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In the dream, Lestrade was face down on the bed, forehead pillowed on his arms, Sherlock balls-deep inside him. This was how he could tell it was a dream: he'd regrettably never even seen Sherlock naked, let alone had Sherlock crawl warmly on top of him and shift his legs apart, enter him in one shocking slow push.

It was fucking hot. Everything about it, their slick skin and his own wretched breathlessness, Sherlock's hand planted on his hip, using it for leverage as he sank himself deeper. Sherlock's other arm was stretched over Lestrade's shoulder, following the line of his arm, palm against the back of his hand, fingers pushing between his knuckles. Just that would be intimate enough, on a normal day, but today he could barely feel it: he was focused entirely on the tight intrusive rub of Sherlock's cock, stretching him open, the wet and naked slide of it blowing Lestrade's mind.

"This is what you were talking about," Sherlock said decisively, against the back of his neck, and licked the top of his spine, his hips snapping forwards.

It forced the last fraction of his cock in, and Lestrade grunted, trembling with the feel of it, of being face down and licked and held and fucked. God, yes, fucked, he thought, fucked by Sherlock fucking Holmes, and he moaned and then, hearing himself, rocked his cock against the crumpled bedsheets. The movement made Sherlock's cock jerk inside him, thick and blunt, and he moaned again. He wasn't going to last three minutes, at this rate.

He wasn't used to sex feeling like this, although admittedly, he wasn't used to sex happening much at all. He was used to semi-lucid dreaming, though - every few months, bam, shades of awareness, a hand on the gearstick - and it was rapidly dawning on him that he was even more of a repressed stereotype than he'd ever realised, since he'd never tried to have sex in his dreams before. Normally he just wandered around, telling people what he thought of them and then flying away if they tried anything. Pretty fucking great, granted, but that glorious untouchable rush paled into soggy sad insignificance compared with this.

Sherlock pulled all the way out, slid his cockhead teasingly down over Lestrade's balls, then lined himself up against Lestrade's white-hot tingling arsehole and shoved back in.

"Fuck," Lestrade gasped, jolted against the bed with it, and then Sherlock was thrusting, pumping into him, grip clamping tight around Lestrade's fingers. "Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh..."

Part of him was glad it was muffled; the rest wanted to yell raggedly at the ceiling. He hadn't been fucked by a man in years, although he did it enough on his own, working his fingers desperately inside himself and grinding down on them, fucking a fistful of lube. But this was--God, he needed this now, tonight, needed Sherlock pressing him into the bed and biting his shoulder, pelvis smacking his arse with every push. Lestrade panted into the dark warm cavern formed by his arms and the mattress, screwing his eyes shut. His hot trapped breath was making his face damp, and his mouth hung open; he sucked on his lower lip, running his teeth over it, buffeted under complex levels of sensation.

"This is what you wanted," Sherlock was murmuring, scraping his teeth across the junction of Lestrade's shoulder and neck. "It is, isn't it," he added, his voice cool with certainty, and Lestrade just tipped his hips back as much as he could and groaned in assent, spreading his thighs further, letting Sherlock hammer it home.

The dream hadn't started like this. It had started normally - normal for one of Lestrade's dreams, at least - and then lurched sideways before he'd realised he wanted it this way. Before that lurch... Well...

He'd forgotten to get Sherlock a birthday present, was the thing.

Or card?

That was it.

Turned up without one to the pub on Baker Street, turned up to Sherlock's birthday, with nothing. The other people - because apparently Sherlock could rustle up a generous roomful of if-it-wasn't-Sherlock-they'd-be-called-friends when it suited him - they'd all got variations on the obvious theme: vases. Obviously. Tall ones and short ones, cluttering the surfaces of the pub tables, taunting Lestrade's elbows like a brittle misshapen domino run. John had got Sherlock the biggest vase, of course - a waxy purple thing that looked somehow monstrous, and was not in any way, Lestrade was sure, a penis metaphor.

"Sorry," Lestrade said, as soon as he could get Sherlock on his own. He felt dreadful.

Sherlock was leaning against the bar, one long-fingered hand clasping the back of his own neck, the other wrapped around a pint of beer. He gave Lestrade a quizzical look, sipping his pint, then lifted his glass to John, across the room, and smirked. John was managing to look casually gorgeous, wearing jeans that made Lestrade's mouth water and a t-shirt with some slogan so ironic Lestrade actually didn't understand it. John lifted his chin, mouth curving in recognition. Lestrade felt hot all over - John must have seen he'd arrived empty handed! - and looked quickly back to Sherlock, pretending not to feel John's gaze playing across the back of his neck.

"I forgot my vase," Lestrade blurted, and hurried on miserably as Sherlock's sharp eyes flicked back to him. "I'm sorry - I knew it was your birthday, but I forgot to pick one up."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but his voice was gracious. "Oh, that. It's fine." He gestured carelessly at the rest of the room, bristling with glassware, and leaned in to give Lestrade a conspiratorial whisper. "I really don't need any more vases."

Lestrade found his closeness overpowering, dizzying, like being stuck in a lift with someone wearing too-strong perfume. He lowered his voice. "No, I want to give you one." His mouth was dry. "I should."

"Don't be silly, the glazers will be closed by now. Really, it's fine. Get a drink, enjoy yourself."

Lestrade swallowed. "Something-- upstairs." There were rooms upstairs.

"Oh," Sherlock said, and leaned back to look at him. He didn't ask for an explanation, and Lestrade bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from babbling distractingly, smoothing it over, furiously retracting the naked invitation he knew was in his eyes. He held still and let the mask he always wore around Sherlock slip. He made himself wait unguarded for the microsecond it took for certainty to enter Sherlock's gaze like the soft snick of a latch falling shut.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched. "Upstairs."

Lestrade imagined he could still feel John's gaze burning into the back of his head. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"A birthday present," Sherlock announced, sounding taken with the idea.

Lestrade gave another jerky nod, starting to get hard.

Sherlock touched his arm, lightly, none of the casual carelessness of before. "Go and wait for me then."

"Bored, are you?"

Lestrade swallowed, trying not to think about what he must have done to inspire that deduction. "I'm--"

The next thrust took the wind out of him, and the words splintered into a set of soft groans.

"I wouldn't-- want to detain you," Sherlock said, his voice punctuated with effort, "if you're finding this... tedious," a gritted huff of breath on every push of his hips.

Lestrade felt almost insensible, his head a storm of incoherent words. "Wha--?"

Another brutal thrust, rocking him against the bed. "You want more," Sherlock told him, squeezing Lestrade's hand for emphasis as he pushed his mouth against Lestrade's ear. "This," he muttered, his voice taut with something like anger, "isn't enough for you."

"No, I-- this is--" More might kill him.

"You filthy liar," Sherlock said, and now that tension broadened into something almost amused. "What do you think?"

"I--" Lestrade started.

He was cut off abruptly by a laconic, familiar voice drawling: "I think you should do him on his hands and knees."

Oh fuck, Lestrade thought. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Good idea," Sherlock said, as Lestrade whipped his head around to see John, leaning against the wall, chin tilted up, one hand loosely on his belt buckle, watching.

Lestrade felt like he blushed from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet.

"Up," Sherlock was saying. "You heard him. On your hands and knees."

Lestrade closed his eyes, feeling goose-pimples rising all over him at the thought. He wasn't sure his arms would hold him. Not with John standing there, watching them critically, lips parted. His cock pulsed crazily, adding its own perspective to the clamour in Lestrade's head - if he moved, it would slide against the sheets and he'd probably moan and John would see, and Lestrade would evaporate into a mist of pure shame.

He managed to fashion his next choked breath into a low, fervent, "I can't."

"Nonsense," Sherlock said.

"No, I," Lestrade started desperately, but then Sherlock was pulling back, his cock sliding out inch by precious inch, and Lestrade couldn't lose it, he just couldn't. He screwed up his strength and held his breath and pushed up on his hands and knees, arse sliding back onto Sherlock's cock-- yeah, God, that was better, okay. He could breathe again; he wasn't being abandoned.

"Better," Sherlock said, and then, softer, "Come on," and Lestrade started to rock on his dick, fucking himself subtly, eyes closing as the sensation rolled over him. He was unsteady on the mattress, all the blood in his dick - it swung heavily, a thick hot testament to what a psychologically masochistic screw-up he was capable of being - but as he moved he felt his muscles responding, flexing to make him a little more stable.

Or maybe it was just that he had something to concentrate on. He spread his fingers wide against the bedsheets, trying to focus. This was good, the new angle, Sherlock's hands resting gently on his lower back; he could forget John watching, John's shapely half-parted lips, he could--

"I think you're right," John's voice came, startlingly close, and Lestrade opened his eyes to see he was there, standing by the bed, smirking, hands on his belt. That mouth, Jesus. Lestrade quickly closed his eyes again. "He would do anything for a bit of your attention."

"I suppose we'll find out," Sherlock said, smoothing his hands over Lestrade's damp sides, and Lestrade couldn't help it, he arched into the touch like a cat. Sherlock gave a breathless laugh and thrust into him, hands tightening briefly on his hips, making Lestrade gasp.

The bed dipped as John climbed onto it.

"Go on," Sherlock said, keeping up a rolling rhythm with his hips, gentler now and shallow, just enough to keep Lestrade panting. "Lestrade, look up at him."

Lestrade gritted his teeth and opened his eyes, gaze irresistibly drawn to the outline of John's cock down one leg of his jeans. He swallowed reflexively, then flinched as John raised a hand to Lestrade's face and directed him to look up. Sherlock chose that moment to thrust deeper again, surprising another soft gasp from Lestrade's throat, and John's eyes darkened knowingly.

"Hi," John said.

Lestrade licked his lips in panic, unable to dredge up any words at all. John was still touching his face, a warm firm press of fingertips, astonishingly distracting.

"Suck him," Sherlock said, pushing right in and stopping, and Lestrade shuddered out a breath, lights flashing around the edge of his vision.

Fuck, he was thinking, frozen and burning at once, nothing coherent, just fuck, fuck, fuck...

John touched Lestrade's lower lip thoughtfully, and Lestrade's vision went hazy for a moment. When it cleared again, John was all dark blue eyes and slight smirk, sliding his thumb along Lestrade's jaw and saying, "Only if you want to. Do you want to?"

Fuck, he had to go and fucking ask. Couldn't just take, like Sherlock - had to drag what Lestrade wanted into it, had to make him say it. Lestrade had to look away, stare fiercely at his own hands. "Y-yeah."

"Ask him for it," Sherlock said, still unmoving inside him, unerringly pin-pointing exactly what Lestrade didn't want to hear himself say.

Lestrade wet his lips again, breathing roughly, clutching the bedsheets tightly and staring down at his own white knuckles. "I want-- Will you let me?"

Sherlock's hands tightened on Lestrade's hips, holding him motionless, and then in a slow torturous slide Sherlock's cock withdrew.

"Will you let me suck you," Lestrade said quickly, looking up, but it was too late - Sherlock had pulled out of him, leaving him gaspingly empty. His cock flexed in plaintive protest, throbbing hot and ignored.

John looked at Sherlock over Lestrade's head, and smiled at whatever he saw there. Lestrade gritted his teeth and looked away again, feeling Sherlock's firm hands on his hips like the pulsing heat of a brand. He was trying to sense where Sherlock's cock was, concentrating on detecting the slightest shift of heat or brush of skin. He couldn't think about what he'd just said, couldn't imagine it. He needed Sherlock back inside him before he could cope with anything else. He thought he felt the tip of Sherlock's cock, coming to rest oh-so-lightly against his hole, just lingering there without pushing in. His skin crawled with anticipation.

He tried to shift against Sherlock's hold on him, pressing back restlessly, but then John was unzipping, pulling out his dick and presenting it to Lestrade, and Lestrade stopped resisting as his mouth flooded with saliva.

John smelled like sex, raw and musky-hot, and Lestrade leaned forwards automatically, his focus zeroing in on the rounded head. He took it eagerly in his mouth, tasting the smell and almost groaning with it, and this, okay, he could cope with this just fine. His mouth was so wet, letting John easily in, making Lestrade swallow and suck as John's hands drifted up over his bare shoulders. It had been too long since he'd done this, too, felt the slick slide of cock in his mouth, filling his senses, straining his jaw. He really had to get out more.

"Fuck," John said faintly, as Lestrade closed his eyes and started to blissfully suck, learning the shape and taste of him-- and then Sherlock's grip tightened and he pushed his dick smoothly back into Lestrade's arse.

Oh fuck. "Mmh," Lestrade grunted, around John's cock, the world flashing molten and overwhelming. "Mmh, mmh--"

"Shh," Sherlock breathed, pressing forwards, sliding balls-deep, thighs solid against Lestrade's thighs. "Go on, John--"

John's hands firmed on the back of Lestrade's head, and he pushed to the back of Lestrade's mouth, his dick sliding smooth and thick over Lestrade's tongue.

"Mmh," Lestrade managed, but even that was cut off, John's cockhead against the back of his mouth, teasing the entrance to his throat. He could barely breathe, barely think, stretched around their dicks, pulsing and straining and just so fucking full.

"Oh, that's--" John said, leaning forwards, stomach pressing against Lestrade's forehead, his t-shirt falling warm and soft across Lestrade's face. The movement nudged him in Lestrade's mouth, and Lestrade swallowed hard, trying to accommodate him, his breath hitching in shallow stolen gasps. His cock felt like iron.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, and then added, like an afterthought, "can you feel him trembling? He started as soon as he realised you were here."

"Yeah," John said, and then the fabric brushed lightly away from Lestrade's face again as John stripped off his t-shirt.

Lestrade was left staring up at him, and would have moaned had his mouth not been so full; John was a tawny golden in the low light, smirking down at him, and Lestrade felt an overpowering urge to make this the best blowjob he'd ever given. He just wanted to service him, to make that expressive mouth open in pleasure-- and then his train of thought juddered and overheated because Sherlock was deepening the angle of his hips and fuck, starting to move.

Oh, Lestrade thought, his eyes falling closed as Sherlock pulled out and then slid back in, slowly and carefully and then again, not so careful, not so slow. Oh, fuck, fuck. He felt John respond, closing his fingers in Lestrade's hair and beginning to rock his hips, moving his cock just a couple of inches forwards and back over Lestrade's tongue.

"Oh," John moaned, soft and pleased, tightening his grip in Lestrade's hair.

"Yes," Sherlock said, and his voice sounded strained now, his fingertips digging into the flesh of Lestrade's hips. "Yes, that's-- like you wanted?"

"Better, because I hadn't realised he'd look this-- grateful."

Lestrade flinched, hot embarrassment flooding over him, as pictures of what he must look like swept unwanted into his mind. Not grateful, he was sure he didn't look grateful-- but the fact remained that he was on his hands and knees with Sherlock kneeling behind him, fucking his arse, and John kneeling in front of him, fucking his face. He was just a receptacle, a warm willing body; a sweaty shivering bridge arching between then, taking it and gulping down and letting this happen.

Fuck yes, he absolutely was.

Lestrade moaned around John's cock, imagining it in more detail, allowing the pictures in his head to turn him on even more: there he was, eyes shut, taking it wordlessly, his cock stiff and red against his stomach. He was letting Sherlock sink into him over and over, his thighs burning as he braced to take him deeper inside, and his mouth was so fucking welcoming for John's cock to slide into, needing no encouragement to tighten and suck and swallow.

They were building into a rhythm, Sherlock thrusting deeply and steadily, John slowly pumping in and out of his mouth, Lestrade catching his breath and wetting his lips whenever he could.

"You see how he doesn't object," Sherlock observed, with a slightly rougher thrust, and Lestrade rocked forwards onto John and almost gagged, grunting instead, feeling the end of John's cock bash against the back of his mouth.

"Ah," John said, "Jesus, do that again--"

"What, this?"


As Sherlock redoubled the force of his thrusts Lestrade felt John's cock swelling, bitter-slick salt seeping over the back of his tongue. He swallowed frantically, John's hands curving around the back of his head, holding him at a particular angle while he fucked Lestrade's mouth. Hard.

Lestrade relaxed everything he could, clenched his fists into the sheets and kept his eyes squeezed shut, his dick flexing pathetically against his stomach. The jolts of it went over him, through him, owned him. Forgive him, but he needed this, he'd needed this for so long.

John's voice hitched into a richer sound. "Oh Jesus that's--"

"Yes?" Sherlock asked breathlessly, slamming into him again, again: "Yes?"

"Yeah, like that, fuck him like that," John said, and Lestrade felt John's cock swell impossibly thicker as Sherlock lurched against him, pitching him harder onto John's cock, speeding up.

That shut them both up for a bit. As the room filled instead with the catches of breath and the slick smacks of skin on skin, Lestrade tried to tell himself that they were past exchanging glances and rough pleasantries over his back, that they were as into this as he was. It was a joke, though. He was tumbling down the slippery slope towards meltdown; they were barely trembling, and seemed to most affected by matching each other's rhythm, thrust for thrust, moan for moan.

Story of his sex life all over. They were getting off on the physical mastering of synchronicity; for Lestrade it was all about the words gay and spit and roast rolling dirtily through his brain.

He bent deliciously under a particularly vicious thrust from both ends, clamping down on the resultant warm shudder; he thought furiously of nothing nothing nothing, trying not to come. He could only imagine how much they'd love that, if he shot his load between them without a hand on his cock, if they had evidence that he got off on being used like the cheapest whore in town beyond the transient humiliation of his grunts and groans.

No, Lestrade thought, mentally gritting his teeth - because actually gritting his teeth would put John in hospital - that was the one satisfaction he wasn't going to give them.

Albeit - possibly - the only one.

He was pretty dangerously close, though. His whole body was pulsing with it, charging up like a battery, heading inexorably towards the point of no return. And it wasn't the fucking that was going to do it, he realised suddenly: it was all the little auxiliary sensations that were going to tip him over. It was the soft bump of Sherlock's balls against his arse with every thrust, the warm thumbprints John was leaving along the line of his jaw, the minute slip of Sherlock's grip on his sweaty hips as he shoved in - contributory sensations, teasing up a secondary blur of heat, a helpless awareness of the rest of him above and beyond those two hot stretched points. The fucking brought relief and could go on indefinitely, but those touches, layering on top of each other and making his own dick throb, that was what was going to push him over the edge.

Or it would be Sherlock, reaching down and running a confident hand over Lestrade's cock, making him spasm with pleasure.

Fuck, Lestrade thought, bucking helplessly into Sherlock's damp grip, and that was, that was--

"Oh, he fucking loves that--" John growled, tightening his hands and pushing, and then Lestrade was gagging around John's cock, eyes prickling furiously, holding it together with jagged shards of will, so fucking fucking fucking full.

"That," Sherlock bit off, his voice resonant with lost breath, "is unnecessarily fucking hot, and I think I need to kiss you now."

For a hazy moment Lestrade thought they were going to lean together over his back, and the image of it burned behind his eyes, vividly symbolic. That's right, that's the closest you'll ever get to them, a glorified sex toy to be used and put away wet. That thought hit Lestrade in a jarring dark place and he went with it, his cock flexing in Sherlock's grip, his balls tightening and starting to pulse. He teetered on the bright edge, his thoughts coming tight and stark - You'll get brought out of the drawer on special occasions and then shoved back in, and you'll love every shameful second of it - and then Sherlock let go of Lestrade's dick and John pulled right out of his mouth, leaving him gasping and reeling, his orgasm receding, one painful speck of dimming light at a time.

"If you say things like that," John was saying stiffly, though he was also panting, his lovely stomach clenched at the top of Lestrade's flashing vision, "I am going to come, whether you like it or not, and I thought you didn't want this to be over so soon." One hand was carding restlessly through Lestrade's hair, the other cupping his cock protectively against his stomach.

So soon? Lestrade thought, weakly lifting his head to give John an incredulous squint.

John was staring narrowly at Sherlock, his lower lip sucked in between his teeth, and he was - fuck - insanely, elegantly beautiful from this angle, though Lestrade knew that was probably just the endorphins talking. He was so full of endorphins right now, they could sell vials of his blood on the black market.

"But I want," Sherlock started, and what was that in his voice? Something persuasive, almost plaintive.

John's eyes darkened further, even as he shook his head and grinned. "Don't you dare."

"But he's--"

"He's not."

Sherlock made a frustrated noise, which was accompanied by a little lean of his hips that made Lestrade's breath catch.

"How about," Lestrade said, with effort, "you two stop bickering like an old married couple and give me the seeing to that I deserve?"

The tone changed instantly. Sherlock leaned right down over him, forcing himself deeper into Lestrade's body, one hand curling firm over the head of Lestrade's cock, his mouth leaving a smudge of heat by Lestrade's ear. "Careful, Inspector," he said, as Lestrade braced under his weight and shivered under his touch. "You don't want to bite off more than you can chew."

Lestrade bared his teeth in genuine mirth. "I think it's actually John who doesn't want me to do that."

"Oh great," John said, in the tone of one sardonically throwing up his hands in despair, "you didn't tell me he bites. Couldn't you have told me that before now?"

"He doesn't actually bite," Sherlock said testily, straightening again, "not unless we tell him to, and we're very unlikely to do that," and Lestrade swallowed heavily, because the conversation was getting away from him and yet his cock was harder than ever. Something to do with Sherlock's dick unmoving inside him, the strain in his arm muscles as he held himself up, the submissive bliss of being so incidental that Sherlock could actually forget he was fucking him halfway through.

"Well, I'm hardly going to take the risk now," John said, sitting on the bed and kicking off his jeans, and Lestrade licked his lips at the hasty reveal of thighs, then felt himself blush as he saw that John had caught him staring. "Even if he does turn greedy looks into a fucking art form," John murmured, and Sherlock gave him a quick thrust that made him gasp, though whether it was supposed to be reward or punishment was beyond him.

"In that case..." Sherlock said, shifting again behind Lestrade in a way that suggested at least one part of him hadn't forgotten what he was doing; or maybe that was just an inevitable response to seeing John naked at last. Lestrade wouldn't blame him.

John met Sherlock's eyes over Lestrade's head and nodded. "Yeah," he said, and slid his feet down between Lestrade's braced arms, scooting down the bed until he was lying directly beneath him, naked and hard, his hips warm and smooth between Lestrade's knees. "Yeah," he whispered again, gazing up at him with those damn lips parted, his eyes gleaming.

He looked so fucking kissable.

Before Lestrade really knew what he was doing he was lowering himself onto his elbows, leaning down clumsily to capture John's mouth-- and then freezing - so achingly close to kissing him - when Sherlock chose that moment to start to pull out.

"Don't," Lestrade said involuntarily, and John's lips twitched.

Lestrade warred briefly with himself, torn between pushing back against Sherlock and closing the distance between to John's mouth; and then the decision was made for him, as Sherlock withdrew completely and left him bereft, and John lifted his hands to Lestrade's shoulders and pushed him firmly back.

Lesson learned, Lestrade thought dismally, hesitate and lose everything, and then he realised what John was doing, where he was pushing him, and felt something twist tightly in his chest. Oh fuck yes.

"Go on," Sherlock said, a low but unmistakable command, one warm hand pressing on the small of Lestrade's back.

John folded his arms behind his head against the pillow, almost smirking up at him, a challenge in his heavy-lidded eyes.

Lestrade felt like he was moving in slow motion, as he sat up and then sank back, thighs straining to keep it controlled. Sherlock's other hand was wrapped around John's cock, holding it steady for him to bear down onto, a slick obscene stretch that made sweat break out up and down his back. John's face didn't change as Lestrade sank down onto him, but he thought he heard Sherlock make a quickly cut-off sound, lost in the embarrassing distraction of Lestrade's own harsh breathing. John's cock wasn't as large as Sherlock's, but it was so fucking hard, and the angle of sitting on it - being able to control how deep it went - fuck it, being able to take it to the hilt - and rocking on it, freely--

"Fucking hell," Lestrade slurred, realising he was already moving on him, his own cock waving stiffly straight up, leaving slick traces against his stomach. He tried not to groan, biting down his lower lip as he realised that, bugger, now his mouth was no longer stoppered, any sort of ridiculous noise could get out.

"We're just going to watch," Sherlock said, his voice cutting through the fuzz of heat building across Lestrade's brain as he moved. "You see?" he added, a moment later, lower and more intimate, clearly directed at John. "I can share."

"Yeah," John said, looking at him over Lestrade's shoulder, and Lestrade wanted to interpret that look but-- no chance. He couldn't concentrate, too lost in fucking himself on John's cock, riding it, grinding down on it. Being able to control the pace after all this time was just-- it was amazing, life-altering, and there was that fucking synchronicity - in the jolts of pleasure radiating from deep inside him to gather in his balls. It didn't matter that John seemed more amused than turned on, it didn't matter that Sherlock wasn't touching him at all; all that mattered was this sweet firm downstroke that made the whole fucking universe glow.

Lestrade clutched at his own thighs, knowing on some unspoken level that he wasn't supposed to touch himself, and then he focused on John's gleaming body stretched out beneath him and thought, fuck it. The image of wanking off over him, striping that tawny stomach, maybe splattering his chest, seeing the impact on his impassive face, seeing if John could manage to stay impassive with Lestrade's come jetting over him...

Lestrade grabbed his cock and managed three perfect jerks before Sherlock said, "Stop."


Lestrade stilled with difficulty, hands tightening around his swollen dick, his whole body ringing with protest like a fire alarm-- but Sherlock's voice, he just, Lestrade couldn't not stop, not with that voice in his ears.

Now John was absolutely smirking.

"That belt of yours," Sherlock said, and John - without breaking eye contact with Lestrade - reached out one hand to the tangle of his discarded clothes, and unhurriedly shook his belt free.

Lestrade's mouth went dry.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, as John passed it to him, and Lestrade knew what was coming and found it suddenly difficult to catch his breath.

"Do you want to let go of that," Sherlock prompted, sounding amused.

John laughed softly. "Of course he doesn't."

"Well, he's going to have to," Sherlock said, and Lestrade closed his eyes and made himself let go of his cock. "That's better," Sherlock murmured, and Lestrade put his hands behind his back without waiting to be asked, hot shivers coursing all over him. In the stillness he imagined he could feel John's pulse inside him, a rapid flutter beneath hard flesh. His own blood was racing in his ears.

He couldn't restrain a small noise at first the touch of leather, as Sherlock looped the belt around his wrists and pulled it tight. It threw off his balance and he clenched his muscles to right himself, grinding down on John's cock, feeling John push up sharply in response.

"Right," Sherlock said, wrapping the length of the belt around his own hand before tugging lightly on Lestrade's bound wrists, making Lestrade bite down on a quiet moan as the movement went straight to his cock, "now you can move."

Lestrade exhaled raggedly, testing the grip of the belt, feeling the utter lack of give. A lustre of guilty excitement blossomed inside him. Fuck, he wanted to touch himself, and not being able to - that was stupidly hot. He kept his eyes closed as he started to move, his thighs burning with strain, his cock bobbing against his stomach as he found that rhythm again, bouncing in short hard strokes on John's dick. He imagined what Sherlock was seeing - John's dick disappearing into his arse, Lestrade's bound hands clenching with every stroke - and had to bite the inside of his cheek and count hysterically to ten. Coming like this would be completely humiliating-- inevitable, if he could just go fast enough, hard enough-- but bloody hell, he'd never live it down.

He couldn't resist moving how he wanted, though. He went faster, harder, keeping his eyes closed so that he couldn't see on their faces how amused they were by his need. John started to rise to meet him, and Lestrade felt every upwards snap of his hips like a little starburst of triumph: That's it, you like that, don't you? Not so indifferent now.

Lestrade strained at the belt, hopelessly trying to separate his wrists, lust sliding deliciously close to panic and back, unable to deny even to himself that he was enjoying the bite of leather into his skin. He was light-headed with it, the physical restraint contrasting with this precious freedom to move, to fuck himself as hard as he wanted to; he was sweating and softly moaning, losing himself in a long slow crescendo, feeling his mouth start helplessly to shape words.

"Please," he panted, "please," barely daring to hope, listening over the drumming of blood in his ears for the command he that knew would come before he did.

Or maybe - maybe it wouldn't?

Maybe - maybe they would let him? Maybe he'd be allowed to come, here, now, fucking himself for their entertainment? And then obviously, afterwards, they could do whatever they wanted with his pliant, sated body. They could fuck him any which way, they could spit roast him again, they could even--

"Stop," Sherlock said softly, tugging hard on the belt.

This was a fucking joke.

Lestrade made a noise between clenched teeth, frustration arcing through him, but then found himself stilling, half-up, just the head of John's cock inside him, when he felt Sherlock's hand between his shoulder blades, a light precise touch on sweaty skin.

Sherlock undid the belt one-handed, let it fall away: that was his first clue.

"John, I--" Sherlock said, and Lestrade felt an incredulous lurch of something, because that note was back in Sherlock's voice, a subtle semi-tone of wanting.

"Yeah," John said, breathless now - and thanks very much, he couldn't get breathless when Lestrade was riding him, oh no, only when Sherlock asked him a fucking question - "Christ, do it, try, I think he--"

"Yeah," Sherlock said, breathless as well, and a tremulous inkling made itself apparent in the very base of Lestrade's brain. They didn't mean--

"Oh fuck," John bit off, catching his breath, and Lestrade felt Sherlock's hand sliding slippery around John's cock, beneath where it was pushed into Lestrade's body. Adding lube, Lestrade thought, his eyes falling closed, that inkling growing infinitesimally stronger.

He kept his eyes closed as Sherlock pushed him down forwards on top of John's chest, his legs straightening and splaying open, spread around John's thighs. John's hands guided him down, stroking up the back of his neck, warm and welcoming. This was-- God. He felt so exposed, just the head of John's cock inside him, slick and hot and oh, fuck, John was now stroking his arms soothingly. That, more than anything, gave away what they wanted to do.

Lestrade heard himself whine, right at the back of his throat, burying his face against John's ear.

"Hey, hey," John murmured, turning towards him, sliding a hand up the back of his head and kissing him.

Lestrade made an involuntary noise, instinctively leaning into it, opening his mouth to taste what he felt like he'd been wanting for hours - that mouth, that smirking shapely mouth made tender - and as John's tongue slid softly against his it occurred to him that of course they would.

If they wanted what he thought they wanted, of course they'd let him kiss John.

For fuck's sake, they'd probably let him kiss Sherlock.

The mere thought of that almost made Lestrade groan, and he shifted urgently against John, who made an encouraging noise, his palm firming around the back of Lestrade's head, kissing him deeper; and then as Lestrade was rocking into that, pathetic elation firing on all cylinders, Sherlock traced one fingertip over the place they were joined.

Lights flashed violently behind Lestrade's eyes. "Uh," he said, and John sucked his tongue, fiercer now. Lestrade could feel him getting harder again, broader inside him, but John wasn't moving his cock, no; he seemed to be turning kissing Lestrade into some fervent displacement activity over fucking his brains out.

Lestrade tried to enjoy it for what it was: the dirty slide of John's tongue and the hiss he gave off when Lestrade sucked, the damp heat of his harsh breath against his face and the tiny noises John was starting to make-- and then Sherlock pushed a finger in alongside John's cock, deliberate and slow, and Lestrade felt a small sharp shocking stretch of too much.

"Uh?" he said, trembling with it, and John pulled back and pressed their foreheads together, breathing shallow and fast.

"Shh," John said, "shh," which might have been more soothing if he hadn't been fucking panting.

"Uh," Lestrade said again, not exactly protesting but certain of one thing: he didn't want them to think he hadn't noticed. The sharp feeling was fading, but Sherlock's finger was still there, and the stretch of it was seriously intense. "That's, um--"

"Mmm," John agreed, interrupting, and started nuzzling the side of Lestrade's face, kissing his temple. Despite everything, Lestrade found his thoughts drifting to focus on that, the almost-affectionate warmth of John's mouth against his skin. It was wonderful, slightly hypnotic-- and then he was biting down on a gasp as Sherlock worked another finger slowly into him.

"Shh," John murmured, running his hands up and down Lestrade's sides like he was gentling a fucking horse.

"God," Lestrade whispered, his voice sounding choked.

Sherlock's fingers left him for a few seconds, and then returned with more lube. Sherlock-- well, started to tease him, almost, his fingertips ducking thoughtfully down to slide over Lestrade's perineum and then up, tracing over and over the entrance to his body where he was already taking John's cock. It was difficult not to respond, not to move against those light touches. Not just difficult for Lestrade, it seemed: John started shifting restlessly beneath him, breathing more rapidly again, damp puffs of heat against Lestrade's cheek. Lestrade imagined for one moment what he must be feeling - the tight heat of Lestrade's body, the hard shape of Lestrade's dick poking him in the stomach, the slick nudges of Sherlock's fingers - and found himself rocking his hips.

"Oh," John breathed, tilting his hips up, quick and opportunistic. His cock slid in impossibly easily, and Lestrade groaned at the feel of it, which turned into a sort of strangled yelp as Sherlock worked his fingertips back in alongside. "Oh," John said again, higher pitched and fervent, with a sheer note of need in his voice that made Lestrade swallow his discomfort and force himself back. He felt Sherlock's knuckles squeeze into him, and John moaned softly, his hands sliding down Lestrade's back to cup his arse, holding him open.

"F-fuck," Lestrade gasped, squirming, feeling so exposed, so stretched; he turned his face towards John's mouth, seeking it, still half expecting John to push him away. John didn't, though, and a cruel part of Lestrade's brain marvelled again that now they wanted something from him all sorts of piteous impulses would be indulged.

He wasn't too proud to take what he could get, though, leaning desperately into it, licking into John's mouth, trying to commit the feeling to memory. Lestrade's cock was like steel, trapped against John's stomach, and he tried to concentrate on that and the kissing as Sherlock's fingers started to move.

It was impossible. Ignoring that intrusion, those testing pushes, was definitely and laughably impossible. Sherlock was half-massaging, half-exploring, and Lestrade could do nothing but moan against John's lips, again with every snatched breath, every inward push; almost losing it. He felt like he was being enfolded in warm white noise from all directions, great walls of it closing on that bright point of friction, that stretch that felt good and bad and incendiary. He could hear the noises he was making getting more unstable, more incredulous. He'd lost track of exactly what Sherlock was doing, just knew that it was presuming a lot of him; he could feel John's hips straining beneath him, now, as if he were trying not to get in the way.

The world seemed to ring wildly in Lestrade's ears as he felt Sherlock's fingers withdraw.

"Oh God," Lestrade said, under his breath, a feeling of erotic hysteria welling up deep inside. He sucked on John's lower lip, running his teeth over it and feeling John's cock twitch inside him, then broke off to mutter again: "Oh, God." John's hands stroked up and down his thighs, firmer now, holding him tightly. The hysteria inched up a notch, even as the increased pressure caused delicious sensations to build at the base of Lestrade's cock, and Lestrade's voice rasped louder: "Oh fucking God."

"Shh," Sherlock said, the first thing he'd said to Lestrade since stop.

Lestrade whimpered against John's mouth, trying to obey, but then he felt Sherlock shifting on the bed, Sherlock's hands framing him in a warm grip, and he couldn't not groan.

"Shh," Sherlock said again, and abruptly it was even harder to obey, because now Sherlock was kneeling forwards, nestling his cock in the cleft of Lestrade's arse, covering Lestrade's body with his own, planting on hand on the mattress by Lestrade's shoulder. Fuck.

Sherlock wasn't heavy - must be taking most of his weight on that hand - but the shock of so much naked skin pressing against his own sorry body made Lestrade feel like he'd been hit by a tonne of hard-core bricks. Sandwiched between them, the heat was incredible. The sensation of Sherlock's cock against his arse was incredible. The feeling of John going frantic beneath him and stabbing up once, a brief hard fuck of an impulse, before pulling mostly out again-- was incredible.

Before Lestrade had time to adjust, Sherlock was reaching down with his other hand, rummaging between them. Aiming his cock against Lestrade's arse, just where John was entering him, that tight, slick point. Aiming, and pressing. Pushing, as John's breath hitched, as John's fingertips dug hard into Lestrade's thighs. Pushing, until Lestrade felt that tight painful stretch of something pushing in, of himself starting to give--

"Wait," Lestrade gasped, brain filling with those flashing lights again, hysteria peaking hard. "Wait, fuck, wait."

Sherlock made an almost anguished noise, but stilled-- didn't withdraw, didn't relieve the pressure more than an iota, but stopped pushing forwards.

"Oh," John groaned, and it was beseeching, almost, "please, let us, just let us," and fuck, yeah, now he was all sweetness and light, now they weren't positive that Lestrade was definitely going to submit.

"Wait, I-- I don't know," Lestrade panted, his attention magnifying that firm warm pressure of the crown of Sherlock's cock right there until that sensation was in danger of eclipsing all others. "I just-- it's too--"

"Please," John said again, kissing the side of his face, his jaw, over his ear; muttering, "God, please, please--"

Lestrade swallowed hard, licking his lips, the effect of John's attentions sliding over him like firelight. He found his voice with difficulty: "I just don't--"

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Oh come on, Lestrade," he said, only a touch ragged. "You want this as much as we do."

"..." Lestrade said, gaping and glad they couldn't see his face because they would laugh.

"You know you do," Sherlock said, certainty smoothing his voice into a soft, haughty drawl. He leaned as he spoke, building up that pressure again, and John grew still and breathless beneath them. Lestrade, failing to find his voice, fixed his gaze on a point in the near distance. "You're a logical man," Sherlock continued, a little breathless himself. "You don't know which of us you want more..."

The pressure built in earnest, the hot thrum of anticipation flowing over him, Lestrade's throat working as he swallowed.

"...and so it makes sense," and Sherlock gave a little nudge, beginning to breach him, "to take us both," and it hurt but fuck, the thought of it, the images flashing through his mind-- fuck, "so you don't have to choose."

The head of his cock pushed inside, Lestrade burning with the feel of it, that slick pop as it forced in, as his muscles gripped it alongside John's cock; as Sherlock kept pushing.

"Oh Jesus," Lestrade babbled, finding his voice all at once, words spilling out of him in a senseless hurry, "that-- you-- oh my fucking God--"

He was shifting restlessly, twisting against John's grip on his thighs, struggling with nowhere to go.

"Shut him up, will you," Sherlock said, and John reached one shaking hand up around the back of Lestrade's neck and dragged him down into a kiss.

"Mmph," Lestrade grunted, as John's tongue pushed back into his mouth. Sherlock was sliding in steadily, inch by stretched inch, taking forever, and if Lestrade thought he'd been full before-- fuck. It felt like the first time, with his friend's older brother in the spare room, stunning and overwhelming and hurting like - well - buggery, but no part of him wanting it to stop.

He felt Sherlock's hips come to settle against his arse, and for a moment there was a pause, Sherlock making low hard-panting noises, John silencing Lestrade ineffectually with shallow, repetitive kisses. Lestrade had never felt this tight, never this full; he could barely respond to John's mouth, felt like if he breathed too hard he might pass out with the sheer overload.

For a moment, Sherlock didn't move. And then, he did.

"Oh," Lestrade gasped, as the full force of what was happening rolled over him: their cocks crammed together inside him, sliding against each other, shifting half-out and then pushing in deep. The sensation rode that dirty hot line between pleasure and pain, enough and too much, Lestrade's boundaries blurring as his body said yes, yes, yes. It was impossible for the stretch not to be overwhelming, but neither of them could move without jamming that sweet spot inside him, over and over, making him sweat and curse and throb. He felt like he was teetering on the edge already, blood buzzing in his ears, almost going off just with the thought of it: two hard dicks, one tight hole.

It was like starring in his own personal fucked-up porn film - the noises he could hear himself making were testament to that. Lestrade bucked his hips blindly and spread his legs even wider, giving himself up to it with a great bone-deep exhalation, letting them do whatever they wanted.

Sherlock wanted to fuck him with short, even strokes; John just wanted to lie there mumbling.

"Oh fuck," John was saying, as Sherlock braced both hands on the mattress and thrust in hard, and Lestrade was beyond swearing, beyond verbalising at all, his thoughts a spiralling inferno. "Oh, fuck-- nngh-- fuck..." He was shifting reflexively, his hands moving now, groping over Lestrade's sides, skimming along the line where Sherlock's chest met Lestrade's back. Lestrade exhaled hard, grinding his aching cock against John's sweat-slippery stomach, feeling the world begin to white out. John's hands carried on up, curving around Sherlock instead, as Sherlock picked up the pace, rolling his hips, making Lestrade's head spin.

"F-fuck," John bit off, louder now, burying his face against Lestrade's neck, licking the point where it met his shoulder. He was beginning to move more deliberately, hips pushing up as Sherlock pushed in, and Lestrade couldn't imagine how that felt, couldn't spare any of his brain for matters outside his own overheated skin.

Sherlock made an answering noise, reverberating through his chest to Lestrade's back, dropping his head to scrawl a line of kisses along Lestrade's shoulder. It made Lestrade shiver helplessly between them, rocking back to allow their cocks deeper, becoming aware through the haze of sensation that there was something else going on here, some undercurrent, some want somehow - unbelievably - not yet satisfied.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," John was chanting, hot against Lestrade's skin, and Sherlock matched the pace of his voice, making Lestrade see stars. "Fuck," John said loudly, and then, faint, oh so fucking faint and incriminating: "Fuck, Sherlock."

Lestrade felt Sherlock jolt at that, grinding deep, and then he was kissing John over Lestrade's shoulder and muttering "John, John," against his mouth.

"Sherlock," John said again, almost a gasp, kissing him back. And that was, shitting hell-- it was hot, yeah, but it was intimate as well, intimate in a way that made Lestrade feel like he was pressing his nose against a thick window and staring into paradise. They were getting lost in the kiss, in each other's breath, in Lestrade's body, and realisation coalesced all at once: they were having sex with each other, not him, which was just-- fucking typical. Because sure, he was as close to them as was humanly possible, his sweat and heat and heartbeats indistinguishable from theirs, but they were on another level entirely.

As ever, he thought, and he knew distantly that he ought to be bothered, ought to feel outraged and insulted that they were pulling their elitist exclusivity bullshit actually whilst fucking him, but honestly? Deep down honestly, down in the sordid depths of his erotic psyche? It was a privilege, a genuine fucking privilege, to let them use him to get closer to each other.

God he was fucked up.

Sherlock was kissing John fiercely now; Lestrade buried his face blissfully against John's warm neck and closed his eyes and let it all wash over him: the weight and the heat, the friction of their cocks rubbing lewdly together inside him, the scrapes of stubble against his shoulder, the satiny glory of rocking his cock against John's slick stomach. He felt almost incoherent with it, spiralling into a giddy kaleidoscope of sensation, every selfish push of Sherlock or John taking him closer to being brought off, pulse by intimate pulse.

God. Fuck. Yes. Fuck.

The possibility of getting off swam into focus like a knot being pulled slowly tight in a silken rope. Just there, like that, like that but again, fuck, fuck. He just needed Sherlock to lean into him harder, do it slower, stay deep inside him that fraction longer-- and then Sherlock was doing that, fuck, was giving him slow uncompromising thrusts that got Lestrade closer and closer, fuck. He felt Sherlock fingers against his mouth, and he sucked on them and wanted him to react-- and Sherlock did, he stopped kissing John and opened his mouth against Lestrade's bare shoulder instead, sucking him, biting him, messy and hard. Lestrade moaned fervently, baring his neck to him, and if John would just get a hand between them, wrap it around Lestrade's dick and let the momentum of Sherlock's movements drive him into that warm grip-- and John did as well, he did exactly that, his fingers closing to a dirty-sweet perfect pressure, receiving the slide of Lestrade's cock into his hot firm grasp.

Lestrade moaned again, writhing stupidly between them, stampeding now towards orgasm like a hell-bent wildebeest, and if they'd just do it a tiny bit harder (they did it harder) and gripped him tighter (they gripped him tighter) then he, he--

Wait, what?! Why, Lestrade wondered suddenly, savagely, are they pandering to you now? After all that--

"Because if you don't come soon," Sherlock gasped, around his clenched mouthful of Lestrade's shoulder, "you're going to - uh - fall out of bed."

Well that makes no fucking sense, Lestrade thought, because he wasn't, he couldn't: he was sandwiched between them, he could no more fall out of bed right now than spontaneously levitate-- and then with a dizzying swoop of oh fuck he remembered it was a dream, and it was his actual bed he might fall out of, that bed, his real bed, ah. But if it's one of my dreams, he thought in confusion, if I've been--

Sherlock pushed right in and stayed there, filthy-deep, his cock buried thick and hot alongside John's, making Lestrade shake.

--if I've been controlling all this, he thought desperately, as he rushed towards a pinnacle, almost getting there, almost-- then why the fuck haven't I made them like me?

"Because," Sherlock rasped, grinding his hips and keeping Lestrade on the edge, right there on the edge, not letting up this time, "you don't want to be liked, obviously."

"Fantasies about being liked would be-- embarrassing," John bit off, bucking up beneath him and closing his hand with a tight twist and fuck, that did it, that was tipping him over like a whip-crack right across his balls. "Can you even imagine? The closeted copper dreaming hopelessly of being liked? You'd never let yourself live it down," John panted, clawing his other hand down Lestrade's side, and that pushed him right over: that raw fresh flash of pain made the world turn silver as he started melting and shuddering between them.

"Shit," Lestrade muttered breathlessly, shoving back on their cocks to feel that bright perfect flare of too-much-sensation, squeezing his eyes tight as his orgasm rolled over him-- and then he was waking up, tangled in his sheets and already clutching himself, both hands moving feverishly on his cock as he started to come.

His brain reached helplessly for them, holding the pair of them in view like an afterimage of the sun on his closed eyelids, and he spent himself over the all-too-vivid sense memory, grinning and gasping and oh fuck yes, yes, at fucking last. The world devolved into messy pulses of pleasure, and Lestrade was left panting, sprawled against his mattress like a squalid teenager, sticky-handed and raw-throated, making a pitiful whining noise.

It felt... great.

When the pounding in his body had subsided into a sated glow, he cracked his eyes open.

Morning light greeted him with all the obnoxious cheer of an overbearing relative. The space between the curtains was white and shining, and birds were singing outside with faint discordant optimism. Fucking birds, Lestrade thought dazedly, staring at the blue-shadowed ceiling, which appeared to be going round and round.

What the actual fuck?

He was sprawled out in a sweaty heap, trying to work out what madness that had been, feeling like he'd tried to run a marathon in the blazing hot sun. He tried to piece the dream together, but it was too long, too repetitive; difficult to pin it down to an actual sequence. All he remembered was the pub at the beginning, how logical it had seemed to offer his body in lieu of a birthday card, and then sex, so much sex - probably more than he'd actually had in the last five years. More than anyone in their right mind would need, that was for sure.

And yet he'd drawn it out, greedy for every facet of them, and he'd had them take him to the brink and leave him there, over and over, and-- he'd been his own damn top, he realised, with a sudden rush of heat to his face.

He'd been edging himself.

Throwing the covers aside and reaching for the tissues, Lestrade honestly tried to feel appalled about it. Surely it said something heinous about him and his self worth, that his subconscious was more comfortable with domination and the sticking of two dicks up his arse than it was with being accepted by Holmes and Watson on equal terms? Surely it bespoke something fairly worrying, he told himself, but he couldn't deny that his face was bending into a private grin.

Fuck it: at least if you're being topped by your own subconscious, it's not going to do it wrong.

He risked a glance at his bedside table - six in the morning, absolutely unacceptable on his day off. He felt pretty invigorated, though. Self-sufficient, in fact. Ready for a shower and a hearty breakfast. Who needed to start the day with coffee when all-night orgies had much the same effect?

He rolled over and reached for his phone. It blinked at him owlishly when he jabbed at it, rolling the screen back to the text he'd received late last night, just as he'd been crawling into bed. It was a cheerful message from John inviting him to surprise Sherlock in the pub tonight, ending: get there early because once he realises he's accidentally attending his own birthday party he'll probably bolt.

At this point, the sensible sanity-preserving thing would be to make his excuses, obviously. Obviously.

He tapped out a reply: Great, see you there.

He'd definitely see about getting him a birthday card, though.