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“Please, don’t let me disturb your morning routine, Lestrade! Why are you still at home at half nine? Getting a pedicure? Having your colours done, as Mrs. Hudson keeps suggesting? I’ve been trying to reach . . . you . . . I . . . uh . . . I’ve been . . . text- . . . texting . . . I . . . my God . . . you . . . ”
Sherlock had stomped out of the gentle April rain and into Lestrade’s flat in a swirl of wet wool and dry sarcasm, unable to wait a moment longer to begin his tirade about the Met’s pathetic inability to keep physical evidence in one convenient place--convenient for Sherlock, that is. The man had moved from defeating Lestrade’s deadbolt to searching kitchen, sitting room, and bedroom for the one copper at whom he wanted to aim his outrage. But when at last he reached the bathroom and threw the door wide open, he found Lestrade in the shower. Like a silly cliché, the D.I. was actually singing. Singing what sounded like nonsense syllables: Wake me up, go-go, no-no, solo?-- Sherlock cringed and decided to wipe the audio portion of this memory from his hard drive immediately.
The visual portion on the other hand, he would surely archive.
The bathroom was illuminated by the cool blue glow of a small bulb overhead and grey morning light from the window. A large, clear shower door was not even half shrouded by warm clouds of steam.
Standing in the doorway, Sherlock could easily make out the movements of Lestrade’s body as the D.I. leaned into the force of the water, one arm lifted to rub a soapy white flannel across his pink neck. Frothy bubbles spilling between his shoulder blades and down the center of his back.
The copper’s muscles were still solid and strong, but there was also a softness just under the skin--a layer that betrayed the late-night hours of paperwork and pints of dark ale. His torso was not as naturally lean and sinewy as Sherlock’s, nor as chisele d by desert marches and deprivation as John’s. But, thought Sherlock, there was something there he unexpectedly needed to touch. Something he wanted to press his palms into, to knead with his fingertips. Something he wanted to taste.
Sherlock felt his face flush. This feeling was new and . . . embarrassing. He had never had such urges regarding Lestrade before. He’d been busy for the past few months trying to plot his seduction of John, who was still labouring under the delusion he was straight. But now, truth be told, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to reach out and feel both resistance and yielding in that yard of Yarder flesh glistening before him. Wanted to bite into one of those shoulders and let his hands travel into the dimple above the D.I.’s round backside, and . . .
Lestrade had started and turned around when he heard the door fly open, but then seeing it was Sherlock, relaxed, sighed, and rolled his eyes. He quickly faced the spray again, rubbing the flannel over his face before addressing the invader.
“Bloody hell, Sherlock. I expect you to interrupt my sleep, my meals, but do you really have to barge into my morning shower? I get one fucking day a week for a bit of football and just want a peaceful scrub before I head for work. Is that really too much to ask?”
Sherlock’s tongue was thick and his lips were dry. Words he formed in his mind refused to leave his mouth. “Uh . . . I . . .”
“Shut it. I’m not listening to a word until I’m done here, you damn lock-picking twit.”
Just then, Lestrade twisted around, grabbed his bar of soap--some concoction that smelled of citrus and ginger. Who gave him that, wondered Sherlock, seems like something posh and precious Mycroft would buy, not Greg Lestrade. Lestrade dragged the soap slowly over his chest, making a creamy trail over his nipples and through dark brown hair and then down . . .
Sherlock suddenly began to feel self-conscious---a highly unusual circumstance to be sure. He decided on a tactical retreat and slowly backed out of the bathroom to wait for Lestrade in the kitchen--with his own head in the fridge. A few minutes later, unable to recall what the hell he had come in search of, he crept silently out of the copper's flat and back to Baker Street for a tension-relieving shower of his own.
But the froth and the shoulder blades and that wondrous glistening arse . . . Sherlock didn’t like to admit it, but those images began to plague his waking and dreaming moments almost immediately. It was all just . . . so unsettling.
For the next six weeks, each time he saw Lestrade--whether at a darkened crime scene or under the glare of the Yard’s bright lights--he couldn’t help imagining the man naked. Naked and wet. Very naked. Very wet. These thoughts made Sherlock . . . well, hard, obviously. But also something akin to hungry. And thirsty. And dizzy. Yes, and so very, very hard. He’d catalogued that reaction already, but he thought it was worth noting again.
He wondered if this was how Mycroft felt when he looked at cake.
One afternoon, as he watched Lestrade twirling a pair of handcuffs absentmindedly behind his back while listening to Sally review details of a recent blackmail and murder double-feature, Sherlock found himself lost in daydreams again. Imagining Lestrade naked. And wet. In handcuffs.
He realized he’d hit on an ideal experiment. Lestrade handcuffed to the showerhead--an immobilized specimen. One long line from wrist to elbow to bicep to chest and hip and thigh. Sherlock would be able to observe, to touch, to lick, to penetrate . . .
“Sherlock, don’t just sit there with your mouth hanging open. Make yourself useful, you lazy bastard,” laughed Lestrade as he beckoned him towards the two bodies. It was then Sherlock determined that he’d finally have to get a grip, so to speak, on this distraction, and set about with his plan.
Thursdays were Lestrade’s football mornings. Seven to eight a.m., then home for a shower no later than 8:20. So one clear, sunny Thursday, Sherlock swooped in again, much as he had done weeks before, at precisely 8:32. Lestrade seemed only slightly annoyed to hear the bathroom door flung open, revealing Sherlock’s well-tailored form.
“Christ, again? Is this some kind of deductive emergency, or is John just off with Sarah, and you need someone to make tea?” he snorted, turning off the pounding of the spray and watching the steam settle as he opened the shower door and stepped out. “Okay, bring me a towel, genius. There’s a clean one on the bed.”
Sherlock stood still. He wasn’t the man’s valet, was he? Abruptly, he realized he’d been staring for thirty seconds at a particularly large droplet of water clinging to the tip of Lestrade’s penis--and the D.I. was just grinning at him. He quickly rushed out to retrieve the towel--and to attempt to remember just what his master plan had been regarding naked, wet Lestrade . . . Dammit, dammit. He’d left the handcuffs in the taxi. Now what?
Returning to the bathroom, Sherlock realized the D.I. had probably noticed the slight tremor in his hand as he deposited the towel on the edge of the sink. Sherlock glanced up at his own reflection in the mirror and could read the signs of lust and arousal himself--clear and umistakable--so even an imbecile like Lestrade could make them out as well.
Sherlock felt the D.I.’s gaze on him. His temperature was rising. His neck felt itchy. He was disoriented. He grasped at the doorframe to steady himself.
“Sherlock, are you all right? Are you . . .”
No questions. No talking, thought Sherlock. Now his hands were on Lestrade’s hips, first just skimming over the warm, slippery flesh and feeling the goosebumps rise on his own arms in response, then rubbing over buttocks, waist, back. Thrilling to the low rumble coming out of Lestrade’s throat as he pushed Sherlock hard against the bathroom door.
Sherlock looked down and smiled, fascinated by the twitching and rapid thickening of Lestrade’s cock. He glanced up to the mirror again to observe his own face, still flushed with desire and perhaps some fleeting embarrassment. Bugger that. No time for useless emotions like embarrassment. On with the project.
Lestrade’s head rolled back and he sighed, surrendering to Sherlock’s tongue as he licked a serpentine pattern up the D. I.’s damp chest. Sherlock felt soft, fine hair brushing against his cheek and then watched Lestrade’s dark nipples peak and harden in the cool air coming through the open window.
Sherlock glanced in the mirror again, filing away each detail. Sherlock’s pupils dilated further as Lestrade pulled open his shirt, looking for a clavicle to nip and nuzzle. Lestrade’s back--still wet and splotchy pink, but smooth and hairless. Sherlock felt his own erection straining inside his slim trousers and Lestrade’s cock bobbing against his thigh.
This is brilliant, he thought, as he admired the muscles straining in his own long, pale neck. He told himself it was not vanity, but simple fact. He was almost as good-looking as Lestrade, so why shouldn’t he enjoy it? He decided that in future, all his sexual encounters should take place in mirrored rooms--most likely bathrooms and department store dressing rooms. Perhaps he would write an article for the International Journal of Sexuality and Public Spaces . . .
But now Lestrade's head was lowering, his mouth opening to capture and suck hungrily at a pink nipple. Sherlock pulled his long fingers through the man’s silver hair, watched that delightfully long tongue circling and ouch--teeth!
Short of breath, and dizzier now. He estimated his pulse rate was 145. More, he thought. He wanted more of everything--more tongue, more teeth, more of Lestrade's wet skin sliding over him.
Must . . . ahh . . . fuck. . . yes, there . . . Must install mirrors in every room in Baker Street. Must install Lestrade in every room in Baker Street.
Lestrade’s voice was soft, playful almost, as he raised his mouth to Sherlock's ear. “Tell me, Sherlock, what do you want? Why are you here?”
Sherlock decided showing was preferable to telling, and reached for the black leather belt of his own trousers, pulling it off in one quick move, staring into the D.I.'s espresso-brown eyes. He felt Lestrade’s whole body tense. The D. I. was wondering what he was in for now. Pain? Flogging? Torture? Sherlock saw the questions flicker through Lestrade's eyes when Sherlock pulled the belt taut between his fists, but then saw him dismiss it in a flash.
Good. We understand each other. Clearly, Lestrade knew Sherlock wouldn’t destroy the balance of power between them. Wouldn’t go so far they couldn’t put it all back as it should be tomorrow.
Sherlock knew what he wanted. He’d seen it in his mind a thousand times: Lestrade’s body stretched and straining, Sherlock in control, using his mouth, his teeth, his tongue as precision tools. Marking Lestrade, so the memory would last. He pushed Lestrade back into the small tiled enclosure--a tight fit for two tall, long-limbed men, but he could make it work.
Heart pounding and breathing shallow, but hands steady now, Sherlock wrapped the belt around the copper’s wrists and secured them to the showerhead before turning on the water again.
“This,” said Sherlock in his usual arrogant baritone. “This is what I want.”
He stripped his own light blue shirt off and let it fall in the corner, watching it darken as it became soaked. He pushed his body under the flowing, warm water next to Lestrade, trailing his hands down from wrist to elbow to shoulder, loving the slickness, the heat, the tangle of hair under his arms. He tasted the flavour of salty, gingery, cirtusy skin as his lips followed after his fingers.
Steam filled his nostrils and blurred his vision. His own hair matted and tangled against his neck. Sherlock wished for a moment he'd left one of Lestrade's hands free to pull and twist and grasp, but no . . this feeling of power pleased him more. Lestrade was vulnerable. He was Sherlock's to control.
A part of Sherlock wanted to, needed to fuck Lestrade now. To get the release he’d been waiting for, longing for for so many weeks. Weeks? Probably years. He wanted the release, but in truth, he wanted to prolong his explorations more, so he drew back--panting, swallowing his desire--clutching at his own erection, pressing down with his palm, willing himself to contain it a few more minutes.
Sherlock knew he was too close to the edge. Knew that if he looked for even a few seconds more into the man’s eyes, he’d be unable to stop. So he looked down. He fell to his knees. Yes, he wanted this too. Wanted to feel Lestrade filling his throat. Helplessly coming undone and spilling into him.
Sherlock watched the water running down Lestrade’s strong thighs. Footballer’s thighs. Scarred. Bruised. He should have expected that. He ran his tongue along the deepest scar, felt its texture--smoother, more delicate than the surrounding skin. He nibbled at the inside of one thigh, then bit and sucked hard at the other--marking it with a new bruise.
Lestrade gasped. "Fuck, Sherlock. Yeah.”
Water flowed down Lestrade's stomach and thighs and Sherlock looked for new tastes with the tip of his tongue. Sweat and muscle and testosterone. Sherlock smirked. The D. I. tasted like sex, boiled down, rendered into its purest form.
Sherlock looked up for a moment, just as Lestrade opened his own eyes to watch, swaying backward, biceps flexed, fists clenched inside the black leather restraint.
Sherlock met Lestrade’s gaze and took his heavy, velvety cock in his mouth deeply, sucking hard to get the measure of it as quickly as possible, relaxing and opening his throat to feel the head and shaft filling him, fucking him. Then pulling off, saliva dripping down his chin, Sherlock palmed his own erection again, listening to the D.I.'s pleading moan. “Jesus. No--I mean, yes. Yes, Sherlock. Don't stop.”
Sherlock set to work in earnest now, wishing there were a mirror in this tiny shower. This would be something worth watching. He also wished he’d taken off his own trousers to get rid of some of the bloody painful friction, but he wasn’t about to take a break now. He sucked and licked and kissed--memorizing every inch, every vein, from base to slit.
Pre-come. Viscous. Bitter. Hot. Why have I waited so long to do this?
Sherlock moved his long white fingers slowly up the back of the man’s thighs and felt them tremble and tense. He listened to Lestrade’s breath coming quicker, sharper as he tried to thrust deeper, to find the limit of what Sherlock could take. Sherlock found the pulse in Lestrade’s groin with two fingers while his other hand squeezed the man’s arse tight, feeling the muscles flinch as he dug his nails in. Excited by the quickening of the pulse against his fingers, Sherlock took Lestrade an inch deeper--coarse, dark hair now tickling his nose.
A new impulse.
Sherlock grinned and slid his mouth slowly off Lestrade’s cock. Was that a whimper? He moved as gracefully as possible given the confining space, kneeling behind Lestrade, feeling warm water splashing across his own face and down his neck and back now. He grabbed the D.I.’s arse with both hands, spread him wide enough to tease for a moment with one fluttering movement of his tongue , then circled once, twice, and thrust hard into that marvelous, clenching hole.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Jesus Fucking Christ, Sherlock.”
After this soliloquy, words--never Lestrade’s strong suit, in Sherlock’s opinion, failed the copper entirely.
Sherlock could feel his own arousal nearly tearing apart the seams of his trousers, could feel his knees chafing and knocking against the tile. His hair was tumbling into his eyes so he could barely see what he was doing--but really, it was all a matter of touch and instinct now, wasn’t it? Listening for the modulations in Lestrade’s moans, finding the right spot. Just there. There. Pushing deeper with tongue and fingers, getting more incoherent gasps in response.
Sherlock was sure the D.I. needed just a few seconds more of this pleasure--then just needed to be pushed off the cliff . . .
Sherlock reached his right hand out to wrap firmly around Lestrade’s cock and pulled just once before the man’s knees buckled, the showerhead squeaked, bolts and screws clattered onto the tile, a stream of thick, hot semen covered Sherlock’s hand, and a gush of water rained down on both men, who scrambled against the far wall of the shower, leaning against each other, panting--Lestrade still shivering in aftershocks.
Sherlock felt disoriented and almost intoxicated himself. Oddly, he wanted laugh, but didn’t want to break the spell or whatever the hell it was they were experiencing right now, chests heaving and every square inch of skin too sensitive to touch.
Lestrade’s hands were still bound together, but he was free to move them up or down, free to touch Sherlock now, and he did. He pressed the younger, sharper-edged man into the corner and kissed him--thrust his tongue into his mouth, nibbled a line from his ear to his chin, then covered Sherlock’s lips again and greedily savoured the taste at the corners of his mouth. Lestrade pushed his hands down to unzip the damned trousers and help Sherlock awkwardly wriggle out of them. He grasped Sherlock’ s long, desperate, aching cock and rubbed it against his abdomen where a stripe of come remained-- still warm.
When Sherlock felt the viscous, slippery mess lubricating Lestrade’s hands, felt the D.I.’s fist around his dick and teeth at his throat--it was over. Any pretense of control or gamesmanship gone, Sherlock cried out in his own nonsense syllables: some German, some Latin, some Lewis Carroll. He grabbed Lestrade’s arse one more time, pulling the man hard against him, feeling the leather of the belt around Lestrade’s wrists digging into his hip and Lestrade’s thick fingers trying to drag him farther, higher, into a more intense climax . . . Fuck, yes.
Fuck.
Yes.
Both men took a few minutes to pause, eyes closed, to catch their breath before looking at each other. Observing. Lestrade as curious as Sherlock.
Sherlock silently removed the belt and rubbed Lestrade's raw, bruised wrists. He'd have to watch carefully over the next few days--wanted to know how long before those souvenirs disappeared. Then without discussion, Lestrade moved to find the right valve to shut off the gushing water, and mumbled that he hoped he’d be able to find all the bolts and screws to fix the damn thing when he got home from the Yard that night.
Sherlock stumbled to Lestrade’s armoire, sniffing in disapproval at the ordinary quality of the fabric and cut, but finding a shirt he deemed adequate and a pair of old jeans he could cinch tight with the soggy belt.
Sherlock glanced at Lestrade and smiled. The D. I. had managed to slip into underwear and trousers, but now sat motionless on the edge of the bed, trying to decide whether he had enough strength remaining to put on his socks. Well, the man certainly looked well-shagged, didn’t he?
I am fucking brilliant, he thought.
As he nodded a curt farewell to Lestrade in the bedroom and walked out to the sitting room and towards the door of the flat, Sherlock glanced at himself in the mirror in the front entryway. He looked damn well-shagged too.
Huh.
Then he heard the D.I.’s mobile buzz on the table and picked it up. Text from Mycroft. Requesting a lunch date. What the bloody hell was that about?
“Sherlock--is that my phone? I’m getting dressed. Would you . . .”
But Sherlock had already pocketed the phone and strode out the front door, walked down two flights of stairs, and hailed a cab. Half a mile later, he tossed the still buzzing contraption out the window, grinning all the way home to Baker Street.