Greg held the walkie-talkie to his mouth and spoke softly. "I'm clearing out. Signal if you need back-up. The boys on the perimeter are ready."
"Will do. Moving in on my mark."
Greg crossed the darkened street and fell back to the agreed-upon observation position. He couldn't see anything going on near the abandoned building that was currently the center of everyone's attention, but for the moment it didn't matter. All was quiet; even the CO19 boys were working on visual signals now.
He pulled out his phone and tapped out a text.
No idea how long it will be. I'll text when I know something.
He hit send and slipped the phone back into his pocket. A moment later, he heard a familiar ping.
Oh, fuck, no. He clenched his jaw and headed toward the source of the sound. John was standing just around the corner in the shadows, tucked into an alcove that was by day an entrance to a laundromat.
Greg gave him his best glare, the one that typically sent Anderson scrambling for cover. "What are you doing here?"
John didn't look remotely intimidated. "I got a tip that this was happening tonight. Someone thought I might be interested in watching Moriarty's Russian connections get arrested."
Greg barely suppressed a groan. Two teenagers walked past the alcove and shot them a curious look, and Greg held the walkie-talkie up to his mouth again. "I've got civilians on this side. Who's supposed to be redirecting traffic over here?"
"Sorry, Lestrade. I'll get Jones on it."
Greg turned back to John. "Does either of you understand the level of shit I will be in if anyone sees you here?"
"Mycroft won't mind. Much."
"It's not Mycroft's end I'm worried about."
John frowned. "I thought you were just here as an observer for the security service."
"That too. It's complicated." Greg scanned the street again, but it was empty. "This whole liaison thing is still new. It was all I could do to convince Mycroft that the weapons stash made it CO19 business. The Met's still not happy about having SIS looking over their collective shoulders, even though it was their intel in the first place." Sherlock's intel, really. God, he hated politics. And yet here he was, right in the middle of it. "Look, just stay here, all right? Don't move from this spot."
"I won't."
"Unless it looks like things might be heading this way, in which case get the hell out of here."
"I will."
"And whatever you do, don't engage."
"I won't."
"I mean it, John."
"I know." John was smiling far too much for Greg's liking.
Greg tried and failed to give him a stern look. The truth was that John was good to have in a fight. And since he was here anyway, he might be of use -- unofficially, of course, and strictly as a last resort.
Greg clenched his jaw. "Are you armed?"
John looked away, across the street. "Yes."
"Good." They'd never talked about the illegal Browning John kept in a locked box in his wardrobe. Greg was perfectly content to look the other way, especially since he knew John only used it when he had damn good reason. "Whatever happens, just stay out of sight, okay?"
John smirked. "Understood."
Greg rounded the corner again and turned his attention back to the warehouse. All was quiet still; he could see a few shadowy figures moving on the roof. Any minute now.
This was a big moment, one they had to get right. The information Sherlock had intercepted made it clear that none of Moriarty's primary contacts were aware that Moriarty was dead. If this ambush happened as quickly and quietly as planned, they might be able to maintain the element of surprise for a bit longer. If one of the suspects got out so much as a text, everyone else would go underground and the entire operation -- the one Sherlock and Mycroft had spent months planning -- would be over.
The figures on the roof settled into position, sniper rifles at the ready.
"Winston to Lestrade. It's clear on this side."
"Good. Radio silence now."
He took a deep breath and slid a hand inside his coat to pull his gun from the shoulder holster. He felt better with the cool weight of it in his palm. Just in case.
He'd forgotten how much he hated the waiting. He was a detective now, after all, and hadn't been involved in an operation like this in the better part of a decade. The closest he'd got was that weird incident up at Baskerville, and that was when he was off-duty.
Now that he thought about it, this was much more John's area. Maybe he should--
There was a sound then: voices, the distinct popping of gunshots, and his radio crackled.
"Go! Go!"
"Cover that door, don't--"
"To the right, to the right!"
"Got a runner on the east side, backup."
"Got it," Greg replied. "Jones, where are you?"
"I don't see any-- wait, yes, there-- shit, coming right at you."
"Shit," Greg hissed, and scanned the street. He could hear voices, footsteps, but it was all echoing about now, and he couldn't tell exactly where to look. Staying put was his best option, but his body seemed to want to run, to head in the direction of the action.
He counted to three to force himself to wait just a bit longer before letting instinct take over. There was a sound to his right, behind him, around the corner -- a shout of surprise and a thunk and a moan, and his feet had carried him there before he'd even started to process the sounds and what they might mean.
John was crouching over a crumpled figure on the ground, two fingers pressed against the man's throat. He shot a quick glance at Greg. "I may have hit him a bit harder than I intended. He surprised me." The gun was still clenched in his other hand.
Greg scanned the scene, his gaze darting up and down the length of the street and then back down at the unconscious man before he held up the walkie-talkie again. "Got him. Two streets east of the target, under the Laundromat awning."
"On my way."
John stood. "Right. I probably shouldn't be here when they arrive."
Greg felt a sudden impulse to kiss him. "Yeah, get out of here. I'll see you at home."
John nodded and dashed down the street and around the corner, disappearing just as three officers came jogging into view.
"Jesus, Lestrade, how hard did you hit him?" one of them asked, cocking his head almost comically.
Greg reholstered the gun. "He's lucky he didn't get shot. Bind him up. I'll call for an EMT." He stepped out of the alcove and listened for a moment, but the street was silent again.
"We need an EMT over here. Suspect down, strike to the back of the head with a blunt object. Unconscious, but breathing and pulse are fine."
"On our way."
He wanted to call for a status report on the operation, but he forced himself to wait. If they needed anything, they'd say; it wasn't his place to interfere.
The EMTs arrived and carried the suspect away on a gurney, which left him standing with the other three officers, none of whom were sure what was going on.
"Some sort of weapons bust, was it?" Chandran asked with a careful glance at Greg. He was young, in his mid-twenties, though he had a wife and two kids already.
"That's what I was told," Greg replied.
Chandran frowned. "Must've been a lot of weapons, considering the size of the CO19 squad. Serious stuff, yeah?"
"Stuff they don't want on the black market," added one of the other men, whose name Greg had to struggle to recall. (Peterson, that was it.) "You don't think it was anything chemical, do you?"
Greg shook his head. "They'd have chaps in haz-mat suits at the ready, if that were the case. Probably just the usual automatic weapons, assault rifles, that sort of thing."
Peterson snorted. "Then they must have expected to find the fucking motherlode, going in with that sort of firepower."
Greg nodded as if in agreement. None of the three seemed to know what was actually going on, but they knew enough to recognize it was an unusual operation. And they likely weren't the only ones speculating. Secrecy would have to be a far more serious consideration from here on out.
"Lestrade, do you copy?"
Greg recognized the voice of the commanding officer immediately, and from the looks on the faces of the men standing next to him, they did as well. "Lestrade here." He nodded at the three men and walked pointedly away from them, up halfway to the next street. "Report?"
"The target facility is locked down and all suspects are in custody."
"Any leaks?"
"Not that I'm aware of. It went off without a hitch."
"Thanks, Warren. Good work, as always. I'll try to keep the extra paperwork to a minimum."
"Right," was the sardonic reply.
Greg grinned as he pulled out his phone and dialed Mycroft's private line. At least the preliminary news was good.
Half an hour later he sent his men home; CO19 had it all under wraps with shocking efficiency. They had shuttled all the suspects off to lock-up and packed out the weapons, and there was little else for Greg to do. He'd kept his distance from the action, but it was becoming clear that his presence was no longer necessary. He pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen to check the time: not yet midnight. He'd received a text from John at some point in the last half-hour, but he hadn't heard it.
No taxis around, but I found a pub. Let me know if you'd care to join me when you're done.
There was movement in front of him and he looked up to see Commander Warren crossing the street towards him.
"Moving up in the world, eh, Lestrade?"
Greg pocketed the phone and shrugged. "Not sure if that's the direction, to be honest."
Warren snorted. "Tell me about it. Still, I appreciate the support. God knows how MI5 would've bollixed this up."
Greg's return smile was diplomatic. "I'm told you're the experts at this sort of thing."
"That's the idea, isn't it? We're almost done here."
"As soon as you can get me the full report, I'll take care of the rest."
Warren nodded. "Cheers."
Greg exhaled as he walked away. It was done, and only time would tell if they'd pulled it off as quietly as they'd hoped. He pulled his phone out and thumbed it on.
I'd love to. Where are you?
He only had to wait a minute for the return text: the address of a pub a handful of streets away. He smiled and pocketed the phone, already heading in that direction. A celebratory pint sounded good about now. One with John, even better.
*****
Greg barely had the entry door of 221B closed behind him before John pushed him back against it and kissed him. He slipped his hands inside John's jacket and pulled him closer. The tension between them in the taxi had been incredible, and Greg supposed he was lucky John had at least waited until they were in a private spot.
"Jesus, this really does turn you on, doesn't it?"
"Mmmmph," was the reply, and Greg would have grinned if his mouth hadn't been fully occupied again. His hands slid around John's waist to the small of his back and brushed against cool metal. Both of them froze. John pulled back and looked up at him. "Upstairs."
"Right."
John stopped him at the door of the flat with one hand on his chest. "Wait here a sec, will you?"
He disappeared into the flat before Greg had a chance to respond, apparently to stash the Browning somewhere. Greg slid a hand through his hair. They should probably have a talk about that. Of course, he was still armed as well. He shrugged off his jacket and removed the shoulder holster just as John opened the door again. John glanced down at the holstered gun in Greg's hand and then back up. His lips turned up in the beginning of a smile, and something about the look in his eyes made heat pool in Greg's belly. He grasped a handful of John's shirt and pulled him into a kiss. John's hands went to Greg's hips and he allowed himself to be kissed roughly for a moment before tugging Greg through the doorway.
Greg pulled away long enough to set the gun and his jacket on the floor just inside, then let John push him back against the closed door hard enough to knock his skull against it. It had been three long days since they'd last had sex -- Greg had barely been home since starting back at the Yard -- and fucking hell the way John had looked at him in the taxi had nearly done him in. Just as they'd reached Baker Street, John had leaned against him and whispered, "I want you to fuck me so hard I forget my own name," and Greg had begun to spin fantasies of positions they hadn't yet tried.
John's erection pressed against his own through several layers of clothing, and Greg groaned. Maybe against the door would work. He hadn't fucked someone while standing up since--
"I have some questions for you both when you have a moment."
Greg wrenched his mouth away from John's and stared across the room. Sherlock was seated at the desk in the sitting room, his face lit by the screens of two laptops.
"What the--"
"Ignore him," John said, and began sucking on Greg's neck in a way that would have driven him mad under other circumstances.
"You knew he'd be here?"
"He's been here all day," John replied, apparently undeterred by the fact that they had an audience. "Since about four in the morning, actually."
Greg's head fell back against the door. "Right. So when you said he tipped you off about tonight--"
"He did it in person." John lowered his voice to a whisper. "Want to see if we can distract him?"
Greg's eyes narrowed. "What?"
John grinned and pulled him by the hand across the room. Sherlock didn't even look up at them; his fingers were flying over the keyboard of one of the laptops, his brow furrowed in concentration. John pushed Greg backwards into a nearby armchair and then settled on his knees on the floor and pressed Greg's thighs apart. He looked up at Greg with a smirk.
The only coherent thought Greg could form was fuck. He glanced over at Sherlock, who was now typing one-handed on each laptop, simultaneously. Greg doubted that even the knowledge that his boyfriend was giving someone else a blow job a few feet away would distract someone with that degree of focus.
Not that Greg was opposed to giving it a shot. He'd never done anything quite like this, but their situation was unique, certainly. He looked down at John, whose gaze was already fixed on the bulge in Greg's trousers. John drew down the zip and tugged them down over Greg's hips, and Greg felt heat rise to his face. They were actually going to do this. With another person in the room. With Sherlock in the room. Bloody hell.
John flashed him a cheeky grin before descending on his cock with a wide swipe of his tongue, teasing a bit before finally taking the head in his mouth. And oh that mouth -- it was warm and wet and perfect, and every time John did this Greg felt absurdly grateful. He bit back a moan and sank into the chair, watching John's cheeks hollow on the upstroke, his tongue everywhere at once and then right where Greg needed it, sucking just hard enough to make his toes curl pleasantly. The pace John seemed to be setting was slow and that was fine; Greg could relax and enjoy it without any fear of losing control too quickly.
He wondered if this was how Sherlock liked it. He looked up at that thought, and Sherlock was looking right back at him. He'd shifted his body in the chair so that he was angled toward them, one hand idly stroking the keyboard of one of the laptops. The light in the room was dim and his face was side-lit by the blueish glow of the computer. He stared back at Greg for several seconds before letting his gaze drift down to the movement of John's head in Greg's lap. Greg wondered what exactly he could see from that angle -- or what he was thinking about all of this. They hadn't had a chance to talk about it, not really.
There was only one way to find out at this point. Greg slid a hand around the back of John's head, his fingers tangling in the hair there, and John looked up at him. Greg shifted his gaze up to Sherlock and then back down to John and raised his eyebrows. "He likes watching, doesn't he?"
John pulled off and sat back on his heels. He threw a quick glance over his shoulder and then turned back to Greg with a smirk on his face. "I thought he might."
He put his hands behind Greg's knees and pulled his hips forward a bit, then shifted to the side before wrapping a hand around the base of Greg's cock. He pulled up, tugging the foreskin over the glans, and then back down again, and leaned over Greg's thighs to plant a kiss on the tip. His tongue swirled around the head once, twice, and God, that was incredible. Greg couldn't stop the moan that escaped him when John finally took the head in again, far enough that Greg could feel him swallowing, Jesus fuck -- even at that odd angle, it felt amazing.
"My God, your mouth," he managed after a moment. "I'm spoiled for head, forever." He looked up to see Sherlock watching intently. Ah, of course -- John had moved to the side in order to give Sherlock a better view. Sherlock's gaze slid up to Greg's face and his eyebrows rose in an expression not unlike a challenge. Greg tried for a grin, though the wriggling of John's tongue made it hard to control his facial muscles at the moment. "What, you think you can do better?"
"I can." The tone was the same one Sherlock used at crime scenes. Greg wondered why he should find that so incredibly hot.
"He can, actually," John said as he came off, his voice a bit hoarse now. "I can't wait to see what he's going to do with this." He tugged up again, enough to bunch Greg's foreskin over the head and hold it there while he worked his tongue inside.
Greg's fingers drew circles on John's scalp as he watched; the combination of sensations was gorgeous. His brain hadn't quite caught up with reality -- Sherlock had basically just said he wanted to suck Greg's cock, hadn't he? He looked up again: Sherlock's eyes were dark now, the computers long forgotten.
"Me either," Greg whispered. John swallowed around his prick again and Greg closed his eyes. He felt dizzy -- he'd only had the one pint, but then, he hadn't eaten much today, had he? Or maybe it was this, the onslaught of sensation and the knowledge that Sherlock was watching so very closely. John's mouth pulled away and he blew across the wet skin of Greg's cock, making him shiver. There was a hand on his thigh and then another on his forehead, soothing him. Greg opened his eyes.
"I'll be right back. Don't move." John disappeared from view, apparently into Greg's bedroom.
Greg looked up at Sherlock again, but Sherlock was staring unabashedly at the erection jutting up from Greg's trousers. It was all Greg could do to remain still and let him just look. He felt exposed in a way he hadn't experienced before, but it wasn't exactly uncomfortable. It was a different feeling altogether.
How many times had he thought of this: fleeting images in the back of his mind, stolen moments when he ought to have been thinking of Jodi, so often wondering what might have happened if he hadn't pushed Sherlock away that night years ago? He knew, though, that Sherlock wasn't the same person he was then, not at all, that he'd become the man he was now almost entirely because of John. John was Sherlock's soulmate in a way Greg never could be, and no matter how desperately Greg was in love with John, he'd never be what Sherlock was to him. But yet, here he was, and he knew his presence here meant something to both of them, something more than just another warm body in John's bed, someone to occupy him when Sherlock was too busy, someone to satisfy Sherlock's curiosity.
Sherlock's eyes moved upward again, and when they met Greg's, the corners of Sherlock's mouth turned up very slightly. Greg wondered what would happen next -- was Sherlock going to come over here and finish the job? Was that why John had left the room, to give them a chance to leer at each other and decide if this was what they wanted? Greg smiled, almost laughed. He wanted it. God, he wanted it. At the moment, he couldn't imagine it being any other way between the three of them.
As if out of thin air, John reappeared at Greg's side and handed him a condom packet and a half-used tube of their favorite lubricant. He snatched a pillow from the sofa and tossed it on the floor halfway between Greg's and Sherlock's feet, and then began unfastening his own trousers. He'd shucked them and straddled Greg's lap before Greg had processed what was happening.
John took both their cocks in hand and pressed them together, his lips a scant inch from Greg's. "Remember what I said in the taxi?"
Greg blinked at him. His mind was oddly blank. "I…"
John's lips brushed against Greg's. "I want you to fuck me now. Hard."
"Oh God, that's… yes." Greg pulled him into an open-mouthed kiss and slid his hands around John's waist, down over his arse. John's thighs were spread wide over Greg's lap, and it was easy for him to trail a teasing fingertip across John's arsehole.
"Finger me," John whispered into his mouth, and Greg scrambled to open the tube of lube. He pressed a slick finger into John and fucked him with it slowly, and John hissed and pressed his forehead against the chair just above Greg's shoulder.
Greg's eyes found Sherlock's again, without even thinking about it. Sherlock had turned completely toward them, thighs spread in the chair, the fingers of one hand lazily stroking the obvious bulge in his trousers. He stared at them as if this was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen, and Greg wondered if he'd ever done this to John. Did no anal sex imply no fingers as well? Or was he that turned on by the sight of John and Greg together, something Sherlock knew had happened but had only been able to imagine before? Greg added another finger, slowly pressing into John's arse, and watched Sherlock's eyes darken even more, saw him bite his lower lip as he watched. John pressed back against his hand, practically fucking himself on Greg's fingers, and Jesus, that was hot. Greg liked this part, the feel of silky-hot skin just inside John's arse, the way his body clamped tightly down on the intrusion, and when he pushed past that second sphincter, he could curl his fingers just so and--
"Ah, fuck," John hissed, his hand squeezing their pricks together almost uncomfortably. "Yes, there, that's where I want your cock," and smashed his mouth against Greg's for a moment before pulling away again. "Oh God, I can't wait. I want it now."
John slid off his lap and knelt on the pillow he'd tossed on the floor, facing Sherlock, and went down on all fours. Greg's heart pounded in his chest as he pushed his trousers down and off and ripped open the condom packet. He accidentally squirted far too much lube into his palm, but he didn't care, slick would be good. He could go fast that way. And hard. Yes. Fuck.
He exhaled -- he had to get a grip on himself; the last thing he wanted to was for this to be over before it had barely had a chance to begin.
There was enough room on the cushion for him to kneel between John's calves, happily -- there was no sex in the world worth the knee pain of a hard fuck on this sort of floor -- and within thirty seconds he was pressing his cock slowly into John, gritting his teeth against the urge to bury himself completely.
"All right there?" he asked, and John whimpered in response. They'd done this enough now that he knew what John could take, but this position was new.
"Yes, it's… good." A hint of a lie there, but John could take it, he knew.
He traced the length of John's spine with his fingers, pushing his shirt up to his shoulders, and then stroked back downwards again, relishing the feeling of warm skin beneath his fingers. He'd grown so used to the compact lines of John's body that it was hard to remember what it was like to have Jodi in this position. This was the longest sexual relationship he'd ever had with a man, he realized. It went far beyond the alcohol-fueled flings of his youth. It was something else altogether, something he'd never expected to find.
"Sherlock," John said, and Greg's hands stilled on his back. He looked up, but Sherlock's eyes were focused on John now.
It was indeed something else altogether -- in more ways than one.
"You know what I want," John said, and Sherlock shifted in the chair. They were close enough that John could reach forward and brace his hands on Sherlock's knees and press them apart. Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether he wanted to be a part of this or continue watching. Greg stayed still, his cock buried in John's arse, and waited. Sherlock looked at Greg then and Greg smiled, hoping Sherlock would see it as the yes, it's fine, come with us he intended.
At last Sherlock slid his hips forward in the chair and unzipped his trousers. He stood and leaned over the other armchair to pluck a pillow from it and toss it on the floor in front of John, then tugged his trousers and pants down enough to free his erection. Greg found himself biting his lip at the sight of his cock -- perfectly ordinary in every respect, average in size, and fully erect. His mind wandered in a dozen directions at once: what would it feel like in his hand, in his mouth, against his skin? How did he prefer to be touched -- slow with long teasing strokes or fast, hard, and tight? What did his skin taste like, smell like?
Sherlock knelt in front of John and slid a hand under his jaw, and forced him to look up. A small smile appeared on his face and he looked up at Greg one more time.
Bloody hell, they were actually going to do this, weren't they?
"I do know what you want," Sherlock said as he shifted his hips forward, pushing his prick into John's mouth.
John pushed back against Greg, drawing his cock in as deep as it could go, and Greg groaned and clenched his hips.
So apparently John wanted to be fucked at both ends. Greg could get on board with that.
He forced himself to move slowly, pulling almost all the way out before pressing in again. He didn't get to see it from this angle often, and the sight of his cock disappearing into John's body was fascinating. But even more fascinating was the way Sherlock pumped his hips slowly, one hand clenched tightly in John's hair to hold him still, fucking his mouth with shallow thrusts. It was clear he knew what he was doing, knew how much John could take without gagging. He kept John's head at what looked to be an uncomfortable angle, but Greg realized it was intentional -- he could press his cock right down John's throat that way. Sherlock's jaw had gone slack and he was breathing harder now, and Greg wanted desperately to see him come.
Sherlock gasped, and Greg wondered if he'd accidentally said that last bit aloud.
"Can he come like this?" Sherlock's eyes were focused on John's arse, on the slide of Greg's cock into him over and over.
"Yeah. Want to see?"
Sherlock pushed into John's mouth one more time, far enough that Greg heard John make a small sound of protest, and then pulled out completely. He pushed John's shoulders up and Greg sat back on his heels, suddenly with a lapful of John. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Show me."
Greg took John's half-hard prick in hand and stroked, and kissed the sensitive skin just behind his ear. "Do you have any idea how hot you were like that?" he whispered, letting his lips graze the shell of John's ear. "Just taking it, getting fucked by both of us. It was all I could do not to pound into you." He accentuated the last with a shift of his hips, and John whimpered. Greg's hand slid up and twisted, and John was fully hard now.
"Oh God," John whispered.
"What do you want?" Greg asked. "How do you want to come?"
"Touch me, and keep… yeah, fuck me like that."
It was a challenging position, but Greg was able to push his hips upward enough to move in and out by an inch or so. He was sure the angle wasn't quite right, but it didn't seem to matter; John's head fell back on Greg's shoulder and he moaned as Greg's hand moved on his cock.
Greg looked back at Sherlock to see he was watching with narrowed eyes. His own erection had been momentarily abandoned, but it hadn't flagged at all.
"He's watching," Greg whispered into John's ear. "What do you want him to see?"
John didn't say anything in reply, but he must have communicated something to Sherlock, because Sherlock smiled and crawled forward a moment later. He leaned in to kiss John and his hand joined Greg's on John's cock. After a moment of awkward miscoordination, Greg let him have it -- he could better use that hand to brace himself anyway -- and focused on fucking John with small movements. His thighs were burning and he was sure he'd be sore in the morning, but it was worth it for the way John went limp against him, whimpering into Sherlock's mouth.
"Oh God, like that, right there," John said, panting as he tucked his forehead into Sherlock's shoulder.
Greg looked at Sherlock, uncertain who that comment had been for. It didn't seem to matter, though: John was close; Greg could feel the tension in his body that always preceded an orgasm.
"Right, yes, God, I'm--"
Greg's mouth fell open at the sensation of John's arse tightening around his dick as he came, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from Sherlock's face. John cried out, the sound slightly muffled against Sherlock's skin, but Sherlock kept his eyes on Greg through it all, watching, perhaps wondering if Greg was going to come as well. On impulse, Greg reached for him and grabbed a handful of hair at the back of his head and pulled him into a bruising kiss. John was pressed tightly between them, still shuddering though his orgasm, and Greg's cock was lodged firmly inside him, and Sherlock's tongue was hot against his own and fuck -- when had this become his life?
After a long moment, John gave Sherlock a shove that broke their kiss and pushed Sherlock over onto his arse. "I think you're next," he said, and leaned forward to take Sherlock's cock in his mouth. Greg managed to move forward quickly enough not to be dislodged completely, and John reached back with one hand and squeezed Greg's thigh. He took it as a signal to keep going as John pushed Sherlock back against the floor and sucked him. The angle of entry was different now and Greg shifted his position, trying to find a way to press in deep.
"Spread your legs a bit more like… yeah, like that and--" He had to close his eyes and pause for a moment at the shift in pressure against his prick. "Oh God. I really want to… can I--"
"Fuck me," John said, and then buried his face in Sherlock's groin once again.
Greg didn't wait for further instructions; he clenched John's hips and pumped into him hard. Sherlock was on his back on the floor, his knees in the air and his trousers around his ankles. He had one hand buried in John's hair and the other pressed over his mouth, and it occurred to Greg that he'd never seen Sherlock quite like this. He could feel his own orgasm pressing in at the edges, but he didn't want it to interfere with what was happening in front of him. He slowed the pace enough to allow John to focus, and a minute later Sherlock came, groaning through clenched teeth and pressing John's head down against him so hard he must have come down his throat.
Greg waited until John was panting against Sherlock's thigh before taking what he needed, quick shallow strokes, and he was so close now, just there, just…
He collapsed forward onto John's back as he came, his thighs finally done with the business of keeping him up. John's legs went out from under him as well and when Greg came to his senses again they were both piled on top of Sherlock.
Greg shifted his weight up and tried to pull out as gently as he could. John winced slightly and Sherlock stroked his cheek and smiled at him in a way that could only be described as incredibly fond. There had only been a handful of moments when he'd seen a smile like that on Sherlock's face. Greg stared at them both, realizing that he was seeing something very private -- that he'd been invited into this relationship without quite having realized it was happening.
And it was all right. They'd had sex, the three of them together, and it had been fine. More than fine, obviously, but not at all awkward, nothing like Greg would have expected if John had given him any warning this might happen tonight.
He laughed before he could stop himself and Sherlock turned to look at him with a quizzical expression. Greg could only grin in response, and after a moment Sherlock smiled. He held out a hand and Greg took it, let himself be pulled down against Sherlock's other side. He closed his eyes and exhaled, then opened them to see John blinking sleepily at him. He could hear Sherlock's heart beating. He could almost sleep here, like this.
A wave of exhaustion smoothed over him, a combination of post-orgasm sleepiness and genuine tiredness from the last few days. No, he couldn't sleep here; he had shit to do in the morning. He sighed and planted a kiss on John's forehead and then another on Sherlock's cheek before sitting back and putting some distance between them. "That was brilliant, boys, but I've got to get up in a few hours."
John continued to snuggle against Sherlock on the floor, apparently happy to stay there for a bit. Greg pulled the condom off and stood. Ow. His knees were protesting already. "Next time, can we do this on a bed, please?"
Sherlock laughed and wrapped his arms around John and pulled him even closer. Greg watched them for a moment, stifling a yawn. He ought to feel jealous, but somehow he didn't. "You're welcome to join me, if you like."
"Maybe in a bit," John said. He shifted in Sherlock's arms. "What time is it?"
Greg yawned again and twisted around to look at the clock. "Half one." He winced: morning was going to come awfully soon.
"I should get some sleep too," John said, mirroring Greg's yawn.
"You were asleep when I got here this morning," Sherlock said with a frown. "And then you went back to sleep for hours."
John rolled his eyes. "Normal humans do need a certain amount of sleep to keep functioning, you know."
Greg grinned at the thought of Sherlock sneaking into John's bed in the middle of the night. They must have been very quiet -- either that or he'd been sleeping harder than he thought.
Best to leave them to this particular argument, though. Greg tugged his trousers back up enough to facilitate walking to his bed. "Good night, then."
"Good night," John said as Sherlock pushed to his feet, already re-dressing himself.
Greg left the door to the bedroom open just in case, but all he heard was the sound of rapid clicks against the keyboard as the world grew hazy. He tucked the blanket tightly around himself and drifted to sleep. For once, he didn't dream at all.
*****
The alarm went off what seemed like just an hour later, but the time on his phone did indeed indicate it was 6:30. Greg scrubbed at his face with one hand. He really needed an uneventful weekend about now.
He shaved and showered and then headed back to his room, still toweling his wet hair. Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the rumpled sheets, completely dressed and tapping away at the screen of his phone.
"I have a few questions for you before you go."
Greg leaned against the doorway. "Why am I always the naked one when we have these talks?"
Sherlock didn't bother to hide the way his gaze raked over Greg's body. "I don't mind."
Greg dropped the towel and crossed to the bed. "You don't find it distracting?"
Sherlock swallowed. "No."
"You're usually a better liar than that."
"I've no intention of hiding my attraction to you. After last night it would be fairly pointless, don't you think?"
Greg smiled at him. "I suppose so. What were your questions?"
"How many were arrested last night?"
Greg pulled pants out of a drawer and stepped into them. "Nine. They'll have been processed by CO19 overnight."
Sherlock frowned. "Nine. You're sure?"
"Yes. Why?"
"There were supposed to be ten. I monitored communications for days."
Greg pulled a shirt on and started buttoning it. "So we're missing one of Moriarty's Russians?"
"Perhaps."
"Did anything happen overnight?"
"I didn't see anything unusual, which is rather concerning."
Greg fished in the wardrobe for a pair of clean trousers. "Concerning how?"
"Because that would imply that whoever didn't make that meeting is now aware that it was a trap."
"They won't suspect you're involved, will they?"
"Mycroft's promised to let me interrogate the ones being held. I'll learn more about what they know then. But at the very least, those remaining will know the government is after them and that something has happened to Moriarty. Whether they'll think he's betrayed them or is no longer in the picture is another question altogether."
"Would any of them have bought the Richard Brook story?"
Sherlock snorted. "Of course not."
"So if anyone learns that Moriarty is dead and you are not, what will that mean?"
Sherlock looked up at him again. "That this part of the operation is over. My hiding will no longer be an advantage if all the people I want to believe it know the truth."
"And the public? What do you want them to believe?"
"I don't particularly care what they believe. I imagine that the news of my unlikely survival will make things easier for the operation in some ways and more difficult in others."
Greg tucked in his shirt and checked his reflection in the mirror. "I'll start working on a plan for the Met in case we need to acknowledge your existence rather quickly. People aren't going to be happy about having been lied to." He turned to look at Sherlock. "Think John's reaction, en masse."
"John came around."
"John is in love with you. Most people aren't."
Sherlock looked as if he was about to say something more, but a ping from his phone drew his attention. "My ride," he said, standing.
"Hey--" Greg held out a hand. Sherlock took it and Greg pulled him close. He brushed an unruly curl of dark hair from Sherlock's forehead and smiled. "I've always wanted to do that."
Sherlock stared back at him. "Do what?"
"Be able to touch you, whenever I want." Greg traced Sherlock's lips with one finger. "I can, can't I? Touch you whenever I want?"
"Yes."
Sherlock sounded a bit breathless, which made Greg smile even wider. He cupped his palm against Sherlock's jaw and pressed a soft kiss against his lips.
"And kiss you, whenever I want."
"Yes, that--" Sherlock began, but his next words were cut off by the crush of Greg's lips against his. Greg pulled back after a moment, and it was another half second before Sherlock opened his eyes. He looked a bit dazed, which Greg found incredibly endearing.
The phone pinged again.
"You'd better go."
"Yeah." Sherlock nodded and stepped back. "I'll see you soon. Tell John I said goodbye, will you?"
"I will."
Greg waited for the sound of the street door closing below before he moved from the spot. He pressed his fingers against his lips and smiled.
*****
Emma Grant's Fiction
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