Work Text:
Lestrade was soaked to the skin by the time his shift ended. He dripped up the stairs to 221B, leaving his shoes and coat in a sodden pile in the hall, and headed straight for the bath, unbuttoning his shirt with stiffened fingers and praying that there wouldn’t be any experiments in the tub. There weren’t, for a mercy. He turned the shower on as hot as it would go, grimaced at the unpleasantness of peeling off cold wet trousers and socks, and finally stepped, sighing, into the embrace of warm water and steam.
He didn’t want to get out. If John were home, he’d be waiting outside the door with tea, he’d fuss and scold and bring him an extra towel for his hair...bully him into dry clothes...or maybe dispense with the clothes and climb under the duvet with him to warm him up...
A loud knock at the door made him jump and hit his head on the shower nozzle. “I'm coming in,” Sherlock announced, letting in a burst of freezing air from the hall. “You've been in here for ages and I've had three cups of tea this evening. Avert your ears if you're feeling prudish about bodily functions.”
Lestrade touched his head gingerly where he'd just banged it and bit back a few curses; he didn't feel particularly up to trading verbal jabs with Sherlock. He turned off the taps quickly when he heard the toilet flush and waited, shivering, for the door to close again.
Instead, a towel appeared around the edge of the shower curtain. “You've left a massive puddle on the floor,” Sherlock told him. “All for nothing, apparently; that body you just spent five hours looking at was a suicide. The mud on your trousers can't be from anywhere but under Bankside Pier, and that's where all the leapers wash up.”
“I'm well aware,” Lestrade said. “Still have to investigate, though, don't we? Could I get two more minutes of privacy here?”
“If you wanted privacy you'd have gone back to your own flat.”
Lestrade, drying off behind the shower curtain, thought about his own flat: silent and cold and devoid of mess. “Thought you’d be out,” he said. He wrapped the damp towel around his waist and stepped out of the bath. “Go away,” he suggested, without much hope.
Sherlock trailed after him into John’s room and threw himself down on the bed, and Lestrade sighed and resigned himself to being observed. He shed his towel, decided not to bother with pyjamas, and got under the duvet on the other side.
After what felt like a long time, but was probably only about two or three minutes, Lestrade opened his eyes and looked over to find Sherlock lying tranquilly on his back, staring at the ceiling, fingers steepled at his lips.
“Sherlock, why,” Lestrade said finally. “Why are you--will you please leave?”
“John asked me to look after you while he was away,” Sherlock told him. “Do you need food?”
“That complete bastard. No, I had chips on the way home. And don’t tell him that. I don’t need anything, Sherlock. I’m tired and I’m going to sleep.”
“It’s nine o’clock. What about sex?”
“Jesus bloody Christ.” Lestrade put his hands over his face.
“You and John have sex, on average, three times a week,” Sherlock said. “He’s been gone for four days. And you didn’t masturbate in the shower just now. I’m not averse to the idea.”
Lestrade had to laugh. “Not averse,” he repeated, and then reflected that for Sherlock, that probably amounted to an ardent come-on. He lifted his hands away from his face and found Sherlock surveying him keenly, eyes traveling over his neck and shoulders and down to the exposed upper half of his chest.
It was true, he’d been thinking in the shower about getting naked into John’s bed and having a good long dirty wank, perhaps with his face buried in the pillow that would have still smelled like John if Sherlock weren’t currently lying on it. Now he thought about Sherlock watching him do it--Sherlock mainly liked to watch--and felt his skin begin to heat up in a warm glow. Not a blush.
He reached for his mobile beside the bed and dialed one-handed. “Hi,” he said, when John picked up. “I miss you. Where are you? How was the wedding?”
“Oh,” John said. “You know. Wedding-y. Miss you too. I’m just back at the hotel. What’s wrong?”
“Sherlock’s propositioning me,” Lestrade said, watching Sherlock, who was propped on one elbow now, studying the newly bared bit of his torso where the duvet had slipped when he’d reached for the phone. He pulled it back up. “I thought you should know.”
“Oh,” John said again, but in an entirely different voice. “Really? That’s...”
“Isn’t it?” Lestrade agreed, and Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh and grabbed the phone away from him.
“I just want to borrow him for a bit,” he informed John. “I’m not planning on stealing him away from you. You’re not using him at the moment; do you mind?”
“He’s not a pocket knife, Sherlock,” Lestrade heard John say, but he sounded more amused than anything. “He may not want to be used. And, I don’t know, it’s a bit...we haven’t, you’ve never...it’s a bit unusual, isn’t it? Put him on again, will you? I know you can still hear me.”
“Thought he’d leave off if I phoned you,” Lestrade apologised. “I’ve no idea what he’s playing at.”
“Well,” John said. “Huh. I don’t mind, I suppose, if anything...sorry, just thinking; it’s a bit of a turn-on, actually. Do you, I mean, is this something you want to happen?”
“I don’t know,” Lestrade said, but the interested note in John’s voice made him flush again, and he felt his heart rate kick up a notch or two. He looked at Sherlock, who met his gaze steadily for a moment and then smirked, drawing the duvet down slowly, stopping when it reached Lestrade’s waist. Lestrade didn’t protest. “Er,” he told John. “Maybe?” He caught his breath as Sherlock traced one long, careful finger down the centre of his chest.
“What’s he doing?” John asked.
“Touching my scars. Looking at me like I’m laid out on a slab. Think he’s going to whip out a magnifier in a minute here.”
“Mm,” John said. “Could I...would you mind if I stay on the phone? This sounds much better than pay-per-view hotel room porn.”
“Fine with me,” Sherlock said. He was busy studying Lestrade’s lower ribs where he’d caught an elbow during a rough arrest six days before, and he pressed at the fading bruise, glancing up to see Lestrade’s reaction.
“Ow,” said Lestrade. “Not sexy, Sherlock.” It was for Sherlock, though, quite possibly, he realised. “What’s got into you, anyway?”
Sherlock shrugged. “Bored. Curious. Give me the phone.”
“Tell him to hang on a minute,” John said. “Lestrade? You’re all right with this?”
“For now,” Lestrade said, up on his elbows, looking at Sherlock, who was studying his body in a predatory sort of way again, fingers skimming over every imperfection, making him shiver.
“What’s he doing now?”
Sherlock took the phone, for which Lestrade was profoundly grateful; he was beginning to warm to the idea of this, but he didn’t much fancy narrating it. “Just looking,” Sherlock told John. “Touching a bit. Above the waist so far.” He lifted the duvet and looked. “It’s giving him an erection. Well. The start of one, anyway."
“Don’t touch it yet,” Lestrade heard John say, tinny and distant through the phone.
“Tell me what to do, then.” Sherlock’s eyes were on Lestrade’s face, but he was speaking to John.
Silence on the other end of the line. Lestrade bit his lower lip. He wasn't used to being this passive during sex, but it was definitely doing something for him, being discussed like this by the two of them.
“Nipples,” John said. “Play with them, pinch them. Gentle at first, then get a little rougher. Give the phone to Lestrade. I want to talk to him again.”
“John,” Lestrade said, gripping the phone, which was beginning to seem the only solid thing in existence in a world gone mad. He shut his eyes. Sherlock’s fingers were cold, delicate, nothing at all like John’s. “God, this is weird.”
“Too weird?” John asked. “Still okay?” His voice had gone low and rough, and Lestrade imagined him lying on his hotel bed with a hand on his stomach, fingers just beginning to dip down inside his trousers.
“Still okay,” Lestrade managed. Sex with Sherlock was always weird, on the rare occasions he decided to get involved--maybe half a dozen times over the past year, Lestrade reckoned. Sherlock liked to watch Lestrade touching John, and sometimes liked to be touched by John, but that was usually as far as it went. “All right by you? Oh--that’s--” Sherlock was pinching briskly now where John would have pressed gently, and Lestrade’s hips jerked in response.
Sherlock took the phone from him again. “He likes that,” he reported to John, sounding clinically pleased. “Can I use my mouth?”
“God, yes,” Lestrade could hear John say, rather breathlessly. “Suck hard but don’t bite; he’s sensitive there. Fuck, this is turning me on, you have no idea.”
Lestrade tipped his chin toward the ceiling and made inarticulate sounds as Sherlock began to tease at his left nipple, circling it with his tongue-tip a few times before fastening his lips around it and giving him a good hard suck.
“Talk to me, one of you,” John pleaded, but Sherlock’s mouth was busy and Lestrade’s brain had all but shorted out. His hips were moving restlessly now, making him grow harder and harder as he rubbed against the soft fabric of the duvet.
Sherlock pulled off, scraping a little with his teeth as he did so, and Lestrade groaned. “I'm putting you on speaker,” Sherlock told John. “What an odd taste. Musky. Bitter.” He flicked the wet nipple with his fingernail, watched Lestrade react, then bent to take the right one into his mouth, biting down gently and then pulling at it with his teeth. Lestrade bit back a yelp, and Sherlock looked up at him, eyes wicked, daring him to tell.
“Very sensitive,” Sherlock said. “Can he come just from this, do you suppose?”
“Oh god,” said Lestrade, squeezing his eyes shut again.
“Try it, yeah.” John’s voice had gone uneven and husky; he was surely stroking himself off now. Sherlock bent his head and began tonguing him again, fast firm flickers that went straight to Lestrade’s cock.
He whimpered--fucking whimpered, like a puppy, he'd never live this down, he thought with a flash of hot shame, but there was an appreciative moan from his mobile in response.
“Make some noise, yeah, come on,” John coaxed, and when Sherlock bit at him again he couldn't help it, he was making every stupid sound in the porn soundtrack lexicon now. Sherlock replaced his tongue with his thumb, grinding it round in firm circles, and Lestrade began to writhe and buck, his mouth going wide in a silent shout.
“He’s quite lovely like this, isn’t he?” Sherlock said. “I think I need to kiss him, if you don’t mind.” He was breathing rapidly--Sherlock actually was getting turned on by this in his way, Lestrade realised, and the thought sent another sharp jolt of arousal down through him.
John made a pained sort of high-pitched sound, not in protest. “Please,” he said. “Jesus, Sherlock, yes.”
Sherlock dipped his head down and brushed his lips against Lestrade’s, tasting him carefully while he worked his nipples rapidly between finger and thumb with increasingly insistent little tugs. “Oh,” Lestrade said, gasping into Sherlock’s mouth. “I’m, fuck, I’m coming--John--” He kept his eyes shut, knowing Sherlock was watching him intently; it was part of what was sending him over the edge. He felt stripped to the bone even before Sherlock lifted the duvet again to observe him as he thrust against air and began to throb and spurt untouched.
“Confirmed,” Sherlock said, and through the ringing in his ears Lestrade could hear John give a shuddery cut-off moan that Lestrade knew intimately--it hurt, suddenly, not having him right there with them, and Lestrade grasped blindly for the phone and took it off speaker.
“I’ll get a flannel,” Sherlock said, getting up.
“Fuck,” Lestrade said, still shaking with the sudden intensity of the last few minutes, struggling to recover.
“That's...well, yeah. Basically. Yes. Fuck,” John agreed.
They breathed at each other for a minute, soft huffs of sound, almost laughing.
“Is he all right?” John wanted to know. “I mean...nothing surprises me any more, not really, but what the hell was that?"
“Haven’t the slightest,” Lestrade said. “This is what you get for telling him to look after me, I suppose.”
“What?” Lestrade would have expected a denial in any case, but John sounded genuinely confused. “No. I wouldn’t tell him to look after a goldfish, let alone--”
Sherlock re-entered the room, dropped a cold, damp flannel on Lestrade’s stomach, and plucked the phone from his hand. “Yes, enough meaningless pillow talk, I think. Interesting experiment, talk more soon, enjoy the rest of your holiday, bye now.” He disconnected the call, then turned the mobile off.
Lestrade just looked at him. “You could have just made me a cup of tea, you know,” he said finally.
“You're afraid of my tea,” Sherlock reminded him. “And it was interesting.”
“Come here.” Lestrade shifted over on the bed.
Sherlock looked undecided.
“Oh, come on. I’ll be asleep in ten minutes and you can go and do what you like.”
Even then he didn’t expect anything, but Sherlock switched off the light and got into bed with him after a moment or two, still fully dressed. He must have been missing John, Lestrade thought, and then Sherlock moved hesitantly closer, arm round his waist, nose at his neck.
“You’re less annoying than most people,” Sherlock explained. “And there was that case last week. With the rug. You handled that quite well.”
Lestrade shifted round uneasily to try and see his face in the dark. “What, so you decided to reward me with sex? Is this your idea of behavioural conditioning, or--?”
Sherlock gave a cross-sounding sigh. “Competence arouses me. You’re not unattractive. Stop talking, you’ll spoil it. Go to sleep.”
***
What was that about? John texted him, the next morning.
I moved a rug competently and I’m not unattractive, Lestrade responded.
Sounds like love, John texted back. Tell him I said hands off till I get home.
Ooh, jealous? Lestrade typed, grinning.
N, just want 2 watch next time. Back tmrw. Be less competent till then.