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There were, as a rule, two breeds of teenager enlisted in Broughton Military Summer Camp, and they got on about as well as cats and dogs. The first, troubled teens who’d been expelled from school enough times to count on both hands; the second, military brats who had practically been bred to shoot things and take orders.

Sherlock Holmes was a poster boy for the former. He was sullen, rude and unwilling to consider for a second that this might be something that would benefit him. He’d managed to smuggle drugs into his cabin twice in the first week, had exploded the kitchen once (“it was an experiment, you idiots!”) and generally managed to piss off the entire staff and most of the other boys within an hour or so of his arrival.

These were all reasons why, when Sherlock started causing mayhem with an accomplice, the last person Lestrade was expecting to see trailing behind him into his office was polite, deferent golden boy for the army brats, John Watson.


“Mr. Lestrade.” He didn’t even have the decency to look particularly sheepish. Too busy making enormous moony eyes at Sherlock. For God’s sake.

How--no, nevermind,” he turned to Sherlock, “what on earth have you done now, Holmes? One of the new leaders has had to be sent home for stress.”

Sherlock looked unrepentant.

“She’s had a nervous breakdown within a day of starting, Sherlock.”

Sherlock scoffed. “It was only a couple of frogs. Completely sterile. Lestrade, I am so bored my brain is going to rot out of my skull. Can’t you see I need something to do?”

Inexplicably, Watson blushed.

“And if you’re going to keep me from doing experiments…” He trailed off, sharp eyes suddenly darting to Watson.

Lestrade raked a tired hand through his hair and rubbed his eyes.

“Right. You,” he pointed at Sherlock, “are in disciplinary for another week, don’t argue with me,” he held up a silencing hand as Sherlock opened his mouth, “you knew this would happen.” Sherlock slumped back into his seat with a huff.

“And you,” he turned to Watson, “I expect better from you, Watson. Disciplinary for three days. Now get out of my office, both of you.”

Sherlock seized Watson’s hand and pulled him out of the door, whispering in his ear. Lestrade rolled his eyes. God, he needed a coffee.


In the evenings, Lestrade liked to take walks through the acres of forest that surrounded the camp. The lodge that housed the kitchen and dining hall looked out onto a small but perfectly formed lake, which was circled by a picturesque sandy path. During free time, the boys were allowed to swim in the lake, but at this time of day it should have been empty. He sighed wearily at the sight of two figures splashing each other near one of the beaches on the other shore, and began to trudge towards them.

Because he was slightly hidden by the trees, the boys didn’t notice him as he approached. By the time he recognised who it was, he was only about thirty feet away. He leaned on a tree and cupped his ear to listen to what they were saying, confident that Sherlock would notice him fairly soon. That boy was ridiculously observant.

“--dust accumulation,” Sherlock was saying. “These things sound boring, but it’s knowledge, John.”

“Nothing sounds boring when you talk about it,” Watson splashed him playfully. “Even dust.”

Sherlock smiled a slow smile and ducked into the water; seconds later Watson was pulled under with a high-pitched squeal. They surfaced, spluttering and laughing, and Lestrade was just about to step out from his tree and scold them into returning to the camp when Sherlock splashed towards Watson, slid a hand slowly up the side of his neck and pressed their mouths hotly together.

Lestrade stopped breathing for several seconds.

The kiss, open and wet to begin with, became suddenly downright filthy; Sherlock pulled Watson flush to him and God he could see the way they were moving slowly together, could hear Watson’s breathy moaning as Sherlock dragged his mouth over his jaw down his neck. Sherlock was thumbing softly at one of Watson’s nipples.

Lestrade came to his senses, suddenly, and cleared his throat loudly. They sprang apart, Watson turning bright red. Sherlock just licked his swollen lips, breathing heavily.

“You two,” said Lestrade, stepping out from under the shadow of the tree, “are not supposed to be here.” His voice was blessedly even, but he could feel the way heat was trickling up his spine.

Sherlock gave him a sharp look up and down, and then, amazingly, did as he was told. Lestrade escorted them both back to their cabins, pointedly not looking at the red circular mark on the side of Watson’s neck.



He tried. He really did try, but that night he shifted restlessly in bed, feeling every drag and slide of the sheets against his sensitised skin. The longer he went on the less he could resist until he just gave in and wrapped a trembling hand around his cock with an agonised breathy moan. Fuck. He came all over his hand thinking of Sherlock suckling at Watson’s tiny pink nipples until they were red and swollen.

Fuck, fucking fuck.


“Will I what?”

“Teach us.” Sherlock’s look of guileless innocence did not fool Lestrade for even a second. Watson was biting his lip, scuffing his trainers against the floor and blushing madly, almost red enough to disguise the mark still on his throat.

“No. No. Absolutely not. I’m your guardian just now, Sherlock. Jesus.” He resolutely ignored the hot pulse of want that went directly to his cock.


“The answer is no. Now go away, and for God’s sake, stay out of trouble.”


Which was, obviously, how he found himself holding Watson’s hips down and giving Sherlock gentle encouragement as he tentatively deep-throated him. Fuck. He was going to hell. He was watching a sixteen-year-old boy sucking his sixteen-year-old boyfriend’s cock and it was the hottest thing he’d ever done.

Sherlock moaned around his mouthful of cock; Watson’s hand tightened on Lestrade’s arm.

“That’s it, swallow a little. Gorgeous, you’re doing so well.” He stroked Sherlock’s sweaty curls back from his face, breath going out a little as Sherlock gazed up at him, wide eyed. God, he looked beautiful with his mouth full.

Later, after he’d spent almost an hour gently fingering Sherlock into a writhing mess and helped him sink slowly down onto John’s cock, he found himself unable to stop touching where they were joined, where John was twitching and Sherlock was slick and grasping. He slipped the very tip of his finger in; Sherlock choked.

“Oh, fuck.”

It was the first time Lestrade had heard him sounding anything less than composed. In fact, he sounded wrecked. His voice was hoarse, low and his breathing harsh. He squirmed against Lestrade’s fingers.


He slowly slid two fingers alongside John’s cock and Sherlock was whining, writhing. John just lay gasping on the bed, eyes half shut as he watched Sherlock fucking himself on his cock and Lestrade’s fingers.

“More, more, fuck, fuck Lestrade.”

“I can’t, Sherlock, God I--”

Fuck me.

“Oh, fuck,” he scissored his fingers a little.

“Please, please, I want it. Fuck me, oh, please.”


“I can take it. I can take you. Do it, oh God.

God, the little shit always got what he wanted.

He pulled his fingers out, poured most of the rest of the bottle of lube onto them and slipped them easily back inside, feeling John’s cock twitch against them. Sherlock rolled his hips, pushing John deeper and they both moaned, Sherlock leaning down to give him a lazy open mouthed kiss. Lestrade used the rest of the lube to slick himself up, pulled his fingers out, and ever so gently pushed the head of his cock up against Sherlock’s hole.

“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ,” said Sherlock, “oh my God.”

“Relax,” he murmured, spreading Sherlock’s thighs further apart and feeling like the worst person in existence. His cock jerked a little in his grip.

He pressed slowly, oh so slowly until the head of him slipped just inside and Sherlock was panting and swearing and oh, coming with a helpless little cry all over John Watson’s chest and stomach. John looked like he’d been hit over the head with something heavy. He spoke for the first time since they’d started.

“I can feel you, oh my God. Oh, fuck,” and then he was gripping onto Sherlock’s hips, head thrown back onto the pillow, and Lestrade felt him pulsing, jerking slickly against his cock with a low groan. Sherlock collapsed forward onto him and they kissed desperately, smearing open mouths against each other as Lestrade began to jerk his hips forward with shallow, quick strokes. He bit the back of Sherlock’s neck as he came to stop himself from shouting loud enough to wake the entire camp.

The rest of night he spent watching them kiss, holding John’s thighs apart while Sherlock pushed long fingers inside him, fucking Sherlock with his tongue while John watched open-mouthed, and finally watching as Sherlock reverently slid himself inside John and they fucked slowly, heatedly, John eventually coming completely untouched with a wrenching sob against Sherlock’s mouth.

He was so, so fucked.

He called in sick the next day, trying desperately to feel the guilt and shame he deserved, but all he could think about were the desperate noises Sherlock had made has he and John had been inside him at the same time. He got two texts later that afternoon, while he was pouring a cup of tea.

I just fingered John and sucked him until he came down my throat.

Pity you weren’t there to watch.

He came twice in the shower; the second time left him kneeling, gasping, forehead against the tile as he watched come drip down the glass.

He had no idea how Sherlock had even got his number.


A picture message came while he was catching up on some paperwork alongside two of the younger volunteers. He really, really should have known better than to check it. The image was blurry, but nonetheless clearly showed Sherlock’s long, long legs spread out on one of the camp beds, one hand wrapped around a flushed red cock. He closed the message hurriedly, and thought about football until his erection went away. Bloody, bloody Sherlock.

What really took the biscuit though, was arriving at his cabin after a twelve-hour day, ready to just have a beer and some food and collapse, to find two teenaged boys fucking on his bed.

“Jesus Christ, you two.”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock rasped, pushing his hips forward jerkily and making John gasp and grip the sheets, “you’re late.”


“You’re late. John’s getting desperate.”

John whimpered, head thrown back. He looked completely wrecked, his hair soaked with sweat, lips bitten red and swollen.

“How long have you been--?”

“Almost two hours, ah, we were waiting for you.”

“Jesus,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed before his knees decided to give out and running a tentative hand down Sherlock’s hot damp back. Sherlock arched up into the touch; John swore and his hands came up to grip onto Sherlock’s hips.

“Oh, Sherlock, let me come. God, fuck, you bastard. Please.”

“Ask Lestrade to suck you with that pretty mouth of his.”

“Ungh, Mr. Lestrade. Please, make me come.”

How is this my life? Lestrade let out a shuddering breath and leaned over, gently easing Sherlock off John, making them both whine.

“Sherlock, on your back. John, face me. There you go." He watched, dry mouthed as John lowered himself back onto Sherlock’s cock, and gently pushed him backwards until he was lying on top of Sherlock, back pressed to his chest. God, the view. Sherlock rolled his hips slowly.

Lestrade made sure to keep his eyes on John’s face as he wet his lips and slid his mouth over the slippery glans. He sucked softly, tasting bitter precome, felt Sherlock move underneath him and John drew in a massive shaking breath, moaning helplessly.

“Oh god, your mouth. I’m gonna come. More, fuck, more.”

Lestrade sucked a little harder, flicking over the slit and over the fat head, feeling as John began to pulse a little under his tongue.

“Oh, I’m coming. Sherlock, fuck, fuck, fuck me, oh, oh, oh--”

There was a burst of hot come at the back of his throat and he swallowed greedily, listening to the sounds of Sherlock shaking apart beneath them both. As soon as John was spent, he pulled off wetly, drinking in the sight of the two of them collapsed on his bed, sweaty and sated. It took less than ten strokes of his hand with Sherlock watching him dark-eyed before he came, groaning, onto John’s soft cock. Sherlock shuffled down John’s body and licked it off like a cat lapping up milk. Lestrade felt his cock give a half-hearted twitch.

“You two are going to give me a heart attack. I’m too old for this. Also it’s really, really illegal. Fuck.” He flopped backwards onto the bed and covered his face with his hands. When he looked back up, the two of them were kissing deeply. He shut his eyes, half hoping and half dreading that if he squeezed them hard enough he would somehow wake up to find that this had all been a dream. A soft moan sounded from the end of the bed. No such luck.


He realised that weekend that he was more fucked than he’d thought when he was balls deep in a gorgeous redhead and couldn’t stop thinking about John Watson’s lovely little mouth. He came, eyes closed, thinking about rubbing Sherlock’s come onto it. The gorgeous redhead let himself out in the morning; they didn’t exchange numbers.


The camp finished in three days.

He tried to ignore both the wrench in his chest that told him he’d never see either of them again, and the stabbing in his gut when he thought about what he’d been doing. Fucking two of the boys he was supposed to be teaching oh, Jesus. The thought of someone finding out made him feel sick. The thought of never watching John and Sherlock kissing so beautifully again made him feel sicker.

He didn’t see either of them off, wasn’t sure what he might do. He walked around the lake until after midnight, intending to flop straight into bed as soon as he got back to the cabin. He brushed his teeth listlessly, looking at himself in the mirror. His hair was starting to really go grey. At thirty. He scowled at his reflection.

When he pushed the door to his bedroom open, he stopped dead. He’d made the bed with clean sheets that morning, but the sheets were rumpled, duvet flung to the floor, the scent of sex and sweat clinging to them. On the pillow, there was a note.

221b Baker Street, London. August onwards. Call ahead.

It was signed in an elegant script, Sherlock Holmes.


He fell asleep, finally, nose pressed into the pillow, paper crumpled in his fist and a small smile on his face.