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holmesticeTitle: just one of those things
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
niffler09
Author:seaweedie
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/Lestrade
Rating: R
Warnings: frottage, semi-rough sex
Word Count: 1722
just one of those things
Lestrade should have known better than to allow Sherlock to question the widow of a murder victim without supervision. Logically, one would think it’d have been all right to leave him alone with the girl for a few minutes while one was in the loo. Then again, this was Sherlock Holmes, to whom no ordinary standards of logic (or, indeed, basic social behavior) applied, simply because he couldn’t be arsed to pay them any mind.
Lestrade manhandled Sherlock out the door, one hand clamped firmly onto his shoulder, as he apologized profusely to poor Mrs. Willoughby, who was sitting at her kitchen table, sobbing with what looked to be a combination of rage and distress.
The door closed behind them, and at once Sherlock turned to Lestrade and hissed, “Oh, well done, Detective Inspector, do you intend that this case should never be solved?” As he spoke, misty clouds of breath escaped his pale lips and dissipated in the chill air. Lestrade looked quickly away.
“For fuck’s sake, Sherlock,” he snapped, wrapping his scarf more tightly around his neck, “we’ll be lucky if Mrs. Willoughby ever speaks to us again, much less helps us to solve the case! What the hell did you say to her to make her so upset?”
“I merely enquired as to the sexual habits of her husband. If he was having an affair, there’s a possibility that - “
“Goddamn it, Sherlock, you can’t just ask people that sort of thing! Especially when their condition is already, you know... delicate!”
At that, Sherlock whirled on him with a look of utter disbelief. “What do you mean, delicate? The woman is the picture of health! Well, aside from a mild case of anemia. But she’s clearly taking iron pills for that.”
Oh, he was impossible. “Sherlock, her husband is dead. She doesn’t want to think about whether he was cheating on her while he was alive or not! You could have at least asked more tactfully, though I know the concept is completely foreign to you - “
“That is ludicrous. Does she want us to find the killer or not? Tact won’t solve the case, Lestrade, but facts will, and I must have them.”
They’d reached the car. It was late; the street stretched out on either side of them, silent and blue-tinted in the moonlight.
Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t even know why I bother.”
“Oh, you know why. Because you need me,” Sherlock said contemptuously, opening the car door with unnecessary force.
That did it. Lestrade slammed a hand against the top of the open car door, barring Sherlock from entry. “Goddamn it, Sherlock,” he barked, “Do you realize that I risked my job vouching for you to all of Scotland Yard? You’ve got very few friends there as it is, and what with your drug problem - why can’t you just - just - behave for once!?”
“Why should I bother?” Sherlock retorted. “Honestly, I don’t see what the problem is. Being what society deems ‘polite’ and respecting other people’s feelings - ” the word was accompanied by a sneer and a dismissive two-handed flourish - “it’s all rubbish, and I have neither the time nor the patience for it.”
“Sherlock, do you want to keep working with us or not? Because if you do, then you’re going to have to learn that patience, heaven help you. And for God’s sake, you’ve only just got out of rehab, people at the Yard have been talking - ”
“Ha, yes, well, they do little else!”
Lestrade threw his arms up. “Can’t you at least try to act like a normal human being, at least until this case is wrapped up?”
Sherlock leaned in, curled his lip, and snapped, “No.”
Lestrade snarled, grabbed him by the hair, and kissed him. Hard.
He’d kissed Sherlock before, one sodden grey night in his apartment, a single bruising kiss that had been more an act of desperation than anything else. They hadn’t spoken of it, afterwards. But Lestrade remembered with sharp stinging clarity the surprised shape of Sherlock’s lips, the almost-petulant huff of breath against his unshaven chin as he’d pulled away.
And then Sherlock had disappeared into the bowels of rehab for six months, and when he came back it was as though it had never happened at all.
This was deeply different. Sherlock kissed him back roughly, as though it were merely an extension of the fight they’d just been having - were still having? His back collided almost painfully with the side of the car. Sherlock seemed to throw his whole self into the kiss, hands clenched tight around the lapels of Lestrade’s coat, body canted perilously forward. Lestrade seized at his hair, bit none-too-gently down onto his bottom lip, wanted to hurt him -- and he was so angry, Sherlock always made him absolutely furious, could do it easily with a single snappy retort or by simply being his stubborn, impossible self. Two years’ worth of rage and frustration suddenly seemed too huge to ignore, and he growled against that cuttingly clever mouth, set his teeth against the slanted line of his jaw. He could feel Sherlock’s arousal against his thigh, and, realising that he too was hard beneath the fabric of his trousers, thrust recklessly against the other man.
Sherlock seemed to lose it completely. With a sound halfway between a whine and a groan, he began to tear at Lestrade’s coat with one hand, fumbling to fold the car’s passenger seat forward with the other. It slid forward with a click, and then they were tumbling into the back seat, Sherlock’s tongue a wet heat against Lestrade’s throat. He hooked a foot around the inner door handle, closing it behind them so that they were alone in the heat and darkness, their harsh panting the only sound apart from the rustling of cloth and the squeak of leather.
I should probably say something right now, thought the small part of Lestrade that was still lucid, put a stop to this - whatever this is, this madness -
Then Sherlock’s deft hands were opening his trousers, and all coherent thought left him as Sherlock fisted his cock with one hand, that mocking, cruel mouth latched tight to his throat. Helplessly, he bucked his hips, needing more, faster, now, and it was like drowning, like being swept out to sea; he’d never been able to refuse Sherlock anything, not really.
Sherlock pulled away to undo his own trousers. His face was shrouded in shadow, so that it was impossible to see his expression, but the stark yellow light of a nearby streetlight cut cleanly across his exposed chest, revealing cold pale skin and jutting ribs - he never ate enough as it was, and rehab had not been kind... Something in Lestrade seized almost painfully, and he leaned up to kiss him again, this time with an odd near-tenderness.
Then they were thrusting messily against each other, and his hands were tangled in Sherlock’s curls. He could feel Sherlock’s fingers pressing angry black bruises into his ribs - and he really didn’t care, could do little more than move against Sherlock’s body with frantic urgency. One of Sherlock’s hands crept down and wrapped around both their cocks, and Lestrade groaned into his ear, his hips jerking viciously up. Dimly, he thought that the entire car must be shaking with the force of their movement.
Gasping, he let his head fall back onto the leather seat; Sherlock followed, pressing his forehead intently to Lestrade’s. Not long now. He still couldn’t read Sherlock’s expression, shadowed and close as it was. Wildly, he thought of folk tales, of succubi, dark seductive spirits that stole your breath in the night and disappeared in the morning like melting fog. He reared up to mouth at the soft curve just under Sherlock’s jaw - to note the exact taste of his skin, the precise shape of his jaw - but he could hardly string one thought after another, and it was a miracle he didn’t miss completely. Under his tongue, Sherlock’s breath hitched, once, twice - teeth scraping savagely over his ear - “Fuck,” he groaned against Sherlock’s throat, “fuck, oh, fuck,” and his whole body convulsed, his mouth gaping wide in a soundless cry. Sherlock buried his face in Lestrade’s shoulder, muffling his own cries, so that Lestrade heard them as if from a great distance - but he felt them, rumbling through Sherlock’s chest into his body, till he could hardly tell them apart from the shuddering aftershocks coursing through him.
There was silence, then, weighing heavy between their slowing breaths. Lestrade became suddenly, acutely aware of the sweat sticking his hair to his brow, the closeness of the air, the salty smell of sex.
Without a word, Sherlock rolled off him and began to dress. Lestrade stared up at the ceiling for a moment; then he too sat up and refastened his trousers, using a stray sock to clean himself up. Their eyes did not meet.
Both of them shifted back into the front seats, where they really should have been to begin with, and Lestrade began the long, silent drive back to Montague Street. Sherlock spent it with his head resting against the glass, looking for all the world like a sullen, sleepy child. The sight reminded Lestrade painfully of nights spent on the ratty couch in his own flat, the dead look in Sherlock’s eyes, desperate pleas whispered through dry, cracked lips. He looked away. Those days were gone now, and he had no desire to relive them, even as a brief memory.
They pulled up to the flat. “Sherlock,” said Lestrade hesitantly, instinctively. “Do you -”
Sherlock cut him off. "I won't be needing any assistance, thank you, Detective Inspector," he said, not looking back. The car door swung shut behind him, and Lestrade watched as he walked up the steps and into the flat.
Then he drove away, back to his own flat, and home.
Maybe I should leave the windows open tonight, he mused. Let in some air.
Recipient:
niffler09Author:
seaweedie Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/Lestrade
Rating: R
Warnings: frottage, semi-rough sex
Word Count: 1722
just one of those things
Lestrade should have known better than to allow Sherlock to question the widow of a murder victim without supervision. Logically, one would think it’d have been all right to leave him alone with the girl for a few minutes while one was in the loo. Then again, this was Sherlock Holmes, to whom no ordinary standards of logic (or, indeed, basic social behavior) applied, simply because he couldn’t be arsed to pay them any mind.
Lestrade manhandled Sherlock out the door, one hand clamped firmly onto his shoulder, as he apologized profusely to poor Mrs. Willoughby, who was sitting at her kitchen table, sobbing with what looked to be a combination of rage and distress.
The door closed behind them, and at once Sherlock turned to Lestrade and hissed, “Oh, well done, Detective Inspector, do you intend that this case should never be solved?” As he spoke, misty clouds of breath escaped his pale lips and dissipated in the chill air. Lestrade looked quickly away.
“For fuck’s sake, Sherlock,” he snapped, wrapping his scarf more tightly around his neck, “we’ll be lucky if Mrs. Willoughby ever speaks to us again, much less helps us to solve the case! What the hell did you say to her to make her so upset?”
“I merely enquired as to the sexual habits of her husband. If he was having an affair, there’s a possibility that - “
“Goddamn it, Sherlock, you can’t just ask people that sort of thing! Especially when their condition is already, you know... delicate!”
At that, Sherlock whirled on him with a look of utter disbelief. “What do you mean, delicate? The woman is the picture of health! Well, aside from a mild case of anemia. But she’s clearly taking iron pills for that.”
Oh, he was impossible. “Sherlock, her husband is dead. She doesn’t want to think about whether he was cheating on her while he was alive or not! You could have at least asked more tactfully, though I know the concept is completely foreign to you - “
“That is ludicrous. Does she want us to find the killer or not? Tact won’t solve the case, Lestrade, but facts will, and I must have them.”
They’d reached the car. It was late; the street stretched out on either side of them, silent and blue-tinted in the moonlight.
Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t even know why I bother.”
“Oh, you know why. Because you need me,” Sherlock said contemptuously, opening the car door with unnecessary force.
That did it. Lestrade slammed a hand against the top of the open car door, barring Sherlock from entry. “Goddamn it, Sherlock,” he barked, “Do you realize that I risked my job vouching for you to all of Scotland Yard? You’ve got very few friends there as it is, and what with your drug problem - why can’t you just - just - behave for once!?”
“Why should I bother?” Sherlock retorted. “Honestly, I don’t see what the problem is. Being what society deems ‘polite’ and respecting other people’s feelings - ” the word was accompanied by a sneer and a dismissive two-handed flourish - “it’s all rubbish, and I have neither the time nor the patience for it.”
“Sherlock, do you want to keep working with us or not? Because if you do, then you’re going to have to learn that patience, heaven help you. And for God’s sake, you’ve only just got out of rehab, people at the Yard have been talking - ”
“Ha, yes, well, they do little else!”
Lestrade threw his arms up. “Can’t you at least try to act like a normal human being, at least until this case is wrapped up?”
Sherlock leaned in, curled his lip, and snapped, “No.”
Lestrade snarled, grabbed him by the hair, and kissed him. Hard.
He’d kissed Sherlock before, one sodden grey night in his apartment, a single bruising kiss that had been more an act of desperation than anything else. They hadn’t spoken of it, afterwards. But Lestrade remembered with sharp stinging clarity the surprised shape of Sherlock’s lips, the almost-petulant huff of breath against his unshaven chin as he’d pulled away.
And then Sherlock had disappeared into the bowels of rehab for six months, and when he came back it was as though it had never happened at all.
This was deeply different. Sherlock kissed him back roughly, as though it were merely an extension of the fight they’d just been having - were still having? His back collided almost painfully with the side of the car. Sherlock seemed to throw his whole self into the kiss, hands clenched tight around the lapels of Lestrade’s coat, body canted perilously forward. Lestrade seized at his hair, bit none-too-gently down onto his bottom lip, wanted to hurt him -- and he was so angry, Sherlock always made him absolutely furious, could do it easily with a single snappy retort or by simply being his stubborn, impossible self. Two years’ worth of rage and frustration suddenly seemed too huge to ignore, and he growled against that cuttingly clever mouth, set his teeth against the slanted line of his jaw. He could feel Sherlock’s arousal against his thigh, and, realising that he too was hard beneath the fabric of his trousers, thrust recklessly against the other man.
Sherlock seemed to lose it completely. With a sound halfway between a whine and a groan, he began to tear at Lestrade’s coat with one hand, fumbling to fold the car’s passenger seat forward with the other. It slid forward with a click, and then they were tumbling into the back seat, Sherlock’s tongue a wet heat against Lestrade’s throat. He hooked a foot around the inner door handle, closing it behind them so that they were alone in the heat and darkness, their harsh panting the only sound apart from the rustling of cloth and the squeak of leather.
I should probably say something right now, thought the small part of Lestrade that was still lucid, put a stop to this - whatever this is, this madness -
Then Sherlock’s deft hands were opening his trousers, and all coherent thought left him as Sherlock fisted his cock with one hand, that mocking, cruel mouth latched tight to his throat. Helplessly, he bucked his hips, needing more, faster, now, and it was like drowning, like being swept out to sea; he’d never been able to refuse Sherlock anything, not really.
Sherlock pulled away to undo his own trousers. His face was shrouded in shadow, so that it was impossible to see his expression, but the stark yellow light of a nearby streetlight cut cleanly across his exposed chest, revealing cold pale skin and jutting ribs - he never ate enough as it was, and rehab had not been kind... Something in Lestrade seized almost painfully, and he leaned up to kiss him again, this time with an odd near-tenderness.
Then they were thrusting messily against each other, and his hands were tangled in Sherlock’s curls. He could feel Sherlock’s fingers pressing angry black bruises into his ribs - and he really didn’t care, could do little more than move against Sherlock’s body with frantic urgency. One of Sherlock’s hands crept down and wrapped around both their cocks, and Lestrade groaned into his ear, his hips jerking viciously up. Dimly, he thought that the entire car must be shaking with the force of their movement.
Gasping, he let his head fall back onto the leather seat; Sherlock followed, pressing his forehead intently to Lestrade’s. Not long now. He still couldn’t read Sherlock’s expression, shadowed and close as it was. Wildly, he thought of folk tales, of succubi, dark seductive spirits that stole your breath in the night and disappeared in the morning like melting fog. He reared up to mouth at the soft curve just under Sherlock’s jaw - to note the exact taste of his skin, the precise shape of his jaw - but he could hardly string one thought after another, and it was a miracle he didn’t miss completely. Under his tongue, Sherlock’s breath hitched, once, twice - teeth scraping savagely over his ear - “Fuck,” he groaned against Sherlock’s throat, “fuck, oh, fuck,” and his whole body convulsed, his mouth gaping wide in a soundless cry. Sherlock buried his face in Lestrade’s shoulder, muffling his own cries, so that Lestrade heard them as if from a great distance - but he felt them, rumbling through Sherlock’s chest into his body, till he could hardly tell them apart from the shuddering aftershocks coursing through him.
There was silence, then, weighing heavy between their slowing breaths. Lestrade became suddenly, acutely aware of the sweat sticking his hair to his brow, the closeness of the air, the salty smell of sex.
Without a word, Sherlock rolled off him and began to dress. Lestrade stared up at the ceiling for a moment; then he too sat up and refastened his trousers, using a stray sock to clean himself up. Their eyes did not meet.
Both of them shifted back into the front seats, where they really should have been to begin with, and Lestrade began the long, silent drive back to Montague Street. Sherlock spent it with his head resting against the glass, looking for all the world like a sullen, sleepy child. The sight reminded Lestrade painfully of nights spent on the ratty couch in his own flat, the dead look in Sherlock’s eyes, desperate pleas whispered through dry, cracked lips. He looked away. Those days were gone now, and he had no desire to relive them, even as a brief memory.
They pulled up to the flat. “Sherlock,” said Lestrade hesitantly, instinctively. “Do you -”
Sherlock cut him off. "I won't be needing any assistance, thank you, Detective Inspector," he said, not looking back. The car door swung shut behind him, and Lestrade watched as he walked up the steps and into the flat.
Then he drove away, back to his own flat, and home.
Maybe I should leave the windows open tonight, he mused. Let in some air.
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no subject
Date: 2011-06-09 04:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-09 10:10 pm (UTC)That was sad but also hot. I loved the gloomy tone of the story that showed that things are...complicated. Poor Lestrade...
This is pretty much exactly what I wanted, thank you very much mystery author!
no subject
Date: 2011-06-21 12:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-05 12:28 pm (UTC)