Greg shook his head. "You can't just turn it into science!" He complained, sighing almost over dramatically. "Sex is... great. Warm and squishy and... great! Talking about sphincters and stuff, that's just, that'll kill the mood. Plus it sounds gross." Another swig of beer which he nearly spat out at the next statement.
"Didn't know you'd even touched another person." He muttered, suddenly taking an interest in the other man. He normally wouldn't care so much, not about anyone else's sex life, but this was Sherlock Holmes. How he'd even had a sex life was beyond the intoxicated DI.
"Alright, I'll bite. Man or woman?"
He looked amazed. “How many times have there been?”
“Enough that I need a second,” he screwed up his eyes as he thought, the alcohol slowing him down, “Like…” he fumbled, “More than… five? Ten?”
Greg laughed quietly. “Alright fair enough. Take it you’ve slept with both then since… Well… avoidance and shit…” He waved a hand lazily, quietly clucking his tongue as he thought.
“So c’mon then. What floats your boat? Men, women, both?”
“I don’t really care,” said Sherlock lazily, warming up to the subject. “I’ve slept with one woman and it was qualitatively no different from any man I’ve slept with. Men, gay men at least, are, on the whole, far less interested in their partner however which I appreciate.”
“Women are harder.” Greg complained mildly. “Guys are easy. Guys know what guys like. Women and their bits and pieces…” He shrugged.
“When was your first time?”
“Exactly, and men are far less likely to complain about their partners… oddities.” Sherlock pulled a face at his odd speech patterns but continued gamely, “Errrr I was sixteen. On a school trip to London which I ditched. First time I did coke actually. Coke and cock.” He burst into laughter.
“Fuck off!” He laughed, shifting in his seat to tuck both feet under himself. “Sherlock Holmes got laid younger than me. Bull. Shit.” He teased, skirting around the casual drug reference. That had no place for drunk Greg. Sober Greg could deal with it tomorrow. If he remembered.
“Ever had a boyfriend or girlfriend? Like, actual long term dating.”
“God no,” the look of disgust on his face at such a suggestion was far closer to what Lestrade would have been used to seeing from his consulting detective. “I fuck when I’m high and I do it to make everything quiet where there are no drugs.”
“That’s just sad.” He said with odd seriousness. It soon dissolved though into a quiet giggle. “You literally stick it up your ass. Don’t like something that’s happening, you get it stuck up your ass.” Greg started laughing, though this time less loudly than before.
“You and John ever done it?” He paused for a moment. “Does John even like guys? I never thought about it.” Liar.
“No and not that he’d admit.” Sherlock deduced his missing flatmate, “He’s always been very quick to proclaim his heterosexuality which makes his latent homosexual tendencies all the more obvious. I’m sure he had his fair share of experiences while in Afghanistan, enjoyed them more than he thinks he should have, and has firmly suppressed any and all male attraction since.” He waved an uncaring hand, “Whatever helps him sleep at night, I’ve never seen a problem in taking what’s available and making it work.”
Sherlock nearly missed the assumption that he only bottomed, slightly indignant he corrected Lestrade in a breath, “It’s rude to assume your friend only lays down and takes it by the way. Nothing wrong with a bit of passivity when I’m in the mood but I have, on more than one occasion, done the sticking.”
Greg nodded, accepting everything like it was gospel truth. He didn’t even begin to slightly question it. ‘Course John was gay. He denied it too much. Yes, perfect sense.
He finished his drink off, setting it on the floor. Time to top up. A hasty wobble to the kitchen - a few stumbles into the door frame both ways - and he dropped a bottle on Sherlock (he’d aimed for placed but misjudged, terribly) and fell back into the armchair for himself.
“Well done you. Didn’t think you’d have it in you,” he sniggered. “Though turns out you have it in you and put it elsewhere. Whoops.” He carefully wedged on the edge of the corner table. A smart smack on the top and it pinged off, leaving a nice little groove in the table.
“Do you ever… just wanna have sex with someone? Like… normal urges things.” He waved his hand. “Or do you just wank those away?”
“I try not to masterbate,” another nose wrinkle, “It’s messy and it slows my brain down. Like eating. Also, like breathing, it’s boring. Sometimes, rarely, it needs to happen so I can move past the preoccupation.” He looked a Lestrade judgmentally, “I just, just told you I don’t just go out and have sex. There are two situations under which I do it. Do you need me to repeat them?”
He waved a lazy hand. “Yeah I heard you, I just find it… odd. Your brain is weird.” He paused for a moment. “Posh wank though means less clean up. Just sayin’.”
About to protest over the proclaimed weirdness of his brain, a brain that provided the Detective Inspector so much help at work, Sherlock stopped short, “What the actual fuck is a posh wank?” He cocked his head and laughed, struggling all the while to open his next beer, “Is it a normal wank but you’re just posh while you do it? Do I take posh showers and eat posh breakfast too?”
Greg sniggered. “Yeah well I suppose any wank you Holmes’ do is posh.” Mycroft wanking. Did he even do that? Curious. “Nah, it’s where you use a condom. Y’know, outta date and shit. Did it all the time as a kid.”
“Do I have to use an expired prophylactic or would any one do?”
“Well, any would do. I only used expired because they were useless otherwise.”
Sherlock turned the tables unexpectedly, “Not getting much sex lately then?”
Greg rolled his eyes. “I said uuuuuused. Past tense.” He sniffed, scowling at the other. “But, since we’re sharing… No.”
Sherlock smirked and raised his bottle in Lestrade’s honour, downing the rest in one go. He moved to the kitchen to refill and grabbed a few more bites of bolognaise on his way. “Why not? London is more than half female surely you can find one person willing to give in?”
He rubbed at his eyes blearily, taking another swig of his own beverage.
“I don’t go out for one nighters any more, and I don’t date… Hey wait.” He paused, pouting childishly. “Shut up.”
Sherlock smirked, returning the favour and coming back to the living room with a second beer for Lestrade. Drinking game long abandoned both men simply opened their bottles and drank without thought.
Lestrade gave a bottle salute of thanks, another few thoughtful drinks, scowling at the other man in thought.
“Swallow or spit?”
“It’s rude to spit,” Sherlock replied by way of an answer, “and often inconvenient.”
“True enough I guess. Take it like a champ.” Greg smirked.
“I’m running out… what else you wanna tell me, mr I have a lot of sex?”
“You’re no fun,” pouted Sherlock. “I’m not telling. That’s not how this game work. Be more creative.”
Greg groaned loudly. “Would you sleep with John? No wait that’s boring and I don’t care. Dimmock? Would you sleep with Dimmock?”
“God no,” Sherlock drank to make the image disappear, “he’s too… straight or something? I think he’d ask for a performance review when we were done or something.” He giggled at the notion.
Greg laughed. “Oh god he probably would. Ask for feedback and demand it in a folder on his desk. He’s an inspector too, don’t you know.” Greg sniggered, clearly an inside joke.
“Ever had sex outside? Or in a public place?”
“Yes and yes. Same thing really, Regent’s Park at night. I went home with a face full of dirt and a ruined pair of trousers.”
“Grim.” He took another swig of drink. “Alright; best sex?”
That took a moment to think of as Sherlock didn’t particularly think of sex the way most men did. Finally he answered, “The first time I fucked Ulysses. We were at his place and both high enough that there was no awkwardness.”
“That’s not best sex.” Greg rolled his eyes. “It’s sex you can’t stop thinking about, or something you just kinda want again. That’s just comfortable sex.” Greg chuckled. “Dare I ask what was your worst sex?”
“It’s my best,” shot back Sherlock, “Worst? Christ I don’t know probably some blow job in an alley when he tried choking me on his cock. Although, I’m not sure that was as bad as the woman. Not,” he clarified, “the woman, woman.”
Greg lifted an eyebrow. “The woman woman? You ever actually do anything with her or what? John said you were kinda… into her.”
“John, as well you know, is an idiot sometimes. He misses everything of importance. She kissed me. I beat her.”
“No, certainly not. She developed feelings for me, that’s not what I do.”
“What, don’t sleep with feelings?”
“Never. It’s one of my rules.”
“Because I don’t deal with feelings. I don’t have them and I don’t wish to surround myself with them. Also, they don’t pair well with the drugs.”
“Then sleep with someone sober! Don’t be so close minded. What’s the worst that could happen?” He smirked. “Afraid you’ll enjoy it?”
“I don’t do that either. When I’m sober my mind is engaged and when my mind is engaged I don’t want anything to slow it down. Orgasm slows me more than anything, more than sleep even! I’m unconscious when I sleep!”
Greg snorted. “Bullshit, I’ve seen you bored and whiney when you’re sober. When you’ve fuck all else to do. Having a quickie’d be good for you.” He blinked owlishly at his friend, taking another guzzle of beer.
“You’re like a weird prude.”
“It’s not a quickie! It puts me out for ages! I’m useless! I hate it. I’m not prude! The entirety of this conversation is proving that I’m not a prude. I’ve let a man fuck in Regent’s Park for God’s sake!”
“Nah, high you ain’t a prude but sober you is.” He insisted. “Besides, if you’ve nothing else to do, a bit of a relax wouldn’t be so bad, would it? Better to get fucked than… than get fucked.” He laughed, amused at his own terrible joke.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, “That was horrid; drink.”
“I thought it was funny.” He muttered, but Greg complied, dropping his empty bottle down to the side before opening the one Sherlock brought him in the same way as before. This time it took a few tries to get the top to ping off, leaving plenty of groove marks in the table.
“Bully. You consume for saying the word.”
“Fuck,” Sherock too took a large swig. He was already more than half a bottle ahead of the Detective Inspector. “Next,” he waved a hand imperially.
He pursed his lips, eyebrows furrowing as he thought. Automatically he began to drink in a continuous stream. He stopped only when he knew what he wanted to say.
“Weirdest position?”
The question stopped Sherlock. He’d had plenty of sex in odd places, shady home and back alleys where he could buy drugs and get high without being caught. But those same places also limited your movements and options when it came to creative sex.
“I don’t have one for that.”
Without being told he finished his beer in pennance.
Greg rolled his eyes. "Boooring." He took a mouthful of beer.
"You a talker, grunter, yeller? I imagine silent but y'know."
To that Sherlock had a response at the ready, “Depends on what the other person wants. I can do anything, be anything. I deduce and fulfill fantasies.”
“God you must be boring in bed.” He complained, taking another swill of drink. “Deducing this and that. Urgh you’re so clinical.”
“You think it’d be boring to sleep with someone who can anticipate every since thing you want and will do it?” Sherlock’s voice was low and throaty, “No wonder you haven’t gotten laid in so long.”
“It’s not about that… It’s about… intimacy. Sex is secondary.” Greg rolled his eyes. “You’re just a prostitute.”
“Cheers,” Sherlock raised the empty bottle sarcastically, “you’re too kind. It can’t always be about intimacy.”
“It can, you just won’t let it be.”
“I don’t want that,” corrected Sherlock, It’s hardly the oddest thing about me.”
“You should try it at least once.” He rolled his eyes. “You don’t like something without even trying it.”
“Not one thing about the intimacy you’re talking about is appealing to me. And your logic is basic and flawed. Would you like me to try robbing a bank or beating a suspect to see if I enjoy them?”
“Those things are am- more- illegal. You know that.” He tutted, draining the rest of his bottle and letting it collect with the other’s on the floor. “Just… let someone get close at least once. You might like it. And if not,” Greg rolled his eyes. “Well, fuck.”
“I won’t but thanks for playing,” replied Sherlock crossing his arms like a child. “I don’t want to. I don’t like sentiment it gets in the way, it makes you weak, it’s ugly.”
“Your face is ugly.” Greg tittered, vaguely attempting to prop his head on a shaky arm.
“Approximately seventy-four and a third percent of people I run into on the street would disagree.” Sherlock paused and considered his speech, “Although it is of course possible that they find my body attractive.”
“That’s maaaaths don’t talk about maths. Maths is boring.” Greg whined, rolling his head back upright since he couldn’t perch it comfortably.
“You’re nothing to write home about so get your head outta your ass… Along with whatever else is up there.” He sniggered.
“Currently I’ve nothing inserted in my rectum,” Sherlock informed Lestrade stoutly, “And that’s your opinion. I’d concur. Although that new PC in your division doesn’t.”
“They’ll learn that pretty faces don’t matter when you’re an ass.”
“What? What does… Whatever. You’re just mad you’re not having sex.”
“I’ve not been having sex for two years. I kinda got used to it.” He retorted. “Big. Whup.”
Sherlock dropped his, thankfully, empty bottle, “Two years!?”
How did he miss that????
He is me, I am he!
HOW DID I MISS THAT???????
Oh God, things are spinning. Do not get sick Holmes.
“That’s sad. You’re making me sad. I’m going to find someone to fuck you. Let’s go on a walk.” On unsteady feet Sherlock tried to stand. He didn’t remember movement being this difficult.
“Oh god Sherlock si- oh god.” He lurched upwards, grabbing for the other man’s lapels. “We’re not going out Jesus Christ.” He tried to stand his ground, body swaying unhelpfully.
“This is not… no… we’re… Oh god…” He let go of Sherlock, hand covering his mouth. “No sudden movements…” The DI rested a hand on unsteady knees.
“Don’t vomit on my floors!” shouted Sherlock, “I hate the smell of it! Go to the bathroom is you’re going to be sick.” He crouched to make eye contact, “Are you going to be sick? Are you really going to get sick? You have to go to the kitchen sink at least.”
He flinched at the sudden noise at his ear, flapping a hand at his companion. “I won’t just… oh god the floor is spinning. We are not going out.” He dropped onto his arse on the floor, lounging back to sprawl on the floor.
“I just want a moment.”
“But why?!” Sherlock whined as he joined Lestrade on the ground, lying flat on his back next to the DI’s side, “We’re not going out so it doesn’t even matter!”
“Oh my god I’m going to hit you. I’m actually, going, to hit you.”
“Whatever you’re into,” the consulting detective smirked broadly even as he shut his eyes to stop the spinning.
“Nobody, right now.” He mumbled, staring at the roof.
Again Sherlock sounded disbelieving, “You don’t even have a wish list? God this is depressing me Lestrade and I don’t even have sex.”
“Wish list? Are you, Sherlock Holmes, asking me who I want to sleep with?” Greg rolled his head, focusing awkwardly on his companion.
“Who even has those lists after 40?”
“Men who haven’t had an orgasm in the presence of another individual in 24 months.”
“You say that in a weird way.” He chuckled softly. “I don’t have a list.”
“I can say many things in many ways. Make a list maybe it’ll help.”
“I’m not aiming to get laid!”
“But it’s been two years… twenty four months...104 weeks… 730 days….”
“And?! I’m not a sex mad manic.” Greg chuckled. “Manic… maniac… mad… whoops.”
“You are a bit though, mad,” Sherlock opened his eyes and slowly rotated his head to face Lestrade, “You just had dinner with me.”
“Yeah but you’re fun.” He mumbled back. “Nowt wrong with having dinner with you.”
“You know you’re just proving my point, yes?”
“Then I guess I’m mad too.” He tried to lift one eyebrow, but it ended up him lifting both and looking surprised. “Oops.”
Sherlock dissolved into unstoppable giggles, “You’re an idiot,” he gasped between desperate breaths.
“You’re apparently a sex maniac.” He started laughing with the other man, more at him than with him. “We’re a pair of morons. Could you… oh my god imagine… John coming in on us.”
“Better than coming on us,” Sherlock’s laughter redoubled.
Greg took off with his laughter again, rolling sideways somewhat as he curled on himself. “Thought he’d be, be neater. So much for the military.”
Sherlock couldn’t get any words out. Instead he mirrored Lestrade’s position and focused on trying to breath and not throw up. Eventually, abdominal muscles heaving he managed a shaky, “We’re hysterical.”
“No one would ever believe I’m the sex maniac of the two of us.”
“You just had a lot of sex. He has a lot of sex. He kinda wins…”
“I meant you and me, idiot.”
“I had my goes as a kid!” Greg defended quickly. “I’m like… older than you. I don’t any more! Shut up.”
“I’m sad again,” Sherlock sighed dramatically barely keeping a smirk at bay.
“Fuck off.” He aimed to slap the other man, misjudging the distance to flop a hand on his shoulder. “Go get a beer. That’ll cheer you up.”
“You go get me a beer! You’re the one that’s done it. Or not done it..” he chuckled a bit at Lestrade’s expense.
“You’re like my friend back in school! He got laid before me, and by Christ the day I lost my virginity was great. Least little shitty Joseph shut up.” He paused, looking back up at the roof. “I can’t drink laid down. Sorry.”
“Then go have sex and I’ll shut up,” reasoned Sherlock. “Neither can I. We’re stuck.”
“I’m nearly 50, not nearly 18. I think I can cope with adult teasing.” He rolled fully onto his back, lifted both legs and arms, waggling them feebly at the roof. “Oh no I’m a beetle.”
Sherlock didn’t move, didn’t twitch, he simply watched Lestrade wiggle like an idiot and wondered what the fuck he was supposed to do in response. Should he roll the older man over like a beetle would need to walk? Should he try and squash him? Was this another of those party games he missed while not being normal at university?
In the end the DI stopped before he figured out an appropriate reaction and Sherlock made no move at all, now lying unnaturally still on the floor of his flat.
Greg found the fact Sherlock did nothing quite hilarious, eventually giving up when his arms began to ache at the ridiculous movement. He left one arm thunk back down idly against Sherlock, this time satisfyingly thwacking him in the face with all the force of gravity and laziness.
“You asleep?”
“No.” This time he left the idiot off, figuring Lestrade knew by now. “Are you?”
“Nope.” He clumsily patted Sherlock’s face - he aimed for cheek, sadly his arm thought otherwise - with a bright grin.
“Stop mauling me,” complained Sherlock.
“It’s a pet, I’m not mailing. I’m petting you.” He rolled his eyes, instantly regretting the decision. Now he was dizzy. “Shhhhhhh”
“Has that ever worked before? Have you ever shushed your child and that child actually shushed? Like… ever?”
“Once with Ollie because I made a loooooud noise for a while and he just looked alarmed.” Greg grinned. “But you’re not my child. You’re my… pest!”
Without seeming put off by the idea of a grown man being another grown man’s child or the fact that Lestrade thought of his as a pest Sherlock said, “Children are pests.”
“Naaaaah they’re fine when they’re yours. Ollie’s alright. It’s other people’s who’re a pest.” He positively beamed at the other man. “Just like yoooou. And your weird ass brother.”
The consulting detective giggled at that, “He is weird. He’s so weird. Everything about him is weird. Weird is a weird word so it’s perfect that Mycroft is weird.”
“Ooo we agree how sweet.” Greg beamed, pawing at Sherlock’s face happily. “I don’t know how I feel about him. I imagine he’s more fun than you drunk.”
“I’m so much fun! We just had so much beer, I don’t even drink beer but that’s fine because we drank all there is to drunk- no drink, and now we’re on the ground! That’s fun! I’m fun! What do you think Mycroft could do that I couldn’t? No would and wouldn’t! What would he do that I couldn’t- wouldn’t?”
“Nooo you are fun I’m not saying you’re not fun who said you’re not fun?!” Greg sat up - far too quickly, head rush, now the room is spinning, oh god - and precariously leant on a bent arm.
“But he’s got a huge fucking stick up his arse and to imagine him without it is kind of hilarious.” He waved his free hand languidly. “You’re fun, shut up.”
From his position on the floor he tried his best to shake his head solemnly, “His stick doesn’t come out unless a cock is going in. If he’s without something up there I think his spine collapses.”
“Ooo two gay brothers? How fun. How did your mother take that one, or does he use his pretty lady friend to be his beard?” Greg tittered. “Does he do the dating thing or is he like you?”
Sherlock leveled Lestrade a look that spoke volumes about how stupid he was at the moment, “He’s married and I’m not gay.”
Greg laughed at Sherlock, though he quickly realised the other man was serious and the laughter died away leaving him incredulous.
“You’re not kidding… He’s married? Fuck me.” Greg levelled a shaky stare at the other. “You take it up the arse. Mother’s don’t like that in my experience.”
“Well not legally,” the technicality didn’t really matter to Sherlock, “but they live together and the only thing stopping the lazy fuck is actually asking. It’s not as if he’s going to be turned down. He’ll be married soon.”
“I’m still not gay though. I don’t prefer men to women. I don’t prefer anyone to anyone! People are, nearly uniformly, annoying.”
“That’s not marriage!” Greg complained. “You need a ring and shit and a priest or a minister and, y’know… marriage. That’s just coabtin. Cohab... Living together.” Greg mumbled off, giving up on the difficult word.
“Fine fine you’re bisexual you picky bastard.”
“Whatever, Mycroft’s got a ‘partner’.” Sherlock weirdly emphasized the word partner, his voice sort of slowing down and changing tones for no apparent reason.
“There y’go… right words an’ all.” He mumbled, yawning deeply.
“M’tired.”
“Tireds boring.” Sherlock fought against an answering yawn, “No sleeping yet. Do something interesting.”
“I can solve a rubicks cube…” Greg offered unhelpfully, rolling onto his side, facing the detective. “You got one?”
“No. Let’s go somewhere else it’ll be less boring elsewheres.”
He sat up, trying to tug the DI along with him, and paused for a long minute before moving to his knees. The new altitude required an even longer pause to stop the dizziness. “Bed. Let’s lie down.”
Greg groaned at the sudden insistence, watching Sherlock before attempting blearily to copy him. Instead of getting his knee under him, he succeeded only in immediately rolling onto his front. Another groan and his arms were under him and he levered himself up onto his hands and knees.
“Can’t we just lay down here? It’s such less effort you whingey little shit.”
Matter of fact Sherlock negated the idea, “We’re too old, you especially, it’ll hurt your back.”
“I’m not that old!” Greg said indignantly, huffing as he shoved himself up onto his feet with some difficult. He wobbled, catching his balance with an awkward grin.
“I’m only 40something.”
“Old enough,” pronounced Sherlock. “Let’s go.”
They made their way to the bedroom, Sherlock dithering in the hall about whether to stop in the bathroom or not before deciding the risk of giving in and sleeping head in the toilet was too great. In the bedroom he disregarded his usual routine and simply dropped out of his clothes piece by piece, leaving them wherever they fell to deal with in the morning.
Greg followed the other man sluggishly, using his hands to brush against the walls to keep his balance. Where Sherlock stripped methodically, Greg pulled and pawed at his shirt to undo most of the buttons and drag it off, launching it on the floor. He didn’t get much further, choosing to drop onto the bed lazily, laying with a satisfied grin.
“Good call.”
“Can’t be a good call yet. Take your bloody shoes off!” When Lestrade didn’t move quickly enough Sherlock simply moved down the bed and did it for him, using the rest of his ambulatory control to strip off shoes, socks, belt, and button the DI’s fly. “You can take them off yourself though.”
Greg groaned at the demands, wriggled at the sudden hands and sighed at the final order. “It’s almost like you’re a tease…” He complained, thumbing down his waistband and catching his boxers in the process. He wriggled them down, leaving himself bollock naked minus whatever way the fabric tangled around his ankles.
“Better,” Sherlock looked Lestrade up and down once to make sure no offending item remained on his person. Satisfied he was safe, the consulting detective nodded once and rolled over, nothing bothering with the covers. Within minutes both men had begun to snore heavily, sound asleep as only the drunk can be.
The night passed uneventfully, Greg sleeping soundly, dead to the world. At some point he nestled closer to the warmth of the other man, throwing a lazy arm around him and twining their legs together. He barely moved for the rest of the night, waking up in the morning only when the body he so valiantly hugged began to stir. Without thinking, he pressed his face against the other’s back, a lopsided kiss against his shoulder.
“S’too early…” He muttered darkly.
“Agreed,” Sherlock’s deep baritone gravely and broken. He didn’t open his eyes or move much, his body not used to being awake so early and his head pounding miserably. “Go back to bed.” He also didn’t seem too worried about being in bed with a naked Detective Inspector.
Greg made a noncommittal noise, rolling away from the warmth of the other man. He blearily clambered from the bed, staggering shakily to the bathroom. He sat to relieve himself, eyes pressed firmly shut to avoid both light and dealing with the spinning room.
When he was done, he made his way back to the bed, crawling back in; though this time taking the time to untangle the covers and slipping under them to pass out on his back with a soft snore.
The next time they woke the clock read well after noon and rather than trying to fight for coverings Sherlock had simply rolled on top of Lestrade so that he covered most of the silver-haired man’s body.
Greg had barely moved from his position on his bag, but when the body came closer one arm automatically curled around it to hug it into him.
“Mornin’ Annie…” He mumble blearily, not opening his eyes.
“Who’s Annie?” asked Sherlock, still worried about being so close to Lestrade.
The voice had his eyes open, blinking again the intrusion of light.
“Sherlock? ‘The fuck? Get of- oh goooood.” He hand dropped from around the younger man, free hand covering his eyes. “My fucking head...”
“Shhhhhhhh,” Sherlock protested. “Shhhhhh,” he repeated quieter. “Stop squirming it hurts me.”
“Stop being… on me.” The DI shifted sideways, leaving himself hanging precariously close to the edge of the bed.
“Wha- are we in bed… What the fuck happened last night?”
“Because things that can happen in beds shouldn’t happen in other places when you’re over 35, which we both are,” replied Sherlock cryptically. The confirmation that Lestrade didn’t remember at the very least, the end of their night was all Sherlock needed to take advantage of the situation and freak him out.
Under the pretense of wiggling to get more comfortable the genius even managed to get his pants down far enough so as to hand from an ankle.
“What do…” He tentatively lifted his hand, peering at Sherlock through squinted eyes. “This is a double bed… roll away because if I get up I’m going to fucking die on the floor.” He complained, feeling the faint thunder of his heart as it picked up.
No fucking way did that happen.
Without a shred of modesty but happy he’d had the forethought to pull his pants down Sherlock did as requested and rolled onto his back without bothering to cover himself.
Greg didn’t need to look down to know Sherlock was naked. His hand clapped back down over his eyes, and a quick - if instantly regretted - wiggle of his legs and hips told him he was too.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“About what?” asked Sherlock playing dumb. He stretched up and ran his hands through his hair with a lazy yawn. Looking at Lestrade he rolled his eyes, “You’re a bit old for having a sexuality crisis. Not to mention you were rather dismissed of John for a similar thing last night.”
Both his hands covered his eyes, kneading furiously, as if he could scrub the memories back in. Why did they drink so much? They’d been playing a game… then they’d been talking… then he was in bed with Sherlock fucking Holmes?! But nothing else. There was a gap.
“It’s not a crisis.” He answered first irritably, lowering his hands to squint at him. “John or your brother cannot know about this.” Jesus Christ nobody could know. He’d be done for in the Yard… with John… Jesus what would Mycroft even say?!
“John or my brother? So I have to pick which one to tell? Or not tell?” Sherlock pretended to think, his head was pounding and he desperately wanted water and a piss but to torment Lestrade it was worth it to wait, “I think…. John. I’ll tell John.”
“Christ I said or, OR!” He yelled, regretting it instantly. His head was pounding, his mouth was dry, his stomach was roiling, and by Christ he might even still be drunk. He couldn’t drive home like this. Taxi and come back later? Too domestic to stay and have fucking breakfast.
“Nobody. Just… we’re not telling anyone. This was a stupid… stupid fucking… Jesus.” He sat up, turning his back on the detective as he sat on the edge of the bed. Well, there was some modesty anyway.
“You like secrets go play with this one.”
Watching the DI turn another idea occurred, “How’s your arse?” he asked solicitously.
Greg blanched. Oh god they didn’t… he hadn’t since… Jesus no… But… “Fine.” Greg bit back. “Suspiciously fine.” His eyes narrowed, though he wilted quickly. “Is ah… are you…” He didn’t finish the sentence, just waggled a hand hopefully.
“I’m not sure my head’s ever hurt so much,” Sherlock replied truthfully, “I told you I didn’t drink beer. Also, I’m surprised neither of us got sick with all the rolling.”
That was true, mercifully. “I’ve a stomach for keeping it down.” He responded almost woefully.
“You don’t sound all that pleased to be honest.”
“I’m painfully hungover, want to sleep it off, only to find I’ve slept with you. I’m not pleased, no.” He muttered irritably. “I fail to see a positive in this situation.”
“It’s a bed, it’s big enough for two, I didn’t think your back would like spending the night on the floor,” Sherlock sounded put out, “which you fought me on last night too by the way. I’m terribly sorry for the unpardonable offense of forcing you to share space with me while unconscious.”
Greg's lower jaw worked angrily and he ground his teeth irritably. "This isn't about sharing space and you know it. There's sharing and then there's naked sharing." He grunted, a glance over his shoulder at the other.
“You took your clothes off first,” argued Sherlock still pouting. Lestrade was ceasing to be entertaining and was now ruining his morning.
"I'm not surprised." He commented dryly, scanning the floor. Yup, there it was. Scattered around. He presumed Sherlock's was the somewhat neater pile.
"What happened? As in, why did we end up in bed? Not what you said before. Details."
“Well you kept saying you were tired and I didn’t want to sleep on the floor and if I’d let you sleep on the floor you would have been mad at me this morning although apparently that doesn’t matter as you’re still mad at me.”
Tired of the charade and ready for tea Sherlock widened his eyes and pretended to be shocked, “When you say slept together you… you think we’ve had sex!” He chuckled and reached over to pat Lestrade’s hip, “Your virtue remains intact, no sexual activity happened last night. Your two year streak is still on.”
Greg bristled, head snapping around to regard Sherlock for a moment. He regretted the motion, it made his stomach turn and head thunder. The room span a moment.
“You fucking… You knew what I was asking!” He shouted, wincing at his own raised voice. “I’m going to fucking kill you I swear to god…” The DI grumbled, relief taking away his irritation and anger.
Sherlock’s whole body had winced as Lestrade yelled, “So long as you do it more quietly,”he moaned. Slowly he rolled over and covered his head with a pillow. From underneath he muttered, “Where’s my tea? I want tea.”
“Get your own tea.” He complained, reluctantly dragging himself from the bed. He’d spied his boxers in a heap near the foot of the bed. Three steps. You can do this, Greg. C’mon. There y’go… now bend. Careful! His hand flung out the steady himself on the bed, while his other clumsily dragged his boxers on. Dignity in check, he didn’t spare Sherlock a glance.
“I’ll be on the sofa.”
Not bothering to look up and watch Lestrade’s sad, sorry progress Sherlock kept his head buried. As if called by his voice though Mrs. Hudson’s voice sounded from the front door, “Coo-y Sherlock love? Is that you I hear? I brought tea and toast.” She rounded the door to his bedroom as if this was a normal morning habit (it was, although the DI didn’t know that), cup of tea in hand.
“Oh! Detective Inspector! I didn’t make two cups…”
He shuffled towards the living room, snatching a blanket up as he went. He needed to sleep off this hangover, and as comfy as the bed looked, a naked Sherlock wasn’t something he was keen to share with.
When Mrs Hudson rounded the door, Greg wished that God would just strike him down, there and then.
“Morning Mrs Hudson…” Greg mumbled, trying for a nonchalant smile. “I’m fine for tea, just uh… checking Sherlock’s alright.” He tried not to wince at the light as she turned it on.
The blanket wrapped around his shoulders, trying to preserve a little of his modesty. “We drank quite a bit last night.”
The older woman didn’t seem at all phased by his presence or his nakedness. With her usual mothering good humour she only said, “Goodness I know! Something about beetles I believe?”
Greg looked mildly alarmed. “Beetles?”
“Mmhmmm,” she replied absently as she straightened cushions. “Are you going to go back to sleep now dear?”
It was a credit to the landlady that she treated this like a normal event. “I uh… yes.” He grimaced, smiling sheepishly. “Little worse for wear. I don’t often get like this, I promise…”
“Happens to us all Detective Inspector,” assured Mrs. Hudson. “Er- dear? The bed might be more comfortable?”
Greg had side stepped her, stopping at her statement with a mild look of confusion.
“I uh… I’d rather the couch. He needs to sleep himself.”
She stared at him as if wondering if the alcohol had perhaps hurt his brain in some more permanent way, “He isn’t upstairs though surely? Oh dear you didn’t spend the night on the sofa because himself didn’t tell you that John’s bed is upstairs still? In his own room? Oh Sherlock... “ she tutted, “Get yourself upstairs and I’ll bring you something in a few hours. On with you,” she waved her hand toward the stairs, “Go, go.”
Greg looked alarmed at the suggestion, blinking in owlish surprise at the lady’s demand before he gave a grateful smile.
“No he- oh. Thanks, Mrs Hudson.” He briefly contemplated planting a quick peck on the cheek but decided against it. He probably reeked and his coordination would probably have him headbutt the kind woman instead. He gave a grateful, if tired smile instead.
“You’re too kind. You don’t have to bring me anything; there’s some left over pasta I’m sure. I’ll be fine, Mrs Hudson. Thank you.”
She patted his cheek his he walked by before going in to mother Sherlock.
---------------------------------
At the very end of the afternoon a knock sounded on the closed door, Sherlock sounded far more secure and far less hungover, nearly like his usual demanding self.
Greg groaned into the pillow at the noise of the other man, kneading at his eye wearily.
“Yeah yeah, s’open.” He called out, the end of the word dragging out into a yawn. His head still thundered, but he could cope with that. The nausea and uncertainty was gone - laying still finally didn’t encourage the world to spin - though his mouth felt dry and he was sure there was a bruise or two about to form.
“Jesus just come in.” He called, rolling onto his back in a tangle of duvet which he wasn’t even slightly interested in fixing.
Sherlock came in with a burst of energy and an armful of supplies; water, pills, an apple, a plate of toast, his mobile, and laptop. “Here,” he thrust the edible things towards Lestrade to handle as he as sat at the foot of the bed.
He glanced at the other, interest peaked when he suddenly saw what he carried. “Cheers.” He accepted the gifts, balancing things precariously on his thighs. The pills he swallowed dry quickly, grimacing at the chalky taste.
“I take it Mrs. Hudson left these?” He asked around a mouthful of toast. “And why do you have a laptop?”
“Because I’m bored,” Sherlock managed to leave off his ‘duh,’ just barely.
He made a noncommittal grunt, polishing of the toast and half the water gratefully. “Let’s get something cleared up.” He began, taking a chunk out of the apple. Food settled his stomach; God bless Mrs Hudson.
“We won’t be telling people that… well we literally slept together. I don’t need that kind of agro in my life.Plus we’re not talking about whatever we talked about last night.” Greg raised an eyebrow. “Alright?”
Sherlock raised a matching eyebrow, “Very well. Why?”
That was surprisingly painless. Greg was suspicious. “Because if people hear ‘slept together’ they automatically think had sex.” It was said relatively slowly.
“I don’t need that kind of rumour following me around. Plus it’ll get me in more shit and you turn up and people think, well, whatever they think.” He took another bite of the apple.
“It’s nothing personal, Sherlock. You know that, right?”
Yes, yes, of course.” Sherlock didn’t seem upset, he felt secure in the odd friendship they had. “I’ll still help you find someone to shag.”
Greg rolled his eyes. “I’m not looking for a quick lay, Sherlock. One night stands aren’t my thing.” He grinned however, amused at the other. There was a new level of comfort between them, something less forced. “Cheers all the same, though.”
“Suit yourself,” Sherlock shrugged, “With my superior intellect and observational powers I’d be excellent at it.”
“Sherlock you’re more likely to bring me someone, deduce the ins and out of them there in front of me and announce we’d copulate marvellously.” Greg muttered dryly, finishing his apple off and the water to go with it. “Hardly a subtle method.”
“I could be subtle! If you didn’t want that I’d give you a private deduction!”
“Well, at least it’s subtle.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “But I’m fine for now, thanks.”
Sherlock repeated himself, “Suit yourself.”
“I will. Speaking of, what time is it?”
“Oh shit. I need to get home, I’ve got to walk Duke…” He clambered from the bed, standing in his underwear as he searched for his clothes. It soon enough dawned on him where they were. He grimaced.
“Mrs Hudson didn’t notice my stuff was in your room, did she?”
“I have no idea but I do presume so,” Sherlock smirked, “I’m sorry that bothers you Detective Inspector but I can assure you that not only does it not bother her, she shan’t say anything.”
“It doesn’t bother me as much as the Yard finding out.” He mumbled, heading down the stairs and expecting the other to follow. It was strange to parade around Sherlock’s flat in his underwear.
“I just… Urgh. We’re not drinking again.”
“For at least a month,” confirmed Sherlock close behind, “Next time I want to try with scotch. We’ve never gotten drunk for fun with scotch before.”
Greg went pale. “Sherlock, I swear to God. No.” He ducked into the other man’s bedroom, gathering up his clothes and hastily trying to tug them on.
“I don’t have a death wish.”
“Two months?” bargained Sherlock.
“No scotch and maybe.” He smooth his shirt, heading back to the kitchen. Wallet, keys, phone. Sorted.
“If we’d slept together this is where you’d dither about whether to kiss me goodbye,” teased Sherlock.
“Fuck off, Sherlock.” The DI grumbled, heading to the door. “Enjoy the left overs.”
“This will be funny to you in a week and a half,” predicted Sherlock as he stood at the door. “Enjoy your dog walk, wear sunglasses.”
Greg didn’t dignify him with an answer. Instead, he took his leave of Baker Street and a drunken night of camaraderie.
