipe at the tip and found the flavour appealing. Sherlock's mouth drooped open, as he watched with glazed, hooded eyes. Lestrade swallowed the tip whole and Sherlock's head lolled back, his spine arching into the sensation.
Emboldened, he wrapped one of his hands around the shaft and suckled on the tip, his other hand anchoring himself on Sherlock's thigh. The body underneath him shuddered and jerked, arms failing him. Sherlock fell back, one arm folded over his head, fingers twisting through his hair, fighting to retain his control. He was failing, badly. Lestrade continued his assault, alternating between deep throating and lapping at the shaft to plain fisting when his mouth got tired.
Sherlock bucked into his mouth, eager, his bullocks tightening. Lestrade grabbed the quivering thighs tightly, and sucked him until he heard the choked, stuttered sound, felt hands digging into his scalp. He lapped at the pearly liquid that escaped past his lips, swallowing down the rest. He licked the shaft clean as Sherlock lay boneless on the bed, savoring every drop as if it were the last he'd ever taste.
Afterwards he crawled up on the bed, straddling Sherlock's still body. The younger man looked up at him, pupils blown wide, mouth working to control his breathing. Lestrade's hard cock ached as it pressed against Sherlock's stomach, leaving a shiny trail of pre-come from the motion.
"Sherlock-" but he didn't get much further because he was startled by a hard grasp on his cock, leaving him breathless and seeing stars. Sherlock never took his eyes off him as he stroked him from bullocks to tip, fingers firm and purposeful. It was an awkward angle but Lestrade didn't care as he moved his arm down and laid his hand over Sherlock's, fisting simultaneously. It was too much. It was not enough. His eyes kept hold of Sherlock's as he slowly rocked into their hands, his other arm bracing the bed for support. Sherlock's other hand was kneading his spine, sending tingles throughout his body.
Just when he felt he couldn't handle the overload any longer he was suddenly coming, his hand wavering to support himself from collapse, as Sherlock's fingers milked every drop from his pulsating member. His chest heaved with emotion and exhaustion and he lay flush with Sherlock's chest, gasping for breath. He felt Sherlock move his arm and watched as he licked clean his fingers, his tongue flickering out past his lips with an obscene sound. His eyes were curious and contemplative as he finished, testing out his pallet. Lestrade was too drained to laugh at his expression.
He lazily kissed his jaw, his cheeks, tasting himself on his lips. He was fighting sleep now but he really wanted to savour every second he had with Sherlock. He rolled off and over Sherlock, laying flat on the cool bedsheets, his chest rising with exertion.
"Fucking hell, Sherlock," he breathed, eyes closing. He heard the soft sound, might have been a sigh, might have been a giggle. He was out like a light a moment later.
He awoke to cold. He must have kicked the covers off sometime in the night and now lay upon the sheets, nude and freezing. His muscles protested when he tried to shift in bed and he remembered the fight. He remembered the pain, every part of his body aching, from toes to fingertips. He would no doubt be walking around sore for the next few days.
It was early still, judging by the faint morning light, and he was in bed alone. He couldn't say he was surprised. He really didn't figure Sherlock for a cuddler. His spine tingled as he suddenly recalled what had transpired in the very bed he lay in. His mind didn't need remembering. That particular memory was engrained for all time. His bleary eyes shut tight, trying to return to the moment, the blissful abandon. Even his most vivid fantasy couldn't compare.
He took a deep breath and sat up. The other side of the bed was cool, meaning Sherlock had been up a while. His stomach was a bit tacky but dry, meaning Sherlock had thankfully wiped him clean after he passed out. He put his feet down, recoiling at the freezing touch of the floor. He wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock had forgotten to turn on the heat last night. The flat was practically an igloo.
He knew he needed to get home, seeing as he had nothing to wear for clean work attire. Still, he was a mess. He got up and went out to the living area. It was dead quiet. Frowning, he realized Sherlock wasn't even home, his coat missing from its peg. He went to the bathroom, and turned on the shower tap as hot as it would go. He showered quickly using the body wash he found. It felt odd to be using Sherlock's personal hygiene things. Too intimate. Finishing up, he grabbed a towel, not caring that it wasn't freshly laundered. The hot water had felt nice on his aching body, though he'd kill for a cup of tea.
He gathered up his clothing from where he dropped them last night and zipped up his hoodie. It would be cold, but he had nothing else. Sherlock hadn't come home and he couldn't really wait around for him. Making sure his keys were still in his pocket he left the flat and grabbed a taxi home. When he got to work, he still hadn't heard from Sherlock. A twinge of worry nagged at him. Was Sherlock avoiding him? The man's mercurial tendencies were legend but even he couldn't completely erase what happened last night, not unless he regretted it.
Lestrade had trouble concentrating the remainder of the workday. He varied between arousal as his mind conjured up inappropriate images, or straight up worry at the lack of communication from Sherlock. Surely there was protocol. He just had to remember it. He had propositioned Sherlock, so it was only right that he get in touch with him. He took out his mobile.
Wanna grab some dinner or take away?
Busy. SH
He frowned down at the word, its curtness leaving his stomach in knots. Fine. He knew what Sherlock was like. He'd always known. One night together wasn't going to change him, not that Lestrade wanted that. Really not at all surprised at the turn of events, he snapped his phone shut and went home.
tbc...