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holmesticeStory: 5 Times D.I. Lestrade Didn’t Get the Shag of a Lifetime and 1 Time He Did
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
melliyna
Author:loveslashangst
Characters: Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson, O.C. (Lestrade’s daughter), Jim Moriarty, Irene Adler, Molly Hooper, O.C. (Mary Morstan)
Pairings Lestrade/Sherlock, Sherlock/John, Lestrade/John, Lestrade/Moriarty (implied), Lestrade/Irene, Lestrade/Mary, Lestrade/John/Mary, Sherlock/Irene, Lestrade/John/Mary/Sherlock/Irene
Rated: NC-17 for fluffy BDSM, whump!, drug use, language and lots and lots of sex (imagined and real) of various and sundry kinds.
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters. ACD created them and Moffat re-imagined them in ways I love. Also, I secretly hope that (as a former fanfic writer), Moffat would very quietly approve, but only in the strictest confidence. No offense intended to any author, creator, or fandom.
Spoilers: BBC’s Sherlock, both series. No. Really. Both series.
Summary: Lestrade isn’t looking for love, but it will find him in all the right places… eventually.
Notes: This is the most elaborate grouping I’ve ever done. Also, this is my everything-and-the-kitchen-sink fic. Hope you like it,melliyna! Part 1 of 6.
Miss #1:
mrs. hudson: please come.
lestrade: Are you okay?
mrs.hudson: fine. sherlock.
lestrade: On my way. What did he take?
mrs. hudson: seeing things
lestrade: LSD? Ask him.
mrs. hudson: ssays the pink plat-e-pus told him to.
“Fuck.” Lestrade tosses the mobile aside as he pulls up to 221B. Magically, there is parking out front. There’s always parking out front, as though Sherlock lives in a movie where everything goes perfectly and he can solve baffling cases using three dog hairs and a wind that blows North-Northwest.
If Sherlock weren’t so useful, Lestrade would hate the “consulting detective”. He takes the stairs two at a time.
Mrs. Hudson, looking shaken and trembling, opens the door. Lestrade knows how bachelors usually live, but even he has to take a step back at the smell. Chemicals. Rot. Mildew. Old blood. Sherlock’s impromptu lab in the kitchen has been working overtime.
Mrs. Hudson, tearfully earnest, grabs his arm. “I’m so glad you’re here. He’s--”
“IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII’m ‘Enery the Eighth, I am!” And that would be Sherlock. Judging by the direction of the sound, he’s somewhere upstairs. “’Enery the Eighth, I am, I am!”
Lestrade’s police instincts kick in. He doesn't move yet, but he keeps his primary focus on the raucous chorus above. “How long’s he been like this?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mrs. Hudson’s helpless gesture.
Nodding, he pats her hand reassuringly, extricates his arm, and prepares to meet his civilian assistant. He holds his breath going through the kitchen so the fumes won’t overwhelm him, and then takes the stairs one at a time.
“Sherlock?” he calls. Level voice. Remember the level voice -- people always give back what you throw at them. “Sherlock, can you hear me?”
“Second verse, same as the first!” The voice is slightly hoarse, which probably means Sherlock’s been tripping balls for several hours. Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t have called Lestrade until it became clear that Sherlock wouldn’t just metabolize whatever he’s taken.
Or it could also be that Sherlock’s just being an arse; one could never be sure. “Sherlock,” Lestrade says, “it’s D. I. Lestrade. I’m coming up.”
“And every one was an ‘Enery. ‘ENERY!” It’s disconcerting to hear Sherlock’s voice gone Cockney. Usually, the public school accent and superior comportment are his two primary weapons for cowing and dominating people. And -- more annoying -- he usually is smarter than everyone else in the room.
Lestrade half expects Sherlock to leap out at him from the darkened hallway, but instead the lanky amateur detective is sprawled on the floor, more or less sitting, and pawing at whatever hallucinations are floating before him. He’s in his usual pyjamas and bathrobe, and is barefoot.
Lestrade counts the days since they last collaborated and shudders; no wonder Sherlock got bored. If only one of the dog-walking companies had a programme to exercise brilliant people.
“I’m her eigthth old man, I’m ‘Enery…” Sherlock sounds a bit tired, or maybe distracted. “‘Enery… the eight…” he trails off.
“Sherlock?” Lestrade says carefully. “I’ve come to help you.”
"Lestrade." Sherlock’s wandering gaze turns to him, pupils blown and fixed. The spark is electric, and all the fine hairs at the base of Lestrade’s skull stand on end. The amateur detective’s always struck him as some unearthly thing, a Seelie prince who’s chosen a mortal life because he can’t be arsed to rule in Faery. Never as much as in this moment has Lestrade had a sense of the beauty of Sherlock’s other-ness.
Sherlock’s lips curve into slow smile. “You came.”
Problem here is Sherlock may not even be talking to him. He’s clearly stoned off his arse, and so this feeling of recognition, of connection in Lestrade's own soul is just a load of bollocks.
“See me," Sherlock sings softly, "Feel me." His pupils are so wide that Sherlock’s pale eyes seem all black.
“Sherlock,” he says, entirely unsure what to do next.
“No of course; too trite a reference, even for you.” No, Sherlock’s not looking at him like Lestrade is his heart’s desire. Sherlock is out of his mind and Lestrade really wishes he’d thought to bring some kind of backup. Not sure what that backup would consist of. Paramedics in plate armour perhaps?
He steps up into the hallway. “Sherlock, what did you take?”
Sherlock lunges up from his place on the floor. The change from indolent inebriation to well-muscled intent is so startling that Lestrade takes a step back…
…completely forgetting to step down…
… and only Sherlock’s firm hand on Lestrade’s flailing wrist saves him from a nasty spill down the stairs. Fumbling, Lestrade pulls himself back up onto the stair and into Sherlock’s arms.
And now he’s nose-to-nose with the amateur detective, and the spark’s become heat, which is just stupid, because Sherlock doesn’t have a sex drive that Lestrade’s ever witnessed. The man runs on adrenaline and nicotine with an occasional chaser of cocaine. He smells male and aroused and unwashed in a good way, like a lazy start to a dirty weekend. And his mouth is so close that all Lestrade would have to do is just lean in the tiniest amount…
“Knew you’d come,” Sherlock purrs.
Heat blurs his vision for a moment, and his cock pointedly reminds him that -- in addition to being a useful liability -- Sherlock can be disarmingly sensual when he chooses.
A dirty weekend on a Tuesday night? Could he?
“Detective Lestrade?” Mrs. Hudson calls upstairs. “Sherlock? Are you boys all right?”
Sanity reasserts itself and he walks himself and Sherlock back from the brink -- literally and figuratively. “Yes,” he replies, pitching his voice to carry. “We’re all right now, Mrs. Hudson.” He tightens his hold on Sherlock’s biceps. “She thinks you dropped acid, Sherlock. When did you start?”
“Dull,” Sherlock says, looking disappointed. Then he tenses, turning. “That’s not supposed to do that. Melting. So what might be an adequate heat source?”
Whatever he’s seeing, Lestrade is glad he can’t see it too. “C’mon.” He pulls Sherlock in the direction of what he hopes is the bathroom.
Back at university, Lestrade was the “babysitter”: the self-designated sober person who’d keep an eye on people when they got stoned, so they wouldn’t hurt themselves or others. And he’d learned that the surest way to calm and sober a person was a nice hot bath.
Of course, Sherlock can’t make that easy; the bath is a fright of mildew, lime scale, and rust stains. Lestrade shuts the lid on the toilet, sits Sherlock down firmly, grabs an aging bottle of very illegal and very effective industrial cleaner -- his ecologically-minded daughter would have a fit if she knew what he was adding to the water table -- strips off his shirt so it won’t get dissolved, and gives the tub a brief but thorough scrubbing.
And pointedly ignores the sensitive fingertips Sherlock trails down his spine. Along his shoulders. Over the back of his neck. But Lestrade’s nipples notice, tightening. He blushes at the sensation.
A second rinse so the water runs clean, and Lestrade starts the bathtub filling. His hands tingle from the cleanser, his cheeks feel hot with the effort of not being aroused, his cock twitches in consideration, and now he has to face the prospect of stripping Sherlock.
Perhaps this was a bad idea.
Sighing, he turns to Sherlock. And the look is back. The jolt of soul-deep recognition. The hairs stand on end on his neck. His heart speeds. Sherlock stands. Lets the robe fall to the floor. Drops the pyjama bottoms, which pool at his feet.
Lestrade swallows hard, and then stands. He avoids Sherlock’s eyes as he strips off Sherlock’s stained shirt, which mings with a finer concentration of the smells from the kitchen. Sherlock’s hands rest on his shoulders, the touch light and inviting.
Lestrade’s cock likes the invitation.
“Your face,” Sherlock says wonderingly. “It’s full of stars.”
Yes, still tripping balls. Lestrade takes Sherlock by the upper arm and guides him firmly toward the bath.
Sherlock steps into the steaming water slowly. Hisses at the heat. Smiles as he relaxes. Sinks down into the bath. Luxuriates, all long limbs and pale skin and smooth muscle.
And not since he was seventeen and spotty has Lestrade found anyone so arousing. What makes it worse is he can’t ever be really sure Sherock’s not doing it just to see if he can get a rise -- literally -- out of him.
Tosser.
Lestrade takes up residence on the closed toilet lid so he can watch Sherlock while minimizing the possibility of being tempted by another of those weird looks. Sherlock mutters to himself and traces patterns in the water, but is otherwise fairly quiet.
Lestrade keeps his eyes firmly away from Sherlock’s groin.
“No need to hold back,” Sherlock says, though he seems to be addressing a very interesting spot on the ceiling. “It’s only natural.”
“Just enjoy the bath, Sherlock,” Lestrade says.
For a long time after that, the only sounds are silence and the rushing of blood in Lestrade’s ears. Eventually, that too subsides.
Because Sherlock is still the most bachelor-y bachelor in England, Lestrade texts Mrs. Hudson asking her to bring up clean towels. She does, and together they dry off Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson even has a clean spare set of pyjamas for him.
“I nicked them years ago,” she explains as she pulls Sherlock’s shirt on. “Thought they’d come in handy, and he hardly seemed to miss them.”
Between them, he and Mrs. Hudson herd Sherlock down the hall and to his bedroom. The bed’s a mess of pointy and scary things and the floor’s just a mess, so they retreat downstairs and place him on the sofa. Mrs. Hudson conjures a blanket and Lestrade tucks Sherlock in.
“You really are an idiot,” Sherlock mutters, but already his eyes are drooping.
And Lestrade feels a surge of something. Possessiveness? Protectiveness? Tomorrow he’ll take the piss out of Sherlock for this little half-three-in-the-morning excursion, but for a moment he can almost forgive the lunatic.
Of course, he and Mrs. Hudson dispose of absolutely everything in the kitchen, containers and bottles and all. Sherlock’s temper be damned.
Only sheer force of will keeps Lestrade on the road long enough to get home. It’s half-six when he falls into a chair in his own kitchen.
Lettie, who is more of a morning person than any eleven-year-old has a right to be, skips down the stairs, all smiles and blonde curls. She makes tea and a fry-up that smells and tastes better than any breakfast he’s ever had, and is off to school with just a quick kiss on his cheek as a farewell.
He counts his blessings again to have so good a daughter, calls in to say he’s not coming in, and falls into bed.
He dreams of baths.
Recipient:
melliynaAuthor:
loveslashangstCharacters: Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson, O.C. (Lestrade’s daughter), Jim Moriarty, Irene Adler, Molly Hooper, O.C. (Mary Morstan)
Pairings Lestrade/Sherlock, Sherlock/John, Lestrade/John, Lestrade/Moriarty (implied), Lestrade/Irene, Lestrade/Mary, Lestrade/John/Mary, Sherlock/Irene, Lestrade/John/Mary/Sherlock/Irene
Rated: NC-17 for fluffy BDSM, whump!, drug use, language and lots and lots of sex (imagined and real) of various and sundry kinds.
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters. ACD created them and Moffat re-imagined them in ways I love. Also, I secretly hope that (as a former fanfic writer), Moffat would very quietly approve, but only in the strictest confidence. No offense intended to any author, creator, or fandom.
Spoilers: BBC’s Sherlock, both series. No. Really. Both series.
Summary: Lestrade isn’t looking for love, but it will find him in all the right places… eventually.
Notes: This is the most elaborate grouping I’ve ever done. Also, this is my everything-and-the-kitchen-sink fic. Hope you like it,
melliyna! Part 1 of 6.Miss #1:
mrs. hudson: please come.
lestrade: Are you okay?
mrs.hudson: fine. sherlock.
lestrade: On my way. What did he take?
mrs. hudson: seeing things
lestrade: LSD? Ask him.
mrs. hudson: ssays the pink plat-e-pus told him to.
“Fuck.” Lestrade tosses the mobile aside as he pulls up to 221B. Magically, there is parking out front. There’s always parking out front, as though Sherlock lives in a movie where everything goes perfectly and he can solve baffling cases using three dog hairs and a wind that blows North-Northwest.
If Sherlock weren’t so useful, Lestrade would hate the “consulting detective”. He takes the stairs two at a time.
Mrs. Hudson, looking shaken and trembling, opens the door. Lestrade knows how bachelors usually live, but even he has to take a step back at the smell. Chemicals. Rot. Mildew. Old blood. Sherlock’s impromptu lab in the kitchen has been working overtime.
Mrs. Hudson, tearfully earnest, grabs his arm. “I’m so glad you’re here. He’s--”
“IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII’m ‘Enery the Eighth, I am!” And that would be Sherlock. Judging by the direction of the sound, he’s somewhere upstairs. “’Enery the Eighth, I am, I am!”
Lestrade’s police instincts kick in. He doesn't move yet, but he keeps his primary focus on the raucous chorus above. “How long’s he been like this?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mrs. Hudson’s helpless gesture.
Nodding, he pats her hand reassuringly, extricates his arm, and prepares to meet his civilian assistant. He holds his breath going through the kitchen so the fumes won’t overwhelm him, and then takes the stairs one at a time.
“Sherlock?” he calls. Level voice. Remember the level voice -- people always give back what you throw at them. “Sherlock, can you hear me?”
“Second verse, same as the first!” The voice is slightly hoarse, which probably means Sherlock’s been tripping balls for several hours. Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t have called Lestrade until it became clear that Sherlock wouldn’t just metabolize whatever he’s taken.
Or it could also be that Sherlock’s just being an arse; one could never be sure. “Sherlock,” Lestrade says, “it’s D. I. Lestrade. I’m coming up.”
“And every one was an ‘Enery. ‘ENERY!” It’s disconcerting to hear Sherlock’s voice gone Cockney. Usually, the public school accent and superior comportment are his two primary weapons for cowing and dominating people. And -- more annoying -- he usually is smarter than everyone else in the room.
Lestrade half expects Sherlock to leap out at him from the darkened hallway, but instead the lanky amateur detective is sprawled on the floor, more or less sitting, and pawing at whatever hallucinations are floating before him. He’s in his usual pyjamas and bathrobe, and is barefoot.
Lestrade counts the days since they last collaborated and shudders; no wonder Sherlock got bored. If only one of the dog-walking companies had a programme to exercise brilliant people.
“I’m her eigthth old man, I’m ‘Enery…” Sherlock sounds a bit tired, or maybe distracted. “‘Enery… the eight…” he trails off.
“Sherlock?” Lestrade says carefully. “I’ve come to help you.”
"Lestrade." Sherlock’s wandering gaze turns to him, pupils blown and fixed. The spark is electric, and all the fine hairs at the base of Lestrade’s skull stand on end. The amateur detective’s always struck him as some unearthly thing, a Seelie prince who’s chosen a mortal life because he can’t be arsed to rule in Faery. Never as much as in this moment has Lestrade had a sense of the beauty of Sherlock’s other-ness.
Sherlock’s lips curve into slow smile. “You came.”
Problem here is Sherlock may not even be talking to him. He’s clearly stoned off his arse, and so this feeling of recognition, of connection in Lestrade's own soul is just a load of bollocks.
“See me," Sherlock sings softly, "Feel me." His pupils are so wide that Sherlock’s pale eyes seem all black.
“Sherlock,” he says, entirely unsure what to do next.
“No of course; too trite a reference, even for you.” No, Sherlock’s not looking at him like Lestrade is his heart’s desire. Sherlock is out of his mind and Lestrade really wishes he’d thought to bring some kind of backup. Not sure what that backup would consist of. Paramedics in plate armour perhaps?
He steps up into the hallway. “Sherlock, what did you take?”
Sherlock lunges up from his place on the floor. The change from indolent inebriation to well-muscled intent is so startling that Lestrade takes a step back…
…completely forgetting to step down…
… and only Sherlock’s firm hand on Lestrade’s flailing wrist saves him from a nasty spill down the stairs. Fumbling, Lestrade pulls himself back up onto the stair and into Sherlock’s arms.
And now he’s nose-to-nose with the amateur detective, and the spark’s become heat, which is just stupid, because Sherlock doesn’t have a sex drive that Lestrade’s ever witnessed. The man runs on adrenaline and nicotine with an occasional chaser of cocaine. He smells male and aroused and unwashed in a good way, like a lazy start to a dirty weekend. And his mouth is so close that all Lestrade would have to do is just lean in the tiniest amount…
“Knew you’d come,” Sherlock purrs.
Heat blurs his vision for a moment, and his cock pointedly reminds him that -- in addition to being a useful liability -- Sherlock can be disarmingly sensual when he chooses.
A dirty weekend on a Tuesday night? Could he?
“Detective Lestrade?” Mrs. Hudson calls upstairs. “Sherlock? Are you boys all right?”
Sanity reasserts itself and he walks himself and Sherlock back from the brink -- literally and figuratively. “Yes,” he replies, pitching his voice to carry. “We’re all right now, Mrs. Hudson.” He tightens his hold on Sherlock’s biceps. “She thinks you dropped acid, Sherlock. When did you start?”
“Dull,” Sherlock says, looking disappointed. Then he tenses, turning. “That’s not supposed to do that. Melting. So what might be an adequate heat source?”
Whatever he’s seeing, Lestrade is glad he can’t see it too. “C’mon.” He pulls Sherlock in the direction of what he hopes is the bathroom.
Back at university, Lestrade was the “babysitter”: the self-designated sober person who’d keep an eye on people when they got stoned, so they wouldn’t hurt themselves or others. And he’d learned that the surest way to calm and sober a person was a nice hot bath.
Of course, Sherlock can’t make that easy; the bath is a fright of mildew, lime scale, and rust stains. Lestrade shuts the lid on the toilet, sits Sherlock down firmly, grabs an aging bottle of very illegal and very effective industrial cleaner -- his ecologically-minded daughter would have a fit if she knew what he was adding to the water table -- strips off his shirt so it won’t get dissolved, and gives the tub a brief but thorough scrubbing.
And pointedly ignores the sensitive fingertips Sherlock trails down his spine. Along his shoulders. Over the back of his neck. But Lestrade’s nipples notice, tightening. He blushes at the sensation.
A second rinse so the water runs clean, and Lestrade starts the bathtub filling. His hands tingle from the cleanser, his cheeks feel hot with the effort of not being aroused, his cock twitches in consideration, and now he has to face the prospect of stripping Sherlock.
Perhaps this was a bad idea.
Sighing, he turns to Sherlock. And the look is back. The jolt of soul-deep recognition. The hairs stand on end on his neck. His heart speeds. Sherlock stands. Lets the robe fall to the floor. Drops the pyjama bottoms, which pool at his feet.
Lestrade swallows hard, and then stands. He avoids Sherlock’s eyes as he strips off Sherlock’s stained shirt, which mings with a finer concentration of the smells from the kitchen. Sherlock’s hands rest on his shoulders, the touch light and inviting.
Lestrade’s cock likes the invitation.
“Your face,” Sherlock says wonderingly. “It’s full of stars.”
Yes, still tripping balls. Lestrade takes Sherlock by the upper arm and guides him firmly toward the bath.
Sherlock steps into the steaming water slowly. Hisses at the heat. Smiles as he relaxes. Sinks down into the bath. Luxuriates, all long limbs and pale skin and smooth muscle.
And not since he was seventeen and spotty has Lestrade found anyone so arousing. What makes it worse is he can’t ever be really sure Sherock’s not doing it just to see if he can get a rise -- literally -- out of him.
Tosser.
Lestrade takes up residence on the closed toilet lid so he can watch Sherlock while minimizing the possibility of being tempted by another of those weird looks. Sherlock mutters to himself and traces patterns in the water, but is otherwise fairly quiet.
Lestrade keeps his eyes firmly away from Sherlock’s groin.
“No need to hold back,” Sherlock says, though he seems to be addressing a very interesting spot on the ceiling. “It’s only natural.”
“Just enjoy the bath, Sherlock,” Lestrade says.
For a long time after that, the only sounds are silence and the rushing of blood in Lestrade’s ears. Eventually, that too subsides.
Because Sherlock is still the most bachelor-y bachelor in England, Lestrade texts Mrs. Hudson asking her to bring up clean towels. She does, and together they dry off Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson even has a clean spare set of pyjamas for him.
“I nicked them years ago,” she explains as she pulls Sherlock’s shirt on. “Thought they’d come in handy, and he hardly seemed to miss them.”
Between them, he and Mrs. Hudson herd Sherlock down the hall and to his bedroom. The bed’s a mess of pointy and scary things and the floor’s just a mess, so they retreat downstairs and place him on the sofa. Mrs. Hudson conjures a blanket and Lestrade tucks Sherlock in.
“You really are an idiot,” Sherlock mutters, but already his eyes are drooping.
And Lestrade feels a surge of something. Possessiveness? Protectiveness? Tomorrow he’ll take the piss out of Sherlock for this little half-three-in-the-morning excursion, but for a moment he can almost forgive the lunatic.
Of course, he and Mrs. Hudson dispose of absolutely everything in the kitchen, containers and bottles and all. Sherlock’s temper be damned.
Only sheer force of will keeps Lestrade on the road long enough to get home. It’s half-six when he falls into a chair in his own kitchen.
Lettie, who is more of a morning person than any eleven-year-old has a right to be, skips down the stairs, all smiles and blonde curls. She makes tea and a fry-up that smells and tastes better than any breakfast he’s ever had, and is off to school with just a quick kiss on his cheek as a farewell.
He counts his blessings again to have so good a daughter, calls in to say he’s not coming in, and falls into bed.
He dreams of baths.
