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SIB Sherlock/John giggling
Title: The Definition of a Threesome (is You, Me, and Him)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sherlock/John/Lestrade
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoliers: Slight reference to Study in Pink
Word count: 11,994 words. (Yeah. It's that long)
Warning: Sex. And lots of it. Rimming, blowjobs, fucking. And your imagination.
Summary: Sherlock wants a threesome. Lestrade knows he should say no. But how can he?
Author's note: Quite possibly the filthiest thing I have ever written in my life. And the longest piece of smut. It is literally just smut. I started this by spur of the moment in November and finished it the other day.

Lot's of love to my darling beta- lareginaphantom   who is just brilliant in every way.

Split into two parts because of LJ limit. Part two is at the bottom. ^^

The Definition of a Threesome (is You, Me, and Him)

Lestrade doesn’t know what possesses him to do this, what possesses him to stand and watch as Sherlock Holmes sprawls back onto the bed, a leg cocked up, his arm resting lazily on the hiked knee, and a rather disarming smile spilling out upon his face. Lestrade knows that in all sense, he does not belong here and that he should not be enjoying the sight as much as he does right now.

Because one; Sherlock Holmes is not Lestrade’s to play with, both in platonic and sexual lights.

And two; Sherlock Holmes is a complete and utter bastard who enjoys flaunting what he has because he knows one day, sooner or later, it will drive the poor inspector mad. And it almost does; Lestrade on more than one occasion has sorely felt the need to ask for John’s therapist’s number.

Ah.

And then there’s John.

It should be mildly comforting to know that Sherlock doesn’t belong to John either. As far as he knows, Sherlock has been adamant with his need and want for un-attachment, despite the ever persistent and not so subtle, although thoroughly pitying, pining from both John and himself.

It’s nice to know the two men have found some sort of common ground and Lestrade finds himself more at ease with John knowing the fact that they could both possibly share predicaments. They’re both in love with the same prick. And at this moment, Lestrade can only be glad to find an ally he can rely on.

John Watson is also beside Lestrade, both literally and mentally, staring down at the lanky form of Sherlock Holmes sprawled upon the bed like a Persian cat, feeling both uncomfortable and slightly aroused. And how does Lestrade know?

Like himself, John is also sporting a rather impressive erection.

Lestrade isn’t sure whether the sight is comforting, compelling or merely confusing. He doesn’t know what to make of it, which isn’t surprising, he thinks sullenly. You never really got John Watson. Sherlock yeah, he’s just a git. John, no.

Sherlock laughs lazily and the noise reverberates through the room, a cold echo, a warm huff and Lestrade finally confirms the fact that he is confused. Sherlock rolls his head, his long neck stretching, tendons pulling taunt under the paper thin skin, pale as nothing Lestrade has ever seen before. He wants to lick it, to press his mouth along it, to suck at his pulse point to see, to prove to himself and others that Sherlock Holmes is indeed a human being, despite the evidence.

And his mouth is suddenly dry.

Thankfully, John takes it upon himself to do the talking for the both of them, seemingly unaffected by Sherlock’s performance. He stands straight, head up, eyes cool and hands held behind his back as he practises a look of pure nonchalance that has Lestrade bubbling with jealously at his calm approach toward the situation.

“What are you doing?”

It’s so simple it’s brilliant.

Sherlock shrugs and rolls onto his stomach, his plum coloured shirt pulling nicely over the curve of his lower back. Lestrade briefly thinks what licking there would taste like when Sherlock’s naked, sweaty and begging to come.

Nice probably.

“You know what I’m doing. I’ve made my intentions perfectly clear,” Sherlock replies, tossing the comment over his shoulder, peeking back to smirk menacingly at both John and Lestrade. John bristles and exchanges glances with the DI and Lestrade cannot help but feel a sweat break out onto his skin.

Lestrade nods and crosses his arms over his chest defensively. “Yes, but you’ve got to be joking. You’re not serious, Sherlock, come on!”

Sherlock just smirks.

Well . . .

Apparently he is serious.

“Why?!” John splutters in astonishment as Sherlock spins onto his back, trailing his fingers down, drifting delicately over the buttons of his shirt, just touching them. He rolls his eyes and arches his back just so, his shirt riding up ever so slightly and Lestrade’s cock twitches in excitement.

“I’ve already explained it. But you’re going to make me repeat myself, aren’t you?”

John purses his lips and nods in feigned reluctance and Lestrade fights the grin threatening to bloom across his face.

“Fine,” Sherlock huffs and sits up, his beanstalk legs folding over themselves and his arms crossing over his willowy chest, doing a delectable impression of a petulant child. But his eyes are glittering with mischief and he opens his mouth, repeating the one word Lestrade is anticipating yet dreading at the same time. A part of him does not want Sherlock to say it because he knows that when it all boils down, he will never be able to refuse Sherlock. He hasn’t before, and Lestrade doesn’t see himself starting now. It’s pathetic really and he wants to kick himself despite the fact that it won’t do any good.

He can tell, just by looking at him, that John is tethering on the edge as well. It’s been too long since either of them had seen an escape route from this hold Sherlock held over them and they’re both close to breaking point.

But this-

This was just bollocks.

A threesome? What on earth is that supposed to mean? That Sherlock desired both of them? That he, in actual fact, wanted neither and just the sex. And since when did Sherlock want sex? Which also begged the question; did Sherlock know about Lestrade’s own adhesion towards himself? He must have caught onto his feelings- there was no way-

“You, Lestrade, and I should engage in a threesome.”

Sherlock looks pointedly at the both of them, the panic finally welling up within Lestrade and he has to close his eyes and turn away before he fears he’ll say something he will regret. There isn’t a sound in the room, not a single word but Lestrade can still hear Sherlock’s words, can still hear the smugness in them, the arrogance.

John is a little more controlled than himself and it’s refreshing to see someone else take charge for a change.

He licks his lips. “Why do you want a...a threesome? It’s a bit far-fetched isn’t it?”

Lestrade can feel Sherlock’s smirk bore into the back of his head.

“I hate having to explain myself. What does it matter anyway?” Sherlock demands. “You both want it, don’t you? I am merely providing a means in which to satisfy all of us as to stop the ridiculous pining.” He focuses on his fingers for a moment. “Besides I’m sure it’ll provide sufficient enough for my research.”

“Research?!” The anger in John’s voice is nerve wracking and sends a delightful shiver down Lestrade’s spine. The moment is almost too good to miss and Lestrade has to crack an eye open and watch. “What research?”

“A case,” Sherlock replies.

“What case?”

“The case.”

Lestrade pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “What case?”

Sherlock huffs slightly and replies, “The case, Lestrade! The case!” He waves a hand in irritation, glaring at them both. “Look, does it really matter? You’re missing the bigger picture, as usual.”

“You haven’t even given us a bloody reason, Sherlock!” John snaps. “You can’t just throw a tantrum and we’ll immediately get our kit off for you!”

Sherlock frowns. “I gave you a reason!”

“And what was that?” Lestrade dreads to ask.

“It’s for the case!”

And again with the case. Lestrade doesn’t even think there is a case.

“Yes, but- Sherlock,” Lestrade cuts in, rubbing his eyes wearily. “You can’t just go around demanding threesomes!”

“Well, why not?” He looks confused which is most certainly a sight. “It’s something neither of us has done. There’s nothing else to do. And both of you are being ridiculous as I’m aware you want it.”

Lestrade falters for a moment, scanning his brains for the right words, for anything but falls short and simply says, “Because . . . it’s not . . . what people do.”

Sherlock looks unimpressed and if Lestrade is completely honest with himself, he’d be unimpressed with the answer as well.

“Also,” John cuts in lightly, his eyes studying the back of his hand with feigned interest. “It’s not very polite . . . you know, demanding . . . stuff like this.”

If there was ever a moment Lestrade felt it was inappropriate to laugh, it was probably then. He didn’t laugh, thankfully, but hid his grin behind his hand nonetheless. Sherlock merely pouts and throws himself back onto the bed, eagle spread; gangly limbs sprawled in an array of long things and sharp angles.

“You want it,” Sherlock continues with a deep rumble that vibrates through his chest and goes straight through both Lestrade and John. “Me.”

The culprits freeze and Sherlock looks as if he’s won the lottery. Slowly he begins to unbutton his shirt, splaying it open across his sinewy chest, tracing soft patterns upon it with the pad of his finger.

“You talk too much,” Lestrade shoots back weakly, engrossed with the path the finger is tracing, drifting over a pink nipple, a hitching gasp drawn from Sherlock’s lips.

“Do I now?” The murmur twitches and breaks somewhere in the middle as deft fingers drift firmly over a nipple again and it’s almost surreal, watching Sherlock like this. Perhaps Lestrade is in a dream, one of those realistic ones which he can’t seem to shake. But the last one he had, things seemed to have gone well until the woman who was blowing him (I thought you were in love with Sherlock Holmes?) bit his dick off. That . . . wasn’t a very nice dream and Lestrade dreads to think of a similar scenario happening here-

But he distantly thinks how easy it would be for Sherlock to snap his neck with those lithe legs of his.

Ah, the ever elusive art of cock-blocking-

-does not seem to work in the slightest as Lestrade feels his erection throb for attention at the sight of Sherlock writhing on the bed.

How he managed to get himself into this, he does not know.

John is staring at Sherlock, almost enthralled, perhaps bordering on senseless irritation as his brow furrows and the lines crease and deepen. He sighs and rubs his face wearily. “Are you serious, Sherlock? This is insane!”

“No it’s not,” Sherlock replies nonchalantly. “And we would have been done by now if you two stopped talking for once and actually did something.”

I will not hit Sherlock Holmes, I will not hit Sherlock Holmes, I will not hit Sherlock Holmes.

It’s unfair and he’s just a child.

No, he’s not.

Oh. Well go ahead-

I will not hit Sherlock Holmes-


Lestrade clenches his fists and chants the last line in his head a dozen times, counting in French, in every possible language he could know, which consists of English, a little bit of French from his school days, and a language he and his siblings made up when they were small. Alas, only Sherlock could make him count out his frustrations in fictional lingo.

He can’t seem to catch his bearings, watching Sherlock lounge across the bed like some sort of content feline, legs cocked, shirt undone, determined to make a show of things and although Lestrade would have certainly enjoyed it if it were any other situation or if Sherlock actually had a heart, he cannot see anything worth looking forward to at the moment. Nothing, save a black sense of dread, or resignation or even jealousy springing up within him and festering into something ugly. He needs out. He needs some space.

“If you’re serious about this,” Lestrade starts angrily, sighing in irritation and throwing his hands in the air in mock defeat. “Then I’m going to need a cigarette.”

And he storms off without another word.

****

It’s quiet, which is nice and Lestrade is almost grateful for the peace. However said emotion is currently stamped down by the overwhelming pleasure he feels at having a cigarette between his lips after so long. The cigarette glows briefly on the end before he blows out a puff of smoke, watching as it drifts and dies away into the night.

Damn Sherlock and his unreasonable reasoning. If that makes sense. But Lestrade wants to brood and by now, he thinks he’s been awarded the right to. He can’t just demand things like this- it’s not . . . ethical?

But that doesn’t matter; Lestrade doesn’t really care about such things. He’s just pissed off. Why? Anger? Bitterness? Jealousy perhaps?

He cannot see a way in which to proceed with Sherlock’s request and come out the other side completely unscathed, his heart whole and his mind intact. It’s impossible, completely and undoubtedly impossible.

And yes, Lestrade is aware he’s playing on a hyperbole but once again, he doesn’t care. He wants to brood.

“Brooding, are we?”

Lestrade’s fingers twitch ever so slightly against his cigarette and he wants to scream, wants to shout that no, he is not brooding, and no, he is not jealous of John Watson, and no, he does not want to fuck Sherlock Holmes.

But he holds his tongue and greets John with a tight smile, allowing the man to sit beside him on the stairs just outside the flat.

“I don’t brood,” he replies shortly, dragging on his cigarette and stamping it roughly with his shoe, kicking it aside. John smiles softly and looks ahead and the two are left watching the traffic pass together.

“I thought you quit smoking,” John says after a moment, both men cocking their head at the sight of a young woman kicking her boyfriend out of a car, flinging a flimsy piece of underwear at him and screaming obscenities before speeding off in her Mercedes. Lestrade’s lips quirk up but it’s not quite a smile.

“I have.” And he says no more on the matter.

They need to address the issue, both men know it, can feel it hanging in the air between them, sparking slightly and it’s only a matter of who will grasp it first.

John always did have more courage than Lestrade.

“About . . .” The doctor starts, a pink tongue darting out to wet dry lips quickly. “About Sherlock. What he said. We’re not going to, I mean- He’s not being serious-”

“Yes, he is,” Lestrade interrupts wearily. John looks at him, his eyes burning into Lestrade’s brown ones as if studying the man, reading his mind and he sighs in resignation and nods his head, turning away.

“Yeah . . .”

“Are we going to . . .” Lestrade starts nervously. “What he said, about us, you know it’s true.” He swallows hard, his stomach flipping in a mixture of trepidation and embarrassment. John once again, nods solemnly, now staring ahead blackly, as if lost in thought.

Lestrade continues. “But this is ridiculous! This . . . I mean, he can’t be serious! He can’t be bloody serious . . . it’s just . . .” He trails off rather uselessly, floundering for words that would not come, unable to speak his mind. In all honesty, it isn’t Sherlock’s request that causes Lestrade’s distress. It’s the prospect of having sex with John.

John.

John Watson.

John bloody Watson.

He hasn’t known the man long; he likes to think they’re a little more than just acquaintances, though. After all, John’s a decent man, hard working, strong, brave even, and Lestrade cannot help but admire him for it. He respects John.

But that doesn’t stop the fact that both will go to war, if needed, for a rare moment of Sherlock’s attention. Which also begs the question, is Lestrade jealous of John Watson?

He asks himself this, but cannot seem to find an answer. Which most likely means no, he’s not jealous of the man. Which is good, but does not stop the fact that he is feeling decisively uncomfortable with the idea of sex with Sherlock and John.

Maybe Lestrade just doesn’t want to share. After all, there’s nothing wrong with John and Lestrade assumes the man knows his way around the bed. So what’s the problem?

“It’s . . . weird,” comes the raspy chuckle that escapes John’s lips. He’s smiling, an odd little quirk of the lips and Lestrade doesn’t understand why he’s staring at them all of a sudden. This is all Sherlock’s fault.

“What is?”

John smiles and gestures a hand between the both of them. “Us, doing it. It’d be weird, wouldn’t it?”

Lestrade blushes and makes no attempt to hide it, sighing in frustration and scrubbing a rough hand over his face. Weird is an understatement but Lestrade doesn’t even want to dwell too much into that.

“Yeah, just a bit.”

John nods and smiles sympathetically. “It’s a no, then.”

“What, the . . .” Lestrade trails off, looking around briefly in case someone or something was listing. Although he isn’t quite sure how something could be listening but he doesn’t want to take the chances. The last thing he needs is some pervy . . . fox or something listening in on his delicate conversation with John and wanking off with his fellow animal friends.

And yes, Lestrade does realise how implausible and completely and utterly fucked that sounds but he has an excuse-

He’s panicking.

Lestrade leans closer and mutters slightly. “You mean the sex?”

John nods, grinning both sheepishly and knowingly and Lestrade is almost tempted to ask whether the man is also afraid foxes are listening. But he doesn’t because he’s not crazy enough to. And besides, the idea is completely impossible. Foxes don’t masturbate.

“Like you said, it’d be weird,” John explains, watching the cars drive past. Lestrade backs off slightly, almost but not quite affronted.

“I never said that. You said that and I just agreed.”

John raises an eyebrow. “So you do want the sex?”

“No!” Lestrade protests a tad too quickly and defensively. “Why . . . do you?”

And then John does something Lestrade never would have thought a sober and seemingly straight man could do. He shrugged.

And it’s at that sudden and slightly surreal point in which it all hits Lestrade with a force strong enough to be deemed as mental whiplash. Both John and Lestrade are fine with the prospect of sex with another man, sex with Sherlock to be precise. The problem is with each other.

Lestrade looks at John warily, his cheeks staining pink. John is awkwardly tapping his fingers against the knee, and the silence is overpowering.

One of them should break it.

And Lestrade decides that since John did it the last time, it’s only fair for him to break it again. Which isn’t actually fair at all.

“Yes,” John murmurs slightly, his gaze anywhere but on Lestrade. “It’s weird but . . . it’s Sherlock. Sherlock’s a force in itself, isn’t he?”

Lestrade snorts at this. “You can say that again.”

There is another moment of silence between the two, but this time it’s decidedly more comfortable. Both men have silly smiles upon their faces, both simultaneously reminiscing on a memorable time with Sherlock. However it is short lived as John rises to his feet, brushing down his trousers and holding out a hand to Lestrade, gesturing.

“Come on, let’s go in.”

And even though Lestrade has no idea what would happen if he took John’s hand, he suddenly can’t bring himself to care, feeling as if he’s swimming against a force determined for his destruction. John is offering a life boat and Lestrade sees no other option but to accept it. He takes the man’s hand and the two walk back into the flat, Lestrade turning to close and lock the front door. The lights are off and there is little to almost no sound. But it’s not frightening- disconcerting, rather.

With the door closed, Lestrade turns around, grinning sheepishly as he attempts to lift the mood. However, he does not expect to see John Watson eye to eye with him, a few (or a mere two/ three) inches between the two. He can almost feel John’s breath on his lips. Almost.

“John, what are you-” But the sentence is never meant to be finished. Its pathetic one second existence ends abruptly with little remorse by the sudden weight of another man’s lips upon his own. The rest of the words do not even bother to put up a fight, resigning to their fate and inevitable death.

John’s lips are soft, which is surprisingly pleasant. They’re not chapped, or dry, or as sweet as petals. They’re just lips, although very nice lips as they work wonders at opening Lestrade’s mouth. John’s tongue is warm and wet and also very nice as it snakes and touches Lestrade’s own. He makes a small noise in the back of his throat, a cross between a moan and a protest, a plea for more and a huff of indignation. Why the hell is he letting John kiss him and- oh god, please don’t stop.

And John doesn’t. Not until his hips stutter in a slow grind against Lestrade’s, pressing hard and long before pulling away completely.

John retreats and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, slightly breathless and flushed. Lestrade stares at him, mouth agape, unable to comprehend what just happened. He’ll try anyway though-

“What the hell was that?!” he exclaims in a low whisper, glaring at John in confusion. He can still feel the pressure of John’s lips against his, the tingling sensation not wholly unpleasant.

John shrugs. “A kiss.”

“I bloody well know it was a kiss!” Lestrade furiously replies. “But why?!”

There’s a moment, just a brief stint in time in which everything slows down momentarily just for the benefit of Lestrade’s befuddled mind. Moments like these do not come often too many. And this is because they are, in fact, epiphanies.

Such a moment leaves Lestrade reeling. His eyes widen, shooting up to the ceiling and then back to John, floundering for wounds like a beached whale.

“You-” he starts, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “You actually want this threesome?”

John blinks a few times and diverts his gaze to the wall, his lips pressing together as he contemplates this thought. He doesn’t take long however. He doesn’t need to.

“Do you?”

Lestrade isn’t sure if it’s an answer or a question. It’s most certainly one of them- perhaps even both. It isn't a no and it isn't a yes. Why? Pride perhaps?

Or was this another one of John’s attempt at dry humour?

In any case, it doesn’t matter.

They are both flushed, burning bright with heat and arousal from the mere thought that Sherlock Holmes is directly above them on the bed, waiting for them. Why they are standing around here instead of fucking the man into the mattress, Lestrade doesn’t know. Maybe it’s because of him.

John’s already given him his answer.

Lestrade bites his lip and closes his eyes, nodding slowly. Yes, he does want this. Badly.

Is it a good idea though?

Probably not.

His eyes open when he feels John step closer. The man scrutinises him for a moment and Lestrade ponders whether Sherlock has had some sort of influence over the man. But the thought is short lived when the other smiles softly, amusement glinting in his large eyes. He brings a thumb to Lestrade’s cheek, attempting to thumb away the blush and Lestrade laughs slightly, poking John in the stomach. For two men fighting over the same man, things seem rather pleasant between them.

“You alright?” John murmurs softly, stepping back ever so slightly to establish some sort of space. Although the idea is borderline absurd- Lestrade, if he agrees, will most likely see John naked.

Very naked. And sweating. He’d probably kiss him again and lick his skin- that spot right between his neck and collarbone.

Lestrade blinks, finding himself entrapped by the sight of said collarbone peeking out from beneath John’s jumper. He raises his eyes to meet John's and smiles sheepishly.

Is he alright? There really isn’t an answer to that question at the moment.

So he lies.

“Peachy.”

John smiles, a tight lipped beam that unnerves Lestrade slightly. It’s completely different to Sherlock’s cat like grin, his cupid bow lips bowing softly into a smile. John’s smile is controlled, the perfect temperament, the perfect muscle movement, the perfect emotion- everything about it is set to show something. What though, no one really knows, let alone Lestrade. It’s probably just a smile, one thrown out there just for politeness.

Lestrade doesn’t really know.

John turns slightly, his eyes twinkling impishly at the other. “Shall we?”

Don’t do it!

Fuck off. Get up those stairs right now and go have sex!


Lestrade smiles. “Ok.”

****

Thus once again, Lestrade finds himself watching as Sherlock Holmes sprawls back against the bed, resting on his elbow as he shoots both Lestrade and John a rather disarming smile. And, despite knowing why he is there and how exactly this is going to happen (although even then, he isn’t sure he fully knows), Lestrade still can’t help but feel a slight flutter in his stomach.

This is crazy. I can’t believe I’m doing this!

Yes, you can.

If I leave now, just leave- I’m sure it’ll all blow over soon enough. It’ll all be fine and everything can go back to normal, normal cases, normal murders, normal Sherlock, perfectly normal.


Although Lestrade isn’t sure what’s normal anymore. Sherlock definitely isn’t normal. If the man was anything close to normal, Lestrade wouldn’t be in this position; he would be at home, in his dingy flat feeling sorry for himself for fucking all his relationships up and, no doubt, reacquainting himself with his right hand.

Lestrade frowns at this thought.

Maybe it’s better Sherlock isn’t normal after all.

Or is he normal? Is Lestrade the loony one? He must be to agree to this. A threesome with Sherlock and John.

Sherlock fucking Holmes and John bloody Watson.

Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?

A threesome- Sexual acts and/or relations between three people.

Lestrade can’t understand why he’s finding it so hard to comprehend that he could be this lucky.

And he uses the word lucky loosely. He’s loony and lucky. And the alliteration doesn’t go unmissed by him.

“So,” Sherlock murmurs, the noise low and guttural, enough to make Lestrade’s cock stand for attention. “I see you both have . . . worked things out?”

He smirks to himself, lounging backwards, and Lestrade wants to flip Sherlock over and lick the small of his back. Sherlock’s shirt is still open, hanging agape from his frame like a window to his body, just a tease of flesh that is nothing short of beautiful. It’s at this moment that both John, whom Lestrade is slightly embarrassed to admit he forgot about for a brief minute, and Lestrade move over to the mattress, leaning over Sherlock who is as content as a cat.

There are no words, no sounds save the soft rumble emitting from Sherlock’s chest like a purr. There doesn’t need to be. It’s almost magnificent listening to this creature, this- this thing of a man purr and rumble like that. It’s gorgeous, it’s beautiful, it’s perfect.

Sherlock’s eyes are on him, staring, boring deep into him and it makes his skin prickle pleasantly. He then switches them to John, something flashing briefly, a twitch of the eyebrow and it’s enough to tell Lestrade to look away before someone gets hurt.

Instead, he leans down and licks his way up Sherlock’s neck, mouthing just underneath his chin. Sherlock moans softly, his fingers curling against the shirt on Lestrade’s back.

“God...” he murmurs but Lestrade can still hear the grin in his voice.

“Not quite,” he replies, nuzzling Sherlock’s neck again. His skin is soft, tight and warm under his lips. He can feel his pulse, every rush of blood and beat of his heart and it’s intoxicating being this close to a man so unattainable.

God, you’re so fucking gorgeous, Sherlock, he wants to say. But the words never make it from his lips. They die softly against Sherlock’s skin, unheard but not forgotten and he belittles himself for being such a coward. It doesn’t matter though- Lestrade distracts himself by biting Sherlock’s neck hard, sucking on the spot and pulling forth such pretty moans from his lips.

“Fuck!” Sherlock cries, his fingers scrabbling against Lestrade’s back and he smiles against the spot. John leans down and inspects it, grinning slightly.

“Nice.”

“I know,” Lestrade replies, his eyes twinkling in delight. However the moment is short lived when Sherlock pulls a leg up and digs his heel into the small of the inspectors back. “Ow! Sherlock!”

The man’s pale eyes are glittering with arousal, his cheeks flushed heavily. “Enough talking- more fucking.”

John tuts and raises an eyebrow dubiously, slinking up Sherlock’s body to grab his chin and force the man’s gaze onto him. “That’s a bit debasing isn’t it? Even for you?” Lestrade snickers and moves to lick down Sherlock’s lean chest, nosing his shirt out of the way to latch onto a dusty pink nipple.

“Ohhhh . . .” Sherlock moans, arching up toward Lestrade’s mouth. He should have known the man was sensitive there. “Oh, should I apologise for my lack of propriety in bed?” he snaps. “Please, can we refrain from speaking when either one of you could be engaging in sexual intercourse with me. Better?”

“One of us?” John chuckles, leaning closer to the man’s face and ghosting the words against Sherlock’s lips. “Selfish.”

“Or both,” Sherlock grins. “I’m not picky.”

Lestrade’s breath hitches at this last statement and he groans low in his throat. The image of both John and Lestrade pushing desperately into a willing and moaning Sherlock is too much, his lean thighs quivering around Lestrade’s hips as John pushes into him from behind, further impaling him on Lestrade’s cock-

Fuck.

Fuck.


It was almost enough to make him come then and there.

“Greedy,” Lestrade mumbles, nuzzling Sherlock’s other nipple before latching on to it and sucking. Sherlock groans low in his throat and the noise shoots straight down to Lestrade’s cock, his arousal spiking tenfold. Fumbling fingers stumble as they pry Sherlock away from his shirt, casting it on the floor somewhere. Lestrade then moves to quickly unbutton Sherlock’s trousers, grinding the heel of his palm against his cock, just for good measure.

“Hurry up!” Sherlock whines, kicking Lestrade away to sit up and quickly tug his trousers down. He’s not wearing underwear, which is so typical, Lestrade almost wants to roll his eyes. But the sight of Sherlock’s pink cock springing up and slapping wetly against his abdomen, leaking pre-come and so, so hard was tantalising.

Both John and Lestrade lick their lips.

Sherlock grins and moves back, straightening his back against the headboard, pulling his knees up and spreading them wide, rewarding both Lestrade and John with the most delicious sight. He rolls his neck up, baring it, eyes half lidded with arousal.

“Well?”

“Well . . .” John breathes, chewing on his lip slightly. “This isn’t really for a case, is it?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Who knows?” He nods at them. “Strip now.”

Lestrade recoils. “Excuse me?”

“Take off your clothes,” Sherlock commands. “Now.”

Lestrade blinks, a beat passing as he tries to comprehend that he’s been ordered to take his clothes off. “You can’t bloody order us, Sherlock! It doesn’t work that way!”

“It does if you want to fuck me.”

Sherlock reaches over to the bedside table and plucks out a strip of condoms and a tube of lubricant. He tosses them to the bed and brings a hand to his cock, wrapping long fingers around it and thumbing the head. His lips part in a silent “oh” and it’s all the cue they need.

“Oh, bloody hell!” John mumbles, fighting against his jumper as he tries to tug it over his head whilst simultaneously unbuttoning his trousers. “Shit! A little help here, Greg?”

Lestrade grins. “And here I thought doctors could multi-task.” He tugs his shirt and trousers off quickly, ignoring the sudden stab of self consciousness he feels at baring himself and moves to pry John away from his jumper.

“Oh shut up,” John snipes, grinning. Matters don’t help when he leans forward and nips at Lestrade’s lip playfully, both men suddenly tangled in the monster that was the cream jumper. They stumble, roll and promptly fall off the bed in a tangled mess of elbows and knees.

Lestrade groans, rubbing his sore elbow. “Fucking hell John!”

“Sorry, blame the jumper.” He quickly tugs it off and tosses it away, removing his t-shirt and unbuttoning his trousers. Above them, the mattress springs squeak and a wave of black curls peeks over the edge. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, his cheeks flushed and nose dotted pink from the sudden gravity shift.

“Can’t you two do anything right?” He snaps irritably.

Lestrade scrubs a hand over his face in exasperation as John makes quick work of his trousers and boxer shorts, flinging them accidently in Lestrade’s direction and hitting him squarely in the face.

“Shit- sorry about that,” John fumbles, grinning sheepishly. He yelps, missing Lestrade’s poorly placed glare, as Sherlock reaches down with bony arms and grabs his biceps, yanking him upwards and onto the bed. He falls with an “oof!”, winded slightly by Sherlock’s sudden onslaught. Lestrade snickers softly behind him and John narrows his eyes, reaching up and promptly kicking the chuckling man squarely in the stomach, grinning at the colourful string of curses streaming from his lips.

Lestrade grumbles angrily, moving to kneel on the bed, behind Sherlock. The man is bent over John, his spine curved deliciously, glistening with a sheen of sweat that Lestrade wastes no time in licking away. He kisses the nape of Sherlock’s neck, nipping at his shoulders and mapping out the light dusting of freckles across them. He didn’t expect Sherlock to have freckles- freckles were so-

So-

So human? So ordinary? One of them. Sherlock is so beautiful, carved and formed from marble, from the purest of alabaster. Absolutely flawless, with pale, milky skin and dark, auburn hair. Enough to make any woman or man fawn at his feet-

Wrong. Sherlock is tall, gangly with his long limbs and sharp elbows. He is graceful and elegant, yes but still normal. He sweats and cries and ejaculates like every other man. He has freckles across his shoulders and a tiny beauty spot, as Lestrade’s sisters used to call them, on his neck. He has long, skinny feet and fine dusting of hair on his now clammy and pink skin. It’s beautiful seeing the man so debauched.

Sherlock is human.

Lestrade blinks in surprise, leaning forward ever so slightly to place the lightest of kisses on a stray freckle. He can even feel the blood flowing under his skin and the feeling is fucking amazing.

Onward to part two

Comments

( 14 comments — Leave a comment )
atlinmerrick
Apr. 22nd, 2011 04:56 pm (UTC)
"And besides, the idea is completely impossible. Foxes don’t masturbate."

Oh god. You. Oh my god....

I'm not supposed to be reading this now!
crocodile_eat_u
Apr. 22nd, 2011 08:05 pm (UTC)
Foxes.. *blushes*

THEY ARE SO NOT GOING IN MY NEXT FIC! Lestrade did that on purpose- I swear it! ^^;
atlinmerrick
Apr. 25th, 2011 06:02 pm (UTC)
They desperately need to be in your next fic. Now that you said they wouldn't be I positively crave them...

FOXES!
crocodile_eat_u
Apr. 25th, 2011 09:30 pm (UTC)
Hahah! Oh god foxes... XD I'm actually considering doing a sequel. John and Lestrade would be making out one night and they hear foxes squealing outside and Lestrade would freak completely!

L: "I told you they're watching!"

J:.........Right.
atlinmerrick
Apr. 25th, 2011 09:41 pm (UTC)
"John and Lestrade would be making out one night"

I need that like fucking burning!

Oh. *Cough* Was I just unlady-like. I'm sorry. And also, oops! But one hardly ever sees John/Lestrade fics and with your writerly voice it would be fucking awesome!

Um. Oops again. Anyway. Yes please? And we can haz foxes?
crocodile_eat_u
Apr. 25th, 2011 10:09 pm (UTC)
Hahah! I am such a John/Lestrade slut it's unbeliveable! XD

You want more foxes? Ohhhhh oooook then! *sighs dramaticly* One must include foxes for comic relief after all! Only though if you do the umbrella porn!

*biiiig huge puppy dog/chibi/glittery eyes* Pweeeeease???
atlinmerrick
Apr. 25th, 2011 10:31 pm (UTC)
Oh I like this! We're trading!

Okay, I'll pretend like I haven't already written two thousand words of Sherlock doing Mycroft's brolly (yes, wrote Bonus Chapter Five before even starting chapter three), and I'll say that I will write about sex with Mycroft's brolly if you put in foxes and have Lestrade and John get it on.

*Holding out sweaty palm* Deal?
crocodile_eat_u
Apr. 25th, 2011 10:40 pm (UTC)
Sherlock doing Mycroft's brolly

Guuuuuuh.... *frothes at mouth* Oh god. Oh god...

Ok I will put in foxes and have Lestrade and John get it on. Yes. Yes I will do it. *shaky breath

*Shakes hands with equally sweaty palm* Deal!
atlinmerrick
Apr. 25th, 2011 10:47 pm (UTC)
This? This, I sense, may be the beginning of a beautiful partnership darlin'.

*Shakes hand*

Now. Back to writing about John's cane. (Good god what has this fandom done to me? And why did it not do it to me sooner?)
atlinmerrick
Apr. 27th, 2011 05:03 pm (UTC)
By the way, the umbrella porn is still on its way (it'll be chapter 5), but if you want John's cane porn that's up now. And yeah, I went there. I bloody well went there. http://atlinmerrick.livejournal.com/16972.html
ann_imaginative
May. 10th, 2011 04:36 pm (UTC)
Foxes don't masturbate.
*giggling like mad*
crocodile_eat_u
May. 12th, 2011 07:58 pm (UTC)
Who am I to judge what animals do or do not do on the streets of London? XD Poor paranoid Lestrade! <3
drinkingcocoa
Feb. 23rd, 2012 06:51 pm (UTC)
<3 <3 <3

I do want Detective Inspector Lestrade to be happy.
crocodile_eat_u
Apr. 6th, 2012 01:35 am (UTC)
Hehehehe! Don't we all? ;D
( 14 comments — Leave a comment )

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