Yeah, Sherlock was the first thing on John's mind, 'cos Sherlock was bloody always the first thing on John's mind, but that was nothing but self defense. It was a survival trait; you had to keep track of where you were in relation to major sources of danger.
The second thing on John's mind had been the case-- first, the embezzler, then, once Sherlock bothered to explain what was really going on, the blackmailer who'd made the embezzler do it. Oh, and then for a bit there was the blackmailer's gun, but John and Greg had made short work of that.
Somewhere around the both of them tackling the guy at the same moment, and Greg saying, "You're-- fuck it, you're not nicked. You're a wanker," and knocking the guy cold, John had realised for the first time that Greg Lestrade got off on this kind of fuckery just as much as John did.
That made sense; Greg was in the wrong job if he wanted a peaceful life. Whatever Sherlock thought, though, Greg had been too smart and too good at it to remain at the sharp end of the force. They'd moved him up to where there were more rules, and like it or not, he followed them.
Well, apparently he'd taken tonight off. The thing had only vaguely been related to an official case, and the only explanation Greg had given for choosing to join in, when John had invited him along, was, "Oh, fuck it." He'd said fuck it a lot that night, come to think of it.
After, John had come home and walked into the sitting room two steps ahead of Greg and twelve behind Sherlock, and John had turned to ask Greg whether he wanted tea, or a beer, and he'd seen that breathless delighted smile still sitting on Greg's face. So now that was the second thing on John's mind.
Sherlock had marched straight through the kitchen and off to his own room. He did that sometimes, just disappeared in there after a case and didn't come back out, sometimes for a day or more. John couldn't imagine what it was he did in there exactly; the chaos that Sherlock created had left his bedroom all but untouched while devastating the sitting room and outlying regions.
So it was just John and Greg left there, grinning at each other.
John laughed, and Greg laughed back. John shook his head. He was still twanging with excitement and his skin felt alive. "Having fun, mate?"
"Yeah. Christ." Greg shook his head like he couldn't even say how unexpected a thing fun was in his life.
"Want a beer?"
Greg's grin got bigger. "I want more beer than is good for me, mate. And a vat of lo mein. And to fuck, I dunno, Kari Wurher or Lucy Lawless or somebody."
John went to the refrigerator and pulled out two beers from the door, carefully not noticing what else might or might not be in there. "Yeah, I don't know if I'm worried that you and my sister have the same taste in women."
Greg accepted the opened beer and took a long, long pull. "I'm just after somebody tough enough to take a bloody pounding. Separation turns out to be great for my libido."
John nodded. Maybe that was it, the reason Greg had decided to come out with them tonight instead of following the rules. According to Sherlock, Greg's shoes and collar said he'd now been living on his own for twelve days and this time it was all for keeps. John didn't know about the twelve days, but he thought there was something sort of relieved about Greg's expression now that did say done, gone, permanent this time.
Greg was most of the way through the beer. "Christ, I'd proposition you if you hadn't told me you're not gay a thousand times."
John stared. Okay. That he had not been expecting. He would have bet actual money that Sherlock wouldn't have been expecting that (though he'd have claimed he'd seen it coming, because Sherlock was a wanker).
Greg's smile went away. "Sorry, mate."
"It's, look, it's fine. But no, I don't fuck men." He was disappointed about the smile. Greg spent so much time -- thanks to Sherlock, mostly -- looking frustrated, sad, and tired. The smile had been amazing.
John took a few pulls on his own beer while Greg finished his off.
Well. Fuck it, as the man said. "Have been known to grind a bloke up against a wall until we both come in our pants though."
Greg choked. "Seriously?"
John shrugged. "Spent a lot of years being in charge of getting my sister home safe from a night out. Sometimes it was all dykes, but she went to all sorts of clubs." He walked up to Greg because, well, fuck it. "Casual. Only casual."
Greg glanced in the direction of Sherlock's room just for a second, then nodded. "Casual is good. Christ, casual is bloody perfect."
The first kiss was as awkward as these things tended to go, complete with getting the angle wrong and John pushing hard too early so Greg winced and Greg going wet too soon, which just felt weird on John's lips. John pulled back. "Yeah, that was rubbish."
"Out of practice," Greg muttered, looking like he wanted out of it.
"Have another go?" John asked, "Pretend I'm Lucy Lawless?"
"You'd have to stand on a chair."
John punched his shoulder, none too gently, and Greg leaned forward and this time was loads better, beery and then fleshy underneath, and both of them ready when John flicked his tongue just past Greg's lips. John scratched his fingers through Greg's hair. It was short and a little coarse, but the skull beneath was warm and felt good in his hands. Very short hair. God it was a long time since he'd kissed a bloke. He'd been, what? Nineteen? No, actually there had been that one time later, at Harry's birthday -- twenty-six then.
Greg wrapped his arms around John's shoulders. John tended to think of him as a fairly thin bloke, but he felt big, like this. Greg's mouth broke off to trail down John's neck, bit softly at his jaw. "Where's this wall, then?" he said, words muffled.
Sherlock had more or less stuck things on every available bit of wall they had. Mostly John liked it-- always stuff to look at in this flat-- but anywhere they tried in the sitting room they'd hit furniture or probably knock something down. "Landing," he said, and dragged Greg after him toward the stairs.
On the landing, he went up one stair and then kissed down into Greg's mouth.
"Christ, it's Lucy bloody Lawless," Greg said, laughing, and John grabbed his jaw to turn Greg's head to the side and bit Greg's ear good and hard, then went back down to the floor with a thump and pressed Greg back against the wallpaper.
He could smell a bit of sweat, which reminded him of the clubs. Greg's deodorant was different from his own, with a sort of green smell. There was a faint smell off coffee too. Back in the clubs, besides sweat he'd mostly smelled cigarette smoke.
No smoke here. No Pet Shop Boys with the bass turned up. But when he pushed closer, yeah, he remembered the height difference always working out like this-- he got the thigh, and the other bloke got his belly. He gave a cheeky thrust, and even through the clothes it felt really fucking good.
"Grinding, eh? My day," Greg said against the side of John's head, "we called this a dry hump."
"Frottage," John corrected, adjusting his angle because they were both very hard now.
"Oh, hark at the posh lad," Greg mocked, and rocked a little bit, like he thought this was going to be subtle.
John gave him a good hard grind to show him better and nipped his chin, stubble interesting against the inside of his lips. "And you can stuff 'your day.' You're fitter than I am."
"You're plenty fit," Greg said, and groped John's arse and sealed his mouth over John's. Now John didn't mind that it was wet, not a bit.
For more than a minute they just rubbed against each other, John shoving up with his hips. It was a bit desperate and very, very good. Just like back in the day, except Greg hadn't called him cute, which tended to be just about the only thing he heard from those blokes at the clubs. No point trying to talk with them; you could never hear each other over the music. It hadn't been about the blokes, anyway, or about him for them, it had been about getting off.
But apparently Greg liked a bit of talk. "Didn't want to go all the way up to your bedroom, John," Greg whispered, pushing against him in focused little circles like he wanted to show off how slinky his hips were. "Couldn't wait? Or something else? Hoping we'll get caught, are you?"
John's attention focused for a moment along the vector toward maximum danger-- Sherlock's door. He'd have heard it open, even distracted as he was.
But if he didn't...
Sherlock would stand there, looking at them through the door from the kitchen. His eyes would only go wide only just for a moment before going narrow and annoyed. Would it be anger, or maybe hurt?
Or would Sherlock just glance at them and roll his eyes and ask if they would really rather do that than something interesting, like catalogue types of mud?
Greg straightened slightly, bent up his leg a little and tugged hard at John's arse, making John ride his thigh. The inseam of John's jeans was a harsh pressure and he groaned. It was like biting into something swollen and overripe, too sweet. He hated it but climbed toward orgasm suddenly much faster.
"He's possessive, is Sherlock," Greg went on, a rough whisper in John's ear as he pulled them closer and gave John a less-harsh angle. "He wouldn't like it, me having a go. And I'm going to come all over you anyway."
John stifled a groan against the open neck of Greg's shirt, rutting hard against Greg's warmth, thinking about Sherlock seeing this and demanding Greg get his hands off John.
Not a safe thing to think, not when his whole body jerked and his breath turned to ragged gasps.
"Like a bit of dirty talk, do you?" Greg asked.
John bit his collarbone. "Could be… yeah, could be dirtier."
Greg clutched John's hips suddenly and swung them around so it was John with his back to the wall. He started working himself hard against John's body, panting against John's hair. "Too bad you don't fuck," he told John, voice breathless and rough, "I'd like to turn you round and nail you the wall." He got his hands between John's arse and the wall and squeezed bruisingly hard. "Gorgeous arse. Push my prick into you." He sped up, groaning, and John could tell he was almost there. "Fuck you. Fuck you raw."
John grabbed Greg's arse in return, and Greg shuddered and crushed him into the wall with his hips and let out a long strangled, almost painful-sounding groan.
Panting for breath, Greg finally dropped his head against the side of John's. "God. Oh christ. It would kill him, knowing I've done this," he whispered raggedly. He forced one hand between their bodies and gripped John's cock through his jeans, and pumped.
John was sore with friction already, and this hurt worse, and he'd never had a bloke's hand on him before, and he was so close now, holding onto Greg with all his muscles gone tight.
"Can you see over my shoulder, John? He there? He staring, wishing it was him here having you?"
John couldn't see over Greg's shoulder, but it didn't matter because his eyes had snapped shut and he was coming, despite the harsh rub of his pants on his cock and knowing how sore he'd be after and the shock of frottage that had suddenly turned into a handjob, and the pain as he jerked his head back and bashed his skull against the wall. He was coming and it felt like he was stealing it, getting away with something dirty, felt like sex when he was seventeen and there was still someone he could be in trouble with. It wrung him out like a rag and left him limp and sleepy and he let Greg and the wall keep him upright.
Greg chuckled, and John chuckled back. Yeah. Oh yeah, he'd needed that. His arms and legs felt almost tingly and all the muscles in his back had gone liquid, loose. He felt sloppy and filthy and good.
After a moment, when his legs felt trustworthy again, John straightened, and Greg backed off. They looked at each other for a moment, both leaned in for one more hard kiss, and then it broke up in breathy laughter again.
"Right, now I'm home for a shower, and that vat of lo mein and this will officially be the best night I've had in living memory," said Greg.
"Been a pleasure, Detective Inspector."
They grinned at each other some more, but then Greg's smile faded a bit. "Uh, those things I said… I didn't-- I've actually never-- And I didn't mean--"
John shrugged. "Sex talk. I once told someone to be a good girl and give it up for Daddy."
"Three times. And then she never spoke to me again."
"It's fine." He smiled, to show it was. "Go have your noodles. See you on the next case."
Greg nodded, and John reckoned that was all in the way of both of them checking with the other that casual was staying casual, and everything was still fine. Then Greg headed down the stairs with the slightly stiff walk of a man getting used to a load of come in his pants. John knew it well. It was one of those things you thought would drive you mad the first time, and then you just learned to ignore it.
Even though he felt like he'd be asleep within a minute or two, John did his own version of the same walk and went back to toss away the two beer bottles, because there had to be one person in this flat who cleaned up after himself. He glanced at Sherlock's door. Still closed.
The whole thing was stupid, because this was Sherlock Holmes. He didn't have to have seen it. He'd just know. He always knew. John would see the reaction when he came down in the morning. Disgust. Or annoyance. Or amusement.
Who could say?
But John reckoned, whatever Sherlock might think, Lestrade was pretty good at observing and deducing. He'd known just what to say to John. Might even be true.