Log in

No account? Create an account

Previous Entry | Next Entry

fic: In Transition (part 2 of 7)

Title: In Transition (part 2 of 7)
Author: fengirl88
Rating: NC-17, eventually
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John not-very-established relationship, Sherlock/Lestrade complications, Sherlock/John slash, finally
Warnings: sexual content, some drug references, and Lestrade still swears rather a lot.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.  Just playing with them.  Again. 
Spoilers: Bits of A Study in Pink.
Wordcount: 3131

Summary: John has never been so happy.  Sherlock has never been so confused.  Sex has never been so awkward.

with thanks to ginbitch for amazing beta work AGAIN.

Chapter 1: Sherlock

The Weakness In Me

Chapter 1: Sherlock



The Weakness In Me



He doesn't understand what's happening to him, and he's always hated not being able to understand. The only thing that drives him crazier is being bored. Which he isn't, yet, though you'd think he would be, going over and over the same ground.



There is John, who is essential to him. He's never let anyone be that before. I'd be lost without my blogger, he says, pretending it's a joke. Pretending that's all John is, the one who writes it all down afterwards. His chronicler. His biographer.


What he doesn't admit to anyone else, scarcely admits to himself: John is the first person who's made him feel human. Which is terrifying. The person Sherlock turns to instinctively now to tell him if something he's doing is not good. The one who makes him feel what people had been telling him, with varying degrees of venom and point, for years: that there's something missing in him, something that doesn't work. Emotionally.


It never mattered before.


It does now.


He'd be lost without John Watson. And he's afraid of losing him. Afraid he'll do something so not good that John will disappear. And Sherlock won't even know what it was.


The thought of it makes him wake up sweating, some nights.


He lies there, rigid with panic, staring into the darkness. Not daring to move closer to John, though he longs for comfort. Not a thing he ever used to want, or to understand anyone wanting.


Sometimes John wakes up anyway, holds him close and kisses him and strokes his hair till Sherlock's warm and drowsy and his clenched limbs begin to relax. Sometimes, even if John doesn't wake up, he'll throw his arm across Sherlock's body, and the weight of it will pull Sherlock down into sleep again, lulled by the steady rhythm of John's breathing.


He knows this can't last. Why would anyone in their right mind want to stay with him, after all?


He's had a lifetime of people calling him a freak, one way or another. He used to despise the normal ones with their funny little brains apparently untouched by most forms of rational thought. It was easy to feel superior to them. Because he was. Simple as that. He never thought he minded what they said.


But they were right, he realizes. Turns out he is a freak. And the thought leaves him defenceless in the face of his fears of being abandoned.


It would feel safer, so much safer, if John weren't the only one. If there could be someone else as well.


But he has just about enough emotional intelligence – though only just – to know that is not how it's supposed to be. And that John, being – mostly – conventional, probably wouldn't like it.


Mostly conventional. Not entirely, though. Anyone who kills a man – in civilian life rather than in a war zone – can't be entirely conventional. Even if he's doing it to save another man's life.


His own voice, telling Lestrade what he'd deduced about the shooter: Kill shot over that distance from that kind of weapon, that's a crack shot you're looking for. But not just a marksman, a fighter, his hands couldn't have shaken at all. So clearly he's acclimatized to violence. Didn't fire till I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle... You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service, and - nerves of steel -


The moment he realized he was looking at that man, standing the other side of a tape saying POLICE DO NOT CROSS. That ordinary little man, John Watson, ex-Army doctor, suddenly not ordinary at all. Looking innocent and a bit puzzled, as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. As if he hadn't just shot a serial killer. Done it for Sherlock. The recognition as big a shock as the bullet through the window – and as life-changing, as it turns out.


Saying to Lestrade Actually, d'you know what? Ignore me – Ignore - all of that. That's just – the – er – the shock talking. True and false both at once, because if he hadn't been in shock before (and he hadn't) he was now. A good kind of shock, but still.


Lestrade, for a miracle, hadn't followed through, though Sherlock is fairly sure he knows. Hadn't arrested John for the killing. Which by then was a source of relief so intense Sherlock hardly knew how to cope with it. He can't be parted from this man, not even for a short time, much less a prison sentence.


This man who now, astonishingly, shares his bed more often than not.


He doesn't let himself dwell on how all that came about, because it still hurts. Another new thing for him, being hurt by memories. Never used to happen. But that night when he thought John was leaving for good, when he waited, sleepless, for John to come back and then thought he'd lost him anyway -


His mind still flinches away from that one.


He always said he was married to his work, but he seems to have become a bigamist. Or maybe it's a ménage à trois, because John is so much a part of his work as well as his domestic life. Domesticity: another first. A cracked kind of domesticity, which might feature a severed head in the fridge, but still.


Mrs Hudson keeps asking when they're going to have a nice civil partnership and offering to do the catering. She means well, but it sets his teeth on edge. It's not that he's ashamed – well, not of being with another man, at any rate. That would be stupid, and he's not stupid. But the idea of standing up and telling the world about your relationship makes him go hot and cold all over.


What people would think. Never bothered him before. Shouldn't bother him now. But he imagines them imagining him and John in bed, and he feels sick. As if everyone's mind must be running some sort of ghastly gay porn movie, full of impossible positions and heaving buttocks and theatrical groaning.


Maybe he wouldn't mind it so much if that image were a bit closer to the truth. Instead of being almost the opposite of it.


If he'd thought about it at all, which he mostly didn't, he'd have assumed sex was a simple business. Mechanical and straightforward, in the way masturbation is. Not that he's even done much of that, until recently, or needed to. He's lived so much in his mind that what his body wants has never been an issue.


Apart from the drugs, of course. And the nicotine patches, now he doesn't do drugs any more.


Sex with another man ought, logically, to be simpler than sex with a woman, because you know your way around the anatomy and how it works. But when one of you hasn't had much sexual experience at all – as he hasn't – and the other one has never had sex with a man before – as John hadn't – it seems sex isn't so easy and uncomplicated after all.


It would be easier, he thinks, if he wasn't so afraid of doing something wrong, something that will disgust John or hurt him or scare him away. He doesn't know how far or how fast it's safe to go. And they've never talked about it. Even thinking about talking about it makes Sherlock break out in a cold sweat.


Being around someone as much as he's around John, so close physically so much of the time and yet not managing to have much of a sex life, leaves Sherlock in a state of simmering frustration. He's often physically aroused, so much so that the friction of his underwear against his cock is almost unbearable and he has to retreat to the safety of the bathroom to jerk off before he can wrench his mind back to whatever case he's trying to crack. He doesn't know if this happens to John as well. Another thing they don't talk about. There seem to be quite a few of those. Just like being married, from what he hears.



There is John, who is essential to him. And then there is Lestrade.



He always used to know where he was with Lestrade, and now he doesn't. Which is driving him crazy in a different way from what's happening – or not happening – with John.


He's always been aware that Lestrade wanted him. It couldn't have been more obvious if Lestrade had actually been wearing a notice round his neck saying SEX PLEASE SHERLOCK NOW.


It had amused Sherlock. Well, that sort of thing is funny. Comic cliché, in fact: some poor fool in the throes of uncontrollable lust and with no hope of satisfying it. Nursing a massive erection, like one of those homunculi in an Aubrey Beardsley drawing, little men with pricks almost as big as they are, so painfully erect they can hardly walk around.


And that was Lestrade, for five years of Sherlock's life. A good DI – the best of the Scotland Yarders, though that's not saying much – but also a walking hard-on. Specifically for Sherlock, who wasn't interested, but had fun teasing Lestrade about it and making him desperate.


He wonders now whether it meant something that he enjoyed Lestrade's desperation so much. Enjoyed taunting him with it, telling Lestrade he had no choice but to do what Sherlock wanted: Because you need me.


Lestrade's voice, hoarse and broken: Yes I do. God help me.


Sherlock thinks about that, sometimes, when he's jerking off in the bathroom. Hears the voice in his head, saying that, and comes, hard.



But then Lestrade had surprised him. Not just once, but repeatedly. And surprise - the opposite of boredom - is the hook for Sherlock. The thing that fixes him, wriggling but unable to escape. Fixed him with John, the moment he realized what John had done for him. Fixes him the way he is now, about Lestrade.


The first surprise: the drugs bust. Coming back laughing from running around the streets chasing that taxi with John, exhilarated to have proved his point (that limp of John's was psychosomatic) and also high on the sheer pleasure of being with this new, strange, strangely normal companion. Giggling like idiots in the hall of 221b, breathless with it, joyous, triumphant.


And then Mrs Hudson, agitated: Sherlock, what have you done? Upstairs -


Rushing up the stairs and into the flat. To find Lestrade cockily ensconced in Sherlock's armchair, looking very much at home and quite exceptionally pleased with himself.


Not desperate at all.


And police officers all over the flat, prying into everything.


Exploding at Lestrade: You can't just break into my flat! Ignoring all the times he'd broken into Lestrade's because he felt like it, or because he was bored and wanted to play.


Lestrade, unruffled: Well you can't withhold evidence! And I didn't break into your flat.


Well what do you call this then?


And Lestrade, gleeful, shining with mischief and power: It's a drugs bust!


Breaking every rule in the book and not caring. Exerting his authority, and Sherlock suddenly powerless to resist it, unable to do more than flail around:


Oh – what – so – so – so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?


And Lestrade, softly but menacingly, still lording it over him, moving in closer: It stops being pretend if they find anything. Ignoring Sherlock's angry protests that he was clean, saying Is your flat? All of it? As if he knows. As if he can see right through him.


Sherlock remembers all that, too, sometimes, in the moments before his solitary climax.



The second surprise: having sex with Lestrade. Which he hadn't intended to happen but things got ... out of hand. As you might say.


Astonishing to find himself confiding in Lestrade about John, after that night Sherlock and John had ended up sharing a bed but nothing happened. Really unexpected, the whole thing. And then he'd felt exposed and vulnerable and wanted to put things back the way they usually were, Sherlock with the upper hand and Lestrade the panting, lust-befuddled idiot. So he'd flirted with Lestrade, given him the latest in a very long line of uncomfortable erections and then settled down to have some fun playing with him, and it. Knowing Lestrade wouldn't take advantage, because he never does.


It hadn't quite worked out that way. After the row with John walking in on them fooling around, Lestrade had briefly and suddenly become that other man, the one Sherlock's powerless to resist, barking orders in a voice you don't say no to. And Sherlock – to his own surprise and possibly Lestrade's – had done as he was told. Locked the door, got back on the sofa and finished what he started, with Lestrade's hands clamped around his as Sherlock pulled and squeezed Lestrade's cock to a rapid and apparently very satisfying climax.


And then it had been Sherlock's turn.


Lestrade's hands, the fingers shorter than his own but thicker, too, untying the blue silk dressing-gown and slipping it off Sherlock, exploring under Sherlock's clothes and making him gasp with pleasure and surprise. The unexpected force and suddenness of his own erection, aching for Lestrade's touch. Lestrade going slow, teasing Sherlock, making him ask for it, making him – he wouldn't use the word beg, even if in the end he had said please. Said it more than once.


Lestrade moving down to put his mouth where his hands were already making Sherlock dizzy with longing and pleasure and -




Nothing but Oh.


Hearing the exclamation as if someone else was making it. And then no words, no breath for words, just gasps and finally sharp cries as he came, extravagantly, from Lestrade's tongue teasing that sensitive place, Lestrade's mouth pulling and sucking at him, incredible, nothing like this ever.


And nothing like it since because -


Sherlock refuses to think about that, on the grounds that there's no point.


This stuff obviously isn't as easy as it looks.



The third surprise: the Maurice Hall case and Lestrade telling him to go away, and seeming to mean it. A thing that had never happened before. And not even responding when Sherlock jumped him and ripped his clothes off and took Lestrade's cock in his hand. Bewildering. So that Sherlock had had to resort to taking Lestrade's cock in his mouth, trying to remember what Lestrade had done to him and how it had felt. And it had seemed to work. Very well, in fact.


But there was a case to solve, and Lestrade right in the middle of it, no time to waste and no time to think about what had just happened, or why he'd really done it. Whether he'd jumped Lestrade and had sex with him to stop Lestrade shutting him out, a thing Lestrade had never done before.


And then the thing that nearly ended it all: how he'd nearly got Lestrade killed by that maniac with the gun. Just because Sherlock always has to be the one who solves the case and makes things happen, the careless, arrogant bloody fool -





So he's out, now, walking fast in the chill spring night, trying to cool his feverish brain before he goes back to 221b. Driven out because if Maurice Hall said one more stupid thing Sherlock was going to strangle him with Hall's minor public school tie. And because he can't forgive himself for what he almost did to Lestrade, and he wants to make it up to him the only way he knows how, and he knows there'd be hell to pay with John if he did, and indeed that there will be hell to pay with John if John ever finds out about the other night and Sherlock having sex with Lestrade again.


He thinks Clara may have noticed something, too, and he wouldn't put it past her to tell John. Clever women are a menace, he's always thought so. This one more than most. Why John has to keep up the acquaintance when his sister couldn't wait to get away from the woman, Sherlock really doesn't know.


Reluctantly, he goes back to 221b to find Lestrade half-asleep in the armchair and the other three engaged in boring for England about that blasted French film. And Lestrade sees that he's troubled, and Sherlock blurts out like the fool he is, now, I put you in danger. And, oh god, he thinks Lestrade is actually flirting with him. Which he can't cope with at all.


His mouth is dry and his heart is hammering as Lestrade laughs up at him saying Watch it, Sherlock, you'll have me thinking you care in a minute. And he's that close to saying I do. Staring at Lestrade, feeling as if the floor has given way underneath him and he's falling down a well, waiting for the bone-jarring crunch as he hits the bottom.


Then the other three burst out laughing about something, it's like a slap in the face that sobers him up and he turns away to the window, sweating at how close he came to saying something irrevocable.


Lestrade saying goodbye and Sherlock wanting to kiss him, wanting it so much he feels as if he's the one wearing a notice now. DYING TO KISS LESTRADE. And something must be written all over him, because as Lestrade looks up from the street below John kisses Sherlock, hard, possessively, right in front of the window where there's no way Lestrade's not going to see it. Sherlock responds, can't help it, he's aching so much as it is. But it leaves him feeling confused, in a way being kissed – even in public – by the person you're supposed to be with really shouldn't. The person he wants to be with. He knows that.


Whatever it is that he's feeling about Lestrade is refusing to go away, though. And Lestrade's round there quite a lot, sometimes by himself and sometimes with bloody Maurice, who seems to have clicked with John and Clara. (Clara is also far too much in evidence for Sherlock's liking.)


And every time Sherlock sees him it's the same. Wanting to say something, do something, and terrified that he will.


He doesn't believe in reincarnation, but if he did he'd be wondering what he did wrong in a previous life. He's not sure he can stand much more of this.


He's going to have to do something about it. Just doesn't know what it is yet.

Next:  ... an entirely unlikely friendship. )

Previous: ( He still doesn't really believe this is happening. )



( 16 comments — Leave a comment )
Sep. 28th, 2010 12:27 am (UTC)
Oh, yelp! This makes me so unsettled & confused! Must be how Sherlock's feeling...

And a very apt song choice in Joan Armatrading, if you don't mind me saying.
Sep. 28th, 2010 12:32 am (UTC)
thank you! your icon (or do I mean gif?) is amazing btw.

v. fond of the Joan Armatrading and it did seem the right song for this chapter.

never underestimate the power of Maurice...

Sep. 28th, 2010 06:31 am (UTC)
Ok my heart is still breaking for Lestrade but I may now have a teeny little bit of sympathy for Sherlock too...

You write his confusion (well, more utter bewilderment) brilliantly!
Sep. 28th, 2010 08:56 am (UTC)
thank you so much! *blushes*

really pleased you like it. and that you have some sympathy for Sherlock in this (I do too as you can probably tell). Lestrade /will/ be all right eventually...
Sep. 28th, 2010 09:39 am (UTC)
THe headlong pace works very well, gives a solid feeling of disorientation and difficulty. He doesn't know what to do and is completely at sea.

I like his turnaround with his feelings about Lestrade and Lestrade managing to surprise and control and disturb him (as of course I would!)

The complication of Maurice (who I think is utterly wet and can't at all see what Lestrade sees in him...) adds to the problems.

This is seeming stronger than the last fic and the last chapter, keep 'em coming,
Sep. 28th, 2010 09:47 am (UTC)
thank you ! glad you like it.
Sep. 28th, 2010 03:31 pm (UTC)
I really wished my English would be good enough to tell you properly how much I love this fic.
It's wonderful. I love 'your' Lestrade and just want to hug him and tell him that he'll be all right.
And I even feel a little bit sorry for Sherlock. (I also kinda want to slap him on the head for only wishing to kiss Lestrade, and not just doing it XD)

I can't wait to read more.
Sep. 28th, 2010 06:08 pm (UTC)
that is such a lovely comment - thank you so much!

people seem to want to slap Sherlock for a number of reasons. just had someone else on fanfiction.net very indignant about S's bad behaviour to John.

thank you for the hug for Lestrade! ♥
(Deleted comment)
Sep. 28th, 2010 06:15 pm (UTC)
thank you so much! yes, you're right, these stories are all related to each other, at least the longer ones (Close Analysis, Unpredictable, The Old Bad Songs and this one). my bits of pwp nonsense are set in some alternative Sherlock'verse where none of these events ever happened, I guess.

I like the OT3 idea but have never found a way to make it work myself; my characters are just too darn jealous to cope with it!

weirdly, I am also a Sherlock/Lestrade believer when reading other S/L fics, which I /love/, in almost any variation of them. I wasn't expecting the Maurice storyline to go the way it did - but sometimes fics surprise you by what they want to do.

*hugs back*
(Deleted comment)
Sep. 28th, 2010 06:42 pm (UTC)
your comments!!!

*faints quietly in a corner*

thank you so much. this is just lovely. ♥

the arm moment was inspired partly by a gorgeous poem by U.A. Fanthorpe called Going Under. had it in mind when I was writing Unpredictable and again here.
Sep. 28th, 2010 11:12 pm (UTC)
excellent fic, really interesting writing style, I loved it!
Sep. 28th, 2010 11:14 pm (UTC)
ooh - thank you very much! I am glad you enjoyed it. *beams*
Sep. 29th, 2010 10:23 am (UTC)
Oh god - I love how this weaves in with the other storylines you wrote. What an incredible 'verse (this is definitely the one I want to live in!)
Sep. 29th, 2010 12:26 pm (UTC)
thank you so much! ♥

am currently refusing to live anywhere else myself...
Sep. 29th, 2010 08:08 pm (UTC)
"SEX PLEASE SHERLOCK NOW" *lol* Priceless!
I need one of these myself, thank you very much! :D
Sep. 29th, 2010 09:06 pm (UTC)
looking forward to seeing dozens of such notices being paraded around the streets... though I think there might also be a fair few SEX PLEASE LESTRADE NOW notices around the place.

thank you for the comment!
( 16 comments — Leave a comment )


scallop voices


Powered by LiveJournal.com