I…I…..words fail me…
IT’S BACK. Can’t. Get. Over. The. Name. pAPA GREG.
It’s not like there’s any question he’s watching them make out, is there? And he’s totally into it.
Somebody write this.
FINE, if you insist.
And here Lestrade had thought the eye-fucking was hot. But tonight he has them all to himself, Sherlock and John naked as the dawn in the midst of their own flat, kissing while he watches. Just for him. And they generate enough sexual tension to light a house when they’re just standing there looking at each other, but the way they kiss is the most erotic thing he’s ever seen.
Sherlock looks like some sensual Greek statue to begin with, made up of a thousand miles of translucent skin and those immoral fucking lips. But John, the little trooper, refuses to be left behind. Sherlock comes down on him from on high with those sinful lips parted all set to devastate, and John rises right into it, shoots up on tiptoe into the collapsing grotto of Sherlock’s personal space to meet him halfway, mouth to mouth.
They tangle, god, they drink from each other like men dying of thirst, and then part just enough to let Lestrade see the twining of their tongues. They stroke their noses together, faces brushing so close that their eyelashes mesh. Lestrade nearly comes in his pants at the sight, so intimate that he wonders what the fuck he’s doing here. No one touches like that with another person watching. It isn’t right. But oh, Holy Mary, is it amazing to see.
He’s agreed not to touch, and they’ve agreed to obey, and his palms ache so badly that he needs someone in this room to get more. So, “Kneel,” he tells them. He watches them sink down to the nest of blankets on the floor in a knot of bare limbs, and imagines what it must feel like for them to have nothing in the world against their skin but each other.
It’s some kind of dance, the way they move. Or, hell, it’s sex, the way these two wrap around each other and sway their own private wind. Their fingers paint strokes over one another’s bodies that all but glow in Lestrade’s sight, searing his eyes with the after-images of lines over jaw and spine and the curve of a shoulder blade. They forge into the secret hollows on the back of the neck and the small of the back. The match of their skin is fucking artwork, alabaster against pale gold. And the twist of their bodies together, Sherlock with his endless elegant lines and John’s tidy compactness moulding right in against him…
Lestrade inhales when John’s hand slides forward on Sherlock’s hip. “No.” John’s breath catches; Sherlock’s hand tightens to dig dimples in John’s arse. “Just like this,” he adds, voice rasping. He rather wants to find out what they look like when they’ve been driven mad with desire.