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fic: Close Analysis chapter 3

 

Clinical Observation

 

 

 

Well, you look a bit less like a wet weekend than you did an hour ago,” Lestrade says. Going for cheery banter but it comes out apprehensive. There's a reason for that.

 

Sherlock is looking a damn sight perkier, almost back to normal. Which Lestrade knows means he really ought to get out of here sharpish. Any minute now Sherlock is going to decide he's bored and start looking round for something to interfere with. And the nearest thing to hand right now is Lestrade.

 

More specifically, Lestrade's inconvenient erection, which Sherlock is looking at a bit too intently for Lestrade's liking. Because whatever Sherlock is plotting in that devious bloody mind of his, being nice to Lestrade is probably not it. Apart from anything else, Sherlock is bound to be looking to get his own back on Lestrade for seeing him in the state he was in earlier. Plus, there's a glint in Sherlock's eye that Lestrade has seen before. Experimental.

 

Being experimented on by Sherlock, in a variety of more or less sexual ways, is another item on Lestrade's fantasy list. Quite high up the list, actually. But in his fantasies Lestrade gets to decide what Sherlock does to him, with what, for how long and how it makes him feel. And, of course, in the fantasy experiments Lestrade always gets to come. Quite a lot. This is not helping. Stop it, Lestrade tells himself.

 

In real life, being one of Sherlock's experiments is a more worrying prospect.

 

Lestrade thinks about Sherlock's actual experiments. Left his riding crop in the mortuary the other day, apparently. Riding crop. Lestrade swallows hard. Christ only knows what Sherlock might take it into his head to do to him, the condition Lestrade's in right now.

 

Unfortunately, this line of thought just seems to be making things worse.

 

Sherlock continues to study the by now seriously embarrassing bulge in Lestrade's trousers. He has a sort of measuring look Lestrade doesn't like one little tiny bit.

 

The thing to do now, obviously, is to get off the sofa and go home. Bit easier said than done. Lestrade is promising himself a very big drink when he gets home, followed by other things it's best not to dwell on if he wants to be able to get off the sofa at all. He's not sure he can right now. But, dear God, he really does need to get away from Sherlock in this mood.

 

Lestrade knows this wouldn't make sense to anyone who doesn't know Sherlock, the lucky bastards. Sherlock is stronger than his lanky frame makes him look (best not to dwell on that either) but Lestrade is no 7-stone weakling himself. So it's not as if Sherlock is going to overpower him. Or handcuff him to the sofa and – Stop it, Lestrade.

 

Mind you, Sherlock's perfectly capable of that. Lestrade worries briefly about where he left those handcuffs. Sherlock's tendency to get annoyed and pickpocket Lestrade can be a menace at the best of times, but this...

 

It's really quite unnerving that Sherlock isn't saying anything.

 

Usually you can't shut him up, even when you want to. Lestrade can't keep up, doesn't even try. Sherlock's mouth seems to be about the only thing that goes as fast as his brain and ... that really isn't helping. Lestrade starts mentally reciting a list of the kings and queens of England in chronological order. Unfortunately the version he's picked is the rhyming one he learned at school, which uses nicknames and abbreviations, so there are three accidental synonyms for cock in the first two lines.

 

Lestrade realizes he'd better think about something else.

 

Meanwhile, Sherlock's measuring look has been replaced by one that Lestrade identifies with a shudder as destructive child contemplating interesting new toy with a view to taking it apart. Sherlock is a child in some ways, though he had the nerve to accuse Lestrade of childishness about the drugs bust. Lestrade feels like the drugs bust was the last time he was in control of his own life, even though a serial killer was still on the loose and Sherlock was being obnoxious with the dial turned up to 11. (“Anderson, don't talk out loud, you lower the IQ of the whole street.”) Sherlock's childishness is one of the things that makes him so dangerous; he doesn't understand about hurting people, any more than a small child understands why the kitten it's just banged on the head isn't getting up and running about like they do on the cartoons. The curiosity is childish too. And imaginative. Oh shit.

 

Lestrade tells himself that whatever Sherlock has in mind can't possibly be as bad as this build-up is making it seem. But in any case he still has time to make an excuse and leave. Trouble is, there's a bit of Lestrade that's still hoping he might be about to have sex with Sherlock. The same bit of Lestrade that Sherlock is currently eyeing up.

 

Had a good look, have you?” Lestrade says.

 

That was probably a mistake.

 

Sherlock grins. Oh God.

 

I'm assuming that must be rather uncomfortable,” he says.

 

Bit, yeah,” says Lestrade, thinking Keep your mouth shut Lestrade you stupid git. He knows that Sherlock will use whatever you give him to play with, so why does he do this? Text your answer to the number on the screen now.

 

Could go on for quite a while, I suppose,” Sherlock says.

 

Lestrade's not falling for that one twice. He keeps shtum and tries not to let anything show in his face. Lost cause, of course, but you have to try.

 

How do you usually deal with them?” Sherlock asks. His tone is like a cross between a doctor and someone carrying out market research.

 

You what?” Lestrade hadn't meant to say anything but he's tripped into it.

 

How do you usually deal with your erections?” Sherlock says, rephrasing the question slightly for the benefit of the terminally stupid.

 

Lestrade wonders if he's hallucinating again.

 

It's a perfectly straightforward question,” Sherlock says, a touch impatiently.

 

Lestrade bangs himself on the forehead with his left hand. He's not sure why. It doesn't seem to have made the craziness go away. He doesn't even know why he thought it might.

 

What does anybody do with them?” he says.

 

Brilliant. Another bloody own goal.

 

Well,” says Sherlock, sounding as if he's about to give a lecture to a hall full of biologists or something, “I gather there are various approaches.”

 

Lestrade is really sure this sort of conversation is not good for his blood pressure. He decides to go on the attack.

 

You must have some ideas of your own,” he says. “Given your recent experiences.”

 

Sherlock's look tells Lestrade he is about to regret saying that. A lot.

 

Sorry,” Lestrade says. Too late.

 

I don't find it happens very often,” Sherlock says. “The simplest practice is presumably to wait for them to go away of their own accord.”

 

The way Lestrade's feeling now, that would be a relief. But he has a feeling he's not going to get off so lightly.

 

Yours, however, seems to be rather determined,” Sherlock says.

 

Lestrade thinks, briefly and disastrously, that it wouldn't last two minutes if Sherlock got hold of it. He manages not to say this, which is about the only smart thing he's done for the last half-hour.

 

So,” Sherlock says, expectantly.

 

So what?”

 

So how do you deal with yours?”

 

I'm not telling you that! Christ, Sherlock, you really – what is wrong with you?”

 

Don't change the subject,” Sherlock says reprovingly.

 

Lestrade looks at Sherlock. The mad bastard genuinely does expect an answer. Lestrade just has to try really hard not to give him one. So to speak. He shakes his head.

 

If you can't manage a coherent verbal description then a demonstration will do,” Sherlock says, sounding a bit tetchy. Lestrade feels like he's a backward schoolboy about to get put in detention for not doing his homework.

 

He splutters “Sherlock, if you think I'm going to toss myself off while you sit and watch...”

 

The usual ending of that sentence is You've got another think coming,” Sherlock says, smugly.

 

Lestrade tries to sound authoritative, though he knows this is also a lost cause. “No, Sherlock. I am not going to do this.”

 

Sherlock's look is now a mixture of politely expectant and innocently puzzled. When Lestrade gets his breath back, which at this rate may not be for a while, he is definitely going to kill him.

 

Lestrade braces himself for the next outrageous remark.

 

Unfortunately, Sherlock's next move is not verbal but physical.

 

The kiss is a quick one on the lips, over almost before it's begun. Sherlock sits back and raises his eyebrows.

 

No, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock lands another kiss, this time on Lestrade's neck, low down near his collarbone. Shit.

 

No.” Lestrade clings to the conviction that Sherlock can't actually make him do this. The conviction, however, seems to be dwindling by the second.

 

Sherlock's fingers brush lightly across Lestrade's erection.

 

Lestrade groans and makes a grab for Sherlock's wrist, but he's too slow. Sherlock is laughing at him.

 

Lestrade glares. “Cock-tease.”

 

Sherlock says “Surely that term is only correct if I'm not going to make you come.”

 

Lestrade's not sure about that. But he's also getting a bit dizzy. “Fucking pedant,” he manages.

 

Sherlock – oh Christ – is unbuckling Lestrade's belt, unzipping him and -

 

And nothing. Sherlock sits back again. Lestrade bites his lip but it's going to take more than that to stop this. He's breathing raggedly.

 

Sherlock, the fucker, is sitting there as calmly as if nothing has happened. Looking at Lestrade and waiting for him to crack.

 

Lestrade looks back at him, thinking You complete and utter bastard.

 

Doesn't try to speak though. Probably best.

 

Sherlock huffs impatiently. He tugs Lestrade's trousers and boxers down just far enough with a distinct air of annoyance at Lestrade's inefficiency.

 

For example,” he says, “I gather that some people favour this sort of approach.”

 

Sherlock slides his hand up Lestrade's cock, gripping it tight and then he gives a sort of twist, so that his cupped palm curves over and around the head, caressing it, before the ring of his hand moves firmly down again to the base.

 

If Lestrade groans any louder than that the sandwich shop next door will be round to complain about the noise.

 

Sherlock takes his hand away again. Fuck. He looks even more pleased with himself than usual, which takes some doing.

 

But I'm sure you have your own method in these matters,” he says encouragingly, as if they're discussing the best way to assemble flat-pack furniture or make a proper cup of tea.

 

Christ, Sherlock - ” Lestrade didn't know he could sound that hoarse.

 

Sherlock is grinning. “Come on,” he says.

 

Lestrade's self-respect is hanging by a thread here. A fraying thread, at that. He grabs Sherlock's hand and forces it to his cock, moving up and down in the way he needs to. Sherlock's not actually fighting him, so -

 

No room left in brain for thoughts. Lestrade is right on the edge now. He can't see Sherlock's mocking expression any more. Can't, in fact, see anything because he's so close to coming. The blood is pounding in his ears, his heart is racing and nothing is going to stop this until -

 

Sherlock wrenches his hand away, jerking Lestrade's wrist quite badly, though the endorphins are blocking the pain of that for now. Lestrade still can't really see anything but he can still just about hear a voice, shocked and angry and disgusted, coming from the landing through the open door:

 

Sherlock, what the hell - ”

 

Only one person it could be. Lestrade might have known. Knows even before he hears Sherlock's voice, badly rattled, saying “John - ”

 

Bloody Watson.

 

Chapter 4: The Doctor Is In


Chapter 2: The Talking Cure

Comments

( 10 comments — Leave a comment )
ginbitch
Sep. 27th, 2010 07:39 pm (UTC)
I LOVE THIS PART!!! All three of these parts!

Just _gorgeous_ writing - and so in character for all of them!!! *GAH!* I am totally in awe!
fengirl88
Sep. 27th, 2010 08:00 pm (UTC)
*squeeee!!!!*

so happy that you do! thank you VERY much.
et_cetera55
Sep. 28th, 2010 08:43 pm (UTC)
Oh I was going to just comment on how amazing this fic is at the end but...

Being experimented on by Sherlock, in a variety of more or less sexual ways, is another item on Lestrade's fantasy list. Quite high up the list, actually. But in his fantasies Lestrade gets to decide what Sherlock does to him, with what, for how long and how it makes him feel. And, of course, in the fantasy experiments Lestrade always gets to come. Quite a lot. This is not helping. Stop it, Lestrade tells himself.

So HOT!!!

And then it got HOTTER!!

*fans self... a lot*
fengirl88
Sep. 28th, 2010 08:49 pm (UTC)
thank you very much! glad you're enjoying it. I had far too much fun writing this chapter in particular. *grins*
warriorbot
Sep. 29th, 2010 10:07 am (UTC)
*UNF*

This does not get any less hot at the umpteenth time of reading.

*bursts into flames*
fengirl88
Sep. 29th, 2010 12:21 pm (UTC)
*calls the fire brigade*

thank you so much! worked for me when I was writing it so I am glad it does for you...

*looks shifty*

marysutherland
Oct. 2nd, 2010 07:00 am (UTC)
I love the line "His tone is like a cross between a doctor and someone carrying out market research." And the way that you've got a sex scene in which Lestrade is running out of control mentally as well as physically, but still staying in character.
fengirl88
Oct. 2nd, 2010 07:50 am (UTC)
thank you very much! I had a ridiculously good time writing this scene. *grins*

have been enjoying your fic a lot, particularly what you're doing with the characters' mental processes, so your comment makes me very happy.
maggie_conagher
Jun. 16th, 2011 06:26 pm (UTC)
I was giggly on this one. It is hot, but comedy is harder to write than hotness. Well done, you.
fengirl88
Jun. 17th, 2011 07:09 pm (UTC)
thank you very much - this was the first story I finished, and I was surprised how much fun I had writing it. I'm glad you enjoyed the comedy.
( 10 comments — Leave a comment )

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