Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: John/Lestrade, past Sherlock/Lestrade
Warnings: voyeurism, not all of it intentional. Also angst.
Wordcount: ~1100 this part
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine.
Summary: Sherlock comes back early from Christmas with Mummy and Mycroft. This is not as good an idea as he thought it would be. Sequel to A Burst Pipe Problem; bits of this won't make much sense if you haven't read that.
A/N: This is for megan_moonlight, who asked months ago what Sherlock would do when he found out what happens between John and Lestrade in A Burst Pipe Problem. I'm grateful to her and kalypso_v for suggestions which influenced part 2 of this fic in particular.
Boxing Day Panto
Act Two: Lestrade
“John? I'm back! John! Where are you? What are you doing?”
Not the most tactful question, in the circumstances.
One minute you're having a festive shag, Lestrade thinks bitterly, and the next thing you know you're starring in a bloody Carry On film.
It's completely fucking typical of Sherlock to turn up just as Watson and Lestrade are getting nicely into their stride again. Bastard couldn't have timed it worse if he'd done it on purpose.
Next time Lestrade sees Mycroft blasted Holmes he is seriously going to give the supercilious tosser a piece of his mind. No way bloody Sherlock could have made it back unassisted this early from Christmas at Mummy's. Mycroft must have sent the car, probably desperate to get shot of him, hardly surprising –
“John! You can't still be asleep, it's gone eleven. JOHN!”
The shouting from downstairs is getting louder. Also closer.
“Fuck!” John gasps, gripping Lestrade's shoulders tighter. Lestrade can feel John starting to clench around his cock, he's getting dangerously close himself now –
should have locked the bloody bedroom door, not that that's much use with Sherlock around, oh Christ, fuck, fuck –
“Erősebben,” John hisses in his ear.
Startled, Lestrade does as he's told, thrusting harder as John cries out and squeezes his thighs around him so tight Lestrade can hardly breathe. He's getting dizzy and there's a lot of confused shouting, not all of it coming from outside the bedroom door. Then his own orgasm hits him and he can't see or hear anything distinctly for a while.
When he comes back to himself, still pretty dazed, he finds he's literally in the middle of a massive row. Or rather, Sherlock is trying to have a massive row with John over Lestrade's shoulder, and John is not having it. John is pointing out that if Sherlock goes barging uninvited into other people's bedrooms he has only himself to blame if he sees something he doesn't like.
Lestrade's not sure whether to be more impressed by John's coolness under fire or by his ability to say anything at all so soon after a shag like that, especially flat on his back with Lestrade still collapsed on top of him.
It's probably just as well one of them is able to deal with Sherlock; Lestrade is not going to attempt to speak at the moment. Or move. Or do anything much apart from breathe, really.
John pulls the bedding protectively up over them, giving Lestrade's arse an affectionate squeeze in passing, and goes on calmly resisting all Sherlock's attempts to cause trouble.
“I don't care if you've invited Mrs Hudson for lunch, Sherlock. It's your problem, not mine, and you'll just have to deal with it yourself. There are plenty of leftovers in the fridge and I'm sure you can find a shop open somewhere if we're out of milk. Or you can tell her you made a mistake. It's entirely up to you. But whatever you're going to do, you'd better go and get on with it, and leave us in peace for the rest of the day. Now.”
Very much to Lestrade's surprise, Sherlock goes. Muttering something about being scarred for life (“Go away, Sherlock!”), but he goes. And stays gone.
“Invited Mrs Hudson for lunch,” John says indignantly. “Bollocks. He must think I was born yesterday.”
“Nngh,” Lestrade says. He still can't speak.
“Interfering with other people's sex lives just because he's never seen the point of it,” John grumbles.
Lestrade has a sudden and very vivid memory of Sherlock enthusiastically sucking him off in an alleyway after their first case together, five years ago. He opens his mouth to say something about that, because he really ought to tell John before this thing between them goes any further. But all that comes out is “Mmfff.”
“Sorry,” John says, grinning. “That's enough Sherlock for one day, right?”
He kisses him so enthusiastically that Lestrade feels slightly dizzy, and the moment passes. He'll tell John soon. Very soon. No point spoiling a nice lie-in, now Sherlock's finally buggered off and left them in peace.
Lestrade doesn't think he's ever had a shag that ended quite like that one, though Christ knows he's had some bizarre shags in his time. He starts laughing, thinking about it, and John joins in.
John has a nice laugh. Lestrade thinks it would be good to hear that sound more often. A lot more often. Preferably without Sherlock anywhere within a ten-mile radius.
The front door of 221b slams again, making the windows shake, and they hear Sherlock hailing a passing taxi.
Lestrade doesn't know anybody else who could do that on Boxing Day in Baker Street. Man seems to have supernatural powers when it comes to pulling cabs out of thin air.
He wonders uneasily where Sherlock has gone. Hopes he remembered to switch off his mobile last night, because the last thing he needs right now is a string of furious texts from Donovan or Dimmock.
Maybe Sherlock can find something to do with himself that doesn't involve being a grade A fucking nuisance to Scotland Yard. But Lestrade doubts it.
“You worrying about him?” John asks.
It's hardly a surprising question, in the circumstances.
“Mm,” Lestrade says, non-committal.
“Thought so,” John says. “Come on, Lestrade, it's still Christmas. Better things to do with the day than worry about my tosser of a flatmate.”
He starts stroking Lestrade's back, running his hands down from the nape of Lestrade's neck to the cleft of his buttocks. Mmm.
“'S nice,” Lestrade says, feeling his cock twitching unexpectedly.
“Ha,” John says smugly, registering the twitch. “Now, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?”
His hand slides lower, pushing between Lestrade's thighs and fondling his balls.
“Christ, Watson, I'm not twenty, you know,” Lestrade protests.
“I know,” John says. “Wouldn't be interested in you if you were. I like older men.”
“Cheeky sod,” Lestrade says. “How old are you anyway?”
“Thirty-nine,” John says. “Old enough to know better, young enough to start again.”
Lestrade's not sure if what John has in mind is a new start in life or another round of shagging. Thinks it's probably both. Wonders what they put on the certificate if you die of sexual exhaustion, an ambition he never seriously expected to fulfil.
“OK then,” he says. “Hungarian lesson number 4 coming right up. Have to warn you, this one's a bit of a tongue-twister so you'll need your wits about you.”
“Good,” John says, calm as you please but with a glint in his eye that makes Lestrade feel slightly breathless in advance. “I might need to go over lessons 1 to 3 again as well, though. Just to make absolutely sure I've grasped the basics.”
Definitely the best Christmas ever, Lestrade thinks, groaning happily. Probably taking years off his life, of course. But what a way to go.
Note: "Erősebben" = Hungarian for "harder". (Thank you to flannelgiraffe for setting me right about this one...)
Also posted at http://fengirl88.dreamwidth.org/55330.html with comments.