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holmesticeTitle: I Fall Through the Cracks Until You Catch Me
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jain
Author:sc010f
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/Lestrade; Mycroft Holmes, Sally Donovan, John Watson, OMC
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, violence, drug use, language, frank discussion of sexual topics
Summary: When he found you, you were bleeding. When he fell in love with you, you were beyond the reach of man. But he's damaged, too. And together, if you can remember when you first met, you will make your way through the battlefield.
One
Greg was happy, not for the first time that day, that he had a strong stomach: the room stank of urine and cigarettes.
The lad kneeling before him was bleeding from an impressive cut on the temple. The blood dripped down his cheekbones, gathered in droplets on his chin, and splattered down his chest and tattered white shirt, whose neckline sagged nearly to his sternum.
"Boss-man thought you might enjoy this," Sweeny growled as Greg frowned at the boy. "He's pretty bent and would be a perfect gift for you, boss thought. He'd be good at… you know. You did a right job on that copper sniffing around here and all…"
Greg grimaced at Sweeny. The "copper" Greg had "done a right job on" was currently listening to the entire conversation, thanks to the bugs he and Greg had placed the evening previous. Thank God for technology, he thought. One more night and this nightmare would be over.
And he could leave the fucking Drugs Squad and find a nice soft spot in the Murder Division.
The lad sniffed, a horrible, rattling sound.
"Yeah, great." Greg took a long drag on his cigarette and dropped it, crushing it out with his heel. He made himself walk over to the boy. He forced his fingers underneath his chin, as Sweeny barked with laughter.
"Careful he don't bite you. His dealer had to give him that. Nearly bit his thumb off, he did."
"What's his name?"
"Name?" Sweeny asked, incredulous. "He don't have a name."
"No, of course not."
He wouldn't. He was just another junkie, another wasted, worthless life.
Greg forced the lad's head up.
In the dim light cast by the overhead bulb, the boy looked unearthly. Fucking looked like an angel, all pale skin and eyes and dark hair. Like Isaac.
His eyes were unfocused—either from the blow to the head or the drugs, Greg wasn't sure which—as the blood from the cut trickled down the side of his face. Snot gathered above his lip and he sniffed again. Lovely.
****
Fucking staring at me. Sweeny thinks he'll be able to watch me suck him off. Prematurely grey. He probably wants to hit you, to fuck you fuck you hard make you beg for it Pervertpervertpervertpervert. No, stop. Look. He doesn't. He wants to… fuck he wants to SAVE me? Save me save me save me save me.
****
Greg's stomach tightened. Was this how Isaac had looked before… No. No, not now. He caught his breath. Not now, he thought. Dear God, not now. Not in front of Sweeny.
"Get me a damp cloth, clean, and some bandages," Greg barked, struggling for control. "He's no good to me if he's bleeding all over the damn place."
"Pretty little thing, ain't he?" Sweeny asked. "I reckon he'll clean up nice and proper for you."
The lad sniffed again and slid his gaze, suddenly in focus, to Greg's. Sharp, cutting, pale blue-grey, intelligent. Greg's stomach lurched. The boy knew. He fought down the rising surge of panic that his cover was blown, that it was all over, that he was about to lose it, that he could lose it all. And then the light faded just as quickly as it had come.
****
Thirty-eight, hasn't hit forty yet. Not a hard case. Fuck. He's thinking. What's he thinking. Buzz, buzz little brain. Stare back. Focus. Fucking focus. What do you want to see. It's all here. Make me suck you. Get off on that. Spray your cum on my face. Be careful I don't bite your cock off. PervertpervertpervertpervertsavemepervertpervertstopstopstopstopMycroftsavemenononono.
****
"Yeah, he'll be just the thing," Greg said. There didn't seem to be enough air in the room. "Not a girl, but…"
"You want him here?" Sweeny's voice brought him back to earth. Or at least the hell-on-earth that was the warehouse.
"Nah," Greg said, making a great show of adjusting his belt, "I'll do him over somewhere more—" he paused and leered at Sweeny "—comfortable. For me."
Sweeny chuckled, and Greg was thankful he'd already beat the living shit out of their snitch – anything to enhance his reputation as a bloodthirsty sadist, right? He tried not to think about the damage he'd done to his colleague. To himself. Not when his own life was at stake.
The lad didn't flinch as Sweeny slammed the door behind him.
****
Ouch, door. Ouch. Sweeny's afraid of him. Good. Not good. Good for him. Not for me. Who's him? Fuck if I know. What does he want? He's looking at me again. Biting his lip. Uncertain. No. Recognition. He sees somebody. Not me. Nobody sees me. Nobody saw me. Trevor. Seb. Mummy. Why Mummy? Not now, not now. Think, focus. Blood. Sniff. Stomach. Organs. Fire. Lasers. Edges. Sharp edges. If he lets me go, I'll slice him open. Watch him bleed. Blood. Blood is thicker than… Family.
****
"Come on then," Greg said, pulling the lad to his feet. "You're coming with me."
****
Feet slippery. Legs. He's got nice hands. Like his hands on my cock. Cock, cock, cock. Poofter for certain. Returning sensation in my hands. Feet not… No. Feel that? Feelfeelfeelfeelfeel. Stopstop. No, he's undoing your hands. Feelfeelfeelfeel. He's a cop! Fuck. His wallet. Hold still… Here. His actual wallet. Not too clever, this one. Save it for later. Find time. Save it. Save me. No. Yes. Pleasepleasepleaseplease. Mummy, I'm scared. He's… nononononono.
****
The boy sagged against him, smearing blood on Greg's face and shirt. His hands flopped onto Greg's hips as they struggled to remain upright. Greg was hit by a wave of the stench of cigarettes, urine, fear, and patchouli.
"Oh, for the love of… Come on, Sunshine."
The plan had been to take the boy to A&E, get him patched up, and take him into custody until somebody could come 'round and collect him.
****
Focus. Car. He's taking you away. Air. Fresh. Breathe. Focus. THINK. He wants to take you to A&E. Why? He's a cop. That's why. Cop. Fuck. Shit. No, easier to get out of this. He'll arrest me. No. Yes. Cop. Cop. Focus, focus, focus. Fog's clearing. Coming down. Shit. Want. Need. No. Focus.
****
But, bundled into Greg's battered car, the lad turned to him and said,
"'l be fine… just take me home."
"Not going to happen," Greg said. "Hospital for you."
****
No. They'll come for me there. Mycroft. Fucking Mycroft. He'll find me. Even if I'm… Not that. Not… Car behind us. Sweeny. Them. We're in trouble.
****
"No! No… they'll…" The lad licked his lips. "They'll find me."
Greg looked in his rearview mirror. With a chill, he recognized the car behind him.
Sweeny was tailing him.
Fuck. It was over. And Greg didn't have a phone. Or a radio. Or even a fucking smoke-signal. He was blown. And it was only a matter of time.
Greg sighed and turned the car in the general direction of Finsbury Park. Might as well go home, he thought. If they're going to kill me tonight, might as well be in my own home. Get on Mrs Thingummy Upstairs's tits, at any rate.
The first thing Greg did when he got the boy to his flat was clean him up in his bathroom and allow him to use the loo. Then he sat him down in a chair and shoved a bowl of hastily microwaved soup in front of him.
"Eat."
The lad glared at him.
"Eat or talk to me. What's your name?" Greg folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the counter. A cigarette smoldered in the ashtray near his elbow. The boy's eyes darted to it.
"No," Greg said. "What's your name?"
"Sherlock."
"Sherlock? Sherlock what?"
The only answer Greg received was a middle finger.
"Okay, then eat. This isn't difficult."
Sherlock glared at him and said,
"What is difficult to fathom is why an cop would spend so much time sucking up to toads like Sweeny and Rossman. They're small time drug-lords, not exactly kingpins.
"Or is it because you think, in your limited little brain, that you can use them to get to Ryder and his Colombian overlords?"
It took all of Greg's self-control not to backhand the little twat across the face.
Sherlock leaned back in his chair, his look of smug triumph marred only by a quick sniffle of his perpetually running nose.
"Shows how little you know," Greg snarled, reaching for the bottle of whisky on the countertop. "Sweeny and Rossman aren't my targets." There was little point in denying the cop thing. Obviously Sherlock had observational skills that Sweeny and Rossman lacked, and who knew, perhaps the little shit could be useful. "And they aren't small time drug-lords, or even dealers. They're Ryder's runners. You're lucky he wasn't there tonight."
Sherlock sniffed dismissively, poking at the rapidly cooling bowl of tinned soup.
"You should be thankful," Greg insisted. "Ryder's not nearly as nice as I am. You'd have been tortured and then handed over to somebody else. Somebody not me. Somebody who…"
Sherlock interrupted.
"Somebody who isn't still in mourning for his lover. A lover whom he never talked about publicly because being gay is bad enough, but being a gay copper is about ten times worse. You're bent, Lestrade, and you had trouble with it even when you were fucking him, but now that he's dead—and he died without you having a chance to kiss him good-bye—it's even worse.
"Let me guess: you didn't even attend the funeral because you didn't want his mum to find out that there wasn't a 'girlfriend' at all but a boyfriend, instead."
Greg stepped forward and backhanded him across the mouth.
****
Got that one right. Too bad he's still in love with him. Stupid place to store a memento – the bathroom – why not just leave it out for all the world to see. Looks like me. Pale. Dark hair. But not me. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. You're stupid. Stop it. You liked that. You want it again. Please. No. Fuck, stop thinking, stop. Need another hit. Hit. Hit. Hit me instead. Function, damn you, brain, work.
****
Sherlock just laughed and dabbed at his lip. And then he sniffed. The harsh florescent light of the kitchen cast deep shadows beneath his cheekbones.
"Well, thanks," he said. "Thanks for the soup. I'll be leaving now." And he rose to go.
Some instinct – the instinct that had kept him alive these past three months, probably – made Greg clamp his hand down on Sherlock's shoulder.
"You're not going anywhere, Sunshine," he said in his best beat-cop voice. "What you've failed to notice, probably because you're still high as a fucking kite, is that the flat is being watched. By Ryder. And the minute you leave, what do you think's gonna happen to you?"
Beneath his hand, he could feel Sherlock stiffen.
Point taken. Good.
"Yeah," Greg said, following up on his advantage. "So you're gonna eat the fucking soup, and then you're going to sleep it off. You understand?"
Sherlock nodded and bent his head, picking up his spoon and shoveling the now completely cold soup into his mouth.
Greg lit another cigarette and took a pull on the whisky straight from the bottle.
He knew he probably shouldn't be drinking, but the tension of having Ryder's men watching the flat every night was starting to wear on him.
Sherlock finished the soup.
Greg pointed to the lumpy sofa in the sitting room.
"You can sleep there," he said. "I'm going to shower. And when I get out, I expect you to be fast asleep, understand? Not out in the street bleeding from a stab wound because you blew it and thought you were fucking invincible. Because at that point, the entire Metropolitan police force would be down on this place and you wouldn't have a hope in hell of surviving."
Sherlock shrugged and collapsed onto his back onto the sofa.
Greg watched him for a good five minutes before he was satisfied that Sherlock was not going to bolt the minute his back was turned.
Greg set the burglar alarm that Isaac had insisted he install. Greg had thought it was ridiculous – who would rob a member of the Metropolitan Police Drugs Squad – but Isaac had been adamant. This way, Greg would know if the little shit decided to risk his life. Or if Sweeny and Rossman decided to kill him in his bed. At least he'd have some warning.
Although why the fuck Greg should even care anymore, about the lad – about anything – was beyond him.
The spray of the shower was hot and punishing as Greg leaned against the tiles, trying to wash away to strain of the day – of being undercover, of dealing with Sherlock whatever-his-name-was, of the memories of Isaac.
He was not stupid. He had known better than to take Sherlock home with him.
But really, what else was there that he could have done? Forced Sherlock to suck him off in front of Sweeny?
Christ, the kid was probably only barely eighteen.
The portion of Greg's brain that wasn't consumed by guilt and worry and anger reminded him of Sherlock's long, lithe form. Of his absolutely stunning neck, and those lovely hands that Greg would, in his more base moments, love to see wrapped around his cock.
"Oh, fuck me," Greg grunted. How the hell had he got in so deep? It was meant to be his last night, dammit. Tomorrow… tomorrow, the raid. The bust. He'd be free of this shite.
The whoosh of cool air from the hall made him start.
"Wouldn't you rather fuck me?" Sherlock asked.
Later on, Greg would be thankful that he was drunk enough not to start violently at Sherlock's intrusion.
Later on, Greg would berate himself for getting this drunk in the first place.
Sherlock's breath was hot on his neck as he wrapped his hands—oh, God, those hands—around Greg's cock and the rest of his body around Greg.
"Wouldn't you rather fuck me?" Sherlock asked again, pressing against him, sliding his already hard cock against Greg's arse. "I'd moan for it. That's what Sweeny wanted to see, you know, wanted to watch you fuck me into the pavement. He's probably sitting in that battered Cortina across the road imagining this now. But you don't care about that because all you're thinking about is how good my hands feel."
Greg turned and pushed Sherlock against the cold tiles of the shower. He shuddered.
"If I do," he demanded. "Will you shut up?"
Sherlock smiled and kissed him.
****
This IS what he wants. Perfect. Read him. Still good. Still great. Still can do this. And I want him. Handsome arse, thick cock. Lovely skin. Definitely gay. Called it. Yesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyes. Fuck me, fuck me now, fuckme fuckmefuckmefuckmefuckmefuckmefuckmefuckmefuckmefuckme.
****
Greg came to his senses and backed off. Panting, gasping for air, he turned off the shower and leaned out of it, yanking a towel off of the bar. It came off with a snap of fabric. He ran it over his hair, feeling the water drip down his spine, and spun, throwing it at Sherlock.
"Get out," he growled.
Sherlock laughed at him.
"I'm not going to fuck you, Sunshine," Greg said. "You're gonna dry yourself off and get out of my bathroom and back onto your sofa."
Sherlock pouted, pulling at his softening cock with those beautiful hands, all the while watching Greg with those bright, focused remember he's still high, he's just a lad, he's not your… he's not Isaac. eyes.
Greg caught his breath.
No.
"Now." He stepped out of the shower and bent down and grabbed his y-fronts, stepping into them and jerking them up over his hips. He ignored the small whinge from the shower. Sherlock slunk to the tiles, legs splayed out in front of him.
****
What's he doing? Why not? Why'd he stop? He wants this. I want…
****
"Let's go," Greg said, stepping back into the shower and pulling at Sherlock until he was in a more-or-less upright position. He knelt behind him and yanked the towel from Sherlock's unresisting grasp. Sherlock's head sagged against Greg's shoulder, baring his long neck. Greg tried to pretend he didn't see the bruising at the throat.
The boy, the lad, Sherlock stank, and Greg sighed as he turned the water back on. Apparently sponging the snot and blood off of his face wouldn't suffice.
Sherlock groaned.
"Stay with me, Sunshine," Greg grunted, reaching up for the soap and shampoo.
"You wanna know how I knew all that, don'tcha?" Sherlock spluttered under the water as Greg began to scrub at him, ignoring, or trying to ignore, the feel of smooth skin beneath his hands and his own helpless erection pushing against his y-fronts.
"Yeah, sure. Tell me." Greg lifted Sherlock's arm and ran the soap underneath. "Move." He shifted him to the left.
****
G'wan, you little freak, show him what you can do. Maybe that stiffy'll come in handy after all. Freak. Freak of the mind. Freak of nature. Tell him, tell him and he'll fuck you. Fuck you rotten like you deserve. Bad boy. Freak. Pervert. TELL HIM.
****
"You should keep a better eye on your wallet," Sherlock slurred under the spray. "You were clever enough to remove your warrant card, you're not a total idiot, but behind your fake driving license is your blood donor card. Not smart. It has your real name on it: Gregory Simon Lestrade." Sherlock sniffed.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. And then, tucked away in the back of the billfold is a picture of you with a man. You're embracing one another like colleagues or even friends, but the looks on his face and yours tell much more. Plus you're both wearing matching necklaces. Something you're not wearing now.
"Not a great stretch, that – you wouldn't wear personal jewelry on a case – but it's not anywhere in your flat, either. At least visible. It's in a box in your medicine chest. An unlikely place for something so valuable. Except there's two of them, and you're afraid somebody's going to find it. So, someone who either left you or died. My money's on died.
"Add that to the fact that you were both cops – it shows in the picture—and it's not hard to conjecture what happened to him. And to you."
****
Now he's gonna hit you again, you little freak. You know you want that, too, the pressure building. He wants to hit you and fuck you in the arse like you deserve for telling him about his lover. Wants to punish you. And you want him to. Pervert. Freak. Pervertpervertpervertpervertpervertpervertpervertpervert pervertpervert
****
Greg felt the bile rising in his throat.
"You got anything else?" he asked, gripping the flannel so hard his knuckles were white.
Sherlock laughed and shifted so he could lean back against the tiles, tilting his head to avoid the spray with Greg crouched in front of him.
"Lots more, but wouldn't you rather fuck me instead of hear me talk?" He reached out his hand to grasp Greg's cock.
****
I was right. He does want me. Pervertpervertpervertpervert. No, stop. He doesn't he wants to… fuck he wants to SAVE me. Save me save me save me save me. High's receeding. Focus. No, don't want to. Stomach… gonna throw up.
****
Greg batted his hands away from the soaked front of his y-fronts.
"Come on," he said. "Up you get." He hauled Sherlock to his feet, draped him in a towel and began to dry him off.
"You're no fun anyway," Sherlock groaned, leaning against Greg, helping not at all in the struggle to get them dry.
"Nope, no fun at all," Greg agreed, trying to keep the banter light. Running hands over another man's body was bad enough, especially another man who… When was the last time he'd managed to get a leg over? Not since… not since Isaac, and their last night together… Greg pushed the thought out of his mind.
"'s too bad you want me," Sherlock said, his knees suddenly buckling as the two men collapsed to the floor. "You might be…" But whatever Sherlock was about to say was lost as he was noisily sick all over Greg's closed toilet lid.
Greg sighed heavily and wiped down Sherlock's face and arms and chest. Sympathy, empathy, something he didn't want to examine too closely uncurled in his chest.
"Come on, Sunshine," he said, "let's get you to bed."
Sherlock spent the remainder of the night vomiting into a bin by the side of Greg's bed and shaking uncontrollably while Greg held him and cleaned him up as best he could.
In the early morning, Sherlock's symptoms had subsided, and he bullied Greg into bringing in tea and Greg's cigarettes. They lay together, smoking and squabbling peaceably about music and crime and Greg, Sherlock dressed in a borrowed pair of pyjama bottoms, his curly dark hair pillowed on Greg's chest.
"I'm twenty-four," Sherlock confessed. "And it's all just so dull."
****
Why open up? He's going to hit me again. No… He won't. He misses his lover. Gary? No. Harry? No. Peter? No. Won't ask him. Not yet. God, he thinks he can save me the way he didn't… Why's nobody wanting to save just me? Mycroft. Mummy. . . Why am I not worth it?
****
Greg's heart tightened. What had this wretched, beautiful creature been doing? For how long had he been walking that fine line between disaster and death? And what drove him? Boredom? Decidedly not normal, though. Normal people got bored and turned on the television. They didn't get high and provoke their dealers and wind up in bed with a bent cop. Greg grimaced.
"Not exciting enough?" he asked. "I'd hardly think that cocaine is a decent substitute."
"It's not," Sherlock mumbled. "But it's all I have."
"Yeah, but surely there are other things."
"Please."
"Well, like science, or …"
"Police work? Boring."
"It's … okay, yeah," Greg agreed. "It can be pretty boring. But there are times… problems…"
"You're an undercover drugs cop, and not a very good one, if I was able to see through you," Sherlock argued.
"It's only because…"
"Of your boyfriend, right."
"He's not… he wasn't my boyfriend."
"Whatever."
"Look…"
"So you blunder about, completely out of your depth, ignoring what's right in front of your face, trying to bring petty thieves and drug dealers to justice."
"I wouldn't call what they did to you 'petty'," Greg said, running his hand through Sherlock's curly locks.
Sherlock grunted and stole the fag from Greg's other hand.
"Whatever. The point is that even with the most mundane problems, you lot are completely incompetent."
"And you could do better?"
Sherlock grunted and handed him back the cigarette.
"Of course. I could solve every one of your silly little problems in my sleep."
"You're that good?" Greg laughed.
"I'm that great," Sherlock said simply.
"You're mad," Greg replied, pressing a kiss to the top of Sherlock's head. Sherlock hummed and shifted beside him. A small spark of an idea flickered in Greg's brain.
"That's all, Sunshine," Greg whispered in his ear. "That's all I'm gonna do to you." He stubbed out the cigarette and turned out the light.
He fell asleep with Sherlock on his chest, his arm around him.
But when he awoke, Sherlock was gone.
Greg spent a good twenty minutes in a state of panic as he searched the flat for signs that Sherlock had rifled through it, stolen anything.
He hadn't. The flat was in the same condition it always was. Even the photograph of him and Isaac that he kept hidden in his sock drawer was untouched.
Greg stared at it for what seemed a long time.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to the smiling faces of the men in the photo.
When he opened his door, he received one of the nastiest shocks in his life.
Sprawled across his doorstep, bleeding from a single gunshot wound to the back of the head, lay Sweeny.
Greg's heart stopped. If this wasn't a warning, he didn't know what was.
At that moment, his mobile started to ring, and his day became appreciably worse.
Sick with worry, Greg spent the day running back and forth between Rossman and Ryder and his contact with the Met, hoping beyond all hope that Sherlock hadn't managed to get himself killed by walking out of his flat at God-knew-when that morning.
Rossman and Ryder's reactions to Sweeny's death were nothing if not predictable. The fact that Sweeny had been found on Greg's doorstep convinced them that their entire operation had been blown. Fortunately, Greg had amassed enough evidence against them and Ryder's bosses to initiate the bust and subsequent arrests.
He watched with no small amount of pleasure as the two men were led away in handcuffs late that afternoon. There would be a mountain of paperwork, but at the moment, he had to find Sherlock.
Greg spent the late afternoon and evening scouring all of the places he could think to find him, failing with each bolt-hole and corner.
Until he came home and found Sherlock fast asleep in his bed. It was absolutely ridiculous. And completely unfair.
"Wake up, Sunshine." Greg threw a shoe at him.
Sherlock snorted and sat up. Sniffling.
****
Warm, safe, cold, no. Hot. Where am I? Shoe? GregGregGregGregGregGregGreg. I came back. He came back. See me? I came back came back for youyouyouyou. Love you, need you. Need me. Savemesavemesaveme, fuckme, nononono, you won't… focus, speak, words, out.
****
"What the hell?" he demanded. Greg noticed with no small amount of concern that Sherlock was naked. Again.
"Where the hell have you been?" he demanded.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and flopped back down onto Greg's bed.
"Dull," he said.
"You're high again."
****
Sleep. No. High? Maybe, don't remember. Annoyed. He's always annoyed. Angry? Not yet. Make him angry, make him hit me. Hitmehitmehitmehitme. No. Stop. Think. Focus. Breathe. Speak.
****
"Oh, brilliantly observed, Greg." Sherlock's voice was muffled by the pillow.
Greg sighed.
"Have you eaten?" he asked.
"No. Boring."
****
Food. Again. Boring
****
"Oh, for the love… Come on," Greg growled, striding over to the bed and dragging the naked Sherlock out of bed and fighting him into the discarded pyjama bottoms from the night before.
"Eating's dull," Sherlock protested as Greg frog-marched him into his kitchen. "Not soup again!"
"It's all I have at the moment," Greg said, shoving him into a chair and wielding the tin opener. "I didn't exactly have time to go to the shops today, did I?"
Sherlock grumbled and subsided long enough to eat the soup.
"You have any… family?" Greg asked. "Anyone I can call?"
****
Family. Mycroft. Mummy. Mycroft. Shot Sweeny last night. Shot him dead
****
"No. He'll find you," Sherlock said. "Got any cigarettes?"
"No."
"G'wan…"
"No."
Sherlock folded his arms and scowled at the scuffed tabletop.
"I don't care if you think I'm dull," Greg retorted. "What do you mean, 'he'll find me'?"
Sherlock laughed.
"You'll see," he said. "Right about … now."
There was a harsh knock at the door.
Greg glared at Sherlock and went to look out of the peephole.
Without stood a man who looked, relative to Sherlock, completely unremarkable.
Receding hairline, neat suit, waistcoat, umbrella, pinched expression.
Greg opened the door slightly.
"Yes?" he asked.
"Ah, Detective Sergeant Lestrade. So good of you to take my brother in during this difficult time. I hope he has not caused you too much inconvenience."
In a lifetime of encounters with seriously dangerous, bad people, Greg had never met somebody quite so… threatening. A flash of insight told him—or maybe it was the black car parked out front, idling—that this was not an individual to trifle with or question. Greg stiffened. Told himself to focus. He was a cop, he had presence, he could do this.
But Sherlock had come to him. Had asked for Greg's help. Not this man's. Greg wondered what that meant. He decided that he didn't want to know. He hoped he'd be shot of Sherlock soon. And then realized he'd never be free of the guilt if he was.
"Well, I… excuse me, but who are you?" Greg asked.
"Ah, Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock Holmes' brother. May I come in and collect him? I assure you, you will be compensated for the time and expense of feeding him."
"Erm, it was only soup… And what, exactly, do you do, anyway?" Greg demanded.
"He occupies a minor position in the British Government," Sherlock said suddenly and with heavy sarcasm. He was standing in the door, still clad in only the pajama pants, limned with light from the kitchen. Greg tried not to stare. Fuck but he was gorgeous. "Mycroft."
"Sherlock. Have you decided not to make a fuss?" Mycroft asked him.
Greg's head swiveled back to Mycroft. A minor position in the British Government, indeed. The man looked like he bloody ran the place. The man looked like he belonged at MI-5, for all that.
"Not going anywhere," Sherlock grunted.
"That, Sherlock, is where you are mistaken." Mycroft leaned slightly on his umbrella. Good Christ, even the man's umbrella was perfectly and precisely folded.
"Fuck you, Mycroft."
"How long do you intend to perform this charade? I have meetings to attend today."
"Go, attend them. I'm fine right here." Sherlock crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame.
****
See if he can take me. I can stay here. Greg'll keep me. Doesn't love me. I'm a chore. Chore. Something Mycroft does to please Mummy. Of course. Mummy. Always about making Mummy happy. Well, fuck him. Fuck her. I don't want to make Mummy happy. I want…
****
"Sherlock…" Mycroft frowned.
"Mycroft…" Sherlock mimicked.
"For once, Sherlock, could you please not make a fuss?" Mycroft asked him with a weary sigh. "We can do this the easy way, or we can do this your way. It is your choice."
****
Yes, not make a fuss. That's always exactly what you want. ALWAYS
****
Greg clearly heard the threat.
"Excuse me," he asked. "Just where do you think you're taking him?"
"Rehabilitation," Mycroft replied "This will be his fourth attempt, and, as he well knows, his last." A chill went down Greg's spine.
Sherlock straightened.
"What if I don't want to?" he asked.
Mycroft didn't reply.
"Now wait a minute," Greg said. "If he doesn't want to…"
"It's not your decision, Detective Sergeant," Mycroft interrupted him, glaring at Sherlock.
"Now look here," Greg began.
"Fine," Sherlock interrupted. "But it'll be dull. As usual. And fail. As usual."
"Perhaps, little brother," Mycroft said. "But perhaps this time will be different. Detective Sergeant, I'm sure you've seen Sherlock’s capabilities. Have you considered all the possibilities?"
"What do you mean?" Greg demanded.
"You see it, don't you, Sergeant Lestrade? The petty, small lives of the people who go about this city, day after day, minding their own business, ignoring the cesspool that lies before them. But you also see the stinking, seething mass of worthless humanity, don't you? The battles that are being waged every day – the blood, the terror, the death. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft intoned, "you see the battlefield. And you need that."
From the doorway, Sherlock sniffled.
"Pull the other one, Mycroft," he said.
"Sherlock…"
"Get dressed, Sunshine," Greg interrupted. "Go with your brother. Get yourself clean. Then… come back and we'll talk." He ran his hand through his hair and sighed, wondering when his life had become so complicated. Oh yeah, when he had decided to join the drugs squad and go undercover. When he'd met this impossible, intelligent, unearthly boy, glaring at him from his own kitchen door.
Sherlock glared at them for a solid minute and then flounced into Greg's bedroom.
****
Demins stink. Hate demin. Hate this shirt. Hate me. Hate Mycroft. Hatehatehatehate. Don't hate Greg, though. He doesn't judge. Doesn't try to… remember he's only saving me because of Isaac. Isaac. Isaac. I'm not Isaac. Why can't it be ME? Bathroom. The chain. Isaac's. Mine. Remind him. Remember him. Remember me.
****
"I'm glad to see that you are coming around to a more sensible course of action, Detective Inspector," Mycroft said.
"I'm not…" Greg began.
"Perhaps not yet, but I would not be surprised if there are new opportunities opening for you in the very near future. Perhaps something a little less life-threatening than the drugs squad? Murder, perhaps?" Mycroft asked him with a smile.
"You're joking." Greg stared at him in disbelief.
"One thing you'll have to learn about my brother," Sherlock announced, slinking back into the room, somewhat respectably clad in filthy jeans and a t-shirt whose neck sagged nearly to his sternum. "Is that he never, ever jokes. It's one of the things that makes him so boring." He sniffed, again, the rattling, mucusy sound, and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Greg noticed, with Sherlock's movement, that Isaac's chain was hanging around his neck.
He clenched his fists. How dare the little shit steal…
Oh, who was he kidding?
****
Well? React, dammit, react. Show me. Tell me. Hit me. You want to hit me. Hitmehitmehitmehitmehitme.
****
Sherlock smirked at him. Daring Greg to say something.
Mycroft looked disgusted.
"Are you coming?" he asked.
Sherlock sniffed again. "You're insisting, and here I am. Ever willing to obey my older brother."
Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow.
"Fine. Thank you, Detective Sergeant for your hospitality," Sherlock muttered with a sniffle as they walked toward the door, brushing – deliberately, it seemed – against Greg.
If Sherlock could play at that game… Greg grabbed Sherlock's wrist as he tried to lift his wallet again.
"Not this time, Sunshine," Greg said. He turned over Sherlock's hand and grabbed a biro from his desk. "I won't spring you or anything, but if you need something…" Greg drew his hand towards him and on the back carefully printed his mobile number.
Sherlock looked down, something like disbelief crossing his face as Greg closed his fingers around his hand. Greg caught Sherlock's eye and nodded.
"Go," he said, giving him a little shove.
Mycroft nodded his head pleasantly, obviously pretending to ignore the interaction.
"Thank you again, Detective Sergeant" he said. "We will be in contact," he added, pulling the door closed behind him.
"Yeah, erm, no worries," Greg muttered at the shut door.
His sitting room was dark, only the sulfurous yellow light from the streetlamp outside, illuminating the battered sofa with the Aston Villa blanket draped over it where Sherlock had thrown it off the night before.
Apropos of nothing, it occurred to Greg that it could have been Mycroft who had arranged for Sweeny's death.
The thought made him shiver and he hurried to turn on a light – to dispel the darkness.
Greg looked around. The flat felt suddenly very empty as he was left alone to contemplate the last twenty-four hours.
Unfortunately, all he could think of was Sherlock, naked in his shower. Sherlock, backlit, standing in the doorway to his kitchen, pants sliding down his hips. Sherlock, pillowed on Greg's chest, sharing a cigarette in his bed. Sherlock, rubbing his erection against Greg's thigh, begging him to fuck him. Sherlock wearing Isaac's necklace.
Greg shuddered. It would have been almost too easy to give in to Sherlock's demands. Too easy to bury himself in his willing arse. Too easy to hold him down and fuck him until he came.
Greg surveyed the cold bowl of soup on his kitchen table and sighed. Instead he grabbed the whisky bottle and headed for the shower.
There, he turned on the water as hot as he could stand it, took a swig of the whisky and stepped into the stall.
He would not think about what had happened—or hadn't happened—there last night.
Christ, he was already hard. Greg grabbed a bottle of conditioner – a legacy from Isaac – had it been six months already? Greg should really have binned it. He squirted some of the conditioner onto his hand and brought his hand to his cock, sucking in his breath at the chill.
Bracing against the tiles with one hand, he began to stroke himself, first slowly, fondling his balls, pressing his fingers against his perineum, bringing his hand back to his cock as he closed his eyes and tried not to think about Sherlock.
It was useless. All he could see was the wicked curve of Sherlock's mouth. All he could imagine was brushing his cock against those moist pink lips, watching as Sherlock sucked on the head of his cock, running his tongue along the slit before sucking him into that hot, wet mouth.
Greg increased the pace of his hand against his cock as he bit down hard on his lip in an effort keep from coming. Faster and harder he stroked, remembering the sound of Sherlock's voice, his insolent pout, imagining his hand buried in the little twat's hair, making him gasp and groan.
In his mind, he was fucking Sherlock's mouth, listening to the muffled moans and obscene slurps until suddenly, all too suddenly, Greg was coming all over his hand.
He groaned, his knees nearly buckling as his free hand scrabbled for purchase on the slick tiles.
"Fuck," he muttered as his vision cleared. He turned to face the water, flinching against the now punishing cold spray from the showerhead.
"Fuck," he said again as he cleaned himself off and turned off the tap, reaching for a towel.
Unfortunately, the one nearest to hand was the one that Sherlock had used the night before. Or, more specifically, he had used on Sherlock. Greg scrubbed his face with it, smelling the scent of the lad – the mix of Greg's soap and the cigarettes and patchouli (of course) that Greg's none-too-thorough scrubbing could not erase.
Greg groaned and tossed the towel from him, padding into his bedroom to find a pair of clean shorts and a vest.
He rolled into bed, making sure to stay on his side. Making sure not to roll onto the side where Sherlock had lain. Making sure not to grab the pillow Sherlock had used and hold it to him like some soft toy.
Greg awoke the next morning, wrapped in the duvet, cuddling Sherlock's pillow, face down on the opposite side of the bed.
He rolled over and winced at the light filtering in through the curtain. His head was pounding and his heart…
Greg threw the duvet aside and stalked to the airing cupboard to find fresh sheets and towels. With a grim efficiency, he stripped the bed and dragged the sheets to the kitchen where he shoved them into the washer.
Then, he set about scrubbing down his bathroom, determined to eradicate the lingering memory of the past two nights.
Part 2
Recipient:
jainAuthor:
sc010f Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/Lestrade; Mycroft Holmes, Sally Donovan, John Watson, OMC
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, violence, drug use, language, frank discussion of sexual topics
Summary: When he found you, you were bleeding. When he fell in love with you, you were beyond the reach of man. But he's damaged, too. And together, if you can remember when you first met, you will make your way through the battlefield.
One
Greg was happy, not for the first time that day, that he had a strong stomach: the room stank of urine and cigarettes.
The lad kneeling before him was bleeding from an impressive cut on the temple. The blood dripped down his cheekbones, gathered in droplets on his chin, and splattered down his chest and tattered white shirt, whose neckline sagged nearly to his sternum.
"Boss-man thought you might enjoy this," Sweeny growled as Greg frowned at the boy. "He's pretty bent and would be a perfect gift for you, boss thought. He'd be good at… you know. You did a right job on that copper sniffing around here and all…"
Greg grimaced at Sweeny. The "copper" Greg had "done a right job on" was currently listening to the entire conversation, thanks to the bugs he and Greg had placed the evening previous. Thank God for technology, he thought. One more night and this nightmare would be over.
And he could leave the fucking Drugs Squad and find a nice soft spot in the Murder Division.
The lad sniffed, a horrible, rattling sound.
"Yeah, great." Greg took a long drag on his cigarette and dropped it, crushing it out with his heel. He made himself walk over to the boy. He forced his fingers underneath his chin, as Sweeny barked with laughter.
"Careful he don't bite you. His dealer had to give him that. Nearly bit his thumb off, he did."
"What's his name?"
"Name?" Sweeny asked, incredulous. "He don't have a name."
"No, of course not."
He wouldn't. He was just another junkie, another wasted, worthless life.
Greg forced the lad's head up.
In the dim light cast by the overhead bulb, the boy looked unearthly. Fucking looked like an angel, all pale skin and eyes and dark hair. Like Isaac.
His eyes were unfocused—either from the blow to the head or the drugs, Greg wasn't sure which—as the blood from the cut trickled down the side of his face. Snot gathered above his lip and he sniffed again. Lovely.
Fucking staring at me. Sweeny thinks he'll be able to watch me suck him off. Prematurely grey. He probably wants to hit you, to fuck you fuck you hard make you beg for it Pervertpervertpervertpervert. No, stop. Look. He doesn't. He wants to… fuck he wants to SAVE me? Save me save me save me save me.
Greg's stomach tightened. Was this how Isaac had looked before… No. No, not now. He caught his breath. Not now, he thought. Dear God, not now. Not in front of Sweeny.
"Get me a damp cloth, clean, and some bandages," Greg barked, struggling for control. "He's no good to me if he's bleeding all over the damn place."
"Pretty little thing, ain't he?" Sweeny asked. "I reckon he'll clean up nice and proper for you."
The lad sniffed again and slid his gaze, suddenly in focus, to Greg's. Sharp, cutting, pale blue-grey, intelligent. Greg's stomach lurched. The boy knew. He fought down the rising surge of panic that his cover was blown, that it was all over, that he was about to lose it, that he could lose it all. And then the light faded just as quickly as it had come.
Thirty-eight, hasn't hit forty yet. Not a hard case. Fuck. He's thinking. What's he thinking. Buzz, buzz little brain. Stare back. Focus. Fucking focus. What do you want to see. It's all here. Make me suck you. Get off on that. Spray your cum on my face. Be careful I don't bite your cock off. PervertpervertpervertpervertsavemepervertpervertstopstopstopstopMycroftsavemenononono.
"Yeah, he'll be just the thing," Greg said. There didn't seem to be enough air in the room. "Not a girl, but…"
"You want him here?" Sweeny's voice brought him back to earth. Or at least the hell-on-earth that was the warehouse.
"Nah," Greg said, making a great show of adjusting his belt, "I'll do him over somewhere more—" he paused and leered at Sweeny "—comfortable. For me."
Sweeny chuckled, and Greg was thankful he'd already beat the living shit out of their snitch – anything to enhance his reputation as a bloodthirsty sadist, right? He tried not to think about the damage he'd done to his colleague. To himself. Not when his own life was at stake.
The lad didn't flinch as Sweeny slammed the door behind him.
Ouch, door. Ouch. Sweeny's afraid of him. Good. Not good. Good for him. Not for me. Who's him? Fuck if I know. What does he want? He's looking at me again. Biting his lip. Uncertain. No. Recognition. He sees somebody. Not me. Nobody sees me. Nobody saw me. Trevor. Seb. Mummy. Why Mummy? Not now, not now. Think, focus. Blood. Sniff. Stomach. Organs. Fire. Lasers. Edges. Sharp edges. If he lets me go, I'll slice him open. Watch him bleed. Blood. Blood is thicker than… Family.
"Come on then," Greg said, pulling the lad to his feet. "You're coming with me."
Feet slippery. Legs. He's got nice hands. Like his hands on my cock. Cock, cock, cock. Poofter for certain. Returning sensation in my hands. Feet not… No. Feel that? Feelfeelfeelfeelfeel. Stopstop. No, he's undoing your hands. Feelfeelfeelfeel. He's a cop! Fuck. His wallet. Hold still… Here. His actual wallet. Not too clever, this one. Save it for later. Find time. Save it. Save me. No. Yes. Pleasepleasepleaseplease. Mummy, I'm scared. He's… nononononono.
The boy sagged against him, smearing blood on Greg's face and shirt. His hands flopped onto Greg's hips as they struggled to remain upright. Greg was hit by a wave of the stench of cigarettes, urine, fear, and patchouli.
"Oh, for the love of… Come on, Sunshine."
The plan had been to take the boy to A&E, get him patched up, and take him into custody until somebody could come 'round and collect him.
Focus. Car. He's taking you away. Air. Fresh. Breathe. Focus. THINK. He wants to take you to A&E. Why? He's a cop. That's why. Cop. Fuck. Shit. No, easier to get out of this. He'll arrest me. No. Yes. Cop. Cop. Focus, focus, focus. Fog's clearing. Coming down. Shit. Want. Need. No. Focus.
But, bundled into Greg's battered car, the lad turned to him and said,
"'l be fine… just take me home."
"Not going to happen," Greg said. "Hospital for you."
No. They'll come for me there. Mycroft. Fucking Mycroft. He'll find me. Even if I'm… Not that. Not… Car behind us. Sweeny. Them. We're in trouble.
"No! No… they'll…" The lad licked his lips. "They'll find me."
Greg looked in his rearview mirror. With a chill, he recognized the car behind him.
Sweeny was tailing him.
Fuck. It was over. And Greg didn't have a phone. Or a radio. Or even a fucking smoke-signal. He was blown. And it was only a matter of time.
Greg sighed and turned the car in the general direction of Finsbury Park. Might as well go home, he thought. If they're going to kill me tonight, might as well be in my own home. Get on Mrs Thingummy Upstairs's tits, at any rate.
The first thing Greg did when he got the boy to his flat was clean him up in his bathroom and allow him to use the loo. Then he sat him down in a chair and shoved a bowl of hastily microwaved soup in front of him.
"Eat."
The lad glared at him.
"Eat or talk to me. What's your name?" Greg folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the counter. A cigarette smoldered in the ashtray near his elbow. The boy's eyes darted to it.
"No," Greg said. "What's your name?"
"Sherlock."
"Sherlock? Sherlock what?"
The only answer Greg received was a middle finger.
"Okay, then eat. This isn't difficult."
Sherlock glared at him and said,
"What is difficult to fathom is why an cop would spend so much time sucking up to toads like Sweeny and Rossman. They're small time drug-lords, not exactly kingpins.
"Or is it because you think, in your limited little brain, that you can use them to get to Ryder and his Colombian overlords?"
It took all of Greg's self-control not to backhand the little twat across the face.
Sherlock leaned back in his chair, his look of smug triumph marred only by a quick sniffle of his perpetually running nose.
"Shows how little you know," Greg snarled, reaching for the bottle of whisky on the countertop. "Sweeny and Rossman aren't my targets." There was little point in denying the cop thing. Obviously Sherlock had observational skills that Sweeny and Rossman lacked, and who knew, perhaps the little shit could be useful. "And they aren't small time drug-lords, or even dealers. They're Ryder's runners. You're lucky he wasn't there tonight."
Sherlock sniffed dismissively, poking at the rapidly cooling bowl of tinned soup.
"You should be thankful," Greg insisted. "Ryder's not nearly as nice as I am. You'd have been tortured and then handed over to somebody else. Somebody not me. Somebody who…"
Sherlock interrupted.
"Somebody who isn't still in mourning for his lover. A lover whom he never talked about publicly because being gay is bad enough, but being a gay copper is about ten times worse. You're bent, Lestrade, and you had trouble with it even when you were fucking him, but now that he's dead—and he died without you having a chance to kiss him good-bye—it's even worse.
"Let me guess: you didn't even attend the funeral because you didn't want his mum to find out that there wasn't a 'girlfriend' at all but a boyfriend, instead."
Greg stepped forward and backhanded him across the mouth.
Got that one right. Too bad he's still in love with him. Stupid place to store a memento – the bathroom – why not just leave it out for all the world to see. Looks like me. Pale. Dark hair. But not me. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. You're stupid. Stop it. You liked that. You want it again. Please. No. Fuck, stop thinking, stop. Need another hit. Hit. Hit. Hit me instead. Function, damn you, brain, work.
Sherlock just laughed and dabbed at his lip. And then he sniffed. The harsh florescent light of the kitchen cast deep shadows beneath his cheekbones.
"Well, thanks," he said. "Thanks for the soup. I'll be leaving now." And he rose to go.
Some instinct – the instinct that had kept him alive these past three months, probably – made Greg clamp his hand down on Sherlock's shoulder.
"You're not going anywhere, Sunshine," he said in his best beat-cop voice. "What you've failed to notice, probably because you're still high as a fucking kite, is that the flat is being watched. By Ryder. And the minute you leave, what do you think's gonna happen to you?"
Beneath his hand, he could feel Sherlock stiffen.
Point taken. Good.
"Yeah," Greg said, following up on his advantage. "So you're gonna eat the fucking soup, and then you're going to sleep it off. You understand?"
Sherlock nodded and bent his head, picking up his spoon and shoveling the now completely cold soup into his mouth.
Greg lit another cigarette and took a pull on the whisky straight from the bottle.
He knew he probably shouldn't be drinking, but the tension of having Ryder's men watching the flat every night was starting to wear on him.
Sherlock finished the soup.
Greg pointed to the lumpy sofa in the sitting room.
"You can sleep there," he said. "I'm going to shower. And when I get out, I expect you to be fast asleep, understand? Not out in the street bleeding from a stab wound because you blew it and thought you were fucking invincible. Because at that point, the entire Metropolitan police force would be down on this place and you wouldn't have a hope in hell of surviving."
Sherlock shrugged and collapsed onto his back onto the sofa.
Greg watched him for a good five minutes before he was satisfied that Sherlock was not going to bolt the minute his back was turned.
Greg set the burglar alarm that Isaac had insisted he install. Greg had thought it was ridiculous – who would rob a member of the Metropolitan Police Drugs Squad – but Isaac had been adamant. This way, Greg would know if the little shit decided to risk his life. Or if Sweeny and Rossman decided to kill him in his bed. At least he'd have some warning.
Although why the fuck Greg should even care anymore, about the lad – about anything – was beyond him.
The spray of the shower was hot and punishing as Greg leaned against the tiles, trying to wash away to strain of the day – of being undercover, of dealing with Sherlock whatever-his-name-was, of the memories of Isaac.
He was not stupid. He had known better than to take Sherlock home with him.
But really, what else was there that he could have done? Forced Sherlock to suck him off in front of Sweeny?
Christ, the kid was probably only barely eighteen.
The portion of Greg's brain that wasn't consumed by guilt and worry and anger reminded him of Sherlock's long, lithe form. Of his absolutely stunning neck, and those lovely hands that Greg would, in his more base moments, love to see wrapped around his cock.
"Oh, fuck me," Greg grunted. How the hell had he got in so deep? It was meant to be his last night, dammit. Tomorrow… tomorrow, the raid. The bust. He'd be free of this shite.
The whoosh of cool air from the hall made him start.
"Wouldn't you rather fuck me?" Sherlock asked.
Later on, Greg would be thankful that he was drunk enough not to start violently at Sherlock's intrusion.
Later on, Greg would berate himself for getting this drunk in the first place.
Sherlock's breath was hot on his neck as he wrapped his hands—oh, God, those hands—around Greg's cock and the rest of his body around Greg.
"Wouldn't you rather fuck me?" Sherlock asked again, pressing against him, sliding his already hard cock against Greg's arse. "I'd moan for it. That's what Sweeny wanted to see, you know, wanted to watch you fuck me into the pavement. He's probably sitting in that battered Cortina across the road imagining this now. But you don't care about that because all you're thinking about is how good my hands feel."
Greg turned and pushed Sherlock against the cold tiles of the shower. He shuddered.
"If I do," he demanded. "Will you shut up?"
Sherlock smiled and kissed him.
This IS what he wants. Perfect. Read him. Still good. Still great. Still can do this. And I want him. Handsome arse, thick cock. Lovely skin. Definitely gay. Called it. Yesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyes. Fuck me, fuck me now, fuckme fuckmefuckmefuckmefuckmefuckmefuckmefuckmefuckmefuckme.
Greg came to his senses and backed off. Panting, gasping for air, he turned off the shower and leaned out of it, yanking a towel off of the bar. It came off with a snap of fabric. He ran it over his hair, feeling the water drip down his spine, and spun, throwing it at Sherlock.
"Get out," he growled.
Sherlock laughed at him.
"I'm not going to fuck you, Sunshine," Greg said. "You're gonna dry yourself off and get out of my bathroom and back onto your sofa."
Sherlock pouted, pulling at his softening cock with those beautiful hands, all the while watching Greg with those bright, focused remember he's still high, he's just a lad, he's not your… he's not Isaac. eyes.
Greg caught his breath.
No.
"Now." He stepped out of the shower and bent down and grabbed his y-fronts, stepping into them and jerking them up over his hips. He ignored the small whinge from the shower. Sherlock slunk to the tiles, legs splayed out in front of him.
What's he doing? Why not? Why'd he stop? He wants this. I want…
"Let's go," Greg said, stepping back into the shower and pulling at Sherlock until he was in a more-or-less upright position. He knelt behind him and yanked the towel from Sherlock's unresisting grasp. Sherlock's head sagged against Greg's shoulder, baring his long neck. Greg tried to pretend he didn't see the bruising at the throat.
The boy, the lad, Sherlock stank, and Greg sighed as he turned the water back on. Apparently sponging the snot and blood off of his face wouldn't suffice.
Sherlock groaned.
"Stay with me, Sunshine," Greg grunted, reaching up for the soap and shampoo.
"You wanna know how I knew all that, don'tcha?" Sherlock spluttered under the water as Greg began to scrub at him, ignoring, or trying to ignore, the feel of smooth skin beneath his hands and his own helpless erection pushing against his y-fronts.
"Yeah, sure. Tell me." Greg lifted Sherlock's arm and ran the soap underneath. "Move." He shifted him to the left.
G'wan, you little freak, show him what you can do. Maybe that stiffy'll come in handy after all. Freak. Freak of the mind. Freak of nature. Tell him, tell him and he'll fuck you. Fuck you rotten like you deserve. Bad boy. Freak. Pervert. TELL HIM.
"You should keep a better eye on your wallet," Sherlock slurred under the spray. "You were clever enough to remove your warrant card, you're not a total idiot, but behind your fake driving license is your blood donor card. Not smart. It has your real name on it: Gregory Simon Lestrade." Sherlock sniffed.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. And then, tucked away in the back of the billfold is a picture of you with a man. You're embracing one another like colleagues or even friends, but the looks on his face and yours tell much more. Plus you're both wearing matching necklaces. Something you're not wearing now.
"Not a great stretch, that – you wouldn't wear personal jewelry on a case – but it's not anywhere in your flat, either. At least visible. It's in a box in your medicine chest. An unlikely place for something so valuable. Except there's two of them, and you're afraid somebody's going to find it. So, someone who either left you or died. My money's on died.
"Add that to the fact that you were both cops – it shows in the picture—and it's not hard to conjecture what happened to him. And to you."
Now he's gonna hit you again, you little freak. You know you want that, too, the pressure building. He wants to hit you and fuck you in the arse like you deserve for telling him about his lover. Wants to punish you. And you want him to. Pervert. Freak. Pervertpervertpervertpervertpervertpervertpervertpervert pervertpervert
Greg felt the bile rising in his throat.
"You got anything else?" he asked, gripping the flannel so hard his knuckles were white.
Sherlock laughed and shifted so he could lean back against the tiles, tilting his head to avoid the spray with Greg crouched in front of him.
"Lots more, but wouldn't you rather fuck me instead of hear me talk?" He reached out his hand to grasp Greg's cock.
I was right. He does want me. Pervertpervertpervertpervert. No, stop. He doesn't he wants to… fuck he wants to SAVE me. Save me save me save me save me. High's receeding. Focus. No, don't want to. Stomach… gonna throw up.
Greg batted his hands away from the soaked front of his y-fronts.
"Come on," he said. "Up you get." He hauled Sherlock to his feet, draped him in a towel and began to dry him off.
"You're no fun anyway," Sherlock groaned, leaning against Greg, helping not at all in the struggle to get them dry.
"Nope, no fun at all," Greg agreed, trying to keep the banter light. Running hands over another man's body was bad enough, especially another man who… When was the last time he'd managed to get a leg over? Not since… not since Isaac, and their last night together… Greg pushed the thought out of his mind.
"'s too bad you want me," Sherlock said, his knees suddenly buckling as the two men collapsed to the floor. "You might be…" But whatever Sherlock was about to say was lost as he was noisily sick all over Greg's closed toilet lid.
Greg sighed heavily and wiped down Sherlock's face and arms and chest. Sympathy, empathy, something he didn't want to examine too closely uncurled in his chest.
"Come on, Sunshine," he said, "let's get you to bed."
Sherlock spent the remainder of the night vomiting into a bin by the side of Greg's bed and shaking uncontrollably while Greg held him and cleaned him up as best he could.
In the early morning, Sherlock's symptoms had subsided, and he bullied Greg into bringing in tea and Greg's cigarettes. They lay together, smoking and squabbling peaceably about music and crime and Greg, Sherlock dressed in a borrowed pair of pyjama bottoms, his curly dark hair pillowed on Greg's chest.
"I'm twenty-four," Sherlock confessed. "And it's all just so dull."
Why open up? He's going to hit me again. No… He won't. He misses his lover. Gary? No. Harry? No. Peter? No. Won't ask him. Not yet. God, he thinks he can save me the way he didn't… Why's nobody wanting to save just me? Mycroft. Mummy. . . Why am I not worth it?
Greg's heart tightened. What had this wretched, beautiful creature been doing? For how long had he been walking that fine line between disaster and death? And what drove him? Boredom? Decidedly not normal, though. Normal people got bored and turned on the television. They didn't get high and provoke their dealers and wind up in bed with a bent cop. Greg grimaced.
"Not exciting enough?" he asked. "I'd hardly think that cocaine is a decent substitute."
"It's not," Sherlock mumbled. "But it's all I have."
"Yeah, but surely there are other things."
"Please."
"Well, like science, or …"
"Police work? Boring."
"It's … okay, yeah," Greg agreed. "It can be pretty boring. But there are times… problems…"
"You're an undercover drugs cop, and not a very good one, if I was able to see through you," Sherlock argued.
"It's only because…"
"Of your boyfriend, right."
"He's not… he wasn't my boyfriend."
"Whatever."
"Look…"
"So you blunder about, completely out of your depth, ignoring what's right in front of your face, trying to bring petty thieves and drug dealers to justice."
"I wouldn't call what they did to you 'petty'," Greg said, running his hand through Sherlock's curly locks.
Sherlock grunted and stole the fag from Greg's other hand.
"Whatever. The point is that even with the most mundane problems, you lot are completely incompetent."
"And you could do better?"
Sherlock grunted and handed him back the cigarette.
"Of course. I could solve every one of your silly little problems in my sleep."
"You're that good?" Greg laughed.
"I'm that great," Sherlock said simply.
"You're mad," Greg replied, pressing a kiss to the top of Sherlock's head. Sherlock hummed and shifted beside him. A small spark of an idea flickered in Greg's brain.
"That's all, Sunshine," Greg whispered in his ear. "That's all I'm gonna do to you." He stubbed out the cigarette and turned out the light.
He fell asleep with Sherlock on his chest, his arm around him.
But when he awoke, Sherlock was gone.
Greg spent a good twenty minutes in a state of panic as he searched the flat for signs that Sherlock had rifled through it, stolen anything.
He hadn't. The flat was in the same condition it always was. Even the photograph of him and Isaac that he kept hidden in his sock drawer was untouched.
Greg stared at it for what seemed a long time.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to the smiling faces of the men in the photo.
When he opened his door, he received one of the nastiest shocks in his life.
Sprawled across his doorstep, bleeding from a single gunshot wound to the back of the head, lay Sweeny.
Greg's heart stopped. If this wasn't a warning, he didn't know what was.
At that moment, his mobile started to ring, and his day became appreciably worse.
Sick with worry, Greg spent the day running back and forth between Rossman and Ryder and his contact with the Met, hoping beyond all hope that Sherlock hadn't managed to get himself killed by walking out of his flat at God-knew-when that morning.
Rossman and Ryder's reactions to Sweeny's death were nothing if not predictable. The fact that Sweeny had been found on Greg's doorstep convinced them that their entire operation had been blown. Fortunately, Greg had amassed enough evidence against them and Ryder's bosses to initiate the bust and subsequent arrests.
He watched with no small amount of pleasure as the two men were led away in handcuffs late that afternoon. There would be a mountain of paperwork, but at the moment, he had to find Sherlock.
Greg spent the late afternoon and evening scouring all of the places he could think to find him, failing with each bolt-hole and corner.
Until he came home and found Sherlock fast asleep in his bed. It was absolutely ridiculous. And completely unfair.
"Wake up, Sunshine." Greg threw a shoe at him.
Sherlock snorted and sat up. Sniffling.
Warm, safe, cold, no. Hot. Where am I? Shoe? GregGregGregGregGregGregGreg. I came back. He came back. See me? I came back came back for youyouyouyou. Love you, need you. Need me. Savemesavemesaveme, fuckme, nononono, you won't… focus, speak, words, out.
"What the hell?" he demanded. Greg noticed with no small amount of concern that Sherlock was naked. Again.
"Where the hell have you been?" he demanded.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and flopped back down onto Greg's bed.
"Dull," he said.
"You're high again."
Sleep. No. High? Maybe, don't remember. Annoyed. He's always annoyed. Angry? Not yet. Make him angry, make him hit me. Hitmehitmehitmehitme. No. Stop. Think. Focus. Breathe. Speak.
"Oh, brilliantly observed, Greg." Sherlock's voice was muffled by the pillow.
Greg sighed.
"Have you eaten?" he asked.
"No. Boring."
Food. Again. Boring
"Oh, for the love… Come on," Greg growled, striding over to the bed and dragging the naked Sherlock out of bed and fighting him into the discarded pyjama bottoms from the night before.
"Eating's dull," Sherlock protested as Greg frog-marched him into his kitchen. "Not soup again!"
"It's all I have at the moment," Greg said, shoving him into a chair and wielding the tin opener. "I didn't exactly have time to go to the shops today, did I?"
Sherlock grumbled and subsided long enough to eat the soup.
"You have any… family?" Greg asked. "Anyone I can call?"
Family. Mycroft. Mummy. Mycroft. Shot Sweeny last night. Shot him dead
"No. He'll find you," Sherlock said. "Got any cigarettes?"
"No."
"G'wan…"
"No."
Sherlock folded his arms and scowled at the scuffed tabletop.
"I don't care if you think I'm dull," Greg retorted. "What do you mean, 'he'll find me'?"
Sherlock laughed.
"You'll see," he said. "Right about … now."
There was a harsh knock at the door.
Greg glared at Sherlock and went to look out of the peephole.
Without stood a man who looked, relative to Sherlock, completely unremarkable.
Receding hairline, neat suit, waistcoat, umbrella, pinched expression.
Greg opened the door slightly.
"Yes?" he asked.
"Ah, Detective Sergeant Lestrade. So good of you to take my brother in during this difficult time. I hope he has not caused you too much inconvenience."
In a lifetime of encounters with seriously dangerous, bad people, Greg had never met somebody quite so… threatening. A flash of insight told him—or maybe it was the black car parked out front, idling—that this was not an individual to trifle with or question. Greg stiffened. Told himself to focus. He was a cop, he had presence, he could do this.
But Sherlock had come to him. Had asked for Greg's help. Not this man's. Greg wondered what that meant. He decided that he didn't want to know. He hoped he'd be shot of Sherlock soon. And then realized he'd never be free of the guilt if he was.
"Well, I… excuse me, but who are you?" Greg asked.
"Ah, Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock Holmes' brother. May I come in and collect him? I assure you, you will be compensated for the time and expense of feeding him."
"Erm, it was only soup… And what, exactly, do you do, anyway?" Greg demanded.
"He occupies a minor position in the British Government," Sherlock said suddenly and with heavy sarcasm. He was standing in the door, still clad in only the pajama pants, limned with light from the kitchen. Greg tried not to stare. Fuck but he was gorgeous. "Mycroft."
"Sherlock. Have you decided not to make a fuss?" Mycroft asked him.
Greg's head swiveled back to Mycroft. A minor position in the British Government, indeed. The man looked like he bloody ran the place. The man looked like he belonged at MI-5, for all that.
"Not going anywhere," Sherlock grunted.
"That, Sherlock, is where you are mistaken." Mycroft leaned slightly on his umbrella. Good Christ, even the man's umbrella was perfectly and precisely folded.
"Fuck you, Mycroft."
"How long do you intend to perform this charade? I have meetings to attend today."
"Go, attend them. I'm fine right here." Sherlock crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame.
See if he can take me. I can stay here. Greg'll keep me. Doesn't love me. I'm a chore. Chore. Something Mycroft does to please Mummy. Of course. Mummy. Always about making Mummy happy. Well, fuck him. Fuck her. I don't want to make Mummy happy. I want…
"Sherlock…" Mycroft frowned.
"Mycroft…" Sherlock mimicked.
"For once, Sherlock, could you please not make a fuss?" Mycroft asked him with a weary sigh. "We can do this the easy way, or we can do this your way. It is your choice."
Yes, not make a fuss. That's always exactly what you want. ALWAYS
Greg clearly heard the threat.
"Excuse me," he asked. "Just where do you think you're taking him?"
"Rehabilitation," Mycroft replied "This will be his fourth attempt, and, as he well knows, his last." A chill went down Greg's spine.
Sherlock straightened.
"What if I don't want to?" he asked.
Mycroft didn't reply.
"Now wait a minute," Greg said. "If he doesn't want to…"
"It's not your decision, Detective Sergeant," Mycroft interrupted him, glaring at Sherlock.
"Now look here," Greg began.
"Fine," Sherlock interrupted. "But it'll be dull. As usual. And fail. As usual."
"Perhaps, little brother," Mycroft said. "But perhaps this time will be different. Detective Sergeant, I'm sure you've seen Sherlock’s capabilities. Have you considered all the possibilities?"
"What do you mean?" Greg demanded.
"You see it, don't you, Sergeant Lestrade? The petty, small lives of the people who go about this city, day after day, minding their own business, ignoring the cesspool that lies before them. But you also see the stinking, seething mass of worthless humanity, don't you? The battles that are being waged every day – the blood, the terror, the death. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft intoned, "you see the battlefield. And you need that."
From the doorway, Sherlock sniffled.
"Pull the other one, Mycroft," he said.
"Sherlock…"
"Get dressed, Sunshine," Greg interrupted. "Go with your brother. Get yourself clean. Then… come back and we'll talk." He ran his hand through his hair and sighed, wondering when his life had become so complicated. Oh yeah, when he had decided to join the drugs squad and go undercover. When he'd met this impossible, intelligent, unearthly boy, glaring at him from his own kitchen door.
Sherlock glared at them for a solid minute and then flounced into Greg's bedroom.
Demins stink. Hate demin. Hate this shirt. Hate me. Hate Mycroft. Hatehatehatehate. Don't hate Greg, though. He doesn't judge. Doesn't try to… remember he's only saving me because of Isaac. Isaac. Isaac. I'm not Isaac. Why can't it be ME? Bathroom. The chain. Isaac's. Mine. Remind him. Remember him. Remember me.
"I'm glad to see that you are coming around to a more sensible course of action, Detective Inspector," Mycroft said.
"I'm not…" Greg began.
"Perhaps not yet, but I would not be surprised if there are new opportunities opening for you in the very near future. Perhaps something a little less life-threatening than the drugs squad? Murder, perhaps?" Mycroft asked him with a smile.
"You're joking." Greg stared at him in disbelief.
"One thing you'll have to learn about my brother," Sherlock announced, slinking back into the room, somewhat respectably clad in filthy jeans and a t-shirt whose neck sagged nearly to his sternum. "Is that he never, ever jokes. It's one of the things that makes him so boring." He sniffed, again, the rattling, mucusy sound, and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Greg noticed, with Sherlock's movement, that Isaac's chain was hanging around his neck.
He clenched his fists. How dare the little shit steal…
Oh, who was he kidding?
Well? React, dammit, react. Show me. Tell me. Hit me. You want to hit me. Hitmehitmehitmehitmehitme.
Sherlock smirked at him. Daring Greg to say something.
Mycroft looked disgusted.
"Are you coming?" he asked.
Sherlock sniffed again. "You're insisting, and here I am. Ever willing to obey my older brother."
Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow.
"Fine. Thank you, Detective Sergeant for your hospitality," Sherlock muttered with a sniffle as they walked toward the door, brushing – deliberately, it seemed – against Greg.
If Sherlock could play at that game… Greg grabbed Sherlock's wrist as he tried to lift his wallet again.
"Not this time, Sunshine," Greg said. He turned over Sherlock's hand and grabbed a biro from his desk. "I won't spring you or anything, but if you need something…" Greg drew his hand towards him and on the back carefully printed his mobile number.
Sherlock looked down, something like disbelief crossing his face as Greg closed his fingers around his hand. Greg caught Sherlock's eye and nodded.
"Go," he said, giving him a little shove.
Mycroft nodded his head pleasantly, obviously pretending to ignore the interaction.
"Thank you again, Detective Sergeant" he said. "We will be in contact," he added, pulling the door closed behind him.
"Yeah, erm, no worries," Greg muttered at the shut door.
His sitting room was dark, only the sulfurous yellow light from the streetlamp outside, illuminating the battered sofa with the Aston Villa blanket draped over it where Sherlock had thrown it off the night before.
Apropos of nothing, it occurred to Greg that it could have been Mycroft who had arranged for Sweeny's death.
The thought made him shiver and he hurried to turn on a light – to dispel the darkness.
Greg looked around. The flat felt suddenly very empty as he was left alone to contemplate the last twenty-four hours.
Unfortunately, all he could think of was Sherlock, naked in his shower. Sherlock, backlit, standing in the doorway to his kitchen, pants sliding down his hips. Sherlock, pillowed on Greg's chest, sharing a cigarette in his bed. Sherlock, rubbing his erection against Greg's thigh, begging him to fuck him. Sherlock wearing Isaac's necklace.
Greg shuddered. It would have been almost too easy to give in to Sherlock's demands. Too easy to bury himself in his willing arse. Too easy to hold him down and fuck him until he came.
Greg surveyed the cold bowl of soup on his kitchen table and sighed. Instead he grabbed the whisky bottle and headed for the shower.
There, he turned on the water as hot as he could stand it, took a swig of the whisky and stepped into the stall.
He would not think about what had happened—or hadn't happened—there last night.
Christ, he was already hard. Greg grabbed a bottle of conditioner – a legacy from Isaac – had it been six months already? Greg should really have binned it. He squirted some of the conditioner onto his hand and brought his hand to his cock, sucking in his breath at the chill.
Bracing against the tiles with one hand, he began to stroke himself, first slowly, fondling his balls, pressing his fingers against his perineum, bringing his hand back to his cock as he closed his eyes and tried not to think about Sherlock.
It was useless. All he could see was the wicked curve of Sherlock's mouth. All he could imagine was brushing his cock against those moist pink lips, watching as Sherlock sucked on the head of his cock, running his tongue along the slit before sucking him into that hot, wet mouth.
Greg increased the pace of his hand against his cock as he bit down hard on his lip in an effort keep from coming. Faster and harder he stroked, remembering the sound of Sherlock's voice, his insolent pout, imagining his hand buried in the little twat's hair, making him gasp and groan.
In his mind, he was fucking Sherlock's mouth, listening to the muffled moans and obscene slurps until suddenly, all too suddenly, Greg was coming all over his hand.
He groaned, his knees nearly buckling as his free hand scrabbled for purchase on the slick tiles.
"Fuck," he muttered as his vision cleared. He turned to face the water, flinching against the now punishing cold spray from the showerhead.
"Fuck," he said again as he cleaned himself off and turned off the tap, reaching for a towel.
Unfortunately, the one nearest to hand was the one that Sherlock had used the night before. Or, more specifically, he had used on Sherlock. Greg scrubbed his face with it, smelling the scent of the lad – the mix of Greg's soap and the cigarettes and patchouli (of course) that Greg's none-too-thorough scrubbing could not erase.
Greg groaned and tossed the towel from him, padding into his bedroom to find a pair of clean shorts and a vest.
He rolled into bed, making sure to stay on his side. Making sure not to roll onto the side where Sherlock had lain. Making sure not to grab the pillow Sherlock had used and hold it to him like some soft toy.
Greg awoke the next morning, wrapped in the duvet, cuddling Sherlock's pillow, face down on the opposite side of the bed.
He rolled over and winced at the light filtering in through the curtain. His head was pounding and his heart…
Greg threw the duvet aside and stalked to the airing cupboard to find fresh sheets and towels. With a grim efficiency, he stripped the bed and dragged the sheets to the kitchen where he shoved them into the washer.
Then, he set about scrubbing down his bathroom, determined to eradicate the lingering memory of the past two nights.
Part 2
