Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7911754.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/Greg_Lestrade
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, Greg_Lestrade, Mycroft_Holmes, Tobias_Gregson
  Additional Tags:
      Angst, First_Time, Pre-Series, Post-Episode:_s03e03_His_Last_Vow, Teen
      Sherlock, One_Shot, Complete
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-08-30 Words: 1545
****** The Guiltiest Part ******
by violet_strange
Summary
     DS Greg Lestrade doesn't want to think about turning thirty, so he
     lets an attractive young man distract him. He should have known
     letting Sherlock Holmes into his life would not turn out well.
     Pre-series/His Last Vow
“You can’t be the pretty boy forever,” Toby says, cheerfully and deceptively
honest.
It’s your birthday—your chance at making inspector before thirty is gone
forever. Tobias Gregson still has six months before the nine rolls over into a
zero and he’s already walking as if an extra, invisible pip has been sewn to
his sleeve. But Toby is safe. He can’t or won’t use your personal life to win
against you in the job, which is why he’s buying you a birthday drink in a gay
pub.
“Isn’t gay thirty like straight forty?” Toby continues.
“What?” you shout. The pub is noisy, but not enough for you to convincingly
miss his words.
“Gay thirty is like straight fifty,” he shouts back.
You look around—they’re all so impossibly young. Shirtless men, men self-
consciously got up as dockworkers or farmers, beautiful and ridiculous and
young. One of them, professorial, out of place and out of time in a tweed
jacket and dark denim, stumbles into you. You smile at him, he doesn’t look
away.
You introduce yourself as Greg, he says he’s Sherlock, a name so improbable it
has to be real. You offer him a drink and ask him to dance, but he shakes his
head at the sorry lino patchwork, spilled drinks and ancient stains obscured by
shuffling feet.
“Bouncing slightly while holding a drink isn’t really dancing,” he says. He
starts to repeat himself, louder, then shifts, moves closer and drops his voice
to a whisper. You don’t need to catch his words when he’s close enough for you
to feel him breathe.
Toby returns with the drinks, toasts your birthday and your birthday present.
“Take your present home and unwrap him. He looks hot in that coat.”
You tell Sherlock you’re going to be thirty in two hours, he says he’s going to
be twenty. You don’t think to ask him when. Sherlock doesn’t invite questions,
not here under the smoky lights, not when you’re alone and his hand is tracing
patterns on your thigh, not when you’re eating together at the caff across the
road, his bare toes nudging your ankle.
He doesn’t ask. He takes. He pins you to the sofa, unbuttons your shirt,
concentrating, then he rocks his hips against yours to keep you interested. His
clothing came off somewhere between here and the door. The tweed jacket, such
an affectation in the city, is thrown over the back of a chair, shirt and denim
crumpled beneath.
You run your hands over his bare skin, gently, urging him to slow down, but he
wants it faster. His teeth mark your skin. He wants it harder and he’s ready to
fight. He wraps his legs around you, he wants you off balance, bent over. His
erection is rubbing against your thigh and you feel dizzy with the rightness of
desire, the need to be claimed and filled.
You tell him where he can find the condoms. He stops.
“What if the only person I’m doing it with is you?” he asks. He looks away as
he waits for your answer. You kiss him on the cheek, softly, he turns his head
and you press your mouth against his. It’s almost chaste.
He tells you he thought uni would be different, but everyone is too earnest,
too busy forming societies and eating stale biscuits while talking about
politics.
“Are the biscuits always stale?” Your head is on his shoulder. You’re working
your way towards him again.
He tells you he’s never done this before, any of this.
You take him to the bedroom because you’ve always claimed to be a romantic. If
it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right: on the bed, music, lights dimmed, but
not off. Definitely not off. You want to see each other. He works his wet
fingers inside you, impatient, eager to be fully inside.
He mumbles your name into your shoulder, says it feels good, says he wants
more. He wants more, he wants to be deeper, he wants everything.
After, he asks if it hurts. You tell him he can find out next time.
“Next time,” he says, his eyes dancing. “Such confidence.”
He waits outside your flat next Saturday, and again on Wednesday. You’re called
out on Friday, when you return, long after midnight, he’s sitting in front of
your door, head buried in an equation-covered textbook. It takes him a moment
to recognise you, to come back from wherever his mind had wandered. You give
him a key, then leave him to his book. You fall asleep to the sound of rustling
pages.
You start to forget what life was like before Sherlock.
“There’s someone to see you.” Your guv hands you a business card with only a
phone number, no name. “Looks like Special Branch. Play your cards right,
Lestrade, and you won’t be coming back here.”
The man waits for you in an unmarked black car. His intense gaze and rigid
posture are familiar, but his smile fails before it reaches his eyes. He closes
the window that separates the driver from the back. A private conversation.
“I thought it was time we met. I believe you know my brother.”
You don’t need to ask if his brother is Sherlock. You give a sanitised version
of your first meeting. You mention that Sherlock has been spending the night.
You say everything is going well, really well.
The car stops outside school gates. Sherlock ostentatiously checks his watch
before walking over and opening the door. He’s wearing a dark blue pullover and
shiny black shoes and a school tie. You can’t stop staring at the school crest
and the school tie.
Mycroft Holmes takes you to his club where the three of you eat in silence.
Sherlock refuses to meet your eyes, but he nudges at your ankle with his shiny
black shoes. You pull away.
Before they leave you at your flat, Mycroft says he knows you will be happy to
provide any assistance his office might need in the future. He says he knows he
can rely on you. Sherlock refuses to meet your eyes.
You didn’t realise you were in love until you were betrayed.
 
“Here’s to forty,” Toby says.
It’s your birthday—you’ve been on Crimewatch twice to Toby’s once, and if you
can clear your current unsolveds, they’ve been talking about sending you on a
training course, Leadership, a prerequisite for those climbing the ladder. The
ladder demands a high clearance rate and a spotless private life, which is why
Toby is buying you a birthday drink in the dullest pub in London.
“Don’t look now, but I think you know him.” Toby discreetly nods at a man
standing next to the broken fruit machine. He has a cop’s eye that can remember
a face from ten years back.
Sherlock says he is a consulting detective. He is a little taller now and the
angles in his face have sharpened.
“I’ll leave you to find out how it’s different to a regular detective,” Toby
says, putting Sherlock’s card away in his wallet. “Nice coat.”
Sherlock doesn’t invite questions. You wonder if he’s filed away what happened,
an unimportant interlude between being asked to leave boarding school and A-
levels. You want to ask him, but your questions seem unnecessary when his
visits resume.
This time he doesn’t wait outside your flat. He picks the lock, disables the
alarm, and waits inside, smug and serene. His visits are irregular, unexpected,
and even when he’s gone, fallen, you expect to find him waiting for you. Even
when he’s back, there’s a part of him that has gone.
The night after Moriarty’s face disrupts the nation’s screens, he visits.  You
think he wants to reassure you. Moriarty is not back.
“It’s a different game, Lestrade.”
“Are you high?”
“Always the policeman. No, not anymore thanks to my brother and John.” He’s
impatient, with nervy, unsettled movements.
He doesn’t ask. He slides his hands under your shirt, urges you to undress. He
wants to watch. You want to kiss him and to soothe whatever is driving him
tonight, but he’s kneeling in front of you, taking your cock in his mouth, his
clever fingers stroking and teasing, moving from your thighs to your balls,
making obscene noises as you stroke his hair. He wants to be fucked. He’s on
his back, pulling his knees up, vulnerable. You stroke his cock, savouring how
it responds to your touch. You watch his face flush with desire, he moans as
you find a rhythm, his eyes open. You come, his name on your lips, everything
else falls away. His arms hold you tightly and he’s trying to tell you
something. First he uses the word love, then he tells you a story that makes no
sense.
He mumbles into your shoulder, but you hear each word with perfect clarity,
feel every breath.
“I shot Magnussen,” he says. He confesses his sins, and what John did, and
Mycroft. His arms hold you too tightly to escape his secrets even if you tried.
“Now you know everything.” The marks left where you moved over his skin are
fading. “What are you going to do?” he asks.
He looks away as he waits for your answer.
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