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Chapter Text

"You're British," Sherlock said, and a strange smile crept over his face. Greg wondered if he'd expected this. "Ex-military, long career, and dishonourably discharged in the last four -- no, three years."

The man clapped his gloved hands slowly. "Well done, Mr. Holmes. But why am I working with the Russians?"

"Money, I expect." Sherlock tilted his head. "Yes, you're in it purely for the money, aren't you?"

"Got it in one. Unlike our dearly departed friend Jim -- it is Jim down there, isn't it?" The man glanced down at the grave below his feet. "I have no agenda. I don't play games. I'm just trying to make a living."

"As an assassin for hire?"

The man shrugged. "Everyone's got to be good at something."

Greg frowned at this casual attitude towards brutal violence, but Sherlock seemed amused. "I suppose so. Are you here to offer me something?"

"Are you looking for something? Ah yes, of course. You want to eradicate every trace of Jim Moriarty's existence from the planet. Smoke out all of his lackeys, that sort of thing." He paused and chuckled. "Well, there's no need to worry about that. People were only interested in him insofar as he could get things done. And he was good at what he did, but he was also a fucking lunatic. In the real world, we criminal types prefer our allies a bit more stable. If you're the one who pulled the trigger, there are a hundred men out there who'd like to shake your hand."

Sherlock smirked. "Sadly, he did that bit all by himself."

"I'm not surprised. Still, a tip of the hat to you for being the one who got him to off himself."

Greg glanced over at John, who looked just as confused as Greg felt.

Sherlock's gaze hadn't wavered. "Is that why you came here tonight, to shake my hand?"

The man smiled and fished in the pocket of his coat. Greg and John had their guns in hand instantly, and the cemetery around them was suddenly filled with the sound of weapons being activated -- and not just from the men Greg had positioned in the darkness behind them, but from the other side of the cemetery as well. Sherlock had been correct about the entourage.

"Jumpy, aren't we?" The man waved the pack of cigarettes and lighter he'd pulled from his pocket. He held the pack out to Sherlock, who shook his head. "Finally quit, have you? How about you, Detective Inspector Lestrade? Or have you quit for good?"

Greg's grip tightened on his gun as the man turned to regard him for a moment.

"You were my target, you know. Jim thought you'd be the most difficult to get to, so he gave that job to me. And it was a challenge, indeed. You moved around quite a lot that day."

Greg stared back at him.

"I was glad Mr. Holmes jumped, to be honest. Getting out of Scotland Yard after putting a bullet in your brain was something I wasn't particularly sure I could pull off." He lit the cigarette and took a long drag.

Greg's mind whirled for a moment: connections were made, ideas sparked, possibilities he hadn't considered. He forced it all away, though, pushed it down and cleared his mind. He couldn't afford to be distracted.

"Ah yes, I see," Sherlock said, drawing the man's attention back to him. "You were a military sniper. You must've done something terribly naughty for the Army to discharge someone with such a valuable skill."

The man shrugged and took another drag on the cigarette.

"And you could've gone to the police for a job or even to the security services, but you didn't -- which means the money was better elsewhere. You must be very good."

"As I said before, I'm in this for the money. And since you've just arrested my current employers, I'm afraid I'm a bit cross with you."

"You were supposed to be among them."

The man smirked. "My presence was unnecessary that night. Besides, I've known for a while that Moriarty is dead. I assumed it was a trap of some sort."

"If you knew, why didn't you warn them?"

"Because I wanted to see if my suspicion was correct, that you were indeed still alive and working for the British government. That information is worth quite a bit, you know."

"Is it?" Sherlock's tone was casual, almost disinterested.

The man nearly leered now. "It'll be a huge scandal. The British government participating in such an act of subterfuge, my, my."

Sherlock laughed, and it was an oddly empty sound. "And of course, you're in it for the money, aren't you?"

"They told me you were clever. I wonder what it would be worth for this secret to remain kept?" The man smiled and raised the cigarette to his lips.

"Not very much, I'm afraid." Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped out a quick text before putting it away again. "I'm afraid we've been brought here tonight under false pretenses, gentlemen. Sorry to have interrupted everyone's dinner." He turned to look at John and Greg. "Thai? I'm in the mood for Thai."

John shrugged and slipped smoothly into character, his gun held loosely by his side now. "We haven't gone out for sushi in a while."

"No, we haven't. Greg, what do you think?"

Greg shrugged and lowered his weapon, though he kept his attention on the man standing on Sherlock's -- or rather, Moriarty's -- grave. "I'm game for anything."

"Sushi then," John said. "I wonder if we can get a cab around here?"

"What the fuck are you playing at?" the man said from behind them, his anger very clear. "Do you think I'm joking?"

"Oh, no," Sherlock replied. "I'm sure you're quite serious. But you see, the story you're so keen to have me pay to keep secret is at this very moment being sent out in a press release to every major news organization in the country. It will be in all the papers in the morning, on all the morning talk shows, and may already be on the web. What you do or do not know about it at this point is irrelevant. Tomorrow, everyone will know, making that bit of information essentially worthless."

The man glared at them, his jaw clenched.

"So if there's nothing else, I think we're going for sushi. You're welcome to join us, of course." Sherlock wound his scarf around his neck. "No?"

The man dropped his cigarette to the ground and stomped on it. "Shit."

"Well, if you can think of anything else to blackmail me with, do let me know. I'm sure you know how to contact me, Mr….?"

"Moran," the man said, his glare tempered by a touch of resignation. "Sebastian Moran."

"Bloody hell," John said, turning to stare at him. "I know you. We met once, at Shawqat."

"Four years ago, yes." Moran paused for a moment, as if considering. "You saved the life of a good friend of mine that night."

"Oh," Sherlock said. "That's why John wasn't your target. I'd wondered why Moriarty wouldn't put his best sniper on the most obvious target. But you refused, didn't you? Told him Lestrade was far more of a challenge, much more your area."

Greg tensed at the reminder, but pushed it aside again. Not now. Not yet.

Moran made a derisive sound. "Don't go thinking I've got a heart or any such rubbish. If he'd paid me more I'd have had no trouble aiming at your boyfriend."

"Right," Sherlock said with an amused smile. "Well, I think we're done here. Mr. Moran, it's been a pleasure. Greg, if you will?"

"Stand down," Greg called to the shadows around them. There was sound of movement around them, a series of clicks and shutters.

"You heard the man," Moran said, and there was a similar series of sounds coming from the darkness on the other side.

Moran nodded once more and then turned and walked away. They waited until he'd disappeared into the shadows before any of them moved.

"Well," John said. "That was anticlimactic."

"Yes," Sherlock said. "But that's not a bad thing, is it?"

John grinned. "Not at all."

Sherlock turned to Greg. "Sushi, then?"

Greg exhaled, unable to let go the tension in his body quite so quickly. "You two go on. I've got to debrief the boys and file a report. I'll see you at home."

John smiled warmly at him and Sherlock nodded, and they turned and walked away together, disappearing into the darkness. Greg watched them go as he'd done a hundred times before, and smiled.

*****

The flat was dark and quiet when he got home. John's and Sherlock's coats were hanging side by side on the coat rack, and Greg paused and glanced up at the ceiling. He couldn't hear anything. His own bedroom was empty, so he assumed they were upstairs. He briefly considered going up and looking in on them, but no: he was tired and he needed a good night's sleep, and John's bed was ridiculously small besides. They really needed to do something about that.

He took a shower and kept his mind resolutely blank, and then slid under the sheets, his eyes falling shut the moment his head touched the pillow.

It was light when he awoke, though just barely. The tapping sound next to his head had awakened him, a rhythmic beat that had worked itself into a dream before finally stirring him to life.

"Morning," he said to the form sitting in the bed next to him. The light coming from the computer screen was a bit much for this hour and Greg pulled the pillow over his head.

"Good morning. Is this a convenient time?"

Greg yawned. "Convenient for what?"

"Sex," Sherlock replied.

Greg suddenly found himself very much awake. "Right. Sex." He pulled the pillow away from his face. "Give me a couple of minutes, will you?"

He headed to the bathroom to piss and brush his teeth and do a cursory wipedown, even though he'd had a shower just the night before. He stared at himself in the mirror for a long moment.

Shit. This was going to happen, wasn't it? He was going to have sex with Sherlock. Whatever that meant.

He tried not to be self-conscious as he walked back to bed -- completely naked -- and slid under the covers once again. He tried to find a fairly casual way to lie there, propped up on one elbow, but it didn't seem to matter: Sherlock's attention was still focused on his laptop. After a minute, Greg rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

"You didn't know, did you?" Sherlock asked.

Greg turned to look at him. "Didn't know what?"

"That you had a sniper on you that day."

"Ah. No, I didn't." He inhaled, exhaled again. He hadn't let himself think about it last night, but it all came back now, random thoughts flying about and sorting themselves even as he asked, "So, what does that mean, exactly?"

Sherlock set the laptop on the bedside table and turned to face him, sitting cross-legged on the bed. He was dressed in a loose-fitting t-shirt and y-fronts, a state of undress Greg had never seen him in before. He looked oddly normal.

"Moriarty had snipers trained on the three people I care about most: John, and Mrs. Hudson, and… you. If I didn't jump, the three of you would be killed."

Greg swallowed. "I get John and Mrs. Hudson, but why me?"

Sherlock's eyes locked with his. "Isn't it obvious?"

Greg stared at him for a moment. Had he misjudged Sherlock so badly all this time, or had Sherlock simply changed that much in the year or so he'd known John? He wasn't certain, but it seemed clear that the man sitting before him now bore not a trace of the one he'd found in the gutter all those years ago. How had Greg Lestrade moved to the top of Sherlock's list without even knowing it?

But of course, he did know there was something there, a connection Sherlock didn't have with anyone else at Scotland Yard. Greg had recognized his brilliance early on, had taken a chance on bringing him in, and it had paid off, again and again. They'd connected so many times over cases and at crime scenes, long before John came along, and even when the others had rolled their eyes and complained and even whispered behind Greg's back, he'd ignored it, because he knew Sherlock was one of the best resources he had.

And so now here was this man, whom Greg could not deny he'd grown to care deeply about, sitting before him and saying that everything he'd done, the hell he'd put himself through in the last months -- that it had been for Greg too.

He swallowed. "How did Moriarty know if I didn't?"

Sherlock's smile was small, almost tentative. "He was brilliant, remember? He made it his business to know my weak spots. I spent far too much of my life denying I had them. Sentiment, emotion, love -- those were to be avoided, to be discarded when they arose. Connections to people would only weaken me, so I didn't have them. Or so I thought."

Greg sat up. "How long have you felt that way?"

"You know how long."

His mind was flooded with the memory of Sherlock in his office that night, strung out and lost and nearly predatory in his focus on Greg. He exhaled. "I wasn't sure you remembered that."

"I do." Sherlock looked away. "Not my finest hour, to be sure. I suppose I never thanked you. Very few people had any faith in me then. Other than Mycroft, and he was obligated."

"I knew you were going to be someone amazing, even then." Greg reached out and touched Sherlock's face.

Sherlock leaned in and kissed him, and Greg let himself be pressed back down into the mattress. Sherlock's tongue felt so different from John's against his own, rougher somehow, cooler, curling into his mouth differently. It felt decadent to do this now, to make love to someone who wasn't John. Jesus, John.

"Wait, wait," Greg said, breaking the kiss and holding Sherlock's face in his hands. He knew this was what he wanted, what John wanted, what Sherlock wanted, but it felt too much like cheating, somehow. He wasn't like Jodi and this wasn't the same at all, he knew -- but he needed to find a way to let that go before he could do anything else. "I'm in love with John. I haven't told him yet."

Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly, an expression Greg had often seen when Sherlock thought someone was stating the obvious. "I know. He feels the same about you, but he's afraid to tell you."

"Why is he afraid?"

"The same reason you are, I expect."

Greg started to protest, but stopped himself. He nodded. "And you? Do you love him?"

"Yes." Sherlock leaned in again and his lips brushed Greg's neck. "And he knows. The first morning, after you sent me upstairs. I told him then."

Greg's head fell back and he sighed. "He loves you. He has for a long time."

"I know." Sherlock's voice was muffled against Greg's skin.

The sensation of those lips against his throat was heady. One of Sherlock's hands smoothed down Greg's chest, past his navel, and then fingertips trailed lightly down the length of his cock.

"Is it just a bit weird that we're talking about how much we both love John while you're doing… that?"

"No," Sherlock replied, his voice rough.

And he was right, for reasons Greg couldn't have explained under threat of torture. There was Greg and John and there was Sherlock and John, and that still left room for Sherlock and Greg.

"Three points determine a plane," he whispered, and Sherlock pulled back to look at him, one eyebrow quirked up.

"Was that intended to be a metaphor for stability?"

Greg shrugged. "No idea. I had a massive crush on my maths teacher at school, though. First man I ever had an orgasm over." Sherlock's expression was one of utter confusion, and Greg grinned. He slid a hand between Sherlock's thighs. "You should get those off, now."

Sherlock reached down to tug his pants off and tossed them out of the way, and Greg kissed him again.

"God, I want you," Greg whispered against his lips. He reached down between them and pressed their cocks together. "I've wanted to get my hands on this for quite a while."

Sherlock laughed. "You needed only to ask."

"Well, I was married for a while there."

"True."

"And then you were dead, which was a bit inconvenient."

"A bit." Sherlock's hand joined his and stroked.

"And I… oh, fuck, that's it, right there."

"Is that really how you want me?" Sherlock whispered, and Greg whimpered.

"How I really want you is on your hands and knees." And oh, that image -- it went straight to his groin and Greg had to close his eyes.

"I had something different in mind." There was a smile in his voice and a hint of something mischievous, and Greg opened his eyes again. Sherlock pushed him onto his back and kissed him once more before sliding down his body and pressing his thighs apart.

Greg grinned at the ceiling. "Oh, yeah. This is good."

"It's about to get better," Sherlock said, and then pushed his thighs up. Greg felt hot breath against his balls and then lower, and then he realized what was about to happen.

"Oh God," he said, just as he felt the tip of a tongue brush against his arsehole.

He'd done this to others, but no one had done it to him, and he'd always been embarrassed to ask. And oh God, Sherlock's tongue was soft and slick and hot and lapping against his arsehole and Jesus it felt amazing. He tucked his hands under his knees to pull his thighs back, not caring how wanton the position was, just wanting more of that, more of that tongue, that heat, and fucking hell that tongue was pressing into him now, just slightly, just enough that it made him want more.

"Oh God, that's amazing," he said, not even caring how pathetic he sounded, anything to get more. Sherlock's tongue pressed in over and over, working its way slightly deeper each time and Greg writhed beneath him. "Please touch me, please."

Sherlock's mouth moved up and sucked on one of Greg's balls, and he stroked Greg's cock with one hand, and Greg moaned embarrassingly loudly.

"Your mouth is amazing, do you know that?" He'd spent far too much time thinking about that mouth and what it might be capable of.

Sherlock's tongue circled the other ball and then he shifted up, his breath brushing against the head of Greg's cock. "Did John tell you that this is what I do best?"

"He might have mentioned it, yeah." And Greg might have wanked to that thought on a few occasions. Maybe more than a few.

Sherlock's tongue worked the sensitive spot at the frenulum, and Greg hissed. "I'm going to enjoy working out what turns you on the most."

"Yet another mystery to be solved. I just hope you won't find me boring afterwards."

Sherlock pressed a kiss to the tip of his prick. "It's always a moving target -- that's what makes it so fascinating. So do you like it excruciatingly slow--" He paused to tease Greg's cock with the tip of his tongue for a full minute. "--or fast and hard?" He swallowed Greg's cock to the root, taking him in deeper than anyone had ever done before, so deeply that Greg could feel himself down Sherlock's throat, and then Sherlock actually swallowed, and Greg reeled. No one had ever done that for him before; it was something he'd only seen done in porn and hadn't quite been certain was possible. It felt amazing: the muscles of Sherlock's throat clenched around the head of his cock and then there was the gorgeous suction of his mouth as he came off enough to breathe and then moved back down again. It was like Sherlock was fucking him with his mouth and his throat just as surely as anyone had ever fucked him with other parts of their bodies, and it was incredible.

Just when he thought he was on the verge of coming, Sherlock pulled off and said, "Well?"

"Oh, fuck you, don't stop!"

Sherlock chuckled against his skin. "Do you like to be fingered?"

Did he? He opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. "Yeah. Yes."

"Have you got--"

"Bedside table, drawer."

After a moment's fumbling, Sherlock settled between his thighs again. He teased now, soft flicks of his tongue along the shaft of Greg's cock, brushes of lips, the occasional swipe of wet warmth, never quite exactly where Greg needed it, but close enough that he shuddered and strained.

"You're experimenting on me."

"Of course I am. It's the most efficient way to work out what gets the strongest reaction."

Greg laughed. "Or you could, you know, ask me what I like."

"Not as much fun."

The tip of his tongue swirled around the head of Greg's cock just as a slick fingertip circled his arsehole. The sound Greg made was so wanton it was shocking even to him. His sexual experiences with men prior to the last month had been limited to quick blow jobs and hard fucks, fast and efficient, and almost always with far too much alcohol involved. He'd never expected anything quite like this -- this flood of sensation, the feeling of being worshipped, made love to, even -- that he'd experienced with John and now with Sherlock. It was sex unlike any he'd ever had.

His hands clenched the rumpled sheet beneath him as the circling tongue slowly gave way to Sherlock's mouth: a kiss at first, then his lips parted and the head was slowly drawn in, that tongue swirling and moving, and all the while there was a slick fingertip pressing into him slowly, so slowly he wasn't quite sure how far in it was until he felt it start to slide back out again. And oh that, that bizarre sensation of movement and pressure that somehow intensified everything Sherlock was doing with his mouth, so much so that when that finger slipped out completely he could feel himself come back down a bit.

"God, you're…" he began, but then the finger pressed in again and Sherlock took in more of his cock, and the rest of the words morphed into a moan.

If being fucked was anything like this, perhaps he should reconsider.

The build was slow, torturous even, perfect, and then there were two fingers inside him, pressing straight in and twisting on the way out again, and that mouth was hot and wet and that tongue and fuck. Suddenly Sherlock's mouth was everywhere, and it was a moment before he realized his prick was halfway down Sherlock's throat again. Sherlock swallowed around him and at the same moment hooked the fingers inside Greg up, and there, that, that, yes was all he managed, not sure if the words were in his head or coming out of his mouth. His hands tightened into fists and the movement was repeated, a long stroke up, warm mouth, fingers twisting out, then down, swallowed down, fingers thrusting into him, perfect --

He thought he'd had his share of fantastic orgasms in the last month, but this, now -- it left him shaking, floating, with his fingers and toes tingling and his brain fuzzy, and fucking hell, that had actually managed to blow his expectations away completely.

Sherlock's face pressed against his stomach, wiping his mouth off on Greg's skin, but that was fine, that was lovely.

"Oh God," Greg said after what seemed to be minutes, and the sound of his voice rang in his ears. "Give me a minute. Though I don't think I can top that."

"It's fine." Sherlock slid up Greg's body and Greg felt the hard length of his cock press against Greg's thigh. Sherlock's body slid against him and his voice was tight. "Just stay right there, and... oh, God."

Greg's eyes flew open at that. "No, no, no." He pulled himself together enough to roll them both over and pressed Sherlock down into the mattress beneath him. "I've thought about this for far too long to lie back and let you rub yourself off on my fucking leg." He kissed Sherlock roughly and pressed his arms up over his head, then pulled back just enough to whisper, "You are not denying me this."

Sherlock stared back up at him, clearly startled. His eyes were dark and clear, and then a trace of a smile appeared at the corners of his lips. He almost seemed to melt into the mattress then, and Greg couldn't help smirking in response.

Oh.

"Hands on the rails, and keep them there." Sherlock stretched his arms out over his head and found the rails of the headboard. He wrapped his fingers around two of the slats, never breaking eye contact. "And now close your eyes. Don't open them until we're done. Can you do that?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded, and Greg kissed him.

He moved as slowly as he could manage after that: soft kisses and brushes of lips and flicks of his tongue, mapping the contours of Sherlock's body line by line, inch by inch. He tried to commit the most sensitive spots to memory, and when he found one that seemed especially responsive -- the soft skin on the inside of his forearms, his nipples, and the backs of his knees -- he paused and experimented with pressure and speed, alternating between licks and bites.

When the tip of Greg's tongue trailed a wet path up the inside of his thigh, Sherlock arched his back and moaned, and Greg grinned triumphantly. Sherlock clenched the railing hard and squirmed beneath Greg, but he kept his eyes closed.

"What do you want?"

Sherlock made a startled sound, as if he'd just been given permission to make noise. "I don't know, I… Touch me."

"Like this?" Greg wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's prick and stroked up, giving a slight squeeze at the top before twisting and sliding back down again.

"Yes, and--" Sherlock's next words faded into a strangled moan as Greg sucked one of his balls into his mouth. He rolled his tongue around it slowly, then wriggled the tip against spots that seemed to be especially sensitive. He kept his hand moving slowly as he turned his attention to the other one. He tugged gently with his mouth and listened, trying to work out if it was too much.

It wasn't, if the trembling in Sherlock's thighs was anything to go by. It was a far more beautiful sight than he'd even imagined: Sherlock trembling beneath him, being taken apart slowly by Greg's hands and mouth, and still hanging onto the bedrail exactly as he'd been told. God, that was… Greg had to close his eyes for a moment and collect himself. He could do anything to Sherlock right now -- well, almost anything -- and the idea of it was heady.

Greg licked his way up the shaft and teased the head of Sherlock's cock for more than a minute, pulling back when Sherlock shifted his hips up in an attempt to push into his mouth.

"Tell me what you want."

Sherlock lifted his head to look down at him; his eyes were startlingly dark.

"Keep your eyes closed. Just feel."

Sherlock's head fell back against the pillow. "Your mouth."

"I was hoping you'd say that." Greg took the head into his mouth and sucked lightly, keeping the touch of his tongue slow and gentle, and Sherlock gasped. His hips shifted up again and Greg allowed it, letting Sherlock's cock push into his mouth just to the point of discomfort. He grasped Sherlock's hips and pushed him down against the mattress again, and gave him a half-dozen long strokes with his mouth. Sherlock groaned as Greg pulled off to tease with just his tongue again.

"Not yet," he said, unable to stop himself from smiling. "I haven't decided how I want to see you come."

"You're enjoying this." The tension in Sherlock's voice was clear.

"Isn't that the point?" Greg planted a string of gentle kisses down the shaft of Sherlock's cock and then licked back up the underside again. "I've fantasized about this, you know. What it would be like to have you like this."

"This?" Sherlock shifted his hips up again. "This is maddening."

"Good."

"How is it good? Isn't the point of sex to get off?" A touch of frustration there, which was interesting.

"It can be." Greg took the head into his mouth again.

"And to do so -- oh, fuck -- with some manner of efficiency?"

Greg chuckled around Sherlock's prick and started moving again, slowly, and held his hips still. He'd learned a lot about this particular act during the last month. His prior experiences of oral sex with men had been quick and alcohol-induced and not something he'd reflected upon afterwards or even attempted to refine. But with John it had become something else entirely -- sex had become something else. With Jodi it had stopped being about connection and pleasure and joy so long ago that he'd forgotten it could be anything other than a quick shag to press reset on their sex life, tick that box next to had sex this week on the list of Things You Do When You're Married and Pretending to be Happy.

That first time with John had been about needing human connection and getting off with a friend, and he hadn't expected it to become something more, something that could become permanent. And Sherlock had come back at exactly the moment Greg had realized he wanted something more, and then it had become incredibly complicated.

"Less thinking, more sucking," Sherlock said, and Greg pulled off and laughed.

"I thought I was the one telling you what to do in this scenario."

"Then tell me."

Greg crawled up the length of the bed and stretched out beside him, and took Sherlock's cock in hand. "Look at me." Sherlock turned his head and Greg stroked, and Sherlock's eyelids fluttered closed. "No, look at me. I want to see you come like this."

Sherlock opened his eyes again and Greg was startled by how dark they looked in the dim morning light. He leaned down to kiss Sherlock and teased his lips apart with the tip of his tongue. Their lips moved together, soft and warm and slick, and Greg was struck again by how different Sherlock's mouth was from John's.

His hand moved faster, twisting the sensitive foreskin against the head on each short stroke, and Sherlock whimpered into his mouth. Greg pressed one more kiss against his lips before leaning back to watch, to see the jaw slacken and his eyes close, and his fingers clench the headboard so tightly there would be marks later. Sherlock's hips rocked up against Greg's hand and his mouth fell open and Greg was sure he'd have preferred to stifle the cry he made as he came. It was beautiful, even better than Greg had imagined, to see him lose control for just that moment, to give himself over to something purely physical.

Sherlock's hands went to cover his face, and Greg didn't try to pry them away. He traced a finger through the string of semen on Sherlock's belly, spreading it on the skin around his navel.

"Now I'll certainly need a shower," Sherlock said, and then groaned when Greg leaned over him to lick the mess off. "Or yes, you could do that."

Greg grinned and settled his torso on Sherlock's chest. "So, was that a horrible waste of your time, then?"

Sherlock dropped his hands away from his face. "I said it was inefficient, not pointless."

"Some things are meant to be inefficient, you know."

Sherlock smiled and reached up to ruffle Greg's hair. "I suppose so."

Greg pressed his lips together. "You liked it like that, me telling you what to do. You got off on it a bit."

Sherlock looked thoughtful. "More than a bit."

Greg regarded him for a moment. "Is that what you want?"

"Maybe. Yes. It's not something John has ever expressed interest in, so I hadn't given it much consideration, but it's definitely… intriguing."

Greg smiled. "All right. We'll talk about it. But not now." His senses were starting to come back online and he was aware of a scent in the air that hadn't been there before. "Is that… bacon?"

"Mmm, yes. John did say something about a fry-up."

Greg lay his cheek on Sherlock's chest and listened to the sound of his heart beating, still heading back down to normal after his orgasm. "So did he send you down here this morning?"

"He was still asleep when I got out of bed this morning." Sherlock shifted and Greg looked back up at him. "I came down because I wanted you." He said it simply, and it was clear that he meant it.

It really was that simple, wasn't it? Greg smiled and sat up. "Let's get dressed then. I'm starving. Never did have a proper supper last night."

John was in the kitchen when they emerged at last, dressed and cleaned up. John was wearing an old t-shirt and loose jeans, and his feet were bare. He looked up when they walked in and he grinned at them, and Greg wondered how much of the activity he'd overheard. "Good morning, was it?"

Greg crossed to wrap his arms around John from behind and plant a kiss on the back of his neck. "Definitely. This is rather homey of you."

"It's just bacon and eggs."

"It's like having a wife again."

"If this is a crack about me taking it up the arse, you can kindly fuck off." John's tone was good-natured, though, and Greg grinned against his skin.

"My wife never took it up the arse -- at least she didn't take mine. Come to think of it, she didn't fix me breakfast very often either."

"She didn't know what she was missing." John leaned back against him slightly, and Greg felt a pulse of pleasure at the way their bodies fit together.

"Neither did I," he said into John's hair, and John gave his hand a squeeze.

Greg turned to see Sherlock leaning against the counter and watching the two of them with an expression of amusement.

He stepped away from John and turned toward the sink. "Coffee, right. How do you take yours, Sherlock?"

Ten minutes later they were seated at the table and tucking into breakfast when there was a knock on the door.

"Come in," John called, and Greg looked up to see Mrs. Hudson cross to the kitchen with what appeared to be a coffee cake on a tray.

"Good morning, boys. Mrs. Dowley gave me this cake yesterday, but it's not my favorite. I thought you might like it." She set it on the table and gave Sherlock a pat on the shoulder. "And since you've been ignoring the buzzer anyway I took the liberty of disconnecting it an hour ago. There are reporters and all sorts of nosy people down there waiting for one of you to make an appearance."

Greg was still staring at Mrs. Hudson, his coffee cup frozen halfway to his mouth. "How long have you known, then?"

"Known what, dear? Oh, about Sherlock." She gave Sherlock a mock stern look. "About a week, I suppose? He gave me quite a fright. I nearly fainted dead away."

"And then she slapped me," Sherlock added with a fond smile.

"And I'll do it again if you ever try something so daft." She shook her head. "Though I must admit that I had my doubts all along. Suicide, really? That's not like you, is it? Anyone who knows you at all would see right through that."

Greg and John exchanged a wry look.

"So I suppose you'll be moving back in, then? Goodness, where will all of you boys sleep?"

"Oh, I think we'll manage," John said with a grin.

Mrs. Hudson affected a shocked expression, though there was a twinkle in her eyes. "Oh goodness, you three. Don't go teasing an old woman with such things." She beamed fondly at all of them before turning to leave again.

Greg crossed to the front window and peeked outside. Sure enough, there were at least two dozen people standing about, along with several television news vans.

"There goes my Saturday," he said with a sigh. "I'd better call in and see what everyone wants me to do about this."

"Finish your coffee first," John said. "And you might not want to look quite so well-fucked when you go out to face that bunch."

Greg turned back to look at both of them and grinned. "If that's the standard, none of us will be going out much anytime soon."

John and Sherlock smiled at each other, and Greg crossed back to the table to sit with them, to have coffee and bacon and eggs with both of his boyfriends. It was the first morning, in a way. The first of many. He raised his cup to his lips and smiled.

*****

[NOTE: If the formatting below looks wonky, go HERE.]

MelinaP Posts: 1274 20 August 06:43

Harkin04 Posts: 3502 20 August 06:43

Jessisbest Posts: 547 20 August 06:46

*****

TRANSCRIPT OF PRESS CONFERENCE
Scotland Yard, 26 August, 09:12

D. I. LESTRADE: Thank you all for coming. As everyone is now aware, the amateur detective known as Sherlock Holmes, who was reported to have committed suicide by jumping from the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital back in June of this year, is in fact alive. As the press release from the Security Services made clear, this incident was staged in order to apprehend James Moriarty, best known for his attempt to steal the Crown Jewels last spring. Mr. Holmes was working with the Security Service during the months prior to the operation, the details of which remain classified. I have, however, been authorized to inform you that James Moriarty was killed during the operation and is no longer a threat to society. Scotland Yard were brought into the operation just in the last few weeks, and no one here knew the details of Mr. Holmes' whereabouts until that time. I'll take a few questions.

Q: How was Moriarty killed?

D. I. LESTRADE: Mr. Moriarty shot himself in the head on the roof of St. Bartholomew's around the time that Mr. Holmes jumped.

Q: So Moriarty was on the roof of Bart's with Sherlock Holmes?

D. I. LESTRADE: Yes.

Q: Why?

D. I. LESTRADE: I don't have that information, but it would seem to have been part of the operation.

Q: Was Moriarty's presence a factor in the staged suicide?

D. I. LESTRADE: I'm not certain I understand the question.

Q: Did Mr. Holmes jump from the roof as part of the plan to apprehend Moriarty?

D. I. LESTRADE: Yes, as far as I know, the staged suicide was part of the plan to apprehend him.

Q: Moriarty claimed to be an actor called Richard Brook who was hired by Sherlock Holmes. Is the official position of the police that those claims were false?

D. I. LESTRADE: Yes, that is our position. I have no further information, but I've been informed that there will be an article in the Guardian tomorrow that details this fabrication by Mr. Moriarty and who else was involved.

Q: Have the police ruled out the possibility that Mr. Holmes murdered Moriarty?

D. I. LESTRADE: Yes. Completely.

Q: According to the press release, Mr. Holmes sustained no serious injuries, despite leaping from a four-storey building. How was that accomplished?

D. I. LESTRADE: I'm afraid that information is classified.

Q: At what point did you personally become aware that Mr. Holmes was still alive?

D. I. LESTRADE: In the last few weeks. When Scotland Yard was brought into the operation, I was informed of his continued survival.

Q: He was a friend of yours before. What was your reaction to learning he was alive?

D. I. LESTRADE: He remains a good friend, so obviously I was thrilled to see him again and to know he is safe.

Q: You went on record at the time as stating that you didn't believe any of the articles claiming he was a fraud. Did you know something about the operation then?

D. I. LESTRADE: No, I didn't know anything. That information was highly classified, so if I had, I certainly wouldn't have said anything publicly about it.

Q: What is your response to the claims that the Security Services and Scotland Yard violated the public trust by keeping Mr. Holmes' survival a secret?

D. I. LESTRADE: I'd say those people haven't watched many James Bond films.

[LAUGHTER]

D. I. LESTRADE: That's the nature of the work done by the Security Services. Some information is classified for the public good. It's hardly the first time information has been withheld from the public, and it's certainly not the most scandalous of such incidents, as we all well know.

Q: What is your response to the rumors that you are romantically involved with John Watson?

D. I. LESTRADE: I'm not going to comment on those rumors.

END OF TRANSCRIPT

*****

THE PERSONAL BLOG OF
Dr. John. H. Watson

26 August

A Quick Note
As everyone has heard by now, Sherlock is alive and well. I can't say that the news was a complete surprise to me. After all, I knew the man for more than a year. He was my best friend, and none of the things that were said about him in the papers, or the idea that he would kill himself out of humiliation, made a shred of sense to me. So I hoped, but I didn't know for certain until a few weeks ago.

People want to know how he survived the fall from the roof of Bart's, and I'm afraid that information is classified. Don't bother asking, because you won't learn anything about it from me.

I don't know what the future holds for Sherlock, but I can tell you that he has moved back into the flat and we're resuming life as normally as we can manage with paparazzi camped out on the front steps. He may begin taking cases again once the excitement dies down. For now his work remains classified, so I can't say much more. :-)

Most people who lose someone don't get to rewind the clock and say all the things they'd meant to say, so I'm incredibly grateful to have another chance. People have asked if I was angry at him for making me go through all of it. I was for a while, and sometimes I still am, but I now understood why he did it. His reasons were completely justified, and that's my last word on that topic.

Thank you all for your kind emails and for your support during the last few months. It's been quite a ride, and I'm looking forward to the future.

214 comments

*****

Epilogue: Two months later

Greg's phone pinged the moment he emerged from the Baker Street tube station.

You know that thing Sherlock's been threatening to do? He's done it.

Greg stopped in his tracks and stared at the phone for a moment. "Shit."

Before he turned the corner, he wound his scarf up over his mouth and nose out of habit, but the few paps hanging around outside the front door of 221B didn't pay him much notice. He passed them on the opposite side of the street and then crossed to unlock the door of 227. He pulled the scarf away as he climbed the stairs, dread pooling in his stomach.

He expected the worst when he opened the door of the flat. It wasn't as bad as he'd feared, though: some of the furniture had been moved around to accommodate a large hole blown in one wall, tall enough to walk through. Through the hole he could see the sitting room of 221B.

He sighed and flicked on the lights. "Motherfucker."

John appeared in the gaping hole. "What do you think?"

Greg stripped off his coat and crossed to inspect the damage. "My landlord is going to kill me."

"Yeah, well, Mrs . Hudson hasn't seen it yet either. I hope not to be around when that happens."

Greg reached out to touch the thick layer of exposed brick between the two flats. "How did he do it?"

"I've no idea. I was at the surgery at the time. And he was conspicuously absent when I got home."

Greg shook his head. "This can't be legal. There are permits and inspections."

John snorted. "As if that would stop him. At least he cleaned up the mess."

Indeed, the floor was clean on both sides of the new doorway. The floor wasn't quite level between; there was a good four-inch step up into Greg's main room. It would need a bit of work before it looked presentable, of course. Greg scrubbed at his chin with one hand. "Oh, God. I can't believe he did it."

John stepped through the doorway and slid his arms around Greg's waist. "You have to admit, though, that it's terribly convenient. It'll be like having one huge flat."

"True." Greg leaned down to kiss him. "I suppose it will be nice not to have to do the walk of shame in the mornings when one or the other of us stays over."

John's hands slid down over Greg's arse. "Exactly. And your man-cave set-up will be much more readily accessible." John nodded over at the large flat-screen television on the far wall surrounded by various pieces of entertainment-related technology. "I can pop over to watch a match without even having to get dressed."

"Speaking of--" Greg paused to kiss him once more before he crossed over to pluck a remote from the set of five lined up on the sofa table. "I DVR'd the ITM Cup. Want to watch, maybe order some takeaway later?"

"Sounds fantastic. Have you got any beer?"

"Of course. My refrigerator is being used for its intended purpose." He turned on the television and the sound system and scrolled through the DVR menu.

"Must be nice. Oi, what's this?"

He turned to see John in the kitchen, staring at a collection of beakers that covered an entire countertop. Most were filled with a greenish-brown liquid. "An experiment, apparently. He said it would only take a couple of days."

John's eyes narrowed. "You said no experiments in this flat. That was the whole point."

Greg sighed. "It was a lot more complicated than that, and you know it."

It wasn't just the experiments covering every available surface, or the body parts of dubiously legal original that kept showing up in the fridge that had finally driven Greg over the edge. Two weeks after the Moriarty case was closed, Greg had come home from a ridiculously long day to find that his bedroom had been re-appropriated by Sherlock. The sleeping arrangements had been ad hoc anyway, with Greg and John each having their own room and Sherlock sleeping wherever he liked, on the infrequent occasions he slept. But on that particular day, the entire contents of Sherlock's SIS office had been boxed up and transported to the flat, and the bedroom had converted into a home office of sorts.

Greg found it impossible to sleep there while Sherlock worked at all hours of the night. He'd ended up sleeping in John's room, which was fine, but after a particularly memorable incident in which Greg had opened the refrigerator to find a severed penis lying on the shelf -- a human penis, for God's sake -- he was done. No matter how much Greg cared about John and Sherlock, he was a grown fucking man and he was paying half the rent: he needed a space of his own.

And so when they learned the next day that a flat in the adjacent building was available, it seemed a fantastic solution. The three of them had keys to both flats and they each came and went as they pleased. The flat was smaller than 221B, with a single bedroom, but it was exactly what Greg needed. He'd purchased the largest bed he could find, large enough for the three of them -- which meant his bedroom tended to be the place where all the sex happened. He didn't mind.

And of course, as soon as they'd realized the two flats shared a wall, Sherlock had decided they should tear it down. Which he'd done today.

"It hardly matters now. It's one big flat." Greg gestured at their impromptu doorway. "You won't even have to go outside if you decide to surprise me in the middle of the night."

John gave him a long look. "You said no experiments. You threatened him with bodily harm."

Greg clenched his jaw. "I may have changed my mind."

John's eyes widened. "Oh God, don't tell me. What, did he bribe you with sexual favors?"

Greg felt heat rise to his cheeks. "It wasn't just that."

John rolled his eyes. "You are so whipped."

"He sucked my cock for an hour. What was I supposed to do?"

"Reattach your bollocks, apparently."

"Get the fucking beer, John, and let it go."

John settled next to him on the sofa a minute later, still visibly tense, and Greg sighed. He paused the playback and tugged at John's hand.

"Come here."

John sighed, but let himself be pulled into Greg's arms.

"I'm glad he blew a giant hole in the wall, to be honest. If the price of living with the two of you again includes his experiments spilling over every now and then, it's worth it."

"I know you've just been on the other side of a wall, but…" John tilted his head up and kissed the underside of Greg's chin. "I've missed you. It felt like you moved out."

Greg sighed and kissed his temple. He knew John had felt that way, but neither of them had said anything until now. "I didn't, you know. I just moved… over."

"I know. And now it's kind of moot, I suppose."

"It is." Greg sought out John's mouth and kissed him, gently at first, and then felt heat spiral through him when John's tongue slid against his own. "So, rugby or sex?"

"There's a reason DVRs were invented." John climbed up to straddle Greg's lap, and they both hummed at the contact.

Greg's hands slid into John's trousers and over his arse. "I haven't fucked you on this sofa yet."

"Not tonight." John's mouth found his neck.

"Don't tell me you have a headache."

"Ah, no." John sat back with a wry smile. "I'll just say there's a biological reason and leave it at that."

Greg grinned. "Right. I might be out of condoms anyway."

John pressed him against the sofa. "Well, now that there's a brand-new door, supply runs to my room might not be as much of an issue."

There was a distinct sound of a door opening and closing in 221B, and they both froze.

John looked up, and the expression on his face changed to the one he typically wore around Sherlock: a blend of affection and annoyance. "I hope you're planning on putting in an actual door. Otherwise I think we're in serious violation of the fire code."

A series of footsteps could be heard crossing the room and finally Sherlock came into Greg's field of vision. "I'll take care of it tomorrow."

"Don't tell me you know how to set a door," Greg said, unable to keep the incredulity from his tone.

"All right, I won't tell you," Sherlock replied. "Brought you something." He reached into his pocket and dangled a set of handcuffs over Greg's face.

Greg grinned and reached for them, but before he could, John snatched them away. "Is this what the two of you are getting up to, then?"

"You're always welcome to join us." Greg slid a hand up John's thigh. "In fact--" He tugged John's shirt and pulled him down close enough to whisper, "Considering the events of today, you might find the sight of Sherlock handcuffed to the bed rather interesting."

He felt John shiver against him. "You have a point. We could make him watch us suck each other off."

"While he can't touch himself." Greg grinned and kissed John's ear. "I like it."

They both sat up and smiled at Sherlock, whose expression changed to one of suspicion immediately. "What?"

Greg took the handcuffs back from John and held them out to Sherlock. "You know what to do. We'll join you shortly."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, but the heat in them was clear. He nodded and took the handcuffs, and disappeared in the direction of Greg's bedroom.

"Well, this is new," John said.

"Are you okay with it?"

"As long as I'm not the one being tied up or handcuffed, I suppose so. Does he actually like it?"

"He hates it when he's bound and I go slowly. And by hate, I mean love, obviously. He whinges the entire time, but it turns him on like mad."

John looked undeniably intrigued. "And so if two of us are doing it, teasing him like that--"

"Yeah."

They stared at each other for a moment.

"Right," John at last. "Are you sure you want me there? I mean, this is usually something that's between the two of you, and I don't want to intrude."

"Trust me, it's not intruding. In fact, I think he may have been planning this all along."

John's eyebrows rose. "The wall, the disappearing act, the handcuffs -- yeah, you may be right. So, should we go and look in on him, then?"

Greg pulled him in for a kiss. "Not yet. After what he did today, he deserves to be made uncomfortable for a bit."

"Jesus. Remind me never to piss you off."

From the bedroom, there was a distinct clink of the handcuffs snapping shut.

Greg grinned up at John. "I love you."

A strange expression flitted over John's face, and he smiled. "I love you too."

They snogged for several minutes, until Greg's trousers were uncomfortably tight and John was nearly rutting against him. He pressed his forehead against John's. "Shall we take this into the bedroom then?"

John stood and held out his hand, and Greg took it.