Hot as a fever, rattling bones
Jul. 1st, 2011 07:48 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
blue_eyed_1987Title:Hot as a fever, rattling bones
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/Lestrade
Rating:NC-17
Warnings:Brief violence, addiction.
Summary: “You're wasting your time, you realise.” He drawled, pulling himself to his feet
A/NWritten for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
eiben for the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
holmestice exchange. I owe a ton of thanks to catchoo152 and sunken_standard for the beta and for listening to me flail. The remaining mistakes are the only thing I own in this fic. Title from 'Sex on Fire' by Kings of Leon.
They meet like this:
Lestrade shot forward as soon as the door had been rammed open, knowing full well that their loud entrance had given the people inside plenty of warning to scarper.
The only people left in the grubby living room were either too high or too low to care to move. Lestrade stepped over them and made his way to the back of the house.
In the kitchen, more people were huddled on the floor. One man, lanky and all angles, looked up at him, eyes surprisingly clear.
“You're wasting your time, you realise.” He drawled, pulling himself to his feet
“What?”
“You're here because you think that Les is involved in the Shilling case. He's not.”
“Oh, and I suppose you've got the perfect alibi for him.”
The man snorted at him. “Don't be simple. No, first of all, that's not his style, he doesn't like to get his hands dirty, and strangling is an intimate method of killing. Secondly, well. Look at the brother. If he has roses in his garden, then he's guilty.”
Lestrade wrote the man off as high as a kite, and turned to leave, chastising himself; he should know better than to give his attention to junkies.
The man – Sherlock Holmes– was proven right, although Lestrade had no idea what the roses in the brother's garden had to do with anything. Lestrade shrug it off, even a (high) broken clock was right twice a day.
It starts like this:
Lestrade got a text from a number he didn't recognise.
'Wrong.'
He shrugged and sent a quick text back. Probably a wrong number. When he got one in return that elaborated on exactly how he was wrong, Lestrade was intrigued, and so pushed away the paperwork and set about finding out more.
After a not quite legitimate use of police resources to trace the number, he was led to a cramped bedsit. It looked like a library and a science lab had got drunk together and vomited everywhere
Mr. Holmes was sitting on a sofa that looked more than halfway collapsed, reading a huge textbook, something on poisonous plants. Lestrade had known plenty of junkies who were chemistry whizzkids, but he'd never come across one with textbooks before.
He looked more together than the last time Lestrade had seen him. His shirt was crisp, sleeves rolled neatly up to the elbow, exposing elegant wrists. Lestrade could count the track marks that decorated Sherlock's arms.
“Mr. Holmes? How did you get my number?”
“Sherlock. Does it matter?”
“It does to me.”
“No wonder your closed case percentage is so low; you keep focusing on the wrong things.”
Sherlock finally looked up from his book and gazed intently at Lestrade, who tried not to squirm. Sherlock made a small noise in the back of his throat before pulling a battered cigarette packet from under a sofa cushion and offering it to Lestrade.
“No, thanks, I'm trying to give up.”
“Dull.”
Sherlock plucked a cigarette out of the packet and lit it. Lestrade's eyes followed the cigarette as it moved to Sherlock's lips. He took a drag and let his head fall back as he blew the smoke out. Lestrade curled his hands into fists, and swallowed hard. Sherlock met Lestrade's eyes and smirked slightly.
Lestrade shook himself and pulled his phone out of his pocket just to try and get back on track.
“These messages...that's bullshit, there's no way you could know any of this.”
“People give away an awful lot of their secrets. It's obvious, if you know where to look. And I know where to look.”
Lestrade snorted. Sherlock gave an irritable sigh.
“You're divorced, but still wear your wedding ring, which tells me that they left you. But it's not just pining that keeps you wearing the ring – it stops questions at work. You're trying to give up smoking but you've had at least one cigarette already today, and you'll probably have another one before the day is out.”
“How?”
“As I said, I know where to look. It's almost certainly the brother, but I'll need to see the body in order to give you something more concrete.”
“Well that's not going to happen.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned back to his book; he clearly considered the conversation over. Lestrade left the flat with his heart pounding and his skin feeling too tight. Back at his desk he broke open his emergency pack of cigarettes, and was halfway through the first fag before he realised that Sherlock had been right.
Three days later he returned to Sherlock's flat with the crime scene photos and autopsy report. The next day they made the arrest.
Or maybe it starts like this:
Lestrade had gone 'round to Sherlock's new flat to – well, he wasn't quite sure. Sherlock would certainly scoff at the idea that he needed checking up on, even after a nasty run in with a suspect.
He had stood in the living room and opened his mouth to say something when Sherlock walked up to him, dropped to his knees and started unbuckling Lestrade's belt.
“Fuck. Dammit.”
And it was sloppy, incredibly sloppy, because Sherlock was high or low or at least something that wasn't quite sober. He moaned as he sucked Lestrade's cock, and it was all Lestrade could do not to come on the spot.
Lestrade bit his tongue and buried his hand in the dark curls, bracing himself for the rush.
When his vision returned he fell down next to Sherlock and shoved him flat on his back, pulling trousers and boxers down and roughly palming the hot flesh of Sherlock's cock.
Sherlock threw his head back and swore, voice deep and broken. Lestrade sunk his teeth into Sherlock's neck and felt the warm splatter of come on his fingers.
~~~
Lestrade saw Sherlock hanging around the edges of the latest crime scene. He dragged the man into an alleyway, and pushed him back against the brickwork, hard enough to make Sherlock gasp.
“Have you lost your mind? You can't show up here.”
“This stupid game we play wastes time. Let me in on the scene. Five minutes, that's all I need.”
“I can't.”
“Won't.”
Lestrade shook him, making Sherlock wince, and shot a look around the corner. He could see his team peering around, trying to see where he'd gone. His radio crackled at him.
“You need me. Five minutes.” Sherlock pressed his point, leaning forward against Lestrade, his body one long, lean stripe of heat.
“Ok, ok. Stay behind me and for God's sake don't say anything until I say you can.”
Sherlock deduced everyone's deepest secrets in ten minutes and Lestrade had to spend the next week explaining why Sherlock was allowed on the scene. Even after they'd made the arrest and recovered the stolen goods.
~~~
Their first fight was about drugs. Or rather, the lack of them
Lestrade had tried to set a ground rule; Sherlock could come to crime scenes if he laid off the drugs. He had even offered to get Sherlock into a program, but Sherlock had just snorted and muttered something about a brother. So he'd confiscated all the drugs he could find in Sherlock's flat, hoping that it would be a small stopgap.
Lestrade got home after a long week to find his door open and his flat turned over. Sherlock barrelled out of his bedroom.
“What did you do with them? I know you didn't take them to the Yard, and you wouldn't put them down the toilet or in the bin. Where are they?”
“You did this looking for drugs? Sherlock!”
Lestrade hit Sherlock before he even made the conscious decision to do so. Sherlock stumbled backwards over the upturned coffee table and hit the floor hard. When he recovered, he hooked his ankles around the back of Lestrade's legs and pulled him down, hands clawing at the older man's chest.
Lestrade hissed, feeling the jolt of hitting the floor all through his body. Shocked and more than a little winded, he threw his weight at Sherlock, pinning his arms to the floor. Sherlock growled and fought back, arching his back and scrabbling for leverage.
“I don't know what you think you're playing at-”
Sherlock pulled at Lestrade's shirt and dug his nails into his back, almost drawing blood. Lestrade swore and ground his hips down, painpleasurepain arcing though him.
It was rough and undignified, rutting against each other, swearing, and biting at lips and tongues. A particularly hard kiss left Lestrade with a split lip. Sherlock lapped at the blood, and that was enough to push Lestrade over the edge, Sherlock following like he never did in any other part of his life.
It ends up like this:
Sherlock's clean now, more or less. Lestrade can see when the cravings make Sherlock's fingers curl and his heart pound, (just like he imagines Sherlock can see the same things -and more- in him) but most people wouldn't know to look at him.
Lestrade occasionally drops in on a drug bust, moving the experiments and books, looking for signs of a relapse. Each time he does, Sherlock turns his gaze on Lestrade, throwing out deductions and insults. Each one hits Lestrade like a punch to the gut.
Still, he always leaves the flat with a smirk on his face. His team think it's because he's got one over on the freak. Lestrade doesn't bother to correct them.
They fight and snap and claw at each other sometimes, when the pressure from the job, the cravings, and the stupidity builds up and they need release. Sometimes it ends in bruises (on faces, or hipbones; occasionally both). Sometimes it ends in silences.
It happens less now that John's in the picture. Sherlock genuinely seems to be trying, not changing much, but there are a few compromises here and there.
Lestrade supposes he should be glad that Sherlock has found someone to be great for.
It actually ends like this:
John moves out, gets married.
Sherlock disappears for days on end. Lestrade texts and calls, bribing, tempting and threatening (they both know he has Mycroft's number, though Lestrade doesn't use it). He breaks open his emergency pack of cigarettes.
A week later Lestrade lets himself into his flat to find Sherlock spread out on his sofa. Lestrade feels a jolt; anger, or arousal, or maybe he just can't tell the difference anymore.
He walks over to Sherlock and gets a good look at him. There's a bruise on one impossibly high cheekbone and his lower lip is split. Lestrade leans down and traces his tongue over the cut, tasting copper and salt.
Sherlock hisses and arches upwards, fingers digging into Lestrade's forearms. Lestrade forces himself to pull back and sit up.
“Are you high?”
Sherlock glares at him.
“You've been smoking again.”
“Shut up, you wanker, you fucking -”
They tug at each other's clothing, falling to the floor. Sherlock is growling and swearing in between fierce bruising kisses, and he sounds so desperate and broken that Lestrade has to drag his trousers down and swallow his cock.
Sherlock whines and thrusts upwards and Lestrade's choking, eyes watering, but he keeps going until Sherlock breaks bitter against the back of his aching throat.
Sherlock drags him up by his hair and jerks him off, long fingers squeezing and tugging. It's rough and fucking perfect and Lestrade shouts his release into Sherlock's shoulder. Spent and shattered, Lestrade rolls off him, and lies panting at the ceiling.
Lestrade doesn't know how long he lies there. Long enough for his back to start complaining. He pulls himself up with a groan.
There's a bottle of whisky gathering dust in his alcohol cabinet. It's most definitely a bad idea, but Lestrade seems to be full of them right now. He pulls the bottle and two glasses out, before collapsing onto the sofa.
Lestrade unscrews the lid and pours a couple of slugs into the glasses. Sherlock sits on the sofa next to him. He hands a glass to Sherlock, who sips at it, wincing as the alcohol stings his cut lip.
They devour half of the bottle, Lestrade only stopping when his hands are as unsteady as his thoughts. He gets up off the sofa.
“Stay here, if you want,” he mumbles and then makes his way to his room, collapsing facedown onto his bed.
When Lestrade finally wakes, his head pounding, Sherlock is gone.
Somewhere between emptying his stomach and shuffling to get a cup of coffee, he gets a text.
Look at the boss' wife. She's having an affair with his brother. Life insurance scam. SH
Lestrade sighs, and pinches his nose. He pours his coffee into a travel mug, hope he doesn't look as rough as he feels, and heads to Baker Street.
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/Lestrade
Rating:NC-17
Warnings:Brief violence, addiction.
Summary: “You're wasting your time, you realise.” He drawled, pulling himself to his feet
A/NWritten for
eiben for the holmestice exchange. I owe a ton of thanks to catchoo152 and sunken_standard for the beta and for listening to me flail. The remaining mistakes are the only thing I own in this fic. Title from 'Sex on Fire' by Kings of Leon.They meet like this:
Lestrade shot forward as soon as the door had been rammed open, knowing full well that their loud entrance had given the people inside plenty of warning to scarper.
The only people left in the grubby living room were either too high or too low to care to move. Lestrade stepped over them and made his way to the back of the house.
In the kitchen, more people were huddled on the floor. One man, lanky and all angles, looked up at him, eyes surprisingly clear.
“You're wasting your time, you realise.” He drawled, pulling himself to his feet
“What?”
“You're here because you think that Les is involved in the Shilling case. He's not.”
“Oh, and I suppose you've got the perfect alibi for him.”
The man snorted at him. “Don't be simple. No, first of all, that's not his style, he doesn't like to get his hands dirty, and strangling is an intimate method of killing. Secondly, well. Look at the brother. If he has roses in his garden, then he's guilty.”
Lestrade wrote the man off as high as a kite, and turned to leave, chastising himself; he should know better than to give his attention to junkies.
The man – Sherlock Holmes– was proven right, although Lestrade had no idea what the roses in the brother's garden had to do with anything. Lestrade shrug it off, even a (high) broken clock was right twice a day.
It starts like this:
Lestrade got a text from a number he didn't recognise.
'Wrong.'
He shrugged and sent a quick text back. Probably a wrong number. When he got one in return that elaborated on exactly how he was wrong, Lestrade was intrigued, and so pushed away the paperwork and set about finding out more.
After a not quite legitimate use of police resources to trace the number, he was led to a cramped bedsit. It looked like a library and a science lab had got drunk together and vomited everywhere
Mr. Holmes was sitting on a sofa that looked more than halfway collapsed, reading a huge textbook, something on poisonous plants. Lestrade had known plenty of junkies who were chemistry whizzkids, but he'd never come across one with textbooks before.
He looked more together than the last time Lestrade had seen him. His shirt was crisp, sleeves rolled neatly up to the elbow, exposing elegant wrists. Lestrade could count the track marks that decorated Sherlock's arms.
“Mr. Holmes? How did you get my number?”
“Sherlock. Does it matter?”
“It does to me.”
“No wonder your closed case percentage is so low; you keep focusing on the wrong things.”
Sherlock finally looked up from his book and gazed intently at Lestrade, who tried not to squirm. Sherlock made a small noise in the back of his throat before pulling a battered cigarette packet from under a sofa cushion and offering it to Lestrade.
“No, thanks, I'm trying to give up.”
“Dull.”
Sherlock plucked a cigarette out of the packet and lit it. Lestrade's eyes followed the cigarette as it moved to Sherlock's lips. He took a drag and let his head fall back as he blew the smoke out. Lestrade curled his hands into fists, and swallowed hard. Sherlock met Lestrade's eyes and smirked slightly.
Lestrade shook himself and pulled his phone out of his pocket just to try and get back on track.
“These messages...that's bullshit, there's no way you could know any of this.”
“People give away an awful lot of their secrets. It's obvious, if you know where to look. And I know where to look.”
Lestrade snorted. Sherlock gave an irritable sigh.
“You're divorced, but still wear your wedding ring, which tells me that they left you. But it's not just pining that keeps you wearing the ring – it stops questions at work. You're trying to give up smoking but you've had at least one cigarette already today, and you'll probably have another one before the day is out.”
“How?”
“As I said, I know where to look. It's almost certainly the brother, but I'll need to see the body in order to give you something more concrete.”
“Well that's not going to happen.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned back to his book; he clearly considered the conversation over. Lestrade left the flat with his heart pounding and his skin feeling too tight. Back at his desk he broke open his emergency pack of cigarettes, and was halfway through the first fag before he realised that Sherlock had been right.
Three days later he returned to Sherlock's flat with the crime scene photos and autopsy report. The next day they made the arrest.
Or maybe it starts like this:
Lestrade had gone 'round to Sherlock's new flat to – well, he wasn't quite sure. Sherlock would certainly scoff at the idea that he needed checking up on, even after a nasty run in with a suspect.
He had stood in the living room and opened his mouth to say something when Sherlock walked up to him, dropped to his knees and started unbuckling Lestrade's belt.
“Fuck. Dammit.”
And it was sloppy, incredibly sloppy, because Sherlock was high or low or at least something that wasn't quite sober. He moaned as he sucked Lestrade's cock, and it was all Lestrade could do not to come on the spot.
Lestrade bit his tongue and buried his hand in the dark curls, bracing himself for the rush.
When his vision returned he fell down next to Sherlock and shoved him flat on his back, pulling trousers and boxers down and roughly palming the hot flesh of Sherlock's cock.
Sherlock threw his head back and swore, voice deep and broken. Lestrade sunk his teeth into Sherlock's neck and felt the warm splatter of come on his fingers.
~~~
Lestrade saw Sherlock hanging around the edges of the latest crime scene. He dragged the man into an alleyway, and pushed him back against the brickwork, hard enough to make Sherlock gasp.
“Have you lost your mind? You can't show up here.”
“This stupid game we play wastes time. Let me in on the scene. Five minutes, that's all I need.”
“I can't.”
“Won't.”
Lestrade shook him, making Sherlock wince, and shot a look around the corner. He could see his team peering around, trying to see where he'd gone. His radio crackled at him.
“You need me. Five minutes.” Sherlock pressed his point, leaning forward against Lestrade, his body one long, lean stripe of heat.
“Ok, ok. Stay behind me and for God's sake don't say anything until I say you can.”
Sherlock deduced everyone's deepest secrets in ten minutes and Lestrade had to spend the next week explaining why Sherlock was allowed on the scene. Even after they'd made the arrest and recovered the stolen goods.
~~~
Their first fight was about drugs. Or rather, the lack of them
Lestrade had tried to set a ground rule; Sherlock could come to crime scenes if he laid off the drugs. He had even offered to get Sherlock into a program, but Sherlock had just snorted and muttered something about a brother. So he'd confiscated all the drugs he could find in Sherlock's flat, hoping that it would be a small stopgap.
Lestrade got home after a long week to find his door open and his flat turned over. Sherlock barrelled out of his bedroom.
“What did you do with them? I know you didn't take them to the Yard, and you wouldn't put them down the toilet or in the bin. Where are they?”
“You did this looking for drugs? Sherlock!”
Lestrade hit Sherlock before he even made the conscious decision to do so. Sherlock stumbled backwards over the upturned coffee table and hit the floor hard. When he recovered, he hooked his ankles around the back of Lestrade's legs and pulled him down, hands clawing at the older man's chest.
Lestrade hissed, feeling the jolt of hitting the floor all through his body. Shocked and more than a little winded, he threw his weight at Sherlock, pinning his arms to the floor. Sherlock growled and fought back, arching his back and scrabbling for leverage.
“I don't know what you think you're playing at-”
Sherlock pulled at Lestrade's shirt and dug his nails into his back, almost drawing blood. Lestrade swore and ground his hips down, painpleasurepain arcing though him.
It was rough and undignified, rutting against each other, swearing, and biting at lips and tongues. A particularly hard kiss left Lestrade with a split lip. Sherlock lapped at the blood, and that was enough to push Lestrade over the edge, Sherlock following like he never did in any other part of his life.
It ends up like this:
Sherlock's clean now, more or less. Lestrade can see when the cravings make Sherlock's fingers curl and his heart pound, (just like he imagines Sherlock can see the same things -and more- in him) but most people wouldn't know to look at him.
Lestrade occasionally drops in on a drug bust, moving the experiments and books, looking for signs of a relapse. Each time he does, Sherlock turns his gaze on Lestrade, throwing out deductions and insults. Each one hits Lestrade like a punch to the gut.
Still, he always leaves the flat with a smirk on his face. His team think it's because he's got one over on the freak. Lestrade doesn't bother to correct them.
They fight and snap and claw at each other sometimes, when the pressure from the job, the cravings, and the stupidity builds up and they need release. Sometimes it ends in bruises (on faces, or hipbones; occasionally both). Sometimes it ends in silences.
It happens less now that John's in the picture. Sherlock genuinely seems to be trying, not changing much, but there are a few compromises here and there.
Lestrade supposes he should be glad that Sherlock has found someone to be great for.
It actually ends like this:
John moves out, gets married.
Sherlock disappears for days on end. Lestrade texts and calls, bribing, tempting and threatening (they both know he has Mycroft's number, though Lestrade doesn't use it). He breaks open his emergency pack of cigarettes.
A week later Lestrade lets himself into his flat to find Sherlock spread out on his sofa. Lestrade feels a jolt; anger, or arousal, or maybe he just can't tell the difference anymore.
He walks over to Sherlock and gets a good look at him. There's a bruise on one impossibly high cheekbone and his lower lip is split. Lestrade leans down and traces his tongue over the cut, tasting copper and salt.
Sherlock hisses and arches upwards, fingers digging into Lestrade's forearms. Lestrade forces himself to pull back and sit up.
“Are you high?”
Sherlock glares at him.
“You've been smoking again.”
“Shut up, you wanker, you fucking -”
They tug at each other's clothing, falling to the floor. Sherlock is growling and swearing in between fierce bruising kisses, and he sounds so desperate and broken that Lestrade has to drag his trousers down and swallow his cock.
Sherlock whines and thrusts upwards and Lestrade's choking, eyes watering, but he keeps going until Sherlock breaks bitter against the back of his aching throat.
Sherlock drags him up by his hair and jerks him off, long fingers squeezing and tugging. It's rough and fucking perfect and Lestrade shouts his release into Sherlock's shoulder. Spent and shattered, Lestrade rolls off him, and lies panting at the ceiling.
Lestrade doesn't know how long he lies there. Long enough for his back to start complaining. He pulls himself up with a groan.
There's a bottle of whisky gathering dust in his alcohol cabinet. It's most definitely a bad idea, but Lestrade seems to be full of them right now. He pulls the bottle and two glasses out, before collapsing onto the sofa.
Lestrade unscrews the lid and pours a couple of slugs into the glasses. Sherlock sits on the sofa next to him. He hands a glass to Sherlock, who sips at it, wincing as the alcohol stings his cut lip.
They devour half of the bottle, Lestrade only stopping when his hands are as unsteady as his thoughts. He gets up off the sofa.
“Stay here, if you want,” he mumbles and then makes his way to his room, collapsing facedown onto his bed.
When Lestrade finally wakes, his head pounding, Sherlock is gone.
Somewhere between emptying his stomach and shuffling to get a cup of coffee, he gets a text.
Look at the boss' wife. She's having an affair with his brother. Life insurance scam. SH
Lestrade sighs, and pinches his nose. He pours his coffee into a travel mug, hope he doesn't look as rough as he feels, and heads to Baker Street.
