Thanks to John's blog post there was another case the next week, this one involving confirming the identity of a family's long-lost relative -- who turned out, as they'd expected, not be to a relative at all. John had rather cleverly tricked the young woman into exposing her identity in front of the family she claimed to be part of (and had hoped would make a sizeable adjustment to her bank balance), and Greg did little more than look sternly at everyone.
The moment they got back to the flat, John pressed him back against the door and dropped to his knees. He had Greg's cock out before Greg had quite registered what was happening, and after that it was a blur of tongue and lips and suction. Surprise blow jobs in the middle of the afternoon --how was this now his life?
"Oh, God, you're good at that." He stroked the top of John's head and closed his eyes. It was too good, though, and it was going to be over very soon if he didn't do something to slow things down. He reluctantly tugged at John's hair. "I'm not going to last."
John came off long enough to say, "S'fine, I don't mind," and Greg took the opportunity to push him away a bit.
"C'mere." Greg pulled him up into a kiss and John's arms wound around his shoulders.
"Want something different?"
"A change of location, actually. We've been having sex for almost a week and we've yet to do it in a bed." Greg tugged him in the direction of the bedroom, but John didn't move. He turned back to see him staring at the door to Greg's bedroom with his forehead furrowed.
"Is it… Could we go upstairs instead?"
Greg felt a twist in his gut. Of course John didn't think of it as Greg's bedroom: he thought of it as Sherlock's. He kissed John again. "Wherever you want."
"Thanks," John said against his lips. He took Greg by the hand and led him toward the door, pausing to pick up the box of condoms and tube of lube from the desk. He gave Greg a sly smile and started up the stairs.
They stripped off their clothes fairly quickly and tumbled onto John's bed. Greg kissed his way down John's chest and worked his cock with his mouth for a few minutes before John thrust the lube at him with a breathy, "Fuck me."
"Oh God. Yeah, just let me… Where are the… aha." He was incredibly hard by the time he got the condom on, and after he smeared lube on both of them he had to sit back on his heels for a moment collect himself. "So… how do you want to do this?"
John pushed himself up on his elbows and looked thoughtful. "It's been a while since I've done this, so I think I want to be on top."
Greg stretched out on his back and John straddled him, and there was a moment of hesitation, of John lining Greg's cock up behind him with just the head pressed against him, an expression of uncertainty on his face.
"If you don't want to--" Greg began, but then John pushed down and Greg's mouth fell open at the long slow slide of heat down his cock. John's expression was strained and his erection had wilted, and Greg found he didn't know what to say.
"Okay," John said at last and shifted up, just a few inches, but it was enough to make Greg see stars.
"Oh fuck, that's… Can I touch you?"
"Yeah."
Greg stroked John's dick while he moved, and concentrating even on that was a challenge. John leaned forward and braced his arms on the headboard, and finally smiled. "Oh there, that's… yeah. How is it for you?"
Greg grinned at him. "You're fucking yourself on my cock. I have no complaints."
John laughed and sank all the way down, stilling himself for a moment. "Liar. You want to flip me over and pound me."
He squeezed then, or something that made Greg's eyes roll back in his head. "Oh, God. I really do."
John leaned over and kissed him -- licked into Greg's mouth was perhaps a more accurate description -- and whispered, "Then do it."
Greg paused for a full second before rolling them over and pressing himself down on top of John. His cock slipped out, but it didn't matter for the moment; he kissed John and pinned his hands above his head. John arched up under him and their cocks rubbed together. They both groaned and Greg couldn't help staying there for a moment just to feel the slide of John's body against his, the feeling of being skin-to-skin with someone else.
"Jesus, do I need to say pretty please? Simon says?"
Greg pulled up enough to look down at him and grin. "I had no idea you were this pushy in bed. I think I like it."
John shook his head in mock exasperation. "Just fuck me already."
"Roll over."
John leaned up to kiss him once more before twisting beneath him. Greg leaned over to pick up the lube again and turned back to see John had pressed his face down into the mattress beneath him, his arse in the air. Greg had to pause at the sight. He wondered if Sherlock had ever seen John like this: wanton, desperate to be fucked. He should probably feel guilty for thinking of Sherlock at that moment, but he didn't.
He slicked two fingers and pressed them into John slowly. He had always been amazed by this particular sex act, by the level of trust and intimacy involved. The concept of someone else wanting him to put his dick into their body for mutual pleasure was crazy enough, but doing it like this, where there were mental and physical barriers to overcome before pleasure was even possible, was nothing short of stunning. Greg had never bottomed and wasn't certain he ever wanted to, and the fact that John was here, now, and so willing was incredible.
"Are you always this easily distracted?" John asked after a moment, and Greg laughed.
"Sorry."
"Just a hole, I know."
"Not forgetting about the dick, I promise." He lubed his cock again and pressed forward, sliding into John surprisingly easily. "Oh, God. Is this okay?"
"Yes yes yes. Do it."
"You might want to grab onto something."
John pressed his hands against the headboard and Greg clenched his hips and fucked him hard, harder than he'd ever fucked Jodi or any of the other people he'd been with, male or female.
"God, yes, like that," John said and pushed back against him, so fucking tight and hot and fuck, Greg couldn't even speak anymore. Only a minute in and he was too far gone, and when he came it was with what he was certain was an embarrassing sort of howl.
He trembled as he collapsed onto John. "Not forgetting. Just gimme a minute. Oh my God."
John laughed softly under him. "It's all right, take your time."
His breathing finally began to even out and he pressed a kiss between John's shoulder blades before rolling to the side. "That was incredible. I can't believe Sherlock didn't like to--" He closed his eyes. Shit. "I'm sorry; I can't believe I said that."
"It's okay, really." Greg opened his eyes: John had rolled onto his side and was watching Greg with an expression almost like amusement on his face. "You can talk about him, you know. Even like this." He shrugged. "I loved him. I still do, and I always will. That doesn't mean I can't enjoy this."
Greg's eyes drifted down John's body to his very not-erect penis. "I want you to enjoy it. I want…" He slid down the bed and kissed John's belly, let his lips mark a path down to John's hip. "I want to make you forget everyone else you've ever been with. Is that horrible?"
"No. I think it's very human, actually."
Greg flicked his tongue against the folds of foreskin that extended past the head of John's cock. "I don't get to see someone else's dick in this state very often."
"Don't take it personally. I liked it, rather a lot. I've never come that way, though." John stroked his head and Greg couldn't help feeling like he'd been issued a challenge. "Keep doing that and… oh yeah."
Greg had a mouthful of erection before he'd had time to take a good breath. He pulled off and sucked lightly at the head before deciding to try a different approach: excruciatingly slow. He licked, nuzzled, kissed and didn't take even the head into his mouth again until John begged him to do. He brought John to the edge of orgasm twice and backed off, and grinned when John called him every name he could think of. He finally let John come after nearly twenty minutes, with two fingers in his arse and as much suction as he could manage.
John was incoherent when he came and then shivered so much Greg pulled the covers up around them both. When he finally opened his eyes, he took one look at Greg and laughed.
"I've never seen you look so fucking smug in the entire time I've known you."
Greg grinned. "I think I deserve it."
"You do. God, you do. That was incredible. I don't remember the last time I came that hard." He kissed Greg then, and Greg felt something melt inside his chest.
He pushed it aside -- no need to worry about that now. They'd just had insanely good sex in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon, and that was enough.
He rubbed at his jaw. "I think I pulled a muscle, though."
John laughed. "Please. I'm not going to be able to sit anytime soon."
"You're right; you win." Greg yawned and snuggled against John's shoulder.
He'd almost drifted off to sleep when his phone rang.
"Ignore it," John mumbled, but he couldn't. It hardly ever rang these days, and so it was bound to be something important.
"Let me just see who it is." He pushed himself to standing and fumbled in a pocket of his discarded jeans for the phone.
M. Patterson
Greg winced and raised the phone to his ear. "Lestrade."
"Lestrade, this is Mike Patterson. I need to call in that favor you owe me."
"Yeah, sure. What can I do for you?"
"Can you come out to Ealing right now? I'm at a crime scene and I could really use your eye."
Greg sighed. "Are you asking me to come in as a consultant? I had the impression that sort of thing was going to be frowned on from here on out."
"Sod the new regs. I've got a dead man and no evidence other than a bullet in his brain. This is the sort of case you're good at, isn't it?"
Greg looked over at John dozing in the bed, covers tangled around him. He'd planned to spend the rest of the afternoon right there, warm and satiated, and maybe be ready for another round in a couple of hours. Going to a crime scene when he really technically wasn't supposed to be anywhere near official business sounded like the last thing he wanted to do.
But Patterson was right: this was exactly the sort of case he was good at. Patterson was one of the best detectives on the force, and he wouldn't have called Greg during his leave if he didn't truly need the help. And Patterson had helped him out with the dog case when he didn't have to, so Greg owed him that much at least. With any luck, he'd be back before dinner. He and John could pick up where they left off.
He sighed. "All right, fine. Text me the address."
"Thanks. And Lestrade? Come alone."
He cut the call and scrubbed a hand over his face. In some ways, his life was getting simpler, and in other ways, it was more profoundly fucked up than ever.
*****
The crime scene was on the second floor of a vacant house on a quiet street. Greg walked through the crime scene tape and past a dozen officers he'd worked with for nearly a decade. A few smiled warmly at him, others looked surprised to see him, and still others almost looked relieved at his presence.
God, he actually missed this, didn't he? That was a surprise.
He didn't linger to talk to anyone; no need to be any more of a disruption than he already was. He did, however, need to find someone who could point him in the direction he needed to go. He spotted Donovan standing off to the side, simultaneously tapping out something on her tablet with a finger and speaking into a mobile awkwardly balanced on her shoulder.
She didn't see him until he was right next to her, and her eyes widened almost comically. "Hang on, I'll phone you back in a minute." She tried to cut the call and dropped the phone, and fumbled for a moment before collecting herself again. She stared at him, clearly baffled by his presence. "Sir, you're… here. How--"
"Where's Patterson?" He didn't want to give her a chance to ask questions, though there were clearly several dozen flitting across her face.
"He's through there, up the stairs." She indicated the direction with a nod of her head and then said, "So you're--" at the same moment he said, "Cheers," and walked away. Later, he'd let her ask. Not yet.
He headed up the stairs, nodding in greeting at several surprised faces along the way. Through an open doorway at the top he saw three people standing around a body laid out on the floor.
"Lestrade," Patterson said in greeting as he walked in.
A young woman handed him a pair of nitrile gloves and he pulled them on. "What've you got?"
"Victim was shot in the head, very clean job. Mid-forties, dressed professionally, no ID on him."
"Time of death?"
"Within the last hour. The body was discovered by the landlord. A neighbor complained about hearing a fight of some sort. Since the property was vacant, he called 999 and then came over to have a look for himself."
"Anything else taken from him?"
"He had nothing on him, not even a bloody biro. Whoever shot him cleaned him out good."
"It doesn't look like a robbery, though."
Patterson sighed. "No."
Greg looked around the room. "Tidy for a vacant property, isn't it?"
Patterson nodded. "Extremely."
Greg leaned over the body to examine the neat hole in the victim's temple. "A .22 caliber?"
"That's my guess, but forensics will have to dig it out to confirm."
Greg took three steps back and tried to estimate the distance from which the victim could have been shot. From the blood spatter on the floor and wall, it had definitely happened here. "No signs of a struggle."
"See why I called you?" Patterson shook his head and sighed. "I hope you've got an idea where to start, because I've got nothing."
Greg looked around the room again, back to the body, to the wounds, to the way the man was dressed, the missing wallet, the--
It came to him so quickly that he had to take a step backwards, and he put a hand over his mouth to cover the ridiculous grin that threatened to spread over his face.
"What?" Patterson was watching him through narrowed eyes.
Greg collected himself and pressed his lips together for a moment before he took his hand away. He pulled off the gloves. "My advice is to go out and have a smoke."
Patterson gaped at him for a moment. "A what?"
"Oh, you quit, didn't you? Sorry. Anyway, this is a professional job. Too professional, actually. This wasn't a murder. It was an assassination."
"Assassination?" Patterson looked back down at the body.
"This bloke, look at him. No ID, nothing but the clothes on his back, and those are meant to look very sharp. But the fabric is all wrong; it's not what's in style here. It's light, something you'd see men wearing in a warmer climate at this time of year. Even his shoes are wrong. He's not from London, probably not British. So maybe a foreign agent, or someone our government wanted dead."
"The government? Have you gone round the bend, Lestrade?"
Greg waved him off with a hand. "Probably MI6, but maybe a foreign government agency. No, my money's on MI6; the weapon is a fairly common one for their special ops people. They tend to choose locations like this, quiet, do a quick clean-up. The killer didn't have a chance to finish, though, you lot interrupted that and he had to retreat to contact his superiors. Or maybe he wasn't supposed to kill him, maybe it all went wrong and he tried to cover his tracks, make it look like a robbery and murder." He pulled his phone from his pocket and glanced at the time. "Either way, the suits will likely show up any minute now and relieve you. So yeah, I wouldn't worry too much about this one if I were you."
He looked up again to see Patterson staring at him as if he'd grown another head.
Greg shrugged. "What?"
"Patterson, there's some suits downstairs." They both looked over to where Donovan was standing in the doorway. "They want to see the officer in charge."
"Who are they?" Patterson asked.
"ID says MI5." She raised her eyebrows at him.
Patterson shot a glance at Greg. "Un-fucking-believable. I'll be right down." Donovan nodded and headed down the stairs. Patterson turned back to Greg with a significantly paler face than he'd had before. "How did you do that? Do you know something I don't?
Greg shrugged. "I've seen it before, that's all."
"For a minute there you…" Patterson stopped and shook his head. "Well, thanks anyway. Sorry to haul you out here for nothing."
Greg followed him down the stairs and hung off to the side for a moment, oddly reluctant to leave. It was something he'd seen before, it was true, but that wasn't why he'd worked it out. He'd just looked around and it had all come together at once in his head. It was exhilarating, something that happened to him so rarely, he'd forgotten what it felt like.
Was this what Sherlock had felt all the time?
"Enjoying your leave, sir?" Donovan stood next to him, her gaze focused on Patterson, who was deep in conversation with the suits.
"I am, actually. I needed a break."
"We all read the blog, you know."
She didn't need to specify which blog she meant. They'd all read it the last year, though that seemed like ages ago now, rather than weeks. "What about it?"
"The case with the old lady's dog, that must have been fun."
Greg shrugged in response. John had left his name out of it, but of course, word must have spread that he was there. Patterson had been right -- people talked.
"And I stood outside that door and listened to you just now, going off just like he used to do. Gave me chills." She paused and bit her lip. "Can I ask a personal question?"
He nodded. "Okay."
She looked away for a moment as if reconsidering, and then turned to face him straight on. "What are you doing?"
He stared back at her. "What are you on about?"
She looked around and then stepped closer to him, lowering her voice. "You've got to know what this looks like, what people are saying. You moved into his flat, you're shagging his boyfriend, and now you're consulting on police cases. It's like you're trying to become Sherlock Holmes."
Greg snorted. "I'm not trying to-- oh, for fuck's sake."
"Then why are you here? Don't tell me you miss it that badly."
"Patterson called me, said I owed him a favor. That's it." He shook his head and swallowed down his annoyance at the situation. Playing politics was part of the job, but it didn't mean he had to like it. "People are going to talk; they always do. I'll deal with it."
"I'm just trying to help."
"I know."
She gave him a sly smile. "But you are shagging John Watson?"
He stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets. "I didn't say that."
"That's not a denial." She grinned and folded her arms over her chest. "I've always liked him, you know. I never understood what he saw in Sherlock. It'd be good to see him with someone who'll care about him for a change."
He clenched his jaw against all the things he wanted to say, finally settling on, "Well, none of us know what happened between those two behind closed doors, do we?"
She was silent for a moment. "You still believe he was for real, don't you? Even after everything that came out in the papers."
"Most of what they printed about me was utter shit, so yeah, I'm disinclined to believe what they said about Sherlock as well." He turned to look at her again. "I worked with him for years. I saw him at crime scenes. I was there. He couldn't have faked all of it, and anyone who saw what I did would know it was the truth."
She stared at him for a long moment. He had no idea how she felt about it all now, not even after the day she'd nearly broken down in his office, the day before his leave began. She'd said nothing then either, just came in, sat down, took one look at him and buried her face in her hands for a moment. Then she'd stood, wiped her eyes, nodded her head, and walked away. There were conflicting emotions on her face even now: guilt, sorrow, pride, uncertainty, doubt, fear. She seemed to realize she was staring and pressed her lips into a thin line before looking away again.
He sighed. "I should go. See you in a few weeks, yeah?"
She nodded, but still didn't meet his gaze. "It'll be good to have you back, sir."
He'd walked three streets up before he noticed the car. He stopped and for a moment considered walking the opposite direction -- this was seriously the last thing he wanted to deal with right now. But no, he knew from experience that it was best to get it over with.
A door opened when he drew close and he climbed inside, sliding across a smooth leather seat. He'd expected to see Anthea, but instead, seated next to him was Mycroft Holmes.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade. How lovely to see you again." The car pulled away from the kerb.
"Mr. Holmes. To what do I owe the pleasure?" He injected it with enough sarcasm to be seen from space, but Mycroft didn't even flinch.
"Oh, I was in the area and thought you could use a ride home. Aren't you technically still on leave from the Metropolitan Police?"
"For another few weeks, yeah." He didn't bother asking if Mycroft knew where he lived. "That was one of yours, was it?"
Mycroft gave him that tight-lipped smile that generally meant he didn't want to talk about it.
Greg smirked. "I didn't realize MI6 performed assassinations on British soil. That's a bit messy, don't you think?"
"I'm afraid that situation got slightly out of hand." He sighed and straightened the lapels of his jacket. "The agent was supposed to bring him in, not kill him. My analyst is going to be unhappy; he'd hoped to interrogate the man himself."
"What sort of analyst also does interrogations?"
Mycroft looked away, out of the window of the car. "The sort I have to keep on a tight leash. How is Dr. Watson?"
Greg snorted. "Why don't you come in and ask him yourself?"
"I don't wish to intrude. I'm happy to see him moving on, though. It's for the best."
Greg swallowed and looked out his own window. John was indeed moving on, far more quickly than Greg would have expected. Ever since the first case with the dog a week ago, something had changed in him. He'd stopped grieving almost overnight. Greg had thought it was down to him at first, but now he wasn't so sure. He looked back to see Mycroft watching him closely, and he smiled. "Yes. I suppose it is."
"I know he cared about Sherlock very much."
"He wasn't the only one."
Mycroft nodded. "Of course. But I think that you, Mr. Lestrade, are better for him than my brother ever could be."
"I don't know about that. Different, perhaps." Apparently the entire world knew he was shagging John Watson. "I didn't get a chance to speak to you at the funeral. I looked for you afterwards, but--"
"I had business to attend to that day, as it happens. But I do appreciate the sentiment." The last word was spoken as if it tasted slightly sour.
"Right." Greg pursed his lips. "So did you pick me up merely to ask after my personal life, or was there something else you wanted to discuss?"
"Yes, of course. I have a proposition for you. I'm currently working on a project, something, shall we say, to honor my brother's efforts with Mr. Moriarty. I would appreciate your assistance."
"So the government still believes Moriarty was real, do they?"
"Of course."
"And you're perfectly content to do nothing about the way your brother is being written about in the papers?"
Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "My brother is dead, Mr. Lestrade. His reputation is hardly relevant. Besides, if the public believe Moriarty was a fabrication, it gives us an advantage. The network of criminals he was at the center of remains confused and scattered."
Greg felt the corners of his mouth turn up almost against his will. "I see. What did you have in mind?"
"Quite a bit of intelligence has been gathered on Moriarty's activities these last few years. Recent events have pushed us to take action."
"You mean the fact that Moriarty disappeared after Sherlock died?"
Mycroft's tight smile returned. "There will be more operations like the one you saw this afternoon, and as you noted, there is quite a lot of potential for difficulty with the Met."
"Probably more with the media, but yeah."
"I've already had some discussions with your superiors about ways to handle cases just such as this one when they occur."
Greg pressed his hands together. "I'm sure that went over well."
"You might be surprised."
"So what does this have to do with me?"
"I want you to be the liaison between the security services and Scotland Yard."
Greg looked up at him with narrowed eyes. "Are you offering me a job?"
"Nothing that would take you away from Scotland Yard. You would simply be a consultant for the security services, help ease the tension between the two organizations, something you are rather uniquely qualified to do."
Greg stared at him for a moment. "Essentially, you want me to cover your arse."
Mycroft smirked. "It's far more complicated than that, Mr. Lestrade. Surely you can appreciate the delicacy of this operation."
"And surely you can appreciate that my job is difficult enough without MI5 throwing a spanner in the works."
"Your salary would be generously supplemented, of course."
Greg rolled his eyes. "Of course." He despised politics, and Mycroft was asking him to wade into the middle of it, to pave the way for the security services to tread all over the Metropolitan Police more than they already did. "Look--" he began, and Mycroft sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck with one hand.
"I would like to finish what my brother started. The Met's cooperation is vital, and it won't happen without you. Of that I am certain." He looked back at Greg, his expression tense.
Finish what Sherlock started. Greg couldn't well say no to that. Perhaps others already had. Or perhaps Mycroft knew they would. He sighed.
For all he hadn't been able to help Sherlock in those last few days, for all the moments he'd not reacted or hadn't stepped in to shut down the fucking circus that had swelled around them all -- maybe this would make up for it in some small way.
"All right. I'm in." God help him.
Mycroft visibly relaxed. "Very good. I'll be in touch."
The car pulled up outside the flat on Baker Street. Before Greg could reach to open the door, the driver had opened it for him.
"Do give my regards to Dr. Watson."
Greg did his best to smile, but he was sure it came across as more of a grimace. "Good night, Mr. Holmes."
*****
Emma Grant's Fiction
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