fan_flashworks | Relative Challenge: BBC Sherlock: Fanfic: Relative

Title: Relative
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: Explicit
Length: 4700
Content Notes/Warnings: Sherlock/John; Mycroft/Lestrade; Kink: cross-dressing (Mycroft in knickers; Sherlock in high-heeled shoes); foot fetish (John); humor; Sherlock & Mycroft bickering; typical crime scene gore and gallows humor; derogatory language in reference to sex workers
Summary: After deducing each others sartorial kink at a crime scene, Mycroft & Sherlock exchange fashion recommendations that end up exceeding expectations in the boudoir.

“Bloody hell!”

Lestrade cracked an eye.

Mycroft Holmes did not swear. Not even when he stubbed his toe, if he ever did stub his toe, which Lestrade assumed was possible, theoretically, but which he had never actually seen. Or heard.

And Mycroft Holmes certainly did not swear at—Lestrade looked at his watch in vain—dark o’clock in the morning.

“I’m terribly sorry to wake you, Gregory.”

Mycroft sat on the edge of the bed, mobile in hand.

“What’s wrong?”

“Am I a maid, Gregory?”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

“Am I someone who goes around with a mop and pail, waiting for some in-bred pooch to make a mess on the lino?”

“No,” said Lestrade with some hesitation. Every man’s fantasy was his own, and if Mycroft wanted to…

“No,” agreed Mycroft.

Lestrade relaxed.

“No, I am a professional. My tool is diplomacy. I negotiate, cajole, and, yes, occasionally threaten, but it’s highly skilled work that requires intelligence, subtlety, and an encyclopaedic understanding of the world.”

“Yes,” said Lestrade, feeling on much firmer ground.

“So why am I being called to clean up a mess of decidedly-not international importance?”

“Bosses,” grumbled Lestrade and rolled on his back. “Everybody’s got ‘em. Even the British government. I won’t ask what it is—“

“You’ll learn for yourself soon enough. What is that distasteful phrase Americans have? ‘Never get caught with a dead girl or a live boy.’”

“Mycroft!”

“Apologies, Gregory. For that, for now, and for later.”

Beep-beep-beep!

Lestrade sighed and reached for his phone.

“Am I Columbus, John?”

John cracked an eye.

“Columbus, like Christopher Columbus?”

“No, I mean that man in the wrinkled mackintosh who mumbles. American. Gum. Shoe.”

John laughed. “Columbo? Uh, no. You’re not Columbo. Much better coat, for starters.”

“Exactly! So what’s a pair of dead whores to me?”

“Sherlock!”

“I’m sorry, John,” said Sherlock quickly. “What’s a pair of dead sex workers to me? I pass no judgment on the trade but rather on the fact that said workers’ deaths are dragging me from my bed—“

“Well, technically, it’s my bed.”

“—for a case that is not even a ‘2’ by the most forgiving of standards! I am the world’s only consulting detective! Not some ignorant shamus paid pittance to go around peeping into windows and catch high profile idiots violating their matrimonial vows with other idiots!”

John sat up. “Then just tell Lestrade ‘no’!”

Sherlock pressed his lips together, hesitated, then growled.

John recognised the signs. “Wait, high profile? Is your brother involved?”

“I’m going to solve it so fast that we’ll be back before the sheets have cooled!” Sherlock stormed out of the room.

“Sounds good to me.”

“Come, John!”

John groaned and threw off the covers.

Lestrade and John stood side by side.

John said under his breath, “Two Holmeses. Looking at one body. To what do we owe the honour?”

“I called Sherlock, of course, but Mycroft? Mycroft is connected to the fact that no one in this hotel seems to be able to tell me or any of my officers who that poor unfortunate fellow with his face ripped off—or his colleague stuffed up the chimney—were here to see. And every single frame of security footage has disappeared for the time periods in question. So I can only conclude that Queen Elizabeth herself has a penchant for tiny rent boys in frilly knickers and high-heeled shoes.”

“Explains the ashtray.”

“What ashtray?”

“Never mind.”

“What are they doing?” asked Lestrade.

“A silent deducing match? A staring contest to the actual death?”

Lestrade hummed.

Then they both watched. And waited to see what would happen next.

Mycroft and Sherlock’s lips were mute, but their eyes spoke volumes.

Bit obvious, isn’t it, Sherlock?

Transparent, Mycroft.

Time to move on, then.

They both looked down. Mycroft’s gaze drifted to the victim’s crotch. Sherlock to the victim’s feet.

Agent Provocateur. Cancan tieside in black. The red would have been more striking, but would not have matched those Apollo hold ups so well. And Gregory, too, does so love, oh, what does he call it?

Matchy-matchy!

Louboutin. Fifi Bota Veau Velours. Very feminine silhouette, of course, but I think John actually prefers the higher heel of the Botalili, says it makes my arse…

They looked at each other. Then the body. Then back at each other.

Oh, Sherlock.

Oh, Mycroft.

Mycroft looked over Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock’s head whipped around and followed his gaze.

Naughty Doctor Watson!

Lestrade, you kinky bastard!

Then Sherlock whipped back around, and the two brother stared at each other with renewed fury.

Don’t you dare look at him like that!

Don’t you dare look at him like that!

“Ever have a nightmare where you’re naked on a very large microscope slide with two grey eyes boring into you?” asked John.

Lestrade shook his head. “No, mine’s an interrogation room and the eyes are blue, but I think the end is the same.” Then he uncrossed his arms. “All right, gentlemen, as much as I love our double date, this is a crime scene, my crime scene so, who am I looking for?”

Mycroft and Sherlock replied at the same time.

“An orangutan.”

“WHAT?!” cried Lestrade. He and John stared, mouths open.

Sherlock busily tapped his mobile, then flashed the screen. “This is your culprit. He is the Grape Ape of the Grape Ape & Mr. Beegly-Beegly, a popular pair of entertainers in the children’s birthday party circuit. Unfortunately, Mr. Beegly has been under investigation for animal abuse and, yes,” Sherlock looked at his phone, “yesterday was taken into custody for public drunkenness after performing a birthday party no less than five streets away earlier in the afternoon. No one knows what happened to Mr. Grape. Well, no one except me and this,” Sherlock gestured to Mycroft, “hippopotamus.”

“The clues are all here, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft waved to various points around the room. “Your team will no doubt put them together. Well, I best take my leave. Good day to you all, Detective Inspector, Doctor Watson, Sherlock.” He nodded and headed towards the door.

Lestrade followed him. “Mycroft, who was here before the monkey?”

Mycroft stopped. “A party will be found.”

“Don’t play word games with me. I want ‘the’ party, not whoever your bosses designate as the fall guy.”

“Detective Inspector, I am certain that you and your cadre of diligent, highly-trained officers…”

Lestrade scowled. “Bloody hell, Mycroft! You think I want to eat the dog shite you clean up?”

“Gregory...”

Lestrade turned and strode to the other side of the room, yelling, “DONOVAN! We’ve got the murders in the Rue fucking Morgue here!”

John shook his head as he watched Mycroft leave. “Who was it, Sherlock? Who was the client?”

“I don’t know.”

“Of course, you know. You know everything.”

“I’m not actually clairvoyant, John. I need…”

“Yeah, yeah. Bricks, clay. Go on and keep your brother’s secret. You two. You think you’re so different from each other, but you’re not. You both play by your own set of rules and to hell with the rest of us, the idiots in the room.”

“John…”

John glanced at the body and then over at the fireplace. “Poor kids. They must’ve been terrified. The animal, too. Christ. I hate these cases.”

“John…”

John waved a hand. “I’m going to go get Greg a decent cup of coffee. He’s going to need it. And a hundred more after it. He’s right. Rue bloody fucking Morgue. Dupin. The whole lot. As soon as this hits the news, high profile client or not, it’s going to be a circus.”

“You want a cigarette.”

“No, what I want is to not be in a café with you, Brother Mine. You contacted me. What do you want?”

“How’s Lestrade?”

“The Detective Inspector is extremely busy, naturally, what with a case that’s garnering so much media attention—“

“He slept on our sofa for a couple of hours yesterday.”

“Yes, well…”

Sherlock put his mobile on the table and turned it toward Mycroft.

“Maybe this would help.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the image on the screen. “The weather’s ghastly this time of year,” he said.

“Indeed. Everyone yearning for a bit of sun,” said Sherlock.

Mycroft hummed. “Spring. Touch of green.” He drew out his own mobile from a coat pocket and placed it on the table beside Sherlock’s. He tapped the screen three times.

Sherlock eyed it. One side of his mouth twitched. Once.

Then they both grabbed their respective phones and stood.

“Well, this has been wholly unpleasant. Always horrible to see you, Sherlock.”

“You, too! Let’s do this again, never.”

Lestrade cracked an eye.

“Hey, stranger,” he said.

“Good afternoon, Gregory.”

“Afternoon?” Lestrade sat up and looked at his watch. “Half my day off’s already gone!”

“It’s good to see you,” Mycroft swallowed, “that is, good to see you looking so rested.”

Lestrade nodded. “Fourteen hours of sleep will do that to you. You home for lunch?”

Mycroft tilted his head to one side.

Lestrade sighed. “Forget that. I should know by now: you don’t eat lunch.” He raked his eyes up and down Mycroft. “Should I head for the doomsday bunker?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“You only wear that suit when you’re playing with the bad, bad guys. The ones that have nothing to lose. ISIS? North Koreans? Chechens?”

“Burmese.”

Lestrade laughed. “Of course. Did you win?”

Mycroft smiled. “Negotiations went better than anticipated.”

“Ha, ha! Christ, you’re amazing.”

“I was feeling a bit pleased so I made a slight detour on the way home.”

“That bakery?”

“No. The, um, neighbouring establishment.”

Lestrade’s eyebrows rose and he grinned. “Really?” He looked about. “Are you going to show me now? Or do I get a private viewing later?”

“Negotiations went much better than anticipated.”

Lestrade’s eyes widened. “Shit, Mycroft. You’ve got it on now?! Under that?!”

Mycroft looked down at the ground and rocked back on his heels. He nodded.

“You fucking tease. You fucking, fucking, fucking tease.” Lestrade crawled towards the foot of the bed, his eyes on Mycroft’s waist. When he reached the edge, he raised up on his knees. His hands hovered over the buttons of Mycroft’s suit jacket.

“May I?”

“Yes, please.”

Lestrade unbuttoned and opened Mycroft’s jacket. “Tease me some more. What colour, Mycroft? Purple?”

“No.”

Lestrade hummed. “And on my day off, too. I am a lucky boy, aren’t I? Pink?” He began to unbuckle Mycroft’s belt.

“Yes and no.”

“Ah. A little pink and white number. Or pink and black. Pink and black, with matching hold ups. That’s my cock’s best deduction.”

“I’d rather leave deducing pricks out of this, makes me think of—“

Lestrade put two fingers to Mycroft’s lips. “Let’s not speak of him, shall we? I was just about to get seriously hot and bothered.”

“Too late for me.”

At the strain in Mycroft’s voice, Lestrade looked up. He cupped the front of Mycroft’s trousers and felt his hardness. “Oh, love.” He rubbed gently. “That good, eh? Christ, I’m getting hard, too. And I haven’t even seen it yet.”

“Gregory.”

Lestrade opened Mycroft’s trousers and sat back on his heels.

“Oh!” he breathed. “Yellow. Jesus fucking Christ. With pink lace. Knickers and a matching belt. Champagne tights. Yes, sir. I am a very lucky boy.”

He wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s waist and pushed his hands inside dark trousers. He pressed his face to the centre of yellow silk and mumbled, “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Yellow.” He kissed Mycroft’s cock through the fabric. “Oh, baby!” Then he kissed it again. And again. And again.

“The colour doesn’t drain me?”

“Oh, love, nothing’s going to drain you but me. I’m going to suck every last drop of come in you, My, then wait for your to make more, and suck you dry again.”

He rose up and cupped Mycroft’s face with two hands and covered his lips, cheeks, and chin with sloppy, wet kisses. “Cloak and dagger and pencil-pushing are going to have to wait.” Lestrade shoved his hands back down Mycroft’s trousers and squeezed his arse hard. ”All right, if I suck you, then suck you again, sweetness?”

“Sounds like a capital plan,” said Mycroft hoarsely. “I believe that I am,” he rolled his eyes in mock schedule-checking, “free for the rest of the day.”

“Perfect.” Lestrade looked down. “My baby’s sweet little lemon yellow knickers,” he cooed. Then he looked back at Mycroft’s flush face and kissed his cheek. “Okay if I make a fuss over you?” he whispered.

“It’s much, much more than okay,” breathed Mycroft. He made to take off his suit jacket, but Lestrade stopped him.

“First, I want to suck you just as you are. My big, bad man in his sweet little knickers.” Lestrade released Mycroft’s arse and dropped low on the bed. He inched forward until he could nuzzle Mycroft’s crotch like a dog. “Mmm. Pull those pretty knickers down so I can have a taste, hmm?”

Mycroft pushed the damp silk down, and Lestrade swallowed his cock.

“Gregory!”

Mycroft swayed on his feet.

“Mmm-hmm.” Lestrade sucked hard, taking more and more of Mycroft’s prick in his mouth, until he had as much as their positions and Mycroft’s clothing would allow. Pink lace rubbed against his chin, and he groaned.

So did Mycroft. He rested his two hands on the back of Lestrade’s head and spread his feet wider. “I missed you so much, Gregory.” His hips pushed into Lestrade’s mouth, and Lestrade moaned.

Lestrade pulled off Mycroft’s cock and licked the line where yellow silk met pubic-hair covered skin on either side of his shaft. “Missed you, too. Oh, so much, my baby. Christ, this cock was made for sucking.”

Lestrade licked up Mycroft’s prick and began suckling the head, teasing the slit gently with the tip of his tongue.

“Gregory!”

Mycroft patted the back of Lestrade’s head clumsily.

Lestrade drank him down as he came.

Mycroft brushed a hand across Lestrade’s cheek.

“I love you, too, Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s bottom lip quivered.

Lestrade crawled back onto the bed, behind Mycroft, and eased his suit jacket off his shoulders. “Let’s get you undressed.” He pressed his lips to Mycroft’s temple. Then he kissed Mycroft’s neck and nibbled at his earlobe.

“Then I’ve got some fucking to do, don’t I? Fuck my baby’s sweet hole.”

Mycroft inhaled sharply.

“Yeah, it’s going to be good.” Lestrade kissed the other side of Mycroft’s neck and began unbuttoning his shirt cuffs. “Sink this big cock into my baby’s tight hole. Oh, Christ.”

When Mycroft’s shirt was off, Lestrade gazed as his bare back and sighed. “So beautiful.”

He kissed along one of Mycroft’s shoulders to the nape of his neck and then back down the other shoulder, murmuring, “My baby, my sweetheart, my pretty little thing with pretty tight knickers and a pretty tight hole! Christ, what a lucky boy, am I!”

Mycroft leaned into every touch, every word, and purred.

Then Lestrade rested his chin on the ridge of Mycroft’ shoulder. “Oh, look! Pretty pink buds to match the lace. And you know what I love? Matchy-matchy, matchy-matchy!” he sang.

He licked his thumb and reached around to tease one of Mycroft’s nipples.

Mycroft turned his head, and Lestrade kissed him, sucking his bottom lip between lips and teeth. He felt Mycroft’s nipple pebble beneath his touch. “There’s two buds, sweetness. I want to taste the other one.” He imitated the motion with his mouth along Mycroft’s jawline and on the tip of his nose.

“Yes, please.”

Lestrade sank back to the floor and removed Mycroft’s shoes, socks, and trousers.

“As much as I adore these knickers, love, they’re a mess, love, let’s take them off. We’ll leave this on, of course.” He plucked one of the pink ribbon drops of the suspender belt, and it snapped against Mycroft’s thigh.

Lestrade peeled the knickers off Mycroft’s legs. “I’m sorry I’ve been such an arse, Mycroft. You know you can always…” He stuffed the silk in his mouth and looked up, grinning.

Mycroft snatched the wad out of Lestrade’s mouth and threw it across the room. “Why would I ever want to silence you, Gregory? And I’m sorry, too. There were a thousand better ways to handle the situation than the one I chose. For someone who purports to wield diplomacy, I certainly failed with the one party that matters most. Ego, pride, arrogance…”

Lestrade leaned up and kissed Mycroft’s lips. “It’s okay, Mycroft.” Then his voice fell. “I still want to suck that pretty pink bud and fuck that gorgeous arse.”

Mycroft smiled. He slid a hand back and forth along the suspender belt and grinned. “I believe the phrase is ‘Come and get it.’”

Lestrade laughed and launched himself at Mycroft, pushing him onto his back on the bed. He gave Mycroft’s areole one swipe of his tongue, then covered it completely with his mouth, sucking hard, while his hands returned to Mycroft’s arse.

“Gregory.” Mycroft caressed Lestrade’s back, shoulders, and arms.

“You need me, baby?”

“So much.”

“What do you need? Tell me.” He kissed down Mycroft’s stomach to the yellow silk of the belt and rubbed his cheek against it.

“I need you,” insisted Mycroft.

“Where, precious?” Lestrade bit the elastic edge of the belt and tugged, then let it go with a snap. “I could fuck that gorgeous mouth of yours. Or those sexy thighs.”

Mycroft huffed and said in a higher pitch, “I need you, right here!” He rolled away and sat up, facing the wall. Then he leaned forward and spread his buttocks.

Lestrade leapt towards the bedside table and returned with lubricant.

“I have to stretch you first, sweetness, he said, coating a finger with slick.

“Hurry up!”

SMACK!

A flat hand slapped Mycroft’s buttock hard. He turned, wide-eyed.

Lestrade leaned back and quickly poured some lubricant into his palm. He began stroking his cock with a very light hand. “I love you, baby, love you with everything I am, but I can take care of myself and make you watch if you don’t mind your manners.”

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft cried. He shifted and crawled toward Lestrade. “I’ll be good. Please. I can do it myself.” He reached for the bottle of lubricant.

“No. Turn around.”

In an instant, Mycroft’s face was in the bedding, his arse in the air.

Lestrade prepped him slowly and gently, and Mycroft kept his impatience to the occasional whimper and wriggle.

Finally, Lestrade positioned the head of his cock at Mycroft’s rim. “Don’t worry, baby, next time, I’m going to eat your sweet arse out first.” He pushed into Mycroft. “Put my tongue inside you and make you feel so very good.”

Mycroft groaned and spread his knees wider.

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Lestrade, massaging Mycroft’s lower back and rolling his own hips forward, “take it, precious, take that big, fat cock. There it is, there, there. I’m not going to last long, sweetheart, oh, God. Not long at all. Not in a tight hole like that. My lemonade baby, such a sweet, sweet fuck. My, My!”

Lestrade slammed into Mycroft as he came. He took a few deep breaths, fully sheathed, then pulled out slowly.

“Gregory.”

“Hmm?” Lestrade stared at Mycroft’s arse, framed by the yellow and pink of the suspender belt. He teased the rim with one finger as the come dribbled out. “I can’t wait ‘til next time,” he said, then pressed his face to Mycroft’s cleft and licked.

“Gregory!”

Lestrade sucked and licked and probed Mycroft’s hole, swallowing everything as it leaked. Then he sank his teeth into the fleshy centre of Mycroft’s buttock.

“Gregory!”

Lestrade snickered and did it again.

When Mycroft rolled onto his back, Lestrade settled between his legs and nibbled playfully at his inner thigh. “I’ll stay here until you’ll ready to go again, love.” He licked one of Mycroft’s balls and then took the other in his mouth and suckled gently.

“Gregory…”

“I want you to fuck me, Mycroft.”

“Gregory?!”

“I know I don’t usually go in for it, but I really want your cock in me.” He reached out and caught Mycroft’s hand in his and squeezed. “Just roll me on my side and, God, make me yours, love. I want the burn. I want to howl from it.”

“Goodness!”

“Too much?”

Mycroft inhaled loudly, then said in a shaky voice, “No, absolutely not. Just a bit…”

“It’s this, this fucking thing.” Lestrade licked one of the pink ribbon drops that linked belt to stocking. “I want to, want to…it drives me absolutely crazy…I need more of you, please…I know I’m an old man, but I feel like a fucking teenager when I see you….the yellow and the pink…”

“I had no idea that my, uh, selection would be quite so favourably received.”

“You’re a fucking genius, Mycroft.”

“Apparently.”

“And so incredibly fuckable. I want to make a mess of this whole bed. This whole house. What do you say?”

“Oh, God, yes!” Mycroft cried, then added hastily, “And then I’d like to ensure that the firm that fashions these inspiring garments is financially solvent for the rest of our natural lives.”

Lestrade laughed and kissed Mycroft’s thigh.

“I love you, Mycroft.”

As John climbed each step, more and more of Sherlock came into view.

Head, shoulders, waist.

He was in his most dashing suit, the dark one that fit him like a glove, and a crisp white shirt…

John looked at his watch. “Am I late? I thought the concert was at seven and dinner after…” He stopped when his gaze reached Sherlock’s feet.

“Holy Mary!”

Sherlock was wearing emerald green, high-heeled, open-toed sandals. From two straps, the top crossed at the ankle and the lower over the ridge of his foot, hung matching green feathers. Sherlock’s toenails had been painted the same shade as the shoes.

John fell to his knees, slack-jawed. One word fell from his lips.

“Green.”

“Excellent observation, John.” Sherlock smiled and his tone lacked the vitriol usually reserved for statements of the obvious. “I’m glad that you like the colour.”

John looked up and, still reduced to single syllables, asked, “Walk?”

Sherlock nodded. John crawled across the floor until he had a direct view of the hall.

Then Sherlock strut down the hall. He pivoted at the end and made the return journey to where John was seated on the floor.

John smiled. “Again?”

Sherlock did it again and again until John finally said, “They are the most beautiful shoes I’ve ever seen. On the most beautiful feet I’ve ever seen.” He looked back at Sherlock’s armchair. “Um, is there time to, uh, that is, could I…?”

“Pay homage?”

John blushed and nodded.

“There’s time,” said Sherlock.

Sherlock sat in his chair. John sat on the floor.

John pressed his lips to each of Sherlock’s toes. Then he removed Sherlock’s shoes and set them beside him and turned his attention back to Sherlock’s feet.

“I know you just had a pedicure…”

“It’s not the same, John. Not at all.”

John lifted Sherlock’s foot and put his big toe in his mouth and sucked. Then he hummed and pulled off and traced the toenail with the very tip of his tongue. He looked at Sherlock’s feet, then at the sandals, then up at Sherlock’s face.

“Weird, I know. I don’t just think you’re a body part, Sherlock. I love all of you, inside, outside…”

Sherlock put a finger to John’s lips. “As I’ve said before, John, it’s not weird. It’s perfect: you like to adore me, and I like to be adored—and expensively accessorised—from the ankle, and sometimes knee, down.”

John smiled. “Why green? The others are black.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Thoughts of spring?”

John chuckled. “You always surprise me. Are you sure there’s time?”

“Please, John. There’s always time.”

John worshipped Sherlock’s feet.

He kissed his ankles and insteps. He rubbed his cheek against his arches. He sucked each toe in turn, then sucked them again. He licked and licked and licked and then took the lotion that Sherlock offered and massaged Sherlock’s feet with firm, deep strokes until Sherlock growled.

“Shoes.”

“I love this part,” confessed John.

“Me, too.”

John slipped each shoe on and fastened it. He bent his head and tickled his nose with the feathers.

“Beautiful,” he said. Then he began unfastening them.

“John? We have time. I can wear them a bit longer before changing for the concert…”

John shook his head. “It’s always been enough before, just this, but tonight I want to…” He looked up at Sherlock. “…I want to fuck you in them. And only them. Now. Right now. If you’re amenable.”

Sherlock stared, then blinked, then nodded.

John slipped the sandals off Sherlock’s feet and held them in one hand by the straps. Then he stood and extended his other hand to Sherlock.

As Sherlock took the offered hand, John swept Sherlock up in his arms and carried him, and the shoes, down the hall.

“My princess,” he said as he kicked the door shut.

“My princess,” moaned John. He was cock-deep in Sherlock’s arse.

Sherlock was flat on his back on the bed, naked save for the shoes, bent almost in half with his legs hooked over John’s shoulders.

The pointy heels of the sandals dug into John’s back as he thrust. Sherlock raised his feet, but John protested.

“Don’t. I want to wake up with bruises on my back tomorrow. Mark me with those gorgeous slippers; mark me so that I feel it for a week.”

“John?!”

“Please, love.” John stilled and leaned forward to take Sherlock’s mouth in a long, soft, tender kiss, entirely at odds with their rough coupling. “It’s not something I’d normally ask for, but those shoes…” John laughed. “You are a fucking genius.”

“Apparently.”

John resumed his thrusting. Deeper. Faster. With more urgency.

Their eyes locked.

“Argh!”

John cried out at the sharp pain to his lower back; his hips bucked against Sherlock, and he came.

At once, he pulled out of Sherlock and lowered Sherlock’s legs to the bed. Then he reached for the lube.

Very soon he was taking Sherlock’s prick in hand and pumping it through a tight, slick fist.

“I want you to feel as good as I do, love. Come for me, princess.”

“John!”

Sherlock lurched off the bed, decorating them both with streaks of come.

John bent and stuck out his tongue, dragging it through the mess across Sherlock’s stomach. “Gorgeous,” he said when he caught Sherlock’s lust-blown gaze.

Sherlock reached for him.

John leaned up and peppered Sherlock’s face with kisses. “Beautiful,” he whispered, over and over.

Then he stopped and frowned. “Sherlock, tell me the truth: are we late? Or have our plans changed?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Concert’s at eight. You know how partial I am to Norman-Neruda’s splendid attack and bowing.”

John grinned. “Sneaky.” His eyes travelled down the length Sherlock’s body. “Sherlock, I want you to wear them tonight. All night.”

When John’s eyes returned to Sherlock’s face, he saw wide eyes and trembling lips. He continued in a low voice. “I know I said I wanted it to stay behind closed doors, Sherlock, but I don’t want that anymore. You’re so beautiful, and I don’t care what anyone says or thinks of us. I’m a lucky man to have someone like you by my side. And those shoes are as striking and singular as you are. And that’s nothing to be ashamed of. So, wear them, if you want to.”

“Of course, I want to,” said Sherlock, softly. He swallowed and shook his head. “I just never thought…. Well, today is a day for surprises, isn’t it?”

“The only problem is that I’m going to want to fuck you at intermission, and at the restaurant, and in the cab home.”

“I suffer through, somehow,” said Sherlock, his lips twitching in a smile.

Mycroft read the screen for the third time.

Thank you. SH

Then he swore under his breath.

“Bloody hell.”

Lestrade grunted. “God, not again!”

“No, go back to sleep, Gregory. I just, uh, stubbed my toe.”

Lestrade giggled and rolled over. “Holmeses! They’re just like the rest of us!”

Mycroft tapped his phone and set it back by the table.

You’re welcome. Thank you as well. Have a wonderful evening. MH