A/N: Blame asteraceaeblue for this one, folks. Pure PWP, smut, dirty talk, sex, sex, and more sex. M/M/F Sherlollystrade.

It started out as an unexpected night of shared intimacy, and quickly turned into something more. Something none of them had expected. And all because of a couple bottles of wine and Sherlock Holmes being a git. Life could be funny that way.

The case had turned out to be an eight after all. And with John off with his latest girlfriend, Sherlock had roped Molly into assisting. They'd successfully captured the murderer with Lestrade's assistance (although none of the other NSY idiots had been of any use whatsoever), and had somehow ended up back at Baker Street, just the three of them and a couple of bottles of very expensive wine that had been pressed on them by the grateful victim's daughter. Sherlock had cracked one open during the cab ride home; the three of them had managed to finish it off by the time they arrived, and instead of heading back to their own flats, Molly and Lestrade accepted Sherlock's (entirely surprising and unexpected) invitation to try one of the other wines they'd been gifted with.

Mrs. Hudson was already asleep when they stumbled up the stairs to 221B, no doubt aided along by her 'herbal soothers', which was just as well since they were all three giggling like idiots the entire time. "Shhh!" Sherlock had said when they were half-way up the stairs, attempting – and failing – to pin them with his trademark imperious stare. Since he was having trouble focusing, said stare was more like random attempts at eye contact, which struck both Molly and Lestrade as terribly funny and only set them off more.

Once inside the flat Lestrade shut the door and, without even thinking about it, locked it. Molly shucked her coat and settled onto the sofa, taking the middle seat while Sherlock bustled – there was really no other word for it – into the kitchen and rooted about in the cabinets looking for wine glasses. The three he brought into the sitting room were mismatched, two of them clearly marked with the names of high-end restaurants, but more than adequate to the task of being filled (sloppily) with more wine. "Should take you in for theft," Lestrade said in fake admonishment as he raised his glass and peered at the name. "Nicked this from that swanky place near Bin Beg…Bing Ben…the great stupid bloody clock-thing!" he finished with a scowl.

"Pffft," Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of his hand as he plopped heavily onto the sofa next to Molly. He draped one arm across the back of the sofa while she giggled and tried not to slop her overfilled glass as she bounced a bit. "Never mish em, got too many and b'sides, potatoes were over-salted. Amateurs, don't know their chemishtry from their arseholes."

That struck both Molly and Lestrade as incredibly funny, even funnier than his attempts at staring them down on the staircase, and they both fell into another fit of the giggles, at the end of which Lestrade somehow found himself seated on Molly's other side. His arm, too, was stretched across the back of the sofa, his hand resting over Sherlock's although neither of them paid the contact any mind. Indeed, both men were busy ogling Molly's suddenly revealed cleavage, as she carelessly unbuttoned the top three – no, four – buttons of her frilly red blouse and fanned herself. "Whew, s'abit hot, innit?" she asked, glancing from one to the other innocently. It was obvious to Lestrade that her intent wasn't calculated or even meant as any sort of seduction, but who knew what Sherlock was thinking?

Lestrade tore his eyes away from her chest to glance at Sherlock in anticipation of hearing some cutting remark; after all, the last time Molly had been in his flat at Christmas, the consulting detective had been particularly cruel to her, had made some rather pointed comments about her tits that Lestrade thought had been entirely unnecessary. "They're not small," he blurted out. Both Molly and Sherlock stared at him in confusion; his wine-addled mind urged him to try to explain and so he bumbled on. "Your tits, Molly, not too small. No compenshashun… compestashun…they're not too small, don' ever let this idiot ever tell you that." He nodded to emphasize that he meant Sherlock, reaching up in an attempt to point accusingly at the other man…but instead, somehow his hand ended up squeezing one of Molly's not-too-small tits as if it felt the need to reassure her, to make it clear since the detective inspector's mouth was clearly failing at the job.

Sherlock's eyes had narrowed at the sight, and he turned his glare on Lestrade. "Hands off, Geoff," he snapped. "No touchy my pashologisht. Pathologist," he corrected himself with a great deal of emphasis on each syllable.

"It's Greg," Lestrade corrected him, his hand still on Molly's tit. And squeezing it a bit, come to think of it. Hmm. But she hadn't told him hands off, so Sherlock could just suck it.

His eyes widened a bit at the mental image that thought brought to mind; what the fuck was wrong with him? Before he could do or say anything else, he was distracted by the sight of Sherlock's hand on Molly's other tit, thumb brushing over the nipple. "That's what I said, Geoff."

"Sherlock, you're drunk," Molly declared as she detected a bit of a tiff brewing between the two men. The two lovely, lovely men with their lovely, lovely hands on her breasts, mmmmm…

The drunken consulting detective thrust his face closer to hers. "And you're sexy, Molly. You and Geoff…"

"Greg!"

"You an' Greg, both ver' sexy. We should be sexy together, jush the three of us. John's off getting sexy with that new girlfriend of his, why should he have all the sex?" He was pouting, his lower lip looking far too delicious to ignore, and Lestrade let out a gasp as Molly leaned forward and sucked it into her mouth.

Sherlock froze, not moving at all, and Lestrade wondered what he'd do next. He didn't have long to wait; the hand on Molly's tit convulsed a bit, squeezing and rubbing (as, Lestrade suddenly realized, his own had been doing the entire time to the other breast) and then the lip Molly was sucking on was no longer the only one in contact with her mouth. At the same time they commenced a desperate, sloppy and oh-so-sexy snogging session, Sherlock twisted his hand from beneath Lestrade's where it rested on the back of the sofa, grabbing the other man's wrist and hauling him closer.

Things were a bit of a blur after that; clothes seemed to come off without anyone consciously deciding to strip, urgent, sloppy kisses were exchanged between the three of them, and then suddenly Lestrade found himself lying on the sofa with Sherlock kneeling between his legs. Not only kneeling there, but sucking his cock with a great deal of enthusiasm. "Fuck!" the older man gasped out as soon as he felt those perfect lips connecting with his knob. He hadn't been with another man since long before he joined NSY, but felt not even a second's uneasiness at what was happening. Especially since his own mouth was busy sucking and licking Molly's sweet little pussy while she rode his face and made some absolutely smashing noises while he did so.

She was a moaner rather than a screamer, as he discovered a few minutes later when she orgasmed; he could taste the difference as she pressed her cunt down against his mouth and writhed above him, bracing herself on the arm of the sofa. He kept on lapping eagerly at her until she finally lifted herself away from his mouth, gasping and shaking, and made as if to stand up.

Oh no, none of that! Lestrade grabbed her and pulled her down on top of him, kissing her hard and making sure to use a great deal of tongue. Which, coincidentally, was what Sherlock was doing to his cock; if the clever bastard didn't stop, he was going to find himself with a mouth full of cum. But when the older man tried to warn him – breaking off his kisses with Molly reluctantly in order to have the breath to speak – Sherlock just raised his head and gave him a devastatingly sinful smile and said, "Mmm, can't wait to taste you, and of course, Molly. Although I'll most likely just taste her on your lips while I fuck her, you won't mind that, will you? Either of you? No? Good!"

Later, when his head was no longer fuzzed by wine or short-circuiting with pleasure, Lestrade would realize that Sherlock had been perfectly coherent, showing no signs of his previous drunkenness. And when he confronted the younger man about it, Sherlock merely shrugged and smiled, saying, "Isn't it obvious, Greg? You can thank John for reminding me that I'm human; his friendship opened my eyes to other possibilities, other ways of connecting with the people I care about." Then he pulled Lestrade in for a kiss, and no other questions were asked.

But that was in the future. Right now Lestrade was bucking his hips and swearing in between kisses with Molly; he was reaching down with one hand and groping for Sherlock's head, wanting to feel those sweat-dampened curls in his fingers when he came. And when he finally did, it was with a roar loud enough to wake the dead while Molly held him close and pressed soft kisses to his neck.

Less than a minute later Lestrade was watching while Sherlock seated himself on the coffee table with Molly on his lap so they both faced him. Sherlock had simply swept aside the piles of papers and newspapers, leaving it to Molly to rescue the wine glasses – thankfully all empty – and set them on the floor. She leaned over to do so, making both men groan for roughly the same reasons. Lestrade could see Sherlock's hands tightening on her hips as she wiggled them teasingly, the tip of his cock jutting up over her arse, and in spite of the ferocious orgasm he'd just experienced he felt his cock give a little jump at the sight.

He watched avidly as Sherlock urged Molly back up, lifting her so that her pussy – gleaming wetly in the subdued lighting – rested against the head of his (mmm, lovely, thick and heavy) cock. She reached down between her legs and grasped it in one hand, guiding herself onto his shaft, sinking down slowly with a blissful expression on her face, brown eyes screwed shut, mouth open, her hands reaching back to grasp tightly to Sherlock's upper arms. His hands remained on her hips, lifting and lowering her as groans and growls escaped his lips. His eyes snapped shut as soon as she was fully seated, and Lestrade couldn't stand it a second longer; he forced himself to his feet, tottering over the few steps so he could lean down and kiss Sherlock. Not just because he wanted to (which he so very desperately did!), but also so Sherlock could taste Molly – and, if he were being honest, so Lestrade could rather guiltily taste himself on the other man's lips and tongue as well.

Speaking of tongues…he broke from the kiss and looked down at Molly, who was currently licking his chest and abdomen, making her way determinedly southward, her hands now on his hips. He was many years separated from his twenties and his stamina wasn't even close to what it used to be…but somehow, tonight, in spite of his age and the wine, when Molly's mouth closed around his cock, he felt it responding gloriously, slowly hardening as she worked it with lips and tongue.

He stumbled back onto the sofa; with a smirk, Sherlock angled her so that she could easily rest her forearms on Lestrade's thighs and once again take his thickening length into her mouth. Even more astonishing to him, when Molly started moaning and Sherlock's thrusts grew hard and erratic, the three of them somehow managed to unheard of miracle of all coming at roughly the same moment. "Fuck!" he exclaimed, unable to say anything more coherent even though his mind was dancing with delight.

That night, not only was a new relationship born – one they would keep entirely to themselves until many years later, when John Watson accidentally found them out – but also a new game between the three of them, a teasing code that Sherlock (of course, the git) took the most advantage of (and had the most fun with): in future, whenever Sherlock called him 'Geoff', Lestrade knew it was code for "Meet us at Baker Street, bring wine."