Chapter Text
“Boss, you’re going to want to see this!” Donovan’s voice rang out from the bull pen startling Lestrade from his pile of paperwork.
Lestrade put his coffee on his desk, got up and walked to the door of his office. His gaze followed Sally’s pointing arm and he promptly did a double take.
Sherlock (at least Greg thought it was Sherlock — perhaps an alternate universe version of the detective… Had Lestrade fallen asleep at his desk again?) was frogmarching a man across the main area of Major Crimes towards him. The reason Lestrade thought he was asleep was the outfit Sherlock was (barely) wearing.
Heavy boots, Doc Martens if Greg had to guess, on his feet led up to black leather trousers so tight as to be a second skin. Sherlock appeared to be wearing some sort of flesh coloured shirt with a plant-like design on it. The outfit was completed with a thigh length leather jacket. Lestrade had always harboured a crush on Sherlock but seeing him like this caused his heart to race and his trousers to tighten uncomfortably.
Sherlock ignored the murmuring of the rest of the Yarders and headed straight towards Lestrade, a determined look on his handsome face.
‘Hey Freak, coming from a fancy dress party?” Sally jeered, crossing her arms over her chest as Sherlock passed by. Greg sighed, Donovan always had to say something, could never just let the man be. Of course, looking the way he did, Sherlock definitely merited some comment. Lestrade just wished she’d leave off with the ‘Freak’ moniker.
Sherlock barely spared her a glance, “Sally, I suggest you fix up your clothes properly after dallying with Anderson in the conference room. You recall what they say about people in glass houses…”
Sally flushed hotly and stomped off in the direction of the ladies room, most likely to adjust her clothing.
Sherlock rolled his eyes at her departure and presented the man he was with to Lestrade. This close, Lestrade could see the stocky man’s hands were bound behind him with zip ties and that he had the beginnings of a rather nasty black eye forming.
“What’s all this, then?” Lestrade croaked, cursing his suddenly dry throat. With Sherlock standing directly in front of him, Greg could see that what he’d initially thought was a printed shirt was actually Sherlock’s bare chest covered in deep green vines snaking across his pale flesh, perhaps with temporary tattoos or dyed henna. Lestrade wanted to trace them with his tongue and see how far down they went, peeling off the tight leather trousers and he mentally shook himself … ‘FOCUS, Lestrade. Jesus!’
With monumental effort, Greg forced himself to pay attention to Sherlock’s words and not his body — which was difficult on a regular day and nearly impossible with the way it was on display at the moment. ‘Damnit! I’m a professional, for Christ’s sake! Stop acting like a bloody horny teenager!’
He shoved his fantasies to the back of his mind and heard Sherlock saying that he’d followed a trail of street drugs back to their distributor, who was working out of a local underground club. That he’d gone undercover in said club to ferret out the main suspect, the man in the zip ties.
“Undercover?!" Lestrade parroted. "Jesus, Sherlock, you’re practically a celebrity these days. That was a serious risk, going undercover. What were you thinking?” Lestrade ground out, attempting to focus on the facts at hand rather than how amazing Sherlock looked in his “undercover” outfit.
“Oh, please. I was thinking I’d have a better chance at stopping the tainted drugs from hitting the street on my own rather than wait for a warrant and some fresh-faced UC officer mucking up my case.” Sherlock fairly purred in response. At least it sounded like that to Lestrade, but he was having a hard time hearing much of anything over the roaring of his heartbeat in his ears.
Suddenly Lestrade was swimming in a vision of Sherlock at the underground club, EDM music throbbing loudly. And there was Sherlock in the middle of the dance floor, jacket discarded, moving fluidly with the beat and sliding against and in between the throng of dancing bodies. The vine tattoos stand out in stark relief against his pale skin and the shift of muscles playing out under the surface was mesmerizing.
“— Lestrade? Are you even paying attention?” Sherlock’s impatient voice cut through his fantasy, swiftly jerking him back to reality. Lestrade was grateful for his suit coat which covered his sudden erection from view.
“Yeah, sorry. Um, got a bit of a headache.” Lestrade lied, then flushed under Sherlock’s penetrating gaze and looked behind the detective for one of his sergeants. “Connolly, bring this guy down to booking. Sherlock, go with him and tell them what you know.”
Connolly, a new addition to his team, stepped forward and took control of the suspect. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at Lestrade before turning sharply to follow the sergeant out of the bull pen. When the detective was out of sight, Lestrade sagged against the nearest desk in relief.
***
Lestrade let out an exhausted sigh as he unlocked the door to his flat. It seemed like he’d been on autopilot all afternoon after seeing Sherlock. ‘And so much of him.’ Finally at 7pm, he gave in to his weariness and headed home, stopping on the way for a quick sandwich.
He opened the door, entered the foyer and gave an unmanly yelp of surprise. Sherlock Fucking Holmes was sitting on his sofa as though he owned the place, still in his undercover (‘Not under much!’ Lestrade thought) outfit. Greg huffed a sigh and leaned back against his door, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
“What can I do for you, Sherlock?” He was pleasantly surprised his voice came out sounding even, if a bit breathless.
“Well, Detective Inspector, I noticed your odd behavior today at the Yard and felt it worthy of a followup visit.” Sherlock’s voice was like silk and chocolate and sex had a baby. Lestrade mentally shook his head, he was definitely going bonkers.
“My behavior was odd? I’m not the one prancing around looking like some sort of goth rent boy! Speaking of, why are you still in that getup? You caught the guy. He’s in a holding cell as we speak and the higher ups say the case looks solid.” Lestrade wanted to move further into his flat but found himself frozen in place while Sherlock was draped over his furniture looking like all his unrealized fantasies come to life.
Sherlock rolled to his feet, grace in every movement (‘the fucker!’) and stalked towards Lestrade. Lestrade looked about for a way to retreat but realized Sherlock had cut off all means of egress by virtue of crowding his body close to the older man’s.
‘I noticed you couldn’t keep your eyes off me earlier. And not in your usual ‘Sherlock’s being brilliant and I can’t follow the leaps his magnificent brain makes’ way —”
“Oi!” Lestrade muttered but Sherlock pressed on.
“But more in a ‘I wonder what he looks like when he’s got his kit off’ way.” As he spoke, his voice dipped lower and Sherlock leaned in ever closer and his lips just brushed the shell of Lestrade’s ear. The DI managed to suppress a shudder, just barely.
Lestrade flushed hotly and cleared his suddenly dry throat. “I - er - I’m sorry. It was unprofessional. It won’t happen aga—“
“No, Lestrade, you misunderstand.” Sherlock interrupted, smoothly. “There’s no need for apologies… I liked it. The feel of your eyes traveling over my body. It was invigorating.” Sherlock pulled back slightly while still managing to crowd Lestrade’s personal space. The heat in the younger man’s usually cool gaze was electric and Lestrade felt as though his skin was suddenly both too tight and too warm.
‘Ah, the hell with it’ thought Lestrade as he surged forward to capture Sherlock’s lips with his own. Sherlock anticipated his movement and fisted his hands in Lestrade’s suit coat, pulling him closer, their lips fused together, tongues dueling for dominance.
Lestrade forced himself to remember to breathe as he slid his arm under the taller man’s leather jacket, touching the smooth skin Sherlock’s broad back, feeling the muscles tense under his palm, the fingers of his other hand tangling inexorably in Sherlock’s slightly gelled curls, tugging desperately.
At this, Sherlock gave a moan and tipped his head back into the touch. Greg took the opportunity to trace the path of a vine from Sherlock’s hairline down towards his collarbone where it disappeared under his jacket. He felt a strong desire to inspect every inch of the tattoo coiling around the detective’s strong, lean body and shoved at the jacket.
“Off.” His voice was gruff and Sherlock visibly shivered as he shrugged one shoulder then the other forcing the jacket down to pool on the floor below them.
Lestrade gripped Sherlock to him and spun them around, pushing the taller man against the door. The DI leaned back and stared at the glorious sight of Sherlock half-clothed before him with deep green vines coiling all around his torso and down his arms.
“Blimey. Look at you. You’re gorgeous. Utterly captivating.” Greg spoke the words in a near hush as he traced the vines with the tips of his fingers, watching goosebumps rise in their wake. “I could just eat you up looking like that.”
“Ah, no. Me first.” Sherlock said before smoothly dropping to his knees and deftly undoing Greg’s belt and trousers.
Lestrade stared at the vision below him and blinked before his eyes slid closed at the feeling of long fingers freeing his straining cock from his trousers. He sucked in a breath and let it out in a whoosh at the sensation of Sherlock’s mouth on the sensitive head of his prick.
His mind shorted out for a moment. ‘This can’t possibly be really happening. But it feels real and glorious. If I’m dreaming, I never want to to wake up.’
Suddenly his conscience made itself known and it drew him up short. ‘Wait, why on earth is Sherlock doing this? Sherlock doesn’t do this. It’s not his area or whatever he says whenever someone tries to hit on him.’ Lestrade sighed audibly. This couldn’t continue.
Greg looked down at the sight of the tip of his cock surrounded by Sherlock’s soft lips and hot mouth. Sucking in a breath, he put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and summoning great strength of will, forced him off his cock. The younger man gave him a disgruntled look and immediately went to lean back for more.
“Sherlock. Jesus. Wait. You don’t — I don’t —“ Lestrade forced himself to breathe and focus. “What I’m trying to say is you don’t have to do this. I’m not going to punish you for going undercover or take away cases or anything. Please. I don’t want you to feel obligated to do anything.”
“Oh my dear Detective Inspector,” Sherlock purred, leaning in to nose at Lestrade’s cock and pepper it with light, darting kisses. He sat back on his heels. “As ever you see, but don’t observe. I’m not doing this out of any sense of obligation but because I desperately want to suck your cock. I want you to fuck my face so hard my jaw aches and then come down my throat. Or you could come on my face and force me to lick it clean, I’m amenable to either so long as I get that delicious cock back in my mouth.”
“Holy fuck, Sherlock, the things you say… Alright. Go on, then.” Lestrade fisted his hands in Sherlock’s silky hair and led the willing man back to his cock.
Greg groaned deeply when Sherlock flicked his tongue along the slit, lapping at the precome gathered there. He threw out a hand to brace himself against the wall, his head bowed to watch the younger man fellate him. The detective’s cupid’s bow mouth parted and as Lestrade watched his cock slide into the other man’s mouth. It felt incredible, hot and wet, and Sherlock was doing something with his tongue that made Greg see stars. Oh, shit. This was going all be over far too soon.
He sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes, focusing on the most complex maths problems he could think of, then Anderson, then his grandmother, before reopening them to watch Sherlock bob his head up and down, his cheeks hollowed out as he worked on the DI’s cock with vigor and enthusiasm. It seemed Sherlock liked sucking dick almost as much as he liked solving crimes.
Greg tugged on the hair twisted around his fist and Sherlock moaned in response, the vibrations on Lestrade’s prick nearly setting him off right there. He pulled harder at the other man’s hair eliciting some more moans before just yanking Sherlock’s head back, cock sliding out of his slackened mouth with a slick pop.
Hmm, seemed like Sherlock had a bit of a submissive kink in him. Interesting and something to explore at a later date, provided Greg was lucky enough for something like this ever to happen again.
Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up at Lestrade through his eyelashes. “Well, Lestrade? Would you like to come down my throat or on my face?”
“Neither.” Lestrade growled, using his fisted hands in Sherlock’s hair to force the other man to look up at him.
A light flush covered Sherlock’s face and he looked disappointed for a moment before he obviously (well, it was obvious to Lestrade, who had spent almost a decade observing this amazing man) shuttered his emotions and schooled his features into a neutral expression.
“Oh?” Sherlock sounded surprisingly haughty for a man on his knees who just had a mouthful of cock.
“Yeah…” Greg released the the younger man’s hair before putting his hands on his upper arms and hauling him to a standing position. “I want to come deep inside your ass while you scream my name and beg me to let you come.”