Written as a gift for taylorpotato, one of my favourite Sherlock authors! If you've not read her amazing smut, you're missing out.

Warnings: if you're familiar with Taylor, then you know she writes some damn kinky shit, and so this fic was written with her taste in mind. This features public sex, some hints of DS, masochism and negotiated non-consent (all perfectly consensual), authority kink, voice kink, and some quite serious dirty talk. You've been warned.

…

John eyed the dregs of his sixth beer with mild trepidation before shrugging and tossing it back. It was just a bit too warm to be enjoyable and left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, like rusted metal. He threw the bottle carelessly into the bin, already reaching for another one. It was some cheap, Bulgarian piss—the price could have told him that: twelve bottles for a fiver, blimey—but it did the trick.

He was just getting to the point where his motor coordination wasn't quite keeping up with his brain, and he was starting to enjoy the bass-heavy music pounding mutedly in the next room. That meant he was maybe four more beers away from the level of utterly pissed he'd like to achieve that evening. The tiny flat was cramped with people he only vaguely knew, and he could have just as easily got pissed in the comfort of his own tiny flat, but Mike had insisted he get out and socialise—best mate code for, "I've not been laid in ages, and I need you to be my wingman." John had only somewhat reluctantly obliged. It had been ages for him, too, after all. And so, he was now stood in the wardrobe-sized kitchen, eyeing his remaining six beers with determined resignation. Maybe if he drank them quickly enough, he'd stop caring about the taste.

"Oi," said a female voice at his ear, "bad week, was it?"

John turned immediately about but took a long pull at his new beer before answering. Alcohol was top priority at the moment. Molly Hooper, his brain helpfully managed to supply even as it slogged through all the beer: a pretty second year with whom he had no lectures in common—what with him being a fourth year currently immersed in his research thesis—but whom he'd once quite unsuccessfully tried to chat up at the pub across from college green. He'd been a bit off his game and more than a bit drunk, and she never missed an opportunity to tease him about it.

John pointed to the glass in her hand—an actual glass made of cut crystal, with a good measure of dark liquid in it—and replied, "It seems I'm not the only one. Broke into the liquor cabinet, did you? Does the poor sod who lives here know about it?"

"As it just so happens," Molly answered with feigned haughtiness, "I was invited to sample this lovely 12 year here. You'd be shocked to learn how quickly the lads are willing to break out the good crystal when a lady asks politely."

"You offered to help them with Professor Black's killer term paper, didn't you?"

"Naturally."

John grinned. He did well enough in his lessons, but Molly routinely got the highest marks. She was quickly becoming a living legend at King's College London. It was well worth a bottle of aged whiskey to secure her assistance. "How's lecture going?"

Molly pointedly took a sip of her drink before answering. "Well enough, but you'll never hear me complain when the weekend finally comes. What about you? I hear half the fourth years are alcoholics and the other half want to off themselves."

"I like to think I strike a delicate balance between the two. It's not so bad when we get to do the hands-on bits, but some of the texts are so boring I've literally fallen asleep on them. There are decade's worth of students' drool marks in the margins. You'll see for yourself in a couple of years, though. Still planning on keeping with medicine?"

"Oh, definitely. I can't wait to get my hands on all those lovely cadavers you lot get to play with." There was a crash in the next room, but Molly ignored it with the blasé indifference of a seasoned uni student. "How's the love life? I hope you've got better at chatting up women since your rather feeble attempt with me."

"To be perfectly fair," John protested, "I was so locked that night, you could have easily been a man, and I don't think it would've much mattered."

Molly pulled a face. "Charming. That's just what every woman longs to hear. I'll take that as all the confirmation I need: you're still atrocious with the opposite sex."

John chuckled. "I think you can safely assume I'm the only idiot out there who ever overlooked what a beautiful, intelligent, independent woman you are."

Molly sniffed. "Better, but we'll work on you."

There was another crash, and this time John caught the sound of panicked voices whispering to each other. Curious, he set his beer down on the counter and made his excuses to Molly. He passed through the doorway and entered a cramped sitting room full of squishy, threadbare sofas that looked like they'd been picked up off the side of the road—and likely had. Normally the sofas would've had the bodies of drunk uni students draped languidly over them as they discussed term papers, projects and all the other sundry commonalities of higher education, but at the moment everyone had formed a circle about something John couldn't see.

John's heart began to pound. He knew what a crowd like that meant: either someone was fighting or someone was getting sick. He scanned nearby faces for Mike but didn't see him anywhere. His pulse doubled.

"Pardon," he shouted as he shoved himself into the throng, pushing people out of the way. "I have medical training. Let me through." When he managed to wriggle past the circle of onlookers, he found the worst-case scenario waiting for him.

Mike Stamford was lying on his side in the centre of the crowd, a puddle of vomit by his head. He was out cold, which John normally would have taken as a sign that he needed to sleep it off, but the skin around his mouth had an eerie blue tinge, and his chest rose and fell irregularly. Shit. John would have recognised those symptoms even if he weren't studying medicine. A few people were kneeling concernedly next to Mike, but no one seemed to know what to do.

Someone grunted behind him, and Molly suddenly appeared, having apparently jostled her way rather unceremoniously through the onlookers. "Is he all right?"

"It's alcohol poisoning," John answered, fighting back a wave of panic. "We need to get him to hospital now. He could die."

Molly's phone was in her hand the next second, fingers poised to dial 999, but John stopped her. "We're twenty-five minutes from the nearest hospital. If we wait for an ambulance to get here and then drive all the way back, it could be too late."

"So, what should we do?"

"Did anyone drive here?"

Molly nodded. "I did. You can borrow my car."

John shook his head. "I've been drinking."

Molly raised her glass. "So have I, and hard liquor at that. I'd say you've got a better shot than I do. I was paying attention. You stopped drinking when I walked up to you, and that piss beer of yours can't be more than 4 per cent ABV."

John wanted to argue with her, but just then a shudder slithered through Mike's prone form. "Christ, he might have a seizure. All right, we've no choice. Give me your keys."

Molly pulled them out of the pocket of her purple jeans. "It's the white Prius parked on the opposite kerb. Be careful, and for the love of God, get him there quick as you can."

John impulsively kissed her on the cheek. "You are literally a lifesaver." John tucked her keys into his back pocket and then signalled to two students hovering nearby. "Oi, help me get him outside. He needs to go to hospital." Even without his commanding tone, the word "hospital" at a party was enough to drive them into action.

With their help—thank God Mike's love-hate relationship with the gym was currently in a love phase—they managed to get Mike up on his feet. His head lolled disturbingly as John threw one of his arms over his shoulder and started to drag him. It was slow going, but the three of them got him outside and to Molly's car without incident. The two lads fucked off the second John leant Mike's body against the boot of the car, but he hardly cared. The hard part was over.

John opened the back door and manoeuvred Mike so he was on his side across both seats. He was more likely to roll onto the floor this way if John braked sharply, but it wouldn't do to leave him on his back in case he vomited again. Once Mike was settled, John steeled himself and got into the driver's seat. His head was still fuzzy, but he was alert and full of adrenaline.

With any luck, he would make it to the hospital without incident.

…

John had shitty luck.

The second he saw the flashing lights behind him, he swore violently. Of course. Of fucking course. He'd never been pulled over before in his life, but this would be the one time. He manoeuvred to an empty stretch of kerb to the left and waited, setting the car in park but not turning it off. He prayed he'd missed a turn signal or something else minor. Anything but the truth.

The police vehicle behind him kept its flashing lights on as the driver's door opened and a dark figure slid out. John realised he was holding his breath and let it out in a whoosh. The more nervous he appeared, the more suspicious the officer would be. He had to keep calm.

A man in the standard white shirt and black police vest approached, and John hastened to roll down the window. Molly's car was newer and had a side panel with approximately one metric fuck tonne of buttons on it. He assumed one of these must be the one he needed. John fumbled with a set that had a little window logo above them but accidentally rolled down the back window instead of the front. Shit. The officer was stood impatiently outside his door, his face obscured by shadow. He was young, maybe early 30s, with cropped brown hair that already had a sprinkle of silver just above his ears. He looked a bit worn but somehow sharp, his features set into a look of austere authority. John was certain the man could read every panicked thought going through his head. He tried the side buttons again and this time managed to get his window down.

"Sorry about that," he blurted. "This isn't my car."

The officer raised an eyebrow, and John realised his mistake. "Not that I stole this car or anything. It belongs to a friend. I'm just borrowing it. With her permission."

Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, John chanted to himself. God, he was making a tit out of himself. He was going to get arrested for sure.

"Got your licence on you?" The officer said in a conversational tone. His voice was pleasant, rough but not too deep. His accent sounded like he was from the west.

John fumbled for his wallet and managed to pull out his card and hand it over without incident. As the officer examined it, John tried and failed not to squirm. After what felt like ages but was probably about twenty seconds, the officer handed it back.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?"

"Er, well, no. I've no idea." John held his breath. This was it. The officer was going to say John had been obviously swerving, and he was going to ask him to get out of the car. He would fail the sobriety tests, and they'd throw him in jail, and Mike wouldn't get to the hospital on time, and his best friend would die on the same night his life was ruined forever. They'd expel him from uni, and his dreams of becoming a doctor would be irreparably shattered, and Mike would die. John fought back the sharp, acidic taste of bile creeping up his throat.

"You've a taillight out."

It took John three full seconds to realise the officer had spoken, and even then his brain couldn't begin to process his words.

"I'm sorry . . . what?"

"Your passenger-side taillight is out. You need to get it fixed immediately."

John blinked stupidly at him. Mother of God, could he actually be that lucky? "Oh, er, thank you. I'll do that. Or, rather, I'll tell my friend to do that."

The officer had pulled out a pad of paper and was scribbling something. "I'd normally have to give you a citation for this, but since it's not your car—I'm taking your word on that—and frankly you look like you've had a rough day, I'm issuing you a warning."

"Thank you so much, officer," John blathered as relief flooded into him. "Really, I appreciate it."

"Just make sure you have your friend fix her light before she drives at night. And go directly to wherever it is you're going. If someone else pulls you over, they might not be so lenient." The officer ripped the warning from the pad and started to hand it to John when he froze.

John's arm was half extended to reach for it when he realised the other man had spotted Mike in the backseat. The officer's features instantly morphed into a look of suspicion.

"Who's this then?" He nodded at Mike.

John scrambled to think of an excuse. His mind went utterly blank, of course. Just tell the truth, yeah? He can't catch you in a lie if you tell the truth.

"He's my friend. I think he has alcohol poisoning, so I'm driving him to hospital."

The officer had turned his attention from Mike to John, and John severely wished it would go back. Deep brown eyes scrutinised his face, and he fought the urge to squirm.

"Where were you both this evening?"

John's blood turned to ice in his veins. "We were at a party."

"And I assume from your friend's state that there was alcohol at this party?"

"Yes." John swallowed thickly, already knowing what the next question would be.

"Have you been drinking this evening?"

For a moment, his brain overloaded with panic and cut to white noise. Christ. He'd been so close. So. Close.

John couldn't begin to explain what came over him, but something in his brain snapped, and the next second words were tumbling from his mouth. "Yes. Okay. Yes. I bloody well admit it. I had a few beers before I realised my mate was sick. I know there's no point in lying to you, so I'll just tell the truth. I probably shouldn't be driving right now. But you have to understand, I'm studying medicine at King's, and I recognised the signs of alcohol poisoning, but the flat we were at was nearly a half hour from the closest hospital, and I just—"

John stopped and took a breath, scrubbing one hand over his eyes. "I just don't want him to die. I'm trying to help my friend. Are you really going to arrest me for doing the right thing?"

He kept his hand over his eyes, too embarrassed to look at the officer. God, this was the worst mistake of his life.

The silence dragged on, but John stayed perfectly motionless, his body tense and waiting. It was like he thought he could disappear if he just kept still enough.

Finally, he heard a long sigh, followed by a quiet voice saying, "No, I'm not."

John sucked in a sharp breath and finally dared to glance up.

The officer was massaging his temples in a long-suffering way. "I respect the fact that you thought you were helping your friend, and it's not like you're falling over drunk. I'm not going to arrest you for actually caring when I'm certain everyone else at that party would have left the poor bastard where he was. I've raided enough of them to know what goes on."

John's eyes widened in what he was certain was a comical fashion. "Really? You're going to let me go?"

"Now, hang on just a minute. You might be doing the right thing, but you're still driving under the influence. I can't just set you loose in the city. You could seriously injure yourself or someone else. I'm going to get in my car and escort you to hospital. It'll be much faster that way, plus I can make sure you don't get into any trouble."

"Thank you so much, officer," John repeated. "Seriously, I can't begin to say—"

The officer cut him off, "I appreciate the gratitude, but we've wasted enough time. Be ready to follow me. I'm going to put the siren on so people know to get out the way. And for Christ's sake, be careful."

John watched as the officer disappeared into his car, and then a moment later a piercing siren sliced through the cool night air. John scrambled to change gears as the cruiser swerved around him and shot off down the street. Jesus, the officer drove like a madman.

John followed him onto a main road where they proceeded to blow though every traffic light whilst cars skittered out of their way like mice. It was thrilling and terrifying, and John thought he was surely going to read about it in the newspaper tomorrow. They got to the hospital less than fifteen minutes later and drove to the entrance of A&E. John saw the officer get out of his car and jog over to two men in nurse's scrubs. Within seconds they were shouting for a gurney and rushing over to pull Mike out of the backseat.

The panic must have finally got to him, because the next few minutes were a complete blur, but eventually John was ushered into a waiting room filled with plastic chairs and vending machines. He sunk heavily into one of the chairs and immediately put his face in his hands. It was freezing inside and smelt of antiseptic, but he couldn't care less. God, he'd got lucky tonight. It had been long enough now that his head had cleared, and thinking about all the things that could have gone awry made his heart stutter frantically in his chest. Thank Christ for that police officer. John realised distantly that he'd never even got the bloke's name.

"Mind if I join you?"

John startled and looked up. The officer was standing a few feet in front of him, smiling crookedly. Now that they were in proper lighting, John could get a good look at him. He was actually quite handsome, with smooth, regular features and a healthy tan that suggested he played sport. John's eyes darted down before he could stop himself. The black police vest clung nicely to his frame, emphasising his chest and muscular arms. He probably had a solid five inches of height on John. He was broad without being bulky and lean without looking gangly. Oh yeah, with strong shoulders and a build like that, he definitely played sport.

When John glanced back up, the officer was smirking in a knowing way. John's face grew instantly hot, and he quickly gestured at the chair across from him. "Please."

The officer took the seat and then extended a large hand. "Name's Lestrade. Greg Lestrade."

John automatically reached forward and grasped his hand. It was warm and pleasantly callused. "John Watson."

Lestrade gripped his hand for a fraction of a second longer than was strictly necessary and then leant back in his chair, studying John with a curious look on his face. "So, John, I imagine your friend is off having his stomach pumped."

John sighed and nodded. "Probably. They said he'll be just fine, but I'm not going to feel better until I talk to him myself."

"He's lucky to have a friend like you."

Something in the officer's tone made John look askance at him. His brown eyes were hard beneath his strong brow, and his lips were set in a tense line. If John didn't know better, he'd say he sounded . . . bitter. Perhaps lonely, even.

"If I were a good friend, I'd have kept an eye on him and stopped him from getting so pissed in the first place."

Lestrade shook his head, and one errant lock of silver-flecked brown hair fell across his brow. "You can't control what other people do. Your friend's an adult and can make his own decisions. Unfortunately he made the wrong one. So did you, in choosing to drive him here."

John started to protest, but Lestrade held up a hand. "I know what your reasoning was, but you still should have waited for an ambulance. Imagine if you'd hit another car or worse, a person. You would have gone to prison for a very long time and definitely wouldn't have been any help to your friend."

John felt his cheeks flame with embarrassment. "Is that why you're still here?" he asked with more venom than he intended. "To lecture me?"

John saw a tendon in Lestrade's jaw shift beneath his skin as he grit his teeth. "No, that's not why I'm here. I'm here to make sure you and your friend are all right. I'm here to make sure you don't decide to leave him and drive back to whatever party you were at. And, as it just so happens, I'm here to make sure you don't have to sit all by yourself in a hospital waiting room while you wait to find out if your friend is going to live."

John should've hung his head with shame. He should've been unable to even look at Lestrade. But something about the hard glint in Lestrade's eyes and the way his voice dropped a register as he all but growled at John made a frisson of excitement trickle down his spine. He shivered before he could stop himself and finally glanced away. His face was already hot, but now the heat was spreading into his body. God, there had to be something wrong with him. He didn't actually find being scolded by Lestrade arousing, did he?

"I'm sorry," John said quietly. "I wasn't trying to suggest . . . I just . . . I don't even know. It's been a long night."

"Most nights in my line of work are. I'm trying to land a cosy desk job in the upper ranks one of these days. Who knows, maybe I'll even make DI." He chuckled. "That's a good few years off, though."

John tried to hide his surprise at the admission. He wasn't expecting Lestrade to tell him anything about himself. "I'm planning to be an army doctor."

Lestrade cocked an eyebrow at him. "Really now? You said you were at King's, yeah? Why not just become a GP and avoid risking your neck?"

John shrugged. "My dad was a soldier. I've thought since I was a kid that I wanted to follow in his footsteps. Besides, Queen and Country and all."

"You seem a bit young to be so eager to risk your life. What age are you?"

"Twenty-two."

Lestrade whistled. "Jesus, you kids get younger every year." He glanced at a watch on his left wrist and swore under his breath. "I've got to go. I've still got another hour left of my shift. I'll come back and check on you when it's over."

He stood up, and John scrambled to follow him. "You don't have to do that." It wasn't until he rose that he realised the positioning of the chairs put them in ridiculously close proximity. Shit. He'd been right about the height. He had to lift his chin to look up into Lestrade's rich brown eyes. His breath hitched as he caught a whiff of the other man's cologne—musky and undeniably masculine—and he swallowed.

"I mean," John sputtered, trying to ignore the way his heart rate was steadily increasing, "you've already done so much for me. Us." There were at least six inches between them, but John felt like he was being loomed over by something dark and predatory. It was an oddly enticing idea. "You know, with the whole escort and not arresting me bit. If you want to just go home when your shift ends, I won't blame you."

Lestrade looked at him in a way John couldn't begin to interpret. It was like he wanted to say something but was forcing himself to keep his jaw clenched shut.

John's heart skipped in his chest when Lestrade suddenly took a half-step towards him.

God, please kiss me, John thought deliriously before he could stop himself.

Lestrade reached slowly forward and put a warm hand on John's shoulder. His eyes seemed darker than before, but John couldn't be certain. "Take care of yourself, John. And your friend, too."

He turned away, and as he did, his fingers brushed John's neck in a way that made him shudder. Christ, there really was something wrong with him. He wanted that hand to wrap around his throat and hold him down, preferably while Lestrade fucked slowly into him. Jesus.

Lestrade got three steps away before John blurted, "Wait!"

The officer half-turned towards him but didn't walk back.

John licked his lips and tried not to react when he saw Lestrade's eyes dart down to follow the movement. "Let me take you out for a pint sometime. You know, as a thank you for your help." John nearly bit his tongue. Where the hell did he get his nerve from?

"John," Lestrade's voice had definitely deepened, "I'm not certain that would be the best idea. I'm a decade older than you, and—"

"No, no," John held up his hands, "I didn't mean . . . it doesn't have to be like that. I just really want to show my gratitude." He huffed out an anxious breath and tried not to look as hopelessly awkward as he felt. "You seem like a decent bloke, and you can never have too many drinking mates, yeah?"

Lestrade stared at him for a long moment, causing John's cheeks to grow hot again. God, that was embarrassing. His blood didn't seem to know where it wanted to be.

Finally, Lestrade pulled out his phone. "Let me have your number. I'll ring you tomorrow, but," he emphasised the word with a point of one stern finger, "I'm not promising anything. I'm just going to ring to make sure you and your friend are all right. If I decide I want to go for a drink, we'll arrange something, but I probably won't. It would be quite unprofessional, you know."

John forced his face not to fall as he quietly gave Lestrade his number. The officer didn't ring him once he had it, and John's heart throbbed miserably. Lestrade clearly didn't want him to have his number as well. Maybe he thought John would pester him. He must seem completely pathetic to the older man.

"Good night, John," Lestrade said, turning away. He didn't look back as he walked towards the exit.

"Good night." John sat back down and fought the urge to cry like a child.

…

A doctor finally approached John shortly before dawn and told him Mike was fine. John was not, however, permitted to see his friend, as he "needed to rest." The doctor looked at him with sympathetic eyes—John instantly and irrationally hated her—and suggested that he go home and get some sleep. John knew it was stupid, but the doctor's dismissal just made him feel the sting of rejection even more acutely. He reluctantly got back in Molly's car and then phoned her to get her address. After dropping her car off and assuring her that Mike was fine, he caught the tube back to his dingy flat and slept for a few fitful hours.

John waited all morning for Lestrade to ring him, but he never did. John finally had to force himself to get dressed and go to lecture, even though he knew he wasn't going to listen to a single word. He spent most of lesson with his chin in his hand, staring at his mobile and willing it to ring.

I'm a moron, he thought at least a hundred times. Why am I so upset over someone I barely know?

No matter how John tried to rationalise it, he only felt worse as the day progressed and his mobile remain stubbornly silent. He went to the gym and attempted to burn off some steam, but everything he did, from cardio to weight lifting, just gave him the overwhelming desire to punch someone.

He was on the bench press when he heard the familiar buzz of his phone. He nearly dropped the bar on his head as he struggled to put it up and get to his mobile.

The instant it was in his hands, he hit the answer button and lifted it eagerly to his ear. "Hello?"

"John! It's me. I'm out of hospital."

John sighed and pressed a hand to his chest where his heart was racing wildly. "Mike. I'm glad to hear it. I was worried about you." He forced himself not to sound disappointed. He was such an idiot. He'd really thought . . . and of course he should have been thinking about Mike. He was a terrible friend.

"Listen, mate, I want to say thanks. I'm not going to be drinking again for a long while, and never like that again. The doctors told me you drove me to hospital and even got a police escort. I appreciate it more than I can say."

"Don't fret about it. You'd have done the same for me."

Mike chuckled. "I don't know that I could have pulled off the police bit. How'd you even manage that?"

"It's a long story. I'm at the gym right now. Can I ring you later?"

"Sure thing, mate. Cheers."

"Cheers."

John rang off and stretched his left shoulder lazily. He should probably think about heading home. It was getting late, and he was undoubtedly in for another night of restless not-quite-sleep. Might as well get a head start.

He'd just got out of the showers and was redressing when his mobile rang again. Assuming Mike had got tired of waiting on him, he answered and said, "Oi, keep your knickers on. I was just about to ring you back."

There was a beat of dead silence, and then a deep, familiar voice said, "I think you were expecting someone else."

Shit. It was Lestrade. Just his luck. "Sorry, Lestrade. I . . . yeah, I was expecting my mate Mike, the one who was in hospital. He's fine, by the way."

"Call me Greg, and I'm glad to hear that."

There was a pause, and John felt his cheeks heat up (goddammit, that was getting old) as he struggled to think of something to say to cut through the awkwardness.

Greg beat him to the punch. "Look, I really shouldn't be doing this, but . . ." John heard the distinct murmur of voices and music in the background, "do you know Pentonville Road, right by King's Cross?"

"Yes," John answered automatically. He'd stayed in that general area when he was flat-searching before starting uni.

"I'm at a nice little pub on that road that's spitting distance from the Underground. You can't miss it; it's the only one for a block and has a big Heineken sign above the door. The Fulham match is on the telly. Want to buy me that pint you mentioned?"

John could hear the uncertainty in the Greg's voice, like he was already considering retracting his offer, but John hardly cared. Excitement spiked through him like lightning. God, he hadn't realised how badly he wanted this. "Absolutely. I'm just at the gym, so I'll meet you there at half nine."

"Cheers. See you then."

John rang off and stood still for a moment, staring at his phone. He was going to meet Greg, buy him a pint and watch the football match with him. He was going to have a drink with a man he was admittedly very attracted to. What did he want to get out of this?

No. John forced himself not to overthink it. He got dressed, stuffed his gym bag into his locker and caught a cab to the pub, eager to get there as quickly as possible. He arrived a few minutes late.

Lestrade was already sat at one of the wooden benches outside, angled so he could watch the match playing on a big-screen telly over the bar. The second John laid eyes on him, his palms started to sweat.

Relax, he told himself. You're just grabbing a pint with a mate. A really, ridiculously attractive mate. Christ, Greg looked good. The uniform had done things for John, admittedly, but seeing him in plain clothes was like seeing him whilst he was undercover. Disguised. Hiding his true power beneath a casual veneer. Plus, it didn't hurt that his dark-wash jeans were tight enough at the pelvis to give John a very good idea of what laid beneath and long enough to make his legs look like they went for miles. It had warmed up recently as Spring settled in, and Greg had opted to go jacketless—a daring decision what with London's unpredictable weather. He had on a simple, black fitted T-shirt and naught else. It clung delightfully to his chest and shoulders, and to John's surprise, revealed a tattoo of a police shield on his right bicep. John had to forcibly stop himself from staring. Oh, the tattoo scratched an itch he didn't even know he had. Greg looked . . . well, dangerous. Dark. Sexy.

Greg spotted John as he got out of the cab and waved him over. John plastered a friendly smile on his face and forced himself not to hurry. Greg drained the last bit of his pint and returned his smile. "You're just in time. This round's on you."

"Blimey, not even going to give us a hello, yeah?"

Greg clapped him on the shoulder, and all the awkwardness John had been fighting all day evaporated. "I'll give you a proper hello when I've got a pint in front of me. Fulham's down by two, and I've a strong urge to toss a load of lager down my gullet."

John laughed and went inside to the bar, ordering Greg's pint as well as one for himself. When he joined the man, Greg immediately launched into a story about an armed robbery he'd been called to the week before. It had turned out that the man who'd attempted to rob an off licence had used a "gun" that was actually just a cigarette lighter, and so the conflict had come to a rather anticlimactic end. John then told a story about the first time they did dissections in one of his anatomy lectures, and his least favourite peer—a big, arrogant tosspot who continuously bragged about how he was going to be a famous surgeon—fell into a dead faint the second their professor touched a scalpel to the cadaver.

Before John knew it, it was midnight, he was six pints deep and he was roaring with laughter as Greg demonstrated the odd, swaggering walk one of his colleagues used when approaching vehicles he'd pulled over. It was a hilarious combination of puffed-out chest and swaying hips that made John picture some form of gorilla-peacock hybrid.

Greg flopped back down onto the bench next to him, chuckling breathlessly. "I swear, he thinks he looks like such a hard-arse when he does this, but I've never seen anything less threatening."

John was smiling so much his cheeks hurt, but when Greg turned his face and looked at him—suddenly much closer than he'd been before—all his mirth drained immediately away. Greg's eyes were so intense and so soft at the same time, roving over John's face like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.

"John," Greg said gently; John automatically leant forward to hear him better, "I had a really good time tonight."

"Me too," John said, hating how breathless he sounded. Before he could stop himself, his eyes darted down to Greg's lips. He knew the other man saw the motion, because he heard him inhale sharply, saw his chest rise beneath his tight black shirt. They were so close now. It would take nothing at all for him to close the distance between them and just—

"Fucking hell," Greg murmured dazedly, pulling back. "Look, I don't want to do this here. Have a walk with me."

John nodded and scrambled to his feet, suddenly feeling drunk on much more than beer. Greg shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking down a random street. John hurried to follow him. There was no one about, and as they moved towards a maze of unlit streets and abandoned buildings, John suddenly found it difficult to breathe.

Greg ducked down a narrow alley and turned towards John, looking for all the world like he had no idea what to do next. Words were building up in the back of John's throat, everything he'd wanted to say since the moment Greg approached him in the hospital, but he just couldn't force them out.

After twenty seconds of uncomfortable silence, Greg huffed out a breath and raked an irritated hand through his hair. "Look, I'm not good at this sort of thing, so I'm just going to say it. I know what this is, or rather, I hope this isn't what I think it is. Sometimes, when coppers do favours for people, they think they have to give them something in return. I know men on the force who routinely tell women that if they want out a ticket, there's an easy way to do it, and it disgusts me."

John tried to interrupt, but Greg cut him off with a sharp look. "I don't want this to be like that. I don't want you to feel like you owe me something. So, if you're doing this out of some misguided sense of gratitude, I'd rather we just left it. You bought me that pint you promised, so we're even. This doesn't need to go any further."

Greg seemed to deflate slightly when he finished, as if all the air in his body had left him, but then he squared his shoulders and crossed his arms defiantly over his chest. He was clearly daring John to test his resolve.

John could only stare at him for a moment, utterly blindsided. Greg thought he was only here because he felt like he owed him something. Well, that was partially true, but surely he had to see how badly John wanted him? Who wouldn't? John pictured Greg in that gorgeous, fitted uniform and remembered how deliciously dark his voice got when he was telling John off. It was enough to drive anyone mad. John made a decision without entirely realising it.

He blurted out the first thing that came to mind: "Pity, because I was rather hoping you were planning to take advantage of me."

Greg blinked. "What?"

John must be drunker than he thought, because he answered directly, "I've been thinking about it since the second I saw you in uniform. You looked so . . . powerful. You do now, too, but in a different way. I like the idea of you exerting your authority over me. I want nothing more than for you to drag me to the ground and take whatever you want from me. I love how rough your voice gets when you order me around, and I want you to do anything, everything you want to me. Christ, Greg, you have no idea how badly I want you."

Greg was stunned for three full seconds before he grabbed John by the collar of his shirt and shoved him up against the alley wall, hissing under his breath, "You can't be serious. It'd be coercion. It'd be wrong." Even as he protested, his eyes darkened and his hand shook eagerly as it fisted in John's shirt.

John licked his lips, deliberately letting his tongue play over them. Greg watched, as John knew he would, and the older man made a deep, wanting sound in the back of his throat. God, that was hot.

Greg's face was beginning to flush with arousal, but he didn't yet seem ready to give in. "You've been drinking."

"Believe me when I say I wanted you when I was sober as well."

Greg still looked indecisive. It was time to up the ante.

John lowered his voice to a breathless plea. "You wouldn't be forcing me. I want it as badly as you do. Please, Greg, tell me to get on my knees and suck you off right here. Force me to the ground and fuck me here in this alley. Please."

John visibly saw his words run through Greg's body. His grip on John's shirt tightened, and every muscle in his chest tensed, as if he were physically holding himself back. John felt the tautness in his body like heat flowing straight into his groin. He was so aroused he was dizzy.

Greg took a deep breath, held it and then growled, "Christ, the things you do to me. Fine, you want it? You're bloody well going to get it."

A hand gripped John's hair too tightly, and suddenly he was being forced down until he had no choice but to fall to his knees. His heart was pounding, racing, hammering in his chest, but he felt so fucking good, so giddy with it, he wasn't even sure he was still breathing. He was perfectly level with Greg's crotch, and his erection visibly strained against the dark fabric of his jeans. John couldn't stop himself. He reached forward with just his index finger and traced the outline of it. The hand in his hair tightened, and John glanced up. Greg had his eyes clenched shut, looking like a man who was trying desperately not to fly into a thousand pieces. Then Greg's other hand trailed down, batted John's away and quickly opened the button and zip. John automatically pulled Greg's pants down—black boxers—letting his erection spring free. It wasn't overly long—and he was silently thankful for that—but it was going to be a solid mouthful. John was already salivating.

"I could get arrested for this," Greg hissed. "If I got caught having sex in public, especially with another man, they'd take my badge for sure. I'd be off the force, and all my dreams of being a DI one day would be ruined. But here you are, this fit, little blond piece of arse, all tied up with ribbon, asking me to make you suck my cock. Fuck, John, that's all I've wanted since the second I saw you."

"Good. Then we're both getting what we want," John said before he teasingly wet his lips and looked directly into Greg's eyes. "Thank you for not arresting me, officer, and for giving me your cock to suck." He saw Greg cover his mouth and heard a muffled, "Oh, fuck." He'd expected to feel embarrassed by this, but there was something so hot about looking up at Greg as he towered over him, ready to give orders, and it seemed Greg felt the same way.

"Enough chatter," Greg said harshly, canting his hips forward until the tip of his prick pressed against John's lips. "Get to it."

John was torn between the desire to obey and the desire to savour the moment. He took the tip of it in his mouth and lightly tongued the head, around and around in circles whilst Greg shuddered silently. He touched his teeth lightly, lightly to the ridge at the base of the head and flicked his tongue against the slit until Greg made a desperate noise. He popped off long enough to say, "How does it feel, officer?"

John was waiting for Greg to shove him away, to berate him for playing up the police angle, but Greg's cock twitched in a way that said John was punching all the right buttons. John took the head of Greg's prick into his mouth again and suckled softly, playfully, flirtatiously. The groan he earned in response was one of the most beautiful things he'd ever heard. John took a bit more, drawing Greg slowly into his mouth and mapping the veins with his tongue. Greg still had a hand in his hair, but he didn't try to force John forward. He merely held him with that delicious, slightly painful grip. John reached down to palm himself through his trousers. Pleasure jolted through him so sharply he gasped around Greg's cock. He hollowed his cheeks and sunk down, taking as much of him as he comfortably could. His nose brushed against coarse pubic hair.

"Fuck," Greg panted, "fuck, that's so good. Suck me, John. Show me how grateful you are for what I did for you."

John tried to moan, but it turned into a deep hum, which earned him another full-body quiver from Greg. The man was so tense he seemed like a string about to snap, leaning against the alley wall with one hand in John's hair and the other pressed over his eyes.

John drew back with an obscene wet noise and rasped, "Look at me, Greg. Watch me as I suck your cock."

Greg made a rough sound. "I can't. I'll come on the spot if I do. God, just don't stop."

John dutifully took Greg's cock back in his mouth and began to suck in earnest, relishing every low moan that poured from the older man's throat. He could feel Greg growing more tense, and just as he'd prepared for him to come in his mouth, he felt a tug on his hair. He pulled off immediately and looked up.

"Christ." Greg was staring down at him with eyes as dark as sin. "Your lips are perfectly red, bruised from my cock. I love the little noises you make around me. You look so aroused, and I've not even touched you."

"So touch me," John said. "Please, touch me."

"Did you mean it?" Greg's voice deepened to no more than a vibration. "Did you mean it when you said I could fuck you right here?"

John's breath hitched, but he managed to nod.

Greg ran a hand through his hair and exhaled sharply. "You want to know one of the best bits about being an officer? I know for a fact that this area is patrolled by Newman and Smith, and they don't get on it until about half two because they're lazy fucks." His eyes pierced straight through John, crawled beneath his skin like a living thing. "I could fuck you right here, right now, and the only way we'd be disturbed is if some randomer walked past. I know they'd keep walking when they saw how hard I was fucking you. They wouldn't dare say a word. You'd like that, wouldn't you? If I put you on your hands and knees right here and pounded you into the pavement?"

John's brain abandoned him at this point, and all he could do was breathe out a single word: "Yes."

The next thing he felt was a rough shove. He instinctively threw his hands out to catch himself. There was the sound of shuffling, and then he felt a warm body press against his back.

"Oh, John," said a low, threatening voice at his ear, "you're going to regret this in the morning, but right now I'm going to make you feel so good."

John pressed his arse back against Greg's hips. "Prove it."

Greg snarled and retreated briefly. John felt a hand tugging at his trousers, unbuttoning them and pushing them down his thighs. He forced himself to take deep, even breaths so he wouldn't hyperventilate over the thought of what they were about to do. He gasped when Greg pulled his pants down, freeing his swollen erection. He'd only touched himself once, and he was harder than he'd ever been. A light breeze would be enough to set him off right now.

"'Fraid I've not got lube on me. Wasn't really expecting this," Greg said as he parted John's cheeks. He gave an appreciative whistle, and John had to bite his lip to keep from whimpering. "You look delicious. We're going to have to do this the old-fashioned way."

Before John could say anything, he felt hot breath against his skin.

"Oh God," he blurted out, "you're not going to—?"

He cut off with a low moan as he felt a flash of tongue against his hole. It was so fucking wrong, but John couldn't help but shiver with anticipation. Greg circled his entrance slowly, clearly taking his time, but John pressed back with a groan. "Get on with it. I've not got all night."

"You're awfully pushy for a man with his pants round his knees." Greg obliged, however, and John felt the tip of a tongue press against him, just hard enough to make the muscle give way slightly. God, that felt odd, but good at the same time. He wanted more.

John made a needy sound and pushed back again, and Greg groaned against his skin. The vibrations made hot desire skitter down his nerve endings. He heard Greg spit, and then suddenly something more substantial than a tongue pressed into him. Oh fuck, Greg was fingering him. He felt the sharp burn of invasion as Greg pressed a finger in, slowly working it in a circular motion. The feeling should have bothered John, should have made him want to stop, but instead it just left him wanting. He wanted more than just Greg's fingers inside him, wanted something hard and thick and punishing.

"God, please hurry. I can't stand it."

"Jesus," Greg said reverently, "you're gasping for it, aren't you? You'd love it if I just shoved my cock into you right now." He'd pushed a second spit-slicked finger in, and this time John felt more burning and a twinge of genuine pain, but he still needed more.

"Yes, God, yes," John whined. "Fuck me, Greg. I want to feel your cock inside me for days."

Greg swore under his breath, and John heard him arrange himself behind him. Then there was the sound of a foil packet being torn open. Good. John had been about to mention condoms. Finally, something hard and blunt pressed against his hole. John forced himself not to tense as Greg started to push in.

"God, this is such a bad idea," Greg murmured. "You're not nearly prepared enough, just spit and a bit of fingering, and anyone could walk by and see us—you, on your knees, stuffed full of my prick—and here you are acting like you're so fucking hungry for it." As he spoke, Greg pressed slowly into him, the fat head of his cock popping obscenely into John's body. John groaned and forced himself not to pull away. He felt like he was being ripped in half. His arse was throbbing and he was stupid for doing this, but somehow the pain was exactly what he wanted.

Greg sank slowly into him until his hipbones were flush with John's arse and then stopped, panting. "All right?"

"I'm fine," John said shakily. "You can move." He was gripping the pavement as hard as he could. He'd never felt so full of something before. It sent an odd thrill through him.

Greg moved slowly, drawing out of him and pushing back in with reverence. His hands gripped John's hips and helped to steady him as he found a rhythm. Before long, he picked up speed, cursing under his breath with every thrust. "Fuck, John, this feels amazing. You're so hot, and when you tense up your body squeezes my cock beautifully."

John was too breathless to respond. He shifted his hips and arched his back until he found an angle that sent pleasure crackling through him like electricity. He couldn't get off from prostate stimulation alone, but it sure as Hell felt good. Greg was obviously holding back, though, and John was having none of it.

"Jesus, Greg," he muttered, "I thought you said you were going to fuck me. I won't break."

Greg tightened his grip possessively on John's hips, and suddenly he was pounding into him, thrusting so hard and fast he actually threw John forward with every snap of his hips. John let out a startled moan that was definitely far too loud and closed his eyes, letting his head hang between his shoulders. Fuck, fuck, fuck, that was perfect. Greg hit his prostate about every third thrust, and the feeling of him as he pumped his prick brutally into John was almost unbearably arousing. John could hear Greg grunting as he moved, punctuated by moans and low murmurs of "Oh, fuck, yes." John thought he could get off from the sound of Greg's voice alone, so tortured as he wrung pleasure from John's body.

John felt something warm press against his back and realised Greg was half-lying on him. His hands came to rest on top of John's, and desire surged into him as he realised Greg was pinning him down. Now he had no choice but to kneel there and be fucked. Christ. His knees were killing him, but he wouldn't stop now for the world.

"Oh, God, John, you feel so good," Greg breathed hotly into his ear, changing the rhythm of their fucking to short, quick thrusts deep inside John, just his hips moving as he held John down with the size of his body alone. "I don't know how you turn me on so much, but you do. I could fuck you just like this for ages, but next time, I want you to ride me. I want you to sink down on my cock so I can watch your thigh muscles flex and your eyes clench shut as you take me as deep as you can. I want to bend you over my desk at work and make you moan so loudly they hear you in Sussex. Would you like that? I'd make you beg for my cock before I gave it to you, and you—you gorgeous thing—you would."

John was seeing stars. "Jesus fuck, I'm going to come. Touch me, please touch me."

Greg growled and immediately wrapped a hand around him, pumping his length with quick, jerky movements that said he was too far gone to focus. It was enough, though. Three more strokes, and John howled as he shuddered out an orgasm so strong, his vision flashed white. For a half minute that seemed to stretch on for years, his whole body sang with the sharp, almost painful intensity of it, and then he was pulling Greg's hand off him as oversensitivity set in. Sweat was dripped down his arms, and he collapsed boneless to the pavement, too wrecked to even hold himself up. Greg let out a startled moan and then pushed hard into him, thrusting shallowly as he undoubtedly came as well.

John was too knackered to do more than lie there as the other man finished. Greg pulled out of him with a murmured curse. There was a brief pause, and then the sound of a zip drawing up reminded John that it probably wasn't a good idea to lie in an alley with his bare arse in the air for very long. John shakily drew himself up and set his clothes in order with clumsy hands. There was nothing he could do about how sweaty and flushed he was, but maybe people would think he'd gone for a run. In jeans and a T-shirt. In the middle of the night.

It took John a minute to be able to look Greg in the eye. The older man was regarding him with a wary expression.

"I didn't, er," Greg began, "hurt you, did I?"

John debating answering honestly and saying yes, but thank you, that was perfect. Instead he said, "I'll feel it in the morning, but I'm fine."

Greg ran his hand through his hair. "Sorry if I got a bit . . . intense there. I was caught up in the moment."

"S'fine." John wanted nothing more than to climb into bed and sleep for a thousand years, but it seemed Greg wanted to have this conversation now. After a shag like that, John probably owed him at least that much. "That was precisely what I wanted, so please don't feel guilty or anything like that. I might fall asleep on my feet, but if you want to talk about this now, that's fine."

Greg fumbled for a moment before saying, "So, what is this?"

"This can be a one off, if you'd like. I know you're worried about my age, so we can just never talk to each other again. Or, if you'd like to do all those lovely things you mentioned while we were fucking, that's fine too." John yawned, stretching his arms over his head. "Personally, I want to crawl into bed and sleep off this frankly mind-blowing shag."

When he looked back at Greg, the other man was grinning.

"Bed, eh? Want some company?"

John considered it. "If you want a cuddle, fine, but I'm literally going to pass right the fuck out."

Greg frowned. "What, no round two? I thought you uni students were supposed to be at it like rabbits."

John grinned. "So, I take it you want this to happen again?"

Greg gave him a cheeky wink. "Of course. Think I'm going to let go of a kinky blond with a fetish for men in uniform? Perish the thought."

John chuckled and climbed wearily to his feet. "Whatever you say, officer."

…