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I can haz new fandom?

Title: Possibly. Probably.
Author:
[livejournal.com profile] drachenmina
Word count: 1,700
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade
Rating: NC17
Warnings - Highlight for warnings *Mention of past sexual abuse *
Disclaimer: I disclaim everything but a worrying obsession with getting middle-aged detectives some action.
Huge thanks for the beta to the most inspired and inspirational [livejournal.com profile] blooms84. Any remaining errors are mine, all mine.




It's been another piss-awful day. Sherlock and Anderson have been at each other's throats all day, and Greg only wishes that was a bloody metaphor. Where the hell was John Watson when you needed him? Greg glances at Sherlock. It's just the two of them right now, if you don't count the corpse. Greg wonders briefly if Sherlock even counts him.

Sherlock looks back, obviously annoyed. "John's in Edinburgh. And yes, with her. We're not joined at the hip, you know."

Unaccountably, Greg cheers up. "Would you like to be?"

Sherlock blushes. "Don't be absurd. John's the straightest man I know."

Suddenly Greg's in a much better mood.



***



It's getting late by the time the body's been bagged and removed, and everyone's pissed off home. Except Sherlock. Who's still here.

Only he's not being sarcastic, or examining stuff, or making annoying deductions about the last time Greg got laid (Six months ago, as it happens. Coincidental with the realisation that John Bloody Watson was already, after approximately twenty-four hours, closer to Sherlock than Greg had managed in the last five years. It wasn't a total disaster. Just enough of one to make Greg wince at the memory and vow to avoid that particular pub for the rest of his natural life.)

Sherlock is dithering. Greg wishes he could get it on tape, for when the memory fades and he can't quite bring himself to believe it ever actually happened. "Do you like Greek food?" Sherlock asks at last like it's being dragged out of him with red-hot pincers.

Greg stares for a moment. Long enough for Sherlock to scowl and turn away. "Will it be on the house?" Greg asks quickly, because none of the other things that sprang to mind put him in even a remotely good light.

"Possibly," Sherlock concedes. The scowl's still there but it's not as genuine as it was a moment ago.

"Lead on, then," Greg says affably.

The restaurant is small and cosy. They get a candle on the table, but the manager keeps throwing them worried looks. Probably upset that Sherlock's broken up with that nice young man with the sweaters.

The food's pretty good. The sarcasm's even better, because for once, it's not directed at Greg. He probably hasn't laughed this much on a night out in years. Possibly, Greg realises with an unwelcome flash of insight, he should be grateful for John Watson's clearly mellowing influence on Sherlock.

There's a moment, when the bottle of Merlot runs out, that they look at each other. Greg can see the little cogs whirring in Sherlock's brain as he asks, "Another bottle?"

"Yeah, I think so," Greg answers without hesitation.



***



By unspoken agreement they go back to Greg's. He's not sure what Sherlock's motives are, but Greg's too old to get kicked out of bed in the early hours. "Coffee?" he asks, because it's traditional.

"No." The pleasant warmth that the wine has left Greg with gets a boost as Sherlock slides awkward arms around his waist. "I don't give blow jobs," Sherlock says into his ear. "And if you want to fuck me, I go on top."

It's a bit disappointing, but only in the sense that winning the lottery and then finding it wasn't, as you'd thought, a rollover week, is disappointing.

Sherlock's twitchy as hell as Greg tries to get his kit off. Insists on hanging his clothes over the back of a chair, instead of on the floor with Greg's. Makes sure he keeps Greg between him and the bed at all times, and keeps darting glances at the door.

"There's no law that says you have to put out just because I took you out to dinner," Greg mutters, feeling a bit slighted.

"I took you out," Sherlock reminds him grumpily. Then he grabs hold of Greg's cock, which effectively ends Greg's part in the conversation. Unless you count moans and "Fuck, yeah!" Sherlock doesn't resist as Greg pulls him closer and tumbles them both back onto the bed.

He always looks so cold, Sherlock does. Cold and hard and biting. Turns out he's softer than he looks, and right now the touch of him is burning Greg up. Too soon yet to tell if there's going to be any biting. Scratching, now, there's some of that already. Not going to complain about that. Not going to complain about any of it. Not even when Sherlock's elbow catches him in the stomach and almost winds him, as a bony knee knocks against his own better-padded one. Sherlock's twitchy again, struggling with himself—fuck knows Greg's got no fight left in him. He runs a hand down the impossible length of that ivory back, wanting to soothe, and Sherlock arches into his touch.

Turns out that Sherlock's idea of being on top doesn't, in fact, preclude Greg's cock being in Sherlock's arse. Bit of a win-win situation, there. "Come on," Greg mutters, as Sherlock lowers himself down. "Yes! Fuck, yes." Thin fingers grab hold of his shoulders with bruising force. Must remember not to get his shirt off in front of anyone for a day or two. Sherlock's cock in Greg's hand, long and thin, just like you'd expect. Hard as iron and hotter than hell, which you wouldn't.

You might have dreamed about it, though. Possibly.

Sherlock starts to move, up and down. Slow at the start then faster, shifting position until the angle's just right and Greg hears a gasp. Sherlock bites his lip—wouldn't want anyone to think he was enjoying this, now would he? "Come for me, you gorgeous bastard." Greg'll be embarrassed about that, later. Bit busy to worry about it right now. Feels Sherlock's cock start to pulse, thank fuck. Couldn't have faced the sarcasm if he'd come way too soon.

Sherlock whimpers as he comes, head thrown back. So bloody vulnerable...

Greg can't look any more.



***



"Who was it?" Greg asks, when against all odds Sherlock's still in his bed even though they finished fucking seventeen minutes ago.

Sherlock goes completely still.

"Come on," Greg says, wondering if he should risk a stroke to that tousled mop of hair. Decides against it. "You're not the only one with a brain cell around here. Occasionally, I even use mine."

"Occasionally," Sherlock mutters. "Rarely when it might actually be helpful, however."

Greg waits. You get a lot of practice at that, when you're a copper.

"Oh—boys at school, if you must know." He rolls over pointedly. Doesn't get up, though.

Greg puts an arm around him, makes sure it's gentle. Tries not to imagine them holding him down, fucking him, raping his mouth. "Ever tell that brother of yours?"

"You don't know Mycroft very well, do you?" Greg has a gut feeling that might be about to change. "One doesn't tell Mycroft things. He finds out."

"And?" Sod it. He's stroking that hair. Sherlock doesn't react, which is probably a good sign.

"You really want to know, Inspector?"

"Probably not. And don't fucking call me that in bed." Greg goes for the money shot and kisses the top of Sherlock's head.

"Sorry," Sherlock says in a tone that manages to convey less genuine regret than a Cabinet Minister caught shagging his secretary and visiting rent boys on the side. He shuffles back a bit, though, closer to Greg. "Lestrade."

Greg laughs.

After a moment, Sherlock does too.



***



Greg has to work the next day, which is a bit of a bugger as John Watson's coming back from Edinburgh that evening. Greg wonders if Watson's return will change things between him and Sherlock. Wonders if there is, in fact, anything between him and Sherlock.

Stops wondering for a moment when he gets picked up by a sleek black car.

"I understand things have... developed between you and my brother," Mycroft Holmes says in his prissy little voice.

"Possibly," Greg says, because he knows damn well that Mycroft's probably got photos to prove it.

"I'm sure I don't need to impress upon you how important my brother's well-being is to me."

Greg resists, once again, the temptation to tell Mycroft exactly where to shove his bloody umbrella. "You were at the same boarding school as Sherlock, weren't you?" he asks casually.

Mycroft's lips tighten so far they actually disappear.

"Is that why he hates you? Because you didn't stop it happening?" And maybe Greg's feeling a bit of that, too. "Or is it because of the way you've been over-compensating ever since?"

"Really, Inspector. I should have thought the answer to that was obvious."

Both, then.

When Mycroft's driver drops him off home, Greg thinks for a minute, then turns round and heads to the off licence for a bottle of Merlot.



***



"I take it you've spoken to Mycroft," Sherlock says when Greg turns up at Baker Street. He's scowling, but unusually for Sherlock, he wasn't quite quick enough.

"Mostly he spoke to me," Greg agrees cheerfully and misleadingly. At least, he's aiming for misleading, but with Sherlock, he's probably onto a loser. He puts the bottle of Merlot down on the floor, because the table's covered with photographs Greg's fairly sure he last saw in one of his case files.

Watson, who's wearing a new sweater that makes Lestrade itch just to look at it, gives him a funny look. "What, you've had The Talk from Mycroft? A bit late, isn't it? I thought you'd have got all that out of the way five years ago."

"Ah," Greg says. "Things change."

Watson frowns. "What things?"

Sherlock makes an impatient noise. "G—Inspector Lestrade appears to be under the impression that one drunken fuck means we're now in some kind of relationship."

There's an audible swallow from Watson's direction. "Is he right?" he asks finally, which makes him go up a notch or several in Greg's estimation.

"Probably," Sherlock says. He gets up, manages a bit of a flounce even without that poncy greatcoat of his. "Well? Are you coming?" he asks, not looking at Greg as he heads for his bedroom.

Greg grins at no one in particular. "Probably."

"And bring the bloody Merlot!"

Whistling under his breath, Greg does.
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