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Greg surfaced slowly into that wonderful place balanced on the very edge of consciousness. He was distantly aware of someone saying his name, trying to get his attention, but was too comfortable to pay it any heed.
“Greg, wake up,” said the voice, more insistent this time, and he grunted in response before draping an arm over his face.
More aware than he had been moments ago, Greg registered his bed partner shuffling around, the movement pulling the duvet away from his body and exposing his bare chest to the cooler air of the bedroom. “Pack that in,” he said drowsily, attempting to pull the bedding back up.
An annoyed huff and more fidgeting met his command, and Greg was brought fully awake when his morning erection was suddenly surrounded by wet, hot suction.
“Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed, drowsiness disappearing faster than a snowball in hell, and threw the duvet off him in order to watch Sherlock. In sharp contrast to mere moments before, Greg barely registered the cool air on his skin, for his attention was fully diverted by the sight of Sherlock’s dark head bobbing in his lap, his mouth making a valiant attempt to suck Greg’s soul out through his cock. “Shit, you’re good at that,” he said, voice rough.
Greg felt Sherlock’s answering hum right down to the tips of his toes, and sank the fingers of his left hand into his lover’s thick, dark curls, scraping gently at his scalp. Sherlock moaned his approval and, from his vantage point, Greg could see that the other man was fisting himself in time with his movements in Greg’s lap.
“Hey,” Greg panted, the image the younger man made not helping his control, “leave that for me.”
It took a moment, but Sherlock obeyed with a muffled sound of displeasure and moved his slender hand from his own cock to Greg’s, covering the flesh that wasn’t being worshipped by his mouth with practiced strokes.
Sherlock’s hand joining the proceedings was more than Greg could take, and he felt his balls tightening, drawing close to his body. His lover, ever observant, picked up on the signals being broadcast and renewed his effort, humming, sucking, and stroking like he was born to do it.
“Oh, fuck,” Greg gasped barely a minute later, and came hard. His hips, pinned as they were by his lover’s weight, jerked as much as they were able and the hand that wasn’t buried in Sherlock’s hair scrabbled for purchase in the sheet.
As the rush of endorphins faded, Greg felt utterly boneless. “You really do have a talent for that,” he said to a smug-looking Sherlock.
“I have many talents,” came the other man’s lazy reply, voice somewhat muffled by how his face was resting on Greg’s thigh.
“As well as boundless modesty. Get up here.”
With more grace than should have been possible, Sherlock moved up the bed and plastered his nude body against Greg’s side. “Why should I be modest?” he asked, rubbing his erection unsubtly against Greg’s hip.
“Hmm, no reason at all.” Greg stroked down Sherlock’s chest, fingers circling his left nipple before applying gentle pressure to the bud of sensitive skin. Sherlock shuddered delicately as Greg’s hand moved further down his body.
Greg took Sherlock in hand, pre-come smoothing his progress down the shaft, and pulled the other man in for tender kiss. Sherlock whimpered as Greg stroked him, hips moving in counter to the motion on his cock. Greg pulled away from Sherlock’s lips and kissed down his neck, paying particular attention to the sensitive spot behind his left ear.
Never one for gratuitous verbosity, showing off aside, Sherlock’s responses during sex tended towards heavy breathing and the odd whimper, so Greg cherished every gasp and moan he managed to elicit from the other man. He tightened his grip on Sherlock’s heated flesh, paying more attention to the head on the next downward stroke, and was rewarded with a chocked-off moan as the other man came.
“For the record, you can wake me up like that any time you like,” Greg told Sherlock after several moments basking in afterglow, and felt him smirk in response. He glanced to the clock on the nightstand and noted that it was only seven thirty. “Any particular reason for waking me up so early on a Sunday morning?” he asked, wiping his hand on the duvet.
“I wanted sex,” Sherlock mumbled sleepily, lips brushing against the sensitive skin of Greg’s neck. “Now, shut up and go back to sleep.”
****
According to the clock it was nearly three hours later when Greg awoke again. He stretched lazily, feeling his spine pop, before forcing himself out of the warm bed. Unsurprised at finding himself alone, he pulled on the previous day’s boxers and left the bedroom.
“Sherlock?” he called upon finding the living room devoid of consulting detective. He was just heading into the kitchen when his phone sounded its message alert from where he’d left it on the coffee table.
Sherlock Holmes: Following up a lead. Change the sheets.
Greg smiled at the reminder of the morning’s activities, feeling something warm and unidentifiable flutter in his chest. He replied to the message, telling the other man to have fun and, not having Sherlock to entertain, made coffee and then set about cleaning his flat. Not that it got particularly dirty, what with him out at work most of the week, of course, but the detritus of the week’s ready meals littered the kitchen, and he was perilously close to running out of clean socks.
Two hours later, freshly showered and dressed, Greg sat down in his newly clean living room with a decent cup of coffee and the latest Tom Clancy novel, with some crap playing quietly on the TV. He opened the book, the front cover stiff in the way that only new books ever were, and snorted at the sight of a bright yellow post-it stuck to the front page. ‘This abomination will rot your brain,’ it declared in Sherlock’s distinctive scrawl.
Greg put the book down and picked up his phone.
To: Sherlock Holmes Leave my books alone, you tosser
The late morning passed far too quickly, for it was rare that he really had the time to relax, and after moving his laundry from the washing machine to the dryer, it was time for him to leave to meet John at the Winchester.
Despite wearing jeans, a thick knit jumper, scarf, and his winter coat, the cold of the November afternoon had Greg shivering as he made quickly for the nearest tube station, fallen leafs crunching underfoot.
The fifteen minute walk felt much longer owing to the cold and the throngs of early Christmas shoppers clogging the high street, and Greg was glad to reach the relative warmth of the station.
As usual there wasn’t a seat to be had on the train, and found himself squeezed between a young, purple-haired woman engrossed in something on her iPad and a scruffy man of questionable hygiene to grasp one of the overhead handles.
“It’s all right for the youngsters, but these trains don’t half rattle and shake; it’s too much for people our age to be expected to stand on them,” said the middle-aged woman in the seat to his left, drawing his attention from a poster above the opposite window advertising sexual health screening.
Feeling immeasurably older, Greg made what he hoped was a polite sound and pulled out his phone with his free hand, hoping that it would be enough to deter his fellow traveller from further attempts at conversation. He smiled upon seeing a message from John telling him to hurry up before his pint got warm and replied that he would be there in ten minutes.
“I don’t know how you use them things, I don’t,” said the woman, putting paid to Greg’s hope.
“Easy enough once you get used to them,” he replied, sliding the phone into his pocket and readjusting his grip on the handle.
“Hmm,” the woman replied, unimpressed.
Fortunately, before she could bother him further, the train stopped and a young man forced his way into the space between Greg and the woman.
The remainder of the journey was spent watching the people around him. He might not have the observational prowess of a Holmes but he had always been a keen people watcher, which had been the deciding factor pushing him into the Met after finishing college. The phone call between the man beside him and someone who was presumably his partner was just getting interesting when the train reached his stop, and he found himself almost reluctant to get off.
Frigid air met Greg upon leaving the tube station, chilly enough that his breath immediately fogged before him. Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans for protection from the cold, he set off for the Winchester. The pub was what his daughters called a ‘dad pub’, but he was fond of it; out of the centre of London enough that it wasn’t besieged by tourists or trendy types, and they served a good range of real ale as well as showing live sport.
“Oi, Greg!” called John Watson from a table under the window with an excellent view of the large television that dominated the far wall, as soon as the door closed behind Greg.
Feeling every one of his years, he took a seat opposite John with a relieved sigh, enjoying the warmth of the packed pub. “Bloody freezing out there,” he said by way of greeting, rubbing his hands together. “Thanks for the pint.”
“No problem. I take it you sorted whatever was going on with Himself?”
“Yeah, it’s sorted now. Bit of a misunderstanding is all,” said Greg, hoping that the other man wouldn’t linger on the topic.
John snorted. “Yeah, I know what he can be like when he gets a bee in his bonnet. Got to say, though, he’s never changed his voicemail to call me an idiot before!”
“Yeah, new one on me, too.” Greg took drink from his pint and scanned the room. The usual match day crowd were in, and a group of young men were jostling for service at the bar where a lone barman was trying to keep up with the flow of thirsty customers.
“Just be glad Holmes the elder didn’t hear it or you’d probably be half way to Siberia by now.”
Greg pulled a face, knowing full well that what Mycroft Holmes did to those who crossed his younger brother was far worse than deportation. He didn’t say it, but he thought John was damned lucky that he still had a wife after what she’d done to Sherlock, but for some inexplicable reason the elder Holmes brother was as taken with the woman as the younger was. “The thought had crossed my mind. Anyway, how’s fatherhood treating you?”
A smile lit John’s face and he pulled out his phone, holding it out to show the background picture. It was a shot of Mary sitting in John’s chair at Baker Street with baby Scott balanced on her knee. For as much as Greg couldn’t stand Mary, it was a lovely shot. “I love it,” John replied, putting his phone down on the table and taking a drink. “Bloody knackered, but I wouldn’t change any of it for the world.”
“I remember when mine were that age,” Greg said, mind automatically wandering back to when his girls were in nappies. “The eldest was an angel, but Amy was another story entirely. As soon as one of us put her down for the night she’d be screaming. It got bad enough that I actually fell asleep at work once, when she was six months old.”
John laughed and opened his mouth to speak when a sudden cheer rang out through the pub. Greg looked up and noticed that the match had started. “So, who do you fancy for the win?”
“Manchester United, obviously,” came the answer, not from John, but from Sherlock. Greg turned in his seat in time to see the younger man pulling a chair over from the neighbouring table.
John looked as surprised by his presence as Greg felt, for it was very rare that Sherlock joined them socially outside of his flat. “What makes you say that?” the doctor asked as though it was perfectly normal for the consulting detective to join them.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Their strikers are more successful than Chelsea’s, and their goal keeper is yet to concede a goal this month.”
John’s expression morphed from merely surprised to incredulous. “Since when do you know anything about football?”
Shifting in his seat, Sherlock picked up Greg’s drink and took a sip. “It was in the newspaper,” he replied offhandedly.
“Right, well, we’ll see; Chelsea have been on good form their last few matches,” John said, standing from his chair and waving his hand in the direction of the toilets. “Back in a minute.”
As soon as John was lost in the crowd of men eagerly watching the opening minutes of the match, Greg looked around to make sure no one was paying them any mind, and leant over, placing his right hand on Sherlock’s knee under the table. “Since when do you read the sport section of the newspaper?” he demanded, amused.
“Sport is important to you, so it follows that it should be of import to me,” Sherlock replied, as though it were the simplest thing in the world.
Warmth suffused Greg in a way that he hadn’t experienced since the early days of his relationship with his ex-wife. He was so taken aback that he barely noticed that the other man was making quick work of drinking the rest of his pint.
“Based on how much beer he has consumed and how quickly he voids his bladder, we have approximately fifty six seconds before John returns,” Sherlock said amusedly as he put the almost-empty pint glass back down. “If you don’t want him to suspect that the nature of our relationship has changed, I recommend that you remove your hand from my leg.”
In marked contrast to Tuesday night, Greg couldn’t have cared less about John seeing them behaving in any way that was more than platonic or professional. Rather than removing his hand, he squeezed Sherlock’s knee before moving it higher up his leg and stroking lightly with his thumb.
For all his usual haughty arrogance, Sherlock looked distinctly pleased in that moment, and Greg felt a small thrill as having caused it.
As absorbed as he was in their discussion, Greg failed to notice that the fifty six seconds was up, and couldn’t help but jump slightly when John spoke from behind him, “Well, that’s not something I expected to see.” The doctor re-took his seat heavily, surprise writ large across his face. “Is this what it looks like, or has someone put something in my drink?”
Greg knew he must be red in the face but kept his hand on Sherlock’s leg, determined that he wasn't going to mess this up. “It’s what it looks like."
“Since when?”
“Three months, two weeks and five days ago,” Sherlock replied succinctly, reaching for John’s pint. The other man was still shocked enough that he didn’t protest.
Silence settled over their table, and Greg had little trouble seeing the thoughts chasing through John’s mind. “Bit of a shock, I know,” he said standing up. “I’m gonna get a round in, let you two talk.”
Making quick work of squeezing between the tables, Greg pushed through the crowd watching the match to get to the bar. He spent the time it took to get served telling himself that he was far too old to be getting into a flap over revealing a new relationship, especially to a friend. By the time his order of one pint of London Pride, one of Guinness, and one large white wine was ready and paid for, he had almost convinced himself that he wasn’t nervous about returning to the table.
“—obviously I'm not asexual,” Sherlock was saying when Greg got back, drinks in hand.
John picked up his fresh pint and downed a quarter of it in one go. “I’ve known you for six years, and you’ve never shown any—”
“—Really, John,” Sherlock interrupted impatiently. “I may not have taken out adverts declaring as much, but my attraction to Greg is not new, and nor did I take any pains to mask it. I've told you many times that you see but do not observe.”
With a shake of his blond head, John clearly decided against questioning Sherlock any further and turned his attention to Greg. “It’s a bit of a shock, but I’m happy for you,” he said, a smile quirking his lips. “Of course, if you hurt him I will kill you.”
“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” Greg replied, taking a sip of his drink, refraining from pointing out that his own wife had done a damned good job of that already.
A sudden cheer went up from the crowd at the bar, while the lads at the table neighbouring theirs groaned. Greg looked up at the big screen in time to see Rooney celebrating scoring the first goal of the match. “Looks like you could be right, Sherlock."
Sherlock smirked, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Of course I am. When have you ever known me to be wrong?”
“All right, smart arse. I don’t suppose you getting with Greg has anything to do with you suddenly knowing something about football?” John asked, a twinkle in his eye.
To Greg’s amusement Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Don't be ridiculous."
Under the cover of the table Greg placed his hand back on Sherlock’s leg and traced the seam of his expensive trousers. “John was telling me about how Scott’s doing before you arrived. How long before you start teaching him the science of deduction?”
John chuckled, drawing Greg’s attention away from Sherlock. “He’s been at it for months already!” the blond exclaimed. “A few weeks ago I walked in on him holding Scott in front of the window, deducing the people walking by. Quite why a baby needs to know that the woman across the road is having an affair with an accountant I’ll never know.”
Sherlock huffed dramatically. “Have I taught you nothing, John?”
A loud cheer resounded from the red-shirted patrons of the pub as United scored another goal, and Greg noticed Sherlock’s smug expression with no little amusement.
The conversation turned to inconsequential gossip, with Sherlock occasionally blurting obscure deductions about their fellow drinkers, or the barman, or the referee, and Greg was surprised when a loud chorus of Football’s Coming Home burst forth from the United fans signalling the end of the match.
“Well, that went quickly,” John said, finishing his drink. “Anything exciting on for the evening?”
“I have mould cultures to observe,” Sherlock answered, standing and shrugging elegantly into his coat. “There's also a tedious matter that Mycroft has asked me to look into, which I can ignore no longer.”
“Nothing too exciting for me,” Greg said as he donned his own coat and scarf. “Laundry to finish and then an early night, I think.”
“Not too early I hope,” Sherlock said, lips brushing lightly against Greg’s ear, and the older man became acutely aware of how closely Sherlock was pressed to his back as they stepped out of the pub and into the cold; there was no way that such proximiy could be mistaken for that of two friends.
He cast a glance at John, who had stopped in the middle of the pavement. The doctor’s eyes were flicking between Greg and Sherlock and he looked decidedly amused. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” he said, voice barely masking a laugh. “Is this a secret, or can I tell Mary? She’ll be happy for you.”
Greg considered for a moment and looked to Sherlock, who was gazing levelly back at him. “I wouldn’t say secret, but I want to talk to my girls and Mycroft before anyone else finds out,” he said, and saw tension that he hadn’t previously registered bleed out of Sherlock’s body.
A nod from John signalled that he would keep their confidence. “Well, I’m off. Have a good night.”
He was barely ten meters away when Sherlock moved closer. “Your flat is closer than mine.”
Greg felt something warm and indefinable pool in his gut. “What about your mould cultures?”
“They’ll keep,” came Sherlock’s reply before he turned sharply on his heel, coat flaring dramatically about his slender frame, and strode off in the direction of the tube station.
“Have a good night, indeed,” Greg muttered to himself, unable to supress a grin, as he followed the other man’s retreating back.