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turanteAnd finally, after a week spent obsessing over it and polishing until it shines... the first part of the Lestrade/Sherlock fic. This part deals with my idea of the first time DI Lestrade met Sherlock Holmes. (Also, there isn't much plot)
I'm done with it, but I just hope Lestrade/Sherlock inspiration will not stop waking me up in the middle of the night (when I'm too sleepy to take notes, unfair!).
I'm posting now (and not writing for my NaNoWriMo) because now I have internet access! and then I will spend 6 hours crossing France in train.
Is there anyone in Paris around 20:00? :P
Rating: Nc-17
Pairing: Lestrade/Sherlock
Word Count: 4324
Summary: How Lestrade and Sherlock met, one cold November night in 2005 and what inevitably happened.
Title: Universal Law of Gravitation part 1/3 (ps: I suck at titles)
2005
One cold January night like many others, after Lestrade had just finished his shift at the Yard he walked his way home to get changed. It was not unusual for him to walk since he didn’t live too far away, and he liked how it cleared his head. That night he thought he would go for a drink, so he stopped at the flat merely to change his shoes and jacket and then went straight out, locking the door behind him. He crossed the street and got into the nearest pub, where he ended up every Friday evening for one reason or another.
He got in, and was welcomed by loud music and a slight fog, which wasn’t like every other Friday. It must have been some special occasion, only, he hadn’t bothered to check. He walked to the bar, sat down on a stool and ordered a whiskey, thinking that the patrons could go on doing whatever they wanted around him as long as nobody broke the law in a big, showy manner; he was still off duty after all.
His whiskey was slammed in front of him and then the barman moved on to fill a table’s orders.
A tall, lanky man, in his late twenties maybe, took the stool next to his. “Didn’t realise it would be so busy tonight,” the man said, quietly, the volume of his voice perfectly calibrated to be heard over the music but not sound like a scream.
Lestrade looked to his right and saw the man turned slightly towards him. He pointed at himself, not sure the man had been talking to him. It did sound more like he was thinking out loud.
“Oh, right, the flyers…” the man finished his thoughts silently and Lestrade just looked at him, curious. The other lifted a finger and ordered a drink, thinking that he had absolutely nothing to do right at that moment, and feeling up for some kind of social experiment.
He turned towards Lestrade once his drink had arrived. “Well… are you trying to forget a really dull day like I am?” he asked, eyeing the brown liquid in Lestrade’s glass.
The purpose of the whiskey was more or less that, in fact. To forget another boring day submerged by the paperwork of an impossible murder that had kept him out of his mind for weeks now.
“Might be, yeah.” He drank another gulp of whiskey, savouring the burning sensation down his throat, then put back the glass on the napkin.
“Are you doing anything fun later?” he asked, his eyes very intense and looking straight into his.
“Not really.” Lestrade answered, looking at the ice melting slowly in his glass.
“Do you want to?” he asked again, this time with a mischievous grin. It was impossible to miss what he was meaning, except that Lestrade wasn’t so sure why he was hinting at what he was hinting. The inspector raised an eyebrow and looked a bit inquisitive. “Are you asking…”
“I’m not a rent-boy.” The other stated, finishing his drink and getting off his stool. Then he pulled out a scarf from his pocket, folding it in two before putting it around his neck. “But yes, I’m offering some casual sex between two consenting adults. So?”
It was all so sudden and strange that Lestrade shrugged and let himself follow the man outside of the pub.
“Your place?” The man asked, his voice clearer and lower in the silence of the alley.
“Just around the corner.” Lestrade wondered briefly if taking home a stranger was a sound idea. But after all he had a gun, and knew how to use it. He would be fine.
They moved to the main street, Lestrade showing the way and Sherlock following him without a doubt, as if he had known their destination all along.
It was a nice part of town, not fancy, and the apartments weren’t very big or expensive, but they were conveniently located for someone working at Scotland Yard, and conveniently priced too.
Sherlock’s mind was taking in every detail, and narrowing down the possibilities. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that the other man was a police officer. Not a constable, and someone who would get stuck with paperwork but still spend enough time on the field. Sergeant, or maybe Inspector were very likely possibilities. The man he was following had a certain stiffness in him, walked like a cop, and even spoke like one.
Lestrade stopped in front of a door and searched for the keys in his coat’s pockets. Sherlock saw that and decided to help. He walked close to the man and put a hand in the other pocket, having found it empty, he moved aside the coat and started examining the only other pockets the man had, that is to say, his trousers’ pockets. And he wasn’t trying to be subtle at it: after all he didn’t want to pickpocket the man, just to touch him and to get to know him better by having more information. And if he happened to find the keys they could move on to the bedroom and getting to know each other ever more intimately.
He didn’t find the keys, but an oyster card and a sensitive spot between the man’s thigh and crotch. He filed both pieces of information for later and slowly removed his hand when he heard the door click open.
Lestrade lived at the second floor, and Sherlock counted the steps out of habit (thirty-two).
Then the inspector stopped in front of his door and was much quicker to open it than the front door.
Sherlock followed him inside, then pushed him against the inside of the door, slamming it closed before leaning over for a kiss. He was passionate, hungry almost to the point of being ravenous, and until now Lestrade hadn’t realised how much he had needed this. He needed the passion, the distraction and the relaxation that a one night stand could offer.
He wasn’t in the habit of pitying himself, so he knew he wouldn’t have regrets the following morning. He couldn’t know, but Sherlock’s brain was walking the same thought pattern, only quicker, and making some detours along the way.
Lestrade raised a hand and grabbed the other man’s hair, and he was rewarded by a soft moan in his mouth. He held him there and they fought for control of the kiss until they were out of breath. Then the man licked his lips and moved to kiss his neck, alternating soft kisses and light bites, lavishing Lestrade’s skin with more attention they had received in the last six months. He shivered and was very conscious of not having shaved that day, but Sherlock didn’t mind in the least, he liked the policeman the way he was, a bit rough, repressed and stiff. In more ways than one.
Lestrade grabbed the scarf around the other’s neck and undid it. When he was done he let it fall to the floor and then attacked the coat. They were too dressed for everything except going out, and he had a feeling they wouldn’t leave anytime soon.
Sherlock smiled and helped the inspector, unbuttoning the rest of the coat and then throwing it off. He didn’t care where it landed, but his mind registered a chair-like shape under it.
Lestrade tried to step away from the door and remove his jacket; long fingers came in help.
“Where is your bedroom?” asked the man as he finished undressing him, Lestrade’s eyes darted for a second in the right direction, and Sherlock kissed him again, pulling him close to his chest and then started walking backwards, heading to the right door.
He couldn’t ask how he had guessed, because he was too busy exploring his mouth with his tongue, but then Sherlock’s back touched the wood and pulled him close enough to crash him between the door and himself, and he sighed. It had been too long since he’d been this close to another hot body. He could not help but moan in anticipation, as the man moved to lick one of his ears.
“How much stamina do you have in bed?” he whispered the question, his warm breath on the wet skin made Lestrade shiver once. He wasn’t really interested in the answer, just in provoking him.
As for an answer, the inspector kissed him more roughly, rubbing himself against him.
“We’ll... see then,” the man judged, then he moaned once, shamelessly, when the man’s erection pressed against his side. He slid his hands down the other man’s back, clutching his buttocks and trying to make him repeat the gesture. He moaned again and Lestrade bit his lip.
“I don’t think we’ll get to the bed like this,” Lestrade admitted, a bit reluctantly, but Sherlock just smirked. He had other cards up his sleeve, and was determined to have what he wanted.
“Trust me,” he just said, then opened the door and went inside.
He didn’t even see the room, Lestrade guided him to the bed, kissing him and unbuttoning his shirt in the meantime. Sherlock had made the mistake of underestimating the man.
He was quick, but not quick enough for Sherlock, who in his eagerness to help almost popped a few buttons. Then his fingers moved to Lestrade’s shirt, and he took a moment to rub his hands along the man’s torso, caressing him through the shirt, and feeling the fabric under his fingers. It was medium quality cotton, probably a shirt bought from Marks & Spencer, not too expensive. He had no regrets about ripping it open.
Neither did Lestrade, even if he voiced a complaint, which Sherlock ignored. They were in his room, and Sherlock was sure there would be plenty more shirts like that one in the wardrobe. No use denying it.
There were more important things to do than worry about a few buttons.
Lestrade shrugged off his shirt and threw it on the floor, he was about to do the same with Sherlock’s but the man didn’t let him, instead he grabbed a handful of his salt and pepper hair and pulled him down for another heated kiss, raising his hips a bit in an attempt to rub himself again against the man, and Lestrade started to fear that if he didn’t do anything soon they would finish like this, like a couple of horny teenagers. And he was really looking forward to the prospect of shagging the man senseless.
“Stop,” he breathed, and the other stopped, looking up at his eyes, his own darker with excitement. His lips wet, red and a bit raw from the kissing. Sherlock was waiting for him to say something more, but after a few seconds of silence, he decided to go on, undoing the inspector’s belt, followed by his button and zip, until he could have access to what he needed the most.
Lestrade sighed when he didn’t feel constricted in his clothing anymore, and as soon as the other closed a hand around him his sigh became a soft moan. It had been too long indeed.
He tried to reciprocate, hands finding their way between layers of clothing until they touched hot, naked skin. He mimicked the slow caresses of Sherlock’s hand, which were teasing and exploring, not bent on giving him pleasure.
“I don’t even know your name,” breathed Lestrade, and the younger man captured his mouth for a kiss, bit his lower lip and sucked it until he moaned again, then and only then he dignified him with an answer that wasn’t really an answer.
“Neither do I,” he said calmly, biting his jaw, squeezing a little harder on his erection.
Lestrade silently agreed that it didn’t matter, that he deserved some uncomplicated sex, and with the other hand he started to push the shirt off the other’s shoulders. It was unnecessary for what he had in mind.
Sherlock left his cock only to toss the shirt off his arms, pushing it off the bed, then started pulling at Lestrade’s waistbands, trying to have him remove both trousers and underpants at the same time.
The inspector complied, kicking off his clothes, then reciprocated, kneeling on the bed to pull the rest of the clothes off the other man. He licked his lips as he admired the sight in front of him.
He feared he wasn’t going to last very long this time. It had been a long time, and with such a beauty in his bed, he knew his self-control had its limits and couldn’t guarantee much. Especially if said beauty tried everything to dissolve his control.
Sherlock was staring back at him, his gaze running along the inspector’s body in unveiled appreciation, which embarrassed Lestrade a bit, but he wasn’t going to complain.
A long hand grabbed his hair and dragged him towards hot, pliant lips and a clever tongue.
“Fuck me,” he breathed on his ear when he was done with the kissing, his voice low and full of desire.
Lestrade took a shaky breath and turned towards his drawer. This was not a good moment to try and recall if he still had some condoms left. A testimony to his sex life, undoubtedly, but unbearably frustrating. He cursed under his breath and reached the drawer, moving aside mismatched blue and brown socks, finding only an old receipt of an electric bill, a single-packaged aspirin and some paper clips.
He couldn’t even think.
Sherlock started kissing his neck, biting gently on his pulse, definitely not helping.
“I... fuck. Don’t...” he wanted so much to just do what the other man had suggested, but there was no way he could do it now.
“Get my trousers,” the other’s voice was still low and sexy, no hint of mockery or irony, he almost sounded needy. “Please,” he added, but in a demanding tone, urging him to do it, rather than begging.
Lestrade moved off him and searched in the pile of discarded clothes on the floor, picked up the black trousers and rummaged through the pockets to find a string of condoms and half a tube of lubricant.
Well, the boy certainly had had his mind set on how to spend the evening when he left, he thought.
He took a condom and tossed the rest on the bedside table, then opened the lube, squeezing a bit on his fingers. He looked at the man underneath him, is grey eyes fixed on his fingers, he looked impatient, eager even, and as he licked his lips Lestrade hesitated, wanting to hear his voice beg for it.
“Please, now,” he said, managing to sound annoyed by his incompetence as well as horny, which wasn’t easy.
Lestrade kissed that irreverent mouth and started probing him with a finger. He was rewarded with a sigh, and the man encouraged him with his moans and with his body as well, moving towards his finger. It was almost too intense for Lestrade. He pushed in a second finger, watching the other adjust to the intrusion, his mind repeating him ‘oh God, what will he do when I enter him’ in a loop. And that wasn’t helping.
“Fuck, what are you waiting for? A written invitation?” Sherlock asked, white teeth marring an already bruised and swollen lip, and that captured Lestrade’s attention. He put the condom on and used some more lubricant, then positioned himself between the other’s legs. Sherlock closed his hand around his erection, making him groan out loud, then guided him towards his opening.
Lestrade closed his eyes when he started pushing, it was tight, hot and much more than what he remembered. And the man beneath him bit his lip, grabbed at the sheets and his pillow, looking so unbelievably sexy that he couldn’t bear to look for long.
He pushed slowly until he was completely in, then he stopped and took a shaky breath, it was time to get himself under control. He thought that his companion would need a moment too to get adjusted, and he kept still as he bent over to kiss him. Sherlock’s hands left the sheets and found a hip and a shoulder respectively, his teeth found Lestrade’s tongue and his hips shifted a bit.
When he left the inspector’s hands he breathed “move,” on his lips, one syllable of concentrated desire.
Lestrade groaned again, he was going to kill him, or make him come just with his voice.
“Move, now, please,” he commanded again, and Lestrade was nursing really inappropriate thoughts at the moment.
Lestrade withdrew as slowly as he had entered, then pushed back and heard a loud, shameless moan. He wasn’t sure who had moaned, so he repeated the gesture. It turned out that his companion was the author of those delicious sounds. He pushed his hips forward and joined him in another soft moan.
“More,” the other half-begged, half-commanded him, and Lestrade couldn’t not obey his voice, he thrust a bit harder and Sherlock arched his back, closing his eyes in a moment of pleasure. “More,” he asked, lustfully, this time, “please, I need-oh fuck. That!” he almost screamed while Lestrade was thrusting diligently into him, coherence leaving his brain more and more every time Lestrade brushed over his prostate. “Again. Oh. Please!” His breath getting shorter, his voice a bit rougher, deeper, with every moan, becoming a symphony for Lestrade’s ears. He bit his own lips, it was becoming difficult to hold back his release.
Sherlock’s hands were grasping at his skin, possibly even scratching, but he didn’t even notice the burn and pain of it, it was just more arousing. He opened his eyes and saw the abandon in the other man’s expression, the sensual haze he was in. It was too much for him.
“So close...” he panted, and felt the hand on his hip move away, to start frantically pumping the erection between them, and then he just focussed on himself, on thrusting into that tight passage until the world exploded behind his eyelids.
He felt warm stickiness on his abdomen and knew that he wasn’t the only one who had enjoyed it. Satisfied and exhausted, he slid out and tossed the condom in the bin, then hit the pillow and fell asleep.
A couple of hours later Lestrade woke up in his bed, sated, relaxed and with a pleasant ache in muscles that hadn’t been used like this in a while. He yawned and stretched a bit, then looked at the crumpled sheets around him, considering doing the laundry.
He felt the other side of the bed, it wasn’t cold yet, and there was a shirt on the chair next to the bed that didn’t belong to him. Maybe his guest hadn’t left yet. He grabbed some fresh boxers and went to the bathroom to freshen up. He put on a t-shirt and an old pair of pants. He saw the light coming from beyond his door.
When he entered the small and cluttered living room he found the young man he had slept with sitting on his sofa with a police file open on the coffee table in front of him. He was wearing Lestrade’s shirt and his own trousers, nothing more. He was also giggling.
Lestrade stood for a second in the doorway and just observed the man take out a piece of paper and a pinch of tobacco from a pouch lying beside a small pile of brown police files on the short table. Sherlock started rolling himself a cigarette without even looking, his eyes quickly scanning the police report, he could see them moving from left to right as he read.
He brought the paper to his mouth and his tongue peeked out to wet the paper and allow him to finish. Then he put the cigarette between his lips and lit it.
Lestrade saw his ashtray with another cigarette butt in it on the coffee table, placed almost on top of the police papers. He couldn’t let his one night stand ruin police files.
Hell, he couldn’t have him read them either!
He quickly crossed the distance to the sofa, closing the brown file in front of the young man.
“What are you doing, looking through these things?” Some of the folders in the pile had a red confidential stamped across them. Actually, most of them did.
“Relax, Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Sherlock said, his voice rolling gently around his French surname, making it sound much more exotic than it was. As to how the man had gotten his name, Sherlock handed him the badge he might had pickpocketed the night before as well as when he was asleep in post-coital bliss.
Sherlock stretched and took a long drag from his hand rolled cigarette, then puffed out the smoke. “I thought I could help. I mean, that’s not why I hit on you last night. Even if I suspected you of being a police officer, it had more to do with your hair and the symmetry of your features.” It wasn’t just that, but Sherlock for once didn’t feel it necessary to offer a full detailed explanation. Especially since he was sure that Lestrade had stopped listening after the end of the second sentence.
“Help. Really. How?”
How to explain to the man that sarcasm was completely wasted on him? “For once I could tell you who the perpetrator is in this case, and I can help you prove it by asking one single question to the suspects.”
Lestrade, despite himself, was intrigued and didn’t interrupt him, yet.
“I assume you haven’t thought of asking them whether they had access to Warfarin or any other blood thinner.”
Lestrade raised an eyebrow, it all sounded so farfetched, he wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to verify that, or at least if he would be able to ask that without sounding stupid.
“But why would I do that?”
Sherlock snorted, then put the cigarette back in his mouth. “I can explain it to you, it’s not hard at all if even the killer had figured it out. Look at the photo of the breakfast table. There’s a bottle of pineapple juice and a glass. Someone knew the man drank pineapple juice every morning, which would make the effect of the Warfarin double. So it was just a matter of time, waiting for the man to cut himself and bleed out. But the killer decided to speed things up, and this way even a normal accident could prove fatal.”
He finished his explanation in a flurry of speech. He talked for five minutes straight, explaining every detail and logical link as if it were apparent just from looking at the pictures and the brief police report.
When he had finished Lestrade blinked and then caught himself. “Oh, piss off. You’re making this up,” he then said, but in truth he was intrigued by that amazing leap in reasoning.
“You can check for yourself, and then you can call me and tell me how right I was.” He looked positively smug as he said that, and Lestrade wanted to smack him in the head and kiss him at the same time. Torn between the two, he did neither.
Sherlock leaned closer to him and offered him his cigarette.
“It’s not drugs,” Sherlock whispered at Lestrade’s hesitation.
“I didn’t say it was drugs.”
“No, but you wondered.”
And Lestrade thought he had a very good reason to, now that he had seen how sharp his cheekbones were and that he had such dark circles under his eyes: he did look more than an occasional user.
Sherlock was still holding the cigarette between his long fingers, and Lestrade closed his lips around the filter, close enough to brush his fingers with his lips. It was such an intimate gesture, and Sherlock was looking in his eyes in a very distracting way.
“How did you know that I smoked?” he asked then, exhaling a puff of smoke gratefully.
Sherlock brought the cigarette back to his own lips. “Your fingers are stained by nicotine between the index and medium finger, and you were looking at my lips in a most indecent manner right now, not annoyed because I lit up a fag, just greedy, sensual, needy.” He smiled again, smug like before. It almost looked as if he enjoyed lecturing people.
Lestrade didn’t correct him to say that the expression of sensual desire was directed more to him than the cigarette.
He licked his own lips and they finished smoking the cigarette in silence, then Sherlock snubbed the butt into the ashtray and kissed Lestrade.
The detective inspector put a hand around his waist and pulled him against himself, guiding Sherlock to sit on his lap. He caressed the naked skin under his own open shirt, the idea of it so sexy he couldn’t close his eyes.
“You could phone Scotland Yard and prove that I was right,” Sherlock breathed against his lips, biting playfully his lower lip. Lestrade wondered how often the man got what he wanted just by asking. He looked like a spoiled rich kid, too. He mustn’t have heard ‘no’ many times in his lifetime.
“Or I could fuck you again right now and close a cold case afterwards,” he answered, claiming possession of his mouth.
Sherlock made a sound in his mouth that he couldn’t decipher as being a sarcastic grunt, an excited groan or what else.
He decided to take it as an encouragement to continue.
“I still don’t know your name...” he said, leaving a trail of kisses on his neck.
“Sherlock Holmes. Trust me, you’re going to be saying it a lot in the future.” Sherlock meant that the DI would call on him for help on cases, but Lestrade took it in the sexual context they were in.
Useless to say, they were both right.
I'm done with it, but I just hope Lestrade/Sherlock inspiration will not stop waking me up in the middle of the night (when I'm too sleepy to take notes, unfair!).
I'm posting now (and not writing for my NaNoWriMo) because now I have internet access! and then I will spend 6 hours crossing France in train.
Is there anyone in Paris around 20:00? :P
Rating: Nc-17
Pairing: Lestrade/Sherlock
Word Count: 4324
Summary: How Lestrade and Sherlock met, one cold November night in 2005 and what inevitably happened.
Title: Universal Law of Gravitation part 1/3 (ps: I suck at titles)
2005
One cold January night like many others, after Lestrade had just finished his shift at the Yard he walked his way home to get changed. It was not unusual for him to walk since he didn’t live too far away, and he liked how it cleared his head. That night he thought he would go for a drink, so he stopped at the flat merely to change his shoes and jacket and then went straight out, locking the door behind him. He crossed the street and got into the nearest pub, where he ended up every Friday evening for one reason or another.
He got in, and was welcomed by loud music and a slight fog, which wasn’t like every other Friday. It must have been some special occasion, only, he hadn’t bothered to check. He walked to the bar, sat down on a stool and ordered a whiskey, thinking that the patrons could go on doing whatever they wanted around him as long as nobody broke the law in a big, showy manner; he was still off duty after all.
His whiskey was slammed in front of him and then the barman moved on to fill a table’s orders.
A tall, lanky man, in his late twenties maybe, took the stool next to his. “Didn’t realise it would be so busy tonight,” the man said, quietly, the volume of his voice perfectly calibrated to be heard over the music but not sound like a scream.
Lestrade looked to his right and saw the man turned slightly towards him. He pointed at himself, not sure the man had been talking to him. It did sound more like he was thinking out loud.
“Oh, right, the flyers…” the man finished his thoughts silently and Lestrade just looked at him, curious. The other lifted a finger and ordered a drink, thinking that he had absolutely nothing to do right at that moment, and feeling up for some kind of social experiment.
He turned towards Lestrade once his drink had arrived. “Well… are you trying to forget a really dull day like I am?” he asked, eyeing the brown liquid in Lestrade’s glass.
The purpose of the whiskey was more or less that, in fact. To forget another boring day submerged by the paperwork of an impossible murder that had kept him out of his mind for weeks now.
“Might be, yeah.” He drank another gulp of whiskey, savouring the burning sensation down his throat, then put back the glass on the napkin.
“Are you doing anything fun later?” he asked, his eyes very intense and looking straight into his.
“Not really.” Lestrade answered, looking at the ice melting slowly in his glass.
“Do you want to?” he asked again, this time with a mischievous grin. It was impossible to miss what he was meaning, except that Lestrade wasn’t so sure why he was hinting at what he was hinting. The inspector raised an eyebrow and looked a bit inquisitive. “Are you asking…”
“I’m not a rent-boy.” The other stated, finishing his drink and getting off his stool. Then he pulled out a scarf from his pocket, folding it in two before putting it around his neck. “But yes, I’m offering some casual sex between two consenting adults. So?”
It was all so sudden and strange that Lestrade shrugged and let himself follow the man outside of the pub.
“Your place?” The man asked, his voice clearer and lower in the silence of the alley.
“Just around the corner.” Lestrade wondered briefly if taking home a stranger was a sound idea. But after all he had a gun, and knew how to use it. He would be fine.
They moved to the main street, Lestrade showing the way and Sherlock following him without a doubt, as if he had known their destination all along.
It was a nice part of town, not fancy, and the apartments weren’t very big or expensive, but they were conveniently located for someone working at Scotland Yard, and conveniently priced too.
Sherlock’s mind was taking in every detail, and narrowing down the possibilities. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that the other man was a police officer. Not a constable, and someone who would get stuck with paperwork but still spend enough time on the field. Sergeant, or maybe Inspector were very likely possibilities. The man he was following had a certain stiffness in him, walked like a cop, and even spoke like one.
Lestrade stopped in front of a door and searched for the keys in his coat’s pockets. Sherlock saw that and decided to help. He walked close to the man and put a hand in the other pocket, having found it empty, he moved aside the coat and started examining the only other pockets the man had, that is to say, his trousers’ pockets. And he wasn’t trying to be subtle at it: after all he didn’t want to pickpocket the man, just to touch him and to get to know him better by having more information. And if he happened to find the keys they could move on to the bedroom and getting to know each other ever more intimately.
He didn’t find the keys, but an oyster card and a sensitive spot between the man’s thigh and crotch. He filed both pieces of information for later and slowly removed his hand when he heard the door click open.
Lestrade lived at the second floor, and Sherlock counted the steps out of habit (thirty-two).
Then the inspector stopped in front of his door and was much quicker to open it than the front door.
Sherlock followed him inside, then pushed him against the inside of the door, slamming it closed before leaning over for a kiss. He was passionate, hungry almost to the point of being ravenous, and until now Lestrade hadn’t realised how much he had needed this. He needed the passion, the distraction and the relaxation that a one night stand could offer.
He wasn’t in the habit of pitying himself, so he knew he wouldn’t have regrets the following morning. He couldn’t know, but Sherlock’s brain was walking the same thought pattern, only quicker, and making some detours along the way.
Lestrade raised a hand and grabbed the other man’s hair, and he was rewarded by a soft moan in his mouth. He held him there and they fought for control of the kiss until they were out of breath. Then the man licked his lips and moved to kiss his neck, alternating soft kisses and light bites, lavishing Lestrade’s skin with more attention they had received in the last six months. He shivered and was very conscious of not having shaved that day, but Sherlock didn’t mind in the least, he liked the policeman the way he was, a bit rough, repressed and stiff. In more ways than one.
Lestrade grabbed the scarf around the other’s neck and undid it. When he was done he let it fall to the floor and then attacked the coat. They were too dressed for everything except going out, and he had a feeling they wouldn’t leave anytime soon.
Sherlock smiled and helped the inspector, unbuttoning the rest of the coat and then throwing it off. He didn’t care where it landed, but his mind registered a chair-like shape under it.
Lestrade tried to step away from the door and remove his jacket; long fingers came in help.
“Where is your bedroom?” asked the man as he finished undressing him, Lestrade’s eyes darted for a second in the right direction, and Sherlock kissed him again, pulling him close to his chest and then started walking backwards, heading to the right door.
He couldn’t ask how he had guessed, because he was too busy exploring his mouth with his tongue, but then Sherlock’s back touched the wood and pulled him close enough to crash him between the door and himself, and he sighed. It had been too long since he’d been this close to another hot body. He could not help but moan in anticipation, as the man moved to lick one of his ears.
“How much stamina do you have in bed?” he whispered the question, his warm breath on the wet skin made Lestrade shiver once. He wasn’t really interested in the answer, just in provoking him.
As for an answer, the inspector kissed him more roughly, rubbing himself against him.
“We’ll... see then,” the man judged, then he moaned once, shamelessly, when the man’s erection pressed against his side. He slid his hands down the other man’s back, clutching his buttocks and trying to make him repeat the gesture. He moaned again and Lestrade bit his lip.
“I don’t think we’ll get to the bed like this,” Lestrade admitted, a bit reluctantly, but Sherlock just smirked. He had other cards up his sleeve, and was determined to have what he wanted.
“Trust me,” he just said, then opened the door and went inside.
He didn’t even see the room, Lestrade guided him to the bed, kissing him and unbuttoning his shirt in the meantime. Sherlock had made the mistake of underestimating the man.
He was quick, but not quick enough for Sherlock, who in his eagerness to help almost popped a few buttons. Then his fingers moved to Lestrade’s shirt, and he took a moment to rub his hands along the man’s torso, caressing him through the shirt, and feeling the fabric under his fingers. It was medium quality cotton, probably a shirt bought from Marks & Spencer, not too expensive. He had no regrets about ripping it open.
Neither did Lestrade, even if he voiced a complaint, which Sherlock ignored. They were in his room, and Sherlock was sure there would be plenty more shirts like that one in the wardrobe. No use denying it.
There were more important things to do than worry about a few buttons.
Lestrade shrugged off his shirt and threw it on the floor, he was about to do the same with Sherlock’s but the man didn’t let him, instead he grabbed a handful of his salt and pepper hair and pulled him down for another heated kiss, raising his hips a bit in an attempt to rub himself again against the man, and Lestrade started to fear that if he didn’t do anything soon they would finish like this, like a couple of horny teenagers. And he was really looking forward to the prospect of shagging the man senseless.
“Stop,” he breathed, and the other stopped, looking up at his eyes, his own darker with excitement. His lips wet, red and a bit raw from the kissing. Sherlock was waiting for him to say something more, but after a few seconds of silence, he decided to go on, undoing the inspector’s belt, followed by his button and zip, until he could have access to what he needed the most.
Lestrade sighed when he didn’t feel constricted in his clothing anymore, and as soon as the other closed a hand around him his sigh became a soft moan. It had been too long indeed.
He tried to reciprocate, hands finding their way between layers of clothing until they touched hot, naked skin. He mimicked the slow caresses of Sherlock’s hand, which were teasing and exploring, not bent on giving him pleasure.
“I don’t even know your name,” breathed Lestrade, and the younger man captured his mouth for a kiss, bit his lower lip and sucked it until he moaned again, then and only then he dignified him with an answer that wasn’t really an answer.
“Neither do I,” he said calmly, biting his jaw, squeezing a little harder on his erection.
Lestrade silently agreed that it didn’t matter, that he deserved some uncomplicated sex, and with the other hand he started to push the shirt off the other’s shoulders. It was unnecessary for what he had in mind.
Sherlock left his cock only to toss the shirt off his arms, pushing it off the bed, then started pulling at Lestrade’s waistbands, trying to have him remove both trousers and underpants at the same time.
The inspector complied, kicking off his clothes, then reciprocated, kneeling on the bed to pull the rest of the clothes off the other man. He licked his lips as he admired the sight in front of him.
He feared he wasn’t going to last very long this time. It had been a long time, and with such a beauty in his bed, he knew his self-control had its limits and couldn’t guarantee much. Especially if said beauty tried everything to dissolve his control.
Sherlock was staring back at him, his gaze running along the inspector’s body in unveiled appreciation, which embarrassed Lestrade a bit, but he wasn’t going to complain.
A long hand grabbed his hair and dragged him towards hot, pliant lips and a clever tongue.
“Fuck me,” he breathed on his ear when he was done with the kissing, his voice low and full of desire.
Lestrade took a shaky breath and turned towards his drawer. This was not a good moment to try and recall if he still had some condoms left. A testimony to his sex life, undoubtedly, but unbearably frustrating. He cursed under his breath and reached the drawer, moving aside mismatched blue and brown socks, finding only an old receipt of an electric bill, a single-packaged aspirin and some paper clips.
He couldn’t even think.
Sherlock started kissing his neck, biting gently on his pulse, definitely not helping.
“I... fuck. Don’t...” he wanted so much to just do what the other man had suggested, but there was no way he could do it now.
“Get my trousers,” the other’s voice was still low and sexy, no hint of mockery or irony, he almost sounded needy. “Please,” he added, but in a demanding tone, urging him to do it, rather than begging.
Lestrade moved off him and searched in the pile of discarded clothes on the floor, picked up the black trousers and rummaged through the pockets to find a string of condoms and half a tube of lubricant.
Well, the boy certainly had had his mind set on how to spend the evening when he left, he thought.
He took a condom and tossed the rest on the bedside table, then opened the lube, squeezing a bit on his fingers. He looked at the man underneath him, is grey eyes fixed on his fingers, he looked impatient, eager even, and as he licked his lips Lestrade hesitated, wanting to hear his voice beg for it.
“Please, now,” he said, managing to sound annoyed by his incompetence as well as horny, which wasn’t easy.
Lestrade kissed that irreverent mouth and started probing him with a finger. He was rewarded with a sigh, and the man encouraged him with his moans and with his body as well, moving towards his finger. It was almost too intense for Lestrade. He pushed in a second finger, watching the other adjust to the intrusion, his mind repeating him ‘oh God, what will he do when I enter him’ in a loop. And that wasn’t helping.
“Fuck, what are you waiting for? A written invitation?” Sherlock asked, white teeth marring an already bruised and swollen lip, and that captured Lestrade’s attention. He put the condom on and used some more lubricant, then positioned himself between the other’s legs. Sherlock closed his hand around his erection, making him groan out loud, then guided him towards his opening.
Lestrade closed his eyes when he started pushing, it was tight, hot and much more than what he remembered. And the man beneath him bit his lip, grabbed at the sheets and his pillow, looking so unbelievably sexy that he couldn’t bear to look for long.
He pushed slowly until he was completely in, then he stopped and took a shaky breath, it was time to get himself under control. He thought that his companion would need a moment too to get adjusted, and he kept still as he bent over to kiss him. Sherlock’s hands left the sheets and found a hip and a shoulder respectively, his teeth found Lestrade’s tongue and his hips shifted a bit.
When he left the inspector’s hands he breathed “move,” on his lips, one syllable of concentrated desire.
Lestrade groaned again, he was going to kill him, or make him come just with his voice.
“Move, now, please,” he commanded again, and Lestrade was nursing really inappropriate thoughts at the moment.
Lestrade withdrew as slowly as he had entered, then pushed back and heard a loud, shameless moan. He wasn’t sure who had moaned, so he repeated the gesture. It turned out that his companion was the author of those delicious sounds. He pushed his hips forward and joined him in another soft moan.
“More,” the other half-begged, half-commanded him, and Lestrade couldn’t not obey his voice, he thrust a bit harder and Sherlock arched his back, closing his eyes in a moment of pleasure. “More,” he asked, lustfully, this time, “please, I need-oh fuck. That!” he almost screamed while Lestrade was thrusting diligently into him, coherence leaving his brain more and more every time Lestrade brushed over his prostate. “Again. Oh. Please!” His breath getting shorter, his voice a bit rougher, deeper, with every moan, becoming a symphony for Lestrade’s ears. He bit his own lips, it was becoming difficult to hold back his release.
Sherlock’s hands were grasping at his skin, possibly even scratching, but he didn’t even notice the burn and pain of it, it was just more arousing. He opened his eyes and saw the abandon in the other man’s expression, the sensual haze he was in. It was too much for him.
“So close...” he panted, and felt the hand on his hip move away, to start frantically pumping the erection between them, and then he just focussed on himself, on thrusting into that tight passage until the world exploded behind his eyelids.
He felt warm stickiness on his abdomen and knew that he wasn’t the only one who had enjoyed it. Satisfied and exhausted, he slid out and tossed the condom in the bin, then hit the pillow and fell asleep.
A couple of hours later Lestrade woke up in his bed, sated, relaxed and with a pleasant ache in muscles that hadn’t been used like this in a while. He yawned and stretched a bit, then looked at the crumpled sheets around him, considering doing the laundry.
He felt the other side of the bed, it wasn’t cold yet, and there was a shirt on the chair next to the bed that didn’t belong to him. Maybe his guest hadn’t left yet. He grabbed some fresh boxers and went to the bathroom to freshen up. He put on a t-shirt and an old pair of pants. He saw the light coming from beyond his door.
When he entered the small and cluttered living room he found the young man he had slept with sitting on his sofa with a police file open on the coffee table in front of him. He was wearing Lestrade’s shirt and his own trousers, nothing more. He was also giggling.
Lestrade stood for a second in the doorway and just observed the man take out a piece of paper and a pinch of tobacco from a pouch lying beside a small pile of brown police files on the short table. Sherlock started rolling himself a cigarette without even looking, his eyes quickly scanning the police report, he could see them moving from left to right as he read.
He brought the paper to his mouth and his tongue peeked out to wet the paper and allow him to finish. Then he put the cigarette between his lips and lit it.
Lestrade saw his ashtray with another cigarette butt in it on the coffee table, placed almost on top of the police papers. He couldn’t let his one night stand ruin police files.
Hell, he couldn’t have him read them either!
He quickly crossed the distance to the sofa, closing the brown file in front of the young man.
“What are you doing, looking through these things?” Some of the folders in the pile had a red confidential stamped across them. Actually, most of them did.
“Relax, Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Sherlock said, his voice rolling gently around his French surname, making it sound much more exotic than it was. As to how the man had gotten his name, Sherlock handed him the badge he might had pickpocketed the night before as well as when he was asleep in post-coital bliss.
Sherlock stretched and took a long drag from his hand rolled cigarette, then puffed out the smoke. “I thought I could help. I mean, that’s not why I hit on you last night. Even if I suspected you of being a police officer, it had more to do with your hair and the symmetry of your features.” It wasn’t just that, but Sherlock for once didn’t feel it necessary to offer a full detailed explanation. Especially since he was sure that Lestrade had stopped listening after the end of the second sentence.
“Help. Really. How?”
How to explain to the man that sarcasm was completely wasted on him? “For once I could tell you who the perpetrator is in this case, and I can help you prove it by asking one single question to the suspects.”
Lestrade, despite himself, was intrigued and didn’t interrupt him, yet.
“I assume you haven’t thought of asking them whether they had access to Warfarin or any other blood thinner.”
Lestrade raised an eyebrow, it all sounded so farfetched, he wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to verify that, or at least if he would be able to ask that without sounding stupid.
“But why would I do that?”
Sherlock snorted, then put the cigarette back in his mouth. “I can explain it to you, it’s not hard at all if even the killer had figured it out. Look at the photo of the breakfast table. There’s a bottle of pineapple juice and a glass. Someone knew the man drank pineapple juice every morning, which would make the effect of the Warfarin double. So it was just a matter of time, waiting for the man to cut himself and bleed out. But the killer decided to speed things up, and this way even a normal accident could prove fatal.”
He finished his explanation in a flurry of speech. He talked for five minutes straight, explaining every detail and logical link as if it were apparent just from looking at the pictures and the brief police report.
When he had finished Lestrade blinked and then caught himself. “Oh, piss off. You’re making this up,” he then said, but in truth he was intrigued by that amazing leap in reasoning.
“You can check for yourself, and then you can call me and tell me how right I was.” He looked positively smug as he said that, and Lestrade wanted to smack him in the head and kiss him at the same time. Torn between the two, he did neither.
Sherlock leaned closer to him and offered him his cigarette.
“It’s not drugs,” Sherlock whispered at Lestrade’s hesitation.
“I didn’t say it was drugs.”
“No, but you wondered.”
And Lestrade thought he had a very good reason to, now that he had seen how sharp his cheekbones were and that he had such dark circles under his eyes: he did look more than an occasional user.
Sherlock was still holding the cigarette between his long fingers, and Lestrade closed his lips around the filter, close enough to brush his fingers with his lips. It was such an intimate gesture, and Sherlock was looking in his eyes in a very distracting way.
“How did you know that I smoked?” he asked then, exhaling a puff of smoke gratefully.
Sherlock brought the cigarette back to his own lips. “Your fingers are stained by nicotine between the index and medium finger, and you were looking at my lips in a most indecent manner right now, not annoyed because I lit up a fag, just greedy, sensual, needy.” He smiled again, smug like before. It almost looked as if he enjoyed lecturing people.
Lestrade didn’t correct him to say that the expression of sensual desire was directed more to him than the cigarette.
He licked his own lips and they finished smoking the cigarette in silence, then Sherlock snubbed the butt into the ashtray and kissed Lestrade.
The detective inspector put a hand around his waist and pulled him against himself, guiding Sherlock to sit on his lap. He caressed the naked skin under his own open shirt, the idea of it so sexy he couldn’t close his eyes.
“You could phone Scotland Yard and prove that I was right,” Sherlock breathed against his lips, biting playfully his lower lip. Lestrade wondered how often the man got what he wanted just by asking. He looked like a spoiled rich kid, too. He mustn’t have heard ‘no’ many times in his lifetime.
“Or I could fuck you again right now and close a cold case afterwards,” he answered, claiming possession of his mouth.
Sherlock made a sound in his mouth that he couldn’t decipher as being a sarcastic grunt, an excited groan or what else.
He decided to take it as an encouragement to continue.
“I still don’t know your name...” he said, leaving a trail of kisses on his neck.
“Sherlock Holmes. Trust me, you’re going to be saying it a lot in the future.” Sherlock meant that the DI would call on him for help on cases, but Lestrade took it in the sexual context they were in.
Useless to say, they were both right.
