Fic for Seaweedie: Exhaustion
Jun. 2nd, 2011 12:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
holmesticemods posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
holmesticeTitle: Exhaustion
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
seaweedie
Author:slashykink
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/Lestrade
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sexual content
Summary: Sherlock collapses in Lestrade's office after a particularly draining case.
“Sherlock...” Lestrade sighed as he leaned over the younger man who had just collapsed onto the floor of his office.
“I’m fine. Just a bit light-headed,” Sherlock insisted, even as he lay there, holding up a hand to stop Lestrade. “I just needed to lie down. Give me a moment and I’ll be fine.”
“You just needed to lie down? Sherlock, when was the last time you had anything to eat?”
The pause told Lestrade more than enough; Sherlock was contemplating whether to tell the truth or not. Evidently, he decided to, given that the response was calm and grimly blunt.
“Two days, nearly three. Been busy.”
Of course. Lestrade sighed, offering Sherlock his hand. He couldn’t help but feel a bit responsible for it. After all, he was the one who’d asked Sherlock to help, but the trail had run cold. Sherlock managed to solve it after nearly a week of investigation and thought; he always seemed to pin down even the most elusive of criminals.
As Sherlock wrapped his fingers - cold despite the lukewarm air around them - around Lestrade’s, the detective-inspector couldn’t help but feel his heart palpitate, skipping a single beat.
“You need to eat something,” Lestrade insisted, pulling Sherlock into a sitting position and doing his utmost not too think too much about the firm grasp of those long fingers. “And probably sleep as well, I’d imagine.”
“Nonsense. I haven’t slept in forty hours; another few awake won’t hurt me.”
“Forty hours? Sherlock, you promised me you’d get some sleep last night! You’re not useful to anyone when you’re exhausted!”
“Clearly I am,” he retorted, removing his hand from Lestrade’s and getting to his feet. “I did solve it, after all.”
“No, you need to get some sleep. Now.” Lestrade felt exhausted himself, and he could barely imagine how Sherlock must feel. It was also not, he firmly told himself, an excuse to spend more time around the other man. It was just that Sherlock, when left to his own devices, seemed to utterly refuse to take care of himself.
“And what are you going to do about that?” Sherlock asked haughtily. “You can’t exactly follow me home.”
“I could, but I’m not going to. Stay here.” Lestrade gestured to the sofa. “I’ll get you something to eat, and then you need to get a good night’s rest. You can’t keep on like this.”
“Yes, I can.” Sherlock stopped for a split second, gray eyes boring into Lestrade’s before continuing stubbornly. “Besides, considering how much help I’ve given you lately, you’re hardly in any place to be making demands.”
“Then consider it another favor I owe you for.”
To Lestrade’s surprise, Sherlock’s posture slumped slightly and he shrugged.
“Only because I’m feeling terribly accommodating,” he muttered. “Don’t make a habit of this.”
Lestrade opened to his mouth to reply, but Sherlock was already pulling his shirt over his head, revealing his slender torso, ribcage vaguely visible beneath the pale skin, just slightly too skinny to be healthy. For a moment, Lestrade gaped, but he closed his mouth as quickly as possible, hoping Sherlock hadn’t noticed. Even if it had been appropriate for him to be ogling someone he worked with, Sherlock was utterly married to his work, with no inclination for romance or sex at all.
“I sleep nearly naked,” Sherlock remarked calmly. “I hope you don’t mind. You don’t have a blanket anywhere, do you?” It was more of an observation than a question, but Lestrade shook his head anyway.
Lestrade flushed slightly as he pulled his eyes away from Sherlock’s hands, which were now efficiently moving to the waistband of his trousers. When he glanced back, Sherlock was, indeed, nude except for thin boxers that left little to the imagination. His eyes didn’t linger though; there was a fresh gash on Sherlock’s thigh, right above his knee.
“You got stabbed and didn’t bother to tell me?” Lestrade asked incredulously, hurrying to the desk for his phone. “We have to-”
“No, you don’t have to take me to the emergency room; it barely scratched the surface,” Sherlock insisted irritably. “The first aid kit should be more than enough if you utterly insist on doing something about it. I wasn’t going to bring it up; we had far more important things to be worrying about than a minor flesh wound.”
Sighing, Lestrade did exactly as Sherlock asked. He ripped open the packet of an antibacterial towelette and, gently pushing Sherlock to sit down on the sofa, began to wipe off the dried blood. Luckily, there didn’t seem to be much, and Sherlock’s assessment of the injury as shallow and not particularly serious seemed accurate.
Once the injury was properly bandaged, Lestrade didn’t let himself linger. He went to his desk and sat down, reaching for some files. The best he could do for now was to keep himself busy, especially since during the most recent case he’d neglected some of the more pressing bureaucratic matters. Still, it was dull, and he felt tired. What’s more, he couldn’t focus, glancing up far more often than he should have to check on Sherlock. Each time, he had to remind himself that Sherlock was untouchable, no matter perfectly slender his body was, or how gorgeous his lips were, slightly parted as he drew in each deep, peaceful breath.
“You’re not doing your paperwork.”
Lestrade dropped his pen in surprise; he’d honestly been convinced Sherlock was asleep.
“Come here.”
“You really should be sleeping,” Lestrade insisted, adamantly remaining at his desk as much as he yearned to approach. When Sherlock didn’t respond, he figured that he’d made the right choice. After all, if he went over there, the urge to touch Sherlock, to just lay a hand on his shoulder, to hold him close, would be almost too much. Still, he asked, “What is it?”
“You’re trying too hard.”
Lestrade froze, and there was nothing but Sherlock’s deep, contented breathing for a moment.
“You’re trying to hard to keep your distance,” Sherlock went on. “It’s rather unnecessary.”
Mildly taken aback, Lestrade nevertheless rose to his feet. Even as he approached Sherlock, still lying contentedly with his fingers laced together and resting on his flat stomach, he wasn’t sure what to say. But Sherlock, as if he could sense Lestrade’s uncertainty, spoke again.
“You can touch me, you know.”
Lestrade’s heart leapt, and he felt warmth flooding his body. Surely Sherlock couldn’t mean what he thought, yet as he reached out and tentatively placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, the other man didn’t move away. No, Sherlock just opened his eyes and shot Lestrade a knowing, somewhat arrogant look that melted into contentment as Lestrade’s fingers slid over to caress his neck. Sherlock’s lips fell open and Lestrade wondered how soft yet demanding they’d feel against his own.
“You want to kiss me.”
“Yes,” Lestrade agreed, breathless and leaning in, looking to the other man for permission.
“Then what exactly are you waiting for?”
Offering a coy little half-smile, Sherlock wrapped an arm around Lestrade’s back. Lestrade could feel his own heart pounding in his chest as he closed the few inches between them and tentatively pressed his lips against Sherlock’s. The detective kissed him back with unabashed enthusiasm, tongue flicking out and brushing away all semblance of hesitance.
Lestrade drew back for a moment only to sit on the sofa beside Sherlock, who straightened up eagerly. His member was visibly stiff beneath his boxers, and Lestrade blushed as his eyes lingered for a moment before Sherlock placed both hands on his shoulders and pulled him in for another kiss. Neither held back this time, Lestrade gently sucking on Sherlock’s lower lip, his hands running down Sherlock’s naked chest until they brushed against the downy trail starting at his navel. Sherlock moaned, digging his fingers into Lestrade’s shirt, not simply surrendering to him but offering active encouragement. Lestrade’s hand drifted further and Sherlock shifted his hips eagerly.
When Sherlock moaned again, nipping at the other man’s lip with unbridled impatience, Lestrade moved his hand to the waistband and gently slid down to rest for a moment on Sherlock’s hard length. Sherlock lifted his hips to pull his boxers down to his knees before grabbing tightly to the other man again. Lestrade felt his own cock aching within his trousers as he wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s smooth-skinned and rigid length. He began to stroke--quick, firm movements that made Sherlock’s breathing grow heavier and his kisses turn sloppier.
They didn’t once break their kiss before Sherlock shuddered and cried out softly, muffled by Lestrade’s mouth as he spilled himself. As he withdrew his hand, Lestrade refused to pull his lips away, even when Sherlock fell back against the sofa, panting quietly. Finally, when Sherlock moved his head away slightly, Lestrade grudgingly pulled away. He pressed a quick kiss upon Sherlock’s cheek and stood, going to go clean off his hand.
By the time he returned, Sherlock’s eyes were closed and he was slumped back, fast asleep. Lestrade smiled and gingerly positioned him into a more comfortable spot before carefully laying his coat over the unconscious, rather contented-looking Sherlock.
Recipient:
seaweedieAuthor:
slashykink Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/Lestrade
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sexual content
Summary: Sherlock collapses in Lestrade's office after a particularly draining case.
“Sherlock...” Lestrade sighed as he leaned over the younger man who had just collapsed onto the floor of his office.
“I’m fine. Just a bit light-headed,” Sherlock insisted, even as he lay there, holding up a hand to stop Lestrade. “I just needed to lie down. Give me a moment and I’ll be fine.”
“You just needed to lie down? Sherlock, when was the last time you had anything to eat?”
The pause told Lestrade more than enough; Sherlock was contemplating whether to tell the truth or not. Evidently, he decided to, given that the response was calm and grimly blunt.
“Two days, nearly three. Been busy.”
Of course. Lestrade sighed, offering Sherlock his hand. He couldn’t help but feel a bit responsible for it. After all, he was the one who’d asked Sherlock to help, but the trail had run cold. Sherlock managed to solve it after nearly a week of investigation and thought; he always seemed to pin down even the most elusive of criminals.
As Sherlock wrapped his fingers - cold despite the lukewarm air around them - around Lestrade’s, the detective-inspector couldn’t help but feel his heart palpitate, skipping a single beat.
“You need to eat something,” Lestrade insisted, pulling Sherlock into a sitting position and doing his utmost not too think too much about the firm grasp of those long fingers. “And probably sleep as well, I’d imagine.”
“Nonsense. I haven’t slept in forty hours; another few awake won’t hurt me.”
“Forty hours? Sherlock, you promised me you’d get some sleep last night! You’re not useful to anyone when you’re exhausted!”
“Clearly I am,” he retorted, removing his hand from Lestrade’s and getting to his feet. “I did solve it, after all.”
“No, you need to get some sleep. Now.” Lestrade felt exhausted himself, and he could barely imagine how Sherlock must feel. It was also not, he firmly told himself, an excuse to spend more time around the other man. It was just that Sherlock, when left to his own devices, seemed to utterly refuse to take care of himself.
“And what are you going to do about that?” Sherlock asked haughtily. “You can’t exactly follow me home.”
“I could, but I’m not going to. Stay here.” Lestrade gestured to the sofa. “I’ll get you something to eat, and then you need to get a good night’s rest. You can’t keep on like this.”
“Yes, I can.” Sherlock stopped for a split second, gray eyes boring into Lestrade’s before continuing stubbornly. “Besides, considering how much help I’ve given you lately, you’re hardly in any place to be making demands.”
“Then consider it another favor I owe you for.”
To Lestrade’s surprise, Sherlock’s posture slumped slightly and he shrugged.
“Only because I’m feeling terribly accommodating,” he muttered. “Don’t make a habit of this.”
Lestrade opened to his mouth to reply, but Sherlock was already pulling his shirt over his head, revealing his slender torso, ribcage vaguely visible beneath the pale skin, just slightly too skinny to be healthy. For a moment, Lestrade gaped, but he closed his mouth as quickly as possible, hoping Sherlock hadn’t noticed. Even if it had been appropriate for him to be ogling someone he worked with, Sherlock was utterly married to his work, with no inclination for romance or sex at all.
“I sleep nearly naked,” Sherlock remarked calmly. “I hope you don’t mind. You don’t have a blanket anywhere, do you?” It was more of an observation than a question, but Lestrade shook his head anyway.
Lestrade flushed slightly as he pulled his eyes away from Sherlock’s hands, which were now efficiently moving to the waistband of his trousers. When he glanced back, Sherlock was, indeed, nude except for thin boxers that left little to the imagination. His eyes didn’t linger though; there was a fresh gash on Sherlock’s thigh, right above his knee.
“You got stabbed and didn’t bother to tell me?” Lestrade asked incredulously, hurrying to the desk for his phone. “We have to-”
“No, you don’t have to take me to the emergency room; it barely scratched the surface,” Sherlock insisted irritably. “The first aid kit should be more than enough if you utterly insist on doing something about it. I wasn’t going to bring it up; we had far more important things to be worrying about than a minor flesh wound.”
Sighing, Lestrade did exactly as Sherlock asked. He ripped open the packet of an antibacterial towelette and, gently pushing Sherlock to sit down on the sofa, began to wipe off the dried blood. Luckily, there didn’t seem to be much, and Sherlock’s assessment of the injury as shallow and not particularly serious seemed accurate.
Once the injury was properly bandaged, Lestrade didn’t let himself linger. He went to his desk and sat down, reaching for some files. The best he could do for now was to keep himself busy, especially since during the most recent case he’d neglected some of the more pressing bureaucratic matters. Still, it was dull, and he felt tired. What’s more, he couldn’t focus, glancing up far more often than he should have to check on Sherlock. Each time, he had to remind himself that Sherlock was untouchable, no matter perfectly slender his body was, or how gorgeous his lips were, slightly parted as he drew in each deep, peaceful breath.
“You’re not doing your paperwork.”
Lestrade dropped his pen in surprise; he’d honestly been convinced Sherlock was asleep.
“Come here.”
“You really should be sleeping,” Lestrade insisted, adamantly remaining at his desk as much as he yearned to approach. When Sherlock didn’t respond, he figured that he’d made the right choice. After all, if he went over there, the urge to touch Sherlock, to just lay a hand on his shoulder, to hold him close, would be almost too much. Still, he asked, “What is it?”
“You’re trying too hard.”
Lestrade froze, and there was nothing but Sherlock’s deep, contented breathing for a moment.
“You’re trying to hard to keep your distance,” Sherlock went on. “It’s rather unnecessary.”
Mildly taken aback, Lestrade nevertheless rose to his feet. Even as he approached Sherlock, still lying contentedly with his fingers laced together and resting on his flat stomach, he wasn’t sure what to say. But Sherlock, as if he could sense Lestrade’s uncertainty, spoke again.
“You can touch me, you know.”
Lestrade’s heart leapt, and he felt warmth flooding his body. Surely Sherlock couldn’t mean what he thought, yet as he reached out and tentatively placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, the other man didn’t move away. No, Sherlock just opened his eyes and shot Lestrade a knowing, somewhat arrogant look that melted into contentment as Lestrade’s fingers slid over to caress his neck. Sherlock’s lips fell open and Lestrade wondered how soft yet demanding they’d feel against his own.
“You want to kiss me.”
“Yes,” Lestrade agreed, breathless and leaning in, looking to the other man for permission.
“Then what exactly are you waiting for?”
Offering a coy little half-smile, Sherlock wrapped an arm around Lestrade’s back. Lestrade could feel his own heart pounding in his chest as he closed the few inches between them and tentatively pressed his lips against Sherlock’s. The detective kissed him back with unabashed enthusiasm, tongue flicking out and brushing away all semblance of hesitance.
Lestrade drew back for a moment only to sit on the sofa beside Sherlock, who straightened up eagerly. His member was visibly stiff beneath his boxers, and Lestrade blushed as his eyes lingered for a moment before Sherlock placed both hands on his shoulders and pulled him in for another kiss. Neither held back this time, Lestrade gently sucking on Sherlock’s lower lip, his hands running down Sherlock’s naked chest until they brushed against the downy trail starting at his navel. Sherlock moaned, digging his fingers into Lestrade’s shirt, not simply surrendering to him but offering active encouragement. Lestrade’s hand drifted further and Sherlock shifted his hips eagerly.
When Sherlock moaned again, nipping at the other man’s lip with unbridled impatience, Lestrade moved his hand to the waistband and gently slid down to rest for a moment on Sherlock’s hard length. Sherlock lifted his hips to pull his boxers down to his knees before grabbing tightly to the other man again. Lestrade felt his own cock aching within his trousers as he wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s smooth-skinned and rigid length. He began to stroke--quick, firm movements that made Sherlock’s breathing grow heavier and his kisses turn sloppier.
They didn’t once break their kiss before Sherlock shuddered and cried out softly, muffled by Lestrade’s mouth as he spilled himself. As he withdrew his hand, Lestrade refused to pull his lips away, even when Sherlock fell back against the sofa, panting quietly. Finally, when Sherlock moved his head away slightly, Lestrade grudgingly pulled away. He pressed a quick kiss upon Sherlock’s cheek and stood, going to go clean off his hand.
By the time he returned, Sherlock’s eyes were closed and he was slumped back, fast asleep. Lestrade smiled and gingerly positioned him into a more comfortable spot before carefully laying his coat over the unconscious, rather contented-looking Sherlock.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-06-02 09:17 pm (UTC)Don't hold back, Sherlock. ;)
Well done!
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Date: 2011-06-02 10:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-04 12:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-04 07:24 am (UTC)lol sherlock you slut :3 this is marvelous and hot and adorable (shy!lestrade gahhh let me die), and i love the dialogue at the beginning quite a lot. thanks so much for this delicious fic! <333
no subject
Date: 2011-06-08 07:55 pm (UTC)