Chapter Text
“I know what you did.”
“What’re you talking about?”
Lestrade was tired. It had been a long day, tying up the ends of a long case. He had just finished debriefing the newest pain in his arse: a young, and now-former (he hoped), cocaine addict by the name of Sherlock, who had come to the station only after Lestrade threatened a drugs bust at his new flat.
“Your past,” Sherlock’s smile would be frightening, if Lestrade was the kind to spook easily. He wasn’t, though.
“What about it?” Lestrade sighed wearily, feigning less concern than he felt, although a small frisson of fear bothered him. What had the boy wonder dug up? Surely he couldn’t observe anything. His past was years behind him now, and as cleaned up as he could make it.
“In my experience, most officers of the law,” Sherlock’s tone was cutting. He never could manage to find respect for ‘most’ people. No matter how hard they were trying, they were still slow, blind, and most importantly, boring, “don’t reach the post of DI with several pornography films in their past.”
Lestrade tensed at this, couldn’t help himself. Stopped himself from checking the door was shut. What if they were overheard? He was suddenly glad that Sherlock had taken forever to arrive, coming in as most of the day shift was leaving. Forcing himself to relax, he shot back, “So? It’s all said and done. How do you know my bosses aren’t aware?”
Sherlock huffed, some of the predatory languor leaving his sprawled body. “Oh please, no board in their right minds would promote a sergeant to a position with so much media exposure if they knew he had ticking time bombs in his history,” He shifted closer, closing in for the kill, “and you wouldn’t be looking at the door with such apprehension if your team knew. Waiting for Sally to come in with one last report, are we?”
Lestrade kept his eyes locked with Sherlock’s, “They wouldn’t believe you. They don’t even like you. And you’re not very trustworthy either, are you? An ex-junkie who dropped out of uni.”
Sherlock hadn’t moved, still laid out like a lion after a meal, “I have evidence. Tapes,” he smiled lazily, “Witnesses.”
Lestrade felt his shoulders start to curl in defence, “What do you want? Drugs?” His voice had become the growl of a trapped animal. Though, if that had been what Sherlock wanted, surely he would have used this earlier?
“Of course, but you’d mess it up and get caught. You’re an honest man... well, as honest as you can be. However…” The baritone voice slowed, then stopped. Sherlock was such a drama queen, even while threatening a man’s career. Lestrade wished fervently for a smoke and a large glass of whisky. Hell, make that a bottle. He entertained himself with visions of getting completely sloshed, waiting the damn theatric git out.
Sherlock broke first, unable to contain his desires. “You,” His voice wasn’t quite as smooth or deep as normal, if you were listening- and Lestrade was. Sherlock clearly wanted something badly. It made no sense, though.
“…me?”
“Yes! You, I despise repeating myself.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t! Idiot…” Sherlock rolled his eyes extravagantly before leaping out of his chair, striding around the desk that separated them, and grabbing Lestrade by the lapels. He wrenched the inspector out of his chair and pushed him against the wall. Lestrade’s involuntary “Oi!” was overridden by Sherlock’s “You. Your body. Give me access as I please, and no one will ever know your sordid past.” The tone was mocking: mocking his incomprehension, his past, or everyone else caring about it, Lestrade didn’t know which. Probably all of the above.
Lestrade swallowed, halted in the act of pushing Sherlock off. “You… want to have sex with me?” He didn’t strip the disbelief from his tone. He’d never seen Sherlock with anyone, male, female, or otherwise, and his general social… shortcomings suggested he’d never had any kind of relationship bordering on normal.
Sherlock stepped back. “Sex?” He sneered, “No. I need a live subject to experiment on from time to time. You’ll do.”
Lestrade’s eyebrows went up, “Experiments?”
A sigh, and Sherlock began pacing, gesturing as he talked, “Must you be so abominably thick? I’ve been increasing my knowledge base for future cases. Experimentation on live subjects is nearly as important as use of the deceased,” He came in close again, crowding Lestrade, “You let me do as I wish, and your little secret never comes out. Simple. Have you never been blackmailed before, Inspector?” If Sherlock’s tone was any lower, any more scathing, it would have cut flesh off of bones.
“You can’t pay anyone for this?”
Sherlock scoffed, “Why would I do that when you’re here?”
“I- fine,” It wasn’t ideal, but, compared to his first thought, he could cope. His career was his life. He’d do a lot to save it from an untimely death.
Sherlock’s mood immediately changed, “Excellent, the first thing I wish to-“
“I have conditions.”
“What? You’re being blackmailed, Lestrade, you don’t get a say in the terms.”
Now it was Lestrade’s turn to scoff. “You permanently damage me, and there’ll be no more cases, Sherlock.”
“Yes, fine, no lasting harm. Now I need your-“
“And this cannot interfere with my work in any way: no late nights, no visible marks. I can’t have my team getting suspicious.”
“Like they notice anything unless it’s spoon-fed to them,”
“Sherlock…”
“All right, if you insist,” Sherlock didn’t sound very convincing. “I have an experiment in mind right now, and you weren’t going to go home for another hour, were you, Lestrade?” That damned predatory smile was back, and Lestrade couldn’t stop a shiver this time. He’d just put himself at a self-proclaimed sociopath’s mercy. Lestrade still wasn’t sure he believed him about that, but Sherlock was obviously socially inept, and could be damned unfeeling. What had he got himself into?
“Take off your shirt.”
“What? Why?”
“No questions. They’re boring and take too long. Do as I say or I will give the Superintendent copies of your films and witness contact information.”
Lestrade’s head jerked, “Fine, bastard, I’ll do it.”
“Less narration. Shirt off. Now,” Sherlock gestured impatiently.
Lestrade began undoing the buttons on his dress shirt, his suit jacket already abandoned hours ago. He felt a damn sight more self-conscious doing this now than alone or even for a lover.
“Yes, good, completely off. Your undershirt, too,” Sherlock went to Lestrade’s chair and lowered himself into it. “Kneel.”
Lestrade’s mouth opened with another protest, and shut again at the darkening of Sherlock’s expression. He knelt, using the desk to slow his descent.
“Come here,” Sherlock’s index finger extended and curled, beckoning lazily, now that he was assured of Lestrade’s obedience.
Lestrade shuffled forward, sardonic expression firmly in place. Sherlock replied with a small smirk, spreading his legs until they hit the arm rests of Lestrade’s chair.
“Now undress me.”
“I am not having sex-“
Sherlock’s voice suddenly rang out clearly, “Oh, is that so, Inspector? Pornography is so degrading-“
“Shut up!” Lestrade said, trying to keep his voice down.
Sherlock paused, waiting, expression expectant.
Lestrade wavered, but then got up and sneered, grabbing his shirt, “No. I said nothing sexual, and I mean it, Sherlock. You can’t do something like this to me.”
“I most certainly can,” Sherlock replied, face blank, and he began ranting loudly on the evils of pornography, refusing to shut up even as Lestrade crowded him against a wall, batting down attempts to cover his mouth. Sally began knocking at the door, asking if Lestrade needed help.
“Fine!” Lestrade hissed at Sherlock, desperate, “I’ll do it, I’ll do it.” Sherlock quieted, and Lestrade, rebuttoning his shirt hastily, went to the door to reassure his Sergeant that everything was fine. His consultant was just a bit tetchier than usual.
He counted a full minute after closing the door, violently shushing Sherlock, who had sat down again in Lestrade’s chair, with a glare when he tried to speak. Sherlock stayed silent, watching intently. Then, for the second time, Lestrade removed his shirt, and went to his knees behind his desk.
He undid Sherlock’s fly, then began easing his trousers down, trying to avoid touching anywhere sensitive. Sherlock stopped him once they pooled at his ankles, and gestured to his pants, face expectant.
Lestrade grit his teeth and pulled those down as well, not looking at what he’d just exposed. God, he wasn’t ready for this, not again. He couldn’t-
Sherlock’s fingers grabbed his chin, and he startled at the unexpected touch, fighting. Sherlock held on, knees closing, holding his arms to sides, and guided his head up to meet his gaze. Sherlock’s smile was ugly now.
“You know what to do.”
“How is this an experiment?” Lestrade said, stalling, and he really did want to know. He’d never known Sherlock to lie before, except on a case.
“This is a study of how sexual assault changes the reactions of a test subject. Now, get on with it.”
“You can’t be- You’re serious? You’re raping me without a condom for an exp-”
Sherlock’s hand lashed out, his open palm catching Lestrade full in the face, snapping his head to the side violently, “I’m clean. You obviously are, too, and I will not repeat myself again. No more talking.”
Lestrade couldn’t bring a hand up to rub his stinging cheek, but ran his tongue against the inside of his mouth, nothing bleeding. He glared at Sherlock, and, not seeing a way out, leant forward and began licking the soft flesh he had just exposed. Sherlock’s cock started stiffening quickly, and Lestrade began sucking on it, as well. Once upon a time, he might have enjoyed the sensation of it growing longer as he pulled slowly off it, tonguing the head. Now, though, all he could feel was sick, ugly resentment, part of him cataloguing how to escape if Sherlock let go, while another was starting to wall itself off, rebuilding old, long unneeded defences.
He worked Sherlock’s flesh long and hard, occasionally giving his jaw a break by sliding down the shaft to mouth soft, loose balls. It seemed to take forever to make the man come, despite his best efforts, trying to end it as quickly as possible.
Sherlock’s body started to stiffen tellingly, and he gritted out “Swallow!” before coming. Lestrade obeyed his instructions, doing his best not to taste anything.
God, he was so fucked.
******
Lestrade felt less battered the next day. Looking in the bathroom mirror, his lips weren’t puffy anymore, his throat barely sore, but his eyes looked hollow. His cheek hadn’t swollen at all. Despite the shock and the sting of it, the slap hadn’t been hard. He avoided his own gaze for the rest of the morning after that first look.
God, what was he going to do? His mind had been churning on this since last night, starting after Sherlock had left him to pick himself up off the floor with a distant “Acceptable.”
He couldn’t tell anyone: out himself, his past, destroy his career. Could he? His job was his life now that his wife was gone. His team was made up of good people, but no one he could confide in. He was their leader. He wouldn’t, couldn’t destroy their trust in him. Lestrade almost choked on the thought, but it might even be worth it, if Sherlock stayed around. If, if these ‘experiments’ actually turned into experiments, not just, well, that, then it might actually help when it came time to solve cases, right? The man was undeniably a genius. An evil genius, apparently. He snickered a bit at that, trying to keep tears back. He was not going to cry over this. This was nothing compared to before, he could deal with it.
Sherlock called him in, well, texted him, two days later, a Saturday. “Come at once. SH” didn’t make him move off the sofa. But the next, “Was it your uncle or your cousin?” did. He opened the door of Sherlock’s flat with a precision borne of anger.
“Alright, I’m here, what did you want this time?” Lestrade spat.
Sherlock looked up from his position, spread out on the floor. “Good. Took you long enough. Take your shirt off.”
“I said-“
“Shut up!”
The words felt like a blow. Lestrade restrained a flinch, fixed his eyes on a corner of the room, and shucked off his shirt; just a jumper and undershirt this time. He waited. Whatever the bastard wanted, he wasn’t helping.
“Come here,”
Lestrade walked to Sherlock’s head, scowling down at him, trying to make it as obvious as possible that he didn’t want to be here.
“Obvious. Boring,” Sherlock muttered, and then curled, lightning fast, tangling his legs with Lestrade; bringing him down on his back, Sherlock on top. Lestrade started to struggle automatically, bringing his arms up and out; breaking the hold Sherlock had on his shoulders; then attempted to roll out from underneath him. Sherlock’s hands immediately found a new place to grip, his neck, refusing to be unseated.
“Stop this,” Sherlock’s voice rang out authoritatively. He was smirking slightly.
Lestrade slowly, grudgingly, stopped fighting, seeing little chance for victory. He didn’t relax, though, not with what had happened last night so fresh.
Sherlock’s mouth quirked, “Now that I’ve established my dominance…”
Lestrade huffed.
“Let’s try this again. Your uncle or your cousin?”
Lestrade’s face slammed closed, his body tensing. “What’s it to you?”
“Knowledge, of course. I know this, and I know what you’re more likely to react to. Personally, I’d guess the uncle, as the older generation would be more likely to have the connections for filming pornography, not to mention his tendencies towards younger men.”
Some shift in Lestrade’s expression must have given him away.
“No? It’s never quite perfect. Your cousin must have been an enterprising soul.”
Sherlock sat back and stood up, “Go to the table and sit down.”
Lestrade didn’t move, “What are you going to do?”
Sherlock grimaced in irritation, but answered, “I have to give you an allergen panel before I begin any chemically-based experiments. Your hospital records were remarkably unhelpful in this respect, and it would throw off my results for you to suddenly stop breathing unintentionally.”
“That better have been a joke,” Lestrade watched carefully, making sure Sherlock wasn’t going to do anything else before rising, and heading to a table piled with an alarming number of chemistry apparatus. It seemed like the first experiment was over. At least, Lestrade hoped so.