"Okay, Greg, take it easy… Slowly, now…."
John Watson helped Gregory Lestrade ease his bruised and naked body into the steaming bathtub. Biting his lower lip at the initial burn, Lestrade let the doctor lower him until his sore arse touched bottom.
The detective inspector had fallen down a flight of stairs earlier that night while chasing a serial wife-killer. Luckily he had only suffered minor cuts and bruises, but he was in no mood to be counting his blessings.
"The water's not too hot is it?" John asked. "If you like, I can-"
"I can't tell if it's scalding- my entire body hurts!" Lestrade shifted his buttocks on the hard enamel, trying to get comfortable.
"Here- this may help." John took a folded towel off the rack and plunged it into the water. After laying it out on the tub bottom, he helped Lestrade position himself on it. "Better?"
"Yes, actually. Thanks."
He made a mental note to take John Watson out for a pint once he could walk without looking like he'd shit himself. John and Sherlock had prevented the killer from escaping, and when Lestrade refused to get his injuries checked out at Bart's, John insisted on accompanying him home and examining him. At the time Lestrade had protested, embarrassed- now he was grateful for the hot bath and extra-strength paracetamol.
"Is there anything else I can do, Greg?"
"No… no, thanks. I'll just soak until I feel human again. Christ, I'm getting too old for this shit."
"I've got to meet Sarah in twenty, but I've got my mobile on me, and Sherlock just said he'd stay for a bit. Do NOT let him take over your kitchen."
Kitchen no, bedroom yes.
"Okay, John, thanks."
"I mean it, Greg. He's a seductive bastard when he wants something."
Don't I know it.
"I'll be fine."
John walked out and exchanged a few words with Sherlock in the front room. After calling, "Greg, he's using your laptop! Hope you don't have any secrets on it!" he left the flat.
Lestrade shifted on the towel beneath him, blessing John Watson for his ingenuity, and shouted out, "What do you think of the sites I've favourited, then?"
"Dealing with adult children…. How to woo a sociopath…. Clever, Lestrade."
The policeman smirked. His laptop password had been 'fuckoffsherlock', which the consulting detective obviously knew by now. He heard the computer being closed rather forcefully before footsteps approached the bathroom. Then Sherlock appeared in the doorway.
"You look dreadful," he pronounced.
"No shit, Sherlock. God, I've been waiting for the ideal opportunity to say that –OW!" Lestrade's smug grin had aggravated the cut below his right cheekbone.
Sherlock sauntered over, sporting that feral smile that had always excited Gregory Lestrade. He crossed his arms and leaned against the sink. "I read in a forensic journal about a man in his forties, about your age and weight, who died in his bathtub and was a skeleton stewing in a nasty mess when they found him. I wonder how long it takes after death for the flesh to slip off the bones; the article said no experiments had been done to confirm."
Lestrade cocked his uninjured eyebrow. "Is that your way of saying that I appeal to you naked?"
Even Sherlock had to chuckle at that. "Actually, yes." He glided away from the sink, dropped to one knee, and trailed a finger through the still-steaming water. Without breaking eye contact, he slid the wet finger between his full lips and hummed with approval. The deep, throaty noise went straight to Lestrade's cock.
"Selfish sod- what the hell are you playing at? The way I feel, I'll be lucky if I can manage a wank in the morning."
Sherlock dipped his entire hand in the water next, his graceful fingers grazing the DI's inner thigh. "You promised me. I solve this case for you, you spend all night fucking me into the mattress."
"That was before I took a swan dive down a staircase!"
"You didn't break any bones, so don't do the same with your promises."
"Oh, for Christ's sake." The man was as maddening as he was sexy. Toddlers could learn a thing or two from him about being obstinate and wilful.
Sherlock stood up and unbuttoned his deep purple shirt. His movements were cool and deliberate: only his tented black trousers betrayed his excitement. He tossed the garment aside, undid his belt, and slid both trousers and boxers off. His erection led the way as he placed one foot in the tub, then the other.
By that point, Lestrade was too turned on to rebuff him. Sherlock was magnificent naked: well-toned muscles under milky skin, a few scars that proclaimed him a man of action as well as intellect, and a slender physique that could tackle and bring down criminals twice his size.
"Go easy," he said huskily as the younger man leaned in for a kiss. "I'm a wounded copper."
Sherlock pouted before greedily claiming Lestrade's mouth. The DI moaned and gave in: the water's heat was nothing compared to the fire in his groin.
"God, that's what I love about you," he murmured when their lips and tongues wetly disengaged. "You're so fucking exciting. Fire and ice. Incredible brain and unstoppable body."
Sherlock lowered his eyes, disarmed by the praise. "I'm only what you make me."
"No way. You're your own person, Sherlock. You can't pretend with me. I always knew what a hot thing you are."
He had. Six years ago he'd arrested a shivering, strung-out junkie during a drugs bust in Deptford, and first sensed and then appreciated the brilliant mind and raw sensuality beneath the cold and obsessive exterior. Sherlock had reciprocated: with a dead father and an older brother he loathed, the young man had craved a father figure more than he would publicly admit. He was supposed to be a sociopath, after all.
When Lestrade's marriage ended two years later, both husband and wife cited irreconcilable differences on their divorce application. Lestrade did not list Sherlock, although he probably should have.
Lestrade's reminiscences were pleasantly derailed when Sherlock pulled him up and positioned him on his knees, so that his cock emerged above the water. The paracetamol had kicked in, so when Sherlock's mouth closed over his erection, no serious aches or pains marred the hot pleasure. Digging his fingers into the younger man's thick curls, Lestrade tried fucking that sensuous face, but Sherlock steadied his hips, determined to retain control of the situation.
Water sloshed against the tub sides as Lestrade shook and moaned. Sherlock was sucking him hard, applying enough pressure to keep him teetering on that maddening edge between pleasure and pain. The detective didn't have a lot of sexual experience, but he had data, which was just as useful when he wanted to turn someone into a quivering, turned-on mess.
"You're amazing- want to fuck you."
Sherlock hummed around his mouthful, the vibrations nearly sending Lestrade over the edge. Long white fingers, now slicked in unscented body lotion, danced lightly against the cleft of Lestrade's buttocks before probing inward. When two of them pushed gently into his arse and glided back and forth over his prostate, the DI's stomach muscles hitched and his thighs trembled.
"Fuck, Sherlock, yes, yes, yes, I'm going to come….."
The detective pulled his mouth and fingers away so quickly that Lestrade choked in protest. He sat back on his heels and drawled, "I really think it's my turn now."
Sherlock would never admit that he liked it rough, but behaviour like this, calculated to provoke, always gave him away. Swearing, Lestrade grabbed him hard enough to leave bruises and draped him over the tub's edge, burying his face in discarded clothing and presenting his upturned arse for whatever Lestrade wanted to do to it.
"Fucking pricktease, let's see how you like THIS."
Lestrade parted those smooth cheeks with his large hands, exposing and dilating the younger man's hole, and forced his tongue inside. Sherlock cried out into his rumpled shirt, his fingers clenching the damp fabric.
"Oh, YES, that's bloody fantastic… more!"
Lestrade stiffened his tongue and pushed it deeper into that tight arse. Sherlock's hips ground wildly against his face, begging for further penetration.
Oh no, you don't. Time for payback.
Releasing Sherlock's buttocks, Lestrade anchored his bucking hips in place with one hand and began caressing his swollen cock and balls with the other. The DI started jerking his lover off, aligning the wrist movements with his thrusting, wriggling tongue. Sherlock squirmed and splashed as the dual stimulation took him slowly apart.
Lestrade smirked. Poor thing. He had to be feeling so open and desperate right now. Pulling his face away and releasing Sherlock's hips, he pumped some lotion onto his fingers before plunging two of them abruptly into that spit-slick hole. When they assaulted his prostate, Sherlock arched his back and wailed.
"Found the sweet spot, have I? You slut!" Yielding to impulse, Lestrade dug his teeth into one quivering arse cheek and bit hard enough to leave a mark. "You've been a bit of a prat tonight, haven't you? Maybe I should stop here and send you home."
"Please… please don't."
"Beg me for it, then!" Lestrade released Sherlock's cock long enough to slap his trembling arse hard, jostling the fingers inside. The detective yelped when they grazed his prostate yet again.
"Lestrade… Gregory… please fuck me. Please!"
Hearing Sherlock Holmes say please in those breathy, anxious tones was one of the DI's biggest turn-ons. After stroking him inside and out for a few minutes longer, Lestrade pulled back and reached for the lotion. He liberally coated his cock before pushing into that sweet, tight arse that always felt virginal no matter how many times they had sex.
Sherlock gave a strangled cry and clawed at the mat again. Lestrade seized his hips and pumped him so hard that the tub groaned in protest. The wild fucking sent water splashing over the side, soaking both their clothes, but neither cared.
"Feels so fucking good," Sherlock whimpered. "I love it when you fill me with every inch of your cock."
"Yeah?" Lestrade leaned over him, chest pressed tight against that heaving white back. "You like it when I come deep inside you?"
"Yes- and I love feeling it trickle out afterwards."
"Good job we're in a tub then, because I'm going to fill your pretty arse any second."
"Yes, please, Lestrade, ooooh!" He cried out in mid-plea when the DI reached down, grabbed his cock, and resumed fisting it.
Lestrade felt Sherlock clench around the hot, slick shaft inside him just before the younger man came, moaning his name repeatedly. The sound and feel of his lover's pleasure triggered his own orgasm seconds later. He gripped Sherlock's hair, forced his head up and to the side, and plunged his tongue eagerly into that sensuous mouth. They rocked against each other, riding out the rest of their climaxes.
Lestrade wasn't sure how long they hung over the side of the tub together, boneless and languid, before Sherlock spoke.
"I think I need a hot soak now- you were quite rough."
"How you like it though, right?"
"Mmm." Sherlock couldn't deny it.
"I think we've soaked long enough, though," Lestrade said. "How about we take this to my bed, under an electric blanket?"
Sherlock perked up. "I need one of those for an experiment, actually."
Lestrade grinned back. "As long as it's to determine how many times you can take getting shagged under one, experiment away."