Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Disclaimer: These characters are still not mine. No matter how hard I stare at them.
Wordcount: 1365 for this part
Warnings: sexual content, fallout from threesome
Summary: John is confused again and this time it's not about Sherlock.
A/N: This is all blooms84 's fault for writing The Unbearable Fineness of Lestrade and making me sad about Lestrade all over again.
The events that started this whole sorry mess take place in Triple Jump.
John is running, running for all he's worth, muscles screaming, heart pounding, well past his normal limit, trying to shut off the tape loop that keeps playing over and over again in his head.
It's been a long afternoon at the surgery. He thought it would never end. Wanted to yell at half the patients to fuck off and stop being so stupid. Which is really not like him. And even if some of them are there for reasons well within their control, or have come with anxieties about phantom pains and imaginary lumps, it's not their fault he's feeling like shit. He shouldn't be taking it out on them. And he doesn't, because he's a good doctor. But it's a bloody close call. Closer than he likes to think about.
He's eaten up with shame and the run just isn't burning it away. Even though he's been running half as long again as he usually would, even though he's so tired that all he wants is to collapse into bed right now. He needs to stop soon or he won't be able to get home.
But he can't stop thinking about that scene in Lestrade's office. The way he'd made a complete prat of himself, hadn't even managed to come up with a half-way plausible excuse about why he'd gone to see Lestrade. Didn't manage to say anything at all. Not even a frankly implausible excuse. Not even the truth. Fuck.
Lestrade must have thought he'd taken leave of his senses, hugging him like that. Well, he'd be right. Of all the stupid, inappropriate things to do.
It's obvious that Lestrade thinks of John as Sherlock's partner and nothing else. The way he'd assumed that John needed reassurance about Sherlock after the threesome, saying He's really fond of you. Thinking about that makes John feel guiltier than ever, because he knows it's true. Sherlock, who most days doesn't seem capable of being fond of anyone.
Lestrade really couldn't have made it clearer that he wasn't interested in John. Not in that way. All that stuff about a clean slate and going for a pint to let off steam about Sherlock. I'm not saying we'll ever be best mates or anything. Never mind what John would like to be to Lestrade, whatever that is –
John stumbles and doubles up, panting. Not enough breath to groan.
What Lestrade must be thinking of him. Oh God. Turning up for no good reason, tongue-tied, blushing, dropping things and oh god, that stupid business of bumping heads, and then the way he'd gasped when Lestrade touched him because it went right through him, the shock of it. And Lestrade thinking he was hurt and going on about concussion. Shit. When all the time he just wanted –
Not going to think about that. Not if he still has a shred of sanity left.
He wonders what Sherlock said to Lestrade. Sounded as if it'd been something about the threesome, because of that thing Lestrade said, Don't worry, I don't think Sherlock's going to make a habit of it. Maybe Sherlock really has been reading his mind. Oh God. Knows what John is feeling, what he's been wanting. Why he was there, wanting to say to Lestrade –
Stop that. He's not going to think about what he wanted to say to Lestrade. Much less what he wanted to do. Or what he wanted Lestrade to do. Get home, have a shower and go to bed early. Tell Sherlock he's feeling a bit under the weather, which God knows isn't even a lie, he feels like shit. Probably is coming down with something.
Sherlock's curled up on the sofa when John gets back to 221b. John's not sure if he's asleep or just having a really massive sulk, but decides it's best to behave as if he thinks it's the former. Goes upstairs to the bathroom and gets into the shower.
He's aching all over from the run – probably was a bit stupid to push himself quite so far. Hadn't realized he'd been out that long – he's almost an hour later back than usual. Well, by the time he'd got back to the surgery to pick up his things and then got stuck in the Tube on the way home because he was too tired to walk it and you can't keep taking taxis everywhere, Sherlock's influence, a habit he really ought to break, one of many...
Not feeling up to a cold shower and anyway he's craving a hot one to try to get the stiffness out of his muscles. Usually he'd just be in and out quickly but that's not going to be enough today.
It's soothing, the water hitting his tired body and running over him and over him, and he likes the smell of this new soap, not sure where it came from, doesn't think he bought it but it's not really like Sherlock to take an interest in this sort of thing unless it's for a case. Which he doesn't think it is. Maybe Mrs Hudson put it there. Nice, anyway. He's starting to relax now, almost getting a bit drowsy, and the tape loop is becoming fainter.
Or rather, the tape loop is changing into something more like the scene he'd wanted to happen. Which he really shouldn't be letting himself imagine, but the warmth and the steam are getting to him in predictable ways, and he's just too tired to fight it off.
He imagines Lestrade looking – well, more the way he'd probably looked. Excited and a bit guilty at seeing John, especially after Sherlock had just been there. Imagines Lestrade saying “I didn't think I'd see you today, didn't think there was a chance of it.” Blushing. Oh god. He likes that idea a bit too much really, Lestrade blushing about him. And this time John saying straight away, with no stammering or paperweight-dropping, “I had to see you, couldn't wait another minute.” The intensity of Lestrade's gaze, looking so deep into his eyes that he feels naked. Yes. That. Thinking about it makes him slightly dizzy.
Lestrade pulling down the blinds so Donovan and the others wouldn't see him taking John in his arms and kissing him passionately, oh god, pushing John up against the door and groping him frantically through his trousers and unbuttoning and unzipping him and pushing him down onto the desk, scattering papers and, and objects, never mind what they are, wrapping John's legs around his waist and taking John hard and quickly, so forcefully that he has to cram his fist into his mouth to keep from crying out, or -
Oh god. A different image, forcing its way into his mind, what the hell is this? But he can't push it away. Lestrade fucking him across the desk, oh god yes, but fucking him face down and helpless and exposed, fucking him right there, in the glass-walled office, not even bothering to pull the blinds down first, and everybody watching and sweet Jesus that really should not be hot but it is, unstoppably and he can't hold out any longer and oh –
There's a hammering on the bathroom door and Sherlock saying “Are you all right? You've been in there for ages,” and John can't answer, he's still shuddering and jerking, coming so hard he's seeing stars and can hardly stand up, collapsing against the tiled wall of the shower.
“I'm OK. Be out in a minute,” he gasps eventually. Waits for the sound of Sherlock going back downstairs but it doesn't come.
Shit. Sherlock's obviously waiting for him to emerge and John really doesn't feel up to facing him yet. He's still breathless and dizzy with the rush of orgasm and definitely feeling much too guilty to look Sherlock in the eye.
No way the world's greatest detective is not going to deduce what he's just been doing. Fantasies and all. You'd have to be a lot less observant than Sherlock to miss that.
But he can't stay in here all night. Going to have to face Sherlock sooner or later.
Next: After what feels like hours, the bathroom door finally opens.
Previous: Lestrade's still puzzling over that frankly weird conversation with Sherlock