Original Story Title: Whatever Gets You Through the Night
Original Story Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/322447
Original Story Pairings: Greg Lestrade/John Watson
Original Story Rating: NC-17
Original Story Warnings: Spoilers for "The Hounds of Baskerville."
Remix Story Title: Doubles
Remix Author: jain
Remix Beta: non-fandom
Remix Britpicker: non-fandom
Remix Story Pairings: Greg Lestrade/John Watson
Remix Story Rating: NC-17
Remix Story Warnings: Spoilers for "The Hounds of Baskerville."
"Unnerving, that dog," Greg said over the pint that he seemed in no hurry to finish; John had found himself matching his pace rather than Sherlock's, who'd bolted two-thirds of his before hurrying upstairs to record his case notes or text insults to Mycroft or whatever thing he had to do more urgently than finish his lager.
"Yes," John said emphatically. His body was thrumming with a familiar, tight, keyed-up feeling that would sour into anxiety in the middle of the night. It was the mine exploding even more than the dog that was causing his reaction...though the dog had been terrifying enough. He'd have nightmares, almost certainly; he only hoped that Sherlock would be sleeping too soundly to be sensible of them. Admittedly, it wasn't a hope that he placed much faith in.
"Was it truly alive that second time that you shot it, d'you think, or were we only imagining things again?" Greg asked.
John frowned. "I don't know. Frankland is the only one who could have told us, I suppose, and, well."
"Quite," Greg agreed and took another sip.
He was almost done his lager, despite his leisurely pace, and John found himself wishing that he could order another round (he couldn't; Greg almost never had more than one drink at a time, for reasons that John had never asked) or get them some food (the Cross Keys kitchen had long since closed for the night). Anything to forestall having to go upstairs to the narrow bed in the room he shared with Sherlock, to Sherlock's unnerving silence as he slept and his inconvenient perspicacity when he awoke.
Neither of those being an option, John's obvious course of action was to finish his drink, go to bed, and accept whatever restless dreams lay in wait for him.
John eyed the level of Greg's pint glass. "So, how did you end up here, really?" he asked abruptly, the words at least sounding less desperate aloud than they felt tumbling out of his mouth.
"You've known the Holmeses long enough that I wager you could answer that question yourself," Greg said, the words sharper than his tone of voice, which was comfortable and almost amused. "I got back from my holiday to find that there'd been a clerical error, and that I'd another full week of holiday coming to me that I had to take at once. Shortly after that came an email informing me that I'd won a week's room and board in picturesque Dartmoor." He shook his head. "At least Mycroft's making a greater effort to be subtle. Before, he'd just reassign my cases as he pleased."
John snorted. "And I'd thought that how he treated me was officious."
"Yes, well, I think he was a bit desperate...not that he'd admit to that, of course. There was Sherlock, poisoning himself on a regular basis, and then he stumbles onto one of my crime scenes and solves the murder in ten hours--ten sober hours--and Mycroft gets the gift of a solution to his greatest problem. Admittedly, by turning it into my problem."
"Our problem," John said, not quite over Sherlock's using him as a guinea pig earlier.
"That's your choice," Greg pointed out. "Though I can't quite imagine how you do it. He's enough of a trial on a biweekly basis. To live with him every day?" He shook his head. "I wouldn't do it for love or money."
John shrugged, a little uncomfortably. "He's not the easiest flatmate I've ever had, no, but...he's extraordinary. That's all there is to it."
Greg gave him a sharp, knowing look. "So it is for love, then."
"Not like you're thinking. Or, more precisely, like everyone seems to be thinking."
"Well, the two of you do make it easy," Greg said. "But I can't imagine your having reason to lie about it, so I'll take your word."
"Thanks," John said dryly.
"Don't mention it. So, since it's not like that, would you care to kip in my room for the night? Sherlock can't be conducive to a good night's sleep, and you look as though you could use one." The offer was casually proffered, but Greg's eyes were kinder than they should've been; he either knew or suspected John's state of mind, then.
John shook himself mentally; or he knew nothing except that both of them had had bad nights, and that they could appreciate the animal comfort of a shared bed in a way that Sherlock seemed insensible to. "It would scandalize Gary and Billy," he said lightly, and then found himself adding in a hurry, as though Greg might rescind the offer on account of a mild joke, "Yeah, that would be great. He might crash and not be out of bed until noon, but he might also be up in twenty minutes and back in a frenzy of work. Though he did leave the violin in London, which at least reduces the amount of disturbance he's liable to cause."
"Good to know, since I think your room is only two doors down from mine," Greg said. He tipped back his pint glass to finish his drink and raised an enquiring eyebrow at John, who quickly followed suit. "Shall we?" he said, and led the way to his room, each of them treading carefully to avoid waking the other guests.
The room turned out to be one of the coveted doubles--and John realized as he contemplated the large bed that he hadn't even considered the implications of what it would've been like had Greg had only a narrow, single bed. Obviously, Mycroft's influence extended so far as to materialize rooms out of thin air...or, more likely, to boot their existing occupants out of them.
Greg followed John's line of sight and said, "Not too tight a squeeze, I hope," in a carefully noncommittal tone that all but telegraphed his willingness for John to say, Sorry, but yeah, and back out.
"No, it's great," John said. "Soldier, remember? I'm used to close quarters."
"Right," Greg said. "Well, you can have first turn in the bathroom. There ought to be a spare toothbrush or two in my travel bag; never know when you'll need one."
"Thanks," John said. It didn't take him long to prepare for bed, and he stepped out of the bathroom to give Greg his turn, shed his shoes and clothing down to his pants, and slid into the turned-down bed. The blankets were chilly, but they'd soon warm up, especially once Greg joined him.
As he did a moment later, emerging from the bathroom in a pair of blue-striped pyjamas and turning off the light before getting into bed.
"I should've asked," John said into the sudden blackness. "What side of the bed do you usually take?"
"The one you're on," Greg admitted. "But it's fine. Give me ten minutes and I'll be out like a light, regardless."
His voice had a tired strain in it that made his words more than ordinarily believable, and John let himself subside back into his pillow with a murmur of acknowledgment.
There was a long moment of silence punctuated only by their breathing, and then Greg said abruptly, "This is going to sound like a cheap come-on, but...you don't have to stay all the way over on your side of the bed if you don't want to."
John couldn't deny that it was an attractive offer; he'd never had a nightmare when cuddled up against another person. Not to mention that the bed was still too cold for his liking. He shrugged inwardly and scooted closer to Greg until they were pressed against each other from shoulder to hip. "Not too cheap," John said complacently, already feeling Greg's solid warmth soothing him.
"Yeah?" Greg asked, sounding surprised. A moment later there was a rustling sound and John felt one of Greg's hands touch his shoulder hesitantly, his fingers tracing a question along John's skin.
Which wasn't how John had meant it! He'd intended to say that the invitation to get closer was a welcome one, not that he'd respond to an actual come-on favorably. But the touch felt good, and John hesitated before responding.
"I'm not gay," he said at last, not willing to give a definitive 'no.'"
Greg's fingers squeezed his shoulder briefly, then relaxed. "Not really what this is about, is it?" he said.
It seemed too simplistic an answer--and, if nothing else, living with Sherlock had taught John to distrust simplistic answers--but it was enough to persuade John that it wouldn't hurt to do what he wanted, just this once.
"Yeah, all right," he said and turned his body towards Greg's.
Greg took an audible breath, then let his hand slowly travel down John's body, mapping him in the dark.
"You'll find scars," John said quickly, before he could go more than a few centimeters.
Greg's hand didn't pause. "I know." His fingers brushed across a nipple, not yet peaked but beginning to be sensitive, and John held his breath a moment.
Greg followed the brushing touch with a quick pinch, and John gasped.
Everything felt good, but he was starting to be a bit embarrassed at his own passivity. He brought his hand across to Greg's chest to start undoing his pyjama buttons. "You don't have to," Greg said, fingers stroking down John's stomach now with obvious intent.
"No, it's good," John insisted. "Just don't expect too much. I don't exactly know what I'm doing."
Greg snorted. "And I do?"
(He did; Sherlock had revealed as much perhaps three or four weeks after John had moved in, expounding on his deductions regarding Greg's sex life with a rather disconcerting combination of detachment and obsessive detail. But it would be counterproductive, not to mention shockingly rude, to admit as much to Greg, so John said nothing and allowed the man the comforting belief that Sherlock hadn't outed him nearly two years earlier.)
And in any case, a moment later Greg's fingers began to trace the waistband of John's pants, and he had far more interesting things to think about than Sherlock's lack of propriety.
Greg cupped the growing bulge in John's pants, thumb stroking along it firmly, and John pressed upwards into the touch. Greg huffed out a breath of laughter and let his hand roam farther, dipping his fingers beneath the elastic of the legholes to brush sensitive skin and crinkled hair, running his thumb ticklishly under the waistband, rubbing John's balls through the fabric. By the time he hooked his thumbs into the waistband with the obvious intention of pulling John's pants off, John was completely hard and had leaked a wet patch onto the fabric.
He raised his hips to facilitate their removal, then bit his lip hard to keep from coming right then at the almost shocking feeling of Greg's hand wrapping around his now bare cock.
The tickle of fabric brushing against his stomach as Greg leaned closer roused John enough to realize that he'd let himself be distracted far too long. He didn't bother returning to the half-unbuttoned top, but simply slid his hand into Greg's pyjama bottoms and took hold of another man's cock for the first time outside an infirmary.
It felt surprisingly good in his hand, thick and hard yet pliable...very like his own, of course, except for the immense difference it made to squeeze and stroke it when there was no corresponding rush of pleasure to overwhelm his senses.
Though that situation turned out to be temporary, since a moment later Greg began to move his briefly stilled hand and wanked John with as much skill as John had ever experienced from someone other than himself. He thought inanely that he hoped his own efforts were half as appreciated, and then there was a sudden wet brush against the head of his cock, and before he'd even realized that of course it couldn't be Greg's tongue, from the position in which he was lying, it had to be the spit-slick fingers of his other hand, John let out a helpless noise and came all over himself.
Greg waited patiently a long moment, stroking his hands along John's hips and sides while John shivered with pleasure. Then he reached down to coax John's fingers off his cock, where they were doing precious little good despite John's best efforts, and angled himself so that he could rub against the hollow of John's hip instead.
Which itself felt good in an entirely new way, and John managed to persuade one arm to wrap loosely around Greg's back, holding him close as he thrust against John another minute or two before he shuddered through his own orgasm, collapsing beside him afterwards.
"Getting a cloth," John, now mostly recovered, whispered, and Greg grunted his acknowledgment.
John stumbled slightly as he slid out of bed--he'd crash soon, the night's excitement more than catching up to him--and he retrieved a warm, wet cloth and wiped the two of them off cursorily. Then he tossed the cloth into the sink, curled up against Greg once more, and let himself fall into a dreamless sleep.
Gary leaned in as he handed John's breakfast to him. "I won't say anything to your man about where you were last night," he said in a confidential tone. "But, if you don't mind the advice, you should perhaps confess to him. These things have a way of coming out, and it's better for him to hear it from you than to discover it some other way. I know."
This last was said with a heavy nod, and John promptly told himself to stop wondering whether it had been Billy that Gary'd cheated on, or some earlier boyfriend. "Thanks," he said. "But he already knows. I don't keep secrets from him."
It was a true enough statement, though for a different reason than Gary could imagine. Still, Gary was nice enough, and John didn't see the use in feeding his concerns by giving him the standard and apparently unbelievable denial.
"Ah," Gary said, nodding sagely. "Well, it takes all types, and if the two of you--or should I say three of you?--are happy, that's what matters most. Sorry for interfering."
Then he near to snatched the plate out of John's hands, added another couple of hash browns to it, and handed it back.
John had to stifle a laugh, wondering if the hash browns had previously been withheld as a tax for infidelity, or added now as recompense for Gary's intrusiveness. In either case, they smelled delicious, so he was happy to have them. "Thanks," he said again and paid for his breakfast, which he took outside to eat. It was a bright, lovely morning; it would be a shame not to enjoy it.
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