marita_c | Sherlock fic: A Mind to Disengage (Sherlock/Lestrade, NC-17)

Title: A Mind to Disengage
Word count: ~3600
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Sherlock/Lestrade, John
Warnings: Disturbing imagery.
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, etc.
Beta: The multi-talented

nanfreak. *hugs*
Author's note: First in the "Mind" series. It's a missing scene of sorts (from something bigger and far better), but it should work as a stand-alone.

Summary: A horrific investigation, a sleepless night and two souls looking for a distraction.

A Mind to Disengage

by Marita C

It’s a relief when Sherlock’s laptop finally chimes — he was starting to go a little mad, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.

It had been a concession — John had kept giving him that look, his lips pressed together tightly, as if making a conscious effort not to order Sherlock to go to sleep. The silence (as well as the lip-tightening) had told Sherlock more about John’s inner battle than words ever could and in the end he’d decided to take pity on him. He’d put down the crime scene photographs, taken a shower, donned his pajamas and pretended to turn in, taking his laptop with him to bed. Judging by the way John had eyed the computer, the maneuver had been rather obvious to the doctor. However, John had said nothing — he’d simply wished Sherlock a good night and turned in himself.

Thus, Sherlock had ended up in his current state of ennui — the details of the case swirling around in his restless mind. Unfortunately, his thought process is so addled by fatigue that it becomes the equivalent of meaningless chatter. No deductions, no progress and no sleep.

The cheerful chime of the tracking software finally drags him out of his stupor and he sits up and drags the laptop to him. He watches as the small blinking red dot on the screen slowly moves away from the New Scotland Yard and toward Paddington. Lestrade is finally on his way home. Sherlock reaches for his mobile and texts him.

Anything? SH.

The reply comes twenty six seconds later.

No.

Sherlock frowns. He was sure Lestrade would find the missing person’s report.

He settles back against the pillows and sighs in frustration. Somewhere out there is a man who’s been killing little girls and Sherlock is desperate for a new lead. He was hoping to get it from the girl taken three days ago… the one whose body they haven’t found yet. But if no report had been filed...

Nothing to do now but wait until the next body turns up.

He has no doubt that it will, probably tomorrow — another seven year old. He should be horrified (according to John, at least), but all he feels is impatient. He wants to know… figure it out finally; who the killer is, what’s his motive.

It’s going to be a long night.

Sherlock knows where John keeps his sleeping pills, but those would only leave him groggy. He’ll need to remain sharp for tomorrow’s crime scene.

Hence he’s doomed — doomed to lie here, listening to the sounds of night, imagining John fast asleep upstairs. It’s lonely — like he’s the only man left in the universe. In a way he is — awake in a world of the sleeping.

Well… he and Lestrade, anyway.

Which brings up another possibility. A potentially preferable alternative to ceiling-gazing for the rest of the night. Sherlock picks up his mobile again.

Come over? SH.

It’s been months since he’d sent a text like that to the inspector. Not since he’d moved to Baker Street.

When three and a half minutes go by and there’s no reply Sherlock thinks he’s going to be refused. It wouldn’t be the first time nor would it be uncalled for — he and Lestrade have been doing little but argue in the past weeks. He glances at the screen of his laptop again, tracking the GPS in the DI’s mobile phone. Lestrade is almost home.

When his mobile finally beeps he expects to read something along the lines of ‘I thought we weren’t doing this anymore’, or at the very least ‘It’s late. Going to sleep’, but Lestrade surprises him.

Come to mine instead?

Sherlock looks at the words curiously for a moment, wondering. After another beat he replies.

On my way. SH.

He makes an extraordinary effort to leave the flat as quietly as he can.

***

He finds Lestrade out on the street, smoking and freezing his arse off in jeans and a jumper. Sherlock glances to the cigarette and tries not to smirk but Lestrade rolls his eyes anyway, as if reading his mind.

“Minor setback,” the inspector says gruffly.

Sherlock nods and avoids commenting. He tries to decide whether the cigarette is tempting him at all and reaches the conclusion that it’s not - the patches give him the same clarity without the embarrassing shortness of breath whenever he has to chase someone down. It doesn’t mean he’s not susceptible to other, deeper and darker cravings, but those he’d been living with for most of his life and is quite used to them by now.

“No report of a seven year old girl missing since Tuesday, then,” Sherlock states. “Have you tried Essex?”

Lestrade nods, takes another puff. “Been on the phone with local police for two hours. There’s nothing. Either you’re wrong or…” he trails off, shrugs.

“I’m not wrong. He took her three days ago.”

“And no one reported it?”

Sherlock shrugs and looks away. “You’ve been doing this long enough, Inspector. I hardly need to tell you that not every family is a picture of domestic bliss. Perhaps the parents were too drunk to notice…”

Lestrade’s face twists in disgust. “Or too stoned to care…” He shakes his head. “Christ.” He flicks the cigarette into a nearby bin and turns to the door. Sherlock follows a couple of steps behind, enters first as Lestrade holds the door for him.

Inside, the dim kitchen light is the only illumination but Sherlock can see the place is pristine. It’s not surprising — Lestrade’s housekeeper comes in every Wednesday and the inspector had barely made it home in the past couple of days. Not since they found the first girl.

Sherlock sits at the breakfast bar and eyes the tumbler of scotch, the mostly empty glass.

“John knows where you are?” Lestrade asks as he joins him.

Sherlock finds the question odd at first. Why would Lestrade be asking about John? He looks at the inspector, narrows his eyes.

Ah.

That explains it then. “Is that why you didn’t want to come over? Because of John?”

Lestrade sends him a blank look and doesn’t reply.

“We’re not shagging, for the record,” Sherlock adds, amused despite himself. For some reason it never occurred to him that Lestrade would make the same erroneous presumption everyone else seem to make.

Lestrade shrugs and Sherlock has trouble deciding whether the inspector’s apparent indifference is genuine. “Weird, is all… doing this with him upstairs,” Lestrade says as he reaches for his glass, finishes off the scotch. He doesn’t offer Sherlock a drink — probably knows Sherlock’s drinking habits well enough by now to surmise it would be refused.

It’s more than weirdness, Sherlock realizes. Lestrade doesn’t want John to know about this. Is he worried that John would spread the rumor around, or is he simply afraid that once John finds out he’d think less of him -- think he's being unprofessional?

The latter argument seems more likely because, absurdly enough, John probably would think that.

Sherlock unwraps the scarf from around his neck, takes off his coat. He drapes both on a tall chair to his right. “He was asleep when I left but I won’t lie if he asks where I went,” he tells Lestrade. “Is that going to be a problem?”

Lestrade straightens up and comes closer, seems to come to a resolution. “No,” he states simply before leaning in to kiss Sherlock.

It’s a short kiss, just a brief press of lips against lips after which Lestrade begins to pull back, but it's enough to make Sherlock greedy and so he doesn’t let him go far. He takes hold of the front of Lestrade’s jumper and uses it to pull the inspector back to him.

The second kiss is better; Lestrade parts his lips, lets Sherlock taste him. Sherlock presses closer and breathes him in, enjoying the strong presence of the scotch as well as the lingering scent of smoke. Sherlock doesn’t have a taste for the drink himself, but on Lestrade’s lips it tastes sweet and sharp and tempting. It makes Sherlock woozy, as if he were the one drinking.

He wraps his hands around Lestrade’s waist and stands up, pressing the inspector back against the bar. Lestrade gasps into his mouth and slides a hand into his hair. Sherlock smiles. He hasn’t realized how much he’d missed doing this until this very moment. Months without physical contact have diminished its purpose and necessity to Sherlock’s mind.

“Am I the last person you slept with?” he murmurs against Lestrade’s lips, curious as to whether he’s alone in this.

“No,” Lestrade replies, sliding his other hand down from Sherlock’s hip to cup his arse.

Sherlock smiles at the inspector’s attempt at distraction. It’s a fond smile, though. “Liar,” he says, pushing a thigh between Lestrade’s legs, rubbing upwards against him.

Lestrade closes his eyes, gasps and then lets out a huff of laughter. “Fuck off, Sherlock,” he breathes.

Sherlock grins and kisses him again, content.

He’s becoming distractingly aroused, which isn’t something he usually cherishes. He’s the one who always mocks people for allowing their hormones to take control. It infuriates him while he’s working on a case, the wheels in his brain turning at an impossible speed, how blissfully unaware everyone around him is. How easily they allow their blood-flow to be directed southward, rendering them virtually brainless.

But now, as he rocks languidly against Lestrade, enjoying the pressure against his hardening cock while he slides his tongue along Lestrade’s bottom lip, he finds that he’s grateful because the chatter in his mind is finally muted.

“Are you going to let me fuck you?” he asks Lestrade.

Lestrade’s heated gaze roams over his face for a moment. “I might,” he replies roughly.

This isn’t exactly the enthusiastic agreement Sherlock’s was hoping for, but the prospect of a challenge only adds to his excitement. Smirking, Sherlock gracefully slides to his knees. He makes short work of pushing Lestrade’s jeans and pants down just enough to free his cock and then unceremoniously takes him into his mouth.

There’s a sharp inhale from above and Lestrade’s hand tightens in his hair. “Are we negotiating…?” Lestrade hisses.

Sherlock hums in approval and starts sucking him in slow, measured strokes. His own arousal thrums pleasantly through his loins, pulses in his cock. He reaches down to unzip his trousers and can’t help pressing the heel of his palm against his erection, whimpering a little around the cock in his mouth at the waves of pleasure the action elicits.

When he looks up he finds Lestrade staring down at him with heavy-lidded eyes. Their gazes meet and hold, and Sherlock pulls back a little to swirl his tongue over the head of Lestrade’s cock. He watches in satisfaction as Lestrade’s eyes close and he stops breathing, watches as Lestrade clenches his teeth as he fights for self-control. Sherlock pulls back, smirks at Lestrade’s disappointed whimper.

“Is it working?” he drawls.

Lestrade groans in frustration. “Fuck, Sherlock. Yes. Yes… whatever you want.”

Sherlock would pause to gloat, but the sheer desperation in the inspector’s voice nearly takes his breath away. It’s raw and impossibly sexy and it’s making Sherlock very, very stupid. As he takes Lestrade back into his mouth Sherlock can’t help touching himself, wrapping his fingers around his erection and pumping into his fist.

Sherlock can tell when Lestrade’s getting closer; His body tenses and his breaths start coming out in little bursts. He doesn’t resist when Lestrade’s hand nudges his head closer, just takes a deep breath and relaxes his throat, lets Lestrade push in all the way. Lestrade makes a little choked sound then curses, and Sherlock involuntarily swallows around the twitching head of his cock.

When it’s over Lestrade pulls away and slides to the floor in a limp heap. He looks flushed and lax, and reaches a lazy hand to trace his thumb along Sherlock’s sticky lips before leaning close and kissing him deeply, making a satisfied, grateful sound in the back of his throat. Sherlock moans softly as he kisses back, his hand quickening its strokes on his cock as if of its own accord. Lestrade’s hand joins his, Lestrade’s fingers intertwining with his own to guide his strokes, and Sherlock gasps and promptly comes, shuddering as jolts of pleasure travel up his spine and melt into liquid warmth somewhere in the back of his head.

Afterwards they sit on the floor with their backs against the bar, legs sprawled in front of them.

Sherlock has one knee bent, his forearm propped on it, and is regarding a loose thread in his sleeve with a sort of dazed fascination. “I figured it out finally…” he announces.

Lestrade rolls his head sideways and looks at him questioningly. “Hmm?”

“Why you keep agreeing to do this with me.”

Lestrade frowns. “If you’re about to say that I barter sex for your consulting service…” he starts, a warning in his tone.

“No,“ Sherlock reassures him. “I think we both know that I need to be solving these cases at least as much as you need me to solve them.”

Lestrade raises an eyebrow, curious now. “Alright, enlighten me then. Why do I keep doing this with you?”

Sherlock looks away briefly, a smile tugging on the corner of his mouth. “You like me.”

Lestrade laughs, as if it’s the best thing he’s heard all week.

“What? It’s true,” Sherlock insists somewhat petulantly.

“Of course it’s true, you idiot,” Lestrade replies and rolls his eyes. “It’s a bloody pre-requisite.”

“Oh.” It wasn’t as obvious to Sherlock, but then the intricacies of human emotions, specifically those relating to interpersonal relationships, were always a bit of a mystery to him. “For the record, I’m rather fond of you too,” Sherlock adds.

He assumes at first that some sense of appropriateness had made him say it. The same one that makes him say things like ‘I’m so sorry for your loss’ in order to appear sympathetic while trying to extract information from a potential witness. But as he thinks it over he realizes that the sentiment behind the words was entirely genuine.

For a beat Lestrade looks at him strangely, as if sensing the admission was more significant to Sherlock than first perceived. “That’s very sweet, but we both know you’ll be insulting my intelligence again by tomorrow,” he points out.

Sherlock grins at that. “It’s how I show my affection.”

Lestrade shakes his head and slowly drags himself to his feet. “I’ll be sure to let Anderson know that,” he says as he holds his hand out. “Come on, we’re not doing this down here.”

***

They end up kneeling on top of the covers in the middle of Lestrade’s bed. Sherlock has one arm around Lestrade’s chest, keeping him upright with his back pressed against Sherlock’s chest. It’s a vast change from earlier, now that there are no clothes between them, just the warm, intimate full-body contact of skin against skin.

Sherlock can feel a shiver going through Lestrade’s body, feel as the other man lets out a deep, shuddering breath as he tries to adjust to the feeling of Sherlock’s cock inside of him, stretching him open.

It takes effort to keep still when Sherlock’s body is thrumming with the urge to rut mindlessly into the hot, tight grip around his cock but Sherlock finds he enjoys the exercise in self-control. He rests his chin on Lestrade’s shoulder, glances down and is pleased to note that the inspector is hard again, not even a half hour after Sherlock had sucked him off.

“This bed isn’t big enough for your ego,” Lestrade tells him breathlessly, trying and failing to sound irritated.

Sherlock laughs softly, his chest shaking against Lestrade’s back. “Well… I’m obviously doing something right,” he says and nips Lestrade’s shoulder lightly.

Lestrade pushes back some and they both groan as the action causes Sherlock’s cock to slide an extra half-inch into him. “Stop being smug and get on with it,” Lestrade manages.

It’s the same tone the inspector uses to order him around on crime scenes, Sherlock muses as he finally starts moving. He rocks forward and then slowly withdraws, and is rewarded by a gasp of pleasure from Lestrade. He does it again, using his grip on Lestrade’s hip to pull the other man back against him as he pushes in.

“Fuck, that’s better…” the inspector rasps his approval.

It’s exquisite, the muscles clenching and unclenching around Sherlock’s cock, milking him steadily in their slick, warm grasp as he establishes a languid rhythm. Lestrade covers Sherlock’s hand on his chest with his own and reaches back with the other, holding onto Sherlock’s back, pulling him even tighter against him.

Sherlock savors every detail, enjoying the journey instead of rushing to the end. Lestrade doesn’t seem to mind; His eyes are closed, his head resting back against Sherlock’s shoulder, and quiet, breathy moans escape from between his parted lips with every thrust. Sherlock tilts them forward slightly, looking for the angle that would make the head of his cock slide across the right spot. On his next thrust Lestrade’s whole body tenses and he groans loudly, and Sherlock knows he’s got it. He can see the glistening drops of precome gathering on the tip of Lestrade’s cock and it makes his mouth water.

“Get yourself off… ” Sherlock urges as he pushes in at the same angle again.

They’re quickly veering from slow and languid into frantic and intense, and as Lestrade begins to stroke himself at a self-indulgent pace Sherlock stops holding back. He closes his eyes, burying his face in the side of Lestrade’s neck as he quickens the snap of his hips. Sensation takes over completely as Sherlock rides mindlessly into completion and it’s glorious, feeling Lestrade stiffen and clench around him just as he hits his own release, shuddering through his climax.

Exhaustion creeps up on him unexpectedly and Sherlock finds it suddenly difficult to remain upright. He barely manages to extricate himself from Lestrade before slumping face first onto the bed in a heap.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” Lestrade says, still breathless. “It’s like someone turned off a switch. When’s the last time you slept?”

Sherlock thinks it was on Wednesday, but he’s not entirely sure and he doesn’t have the energy to answer Lestrade anyway, so he grunts instead and promptly falls asleep.

***

His sleep is closer in nature to a dream-filled trance; some awareness remains of things happening in the physical world and is mixed into a soup of memories and images.

It’s snowing under a cover of trees as sheets are pulled out from under him and then over him.

A small, pink shoe floats along a stream through a thick forest, but the sound is that of a shower rather than streaming water.

At the very edge of the forest a little girl lies lifeless. Her eyes are missing and an axe is embedded deep in her chest. The axe is bigger than she is.

It’s too warm for snow, but white flakes keep falling, turning red as they touch the bloody ground. Sherlock looks up at clear skies. The snow must be fake, then. He catches a few flakes in the palm of his hand and brings them closer to his face.

They smell like shampoo and tickle his nose.

***

There’s no gradual awakening. One moment Sherlock is dreaming and in the next he’s wide awake, his face pressed into Lestrade’s still-damp hair. He pulls away, glances at the clock radio. Five in the morning. He’d slept for an hour, barely. Now the chatter in his mind is back and he knows any attempt to go back to sleep would prove futile.

Beside him Lestrade breathes deeply and evenly, dead to the world. Strangely enough it makes Sherlock feel even lonelier than if he’d been alone in bed. Sighing, he extricates himself from the warm cocoon of the blankets and starts collecting his clothes. He brings them with him to the bath and takes a quick, nearly scalding shower before getting dressed again.

Lestrade stirs when Sherlock enters the bedroom to collect his shoes, cracks one eye open and mutters sleepily, “You off?”

Sherlock nods, picks up the shoes and pauses in the doorway with them dangling from his fingers. “The girl will most likely turn up in a few hours. I’ll be waiting for your call,” he says quietly and turns away.

“Sherlock…” Lestrade’s voice stops him in his track and Sherlock looks up to see him rubbing his eye.

“Hmm?”

“I’m going to change the password on my mobile account when I wake up,” the inspector informs him sleepily. “If I find out you’re tracking me again I’ll shoot you dead.”

Sherlock has to make an effort to keep his face blank. “I reckon sleep deprivation is getting to you; I’ve no clue what you’re on about.”

Lestrade grunts in annoyance and turns over, pulling the covers over his head. “Right… Fuck off then,” he mutters.

Sherlock stops trying to hide his smirk. “I’ll see you later, Inspector,” he says and heads downstairs to find his coat.

Two hours later John’s disapproving-yet-curious expression informs Sherlock that his flatmate is fully aware that he did not spend the night in his bed.

John doesn’t ask though, and Sherlock finds that he’s grateful.

At a café over breakfast (in which John is the only one eating), Sherlock figures out Lestrade’s new password in under ten minutes.

An hour later Sherlock walks into what should be just another crime scene, but isn't. The missing girl -- dead for three days as he’d predicted, but killed in the wrong way in the wrong room with the wrong kind of weapon.

It's a personal message.

Sherlock takes one look at her and his world falls apart.

The sequel: My Mind in Ruins

Tags:

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Date: 2010-11-30 04:07 pm (UTC)

From:

Trivialities, Lies and Fiction

Page Summary

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags