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Really, Greg should have been suspicious from the moment Sherlock asked him to meet up after work. Wherever this liaison between them is eventually going, Sherlock never participates in its maintenance. Sherlock Holmes can come back from the dead and set the world to rights, but somehow still finds it difficult to interact with another person on an emotional level. He tends to let himself get wound tighter and tighter without telling anyone he needs a release, then snap like an overworked mainspring, sending gears and shrapnel flying everywhere. Greg’s heard about the episodes, though he’s never actually seen one. The closest he’s ever come was the night their little tryst started.
He was driving Sherlock home from yet another (but the last, thank God) debriefing at NSY over the Moriarty business. It was finally over; the wreckage sorted through, Sherlock’s gunshot wound still twinging but healed up nicely, and John Watson’s baby daughter safe in his arms (even a year later and the little one looking more like her mother every day, Greg still doesn’t know everything that happened between those three; he’s fairly sure he doesn’t want to). But, when he had pulled up in front of 221 Baker Street and thrown on the parking brake for Sherlock to get out, the man had just sat there, staring up at the sickly color of the brick in the sulfur-yellow street lights and the dark windows of his second floor flat.
“Sherlock?” Greg asked, more confused than concerned. Although that changed quickly.
Sherlock shifted in the seat, looking out the windscreen and hunching his shoulders so the upturned collar of his coat brushed against his cheekbones. “Take me to yours.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I want to get high and I’ve nothing up there, thanks to you.”
Greg rolled his eyes. “Christ. And you think I’ve got cocaine just laying around at mine? Or that I'd give it to you, even if I did?”
“No, but I am sure you have condoms. Despite continuing to smoke, you’ve ramped up your exercise routine again and you’re eating vegetarian now. You’ll be good for a few rounds.”
Greg didn’t know what to say to that. He opened his mouth, not really sure what was going to come out, but Sherlock interrupted anyway.
“Greg… I don’t want to talk about it tonight. Please, just do this for me. I promise we’ll talk tomorrow.”
His mind boggled. Where was this coming from? Sherlock didn’t talk to him like this, didn’t talk to anyone like this that Greg had ever seen. It’s too raw; unsubtle, not designed to make himself look clever. That’s Sherlock’s MO: talk in an ever tightening spiral around your meaning and wait for everyone to catch up. This was new. Because he had nothing else, he started to say, “how do you know I even--”
Sherlock snorted a little laugh, the corners of his mouth ticking up and his eyelashes fluttering. “Please.”
That was fair enough, he supposed.
He took Sherlock to his flat and was good for three rounds, two in the night and again after a long, deep sleep. They stayed in bed the whole following day talking about loss, regret, and how easily the world moves on from men pushing 40 (or 50, as the case may be) with nothing but their reputations to show for their sacrifices. It was the most open and emotional he'd ever seen Sherlock and he savored it, drew it out until they both knew where they stood for the first time in a long while. Slowly, they negotiated a space for each of them in the other's life.
Sherlock didn't stay the night that night, and the sudden transparency was fleeting, but Greg's rarely slept alone since then.
Which is why it's odd to wake up in a cold bed and then be summoned through text to a strangely familiar address at dusk. They don't go out to dinner. Sherlock doesn't like movies, and even if he did he’s never asked Greg for a proper date. When Greg brings it up periodically he always declines; too tired, too hungry, too generally irascible to deal with other people. Greg doesn't mind; he's been increasingly, selfishly grateful for Sherlock's more mellow temperament and apparent contentment with their new lifestyle. On the cab ride to Sherlock's mystery location he ponders whether something's changed. What's special about today?
When his taxi stops at it's destination things start to click into place.
Greg strolls down the tree-lined dirt path, enjoying how cool and still the air is just before sunset. He doesn't even have to think about how to get to the spot where he knows Sherlock will be waiting, his feet have walked it so many times they just carry him there automatically. Sure enough, at the end of the path, between two tall pine trees, stands a glossy black marble slab with Sherlock Holmes sitting cross-legged and leaning back against it. A soft, gray blanket is spread over the grass there, and a bottle of champagne stuck in a bucket of ice sits by his right knee. As Greg approaches, Sherlock lays a leather bookmark over the page he’d been reading and looks up, soft smile on his lips and in his pale eyes.
“Happy anniversary,” he says.
“Whose anniversary?”
“Ours.”
“No it’s not.” Greg’s getting on, but he knows he’s not senile yet, and he’s absolutely certain it’s not the anniversary of that first, life affirming night together.
“Well, not exactly,” Sherlock replies, a bit sheepish, his eyes darting down to Greg’s shoes. “But it’s mine. This is the first night I saw you, back in London, just before I was ‘Sherlock Holmes’ again.” He makes a rather grand, mocking gesture over his own name, but Greg isn’t really watching him anymore.
Greg remembers that night very clearly: walking down to the car park and being ambushed by Sherlock from the shadows. He’d had a shit day and all he wanted was to smoke a cigarette before he got into his car and went home for the night, when a familiar voice came to him from what he’d thought was empty space. He remembers the instinctual fear that flashed through him, then the way his hind-brain latched onto the memory of that voice like it was the whole of the man, and gears that had been seized up for years started turning again in his mind. It came together surprisingly quickly, considering he’d actually started to believe he was, in fact, an idiot not long after Sherlock died.
Well, died…
Disbelief. Anger. He’d cursed Sherlock for a bastard and, for the first time since he’d known the man, he’d meant it. Until he saw that face.
Sherlock’s lower lip was split and still a little swollen around the groove in the delicate flesh. There was a faint purple shadow under his eyes and over the bridge of his nose. He took a few steps and Greg could see in his gait and the set of his jaw he was working pretty hard at standing upright. Greg stood there and let Sherlock monologue at him, as if it wasn’t a bloody miracle that changed his entire life that the man was even there to call him by the wrong name. It was totally instinctual, almost beyond his control, to reach out and grab Sherlock; pull him into an embrace and hold him there for one warm and shining moment. Even as the muscles of Sherlock’s shoulders twitched and jumped away from his apparently painful touch, he’d known this was the beginning of something.
Suddenly, Greg’s back in the present and aware of Sherlock rising to his feet, aided by his own damn gravestone, shaking his head and muttering all the while.
“You don’t like it. This is in poor taste. I’m sorry, I thought… This was a bad idea. Let’s just-”
“Sherlock,” Greg interrupts. The other man freezes, bent over slightly reaching for the ice bucket. “It’s fine, love. I’m not upset, just got lost in thought for a minute there. If this is how you want to spend the anniversary of your homecoming, I’m happy to share it with you. Besides,” Greg forces his indulgent smile a little bigger, “I’m not really one to talk about poor taste.” He spreads his arms a bit, indicating the worn trench coat, cheap shoes, and off-the-rack suit Sherlock’s been known to mock. He hopes the self deprecating humor will break the tension a bit, but Sherlock winces and looks away again. “Hey, c’mere,” he soothes, stepping forward and pulling the other man in at the same time. Sherlock’s forehead lands on Greg’s sounder, hands tentative on his hips, and Greg gives him a nudging kiss on the temple. “C’mon, now. Don’t worry. I’m not bothered, Sherlock. Just... you wanted to surprise me and you definitely succeeded.” He huffs a laugh, squeezes the back of Sherlock’s neck gently to give them both a little comfort.
“I thought you’d laugh, maybe make a joke about vampires or zombies or…” his hand lifts briefly from Greg’s hip to make an ‘etcetera’ motion before settling back down, “something. Not go quiet and stare through me, looking like… that.”
"Like what?"
"Betrayed," Sherlock whispers, lips grazing his neck near his collar.
He sighs, squeezes Sherlock tighter for a moment. Sometimes it's hard to deal with, when he thinks back to those years of confusion and guilt, the depth of grief... He hasn't cried in front of this stone in years, and with Sherlock back in his life and (of all the turn-ups) in his arms, he's not going to do it now. "Is that alcohol I see there?"
Sherlock huffs a little laugh, warm and pleasant on his skin. "Veuve Clicquot. A very good year. I also brought a bottle of Macallan, just in case."
"Thank Christ," he sighs, and Sherlock laughs again.
They open both bottles and pour a tumbler of each, sipping from one or the other as they like and refilling when they get below two fingers. Greg mostly drinks the whiskey, but Sherlock drinks almost all the champagne. By the time the bottle is nearly empty he's giggly and loose-limbed, continuing to lounge against that black monolith and chatter about an experiment he's planning (or running; Greg lost track when he started using Latin).
Something odd occurs to him, and before his brain-to-mouth filter can catch up with the alcohol he asks, "why is that thing still here?"
"What?" Sherlock asks, first looking down at his own body, then to the left and right over his shoulders.
Greg chuckles. "I mean the stone, Sherlock. Why is the stone still here? It's been years now, everyone knows it's an empty coffin down there. No one comes here to pay respects at the shrine that used to stand all around it. Now it's just a piece of marble you made a lie. Why leave it?"
Sherlock shrugs. "Because I can. I bought the plot, why shouldn't I keep it? I'll use it eventually," he grins.
Greg rolls his eyes.
"Well, I will! Besides, I like it. I think it's good to have a reminder of... that time. I was surprised by how much I hated being dead. This helps me keep living." He shrugs again and gives Greg that soft look of his, the one with the barely there smile that means he's content. "Besides, I wanted to have it brought to Baker Street and mounted over the fireplace, but I was informed that that was 'morbid' and 'really fucking weird'."
Greg bursts into hysterical laughter. It’s funny regardless, but Sherlock’s spot on impression of John’s exasperated tone puts it way over top. He’s wiping his tearing eyes and trying to reign himself in when he looks up and sees Sherlock gazing back at him, indulgent smile still on his face.
Sherlock’s really enjoying this. He’s often hard to read, but Greg’s getting better at it, and of course the champagne has helped bring his emotions closer to the surface. He’s pleased with himself, looking down at his own hands now and turning the empty tumbler over and over in them. He seems unable to stop smiling, relaxed in a way he so rarely is, a way he doesn't really like for people to see him. God, Greg loves him.
He puts his tumbler and bottle aside, gets up on his knees for better leverage, then grabs both Sherlock’s ankles and pulls until the lanky man is flat on his back, thighs on either side of Greg's. He doesn't waste any time before climbing over his lover's prone body and kissing him breathless. Sherlock writhes and fists his hands in the back of Greg's suit jacket, twisting and pulling like he wants to tear it off. Greg pulls back just a fraction of an inch so he can murmur, "I want you".
Their lips brush against each other and the wet, slightly sticky sensation has Sherlock gasping, "yes."
Greg reaches down to feel for the hard line of Sherlock's cock through the fine fabric of his trousers, then lets his fingers slip further and in, pressing hard to Sherlock's perineum and rocking his hand to vary the pressure. "What do you want?
Sherlock tosses his head back and whines. "No lube." It's Greg's turn to gasp when Sherlock reaches down with both hands to grope his arse and pull him forward, hard, into the cradle of Sherlock's legs. "Like this; just want you on top of me. Don't stop."
"Jesus." Greg slides his hand back up from between Sherlock's legs and lets it catch on the buttons of his shirt, pulling it up out of his waistband. He doesn't bother with the buttons, just keeps pushing up under it until he gets his first two fingers rubbing over Sherlock's left nipple. The man gasps and arches like he's being electrocuted, and Greg rewards his enthusiastic response with a solid, dirty grind.
They fall easily into a familiar, dragging rhythm. Slow and steady in all the ways that make Sherlock lose himself to the pleasure, moaning, and swearing, and handsy. Anything from Greg's flexing thigh muscles to his slightly too long hair is fair to grab, or knead, or pull. Greg is on the verge of losing himself as well, until Sherlock, wanting more pressure, lets go and reaches up to brace himself, splaying both lily white hands over the jet marble and pushing back.
That image (the living, flexing, scratching fingers of Sherlock Holmes pressed against his own headstone, right underneath the gilded letters of his name) has Greg burying his face in Sherlock's neck and sobbing.
"Oh God... I love you. You know that now, don't you? I love you so much. Sherlock. "
For a second he thinks he should stop, give them both a breather from the intensity of the moment, but Sherlock bucks up underneath him and says, "show me. Give me this. Please, show me."
Greg doesn't stop. He hears himself whimper, high and needy, and levers himself up onto his hands so he can look down at his lover's face. Sherlock looks wrecked; hair a riotous halo framed by lush green grass, eyes wide and shining and seeming fathoms deep in the twilight. Their gazes catch for a long, pregnant beat, then the force of the next thrust has Sherlock's back bowing and stretching like he's reaching out for his is orgasm. Another handful of strokes and they're both coming, almost simultaneously and completely spectacularly.
Greg rubs his sweaty brow on the shoulder of Sherlock's button down while he recovers, still enjoying the feeling of his lover's thighs squeezing his ribs. He listens as Sherlock's panting slowly becomes words. The same three, over and over: "I love you." He lifts his head to look at Sherlock again and finds his face framed by those big hands and pulled into a deep, messy kiss. When they break apart Sherlock nuzzles his forehead against Greg's and he can feel Sherlock's dewy eyelashes leaving wet trails on his cheeks.
"I can't believe we just did that," he murmurs, and Sherlock actually snorts. "If it weren't for the lack of lube, I'd think you planned this."
"I'm not a complete hedonist. Besides, Mrs. Hudson's told me I 'make racket fit to wake the dead' when we're in bed; I assumed it would be better safe than sorry," Sherlock deadpans.
Greg laughs so loud and long he has to roll off of Sherlock to fill his lungs with the chill night air and let the rest of it billow out of him to the darkening sky.