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DI Lestrade and Doctor Watson: Slash Fans

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Greg looked his coffee mug over. It was a sturdy mug, left over from his days at Hendon. It wasn’t too flashy, had the words “Total Policing” written across its pale surface in a dark blue font.

His trusty mug settled Greg somehow and he was glad for it.

“What do you mean I’m not to interfere? Interfere?” The nasally tone and unnecessarily forced inflection just begged an annoyed response.

“Anderson! Really!” Ah, and there it was. Sally at her kindest, mocking Anderson to within an inch of his life. Again.

The DI silently nudged at his office door. It shut smoothly behind him and he wiped at his mouth.

‘No pressing cases, no scheduled interruptions.' Relief took up residence in his chest as Greg realized, ‘for the first time in three straight weeks- no Sherlock. Blessed be this moment.’ Greg chuckled and settled comfortably in his chair.

Three hours and half a dozen refills later Greg was ready to head home. ‘Home. Right, because you’ve still one of those’ his mind offered up unbidden.

He snuffed that thought right down. Down to the little pit he liked to call, ‘STFU Greg,’ it was a nice quiet place where annoying prods at his conscience went to die.

He'd earned a restful night. In fact Greg would go so far as to say he deserved it. Two serial murder cases in three weeks; well even Sherlock was forced to admit it was "so very slightly odd." Sherlock had gleefully admitted. 'This DI is ready for some OTP action.'

Greg made to rinse out his mug. He shucked on his coat and within 20 minutes was walking toward his flat. Sure it wasn’t much, sure the neighbors practiced their operatic “skills” at times that had him wanting shove at their door and pull out his CID insignia but the little flat- it was his. All £1,200 pcm worth. Which really, considering it came furnished! his mind cheered, well it was certainly more than he’d expected. “Slight but efficient and homey” it’d been advertised. Though apparently his just desserts as far as his ex-wife was concerned; “Shitty and exactly more than you deserve.”

Greg shook off his maudlin mood, pulling off his coat and shoving off his shoes. He dropped his keys on the hook and locked the door. A few more minutes and Greg had a nice cuppa in hand.

Now, two days of peace. He knocked on his end table. Not quite wood but it would do. Greg choked a laugh out, settling his second luxury item softly over his thighs. His first was ensconced by the off-color lamp to his right, charging and adding to the dim glow that leveled the room a matte yellow hue.

Paring: Chris/Andrew
Rating: NC-17
Archive: Yes please!
A/N: Do not own! Sadly the numtastic YorkBrowne does not belong to me, never shall. I promise to put them back in their Harlequins, Connacht playpens, respectively, as soon as they’re done playing ;)

Greg giggled. Manly much, his testosterone bemoaned. He couldn't be sure but come on! My OTP! his brain sulked, what am I suppose to do?

He wriggled himself further into the couch. Head lolling to one side, resting on one palm and the finger of his other hand on the XPS’ touchpad Greg began to read.

16 stone. York was 16 stone tops thought Andrew. "Bullocks you fucking liar, 1.95 meters and 16 stone 10 pounds is shit and you know it." Browne pushed alongside York, snuffling at the short hairs just above his ear. "I've got a good 10 lbs of muscle on you. You feel that York? Bet you're loving this. Boasting about like you own the place when I could crush you so simple, yeah?"
Chris trembled slightly under Andrew's muscled grip. The stall door didn't budge, giving not so much as a tremble under their combined weight.
"Never thought this place'd be any more use that the last but Christ, Hunstman Inn knows it's sturdy building materials alright.
Chris grunted a response, Andrew didn't wait to hear if it was in the affirmative before rutting against Chris once more, one hand going underneath Chris' Hackett top, the other squirming it's way past his buckle and into his tailored suit pants.

A shrill beeping startled Greg from his reading. Then Tchaikovsky's 1812 blared life into Greg's flat.

"Somebody better be dead," he answered. 'Then again if John's calling it is like--’
John's bemused response cut into Greg's thoughts. "You've already started on the pint I was hoping to wrangle you into, huh Greg-oh?"

Greg rubbed a hand across his face. He could practically see John's twinkling blues as the doctor giggled at his own joke.

"John." Greg said in greeting, "Leave the joking to anyone else. Now what's this about a pint?" The detective inspector lowered his hand, bringing it to rest on the closed laptop.

"Ah. Right. I know Sherlock was... well, that is-"

"He's staring at you right this second isn't he?"

John emitted a soft sigh.

Greg couldn't manage much more than a shake of his head. "Well come on then. See you in 30?" Greg was already plugging his laptop to charge, grabbing at his shoes from the doorway.

"20 if it can be helped," John gruffed.

Greg ended the call with a flip of his phone. Securing the door behind him Greg turned up the collar of his coat. Be it 20 or 30 minutes the cold would do him no good.

John was seated in his usual place. Back to the wall, eyes on both exits, two pints already on the table. Greg unbuttoned his coat and returned John's welcome of a half handshake half embrace.

"Tell me there's more where those came from," Greg nodded at the nutmeg colored drinks. John nodded, "For as long as we can tip them back without tipping ourselves forward!"

Greg settled himself as John, a pinched look on his face, began talking.

"Honestly Greg, Sherlock's been vehemently, inexcusably irritating lately. Two cases in a row left him in too good a mood and he's itching for another already." Greg couldn't help the narrowing of his eyes as he regarded John, "No reason to be taking it out on you though, come on John."

"I know, but-" John shook his head as if to clear it, "I don't know Greg. I just. Well." The older man shoved at John's legs under the table, "Yeah, yeah. I hear you."

John looked up from his drink, "do you?" He seemed uncertain but hopeful.

"You have to admit, sometimes you miss..things. Things no men our age should have to consider missing". Greg raised his glass in salute. The mischievous glint in his eye and the quirk at the edge of his lips told John just how much he understood exactly what John was hinting at.

Greg waived down Sabrina requesting another Meantime. Looking at John for confirmation before holding up two fingers at their regular waitress. "You ever going to tell him?"

John outright laughed, "don't you remember what he told me? Straight off -no pun intended- when we first met?" Greg put his glass down, running a chilled finger around the pint's lip. "Sure, but come off it now. Sherlock, he's.. He's still human. As much as it pains me to admit it, he is still a man. A good man. Hints of a great one in there too; since you came along."

John's cheeks exploded in sudden color, rose reaching to his ears.

Greg bit back his laughter, but just barely. "Ah serves you right! Interrupting my night in like you did. Lucky I'm not trussing Sherlock up in leather and cream just to irk you, Doc."

A near empty glass clattered against the worn maple of the table. "Oh god, don't start with me. I let one little itty possible kink slip and all of a sudden you can't see the forest for the trees." John pulled at a thread on his sleeve. All at once it hit John, "You weren't- you could have said so Greg!"

"No, no. Shut it. I wasn't writing," a huff left Greg's wet lips. "As if I could manage anything sensible after these last weeks."

John spread his empty hand, palm out. "You never know. It really isn't his fault though. You know he means well." At Greg's pointed look, John added a rushed, "Sherlock generally doesn't mean permanent harm."

Greg smirked. "What had him in such a tizzy anyway? Seems he should be happy. Maybe even, coming to say." Greg leveled John a look over the rim of his second pint.

For all that, John just ignored the curious look, his eyes ahead, a bit above Greg's right shoulder. "Mycroft." An ode of explanation in a single utterance.

Greg caught John's eyes, "His brother?" John gave a quick jerk of his head. Agreement communicated in the quick movement. No hesitance, just the knowing acceptance of a party that's been privy to rather spectacular meetings of wills.

"Fuck aren't they a pair," Greg let out a maniacal cackle. "Aren't we a pair? Oh, John Johny John."

"I'd say," John assented, looking into his nearly empty glass. His eyes foggy with wistful thoughts. John coughed suddenly, trying to edge away from that pointless train of thought. Mentally wiping at the translucent web of arousal that clung to his mind, John looked up. Glancing at Greg, John's sudden embarrassment disappeared instantly.

Their eyes met. In the blink of raven and blonde eyelashes, they came to the same immediate realization about the other.

"We're in love-"

"-fucking Holmes’”

Chapter Text

Greg stretched out and moaned in frustration. He took note of the sheets tangled on the carpeted floor, comforter knotted at his waist. Unresolved wet dream: 6, Bedding: 0.

Sighing into the pillow he reached for his laptop tucked away on the night stand. Sitting up, back to the headboard Greg gave up on sleep for the night. Morning his brain autocorrected. Four in the morning. FOUR, it said. The DI fought the urge to apologize to his mind.

Thursday 4:07am he titled the Chrome document. John's blog had inspired Greg's own exploration of the written word. When John had explained the wonders of fan fiction and slash followed by real person slash- a daily ritual had begun. Having found it both relaxing and useful (who knew self-made porn could be this much of a relief!) Greg had taken to writing out his libidos nightly exploits.

            Part I

            Mark dropped his umbrella. Damnable thing that it was, why did IT get to held so close? It just wasn't fair Rupert huffed. He couldn't stop the smile gracing his face at the dull 'thud' when umbrella met carpet. Gripping the leather armrests Rupert settled his feet on the polished lacquer of the office desk. Mark stared. Rupert stared back.

            Mark raised an eyebrow. Could everyone do that? Maybe they practiced? Yes, of course they did! Sneaky Mark, he'd probably practiced for hours just to get it right. Rupert was lost in the hilarity of his thoughts, random as they were. The fuzziness surrounding him helped his concentration in no way. One moment he was smiling at a perfectly groomed eyebrow, the next Rupert's knees were being nudged apart by Mark's shins. Rupert blushed. The sight of the usually astute Gatiss, now atop a desk, was enough to tinge Rupert's cheeks a rosy pink. In mere moments warmth flooded his chest. He knew instantly that he wanted this man and that Mark craved his affections just as fiercely. No question about it.

            Part II

            When Mark tugged at the immaculate Winsor of his silk tie Rupert closed his eyes. At the touch of warm silk to his skin Rupert's eyes shot open. A sweet grin split his face moments later as Mark first twice wrapped his left wrist, looping a knot around Rupert's right wrist as he hummed in delight. Secure and smooth. Were it not for the blown pupils and the flush slowly working its way across Mark's face, Rupert would have guessed he was the only one affected by the situation.  

Greg nudged at the laptop settled on his knees and tried to adjust himself. Again John's advice had been proved right. Enthralling heat swelled without the fear of being found out to quell it. No matter how slight, any publication of the Holmes name was surely going to be found.

Greg had no qualms about publishing his random rambles and the odd bits and pieces that made up his dreams but he'd struggled briefly with how to go about editing his thoughts. The issue had practically resolved itself one evening after a particularly enlightening BAFTA awards ceremony. The use of the names Rupert and Mark had been the easiest decision he'd ever made in fandom. The RPS portion of his work was getting the oddest attention he thought, but Greg welcomed the chance to vent his sexual frustration.

The sound of Murray Gold's Kiss the Girl pulled Greg out of his reprieve. Switching one electronic for another he shuffled out of bed. Stripping off his night shirt Greg made his way to the bathroom, phone in hand. A few moments later Greg was calling John.

"John. John. Yes-"

Greg was interrupted again by John's laugh.

"Yes this one is titled Thursday."

John's chuckles warmed the DI's heart but even so, there was no way he was being laughed at by someone in the same bloody boat.

"How's The bleeding heart of the Bloody Git coming along? As you've oh so charmingly pointed out it is in fact Thursday.. so huh, that makes today Chapter 4 day?"

An outraged "Gregory!" met his ears and with a snicker Greg barreled on.

"Oh shut it! Still on for tonight?"

"Course! 8 pm. See you then."

Greg ended the call and went about his morning routine, looking forward to the rest of his day off.