Little Toy Gun
28 September 2011 11:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladygrendelTitle: Little Toy Gun
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, DI Lestrade (Lestrade/Sherlock)
Warnings: gunplay and sexual content
Summary: Sherlock seems to know the contents of Lestrade's bedside table a little too well
When Detective Inspector Lestrade finally made it home to take a shower and hopefully crash for the night, the last thing he expected to find was the world’s only consulting detective sprawled across his bed. Sherlock would have looked like a doll tossed carelessly to the side if it weren’t for the fact that Lestrade could practically hear the younger man thinking. Lestrade scrubbed his head with a towel, thankful that he’d had the foresight to bring a pair of flannel pajama pants into the bathroom with him.
"Do I even want to know how you got in here?"
"Probably not."
It never ceased to amaze him how a man-child like Sherlock had such a deep, masculine voice. He could use it to seduce the truth from victims, charm men and women alike, then turn around and make biting remarks. It was a weapon of supreme power in the hands of a self-proclaimed sociopath.
Lestrade wondered how long Sherlock had been laying there. He was still dressed for the cold with that damn scarf wrapped around his neck. His nimble, gloved hands rested upon his chest as if he was reclining in a coffin.
“Does Watson know where you are?”
“John’s in bed, asleep. Why? He’s not my minder.” Sherlock propped himself up on one elbow, shooting Lestrade a speculative look. “Are you jealous, inspector?”
Sherlock received nothing but a derisive snort in response. Lestrade tossed the towel in the hamper he kept near the bathroom door. Only half of the towel made it in, but he honestly didn’t mind leaving part of it hanging over the side. He never got any visitors besides Sherlock anyway.
“I know better than to do that. It’s not like we’re an item or anything.” Lestrade sighed. “So what couldn’t wait until morning Sherlock? If you’re worried about what you told me in the ambulance, don’t. I’ve conveniently forgotten everything you said. Maybe next time I’ll remember to write it down,” he added sarcastically.
“He’s interesting,” admitted Sherlock. “An invalided solider with a psychosomatic limp and a tremble in his left hand that only occurs when John experiences withdrawal.”
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Lestrade frowned. The last thing Sherlock needed was a flatmate with a drug habit. Took long enough to get Sherlock clean the first time, and he really wasn't keen on repeating the experience.
“Withdrawal? From what?”
The younger man bared his teeth in grin, the same one that often appeared whenever Sherlock stumbled across a serial killer or discovered a twist in a case.
“War. The battlefield. Excitement.”
“Ah. Another adrenaline junkie. Well, you’re lucky two bonded so quickly or else you’d more than likely be dead right now.” Lestrade watched Sherlock get off the bed and shed his clothes. Despite some of their more dangerous cases, the young genius had managed to refrain from getting shot. There were other scars, though. Old track marks on the inside of bony elbows, thin lines, and the remnants of worse wounds. Suddenly Lestrade was aware of what he could have lost. “You would’ve taken that bloody pill if Watson hadn’t shot that bastard. God, sometimes it’s hard to believe how someone as smart as you can be so stupid.”
That earned him a glare but Sherlock laid back down on the bed anyway, stomach first, in his boxers. After straddling the slim man’s waist, Lestrade began to massage Sherlock’s back. This turned him into absolute putty, which was a reward in itself. There was quiet for awhile as they enjoyed each other’s company and Lestrade dug his thumbs into tense shoulders. Eventually, because he wasn’t a high-functioning sociopath, Lestrade felt compelled to speak.
“I’m not sorry, you know. About the fake drugs bust.”
Sherlock scoffed. “As if those idiots could find their way out of a wet paper bag.”
“I know it’s stupid of me to ask, but could you please clean out that flat? The next time there’s a drugs bust I might not be in charge, and there may be people who actually know what they’re doing instead of Anderson and a bunch of volunteers.” Working out a particularly stubborn knot, he added, “Not everyone is as fond of you as me. Besides, it’s not fair to drag Watson into it.”
While Sherlock didn't say anything, Lestrade hoped that his comment about the doctor made him realize the seriousness of the issue.
“Your nightstand drawer,” said Sherlock, apropos of nothing. “It has a false bottom. Beneath it is a gun. If you would be so kind as to get it for me…”
Lestrade paused, uncertain of where this conversation was heading. Surely if they hadn’t had sex yet then Sherlock wasn’t interested in anything more than a backrub tonight. What in the hell did he want with a gun? Just the idea of Sherlock being armed was frightening enough. But there was no arguing with him, so Lestrade got up to get it. The gun was loaded, and there was a good chance that it was the same type of handgun Watson had used to shoot that crazy cabbie.
Sherlock turned over and sat up, watching with calculating eyes as Lestrade walked around the bed. He wasn’t stupid, or at least he wasn’t as stupid as Sherlock liked to say he was. Lestrade suddenly had an image in his mind’s eye of how Sherlock would look with the gun in his smart mouth, how those lips would-
“You’re thinking.” Sherlock sounded amused and intrigued. A lazy grin appeared on his face. “Accelerated pulse and dilated pupils…you’re aroused.”
"Impressive," Lestrade retorted dryly, attempting to keep his voice even. "You really are a genius."
Scowling, Sherlock sharply said, "Shut up. That's what he called me - a proper genius."
"He mocked you? Not to point out the obvious, but who got the last laugh?"
This caused the other man’s lips to quirk into a wry smile. Sherlock’s gray eyes darted from the gun to Lestrade’s face, waiting for the inspector to make his move. Lestrade barely managed to keep himself from smirking at the desire burning in Sherlock’s eyes. He raised the gun, acting as if he’d forgotten it was there.
"What? You want this?"
"Very much so, yes."
"And what exactly do you plan to do about it, Mr. Holmes?"
Sherlock crawled slowly, sexily to the end of the bed without breaking eye contact. As he pulled Lestrade’s pants down, he licked a wet stripe from Lestrade’s fingers to the tip of the gun along the underside. Once exposed to the air and Sherlock’s perverse display, his previously half-hard cock became fully erect. The sudden rush of blood left Lestrade feeling a little lightheaded. Sherlock took more of the gun in his mouth, tongue hot and wet against the older man’s fingers.
“Mm, it’s more fun if your finger is on the trigger. Just a helpful hint.”
Before he had the chance to argue gun safety, a hand started to slowly pump his cock, and Lestrade lost the power of speech. Without realizing it, his grip slipped, and Lestrade held the gun without any hesitation. The only thing that stood between kinky sex and a murder charge now was the safety, which he had no intention of taking off.
It took only a few tries before Sherlock managed to get a good rhythm going with the gun, making an effort to keep it in time with his hand. While Lestrade wanted nothing more than to let go of his control, the fact that he had a loaded weapon kept him somewhat conscious. Sherlock’s talented hands always gave him the best handjobs, but he loved it best when the detective wore his cool leather gloves.
Lestrade’s knees grew weak as he steadily approached his climax, and Sherlock ignored his warnings, not breaking stride for an instant.
“F-fuck, Sherlock…”
The sight of Sherlock with his pink lips tight around the barrel of the gun and his flushed face was priceless. Sherlock let out a moan and Lestrade came half a second later, a strangled cry in his throat. In an act of surprising tenderness, Sherlock put the gun on the nightstand and carefully allowed Lestrade to collapse onto the bed. After wiping his hands and disposing the tissues, Sherlock cuddled close, fondly caressing Lestrade’s bare ass.
“Would you ever attempt that?”
Lestrade huffed a laugh into the pillow.
"One, I'd never try to swallow a gun, loaded or not. And two, I'm not entirely sure I trust you enough to not pull the trigger just to see what sort of spatter my brain would make on the wall."
Instead of becoming offended, Sherlock appeared smug.
"I already know what pattern would be created."
"That's very reassuring." Lestrade lifted his head. "You all right? If you need me to-"
"It's been taken care of," Sherlock said quickly, blushing.
"Then dump your boxers in the hamper and I'll wash them for you tomorrow. Do you plan on staying the night?"
"Yes. Now move over and give me some of the covers."
With a great deal of effort Lestrade gave up half the bed and yanked his pants back up. Sherlock pressed his back to his chest, and Lestrade slipped his arms around Sherlock’s waist. He buried his face in dark curls and sighed. There was nothing he could do to keep Sherlock safe and sound, especially since the man liked to be in the thick of things. Maybe Doctor Watson was the right person to be Sherlock’s ‘minder’, as long as Lestrade got to keep his occupation as lover.
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, DI Lestrade (Lestrade/Sherlock)
Warnings: gunplay and sexual content
Summary: Sherlock seems to know the contents of Lestrade's bedside table a little too well
When Detective Inspector Lestrade finally made it home to take a shower and hopefully crash for the night, the last thing he expected to find was the world’s only consulting detective sprawled across his bed. Sherlock would have looked like a doll tossed carelessly to the side if it weren’t for the fact that Lestrade could practically hear the younger man thinking. Lestrade scrubbed his head with a towel, thankful that he’d had the foresight to bring a pair of flannel pajama pants into the bathroom with him.
"Do I even want to know how you got in here?"
"Probably not."
It never ceased to amaze him how a man-child like Sherlock had such a deep, masculine voice. He could use it to seduce the truth from victims, charm men and women alike, then turn around and make biting remarks. It was a weapon of supreme power in the hands of a self-proclaimed sociopath.
Lestrade wondered how long Sherlock had been laying there. He was still dressed for the cold with that damn scarf wrapped around his neck. His nimble, gloved hands rested upon his chest as if he was reclining in a coffin.
“Does Watson know where you are?”
“John’s in bed, asleep. Why? He’s not my minder.” Sherlock propped himself up on one elbow, shooting Lestrade a speculative look. “Are you jealous, inspector?”
Sherlock received nothing but a derisive snort in response. Lestrade tossed the towel in the hamper he kept near the bathroom door. Only half of the towel made it in, but he honestly didn’t mind leaving part of it hanging over the side. He never got any visitors besides Sherlock anyway.
“I know better than to do that. It’s not like we’re an item or anything.” Lestrade sighed. “So what couldn’t wait until morning Sherlock? If you’re worried about what you told me in the ambulance, don’t. I’ve conveniently forgotten everything you said. Maybe next time I’ll remember to write it down,” he added sarcastically.
“He’s interesting,” admitted Sherlock. “An invalided solider with a psychosomatic limp and a tremble in his left hand that only occurs when John experiences withdrawal.”
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Lestrade frowned. The last thing Sherlock needed was a flatmate with a drug habit. Took long enough to get Sherlock clean the first time, and he really wasn't keen on repeating the experience.
“Withdrawal? From what?”
The younger man bared his teeth in grin, the same one that often appeared whenever Sherlock stumbled across a serial killer or discovered a twist in a case.
“War. The battlefield. Excitement.”
“Ah. Another adrenaline junkie. Well, you’re lucky two bonded so quickly or else you’d more than likely be dead right now.” Lestrade watched Sherlock get off the bed and shed his clothes. Despite some of their more dangerous cases, the young genius had managed to refrain from getting shot. There were other scars, though. Old track marks on the inside of bony elbows, thin lines, and the remnants of worse wounds. Suddenly Lestrade was aware of what he could have lost. “You would’ve taken that bloody pill if Watson hadn’t shot that bastard. God, sometimes it’s hard to believe how someone as smart as you can be so stupid.”
That earned him a glare but Sherlock laid back down on the bed anyway, stomach first, in his boxers. After straddling the slim man’s waist, Lestrade began to massage Sherlock’s back. This turned him into absolute putty, which was a reward in itself. There was quiet for awhile as they enjoyed each other’s company and Lestrade dug his thumbs into tense shoulders. Eventually, because he wasn’t a high-functioning sociopath, Lestrade felt compelled to speak.
“I’m not sorry, you know. About the fake drugs bust.”
Sherlock scoffed. “As if those idiots could find their way out of a wet paper bag.”
“I know it’s stupid of me to ask, but could you please clean out that flat? The next time there’s a drugs bust I might not be in charge, and there may be people who actually know what they’re doing instead of Anderson and a bunch of volunteers.” Working out a particularly stubborn knot, he added, “Not everyone is as fond of you as me. Besides, it’s not fair to drag Watson into it.”
While Sherlock didn't say anything, Lestrade hoped that his comment about the doctor made him realize the seriousness of the issue.
“Your nightstand drawer,” said Sherlock, apropos of nothing. “It has a false bottom. Beneath it is a gun. If you would be so kind as to get it for me…”
Lestrade paused, uncertain of where this conversation was heading. Surely if they hadn’t had sex yet then Sherlock wasn’t interested in anything more than a backrub tonight. What in the hell did he want with a gun? Just the idea of Sherlock being armed was frightening enough. But there was no arguing with him, so Lestrade got up to get it. The gun was loaded, and there was a good chance that it was the same type of handgun Watson had used to shoot that crazy cabbie.
Sherlock turned over and sat up, watching with calculating eyes as Lestrade walked around the bed. He wasn’t stupid, or at least he wasn’t as stupid as Sherlock liked to say he was. Lestrade suddenly had an image in his mind’s eye of how Sherlock would look with the gun in his smart mouth, how those lips would-
“You’re thinking.” Sherlock sounded amused and intrigued. A lazy grin appeared on his face. “Accelerated pulse and dilated pupils…you’re aroused.”
"Impressive," Lestrade retorted dryly, attempting to keep his voice even. "You really are a genius."
Scowling, Sherlock sharply said, "Shut up. That's what he called me - a proper genius."
"He mocked you? Not to point out the obvious, but who got the last laugh?"
This caused the other man’s lips to quirk into a wry smile. Sherlock’s gray eyes darted from the gun to Lestrade’s face, waiting for the inspector to make his move. Lestrade barely managed to keep himself from smirking at the desire burning in Sherlock’s eyes. He raised the gun, acting as if he’d forgotten it was there.
"What? You want this?"
"Very much so, yes."
"And what exactly do you plan to do about it, Mr. Holmes?"
Sherlock crawled slowly, sexily to the end of the bed without breaking eye contact. As he pulled Lestrade’s pants down, he licked a wet stripe from Lestrade’s fingers to the tip of the gun along the underside. Once exposed to the air and Sherlock’s perverse display, his previously half-hard cock became fully erect. The sudden rush of blood left Lestrade feeling a little lightheaded. Sherlock took more of the gun in his mouth, tongue hot and wet against the older man’s fingers.
“Mm, it’s more fun if your finger is on the trigger. Just a helpful hint.”
Before he had the chance to argue gun safety, a hand started to slowly pump his cock, and Lestrade lost the power of speech. Without realizing it, his grip slipped, and Lestrade held the gun without any hesitation. The only thing that stood between kinky sex and a murder charge now was the safety, which he had no intention of taking off.
It took only a few tries before Sherlock managed to get a good rhythm going with the gun, making an effort to keep it in time with his hand. While Lestrade wanted nothing more than to let go of his control, the fact that he had a loaded weapon kept him somewhat conscious. Sherlock’s talented hands always gave him the best handjobs, but he loved it best when the detective wore his cool leather gloves.
Lestrade’s knees grew weak as he steadily approached his climax, and Sherlock ignored his warnings, not breaking stride for an instant.
“F-fuck, Sherlock…”
The sight of Sherlock with his pink lips tight around the barrel of the gun and his flushed face was priceless. Sherlock let out a moan and Lestrade came half a second later, a strangled cry in his throat. In an act of surprising tenderness, Sherlock put the gun on the nightstand and carefully allowed Lestrade to collapse onto the bed. After wiping his hands and disposing the tissues, Sherlock cuddled close, fondly caressing Lestrade’s bare ass.
“Would you ever attempt that?”
Lestrade huffed a laugh into the pillow.
"One, I'd never try to swallow a gun, loaded or not. And two, I'm not entirely sure I trust you enough to not pull the trigger just to see what sort of spatter my brain would make on the wall."
Instead of becoming offended, Sherlock appeared smug.
"I already know what pattern would be created."
"That's very reassuring." Lestrade lifted his head. "You all right? If you need me to-"
"It's been taken care of," Sherlock said quickly, blushing.
"Then dump your boxers in the hamper and I'll wash them for you tomorrow. Do you plan on staying the night?"
"Yes. Now move over and give me some of the covers."
With a great deal of effort Lestrade gave up half the bed and yanked his pants back up. Sherlock pressed his back to his chest, and Lestrade slipped his arms around Sherlock’s waist. He buried his face in dark curls and sighed. There was nothing he could do to keep Sherlock safe and sound, especially since the man liked to be in the thick of things. Maybe Doctor Watson was the right person to be Sherlock’s ‘minder’, as long as Lestrade got to keep his occupation as lover.