Sherlock is far too young for this. He's too young to be skulking around crime scenes and handling dead bodies like he's been doing it all his life. He's too young to be throwing orders at people twice his age, and he's too young for them to obey without question. He's too young to be so brilliant, so smug, so confident.
He's too young to look at Lestrade the way he does.
He's legal, though barely-- he's only just turned eighteen, and he looks even younger-- but Lestrade is a grown fucking man. He's thirty-two years old, and he should know better than to get caught staring at an eighteen-year-old boy, especially when he knows that the boy in question would let him do anything he wanted, and fuck, some days it's torture just standing in the same room as Sherlock.
But he's doing fine, he's dealing with it, and he's actually starting to think that if he ignores it for long enough, the whole thing will just go away. It doesn't, of course, but clings to that hope right up until the night after they crack the Bell Cottage case. He's lounging on the sofa with a beer in one hand and a remote in the other, relaxing for the first time in weeks, when the intercom buzzes. He sighs, takes a swig of his beer and sets it aside, then pads over to the front door and presses the 'talk' button. “Yes?”
“Detective Inspector,” says Sherlock, and Jesus, his voice, even through the crackle of the intercom.
Lestrade swipes a hand over his face, then rests his forehead against the wall and buzzes Sherlock into the building. Less than a minute later, there's a knock on the door, and he tries to steel himself before he answers it. It doesn't work. Sherlock is standing in the hall, bundled up in his woolen coat with his nose pink from the cold. He looks young and adorable, and Lestrade knows how wrong it is to find that sexy.
Sherlock just stands there for a second, quiet, then brushes past Lestrade like he owns the place, like he belongs there, and just the idea of that makes Lestrade shiver all the way down to his toes. “I've been thinking...”
So have I, thinks Lestrade. He closes the door and follows Sherlock into the apartment, stands off to one side while he watches Sherlock do a circuit of the living room, probably mapping out all the changes that have been made since the last time he was there.
Sherlock stops at the side table where Lestrade has left his beer. He stares at the bottle for a second, picks it up, examines the label, and brings it to his lips. He takes a sip. Then, he catches Lestrade's eye and does it again.
“Jesus,” spits Lestrade. He looks away and tries to ignore the want that blazes through him at the sight of Sherlock's mouth on the bottle. “What are you doing here, Sherlock?”
Sherlock doesn't answer right away. He puts the bottle down, then shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it across the back of an armchair. He rolls his sleeves up, toes his shoes off, and flops down in a sprawl. Anyone else would look ridiculous, spread out and slouched the way he is, but not Sherlock. No, Sherlock looks like royalty, full of haughty teenage arrogance that makes Lestrade want to kneel and kiss his feet.
Lestrade is thirty-two fucking years old, and all it takes to get him kneeling is the misguided attentions of an eighteen-year-old boy.
“I thought it might be easier for you if we talked about it first,” says Sherlock, tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair. “You seem like the type who'd want that.”
Lestrade knows exactly what Sherlock is talking about, but this is one of those rare instances in which he feels it's safer to play stupid. He crosses his arms and fixes Sherlock with the most irritated glare he can manage. “There's nothing for us to talk about, Sherlock. Now, if you don't mind, I was--”
“Yes, yes, having a drink and watching mindless telly. Spare me, Greg. We both know I'm vastly more entertaining than anything you could find on television.”
Lestrade hates that. He hates it when Sherlock uses his name, draws it out until it sounds thick on his tongue. It's too intimate, like a kiss, a touch, a whisper, and it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
“I'm eighteen,” says Sherlock, and it's eerie, the way he looks at people, the depth of his gaze and the secrets that lurk inside it. The others are afraid of him. Lestrade can't look away.
“Barely,” says Lestrade. “You've only just turned eighteen last month.”
“But I'm eighteen nonetheless. I'm a legal adult in every country that matters.”
“I'm thirty-two, Sherlock.”
“Thirty-three in September.”
“Fifteen years!” Lestrade throws his arms in the air. “There's fifteen bloody years between us, and you might not think that counts for anything, but it does. It bloody well does. For god's sake, Sherlock, I could be your father.”
Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at him, smirks a little and says, “If you like.”
“God damn it,” says Lestrade. He feels exhausted, suddenly, every bit his thirty-two years and quite a bit more besides. His eyes hurt, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “You work for my department.”
“As a consultant, not an employee. Try again.”
Lestrade stares at Sherlock, at the heartbreaking angles of his face, and thinks God, don't you understand how young you are? And then, God, don't you understand what I'm trying to be for you? Because the horrible truth is that they're right about Sherlock; they're right to be afraid when he walks into a crime scene and doesn't even flinch. They're right to wonder how little it would take to pluck him out of the light and drop him into darkness. And Lestrade-- god, Lestrade would do anything to keep that from happening.
But that doesn't stop him wanting Sherlock, even if it destroys them both.
Lestrade presses the heels of his palms against his eyes and whispers, “Why are you doing this?”
“Because you want me to.”
Lestrade looks up, stares at Sherlock, who's tipped his head back and spread his legs so his trousers are stretched tight across his crotch. He's not hard, not yet, but from the looks of him, it wouldn't take much. His throat is bared, and there's a flush on his cheeks, and god, Lestrade wants him. Wants him so much he's sick with it, and something inside him breaks.
“Greg,” Sherlock whispers. “Please.”
And Lestrade knows it's an act, knows it's just Sherlock being a manipulative little shit, but it doesn't matter because he's done saying no.
Sherlock eyes him speculatively as he stalks across the room and drops to the floor at Sherlock's feet. When he pins Sherlock's hips to the chair, though, Sherlock seems to get the hint; he gasps and surges forward to crush their mouths together with a quiet little moan that's too desperate to be anything but honest. There's no finesse in his kisses; it's just raw teenage lust, full of ragged breaths and sharp teeth. He's panting through his nose, and his lips are swollen by the time Lestrade pulls away to bite his throat.
“Is this what you want?” asks Lestrade, digging his thumbs into the hollows of Sherlock's hips while his brain chants wrong, wrong, wrong. “Is this what you're after?”
Sherlock doesn't answer; he shoves a hand down between them and fumbles with Lestrade's zipper.
“You've been driving me bloody crazy,” says Lestrade. He's admitting more than he should-- he's doing more than he should-- but the way Sherlock is squirming underneath him tells him he's not the only one who's been aching for it.
“I--” Sherlock begins, but he breaks off with a frustrated sound and fuck, he's amazing like this: flushed all over and so eager for it he's wriggling.
It takes both of them to get Sherlock's trousers off, and Lestrade barely has time to appreciate the outline of the kid's skinny little hips through his briefs before Sherlock is squirming out of those too and grabbing hold of his cock. He gasps and spreads his legs a little wider, and tugs at himself with quick, furtive pulls. He's fucking shameless, and Lestrade watches in a daze, shocked stupid by the sight of Sherlock Holmes jerking off right in front of him. Then, when he can't take it anymore, he knocks Sherlock's hand away and bows his head to swallow Sherlock's prick.
“Fu-- fuck, Greg--” Sherlock gasps and grabs a fistful of Lestrade's hair, and Lestrade knows it's probably too much, but he doesn't let up; he holds Sherlock's prick in his mouth and swallows around it until Sherlock is a squirming, shivering mess. And it's comforting, in a sick way, to know that when it comes to this at least, Sherlock is just a normal teenager-- just a bundle of oversensitive nerves, ready to come apart at any second. He wonders if Sherlock has ever done this before, then immediately decides he doesn't want to know.
When he finally pulls back, Sherlock lets out a high-pitched whimper and reaches up to grab at the back of the chair. From the way he's acting, you'd think Lestrade was already fucking him, and god, if this is the reaction he gets from what barely amounts to a blowjob, he can only imagine what Sherlock would sound like with his arse full of cock.
“Greg, I-- I want--” Sherlock is trembling so hard that even his voice shakes.
Lestrade ignores him; he scoops Sherlock's legs up over his shoulders and sinks down again, taking Sherlock's prick as deep as he can get it. Sherlock makes a strangled noise that's almost a squeal, which should be hilarious but is actually blisteringly hot. Lestrade grabs at himself through his trousers and moans around the shaft in his mouth. Sherlock jerks underneath him and thumps a heel against his back, hard enough to make him grunt. Lestrade shoots him a disapproving look through his lashes.
“Oh-- oh bloody hell,” Sherlock gasps. His eyes are wild and his hips are twitching, not quite fucking Lestrade's mouth but close enough to count. He looks just seconds away from losing it.
Lestrade pulls his mouth away and wraps his fingers around the spit-slick shaft of Sherlock's cock. He grabs Sherlock's wrists with his free hand and tries not to think about the fact that he's pinning an eighteen-year-old boy to a chair. “Is this what you wanted? Hm? For me to hold you down and spread you open? Put my hands all over you and make you come?”
Sherlock is panting, mouth open and eyes wide. It's amazing to see him this way, incoherent and so fucking needy. Knowing that he's the one responsible for it makes Lestrade's head spin, and he shoves himself against the front of the chair, rutting against it like a teenager while he jerks Sherlock's prick.
When Sherlock comes, it's a fucking explosion. Every muscle in his body tightens; his thighs clamp shut around Lestrade's neck and and his stomach muscles tense under the soft skin of his belly. He lets out a low keening sound, then a choked sob when he finally lets go. His spine cracks into an arch and his heels dig into Lestrade's back as he lifts his hips from the chair and comes all over his belly in thick, hot spurts.
Lestrade watches, barely breathing, his hand still working on Sherlock's prick. His own hips have stopped moving, even though his cock is still aching, and when he's finally caught his breath, he lurches forward to catch Sherlock's panting little mouth in a kiss. A few seconds later, he's all but tearing his trousers open, and it takes less than a dozen strokes with his hand curled around Sherlock's on his cock before he's coming, toes curling from the filthy wrongness of his semen splashed across an eighteen-year-old boy's stomach.
“Fuck,” whispers Lestrade, his forehead pressed to Sherlock's. They're both shaking from orgasm and covered in sweat, and when he finally lets go of Sherlock's wrists, Sherlock weaves trembling fingers through his hair. Lestrade swallows and squeezes his eyes shut.
“You think too much,” says Sherlock, his voice soft.
Lestrade lets out a humorless laugh. “Aren't you usually complaining that it's the other way around?”
“No, I complain that you don't think efficiently enough,” says Sherlock. “There's a difference.”
Lestrade sighs, then takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. The muscles in his back are knotted up with tension that shouldn't be there after an orgasm. “Sherlock--”
“Don't,” says Sherlock, and it's not often he sounds angry-- not often he sounds like anything at all, really, except arrogant or annoyed-- but his tone is sharp enough to make Lestrade pull back and look down at him. Sherlock's cheeks are flushed and his eyes are gleaming, and a muscle in his jaw twitches when he says, “You don't decide what's best for me.”
“Sherlock, I'm not--”
Lestrade sighs and closes his eyes.
“You're not a child molester, Greg,” says Sherlock. “You haven't lured me into any vans, and even if you had, I'm eighteen. Besides, I've been old enough to make my own decisions for years.”
But you're so young, thinks Lestrade, and you don't even realize it.
They're both silent for a long time before Sherlock whispers, “I know it's not just about age,” and Lestrade tenses. “You're right, maybe I do need someone to remind me sometimes, of what's okay and what isn't, and so far, you've been--”
Sherlock takes a breath, and Lestrade can only imagine how hard this must be for him, for Sherlock Holmes who can analyze everyone else's feelings but never speaks a word about his own. He lets their lips touch, just in case this is the last time he's allowed.
When Sherlock finally huffs and says, “You're an idiot,” he sounds so much like himself again that it makes Lestrade smile. “Wanting to fuck someone and wanting to protect them from themselves, or whatever ridiculous notion your savior complex has dreamt up, are not mutually exclusive feelings.”
Lestrade heaves a sigh. This whole thing is sitting like an ache in the pit of his stomach, but he can't help being amused that Sherlock, of all people, is the one lecturing him about emotions. There are a million things he could say to that, ranging from the sarcastic to the serious, but in the end, he settles for, “Has anyone ever told you how bloody stubborn you are?”
Lestrade looks at Sherlock, takes in the sweep of his cheekbones and the curve of his lips, and the darkening bruises on his neck that Lestrade's left there with his teeth. It hurts to think of losing all this heartbreaking brilliance to the other side.
“It's not a bloody marriage proposal, Greg,” says Sherlock. “Either say yes or don't, but don't waste my time.”
“I don't even know what I'm meant to be saying yes to, Sherlock,” says Lestrade, because he doesn't, and he's both horrified and astounded that he's considering saying yes anyway.
Sherlock stares at him for a moment, and it occurs to Lestrade, not without a healthy dose of shock, that Sherlock hasn't the faintest idea either. But then Sherlock's lips quirk, and he gets that look in his eye that means there's trouble to be had, and he says, “Well, I suppose we'll just have to find out.”
Lestrade considers for a moment, the reckless daring of it and all the ways it could go wrong, then presses his lips to Sherlock's.
“So that's yes, then?” says Sherlock. There's a giddy edge to his voice, like he gets when there's a murderer on the loose or crown jewels gone missing, and that should probably be terrifying but Lestrade, god fucking help him, just finds it endearing.
“I've no idea what the devil I'm signing up for, but yes, that's yes,” says Lestrade, then sighs and adds, “You're going to be a right handful, aren't you?”
Sherlock grins against his mouth, and against his better judgment, Lestrade lets himself be pulled down into a kiss.