This is a smutty little oneshot PWP written as a birthday gift for my friend LadiElayne. Happy birthday, doll! Enjoy!

Lestrade jerks awake, the sudden movement nearly tipping him out of his chair as he bangs his knee hard against his desk. Flailing one arm around wildly for a moment, he regains his balance without quite dumping himself onto the floor, the legs of his chair hitting the ground with a thump. With a self-deprecating laugh he runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. Fallen asleep at his desk, again. Luckily, at this time of night there would be no one around to see him make an idiot out of himself.

Lestrade leans back in his seat, his eyes drifting across the darkened space of his office, and jumps again, his chair tipping dangerously backward once more. Seated in a chair in a darkened corner of his office is… Sherlock Holmes. Fucking of course it's Holmes. Lestrade can think of no one he would be less pleased to have witness his little wobble from a moment before.

Sherlock is sitting silently, perfectly still. His hands are pressed palm to palm in front of his face, the ankle of one long leg folded atop the knee of the other. His chin is tilted downward and his pale otherworldly eyes, almost glowing in the dim lighting, are fixed on Lestrade.

"Jesus, Sherlock, what the hell?" Lestrade demands, his voice echoing loud and harsh in the quiet of the empty office. Sherlock does not move, does not blink, just continues to regard Lestrade with that unnerving unwavering stare.

Lestrade waits, returning Sherlock's gaze and trying hard not to blush or flinch. He feels that he is doing a fairly good job of it, schooling his expression to show only annoyance and inquiry, rather than embarrassment. As the time stretches out and Sherlock still regards him unmoving, another feeling starts to rise in Lestrade, drowning out his annoyance and amplifying his embarrassment. He ruthlessly tamps down on the sensation of heat pooling in his abdomen, willing himself to keep it from his face as he looks back at Sherlock.

Finally, just as the tension in the room reaches the breaking point, Sherlock moves. Dropping his foot to the floor he leans forward and rests his elbows on top of his knees. The change in position brings his face partially into the light, the overhead illumination glaring bright on his pale skin, making him look gaunt and pale, throwing his ridiculous cheekbones into stark relief.

"I saw you today, Lestrade," Sherlock says, his voice deep and rich. Lestrade represses the shudder that runs down his spine at the sound.

"Yes, I know, Sherlock. I was there. I was the one who invited you to the crime scene, remember?"

Sherlock's intense expression does not change. "I saw you looking at me. Watching me."

"I'm not sure what you're talking about." Lestrade is lying, of course. He knows exactly what Sherlock is talking about.

"You didn't realize that I could see your reflection in the window. I saw the way your eyes moved up and down my body when you thought no one was watching. I saw where your gaze… lingered. I saw the look on your face."

Another shudder runs down Lestrade's spine, but this time it is fear and not lust that brings it on. Well, alright, both fear and lust. Lestrade draws in a breath and his eyes fall shut. He wants to deny it, to tell Sherlock that he is imagining things, but he cannot bring himself to form the words. There is no way that he can convincingly lie about this, not now, not to Sherlock bloody Holmes. He'd see through it in a second. He keeps his eyes shut for a moment while he composes himself, and then opens them again, looking back at Sherlock.

"And?" His tone is resigned. Sherlock is going to brush him off, then, or possibly rant at him. He braces for it.

Sherlock leans back again, pulling his face once more into darkness. After the brightness of the lights on his skin from before, he is almost invisible in the shadows, only his pale eyes glinting out at Lestrade. When he speaks, his voice is impossibly deeper and slower, and it rolls across Lestrade's senses like melted chocolate.

"I liked it."

Lestrade freezes, shocked. Sherlock did not just say… he didn't… there's just no way he said that. Lestrade shakes his head, as if he can dislodge the sounds from his ears, and then looks at Sherlock again. He is surprised to see Sherlock standing up, striding forward toward him.

Sherlock stalks to the desk and then around it without breaking stride. Lestrade is not expecting it, and does not have time to back away or even stand up before Sherlock is there, in his space, leaning over him where he sits in his chair. Sherlock hovers only inches above him, and Lestrade imagines that he can feel the heat from Sherlock's body pressing down onto him. Without meaning to, he catches himself leaning up, trying to chase the sensation.

"Do you want to fuck me, Detective Inspector?" Sherlock breathes out in a low rumble, and Lestrade's eyes fly open wide. He jerks his head back and starts to sputter, although he has no idea what he is trying to say, agreement or denial or something else entirely.

Sherlock moves back a bit, just enough that Lestrade can see his face. He is smirking as he watches Lestrade scramble for sense, and the sight of the familiar expression and the anger it induces are all Lestrade needs to pull himself together.

"Is this a joke? Mock the sad old DI for daring to think like that about someone like you? Is that it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's smirk does not change, and he licks his lips. His tongue is pink and moist and Lestrade cannot stop himself from watching it as it moves across those soft full lips.

"No joke, Lestrade. I liked how it felt when you watched me, the look on your face." Sherlock pauses, but Lestrade absolutely cannot reply as Sherlock's words send hot lust spiraling through him. "And I like how you're looking at me now. I like to see the naked desire for me written across your face. So I'll ask you again, Lestrade. Do you want to fuck me?"

Lestrade tries to respond, he really does, but all he can manage is a squeaking sound and a helpless shake of his head. Sherlock's smirk deepens, and he leans forward until Lestrade can feel his hot breath pulsing against his neck. When he speaks, his voice is a low purring whisper.

"Because I want you to."

The words settle across Lestrade's mind and bring with them a sudden and intense sense of calm inevitability. He goes still, feeling the calm pour through him, emptying him out. Then the lust rises again, roaring through him and filling him back up, and he lets the hot pulsing wave rush through him until he cannot hold it anymore and has to move.

Lestrade's arms snap up and he pushes Sherlock's shoulders, shoving him backward into the desk. He stands quickly and steps forward, trapping Sherlock before he has a chance to regain his balance, and pushes him again until Sherlock is sprawled on the desk, his gorgeous arse shoving back case files and paperwork as he collapses. Then Lestrade grabs hold of the lapels of his ridiculous slim-fitting jacket and jerks him forward until their lips crash together in a fierce bruising kiss.

Sherlock makes a startled grunting sound as Lestrade pulls him forward, but he opens his mouth to the kiss immediately, giving as good as he gets, tongue rubbing wetly against Lestrade's, battling for dominance. He brings his arms up and wraps them around Lestrade, squeezing him hard as he thrusts his tongue into Lestrade's mouth.

Lestrade breaks off the kiss, sucking Sherlock's luscious lower lip into his mouth and biting it as he backs away. Sherlock whimpers and squeezes him harder as Lestrade moves back, and he is shocked to see that the detectives eyes are shut tight, his lips parted, his expression one of desperate aching want.

"Yes." Lestrade is not even aware that he is going to speak until he does. Sherlock's eyes fly open at the word, and just for the skin of a second he looks confused. The understanding dawns and Sherlock's lips curl into a secret little smile even as his eyes go half-lidded and heavy. The wanton expression reaches directly into Lestrade's chest and yanks on something, something that causes his cock to throb and his pulse to quicken, and he grabs a handful of Sherlock's hair, bringing their lips together with a growl.

Again their tongues fight for dominance as they kiss, sucking and nipping, their lips moving against each other. Then Lestrade tighten his grip in Sherlock's hair to tilt his head back, and Sherlock goes docile as he melts into the kiss, allowing Lestrade to plunder his mouth, little moaning whimpers escaping from his throat.

Lestrade keeps up his assault on Sherlock's mouth, hand still gripping his hair tight. The feeling of Sherlock's mouth, open and pliant beneath his lips, is the most heady and amazing thing he has ever experienced and he loses himself in it for long minutes. But then Sherlock drops one hand to Lestrade's arse and squeezes, pulling him forward until his cock is pressed against Sherlock's trapped erection where he is sitting on the edge of the desk.

Lestrade breaks away from the kiss and gasps at the intense sensation, immediately dropping his hands and clutching at Sherlock's hips. He grinds his cock against Sherlock's again, drinking in the sight of the stunning man beneath him moaning and shuddering. Lestrade presses forward hard and holds himself there, his hard cock pushed against Sherlock's through his trousers, and stills. He leans forward and brings his lips to Sherlock's ear.

"You want me to fuck you, do you?" Sherlock hums an affirmative, his eyes still squeezed tightly shut, and rolls his hips, rubbing his cock up and down against Lestrade's. Lestrade moans.

"God yes," Sherlock rumbles. "But first, I want to taste your cock."

Lestrade does not have time to react before Sherlock is pushing him backward. He takes a step back to regain his balance and in front of him Sherlock slides bonelessly from the desk, dropping instantly to his knees. Looking up from where he sits resting back on his heels at Lestrade's feet, Sherlock licks his lips and then draws the lower one between his teeth and bites. His eyes are dark now, pupils blown wide with lust, and Lestrade thinks he has never seen such a beautiful sight.

Lestrade opens his flies and pushes his trousers and pants down until his cock springs free, hard and full, bobbing in front of Sherlock's eyes. Before he can push his trousers down further, Sherlock's hand wraps around his cock and he loses his ability to move, his hands falling limp at his sides.

Sherlock guides Lestrade's cock to his mouth and extends his tongue, raising his eyes to lock with Lestrade's as his tongue caresses the very tip of his cock. Lestrade's eyes try to close, to roll back into his head at the incredible sensation of Sherlock's tongue on his cock, but he fights the urge and keeps his gaze locked with Sherlock's. Sherlock, who leans forward until he can wrap those amazing, sensuous lips around the head of Lestrade's cock without breaking his gaze and then slides his lips forward, slowly engulfing the entire length in his hot mouth, his tongue flicking along the underside. Lestrade moans, long and low and broken, as he watches his cock disappear into Sherlock's mouth, and he sees Sherlock's lips try to curl into a smile around the hard length. Then Sherlock pulls back, just as slowly, his cheeks hollowing out as he sucks hard on Lestrade's cock.

Lestrade moans again, and he gives in to the urge to let his eyes close and his head fall back as the sensations overwhelm him. Sherlock starts to work Lestrade's cock in earnest, moving up and down, first fast, then slow, pulling off completely and dragging his tongue up and down the length, twirling it around the head, and then swallowing the whole length down hard into his throat and holding it there while he rolls his tongue. And the whole time, Sherlock is moaning and grunting, sounding for all the world as though Lestrade's cock is the single most amazing and delicious thing he had ever had in his mouth.

Finally, after an endless time, Sherlock pulls back off of Lestrade's cock, still holding it loosely in one hand. Lestrade struggles to rouse himself from the haze of pleasure filling his brain, blinking slowly as he looks down to where Sherlock is kneeling at his feet with Lestrade's cock in his hand. Sherlock is looking up at him with a lustful wanting expression, his lips swollen and red, mouth open and panting. He looks positively sinful.

"Fuck me, Lestrade."

"Oh Christ," Lestrade groans. He reaches down and gently cups Sherlock's cheek in his hand before grabbing the shoulder of his jacket and dragging him to his feet. Once Sherlock is standing, Lestrade pulls him forward and takes his mouth once more in a short hard kiss before leaning back.

Sherlock drops his hand to his trouser pocket, and a moment later pushes a foil-wrapped condom and a small packet of lube into Lestrade's hands. He makes short work of his own flies and shoves his trousers and boxers down, stepping out of them and sitting back down on Lestrade's desk. Lestrade immediately reaches out and grasps Sherlock's cock, jutting out hard at his groin, but Sherlock bats his hand away.

"No, not like that. I need you to fuck me now." Then he scoots further back on the desk, leans back on his elbows, and spreads his legs wide, bringing his heels up to rest on the edge of the desk.

Lestrade feels his breath stop at the sight, and all he can do is stare as Sherlock spreads himself wide open. He pauses and just looks, drinking in the sight of Sherlock's long lean form, his shirt and jacket still covering his upper body, lower body bare, pale and gorgeous. Sherlock watches him looking and then drops onto his back before running his hands from his neck to his groin and up again, arching into his own touch with a muted sigh.

"Oh fuck, Sherlock," Lestrade whispers when he can find his breath again.

"Mmm, yes." Sherlock smiles gently and licks his lips again.

"God, you're so fucking stunning. I can't wait to feel you, to push myself inside you and watch my cock slide into your gorgeous arse." Sherlock is making little grunting sounds as Lestrade speaks, and he lets his head roll backward on the desk, arching up again. Lestrade watches in fascination as Sherlock's cock jumps at his words, a glistening bead of precome leaking from the tip and running down the head.

"God, yes, now. Please, Lestrade, fuck me."

Lestrade tears open the foil packet and slides the condom onto his own leaking erection. He snaps the pouch of lube open and drizzles a good amount onto his hand, taking a moment to slick himself up before adding more lube to his fingers and dropping them down to the cleft of Sherlock's arse. He probes briefly until he finds his prize, Sherlock's tight puckered hole, and does not pause before pushing the tip of his middle finger into the snug passage. Below him, Sherlock moans and spreads his knees wider.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Lestrade pushes his finger deeper into Sherlock's arse, relishing the slide, the tightness, the convulsive fluttering clench of Sherlock's muscles around the gentle intrusion. He keeps pushing until his entire finger is seated deep inside Sherlock, gripped hard in moist heat, until he can feel the tip of his finger just brushing against the small hard node of Sherlock's prostate. Sherlock lets out a high-pitched whine at the sensation, too light to be anything more than a tease, and then Lestrade starts withdrawing his finger just as slowly.

"Oh fuck yes, more, God more," Sherlock cries out, voice gasping and desperate as he writhes on Lestrade's finger, but Lestrade does not give it to him. Instead he pushes in again with the one finger, slightly faster, again stopping just as he brushes against Sherlock's prostate and pulling out. Sherlock whimpers and bucks against his hand, desperate for more penetration, but Lestrade holds himself back and continues to push his finger in and out of Sherlock at the same agonizing pace.

Sherlock is moaning continuously and writhing on the desk, his cock achingly hard and dark red, precome leaking from the tip in a steady flow of pearly drops. Lestrade watches, almost mesmerized, as the glistening liquid gathers and drips onto Sherlock's abdomen where his shirt has been rucked up by his movements. The sight makes his mouth flood with saliva.

On the next withdrawal, with no warning, Lestrade adds a second finger and pushes in fast and hard, setting a brutal pace and letting his fingers rub firmly across Sherlock's prostate with each thrust. Sherlock chokes out a loud grunt, arching up hard until only his shoulders and arse and touching the desk, shuddering continuously as Lestrade fingerfucks him.

After a surprisingly short time, Sherlock's incoherent moans resolve into words. "Wait, stop, I'm… I'm going to… no, your cock, please, I want to come on your cock," he says in his black velvet voice. Lestrade freezes, fingers still buried in Sherlock's arse, as the words send a bolt of intense pleasure rocketing through him. Then he pulls his hand back and grabs Sherlock's hips to pull him to the edge of the desk.

"Oh, wait, wait." Sherlock sits up, shaking his head just a little to clear it, and pushes Lestrade backwards. Then he hops off the desk and turns around, bending forward until his chest is pressed onto the top of the desk and his incredible arse is in the air, on display for Lestrade. "Okay, now, please now."

"Oh fuck," Lestrade says, and he cannot stop himself from bending down and biting one of Sherlock's arsecheeks, letting his teeth sink in to the tender flesh and sucking hard, bringing a dark mark to the pale expanse of skin. Sherlock mews, actually mews as Lestrade straightens up, and rolls his hips. Then Lestrade is holding Sherlock's hip with one hand and his own cock with the other, lining himself up and pushing into Sherlock's snug passage in one smooth thrust.

The sensation of sinking into Sherlock is incredible, his arse hot and tight and slick around Lestrade's cock. He looks down and watches as his length disappears into Sherlock's body and the sight alone brings him almost right to the edge. He has to look away, throwing his head back and swallowing repeatedly, to regain control of himself. Below him, Sherlock is bucking and moaning, his hands scrabbling weakly at the edges of the desk in an effort to ground himself.

Lestrade pulls back and then pushes in again, slowly, trying to give Sherlock time to adjust to the sensation of being filled. On the next thrust, though, Sherlock rocks hard back into him, taking him in fast to the hilt, and Lestrade has to grip his hips and hold him still while he works to hold himself back.

"No," he bites out, looking down at the side of Sherlock's face while squeezing his hips. "You'll take what I give you and like it." Then he pushes slowly in again, this time holding Sherlock by his hips and pinning him in place. Sherlock moans at the words, and Lestrade can feel the muscles of his passage flutter and clench down on him.

Lestrade deliberately sets a slow pace, slower than he had intended, pushing in and out in long, deliberate strokes. Sherlock wriggles and tries to thrust, to make Lestrade speed up, but he is held immobile in Lestrade's bruising grip and cannot move. The sight of Sherlock, struggling desperately for his cock, for the pleasure that only he can provide, sends pulses of arousal throbbing through Lestrade and he bites down hard on his lip as he watches.

Soon enough, Lestrade is overwhelmed by the feeling of it, fucking Sherlock, and he has to speed up. He thrusts faster, pulling back on Sherlock's hips to crash them together over and over, letting the intense sensation wash over him in wave after wave of crashing pleasure. Sherlock moans deeply, rising up on his toes and arching his back further as Lestrade pounds into him.

Sherlock's moaning resolves itself into a chant of "yes, yes, yes," and Lestrade suddenly feels Sherlock's arse clenching down around his cock. Sherlock's back arches impossibly further and he shouts out, and then he is coming, his cock and arse pulsing rhythmically, ropes of semen shooting out onto Lestrade's desk.

With a groan, Lestrade collapses forward onto Sherlock's back, still thrusting hard, and starts mouthing and sucking on the skin of Sherlock's shoulders and back. Sherlock goes boneless and pliant below him, still wracked with tremors as his orgasm subsides, and casts his head to one side to give Lestrade access to his neck. Lestrade's own orgasm rushes up on him at the sensation of Sherlock's surrender and he bites down on the juncture of Sherlock's neck and shoulder as he comes into Sherlock's body.

The two men lay still across the top of the desk for nearly a minute before Sherlock starts shifting minutely. Lestrade takes a deep breath and straightens up, moving backward to lift his weight off of Sherlock, who he imagines must be fairly uncomfortable by now. As he moves back, his cock slides out of Sherlock, who makes a little mournful noise at the sensation but does not move.

Lestrade pulls off the condom and drops it into the bin beside his desk, taking a second to cover it with crumpled papers and an empty crisp package in an effort to make it less obvious should anyone look. He looks down at himself and suddenly realizes that he is still almost fully dressed, his trousers and pants pushed down to his thighs but otherwise undisturbed, shirt still buttoned. He lets out a small chuckle at this and pulls his pants up.

At the sound of his laugh Sherlock finally moves, climbing back off the desk. He turns, keeping his back to Lestrade, and moves to his own trousers, pulling them on with quick sure movements. Lestrade watches, waiting for Sherlock to turn around so that he can share his amusement at their state of undress, but Sherlock does not turn. He finds his shoes and pulls them on, and then starts moving toward the door of the office, and suddenly Lestrade realizes that he is going to leave. His heart gives a painful clench at the thought.

"Where are you going?" he asks quickly, his voice higher and more desperate-sounding than he intended.

"Home," Sherlock responds, sounding bored, his back to Lestrade and his hand on the door handle.

"Don't go yet," Lestrade says, without realizing he is going to say it. "Are you hungry? Let's go get some dinner."

"Oh, come on, Lestrade," Sherlock says, sounding disdainful. "This isn't necessary. Now that it's out of your system, we can return to the way things were."

"Sherlock…," Lestrade starts to say, and has to stop to swallow down the lump in his throat. Time for the moment of truth, then, and he has no idea how Sherlock is going to react. Badly, probably, and his heart clenches again at the idea of Sherlock laughing at him, or worse, ignoring him. But he has to say it. If this is not the right time, then no time will ever be. "Sherlock, nothing could get you out of my system." He chuckles again, forcing himself to sound light. "And certainly not an epic shag."

Sherlock turns to face him then, finally, and although he is working to maintain an indifferent expression, Lestrade catches a glimpse of something fragile and vulnerable in his eyes that makes his heart swell in his chest. Sherlock swallows once as he looks back at Lestrade. "So, what are you saying then Lestrade?"

"I'm saying I… like you, Sherlock. I fancy you. Have for ages, honestly. Please don't go now, not after this."

Sherlock snorts at that. "You 'fancy' me? What are we, in primary school?" But Lestrade can see the humor in his eyes. He grins.

"You certainly act like it sometimes," he answers quickly, and Sherlock rolls his eyes. "So, dinner then?" he asks again, his expression turning serious once more.

Sherlock regards him silently for several long seconds, and then nods tightly. Lestrade lets out a breath and grins hugely at Sherlock, who offers a small shy smile in return. Then Lestrade strides over and catches Sherlock by the shoulders before he can move, pulling him down for a long, sweet kiss. When they break apart, Lestrade puts one hand on Sherlock's neck and holds him there, his face close to Lestrade's.

"And then maybe back to mine?" he asks, allowing his breath to puff softly across Sherlock's ear. "My bed is much more comfortable than my desk." And he drags the tip of his tongue along the shell of Sherlock's ear gently.

Sherlock lets out a quiet squeaky sound before clearing his throat and nodding. "That would be acceptable," he says, and Lestrade grins again.