Give Them an Inch and They'll Take a Mile

(Part 2 of Triptych)

A.N. As noted before, this is slash, and so involves men doing slashy manly things with one another. If that does not appeal to you then I am deeply puzzled but urge you to go and have fun elsewhere. If it does appeal to you, enjoy.

Co-written with strangegibbon; posted on AO3 under her account and on FFNet under mine. We are entirely unrepentant.

When Greg comes to an indeterminate amount of time later he's drowsily aware of two things. The first is that there is an expanse of warm skin curled at his back and the second is that a wet thumb is gently rubbing at his lower lip, deft fingers perched along his jawline. Tentatively he touches the tip of his tongue to the questing digit and is rewarded by a faint huff of amusement.

"Good, you're awake," rumbles Sherlock in a timbre so thrillingly deep Greg feels his stomach swoop and he fastens his lips around the now-motionless thumb before opening his eyes. Sherlock is propped against the headboard, sheets tangled around his hips, eyes bright and half-lidded, fixed on the shiny swell of Greg's mouth around him.

"Yeah, some of that might have been due to you shoving your hand in my mouth," he says indistinctly and Sherlock smirks. "Let me guess," he sighs, drawing away with one last suck. "Got bored, did you?"

"Worse," says Sherlock in a low voice, careful not to wake John. "Got curious."

"Oh God."

He watches in trepidation as Sherlock slides down the bed and rolls to face him, propping himself up on an elbow.

"Indulge me, Detective Inspector," he murmurs. "Shall I tell you what I've deduced about you so far? In bed?"

"I've a feeling you're going to tell me anyway," replies Greg, pressing himself a little more firmly against John's still-sleeping form, watching the moonstone eyes move over his face and body.

"You're moving closer to John for reassurance. You're concerned," murmurs Sherlock. There's no need to be. You like to touch and be touched. You haven't been touched in a while, not by your wife, not by anyone." He tilts his head as Greg flushes. "No need to be ashamed of that, either. People are stupid, I've always said so." After a short pause he lays a warm, dry hand on Greg's thigh, watching him carefully. "Does that help?"

"Uh. Yeah. A little." It doesn't, not really, because Sherlock avoids contact with anyone other than John or Mrs Hudson (instantly he banishes her image from his mind before risking temporary insanity) and it feels odd. But it's also strangely touching that he's ventured this awkward gesture in order to make Greg feel better. Sherlock narrows his eyes slightly and Lestrade catches his fingers in a quick caress before he withdraws them. "It's nice," he adds.

"You've had fantasies about all of us together. Obvious."

"How is that obvious?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and doesn't bother to reply, sliding his hand tentatively over Greg's inner thigh instead.

"You're still not sure what you're doing here."


"Why we asked you here," continues Sherlock with a touch of impatience. "You're used to rejection, manipulation; you fear you're a novelty, that we'll discard you afterwards as nothing more than an interesting experiment."


"You really should work on that low self-esteem, Inspector. Yes, you've been cheated on, likely emasculated by a wife casting constant aspersions on your love-making abilities when you couldn't get it up after you found out about the serial affairs—"

"Hang on—"

"—and at work you're continually undermined by a colleague and unable to solve the simplest cases without help—"

"—fuck you!"

"—as well as having to play errand boy for the most unbearably pompous minor government official in Britain—"

"—I am not—Greg tries to sit up, anger and humiliation gouging holes in his chest, but then strong, tanned arms tighten about him and a firm voice snaps, "Shut it, Sherlock" as he's turned around to face a distinctly pissed off looking John.

"I'm just saying—"

"No. Enough."

Sherlock closes his mouth with an audible click and something between a pout and a huff, narrowing his eyes mutinously at the both of them.

"Sorry," says John softly, pulling him against his chest. "He always manages to be a total arse when he's actually trying to be helpful. It's a gift."

"Helpful?" exclaims Greg, another irritated huff from behind him streaking warmth over the side of his jaw. "How on earth was any of that helpful?" He jumps as a warm, sleek body slots against his back, silky hair dragging across the nape of his neck.

"Translate for me, would you, John?" Says the low voice in his ear. "I don't speak pedestrian."

"What he's trying to say," says John with a sigh, "very poorly, is that you shouldn't worry about anything. We want you here. Both of us do. For as long as you want to be here with us. He's also being a bit of a twat because he's getting less attention from me than he's used to, that's all. Remember he's the one who suggested this."

"That's what I said," murmurs Sherlock indignantly.

"No you bloody didn't," replies Greg, resting his forehead against John's and trying to slow his frantic heartbeat.

"You misunderstood me," answers Sherlock. "Fine. You're comfortable with John, I'll tell you what I deduce, you tell him whether I'm right or not although I'm never—"

"Just leave the wife out of it, Sherlock," says John firmly, stroking up and down Greg's hip.

A long-suffering sigh, this one resonant enough to coil heat in his belly, cutting through the anxiety and hurt. "Ex-wife. And if I must."

John jerks his chin in a sharp nod and brings up a hand to gently turn Greg's face, leaving it resting along his jaw. He kisses his nose and strokes a thumb along a cheekbone. "Relax," he says softly. "I'll shut him up if he gets too near the knuckle." He leans in to brush his lips against Greg's. "Remember you don't have to answer if you don't want to, but," he ghosts his lips over his again, "it'll help us make it better for you. Whatever you want, Greg, just tell us what you like."

"Okay," says Greg with a decided exhale.

"Oh, good, we all agree then," says Sherlock impatiently, even as he trails an exploratory hand up between Greg's thighs. "Am I allowed to continue now?"

"He's like this most mornings," confides John in an undertone, "at least until his first orgasm of the day."

"Explains a lot about his behaviour up until you two started shagging," returns Greg with a grin, flinching a little at a warning pinch on his inner thigh.

"You're an intelligent man," says Sherlock without preamble.

"No, he actually means that," supplies John at the glint of suspicion in the dark eyes.

"You've risen to the top of your chosen profession, yet you're quite happy to hand over control of your investigations." He circles a thumb firmly over Greg's sacrum, gently rubbing his hardening cock against a smooth backside. "Earlier tonight you were happy to play the alpha male but your fantasies are quite different, I think."

"Mm," says Greg non-committally, arching his back to press into Sherlock, drawing in a sharp breath as John strokes a finger over his nipple.

"Is that what you want?" breathes John. "To give yourself over?"

"You're tactile," continues Sherlock. "Some would say sensual if they were feeling sentimental." He catches John's eye over the inspector's shoulder and his mouth twitches into a smirk at his approving smile. "You want to be overwhelmed." He drops his head to mouth at the back of his neck. "I think between us we can manage that, can't we, John?"

John must see something in his eyes, some uncertainty, because he draws him in closer, trapping him in the warm cradle of his arms, stroking down the length of his spine.

"Greg," he murmurs, softly mouthing the tender spot behind his ear, "would you do something for me? Would you let go? Could you? Lie back and let us make you come?" When he hesitates, surprised—that's it? nothing?—John blushes and whispers, as if confessing to some depraved sin, "I've wanted to see that for months."

"Yes," Greg manages, flushing in turn. "I' that very much."

"Let's see about specifics then," says Sherlock briskly. "You're still unsure about letting us take the lead. To be expected, I suppose, when you've had to be the one initiating any uncomplicated sexual encounter for, oh, I'd say the last three years or so." He narrows his eyes thoughtfully. "Four." Drifting a long-fingered hand around Greg's hip, he continues to grind maddeningly slowly against him.

"No, no, that's not right. The wife would sometimes—"

"Not unless she wanted something. Or to shut you up."

"Sherlock," says John warningly, feeling Greg stiffen.

"All right, all right, I'll leave her out of it," grumbles Sherlock and then shifts, hand moving to absently rub against Greg's belly. "Although it's a relevant piece of—"


"Oh, fine." The hand pauses for a moment and then continues."You move closer to John when you're unsettled—"

"Which is quite fucking often at the moment—"

"Sorry," whispers John, trailing a hand up the back of his neck to nestle in his hair, fingers twining through the thick, soft strands. "But I think he may have a point, despite him being a massive twat about getting to it."

"—so we should have you resting against him. Sit up, both of you," he orders, twisting onto his knees and shoving pillows unceremoniously towards the headboard.

"All right with you?" asks John, and when Greg nods in response he shifts so his back is against the pillows, pulling Greg up to rest on his chest, head propped comfortably on his good shoulder, arranging his thighs around him. "Mm, yes, like this. Good view from here," he adds warmly, reaching down to stroke along Greg's chest and down to his groin, cupping his balls to an answering shudder.

Sherlock's eyes gleam blue and feline sharp as he appraises the two of them together.

"You're quite delightfully visual, Detective Inspector," murmurs Sherlock, flicking his tongue over his fingertip and giving him that smug irritating fuckable smirk which first lifts one side of his mouth and then spreads as a rush of blood colours Greg's face as well as areas lower down. "In fact, you'd be a halfway decent detective if you weren't so distracted every time John or I bent over at a crime scene."

Lestrade shifts against John. "Greg," he manages, to another twitch of the lips. "Call me Greg."

"I think not," replies Sherlock. "This time around we should defer to your proper rank. So," he lowers himself onto his belly, between spread thighs, and blows gently along the inner surfaces, raising hairs in his wake. "Why don't you tell us what you'd like us to do, Inspector? We'll be good." The deep voice, impossibly, drops to a lower register, as dark and smooth as fondant. "I promise."

Greg's eyes rove over him, taking in the avid gaze, the sculpted face and the long, sinuous white back, but he scrabbles for the proper words, his nerve failing him in the bright glare of Sherlock's focused attention. He tips his face towards John's, meeting his gaze with uncertainty. John presses his lips to his forehead and tightens his legs around him almost imperceptibly.

"You trust him," says Sherlock in a low voice and Greg glances at him, catching a brief flash of vulnerability before it's quickly hidden. It's not much but the pang of guilt it elicits is enough to dampen his anxiety to hesitantly raise his hand and extend it towards him. After a pause Sherlock touches his fingertips tentatively and brushes them feather-light with his own. "You've had fantasies about me. I'd like to know what they were."

Greg hesitates again as Sherlock's eyes move over him and there's something almost supplicant about his position, sprawled between his legs, a question in his eyes, but it's hard to force the words out knowing this brilliant, imperious self-declared sociopath could seize and twist them into a noose with which to choke him at any time. There's John, however. John, who is kind and decent and the only one who can curb Sherlock. John, who told him he was wanted and desired and not just by him but his willful, volatile partner too.

"Your mouth," manages Greg, after a steadying breath and another reassuring squeeze from John. "Around me." His cock twitches at the image and he drops his eyes, feeling his face heat.

"Is that all?"

The air is thick and heavy and Greg inhales with an effort, his thoughts whirling around themselves, muting him again. He's aware of John's palm coming up to his mouth and hovering there and without thinking he licks a wet stripe across it, feeling the other man chuckle beneath him.

"Go on, Sherlock," prompts John, curling his hand around the head of Greg's prick and squeezing gently, moving the foreskin over his swelling glans with slow flicks of his thumb.

"It would seem that area is currently occupied," observes Sherlock thoughtfully. "Of course there are others I could use my mouth on." He dips his head and presses an almost chaste kiss to his balls, extending his tongue to delicately lap at his perineum.

Greg jerks suddenly, his mouth falling open and back arching, conscious of the other man's sharpening gaze.

"Something you rather like doing but not an act you've had performed on you, it appears," he says after a pause. "Granted it takes a rather open-minded female, it is quite intimate after all, and the male companions you've had, likely picked up after hours from pubs or bars, you haven't been able to ask." Tilting his head he lays a palm on Greg's thigh, the touch sending tingles of anticipation up his spine this time around. "You'd like me to do this for you, Inspector. May I?"

"Yes please," stutters Greg, caught by the intensity in the silver-blue eyes and the flush on the high cheekbones. "God, yes, Sherlock."

Sherlock's face lights up immediately, an almost childlike glee transforming his expression, and Greg suddenly realises that he's been waiting for him to ask him to, no, to allow him to act out his fantasies and at all once the undercurrent of shame, the fear of divulging his most secret desires is gone and he sighs and opens his legs further, relaxing into the warm expanse of chest behind him.

"Use your tongue on me, Sherlock. I've been dreaming about this."

Sherlock smiles, radiating pleasure, and ducks his head slightly as if ashamed of his eagerness, shooting a sidelong glance at John who hums in approval, hand still moving languidly over Greg's cock whilst his other traces fluttering, complicated patterns over a nipple.

Settling onto his front again, Sherlock dips his head and noses his way up Greg's inner thigh, dropping lingering kisses with a hint of teeth as he works his way towards the crease of his buttocks, pausing to lift and place a leg over his shoulder. He flicks a glance at John who seizes the other and draws it over his thigh, leaving Greg splayed and deliciously open, both men watching the detective run a lascivious tongue over his lips as he admires the view.

"You giant drama queen," says John, vibrating with laughter. "I'm never letting you watch porn again. Get on with it."

Greg laughs helplessly, his eyes snapping shut at the first touch of the warm tongue to his most private area, hissing air through his teeth at the jolt of pleasure arcing through his belly. Sherlock laps at him lazily, as languid as John's hand on his cock, soft groans of pleasure escaping him as he peers up at Greg who breathes in again sharply when he presses a thumb against the sensitive seam of skin under his balls. The points of pleasure—John's fingers at his nipples and cock, his mouth at his ear, Sherlock's thumb firm on his perineum, tongue at his entrance—begin to expand and radiate outwards, waves of sensation buffeting and tangling until he's gasping, biting at his lower lip to try and stifle the wanton noises threatening to escape him. It's almost too much, too intense, and then Sherlock pulls away suddenly to move up his body, wiping his chin on Greg's stomach before slanting his mouth against his, sharing the dark taste of salt and musk between them.

"Delicious. Let yourself go," he murmurs. "You're not alone, not touching yourself in the dark, in secret, thinking about what it would feel like to have my mouth on you, John's hands on your body. You're here with us." He slithers back down and sucks at the delicate pucker, a wet, open-mouthed kiss that has Greg clenching involuntarily until a slippery tongue probes at him, filthy and wet and unbelievably arousing.

"I want to hear you," says John unsteadily. "Christ, you look gorgeous, all spread out for him. Greg, let me hear you."

John moves his hand in long, smooth strokes, twisting it over his glans, plucking at his nipples alternately in a staccato rhythm and Greg turns his face into the damp column of neck and groans low in his throat, thighs quivering involuntarily.

"That's it," says John, his voice low and pleased. "Beautiful. You're so hard, I think you could come from his tongue alone, couldn't you?"

Greg moans again, breaths shallow and quick, and forces his head up, mouth falling open at the sight of Sherlock, eyes half-lidded in pleasure as he licks at him. With a deep breath he drops a hand and cards through the tousled curls before drawing him up slowly, pulling him in for a slow, messy, deep kiss that makes both of them tremble. He rests his forehead against his for a moment, gathering himself.

"Want your fingers in me. Imagined you fucking me, Sherlock," he rasps, eyes closed. "Deep and hard. Is that..? I mean—"

Saying it out loud tightens iron bands of anxiety around his throat because he's never asked for anything like this before, not in such blatant, self-serving terms, and for a moment he's afraid he's gone too far, demanded too much; he's still the outsider after all, what if this is the point where they decide he's an imposition rather than a participant? He opens his mouth to fill the sudden silence, to take it back if he has to and shift the focus elsewhere, onto them, he'd do anything they wanted if it meant being allowed to stay, if he could just—

"Yes," say both men simultaneously and he has to blink and re-gather himself, trust the answers aren't just a product of his fevered imagination...but they aren't because Sherlock is kissing him again, deeply and urgently, and John is murmuring soft words of approval in his ear, running his fingers over him as if trying to reach every area of skin possible. Greg whimpers with mingled relief and arousal, hands coming up to grip at the smooth, firm shoulders above him.

One of John's hand leaves for a moment and then he's holding out a bottle of lubricant to Sherlock, who looks as if he's going to wave it away. "It's been a while for him," John reminds him, and Greg might have been embarrassed by that but he says it in a way that makes it sound like being practically celibate was something sexy he did just for Sherlock and John and they want to reward him for it. Greg's prick twitches, John's hand rubs circles over his breastbone, and Sherlock takes the lube with darkening eyes.

"He's, ah, very good at this," John says hoarsely, eyes fixed on the fingers that are snapping open the bottle cap. He clears his throat without a bit of self-consciousness. "Can keep you right on the edge for hours, God, until you're out of your mind-not a word, Sherlock."

Greg knows neither of them missed the jerk of his body when John talked about this—oh, this, one of his very favourite acts to perform, one of his most private fantasies—not as a means to an end, not just about getting him ready for a shag, but taking time, making it good, making it last. Something a lover would do, someone who cared about you and wanted to see you dizzy with pleasure more than he wanted to fuck and come and be done with it.

Sherlock captures and holds his eyes as his hand slowly disappears below the curve of Greg's body. He presses back into John, anticipation and hope leaving him unsteady. The touch, when it comes, is butterfly-soft, unexpectedly tender, and makes his breath hitch so hard he can't make a sound.

"Hours," whispers John, warm lips grazing his ear, as Sherlock's fingertip circles slowly, not even probing, just sliding over him, exploring. "We want you here, Greg, with us. We'll take care of you." Strong, warm arms tighten around him possessively as a second fingertip joins the first, tracing slick trails over him before one dips in shockingly, just the very tip, in and out, and then goes back to tracing him as if nothing had happened at all. Greg's guttural cry of hunger draws a pleased chuckle from John and a smouldering look from beneath dark, damp curls that has him shuddering.

The flat pad of the finger presses against his opening, tapping ever so slightly, and it's hardly anything at all but it keeps going, keeps building, until Greg can't help but twist and thrust his hips. He doesn't even know what he needs; he's not trying to bear down, not trying to pull away. He simply can't be still under Sherlock's soft touches and avid gaze, but it's fine because John is there pressing wet kisses to his neck, holding on so Greg can give himself over to Sherlock without reservation. So he does; he lets himself fall into the safe, sturdy grasp behind him, lets his body and his desires unfurl like a long-dormant plant to the rising sun.

"Oh, yes," breathes John shakily. "That's it, Greg, thank you." Sherlock says nothing, but bends his head and rubs his cheek across Greg's belly, inhaling his scent as the fingertip continues to tap steadily against him.

Greg hears words tumbling from his own mouth: I wanted this for so long; God, yes, please; and other broken, heated phrases whose honesty would have him blushing if there had been any thought of holding back anything at all but there isn't, not anymore. They can have it all, because they'll take care of him, John said so.

He doesn't know how long it's been when he comes back to himself, but his throat is hoarse and the chest under him is damp with sweat where he's been thrashing his head helplessly. He's half-aware he's still begging, and there's the sweet, hot stretch of another finger forcing a cry from his throat as his lower body arches off the bed in response.


"Yes, yes, now, Sherlock, now. I want—" John claims his mouth messily and it's so good, so exactly what he needs that he grinds down on the fingers inside him and clutches at John's arms. "—want to see this. Stroke him, he's ready."

He's confused because John's hand is already on his cock, still stroking him steadily, slipping the foreskin along his soaking head over and over. Then Sherlock's fingers move just so

The world fragments into little white stars and he thinks he's come, but it happens again, and then again as Sherlock repeatedly glides over his prostate but never quite lets him go over the edge. John is murmuring in his ear—encouragement, affection, lust—and he presses his burning face against bare skin gratefully, unable to tear his eyes from the pale, incandescent stare that pins him helplessly in place. There's a flush across the porcelain chest and it's fucking beautiful, God, it's for him and it's so gorgeous and he wants to say so but the words are lodged too deep in his throat.

"John?" Sherlock asks, still holding Greg's gaze, still touching him inside, making him writhe.

John shifts to look into Greg's dazed face, placing a palm against his cheek. "Oh, yeah," he says, and briefly closes his eyes and shivers. "He's ready, aren't you, Greg? Yeah. Move him up onto me, I'll help hold him open."

He feels himself gently settled, cradled and kissed and spread wide, John's thighs bracing his own. Sherlock's beautiful mouth dips down over the head of his cock and he arches into John's hands, which are drawing at his nipples, sliding down his ribs to clasp his thighs, and oh, more, he needs more, he'll go insane if he doesn't have it.

"I'll give you more," Sherlock promises, and he realises he's been speaking aloud. "Deep and hard, like you wanted. I'll do that for you."

John's got him, Sherlock's taking him, and this is not a dream, not some midnight fantasy, it's real and he needs this. He can't help the frustrated, desperate noises as he strains towards what he wants so badly and Sherlock inhales sharply and takes himself in hand, moving closer, positioning himself against him.

The length that slides into him is smooth, hot, so very wet, and he can feel it all because there's nothing between them, and he's never done that before. It burns and aches and he's crying out brokenly, "Fuck, yes, good, fuck, more," and Sherlock answers, "Oh, yes," low and dark and sibilant. John reaches down, just barely able to graze where they're joined, touching them both as Sherlock eases in the final fraction. Greg keens when the push continues, shoving his body farther up John's chest and his own prick farther into John's clever, willing hand.

"God," is all he can manage as Sherlock leans forward, kisses John heatedly, and starts to move.

The thrusts come as slow, hard rolls that lift and rock his body and yes, Jesus, that's perfect. John's behind him, solid and warm, Sherlock's as deep as he can go, pressing into that sweet spot with every other snap of his hips, and God, he wants it go on forever.

"That's beautiful," murmurs John, smoothing a hand over his damp forehead and kissing his reddened skin. "Want you so much, Greg. Please, please let us have you." His thumb slides over the dark head of his cock and Greg gasps and writhes. It's never been like this before. Not for him. So slow, so raw, every nerve alight and blazing. He's wanted and treasured, and the icy darkness that's been wrapped around his heart withers more under every heated moan from Sherlock's throat, every mark John burns possessively into his shoulder.

Sherlock angles up and if it was perfect before, now it's beyond perfect, it's absolutely mind-meltingly intense. Greg makes a noise he never knew he was capable of and Sherlock's face lights up again, smug and sweet and maybe just a little bit shy. He hears John groan, feels him shiver when he pushes back into him, feels John's mouth close on his neck and his arms wrap around him even more tightly, his hand moving relentlessly on Greg's aching cock.

Then fingers pluck at his nipple just as Sherlock brushes his prostate again and Greg discovers a whole new tessitura of sounds he's never made before.

"Yes." Sherlock's voice is rough and predatory. "Again. I want to hear you." He grips Greg's hips for leverage—hard enough to bruise and yes, God, that's good—and starts pounding him, fast, deep, merciless. It's so perfectly what Greg needs that his body goes slack and his head falls back against John's good shoulder, every breath a moan forced out of him by the blunt, sweet drag of him inside. "Louder."

He doesn't know how many times he's nearly gone over the edge only to have Sherlock change his rhythm and his angle, keeping him blissed out and unfinished, making it last, but finally he can feel it's going to happen regardless. He's far beyond words but John understands and tightens his hand around his cock, John is the one to say, "He's coming." Sherlock grabs his face and crashes their mouths together, swallowing Greg's escalating cries and releasing all his iron-willed control, hips stuttering in wild, desperate thrusts.

The orgasm blazes through his entire body, dancing light electrifying his skin, blinding him, cracking him wide open. He's shouting at the top of his lungs and there's no stifling anything even if he wanted to, but he doesn't want to, he wants to make a gift of this, give them as much as he can of himself. He clenches around Sherlock's cock as he comes and distantly hears Sherlock spend himself with a near scream, grip iron-hard on his hips; Greg is as smugly pleased about that as he can be in his current wrung-out condition.

For a long time, nobody moves. Sunlight creeps along the walls and the sounds of life outside the flat drift in through the window, mingling with their gradually slowing breaths and the occasional sigh.

"Really need to breathe at some point," John says eventually, reluctance evident in his voice.

"Shit, sorry," mumbles Greg, still dazed, and pushes at Sherlock until they both roll off the man beneath them.

Greg presses a kiss to John's salty thigh, cards his fingers through dark, sweat-stiffened curls. "Thank you," he says softly. Sherlock sits up abruptly and reaches for his face, but stops at a sharp look from John and, after wavering for a moment, looking to John again for guidance, he lies down, spooning wordlessly against Greg's back. John slides over and tucks Greg's head under his chin. He wipes his damp face on John's chest and they just lie together, a triptych slotting together as easily as if fashioned to by some master artisan. Warm breath ghosts over his neck and he shivers.

"Will you stay?" asks Sherlock, and Greg almost laughs that the question's even asked. "You can even go on about paperwork again, if you like, although that certainly should have made up for some of it."

"Have to," he replies lightly. "My arse'll be too sore to leave for a day or so. And bloody hell, yes, it did."

"Fuck you again later, then." He can hear the grin in John's voice. "Twice as hard."