Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, DI Greg Lestrade, DS Sally Donovan
Pairings: Sherlock/John, Sherlock/John/Lestrade
Warnings: language, adult situations
Words: ~9400 this part (~26700 total)
A/N: Originally written for this prompt on the shkinkmeme asking for Lestrade whump. No beta so please point out any glaring mistakes. Concrit is always welcome.
Summary: Sherlock and John share with Lestrade what they learned from recent events - and not just about the case...
( Part One... ) ( Part Two... ) ( Part Three... )
MISSING IN ACTON
It was after ten when Lestrade woke the next morning, feeling, if anything, even less rested than when he'd gone to bed.
If it hadn't been for the strong craving for caffeine he would have just closed his eyes and tried to get back to sleep. Instead he hauled himself upright and slipped into the dressing gown John had left him before making his way slowly down the stairs.
He wasn't deliberately trying to be quiet but the wound on his side was still tender so he took things slowly. This allowed him to make out the sound of a heated discussion coming from the floor below.
Hello... bit of a domestic?
Sherlock's voice suddenly carried up the stairs. "I've had enough, John. This is far too frustrating. I'm going to go up there right now."
Lestrade stopped where he was and listened intently.
"Sherlock, we already discussed this," John replied. "Not until his stitches are out - and even then not until I say so."
"Oh come on, John. Lestrade's hardly delicate!"
"No, but he's been through the wringer recently and I think he's still a bit embarrassed about everything. So you're to leave him alone until at least tomorrow - understood?"
Sherlock gave a loud petulant huff and Lestrade heard him throwing himself melodramatically onto the sofa. "Fine."
Sounds like Sherlock can't wait to kick me out... I must be putting a bit of a damper on his love life... Lestrade couldn't help feeling a little bit vindictively pleased about that.
"Look - it's difficult for me too," John said. "I hadn't really thought what it would be like having him staying here, especially after... Wait, is that him up?"
Bugger... Lestrade edged back up a few steps then walked much more carelessly down to the landing and into the kitchen as if he'd only just got up. "Morning, John."
John was sitting in the kitchen. He got to his feet. "Morning, Lestrade. Coffee?"
"Love some, thanks." Lestrade turned to look into the living room. He could just see Sherlock's feet at the end of the sofa. "Morning, Sherlock."
"Humph." Sherlock rolled over to face the back of the sofa.
"Ignore him. He's always like this after a case," John said. "And more so since he knows you're not going to be giving him anything new for a few weeks. Did you sleep well?"
Lestrade sat down at the table and looked for a free spot to rest his arm. "Yes, fine thanks. Eventually anyway."
"Bed not too hard?"
"No. I'm just not used to having to sleep on my back." He settled on the most stable looking pile of books between two large beakers of... something he had no wish to know about.
They both looked round as there was a loud knock at the front door. Lestrade looked back at John expectantly but he just smiled and said, "Mrs Hudson'll get it."
Lestrade heard the landlady's soft voice as she answered the door and then the sound of someone coming up the steps to 221B.
"Donovan," Sherlock pronounced to the cushions. "Here for a debrief no doubt."
Donovan spotted Lestrade in the kitchen and nodded to him as she came in. "Morning, sir."
"Donovan," Lestrade responded. He saw her giving him a quick once-over. "Don't worry - he's not chopped me up and eaten me or hidden me under the floorboards - and he's not brainwashed me, either", he quickly continued.
"That you're aware of," Sherlock said, rolling on to his back and stretching. "Anyway there's so little to work with it would be a waste of time."
Donovan glared at the top of Sherlock's head and Lestrade smiled at how normal the world suddenly felt again - for their own bizarre brand of 'normal' anyway.
"So what can I do for you?" Lestrade asked.
Donovan nodded at John as he held up the coffee pot. "Just black thanks, John. First off I came to give you this back - but don't you dare turn it on till you're back at the Yard." She handed him his mobile phone, both of them knowing full well he'd have it on before she even made the front door again.
"Thanks. Do you want the spare one back? It should be in my jacket - unless Sherlock's half-inched it."
"No, there's no rush."
Donovan sat down beside him at the table. "We nabbed them all yesterday thanks to Sherlock's info. You were right about the Geordie, sir - Michael Castle. No love lost there between him and the others. He jumped on a deal to grass them up. The older bloke in charge of everything is called Graham Connors. Fraud Squad have been after him for ages. Not just counterfeit money he deals in; bags, clothes, antiques, you name it. Fences plenty of the genuine article as well. Thanks, John." She took the mug from John, looked for somewhere to set it down, quickly gave up and held on to it as she continued. "He denied knowing anything about Prescott's murder but Castle puts him at the scene and said he did nothing to stop Evans even when it was clear he'd gone too far. He was only meant to be roughing Prescott up a bit but things got out of hand."
Lestrade could sympathise all too easily with the late Mr Prescott. "So we've got Evans for Prescott's murder?"
"Yup. Not to mention the attempted murder charge for what he did to you as well, sir."
"Brilliant. Please tell me he didn't come quietly," Lestrade said hopefully.
Donovan grinned. "DI Gregson was first through the door and the stupid little sod tried to take him on. Gregson just laughed it off, slapped him down and then sat on him."
Lestrade winced. "So how many pieces is he in now?"
"Don't worry, sir. Evans didn't fall down any stairs or anything. We all know you don't approve of that sort of payback."
"Thanks, Sally. I'd hate anyone to get into trouble with the DPS on my account. So, Toby's dealing with my stuff until I'm back?" Lestrade asked.
"Yeah, he's already had a good rant about your 'so-called-filing system' and how poky your office is."
"It's only poky 'cause he's a bloody gorilla."
"I'll tell him you were asking after him, sir."
"Yeah, I've still got two weeks seniority on him - don't let him forget." Lestrade winked as he finished his coffee.
"I'm sure it'll come up at some point, sir." Donovan smiled one of her rare, genuine smiles.
"I don't like Gregson. He insists on having forms for everything," Sherlock muttered from the other room.
"Yeah, well the feeling's mutual," Donovan shot back. "He's already told all of us not to let you anywhere near any of his crime scenes."
Sherlock rumbled something that sounded like "Intolerable."
"There was one other thing..." Donovan said hesitantly, turning back to Lestrade.
"Yeah. Evans said one of the two blokes that came to get you at the warehouse was armed. The short, blond one." Donovan kept her eyes firmly locked on Lestrade, not so much as glancing at John.
"I don't remember seeing a gun. He must be lying," Lestrade said evenly.
"He says he was shot at."
"Well if Gregson wants to get Forensics to dig through what's left of that building looking for a bullet on the say-so of a psychotic little toerag he's more than welcome. That's his call. I can't see Anderson thanking him for it."
"He thought Evans was just trying to talk himself up. I'll let him know you didn't see it."
"I don't remember seeing it."
Donovan held Lestrade's gaze a moment longer then slowly smiled. "Right." She stood up and held out her empty mug but when John reached for it she drew it back and took his hand instead. "John."
"Sally." John smiled as he shook her hand and then accepted the mug from her.
Donovan stepped into the hallway and paused at the top of the stairs. "Sherlock."
Sherlock swivelled his head up and round to meet her eye. "Sergeant Donovan."
She turned and headed swiftly down the stairs.
Lestrade sat back in his chair and smiled as he heard the front door slam shut behind her. She hadn't called Sherlock "Freak" once, the whole time she was there. He wondered just what had happened to cause the lull in hostilities. Whatever it was, long may it continue...
John put Donovan's mug in the sink and turned back to Lestrade. "Do you want any breakfast? We've got Weetabix or Coco Pops if you want some cereal."
"I finished the Coco Pops," Sherlock called through from the other room.
"Then why is the box still in the cupboard?" John huffed. He dug it out, confirmed it was empty and threw the box to one side.
"Couple of Weetabix would be great, thanks," Lestrade said.
John put them in a bowl and handed them to Lestrade, followed by a half-full carton of milk. "Sugar?"
Lestrade looked between the two younger men as he crunched his breakfast. Sherlock was still sulking on the sofa and John seemed content to let him get on with it while he made a half-hearted attempt to clear up some of the mess in the kitchen. Something was obviously up; a hint of tension still hung in the air from their earlier row he'd overheard before Sally arrived.
He decided to break the silence. "You not working today, John?"
"No. I arranged a few days off." John sat down and starting eating his own cereal. "Somebody has to be here to protect you from Sherlock's experimenting."
Lestrade eyed the chemistry paraphernalia on the kitchen table. "I wouldn't worry. I know better than to touch anything round here. One time, he had some concoction that turned my hands purple for a week. Still not sure he didn't deliberately spill it."
"Of course I did - and it was nine days, not seven," Sherlock corrected him.
"Right. My mistake." Lestrade raised his eyebrows at John, who grinned back.
"So... you could say Sherlock knows you'll 'dye' for him?" John suggested.
Lestrade groaned. "There really ought to be some law that lets me arrest you for puns that bad."
There was a rustling from the lounge as Sherlock swung his legs round and sat up. "Joking aside, he's quite correct though - you've proved that on several occasions."
Lestrade's face flushed and then got hotter as he grew more embarrassed at being embarrassed. "It's my job. Protecting the public. Even if it's from themselves, like it usually is with you," he snapped at Sherlock.
"Oh yes?" John perked up. "Got some juicy stories for me?"
"No," Lestrade said bluntly. "Sherlock just occasionally does bloody stupid things that could lead to him getting killed or seriously injured and he needs a grown-up to pull his fat from the fire."
"Literally in the case of that arson job in Islington," Sherlock said, quite calmly.
"Yeah, well." You have someone else watching your back now... Lestrade pushed his chair back and stood up, suddenly wanting to put as much distance between himself and this conversation as he could. "I was thinking I might take a shower. Have you got a towel I can use?" he asked John.
John nodded. "There should be one in the airing cupboard at the top of the stairs. I'll get the cling film and be right up."
Lestrade was sure he must have misheard. "Sorry, what?"
"Your arm," John said, looking at the plaster cast Lestrade had temporarily forgotten about. "You can't get it wet. I'll wrap it up in cling film for you and then give you a hand in the shower."
"That's really not necessary, John."
"I'm afraid it is. Sorry."
Sherlock's snort from the sofa clearly indicated he thought John wasn't sorry in the slightest.
"Look," John continued. "You play football and you're in the Police. I play rugby, or I used to, and I was in the Army. Neither of us is going to see anything we haven't seen before, right?"
"I suppose," Lestrade grudgingly admitted.
"Right. I'll be up in a minute."
Lestrade collected a towel from the cupboard and had just hung up his dressing gown on the back of the bathroom door when John lightly tapped on it and came in. He squeezed past Lestrade and put the roll of plastic wrap on top of the toilet cistern.
"Right. I'll put the cling film on your arm and we'll get you scrubbed then I'll do myself. May as well have my own shower at the same time." John hung his dressing gown over Lestrade's.
Lestrade faced the door as John helped him off with his pyjama top then turned back to allow John to carefully wind the roll of cling film around his arm.
"Listen, John..." Lestrade cleared his throat. "I should have done this sooner but I, er, I just wanted to say thanks. For getting me out of that warehouse, I mean."
John blushed. "That's alright, Lestrade. Don't mention it."
"Don't mention it? John, I'd be a greasy smear under that building if it wasn't for you - and without the first aid--"
"Really, Lestrade - it's fine." John looked very uncomfortable.
"Well, thanks anyway," Lestrade said. He couldn't help feeling that he'd said something wrong but couldn't for the life of him figure out what. Unless...
"John - what I said to Sherlock..."
"You know - at the warehouse... what I said, tried to say, when I thought..." Lestrade gnawed at his lip, then took a deep breath and said in a rush, "Look - I can't deny I've always fancied Sherlock, but he's with you now and believe me, I've got no intentions of coming between you and him."
"Pity. We were rather hoping you would," Sherlock said from the doorway behind him.
Lestrade had no time to react to Sherlock's voice before he felt Sherlock's chest press against his back - Sherlock's bare chest against his bare back - and Sherlock's hands insinuated themselves around Lestrade's waist.
Lestrade was completely thrown. "W-Would what?"
Sherlock's breath was hot against Lestrade's neck and the edge to that deep, rich voice left absolutely no doubt of his intent. "Come. Between us..."
Lestrade was amazed he didn't faint, collapse or prematurely embarrass himself right there and then.
"Sherlock..." John said reprovingly.
"I know, John, you said to wait but he's standing here being all... him." Sherlock rested his chin on Lestrade's shoulder.
John smiled indulgently at Sherlock. "You are impossible, you know that?"
"Oh, what? You're fed up waiting too. And honestly - did you really expect me to sit downstairs and do nothing while you're up here showering with him? You conveniently forgot to mention that was part of your after-care procedures."
Lestrade could feel his heart beating wildly as Sherlock's left hand ghosted up his chest and came to rest over it, just beneath the longest scar. He was still having great difficulty getting any coherent thought from his brain to his mouth. In fact his body seemed to have forgotten how to do anything except remain standing. Even breathing was taking conscious effort.
"Please relax, Greg. There's no need to be alarmed," Sherlock purred.
Greg? Lestrade finally found his voice - sort of. "I'm... I'm not alarmed. Just... surprised and... a bit confused."
"Why's that then?" John asked innocently as he stepped forward.
"Mostly because I'm convinced this is some kind of sick joke you two are having at my expense--" Lestrade admitted.
"Patently untrue," Sherlock interrupted. "I never joke."
"And it's, well it's been quite a while... and--" Sherlock's fingers brushed over his nipple. "Uhhhh."
Sherlock took advantage of the way Lestrade's head tipped back to nip gently at his neck. "And?"
"And..." John's hands slipped inside the waistband of Lestrade's pyjama trousers at the same time as Sherlock found that spot just below his ear. "Aww, fuck."
John chuckled. "No, that's definitely still off the menu until your stitches are out. But I'm sure we can compromise."
Lestrade grabbed John's wrist with his free hand. "Wait! Just... wait."
John stopped. So did Sherlock.
Lestrade tried to collect what was left of his wits. He frowned as he looked at John regarding him patiently. "Really? I mean... Really? You're not winding me up?"
John shook his head. "No, we're not," he reassured him. "We really want this, want you. We talked about it after we left you at the hospital. Sherlock..." He paused, considering his words. "Sherlock told me that even though he's had feelings for you for a long time, he'd put them aside for me. He was worried I'd be jealous."
"He... sorry, what?" Lestrade realised Sherlock was standing unnaturally still, though he hadn't moved his hands from Lestrade's chest and waist.
"He's always known how you feel about him and he came to feel the same way about you, but he thought you would think he was just using you to get cases."
He'd have been right - and I would have happily been used...
"So I explained to him that it's entirely possible to love more than one person at a time... and I..." John was starting to blush. "Wouldn't be averse to sharing if it was alright with you. Far from it, in fact."
Lestrade's vocabulary completely failed him again. All he could manage was a bewildered, "Oh."
John moved in a little closer and dropped his voice. "We almost lost you and we both realised that... we would be very upset about that and you wouldn't even have known. You'd have thought you were on your own... and you're not. We don't want you to be. You're too good for that. You deserve to always have someone looking for you and we want that job. Both of us."
"I... I don't..."
"Oh do shut up and let us get on with it." Sherlock resumed his very distracting nibbling at Lestrade's neck.
"Sherlock, stop it," John scolded. "Let Lestrade think for a minute. We talked about this."
"Dull! As if I don't already spend far too much time waiting for his brain to catch up! We all know what the answer is."
"No, we don't. And even if we do, we have to hear it. Lestrade?"
"I think..." Lestrade said slowly, "that if this isn't some bizarre dream or hallucination - hell, even if it is - I would be totally nuts to turn down an offer like that."
"So that's a yes?" John asked.
Lestrade let go his grip on John's wrist and moved his hand to cup John's face. "I'm still sure I can't possibly be this lucky, but yes, it's a yes - and for God's sake, call me Greg." Lestrade leaned over but was interrupted by an indignant cough from behind him.
John grinned. "Sorry Greg. Sherlock called dibs."
John nodded, trying not to laugh.
"You're really not helping me stop feeling like some kind of new toy," Lestrade said.
Sherlock put his hands on Lestrade's shoulders and turned him round to face him. "I prefer the term 'plaything'."
Lestrade would have objected to that but suddenly he had a mouthful of Sherlock - which he couldn't object to in the slightest, since it was something he'd dreamed of for years.
Turned out his dreams hadn't even come close...
Lestrade braced himself for what he knew would happen. Sherlock would charge in like Lestrade was a crime scene he was demanding access to; as if it was his God-given right to be there and be in charge and Lestrade should just let him get on with it. If it meant Lestrade actually got to taste those ridiculously gorgeous Cupid's bow lips, then he was fine with that. He'd had years of beating down his ego for the greater good - doing it for himself would make a nice change.
Except Sherlock was unexpectedly... hesitant. He didn't grab or push or make any dominating moves. His hands simply glided down Lestrade's arms then tucked around his waist and rested on Lestrade's sides. His lips barely brushed against Lestrade's as his tongue teased at Lestrade's lips, encouraging Lestrade to open his mouth, rather than forcing his way in. It felt like he was asking, not taking; like Lestrade was sharing, not surrendering.
It felt like the best thing that had happened to Lestrade in a very long time.
Lestrade slid the fingers of his free hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and up into the thick, dark curls, lightly cradling his head and pulling Sherlock towards him as he opened his mouth. There was a twinge of discomfort as their chests met but the overall sensation was one of heat. Sherlock's body was even warmer and smoother than Lestrade had imagined and it felt so good against his. And that mouth - that clever mouth; soft and smiling and hot and deep and God! He had to feel that tongue all over him. Right. The fuck. Now...
Lestrade flinched slightly as he felt the soft press of lips to his shoulder and another pair of hands circled his waist from behind. He'd completely forgotten John was even in the room.
John seemed determined to make sure he didn't do it again as he loosened the ties on Lestrade's pyjama trousers then slipped his hands inside, down across Lestrade's hip bones.
Lestrade gasped into Sherlock's mouth as he felt his trousers drop and puddle around his ankles. His rapidly hardening cock bounced free against Sherlock's hip eliciting a deep chuckle from the younger man.
John patted his hand against Lestrade's thigh. He took the hint and lifted his leg so John could push the trouser leg off his foot. He repeated the motion with the other leg and John kicked the trousers away leaving Lestrade standing between John and Sherlock wearing nothing but a grin and a plastic-wrapped cast.
"Shower," John said firmly.
"Doesn't need one. Tastes fine," Sherlock mumbled between kisses. One of his hands started drifting down but stopped when John caught his wrist.
"Shower," John repeated.
"Better make it a cold one," Lestrade managed, making Sherlock chuckle again.
"I doubt the bath will hold all three of us. John?"
"Not a chance. It'll be a tight enough squeeze with just me and Greg," John said.
"That's exactly what I'm worried about," Sherlock admitted.
"Don't worry, Sherlock. I solemnly promise not to molest Greg. At least, not until we're both back in the same room as you - how's that?"
Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "It'll have to do. Let me sort some stuff out in your room and I'll hop in after you're done."
He swept out the room and across the landing leaving Lestrade wondering what exactly "stuff" entailed.... and where his legs had gone...
"I'm sorry we jumped you like this," John apologised as Lestrade shakily turned round to face him. "Although I'm amazed Sherlock waited this long."
"But I thought he... I mean, he never..."
"Greg, the thing you have to remember about Sherlock - the only really important thing - is that he's an idiot."
Lestrade laughed and then put his hand to his stomach. "Ah - don't make me do that again. I might literally split my sides."
"You sure you're OK?" John asked, a small frown creasing his face.
"Umm, yeah. Yeah, definitely." Lestrade nervously clenched his fingers, fighting the urge to cover himself. He felt suddenly self-conscious about his older, very-much-the-worse-for-wear body. "Just... still a bit stunned, I guess. I mean, you and Sherlock are... I can't believe either of you could be bothered with me when you have each other."
John laughed in disbelief. "God, Sherlock was right - you have no clue how attractive you are, do you? Didn't you just hear Sherlock being worried about leaving me alone with you?"
Lestrade tried to assure John that he knew exactly how attractive he was right now but John bulldozed over him.
"Greg. Shut up. Trust me - from where I'm standing I don't see anything I don't like." He looked Lestrade up and down and Lestrade could see nothing but honest appreciation in his gaze. "We're all going to get showered and then Sherlock and I are going to make you feel a lot better with absolutely no medicines involved. OK?" John pulled his t-shirt up and over his head and dropped it on the floor beside him.
Lestrade's concern about the state of his own body came to a grinding halt as he saw the mess of scar-tissue on John's left shoulder.
"Jesus..." he breathed, hesitantly reaching out to touch it before catching himself and drawing back again.
"It's OK." John shrugged. "Doesn't hurt. Except sometimes when the weather's really damp - but how often does that happen in England?" He grinned at what was clearly a well-practised joke.
Lestrade couldn't take his eyes off it as he pieced together John's injury and recent events. "You... you carried me... with that..."
John blushed. "Like I said. Doesn't hurt that much. Just don't poke it. You can, er, you can feel free to poke me elsewhere though - hard as you like." He smiled cheekily and Lestrade had absolutely no hesitation in stepping forward and kissing him.
He had to grab on to the sink for support when John started kissing him back.
"I'm not hearing the shower yet!" Sherlock bellowed from John's bedroom.
John smiled against Lestrade's mouth, reached behind him and pulled on the power cord for the shower without breaking contact.
When they finally came up for air, Lestrade was breathing hard and convinced only sheer bloody-mindedness was keeping him upright.
John leaned over the bath and pressed the button on the shower to start it before pulling back the curtain. He was smiling his "I'm so nice. Don't you just want to take me home to meet your mother?" smile.
Lestrade tried to reconcile that with the fact his tongue had been practically down Lestrade's throat five seconds earlier. "Jesus. You two are going to be the death of me," he groaned.
"Don't worry. I know CPR. You'll be fine."
Lestrade grinned and looked down as John dropped his trousers. "I think I'm going to be a damn sight better than fine..."
Greg Lestrade learned three things in the next ten minutes: John Watson might be on the short side but he was definitely not little; being washed by someone else was extremely nice; John Watson was ticklish.
(John learned that with his hair dark with water and slicked back, Greg looked far more like the mischievous young man he'd seen in that photo at Greg's flat - even more so when he laughed.)
Sherlock came back in - naked - as they were rinsing off. "Just leave the water running." He barged past them as they climbed out of the tub.
Greg stood dripping onto the mat and staring unashamedly at Sherlock's backside until John grabbed a towel and threw it at his head.
John picked up another towel and gave himself a brisk rub down before helping Greg get dried a little more carefully. He also unwrapped the plastic film from Greg's plaster cast and dropped it in the bin. He draped both towels over a rail by the radiator and took Greg's hand. "Come on. He won't take much longer. You can enjoy the view again in a minute."
"I can enjoy a different view in the meantime. Always thought you had a gorgeous arse," Greg admitted.
"Flattery will get you everywhere." John pushed open the door to his room.
Sherlock had taken the duvet off the bed and fetched a few more pillows from downstairs. Greg thought he'd possibly also turned up the heating but that might just be his own natural reaction to the - still frankly completely unbelievable - situation.
John pulled him over to the bed and stood back as Greg sat down. "This might be frustrating but you need to try not to move too much - doctor's orders. Don't worry - once you're better, I plan on making sure you get plenty of vigorous exercise but for now me and Sherlock will do all the work, OK?" John pushed against Greg's shoulder and he obliged by lying down flat on the bed. John carefully straddled his hips and Greg groaned as their cocks brushed together.
"I think I could get used to taking doctor's orders."
"That would make one of you. Trying to tell Sherlock what to do is like herding cats."
"I do what I'm told sometimes," Sherlock huffed from the door. He scrunched the towel in handfuls into his hair.
"Mm, when I tie you up and don't give you any other choice," John said.
Greg's mouth went completely dry at the mental images that provoked. John must have heard his quiet gasp because he grinned at Greg and said, "If you're very good, you can help me with Sherlock next time. An extra pair of hands is always useful."
"Can't we restrain Greg? That would make sure he doesn't move," Sherlock suggested.
"No, I'm sure he'll behave himself. Won't you?" John asked.
Greg nodded. "And if I don't, you can always save it for later."
John leaned over and kissed him. "Be very careful what you wish for. We're not at a crime scene or the Yard now. This is my room."
"Right," Greg croaked. He swallowed hard. "Gotcha."
John kissed his way down Greg's body, carefully navigating between injuries. "So we'll try to avoid putting any pressure on your chest but if I remember right, there's absolutely nothing wrong with you below the waist." He slid off to one side of the bed and ran his fingers up the underside of Greg's now fully erect cock. "Yep. Not a thing."
Sherlock sat down on the other side. "I can't believe you had the nerve to make me promise to share," he scolded John.
"Who's stopping you?" John asked.
They looked at each other then both smiled wickedly, leaned forward and licked up opposite sides of Greg's length. Their mouths met at the top, tongues gently swirling over and around the sensitive head and each other.
"Christ." Greg fisted his hand in the sheets and tipped his head back. He couldn't watch that as well as feel it or he wouldn't last another second.
"Mm - similar to you, yet subtly different at the same time," Sherlock noted.
"Well of course he is. What were you expecting? Honey?"
"Don't be ridiculous, John. Anyway, this is much nicer than honey." Sherlock's tongue flicked out and licked another clear drop of pre-cum as it oozed from the tip of Greg's cock.
"I'm... I'm glad you think so," Greg panted. "But shouldn't I... y'know, be wearing something?"
"You had every blood test known to man less than a week ago," John reminded him. "I promise you Sherlock and I are both clean as well so unless you really want to..."
"No. No, that's... that's fine," Greg said hastily.
John pushed himself up on his arms and leaned down to kiss him again. "I love that you asked though. Now shut up and let us carry on with what we're doing."
"Yes, Doctor." Greg let his head fall back into the pile of pillows and quickly learned a fourth thing: two heads are definitely better than one.
Sherlock and John alternated between kissing him, his cock and each other, and their hands were everywhere.
Greg knew he wasn't going to last long with this sort of attention being lavished on him. "Oh God. Please... please, let me... let me do something, please. I can't... I can't..."
They both pressed down on his hips and John grabbed the wrist of his free hand, trapping it against the mattress. Sherlock's hand stroked down the side of his face and two of his long fingers pushed into Greg's mouth.
"Yes, you can."
"Shh. Lie still."
And then Sherlock's wet fingers skimmed across Greg's nipple leaving a cold/hot trail behind them and John's free hand was circling the base of Greg's cock and Sherlock slid his hand under Greg's thigh and he pushed and John gripped and Sherlock sucked and John licked and...
Greg must have screamed or groaned particularly loudly because when his senses came back to him, John's hand was over his mouth and he felt like he'd stopped breathing for five minutes. He stared up at the ceiling, watching spots dancing in front of his vision until John's face hove into sight.
John was grinning but also looked a little anxious. "Alright?"
Greg laughed breathlessly. "And Sherlock says I ask the stupid questions." He looked down expecting to see himself absolutely covered in come but all he could see was Sherlock looking extremely pleased with himself.
"Much better than honey." Sherlock licked his lips - the very picture of the cat that got the cream. He walked himself on his hands up towards Greg's head and leaned down to kiss him.
Greg held up a hand to stop him and Sherlock frowned in confusion.
"Missed a bit," Greg explained. He reached up and swiped his finger across Sherlock's nose.
Sherlock smiled and with deliberate slowness sucked Greg's finger into his mouth and licked it clean.
Greg closed his eyes as Sherlock got the kiss he'd been going for and found it took a bit of an effort to open them again. He blinked a few times trying to clear his head. He couldn't be conking out already - that would be pathetic.
"Sleepy?" John lay down alongside him and propped his head up on one hand.
"No." The enormous yawn Greg gave immediately after the denial made John chuckle.
"I'm not surprised. Your morning meds will be kicking in nicely about now and teaming up with the flood of neurohormones Sherlock and I just sent through your system."
Sherlock laid down on his other side and reached across Greg's stomach to grip John's cock. "Speaking of which..."
"Not here, Sherlock," John groaned half-heartedly.
"I really don't..." Greg stifled another yawn. "Don't mind."
John reached up and ran his fingers through Lestrade's still damp hair. "I know you don't - but you need to rest now, OK?"
"No, I'm fine, honestly." Greg forced his eyes open again. "And I really, really want to return the favour." He closed his hand over Sherlock's and applied a hint more pressure to the long strokes he was giving John's cock.
"Oh, that is... that is good," John conceded. His eyes fluttered closed and he bit at his bottom lip.
Sherlock got up and lifted himself over Greg's body and behind John's, all without once missing a stroke. He started firmly pressing his erection into the cleft of John's arse and biting at John's ear.
"Want you, John. Want you now."
"Sh-Sherlock, we have to be careful..."
"It's not dull, it's - oh god, yeah, that - it's what Greg needs."
"Greg needs a good long snooze while I take you downstairs and fuck this gorgeous arse of yours. You've already bored him to sleep being all doctor-y."
John opened his eyes and looked down.
Greg was indeed sound asleep; eyes closed, face relaxed, mouth slightly open and breathing deeply.
John couldn't help but smile at how peaceful he looked.
"Downstairs. Now," Sherlock growled.
John pushed back against Sherlock. "OK. But let me grab that duvet off the floor first - don't want him getting cold." He gently lowered the duvet on top of Greg and followed Sherlock out of the room.
John had barely cleared the threshold of Sherlock's room before he found himself being thrown onto the bed and pounced upon by a predatory consulting detective. John pulled Sherlock's lips down to meet his then paused before kissing him deeper.
"What?" Sherlock asked at John's disbelieving chuckle.
"You taste of Greg."
"Oh." Sherlock frowned. "Not good?"
John couldn't resist. "No, Sherlock, not good."
Sherlock's face fell. "Right. Well, I said if you changed your mind that was OK. I'm sure he'll understand my first commitment is to you and--"
John grinned and squeezed Sherlock's face between his hands. "Not good, Sherlock - bloody brilliant."
"I wasn't sure before - I admit it - but I'm not jealous. Not even a little bit. You want us both, you can have us both - and I can have you and Greg and he can have us both."
"So, yes. Don't worry about it. It was the right thing. I hope it's going to continue being the right thing - even though explaining it to anybody else will be as complicated as..."
"Buggery?" Sherlock wryly suggested.
John laughed. "That's going to be the least complicated thing about it, I suspect."
"Mm," Sherlock ran his fingers down John's sides then slid his hands underneath him and fondled John's arse. "I'm very much looking forward to watching you with him, you know."
"Tell me." John closed his eyes and started stroking his cock but not before he'd seen the wolfish grin on Sherlock's face. Sherlock knew exactly how much his voice turned John on.
"I think... you on your hands and knees with Greg behind you... His hands on your hips, slowly pushing into you..."
John groaned as Sherlock punctuated his words with soft kisses to John's neck.
"Leaving your mouth... free for me... Every thrust Greg makes... pushes me further down your throat."
"Oh god... A spit roast, eh?"
"Is that the term? Charming expression." Sherlock sat back on his knees. "Legs up, please, John."
John hooked his hands behind his thighs as Sherlock reached for the lube. He squeezed a generous amount onto his hands and started rubbing it over the tight muscle of John's arsehole. His other hand grabbed John's cock.
"Or next time I'm sucking him off you can be taking him from behind. I'll get you both to lean over and slide underneath so I get a close-up view of you fucking him." Sherlock carefully slid one finger inside John. He pushed it in slowly then started working it in and out, moving his other hand on John's cock with the same rhythm. "Maybe I'll see if I can kill two birds with one stone - lick your cock and his arse at the same time. Suck his balls as you slap against them."
"Christ. Now Sherlock, now, please. Sod being gentle - just fuck me."
Sherlock grabbed John's legs and pressed the head of his cock against John's entrance. "I do love it when you beg, John." He bore down and John gasped as, in one smooth motion and with a long, satisfied sigh, Sherlock buried himself in John's tight heat.
John dropped his hands. One fisted itself in the bedsheets while the other replaced Sherlock's hand on his cock.
Sherlock pushed John's legs up towards his shoulders, put his hands either side of John's head and propped himself up on them. John was nearly bent double underneath Sherlock as he raised and lowered his hips, grinding them each time he pressed fully against John's arse.
"F-fuck, Sherlock... God. Yes." John forced his eyes open. Sherlock was watching him intently as John had known he would be.
That. That look. Knowing that every single bit of Sherlock's attention was on him. That was the big turn-on - and that was what he'd been worried he'd miss if there was someone else in the picture.
John couldn't deny he had experienced a brief moment of longing when he saw Sherlock fix himself on Greg. That loss had been more than compensated for by being able to see not only the look on Sherlock's face, but that on Greg's as well - and sharing Greg with Sherlock, both of them kissing and laughing their way over and around Greg's extremely attractive and responsive body - definitely the right thing.
"What?" Sherlock asked.
John hadn't realised he'd spoken out loud. "Greg - us and Greg - definitely the right thing."
"Yes, yes, you're brilliant, well done," John congratulated him. "Shut up and fuck me..."
Greg woke up feeling warm and wonderful. If it hadn't been for the fact he was completely naked - and the slight ache in his balls - he'd have been quite prepared to think the whole thing had been a dream.
He glanced over at the bedside clock. Nearly two - he'd been asleep for over an hour.
His stomach gave a loud rumble of complaint to remind him it was lunch time - time to brave the fridge again. Where was his dressing gown? Oh yes, on the hook behind the bathroom door. He grabbed it and stumbled downstairs, awkwardly pulling it on.
No sign of John and Sherlock. Had they gone out? He glanced into the sitting room then - cautiously, remembering previous drugs busts - pushed open the door to Sherlock's room.
Sherlock and John lay sprawled together asleep on the bed in a tangle of limbs. Sherlock was flat on his back; John lay curled against him with his head on Sherlock's chest. They both had that faint sheen and flattened hair stuck to skin that spoke of recent exertion and the air positively reeked of sex.
They looked... perfect. Tired and relaxed and sweaty and messy and fucked out and perfect. Together. The two of them.
Greg couldn't move any further into the room. He was short of breath and his head felt screwed on too tight.
What the hell am I doing? Look at them - they're made for each other. I'm like the spare prick at a wedding...
What had taken place earlier had been wonderful - but it was just a pity fuck. He didn't really belong here. Who was he kidding?
He grabbed the door handle and turned to pull it closed...
"Greg?" John woke up and caught sight of him just as the door started to close again. He looked... sad? Why was that?
"John. Didn't mean to wake you up. Sorry. I'll just..." Greg tilted his head back towards the kitchen.
John sat up and held his hand out to Greg. "Come here."
"No, it's fine. I'll... I came down to get something to eat. Do you... do you want anything?"
"Yes. You. Here." John pointed to the half-inch gap between his body and Sherlock's. "Now," he added, when Greg remained hesitant.
Greg approached the bed with clear reluctance.
John closed his eyes and shook his head as it suddenly hit him. "We left you alone upstairs, didn't we? And then you thought..." He rolled over, off the side of the bed and stood up. "I'm sorry, Greg. We just wanted to let you rest. I should have thought."
"No problem. You had... other things to do. I get it."
"No, you don't. You're not... you're not the appetiser, Greg. Sherlock and I weren't warming up on you for the main event or anything. We should have realised it would be harder for you coming into this..." He waved his hand vaguely between the three of them. "This whatever-it-is than it was for us. Sherlock and I were here already, you're a little behind."
"Story of my life," Greg said with a rueful smile.
"Not any more. Here - take that off and lie down." John gestured to the bed beside Sherlock, who hadn't moved but now had his eyes wide open. "Budge up, Sherlock."
Sherlock huffed but rolled onto his side and scooted across to the far side of the mattress, facing back towards them.
Greg took off his dressing gown and lay down beside Sherlock as John grabbed the bedclothes from the floor. John threw them over the others then climbed in front of Greg, sandwiching him between his body and Sherlock's. "OK? Comfy?" he asked Greg over his shoulder.
"Umm, yeah. Very." Greg rested his cast on John's hip.
"See how well you fit? Bit taller than me, bit shorter than him - that space was made for you."
"You really are a hopeless sentimentalist, John," Sherlock drawled into the back of Greg's neck.
"That's rich coming from Mr I'll-go-insane-if-I don't-get-to-kiss-him-soon," John shot back.
Sherlock was uncharacteristically quiet.
"Did you really say that?" Greg asked.
"You know I can't stand not knowing things," Sherlock replied.
"I didn't know how you tasted."
"You certainly do now," John sniggered.
"Mmm." Sherlock stuck his nose in behind Greg's ear and inhaled deeply. "And what he smells like when he's aroused."
"I'm not aroused - I'm bloody knackered," Greg protested. "Old man, remember?"
"Liar," Sherlock scoffed.
John felt Sherlock's hand slip over Greg's hip, then between John's buttock and Greg's thigh.
"Sherlock..." Greg whined. "Just because I've... reloaded, doesn't mean I feel up to round two right now."
"Leave him alone, Sherlock."
"Hmmph. Boring." Sherlock threw himself backwards out from under the covers and stalked off towards the door. "Not going to lie around here waiting for you two and your stupidly long refractory periods."
The door slammed shut behind him.
"The flouncing is much more effective when he's not naked, isn't it?" Greg asked John.
John roared with laughter. "For once, Detective Inspector, you're not wrong." He rolled over to face Greg. "You know, I hadn't even thought of this."
"Sherlock really isn't into snuggling." John tried to put all Sherlock's contempt for the concept into that one word. "He'll tolerate it for about ten minutes but if he's awake he wants to be up and doing things. I get the feeling you're not like that."
"Nope. I'm an Olympic-class snuggler, me - or a lazy sod. Take your pick."
"Me too," John admitted. "Quite hard to do on your own though."
"Good job you're not on your own then."
"No, I'm not." John looked straight into Greg's eyes. "How about you, Greg? You on your own?"
Greg smiled and paused before replying quietly, "No. I don't think I am."
John shifted himself forward so their bodies were touching from chest to knee. "Good. Don't forget it." He and Greg kissed, much more slowly than before, enjoying the luxury of being warm and relaxed instead of hot and needy. "Definitely the right thing," John murmured.
And then Greg's stomach growled again.
They both laughed.
"Lunch?" John asked.
John helped him up and they headed towards the kitchen...
The door to 221 Baker Street slammed shut.
"It's me," a disembodied voice yelled up the stairs.
Sherlock leapt up from the couch. "Did you get my text?"
"And I saved it for you," Lestrade replied as he reached the landing. He held out a shopping bag to Sherlock who snatched it and thrust his hand inside. "Got some right funny looks from the nurses though."
Sherlock pulled out the cast which had been adorning Greg's left arm for the past six weeks. It was covered in complicated mathematical symbols, chemical formulae, random notes and even staves of music. He turned it over in his hands and let out a loud groan of disappointment. "They've cut right through it! Idiots!"
Greg grinned. "That's how they get it off, Sherlock. There wasn't any way for them to cut it without going through something you'd scribbled on there while I was asleep."
Sherlock threw the cast aside onto the couch with a snort.
"So I got them to take loads of photos before they even touched it." Greg dug in his jacket pocket and pulled out a small digital camera.
Sherlock turned and glared at John as he came through from the kitchen laughing.
"Nothing to do with me," John said. "Great minds must think alike." He turned to Greg and nodded towards his arm. "Any problems?"
"No, completely healed. I just have to do some basic physio to build up the muscles again. Gripping exercises mostly." Greg demonstrated by putting his left hand on John's backside and giving it a firm squeeze.
"Are we ready for an amorous and ambidextrous Greg?" John asked Sherlock.
"I can certainly think of other things we can test his grip strength on," Sherlock replied. "Could lead to some very interesting experiments."
Greg rolled his eyes. "Oh well, if it's for science, who am I to argue?"
"Precisely. Shall we?" Sherlock was already heading for the bedroom.
John started to follow him but stopped when he saw Greg hesitate. "Something wrong?"
Greg dug in his pocket and pulled out a gold ring. The groove round his finger had faded after six weeks but was still plainly visible. "I wasn't sure if I should put this back on."
"Do you want to?" John asked.
Greg nodded. "I know I'm with you and Sherlock now but--"
John took the ring and pushed it onto Greg's finger. He kept hold of Greg's hand. "But nothing. You loved him and you want to remember him. You think Sherlock and me don't understand that?"
"Sherlock and I. And of course we do," Sherlock came back into the room and took Greg's other hand. "Now get in here - I want to take some base measurements so I can compare your left hand and John's right."
Greg laughed and allowed himself to be not-at-all reluctantly dragged into bed again...
And they all lived happily ever after...
Well, no - because real life doesn't work that way - but they did at least live happier ever after.
Greg's stitches came out without incident. Most of the shallower cuts healed invisibly or as near as. He would always have a long thin scar across his left breast but you had to look pretty close for it under the dark hair covering it. The other one under his ribs was more noticeable but no worse than several others he'd already accrued over a long active career.
He was signed off all duties for two weeks and then on desk duty only until his cast came off. Two weeks after that he was declared fit for active service again. If Greg was glad to get back to work, Greg's collegues were overjoyed that he would once more take up the position of principal Sherlock-handler.
John had declared him fit for active duties of a personal nature a week after the stitches came out. In that capacity he shared Sherlock handling duties pretty evenly with John.
Greg kept his flat but on nights when he slept in it - not usually alone - it was in a brand new king-size bed which replaced his saggy old double. The other furniture stayed much the same but there were a few more different brands of toiletries in the bathroom and two photos on top of the TV, a more recent trio joining the older couple.
Some of Sherlock's paperwork somehow migrated to Greg's living room, along with a couple of John's books. After John's birthday they were joined by a console system Sherlock absolutely refused to have at Baker Street. John joked that Sherlock didn't want any sounds of gunfire there that he hadn't caused.
Oddly enough, despite his stated loathing of the mindless time-wasting device, on most evenings when John and Greg arranged to settle down and liberate Europe, kill zombies or win the Premiership, Sherlock could be found sitting at the kitchen table, deep in contemplation while the sounds of frantic competition - or even more frantic co-operation - washed over him from the other room. He claimed some brain work was better done in silence, some was not.
Similarly, there frequently seemed to be a perfectly good reason for Greg to drop in on Baker Street of an evening - and if he happened to stay a bit late and ended up sleeping over more often than not, there was nothing wrong with that.
Donovan said nothing, but the first time she urgently needed Greg's input on a case at short notice she came looking for him in Baker Street rather than his own home. He smiled sheepishly at her, expecting some cutting remark about his lack of judgment but all she said - to John - was "Don't keep him up late - may need him in court tomorrow."
John grinned and promised to have him in bed by ten with a mug of Ovaltine.
They were all in bed by nine but sleep only came much later and without the aid of any hot malty drinks...
And so they bumped along together quite nicely, each person's excesses tempered now by the moderation of two others instead of just one. Sherlock condescended to eat more when he had two others insisting they would be staying to finish the meal and no exercise was to be taken on an empty stomach; John found the weight of Greg's arm around his waist a very convincing argument to sleep more and worry less about Sherlock; Greg found having someone to talk to at the end of the day did wonders for his own well-being and in its own bizarre way it just... worked.
So well that, when word came from the Swiss authorities that they'd given up the search, John honestly couldn't imagine how he and Greg could ever have coped without someone else who knew exactly what had been lost...