Sherlock fic: My Mind in Ruins (Sherlock/Lestrade, NC-17)

[marita_c]

Title: My Mind in Ruins
Word count: ~4300  
Rating: NC-17 
Characters: Sherlock/Lestrade
Warnings: Angst, violence, rough sex, drug use.
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, etc.
Beta: Thanks and squishes all go to nanfreak.   

Author's note: Second story in the "Mind" series. A a considerably darker (see warnings) sequel to  “A Mind to Disengage”. It takes place two weeks later.

Summary: An intervention gone wrong.

   

My Mind in Ruins  by Marita C -- previously on — 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.  -- two weeks later — By the time Lestrade makes it home, it’s raining so heavily that he becomes drenched on the dash from the car to the door. It’s a fitting end to a particularly horrendous day. He sheds various items as he goes inside; toes off his wet shoes in the entry hall, deposits his bag on the coffee table, drapes his sopping coat over the armchair and finally sinks into the sofa cushions with an exhausted sigh. A couple of water drops slide from his hair down to his neck and under his shirt-collar, making him shiver. On days like these, with a murderer on the loose, his people growing more and more agitated, his superiors breathing down his neck and the bloody weather making everything seem that much worse, Lestrade truly regrets ever going into law enforcement. He’d felt this way before and knows it’s a transient state; by next week he’ll probably be feeling accomplished again — the sort of satisfaction one gets from knowing with absolute certainty that one’s day job helps make the world a better place. At the moment, however, this knowledge provides no reassurance whatsoever. His mobile buzzes, jolts him from his brooding, and he reaches into his jacket pocket to retrieve it. When he sees ‘Donovan’ on the caller ID he frowns. He’d left her less than an hour ago overseeing the forensics team at the latest crime scene, but wasn’t expecting to hear from her again tonight. “Yeah, Sally,” he answers tiredly. “The Freak was here,” she informs him curtly. Fantastic. As if things weren’t bad enough already. He’s not quite ready to deal with the clusterfuck that is Sherlock Holmes tonight.   “When was this?” “About fifteen minutes ago. I didn’t let him in, told him the order came from you,” she adds. “I’m guessing he wasn’t too happy about that,” Lestrade says, resigned. “He nearly took my head off. I was halfway tempted to shoot him.” He sighs. “I know the feeling… Thanks, I’ll… deal with it.”  Sally wishes him a good night and disconnects. Has Sherlock been tracking the GPS in his mobile phone again? It’s either that or the man has a sixth sense that alerts him to new crime scene locations, because Lestrade had made sure to keep complete radio silence today. Now that Sherlock knows that he’s being intentionally kept out of the loop an angry house-call is almost certainly imminent. Perhaps he’s being paranoid. It’s possible Sherlock won’t come here at all — he might go home instead and then he’ll be John Watson’s problem. Possible, but very unlikely, Lestrade admits to himself. It’s too soon — he hasn’t had a chance to come up with a plan of action yet. Lestrade spends five more minutes on the sofa, trying to psych himself into a state of calm he doesn’t really feel. Whatever happens tonight, he vows, he’ll keep his head and not lose his temper. He’s had ample experience dealing with people in various stages of agitation and intoxication throughout his career, and there’s no reason why a calm, professional approach shouldn’t work in this case as well. Ten minutes later, as he’s putting the kettle on, he hears a taxi coming to a stop outside. The pounding on his door comes shortly after. Lestrade mentally braces himself as he goes to open it, dutifully moves aside as an annoyingly dry-looking Sherlock storms in.  “You must truly hate your job if you’re keeping me out of a crime scene when your killer is preparing to leave the country in the next thirty-six to forty-eight hours,” Sherlock informs him in a brisk, precise flow. Lestrade locks the door and looks Sherlock over, searching for the tell-tale signs that should be obvious to him after so many years on the force. There aren’t any, just like there haven’t been any over the past couple of weeks and he can’t help but feel a certain amount of awe toward the man standing in front of him. Sherlock has perfected the art of deception to a truly frightening extent. “Yes, this is all a big ploy to get myself fired. How about a cup of tea?” he offers calmly as he turns to the living room. Even with his back turned he can practically feel Sherlock’s temper spiking. “Look, I did what I had to with Brackston — if I hadn’t he’d have never led you to the second victim. Whatever qualms you have over it can be dealt with after we find the killer, which isn’t going to happen until you let me in to see the scene.”   Lestrade clears his throat, turns around again. “I don’t care that you roughed up Brackston. He’s a right bastard and he had it coming.” Sherlock pauses, narrows his eyes and for the first time seems unsure of himself. “This… isn’t about Brackston.” “No…” Lestrade replies hesitantly. Sherlock’s expression turns unreadable and he regards Lestrade silently for a moment. Lestrade spares him from asking. “Your brother called me this morning.” Sherlock’s reaction is not what he expects, but then again, it rarely is — Sherlock reacts to everything quite differently from other people. He laughs and turns away, shaking his head. It’s not a humorous laugh — in fact, it incorporates everything but humor: disdain, bitterness and resignation. “Of course he called you... It was pointless, hoping he’d keep his nose out of matters that don’t concern him for once.” As he faces Lestrade again his tone turns condescending. “And I suppose this is your version of an intervention? How quaint.”     “It’s nothing of the sort,” Lestrade tells him calmly, even though it kind of is. When it comes to Sherlock though, he finds that the direct route usually leads nowhere. “I can’t have you working my cases when you’re high.”   “All the progress you’ve made on the case was thanks to me!” Sherlock snarls. “Now two innocent people are dead and you’re letting the killer get away over inconsequential nonsense?” Lestrade has to exercise every bit of self-control he possesses to refrain from punching Sherlock in the face or outright laughing at the absurdity of what he’s just heard. “First of all, this would sound a lot more convincing coming from someone who actually gives a fuck about the victims, which we both know you don’t. Second, I’m not letting anyone get away — I have people working around the clock — good, capable, dedicated people who will get that bastard even without your help, and third, your drug habit doesn’t qualify as inconsequential nonsense.” He manages to keep from raising his voice, but only just.     Sherlock glares at him intently and Lestrade can almost see the gears turning inside his head; processing, calculating, contriving. “You need me,” Sherlock finally says. Lestrade swallows. “I’ll get over it.” They stare at each other for a moment longer, battling silently, until Sherlock huffs in exasperation and turns away. Lestrade watches as he begins pacing the room. Watches Sherlock’s fingers clenching and unclenching rhythmically and wonders when his last hit was. “I could simply go back there, you realize. Your team will be done in a couple of hours. I’ll break in easily,” Sherlock mutters. Lestrade knows that the fact Sherlock is telling him about it means he has no intention of actually going ahead with this plan, but humors him nonetheless. “Be my guest. I’ll have you arrested in a heartbeat — I’m waiting for you to give me a reason at this point.” The movement is so fast that Lestrade doesn’t have time to react. In an instant, he’s manhandled backwards, slammed against the living room wall, the back of his head banging against it painfully. Sherlock is pressed up against him, eyes blazing. “You don’t get to make that threat to me anymore,” he hisses. “You don’t fuck me one moment and arrest me the next.”   Distantly, Lestrade remembers a resolution to stay cool and not lose his temper, but the pain reverberating through his head makes the memory seem dimmer by the second. He places both hands in the middle of Sherlock’s chest and pushes hard. “I’m good at compartmentalizing,” he growls as Sherlock staggers back.  He thinks at first that that’s the end of it, but Sherlock looks like he’s only getting started. Eyes dark with mad fury, Sherlock comes at him again. This time Lestrade is ready for him; his fist connects hard with Sherlock’s jaw and sends him sprawling. Lestrade is on him then — kneeling down, he straddles Sherlock’s hips and pins his wrists to the floor on both sides of his head. “Calm. the fuck. down.” Sherlock strains against him at first, but after a beat relaxes and begins to laugh. “If you wanted to be on top all you had to do was ask.” Lestrade closes his eyes momentarily and takes a deep breath. Composure. He needs composure. He’ll have it again, too, if only Sherlock would stop acting like a fucking idiot for more than three seconds. Perhaps that’s too much to ask for. “You’re hurting me,” Sherlock says. It sounds like an observation rather than a complaint, but Lestrade instinctively relaxes his bruising grip on Sherlock’s wrists.   That proves to be a mistake, naturally. Sherlock takes advantage of his momentary guilt and catches him off-guard with a sharp jerk of his hips and a full body swing that effectively reverses their positions. Sherlock ends up lying fully on top of him, his forearm pressing against Lestrade’s windpipe. Lestrade’s first instinct is to struggle against the restriction of his airflow, but he suppresses it and goes limp instead. He doesn’t think the situation will be diffused by further use of force and his rational mind doesn’t want to believe Sherlock would actually harm him. His strategy proves correct when Sherlock lets up after a few more seconds, but Lestrade only gets a moment to gasp for breath before Sherlock covers his lips with his own and pushes his tongue into Lestrade’s mouth. While this is hardly the first time Sherlock has kissed him, under their current circumstances it’s so unexpected that initially Lestrade can only lie there in shock.    Clearly, Sherlock is completely off his face.   Utterly, downright mental.   How had he not seen it until now? Fucking hell. Not him and not John, who is a bloody doctor and living with Sherlock. It took Mycroft Holmes, probably paying off half the coke dealers in London so that they’d alert him whenever his brother showed up in their neighborhood, to pick up on it. But apparently all Lestrade had needed to do was shag (or punch) Sherlock a little sooner, because now that the careful mask of control has slipped he can see how far Sherlock has drifted from his usual prodigious self. He feels like an idiot because, in a way, he should have seen it coming. He has a clear image of Sherlock’s face from two weeks ago in his head; they had been standing over the body of a little girl, the third one they’d found, and he’d been waiting for Sherlock to deliver a torrent of deductions with the same clinical detachment he’d demonstrated with the previous two girls. When an eerie silence stretched on Lestrade had looked up from the body to find Sherlock staring at the girl, still as death and looking like he’d seen a ghost. Even though that had been just the beginning of a truly horrific twenty-four hour span, it’s that image of Sherlock’s face that has stayed with him. He should have known then that there would be long-lasting repercussions, that even after their killer was dead and buried Sherlock would not be able to slide seamlessly back into what constituted normal for him. Unfortunately, as he lies under Sherlock, trying to understand how they’d gone from choking to kissing in a matter of seconds, Lestrade begins to understand that the retrospective approach is going to be absolutely useless to him in trying to resolve their present predicament. Not receiving the kind of reciprocation he was hoping for, Sherlock pulls back from the kiss and frowns at him. “Are you going to hold this back from me as well?” he asks with a hint of desperation. Lestrade opens his mouth to reply but finds that he has no idea what to say. He’s aroused. Hell, that’s nothing new. All Sherlock has to do is look at him a certain way for Lestrade’s blood to start flowing south.   However, his rational thinking isn’t entirely diminished and the thought of having sex with Sherlock in his current state of mind makes him uneasy. On the other hand, he doesn’t want Sherlock to feel like he’s being punished — that would only serve to make matters worse. Sherlock reaches down between their bodies, palms Lestrade’s hardening cock and presses against him through his trousers. Lestrade can’t quite hold back his gasp. “Sherlock… “ he starts, intending on giving common sense a try, at least. “You clearly want this,” Sherlock points out, rubbing against him again for emphasis. He dips his head and touches his lips to the crook of Lestrade’s neck. “Either that or it’s the violence that gets you off,” he murmurs against Lestrade’s skin.  The bite takes Lestrade by surprise — Sherlock’s teeth on his flesh, right where his neck meets his shoulder, not quite hard enough to break the skin but definitely hard enough to bruise. Lestrade groans in pain, grabs a handful of Sherlock’s hair and yanks Sherlock’s head back forcibly.  He uses the momentum to roll them around and ends up on top of Sherlock again. Surprisingly, Sherlock doesn’t seem averse to this turn of events. On the contrary; when Lestrade pulls on his hair once more, forcing him to arch his neck, Sherlock lets out a drawn-out moan and looks up at him with eyes that are too bright and shiny. “You can hurt me if you want,” he breathes, and to Lestrade it sounds like a plea. The words make Lestrade feel slightly ill. He had no intention of hurting Sherlock at all when they’d started this. He’s not the kind of man who would get off on causing someone else pain. He’s not. Yet here he is; his hand fisted in Sherlock’s hair, his knuckles still tender from that earlier punch (the bruise already beginning to form on Sherlock’s face) and he’s so aroused he can barely think straight. Lestrade sees how wrong this is, wants to believe that if Sherlock wasn’t high-strung on coke he’d see it too, but knows that’s probably wishful thinking. The approval in Sherlock’s eyes, the way he’s practically begging to be hurt, to be punished… those were not brought on by a chemical. This is something deeper, something darker that Lestrade has unleashed and will now have to deal with.  “This… isn’t a game, Sherlock,” Lestrade says hoarsely as he releases his hold on Sherlock’s hair. “I’m not going to beat you.” There are lines he would not cross. Lines that once crossed would not allow him a return to normality and he needs Sherlock to understand this before anything else happens. Sherlock arches an eyebrow. “But you’ll fuck me,” he states somewhat challengingly. Lightning flashes outside, its fleeting brightness turning Sherlock’s eyes inhuman for a moment. Thunder follows barely a second later and the sound of splattering rain intensifies.   Lestrade swallows heavily. “If that’s what you want,” he replies carefully. Something settles in Sherlock’s expression and Lestrade gets the impression that despite everything, the message has been received and internalized. Another beat, and Sherlock nods. Lestrade shifts a little on top of him, braces himself on his knees and one arm. Sherlock, he notices, is finally still. His breathing is still labored but the constant movement has ceased. Lestrade quickly unwraps Sherlock’s scarf, pulls it off and begins unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt. It’s a little absurd that Sherlock’s coat is still on, but a bit of padding might not be a bad thing — the floor is far from comfortable.  When Lestrade starts undoing Sherlock’s trousers, Sherlock closes his eyes and lets out a sigh of relief. He remains motionless even when Lestrade kneels up, and obediently lifts up his hips to allow Lestrade to strip him from the waist down. Lestrade settles between his legs and runs a hand down his flank, slides a finger along Sherlock’s hard cock. He doesn’t get much of a reaction — Sherlock’s eyes are still closed, his face oddly blank. Lestrade isn’t sure this is an actual improvement over Sherlock’s earlier belligerence, but lets him be for the time being. His bag on the coffee table is within arm’s reach and he pulls on the zipper, reaches into a small internal pocket and finds a sachet of lube and a condom he remembers packing there eons ago. Taking off his own trousers seems like too much of an effort so he simply pushes them down a bit along with his pants and rolls on the condom. Once he’s slicked up he leans over Sherlock again, braces himself on one arm above Sherlock’s shoulder and uses the other to guide his cock into position. There’s a slight intake of breath from beneath him as the head of his cock presses against Sherlock’s opening. “Hey…” Lestrade murmurs, “look at me.” Sherlock’s eyelids flutter open, but his eyes aren’t entirely focused as they settle on Lestrade’s face.  There are no words. Sherlock keeps completely silent as he raises his knees, tightens his legs around Lestrade’s waist and pulls him closer and in. He winces as he’s breached but arches into the intrusion.   Lestrade hisses as he sinks into the gripping heat. He pauses briefly, grabs onto Sherlock’s hip for leverage and then keeps pushing inside until he’s fully embedded. Sherlock’s breathing turns erratic, his eyes drift upwards and his cock twitches between their bodies. He spreads both his arms out, grabs onto the leg of the sofa with his right hand and braces himself. Lestrade withdraws a bit and watches Sherlock’s face going slack as he pushes back in. “Harder,” Sherlock breathes, blinking at the ceiling.    Acting on some irrational belief that pounding Sherlock into his living room floor would somehow improve the situation, Lestrade attempts to comply. He puts force and speed behind his next thrust and Sherlock grunts, nods in approval. When Lestrade does it again Sherlock closes his eyes and turns his face away. He gasps every time Lestrade slams into him, his face twisting in some fierce form of catharsis. This has to be hurting him, Lestrade thinks, even as Sherlock’s body arches and begs for more.  At some point Sherlock slides a hand down between them. Lestrade thinks at first that he’s going to stroke himself, but Sherlock bypasses his erection altogether and reaches lower, down to where they’re connected. He runs his fingers along his stretched hole and up around the base of Lestrade’s cock. Lestrade finds the indulgent exploration a little peculiar but not disturbingly so. What is perturbing, however, is how entirely lost inside his own head Sherlock appears. Lestrade is desperate to get some of the connection back -- he reaches up and turns Sherlock to face him again. At his touch Sherlock’s eyes snap open and he sucks in a sharp breath. Lestrade frowns until he realizes his fingers are pressing against Sherlock’s bruised jaw. His grip slackens instinctively and he’s about to withdraw his hand but Sherlock whips his own hand up, covers Lestrade’s fingers with his own and presses them hard into his tender flesh.    Lestrade opens his mouth, ready to protest, but Sherlock makes a choked sound, somewhere between a grunt and a whimper and his entire body grows taut. Sherlock’s cock, untouched between their bodies, jumps and pulses as he ejaculates. The muscles around Lestrade’s cock tighten almost uncomfortably and he stills his thrusts, waits until Sherlock lets out a long breath and goes slack. Once Sherlock lets go of his hand Lestrade pulls away, pulls out, still hard. Sherlock lowers his feet to the floor, watches wearily as Lestrade strips away the condom, wraps a fist around his cock and finishes himself off with a few quick strokes, his come splattering Sherlock’s chest and abdomen. The rush of blood to Lestrade’s head subsides gradually, leaving him feeling empty and stricken rather than satisfied. There’s a lump in his throat that makes it hard to breathe and he has to blink against a sudden dizziness. He wants to say something. Wants to scream, more like, shout at Sherlock that they’re never, ever doing this again, but Sherlock’s expression is apprehensive and it’s as close to fragile Lestrade has even seen him at. He opts for silence instead, grabs the box of tissues from the coffee table and sets it on the floor next to them. He needs to recompose, to not look at Sherlock for a moment, and so he gets to his feet and goes to wash his hands at the kitchen sink. As he splashes cold water on his face he catches sight of his outline reflected in the kitchen window. The fact that he can’t make out the details is a blessing, although he can envision them vividly enough and wonders if he looks anywhere near as frayed as he feels.  As an afterthought he raises a hand, touches a finger to the bite mark low on his neck. He’ll have to button his shirt collar all the way up for a few days, at least, to avoid facing some awkward stares and questions. Jesus fucking Christ. That’s… not how he’d imagined his evening turning out. The thought nearly makes him laugh, because only an idiot would attempt to make predictions where Sherlock Holmes is involved and by now Lestrade really should know better. He takes a deep, steadying breath and turns away from the window, refastening his clothes. He finds an ice pack at the very back of the freezer, wraps it in a kitchen towel and takes it back to the living room. Sherlock has cleaned up in his brief absence and is now fully clothed again and slouching on the sofa. He doesn’t acknowledge Lestrade’s return, merely keeps staring at the wall with a dejected expression. Probably crashing already, Lestrade surmises as he sits down next to him. When Lestrade touches the ice pack to the right side of his jaw Sherlock flinches away and glares at him. “Don’t be an idiot,” Lestrade chides gently.    Reluctantly, as if finding the gesture offensive, Sherlock takes the pack from him and holds it carefully against his face. “Barely felt it,” he jabs at Lestrade petulantly. Lestrade rolls his eyes. “I was holding back,” he retorts. They both know it’s a lie. He tries to keep the next part professional, which isn’t easy considering he’d spent the past hour practically decimating any shred of professionalism he had going for him. Sherlock doesn’t attempt to hide his dismay when Lestrade parts the lapels of his coat to access the inner pocket, but after a beat acquiescently extends his arm out enough to make it easier. Lestrade retrieves the half-full vial from his pocket, holds it against the light and estimates there’re at least two grams inside it still. “Is that all of it?” he asks quietly.  Sherlock gives a curt nod, not looking at him. After a brief silence he sighs. “You’re not going to let me in to see the crime scene, are you?” It’s not really a question.    “That’s not how it works,” Lestrade reminds him and slips the vial into his own pocket. “You get clean, you stay clean, then we’ll see.” Sherlock’s expression lets him know exactly what he thinks of him right now, which isn’t helping his already troubled conscience. Why does he always end up feeling like the villain in these situations? Lestrade wonders. While he’s hardly one to revel in moral superiority, it’s unexpected how desperate he is to say something, anything, that would make things better between them. He looks at Sherlock from the corner of his eye and tries to gauge whether such a collection of words even exists. “With everything that’s happened two weeks ago…“ he starts, choosing his words carefully, “I… probably should have been more—“ “—Oh please,” Sherlock cuts him off, the disdain evident in his tone. He throws the ice pack into Lestrade’s lap and gets up. Right. That, apparently, had not been the right thing to say. “I’m not your boyfriend, Lestrade,” Sherlock snaps as he walks off. “And don’t presume to understand the reasoning behind my actions.” Lestrade sighs, somewhat at a loss, and inevitably follows Sherlock. “I’m trying to do what’s right,” he calls after him. Sherlock stops at the entry hall, takes his gloves out of his coat pockets and studiously pulls them on. “You always do,” he says with a brief, unreadable look at Lestrade, and heads for the door.  “Goodnight, Inspector.” “Sherlock.” Sherlock stops, hand already on the door handle. He lets out an exasperated sigh and turns toward Lestrade. “What? Haven’t you had enough yet?” Lestrade comes closer. Enough of what? He wonders but doesn’t ask. “Let me… drive you home,” he says instead. “I’ll walk.” He can’t be serious. “Sherlock, it’s pouring.” Sherlock opens the door and looks at the miserable night outside. He shrugs. “It’s appropriate.” Lestrade watches in disbelief as Sherlock walks out. He takes another step, stands at the open door and looks after him, shaking his head at Sherlock’s retreating form. Fucking drama queen. He doesn’t think it’s possible to feel any guiltier than he already does, but knows that if Sherlock ends up with pneumonia, he probably would.