Archive of Our Own ^beta

Lestrade had known that giving Sherlock a key to his apartment meant he was setting himself up to come home to all sorts of bizarre things. He's seen the kind of havoc Sherlock can wreak in the Yard's crime labs, so he doesn't think there's anything that could surprise him.

As it turns out, he's wrong.

It's a normal Friday afternoon. Lestrade has left work early for once, exhausted but looking forward to spending the weekend alone with Sherlock. He's slowly coming to terms with the fact that his boyfriend is half his age, and although he still thinks their relationship is ill-advised, it's easier to just accept what he's done and move on. Besides, he really only has two choices when it comes down to it: stop worrying about it or stop seeing Sherlock altogether, and one of those isn't an option.

By the time he gets to his flat, he's humming to himself. The living room is empty, but Sherlock's shoes are by the front door, so he goes down the hall to the bedroom. He's not sure what he expects to see when he gets there, but the sight that greets him isn't even on the list.

Sherlock is sprawled in an armchair, naked, with his legs spread and his knees pulled up to his chest. He's got one hand in his hair, and with the other, he's slowly fucking himself with a dildo. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are glazed, and he blinks at Lestrade once, slowly, before letting out a soft little moan.

“Christ,” spits Lestrade.

Sherlock doesn't say a word. He's shivering visibly from head to toe, and his cock is so swollen it must hurt.

Lestrade staggers across the room and collapses on the edge of the bed, because he needs to sit down before his knees buckle.

“I wanted--” Sherlock begins, but then he breaks off with another helpless moan. “I wanted-- what we talked about, your fist-- I tried to get myself open for you, but god...”

Lestrade grips the mattress. He's already hard, and fuck, he can't believe this is happening. He can't believe he's come home to this: a beautiful teenager sprawled in his armchair with a dildo up his arse. He's spent so much of his life being good, but fuck, if this is what being an immoral bastard gets him...

“Greg,” Sherlock whines. He shoves the toy a little harder into his arse, and Lestrade wonders how long he's been at it. He's already a fucking mess, and judging by the trembling in his thighs, Lestrade can't imagine it would take more than a touch to make him come.

“What do you want?” asks Lestrade.

Sherlock whimpers, and for a second, Lestrade thinks he's about to lose it, but then he closes his eyes and moans, “I-- I was trying to get-- but then I got so close, and I didn't want to come so--” his breath hitches, and his hips jerk, and god, he's so fucking amazing it's insane “--so I tried-- tried to see how close I could get without--”

“Without coming?” Lestrade finishes, and when Sherlock nods, he lets out a long, slow breath to calm himself down. When he's sure he can speak without his voice breaking, he asks, “How many times?”

“I don't know, I-- god, I lost track.”

Lestrade closes his eyes and counts to ten. His cock is aching, and by the time he opens his eyes again, he's rubbing himself through his trousers. It takes the edge off just a little, enough that his voice is steady when he says, “Do you want me to make you come?”

“Please,” Sherlock begs. He's got both hands between his legs now; one is still working the dildo, and he's holding himself open with the other. His fingers are shiny with lube, and when he tries to push one inside, next to the toy, Lestrade nearly loses his mind.

“Get your hands away,” says Lestrade. When Sherlock doesn't obey, he snaps, “I said get your fucking hands away, Sherlock.”

Sherlock takes his hands away and reaches up to grab the back of the chair. It's their first time all over again, Sherlock with his legs spread and his cheeks flushed, only this time there's no hesitation on Lestrade's part as he sinks to his knees on the floor. Sherlock stares at him, and when Lestrade grabs the base of the dildo, he keens.

“Where did you get this?” asks Lestrade. He pulls the toy halfway out to look at it. It's bigger than his cock and warm from Sherlock's body. “You couldn't start small, could you? Not when you've got such a needy little arse to fill.”

“Fu-- fuck, Greg.” Sherlock gasps when Lestrade shoves the toy back into him. His back arches away from the chair, and Lestrade can hear his fingernails scratching at the upholstery.

“You're expecting me to fuck you, aren't you?” asks Lestrade. He's got his free hand inside his trousers, too eager for touch to even push them down, and he squeezes himself hard to try and keep himself in check. It would be too easy to lose control, too easy to just open his trousers and jerk himself off until he came all over Sherlock's prick. And maybe he'll do it when he's ready, because fuck, Sherlock would look beautiful like that, flushed all over and covered in spunk, but not yet.

Sherlock rocks his hips, trying to fuck himself on the dildo, so Lestrade bites his inner thigh until he whimpers and stops moving.

“I'm not going to fuck you,” says Lestrade, though god knows he wants to. “You started this, and you're going to finish it. If you want to come, you're going to do it like this.”

He underscores the point with a sharp thrust of the toy, and Sherlock all but shrieks in response. The poor kid. He's so wrecked he can barely speak; he just stares at Lestrade with a wide-eyed expression, like he can't make sense of how overwhelmed he is. It's beautiful to see him like this, so alive and so completely out of his depth. Making Sherlock feel is like a drug.

Lestrade ducks his head and mouths at Sherlock's nipples while he fucks Sherlock with the dildo. They harden under his touch, and he bites at one of them just to see what kind of reaction he'll get. When Sherlock lets out a choked sob and grabs at his hair, he does it again-- and again, and again, and again, until Sherlock is writhing underneath him.

They're barely breathing now, the pair of them. Lestrade has just enough air left to groan against Sherlock's chest, and when he does, Sherlock's whole body goes rigid. One more twist of the dildo is all it takes to bring him off, and he digs his fingernails into Lestrade's scalp as his cock jerks completely untouched against his belly. He comes so hard that some of his spunk hits Lestrade's chin, and if that's not the hottest fucking thing Lestrade has ever felt, he doesn't know what is.

“Fuck,” Lestrade curses, still shoving the toy into Sherlock's body. His prick is throbbing and his head is spinning, and when he absolutely can't take it anymore, he lets go of the dildo and climbs up into the chair, crushing Sherlock down into it. He pushes Sherlock's knees up, and when Sherlock obediently grabs own legs to hold them open, Lestrade seizes his mouth in a kiss.

It takes him less than a second to get his trousers open, and then he's stroking himself so fast it makes his arm cramp. His fingers are slick with lube from the dildo, and every time they slide over the head of his prick, he groans into Sherlock's mouth. Before meeting Sherlock, he'd always prided himself on his stamina, but there's been too much build-up, and fuck, he wants Sherlock so much all the fucking time that it takes him just a few minutes to come.

“Greg,” Sherlock breathes when the first drops of come hit his stomach. He's still moving, squirming in the chair and biting at Lestrade's lips. He lets go of his legs and slides a hand through the mess on his belly, and Lestrade doesn't have a chance to stop him before he's sucking his fingers clean.

“Bloody fucking hell,” says Lestrade, and yanks Sherlock's hand away to kiss him. Tasting himself on Sherlock's tongue makes his prick give another weak twitch, and he grabs a handful of Sherlock's hair.

Eventually, though, their kisses slow until Sherlock is purring, and Lestrade is carding his fingers through Sherlock's curls. There's really not enough room in the chair for two people, but they rearrange themselves so that Lestrade is sprawled in it with Sherlock on his lap.

“You,” says Lestrade once they've come up for air, “are bloody exhausting.”

“Mm,” replies Sherlock.

Lestrade grunts in return and buries his face in Sherlock's hair. His pulse is finally slowing, but his legs still feel weak. He doesn't mind. It gives him an excuse to stay where he is, with Sherlock curled atop him like a cat.

“I bought others,” says Sherlock after awhile.

“Hmm? Other what?”

“Dildos,” says Sherlock.

Lestrade knows it's impossible for him to get hard again so soon, but his cock makes a pretty good attempt.

“They're in your nightstand drawer,” Sherlock continues. “The largest one should be sufficient enough to prepare me for your fist. I also bought a plug, to keep the muscles stretched if we decide to take a break between sessions. Judging by the results of this afternoon's experiment, there's no reason why I shouldn't be able to take your fist by the end of the weekend.”

Lestrade blinks at the far wall for a few seconds, then hooks a finger under Sherlock's chin to tip his head back. They stare at each other for a long time until Sherlock arches an eyebrow, and Lestrade says, “You bought a plug.”

“Yes,” says Sherlock. His smirk is slow and filthy, and he shifts a little in Lestrade's lap as he asks, “Do you still regret getting involved with me, Detective Inspector?”

“I'm going to hell,” says Lestrade, because he probably is, but in the meantime, he'll enjoy every goddamn second.