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[personal profile] drachenmina
Title: Reciprocally
[livejournal.com profile] drachenmina
Word count: 1,500
Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade
Rating: PG
Warnings: None. Unless you count the fact that it's not entirely to be taken seriously.
Disclaimer: I disclaim everything but a worrying obsession with getting middle-aged detectives some action.
Written for [livejournal.com profile] blooms84, who wanted a kiss. And was kind enough to beta, without which Greg would have spent far too much time worrying about his and Sherlock's respective diets, instead of Getting On With It.
Established relationship.

Greg's not entirely sure why Sherlock's here.

Well, there's the body. Obviously there's the body. Every time, Greg thinks, every time he gets a bit maudlin and starts to wonder what on earth he and Sherlock have in common, bingo! There's another murder. Problem solved.

Except this one really isn't, in Sherlock's terms, a problem to be solved. Unless Greg's being monumentally stupid... No. Don't let the mad genius get to you. Sometimes an open-and-shut case really is just an open-and-shut case. A spade, when all's said and done, is a spade. A kiss is still a kiss...

And where the bloody hell did that come from? Focus. Can't stay crouched down here forever; you'll never be able to get up again and how bloody embarrassing will that be? Corpse. Female. Bludgeoned to death with an electric iron. Screams "domestic" at you even if you haven't seen the bloodstained bloke being led away in handcuffs, muttering "She knows I hate side creases."

Sherlock's kneeling on the floor the other side of the body, apparently fascinated by what's left of the poor girl's face. "Kissing," he says, finally. "Why?"

Greg blinks. "They were kissing?"

"Yes—no, not them!" Angry sweep of the arm, encompassing crime scene, victim and perpetrator, in one easy-to-learn bit of sign language. "John. And Sarah."

"And this is a problem because...?"

Annoyed grunt. Even sounds a bit like D'oh. Greg manages not to laugh. Just. Touchy, your sociopaths, and he's sort of hoping he might get laid tonight.

Sherlock whirls away from the body. "But why?"

"Because... that's what people who're going out with each other do?"

Sherlock's not listening. "I timed them. Eleven minutes, thirty-seven seconds, just kissing. With breaks, obviously. To smile at each other. Or say something pointless and inane. They weren't even trying to get each others' clothes off, for God's sake!"

Greg's never found it this hard not to laugh in the presence of sordid, useless slaughter before. He straightens, wincing a little as his knees crack. "Sherlock, going out on a limb here—but when they stopped kissing, would it have been because they'd finally noticed the nutter in the corner cataloguing their every move?"

Another impatient gesture. Coat-tails swirl. "They were on the stairs! I was hardly spying on them!" Looks a bit guilty, though. John's definitely having an influence, there.

"Come on," Greg says, because whatever's going on inside Sherlock's labyrinthine mind, he's got a fair idea he'd prefer to find out about it somewhere Anderson isn't likely to walk in on them. "I think they can manage without us on this one. Drink?"

Sherlock casts one last, wistful look at the corpse, then nods. "We can go to Baker Street. John's out tonight. And he's been shopping."


Greg's two beers in before he broaches the subject. Pays to be cautious, with Sherlock. "So. What was that all about?"

One of the things he appreciates about Sherlock. You never have to explain what you're on about. Saves a lot of time and effort.

"I was just curious." On the sofa, a supine Sherlock stares at the ceiling. Try saying that six times, fast.

"About kissing," Greg finishes for him, so he can't squirm away from the point. He's fairly sure Sherlock reddens, slightly. What the bloody hell has John Watson been doing to him? "It's no bloody mystery, Sherlock. People like kissing. End of."

"We never kiss. We fuck, we frot, and we fellate, but we don't kiss."

Ah. "You missed out frigging," Greg says mildly. "Done a fair bit of that too, as I recall. Oh, and we've rimmed each other once or twice, but that doesn't begin with f so I expect you left it out on purpose."

"You're missing the point!" Sherlock glares at him, clearly suspecting Greg's doing this on purpose.

Not that he's wrong, mind. Greg sighs. "Fine. We don't kiss. Didn't think you were the kissing sort." Sherlock's always seemed more of the ignoring-you-until-you're-actually-naked sort. Not to mention the forgetting-your-existence-three-seconds-after-orgasm sort.

Sherlock doesn't say anything. For somebody sprawled on a sofa, which Greg knows for a fact is a bloody comfortable one, because he's slept on it a fair few times when Sherlock decided that texting was more important than sleeping, he looks an awful lot like he's being stretched on a rack.

Greg indulges in a brief vision of a monstrously elongated Sherlock, even taller and more skeletal, then wonders what the bloody hell he's doing. "Do you want to kiss?" he asks, much against his better judgement. It's just like he's twelve again, with Mandy Roberts behind the bike sheds, feeling a bit daft but at the same time knowing this is the most important question he will ever ask in his life.

She turned him down, he recalls, as Sherlock sits bolt upright in one fluid move. It's a bloody good thing Greg doesn't believe in sodding omens. "We could...experiment," Sherlock says eagerly.

This, Greg knows without a shadow of a doubt, is going to be the most abject failure in the entire history of kissing. He's too nervous, and Sherlock quite clearly hasn't got a bloody clue what to do.

"I researched techniques," Sherlock says in a tone that's presumably supposed to be encouraging. "Use of the tongue, and so forth."

"Sherlock... this isn’t something you research, all right?"

Sherlock looks put out. "You never complain about my blow jobs."

Ah. Greg had been wondering where Sherlock had learned that particular skill. He's not sure if he's pleased or appalled to find out it was from sodding Wikipedia. "Look, we'll give it a go, all right? But don't worry about techniques, or anything, okay?"

It's awkward. They're not sure whether they should be standing up or sitting down. Standing up, Greg risks dislocating his neck. Sitting down, Sherlock's knees threaten to disembowel him. They compromise, with Greg on the sofa with Sherlock straddling his lap.

Greg finds his heart beating uncomfortably fast as Sherlock bends down, takes his face in cool, precise hands. It's the same feeling he got their first time, after that case with the—bad, Greg, bad. Don't think about serial killers when your boyfriend's about to kiss you for the first time.

First time calling him a boyfriend, for that matter. Interesting, that...

Sherlock's lips, when they touch Greg's, feel soft and dry. It's the gentleness of the touch that gets to him. Hesitancy. Like Sherlock's really not sure what he's doing—which is mad, because Sherlock frequently, in Greg's opinion, doesn't actually know what he's doing, and it's never affected him this way before.

Of course, Sherlock usually manages to hide it a damn sight better than this. Greg's arms tighten about that slender waist. Wouldn't be a copper if he didn't have the instinct to protect. Sherlock shivers. His lips press harder against Greg's, and that's bad, because now Greg wants to take over, wants to bruise those lips with his own, with his teeth. Should have known. One thing fucking Sherlock; something else entirely kissing him. More intimate. More personal.

More dangerous.

It shouldn't be a shock when Sherlock's tongue slips into his mouth like a nervous snake on reconnaissance in mongoose territory. Shouldn't be. Is. Suddenly Greg's not just feeling Sherlock, he's tasting him. Chinese food, Greg thinks. Too many bloody takeaways. Sherlock should taste of coffee and cigarettes and nights spent running on adrenaline, and as the kiss deepens, just for a moment Greg can taste that, all of it. Then it's gone, and suddenly Greg wants a smoke so bad he almost groans aloud.

"What?" Sherlock backs off.

"Nothing," Greg says. That was an almost, dammit.

He leans forward, but Sherlock evades him. "It's not nothing. What?"

Sighs. "Sense memory, all right? You made me fancy a fag."

Sherlock seems oddly pleased about that. Allows Greg to pull his head back down. His lips are still pulled up in a smile, still parted as they press against Greg's once more. His body, usually all angles, seems to soften. Fits against Greg's that much better than it usually does. There's that elusive taste again. Greg pursues it, follows it as it tries to run away. Sherlock's hands are on his waist, for once not skipping ahead. It's closer than they've ever been with their kit on. Maybe with it off, too, for that matter. Sherlock's hair, soft and rumpled and fucking gorgeous between his fingers. Is he remembering to breathe? Well, neither of them's passed out yet, so must be okay. Eyes tight shut. Bet Sherlock's are open. It's all right if only one of you does it. Must be something, though, Sherlock's eyes from this close up. Maybe just a glance—

Greg opens his eyes, and breaks the kiss convulsively. "Watson? What the fuck?"

John Watson presses a button on his watch and gives Greg a bright smile over Sherlock's suddenly rigid shoulder. "Six minutes, twenty-three seconds. Not bad, for a first attempt."
Heads off to the kitchen and puts the kettle on.

Looks like John's not the only one having an influence around here.
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