A/N: I had to change the timeline for The Hounds of Baskerville to make this chapter work, for those who notice... Spoilers, as well. Adult Content for this chapter.
Blissful solitude. There was a time it would be welcome, that selfish need to get the fuck away from everyone and everything and forget the problems of the world, if only for a little while. He used to yearn for it like nothing else. Even now, he thought it was what he wanted.
The sea air was invigorating, and splendid, and perfect. The sun was warm and dazzling whether it was rising or fading away. In Brighton, it didn't matter. Beauty could be found all around.
Lestrade never had any issues letting go of his problems, not in such a place. It was his hideaway, a place where nothing could reach him. He lived to disappear there.
A sigh passed his lips and a crease formed on his brow as he stared off into nothingness. Three days of solitude, with perfect weather and otherwise ideal conditions. He could hardly remember it working out so well. And yet his heart was not in it. Not really.
He slipped away from work, with his acquired time off and got on the train hoping his mini holiday might ease that terrible ache in his chest. Either that or he really needed to see his doctor. His family vacation home had never felt more inviting, memories flooding him as soon as he stepped through the door. It was always the way.
Denim, tees and trainers. That's all he needed. Suits were for work and he wanted nothing to do with that in Brighton. Trunks for swimming, no matter that the water was still freezing. A beach chair and some nice beer.
But the simple fact remained that he couldn't just relax and forget everything. Forget Sherlock. It was impossible. The further away he was, the more he thought of him, and with work no longer there to distract him, his mind had the freedom to roam. All in all it was not the best of holidays.
That evening he received a call from Mycroft. Surprised and slightly perturbed, he answered.
"Mycroft."
"Hello to you too, Inspector. I do so apologize for interrupting your well-earned holiday, but I have a pressing matter I'd like for you to address."
Lestrade closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"I'm assuming this has to do with Sherlock? You wouldn't be calling me otherwise."
"Always so astute, Inspector. Indeed. My brother and the good doctor have taken a case in Dartmoor and I am not entirely too comfortable with their current predicament."
Lestrade frowned. "What might that be?"
"Let's just say they've already gotten up to something highly illegal and since I am tied up with work-"
"You want me to go to Dartmoor and spy on your brother." It wasn't even a question, nor was he surprised by any part of Mycroft's speech.
"Spy is such a harsh word, Inspector. I prefer, 'assist'."
"Mmm, right. And what do I get out of all this?"
"Double compensation for your wasted holiday, full accommodations at the inn Sherlock and John are staying at, and all meals."
Lestrade thought it over. He could think of a million reasons to say no but it never actually crossed his mind to do so. Plus, the money was always a bonus.
He sighed. "Fine. But I want first class train tickets."
He heard a mirrored sigh follow. "Fine. We are in agreement then. Keep an eye on Sherlock and make sure he doesn't do anything foolish. You will receive an email with your ticket and accommodation information. A car will pick you up at the station and take you to the inn. If you have any concerns, contact me immediately."
Lestrade rolled his eyes. Leave it to Mycroft to be overdramatic. "Yep, thanks." He hung up and went to pack his things.
The trip was uneventful and quicker than he thought. He was just getting used to the extra legroom when they were announcing their arrival. It was just past noontime when he arrived at the inn. It was a quaint sort of place, clean and well-maintained. He dropped his bags off at his room and went in search of Sherlock and John.
He found them in the giftshop, or he should say, Sherlock found him. He did not seem pleased to see him at all, calling him out instantly on his holiday bluff and muttering dark things about Mycroft under his breath.
Handler he called him! Well it was mostly true, hence the reason Mycroft sent him and nobody else. John actually looked happy to see him and mentioned Sherlock was as well.
"Secretly pleased," he amended with a smile. "And does he really not know your name by now?"
Lestrade huffed a laugh at Sherlock pretending he had no clue what his name was, and how not true that was. Still, he kept it light for John. "He probably deleted it," he said with a wink and followed Sherlock outside.
There was a certain oddness to the place, no doubt, and they actually recruited Lestrade's help in figuring out what exactly was going on. Intrigued, he was more than happy to assist, having nothing pressing to do, aside from spying, which he failed at horribly.
Turned out there was a hound issue. A 'demon' hound the way he heard it. It was a mystery that he thought Sherlock would normally scoff at but certainly something clicked in his mind if he took the case all the way out there. He told John and Sherlock he would keep his eyes open as they went off to visit with their frightened client.
As twilight set in, Lestrade sent off a text to Sherlock, not having heard from him in hours. He sat in the small restaurant at the inn and peacefully devoured a delicious meat pie and drank some wonderful ale.
Receiving no response, he texted John instead. After a few minutes, he got his answer.
Going to the Hollow with Henry. Sherlock thinks it's a good idea to revisit the site of the original incident. Not so sure myself… Don't worry. Will keep Sherlock out of danger!
Lestrade sighed, shaking his head. With nothing else to occupy him, he finished off his ale and decided to turn it, suddenly realizing how exhausted he was from his sudden trip.
The knocking woke him. Groggy, he glanced at the clock, noting the time. Nearly one in the morning. Cursing, he threw back the covers, annoyed at the interrupted sleep. He shivered slightly as the cool air hit his flesh. With bare feet he padded over to the door and opened it wide, already knowing who would be on the other side.
True, it was Sherlock standing there. But the normally cavalier detective with his customary no-nonsense air was missing. Instead, Lestrade was instantly alert after scanning the younger man's face.
"Sherlock?" he whispered, his voice hoarse.
"Can I come in?"
Frowning, Lestrade opened the door wider to let Sherlock pass, confused as to why Sherlock would even ask that rather than just pushing his way in, as was the norm.
The younger figure stood rigidly in the middle of the room and as Lestrade shut the door he realized instantly something was wrong. He flipped on the lightswitch, blinking at the sudden brightness.
"Sherlock, what's going on?"
The young detective looked lost standing there, practically wringing his hands. His face was pale and his eyes were glossy and hard. Lestrade approached him, his concern rising.
"Sher?"
Sherlock's lips parted, as if to speak, but nothing came out. A crease marred his forehead and he swallowed hard, avoiding Lestrade's gaze.
"I'm sorry," he finally said, flooring Lestrade. "You were sleeping, of course." Another frown, much more pronounced this time.
Before Lestrade could follow up with anything, he realized he smelled alcohol on Sherlock's breath, given the lack of distance between them. Now he was properly afraid.
"Sherlock. Have you been drinking?" Sherlock would surely chide him for stupidly stating the obvious, but it was so out of character given he'd barely ever seen Sherlock drink before, and it was worrying.
Bleak, stormy eyes finally met his. "I think there's something wrong with me."
Lestrade sucked in a breath. He grabbed Sherlock by his shoulders and guided him to the edge of his bed.
"Sit," he demanded. "Speak. And don't get all weird on me now, Sherlock. You're creeping me out enough."
Sherlock sat, but immediately hung his head. With one hand he raked his fingers through his hair while the other clenched onto the edge of the bed. Lestrade stood over the younger man, his heart hammering loudly in his chest.
"What happened?" he asked again, gently.
He still couldn't see his face but he heard the deep intake of breath and the shakiness as it passed through his parted lips.
"I saw something. I saw something that couldn't possibly exist but I saw it all the same. I-"
He finally brought his head up and his eyes were wide and panicked. Lestrade had never seen that look before on that face and it startled him.
"What did you see?"
He watched as Sherlock shook his head back and forth. "John thinks I'm crazy."
"No, he doesn't," Lestrade immediately chimed in, not knowing any of the details.
"He does. I told him and he didn't believe me. He looked at me like I was mad."
It clearly pained Sherlock to admit this for some reason and Lestrade's heart clenched.
"John would follow you anywhere you asked, Sherlock. He trusts you implicitly. I'm sure that's not the case." He didn't intend to place John on a pedestal but clearly this was bothering Sherlock and he hated seeing him like this.
"He left. I- well I suppose it was my fault he left. But, he didn't look happy and-"
Lestrade put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.
"John wouldn't leave you," he said quietly, knowing it to be true, and shamefully hating the fact. Sherlock looked up at him, a pained expression flickering across his face before it was gone in an instant.
By instinct, Lestrade brought his hands up to Sherlock's head, his fingers slowly parting the dark locks, grazing the scalp just so. He didn't intend to be so personal and certainly not when something was terribly troubling Sherlock, but he couldn't help it.
Sherlock lowered his head again, clearly not minding in the least. He wanted to ask more questions of Sherlock, as he really got none of the actual story, save for the fact that John had left Sherlock after some sort of dispute. His curiosity was certainly piqued, but that would have to wait until Sherlock was able to properly form sentences.
He loved the feel of Sherlock's hair. It was impossibly soft and thick and smelled exotic and perfect. He allowed his eyes to close, reveling in the sensation. He couldn't remember the last time he touched Sherlock. And just like that the ache in his heart that had lingered for months had surged once again, stilling his fingers and practically freezing him in place.
Before he could ponder anything further, he felt warmth along his sides and realized with a sudden spike in desire that Sherlock's arms had come up to rest on his hips, fingers grazing the soft material of his boxers.
"Don't stop," whispered Sherlock, his head low, face obscured by hair. Almost immediately Lestrade resumed the gentle ministrations along Sherlock's scalp. His heart was racing, pulsating loudly in his ears.
"Sherlock," he dared, never stopping his fingers. "Maybe John would be more suited…" He trailed off, not even knowing where he was going with that. Sherlock froze beneath his touch. Slowly, he lifted his head and, regretfully, Lestrade removed his hands.
The look Sherlock gave him was one of confusion and a hint of amusement. He arched a brow as he sat up straight and looked like his old self finally.
"Why would John be more suited?" he asked slowly, his eyes boring into Lestrade's.
The older man felt his face flush. Oh God, this was his fault and now he was cornered. Stupid! Stupid. But now it was out in the open and maybe it was better to get it over with. He prepared himself for the worst.
"I just thought, perhaps...you...and John…" He couldn't articulate anything properly he realized, but apparently it wasn't necessary as a gleam of understanding lit up in Sherlock's eyes, followed by a deep frown.
Lestrade felt like he was going to throw up but all Sherlock said was, "You're an idiot, Lestrade," and pressed his forehead up against Lestrade's stomach, breathing in his scent.
Lestrade froze, not quite understanding. He brought his hands to Sherlock's shoulders, gently prying him away.
"Sherlock."
A deep, exasperated sigh followed as Sherlock slouched back, his eyes rolling to the ceiling before settling on Lestrade.
"Honestly, Lestrade? I would have thought you'd be smarter than all the rest. Me and John?" He said incredulously.
Lestrade's brows rose. "Yes, you and John. I'm not the only one thinking it, you know."
Sherlock looked a bit disappointed as he stared back up at the older man. He shook his head.
"John Watson is the most heterosexual male I've ever encountered. I would have thought it obvious," he said with a furrow between his brow. He sat back and waited.
Something lifted off of Lestrade's chest. The queasy, nauseated feeling he constantly experienced ever since John came into their lives had suddenly dissolved, leaving him relieved and slightly depressed.
"All this time…" he trailed off.
"Idiot," Sherlock whispered, grabbing the front of Lestrade's tee. He wrapped his long arms around the older man's torso and Lestrade had to swallow past the uncomfortable lump in his throat. He ran his fingers through the dark hair again, harder this time, with purpose.
"I'm sorry I was an idiot." He meant it. All this fucking time. Wasted time.
"Stop talking."
He felt his entire body go flush with searing heat. Surrounded by Sherlock, it was bliss. It felt incredible after so many months of nothing. And nothing could compare to this. He was overcome with a rabid need to claim Sherlock. Sherlock was his. Completely. Entirely. He was just too stupid to see it. Too stupid to think that Sherlock would still want him. Just too stupid.
He pushed Sherlock back against the bed, lavishing his neck with warm kisses, before capturing his lips. Oh god, how he ever thought he could live without this. Nothing could ever feel this way. Sherlock's hands all over his skin, ripping off his tee, the full lips swollen with need. Those impossible eyes that only looked his way.
And once again Sherlock had come to him for help. Lestrade had always told him he'd be there for him. Sherlock had taken it to heart and even now he felt like he could trust Lestrade. It was an indefinable feeling. The fact that Sherlock trusted him so. It was impossible to describe.
He peeled Sherlock out of his clothing until he was splayed out nude, flushed from head to toe. He placed his forehead against Sherlock's chest, taking a moment to steady his erratic heartbeat, the lump reforming in his throat. He glided his hands up and down the long body until Sherlock was squirming underneath him.
Not completely prepared for an instance such as this, he had to make do with the supplies from the bathroom. But Sherlock never complained. Quite the opposite, actually. He didn't care to think how thin the walls of their room were, or how much time had passed. It had been too long and Lestrade wanted to remember this night.
Morning sunlight filtered into the room and the brightness woke him even before his alarm. Groggy, his face stuffed into the pillow, he went for a stretch only to have his arm bump something solid.
Stilling, he suddenly realized Sherlock was still in bed with him. Almost nonchalantly, he rolled over onto his back, propping himself on his elbows. Eyes still not fully open, he squinted at the figure by his side, and found himself inwardly smiling.
Sherlock had stayed the night. It was such an odd sight, Lestrade almost couldn't believe his eyes. Though Sherlock wasn't asleep. He was actually fully seated, propped up against the pillows, and apparently deep in thought. His knees were raised and his hands were steepled against his chin. And he was also still very naked.
Lestrade didn't know what to do. This was foreign territory for him. For both of them. Should he say something? Could he touch Sherlock? Should he leave him to his musings? In the end, he did what came naturally to him.
He reached over and lazily caressed Sherlock's lower leg, testing out the waters. When he failed to receive a reaction-good or bad- he went upwards, circling his knee before roaming over pale thigh, swirling his fingers through the curly dark hair he found there. He put pressure on his upper thigh, or at least the space he could reach without turning completely over on his side.
"That's distracting, Lestrade."
"What happened to 'Greg'?" He received a sidelong look for that comment. He smiled and settled back against his pillows. The last thing he wanted to do was move but he needed to know what was going on that day.
He went back to fondling Sherlock's lean leg, this time grazing the sensitive spot on the back of his thigh, his fingers making a trail upwards. He'd have to move if he wanted-.
A hand clamped down on his and he squinted up to find Sherlock glaring at him. But it lacked the normal wrath he bore and, holding his gaze he easily pushed past the hand half-heartedly holding on to his and grazed- oh. Oh god. Sherlock was completely hard, the warmth of his cock scorching Lestrade's fingertips.
He parted his lips as he maneuvered his thumb, flicking over the tip, already weeping with pre-come. He watched, enthralled, as Sherlock's eyes shut tight, and a very becoming blush rose on his cheekbones.
He swiftly removed his hand and propped himself up properly, twisting around so that he was easily able to capture Sherlock's lips. He heard the moan and wondered who it came from. He grabbed Sherlock's neck, pulling him, crushing him against his body.
Sherlock easily straddled Lestrade, their cocks bumping into each other. This time, the sounds coming from both their mouths was unmistakable.
"Oh god, Sherlock. Sherlock, I want you, please." He had no idea why he was begging. All he knew was that Sherlock was driving him insane and he wanted to be inside him like nothing else. All he knew was that this morning he woke up and found Sherlock in bed with him and the feeling was indescribable. And he wasn't about to waste an opportunity to show Sherlock.
Sherlock bore down, arching into the heat. He leaned over Lestrade's face, black hair falling across his forehead.
"Yes," he hissed, and Lestrade's mind exploded. He hurriedly grabbed the small bottle of baby oil he found last night and squeezed a liberal amount onto his hand. Then he grabbed his erection, lubricating it from top to bottom, eyes squeezing shut. Breathing erratically, he squeezed some more out, reached up and under Sherlock and blindly found the spot he was looking for.
He caressed Sherlock's entrance, enjoying the little sounds Sherlock was making above him. It was excruciating. His whole body ached with need.
"Enough," breathed Sherlock. "I'm still stretched after last night. I'm fine, just do it. Now."
He needed no further encouragement as Sherlock practically plastered himself against him. Lestrade's cock found the entrance and Sherlock brought his own hand down to aid him. Sweat broke over his brow as he slowly pushed his way inside, trying not to just plunder Sherlock into oblivion. Sherlock clearly was not as ready as he claimed he was judging by the tiny flickers of pain that flashed every now and then, but he uttered not a word of complaint.
When he was fully sheathed he released the breath that was pent up and squeezed his eyes shut, the feeling indescribable.
"My god…"
And then Sherlock rose up and then down again and Lestrade was lost, his mind blown to bits. He wouldn't last long, not like this. Not with the way Sherlock was moving. They'd never fucked this way before. It was almost too...intimate. The communion, their breaths mingling, the heat of their bodies so close, Sherlock's eyes nearly black with unchecked desire. It was too much. Lestrade wished it would never end, but his stamina wasn't what it used to be and he latched onto Sherlock's cock, pumping once, twice, three times and watched in amazement as Sherlock clenched every muscle in his body, and a pearly stream sprayed over Lestrade's chest and stomach.
He followed soon after. There was no way he was going to last and he grabbed on for dear life, grunting into Sherlock's mouth with abandon as he emptied his seed into the scorching flesh.
They lay, panting, Sherlock stuck to Lestrade's chest. His hair was completely damp and Sherlock's semen was dripping over his chest. It was going to get uncomfortable pretty quick, but he had zero energy remaining.
Finally, Sherlock rose and carefully disengaged himself from Lestrade. He raked his hand through Lestrade's hair, which to Lestrade was the equivalent of a post-coital kiss. He smiled as he watched Sherlock depart to the bathroom. After a minute he heard the shower being turned on.
He lay back on the soaked sheets, his body thrumming with renewed energy, despite what just happened. He felt invigorated, alive. He felt perfect. He also felt a bit giddy which he'd have to tamper down on before Sherlock came out lest he see the stupid grin on his face.
He stretched and lazily sat up, grabbing his discarded boxers and wiping down his chest and other sticky spots. He went searching in his bag for some clean clothes and just as he laid everything out, Sherlock came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped low around his waist.
"Jesus."
Sherlock blinked, rolling his eyes, and threw the smaller towel he was using on his hair towards Lestrade.
"All yours. I have to go and see Henry. I have a theory...but it needs testing first." He sighed. "Then I have to find John." It appeared that was not an endeavor he was looking forward to.
"Need any help with anything?" Lestrade said, watching as Sherlock whipped off the bigger towel and was currently pulling on his trousers, sans pants. Sherlock going commando was quite possibly the most erotic sight he'd ever seen.
Sherlock sighed again. "I don't think so. You can keep an ear out for anything of interest around here. It's a small town and people like to talk." He finished buttoning up his dress shirt, frowning distastefully at the wrinkles.
"I'm going to get changed and then I'm heading out. If you find anything I might use, text me." He ruffled up his tangled hair and grabbed his wallet and phone. As put together as he was going to get, he stood straight, contemplating his next move.
He turned his head towards Lestrade. "Greg, I-" he looked down at his feet, hands on his hips. Finally he looked back up, licking his lips- a nervous quirk he'd had since forever.
"Thank you."
Lestrade smiled, shaking his head. "Go on, get outta here."
The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked as he nodded at Lestrade and departed right after.
Lestrade couldn't stop smiling as he finally made it to the shower, letting the warm water soak his muscles. He stayed in there a while, just replaying his interesting night (and even better morning). His grin grew wide as he realized this was probably not what Mycroft had in mind when he told him to look after his brother…
In the end, running towards a mine field was probably not the wisest decision, but it happened so quickly that no one spared a moment to think it through. Sherlock ran after their suspect and everyone else was hot on their heels.
Out of breath, they all watched in horror as the detonation rocked their immediate vicinity, annihilating one Bob Frankland. Panting, Lestrade ordered Sherlock to back away and for once Sherlock obliged. The younger detective too was struggling for breath but already a pleased calm had settled over him. The case was closed.
He was starting to get his wits together after realizing he'd been drugged. John too kept sucking in air hoping to get rid of whatever they'd been breathing in earlier.
Lestrade retrieved his mobile and got in touch with the local police department as Sherlock and John checked up on Henry to make sure he was dealing with everything okay. He saw Sherlock walk away a short while later, his face a mask of consternation.
"What's up?" Lestrade asked him after a minute. Sherlock straightened.
"Nothing. Just trying to clear my head."
Lestrade huffed a laugh. "You? Thought that was impossible."
Sherlock quirked his lip. "Usually is." He took a deep breath. "I'd love to get my hands on whatever drug Frankland used. Research it. It alters your entire perception."
"Tell me about it. I'll be having nightmares for weeks," Lestrade exclaimed with a shake of his head. His grin fell away.
"What else did you see there?" he softly asked. He could well remember the look of pure disbelief and anger Sherlock exhibited back in the Hollow when confronting Frankland.
Sherlock shook his head, a faraway look glazing his eyes. He said nothing further. John and Henry joined them as they heard the faint sounds of sirens in the distance.
Lestrade sighed wearily. He'd had enough of this holiday.