Fair warning: rough sex. Orgasm delay/denial. Sherlock being a brat. All the porn. Empty Hearse spoilers.

"Why do you always do that?" Greg groaned and snapped his hips, eliciting a little choked noise from Sherlock. They were situated precariously on a creaky hotel mattress that was really only designed to fit one person. It didn't matter.

Sherlock was on his hands and knees, pushing back eagerly against Greg's every thrust. To be fair, the hate sex never failed to be fantastic. Greg half suspected that Sherlock acted like such a brat because he liked getting his brains fucked out. He knew Greg was easy to goad into retaliation through a fantastically rough shag.

"Do what?" Sherlock panted. His muscles flexed and rippled underneath his pale skin. Greg's hands were wrapped around the younger man's sharp hipbones. Sometimes, Greg couldn't believe they were actually fucking. Other times, he could remember what his life had been like before Sherlock stormed in and turned everything upside-down.

"You always insult me in front of other people. Especially John. You know what my bloody name is."

"Gordon?" Sherlock turned his head slightly, smirking.

Greg replied with a particularly deep thrust and Sherlock let out a shuddery moan.

"That's right," Sherlock gasped, "it's George."

"I'm going to bite you."

"Please, Grady, we both know you're all bark."

Greg leaned forward and sank his teeth into Sherlock's shoulder. The younger man's hips jerked. Greg pulled back and really started slamming into him.

"You know my name. Say it."


Greg smacked Sherlock's arse. Hard enough to make the flesh color slightly.

"Gary," Sherlock grunted raggedly.

Greg angled downwards slightly and slowed his motions. Sherlock let out a broken little whine.

The younger man tried to reach for his own cock, to jerk himself off. But Greg pulled out and flipped Sherlock onto his back. He pinned Sherlock's wrists to the mattress and sank into him again at a leisurely pace.

"Say my name and you get to come," Greg grinned.

"I really hate you sometimes," Sherlock sneered. But it was hard to take him seriously when he looked so thoroughly debauched.

His soft dark curls were plastered to his forehead. His pouty lips were still slightly swollen from the utterly brutal kisses that had led them from the door to the bed. He was panting heavily, obviously close.

Greg raised his eyebrows smugly. "Ready when you are, sunshine. Don't think you're gonna win by holding out. I know you packed toys. If I come, I'll just start fucking you with a dildo."

"You're a horrible, filthy old man."

"Yep. And you're an annoying prick. It's a good thing you're pretty."

Sherlock groaned in frustration. He bucked his hips, trying to make Greg move faster. The older man slowed down even more. He took his time to find exactly the right angle. The angle that made Sherlock squirm and whimper.

Even if Sherlock did like to complain about Greg's age—and forty-seven isn't that old, thanks very much—experience did have its advantages. Greg was almost infinitely patient. He could last a long fucking time if properly motivated.

Near silence reigned for several minutes. Sherlock's pale skin flushed all over. His eyes closed. And then... he just barely whispered.


"What was that?" Greg grinned. "Didn't hear you."

"Please touch me... I'm so close," Sherlock whined in his most pitiful voice.

"You know what you have to do."

Sherlock groaned involuntarily and took a few seconds to collect himself. "Gregory Lestrade, will you please touch my cock?"

Greg leaned down and stole a sloppy kiss. Their tongues brushed together wet and filthy as Greg reached between them and wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's prick. He jerked the younger man off with a loose fist, just enough friction to be frustrating without giving him any satisfaction. Sherlock moaned into Greg's mouth.

They broke apart for breath and Sherlock looked up at him with wide eyes.

"Greg," he whispered, "let me come."

"Why should I?"

"Because I'm sexy and you can't get enough of me," Sherlock nipped at Greg's lower lip.

"Is that so?"

"And you're my dirty old man. You take such good care of me. I need it. Make me come."

"You're a real fucking charmer, you know that?" Greg sighed.

But he tightened his grip. He started stroking Sherlock's cock faster, with more intention. He focused the pressure and friction around the head of the younger man's prick.

Sherlock made several loud, guttural sounds. Closer to sobs than anything.

"Yes. Fuck. Greg. Oh..."

And really, when Sherlock got all breathy and discombobulated like that—well it did things to Greg. The impossible spike or arousal lurched through him. He fought to keep his thrusts steady. If Sherlock didn't come first, that would mean Greg had lost whatever twisted game they were playing.

At the root of things, Greg was very competitive.

Blessedly, Sherlock started to tense before too long. Greg jerked him off just a little bit faster. The younger man let out a few desprate whimpers. And then he shuddered helplessly. He clenched down around Greg's prick. His ejaculate dribbled across Greg's fingers. His mouth fell open.

It was so fucking beautiful. Every goddamn time. Greg always wished he could take a picture. To remember that yes, even somebody as cold and prickly as Sherlock could break down occasionally. He could be vulnerable, and exhausted, and utterly shagged out.

For all the shit Greg had to put up with—he did feel rather honored that he got to see Sherlock this way.

Greg's thrusts became erratic. The feeling building at the base of his spine expanded. His stomach roiled. An impossible sort of heat started to spread through him. He chased the tingling pleasure until he crashed. Until he grunted and all the tension released in a tremendous spasm. A sort of tired giddiness washed through him. He collapsed on top of Sherlock and tried to remember how to breathe.

"You're heavy," Sherlock drawled after about thirty seconds.

"If you don't shut up, I'll be forced to snog you into silence."

"Get off of—umpf—"

Greg smeared their mouths together, slow and lazy. Sherlock didn't even pretend to fight it. In fact, he cradled Greg's head in one hand. He wrapped his other arm loosely around Greg's shoulders.

Greg's cock softened and slipped out. Sherlock made a small noise at the back of his throat. But he didn't pull away.

Eventually, Greg rolled them onto their sides. Sherlock rearranged himself, so that his back pressed against Greg's chest.

The younger man rather liked to be held. It was a thing Greg never commented on. But he was always more than happy to oblige. He draped an arm around Sherlock's waist and yawned.

"Can I stay here?" Greg asked absently. "I don't really fancy catching a train back to London tonight."

"I don't care. Just be quiet," Sherlock mumbled.

Greg squeezed him a little tighter. Because he knew Sherlock did care very much. He knew because if he ever tried to leave right after sex, Sherlock would snarl at him horribly.

Perhaps he was like a cat and just enjoyed the body heat.

Greg preferred to think that Sherlock was secretly a big marshmallow that needed constant affection and reassurance.


When Sherlock came back from the dead he started the old game up like nothing had changed. He said, "you've been letting things slide, Graham," with a fucking smile on his face. He said it like he hadn't been gone for two years. Like Greg hadn't been physically ill with grief. Like Greg hadn't mourned.

But the older man couldn't do a thing besides pull the bastard into a hug. In that moment, he was so overwhelmingly happy. Shocked. Relieved.

He'd had so many dreams—where Sherlock was warm and alive again. It felt so strangely reassuring to press their bodies together, to hold on while their hearts raced.

Sherlock still smelled the same as he always had. Like subtle, expensive cologne will accents of wool and spearmint.

Greg didn't want to ever let go again.


They fell into Greg's bed, a naked mess of eager sloppiness. Each kiss felt like drowning. Greg felt almost drunk on it. On one hand, it all seemed brand new. Like touching somebody for the first time. But then there was that underlying current of familiarity.

It made his chest ache.

Sherlock pulled away for a moment to grab the lube. Usually, he preferred to prepare himself. Greg didn't know why. Perhaps Sherlock didn't trust anybody else to do a good enough job.

But Sherlock pressed the tube of KY into Greg's palm and rolled over onto his stomach. Well. Fancy that.

Greg kneeled between Sherlock's spread thighs and slicked up his fingers. He tried to go slow. Be gentle. He circled his finger around the ring of muscle, not pressing in, just teasing. Sherlock let that go on for about a minute before he groaned, "get on with it, Garret."


Greg slapped Sherlock's arse with his free hand. But he slowly pushed his middle finger forwards. It slid in easily.

Maybe for a moment, Greg wondered who Sherlock had fucked while he'd been gone.

He brushed the thought aside. He slowly worked his finger in and out of Sherlock's body until the younger man started pushing back for more. He added another finger. He slid it around exploring until he grazed against the right spot and Sherlock gasped.

By the time Greg got a third finger in, Sherlock had started to sweat. The muscles in his back and thighs were pulled taut. He wriggled impatiently.

"If you don't hurry up and stick your cock in me, I'm going pin you down and ride you," Sherlock snapped.

"Oh god, I'm so afraid," Greg chuckled sarcastically.

He withdrew his fingers. Apparently not fast enough. Because Sherlock flipped over and pushed Greg back onto the bed. He clambered on top of the older man and straddled his hips. Sherlock reached a hand underneath himself and wrapped his fingers around Greg's prick—he held it steady as he started to sink down onto it.

They both groaned the moment Greg's cock slipped inwards.

Sherlock took a moment to adjust before lowering himself any further. He started to rock his hips experimentally, slowly taking Greg in deeper. The younger man shifted forward a bit. He must have hit the right spot by accident—because a tiny moan escaped his lips.

He started to fuck himself on Greg's cock with shallow thrusts. His head tilted back, his mouth fell open.

"Oh, god," he breathed.

Greg placed his hands on Sherlock's waist, supporting him. The younger man was so impossibly warm and tight, almost better than Greg remembered. Each slide of friction was delicious agony.

Sherlock picked up speed. He whined and panted. He looked so perfect—like a pale, slutty angel.

"I missed you," Greg blurted out before he could stop himself.

Sherlock paused. He opened his eyes and looked down. The usual antagonism between them seemed to rise for a moment before fizzling out. Sherlock pressed his lips together, pensive. He started moving again, more slowly.

"I wanted to tell you—that I was alive…. I couldn't."

"I know. You were protecting us," Greg tightened his grip.

Sherlock opened his mouth, as if to say something else, but all that came out was a soft keening noise.

The heat took over again. Silence held, except for heavy breathing and the wet slide of skin. Sherlock rolled his hips, taking his pleasure exactly the way he wanted it. He seemed to find the right angle again. He started to bounce on Greg's prick, rapid and shallow. Little moans turned into ragged sobs.

"Greg," Sherlock whimpered, soft and low.

The sound ricocheted through Greg's brain, lighting up neurotransmitters he'd almost forgotten about.

"Oh god—" the younger man choked, "I—I'm going to—"

Sherlock started to fist his own cock. His rhythm stuttered. Greg held on tight and started to thrust up into him. Sherlock went still and let Greg fuck him.

Perhaps another ten seconds passed before Sherlock shivered and tensed. His internal muscles contracted around Greg's prick. Sherlock's cock jerked, splattering Greg's stomach with come.

It was entirely too much to handle. Greg toppled over the edge of orgasm quite suddenly. The pleasure ripped through him. He felt dizzy. Breathless. The world was a cacophony of sensation. A mesh of warm light and color.

Sherlock lifted off Greg's cock and then fell forward, sprawling out on top of the older man. He pressed his face into Greg's neck, chest heaving.

Greg wrapped his arms around Sherlock's narrow waist. They came down slowly. When the air around them started to feel cold, they crawled under the sheets. They were still thoroughly wrecked and sticky. It didn't seem to bother either of them.

They curled together in a chaotic a tangle of limbs. Greg felt bone tired. He was just starting to fade away when Sherlock nudged him.

"I missed you too—you filthy old pervert."

"Thanks," Greg snorted. "That means a lot."

Sherlock pressed a quick kiss against Greg's lips. They held each other just a little bit tighter.

Perhaps neither of them was ready to admit it—but the warm, fuzzy feeling that spread out from every point of physical contact might have been about more than endorphins and lust. It might have been something dangerously close to caring.

For the moment, Greg was just happy to have Sherlock so close to him. There was that phrase—about not knowing what you had until you lost it.

He'd be damned if he was ever going to let Sherlock slip away again.