Time changes all things. This was a fact of life, of nature. Time changes people, for better or worse, but usually, the changes are miniscule from year to year, until a decade has passed and you realize you don't even know yourself anymore. Lestrade thought about this often. Almost daily now. Now that things had changed.
He knew sleeping with Sherlock could potentially do damaging things. He knew it, he knew what a realistic possibility it actually was, and still he succumbed to his baser instincts, and opened up Pandora's Box. Now he was deeply regretting it. So much so that it was eating away at him from morning to night.
Aside from the fact that it was quite possibly the best sex he could remember-and they hadn't even gone all the way- he would take it all back if it would mean things would return to the way they were. To before. To when Sherlock talked to him and actually looked him in the eye. To when they joked and bantered, even when Sherlock was beyond inappropriate. Not to the Sherlock who gave him the cold shoulder, or responded as to a stranger, brisk, clinical, frigid. A month later and nothing felt right.
He wasn't completely ignorant of the situation. Clearly Sherlock regretted what had happened between them. For numerous reasons Lestrade could guess, Sherlock was choosing to ignore Lestrade rather than deal with their issue. He tried many times to bring it up but that always ended up awkwardly, and for some reason Lestrade found Sherlock absent often from his flat. He told himself it meant nothing, but he couldn't stop the worry from festering. He loathed to think what Sherlock was getting into in his state of mind.
He kept telling himself he wasn't responsible for his well-being, but he was just in too deep into this Sherlock mess and he couldn't just look the other way. On top of everything, there hadn't been a case worthy of Sherlock's interest in the past month, save for a couple of murder mysteries that Sherlock solved in less than forty eight hours, hounding on Lestrade's team for their inept incompetency. Sally was upset that Lestrade didn't intervene, but he wasn't about to piss Sherlock off any more than he already was. He told Sally it wasn't anything no one's heard before, leaving her silently fuming.
One cool spring morning, barely a month after their 'falling out', he got a surprise visitor after hours at the Met, in the form of Mycroft Holmes. He tried to play it cool when he saw him approaching with his large umbrella, but he ended up choking on his coffee and wiping spittle from his keyboard. He dreaded this visit. He hadn't seen the older Holmes brother in quite a while, but somehow he knew his luck had run out.
"Ah, Inspector, I'm so glad to find you unoccupied." He took a seat, uninvited, across from Lestrade, setting his umbrella on Lestrade's desk. Lestrade glared at the intrusion.
"Mycroft. To what do I owe the pleasure?" he said, not quite sarcastically. Mycroft's brow rose a half inch. He sat upright, hands clasped together in his lap, staring at Lestrade like a professor scolding an unruly pupil. Lestrade remembered those days well. He tried not to squirm.
"I do believe you already know, Inspector."
Lestrade stared blankly, not giving an inch. "Sorry. Don't really have time for riddles today, Mycroft. I'd like to get home sooner rather than later, so let's save all these false banalities for another day and just tell me what dragged you in here today."
Mycroft stared back for a moment before inclining his head slightly in deferment. "Sherlock"- and Lestrade mentally patted himself on the back for not reacting whatsoever- "He's been acting...off."
Lestrade half-snickered, an incredulous expression taking over. "You don't say." Mycroft did not seem amused.
"More so than usual, Inspector. And I think you know why," he stated with surety.
Lestrade shrugged. "Look, I'm not his keeper or minder. Sure I see him often enough, but I can't exactly be concerned with every oddity that Sherlock exhibits. I'd go insane."
Mycroft stared stonily at Lestrade, not even blinking. Finally he said, "You're good, Inspector. Very good I grant you. But I am. Better. I do this for a living and I get paid a lot more than you do. So I beg you not to waste my time," he finished coolly.
Lestrade swallowed loudly. There really was no point in lying to the man, but he also didn't appreciate the veiled threats and bullying. Some of his agitation must have shown on his face because Mycroft softened his expression slightly, taking an even breath.
"I don't know what Sherlock's problem is," Lestrade interjected. "He's been like this for a month. Yes it involves me. No I don't think Sherlock's on drugs at the moment. No I don't think he's a danger to others and anything else is really none of your business," he finished, not realizing he had subconsciously leaned forward over his desk in a defensive stance. He blinked and returned to sitting properly in his chair.
Mycroft looked at Lestrade, a bored expression growing. His face looked a bit fuller and he silently wondered if he gained some more weight. Then realized it was something Sherlock would say and inwardly cringed. Now Mycroft was glowering at him. Damn it. Fucking mind readers.
"Anyway, if that's all, I really have to get going." He stood, a clear indication that the conversation was done with, as far as he was concerned. After a beat, Mycroft followed suit, grabbings his umbrella from the desk. He stood close to Lestrade, his chin jutting out.
"My brother doesn't do relationships, Inspector. He doesn't have the mental capacity to deal with mundane things like that when he's already burdened with a million other more important thoughts and ideas. He cannot handle that. I am telling you this not as a warning, but rather to explain that Sherlock is not like you...and never will be. It would be the equivalent of emotional overload. And he is incapable of handling something so extreme." He wasn't looking at Lestrade anymore, but down at his feet, his umbrella prodding the carpeting.
Lestrade crossed his arms, not even knowing what to say. To refute the claim would be to admit what he did with Sherlock, but he couldn't actually deny the tiny niggling in his mind that said it was most likely true. He didn't like to think that. It made Sherlock seem less human. How can someone with a brilliance like Sherlock's not be capable of love? Or feeling? It didn't make sense to Lestrade, but then again, he wasn't burdened by a genius status.
Apparently Mycroft didn't look for a verbal response as he inclined his head and walked out the door, leaving Lestrade standing awkwardly, his mind in turmoil. Making up his decision, he took out his mobile.
I need to talk to you
Boring. SH
Lestrade gritted his teeth, fingers jabbing at the keys.
I'm serious. now.
Can't. Busy. SH
Lestrade sighed in annoyance.
Just had a visit from your brother
No response. He waited, and waited. As soon as he realized he had exhausted all his plays he snapped his phone shut. And then he heard it.
Your flat. SH
He released his pent-up breath, head feeling dizzy. His heart was crashing around in his chest, not looking forward to this meeting at all. He grabbed his jacket and left work with a sense of impending doom.
When he got to his flat, his door was already unlocked. Cursing, he stormed in, spotting Sherlock lounging on the sofa in his great big coat, reading a random book he must have found on his coffee table.
"Fuck, Sherlock, you can't just break into my flat." He dropped his keys on the kitchen table and took off his jacket. Sherlock hadn't budged from his spot.
"Why not, it's obscenely simple." He snapped close the book, dropping it on the table.
Lestrade went to his kitchen, and started making tea, if only to keep his hands busy, or from strangling Sherlock. He made two cups, milk in his, sugar for Sherlock. He brought the cups over, setting them on the coffee table. Then he took a seat in his armchair, since Sherlock was occupying the entire sofa. Plus, the distance might help make things less awkward. He received no thanks for the tea, not that that was a surprise. He leaned forward, clasping his hands together. His palms felt clammy so he tried wiping them on his trousers. Sherlock was watching him.
After a dramatic sigh, Sherlock sat up, a sullen, glazed expression settling on his face. "So talk." He shrugged in question. "You asked to see me, so talk."
Lestrade had many things he wanted to say to him, but there was just too much to organize. His thoughts were scattered. He really didn't want to start an argument but things couldn't continue as they were. He took a deep breath.
"Like I said, I had a visit from your brother. He seemed...concerned about the way you've been acting lately." Sherlock's expression hadn't changed, except for the slightest wrinkle at Mycroft's mention. "He came to me for a reason, and you know why. I just- I'd like to know what's going on. I'm not gonna pretend I don't know what this is about, but I'm a tad perplexed, Sherlock. I thought- I assumed you'd..." God this wasn't working well at all. Everything he wanted to say just sounded so cliché and Sherlock probably wouldn't appreciate any of it anyway.
"Look. I had a great time. If you didn't, I get it. If you never want to talk about it again, I get it. If you feel in any way that I will make things awkward or whatever...I get it. And it's not gonna happen. I've too many things on my plate to stress over this. If you only want to work cases from now on and eliminate me from your personal life"- and this was hard to say- "I get it and I'll respect that decision. But this...limbo isn't working well for me. You like things to the point, well so do I. I'm not holding anything against you, nor do I wish for anything you can't or don't wish to give me. I like having you around, as a friend. I'd like for that friendship to continue, no matter how much you snark at that word. You are my friend, Sherlock and after everything, I really prefer not to lose that friendship. But I will leave that decision with you. Now. I am done with my little speech. Please tell your brother not to stalk me at work anymore..." The last part was a bit of a joke, hoping to lighten the mood. Part of it was a bit creepy though, and Sherlock knew that already.
Sherlock had been looking at a spot past Lestrade's head the whole time, eyes not really giving anything away. Finally he jerked his head down, settling on his cup of tea. Sighing, he picked it up and took a sip. He placed the cup back down gently before leaning forward, elbows on knees and hands clasped in prayer.
"What did my brother say to you?"
Lestrade looked away briefly, recalling the awkward conversation. To lie would be hurtful to Sherlock. He sighed, picking up his own tea. "He said you are not mentally capable of handling a relationship." He inwardly cringed at his own words. Sherlock didn't seem overly upset. He stared at Lestrade, unblinking.
"He's right, of course."
Lestrade frowned, rapidly blinking. "What do you mean?" He placed his cup down, then raised his arms in a placating gesture. "And you don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to. I didn't ask any questions of Mycroft and my plan in speaking with you doesn't involve you telling me anything you don't wish to.
Sherlock pursed his lips. "There's too much going on up here," he pointed at his temple. "I can barely sleep most nights because I can't get any relief from the constant buzzing. Hence, the morphine. Since you find that repugnant, I have to make do. The work helps, it makes me focus on particulars. When I have nothing on, my mind wanders. It's not something I can help," he practically snarled, angry with himself. "To bring anything else into the equation is usually a futile endeavor. There's a reason I don't get involved in sexual relationships, Lestrade. They do nothing for my mind, nothing good anyway." He must have seen the confused hurt on Lestrade's face because he suddenly softened his stance.
"When I'm in that moment, it feels...overwhelming."
Lestrade shook his head, his voice low. "Why didn't you stop it?"
A shrug. "Curiosity. Most of my sexual experiences took place while I was coked up. It was the only way I could deal with everything. I suppose...You're not like the rest. You would have been fine if I rejected you."
Lestrade found himself nodding, his throat tight. "You know me, Sherlock. You know I'd never-"
"I know. And that's why I did." He leaned back against the cushions, eyes faraway. "I don't like when things get messy. It's tedious and it just reminds me all over why I don't do casual sex. I apologize if I can't explain it any other way but-"
"No, stop. Please, you don't have to keep going. I told you, I get it. It's totally fine. I swear. Just...maybe no more cold shoulder?"
Sherlock looked over at Lestrade, a pensive look crossing his face before he jerked his head in a nod, just once.
"Thank you." He picked up his tea, taking a large sip. Sherlock copied him a moment later and they drank in silence, for once not completely uncomfortable.
"I'll speak with Mycroft", Sherlock said after a while. "Stop his meddling once and for all."
Lestrade quirked his lip. "I can handle Mycroft. He's not as intimidating as he thinks he is."
Sherlock looked almost amused. "Careful what you say. He has ears everywhere."
Lestrade looked around, mildly uncomfortable. He jerked his head back to Sherlock when he heard the huff of silent laughter. "Don't do that, you bastard." Sherlock's eyes gleamed with bemusement as he took one last sip of his now cold tea, resting the cup on the table.
"I have to go. I need to look over my notes for a case I might work on."
Lestrade nodded, standing up to let Sherlock out. "Take care of yourself, Sherlock." A smirk. "Always, Inspector."
Over the course of the next few months, Lestrade did his best not to think of Sherlock in any sexual context. It wasn't too hard actually. Work kept him busy. There were two gruesome murders that needed solving and Sherlock was all about that. He swept onto the scenes with his usual vigor and enthusiasm and regaled the assembly with his deductions.
Lestrade was thankful that the awkwardness had passed. He wasn't going to pretend nothing happened, but he was certainly capable of turning his thoughts to more important matters as the weeks progressed. Sherlock never uttered a word about that night. Like it never even existed. Lestrade was too relieved to feel hurt. Sherlock was speaking to him again, and that mattered more.
In between cases for the Yard, Sherlock had his own to attend to. He was off traveling, always returning slightly perturbed, as if it wasn't worth the effort to begin with. He was most comfortable in London. The city suited him- the chaos and constant commotion. He lived for it. Craved it. Without it, he felt useless which lead to boredom. Boredom led to other things that Lestrade didn't want to think about.
"It's a bloody boiler in here, Sherlock. For God's sake turn the AC on!" He was at Sherlock's flat, trying to make tea in a space the equivalent of a sauna. Sherlock's violin didn't pause in the wake of his outburst, the moody, depressing sound resonating through the flat.
"Don't have them!" Sherlock finally called out.
Lestrade took a deep breath as he set two mugs onto the cluttered table. His shirt was soaked through, even though the sun had long set. He grumbled as he sat down in the chair.
"Why the fuck not? How do you stand the heat?"
Sherlock finally set his violin down, looking slightly annoyed at the line of questioning. He sat opposite Lestrade, glowering. "Because the incessant humming interferes with my thinking. Plus, it never gets so hot here in London that I would require the use of an AC on a regular basis."
Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Well I hope you don't mind drops of sweat in your tea then."
Sherlock sighed dramatically, rifling through some of the papers on the table. "Maybe I will have one in my new flat."
Lestrade paused mid-sip. "What new flat?"
Sherlock looked annoyed. "Honestly, Lestrade. What sort of detective are you that you can't even recall earlier conversations?" he asked rhetorically. "I told you I was offered one months back. From one of my clients. She's moved back to London and called me up the other week, asking if I was still interested. I mentioned I might like to take a look."
Lestrade did vaguely recall that conversation. The lady from Florida with a husband on Death Row. "Ah, yea. Sure, I remember. That's great news. Anything's gotta be better than this place."
Sherlock barely indicated he'd heard, so engrossed with his papers. Lestrade pursed his lips. "Got any scones or biscuits?"
Sherlock didn't lift his head. "No, need to run to the shops. But you should probably avoid those anyway." Then he did suddenly and quickly glance up, his eyes raking over Lestrade's body in a split second. "You've put on three pounds since the winter. Don't want to make it four do we?"
Lestrade narrowed his eyes. "I have not!" he responded, a bit too loudly. Sherlock blinked up at him.
"Surely not three. Maybe one. But that's nothing!"
"Mmm, no, definitely three." Another glance. "Maybe four."
"Right, that's enough out of you." He quickly finished his tea, agitated. So what if Sherlock was right? Everyone puts on weight during the winter, right? Maybe not everyone. Sherlock probably hadn't gained a pound in years. As he thought it though, he knew it wasn't true. Sherlock was looking better than he had when they first met. He had put on some weight, his features not so gaunt anymore. Still, a few more scones for Sherlock would certainly help.
"Anything new at the Yard?" Sherlock suddenly asked. Lestrade leaned back in the chair.
"Nothing of interest to you."
Sherlock frowned, perturbed by the answer.
"I'm bored."
Lestrade sat very still. "You're always bored. Plus, don't you have your own cases?"
Sherlock shrugged. "It's all so plebian. I need something interesting. Something challenging. What happened to all the serial killers?"
"Sherlock," Lestrade admonished. "Honestly. We don't want to wish death on someone just so you won't be bored anymore." He was annoyed with Sherlock. Genius aside, the man could be so utterly clueless sometimes.
Sherlock lazily looked at Lestrade. "It is the nature of Man. To kill. To be killed."
Lestrade's brows rose into his hairline. "Well, on that cheery, philosophical note, I'm leaving." Sherlock didn't even acknowledge him. Just continued to stare into the distance, eyes glossy and faraway.
Lestrade rose and set his empty cup in the sink. He cast a nervous glance at Sherlock before calling out a goodbye. The sticky air greeted him as he stepped outside to hail a cab. He wanted a cool shower badly and his bed even worse. He tried not to think of Sherlock. He hated when the other man got like this. It was never a good sign of things to come. He almost, almost hoped for a murder to land on his desk tomorrow. He was also going to hell, but if that was the case, he was dragging Sherlock along with him.
It was two weeks later, as Sherlock sat in Lestrade's office, glowering through the glass door at the officers milling about, that he began to get a nervous, foreboding feeling, deep down in his gut. Sherlock was tapping a pen against the edge of the desk whilst simultaneously bopping his knee up and down for close to half an hour now. Lestrade stared pensively at the younger man who was oblivious to his gaze.
He cleared his throat. "Sherlock?" No answer. That was the third time he'd called his name. He rose from his chair. "Sherlock!"
Finally the steel eyes blinked up at him, an awareness returning. "What?" he sniped.
Lestrade frowned. "I've been calling your name forever now. Where's your head at this morning?"
Sherlock thinned his lips, his eyes glaring daggers. He was clad in a well-fitted dark gray suit, and smart, expensive dress shirt. His hair was styled to perfection, finally outgrown to its usual shaggy length. He was all dressed up with nowhere to go, and he was not exactly thrilled about that. His long coat had been left at home for even Sherlock Holmes realized that it was the middle of summer and too damned hot and ridiculous to walk around with an overcoat.
Lestrade sighed, sitting back down. "Look, I get it. You have nothing on. But I'm sorry, Sherlock, I can't exactly fish out a case for you from thin air. I've told you, you can sift through the older files if you want to." Sherlock rolled his eyes, irate. Lestrade went on. "You're making me all twitchy just watching you. Just relax for a bit, will you? I know it's asking a bit much but please. You're making the guys nervous," he said, indicating with a jerk of his head the men and women outside his office.
Sherlock raked his long fingers through his hair. "They're all idiots. I can't just do nothing, it's maddening, this...inertia. It's not- I just-I need- I need..." he looked lost in daydream, staring off again. Lestrade felt his blood pressure increasing.
"Sherlock. Sherlock, what do you need? Tell me and we'll figure something out, okay? Sher?"
The young detective inhaled, finally snapping out of his stupor. "I have to go. Call me if anything comes up." He was already out of his chair and walking away before Lestrade could get a word out.
"Hey, stop! Where are you going?" Sherlock didn't pause or look back. Lestrade watched him walk down the hall, further away from him, his skin prickling with unease.
"Shit," he whispered to himself. What could he do? He couldn't babysit him, had no authority over him. If Sherlock wanted to go right now and get coked up there was nothing Lestrade could do to stop him. They've been through this before. And he recognized the gleam in Sherlock's eyes. The look that spoke of possibilities. Of relief from the mundane, however brief.
The thought curdled in his brain, rendering Lestrade useless for the rest of the day. There was nothing to be done, this discussion had already transpired. As long as Sherlock didn't show up high to his crime scenes, Lestrade couldn't-wouldn't say a word. No matter how much he wanted to.
"Fuck," he said, a bit louder. He tried to concentrate on work, on meetings, on other topics of conversation. He couldn't eat his lunch, his coffee tasted bitter and his stomach churned unpleasantly. The clock turned at a snail's pace and worst of all, Sherlock wasn't answering any of his texts. He thought about calling him, but he didn't want to come off as overbearing and untrustworthy. But the thought of what Sherlock was getting up to was more than he could stomach.
At six he said his goodbyes and took a cab home. He checked his phone. Nothing. He debated calling Mycroft but that would be unforgivable if Sherlock found out, which he would. Maybe he was over-exaggerating the situation. Maybe Sherlock wasn't out doing what he thought he was doing. He mentally groaned and rubbed his eyes, his forehead, his fingers damp with sweat. The humid air greeted him as he stepped out of the cab, paid his fare and went upstairs. The flat was dark and warm. He turned the AC unit on and went to make some tea. His stomach cramped but he couldn't even think of food.
He removed his clothing, relieved as the sticky, uncomfortable layers peeled off him. Clad in just his boxers, he sat on the sofa and turned on the telly. His tea sat untouched on the counter as the noise of the AC lulled him into a drowsy state. The program on the telly did nothing to keep his interest and before he knew it, he was dozing, his head thrown back against the sofa cushions.
It was dark out when he heard it. At first he thought it was his imagination, the incessant, annoying thump thump thump. He squinted open an eye, noticing the darkness around him, save for the soft glow of the television, now showing something different than what he initially started watching. He glanced down at his watch, though he had a hard time making out the hour. Then he heard it, louder still. Knocking. At his door. Frowning, he got up, barely remembering he was only clad in his boxers.
He walked over to the door, yawning halfway through. It wasn't very late, but he knew he wasn't expecting anyone. "Who is it?"
"It's me."
Lestrade blinked, and opened the door. "Sherlock?" he said, not bothering to mask his confusion. The younger man walked right on past him into the flat without saying a word. Lestrade mentally sighed and shut the door.
"What's this about then? I was having a lovely nap on the sofa, you know."
Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, looking very lost. He blinked around, like he was seeing the place for the very first time. He was also studiously avoiding Lestrade's gaze, which naturally put the older man on edge.
"Sherlock. What's going on?" He walked over to the other man, standing close enough, but not invading his personal space. Sherlock was wringing his hands, a nervous habit that he didn't succomb to very often, his adam's apple bobbing nervously in his throat.
"Sherlock, I swear, if you're on something..." He let that trail off, not knowing how to even continue that sentence.
"I'm not," Sherlock finally said, his voice strained. He glanced at Lestrade, and even in the dimness of the room Lestrade could see the man's eyes, the vivid blue barely visible.
"Fuck, Sherlock! Don't come to my home and lie to me!"
Sherlock looked down at his feet. "I'm not on anything, I swear."
"Bullocks. You're sweating all over my floor and you never come to see me unless-"
"Lestrade." He looked square at him. "I am not on anything." He rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing pale, unmarked skin. It didn't appease Lestrade.
"That's not the only way to put stuff into your body, you've already proven that." He crossed his arms, hating this entire conversation.
Sherlock swallowed, averting his eyes momentarily. Then he took a deep breath.
"I wanted to. Badly. I won't deny it. I could have done it so easily." He licked his lips, and met Lestrade's eyes. "But I didn't. I didn't. I wanted to. I still want to. I can think of nothing else."
Lestrade uncrossed his arms, chest heaving uncomfortably.
"Christ." He ran his fingers through his greying hair, puffing out a breath of air through his mouth. "Okay fine. Say I believe you. You say you're clean. Fine. Why did you come here tonight?"
Sherlock looked away again, his hands resuming their previous nervous gestures. Lestrade took a step closer, watching as Sherlock visibly inhaled through his mouth. His forehead was beaded with perspiration and he looked ready to bolt. Lestrade lowered his voice.
"Talk to me, Sherlock."
Sherlock set his jaw, agitation flaring. "I don't want to talk, Lestrade. I just-"
"What, Sherlock?"
"I just need...to forget." And his eyes caught Lestrade's and refused to look away, a storm of emotions whirling around. Lestrade's breath caught.
"You need to what?" he asked, unaware of how stupid that question was until he saw it in Sherlock's eyes.
Oh.
"Oh." His breath left him in a shudder and Sherlock finally looked away, humiliation burning in his eyes for the briefest of moments. Heat suddenly flared through Lestrade, hotter than anything the weather could produce, his blood burning through his veins, sending thrilling jolts of pure pleasure down to his very loins. What Sherlock was asking for, it was hard to comprehend and impossible to resist. He was so thrown off balance, he didn't even know what to say.
He cautiously took a step closer, practically feeling the waves of uncertainty radiating off Sherlock. He wanted to do everything in his power to quell that feeling from Sherlock. His prick had gone hard the instant he was aware of Sherlock's intentions, and his boxers certainly weren't helping to conceal it. He ignored that for now. He ignored everything apart from the beautiful man in front of him, straight out of a Botticelli painting. The glossy, dark curls, the pouty lips and the ethereal slant of his eyes all added to the illusion, rendering Lestrade speechless.
His arm reached forward, slowly, so as not to startle. The air hung between them, oppressive and silent and he longed to bridge the distance. Sherlock parted his lips slightly, his eyes uncertain and glazed with emotion. Lestrade was surprised and startled to find them so open. Lust burned through them, almost imperceptible if Lestrade hadn't known Sherlock so intimately. Blood pumped in his ears, loud and drowning, obscuring even the hum of the air conditioner.
His fingers grazed the front of Sherlock's dress shirt, skimming the fine material. Eyes locked on Sherlock's he methodically curved his fingers, clawing at the fabric until he was slowly tugging Sherlock closer to him. The younger man's cheeks were flushed an alluring pink, a very becoming look on the normally stoic detective. Ragged breath left parted lips as Lestrade tugged on Sherlock's shirt, practically crushing him to his chest.
His own breathing was uneven and strained as his erection pressed up against Sherlock's thigh, a shudder passing through the younger man's body at the sudden contact. His heart ached at the restraint Sherlock still insisted on exhibiting. There was no room for error here however, and Lestrade knew tenderness was not the way to go. Not now, not this night.
His fist clenched tighter, the fabric stretching across Sherlock's chest and shoulders. The glow of the television provided the barest hint of muscle definition below the fabric, leaving Lestrade salivating for more.
"I can make you forget, Sherlock. I can. But I want you to say it." He took pleasure as his words resonated with Sherlock with a shiver, pupils gone black as night. "Tell me," he whispered in his ear. "Tell me you want this more than a needle in your arm. Say it, Sherlock," his voice going harsh. He needed for Sherlock to tell him. He needed to hear him say it. He needed for Sherlock to realize he could get release without resorting to poisoning oneself. And a bit selfishly, he wanted to hear those words coming from this man. It was what he always wanted, and never realizing it until that moment.
He leaned back, staring intensely at Sherlock. The younger man-God so young, even now- looked at him with warring emotions, his tongue flicking out past his lips, teeth nipping at his bottom lip, driving Lestrade insane without even realizing it.
"Yes," came the strangled sound. "Yes, I want this...I want you to help me forget," he ended, nearly silent. Lestrade could only imagine how much the admission had cost Sherlock, but already his eyes had glazed over with lust, feral almost in the near-darkness.
One hand still latched onto Sherlock's shirt he snaked his other down past his waist, splaying his fingers over the heat of Sherlock's straining erection. Sherlock's eyes fluttered, his breath hitching. Lestrade's resolve was gone in that instant. He crushed Sherlock against him, lips, teeth, tongue gnashing violently. His hands came up to grab the sides of Sherlock's face, fingers merciless against the warm skin. The moan filling his mouth sent waves of pleasure down to his cock, grinding his body against Sherlock's like an animal in heat.
He guided Sherlock backwards until he was flush against the countertop, his hand roughly cupping Sherlock's erection, squeezing the length through the thin fabric of his trousers. He attacked his mouth, tasting cigarettes and mints, the latter not able to fully cover his addiction, but the combination was absolutely intoxicating to Lestrade. He swirled his tongue with Sherlock's, lapping up the flavor.
He wanted Sherlock. Wanted him like nothing he'd ever wanted before in his life. It physically hurt to think of how much he wanted Sherlock at that moment. He needed him more, though. He needed Sherlock like he needed air to breathe. He didn't realize how deep that feeling went until Sherlock wasn't there anymore. When Sherlock had avoided him like the plague. Lestrade had felt empty. Now he knew why. Despite all that Sherlock was, Lestrade was attracted to him. In every sense of the word. He was empty when Sherlock was gone. There was a void and he was too oblivious to realize what that meant.
Sherlock had come to him. Had trusted him enough to ask this of him, to prostrate himself before him, practically begging for his help. It made his knees buckle just thinking of the internal struggle Sherlock must have gone through before making that decision. It was nothing he could have imagined, and everything he secretly desired. If Sherlock wanted oblivion, Lestrade would do his very best to make sure Sherlock never thought twice about coming to him again.
Sherlock's long fingers were threading through Lestrade's hair, sending wonderful vibrations down his spine. He groaned into his mouth, grabbing Sherlock's hips and arching into his body, the friction unbearably erotic. He pulled back suddenly, out of breath and body on fire. His mouth was parted as he struggled to get air into his lungs, his eyes roaming every inch of Sherlock's frame. He looked positively debauched.
He leaned forward, bracing his arms on the edge of the countertop on either side of Sherlock. His dark eyes met Sherlock's glazed ones.
"I'm going to fuck you, Sherlock. You are not even going to be able to walk tomorrow," he promised, his voice low and gravelly. He watched in delight as Sherlock trembled under his gaze, a small hiss escaping past the plump, swollen lips. Taking that as a positive response, he grabbed the younger man's hand and led him into his bedroom. It was pitch dark but he wanted to properly see Sherlock. He turned on the dimmer to low, getting a better look at the other man than in the kitchen. Everything was askew, from hair to clothes, cheeks flushed, brow damp. He was perfect.
Lestrade pushed him down to the bed, pawing at his clothing in the meantime. He was struggling with all the buttons with his shaky fingers but found a pale hand suddenly covering his own. Looking up in question, Sherlock merely smirked and proceeded to undo the buttons himself. He was just starting on the clasp of his trousers when Lestrade halted him.
"Mine," he growled possessively. He pulled on the zipper, his eyes latched onto Sherlock's. The younger man's breathing was laboured slightly, his jaw set, straining. He slowly reached past the zip, inside his pants, his lips parting wider with each movement, until he found hard flesh, pulsating with heat. He couldn't contain the moan, his eyes shutting in reverence. He wouldn't last more than five minutes. He mentally swore and tried to will his body into stillness.
"God, Sher...this feels-" he swallowed roughly, finally opening his eyes. "So fucking incredible." Sherlock looked on, brow furrowed in contemplation. Lestrade wanted to erase any and all thought from Sherlock, no matter how impossible the task. He squeezed tight, eliciting a hoarse groan through clenched teeth.
Fuck this. He raised himself up and latched onto the waist of Sherlock's trousers, tugging them off, boxer briefs and all. Sherlock assisted, raising his hips in a motion that did nothing to quell Lestrade's libido. He was going to be in trouble if Sherlock continued in his oblivious ways. He ignored his naked body in favour of removing his shoes and socks. Then, he quickly pulled down his own boxers, already damp with pre-come. He tossed them away and finally dared a look.
It wasn't the first time he was seeing Sherlock naked. That thought didn't have any effect on him as he stared at Sherlock like a salivating tiger hunting his prey.
"Christ," he swore. The room was oppressively warm but he didn't feel like turning the AC on. He wanted to hear Sherlock. Every shudder, every whimper, every sound. He crawled on top of him on hands and knees, straddling over Sherlock's waist. He slowly arched his pelvis, rubbing against the younger man's weeping erection. It was like a jolt of fire against his already warm skin.
Sherlock leaned his head way back, hands fisting the sheets. Lestrade leaned forward, lips against the long neck, lapping at the salty dampness, carotid artery twitching underneath his tongue. He kissed his cheeks, lips brushing invisible stubble, all the while his hips undulating against Sherlock's body.
"I hope you brought the condoms," he whispered in his ear, nipping on a lobe. Sherlock stilled beneath him, unsettling him. He leaned back to look at Sherlock with a questioning quirk of his brow.
"I thought you might already have some."
Lestrade merely gaped for a moment, then leaned back, un-straddling Sherlock. He sat next to him on the bed, wiping his brow and mentally swearing his arse off. Sherlock took it as an answer.
"Oh." He released a shaky breath. "I just assumed..." he trailed off as Lestrade groaned into his hand.
"God, Sherlock. I'm a married man, I don't exactly keep condoms around the flat just because." Fuck, how inconvenient. He could feel his erection wilting. This was the most depressing situation imaginable. At least presently.
Sherlock licked his lips, and after a moment's hesitation, reached out and placed his hand on Lestrade's thigh, startling the older man out of his desperate thoughts.
"I- It's fine. I know you're clean, and I swear I am. I get tested three times a year. And... I'm clean," he finished resolutely, eyes catching Lestrade's.
Lestrade gaped at Sherlock, mind going completely blank. Was he actually offering..? Jesus. His sad erection returned to full hardness in less than five seconds. He stared at Sherlock as his chest ached almost painfully.
"Sherlock." He could barely get the word out, his throat almost restricting the action. He took a deep breath through his nose, releasing it in one shaky go through his parted lips.
"I trust you," he said, and meant it. Sherlock was no saint but he knew without a hint of doubt he would never put Lestrade in a potentially dangerous situation. If he said he was clean, Lestrade was going to believe him. He had nothing else to say. Instead he leaned forward and captured Sherlock's lips, reassuring him with a lustful kiss. When they were both out of breath Lestrade excused himself, running to the bathroom to rummage for the bottle of Vaseline he knew he had somewhere.
When he returned, he found that Sherlock had turned down the sheets and was sitting, leaning back against the pillows and headboard. His cock was still hard, resting proudly up against his belly. Lestrade rushed over, dropping the small bottle on the bed.
Some of the hesitation and uncertainty seemed to have left Sherlock as he looked at the older man with a lascivious smirk, his eyes following Lestrade's every movement.
"Keep smirking. We'll see who's laughing tomorrow when they won't be able to sit straight."
Sherlock's look of eager amusement only increased. Lestrade narrowed his eyes as he crawled up in front of Sherlock, his hands running along the toned, lean legs, loving the soft, downy hair, up to the pale thighs where the hair was more coarse. He looked up as Sherlock's eyes grew dark and predatory. His fingers brushed along an inner thigh, feeling the waiting heat radiating off him.
The body against him was wound tight, humming with a nervous energy. Surely it wasn't Sherlock's first time, the younger man had already alluded to that. Maybe it was the first time that actually meant anything to him. The thought nearly drove him insane. He grabbed onto Sherlock's cock, fingers barely brushing the swollen testicles, eliciting a low moan. He pumped his fist, thumb circling the tip, glistening with pre-come.
Sherlock's head came back, smacking against the wooden headboard. It didn't seem to bother him as he groaned, louder this time. Lestrade continued in this fashion, slowly driving Sherlock crazy. His own cock was weeping in need and he knew he wouldn't last long if he kept this up. He was already sweating and they had barely gotten started.
"Lie down," he said and watched as Sherlock scooted downwards, finally able to lay flat. With a deep breath, he picked up the Vaseline. His heart hammering in his chest, he pursed his lips, but had to ask.
"Are you sure?"
Sherlock looked up at him, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face before a more unsettling look of uncertainty passed over it.
"You said you'd help me," he whispered, almost accusingly.
Lestrade placed his hand over Sherlock's heart, shaking his head in disbelief. "God, Sher...of course I want to. Please don't ever think- I was just checking." God, talking was not a good idea right now. He placed his forehead against Sherlock's. "Sorry I asked," he said with a light tone.
He felt a warm hand on his arm, reassuring. He kissed Sherlock, fiery hot and desperate. There were no more questions after that, no more uncertainties. He prepared Sherlock with care, noting every grimace and hiss of pain, but reveling in the indescribable pleasure afterwards.
Strong arms gripped him, guiding him, riling him. It was heaven. Their sweat-soaked bodies moved with rhythm and precision, never faltering, never wavering. He didn't know if any of it helped Sherlock; made him forget his demons for a while, but it certainly did a number on his own mind. It felt fragmented and eviscerated, head pounding in a way that for once wasn't debilitating. He welcomed the blackout when it came, his entire body shutting down with exhaustion and pent-up release.
When he woke, he was alone. He tried not to dwell on the fact too much, knowing it would drive him insane. He closed his eyes and thought back to just a few hours prior, to the limbs intertwined with his own, to damp, dark curls plastered to forehead, to eyes bursting with pleasure when that blissful moment of release occurred, driving everything else away. Sated and exhausted, they had both fallen asleep.
Now he just felt sticky, in more ways than one. It felt oppressively muggy in his bedroom, and he was laying on a damp spot or two. The scent of Sherlock and sex drove his blood further down his body and he sat up, his chest tacky with seminal fluid. It wasn't the best of ways to wake up, but he found he didn't particularly care. He got up and went straight for the shower. The cool water rejuvenated him and he felt better than when he had first woken up, alone.
He got changed and went to the kitchen. His phone was on the table where he had left it the previous night, the tiny red light on the side of it flashing intermittently. Curious, he picked it up, flipping it open. The text was simple but meant the world to Lestrade, setting him in a fine mood.
Thank you. SH
tbc...