Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Notes: Originally posted to AO3 and LJ in December, 2011.

Warnings: Sexual situations and language.

"What are you doing?"

"Even you are not that thick, John," Sherlock said from where he was kneeling.

"Sh - c'mon, really, you're going to pick his locks? He's probably still sleeping - it is five in the morning. Just call him?"

Sherlock flashed him a grin. "And where would the fun be in that?"

"Oh, for Chris -"

But there was a click before he could even finish his sentence, and Sherlock gave a triumphant huff of breath, springing back to his feet. He had pushed his way into the flat before John could protest, and was calling, "Lestrade!" as John hurried after him, shutting the door softly behind him - not that it particularly mattered, at this point, but it felt like the least he could do.

"For fuck's sake, Sherlock, really?" Lestrade bellowed back from down a short hallway to John's left, where he could hear the sound of a shower running. Sherlock jammed his hands in his coat pockets, looking pleased with himself at having interrupted Lestrade's morning routine; John just felt embarrassed.

"We need those files!" Sherlock called to him above the running water.

"Too damn bad!"

"There's a cab waiting downstairs," Sherlock continued, ignoring him.

"He can wait all he likes!"

The shower shut off, and before John could suggest that they go wait in the cab to give Lestrade some privacy, the bathroom door swung open and the man in question stepped out - and John promptly forgot all he had been about to say.

"Er..." was the only sound that slipped past his lips, more a squeak than anything else, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

"Yes, John?"

He wanted to say, "Nothing." He should have said, "Nothing."

Instead, he gaped.

John had never before seen Lestrade dressed in anything other than his work outfits. The most casual he had ever seen the man was at pub night a few weeks ago, when he had stripped off his suit jacket and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. Now, though, he was clad in a faded pair of tracksuit bottoms and a black cotton tee that clung to his chest and back with the moisture from the shower. His hair appeared as though someone had run desperate fingers through it - and here John was forced to suppress a whimper and the mental image of himself doing just that - and was sticking out in all directions, as though it were trying to evacuate his head and couldn't decide which way to go.

John was aware, distantly, that Sherlock and Lestrade were arguing. Sherlock was gesturing madly, hands flying through the air, while Lestrade stood his ground, arms crossed over his broad chest. The short sleeves of his t-shirt revealed a hint of bicep, and John's eyes tracked the droplets of water running down the tightly-muscled arm, imagining a tongue - his, preferably - tracing that very same path...

Stop it, Watson, he snapped to himself, jerking out of his reverie and shifting his feet uncomfortably. Or we will have a very visible problem on our hands very soon.


Sherlock got his files, incredibly enough - or perhaps not so incredibly, going by how often Lestrade ended up giving in to the man - and they spent the next twelve hours running all over London, checking facts and corroborating evidence and consulting with Sherlock's homeless network. Well, Sherlock spent the next twelve hours doing all of that. John spent the next twelve hours trying very hard not to think about the fact that he was thinking about Lestrade and his fucking hair and fucking tight shirt and how incredible he'd look with John fucking him into the mattress.



"Have you heard a word I've said?"

"Yeah, 'course I have," John said hastily. "Sounds like a good plan to me, Sherlock. We should - we should go see Molly about those fingernails. Yes."

Sherlock gave him an odd look but didn't care enough to pursue it. He had other matters on his mind.

So did John.

"...can't believe we didn't think of that," Lestrade was saying later that night as they were in his office, completing paperwork and wrapping up the loose ends of the case.

"I can," Sherlock sniffed, signing his name at the bottom of a couple of forms. John was focused on Lestrade, watching as the man twirled a pen between his fingers - old habit, keeps his fingers busy now that he no longer has the cigarettes, God, I bet those fingers are wicked in bed...

And then Lestrade brought the pen to his lips, tapping thoughtfully, and John had to bite down hard on his lower lip to suppress a whimper.

It took less than five minutes for him to come to a decision.

"I'll meet you back at Baker Street," John said when he and Sherlock were halfway to the front doors, cursing himself for even walking out of Lestrade's office. Should've just stayed there, he thought in dismay, and seized the man by his shirt collar and -

"Problem?" Sherlock's irritated voice cut through his musings. John blinked up at him, and then grinned.

"You know what?" he asked. "Yeah. But I'll let you deduce what it is yourself."

John turned and hurried away, leaving Sherlock behind for once. He was mere steps from Lestrade's office when the text came in:

He isn't simply looking for, as you like to put it, a "hook up." -SH

Believe it or not, neither am I, John typed back, and then pocketed his mobile in order to rap briskly on Lestrade's door.

"Come in," Lestrade called. John pushed open the door, and stopped dead on the threshold.

Lestrade had shed his suit jacket and rolled his sleeves up past his elbows, exposing just a thin line of his upper arm. In the darkness of Lestrade's flat earlier that morning, John hadn't noticed that the man was apparently evenly tanned under those shirts of his - gorgeous golden skin that John imagined would blaze under the touch of a tongue. Lestrade had also run a hand through his hair in the intervening minutes, for it was now sticking out in a way John wasn't sure was actually physically possible.

Dear God, Watson, you are done for.

"Oh, John," Lestrade said, glancing up from his paperwork. "Forget something?"

"Yeah, actually," John said, swallowing hard. "Forgot to ask...if you'd like to get a drink sometime."

Lestrade's eyes widened.


Drink, John was pleased to be able to say, turned into drinks, which turned into desperate snogging in an alley at two in the morning, with John shoved up against the brick wall and Lestrade melded against him. A leg pressed between John's thighs as he threaded fingers through the gorgeous silvering hair, twisting and tugging in encouragement as Lestrade moved his attentions from John's mouth to his neck.

"Back to mine?" Lestrade said in stuttering breaths across John's collarbone, fingers tugging at John's shirt and slipping underneath to rest on his hips.

John hissed, "Oh, God, yes," and reluctantly extracted himself from Lestrade's attentions.

"Sure?" Lestrade murmured breathlessly, dark eyes meeting John's. "Not - uh - not too fast for you?"

John shut him up with another kiss.

"It's either that," he said in a remarkably steady voice when they broke apart, trying not to buck up against the thigh between his legs, "or I'm going to come in my pants, right here, and I haven't done that since I was a teenager."

Lestrade rested his forehead against John's, breathing heavily, and let out a disbelieving laugh.

This is mad.

"Right then," he muttered. "C'mon then. Car's just around the corner."

They were just scarcely inside the door of Lestrade's flat before John was on him, crowding him up against the wall, hands flying as he divested Lestrade of his jacket and plucked impatiently at the buttons on his shirt.

"Jesus, John," Lestrade gasped, nudging the door fully shut with his foot. "Be gentle - Christ- with the old man, yeah?"

"Fucking tease," John muttered, finding a spot behind Lestrade's ear that made him whimper. "Came out of that shower, soaked, wearing that damn shirt…"

"Not - ah - my fault Sherlock decided to barge in here at fucking five in the morning," Lestrade protested half-heartedly, because it was really quite difficult to find fault with what John's tongue was doing to his neck. "Where did you expect me to be?"

"Bed," John answered, trailing a line of wet kisses along Lestrade's stubbled jaw. The DI moved in for a proper kiss, but John ducked away and sucked a mark into the hollow of his throat, teasing the flesh with teeth and tongue. Lestrade bit back a moan of frustration. "Which is where I expect you to be now."

"Demanding, are we?" Lestrade said under his breath. John pulled back; arched an eyebrow.

"Problem, Inspector?"

"Actually..." Lestrade darted forward quickly, capturing the fine mouth and sucking John's lower lip between his teeth. John groaned and sagged against him, and then growled in irritation when he drew away. "No, not a problem at all."

"In that case," John said, reaching around to cup Lestrade's arse and savoring the older man's stifled gasp, "bed. Now."


It wasn't until later, when they were lying tangled in the sheets, nerves alight and skin prickling with cooling sweat, that John remembered his mobile. He dug it out of his trousers amid Lestrade's weak sound of protest.

"Just want to make sure the git doesn't get it in his mind to come over here and disturb us because I'm not answering his calls," John assured, and opened it.

But the only text he had missed from Sherlock was in response to his previous one:

Good. -SH