Original Story Title: Ours
Original Story Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/747816
Original Story Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/Gregory Lestrade/John Watson
Original Story Rating: Explicit
Original Story Warnings/Content Notes: poly
Remix Author: brighteyed_jill
Remix Story Title: Combine and Conquer (The Pivot Remix)
Remix Story Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/Greg Lestrade/John Watson, implied Lestrade/John, Sherlock/Lestrade, and Sherlock/John
Remix Story Rating: Explicit
Remix Story Warnings/Content Notes: poly
Remix Story Beta: jaune_chat
Remix Story Britpicker: persiflager
Summary: John gets more than he bargains for when he suggests a threesome as his and Lestrade’s next adventure as a couple.
“I can’t talk to you about this, Sherlock.” Lestrade hailed the barman for a refill on his lager, because he was definitely going to need to be more pissed for this conversation. “One for him, too,” he added as Sherlock sat down beside him, showing no intention of dropping the subject.
“I’m not asking you to betray John’s confidence. I’ve enough first-hand knowledge of both of your sexual practices to make complete—“
“Stop. Just stop.” Lestrade nodded as the barman set down two drafts, and pushed one towards Sherlock. “I trust you can take care of the drinks, yeah? Dead men are very frugal.”
Sherlock heaved a put-upon sigh and paid the man with meticulously counted-out coins.
“What exactly are you after, then?” Lestrade asked, after the glaring barman had retreated.
Sherlock took a sip of his lager, then stared at the liquid so long Lestrade became concerned he was making a mental list of the components by volume or some other nonsense. At last, Sherlock said, into his drink, “Is he happy?”
“Sherlock…” Lestrade lapsed into silence. He couldn’t address the question itself—not only was it not his place to discuss John’s emotional state with their mutual ex, but he wasn’t sure how to quantify the bewildered tension John had been carrying since Sherlock’s return. On the other hand, Lestrade would never have expected such a question from a self-proclaimed sociopath; the fact of his asking had spun Lestrade more than a bit. “What’s this about?”
“Normally I can work these things out on my own from the available evidence, but I’ve come to realize that our previous relationship and the… circumstances of our parting may be colouring my deductions.” Sherlock took a long pull of his drink, then lowered his voice as if imparting a terrible secret. “My conclusions might be compromised.”
Lestrade snorted into his lager. “Might be?”
“If you’re going to mock me—“
“I’m not. I can’t answer a question like the one you’re asking.” He held up a hand to forestall the argument Sherlock had already opened his mouth to deliver. “You know why. It’s an issue of trust, Sherlock. You should talk to John.”
“No.” Sherlock turned away, settled his elbows on the bar and hunched over his drink.
“The possible results of such a conversation include several unacceptable outcomes.”
Lestrade sipped his drink thoughtfully as he watched Sherlock fidget with a Fullers coaster. “You’re afraid,” he concluded.
“I’m being practical,” Sherlock snapped. “I deal in facts, Lestrade, not petty emotions.”
Unfazed by Sherlock’s hostility—he’d been on the receiving end of much worse—he leaned back on his stool and squinted at Sherlock. “And what facts are you working with here?”
“Fact: In our prior relationship, John enjoyed the opportunity to exercise his interest in sexual submission. I was useful to him as a compatible dominant. Fact: In my absence, John has established a relationship with you. In addition to your inclination to sexual dominance, you possess extensive experience navigating traditional, monogamous relationships, making you a highly suitable partner for John. Conclusion: John is satisfied in his current relationship, and has no need of me.”
“Sounds like a lot of guesswork to me.” Lestrade sipped his lager.
“I never guess.”
Lestrade decided to let that claim slide in the face of this larger issue. “You think John was using you for your skills as a dom, and now that he has someone else in that role, he’s done with you.”
“Obvious,” Sherlock muttered to the sticky bar.
“If you think for one second that I am any kind of a replacement for you, you’re no detective.” Lestrade drained the rest of his lager and headed for the door.
“Hello?” John’s voice crackled over the line, breaking the too-long silence. “Sherlock?”
“Yes, I heard you.” Sherlock gripped his mobile, hard. “Couldn’t you have texted?”
“N-No. No, Sherlock, this is not the sort of thing one texts.” John waited another moment, then heaved a barely-audible sigh. “What do you think, then?”
“Need more information.” Sherlock vaulted out of his chair, snatched a pad and pencil from his cluttered table, and swirled towards the windowsill. Watching the street helped him think.
“Right… Like a diagram?”
“Don’t be obtuse. A threesome is hardly a complicated concept.” He turned to wave off the middle-aged client sitting in the far chair, whose eyes had narrowed alarmingly. “You said this undertaking is one of a series of sexual adventures you and Lestrade have been exploring.”
“When you put it like that, it makes us sound more exciting than we are.”
“One moment.” Sherlock lowered his mobile. The client had stood, and was hastily gathering his things. “Send me a copy of each post as it is made to her Facebook wall. Do whatever you must to make sure she doesn’t delete them before you can get access.” The man gave him a tentative nod as he hurried for the door. “Copy the emoticons precisely: no shorthand! I’ll expect an e-mail by morning.” Sherlock turned back to the street and heard the satisfying thunk of the door closing, followed by footsteps beating a hurried retreat down the stairs.
“Busy?” John asked.
“Not at all.” Sherlock noted the client bustling out the door even as he mentally sorted through the logistics of John’s request. “You claimed neither of you had participated in an encounter of this configuration before. Have you not told Lestrade about your drunken night at Woking?”
“How the hell do you—None of us even remember—Oh damn Stamford.”
“So Lestrade doesn’t know?” Sherlock pressed.
“It doesn’t count! Though if it makes you feel better, I’ll disclose it.”
Sherlock ticked that box on his mental checklist, and moved on to the next. “You suggested me as a participant?”
“Well,” John’s tone changed, slowing as he seemed to be choosing his words more carefully. “We know we’re both compatible with you separately.”
“You’re an inveterate submissive who enjoys service and giving pleasure, with little fondness for pain,” Sherlock rattled off, summarizing the meticulous mental file he’d kept on John’s preferences. “And Lestrade is a dominant-leaning switch, not interested in sadism, though with a stringent insistence on aftercare.”
“Please tell me your client has already left.”
“Surely there’s another dominant in your acquaintance with whom your personal history is not so—“
“I trust you.”
Sherlock slumped against the wall and let its solid strength guide him down to sit on the floor. “Do you.”
“Yes.” John took a deep breath. “With my life, with my--. Well. I trust you.”
“I see,” Sherlock muttered. He had been told pointedly, repeatedly, and loudly (in Sally Donovan’s case) just how fair-minded and generous John had been about the whole not-being-dead situation. He hadn’t considered that John’s fairness could extend beyond the careful civility he’d displayed thus far. “Most people would call you a fool.”
“They don’t know you.” John let out a deep breath, the way he did when bracing for a fight. “Listen, I love Greg. I do. But there’s a part of me I set aside and buried after you jumped. Now that you’re back, that part of me’s come alive again. I don’t love Greg any less than I ever did. There’s just…room for something else, too.” He was silent for a long moment, but Sherlock sat, pressing his mobile to his ear, and said nothing. “So…” John said at last. “Are you in?”
“Yes,” Sherlock breathed. He cleared his throat. “Yes. But not at your flat. Come to Baker Street.”
John’s skin felt tight, overheated. Nothing should be different. He’d touched Lestrade like this loads of times—yesterday, in fact. But somehow the power of Sherlock’s attention turned up the temperature in the neat, orderly bedroom.
“He likes a little more pressure just there, John.” Sherlock dug his thumb against John’s cheek to rub against the head of Lestrade’s cock in his mouth.
“Bloody hell, Sherlock,” Lestrade hissed.
“That’s it.” Sherlock crouched behind John—he felt the mattress dip-- and leaned in to fold against John’s back. “Look up at him. Good.”
“You’re beautiful like this, John,” Lestrade said, in a voice that John swelled with pride to hear so wracked. “Mine.” His eyes slid past John—to Sherlock. “Ours.”
John moaned around his mouthful. He felt his cock twitch against his belly and reached for it.
“No.” Sherlock grabbed his wrists and pinned them together at the small of his back. “That’s ours.” He released John’s wrists with a firm squeeze—a clear message to keep them in place. Then one cool, long-fingered hand wrapped around the base of John’s erection, and the other tugged lightly at his sac. John glanced down to take in the heady sight of Sherlock’s hands restraining him and swallowed hard, making Lestrade gasp.
“This is what you like,” Sherlock purred against his temple. “Feeling a bit overwhelmed, a bit out of control. Giving yourself over to us.” Sherlock dragged his fingers up John’s length, wringing a shudder out of him. “We know what you need. Both of us.” He nudged his chin against John’s cheek so they both looked up at Lestrade’s flushed face. “We know how to take care of you.”
Lestrade reached down to cup John’s chin. His other hand tangled in Sherlock’s curls. “You’re doing so well, love.” John honestly couldn’t tell who he was addressing. “God, John, you should see his face. He loves touching you.”
“Umph—“ John slid his mouth off Lestrade and jerked back against the solid weight of Sherlock’s chest. “Wait, please. I can’t—I’m going to—“
An opaque look passed between Sherlock and Lestrade. “Do you want us to stop?” Sherlock asked.
John felt the vibrations of Sherlock’s voice rumble through him, stoking his arousal. He locked eyes with Lestrade. “God, no.”
In an instant they had him tipped onto his back. “Spread,” Lestrade ordered, with a note of policeman in his voice. John pulled his knees up immediately, and Lestrade and Sherlock each got a shoulder under one, sharing the space between his splayed legs. Lestrade, always meticulous about John’s comfort, shot John a questioning look, and got a shaky nod in return.
“Hands on the headboard,” Sherlock snapped, and John obeyed without question.
Lestrade petted a hand down the inside of John’s thigh. “Our John follows orders so well.”
Pleasure surged through John at the praise, and an additional, perverse thrill at the two of them discussing him while they held him helpless beneath them.
Sherlock smiled as if he could see the effect, somehow. “Let’s reward him, then.”
Sherlock immediately licked a firm strip up John’s cock while Lestrade squeezed lube onto his fingers. He teased one slick digit against John’s hole as Sherlock flicked his tongue, feather-light, against John’s tip.
“Please,” John gasped. He couldn’t think, could barely breathe with the two of them working in unholy harmony to take him apart. He hadn’t thought it would be like this, that the three of them would fit so well together. “I need…”
“What’s that, John? I couldn’t quite hear you.” Lestrade punctuated his question with a firm press of his finger, but stopped just short of breaching John’s body.
“Gnngh. Both. I need both of you. Please, please.”
Their eyes flicked to each other, and there seemed to be some telepathic communication at work, facilitated by raising of eyebrows and quirking of lips.
John thrust his hips up in frustration, but two pairs of strong hands held him down. “Please? Can I have both of you? You’re the most—“ He bit back words best saved for after the heat of passion. He had to make them understand, and that conversation shouldn’t be rushed. “I need the two of you. Please. Now, before I fucking combust.”
The telepathic diplomacy seemed to have concluded, because the two men turned to him as one, then bent with single-minded intensity to their task. Sherlock swallowed John to the root, while Lestrade’s thick finger glided inside him, heading unerring for the spot that made John buck in their grip.
“See, that’s got him going, now. You’re a bloody wonder.” Lestrade lowered his head to plant a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek before jockeying for position, tongue smooth and hot against John’s sac.
John saw Sherlock hesitate, just for the smallest fraction of a second. Then Sherlock drew off long enough to steal a kiss back from Lestrade. “It’s a team effort,” he said in a voice that seemed even lower than his usual baritone.
Sherlock returned to his infernal teasing while he slicked up a finger with lube recovered from the far side of the duvet. He tongued John’s slit while dragging his finger around the edge of John’s hole, where Lestrade’s finger was buried to the second knuckle. Always pushing ahead, always testing his limits, reading what John needed before John knew it himself, that was Sherlock.
“John?” Lestrade prompted, voice somewhat muffled between John’s legs. And that was Lestrade, steady competence, attention to caretaking in all its forms, even here, even as heated and bright as the moment had become.
“Please,” John gasped. He could barely remember to breathe, as Sherlock and Lestrade sent pleasurable sensations sparking along his veins, more numerous than stars in the desert’s night sky.
John whimpered a bit as Sherlock wriggled his long finger inside, snug up against Lestrade’s. The two used their mouths and fingers in tandem, licking and stroking while John gasped out half-coherent pleas, followed by a desperate warning. “Watch out. I’m going—I can’t—“
Sherlock wrapped his lips around John and sucked hard, while Lestrade crooked his finger in just the right place. John’s release tore through him; a helpless shout echoed against the walls, and his head slammed back against the bed as heat spilled out of him, leaving him panting and boneless.
John managed to raise his head enough to see Sherlock claim Lestrade in a possessive kiss, leaving a white trace of John’s release on his lips.
“Bloody…” John gasped. “Bloody…” That was as far as he got, because his higher brain functions had wandered off somewhere, forced out by pure sensation.
Lestrade gently eased John’s legs back down onto the sheets, then crawled up the bed to rut against John’s naked hip and mouth a line up his chest. “You,” he said between kisses dropped against John’s sweat-slick skin, “Are. Amazing.”
“Fantastic beyond all probability,” Sherlock confirmed as he mirrored Lestrade’s position on the other side.
John was no detective, but he could tell from long experience—the high flush in Lestrade’s cheeks, the glassy look in Sherlock’s eyes—that they were close.
“Let me. I want to.” John marshalled his wrung-out body enough to take one of them in each hand.
Sherlock’s cultured voice caught on a strangled gasp. His hand shot out to grip Lestrade’s arm, tight.
“I believe,” Lestrade said breathily, “that Sherlock told you to keep your hands on the headboard.”
“Do you want me to stop?” John asked with a smile.
“No,” they said at once. Lestrade’s chest heaved against John’s shoulder as he gulped in breath. Sherlock’s eyes were half-closed, and he looked for all the world like a contented cat. John’s eyes darted between them, trying to take in every detail.
Lestrade tilted his head up for a kiss, which John gave gladly, thrusting his tongue into Lestrade’s mouth even as his hand worked his hard cock. A soft noise from Sherlock made John turn, only to see him wide eyes, pupils blown, stray curls stuck damply to his face, looking absolutely wrecked. He had to kiss him, too, then. With both men writhing in his grasp, John felt a satisfaction that reached beyond where even that powerful climax had brought him.
“Do you know why this works so well?” John asked, though no one was in a condition to answer him. “You love giving me what I need.” He twisted a hand around Lestrade’s cock while pressing his thumb against the underside of Sherlock’s. “And I love taking it.”
“Fuck!” Lestrade shouted. He curled a hand around John’s neck and held on for dear life while he shot his release against John’s belly. Sherlock pressed his forehead against John’s and rode his hand for two more strokes before he jerked as if electrocuted, spilling over himself and John.
The three of them lay entwined, harsh breathing the only sound in the heated air of the room.
John let his head drop onto the cool sheets and concentrated on getting oxygen back into his blood.
He would have preferred not to move for a week at minimum. However, after five minutes he realized the silence had grown incredibly loud. He cracked one eye open to see Lestrade and Sherlock staring at each other, having another of their silent conversations.
Sherlock noticed John’s glance immediately. He untangled himself from the melee and sat back on his heels. Instead of looking at John, he seemed to be addressing the bedpost. “Well. I suppose I should thank you both for including me in this—“
“No,” John interrupted. He wiped his hands on the sheets—laundry be damned—and pushed up to lean against the headboard. “Nope.”
Sherlock frowned at Lestrade, then at John. “Excuse me?”
“You,” he pointed a mostly-clean finger at Sherlock, “are not going to pretend this meant nothing. Not after everything we have between us. The three of us. And you.” He grabbed Lestrade’s hand. “Say something. Was this just casual fun? Did it feel that way to you?” Lestrade’s eyes darted to Sherlock, but John squeezed his hand, hard. “No, don’t look at him. Don’t think about what I want your answer to be, either. I want to know what you think, Greg.”
“No,” Lestrade said slowly. “Definitely not casual.”
“Good. Good.” John brushed his hands down his chest, but only succeeded in smearing the mess they’d all made. “Then I propose we hold off on further conversation until we’re all less sticky and exhausted.”
“Oh, thank Christ.” Lestrade threw himself back down on the bed. With a smile, John shimmied down the headboard until he could tuck one arm around Lestrade. He glanced back at Sherlock, who still knelt at the edge of the mattress.
John held out his hand. “Come on, then. You can’t escape—we’ve already taken over your bed.”
“I suppose I must admit defeat, then.” Sherlock took John’s hand and allowed himself to be drawn down into the arrangement, leaving John bracketed on either side by the men he needed, and who needed him.
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