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Lestrade nipped through the traffic, slicing his bike between cars and lane splitting through the stagnant London road system, thinking about getting home and using a bit of the summer evening to have a jog around the local park, and enjoy the last sun of the day.

He checked his mirror and over his shoulder, pulling into the left lane to turn at the junction, and got to the front of the queue at the lights. He watched the opposing lights go to amber, and revved up. As soon as his signals changed to green he let the bike leap off the line, avoiding the swarms of cyclists and turning on to the main road. He grinned, checking behind him for the traffic and then opening up the throttle, cruising at just below the limit, very aware of the crossings and lights he would meet shortly.

He barely registered the large black car until it swung out of the side road at speed. Then he did three things – grabbed the brakes, swerved away and swore loudly.

He'd managed to scrub about half his speed off, but when the choice came between veering away, into the path of a bus, or taking a flyer over the car, he knew neither would be pleasant, and before he had another thought there was a sickening crunch of metal-on-metal and he was airbourne.

The flight wouldn't have won any prizes for grace, and the landing attested to that, as he flailed an arm out to try to catch himself, before his body crumpled onto the tarmac, his helmet rebounding once before he came to a skidding stop.

He blinked, his vision swimming. He could still see the blue sky, through the leaves of the plane trees. He gasped for breath, his lungs unco-operative. But he seemed to be alive, and, as far as he could tell, still had all his limbs attached.

He groaned, dragging in some precious oxygen, and heard the start of cars beeping, signaling that the traffic was showing it's usual level of calm and consideration.

He lifted his left arm – sending a spasm of pain across his shoulders, from where he'd hit the deck.


He was scanning the evening paper, checking for any news that might be breaking which he ought to know about. Radio three was playing from the car speakers. He was, on some level, aware of the car accelerating a little too abruptly. He might have frowned slightly. And then his world of calm and peace was broken by the sudden braking, which almost threw him from his seat, and the bang and crunch of a very solid impact. He looked up in time to see a body flying across the bonnet and landing heavily on the road.

He dropped the paper and scrambled for the door, working purely on instinct. His driver seemed to have frozen, gripping the steering wheel and staring straight ahead.

The man – he presumed it was a man, by the build – raised an arm, and looked to be about to move.

"Stop! Stay still!" He tried to make his voice commanding, but it didn't seem the man had heard. He leant over, looking in through the clear visor to see two dark eyes, staring back at him, confusion evident.

"You must remain still. You may be injured," he repeated.

The man groaned and moved again, rolling to his side, head still resting on the ground.

"Fucking hell," said a muffled voice.

He felt in his pocket for his mobile phone, and was about to hit the nine key when the man moved again, curling up on himself and apparently trying to push himself up onto his hands and knees.

"No, no," he reached out, his hand gripping the soft, worn leather of the man's shoulder. "No, stay still, are you injured? Do be careful, please. I'm so sorry, I…my driver can't have seen you."


Lestrade had established that nothing seemed to be broken – his wrist was throbbing, but he could wiggle his fingers, and everywhere else that hurt seemed to be bruised, pulled, battered but intact. He could sense someone looming over him, feel a hand on his shoulder, and he wanted to get up, off the road, away from the wheels passing what felt like far too close to his head.

"…my driver can't have seen you."

He rested on his elbow and fumbled for the chin strap on his helmet, finally releasing it and pulled the helmet off. The shoes inches from his face were brightly polished, leather soled. The trousers a rich fabric. And…'my driver'? He looked at the car – a huge, black sleek beast. No wonder it barely rocked when he hit it. It was built like a tank.

He struggled to his knees, muscles protesting, and suddenly there was a hand around his bicep, gently helping him as he got to his feet.

"I'm so sorry – are you sure you should be getting up? I mean, you're not injured?"

Lestrade shook his still-spinning head and staggered slightly, noting that the grip tightened.

"Here, please, I only live just along the road – let me assist you."

The voice was posh. Lestrade finally managed to drag his gaze up from the ground to take in the waistcoat, jacket, tie and very worried look on the man's face. The clothes seemed old fashioned – fastidious and neat as a pin, and Lestrade was sure he'd caught a glimpse of a fob watch chain. But the face was young – early thirties, at a guess.

"My bike…I," he tried to straighten up, his back muscles protesting. "I need to check my bike."

"I assure you, it will be dealt with, please…I can have it brought to my garage. I'm afraid it seems rather damaged. My people can sort it out."

Lestrade moved, leaning on the bonnet of the car, then looking back to the man. Who, apparently, had 'people'. He certainly had a traumatised driver, who was only now climbing out of the car, looking at the lines of London traffic and the bike-shaped dent embedded just in front of his door. He also heard the wail of approaching sirens.

"Look, I'm okay – if we can move this all out of the way then we might avoid gridlocking most of West London," Lestrade limped to his bike, sighing when he saw the mess the front forks were in.

He half registered that the man was on his phone now, gesturing as he spoke to someone. He sighed, leaning on the bonnet of the car, his left hand idly rubbing at his right wrist where he'd wrenched it upon landing. "Shit," he muttered under his breath. He hunkered down, ignoring the flares of pain that brought, and rubbed his fingers over the dent in the fuel tank where the bars had crashed into it. The entire front end looked as if it was bent, broken and only hanging on by the wiring. He wiped a hand over his face, feeling his neck muscles protest.

He wasn't sure he'd be able to move the bike, even with help. The front wheel looked like it was only just holding on. And the posh bloke in the suit didn't look like he'd be much use in lifting it up or shifting it with no front wheel. The driver was an option, but he still hadn't stopped shaking. He hooked his also-ruined helmet over one of the bent bars, knowing that was destined for the bin now, too.

"Help is on its way," the voice behind him said, and the man gave him a small smile.

"I suppose we should exchange details," Lestrade said, feeling in his pocket for anything to write on or with.

"Please – as I said, I only live just up this road. Do accompany me home, and I will ensure you have all the information you need. I can also arrange a taxi – or perhaps you'd like to call someone, to get you home?"

Lestrade straightened up, hanging onto the car for support and unable to suppress a grimace of pain. He felt as if he were being rebuffed, yet the man was offering to take him to his house – so he'd get an address, and he'd already made a mental note of the car number plate. "Yeah, I suppose…I just need…I think the car'll be okay. Might not get it far before you need to sort out the bodywork rubbing on the wheel…I don't know if we'll manage the bike. I mean, we only need to move it to the side…I just need…"

The man looked up as four burly men approached, all dressed in suits.

"If you could attend to the motorcycle, first," he called. "Have it taken to the garage – carefully. And then one of you will need to drive the car, I'm afraid Whittaker is quite shaken."

Lestrade took a step back as three of the men heaved the bike up, then all-but carried it as they moved it off the carriageway.

"Um, I don't…" he watched as his bike was slowly walked down the side street. "Um, don't even know your name, Mr…?"

"Holmes. Mycroft Holmes."

And a hand was extended in front of him.

He raised his eyebrows and shook it instinctively, ignoring the slight feel of grit from his own palm. An odd man, with an odd name, a car and heavies which screamed money and importance that belied his years.

"Greg Lestrade," he said in reply. "Detective Sergeant."

The man looked neither impressed nor surprised – and Lestrade had generally found people were one or the other. Another odd trait.

The car engine started, and Lestrade made a half-hearted attempt to kick some of the glass from his headlight out of the road, but suddenly one of the heavies was there, picking up the larger pieces.

And the man's – Holmes' – hand was back on his arm, guiding him.

Lestrade turned to look over his shoulder as they walked away, and behind the heavy who was now following them, the traffic was beginning to flow again, as if nothing had ever happened.

Lestrade was beginning to wonder if he was, in fact, dead and dreaming. Or whatever dead people did.

The house was indeed close by, and Lestrade noticed that the heavy somehow melted away as they stepped inside the secure front gate, into the small garden, the tiles on the path perfect and patterned. Holmes climbed the few steps and opened the large front door, standing back – although there was no need, the doorway was so wide – and gesturing inside.

"Allow me to fetch you a drink – and the details for the insurance, of course. I assure you, though, mine will cover it all. I entirely accept it was my car and driver who were in error."

Lestrade nodded, and wondered if he should take his boots off – the house was immaculate. But Holmes walked in without removing his shoes, so Lestrade followed, trying to stretch unobtrusively.

"Are you sure you don't require a doctor? I can call someone…"

Lestrade shook his head. "It's nothing…few bruises. Bit of ice and I'm sure I'll mend," he smiled.

Holmes nodded. "If you're sure. Can I offer you a drink? Tea or coffee – or something stronger?"

Lestrade felt like accepting the latter offer, but decided against it.

"Coffee, thank you."

"There is a bathroom, just on your left in the corridor, if you would like to refresh yourself," Holmes gestured.

Lestrade nodded and followed the directions.

The bathroom was decked out in marble and gold, and was larger than his flat.

He heard a buzzing noise and realised it was a coffee grinder. He hadn't had a decent cup of coffee in months. Perhaps the evening wasn't going to be a total write off. The man – Mycroft, what sort of a name was that? - seemed pleasant, confident whilst dealing with his 'people', and clearly calm and in-charge when dealing with a crisis. Lestrade liked that, liked people who didn't panic and flap about – he saw too much of that every day.

He shrugged out of his jacket, hanging it over the edge of the bath. He took a moment to look at everything – marble surfaces and gold taps, a bath almost big enough to swim in and a separate shower. The place was spotless, too. No old toilet roll cores or hairs in the plug hole here.

He splashed water on his face, removing sweat and grime, and washed his hands. Then he twisted around, pulling up his t-shirt, dragging it off over his head and trying to glimpse some of the damage he'd done.


Holmes shrugged out of his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and ground the coffee beans. He set the coffee maker going, then pushed the button on the front of the fridge and caught the resulting stream of ice in a sturdy freezer bag. He tied a knot in it and wrapped it in a tea-towel, then headed toward the bathroom.

He was slightly surprised to see the door standing open, and utterly shocked to see the expanse of lightly tanned torso, stretched and twisted as Lestrade tried to see over his shoulder. A line of dark hair dipped below the slightly loose belt and waistband of the leather trousers, and higher up, the glinting silver of two rings through Lestrade's nipples caught his eye. He swallowed, tried to speak, failed, wondered if he should just turn and leave, and then realised he was being held in the gaze of the darkest brown eyes he'd ever seen.

"Ice," said, holding it out, and then realising he should actually walk forward, too. He pulled a face as he saw the graze which ran down the back of Lestrade's ribcage. "I…I really can call a doctor, if you'd like?"

Lestrade waved a hand, accepting the ice and wincing as he reached to try to hold it to the back of his shoulder. "Bit of antiseptic cream'll fix that."

Holmes wanted to reach out and take the ice, to help, hold it against the smooth skin and lithe muscles. He looked at Lestrade, but the gaze from the wide chocolate coloured eyes made him shy away, and he found himself once again staring at the silver hoops on Lestrade's chest. He moved, reaching into the cabinet, trying to gather himself.

"Here, I have…" he held out the tube of antiseptic. "Um…I mean…"

Lestrade smiled and moved the ice from his battered shoulder, balancing it on the edge of the basin. He squeezed some of the cream out onto his fingers, but Holmes could see he was finding it awkward to reach, and despite realising it was a quite ridiculous thing to do, he reached out, and allowed Lestrade's fingers to rub over his own, transferring the cream to them. He kept his gaze firmly focused on the injury and very gently rubbed the cream in, scared of hurting Lestrade.

A stifled giggle made him look up to see Lestrade's lower lip caught between hi teeth, a half smile tugging at his mouth. He licked his own lips unconsciously.

"Sorry, tickles," Lestrade smiled.

Holmes smiled back – he couldn't help it. Lestrade's whole face seemed to light up with the grin and it made him look about ten years younger.

Holmes finished a last swipe of his fingers and replaced the top on the tube, then moved to wash his hands. Lestrade didn't move out of the space, forcing them into very close proximity, and Holmes was all too aware he was under close scrutiny. He wondered how he, of all people, had ended up with a man in his bathroom, half naked, who didn't fit into any of the neat boxes in which he liked to file people.

Biker – with a responsible job, and one which required him to be smart in both senses of the word – yet he was wearing worn out scruffy leathers, rode a bike which was clearly a few years old, and Holmes was fairly certain, had seen more than one minor crash before. And then the piercings. Up until now Holmes had held clear views about what sort of person would with to mutilate themselves in such a way. And this man was not one of those sorts.

What was even more disconcerting was just how attractive he found it. Something which he had always inwardly scorned – fashion, fads, a need to 'express oneself', and extroverted attention-seeking desire to prove what exactly? – and now, here he was, unable to stop thinking about what it would be like to run his tongue over the soft flesh and hard metal.

He gave himself a mental slap. Not thoughts he should be having. Not thoughts he needed to have. Not thoughts suitable for a man in his position.

"I…the coffee should be ready. Please, come through whenever you're ready," he said, ducking away and glad when Lestrade didn't immediately follow him, needing a moment to gather himself and his thoughts.


Lestrade watched Holmes leave the room, and smiled to himself. He was pretty sure that he wasn't deluding himself when he thought he saw a spark of interest there – and he'd been shocked when Holmes had begun to rub the cream into his skin. But he was certain the other man was utterly confused. All of the earlier confidence replaced by uncertainty – almost awkwardness.

He had always presumed that if you were as rich and powerful as Holmes appeared to be you could have anything in the world. He hadn't ever really thought about what would happen if you didn't know what you wanted.

He shrugged back into his t-shirt and picked up his jacket, wondering if he should wipe up the splashes of water he'd left – and then deciding that was probably going a bit far. He took the ice-pack and headed back to the kitchen.

The large open plan kitchen and sitting room now smelled of rich coffee and Lestrade smiled, dropping his jacket over the back of a chair.

"Sugar? Milk? Cream?" Holmes offered.

"Uh, milk, thanks," he leant back against the worktop, looking down into the garden, holding the ice to the back of his neck.

"Hot or cold?"

Lestrade dragged his gaze back to Holmes. "Huh?"

"Your milk – hot or cold?"

Lestrade didn't know what to say for a moment – he was pretty sure it was a question that had never presented itself to him before. "Cold, I guess?"

Holmes nodded and removed a milk jug from the fridge.

Lestrade wondered what one earth Holmes could do to end up in a swanky townhouse, with impeccable manners, security who looked like they'd twist your head off as soon as look at you, and a chauffeur. He narrowed it down to master criminal, playboy or senior government official. And somehow none of those quite fit.

"Mind if I smoke?" Lestrade asked, gesturing to the door that led out of the kitchen onto some steps.

"Uh, no, indeed, be my guest." Mycroft fiddled with locks and bolts, opening the door to admit the warm evening air and scents from the garden.

Lestrade leant back against the black railings, just outside the door, pulling a pouch of tobacco from his pocket.
"Want one?" he offered.

Mycroft shook his head. "Thank you, but I don't."

He removed a packet of papers from the pouch and arranged the delicate paper at the top, holding it between two fingers. Then he gently pinched up the tobacco and dropped it into place. He rolled the paper carefully, forming the shredded tobacco, then lifted it to his mouth – he just happened to catch Holmes' eye as he slid the tip of his tongue across the edge of the paper, wetting the glue. He finally finished rolling the thin white tube and held it between his lips. He slid a lighter from his pocket and lit the cigarette, taking a deep drag, expanding his lungs. Knowing his t-shirt was just tight enough to give a hint of the piercings it concealed, if you knew what you were looking for. And the flick of Holmes' eyes toward him told him that Holmes did.

He looked down at the neat back garden – a small paved area with furniture, some grass and an ornamental pond, raised out of the ground. There was also a drive, dipping under the house, where Lestrade assumed the garage was housed. The gate which guarded the entrance was obviously electric and clearly slid back across the rear wall when opened. He also spotted security cameras on the wall, looking down into the street as well as at the garage. He wasn't surprised, given the make of the car that lived inside.

When he finished the roll up he licked his fingers and extinguished the dog end with a pinch, then dropped it back into his pouch of tobacco – not wanting to litter Holmes' immaculate garden.

He then sat at the dining table, reaching down to unfasten his boots, and accepting the mug of coffee Holmes offered him gratefully.

"Now, as I said, I shall ensure my insurance company understand that none of the fault lies with you – I'm certain there will be no problems. However, here is my card, should you need to contact me directly. And I'll just fetch you the other details," Holmes said, suddenly all business.

Lestrade sipped his coffee and nodded as Holmes left the room. He turned the card over in his fingers. Mycroft Holmes. No job title, just phone numbers and email. No sign as to what he might do at all. And now, back out here, he had that calm control back again. He almost wondered if everything that happened in the bathroom had been him reading a lot into nothing. Maybe the awkwardness wasn't one of sexual attraction, but of class.

"Here," Holmes walked back into the room. "My driver's details, along with those of my insurance company. I must warn you that the young gentleman may find himself posted…elsewhere, after today's little…display. I shall, however, inform you of any changes."

Lestrade looked up, and didn't know why he was surprised. Maybe he'd been right about the criminal part of his guess – someone who didn't tolerate his 'people' not doing their jobs properly. He hoped the driver would just be let go, and not be a body he'd have to fish out of the Thames in a few weeks time.

"I…uh, it's not the first time it's happened, y'know," he said. "Don't be too hard on him."

"I'm not sure he's quite cut out to be a driver," Mycroft answered, sitting down. "And there are no shortage of tasks he could turn to. I shall have personnel redeploy him to a job where he can cause less damage."

Lestrade nodded, feeling slightly more comfortable.

"I'll give you my details, if you've got something I could write on?"

"Indeed," Mycroft fetched a small pad and a heavy, gold banded, pen.

Lestrade leant over, trying to print the information clearly. He was well aware that he was being watched as the silence stretched, only broken by the slight rustle of him writing. He was suddenly terrified of spelling something wrong. He felt as if he were back at school. He glanced up, to find himself in Holmes' steady gaze and gave a small smile.

"Here," he finally said, passing over the sheet.

Holmes read it, nodding occasionally. "Ah, at the Yard, are you? Let me see…Gangs or drugs?"

Lestrade felt his eyebrows rising. How did the man know he worked in the Yard? There was nothing to suggest…apart from his office phone number. Who would recognise the first digits of that though?

"Murder," he answered, and was pleased at the slight twitch of surprise he got in return.

"I see. I shall have to introduce you to my brother some time. He has a rather…morbid fascination with such crimes. I do hope I'm not keeping you from…"

Lestrade shook his head. "Was on my way home. You were obviously on your way out though – sorry."

Holmes waved a hand. "A social engagement. Unimportant."

He glanced up at the clock. It had just gone seven – Lestrade had no idea where the time had gone – it felt like only a few minutes ago that he was rolling about in the road.

"I'm sorry, I didn't intend to…I can call you a taxi – on me, obviously. Or, if you wouldn't object, I was going to have some dinner…you're most welcome to stay," Holmes offered.

Lestrade let the silence stretch for a moment, trying to decide what he should do. If he went home he could shower and lie down and try to do something about his various aches and pains. But he'd have to go shopping, then cook – or get take-away, but he'd had too much of that recently. Or he could stay, in the stunning house, probably eat something amazing, and then get a free cab home and rest afterwards. He found himself nodding.

"Dinner would be great."

Holmes smiled and stood again, walking to the fridge. "I've got all sorts – is there anything you dislike?"

Lestrade shook his head and consciously stretched out slightly, hips forward, t-shirt tight over his chest. He slid the ice behind the small of his back, almost jumping at the cool on his skin. He was very aware of Holmes' gaze, sliding towards him again, then away, as if he'd been caught. Interesting.

"You must see some terrible things," Holmes said, sounding completely composed. "In your work."

"See some horrible things, meet some scum, yeah, we get all the good stuff," he smiled.

"Have you been with the Met for long? I believe I detect a trace of the Westcountry in your accent – Somerset, or Wiltshire perhaps?"

Lestrade liked to think he'd eradicated his old country burr, but he nodded slowly. "Somerset. But yeah, been with the Met my whole career." He paused, wondering if he should ask. He decided to take the plunge. "So what is it you do?"

There was a moment – a flicker of the eyes – and Lestrade knew he was about to be lied to.

"I work for the Government. Just a minor role – supervisory, really."

Lestrade snorted slightly. "I'm not some flunky you've just met in the corridors of Whitehall," he said. "I've been hit by your car, helped by your people and am in your bloody house – minor role my arse. If I didn't know better I'd say you were the Home Secretary or something!"

Holmes smiled, thank God. Because even as the words were leaving Lestrade's mouth he was wondering if he was somehow right, just what would happen to him – a mouthy rozzer who clearly didn’t know when to keep that mouth shut.

"Well, when you put it like that…I am in control of some things which could be deemed important to national security – that's all. It suits people to know that I am protected."

Lestrade nodded, heeding the signals and not asking anything further.

"Wine?" Holmes offered, and Lestrade accepted, watching the rich red splash into the heavy crystal glasses.


Holmes watched as Lestrade ate the dinner he had prepared. The spaghetti quickly twisted around the fork tines, the trailing ends sucked into the mouth, excess sauce licked away.

He enjoyed the company – he very rarely invited people into his home, and certainly no one like Lestrade. Occasionally he would entertain his equals and sometimes foreign officials and diplomats. The dinners then were steeped in formality and etiquette. Now he watched as Lestrade ate his food with his fork in his right hand, using his left to gesture with as he spoke. One of his feet was propped on the rung of the chair next to him, boot hanging open, straps loose, buckles making a clinking noise as he moved.

Somehow it was freeing though, it was relaxing. Lestrade spoke of football, Holmes countered with theatre, and was surprised when Lestrade could hold up his end of the conversation. He moved on to opera, which Lestrade admitted having no idea about, but asked intelligent questions and seemed interested. They covered all the normal topics any Londoners would talk about – Tube strikes, traffic, tourists – noticeably staying away from crime and politics.

Finally, the food finished and the wine drunk, he watched as Lestrade stretched out, wincing obviously as his injuries made themselves known. He also noticed the defined muscles, and swallowed. He could imagine running his hands over the strong, taut body, into the messy hair, over the rough stubble of the cheeks and chin. And then tasting the soft lips, seeing them pull into the lopsided grin that he'd come to lust after, over the course of the evening.

"I should get going," Lestrade said. "That was fantastic though – thank you."

"Really?" He smiled. "I suppose I have rather kept you. You should have been home hours ago. I really can't apologise enough."

Lestrade waved a hand, wiping his lips on the white napkin and scrunching it up. "It was almost worth it," he said, and there was the smile again, that gave such warmth to the deep brown eyes.

"I shall be in touch, regarding the insurance," Holmes said, standing.

He watched as Lestrade also stood, stiffly and with a slight limp when he moved. He felt wracked with guilt, yet also strangely happy. It had, he agreed, been almost worth it.


Lestrade shrugged into his jacket, hissing as the movement pulled the grazed skin. He turned to see Holmes holding out a twenty pound note.

"Please, for your cab fare."

Lestrade smiled. "Thank you – but that's too much, really."

"Nonsense, not after all I've put you through. Besides, I have nothing smaller on me. Please," he took a step toward Lestrade.

Lestrade hesitated for a moment, but he really didn't feel like walking to the tube. He reached out and took it. "I'll get the change back to you," he said, seriously.

Holmes inclined his head, eyes closed, in agreement.

"And I left my keys in my bike."

"Oh, well, downstairs, please, this way. Would you like me to call a taxi for you?"

"No, I'll pick one up fast enough on the main road – thanks, though." He followed Mycroft down a set of stairs and through yet more locked doors into a huge garage, which was more like an operating theatre than a place to store vehicles. The floor and walls were spotless, the car sat in the middle of it, gleaming black, marred only by the dented wing. And there was his bike, a crumpled heap near the wall. He sighed and walked to it, running his hand over the fuel tank and seat. He pulled the keys from the ignition and couldn't help but caress the bent bars and run his fingers over the worn grip.

He turned, knowing he had a sad smile on his face. "Sorry," he said. "It's a bit like losing an old friend, y'know?"

Holmes looked, if possible, more distraught than he felt.

"I'm so sorry. I'm sure we can have it fixed, though – or the insurance…"

"Ah, she's an old girl though – won't get much on the insurance. Don't expect they'll think she's worth it. Maybe I'll try and find something similar second hand. Hey – do you mind if I leave it all here? Helmet and everything? The insurance might want to see it all - get a mechanic to look it over, see if she can be fixed."

Holmes gestured to the space. "That will be fine, as you can see, there's no shortage of room."

Lestrade nodded, taking one last backward glance at the bike before climbing the stairs again.

At the front door he hung back once more, allowing Holmes to unlock and open the door. Holmes stepped back, holding it open, ever the gentleman.

And Lestrade couldn't help it. A combination of the simmering sexual tension he'd been feeling all night, the certainty he had that Holmes would never act on it if not pushed, and half a bottle of very good red wine made him bolder than he would usually be. He stepped forward, crowding into Holmes' personal space, leaning into a kiss – a press of mouths, and just the smallest swipe of his tongue across Holmes' lips, followed by the gentlest of pressure with his hips against the other man. And then he stepped out of the door, across the yard and opened the gate. He glanced backwards, smiling, and saw Holmes' shocked expression, the hand gripping the edge of the door, the other lifting to touch his mouth.

He was sure he'd made the right choice, as he stepped out onto the street and began walking.

Well almost sure, anyway.



Holmes stared at his 'phone. It wasn't often he didn't know what to do. Usually he wasn't even aware of any 'wrong' options – he was confident in himself, his decisions, his knowledge. But now…now he wished that dating (and exactly when it had turned into 'dating', rather than a formal business arrangement in his mind, he wasn't quite sure) was simply a matter of asking your secretary to phone their secretary and put everything into place.

Not that Detective Sergeant Gregory Lestrade had a secretary, which was the first stumbling block.

He did, however, have a fair record with the Metropolitan Police. His arrest and conviction rates were consistently the high end of the scale, although this was slightly marred on occasion by a temper that he struggled to keep in check. It seemed as if someone at the Yard had taken him in hand, though, and the recent years showed a decline in reckless behaviour. Not that Holmes could blame him for wanting to dole out some rough justice, as he read about some of the cases Lestrade had dealt with as part of one of Scotland Yard's Murder squads.

He showed absolutely no signs of corruption. He worked hard, smoked too much, didn't take good enough care of himself, and perhaps cared a little too much, but Holmes couldn't really fault him for such things. He was aware of his own failings in such directions, too.

Holmes hadn't allowed himself to delve into the man's personal life. All he was doing, he told himself, was checking him out for the security aspect. Nothing else. He would not allow himself to abuse his power for personal gain.

Somehow though, that knowledge made it harder to lift the phone, because he knew there was nothing stopping him except for his own mind. Still, Mycroft Holmes was not a quitter. He wouldn't allow a little thing like nerves to stand in his way. He could face down world leaders, his hand had hovered over red buttons without trembling, so no damn mobile phone was going to stop him.

He picked it up and dialled. The harsh ring sounded in his ear. Of course, he told himself, it was sensible to try the work landline first. It wasn't that he didn't expect there to be an answer at eight in the evening on a Friday. It wasn't…

"Yes? Lestrade." The voice was angry, abrupt, unwelcoming. It shocked Holmes out of his thoughts.

He cleared his throat. "Um, Sergeant Lestrade? It's Mycroft Holmes. I'm terribly sorry to call so late…"

"Mr Holmes."

And Holmes thought he detected a softening of the tone.

"I'm sorry, I thought…never mind. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

And Holmes could imagine Lestrade stretching out on his cheap office chair, head tilted back to ease the cramped neck, brought on by too many hours hunched over a desk.

"I…I wanted to apologise. The insurance is taking slightly longer than I had hoped. It's…procedures, you understand? I assure you there won't be a problem."

"I understand. Just hope it doesn't take them as long as it did to get my tax rebate. I'll be needing a mobility scooter then, not a bike."

Holmes couldn't help but smile, imagining Lestrade's own grin. He leant back in his comfortable leather seat, swinging around a little to regard London from his window, the lights just beginning to flicker on across the city. He found himself trying to pick out the exact direction in which Scotland Yard lay.

"I wondered if, by way of an apology, you might allow me to buy you dinner tonight," he said. "I can pick you up shortly, if you have the time, that is…"

There was a pause, a slight sigh and Holmes worried, for a moment, that he might be about to be turned down.

"That would be nice, yeah," Lestrade finally said. "Would you rather I just met you somewhere?"

"No, no, especially as you currently are without transport. Please, I shall be there in my car shortly."

"Same driver?" And there was a hint of amusement in the tone.

He gave a low chuckle. "No, I have a new one. He's very good. Hasn't claimed a single victim all week."

There was a laugh from the other end of the line.

"I shall be with you directly."

Holmes ended the call, smiling. It hadn't gone nearly as badly as he thought. Lestrade even seemed rather…happy…about hearing from him, if the tone of his voice was to be trusted. He had certainly ended the conversation sounding a good deal happier than the rather abrupt answer had left Holmes hoping for. He stood and pulled on his jacket, carefully adjusting his collar and then cuffs so they sat just so. As he walked out of the door he picked up his umbrella and swung it as he made his way out of the office, to the waiting car.


Lestrade stood on the steps of Scotland Yard, sheltering from the pouring rain. He smoked a quick cigarette as he waited. The air was warm, but the rain was welcome – the city had been parched for too long. It was typical, though, that he had been forced to wear his decent clothes for a court appearance that morning, and was now going to get soaked.

The black car – or, he corrected himself, a black car, without any dents – pulled up to the kerb nearby. He turned his collar up and was about to step out into the weather when the driver of the car emerged, unfurling an umbrella and jogging across to Lestrade. He smiled – he should have known better.

"Here, Sir, sorry I couldn't park closer," he said, holding the umbrella above them both and walking back to the car, opening the door for Lestrade, who climbed inside and sat back on the expensive leather seats, not even damp around the edges. And there was Mycroft Holmes, immaculate in a three piece suit and looking smarter than Lestrade ever had in his life. Lestrade smiled.

The door closed with an expensive sounding 'thunk', the driver climbed in, shaking the umbrella out and starting the car with the purr of a powerful engine.

"Good evening, Sergeant," Holmes almost purred.

"Good evening, Mr Holmes," Lestrade replied. "And it's Lestrade. Or Greg, if you want…but hardly anyone calls me that."

"Indeed. And Mycroft, please."

Lestrade shifted slightly, already feeling under-dressed, especially, he was beginning to realise, as they were probably going to go somewhere achingly posh for dinner. He didn't even have a tie – it had been consigned back to his desk drawer the moment he got back to the Yard. He wondered if he should ask if Mycroft had a spare one. Hell, the man probably had an entire spare wardrobe.

"Good day?" Lestrade asked, to break the silence.

"Yes, excellent. Some…situations, which I believed could cause us problems have been neatly dealt with. And as such, I found myself free this evening. And yourself?"

Lestrade wondered who exactly 'us' was – the Government, or the population at large. "Um, yeah, fine. Was in court this morning, then paperwork and things, another kid got himself knifed earlier."

"You didn't seem in the best of spirits when I rang?" There was a caring tone to Holmes' voice, and Lestrade couldn't help but smile, remembering his annoyance at the phone ringing yet again, earlier in the evening, when he should have been long gone.

"Oh, just…y'know, dealing with pointless killing. It just…he was only fifteen…sorry, I was pretty rude, huh?" Lestrade fiddled with the edge of his jacket.

Holmes waved a hand as if it were nothing. "That must indeed be difficult to cope with. Have you any leads?"

Lestrade nodded. "We'll work it out – everyone's being a bit quiet at the moment – misplaced loyalty, gangs and all. But we'll get there."

The car pulled up in a quiet side-street, and Holmes opened the door without waiting for the driver. He opened up his umbrella, so Lestrade also clambered out, the heavy rain immediately soaking into his jacket. He looked up at the impressive building they had parked outside, the rain falling in his face…and then his heart almost stopped. A Freemason's Lodge. He'd avoided that sort of shit his entire career, he wasn't about to be dragged into it just because he was lusting after Holmes. It stood for everything he didn't. But it explained a lot – the young man, in such a powerful position, the money.

And then the umbrella was above him, and Holmes was standing close – close enough for Lestrade to feel the heat of his body through his own thin cotton shirt.

"That will be all for now, Ackers. I shall call when were ready to leave," Holmes called to his driver.

Lestrade wondered how he could get out of the situation – hell, if it came to it he'd just have to say he wasn't interested and walk away, literally. He may have been willing to drop his trousers for the man, but not roll up one leg of them.

And then arm which held the umbrella was almost around Lestrade's shoulders, their bodies nearly touching…Lestrade had no idea if he was reading far too much into the situation or not. And he was gently turned around, away from the lodge and guided across the street and under the awning of what looked to be a busy yet cosy restaurant. The interior was lit by candles and gentle lighting, the walls were dark and had black and white photographs in rustic wooden frames. The tables were the same chunky rough-hewn wood.

It allayed some of Lestrade's fears about finding himself in The Ivy or The Ritz or something. And, glancing across the road, he realised he really didn't know what he was getting himself into.

Holmes shook out the umbrella as Lestrade pulled open the door. Lestrade gestured Holmes to go first, and his cock twitched slightly in his trousers as he remembered the last time they had done this, albeit with positions reversed. He looked appreciatively at the cut of the suit, which accentuated Holmes’ figure perfectly.

Holmes stepped inside, and immediately a waiter was by his side, gesturing to a table after a few soft words were spoken.

Lestrade followed the two of them to a table near the back of the room, tucked into a corner. Lestrade watched as the waiter took Holmes' umbrella and then stepped forward to ease Lestrade's jacket from his shoulders.

"How are your injuries?" Holmes asked, as they sat down.

"What? Oh, fine, thanks." Lestrade's hand slid unbidden to his side, touching the fabric which concealed the large graze and impressive array of colours from the bruising. At Holmes' disbelieving look he gave a small shrug. "Bit bruised, that's all."

"I must admit, I've never had the opportunity to ride on a motorcycle," Holmes said. "Although it seems a sensible choice, in the city these days."

Lestrade smiled, then waited as Holmes ordered wine, looking at him quizzically, to check the choices were all right, although all Lestrade could do was shrug and nod, as he didn't really have much of a clue. "Yeah, fastest way to get around. And with the congestion charge nowadays, the cheapest, too. You should try it sometime – it's a lot of fun."

"Until someone knocks you off," Holmes murmured.

"Well," Lestrade shrugged. "Even that has proved to be quite a lot of fun."

Holmes smiled, a polite, almost embarrassed smile, and it made Lestrade's chest clench slightly, finding it endearing that this man with everything could still seem so vulnerable when it came to talking about more personal things.

"And you'd had that motorcycle for some years?" Holmes asked.

Lestrade nodded. "Yeah, second hand – but only just. Got it from a friend – his missus got pregnant, made him sell it for a sensible car. Good run around – good for the city."

"Ah, I see. Yes, I can imagine it wouldn't be ideal, for a family."

"It was perfect for me though – my other half didn't want me getting one, even though I've been riding for years. Thought it was too dangerous," Lestrade looked up at Holmes and swore he could almost see the barriers coming down – like when he had a suspect in the interview room and threw them a piece of irrefutable proof of their guilt. Holmes leant back in his seat, adjusted the front of his waistcoat, fiddled with the knife on his side plate. Lestrade frowned, wondering what he'd said…oh.

Just as he realised the waiter returned, fresh sliced bread in one hand a bottle of white in the other – condensation running from it. The waiter went through the pantomime of showing the bottle, uncorking, offering a taste to Holmes – who sniffed it, swirled it, drank a little, contemplated and finally nodded his approval. Lestrade waited until both their glasses where charged, then picked his up and held it to Holmes. "Cheers," he said, sipping it. Then continued. "Glad I bought it, though – cos he left me a few weeks later. Couldn't cope with the job, y'know? All the late nights, phonecalls in the early hours, that stuff."

And there was a visible relaxation, not just because of the excellent wine, either. Lestrade couldn't help but feel they were now engaged in a dance – each one trying to work out where the other was going to step, advancing and retreating, trying not to stumble. He was usually reasonably confident, but Holmes' was not his usual type. If he had been they'd have been in the pub right now, and dinner would be a kebab on the way home, followed by the possibility of some hot sweaty sex on the sofa. He wasn't entirely sure Holmes was capable of sweating – he looked calm and cool in his three-piece suit, whilst Lestrade could feel a slight dampness on his own body, despite just wearing his shirt.

"I can recommend the venison and the quail. Or the lamb. Well, to be quite honest, I could recommend anything here," Holmes gestured at the single white sheet of paper – the menu was beautifully simple – Lestrade had been worried he wouldn't understand half of it. "The chef is very highly skilled. And everything is fresh."

Lestrade nodded, reading down the list. He agreed that the venison and quail did sound amazing. He glanced around to see other people eating and drinking, the odd waiter gliding around with plates of what seemed to be good honest food – no frilly pointless tiny portions.

Occasionally a huge piece of meat would be served, on a block, and Lestrade watched as up to four people would share it out. The people were a good mix, too – from people dressed more casually to those clearly in the restaurant either straight after work or for a more formal occasion. Although the hot weather was encouraging everyone to dress down. Lestrade was glad he had been in court, though – he would have felt very slightly out of place in his battered, frayed jeans and a t-shirt.

When the food arrived it was delicious, a world away from the limp salad he'd eaten for lunch at his desk. They discussed food for a while, and Holmes insisted that Lestrade try the duck he had ordered, although refused some of Lestrade's in return.

Lestrade found himself relaxing, enjoying Holmes' company. The other man also seemed to be relaxing a little – laughing more readily, allowing some small details about himself to slip into the conversation. Lestrade gathered that he had travelled extensively, although he also guessed it was mainly for work, rather than pleasure.

A waiter arrived to collect their plates and Holmes smiled up at him.

"Ah, Thierry, c’est bon de vous revoir."

"M. Holmes, tout le plaisir est mien. Avez-vous apprécié votre premier plat?"

"Oui, merci, c’était délicieux. Comment se déroulent vos études ? Bien, je suppose?"

Lestrade felt his eyebrows lifting in surprise. Just another talent, he supposed. He wondered if there was an end to them.

"Oui, merci M. Holmes, très bien. Je m’amuse beaucoup."

"Et vous trouvez également le temps d’apprécier Londres, j’espère?"

"En effet, merci. C’est une bien belle ville."

The waiter nodded to Lestrade and walked away. Holmes turned back to Lestrade. "I'm sorry, I do come here often enough to know some of the staff. I didn't intend to be rude."

"Vous n’étiez pas malpoli. Je suis heureux qu’il se plaise à Londres. Qu’étudie-t-il?" Lestrade answered, and for a moment he enjoyed the look of utter surprise on Holmes' face.

"Mon père était français," Lestrade explained. "Bien que je ne le parle plus beaucoup."


Holmes attempted to keep the shock from showing on his face. He imagined he failed, from the very slightly embarrassed look on Lestrade's face.

"I see. I suppose I should have guessed, from the name," he said. "I didn't mean to imply…He studies history, at Kings."

Lestrade waved a hand, and Holmes watched as the hand then found its way to the second button on his shirt and undid it, unselfconsciously exposing more skin.

"And…do you have family there? Visit often?"

Lestrade looked away, and Holmes immediately realised the question was a poor one. "Um, no, well, not really. I try to visit friends, sometimes."

"I'm sorry, I didn't intend to pry," Holmes said.

"No, it's fine, it's just complicated. Both my parents died when I was young, that's all," Lestrade's hand waved as if it were nothing, but his eyes told a different story.

"I see, I am sorry," Holmes nodded. "And yet you still speak French, with a slight Parisian accent, I think?"

Lestrade gave a small grin. "Yeah. Grandparents, and friends. I don't speak it often enough though – I still sound like a teenager, I'm afraid. It's a bit embarrassing, really." And the smile shone out again, finally.

Holmes swallowed, and considered removing his jacket, feeling as if the temperature in the room was rising.

"It is rather warm, isn't it?" he said softly, standing and shrugged out of his own jacket, smiling in thanks to the waiter who appeared to take it from him.

He took a moment to adjust his cuffs and tug his waistcoat down smoothly and glanced at Lestrade to see something like hunger in the brown eyes. He gave a small smile as he retook his seat.

Lestrade was, he was certain, the subject of more than a few stolen glances in the room. And as the other man excused himself to use the toilet, he confirmed his suspicions by watching the other patrons – mainly women, though – track his progress through the room until he disappeared down the stairs. He sat back, pulling the wine from its ice bucket and recharging both their glasses. The evening was, he thought, going very well. Yet he was still unsure of how it might end. Some part of him hoped he would be able to entice Lestrade back to his house, and…get to know him in the flesh, for want of a better phrase. However, even the thought of it made his pulse rate increase. If he invited the man back then that was a clear signal – and one he wasn't sure he was ready to give. But it would be very awkward – not to mention rude – to then try to eject Lestrade if he didn't feel ready. However, he could offer Lestrade a lift home, and then perhaps…he could always leave, he told himself, if he felt things were going in a direction with which he wasn't comfortable.

He didn't know if he regretted not being more experienced at this sort of thing, or if he was glad that he'd never spent the time worrying about it, to the detriment of his other activities. He had known people at university who spent almost every evening pursuing, catching or getting over one sexual partner or another. It had all seemed, to him, to be a frightful waste of time and energy.

By the time their desserts arrived on the table he was even more unsure about his course of action. Watching Lestrade eat a crème caramel was ensuring that Holmes wouldn't be able to stand up without some embarrassment for a short time, at least. And Lestrade's insistence that he try some – leading to him holding out a small spoonful and feeding him was most definitely unhelpful to the fit of his trousers. He was glad the large white napkin was bunched up on his lap.

He ordered a dessert wine, as a finishing touch, despite Lestrade's assurance that it wasn't necessary. And he enjoyed every second of watching the man sip the sweet Ice Wine, surprise evident on his face and the inevitable questions about it. He remembered when he had been introduced to the sweet, nectar-like substance, and how amazed he'd been by the taste.

When the bill arrived he placed his credit card on the silver plate without even looking at it.

"Hey, come on, I should pay half," Lestrade insisted.

"Absolutely not – it's really the least I can do, having put you through so much pain and trouble," he picked up the plate as Lestrade reached for it.

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean…I mean, you don't need to do this," Lestrade held out his hand.

"I insist." Holmes gestured to the waiter and put the plate safely into his hands, not allowing Lestrade any further chances to grab it.

Lestrade sat back in his seat, and Holmes felt a small victory.

"Besides, it was I who invited you to dinner, and it would be incredibly rude of me to allow you to pay for anything," he finished, putting his PIN into the machine the waiter offered him.

Even so, he ensured that Lestrade wasn't looking when he slipped the banknotes into Thierry's hand as a tip when he was offered his coat by the boy. He did so dislike vulgar shows of wealth.

They stood outside the restaurant, watching the unrelenting rain as it poured from the awning, ran in torrents down the gutters and soaked unprepared Londoners. Lestrade rolled and lit a cigarette – a picture of relaxation, with his jacket slung over his arm, leaning back against the wall, as Mycroft called his driver.

"That was very kind of you," Lestrade said, as Holmes slipped his 'phone back into his pocket. "And really delicious."

He smiled. "I'm glad it was to your taste. I do try to come here quite often – their menu changes each day."

"Yeah, really nice. Not often you get really decent food that's not all poncy – y'know, a few sticks of carrot glued to a snail or whatever."

He couldn't help but smile. "Indeed. I must admit that so-called 'nouvelle cuisine' is not to my taste."

"Well, guess I should get going," Lestrade said. "I guess I'll…be in touch? About the bike?"

"Oh, please, you must allow me to give you a lift home," Holmes said. "I am, after all, the reason you're without transport of your own. And in such weather, too…"

Lestrade gave a lopsided smile. "Are you sure? I mean, it's not really on your way – well, it's past your way, by quite a bit. I live up in Kilburn."

"All the more reason I should give you a lift and not consign you to public transport," Holmes answered.

The car slid up to the kerb and Holmes unfurled his umbrella as Lestrade stamped on the butt of his cigarette. He ushered Lestrade into the car, waiting for him to slide over before climbing himself – a move that left Lestrade closer to the middle of the seat, his leg touching Holmes' own as he sat in an unselfconscious sprawl. Holmes felt a small amount of envy at anyone so comfortable in their own skin. He always had the sharp tones of various aunts, nannies and school teachers in his ears, telling him to sit up straight and square his shoulders.

"If you tell Ackers your address then we'll have you home in a moment," he said.

Lestrade leant forward and gave his address to the driver, and Holmes took the moment to enjoy the shirt pulled tight over strong shoulders, dipping down to the creases where it was tucked into the waistband of Lestrade's trousers, a worn leather belt just allowing a slight gap to appear between the two fabrics. He yearned to reach out and run his fingers down the smooth curve of Lestrade's spine, to feel the warmth – then to wrap his hand around the soft skin of his sides – the slight tautness of flesh between rib and hip that his fingers remembered so well from applying the cream when they first met.

And then in a swift motion Lestrade was leaning back, even closer to him than before, a gentle smile on his face.

"When I get a new ride, I'll return the favour," Lestrade said, his grin broadening. Then he pulled the seatbelt around his waist, and his fingers brushed against Holmes' hip, and Holmes' could swear he could still feel the touch long after it had gone.

The ride through the London streets was far shorter than Holmes would have liked – purely because he didn't want the night to end.

As they pulled up outside a block of flats Holmes once again reached for his umbrella.

"Don't worry, I can run in from here," Lestrade said, his hand catching Holmes', skin warm, touch gentle yet firm.

"Nonsense, I insist, please," Holmes climbed out of the car, and watched as Lestrade exited from his own side, splashing through the puddles as he walked around the car to reach Holmes, his shirt soaked even walking the few metres. Holmes shook his head in mock exasperation, then began walking to the entranceway.

Lestrade opened the main door and stepped inside, gesturing Holmes in after him.

"Well, I shall be in touch, regarding the motorcycle," Holmes said, his gaze wandering from the sparkling droplets of water caught in Lestrade's softly-spiked hair to the wet, clinging fabric of the shirt on Lestrade's muscular shoulders.

"Yeah," Lestrade ran his hand through his hair, and glanced up the stairwell, looking almost nervous, to Holmes. "And, um…it'd be nice if you…you know, were just in touch anyway. I mean, for a start you've got to let me buy you dinner, next time."

Holmes couldn't help but smile. "Yes, quite. I shall…or you're quite welcome to call, too, of course."

Lestrade nodded, and then seemed to make up his mind, glancing out of the door into the gloom of the night and then closing the gap between them. His hands rose up and he gently bunched Holmes' lapels into his fists, then kissed him, body pressing against his, warmth blanketing him from knee to chest.

Holmes closed his eyes, and this time, unlike last, opened his own mouth slightly, inviting further exploration. He found his hands sliding around Lestrade, fingers catching on belt-loops, pulling him closer, increasing the pressure between them.

And then Lestrade pulled away, very slightly, and brought his hand up further, gently running his fingertips along Holmes' jawline, leaving a tingling wake of sensation. "Will you come up?" Lestrade asked, in a husky whisper.

"I…" and Holmes was tempted. But for the new driver, waiting outside, and the knowledge he had a videocall in the morning which he couldn't postpone, and the fear that whatever happened in the flat wouldn't be on his terms, and would inevitably lead to little or no sleep. "I can't. Not now. But…"

He was silenced by another kiss, and a slight shift in the warm body pressing against his made his eyes widen as a definite hardness pressed against his thigh.

Lestrade broke the kiss again, and Holmes knew he should close his mouth and pull himself together – but he also knew that his own penis was rapidly growing heavy and hardening in his briefs, and somehow it precluded all sensible thoughts.

"But…maybe next time?" Lestrade asked, softly, deep chocolate-brown eyes searching his.

He managed to nod. "Yes, yes. Maybe," he said, feeling ridiculous for sounding as if he was panting. "And…thank you, for the company and the…just, thank you."

Lestrade moved away, his gaze raking Holmes' body, and an obvious hunger in his eyes. He nodded, once, then released the door locks, pulling it open.

"Soon?" he asked, as Holmes stepped out into the rain.

"Yes!" Holmes answered, smiling. "Yes, soon."



Lestrade skidded around the corner, his boots slipping on the mud, then threw himself after the two boys he had been chasing for some minutes now. He could hear the thud of footfalls and panting breath of Garaghan behind him, but he knew they'd be lucky to catch their suspects – who knew the area well, and were young and reasonably fit.

He threw himself onwards, pressing the button on his radio and shouting out their location as he ran, hoping for backup to arrive and cut off the kids.

And then his prayers were answered – a building site fence, cutting off the road. The panic was obvious, the boys turning, desperate to find a way out.

Lestrade stopped, hands out, updating their position again, asking for urgent assistance. Garaghan stopped next to him, panting.

"Just give it up," Lestrade said. "Come on, no way out now, just stay calm."

One of the boys made as if to move, and Lestrade reacted instantly. The boy stopped, and they were engaged in a stupid game, each trying to guess the others next move. Lestrade just knew that they had to stay strong, stay where they were, keep the boys trapped until help arrived.

And then one of them, shakily, pulled a knife from his belt.

Lestrade sighed. "Don't bother, mate. Put it down. You've done enough damage."

The other boy turned and ran for the fence, his hands just grabbing the top, feet scrabbling against the wood.

Lestrade threw himself at the knife-wielding one, knocking him aside, relying on years of experience that told him the kid would be too scared to use it against him.

He was, thankfully, right. He shoulder-barged the boy aside, into the wall, knowing that Garaghan would deal with him, and ran for the other one, grabbing his legs, pulling. He collected a few hard kicks to the shoulder, narrowly avoiding his face, but in the end the boy couldn't hang on, and they both ended up in a heap on the floor, Lestrade clambering on top of him, using his entire bodyweight to pin him down, grabbing for his wrists and putting him in an armlock, only then looking back to check Garaghan was coping okay. He smiled when he saw that the other boy was indeed subdued, standing against the wall, having given up without much of a struggle.

"I'm arresting you for the murder of Joseph Kuffay, You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

"Get off me you fuckin' poof," Lestrade's prisoner struggled. "Batty boy, getting off on this, are ya? Get the fuck off me."

Lestrade ignored it, having heard it all before. He merely increased the pressure of his hold in response to the renewed struggling. He wondered what the kid would do if he told him he was correct in his accusations.

"Ah, aaaaah, you're gonna break my arm! My fuckin' arm! I ain't done nuffin'! I'l fuckin' sue you, you cunt!"

The tirade continued until it was drowned out by the wail of sirens as cars pulled up at the end of the road, uniformed officers spilling out.

He finally relaxed his hold very slightly as two constables arrived, one grabbing the man's legs, the other brandishing handcuffs and fixing them around the wrist which Lestrade held.

Once back at the station he began the long process of booking the young men in, then collating the evidence for ready for his interviews. He was certain they had the right men, and knew they needed to ensure they had a solid case ready so they could sort it out swiftly.

"Any calls?" he asked, as he walked through the CID office.

"Yup," Janes answered, from the desk next to his.

Lestrade couldn't help it – his heart gave a little clench in the hope that it would be from Holmes.

"Forensics…forensics again…coroner…message from someone called Dewey, wouldn't say what it was about…um, yeah, that's it."

"Oh, right," Lestrade sank into his chair, opening up the laptop, checking his email, and feeling his heart drop a little further when there was nothing from addresses he didn't recognise and expect.

"Sorry to disappoint," Janes smiled, obviously fishing for further information.

Lestrade smiled back. "No, I was just sort of expecting something, doesn't matter."

"Look like you've been having fun this morning, anyway," she pointed at the muddy footprints over his shoulder and the filthy knees of his jeans.

"Got the bastards, didn't we? No loyalty amongst the criminals these days, thank God."

"Well done. Have you told the family yet?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Get them charged first – but the forensics is tight. They weren't careful. I'm sure it'll stand up. Just got them all processed, so we'll do the matches this afternoon."

He worked through the new information that had arrived whilst he'd been out, occasionally glancing at the telephone, willing it to ring.

Three days later Holmes still hadn't been in touch. Lestrade flopped onto his sofa, after a long day all he wanted was to spend a bit of time relaxing, enjoying company of the posh, nervous, adorable man who'd literally crashed into his life. Instead he was alone in the heat of the city, his flat a mess and photos of a badly burned body spread across his coffee table. He was suddenly glad that Holmes had declined his offer to come up a few days previously. His small, messy, flat was a world away from the stylish class of Holmes' house. Lestrade was, in fact, certain his entire flat would fit into the kitchen and living room of Holmes' townhouse. And he wondered once again what he was getting himself into. Normally he was good at this sort of thing – yes, it was more difficult being a police officer - clubs he would have been tempted to visit, where he in another profession, were definitely off limits now. He wasn't 'scene', he tried to be discreet about his preference for dating men. He didn't need the hassle of any extra grief from his workmates or anyone else. So he went out, sometimes set up by his friends, sometimes meeting people through the job, sometimes he ventured into the odd gay-friendly pub, or cruising Old Compton Street with mates. He knew people were attracted to him – he was confident enough in himself to flirt and tease, to date – but anything more, anything that involved commitment, he found harder. He was wary of giving too much of himself away.

Yet now he found he wanted more – he didn’t want a one-night stand with Mycroft Holmes. And the thought scared and intrigued him in equal measure. He wondered if he should call, and sat forward, looking at his 'phone. He hit the 'dial' button and waited.

Two rings and a female voice answered.


"Uh, hi, I was wondering if I could speak to Mycroft Holmes?" he said, assuming he was speaking to a secretary or PA.

"May I ask what it is regarding?"

He swallowed, unsure of what to say. "It…He just said he'd call me, and he hasn't…and…"

"Well, Sir, if I could take your name and your company I'll ask him to get in touch."

"Right, yeah, it's Greg Lestrade, no company. He'll know what it's about."

"Very well, Sir. Goodbye."

Lestrade looked at the phone as the screen blanked out.

Maybe he'd been too forward. Maybe he shouldn't have pushed as far as he did – but he'd been sure, the second time, that it was what the man wanted. He remembered the lips opening under his, soft, pliable. The tentative swipe of the tongue against his own, the hands sliding over his waist. And then the hesitation and finally being turned down. Too much, too soon? Maybe this wasn't how it worked in the upper classes. Maybe he should have waited, spent more time getting to know the man, instead of blundering straight in.

He sighed. The damage was done, the ball was in Holmes' court now. He'd go back to hoping for a phonecall and dreaming of tailored suits, fine cloth and pocket watches all encasing the perfect body and fantastic brain.

It was three days later that his phone rang, as he was walking through a dingy estate, on the trail of a man who'd been fingered for a brutal drunken fight, leaving the victim barely clinging to life.

He glanced at the screen. Withheld number. Probably someone trying to sell something, then.

"Lestrade," he answered.

"Ah, sergeant." The smooth voice was immediately recognisable. "I'm so sorry for not being in touch sooner. I was unexpectedly sent abroad."

Lestrade stopped walking, signalling to Garaghan that he needed to take the call. He leant back against the wall, trying to fit into the tiny patch of shade.

"No problem," he answered, guarded, wary. He wanted to ask if 'abroad' had been a country devoid of phones or computers, but he held his tongue, knowing it would be stupid and petty.

"I think I have solved the issue regarding the motorcycle. I was wondering if you'd do me the honour of dining with me tonight – just something simple, at mine?"

Lestrade smiled to himself. "Yeah, that'd be nice."

"Excellent. Shall I have my car pick you up at the Yard again?"

"Um, y'know, I'm not sure when I'll finish up today. Shall I just turn up whenever I'm done? Or…I mean, is there a good time?"

"Of course, please, just arrive whenever is convenient."

"Right, great, I look forward to it."

"Take care then, Sergeant," Holmes said softly and the phone went dead.

"Must be good news," Garaghan called. "You've got a face like the Cheshire Cat now."

Lestrade laughed. "It was, yeah – should be getting a bike back soon, if I can find something I can afford."

"Should ask the bloke that sent you flying – sounds like he's not short of a penny if he's being driven around in a Merc."

"Nah, insurance is dealing with it all – and I know she wasn't worth that much. Still, there'll be something out there, someone else being forced to sell. I dunno, I've been thinking about finding something new for a while, but…well, no spare cash means it's all pipe dreams."

Lestrade's mood had improved greatly since the call, and he didn't even mind when they once again found themselves chasing a suspect through the baking hot London streets. Sweat ran down his face and body, his shirt sticking to him, breath rasping in his throat. He had a smile of grim determination as they leapt walls, dodged traffic and threw themselves down stairs. He could hear Garaghan behind him again – this time the other man was the one trying to keep up the commentary on the radio.

The man span around a corner and Lestrade swore as he slid on the dry, dusty pavement – the rain from previous days seemed as if it had never happened, and grass was once more baked dry. He fell, skidding sideways before scrabbling to his feet, Garaghan overtaking him. But he was the fitter man, and the gap between them and their quarry was closing rapidly as the other man reached the end of his endurance. Lestrade brought him down in a flying tackle, arms and legs tangling as they crashed to the ground, sliding on the grass of a small park.

The man didn't fight, just panted heavily and held his hands out, shaking his head.

Lestrade just leant on him, a good handful of t-shirt in his fist for security, not bothering to get up.

"Two runners, in a week like this?" Garaghan said, leaning on his knees. "Has everyone gone insane?"

Lestrade nodded. "Thought the heat was meant to make everyone lazy."

"Fucking right." Garaghan wiped his face on the sleeve of his t-shirt, then answered a radio call to guide the van to their current position.

Lestrade kept a hand on the 'cuffs, but closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the sun on his face and the smell of the sweet grass they had trampled and crushed.

Finally the van turned up, and he and Garaghan began the long walk back to their car, stopping only to buy themselves cold cans of Coke in one of the small newsagents. Lestrade ran the cold can over his face, down his neck, the condensation and sweat mingling and running down to soak into his collar.


Holmes had prepared food, ensured the house was tidy (it was never anything but, thanks mainly to the efforts of Mrs Francis), but paid special attention to the bedroom, throwing the windows open wide to air the place. He couldn't help a little frisson of fear running through him as he thought about what might happen, later.

After his exertions in the kitchen Holmes went upstairs and stood under the shower, allowing the water to rush over him from the massive showerhead. It felt like the heavy summer rain of a few nights previous, and he allowed himself to reach down and caress himself, imagining the heat and taut muscles pressing against him, the strong hands touching him and the dark eyes watching his every move. He could feel his cock filling out in his hand, hanging heavily between his legs and he began stroking it, his free hand rubbing over his chest, through the soap and bubbles.

He gave a satisfied sigh as his hand closed around his shaft and he set a rhythm, occasionally pushing his thumb and foreskin over the tip, enjoying the extra jolt of sensation.

And then he was leaning against the wall with one hand, head bowed, water running over his face and down his body as he raced toward orgasm, the sensation wrenching a noise from deep inside him, a gasping, panting whimper. He didn't allow himself to give in to such base feelings often, and the sensation, along with the new images in his head, made him worry that what he hoped for wasn't what he should be doing.

He washed thoroughly, then dried and dressed in a clean pair of trousers and a crisply ironed shirt, which he left open at the neck in deference to the sticky London heat.

He looked at himself in the mirror, adjusting the fall of the cloth of his shirt. It was hard for him to see what Lestrade seemed to find attractive. His hair was thinning slightly, his face…unusual was the best he could come up with. He had none of the classic good-looks Lestrade did. None of the effortless fluidity of movement. He worked hard to be charming, polite and sophisticated but feared occasionally it came across all wrong. He hoped tonight, here, out of the public eye and with his staff dismissed for the evening, he could relax in Lestrade's company.

He wasn't very good at waiting, he realised, and numerous checks of the clock showed time to be ticking by at a truly glacial rate. He fiddled with the tableware, the silver and lit a candle. Then blew the candle out again, deciding it was far too light outside, wafting the air to try to eradicate the distinctive smell of smoke. He poured himself a drink, but was afraid of having too much, so only sipped at the drink, barely wetting his lips.

He finally sat at his desk, working through some of the easier paperwork – things he could drop in an instant. And finally the doorbell chimed.

Holmes stood abruptly, pushing the documents marked 'Top Secret' back into his desk drawer and locking it, glancing around, checking everything was just so, then went to the door.

He smoothed his shirt, fixed a smile on his face and opened it.

"Your guest, Mr Holmes," one of his men said – he had forgotten to warn Lestrade that the intercom on the front gate didn't go to the house, but to the security lodge in the basement.

Lestrade smiled, nodded his thanks to the man and stepped inside the house.

Holmes pushed the door closed and turned to Lestrade, almost dazzled by the smile.

"Good evening," he said, wishing his voice didn't sound so odd. He wanted to lean in, to kiss the smiling lips with the slow confidence Lestrade had shown, but something held him back, something inside which still held a nagging doubt.


"You seem to have been in the wars once more," Holmes allowed his fingers to gently touch Lestrade's shirt, which was still stained green. A small trade off, nothing like the feel of breathing the same air as they kissed, but a tiny promise, a taste.

He noticed that Lestrade smelt slightly of some type of cheap soap – the sort found in toilets and washrooms, not one's home. He assumed the other man had made some attempt to have a wash before leaving Scotland Yard, although it seemed as if one packed, hot Tube journey had put paid to most of his work.

"Please, do come through, can I offer you a drink?"

"Beer?" Lestrade asked. "Bitter or something? Lager in a pinch."

Holmes felt his heart drop a little. Why hadn't he thought of that? Of course the man would want a cold beer.

"I'm…sorry, I have wine…or soft drinks. Um, I have spirits, and mixers…"

"Wine's fine," Lestrade leant back against the worktop. "And maybe some water?"

"Of course, yes," Holmes fetched glasses and put some ice and water in a tall glass, too.

He couldn't help but run his tongue over his lips as Lestrade pressed the cool glass to his neck, rolling his head back as the cold chilled the blood in his veins. He wanted to reach out again, to touch, but as Lestrade's eyes opened lazily he lost his confidence.

"So, are you hungry?" he asked. "It looks like you've been busy today."

"Yeah – and yeah, bloody criminals decided today was the day to run. Had to take him down in a tackle. Could've done without it, in this heat."

Holmes pulled a face. "Well, whilst I admit to being glad there are people like who you are willing to throw themselves around to protect the rest of us, I can't say I would enjoy it."

"How about you – been anywhere nice?" Lestrade's tone suggested he imagined the opposite was true.

"Ah, a small issue in Uzbekistan. Very tedious, I'm afraid. I barely saw anything outside of offices, meeting rooms and hotels."

Lestrade gulped some water down. "Couldn't do that. Not all the time. I'd go stir crazy, throw myself out of a window or something. Don't you ever just want to crack people's heads together?"

Holmes couldn't help but smile. "Indeed, it is tempting, but…I fear people wouldn't approve."

"No, they don't seem to," Lestrade smiled. "Even if it'd probably be the best option sometimes."

Holmes smiled. "I have some crab, to begin – I hope you like it?"

"Not sure I've ever tried it, to be honest," Lestrade answered. "'Fraid I'm not really that adventurous with food – I mean, when I cook."

"Here, try some – I can always make something else, if you'd like?" Holmes took out a fork and slid it into the pot, scooping some up and then holding it out. To his surprise, instead of taking the fork, Lestrade's fingers wrapped around his hand and guided the fork to his mouth.

He watched as Lestrade's lips slid over the silver, eyes widening as the flavour hit him. "Lovely," Lestrade said, swallowing.

Holmes smiled. "Excellent. I shall just do some toast for it."

He was aware of Lestrade sitting down at the table, leaning his elbow on the top, hooking the nearest chair toward him and resting his foot on the rung.

"So you cooked all this?" he asked, gesturing to the crab.

"Yes – I enjoy cooking, I find it very relaxing," Holmes smiled.

"I never seem to find the time. Try to eat at the Yard, then just make myself something simple at home. And shiftwork doesn't help, either."

"Indeed, I can sympathise. Work does tend to get in the way of one's diet regime. I can only imagine how you must fare."

Holmes carried the food to the table and couldn't help but raise his eyebrows slightly as, instead of Lestrade moving to the place set opposite his own, he instead dragged the placemat, complete with cutlery, across the table to where he was sitting, meaning they would be positioned at right angles to one another. He was glad, however, that Lestrade did it – suddenly realising that being so far apart, across the empty expanse of wood, would indeed be too formal, too remote.

Lestrade tucked in, and Holmes took great pleasure in watching the man enjoy his food. He cleared up the plates, although Lestrade insisted on helping, and he also charged their glasses once more.

As he served the main course – seared tuna made into a salad, with cold seasoned beans and potatoes, he could feel a slight twist of nerves in his gut. He wasn't sure he had done the right thing at all – the man in front of him was so down-to-earth, so devoid of airs and graces, and Holmes feared he had made a terrible error in judgement. It had seemed such an obvious choice, when he was high on the feeling of being kissed and having had one of the best evenings of his life. But now, when it was far too late, he was assailed with doubt.

"This is lovely," Lestrade said, pointing down with his fork, breaking Holmes' train of thoughts.

"Yes? Good, I mean, I'm glad."

"So, got any plans for the weekend?" Lestrade asked. "I mean, do you get a weekend?"

"Yes – well, unless something unexpected comes along, I tend to try to regulate my work as best I can. Generally the people I find myself working with are rather precious about working over the weekend, so I often have the time off. But I don't really have any plans, no."

Lestrade nodded, and Holmes wished he could read the other man's mind – somehow he was finding it very hard to work out what was going on behind the brown eyes.

"And yourself?" he asked.

"No, worked last weekend, cleaned up a case today so should get a clear run until Monday now – barring anyone getting done in that's linked to one of mine."

Holmes found himself smiling now, pleased at the prospect of Lestrade being potentially available all weekend.

As Lestrade put the last forkful of food in his mouth Holmes knew he had to act quickly, or lose his nerve.

"I, um, as I said, I have made arrangements, regarding your motorcycle. It…it might be easier if you just came with me."

Lestrade looked slightly surprised, but stood up and followed him.

Holmes hoped he wasn't about to make a horrific mistake.


Lestrade expected to be led to an office, but Holmes turned down the steps to the garage instead. He felt a little bit of hope, deep inside him, that somehow Holmes had managed to get the old bike fixed – although remembering the damage he was certain that wasn't possible.

Holmes pushed open the door, stepping inside and gesturing across the room.

Lestrade felt his mouth drop open. In front of the battered, broken, old bike, the one he had left two weeks before, there stood a beautiful, gleaming, brand new model. The same bike…well, no, a better bike – six years newer, with the improved brakes and the new colour scheme and the suspension system that was supposed to make it ride like a dream... The one that had only been out for a few months. The one he'd seen pictures of in a magazine and had lusted after.

And then it hit him – it must be a mistake. He couldn't be understanding correctly. The bike was probably on loan, or something. Something for him to get around on whilst he waited for the insurance money. Holmes had got him a loan bike and was about to tell him that the cheque would be in the post.

"That's…that's not mine," he said, flatly, more to tell himself than any other reason.

Holmes seemed to be shifting around, nervous, anxious. If he'd been a criminal, Lestrade would have said he was guilty.

"It is. I mean, if you want it to be. You see, the money for the old bike was…well, it wasn't enough. And, I just didn't think that would do. So I sort of…well, bought this one. For you. It seemed like the proper thing to do, as I feel responsible for the old one being damaged beyond repair."

Lestrade dragged his gaze from the gleaming machine to the man next to him. "No…no, you can't…" he held out his hands. "That's too much, that's…that's ridiculous, it's brand new!"

"It…please, I thought…I thought you'd like it. I mean, you don't have to…obviously."

"No, I like it – I fucking love it, but…it's too much. You must be nuts, seriously, it's…" and he found himself walking towards it, sliding his hand over the new seat. "I can't accept this – Christ, it's…worth thousands. I hardly know you…shit." And he couldn't take his hand off the bike, even vaguely noting there was a new helmet hanging from the bars. And as he looked down he realised the gearing had also been adjusted – just as he had it on his old bike. And a similar cooler fitted, too. "You…you had it modified?"

Holmes walked up beside him and gave a small nod. "I asked for them to replicate your old one as best they could. I thought it would be what you wanted."

"I…" Lestrade just shook his head, lost for words.

And then he felt a hand on his shoulder, sliding slightly to the centre of his back. "Please, accept it. I…I wanted to do it, very much. I wanted you to have it. I understand if you don't wish to accept it, but…it would mean a lot to me, if you did."

Lestrade turned to look into Holmes' eyes, but there was no mockery, no humour, just a sincere look, and some obvious nerves.

"I'd love it, but…I don't know, it's just…" he pushed his hand through his hair.
"I…I don't know, it's so much." He didn't know what was happening. He didn't know if it was the most generous gift he was probably ever going to receive, or if it was a bribe to drop the whole matter, or even if this was Holmes' clumsy way of ensuring that he got him into bed – as if the signals hadn't been clear enough that that was going to happen without stupid far-too-large-and-fucking-ridiculous presents.

And the hand dropped from his back, Holmes moving away. "I didn't, look, it's fine, it can go back. I don't want you to think…I'm not trying to…show off, or…or buy you, or something. Please believe that. It was, perhaps it was silly, and I can just get you a cheque, for the old bike, and we can just…leave it at that, if you'd prefer. But please, come back inside, forget about it, I can sort it out."

Lestrade realised that Holmes was rapidly backpedalling – not just about the bike, but about everything, about the whole…whatever it was they had. He was following him out of the garage and up the stairs, but at the top he grabbed Holmes' arm, turning him around. "I didn't mean…but you don't have to do this, you know? Let's just…forget about the bike, forget about the last five minutes, and…" he leant in, looking into the blue eyes, trying to read the expression, and kissed him. When he stopped he didn't move away, feeling the warmth of Holmes' breath on his lips.

"I…" Holmes' started.

Lestrade kissed him again, silencing him. "Forget about everything, except me, you and right now."

And finally tentative hands touched his waist, holding him. He slid a hand up to Holmes' neck, gently kneading the flesh, holding him close and kissing him again, tongue sliding over lips, then dipping into the warm wet mouth, waiting to feel an answering movement, feeling the tension in Holmes’ body slowly receding.

He hoped he wasn't going to be pushing too far, and he released Holmes' arm and moved his hand to the waistband of Holmes' trousers, tugging at the shirt, pulling it free and slipping his hand inside, feeling the naked flesh under his fingertips and wanting more.

Holmes seemed to be following his lead, as his own shirt was pulled up, warm hands on his skin, palms flat, then fingers digging into his back, pulling him close, the kiss never ending, even though they were now panting into each other's mouths, breathing the same air.

"Bedroom?" Holmes asked, tentatively, the end of the word caught in a new kiss from Lestrade.

Lestrade nodded, claiming another kiss before he moved away, hand still entangled in Holmes' shirt, allowing the other man to lead the way.

As they walked up the stairs he couldn't help but run his palm over the taut buttocks mere inches in front of him, and at the top of the stairs hook his fingers over the waistband of the trousers to stop Holmes so he could press against him from behind, mouth working over the exposed neck, reaching up to suck an earlobe, hand sliding inside the shirt once more, working around until he found the soft hair on Holmes' stomach, the dip of his navel and the hollow above his hip bone, leading down to his groin.

"I…" Holmes managed, then his breath hitched as Lestrade gently pinched a nipple between two fingers, through the soft fabric of his shirt.

He managed to spin out of Lestrade's grasp, and walk backwards, hand tentatively moving to the front of Lestrade's shirt, toying with the buttons, leading them into a large airy room, with a bed Lestrade would swear the entire Government could have an orgy on, with room to spare.

Lestrade pushed his hands away, impatience getting the better of him, and began unbuttoning the shirt, shrugging it off his shoulders and toeing his boots off all at once. And then noticing that Holmes was still fully dressed, watching with something verging on fear in his eyes. Lestrade slowed, kicking his boots to the side of the room, shirt still hanging off his forearms. He finally dropped it and stepped forward, now only in his trousers and socks. "What?" he asked, softly, fingers working the buttons on Holmes' shirt, taking more care than with his own.

"I haven't done…this, before," Holmes answered, looking down, away, out of the window, anywhere but at him.

"This…oh, well, we'll go slow. No worries, it's not much different to being with a woman, not really," he tried to reassure, although he'd never really tried that, so couldn't say so with absolute certainty.

"I mean," and Holmes' hands found his, stilled them, palms sweaty, a slight tremor running through him. "I've never done it with…anyone."

And Lestrade swallowed, not moving, not knowing what to say and suddenly feeling immensely responsible, and the pressure he'd been trying to ignore doubling – hell, tripling – because suddenly this wasn't a bit of nice, sweaty fun, this was Holmes' first time, with all the baggage that carried. And Lestrade could remember his own, and how ultimately unsatisfying that had been.

"Right," he said. And he allowed his hands to move again, more slowly, more carefully. Every button which came free was punctuated by a kiss to Holmes' lips, each new bit of exposed flesh was touched, rubbed, caressed, and at some point Holmes' hands began to match the movements, sliding up over Lestrade's stomach, up his breastbone, across his collarbones, noticeably avoiding his nipples.

He undid the last button, then caught Holmes' hand, guiding the fingertips, letting the rub over the hard flesh of the nipple and the solid steel of the ring. He closed his eyes in pleasure, releasing Holmes' hand and feeling the second hand match the first, touching, exploring.

"They don't…hurt?" Holmes' voice sounded unsure, although the movement didn't stop.

"No," Lestrade assured, opening his eyes and starting to push the shirt off Holmes' shoulders, stepping closer, kissing him again, and once the shirt was gone reaching around to undo the front of Holmes' trousers.

"I just need to…" Holmes pointed to his shoes, and moved away, sitting on the bed. Lestrade took the opportunity to ditch his own trousers, and boxers, then crawled up the bed, settling on his knees behind Holmes and lightly running his fingers down the bumps of his spine, then over the curve of his shoulders, leaning over to follow the trail his hand left with gentle kisses and the occasional swipe of tongue. He could taste the slight saltiness of sweat, and the fragrance of soap and knew he could spend hours just exploring Holmes' body.

Finally Holmes' shoes were off, neatly unlaced, unlike Lestrade's own. And Holmes was standing, moving away from Lestrade, dropping his trousers and finally his briefs, hanging the clothing carefully over the back of a chair, in contrast to Lestrade's, which was puddled on the floor at random.

Lestrade stretched out, luxuriating on the soft bedding and the acres of space, he tucked his arm behind his head and allowed himself to look Holmes up and down, making no attempt to hide it. He was pleased to see that Holmes' dick, whilst not totally hard, was at least showing some interest in proceedings.

Holmes climbed onto the bed and lay next to him, one hand out hesitantly, softly stroking over his jaw, then down over his throat, causing Lestrade to swallow, and continuing down over soft chest hair, detouring around the bruises still visible on his side, until he reached the soft skin over Lestrade's hip. Then he started again, this time down the other side, immediately finding the grazes over his collarbone. "From the accident?" Holmes asked, eyes wide.

Lestrade shook his head. "Someone who didn't want to be caught," he said. Holmes nodded and his hand continued, this time the fingers bumping over his nipple, but stopping short of his hip, avoiding his cock hanging heavily over it.

Lestrade moved slightly, reaching for a kiss, allowing his free hand to roam over Holmes' chest, around his rib cage and onto his back, pulling him closer, feeling Holmes' hand copying, ending up on his back, fingers digging in as he tightened the hold. Then he shifted, planting kisses down Holmes' chin, seeking out and kissing the pulse points on his neck, sliding the flat of his tongue over a collarbone, followed by another kiss, and then scooting further down, kissing through the soft chest hair and then very very gently catching the nipple in his teeth before bathing it with his tongue. If the pressure of the fingers on his back were anything to go by he assumed he was still on the right path.


Holmes shifted his hand, pushing his fingers through Lestrade's thick, soft hair, forcing his mouth to remain on his nipple, revelling in the feel of the wet heat and slight shiver of pain as teeth grazed over the hardened nub.

He somehow couldn't believe he was here, now, after years of very formal dates, of dinners and courting and theatre outings, never amounting to anything…and now he had somehow ended up with a man who he'd found literally lying in the street.

He gasped as the mouth moved from one nipple to the other, a gentle bite, teeth scraping over flesh, and he wasn't even sure when he'd got an erection, but it was there, and it both excited and terrified him.

Lestrade moved up the bed again, planting more kisses as he went, finally licking over Holmes' own lips, begging for access. And when he opened his mouth Lestrade's strong arms were wrapped around him and he found himself lifted and rolled, legs tangling, arm reaching for balance. And then he was lying on top of Lestrade, and his groin was…and Lestrade's…he closed his eyes, trying to take deep breaths, remain in control, even as Lestrade's hands were on his buttocks, kneading the flesh, pulling him closer, tighter, shifting so they were locked together.

He looked down at Lestrade's face, the smile there soft and relaxed, eyes half closed.

"Just relax," Lestrade whispered. "Enjoy it."

And he smiled back, knowing his was slightly strained, because he was always uncomfortable when he wasn't in control, and he had never felt less so in his life.

"We won't do anything you don't want to," Lestrade continued, and Holmes could feel him dragging his nails very gently over his back, and it was relaxing. Then he felt the twitch of Lestrade's erection at his hip, and it all came flooding back – he knew the mechanics, obviously, but the prospect of putting it into practice seemed terrifying.

"What's up?" Lestrade stretched up to kiss him, the tendons in his neck standing out as he did so. And Holmes moved down slightly, following Lestrade's earlier example, kissing his neck, feeling the rough stubble under his lips. He moved tentatively, dropping small kisses, occasionally tracing with the tip of his tongue. And Lestrade moved underneath him, stretching, groaning, hands finding his buttocks again and then a gently rocking his hips. Holmes froze for a second as the gentle friction on his erection made him jump, and a moan was pulled from deep inside him.

"Like that?" Lestrade whispered in his ear, then bit and sucked on the lobe.

"Mmmm," he groaned, all words abandoning him – almost all coherent thought abandoning him. And Lestrade's hands were sliding over his back, holding him tightly, reaching for a kiss.

And then it stopped, Lestrade panting underneath him, eyes closed. And he worried.

"Are…is something wrong?" he asked.

Lestrade shook his head. "Just…need a moment. Way too close," he blew out a breath, opening his eyes, and it took Holmes a moment to understand, to realise that Lestrade had nearly orgasmed. And another moment to realise he had caused that – the gorgeous man underneath him had been so turned on…by him. He moved his legs, leaving just his chest resting on Lestrade, noticing, out of the corner of his eye, Lestrade's dick, rigid in the air, a slight curve to it. He dipped his head and ran the flat of his tongue over Lestrade's nipple, hand splayed on his stomach. His tongue slid over flesh and metal, and he kept his eyes open, trying to read the expressions, follow the clues.

"God, yeah, like that," Lestrade's voice was rough, almost hoarse and he couldn't help but push his own groin into the soft bedding slightly, hips jerking.

Lestrade's hands found his arms and urged him upwards, grabbing a kiss before pushing him over, onto his back. And then, a few kisses and Lestrade was heading down his body, detouring around nipples and to dip his tongue into Holmes' navel, and then, just when Holmes was certain what was going to happen, Lestrade was laying kisses and licking the crease between his thigh and his body, up on his hands and knees, crawling down the bed, mouth never stopping its steady work.

Holmes' could feel his erection twitching, seeking touch, and he couldn't help but lift his head to see what Lestrade was doing – just in time to see the tip of his cock disappearing between Lestrade's lips. And he could swear Lestrade was smiling.

He gasped as the heat and wet engulfed him, his hands bunching the covers underneath him into fists. Then the suction of Lestrade lifting his head, cheeks hollowed, lips wet, and he felt the muscles in his legs begin to shake.

Lestrade finally let the tip slide through his lips and then immediately sank straight back down, seeming to take the entire length into his mouth. Holmes could hear himself making noises – noises he was sure sounded utterly pornographic. And as the feelings intensified it was as if Lestrade somehow knew – could read his mind, and he moved, tongue and then lips on his balls, and then Lestrade's arms wriggling under his thighs, lifting them, pushing his legs up, resting them over his shoulders, as the warm mouth moved ever lower.

His eyes snapped open as the tongue went where, in Holmes' opinion, tongues were not supposed to go.

"Jus' think 'bout how good it feels," Lestrade mumbled, between licks.

And Holmes once again wondered if Lestrade was actually a mind reader. But he did close his eyes again, and the feelings were sensational as Lestrade kissed, licked and groaned, with what sounded like pleasure. Which just made it all feel so much better, because it really did seem as if Lestrade was enjoying it too.

Another shift, a wriggle from Lestrade and his legs were released and his dick once again engulfed with the heat and pressure of lips, tongue and the soft scrape of teeth. He was powerless to stop his hips jerking – even more so when he felt a gentle pressure against his wet hole as a finger or thumb stroked over and around it. The feeling of his muscles turning to water seemed to spread outward from his groin, along with the inexorable heat and pressure.

"I…I'm going to…" and he tried to grab Lestrade's hair, to urge him to stop and move, but Lestrade stubbornly stayed where he was, one hand encircling the base of Holmes' cock, moving in time with his mouth.

The orgasm felt as if it ripped through him, wringing every bit of life from him in a huge wave of unimaginable pleasure and he wasn't sure if it was him making the noise or Lestrade. His legs were weak, shaking and the feel of Lestrade's tongue lapping over him and lips gently sucking him clean. He tried to say something, but couldn't form the words.

Lestrade crawled back up the bed, half lying on top of Holmes', and Holmes' could taste the slightly salty flavour of his own essence as Lestrade kissed him.

He could feel the steely hardness pressing against his hip, and realised, despite his post-orgasmic haze, he should try to do something about it.

He reached down, and Lestrade rolled away, onto his back, so Holmes followed, his fingers closing around Lestrade's erection, reaching for another kiss. Mentally cataloguing the cock now in his hand – a little thicker than his own, different bumps of veins, the foreskin less generous, the curve less pronounced.

"Mmm," Lestrade moaned, hips bucking into the touch. Holmes looked down, unsure what to do, whether to try to follow Lestrade's lead.

"Just…" Lestrade's own hand closed around his, stroking. Then Lestrade glanced around, his gaze resting on a tube of hand lotion. "Grab that," he said, and Holmes immediately obeyed, watching as Lestrade dumped some of the lotion into his hand, then slicked it over his erection, re-taking Holmes' hand and setting a rhythm.

Holmes watched for a moment, before a gasp of pleasure attracted his attention and he kissed Lestrade again, then dipped to kiss and lick his nipples, Lestrade's free hand threading through his hair.

Another groan and Lestrade was coming, grip around Holmes' hand tight, muscles and tendons corded, thrusts erratic, breath coming in gasps as the come spurted over his stomach and both their hands.

Lestrade dropped his arms to the bed, and Holmes gently rested his head onto Lestrade's chest, hearing the heart inside beating wildly.

He stroked his fingers over Lestrade's thigh, then felt the heavy weight of Lestrade's arm around him, holding him close, snuggling up to him and kissing the top of his head.

He had never got far enough in any fantasy to think about this sort of thing, and he relaxed into the touch, enjoying it almost as much as what had gone before.

Finally, after dozing for some time, fingertips gently stroking the skin on his upper arm, Lestrade moved, tucking his arm behind his head and looking down at him slightly.

"Could do with a shower," Lestrade said softly. "Before I fall asleep like this," he gestured down at his body with the arm that was wrapped around him.

"Of course," Mycroft moved, immediately missing the embrace and allowing Lestrade to sit up.

"Of course," Lestrade smiled at him. "You could always join me."

Mycroft found himself smiling back. He didn't know how, but Lestrade was making him feel totally at ease - nothing like he imagined he would feel. He was aware that they hadn't quite done what he had assumed they would, and there was a lot for him still to experience and learn, but it seemed Lestrade was in no rush and for that he was ridiculously grateful.

He rolled off the bed, muscles still feeling a little weak, and allowed Lestrade to take his hand and lead him into the large en suite. The shower stall was large - a whole area cut off from the rest of the room by a glass screen, and he leant in, turning the water on and allowing it to heat up before stepping under, leading Lestrade in with him. He turned, wrapping his arms around the other man, pulling him close.

"Thank you," he said softly, his words almost drowned out by the shower.

He could feel Lestrade's cheek move, and knew the other man was smiling. "For what?" he asked.

Holmes could feel his cheeks reddening, and was glad that Lestrade couldn't see his face.

"For...being kind to me," he said, haltingly. "For making it special."

And then Lestrade was moving away, and Holmes ducked his head, not wanting Lestrade to see his blush. But strong hands slid over his cheeks and he was kissed, water flowing over their faces.

"You deserved nothing less. And anyway, we're only just starting." And the smile returned, Holmes unable to stop himself mirroring it.

After the shower Holmes pulled on his toweling robe whilst Lestrade wrapped one of the huge fluffy bath sheets around his waist.


The evening sun was beginning to dip behind the buildings as they lay back on the bed, Holmes pulling Lestrade into a loose embrace, shoulders touching, Lestrade slouched further down the bed than Holmes.

"I was never sure I'd..." Holmes started, then trailed off. Lestrade shifted to rub a hand over his thigh, feeling the strong muscles under the softness of the towelling robe.

"What?" he finally prompted, when the silence had stretched long enough.

"Find...someone," Holmes continued. "I mean, there have been people, before, who I've...courted. But it's never gone any further."

"You plan too much," Lestrade said, yawning and snuggling down further, smiling as Holmes' hand slid down his bicep. "Like you did tonight."

There was another long silence, and Lestrade hoped he hadn't caused any offence. He was about to move so he could see Holmes' face when the man spoke again.

"My whole life is...planned," he answered. "At school I knew which University I would attend, and what I would study. At University I knew what I was destined to do in life. Each day, each week, I know what I'm doing the next."

"Life doesn't work like that though," Lestrade answered. "You try and make plans for your heart and life'll fuck them up every time."

"Experience talking?" Holmes asked.

Lestrade gave a half shrug. "I don't think I've ever planned anything that happened to me." He twisted to look up at Holmes. "Especially not being hit by an expensive motor and ending up in bed with its owner."

Holmes ducked his head to rest against Lestrade's still-damp hair. "I'm glad you were...bold enough to act. I fear I would have allowed the chance escape me. I mean, I'm usually good at reading people, but I think perhaps I was putting down my feelings to wishful thinking."

"Does it bother you, being attracted to another bloke?" Lestrade asked, picking at a loose thread on the towel that was still draped over his thighs. "I mean, you sort of live in a bubble here, don't you? Your security and staff and everything - there's no keeping a secret, is there?"

"All the people who surround me are chosen for their utter trustworthiness and discretion," Holmes answered.

Lestrade shifted, moving to lie on his side, head propped on an elbow. He reached and entwined his fingers with Holmes'. "But you didn't want to ask whoever does your shopping for lube," he smiled. "Or condoms."

Lestrade watched as Holmes flushed red, his neck, ears and face all turning a deep pink. He couldn't help but smile, giving the hand he held a gentle squeeze.

"I, uh, it seemed...presumptuous," Holmes stammered.

Lestrade rolled over further, draping one arm over Holmes' legs, resting his cheek against the nearest thigh. "This from the man who admits he plans everything," he kissed the thigh.

"It was...out of my area of expertise. And my computer access is logged - I didn't feel comfortable attempting research. And, as you rightly surmised, my shopping is done by someone else. I found myself in something of a quandary."

"Well the moisturiser was a good compromise," Lestrade said. "And you know, if you've got questions, you can just ask. I'm not going to tell," he slid his hand inside the dressing gown, up Holmes' thigh, fingers lightly skimming the warm skin and soft hair.

Holmes remained silent for a few moments, then gave a small smile, as if laughing at himself. "I...I suppose I barely know where to begin."

"No hurry," Lestrade answered, hoping he was right.

Later, when Holmes had his arms wrapped around Lestrade, the lights off and the gentle sounds of London's streets wafting in through the open window, Lestrade could tell that there was indeed at least one question. Holmes was fidgeting, his breathing slightly erratic, as if he were about to speak, and then decided against it.

"Spit it out," Lestrade said. "I promise you won't embarrass me."

"Earlier," Holmes started, and then shifted his hold slightly, pausing. "When we...You used your tongue know, lick were just doing that for me, and you can't have…enjoyed it. I mean, it just seems...well, wrong."

Lestrade couldn't help but let out a huff of laughter. "Wrong how?"

"You know. Having your mouth…there."

"Did it seem like I wasn't enjoying it?" Lestrade smiled, and felt his cock reacting to the memory of Holmes' earlier that night, panting and moaning and rock hard to his touch.

"No! I mean…no, not at all. But…"

"I trust that a well brought up boy like you knows how to wash properly," Lestrade said, his hand sliding over Holmes'. "And I did enjoy it. Enjoyed knowing it felt good to you."

Holmes gave a small cough.

Lestrade rolled over, staying within Holmes' loose embrace, and slid the backs of his fingers up and over Holmes' chest.

"You're beautiful," Lestrade said, fingers still dragging across skin. "Who wouldn't want you to feel good? Should be something you remember – something you enjoy. Especially the first time. "

"Especially when it's been such a long time coming?"

Lestrade grinned, just able to make out Holmes' smile too. "Just hope it was worth the wait."


Holmes awoke to the sunlight streaming through the windows, and blinked for a second before registering the body wrapped around his own. He had obviously turned over in the night, and Lestrade had clearly followed, pressing them together, hot breath on his shoulder, a heavy arm wrapped over his side and against his chest, legs all tangled in the sheet and each other. He smiled to himself. He could get used to waking up wrapped in a sleepy policeman.

He wondered if he should send his ex-driver some sort of a gift.

Of course, waking up with someone also meant that if you wanted to get up, you had to either wake them, or try not to. Holmes pondered for a moment before attempting to remove the arm that was currently trapping him. But he'd barely started when the grip tightened slightly and he felt lips drag over the back of his neck. "Morning," a sleepy voice mumbled.

"Good morning," he answered, and managed to roll onto his back, looking at the mess of spiky, unruly hair and the heavy stubble of the man next to him.

"I must just use the bathroom," he explained, and smiled when the arm slid away, freeing him.

"C'me back soon," Lestrade mumbled, eyes squinting against the bright light, body stretching out, all lithe muscles and smooth skin.

"I will," Holmes promised, barely able to drag his gaze away from the perfectly curved buttocks.

He used the bathroom, then dragged his dressing gown on and headed downstairs, quietly preparing a tray and carrying it back upstairs.

Lestrade was now face-down on the bed, spread out, sheet only covering a part of one thigh.

Holmes put the tray down silently, then sat on the bed, reaching out and touching Lestrade's lower back, allowing his fingers to slide lower, over the rise of the buttock, then down the back of the thigh. He slid it back up, higher, over the strong shoulder and up to the nape of the neck.

"Mmmm," Lestrade moaned.

Holmes smiled, his confidence building. He twisted around further, allowing his hand to move down again, taking a different path.

Lestrade shifted, tucking his arms under his head and spreading his legs slightly. Holmes removed his robe, allowing the cool early-morning air to kiss his skin, then knelt beside Lestrade, his touch firmer and more assured, doing his best to avoid the bruising as he ran the palms of his hands over Lestrade's back, and then leaning over and pressing kisses onto the faded blues and browns.

"Straddle my hips," Lestrade said, voice muffled so Holmes wasn't even quite sure he'd heard correctly. But he hesitantly moved, throwing his leg over and settling, feeling his cock begin to harden as it rested against the crack of Lestrade's arse.

He tried to remember everything that Lestrade had done to him – what had felt good and why. He dragged his nails down Lestrade's back, watching the play of muscles, then leant over, kissing the soft skin, wanting to touch as much of Lestrade as he could. Revelling in the feeling, laying on top of him, nose buried into Lestrade's hair, kissing his neck and ear.

"Is…is this nice?" he asked, hesitantly, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Mmmm," Lestrade turned his head, bringing their faces close together. "Good for you?"

Holmes nodded – he imagined Lestrade could hardly be missing the fact he had an erection rubbing against his buttocks.

"Want to try something else?" Lestrade asked. "Something…more?"

Holmes nodded again, and slid off Lestrade, lying close, face to face, his hand still trailing across Lestrade's body.

Lestrade immediately slid an arm around his waist, dragging him closer, reaching for a kiss – tongue sliding between his lips, playing over his teeth, and then he pulled back.

"You taste like…strawberries," Lestrade frowned slightly. Then dipped his head for another taste. Holmes couldn't help but grin into the kiss, and when Lestrade broke away again he gestured to the bedside table.

"I had intended them to be for pudding last night, but…" he watched as Lestrade looked up, and his dark eyes widened.

"Champagne?" he asked, his hand momentarily stilling on Holmes' hip. "I've never had champagne for breakfast."

"I rather thought we had something worth celebrating," Holmes said. "And now we'll both be doing something new."

Lestrade just laughed, and Holmes couldn't help but join in.

"Seriously…sorry, it's just…I feel like…this is some sort of fairy tale. I'm going to wake up soon…or turn back into a frog."

"I'm sorry, is this all rather…over the top? I didn't intend to…" Holmes started, feeling awkward, his thoughts going back to the motorbike, still sitting downstairs, untouched in all its extravagance.

"No, no, it's lovely – perfect. I just…never thought anything like this would happen to me."

Holmes could entirely relate to that feeling, at least.

Lestrade reached over him, plucking the bowl from the tray and setting it in between them. Holmes was waiting for him to reach for the spoons too, but instead he just grabbed one of the fruits in his fingers and held it out to Holmes. It took him a moment, but he leant forward, at first intending to take it delicately in his lips, but then realising he should probably do more. He took the berry in his mouth, allowing his lips to drag over the ends of Lestrade's fingers. The look on Lestrade's face was one of slight shock and definite delight. He decided he was going to enjoy the morning. He just had to show Lestrade that he was a fast learner.

He started by picking up another strawberry and allowing Lestrade to suck on his fingers, tongue flicking over the tips, reminding him of the night before and exactly what that tongue had done.

At some point he poured the champagne, and, laughing, held one of the delicate glasses to Lestrade's lips. He watched the pure pleasure on the man's face.

As they ate there was more kissing and less food involved, until Holmes finally dumped the empty bowl off the edge of the bed, not caring that it hit the floor with a thump. Lestrade somehow managed to roll him onto the top, and Holmes rested his forearms on the pillows, still kissing, feeling their erections pressing together. He was powerless to stop his hips moving – the delicious friction of even small thrusts sending waves of pleasure through him. And then Lestrade wrapped his legs around him, trapping him in an embrace and sighed into his mouth.

"Want to…" Lestrade kissed him again, and rolled his hips a little. "Go further?"

Holmes stopped, an he felt his heartbeat speed up a little. He pulled back to look into Lestrade's eyes. "You mean…"

"Yeah," the word was drawled, relaxed, calm. Everything Holmes didn't feel.

"And you want to…do it…to me?" Holmes could feel his muscles tensing.

"No…I want us to do it together," Lestrade said slowly, carefully. "But right now, I would dearly love your cock up my arse."

Holmes could feel his face flushing. "You…really?" He didn't know why, but he assumed that Lestrade, being more experienced, would want to be the one in control. And whilst he'd thought about it numerous times over the past week or so, nothing had entirely prepared him for the moment.

Lestrade reached up and kisses him again, the hands on his back rubbing gentle circles. "Really."

"I don't…" he began, not knowing what he wanted to say, let alone what to do.

"If you don't want to, just say. There's plenty of other stuff we can do," Lestrade's hand stroked the back of his head, curling strands of hair around his fingers.

"No! I want to, I just…what do I do?"

Lestrade smiled. "Relax." And he went back to kissing him, rough stubble and soft lips brushing against his skin, hips still moving under him. Holmes realised his dick had lost some of the rigidity of earlier, but was now filling out again.

He had, through the gentle ministrations of Lestrade's hands, lips and tongue, almost forgotten about the entire idea of doing anything more than lying there for the rest of the day, when he felt Lestrade's hand slide between them, taking both their erections in his fist and gently moving.

"Grab the moisturiser," Lestrade said, his voice soft, not ordering, not pushing.

Holmes did, and dropped it on the bed beside them, needing his arm for balance as Lestrade's kisses got more demanding.

Then Holmes found himself being gently pushed upwards, until he was on his knees, inbetween Lestrade's spread legs. And he watched with interest and a small amount of unease as Lestrade reached between his own legs, moisturiser covering his fingers.

"Come here, give me your hand," he said. Holmes complied, and felt, through the slick wet cream, the puckered skin. "Now push, gently, with one finger."

Lestrade's own fingers were still holding his palm, slippery and slightly cold. Holmes watched as the tip of his finger disappeared inside Lestrade, and he couldn't help but hitch his breath at the warmth and tightness it encountered. Lestrade moved, and if the twitch of his erection was anything to go by, he was enjoying it. Holmes could remember the feel of the night before – the guilty pleasure he had felt of someone being so intimate, so attentive. He began to move without Lestrade's guidance, gently sliding in and out, a little further each time, until Lestrade's hand fell away from his, his eyes closed.

"That feels so good," Lestrade said, his voice rough.

Holmes felt his confidence building. He allowed his other hand to ghost over his own dick.

"Use two fingers now," Lestrade panted. "And more moisturiser."

As Mycroft pushed two fingers inside he was pretty sure his dick wasn't going to fit. He didn't have any particular grandiose ideas in that department – having grown up at a boarding school he was sure he was fairly average – but he also knew just how tightly his fingers were being gripped by Lestrade's body…

"God, that's feels good," Lestrade said, eyes half open, watching Holmes. "Now get yourself lubed up – rub it over yourself."

Holmes did, feeling slightly self-conscious as he stroked himself, the slick liquid cold at first but quickly warming.

"Now, just go slow and careful," Lestrade said his own hand finding Holmes' erection and guiding it, lifting his legs. Holmes leant forward, taking his weight on his arms, looking down and watching. There was a moment when he was sure he was right – there was no way he was going to fit. Then with a tiny bit more pressure he was suddenly sliding in, the feeling the most intense he'd ever felt. He tried to control himself, muscles shaking as he slowed his movement again, glancing up at Lestrade's face, seeing the trust there in the expression. And then Lestrades legs were wrapping around him, pulling him in further, slowly and smoothly, and it was so much tighter and hotter that Holmes' had ever felt – his only real experience being his own hand. He found he was panting, his arms shaking. And then his hips were pressed against Lestrade, and he realised that he was entirely sheathed in his body. He couldn't help but smile, and tried to reach to kiss Lestrade again, feeling the movement pull him out slightly. He pushed back in, once the kiss had been exchanged, and somehow, despite his own inexperience and even slight fear, his body just knew what to do, his hips moving smoothly.

He could feel Lestrade shifting to meet his thrusts, their bodies moving in unison. He'd always imagined that being on the receiving end of the act would be…less pleasurable. But suddenly, as he moved, his knees slipping on the sheets, he felt Lestrade's body twitch beneath him.

"Oh, God, yeah, there, Jesus," Lestrade panted, and Holmes almost came at the words and the feel of Lestrade's legs tightening around him. He gave his own moan of pleasure, feeling the now familiar heat and tension, deep within him.

He knew he should be more in control – he should be taking his time, not rushing. He should be drawing out this pleasure, making it last. But he couldn't. He was half-aware of Lestrade's hand in between them, moving, but all his focus was on the burn of his muscles, the tingling all-over pleasure which was rapidly focussing down, increasing, as if nothing in the world could ever be as good again.

And then he was tumbling over the edge, thrusting erratically, unable to control any of his movements, purely driven by pleasure, led by instinct.

He finally slumped, panting, barely able to support his own weight. Suddenly feeling the sheen of sweat as his skin slid over Lestrade's. He was wrapped in arms and legs, held, kissed and they breathed together, warm air, the smell of strawberries and alcohol and sex thick in the room. And Lestrade, even when they rolled apart, was still touching him, a hand on his chest, their legs entangled at the ankles.

"That was…" Holmes started, then paused.

"Yeah," Lestrade smiled. "It was."


They lay together, and Holmes passed Lestrade a flute of champagne. Lestrade dreaded to think how expensive the bottle must have been, but it was the best champagne he'd ever tasted. He ran his fingers through the slick mess on his stomach. He hadn't cared that Holmes had been so caught up in his own pleasure that he had used his own hand to make sure their orgasms came close together – he'd loved every expression and noise that Holmes had made, enjoyed watching the pleasure.

He sipped the champagne again, hot and sweaty but not wanting to move away from Holmes, who was still in a relaxed, boneless, sprawl. Eventually though, he shifted, looking at Holmes.

"Need another shower now," he smiled.

"As do I," Holmes answered, not moving.

Eventually they moved, Lestrade stepping under the shower spray and smiling when Holmes stood next to him.

"I hope…" Holmes stopped, then smiled. "I hope that someone was once as kind to you as you have been to me," he said. "And made it as special as you have."

Lestrade glanced at him. Then wrapped his arms around him, hugging him close. He didn't entirely know what to say, so chose nothing as the best option.

Except he was with a man who, apparently, noticed everything.

"I'm sorry – I shouldn't have…I didn't mean to be so nosey. I…"

Lestrade let him go and rubbed his face. "No, it wasn't…I just wasn't ready. And I thought I was. So I did things I didn't really want to and…well, it took me a while to go back for seconds," he gave a small smile. "Thought I was all grown up and knew everything…"

Holmes stroked his hand down Lestrade's cheek and kissed him again.

Once they were dry and dressed Holmes led the way to the kitchen and made coffee, whilst Lestrade sat down, pondering the one thing that had been nagging at his thoughts all morning. He worried his thumbnail as he thought, until Holmes put a cup down in front of him.

"Penny for them?" he asked.

Lestrade gave a smile. "The bike."

"Ah. Yes. I…I don't know what came over me. I'm sorry if it seems inappropriate. It wasn't…I really didn't think what it might look like. I was rather carried away, and…"

"It's beautiful," Lestrade said, "And really, really generous and…" he stopped, because he was so tempted to accept it and knew he was on the verge of doing so. But he'd only known the man for three weeks – hell, he'd only met him three times! He just couldn't work it out in his head. If anyone had told him the tale he'd have laughed at them. It was the stuff of stupid romantic movies, not real life.

"Would you…would you like to try it out?" Holmes asked. "I mean, just…see how you feel?"

Lestrade dropped his head forward, feeling his will being eroded. Then he looked back at Holmes.

"If you'll come with me."

"Me? I…I really don't think…I mean, I've never…"

"If you won't, then I won't," Lestrade answered.

"Well, I could…but…I don't have anything to wear – I mean…and…"

"We won't go far," Lestrade said. "And I'll be careful."

Ten minutes later they were back in the garage, Lestrade pulling his old, slightly battered helmet on and handing Holmes the brand new one. He settled on the bike, and it felt perfect. As if it had been made for him. He turned to Holmes, who had pocketed the remote for the gate and garage door. "Ready?"

Holmes nodded uncertainly.

"Get on then," Lestrade called. "And hang on – to me or the bike, I don't care."

He felt Holmes settle onto the seat, finding the pegs with his feet and hands reaching around, gripping Lestrade's waist. He twisted the key and pressed the starter, feeling the bike jump to life beneath him. The door of the garage lifted, and Lestrade twisted the throttle, lifting his feet off the floor and revelling in the feel of the bike's power as they rolled forward. Then the gate slid open, the London streets in front of them. Lestrade felt the slight bump of the bike going over the dropped kerb, then he checked both ways and let the bike have some power, climbing through the gears, feeling Holmes' hands gripping his waist, seeing the expensive chinos on the legs surrounding him. He rode through the streets, enjoying the feel of being back on the bike after the weeks without. But finally he headed back for the house.

Once they were back in the garage, and Holmes had climbed off the bike, pulling his helmet off, Lestrade stayed still for a moment, hands resting on the petrol tank between his legs.

"Will you keep it?" Holmes asked. "Please?"

Lestrade removed his own helmet. "I'll keep it…as long as I can keep you, too," he said.

Holmes smiled widely, and Lestrade grabbed him, pulling him close and kissing him.