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turanteBecause I should post it before I get (virtual) cold feet and procrastinate all the way to Illneverpostitbecauseitsucks-land. (I'm an honorary citizen now.)
The part with the PeriodicTable!porn.
Rating: Nc-17
Pairing: Lestrade/Sherlock (like my mind could think of another pairing right now)
Word Count: 3163
Summary: (Sherlock recites the periodic table) a vignette of a moment in between those 5 long years they have known each other.
Title: Universal Law of Gravitation part 2/3
2008
He had known Sherlock Holmes for three years, one month and twelve days, and not for the first time he was getting worried that it could be exactly that the cause for his rapidly greying hair and his recent insomnia. This time he told himself that he should start taking better care of his own health. He could not get rid of the annoying sociopath, because every time he tried to put some distance between them the universe dropped a nasty impossible murder on his desk and a smug, handsome serial patience-killer in his office. Lestrade could still do something for his health, though.
That day Lestrade had finally decided to give up his smoking habit. He had known all along that it was an unhealthy, dangerous, and not to mention expensive addiction, and no matter how pleasant it was to indulge in it, he knew he should have stopped years before. He wasn’t getting any younger and each smoke brought him a step closer to his grave. But so did seeing Sherlock pop in at his crime scenes.
He sighed, finished what he had decided to be his last cigarette, snubbed it and threw it in a bin, then got the packet out of his pocket and crumpled it before making it follow that last single spent butt.
There had still been three or four cigarettes in the packet but he had discarded it anyway, because this time he really meant it.
He took out his lighter next, and threw that away too, better to remove all forms of temptation. Finally he took a deep breath, feeling lighter and more worried than he had the last few years.
He walked to the edge of the crime scene where he saw Sherlock Holmes, arguing with one of his sergeants again. He personally lifted the yellow ribbon to let him pass, and said nothing when the man flashed a cheeky grin to Donovan. She muttered something close to “freak”, but they both let it pass as if they hadn’t heard it.
Inside the perimeter Sherlock let Lestrade guide him to the corpse.
“You’ll like this one,” Lestrade said before he could even realise how wrong that did sound. By now he was so used to the man and his strange habits that nothing about him surprised him. Much.
At least, the man was a real help to him, even if hell to work with. Not that he could work with him. He merely supervised that he didn’t contaminate the evidence, or better, that he didn’t nick any, and served as an idea bouncer from time to time.
This murder was something that Sherlock found interesting, but he solved it quickly. That left Lestrade and his team to deal with witness statements and paperwork, the consulting detective having disappeared as soon as the fun part had ended.
Later that evening, coming home from his office, he found Sherlock, barefoot and in his shirtsleeves, waiting for him in his apartment, draped on his sofa so that he took up all of the space with his long limbs. He had obviously chosen the sofa because it offered an excellent view of the door, which he had been staring at, waiting for him to arrive home. When he removed his coat Sherlock bent one leg so that one foot rested on the cushions.
Lestrade really hadn’t expected to find Sherlock in his apartment. Not that it hadn’t happened before, but it wasn’t that usual either. And Sherlock was looking so relaxed that he wondered if he wasn’t on some drug. Still, it was a pleasant surprise. Even more so because by now the consulting detective had trained his pavlovian response to a point which would make him think of sex every time he saw Sherlock away from a crime scene.
No doubt Sherlock found that amusing, or useful, but it was embarrassing to Lestrade.
Sherlock had smiled, pleased, when he felt the inspector’s attention turn on him, and barely looking down at his hands, he had taken a pinch of tobacco and started making himself a hand rolled cigarette.
He caught Lestrade’s doubtful expression, “it’s just tobacco,” he answered calmly, out of habit, then he rolled the paper to make the cylinder even, then licked the paper to finish up. When he was done he offered the tobacco bag to Lestrade to examine. Even he wasn’t arrogant enough to bring drugs to a policeman’s apartment.
The inspector sniffed briefly the tobacco and nodded, giving the bag back because he could not find anything wrong with it. And because the smell of it was becoming more tempting by the second, speaking to his subconscious about the countless hand rolled cigarettes he had shared with Sherlock in those three years, one month, twelve days and something.
Sherlock lit the cigarette up and took a long, satisfying drag from it, holding the smoke in his lungs for a second. He exhaled the smoke slowly, eyes half closed in pleasure. Lestrade’s gaze was fixed on his lips, and the slender fingers that held the white cigarette.
“I quit smoking today,” he said, his voice a bit huskier than what he had imagined it would be when he announced it to someone, but in truth, most of his blood had gone south of his belt, busy fuelling his arousal at the sight of Sherlock Holmes smoking, and now blowing little smoke rings. The man was clearly doing it on purpose; he knew he was doomed, but he couldn’t do anything to make himself turn away. He couldn’t help himself.
“Your problem, not mine,” the younger man told him when Lestrade got closer to the sofa, enough to breathe in the same air as Sherlock and inhale some second-hand smoke. Sherlock moved his long legs so that Lestrade could sit on his own sofa.
“Can you put that off?” he asked, a hint of bitterness in his plead. Sherlock saw him looking at the cigarette he held between his lips like it was the last oasis in the desert.
“No,” he answered impolitely, but that was hardly surprising. Lestrade licked his lips, but Sherlock spoke again before he could say anything. “And don’t give me a lecture on second-hand smoke,” he warned, shaking a bit of ash in the ashtray on the coffee table.
Lestrade touched Sherlock’s knee and licked his own lips. He knew he shouldn’t have been watching Sherlock smoke, the show was so sensual that he felt he couldn’t have been any harder, but he kept doing it anyway. He parted Sherlock’s legs, and the consultant detective put a foot down on the floor to make room for him on the sofa. He leaned over and looked at him in the eyes for a long moment, then he closed his hand around Sherlock’s fingers and took the cigarette. He struggled with his instincts, with his desires, then put it in the ashtray and closed the distance to kiss Sherlock’s mouth, mildly surprising the man, who thought his longing would have been for the tobacco, not his lips.
The kiss grew in intensity, becoming passionate and eager; Sherlock wasn’t going to be passive and let him have all the fun. Not this time. Not ever.
More than cigarettes, Lestrade now realised that he was addicted to the taste of Sherlock’s mouth, the unique flavour that was him and smoke and a just a hint of mint. They kissed and kissed until they had to stop to breathe, and Lestrade wanted more, more than what he could get like that on the sofa.
“Move,” he ordered, and Sherlock laughed. “My bedroom,” he added, and Sherlock exceptionally obeyed. But only because that was exactly what he wanted; what he had forced Lestrade’s front door for.
They hurried to the bed, Sherlock knew the way perfectly by now and could have probably walked it with his eyes closed.
Lestrade had been guiding him – entirely unnecessary, but he enjoyed the contact – and trying to undress him at the same time. Sherlock licked his lips, then brushed his hands away and took a step away from him, slowly undoing his own buttons, undressing himself for Lestrade, who craved to touch him.
He let the shirt fall on the floor, and looking in Lestrade’s eyes, undid the button of his trousers and then lowered the zip painfully slowly. Lestrade sighed; eyes fixed on the other’s body, and then started removing his own clothes.
It wasn’t long before all of their clothing was on the floor and they were on the bed, Sherlock kissing him like he was some addicting drug, making Lestrade’s head spin, even when he knew that the other man’s brain was still running a million thoughts a minute.
He rolled on top of Sherlock and made himself comfortable, one leg between his, slowly rubbing himself against him. He could feel Sherlock’s brain slow down a bit, and he decided that his mission that night was to make him stop thinking at all.
A couple of minutes would have to suffice, probably, but then he couldn’t perform miracles.
He started kissing the long white neck, grazing it with his teeth and when he found a spot that made Sherlock gasp a bit louder he started sucking.
“No, Lestrade...” Sherlock started squirming under him, but he kept him still and kept sucking until he had left a small red mark that would remain for a day or two.
“You always wear that scarf anyway.” He joked, then started kissing the same spot on the other side of his neck, without any intention of mirroring the hickey, but Sherlock took advantage of his distraction to push Lestrade off him and then invert their positions.
“What about I leave a mark on you then?” He said with a smirk, considering all the places that would be half-visible when Lestrade was fully dressed.
“A matching hickey so that tomorrow everyone at the Yard will know? I am quite sure there are bets going on about us.”
“I might need to cash in on Anderson,” said Sherlock, looking a bit distracted, so Lestrade grabbed his hips with both hands and pulled him against himself.
“Stop mind-fucking with my team,” he warned, “or we might have to stop all of our interactions.” He knew that that wasn’t a serious threat, and Sherlock did too.
The other man snorted. “I would miss helping out the most stupid—”
Lestrade kissed him, taking advantage of the fact that a kiss was a very efficient way of shutting Sherlock up. There were other ways just as effective to keep his mouth too busy to talk, but a really passionate kiss when they were naked had achieved wonderful results so far. Besides, their discussion hadn’t been important at all.
Lestrade, however, knew that Sherlock was still thinking about the rest of his sentence, and the thought was bothering him. So he decided to help him forget. Or just render him unable to utter it when he had his mouth free.
He guided Sherlock against him another time, obtaining another soft gasp in his mouth, then he placed one hand on Sherlock’s buttock, giving it a squeeze, and finally went looking for his hole to tease.
Sherlock gasped, leaving his mouth to breathe and speak. “Lestrade...”
“I like it when you moan my name...” the inspector said, biting his lower lip as he started pushing just the tip in.
“I’m not moaning. Yet,” Sherlock corrected him, making Lestrade smile.
The consulting detective was thinking whether he could reach the lube and condoms in the drawer without moving from that position or not. It didn’t take long to figure it out, but it did take longer to take the decision to move away from Lestrade’s body. And that was a weakness he was still not ready to admit.
So Sherlock lifted his hips and stretched to open the drawer Lestrade kept their supplies, retrieving everything while the inspector had decided to occupy his time in the exploration of his chest through the use of his mouth, which yielded the wonderful result of extorting some shameless moans from Sherlock. And that was the sort of result Lestrade cared for when behind closed doors with Sherlock.
“Sorry, am I distracting you?” asked Lestrade, smiling against one nipple, before taking it in his mouth and biting it playfully.
“Depends. I can still recite the periodic table,” Sherlock started, then let out a soft moan when Lestrade bit the other nipple. “Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium—” he started, his voice low in register and sensual, but still lecturing.
“I wonder how long you can keep going.”
“Is that a challenge?” Sherlock asked him, then uncapped the lube and put some on Lestrade’s fingers.
“I can’t decide,” replied the inspector, grabbing the other man’s hair and kissing him roughly. He started slowly and carefully fingering him.
“Beryllium—seriously, I can go on—Boron, Carbon. Oh...” he paused for a second, closing his eyes, then continued as if nothing had happened. “Nitrogen, Oxygen, hmmm, Fluorine.”
Lestrade was extremely amused by this. He could literally use it to measure Sherlock’s cerebral activity. “Go on,” he encouraged, adding a second finger to stretch him, deliberately taking his time as Sherlock started listing the elements of the third period.
“Neon. Then Sodium, Magnesium—oh my God.” His eyelids shut closed and Sherlock tilted his head back, exposing his neck, and Lestrade decided to take full advantage of it. He started sucking on Sherlock’s neck like he had done before, accentuating the hickey, and the man almost growled. “Magnesium then... Aluminium.” Lestrade noticed that he had slowed down.
He started stretching him more with his fingers, while being slow and careful, knowing that Sherlock always became impatient before he was done with a through and proper job.
“Silicon, Phosphorus and please, I need more than that,” he said, closing his hand around Lestrade’s erection. He needed that inside him. “Sulphur, Chlorine...”
Lestrade sighed and removed his fingers, guiding Sherlock along his body to make them both comfortable. He guided himself towards Sherlock’s opening, and the man lowered his hips, engulfing him in his tight heath. Lestrade swore under his breath, and Sherlock softly whispered “Ah... Argon.”
The inspector bit his lip to hide a grin, even if Sherlock had his eyes closed, it didn’t mean that he wouldn’t know. He gripped the hips a bit harder and encouraged him to start moving. “Interesting, Argon, then?”
Sherlock inhaled slowly once, then exhaled, to regain enough concentration to go on. “Then Potassium, and calcium, then... the metals.” He raised his hips and together they set a slow, sensual rhythm. “Scandium,” he raised his hips almost completely, “Titanium,” and he lowered them until Lestrade was again fully sheathed in him. “Hmm Vanadium, I think.”
Lestrade kissed him, interrupting for a while his flow of thoughts, and more importantly, his speech. “You think,” he joked then, raising his hips to go meet his movement. “Not sure?”
Sherlock bit his lower lip and nodded. “Vanadium,” he repeated, “then Chromium. Oh. Yes.” Then he moaned and quickened his pace, Lestrade sometimes thrusting up. “Manganese—fuck! There, Lestrade. Iron. God, more!” he moaned, his breath getting more and more irregular and his concentration wavered. He was getting dangerously distracted, but so was Lestrade. And honestly, he had lost Lestrade at Helium, so he could have continued enumerating random names and still fooled the inspector. But Lestrade was sure he wouldn’t cheat like that, he knew him too well.
“More,” Sherlock begged, his voice dripping with need, and Lestrade closed one hand around his erection, stroking it in time with Sherlock’s hips, which were now moving at a frantic rhythm, making the feeling in his loins tighten as he got closer to his climax every time Sherlock went down on him.
“Cobalt. Hmn, Nickel, Zinc. Ah. Fuck, no, I mean, yes, oh God, so close... so... fuck, Lestrade—“ then he almost shouted his pleasure as he spilled his seed all over the inspector’s hand.
Lestrade still gripped his hip, so hard that he could have left a bruise, and kept him moving for a little longer, just a bit more until he reached his orgasm.
Sherlock sighed contentedly and then got off him and sprawled himself on the bed, half across Lestrade, and taking up as much of the mattress as he could. The inspector knew from experience that Sherlock, even as thin as he was, could take up more than half of his bed. (He still hadn’t found an explanation for the fact, but was working on it.)
Lestrade sighed, and they remained like that for a while trying to get their breath back and their heartbeats to normal.
After a few peaceful minutes of silence, Sherlock murmured a “Oh,” like those he breathed when he understood something trivial at a crime scene.
“What?” asked Lestrade, still too relaxed to manage honest curiosity or sarcasm.
Sherlock giggled against his shoulder.
“What now?” he asked again, a bit brusquely this time.
“I think I forgot Copper,” he confessed, “you... were distracting.”
Lestrade smiled to himself. “Thank God.”
Another little pause, then Sherlock grunted “You quit smoking,” he said, as if that was self-explanatory.
“I will never understand you.” Lestrade turned to look at Sherlock in the eyes, in the hope of having some clues on how the other man’s brain worked.
“Do you still have cigarettes in the drawer?” the other asked, feeling like he was spelling out something elementary to a child.
“What? No, you’re not smoking in my bedroom.”
Sherlock looked disgruntled. “You still have some then,” he stated, then turned towards the open drawer.
“Don’t even think about it,” Lestrade threatened, but didn’t have the energy to do more than protest verbally.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t think I have the energy to resist.”
Sherlock smiled and kissed him on the lips once, softly. “That’s me, a heartless corruptor of virtuous detective inspectors.” He reached inside the drawer and grabbed the packet, extracting a cigarette and the lighter, then he sat up and put the stick between his lips before he lit it up. “Or you could always say I’m removing temptation.”
Lestrade groaned, unable to stop himself staring at Sherlock smoking. It was the second time that day, already. And Sherlock was staring back at him, studying his reactions.
“How is your self restraint going?”
“Crumbling quickly.” The inspector sat up as well, propping his back against the pillows.
“Do you want me to stop you?” Sherlock asked, placing a hand on his chest, ready to physically stop him.
“I think I can take care of myself,” but truthfully, Lestrade knew he was doomed the moment he took the lit cigarette from Sherlock’s fingers and brought it to his own lips.
He had never realized that he had been doomed from the moment he had spoken to that handsome stranger in the pub three years, one month and twelve, no, thirteen days before.
The part with the PeriodicTable!porn.
Rating: Nc-17
Pairing: Lestrade/Sherlock (like my mind could think of another pairing right now)
Word Count: 3163
Summary: (Sherlock recites the periodic table) a vignette of a moment in between those 5 long years they have known each other.
Title: Universal Law of Gravitation part 2/3
2008
He had known Sherlock Holmes for three years, one month and twelve days, and not for the first time he was getting worried that it could be exactly that the cause for his rapidly greying hair and his recent insomnia. This time he told himself that he should start taking better care of his own health. He could not get rid of the annoying sociopath, because every time he tried to put some distance between them the universe dropped a nasty impossible murder on his desk and a smug, handsome serial patience-killer in his office. Lestrade could still do something for his health, though.
That day Lestrade had finally decided to give up his smoking habit. He had known all along that it was an unhealthy, dangerous, and not to mention expensive addiction, and no matter how pleasant it was to indulge in it, he knew he should have stopped years before. He wasn’t getting any younger and each smoke brought him a step closer to his grave. But so did seeing Sherlock pop in at his crime scenes.
He sighed, finished what he had decided to be his last cigarette, snubbed it and threw it in a bin, then got the packet out of his pocket and crumpled it before making it follow that last single spent butt.
There had still been three or four cigarettes in the packet but he had discarded it anyway, because this time he really meant it.
He took out his lighter next, and threw that away too, better to remove all forms of temptation. Finally he took a deep breath, feeling lighter and more worried than he had the last few years.
He walked to the edge of the crime scene where he saw Sherlock Holmes, arguing with one of his sergeants again. He personally lifted the yellow ribbon to let him pass, and said nothing when the man flashed a cheeky grin to Donovan. She muttered something close to “freak”, but they both let it pass as if they hadn’t heard it.
Inside the perimeter Sherlock let Lestrade guide him to the corpse.
“You’ll like this one,” Lestrade said before he could even realise how wrong that did sound. By now he was so used to the man and his strange habits that nothing about him surprised him. Much.
At least, the man was a real help to him, even if hell to work with. Not that he could work with him. He merely supervised that he didn’t contaminate the evidence, or better, that he didn’t nick any, and served as an idea bouncer from time to time.
This murder was something that Sherlock found interesting, but he solved it quickly. That left Lestrade and his team to deal with witness statements and paperwork, the consulting detective having disappeared as soon as the fun part had ended.
Later that evening, coming home from his office, he found Sherlock, barefoot and in his shirtsleeves, waiting for him in his apartment, draped on his sofa so that he took up all of the space with his long limbs. He had obviously chosen the sofa because it offered an excellent view of the door, which he had been staring at, waiting for him to arrive home. When he removed his coat Sherlock bent one leg so that one foot rested on the cushions.
Lestrade really hadn’t expected to find Sherlock in his apartment. Not that it hadn’t happened before, but it wasn’t that usual either. And Sherlock was looking so relaxed that he wondered if he wasn’t on some drug. Still, it was a pleasant surprise. Even more so because by now the consulting detective had trained his pavlovian response to a point which would make him think of sex every time he saw Sherlock away from a crime scene.
No doubt Sherlock found that amusing, or useful, but it was embarrassing to Lestrade.
Sherlock had smiled, pleased, when he felt the inspector’s attention turn on him, and barely looking down at his hands, he had taken a pinch of tobacco and started making himself a hand rolled cigarette.
He caught Lestrade’s doubtful expression, “it’s just tobacco,” he answered calmly, out of habit, then he rolled the paper to make the cylinder even, then licked the paper to finish up. When he was done he offered the tobacco bag to Lestrade to examine. Even he wasn’t arrogant enough to bring drugs to a policeman’s apartment.
The inspector sniffed briefly the tobacco and nodded, giving the bag back because he could not find anything wrong with it. And because the smell of it was becoming more tempting by the second, speaking to his subconscious about the countless hand rolled cigarettes he had shared with Sherlock in those three years, one month, twelve days and something.
Sherlock lit the cigarette up and took a long, satisfying drag from it, holding the smoke in his lungs for a second. He exhaled the smoke slowly, eyes half closed in pleasure. Lestrade’s gaze was fixed on his lips, and the slender fingers that held the white cigarette.
“I quit smoking today,” he said, his voice a bit huskier than what he had imagined it would be when he announced it to someone, but in truth, most of his blood had gone south of his belt, busy fuelling his arousal at the sight of Sherlock Holmes smoking, and now blowing little smoke rings. The man was clearly doing it on purpose; he knew he was doomed, but he couldn’t do anything to make himself turn away. He couldn’t help himself.
“Your problem, not mine,” the younger man told him when Lestrade got closer to the sofa, enough to breathe in the same air as Sherlock and inhale some second-hand smoke. Sherlock moved his long legs so that Lestrade could sit on his own sofa.
“Can you put that off?” he asked, a hint of bitterness in his plead. Sherlock saw him looking at the cigarette he held between his lips like it was the last oasis in the desert.
“No,” he answered impolitely, but that was hardly surprising. Lestrade licked his lips, but Sherlock spoke again before he could say anything. “And don’t give me a lecture on second-hand smoke,” he warned, shaking a bit of ash in the ashtray on the coffee table.
Lestrade touched Sherlock’s knee and licked his own lips. He knew he shouldn’t have been watching Sherlock smoke, the show was so sensual that he felt he couldn’t have been any harder, but he kept doing it anyway. He parted Sherlock’s legs, and the consultant detective put a foot down on the floor to make room for him on the sofa. He leaned over and looked at him in the eyes for a long moment, then he closed his hand around Sherlock’s fingers and took the cigarette. He struggled with his instincts, with his desires, then put it in the ashtray and closed the distance to kiss Sherlock’s mouth, mildly surprising the man, who thought his longing would have been for the tobacco, not his lips.
The kiss grew in intensity, becoming passionate and eager; Sherlock wasn’t going to be passive and let him have all the fun. Not this time. Not ever.
More than cigarettes, Lestrade now realised that he was addicted to the taste of Sherlock’s mouth, the unique flavour that was him and smoke and a just a hint of mint. They kissed and kissed until they had to stop to breathe, and Lestrade wanted more, more than what he could get like that on the sofa.
“Move,” he ordered, and Sherlock laughed. “My bedroom,” he added, and Sherlock exceptionally obeyed. But only because that was exactly what he wanted; what he had forced Lestrade’s front door for.
They hurried to the bed, Sherlock knew the way perfectly by now and could have probably walked it with his eyes closed.
Lestrade had been guiding him – entirely unnecessary, but he enjoyed the contact – and trying to undress him at the same time. Sherlock licked his lips, then brushed his hands away and took a step away from him, slowly undoing his own buttons, undressing himself for Lestrade, who craved to touch him.
He let the shirt fall on the floor, and looking in Lestrade’s eyes, undid the button of his trousers and then lowered the zip painfully slowly. Lestrade sighed; eyes fixed on the other’s body, and then started removing his own clothes.
It wasn’t long before all of their clothing was on the floor and they were on the bed, Sherlock kissing him like he was some addicting drug, making Lestrade’s head spin, even when he knew that the other man’s brain was still running a million thoughts a minute.
He rolled on top of Sherlock and made himself comfortable, one leg between his, slowly rubbing himself against him. He could feel Sherlock’s brain slow down a bit, and he decided that his mission that night was to make him stop thinking at all.
A couple of minutes would have to suffice, probably, but then he couldn’t perform miracles.
He started kissing the long white neck, grazing it with his teeth and when he found a spot that made Sherlock gasp a bit louder he started sucking.
“No, Lestrade...” Sherlock started squirming under him, but he kept him still and kept sucking until he had left a small red mark that would remain for a day or two.
“You always wear that scarf anyway.” He joked, then started kissing the same spot on the other side of his neck, without any intention of mirroring the hickey, but Sherlock took advantage of his distraction to push Lestrade off him and then invert their positions.
“What about I leave a mark on you then?” He said with a smirk, considering all the places that would be half-visible when Lestrade was fully dressed.
“A matching hickey so that tomorrow everyone at the Yard will know? I am quite sure there are bets going on about us.”
“I might need to cash in on Anderson,” said Sherlock, looking a bit distracted, so Lestrade grabbed his hips with both hands and pulled him against himself.
“Stop mind-fucking with my team,” he warned, “or we might have to stop all of our interactions.” He knew that that wasn’t a serious threat, and Sherlock did too.
The other man snorted. “I would miss helping out the most stupid—”
Lestrade kissed him, taking advantage of the fact that a kiss was a very efficient way of shutting Sherlock up. There were other ways just as effective to keep his mouth too busy to talk, but a really passionate kiss when they were naked had achieved wonderful results so far. Besides, their discussion hadn’t been important at all.
Lestrade, however, knew that Sherlock was still thinking about the rest of his sentence, and the thought was bothering him. So he decided to help him forget. Or just render him unable to utter it when he had his mouth free.
He guided Sherlock against him another time, obtaining another soft gasp in his mouth, then he placed one hand on Sherlock’s buttock, giving it a squeeze, and finally went looking for his hole to tease.
Sherlock gasped, leaving his mouth to breathe and speak. “Lestrade...”
“I like it when you moan my name...” the inspector said, biting his lower lip as he started pushing just the tip in.
“I’m not moaning. Yet,” Sherlock corrected him, making Lestrade smile.
The consulting detective was thinking whether he could reach the lube and condoms in the drawer without moving from that position or not. It didn’t take long to figure it out, but it did take longer to take the decision to move away from Lestrade’s body. And that was a weakness he was still not ready to admit.
So Sherlock lifted his hips and stretched to open the drawer Lestrade kept their supplies, retrieving everything while the inspector had decided to occupy his time in the exploration of his chest through the use of his mouth, which yielded the wonderful result of extorting some shameless moans from Sherlock. And that was the sort of result Lestrade cared for when behind closed doors with Sherlock.
“Sorry, am I distracting you?” asked Lestrade, smiling against one nipple, before taking it in his mouth and biting it playfully.
“Depends. I can still recite the periodic table,” Sherlock started, then let out a soft moan when Lestrade bit the other nipple. “Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium—” he started, his voice low in register and sensual, but still lecturing.
“I wonder how long you can keep going.”
“Is that a challenge?” Sherlock asked him, then uncapped the lube and put some on Lestrade’s fingers.
“I can’t decide,” replied the inspector, grabbing the other man’s hair and kissing him roughly. He started slowly and carefully fingering him.
“Beryllium—seriously, I can go on—Boron, Carbon. Oh...” he paused for a second, closing his eyes, then continued as if nothing had happened. “Nitrogen, Oxygen, hmmm, Fluorine.”
Lestrade was extremely amused by this. He could literally use it to measure Sherlock’s cerebral activity. “Go on,” he encouraged, adding a second finger to stretch him, deliberately taking his time as Sherlock started listing the elements of the third period.
“Neon. Then Sodium, Magnesium—oh my God.” His eyelids shut closed and Sherlock tilted his head back, exposing his neck, and Lestrade decided to take full advantage of it. He started sucking on Sherlock’s neck like he had done before, accentuating the hickey, and the man almost growled. “Magnesium then... Aluminium.” Lestrade noticed that he had slowed down.
He started stretching him more with his fingers, while being slow and careful, knowing that Sherlock always became impatient before he was done with a through and proper job.
“Silicon, Phosphorus and please, I need more than that,” he said, closing his hand around Lestrade’s erection. He needed that inside him. “Sulphur, Chlorine...”
Lestrade sighed and removed his fingers, guiding Sherlock along his body to make them both comfortable. He guided himself towards Sherlock’s opening, and the man lowered his hips, engulfing him in his tight heath. Lestrade swore under his breath, and Sherlock softly whispered “Ah... Argon.”
The inspector bit his lip to hide a grin, even if Sherlock had his eyes closed, it didn’t mean that he wouldn’t know. He gripped the hips a bit harder and encouraged him to start moving. “Interesting, Argon, then?”
Sherlock inhaled slowly once, then exhaled, to regain enough concentration to go on. “Then Potassium, and calcium, then... the metals.” He raised his hips and together they set a slow, sensual rhythm. “Scandium,” he raised his hips almost completely, “Titanium,” and he lowered them until Lestrade was again fully sheathed in him. “Hmm Vanadium, I think.”
Lestrade kissed him, interrupting for a while his flow of thoughts, and more importantly, his speech. “You think,” he joked then, raising his hips to go meet his movement. “Not sure?”
Sherlock bit his lower lip and nodded. “Vanadium,” he repeated, “then Chromium. Oh. Yes.” Then he moaned and quickened his pace, Lestrade sometimes thrusting up. “Manganese—fuck! There, Lestrade. Iron. God, more!” he moaned, his breath getting more and more irregular and his concentration wavered. He was getting dangerously distracted, but so was Lestrade. And honestly, he had lost Lestrade at Helium, so he could have continued enumerating random names and still fooled the inspector. But Lestrade was sure he wouldn’t cheat like that, he knew him too well.
“More,” Sherlock begged, his voice dripping with need, and Lestrade closed one hand around his erection, stroking it in time with Sherlock’s hips, which were now moving at a frantic rhythm, making the feeling in his loins tighten as he got closer to his climax every time Sherlock went down on him.
“Cobalt. Hmn, Nickel, Zinc. Ah. Fuck, no, I mean, yes, oh God, so close... so... fuck, Lestrade—“ then he almost shouted his pleasure as he spilled his seed all over the inspector’s hand.
Lestrade still gripped his hip, so hard that he could have left a bruise, and kept him moving for a little longer, just a bit more until he reached his orgasm.
Sherlock sighed contentedly and then got off him and sprawled himself on the bed, half across Lestrade, and taking up as much of the mattress as he could. The inspector knew from experience that Sherlock, even as thin as he was, could take up more than half of his bed. (He still hadn’t found an explanation for the fact, but was working on it.)
Lestrade sighed, and they remained like that for a while trying to get their breath back and their heartbeats to normal.
After a few peaceful minutes of silence, Sherlock murmured a “Oh,” like those he breathed when he understood something trivial at a crime scene.
“What?” asked Lestrade, still too relaxed to manage honest curiosity or sarcasm.
Sherlock giggled against his shoulder.
“What now?” he asked again, a bit brusquely this time.
“I think I forgot Copper,” he confessed, “you... were distracting.”
Lestrade smiled to himself. “Thank God.”
Another little pause, then Sherlock grunted “You quit smoking,” he said, as if that was self-explanatory.
“I will never understand you.” Lestrade turned to look at Sherlock in the eyes, in the hope of having some clues on how the other man’s brain worked.
“Do you still have cigarettes in the drawer?” the other asked, feeling like he was spelling out something elementary to a child.
“What? No, you’re not smoking in my bedroom.”
Sherlock looked disgruntled. “You still have some then,” he stated, then turned towards the open drawer.
“Don’t even think about it,” Lestrade threatened, but didn’t have the energy to do more than protest verbally.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t think I have the energy to resist.”
Sherlock smiled and kissed him on the lips once, softly. “That’s me, a heartless corruptor of virtuous detective inspectors.” He reached inside the drawer and grabbed the packet, extracting a cigarette and the lighter, then he sat up and put the stick between his lips before he lit it up. “Or you could always say I’m removing temptation.”
Lestrade groaned, unable to stop himself staring at Sherlock smoking. It was the second time that day, already. And Sherlock was staring back at him, studying his reactions.
“How is your self restraint going?”
“Crumbling quickly.” The inspector sat up as well, propping his back against the pillows.
“Do you want me to stop you?” Sherlock asked, placing a hand on his chest, ready to physically stop him.
“I think I can take care of myself,” but truthfully, Lestrade knew he was doomed the moment he took the lit cigarette from Sherlock’s fingers and brought it to his own lips.
He had never realized that he had been doomed from the moment he had spoken to that handsome stranger in the pub three years, one month and twelve, no, thirteen days before.
