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An Extra Participant

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No one really knows this - before now, John certainly hadn't been aware - but down in the depths of Scotland Yard, down where hardly anyone bothers to go now that the top floors have been refurbished, are the rooms where they used to interrogate suspects. These rooms are old, musty, and severely worn down. The one-way mirrors have seen better days, and the dust is so thick that it's nearly impossible to see his reflection when he steps into the room. It is not exactly the sort of place John Watson was picturing when his gorgeous but possibly crazy flatmate had casually mentioned that he had something he wanted to show John before they left.

That's the thing about life with Sherlock Holmes, though: John never knows what to expect.

Somewhat impatiently, he glances around to see what might have interested Sherlock to the point that he'd still insisted on a trip down here after the end of a case that has kept them awake for nearly three days straight. But the room appears to be mostly empty, aside from the table square in the middle. Sherlock can be sort of eccentric sometimes, but John honestly cannot see a single thing worth looking at. And the thought that Sherlock might have dragged him down here for no real reason is beyond aggravating when all he wants to do is sleep.

"Sherlock, there had better be a good reason -" he begins, already turning.

The firm hand pushing against his lower back cuts him off, shoving him further into the room, all the way across into the table. It's at just the right height to knock the breath out of John when he impacts, and he gasps, winded, bent forward slightly over the surface. His muscles tense with the instinct to fight back, but before he can lash out the hand on his spine turns gentle, sliding slowly down to his bottom and giving his right buttock a firm squeeze. Right, then, he knows what's on now, and he can't say he's not interested even though he's also going to yell at Sherlock later for giving him no advance warning whatsoever. Really, the git could stand to learn a few manners. He relaxes just long enough to let Sherlock know the message has been received and approved before stiffening up again.

"What's going on? What're you doing? Let me up, you prick," he says, doing his best to straighten. Sherlock keeps him in place easily by stepping closer and kicking John's legs apart, creating a cosy little space between his parted thighs. John feels a firm bulge brushing against the curve of his arse, knows that Sherlock's already erect, and bites down hard on his lip to keep from moaning out loud.

"I'm taking what I want," Sherlock replies in a husky voice. "You're so pathetic, John. You walk around telling anyone who will listen that you're not gay, but it was a ridiculously simple matter to deduce how you really feel. I know what you want. Fortunately for you, our desires happen to coincide."

"You can't just - I didn't agree to this!"

"Oh really?" The hand not gripping his hip slides around, palming his cock. John is embarrassed by how much more quickly he hardens under that touch. He can practically feel Sherlock smirking. "I told you, John. I know what you want. It's impossible to hide anything from me."

God. John's eyes flutter shut briefly, his breathing picking up slightly. "I said no, Sherlock. Now for the last time, get off."

"And I'm ignoring you," Sherlock murmurs. He leans down, spreading the majority of his weight across John's back. John huffs, the air driven from his lungs as he's forced against the table because no matter how skinny he looks Sherlock is not light. "Listen to me, John. I know your brain is so very useless compared to mine, but I know you'll be able to picture this.

"I'm going to fuck you. Slowly. I'll make sure you feel every inch of my thick cock. I've thought about how you might like it, whether you'd want it fast and hard or slow and teasing. And then I realized I don't really care what you want.

"What I want is to see you writhe and tremble and come apart until you can't think about anything else except for me.

"I want for everyone to know that you belong to me, that I've tamed you in ways no one else could. They could all be watching you come apart under me right now and you would never know."

John can't breathe. He really can't. His heart is pounding wildly. Sherlock wouldn't. Would he? He cranes his neck, tries to look at the mirror, and flushes a desperate red at the lurid image they present even though no clothing has yet been removed. Could there be people standing on the other side? Detective Inspector Lestrade, Sergeant Donovan, Anderson - all of the people they regularly deal with could be watching them right now. They could be watching him about to get fucked to within an inch of his life against his will.

Surprising himself. and possibly Sherlock, John moans.

Sherlock chuckles. "Yes, John," he says, lips brushing the back of John's neck. "Now, if you're quiet and you behave perhaps we'll take care of you. In the end it's all the same to me so whether you get enjoy this or not is your choice, but it's still going to happen."

John's eyes widen. "We?"

Behind them, the door opens. John can't see who it is because of how he's pinned, but his heart just about stops in his chest. He hadn't thought - hadn't believed - but oh god, there is someone else in the room with them. For a split second he forgets himself and starts to struggle for real. But then Sherlock's voice cuts through his panic with two clear, sharp words.

"Evening, Lestrade."

"Sherlock." Footsteps cross the room, and then Greg Lestrade saunters around the far end of the table. His silvery hair is mussed and there are deep lines of fatigue in his face, but he looks far more energized now than he did twenty minutes ago when he was reaming Sherlock out for not having followed procedure. He looks down at John like he is a five course meal all spread out, and John stares back up at him in stunned silence. He's frozen, not fighting anymore, and his mind has gone utterly blank.

"Did you plan this?" he says finally, stupidly.

"Of course," says Sherlock.

"Much as I hate to admit it, he does have the occasional good idea." Lestrade reaches out to run a finger across John's lower lip: it's a vivid memory, that touch, only in reverse. John shivers right down to his toes before he boldly follows through, allowing his lips to part and sucking Lestrade's finger into his mouth. It's breaking character, but god the way Lestrade's eyes go liquid-dark is worth it.

"I'll fuck him from this end." Predictably, impatient Sherlock is the one who insists on getting things back on track. In one smooth move, he lifts himself off John, who instantly finds himself missing the warmth. His crude comment is accompanied by a sharp, painful smack across the seat of John's arse. He bucks, startled, and moans around Lestrade's finger.

Lestrade swallows. "Sounds good to me," he says huskily, removing his finger and unbuckling his belt.

Sherlock wraps an arm around John's waist and pulls him up and back against his chest, giving Lestrade room to slide around and hop up onto the table. While Lestrade is getting into a comfortable position and unzipping his trousers, Sherlock roughly does away with John's jumper and vest. He flings them somewhere over his shoulder, and John has to bite back the instinctive scold about not leaving his clothing laying around in dust that's two inches thick. Sherlock must discern it, though, because he gives John a pinch on the hip and pushes him forward.

John tries to resist being bent forward again, especially when he can see where this is going to end, but the decision is made for him when Lestrade grabs his shoulders and helps to yank him down: he's strong, but he's not a match for the two of them working together. He finds himself face to face with Lestrade's cock, already flushed pink and half-hard with interest. The musky scent is familiar, but he still puts up a fight. He kicks out at Sherlock and tries to punch and does everything he can to avoid having his face pushed any closer to that prick.

"No! I won't!" he shouts uselessly. "Get off of me!"

"It's too late, John." Cruel fingers grip his jaw, digging relentlessly into the joints until he either has to open or risk dislocation. With a faint whimper, he allows Sherlock to guide him forward, lips slipping around the slippery head of Lestrade's shaft. Lestrade tips his head back and lets out a sigh, eyes half-closing in pleasure.

"Fuck that feels good," he says to no one in particular, wrapping a hand around the back of John's head. He gives a few lazy thrusts that make John choke in surprise.

"You should be on this side. It's even better." In less than thirty seconds, John's belt has been dealt with and his trousers and underwear are around his knees - that's as far as they can go with his legs still spread open. Sherlock grips his cheeks and parts them, and John feels completely exposed and vulnerable, helpless at the hands of these two men he'd trusted. The feeling makes him tremble and he whines in the back of his throat, hands shaking where they've gripped onto the table on either side of Lestrade's thighs, and feels the hand gripping on his head curl into his hair instead.

Patience is not Sherlock's strong point. With only a quick slicking of his cock from lube he must carry with him - probably in those bloody deep coat pockets - he lines up and pushes in, apparently enjoying the pained squeal he gets from John as a result. He ruthlessly slides in deep without giving John the time to adjust and begins fucking him hard, his hips setting a punishing rhythm. Lestrade moans deep as John is driven forward onto his cock with his every thrust inwards.

"God yes. John, you're brilliant at this. You should stop following Sherlock around and just do this all the time."

"We can have him any time we want," Sherlock says. He's smirking again, John can tell, and his fingers are digging so hard into John's hips he knows he'll have bruises come morning. "Maybe we should switch places next time around. He's so tight, you'd swear he's never been fucked before."

The rich sound of Sherlock's posh voice swearing makes several humiliating sounds curl up in John's chest, and the feel of Sherlock's cock scraping across his prostate doesn't help. He squeezes his eyes shut in an effort to block out the reality of being fucked, but it does no good. The absence of sight only better allows him to focus on all of the sensations he is being bombarded with: the taste of Lestrade's prick, the hair that tickles his face when he's brutally shoved down, the way his lower half is being deluged with a bewildering mixture of pain and pleasure that his mind can't make heads or tails of.

"How long do you think we can keep him here before someone finds us?" Lestrade says. He uses his grip on John's hair to force him down, then drags him back until only the tip of Lestrade's cock remains in his mouth. John gasps for breath, eyes stinging from the pressure, and obediently starts to suck when the fingers tighten and pull. He can feel Lestrade's thighs trembling from the strain of holding back. They've all been on edge, and the promise of welcome relief is sweet.

"Approximately another ten minutes," Sherlock says. The only sign that he is at all affected is the way his voice catches ever so slightly when he pronounces the letter 's', a prequel to the lisp that only slips out when he's overwhelmed or very tired, or in this case both. "Donovan is going to come looking for you, but she'll check your office and call your cell phone twice before she'll begin searching." He punctuates the statement with a particularly rough thrust of his hips.

"We should wrap this up, then." Lestrade sounds genuinely regretful. "God, I can't decide whether I want to come down his throat or on his face."

"Why decide?" Sherlock says, and Lestrade grins.

"That's your second brilliant idea in less than two hours, you're on a roll," he says. "Suck harder, John, oh god yeah. Use your tongue and trace the slit - ugh, fuck yeah that's it." He grunts and tips his head back, eyes fluttering shut. The muscles in his chest stand out as he struggles to keep breathing through his impending orgasm. John can feel the cock in his mouth swelling and works his tongue frantically across the sensitive underside. Drool and pre-come slide down his chin, sticky and annoying, and he can't really breathe but he tries, he does, he's trying to be good -

"Oh god," Lestrade moans out. He shoots the first load straight down John's throat, then drags him off and keeps pumping across John's face. Some of it lands in his hair, on his forehead, across the bridge of his nose.

Sherlock groans deep in his chest and his grip on John's hips tighten. He begins pounding harder, his pace almost frantic, pulling John back against him as he thrusts forward. John whimpers, nothing to block the sound now, and drops his head down as pleasures blurs his mind white-hot. He can't do anything but go along for the ride. It's a relief when Sherlock finally pushes in deep and comes soundlessly with a hot, wet feeling that makes John squirm. Sherlock pulls out and he moans when a little bit of sperm spills out of him. Sherlock crudely holds him open and uses his thumb to gather up the come, doing his best to push it back inside. John tries to pull away, but Lestrade's hands hold him in place.

"We should get a plug next time," says Sherlock thoughtfully, "and then he could walk around holding us both inside."

"Oh fuck," John says, and he knows this game is over. It's a relief to give in and drop his head onto Lestrade's knee, because trying to hold it up is impossible. "Please, Sherlock, you're killing me here."

"I don't think you're supposed to beg for it, John."

"Sherlock," John pleads, past his limit.

"Come on, Sherlock, enough teasing." Lestrade's hands trace soothingly up and down John's arms, and of course the bastard's calm when he's already come. John feels like a string drawn too tense, coiled tightly enough to snap apart with just the right friction.

"Fine." Sherlock sighs like he is being put upon, but there is something eager about the way in which he reaches between John's thighs and grips his cock. At the same time, he slides two fingers deep inside. John jerks at the dual stimulation and swallows the wrong way, and he doubles over coughing and choking as orgasm washes over him so hard he's left seeing black spots.

"Easy, John, shh." Gently, Lestrade pulls him upright and close enough that he's nearly straddling the man's lap. The position parts his thighs, and as he catches his breath John can't help squirming at the feeling of come leaking out.

Sherlock purrs, a deep rumbling sound, and John flushes. "Plan successful," he says smugly, stepping forward until he's pressed against John's back. He dips his head and sucks John's ear into his mouth. "Pity that Donovan will be down here in less than two minutes, or I'd offer to clean you up."

"You haven't got -" A particularly lavish lick silences John, leaving him floundering at the realization of just what Sherlock means.

Lestrade chuckles. "I wouldn't mind seeing that."

"Get rid of Donovan and meet us at 221b," Sherlock says, flush with promise, "and you'll see more than just that."