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Title: Object of Focus
Author: Jain
Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 1419
Summary: Sherlock isn't normal. Lestrade mostly doesn't mind it.
Author's notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
alizarin_nyc for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
221b_slash_fest.
Permanent link: "Object of Focus" on AO3
Whenever Greg told people about Sherlock--to date: his mum, his two brothers, his sister-in-law, and a few friends who had never been and never would be employed at the Met--they always assumed the wrong things. They saw a fourteen year age gap, the class difference, and Sherlock's striking looks (Greg had shown them pictures, at their insistence), and they worried.
Greg had told them more than once, "It's not that he's too young for me that's the problem, it's that he's too brilliant." And it was a problem; Greg wasn't the type to witter and moan about the future, but just the thought of Sherlock leaving him when he inevitably became bored of Greg was more than a bit gutwrenching.
No one ever believed him. His mum had actually chuckled and said, "I wouldn't worry, dear. You were always a good student, too."
He'd tried to explain to her the vast difference between his above average intelligence and Sherlock's madcap genius, but without any appreciable success. Sherlock had to be seen to be believed. The obvious solution was complicated by the fact that Greg was in no way prepared to inflict Sherlock on his loved ones until the man had been properly socialized. Thank God that John had arrived on the scene to help with that particular task; with luck, Greg might even allow Sherlock to meet his friends and family within the next decade, assuming that Sherlock stuck around that long.
Which he might do. Sherlock disliked distractions from his life's work, and Greg didn't just accommodate his work, he facilitated it. If there was one thing Sherlock prized above all others when it came to human interaction, it was convenience, and Greg was certainly that. Sherlock might even keep him until Greg's retirement, or, slightly less optimistically, his promotion. (Superintendent might be all right, Greg thought, still a decent amount of involvement in actual cases rather than a fog of bureaucracy, but making DAC--assuming he ever got that far--would be fatal to their relationship.) Or Sherlock might drop him next week; there was no way of knowing.
Sherlock broke their kiss and pushed down on Greg's shoulder with his hand at the same moment. Greg grinned, pressed another quick kiss to Sherlock's lips, and then got to his knees. Might as well go about making himself convenient. The part where it benefited him, as well, was just a perquisite.
The erection that Greg had been feeling against his hip for the past quarter of an hour was straining the front of Sherlock's trousers, a small damp patch at the head. He leaned forward to mouth the spot, ignoring the impatient shift of Sherlock's hips in favor of darting out his tongue to taste wool and precome. It was a fine thing not having to worry about mussing Sherlock's clothes; if Greg were wearing that suit, he'd have had to halt proceedings ten minutes ago to hang it up in the closet, preferably in a zipped plastic clothing bag. Instead, Greg was allowed to suck at the bulge of Sherlock's cock through his trousers, spreading the dampness farther.
He'd imagined once that Sherlock would be noisy in bed: he never seemed to shut up out of it, after all. Instead, it had turned out that the reverse was true. Sherlock went quiet and breathless, only the occasional choked whimper punctuating his silence. Greg glanced upwards to see Sherlock watching him with his usual wordless, intent focus, his eyes wide and dark with pleasure, the pupils so blown that only a rim of gray showed around the edges.
Still holding his gaze, Greg deftly unbuttoned and unzipped Sherlock's trousers, rearranged his clothing just enough that he wouldn't do Sherlock an injury, then pulled trousers and pants down to his knees with one swift tug. Sherlock's breath quickened, a flush darkening his pale cheeks. He slouched a little obligingly--pretty much the only time he was obliging was when he had an orgasm coming to him--and Greg took hold of his cock with one hand and bent his head to the task.
The thick slide of Sherlock's cock between his lips was almost hypnotically soothing, but Greg didn't let his eyes fall shut. Sherlock liked it when he looked up at him while giving head. It wasn't a porn thing--though Lestrade suspected that Sherlock did enjoy the touch of submission that Greg was offering him with his bended knees and willing mouth. Rather, Sherlock liked seeing the changing expression in Greg's eyes as he sucked his cock.
Sherlock's hand rose to cup Greg's cheek, stroking it with careful fingertips that mapped the outline of his own erection through the thin skin. He could probably tell how long it had been since Greg's last shave just by feeling the length of his stubble, Greg thought, shivering lightly.
Greg's own cock was begging for attention, but the cant of Sherlock's hips and the amount he'd had to slide down the wall made Greg think that...yes! There was just enough room to slide his free hand between Sherlock's thighs and grope his arse. No lube, unfortunately--spontaneous sex against walls was hot as fuck but had its drawbacks, as well--but Sherlock could take one finger dry, and Greg slid it in carefully. Sherlock's mouth opened, though no sound came out; it was Sherlock's version of a moan, all soft, heated breath.
Greg suppressed the urge to smile around Sherlock's cock and sucked harder instead, twisting his hand slightly around Sherlock's cock and pressing his finger rhythmically against his prostate. Sherlock preferred being fucked properly--hands or toys or Greg's cock, it didn't matter--but the wall and the angle of Greg's hand made that impossible at the moment, so this would have to do.
It did do, quite nicely, as Greg discovered when Sherlock made a sound in the back of his throat and came suddenly, without any other warning. Greg swallowed quickly and slid his hand from Sherlock's cock to his hip, prepared to steady him if needed. It wasn't; Sherlock managed to hold himself up this time without any assistance, though he was panting and trembling like an overworked racehorse.
Greg gently pulled his finger out of Sherlock's arse, and then he leaned forward to rest his head against the flat of Sherlock's stomach, breathing in the musky scent of Sherlock's wet, softening cock even as he wrapped a hand around his own cock and stroked his way towards his long delayed orgasm.
A few moments later, there was an almost hesitant touch on his hair: Sherlock's hand, petting him with slow and deliberate care. Greg pressed a closemouthed kiss to Sherlock's stomach in acknowledgement, or possibly repayment. God knew Sherlock had turned him all around; every word, every gesture was weighted with meaning now, and Greg's only comfort was that Sherlock, for all his observation skills, was too antisocial to read half of what Greg's body was telling him.
Greg moaned when he came--no silent ecstasy for him, thanks--and Sherlock's hand tightened in his hair momentarily before releasing again and smoothing it down.
He didn't try to hurry Greg along, which was a rare yet appreciated courtesy. In return, Greg made himself struggle to his feet long before he felt ready, hopefully before Sherlock could become too bored with supporting him. He helped Sherlock with his clothes--not entirely from disinterested motives, their hands tangling in fine cotton and wool and brushing over Sherlock's smooth, sweat-damp skin--then fumbled quickly with his own.
"Are you staying a while, or d'you have to push off?" he asked when they were both decent again.
Sherlock shook his head, and Greg was resolutely not disappointed. It wasn't in the least unexpected, after all. "I have an experiment that needs tending," Sherlock said. He hesitated. "I'll be done with the next stage in a few hours."
"I'll still be up," Greg said. No work tomorrow--well, that's what his schedule said, anyway, though he'd probably be called in at some point--meant that he could afford to miss an hour or two of sleep.
Sherlock nodded crisply. "In that case, I may see you then." He didn't kiss Greg goodbye, of course; that would be far too mundane, too normal. But he touched his arm briefly as he left, which Greg felt was a reasonable substitute. What they had was nothing like stability or permanence, but it was more than good enough for him.
Author: Jain
Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 1419
Summary: Sherlock isn't normal. Lestrade mostly doesn't mind it.
Author's notes: Written for
alizarin_nyc for 221b_slash_fest.Permanent link: "Object of Focus" on AO3
Whenever Greg told people about Sherlock--to date: his mum, his two brothers, his sister-in-law, and a few friends who had never been and never would be employed at the Met--they always assumed the wrong things. They saw a fourteen year age gap, the class difference, and Sherlock's striking looks (Greg had shown them pictures, at their insistence), and they worried.
Greg had told them more than once, "It's not that he's too young for me that's the problem, it's that he's too brilliant." And it was a problem; Greg wasn't the type to witter and moan about the future, but just the thought of Sherlock leaving him when he inevitably became bored of Greg was more than a bit gutwrenching.
No one ever believed him. His mum had actually chuckled and said, "I wouldn't worry, dear. You were always a good student, too."
He'd tried to explain to her the vast difference between his above average intelligence and Sherlock's madcap genius, but without any appreciable success. Sherlock had to be seen to be believed. The obvious solution was complicated by the fact that Greg was in no way prepared to inflict Sherlock on his loved ones until the man had been properly socialized. Thank God that John had arrived on the scene to help with that particular task; with luck, Greg might even allow Sherlock to meet his friends and family within the next decade, assuming that Sherlock stuck around that long.
Which he might do. Sherlock disliked distractions from his life's work, and Greg didn't just accommodate his work, he facilitated it. If there was one thing Sherlock prized above all others when it came to human interaction, it was convenience, and Greg was certainly that. Sherlock might even keep him until Greg's retirement, or, slightly less optimistically, his promotion. (Superintendent might be all right, Greg thought, still a decent amount of involvement in actual cases rather than a fog of bureaucracy, but making DAC--assuming he ever got that far--would be fatal to their relationship.) Or Sherlock might drop him next week; there was no way of knowing.
Sherlock broke their kiss and pushed down on Greg's shoulder with his hand at the same moment. Greg grinned, pressed another quick kiss to Sherlock's lips, and then got to his knees. Might as well go about making himself convenient. The part where it benefited him, as well, was just a perquisite.
The erection that Greg had been feeling against his hip for the past quarter of an hour was straining the front of Sherlock's trousers, a small damp patch at the head. He leaned forward to mouth the spot, ignoring the impatient shift of Sherlock's hips in favor of darting out his tongue to taste wool and precome. It was a fine thing not having to worry about mussing Sherlock's clothes; if Greg were wearing that suit, he'd have had to halt proceedings ten minutes ago to hang it up in the closet, preferably in a zipped plastic clothing bag. Instead, Greg was allowed to suck at the bulge of Sherlock's cock through his trousers, spreading the dampness farther.
He'd imagined once that Sherlock would be noisy in bed: he never seemed to shut up out of it, after all. Instead, it had turned out that the reverse was true. Sherlock went quiet and breathless, only the occasional choked whimper punctuating his silence. Greg glanced upwards to see Sherlock watching him with his usual wordless, intent focus, his eyes wide and dark with pleasure, the pupils so blown that only a rim of gray showed around the edges.
Still holding his gaze, Greg deftly unbuttoned and unzipped Sherlock's trousers, rearranged his clothing just enough that he wouldn't do Sherlock an injury, then pulled trousers and pants down to his knees with one swift tug. Sherlock's breath quickened, a flush darkening his pale cheeks. He slouched a little obligingly--pretty much the only time he was obliging was when he had an orgasm coming to him--and Greg took hold of his cock with one hand and bent his head to the task.
The thick slide of Sherlock's cock between his lips was almost hypnotically soothing, but Greg didn't let his eyes fall shut. Sherlock liked it when he looked up at him while giving head. It wasn't a porn thing--though Lestrade suspected that Sherlock did enjoy the touch of submission that Greg was offering him with his bended knees and willing mouth. Rather, Sherlock liked seeing the changing expression in Greg's eyes as he sucked his cock.
Sherlock's hand rose to cup Greg's cheek, stroking it with careful fingertips that mapped the outline of his own erection through the thin skin. He could probably tell how long it had been since Greg's last shave just by feeling the length of his stubble, Greg thought, shivering lightly.
Greg's own cock was begging for attention, but the cant of Sherlock's hips and the amount he'd had to slide down the wall made Greg think that...yes! There was just enough room to slide his free hand between Sherlock's thighs and grope his arse. No lube, unfortunately--spontaneous sex against walls was hot as fuck but had its drawbacks, as well--but Sherlock could take one finger dry, and Greg slid it in carefully. Sherlock's mouth opened, though no sound came out; it was Sherlock's version of a moan, all soft, heated breath.
Greg suppressed the urge to smile around Sherlock's cock and sucked harder instead, twisting his hand slightly around Sherlock's cock and pressing his finger rhythmically against his prostate. Sherlock preferred being fucked properly--hands or toys or Greg's cock, it didn't matter--but the wall and the angle of Greg's hand made that impossible at the moment, so this would have to do.
It did do, quite nicely, as Greg discovered when Sherlock made a sound in the back of his throat and came suddenly, without any other warning. Greg swallowed quickly and slid his hand from Sherlock's cock to his hip, prepared to steady him if needed. It wasn't; Sherlock managed to hold himself up this time without any assistance, though he was panting and trembling like an overworked racehorse.
Greg gently pulled his finger out of Sherlock's arse, and then he leaned forward to rest his head against the flat of Sherlock's stomach, breathing in the musky scent of Sherlock's wet, softening cock even as he wrapped a hand around his own cock and stroked his way towards his long delayed orgasm.
A few moments later, there was an almost hesitant touch on his hair: Sherlock's hand, petting him with slow and deliberate care. Greg pressed a closemouthed kiss to Sherlock's stomach in acknowledgement, or possibly repayment. God knew Sherlock had turned him all around; every word, every gesture was weighted with meaning now, and Greg's only comfort was that Sherlock, for all his observation skills, was too antisocial to read half of what Greg's body was telling him.
Greg moaned when he came--no silent ecstasy for him, thanks--and Sherlock's hand tightened in his hair momentarily before releasing again and smoothing it down.
He didn't try to hurry Greg along, which was a rare yet appreciated courtesy. In return, Greg made himself struggle to his feet long before he felt ready, hopefully before Sherlock could become too bored with supporting him. He helped Sherlock with his clothes--not entirely from disinterested motives, their hands tangling in fine cotton and wool and brushing over Sherlock's smooth, sweat-damp skin--then fumbled quickly with his own.
"Are you staying a while, or d'you have to push off?" he asked when they were both decent again.
Sherlock shook his head, and Greg was resolutely not disappointed. It wasn't in the least unexpected, after all. "I have an experiment that needs tending," Sherlock said. He hesitated. "I'll be done with the next stage in a few hours."
"I'll still be up," Greg said. No work tomorrow--well, that's what his schedule said, anyway, though he'd probably be called in at some point--meant that he could afford to miss an hour or two of sleep.
Sherlock nodded crisply. "In that case, I may see you then." He didn't kiss Greg goodbye, of course; that would be far too mundane, too normal. But he touched his arm briefly as he left, which Greg felt was a reasonable substitute. What they had was nothing like stability or permanence, but it was more than good enough for him.
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