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Beach Ficlets

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*

The door opened. John looked up to see Donovan standing in the doorway, shaking her head.

“Sorry, but I’m not touching this one.”

John grimaced. “I know you don’t like him, but--”

“He broke into a flat and nearly gave the elderly couple living there heart attacks.”

“It was an accident.”

Donovan’s eyebrows rose. “And he just happened to have a crowbar on him, did he?”

“No, it -- it was for a case and he meant to break into the flat next door and oh god, that doesn’t sound any better, I know.”

“He can’t commit crimes to solve cases. You know that as well as I do.”

John groaned in frustration. This was going nowhere. He just wanted to go home, where he could be the one shouting at Sherlock for doing something so ludicrously risky, and maybe get his life back to some semblance of normal.

He pressed a hand to his forehead. “For fuck’s sake, whose cock do I have to suck to get this done?”

As if on cue, Greg Lestrade appeared behind Donovan in the doorway. “What is it this time?”

Donovan jerked her head towards Lestrade with a smirk. “He’s your man, I think.”

John’s cheeks flamed. Lestrade frowned after Donovan as she walked away and didn’t seem to notice.

**

Greg and John stood side by side on the pavement, watching Sherlock disappear over the ledge of a three-storey building.

John sighed. “Well, that’s done, then.”

Greg stuffed his hands in his pockets and glanced over his shoulder at the crime scene behind them. His crew had already begun wrapping things up, and there wasn’t much more to be done. This series of high-tech break-ins was driving them all ‘round the bend, and he couldn’t seem to make any progress on it. Fortunately for him, Sherlock had immediately been intrigued.

“I was supposed to go off shift five hours ago.”

John winced in sympathy. “Long day, then?”

“Long fucking week.” Greg shook his head. “I’m almost done here, though. Fancy joining me for a pint?”

John paused for a moment, and Greg saw a flicker of surprise on his face. “I… yeah, that’d be great, actually.”

Greg clapped him on the shoulder. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

Two hours later, they were both several pints down, squeezed into the corner of a dark, crowded pub.

John leaned in close to Greg’s ear to be heard over the din. “And then he said, you’re supposed to pull it!”

They both dissolved into laughter, leaning heavily against each other. The easy camaraderie between them had been a pleasant surprise tonight, and Greg found he wasn’t quite ready to break the spell. His mobile buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out to glance at the display. He frowned.

“The office calling?”

Greg shook his head. “My ex. Nothing big, though.”

He slid the mobile back into his pocket and turned to look at John. His eyes were dark, but at this close range, Greg could see that they were blue. He’d always thought they were brown, somehow. John’s gaze flicked down to Greg’s mouth and back up again, and Greg felt a jolt he hadn’t expected. He was suddenly aware of their proximity, of the way his arm was slung across the back of the banquet, behind John’s back, of the way their faces were only inches apart.

Greg took a long, deep breath, and sat back to put some distance between them.

“Another round?” John asked. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but he might have been blushing. Greg felt another twinge in his belly.

Well, damn. That was… well.

Greg shook his head. “I’d better not. It’s getting late and I’ve got a shit-load of paperwork to do in the morning.”

“Right,” John replied. There was a definite note of disappointment in his tone.

“This was fun. Let’s do it again sometime, yeah?” He hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that -- too many pints, probably.

“Yeah.”

They stared at each other for several long seconds, then they both grinned.

***

John pulled his jacket on and patted the pocket of his trousers to make sure he had his wallet. “I’m off to the pub with Greg, then.”

Sherlock leaned over the kitchen table, his gaze locked on the dropper of bluish liquid he held over a large beaker of something containing what John fervently hoped was raw chicken. “There’s a euphemism I haven’t heard.”

“What?”

Sherlock squeezed the dropper. The probably-chicken flesh sizzled as droplets hit the surface. “For sex.”

John gaped at him. “You… you think I’m having sex with Greg?”

Sherlock stood and stared down at his experiment, frowning. “Aren’t you?”

“No!”

Sherlock turned the frown to John. “Are you certain?”

“I think I’d know if I was shagging someone.”

“But..." Sherlock blinked rapidly for a moment before continuing. "You’ve been going out with him every week for months, and you always return from your meetings flushed, annoyingly cheerful, and slightly drunk. On four occasions, I’ve caught a whiff of the cologne Lestrade wears, but you typically shower right away, removing any traces of evidence.”

“Evidence?” John sputtered.

“And you never masturbate during those showers, which is atypical, leading me to assume you were sexually satisfied at the time.”

“Jesus, Sherlock!”

“That along with the way you two have behaved in each other’s presence in the last few months, not to mention the way his eyes are practically fixed to your backside the moment you turn around--”

“Stop, stop, just… shut up, will you?” John’s face was so red now that further denial was pointless.

Of course he’d shag Greg if he had the chance. Who wouldn’t? But he wasn't sure that was where this was going. Was it?

God, what if it was?

“Well, we’re not. But even if we were, it’d be none of your concern.”

Sherlock looked slightly disappointed. “I assumed you weren’t bringing him here out of courtesy.”

John took a deep breath and released it. Might as well dive in the deep end at this point. “So… do you really think he’s…?” John made a vague gesture.

Sherlock gave him a long look, though the effect was somewhat muddled by the safety goggles he wore. “He’s had sexual relationships with at least four men that I know of, all before his recently-ended marriage.”

“Four?” John swallowed. Greg probably had more experience with this sort of thing than he did.

“He told me about two of them. One I witnessed personally, and--”

“You watched?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “He should have locked the door if he didn’t want me coming in.”

An image of a younger, possibly high Sherlock barging into Greg’s flat in the middle of the night filled John’s mind. “Is that why he banned you from the new flat?”

Sherlock snorted. “Oh, no. That was years ago.”

“Right.” John pressed his lips together to stop himself from asking more questions. He’d already learned more than he’d really wanted to know. Best to get a move on. “I’m off, then.”

“Enjoy your completely heterosexual evening.”

John reached for the door handle, muttering, “I wouldn’t go that far.”

He’d only just made it out the door when his mobile pinged. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen, swearing under his breath. To his surprise, the text wasn’t from Sherlock.

Stuck at the office. Mountain of paperwork to finish. Meet a bit later?

John groaned. There was no way he was going back upstairs now, and it probably wasn’t a good idea to head to the pub and start drinking without Greg. He pursed his lips and considered.

Already out, Sherlock being an arse. Ok if I come to you?

He started down the street towards the Tube station, mapping out the quickest route to NSY in his mind. His mobile pinged just as he was heading underground.

Sure. If you don’t mind watching me type for a while.

John paused to reply before his piece-of-crap mobile lost the signal.

I’m sure I can find some way to entertain myself. ;-)

It wasn’t until he was on the train that he realized the innuendo in what he’d written.

He emerged from the St James’ Park station fifteen minutes later, mobile in hand and stomach twisting in anticipation. The mobile pinged repeatedly as it caught a signal again. .

I’m sure you can...

It’s kind of quiet here tonight anyway. No one around.

John nearly walked into someone as he scrolled down the screen.

Hungry?

John’s mind was suddenly flooded with an image of himself on his knees under Greg’s desk. Oh, God.

We could order in. Or fuck on the desk.

Shit, autocorrect.

*fuck off to the pub

SORRY

John laughed so loud that several people turned to stare at him. He scrolled.

Security has a visitor badge for you up front.

Text me when you get here.

And then: Lestrade is texting me that you aren’t replying to him. -SH

“Shit,” John hissed, and tapped out a response. His thumb hovered over the send button for a full two seconds before he finally touched it. He put the phone back in his pocket and headed towards NSY.

I’m up for whatever. Just got off the Tube, on my way.

The security guard at the front entry smiled in recognition and handed him a visitor’s pass. John made his way to the lifts, bouncing on his heels while he waited. It was indeed quiet at this hour, and he didn’t see another person along the way. He finally rounded the corner and saw the doorway that led to Greg’s office. He had to take a deep breath in order to calm the sudden queasiness in his stomach.

He popped his head through the open doorway. “Hey.”

Greg looked up sheepishly. “Hey. Sorry about this.” He gestured to the computer. “Last minute shit, all due yesterday, of course. Mostly mindless, but it’s got to be done.”

John closed the door behind him and leaned back against it. “Comes with the territory, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Greg’s gaze seemed to linger on him a moment before he looked back at the screen in front of him. “I’m almost done, actually. Ten minutes, maybe?”

John crossed to sit in the vacant chair next to his desk. He watched Greg’s fingers dance over the keyboard, strong and nimble, and long. His mind went to the gutter almost immediately.

God, what was wrong with him tonight?

The typing paused for a moment, and John looked up to see Greg was watching him. The instant their eyes met, Greg looked back to the screen with something very near a smirk on his face.

“The door locks, you know.”

“Sorry?”

“And there isn’t surveillance in here. One of the few privileges of the position.”

John looked over to the closed door and the drawn blinds, and back to Greg. Two pink spots appeared high on his cheeks now. John’s breath caught in his throat. There was no way to misinterpret the situation. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Ah, hell -- what was he waiting for?

He stood and crossed to the door and locked it. Greg was typing furiously now and very intently not-looking at John. His cheeks were flushed, and John didn’t doubt his heart was pounding beneath that button-down shirt.

He walked to stand behind Greg. “This isn’t going to cause you any trouble is it?”

“No, but I could get in a hell of a lot of trouble for letting you see what’s on this screen.”

“What screen?” John drew the pad of his thumb down the nape of Greg’s neck.

Greg shivered and made a small sound like a sigh. His hands stilled on the keyboard.

John leaned forward and pressed his lips against the warm skin above Greg’s shirt collar. “Is this--”

“Yes,” Greg replied, his voice hoarse.

Just like that, John was suddenly, achingly hard. He wanted to pull Greg out of that chair and shove him against the wall, to just take and have and fuck -- it was nearly overwhelming. He willed his hands not to shake, to move slowly and surely.

Greg was still frozen before him, fingertips resting lightly on the keys, chest rising and falling in steadying breaths. He didn’t turn around. He was waiting for John to make the first move, to take control.

It was delicious.

John slid a hand under Greg’s jaw, tilted his head back, and kissed him. It was a strange angle, but Greg’s lips parted and their mouths brushed together, open, exchanging hot air but nothing more. John held him there for long seconds, waiting for him to make the next move. Finally, Greg reached up to slide a hand behind John’s head and pull him down farther, darting his tongue between John’s lips. The chair swiveled and John found himself standing between Greg’s knees, being kissed with a ferocity he hadn’t experienced in a long time. Greg’s hand tightened in John’s hair and the other found its way under his shirt, nails scratching softly over sensitized skin and fuck, why hadn’t they done this sooner?

Greg pulled out of the kiss and stared up at him wildly. His usually perfect hair was mussed, his eyes were dark, and his mouth was wet and red. John wanted nothing more than to dive back in.

“I can’t leave until I get this done,” Greg panted. “My flat isn’t far, though. Ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes is too long,” John replied, leaning in to kiss him again. “I can’t wait.”

“So entertain yourself,” Greg said against his lips.

John nearly whimpered. Yes, yes -- he could do that, absolutely. He slid to his knees and traced his thumbs up the outline of Greg’s erection through his trousers. He looked up with a smirk. “Don’t let me interrupt your work, Detective Inspector.”

Greg swore softly as John worked his trousers open and pulled his cock out. “Oh god, you -- you’ve thought about this before, haven’t you?”

“More than you know.” John leaned forward to lick a bead of fluid from the slit of Greg’s cock. It tasted even better than he’d expected.

“So have I.” Greg spread his thighs even further apart and groaned. His cock stood up from his groin, hard and red, the foreskin stretched tight around the head.

John’s mouth actually watered at the sight. “Can you reach the keyboard?”

“I think so.”

John grinned. “Good. Because you’re not coming until you finish your paperwork.”

Greg’s head fell back. “Oh my god, you’re evil.”

John took his time with Greg’s gorgeous cock, with teasing licks and nips along the shaft. He slid the tip of his tongue under the foreskin and bathed the head with open-mouthed kisses, his tongue wriggling until it found spots that made Greg suck in sharp breaths. He finally let the head breach his lips and slide in, sucking lightly, pressing the flat of his tongue against the underside. Greg had been tapping erratically at the keyboard above his head, but now he paused to watch John’s lips slide down the shaft.

“I’ve typed suck four times now.”

John chuckled around his mouthful.

“I’m not going to be able to-- ah, fuck, that’s good --fill out a req form again without getting hard.”

“Good,” John whispered as he pulled off. He swirled his tongue around the head.

Greg’s eyes were nearly glazed over. “I’m going to pay you back for this, you know.”

“I’m counting on it.”

“Do that thing with your tongue again.”

John nodded his head toward the screen above. “Finished yet?”

Greg closed his eyes and whined. “I hate you.”

Four minutes later Greg finally whispered, “Done,” and John swallowed him down, finishing him in half a dozen long strokes.

He’d barely managed to swallow before Greg hauled him to his feet and pushed him back against the desk. He fumbled with the button of John’s jeans for a moment before finally working them open and pushing them down. John groaned at the feeling of Greg’s fingers wrapping around his cock, long and somehow softer than he’d expected. He gripped the sides of the desk as Greg began to stroke.

“I’ve always wanted to fuck someone on this desk,” Greg whispered against John’s lips.

“Maybe next time. Ungh, faster.”

Greg slowed down his strokes and smiled. “Actually, I think I’ll take my time.”

He let John get close twice before finally taking pity on him and finishing him with his mouth. John came flat on his back across Greg’s desk, jeans around his ankles and bare arse pressed against a rather thick file folder, and cock further down Greg’s throat that he would have thought possible.

He stared up at the flourescent lights afterward. They were spinning slightly.

“Good?” Greg’s smug grin floated above him.

John huffed a laugh and held out a hand, and Greg tugged him to his feet. John pulled him into a lazy kiss, slick and wet and sweet. Greg sighed through his nose.

“You taste like spunk,” John said after a moment.

“So do you.”

“Still want to get a pint?”

“Yeah. And then back to mine.”

“Up for another go?”

Greg’s smile was brilliant. “Give me an hour and I will be.”

****

It was two in the morning when John crept up the stairs, carefully stepping over the one that always creaked. He’d showered at Greg’s flat and had planned to go straight up to to his room, but the moment his feet hit the second-floor landing, the door swung open.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at him for a full second before widening in surprise. “Twice, really? No, three times. Once in the shower, apparently.”

John’s only reply was a rude gesture.

“This had better not interfere with the work,” Sherlock called as John continued up the stairs.

“Not your concern, Sherlock.”

“Unless he’s willing to trade sexual favors for access to cold cases, of course.”

“Fuck off, Sherlock.”

“Or you could always--”

Sherlock’s next words were pleasantly muffled by the closed bedroom door. John plugged in his mobile, then fell back on his bed fully clothed. He was exhausted, but pleasantly so. He ached in interesting places -- hadn’t done that in a long time, but it really was like riding a bicycle, it turned out. He was going to sleep well and have a well-deserved lie-in tomorrow.

The mobile pinged: probably Sherlock issuing even more ridiculous demands, but he picked it up anyway.

How did he take it?

John tapped out a reply. As expected.

Next time you should stay.

John smiled.

I will.

*****