There was no response; anxiety began to creep up his spine as he gathered up the post and ascended the stairs. He pushed open the door to the main living area of the flat, senses on alert out of force of habit more than anything else. It took him a moment to notice John, wrapped in a blanket and asleep on the sofa. The television was tuned to BBC Four with the volume muted, and sunlight streaming in through the window painted a series of geometric figures on the wooden floor.
Greg set the post on the kitchen table and put the kettle on. He waited until he had a cup of tea in his hand before picking up the large flat envelope addressed to him. He'd been expecting it, but somehow holding it in his hands made it undeniably real. He took a deep breath and opened it.
"How was the country?" He turned to see John yawning in the kitchen entryway. His hair stuck up in multiple directions and his trousers were rumpled. Greg's gaze lingered on a days-old coffee stain on John's thigh before sliding up again. He looked well-rested, at least.
"Rainy. And my nieces have somehow become surly teenagers since the last time I visited, which is a shame. My sister has her hands full. How was your week?"
John shrugged, which Greg took to mean he hadn't left the flat at all. In the three weeks Greg had been here, John had only gone out when Greg forced him to do. Greg turned back to the contents of his envelope: a stack of pages marked with post-it arrows where he needed to sign his name.
"That's the papers, then?" John gave him a sympathetic look.
"Yeah. She must've wanted out badly; she didn't even try to negotiate about selling the flat. I think she's already moved in with what's-his-name anyway."
"I'm sorry."
Greg forced a smile. "I'm not. It's done. I'm a free man again. Whatever that means."
John smiled. "It means you can go to pubs and pull women, and you don't have to feel guilty about it."
"I think I might lay off women for a while, actually. I've got a rather fantastic relationship going with my right hand."
"You and me both." John raised his eyebrows and Greg grinned. "Lots of bills, I see." John rifled through the pile on the table. "Oh, what's this? Someone's sent me a package." He frowned at the scrawled handwriting and squeezed it suspiciously.
The door buzzer sounded and they both started.
"More reporters?" Greg asked.
"Doubt it. They haven't come round for weeks. The story's old news."
Greg felt a pulse of sadness for him. Sherlock had been dead less than a month and the media had moved on, no longer interested.
The buzzer rang again and they heard the door open below. After a moment, Mrs. Hudson's voice called up from downstairs, "You've a visitor, boys."
"A visitor? Shit. I look a mess, don't I?" John ran a hand through his hair, which only made it look worse.
Greg bit his lip to stop himself from laughing. "You need a mirror. Go, I'll put the kettle back on."
The visitor turned out to be an elderly woman who peered at them over the sort of horn-rimmed glasses that were stylish once again, though it seemed likely she'd just kept them since the sixties.
"This is the Sherlock Holmes detective agency?" she said, looking around the flat suspiciously. "It doesn't look like one."
Greg and John exchanged a look.
"Yes," John said. "I mean, it was. Haven't you… Well, I suppose you heard that Sherlock Holmes is… no longer with us."
"Oh, yes. Nasty business, that. Read all about it. Still, I presume the agency had more than just the one detective?" She looked back and forth between them.
Greg nudged John with an elbow. "Can I get you some tea, Mrs…?
"Shepperd," she replied. "Brevity Shepperd. And yes, thank you. Two sugars, if you please."
Greg gave John a look and John finally bolted into action, stepping forward and gesturing to a chair.
"Won't you have a seat, Mrs. Shepperd? What can we do for you?"
Greg returned with a cup of tea in time to hear the end of a story about her beloved dog, which had apparently been stolen the day before.
"You're certain the dog didn't wander off?" John asked, looking over several sheets of paper on which photos were printed. The dog was a dour-looking West Highland terrier with dull white fur, watery eyes, and a vacant expression.
"Princess never wandered far from my side," Mrs. Shepperd said, raising the cup to her lips. "She was quite a valuable dog, purebred, you know. I'm certain someone stole her. Your agency comes very highly recommended, Mr…"
"Watson."
"Yes, of course. And I am prepared to pay you handsomely for the safe return of Princess."
"Yes, right," John replied. "Just give us a moment to confer, please. Stay comfortable; we'll just step into the office over here." He nodded his head toward Sherlock's bedroom and Greg followed. Once inside John closed the door and looked up at him. "What do you think?"
"I think her dog is probably in the nearest pound. I doubt she's bothered to ring them up and ask."
"No, what do you think about taking this case?"
Greg started to laugh, but then stopped at the look on John's face. There was a spark in his eyes Greg hadn't seen in a month. John desperately needed something to do, something to focus on. "I'm sure you're up for it, yeah."
"No, I mean…" John's eyes flicked back to the closed door. "Look, I've never done this sort of thing alone before. I suppose I was hoping you'd… come along."
Greg blinked, startled. "Are you asking me to help you?"
"Yes. I mean, I'm no Sherlock by any stretch, but Jesus, I lived with the man enough to absorb some of his methods and you, well, you're the bloody best detective Scotland Yard's got. The two of us can find a fucking dog, Greg, and collect a lovely cheque for our minimal efforts." He paused and looked up at Greg. "Besides, moping around the flat is getting a bit boring."
John needed this, that much was clear, and though Greg had no doubt he could do it on his own, John could probably at least use some moral support. Greg exhaled through pursed lips. He was technically on leave, so it wasn't like he was really engaging in any under-the-radar shenanigans off-duty, was it? After the very public spanking he'd received, he was reluctant to do anything that might jeopardize his career. But there was John was watching him with wide dark blue eyes, and Greg found he didn't want to tell him no.
He sighed. "All right. I suppose it can't be too hard to find a bloody dog, can it?"
John grinned at him, and it was the most genuine expression Greg could remember seeing on his face in a long time. "Fantastic."
*****
Mrs. Shepperd lived on a quiet street in Notting Hill, not far from the famous market. Her house was astonishingly large and very well-decorated, and the thought of what it must be worth made Greg's head spin. They were served tea by a young woman in a dark suit who smiled warmly at them.
"Can I bring anything else, ma'am?"
Mrs. Shepperd examined the tray and frowned. "You've forgotten the milk, Patsy."
"So I have. So sorry, ma'am. I'll bring it straight away."
"This arrived in the post this morning." Mrs. Shepperd handed John a folded sheet of paper. "It's a ransom note."
"Ah, is it?" John dropped it onto the table and dug into his coat pocket for his gloves. "Fingerprints," he said when she gave him an odd look.
"Oh, dear. I'm afraid half the staff have handled it already this morning."
John pursed his lips and picked up the note. "Well then, never mind."
Greg leaned over his shoulder to read.
We have taken your precious Petite Princess Poppy and are holding her in a secure location. If you wish to see your dog again, come to the café in Holland Park alone at 11:00 on the morning of the 21st. Bring a shopping bag with £ 50.000 in small denominations.
If you fail to meet us, rest assured that Petite Princess Poppy will be returned to you one petite piece at a time.
Greg looked at John, who had an intense expression on his face. He was studying the note very closely, clearly having seen something there that made sense to him. Greg had just watched so far, just observed, let John do all the talking, and though he had some theories about where to start, he still had no idea who might have taken the dog. John's face was controlled, serious, guarded even, but Greg knew him well enough to know there was a quiet excitement bubbling just under the surface. He'd worked out something important.
"Yesterday you called your dog Princess," John said after a moment.
"Yes. Her full registered name is Petite Princess Poppy, of course."
"Do you show her at all?"
"Heavens, no. She's a pet, my constant companion. And between you and me, her eyes are a bit too close together to be a perfect example of the breed. She is being held for ransom because of her value to me personally." Mrs. Shepperd dabbed at her eyes with a lace-trimmed handkerchief.
Patsy reappeared with a pitcher of milk, and John smiled at her when she leaned over him to set it on the sofa table. He waited until she'd left before continuing.
"You only have the one dog, Mrs. Shepperd? No other pets?"
"None. I do hope you can find her. It's simply unbearable without her."
John nodded. "Would you say many people know her full name?"
Mrs. Shepperd set her tea cup on the sofa table. "I suppose my closest friends know, and the veterinarian."
"And the--" John broke off as Patsy entered the room yet again with a tray of biscuits. She gave them a tight smile as she set them on the table. John's gaze followed her as she left the room and Greg only barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "And the servants?" he continued once they were alone again. "Would they know?"
"I doubt it. It's not as if we discuss these things, you know."
John nodded. "Do you take her to the vet and all of her appointments yourself?"
"Heavens, no. I've a busy social schedule to keep. Patsy does that, or Ellen, whoever is available."
"Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Shepperd." John stood and extended his hand. Mrs. Shepperd took it with an expression of confusion on her face. "We'll let you know as soon as Princess has been located."
"Right, yes." Greg stood and shook her hand as well, just as confused. "We'll be in touch." It wasn't until they were outside and ten paces down the street that he gave in to his curiosity. "So either you've completely lost it or Sherlock rubbed off on you far more than I thought." He winced at the unintentional innuendo, though John didn't seem to notice.
John grinned. "Probably the latter. I've got a theory about the dog. We'll need to kill some time. Coffee?"
There was a café nearby, and they settled at a window table with cappuccinos and biscuits. John's gaze was fixed on Mrs. Shepperd's house across the street.
"So what's your theory?"
"Did you notice the woman who served us tea?"
"I know you did. You weren't even subtle about it."
John looked up at him, a wry expression on his face. "No, not like that. Her trousers, did you see?" He raised his cup to his lips and when he lowered it again there was a little dollop of milk foam on his upper lip. Greg shook his head. "Her trousers were black, but there were a few white dog hairs around the ankles."
Greg frowned. "You think she took the dog?"
John nodded. "The dog was taken more than two days ago, long enough that those hairs wouldn't still be on her trousers if they were from before."
"Maybe she has a small white dog herself."
"Perhaps, but then there's the note. It was printed on the exact same kind of paper as the photos of the dog Mrs. Shepperd showed us the other day. On the same printer, if I'm not mistaken."
"The same printer?" How could he possibly know that?
"The thief knew the dog's full name and exactly how to get the dog out of the house without being caught, so it makes sense that it was one of the servants. And that particular servant was keenly interested in our conversation today, did you notice? She lingered more than necessary and came back twice to bring us milk and biscuits. She wouldn't have forgotten those the first time; even Mrs. Shepperd was surprised by that. She needed an excuse to come back, to listen to our conversation. And Mrs. Shepperd said Patsy is one of the staff who handles Princess, takes her to her appointments and such. Patsy would have had access to her records, would know her real name. She probably even printed the fucking ransom note on Mrs. Shepperd's printer and then dropped it in the post."
Greg shook his head. "Are you listening to yourself?"
"What?" John lifted his cup again.
"You sound exactly like Sherlock."
John froze with the cup halfway to his lips and stared at Greg. "I do?"
"Yes, it's… it's weird, actually." It was more than weird: it was uncanny. Greg was completely fascinated and more than a little turned on. Shit.
John blinked and set the cup down again. "It's just a theory. It could be completely wrong, you know."
Except that it turned out to be completely correct. When Patsy left Mrs. Shepperd's house an hour and a half later, they followed her all the way to a flat in the East End. A small dog barked from behind the door as she fumbled with the key, and she looked up the hall nervously before she entered.
"It's definitely not her dog," John whispered in Greg's ear. "She wouldn't be worried about someone hearing it otherwise."
His hand tightened on Greg's shoulder and Greg turned to look at him. "What now? I wasn't planning on storming in there, you know. And legally I can't, not while on leave."
"We're just concerned citizens, aren't we? We can call the police ourselves, tell them what's up." He raised an eyebrow.
Greg winced. "Oh, God. You want me to make the call, don't you?"
"Well, I'd do it, except the person I would normally call under these circumstances is you." His hand slid down to the small of Greg's back and lingered for a moment before he pulled it away. "And I'm a bit persona non grata to the Yard these days."
"All right." Greg pulled his phone from his pocket and thought about who he should call. He finally settled on Mike Patterson, who'd been the most sympathetic to his situation before he'd left. He dialed the number and listened to it ring three times before a familiar voice answered.
"Patterson, this is Lestrade. Yeah… I'm fine, listen, I need a favor."
The police arrived ten minutes later. Patsy burst into tears when she opened the door, and didn't cause any trouble. John and Greg hung back, though both received quite a few strange looks from the officers on scene. It was clear that everyone knew who they were.
Patterson arrived at last and gave them both a grim smile. "I suppose you'll want to see after the dog, then?"
"Yeah, cheers," John replied, and Patterson gestured over the animal control officer who had caged the small dog. After a terse conversation, the officer rolled her eyes and opened the cage, and John took the dog from her.
Patterson pulled Greg aside, well out of earshot of John. "What the fuck are you doing, Lestrade?"
Greg forced a smile. "Helping a friend. I'm fairly certain there aren't any regulations prohibiting that."
"That's not what I mean and you know it." Patterson sighed and straightened his glasses. "Look, I'm not going to tell you what to do on leave, but I have to say that tramping about on private detective cases with the boyfriend of the crazy fake genius who nearly ruined your career is probably not the way you want to go."
"Sherlock was for real, Patterson. I thought you knew that."
"I thought I did too, but I changed my mind when he offed himself. And so did the rest of the world. You aren't doing yourself any favors here, is all I'm sayin'."
"All we've done is help a little old lady get her damn dog back."
"Yeah, right. It's a dog today, but what'll it be tomorrow?" Patterson shook his head. "You know how much respect I have for you, Lestrade. But you know what's going to happen: these blokes here'll go back and talk, and the next time, there'll be even more talk, and people will start to wonder if you're crazy as well."
"It's not like it's going to be a regular thing. John needs me. He needs this, anyway, and…" And I need him whole again.
Patterson raised his eyebrows. "Jumping the fence, are you?"
Greg snorted and looked away. "It's not like that." His eyes settled on John, who was crouched on the floor petting the dog. He seemed content to let Greg handle this part, which was interesting considering that he'd always been the one to interface with others for Sherlock. John looked up and gave him a small smile and Greg's stomach did an odd little flip.
"Right." Patterson smirked at him. "Stay out of trouble, Lestrade. We need you as well."
John was silent during the taxi ride to Mrs. Shepperd's house, and Greg endured a tremendous amount of licking from Princess. He disliked tiny yappy dogs as a general rule, but for some reason they were always mad about him. Mrs. Shepperd squealed with delight when she met them at the door, and invited them in for a drink. She had ridiculously good brandy, it turned out, and they had a bit more of it than they probably should have done. But hell, Greg reminded himself -- it wasn't as if he was on duty. This wasn't his world anyway -- there were few rules and no paperwork and unusual rewards and a friend by his side, warm thigh pressed against his on a squashy sofa.
Oh, the brandy was definitely going to his head.
When they finally made their excuses Mrs. Shepperd handed them a surprisingly large cheque, which John insisted on splitting with him after several rounds of protesting. It was the easiest money Greg had ever made.
"I just can't imagine anyone would pay that much for the return of their dog," Greg said hours later, mind dampened by some very lovely whiskey they'd splurged on to celebrate. "I mean, it's a dog."
John grinned up at him from his position deep in the cushions of the sofa. "You'd be surprised what people will pay for you to set things right for them. Or at least to their own personal definition of right."
"I always wondered how you and Sherlock made a living at this."
"We could have made a lot more if Sherlock wasn't so picky about the cases he took. Half the people who came to the door were turned away with a very bluntly worded answer to the question they'd come to ask. Free of charge."
"Well, we can't afford to be picky."
John poked his thigh with one bare foot. "We, is it?"
Greg turned to face him. "Maybe. I can't stick my neck out too much, mind, but I'll help where I can."
"Patterson gave you a talking-to, didn't he? I can imagine what he said."
Greg sighed and looked into his glass. The ice had nearly melted now. "I don't care what they think. I know Sherlock was for real, and so would they if they just opened their bloody eyes and looked at what really happened in the last two years." Frustration coiled in his chest, almost like something physical, and he took a large drink of whiskey to tamp it down again. "I'm not going to stand there and keep my mouth shut anymore when they spew shit that's so clearly not true."
"Neither will I, but my career isn't on the line when I do."
Greg looked up again. John's eyes were warm, and bluer than they usually appeared. "This is important to you. I want to help you as much as I can. That way, when I go back to the Yard, maybe you'll be able to…" He dropped off, uncertain what he was trying to say.
"I appreciate that, Greg. You know I do."
"Well, it's not entirely unselfish, you know." He stopped himself, realizing he'd been about to show more of his hand than he'd intended. "Besides, you and I, we work well together. We always have."
John's eyes softened at that, and Greg felt an odd twist in his belly. "We have, haven't we? Even when Sherlock was doing his best to be a prick."
Greg wasn't sure how to respond to that -- you weren't supposed to speak ill of the dead, were you? But if anyone had the right to do it, John did. He smiled and shook his head.
John pushed himself to sitting, suddenly very close to Greg. "You're on leave what, another month?"
"Yeah."
"I suppose you've got plans. Travel or something."
"I don't."
John looked into his own glass as if it was completely fascinating.
Greg felt his uncertainty begin to melt away. "You need a new flatmate, don't you? If I'm going to stay here, I could at least pay my half of the rent."
John looked up again and stared at him for a long moment. "If you want. Sure."
"I do. Want." Greg held up his glass, and John brought his up to meet it with a gentle clink.
"Cheers, mate."
"Cheers." Greg felt a tug in his belly, something far too familiar. He took a swig of whiskey and swallowed it down.
"I miss him," John said after a long pause. "Horribly. I can't pretend otherwise."
"I'm not asking you to--"
"I know. I just… I thought I'd do something different with my life now, you know? That I'd go in another direction, back into medicine. Hell, maybe even back into the army, a desk job or something." He paused, shrugged. "But today was… today was amazing. And I think I want to keep doing it and maybe start the blog up again. I mean, I do get online, and I know there are people who believe the truth, who believe in him. I want them to see how he changed me, I suppose. He taught me so much."
Greg knew he should look away, give John his space, but he couldn't do it. He wanted to see, wanted to know what John was feeling, to see the pain and grief that were still very much there. John had shielded him from so much of that, but it didn't mean Greg hadn't seen it anyway. He found himself staring at John's mouth and he closed his eyes. Oh God. The alcohol definitely wasn't helping with that.
He looked away, down at his lap to where one of John's bare feet was still pressed against his thigh. He trailed his fingers over the top of that foot and slid them around the arch to lift it up into his lap and squeeze it. John leaned back against the sofa cushions again with a long sigh and the squeeze turned into an outright footrub.
"You might even be better at that than Sherlock was," John said after a long silence.
Greg swallowed, let his fingers trail across the arch of John's foot. John twitched a bit, mildly ticklish. "He was an amazing man. I should have told him that."
He should have done a lot of things, but he wasn't going to think about that now, not when this delicate balance between him and John seemed on the verge of shifting.
"I know." John's eyes were closed and Greg couldn't read his face. He inhaled, exhaled again smoothly, and worked up his courage.
"Did he ever tell you about the time he kissed me?"
John went completely still beneath him. His eyes were already narrowed when they finally opened. "No. He didn't."
"Ah."
John wiggled his toes. "Come on, you can't leave it there."
"No, I suppose I can't." He didn't sound angry, but Greg pulled John's other foot into his lap anyway. He couldn't well go storming off if Greg was holding his feet, could he? "It was years ago, long before you met him. It was his third arrest for drugs -- possession only, though he was definitely high at the time -- and he was facing a serious sentence. Mycroft intervened on his behalf and I… well, I felt sorry for him, I suppose. All that potential, and he was just fucking throwing it away."
"You saw him like that?" John's eyes were soft now, and Greg realized that though John had known Sherlock as well as anyone, he'd never seen him strung out.
Greg nodded. "I had him brought to my office, with the idea of talking some sense into him, convincing him to go to rehab, that sort of thing. But he thought I'd brought him there for another reason altogether and when we were alone, he kissed me. Threw himself at me, really. And you know how he is, how he can be…" Greg paused and cleared his throat. "He caught me at a low moment, I think. Jodi had just left, for the first time, actually, and I was angry and a bit desperate to feel wanted and connected to something, anything." He paused and stared at John's feet. Was that so different from how he felt now? It was different, now that he thought about it. He wasn't the same man he was then. He inhaled, exhaled again. "And so I let him kiss me. But then it was threatening to become more than just a snog and I came back to my senses, pushed him off. I told him not like that, not while he wasn't in his right mind. That he needed to go to rehab, get his shit together. And so he did."
"Oh, God." John withdrew his feet and sat up.
"And the thing is, I think I meant it. I did at that moment, anyway. There was something about him, even then, that I…" He swallowed and stopped himself from continuing. "Of course, he never offered again and I never reminded him about it. I'm not even sure if he remembered it." He looked up at John's face, but it remained clouded.
"I always wondered what it was that happened between the two of you," John said at last. "I thought it was more along the lines of a fistfight, though. He kissed you, really?"
"Yeah."
"And you… I mean, I didn't think you were…"
"I've been married to a woman since you've known me. Why would you think otherwise?"
John made a sound almost like a laugh and scrubbed a hand over his face. "I should know better than to make assumptions about people, shouldn't I?"
"You think I haven't made assumptions about you?"
John snorted and raised his glass. "I'd be surprised if you hadn't."
They were far too drunk to have this conversation. "Everyone thought you two were a couple, you know."
"Does everyone include you?"
Greg hesitated long enough to fortify himself with another sip of whiskey. "I know you cared about him, that he cared about you. That much was bloody obvious. Everyone saw that, the way you looked at each other. Some of the blokes at the Yard made jokes, but… It was never my business."
"But you want to know, don't you?"
"You're teasing me now."
"Yeah, I am."
Greg slung back the rest of his whiskey and set his glass on the table. He turned toward John and picked up one of his feet again. "I think I know the answer."
"Do you? Ah, that's…" His cheeks flushed a bit as Greg pressed hard into a pressure point on the bottom of his foot. His head fell back on the sofa cushions. "God, keep doing that."
"Tell me, or I'll stop."
John's eyes were dark when he opened them again. "It was casual, always. Only when he wanted it, usually after a case. He did nothing during cases, didn't eat or sleep, but afterwards he'd stuff himself with take-away, fuck me, and then sleep for twelve hours." He paused, as if waiting to see if that bit of information was shocking.
"Was it always about him, or did you get what you wanted as well?" Greg's fingers moved up to John's toes now, massaging each in turn.
"He wasn't nearly as selfish in bed as you might imagine." He raised his eyebrows, as if recognizing that Greg had indeed imagined it quite a lot. "He gave amazing head."
"With that mouth, I'm not surprised." That mouth, Jesus. It'd been years, but he hadn't forgotten. Greg lifted John's foot to his lips and kissed the arch gently. John watched him, lower lip caught between his teeth.
"Greg--"
"I'm not trying to replace him," Greg said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I can't."
"I know." John swallowed and closed his eyes briefly, then pushed himself to sitting again. He was very close now and his lips were parted, and the expression on his face was as close to an invitation as Greg thought he'd likely get.
Greg leaned in before he could lose his courage. John's lips were softer than he'd expected and his mouth was warm and wet and Jesus, how long had it been since he'd kissed anyone like this? His hand slid around to the back of John's head and John pressed against him, almost climbing into his lap, his tongue slick against Greg's and oh -- the roughness of stubble -- God, Greg had forgotten about that. His cock was stirring to life and everything was pure liquid want now, this warm body against him and with him. His other hand worked itself between John's thighs to find him in a similar state and he stroked through layers of cloth, his mind already spinning out fantasies of what might happen next.
"Oh God," John said and he pulled away, pressing his forehead against Greg's shoulder, his body curving away from Greg's. "I'm so sorry… I can't."
Shit. Greg opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have--"
"No, no, don't." John sat up on his knees and looked at him. His face was flushed and his lips were wet and Greg was stunned by how much he wanted him at that moment. "It's not that, it's-- We're both fairly pissed right now, and I don't think we should do this unless we're certain."
"I'm certain." He reached out to touch John's cheek. "I've been certain for a while now."
John swallowed. "I'm just… fairly fucked up lately, you know? I don't have much to offer anyone."
"I got my fucking divorce papers yesterday. If anyone's on the rebound from a bad relationship, it's me."
John shook his head. "I mean it, Greg. The last thing I need is to fuck up the only friendship I've got. In my experience, a drunken shag will do just that."
Greg sighed. "I'm not that drunk, honestly. Neither are you."
"Stop sounding so fucking reasonable, will you?"
"I know it's complicated. And fucking scary. But I'm not asking for anything more than…" He shrugged, not certain how to explain himself.
"A port in a storm?"
Greg tried not to laugh, but couldn't help himself. "Which of us is the port in this scenario?"
"Oh, fuck you." John gave him a teasing little shove. "I have a fantastic port, I'll have you know."
Greg grabbed his hand and tugged him closer again. "I imagine you do."
"God, you." John leaned in and kissed him again, a soft, slow slide of lips and tongue. He leaned his forehead against Greg's and sighed. "I have so many regrets. I don't want to add any more."
"Then I'd better make it something you won't regret, hadn't I?" Greg pulled John down with him as he stretched out on the sofa. John kissed him again, more heated now, and Greg groaned beneath him. God, how long had it been since he'd done this, since anyone had kissed him like this?
John shifted a knee between Greg's thighs and ground against him, and they both groaned. "So what do you want? I don't have any condoms right now."
"Hmmm… I'm a bit rusty at this sort of thing, but I believe I mentioned that my right hand comes highly recommended."
John grinned against his lips. "You did."
"Here, let me--" Greg wriggled a hand between them and unfastened John's trousers. "--just give you a hand with this." John laughed against his shoulder and shifted his hips to the side to allow him better access. After a moment of awkward fumbling highly reminiscent of his school days, Greg's fingers finally wrapped around John's cock, already hard and larger than Greg would have expected. "Oh, there we are… God, John, where've you been hiding this thing?"
"In the usual spot, clearly." John was still chuckling.
"Shame I never thought to frisk you. I could've kept you occupied when Sherlock was busy, you know."
John's forehead pressed into his shoulder even harder. "Do you always talk this much during sex?"
"Yes. But I give a fucking good hand job, so you're going to have to deal with it." He slid his hand up the shaft of John's cock and lingered there, his fingers massaging the foreskin against the head.
"I might be too drunk for this," John said, snuggling his face against Greg's shoulder. "But that feels fantastic."
"Don't you dare fall asleep on me while I'm tossing you off."
"Mmmm. I'll make it up to you if I do." John yawned. "Sorry, I just…"
"Oi, a bit of enthusiasm would be nice."
"First shag in more than a month and I'm going to miss it. Oh, but don't stop, that's brilliant."
Greg kept his strokes light and teasing, mostly exploring John's prick, enjoying the feeling of it in his hand. It had been a long time since he'd done this with a man, long enough that he couldn't quite remember who and when. He'd had sex only with Jodi for more than a decade and her body was so familiar that he hadn't had to think much about it -- back when they used to have sex, anyway. But here was someone new with a body that was different in so many ways that the possibilities for exploring it seemed endless. The heat was different and the feeling of skin was different and the smell was different and the wonderful way John's hips rocked against him and the soft sighs against Greg's neck, little hums of pleasure even while he was sleepily nestled against Greg's chest -- all of it was startlingly different, and he loved it.
After a few more minutes, John's breathing evened out. Greg grinned at the ceiling, almost laughed. Under other circumstances he might have been disappointed, even offended, but somehow it was fine. He wrapped his arms around John's torso, felt his chest expand and contract, over and over. He hadn't held anyone like this in a while either, and it felt surprisingly good.
His life had reached some sort of tipping point tonight, away from the last five years and toward something different, something better. He remembered being twenty-five and feeling like the entire world was open to him, like anything could happen. Jodi had been part of that, both of them so young, so excited for the future they were going to build together. And then life happened and somehow he'd found himself dug in too deep to see anything but a narrow bleak path before him. But now it was suddenly different again, somehow. He felt freer than he had done in a long, long time.
He drifted off for a few minutes before startling awake again. As lovely as it was to lie here with a warm body pressed against him, the ache in his back in the morning wouldn't be worth it. He managed to slide out from under John without waking him, and tucked a blanket around him before heading back to his own bed to sleep.
He already knew it would all be all right in the morning.
*****