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Sherlock Holmes is a train wreck of a person at the best of times, but coming off a cocaine binge he’s enough to drive you certifiable. Lestrade has no idea what he was thinking, offering him a place to stay until he was over the worst of it this time around. It’s three a.m., he has to get up for work in three hours, and there’s a beautiful long-limbed madman thrashing and sweating on his sofa, letting out little throaty moans every time Lestrade is just on the edge of falling asleep again.
Another half-hour of torture goes by, and Lestrade simply can’t take it anymore. He throws off the sheet and stalks out to the living room to stand over the sofa and glare.
Sherlock flips over onto his back and looks up at him, eyes glowing like a predator’s in the dark. “I can’t sleep,” he says fretfully.
Lestrade doesn’t say a word, just grabs him by one thin wrist and yanks him upright, propelling him into the bedroom. Sherlock doesn’t resist. “Get this off,” Lestrade orders, pulling up the hem of the sweat-soaked t-shirt he’s wearing. Sherlock struggles out of it awkwardly and then drops it on the floor and stands there in just his boxers, defiant and pale, until Lestrade pushes him down by his shoulders onto the bed and goes around to get in on the other side.
Even then, Sherlock just sits, clutching at the edge of the mattress as if he’s afraid he might fall off if he lets go. He’s trembling a little--cold, fear, nervous energy, maybe all three--and Lestrade’s voice is gentler when he speaks again. “Come on, lie down,” he says, and wraps a warm restraining arm around Sherlock’s waist.
Sherlock settles obediently onto the mattress, but he can’t seem to relax. He’s tense and twitching all down every long muscle, a bundle of shakes in cool clammy skin. “Just--do something, give me something, can’t you?” he chokes out finally, and Lestrade sighs, half in exasperation and half relief. He’s known where this was was headed ever since he woke up, really, but Sherlock has to be the one to ask for it: it’s one of their unspoken rules. One of the many.
“All right,” Lestrade tells him. He’s got a hand splayed out over Sherlock’s abdomen, rubbing in soothing circles, and he feels Sherlock tense up even more when he speaks. “Shh, all right,” Lestrade repeats, giving him a couple of encouraging taps. “Turn over.”
Sherlock squirms over onto his belly, breathing out a long shuddering exhale into the pillow as Lestrade reaches over him to rummage in the nightstand drawer. “Get your pants down for me,” Lesrade instructs him, and Sherlock pushes down the waistband of his boxers with shaky fingers, exposing his arse. “Good,” Lestrade says, and settles one hand on the small of Sherlock’s back while he flips open the lubricant with the other. “Legs apart. Bit more. Yeah, like that, just like that, there.”
Sherlock’s body is still held taut as a bowstring while Lestrade spreads him open, and he jerks and gives a short yelp when Lestrade touches a slick finger to his entrance. “Easy now,” Lestrade murmurs, and begins to rub gently back and forth against his anus, giving little testing pushes now and then. Sherlock is closed up tight, and it’s a while before he can even work a fingertip inside him.
“Open, Sherlock,” Lestrade says quietly into his ear, and Sherlock whimpers, face buried in the crook of his own arm, beginning to breathe in fast hitches. Lestrade withdraws his fingertip and gives him a little more lube, then presses back in firm and deep, easing in slowly up to the second knuckle as he feels Sherlock give way, loving the sensation of slick, smooth heat clenching around his finger. He holds there for another long minute before pulling out and then pushing back in again almost immediately, going deeper and giving a little wiggle this time, and Sherlock gives a satisfying startled cry.
The first time they’d done this, Lestrade had thought it was going to be the precursor to sex. Now he knows that it is sex, there’s nothing more necessary, this is what works for Sherlock. He’s not interested in Lestrade’s cock, but he can’t get enough of his fingers: he wants nothing more than to be held down, felt, penetrated by them. Lestrade’s caught Sherlock staring at his hands at crime scenes, more than once, and it turns him on like fuck. It works for him, too, apparently.
Lestrade is sliding his finger deeply in and out now, a long slow gentle fuck, and Sherlock’s hips are beginning to hitch back and forth, pushing back greedily to meet his hand. He’s lost in sensation, enough to let Lestrade guide him over onto his side and ease down his boxers a bit more, drawing up his knees. He keeps his face hidden in his arm, but he doesn’t seem to mind exposing his cock, which is hard and red, wet at the tip.
Lestrade doesn’t try to touch it. He concentrates on the inside of Sherlock instead--he can never believe he’s being allowed in, it seems much too intimate--stroking and touching and pressing until he finds the spot that makes Sherlock quake and shout out. When he slips a second finger in alongside the first and crooks them gently just so, Sherlock shouts again and begins to come apart. He thrusts himself down hard onto Lestrade’s hand and then goes completely rigid, squeezing around him so tightly that it hurts. “God, I’m coming,” he gasps. “Oh. Yes, right there--oh, it’s too much, Lestrade--oh!”
He’s human after all, then, vulnerable and slightly ridiculous-looking like any other bloke as he jerks and shudders and moans. Lestrade is able to kiss him on the neck two or three times, only time he ever kisses Sherlock, or really wants to kiss him for that matter. Then he pulls his fingers out carefully--Sherlock keens in protest and goes limp--and begins to touch his own prick, which has been twitching and leaking in sympathy for much too long to be ignored for one more second.
Lestrade keeps his eyes closed while he strokes himself off. He’s aware that Sherlock is watching him attentively, and he doesn’t mind, but he doesn’t particularly want to think about being observed right now. He thinks about Sherlock’s arse instead, about the slick slide of his finger disappearing into that tight heat, about too much, Lestrade, and then he’s coming, hard, letting his head snap back and his mouth open wide in a soundless yell.
Sherlock is still watching him when he blinks his eyes open again. “T-shirt,” Lestrade demands, and Sherlock leans over the side of the bed to retrieve it, then hands it to him so he can wipe himself off. He passes it back to Sherlock, who follows suit and then drops it on the floor again, making a slightly disgusted face.
“We should wash up properly,” he murmurs.
“No,” Lestrade says, his eyes already falling shut with exhaustion. “Sleep.”
And, for a miracle, Sherlock finally does.