Archive of Our Own

"—so Greg says to him, ‘Oi! You in the mac!’ and the poor bastard faints clean away. Only wanted to give him his change, didn’t we?"

Greg managed a wan smile. "Pound thirty-five, wasn’t it?"

The bloke had only stumbled, really, but he supposed Dimmock’s version made for a better story. Something to distract from the fact that they’d come out three bodies down at the final tally, even with this—god, what was it the papers were calling him?—Brighton Bludgeoner in custody.

Greg fiddled with his glass as he watched Sally out of the corner of his eye. She was laughing, head resting on Anderson’s shoulder. Good coppers, the both of them, but he couldn’t say he hadn’t liked it better before they’d started shagging behind his back. No good could come of his best sergeant having the head of his forensics team twisted round her bloody fingers.

Dimmock nudged him with an elbow. "You, my friend, look ready for another pint."

"I don’t know…" He checked his watch. "Bit late, isn’t it?"

"Oh, come on, stay a bit. Weeks we've put into this case and tonight, we can all sleep soundly knowing that nutter’s behind bars. That’s something to celebrate," Dimmock said. He raised his glass. "To a case well solved."

Anderson’s glass glanced off Dimmock’s with a dull clang. "Hear, hear."

"So, you two staying, then?"

"God, no," Sally said. "I’m proper pissed already. Anyway, I’ve got to let the dog out." Dog was out already by the looks of it, but Greg kept that to himself as she gathered up her coat and her bag, Anderson trotting at her heels. She patted his shoulder. "You going to be all right, boss?"

"Yeah, you go on without me." His nerves were mince after today. A quiet night in the pub might be exactly what he needed. "I could use one more."

Once they’d gone, Dimmock dragged his chair around, hand on Greg’s shoulder as he leaned in close. "God, I thought they’d never leave."

The hot puff of breath made him shiver. "You said something about another pint?"

Greg watched him cross the pub, glasses in hand. Young, that one. Fresh from the academy, but he seemed a good enough sort. Eager, knew how to follow orders, but a good head on his shoulders, too. He’d never admit it, not in a million years, but Greg thought they might have another body or two on their hands if not for Dimmock keeping his wits about him. In a few years' time, he’d probably make detective inspector, so long as he still had the stomach for it.

Not bad looking, either, if you liked that sort of thing.

"So," Dimmock said as he set a full pint in front of Greg, "who’s leading?"

"Oh, uh, Liverpool, I think." He’d hardly paid attention to the game. "Not much of a footie fan, if you can believe it. Honestly, I think Di knows more about it than I do."

"Your wife?"

"Yeah, we’ve been married—" he blew out a stream of air "—god, almost twenty-five years now."

"Married young, did you?"

"Seventeen."

"Jesus," Dimmock laughed. "She must be one hell of a bird, your wife."

"We grew up together, Di and me. Caused loads of trouble," Greg said with a smile. "When we were fifteen, Di read Romeo and Juliet and made me promise we’d never be so daft. I love her. Honest to God, I do. Only sometimes—" He buried his head in his hands with a groan. "Christ, I don’t even know why I’m telling you this."

"Off the record, yeah? Just between mates."

Underneath the table, their knees knocked together. It was more contact than he’d had in ages. Nice, that, the crush of someone real, someone solid, at his side.

"We’ve not made love in ages. Months," he said at last. "Di wants to, I know she does, but I can’t, in the moment, you know?" He let out a shaky laugh. "Pathetic old bastard, aren’t I?"

Dimmock rolled his glass between his hands. "Stress of the job?"

"Suppose so. We have just caught ourselves a serial killer. Who’d want to shag at a time like this?"

"Well, I don’t know about that." Dimmock shrugged, mouth turning up in a sly grin. "Sometimes that’s what it takes to remind a man he’s still alive."

A bead of sweat slithered down the back of Greg’s neck and soaked into the collar of his shirt. He reached for his pint, only to find it empty. His mouth felt like someone had stuffed it full of cotton wadding. Dimmock slung an arm around his shoulders, brow knotted in concern.

"You all right?"

Greg tugged at his collar. Bloody thing was choking him. "Hot in here, isn’t it?"

He went to stand and promptly lost his balance, catching himself on the edge of the table. The room was turning like a damned carousel, round and round. He took a shaky step toward the toilets and tripped over his own feet.

Dimmock caught him at the last second, grunting under his weight. "Had a few too many, have we? Come on, we’ll get you sorted."

Dimmock led him down the dim, narrow corridor, arm wrapped round his back for balance. Greg leaned on him as they stumbled toward the toilets, his hand touching along the wall to keep steady. His limbs were filling up with hot sand, weighing him down. Once they reached the toilets, he reeled, blinded by the glare of the fluorescent lights.

He used the sink to steady himself, awkwardly twisting the tap and splashing his face with one hand, willing his head to clear. He tucked his head towards his chest and took a few deep breaths. Upon opening his eyes, his last lungful of air left in a sharp exhale. His face reddened, but he was helpless to look away from Dimmock pulling out his cock. It wasn’t like he was trying to get an eyeful, but now that he was looking, Greg found he couldn’t stop. It wasn’t right, watching a man piss. There was something vulgar about it, something raw. Not that he’d never seen another bloke’s cock before, you understand, but maybe, before, he’d never really looked.

God, I thought they’d never leave.

Everything seemed to slow for a moment, before time lurched forward and Greg was startled by the ringing of the porcelain as he backed them into the urinal. The world narrowed, sharpened down to a small point—hot mouth, wet and open, fingers scrabbling at his shirt, wet where he’d splashed himself, his fingers scratching against wool. He sighed and dropped his head a little, trying to catch his breath.

"Greg, what—"

His head snapped up and everything slowed down again. His eyes flicked between his hands, still clutching fistfuls of Dimmock’s coat, and Dimmock’s mouth, red and wet from—oh, Christ, from his mouth.

"I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…" Greg scrubbed a hand over his mouth. "Look, I—I’ve got to get home. To Di." He backed into the door as Dimmock took a step towards him. "Don’t touch me. I’m warning you."

Dimmock held up his hands. "I’m not gonna, all right? Just calm down. Let me pull the car round, get you home."

"No. No, I don’t need your help." He wavered on his feet and clutched at his head. "Done enough."

"Come on, Greg, you can’t drive like this. At least let me call you a cab." Dimmock touched a hand to his cuffs and Greg swallowed. "Don’t make me take you in. I don’t want to have to do that. You know what that would do to me, don’t you? Greg?"

The room was beginning to curl up at the edges like paper burning.

"Greg? You all right? Greg---"

He had one final vision of the tile accelerating toward him and then he saw nothing at all.

***

He’d come to in the squad car at half two and promptly sicked up. Clever of Dimmock to leave the door open. Otherwise, he might have heaved all over his own shoes. They were sat in front of the little café two streets away from Greg’s flat now. His mouth still tasted of sick.

"About all of this," Greg started, once he’d chased a few aspirin with hot, black coffee. "I really am sorry, you know. I don’t know what got into me." He chanced a look at Dimmock. Stiff jaw, fidgeting, knit brow. His stomach did its best to turn itself inside out. A look like that could only mean one thing. What was that line, about preferring mercy to justice? "Look, I’m not thrilled about it, but… I’m just saying, I’ll understand if you need to make a report. God knows I’d deserve it."

"Not really my style, ratting you out."

"Yeah? That’s good, I suppose. Thanks."

"Don’t mention it."

Greg contemplated the last dregs of his coffee. Diane would probably be asleep now. At least, he hoped so. The last thing he wanted to come home to was a big confrontation. Better if he could sneak in, kip on the sofa, and pray a few hours sleep would be enough to let him meet her eyes over breakfast.

"Look, I’m not bothered if you’re a poof," Dimmock said, startling Greg out of his thoughts. "But I don’t fuck for favors. If that’s what it takes to make inspector under your watch, I’d just as soon go back to pencil-pushing."

"You think I’m a poof?"

"No, I just—you did kiss me tonight."

"Yeah, well, I was pissed, wasn’t I?" Greg combed a hand through his hair. "Doesn’t mean I’m a bloody poof."

"All right, all right, I’m sorry. Look," Dimmock said, "I know it’s none of my business, but if you’ve got a… problem, maybe you ought to see someone about it."

"What are you talking about? You accusing me of something?"

"Christ, Greg, I’m not accusing you of anything. Relax, will you?" Dimmock twisted his hands against the steering wheel. "I’m not the only one who’s worried, you know. Sally, she thinks you might—"

"Why are you bringing Sally into this?"

"Well, I couldn’t drag you off the pub floor myself, could I? Heavy bastard." This was clearly not the rapport he’d been hoping to establish. "Anyway, it’s not like I told her about you snogging me. I’m not a complete arsehole. Hold it," he said, abruptly. "We’ve got a call." His hand went for his pocket a second later. "Sergeant Dimmock speaking… yeah, ten, fifteen minutes."

Ten minutes, well, that’d be Westminster. Soho, probably, this time of night. Not another dead prostitute, he hoped. He’d had enough of them to last a lifetime.

"Yeah, well, tell ‘em they can wait until Donovan turns up or I do. I’m on my way." Dimmock reached across Greg’s lap and flung the door open. "Out."

"What the hell do you mean, ‘out’? This is my bloody squad car. We’ve got a crime scene."

"And it’ll still be there tomorrow. Go home, Greg. Sleep it off. I’ll catch you up in the morning. First thing, if that’s what you want."

"What I want is for you to remember who you’re talking to," Greg snapped. He couldn’t believe this. Give a man an inch and he takes a bloody mile. He slammed the door shut. "I was still your superior officer last time I checked, which means you go where I tell you to go, when I tell you."

"You really think you’re in any condition to handle a homicide?"

"What do I keep telling you? I’m fine."

As the engine roared to life, Dimmock spared him once last glance. "On your head be it."

***

"What happened to your coat? Nippy tonight."

"Who are you, my mum?" Greg stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets. "We’re here for a case. Stop your fussing."

Damn kid. In his day, sergeants had respect. They toed the line and they kept their mouths shut. At least, they had if they knew what was good for them. God, the last thing he needed tonight was someone making him feel old.

"So, what did dispatch say?"

"There’s been a double homicide, or maybe suicide, down on Old Compton. Weren’t too clear about it. Said it was odd."

"Odd how?"

"Don’t know," Dimmock said. "They just told me to be prepared for it."

The noise grew louder as they approached. Greg’s heart sank. Bystanders—of course. It was Soho, after all. That lot liked a good murder almost as much as they liked a good buggering. It’d be plastered all over the papers in a few hours. He took a deep breath and pushed his way through the crowd, Dimmock in tow.

"Stand aside! London Metropolitan Police, Detective Inspector coming through." He searched the scene as best he could, and finally spotted Sally on the perimeter, arms crossed as she talked to one of the guys from forensics. "Oi, Donovan!" he called. "Donovan!"

When she whirled around, her eyes were wide as plates. "Boss? I thought you were—"

"Nevermind that. Catch us up. What’re we looking at?"

"Are you sure you’re all right?"

"Oh, for the love of God, will you stop asking me that? I’m fine."

Sally pursed her lips. Dimmock coughed. Greg was rapidly made aware of the dozen or so pairs of eyes that had swiveled in his direction.

"The hell are you looking at? Back to work!" He’d about had it up to here with this. So he’d had a bit to drink—he’d also had some time to sober up, hadn’t he? Aspirin, coffee, the whole nine. "What’s got into this lot?"

Sally and Dimmock shared a look. "Sir, have you seen yourself? Have you heard yourself? And you." She crossed her arms over her chest. If looks could kill, Greg reckoned Dimmock would be a dead man. "I seem to remember you telling me you were taking him home. Why’s he here?"

"Couldn’t bloody well force him, could I?" Dimmock shifted from foot to foot. "He pulled rank on me."

"Come on, sir," Sally said, clearly unimpressed. "Bodies are this way."

On first glance, they looked pretty ordinary, like two men who’d had the misfortune of falling asleep in four-degree weather. They got those sometimes. Homeless, mostly, frozen to park benches, front steps and the like. These two, though… obviously not homeless and not a mark on them that Greg could see. There was a box on the seat between them, red-wrapped and tied up in ribbon.

"Donovan, what are we thinking?"

"Hate crime, maybe."

Dimmock snorted. "In Soho? Not a chance."

"Oh," Sally said, "so, what, you’ve got a better idea? Come on, then, let’s hear it."

"Keep your knickers on, will you?"

Greg stepped between them before they could add a GBH on top of the homicide. "Knock it off, you two. And stop acting like children or I’ll spank both your arses." They looked appropriately chastised and at the moment, that was all he really wanted. "Get me a pair of gloves, Dimmock. I want to see what’s inside that box."

Once he’d wandered off, Sally touched a hand to his shoulder. "Sir, the chief superintendent’s just showed up."

"Yeah?"

"I’m just saying be careful, all right?"

"For the last time, Sally—"

"Gloves, inspector."

Greg snatched them out of Dimmock’s hands and pointed a finger at Sally. "You do your job, I’ll do mine."

Up close, they looked even more eerie. Serene, almost. More like dolls than dead men. Christ, they were even holding hands. As gingerly as he could manage, Greg ran his fingers round the edge of the box and lifted the lid.

The explosion, bright white, knocked him back on his arse, the afterimage swimming before his eyes. Disorientated, he tried to stand. He slipped on the ice and went back down twice before someone hauled him to his feet.

"Didn’t expect the damn thing to explode," he managed.

"That wasn’t an explosion, you prat," Sally hissed. "Pull yourself together. MacKinnon’s heading our way."

Greg clutched his head. "The hell was it, then?"

"Couple of white birds," Dimmock said. "Doves, maybe?"

"Doves? Who gift-wraps doves?"

"The same psychopath who left two corpses on a bench, I shouldn’t wonder," came a very unamused, very unwelcome voice from behind Greg. God, why’d it have to be MacKinnon, of all people?

Greg swallowed around the lump in his throat and turned. "May I just say how wonderful it is to see you, sir?"

"Spare me your bullshit, Inspector. Sergeant Donovan, I trust you can wrap things up here?"

Her spine snapped straight as a yardstick. "Yes, sir. Of course."

"Eight tomorrow, my office," MacKinnon said, addressing Dimmock before turning to Lestrade. "You, Inspector, are coming with me." He pulled a pair of cuffs off his belt. "A night in the drunk tank ought to clear your head."

***

Showing up early had been a mistake. That much was obvious. Fifteen minutes and Greg hadn’t been able to do more than smile nervously at whoever filed in, in the hopes that one of them might break the ice and give him a reason not to bolt.

"They think you’re police."

Greg nearly jumped out of his skin. "I beg your pardon?"

"That’s why you’ve been rebuffed, despite your above-average looks and obvious desire to make a personal connection," the man said, as if it was all very matter of fact. "They’re quite correct, as you’re no doubt aware. Detective Inspector, is it?"

"How did you—" Greg narrowed his eyes and held out his hand. "I’ll be having that back, thanks. Come on, cough it up."

His mouth twisted unhappily, but he produced Greg’s ID from his pockets all the same. Light-fingered bastard. Greg dumped a liberal heaping of sugar into his paper cup before drowning it in dark, black coffee that, frankly, smelled fantastic. Small miracles and all that, he supposed.

"Not a very good pickpocket, are you?"

"You’re not as stupid as I initially estimated," the man said, without any trace of praise. His eyes were a piercing, pale blue. "Tell me, Inspector, is your presence today court-mandated, or have you simply been given the option between this and a permanent vacation?"

For a moment, Greg couldn’t find the words. At last, he muttered, "Piss off" and went to find a seat, somewhere far away from the man who had proved to him, yet again, that as bad as he thought any day was, it could always, always get worse. And he was right—that was the kicker. Not court-mandated, thank God, but after spending the night sweating and heaving in the bin, he’d been told in no uncertain terms that he could either spend the next three months in addiction counseling or turn in his resignation.

Fucking MacKinnon, trying to make an example of him. He’d had it out for Greg since his first day on the job. Gregson might’ve let you get away with just anything, Lestrade, but this is my unit now, and you’re just one more headache I don’t need.

The whole thing was a load of bollocks.

By the time Greg managed to clear his head, half the chairs had already been taken. He didn’t like the look of the scrawny bloke picking at his fingernails, nor the woman who kept digging through her bag like she’d lost something and couldn’t remember what it was, but the old woman seemed harmless enough.

"This seat taken, love?"

She smiled warmly. "You’re quite welcome to it."

"Thanks."

He scanned the circle one last time. No sign of his mystery man there. He checked over his shoulder. The man must have gone out, or been part of a meeting before or something. He hadn’t seemed like much of a drinker, not that Greg had any more than passing familiarity with the handful of poor sods down the pub who seemed intent on drinking themselves to death.

"It seems we’ve got some new faces today," said a woman with long, greying hair. Meeting coordinator, he supposed. The thought sent his pulse spiking. "And I just wanna say welcome, to all of you. Don’t feel as if you need to participate today, but know that if there’s anything you want to say, the floor is open to you."

It didn’t seem real, the way it all slotted together. There was a feeling of recitation to it. A sort of dust on the conversation that told him the stories he was hearing were the same stories these people had told a dozen, a hundred times in meetings just like this one. It was textbook, with the woman who’d killed her boy in a traffic collision, and the man who’d beat his wife half to death before he’d gone straight.

It had to be wretched, unbearable, having that kind of blood on your hands, but those weren’t accidents. They were to blame, no matter who they’d lost, and maybe that was cruel, but that’s the way it was. They’d brought it on themselves.

Greg checked his watch for what must have been the hundredth time. Twenty minutes. It was a struggle not to drum his heels against the floor, crack his knuckles, anything.

"—and, as some of you know, I’m having some family problems." The man currently speaking was tall and thin, balding. "I haven’t seen my kids or my wife for six weeks. Last night, Sarah, my youngest, called me up and said to me, ‘Daddy, when are we coming home?’" He gave a short, humorless laugh. "It’s just hard, having to tell her that I don’t know. When I’m better, I say, but when does it ever really get better? My kids are gone, my wife is sleeping with another man, and even if I do beat this, there’s a good chance that no one will be waiting for me on the other side of it."

He took a shaky breath and suddenly, it was more than Greg could bear. His chair clattered as he stood.

"I’m sorry," he said, feeling every head in the room turn towards him. "I’m just—you know, I don’t think I belong here. I have a job. A career. My marriage isn’t falling apart. I’m sorry, but I’m not like you people. I don’t… I’m sorry, I have to go. I can’t stay here."

It seemed an eternity before he made it out into the open. For a while, he just stood with his back to the brick, eyes closed, trying to remember how to breathe.

"Cigarette?" a voice queried.

"Haven’t got any on me. Sorry, mate." He opened his eyes and wished he hadn’t. "Oh, God, not you again. Are you following me?"

"Technically, I never left."

"Yeah, well."

Greg watched as he lit up a cigarette, somehow managing to make the process look elegant. Without missing a beat, he held out a second cigarette.

"No point in forestalling the inevitable, is there?"

Greg accepted it cautiously. "I suppose not."

No sooner had he stuck it between his teeth than a pale, spidery hand appeared to light it. Bit queer, another bloke lighting his cigarette, but not entirely unappreciated. The first pulse of nicotine made him sigh.

"God, that’s brilliant. It’s been so long, I’d forgot."

"Mmm, you’re quite welcome."

"So," Greg said, "you planning to nick anything off me this time?"

His companion shrugged. "I don’t see what point it would serve."

"And the point of your previous sleight of hand?"

"Alcohol slows the brain and dulls the reflexes. If you were a long-term alcoholic, you likely wouldn’t have noticed until you reached for your keys. You noticed immediately, which means you’ve only been drinking heavily for six months at the outside, but more likely three, after the last time you had intercourse with your wife. You’ve obviously never set foot in one of these meetings prior to today, which means it’s only just begun to affect your work."

He angled his chin, eyebrows raised in challenge. Greg ground his cigarette out against the brick. Two could play this game.

"So, what’s a coke fiend doing at an AA meeting, anyway?"

The man’s eyes darted back and forth, brow knit. "You worked narcotics before you were assigned to homicide."

"That’s right. You’re high as a kite right now."

"The coffee."

"Please, I’m really not—"

"Not coffee, the coffee. Eight of the eleven CA meetings in the greater London area serve decaf. Of the remaining three, two switch after noon. The last only meets on Fridays. Today, as you no doubt know, is Monday."

"You’re an odd bastard, you know that?"

"Sherlock Holmes," he said. "Not that you’ll find any priors on me, Inspector."

"Plenty of idiots too stupid to notice you nicking their wallets, I imagine." He wasn’t in the habit of humoring junkies, but given that he’d just succeeded in alienating an entire room of people, it couldn’t hurt to have at least one of them on his side. "I take it you’re not a thief by trade, so, what is it that you do?"

"I observe and, based on those observations, I deduce."

"Not much money in observation, is there?"

"Oh, I don’t know. It’s not so different from what you do, Inspector." Sherlock was smiling as he took a step towards him. Somehow, he managed to loom. "There was something peculiar about your most recent crime scene, wasn’t there? Something you hadn’t anticipated. It’s written all over your face." His eyes seemed to burn white. Greg’s palms broke out in sweat. "Tell me, did it have the look of a serial killing? Some sort of signature touch?"

How could he possibly—no, he wasn’t even remotely ready to consider that. "I don’t discuss cases with civilians. And definitely not with junkies." Some sort of signature touch? "I know your type, you know. Puffed up, bit too taken with your own brilliance."

Sherlock’s smile was humorless. "I can promise you’ve never met a man like me, Inspector."

"That’s what you all say, but it’s all hot air, isn’t it? Doesn’t cost you a penny to take the piss out of me, but when it comes to actually solving anything, what good are you? I’ve not got time for this, or for you."

Sherlock’s voice followed him out of the alley. "Don’t make the mistake of thinking it’s over, Lestrade. There will be another."

The words were like ice water down his back.

***

"There's something off about you today." Diane rested her chin on her palm. "Are you sure you don't want a glass of wine?"

"Really, I'm fine." Greg approximated a smile. "You go on without me."

"Suit yourself."

It had been a week and he still hadn’t found a way to break the news to her. What would she think of him? Thank God Mum was dead—Greg didn't know if he could bear the thought of having the both of them disappointed in him at the same time. Between those two, he'd have never heard the end of it. Nothing, he’d thought, could compare to the shame of having to apologize to a group of complete strangers for making such a cock-up of his first meeting, but he’d been wrong. Just the thought of telling Di about it, and knowing every word he said would sit between them on the drive home, was unimaginably worse.

"I wanted to make it up to you," Greg said. "For missing your birthday and for... for other things. I know I've been a rotten husband to you, especially these last few months, with work being so hectic." He scratched at his neck. God, he was overdue for a shave. "Look, what I'm trying to say is, you don't come second to the work, Di. And I know I've not done a good of showing it, but I love you."

Di nodded along to this, as if weighing her words. After a long pause, she looked him square in the face. "Greg Lestrade, you're an utter knob."

"What?"

"A proper bell-end," she confirmed. She covered her face with her hands and laughed, shoulders shaking with it. "Jesus, Greg, you got me all worked up thinking you'd been sacked!"

"God, no! Nothing like that. Why d’you always think I’ve been sacked?"

"You've got me here all dressed up, suspense driving me mental... what was I supposed to think? I'm sorry," she said, reaching across the table and patting his hand. "It's just your face, love. I've not seen you look so miserable since, well, ever, really."

"Yeah, well, I've got a lot on my mind."

"You always did." Di squeezed his hand and gave a soft smile that made his stomach flip-flop. He couldn't take her smiling at him like that and not knowing. "You're a good man, Greg. Chin up."

He wrung his napkin in his hands. If it'd been paper, he'd have torn it to bits already, but fancy place meant fancy cloth napkins. It was just as well. "There's something else I've been meaning to tell you."

Just like that, it all came out, about spending the night in lockup thanks to MacKinnon and making an arse of himself in AA. He left out the bit about Dimmock—no reason to make a fuss about that—and glossed over Sherlock, but he told her the rest of it, every humiliating detail laid bare.

Di toyed with her wine glass. "You know, Sally called me that night. After they took you in."

Well, that was… "So you’ve known all this time? Why didn't you say anything?"

"I wanted to hear it from you." Di smiled and shook her head. "You should see your face. You poor, poor thing. Really, I think it's good news."

"You're not disappointed, then?"

"No, I’m proud of you. Well," she said with a laugh, "not about drinking on the job, but getting into treatment, definitely. I think it’s a brilliant idea. Besides," she said, her mouth turning up in a wicked grin, "now that you're off the booze, maybe I’ll even get that birthday shag you promised me ages ago."

***

As soon as they shut the door behind them, Diane was on him. Greg could taste the wine on her mouth, dark and tannic. His pulse sped up and his hands shook trying to unzip her dress. After the second try, he gave up.

"How do you even get in and out of this thing?"

Di laughed. "Never were handy with a zip, were you?" Her dress fell away and she moved against his chest with an exaggerated shiver. "It’s cold down here. Let’s go upstairs."

He rubbed her bare arms. "You don’t want to roll around on the sofa?"

"I’m not seventeen anymore. Hell, I’m not thirty anymore."

"Still look the same to me."

"Liar," she accused, but she smiled all the same. She grabbed his tie and gave it a good tug. "Come on, I’m taking you upstairs. And you better be naked by the time we get there."

Once they’d made it to the bedroom, Di flicked the lights on.

"You hate it with the lights on."

"Yeah, but—"

"It’s your birthday shag, remember?" Greg turned them back off and even though he couldn’t see her, he knew she was smiling as they stumbled back toward the bed, Diane nipping at his earlobes.

She sighed against his neck. "You’ve no idea how much I’ve missed this, with you."

"I think I might."

He dropped his hands to squeeze her arse, drawing a little gasp out of her. She drew idle circles around his nipple with her forefinger. "You don’t want to…you know, do you?"

"Thought you didn’t like it last time we tried."

"Yes, well, I’m feeling adventurous," Diane said. "But if you don’t want to—"

"No, I want to," Greg assured her. He settled between her thighs. "Whatever you want, anything. Should I, I don’t know, uh…"

"I’ve got it," she said. He heard her squirt something out and then her hand was on his cock. He inhaled sharply and steadied himself over her as she worked him with firm, steady strokes. "Oh, that’s it, there we go…" She let go of him and turned onto her front. "Come on, then, love. Let’s get you in."

They snapped together and for the longest moment, he could only groan against the back of her neck. When he finally pumped his hips, Di made a strangled sound.

"Bad?"

"No, no, good, keep going, and don’t you dare stop this time. I haven’t been fucked properly in ages."

He couldn’t help laughing while he still had the breath to do it, before it was all too much. It was nice, huddled under the duvet like this. He traced the curve of her spine with his hands as he moved them together and apart, feeling the heat build against the backdrop of slick, wet sounds and the smell of sweat. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed that smell until now.

Greg kissed the patch of skin behind her ear. "Still okay?"

"I think I might like to get up top, actually."

Greg rolled off and settled back in the warm space she’d left. She pressed down on him again and his face went hot at the way her breasts bounced as she moved on top of him. When he’d been fifteen, he used to lie awake nights thinking about those breasts, wondering what they felt like, what they looked like under Diane’s jumper. Some days he worried he’d die without ever touching a tit, but now that he’d seen them hundreds, thousands of times, it was hard to muster the enthusiasm.

He grunted appreciatively and gave an upward snap of his hips, trying to stay focused. A week sober had made it easier to start getting it up again, but it hadn’t made it much easier to keep it there. His mind kept drifting, his back complained. Diane worked a hand between them to rub herself off and Greg closed his eyes, taking hold of her hips. He didn’t have to last that much longer, just a bit more. Just a bit more, and then, it wouldn’t matter.

It seemed an eternity before Di finally shuddered to a close, Greg’s flaccid cock slipping free only a moment later.

Diane curled her fingers in his chest hair. "You did come, didn’t you?"

"Yeah, of course. Just knocked the breath out of me is all," he said, covering the lie with a kiss. His mobile buzzed loudly in the dark. "Sorry, just give me a minute."

His trousers were somewhere around here. He flicked the lights and spotted them crumpled next to the door. He dug his mobile out of the pockets. "Detective Inspector Lestrade speaking."

It was Sally. "We’ve got another one, sir. Down by Trafalgar Square."

Shit, just when things were looking up. "Same MO?"

"Looks like it. How soon can you be there?"

"Ah…" He glanced over his shoulder, "let me call you back. Listen, Di—"

"Go on," she said. "I’ll be fine here."

"It’s just, I can’t beg off when I’ve got a black mark on my name already. You understand, don’t you?" He snatched up his clothes from around the room, pulling them on as quickly as he could. He bent to kiss Di’s cheek. "I’ll try to be back early, if I can. I love you."

***

Greg stood with his hands in his pockets, contemplating the scene. Three women, no physical similarities aside from their identical expressions of serenity, no marks on the bodies, no murder weapon. Nothing.

"It’s the same guy, though, right?"

"We’re assuming that, yeah," Sally said. "Hard to tell without any prints."

"You’re telling me forensics hasn’t found anything?"

"Not so much as a hair. You want autopsies on these as well?"

"Yeah, go ahead and put the order through."

It would give them some time to think, if nothing else. Not that he much relished the thought of meditating on the fact that he had five bodies on his hands, every indication that they wouldn’t be the last, and no leads whatsoever. Happy fucking Christmas. The whole thing was a complete disaster.

"No witnesses, I suppose?" Sally’s expression told him everything he needed to know. "All right, well, I’m going home, then. Give me a ring if anything turns up."

***

As soon as he opened the door, Greg knew something was off. He rushed upstairs and threw open the bedroom door to the sight of Diane packing clothes into her old tartan suitcase.

"Di, what are you doing?"

"I can’t do this anymore, Greg."

"What do you mean?"

"I love you, Greg, God knows I do, but I can't go on like this. I’m tired of pretending. I’m tired of making excuses for you. I’m sorry," Di said, "but I’m just tired."

"But things are getting better, aren’t they?" They had to be. This couldn’t be happening, not to them. "I’m done with the drinking, all of it. Christ, Di, we actually had sex today. "

She sat on the edge of the bed, running her hands over the scarf she’d been folding.

"Look, Greg, I’m happy you’ve got yourself into treatment. I really, really am, because the last thing I want is to watch you drink yourself to death like your dad did, but it isn’t enough."

There was no anger in her face at all, only exhaustion. Somehow, that was the worst part of it. He thought he might have been able to handle anger—not that Di had ever been the sort to fly off the handle—or even tears, but not that bone-deep tiredness that made her sound and look like a woman twice her age.

"When we first got married," she said, "I thought even if it might take a while, you'd start thinking of me as your wife, but the thing is, you haven't. It's like we're still ten and I'm your best friend. And, I mean, that's good, in some ways, but I can't be married to my best friend. And I can't ask you to stay with me when all it does is make you miserable."

"I’m not miserable," Greg said. "I’m not. Honest. Di, this is just a rough patch. It happens. You can’t seriously be thinking of throwing away twenty-five years just because—"

"It’s not just one thing, Greg," she cried, the scarf bunching up in her hands. "It’s everything! It’s the drinking, it’s the way you hardly look at me anymore. Don't tell me you've not noticed, because I know you have. And I know, I know you love me, but things haven’t been all right for a long time now."

Her words cut his knees out from under him. "Just tell me, Di. Just tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it. Anything. Please." He grabbed for her hands. "Please, I’m begging you."

"For fuck’s sakes, Greg," she laughed, "I want you to be happy." She squeezed his hands in hers. "This isn’t enough for me and I don’t think it’s enough for you, either. We deserve better, both of us."

"I don’t know how to be happy without you," he said. He knew exactly how ridiculous it sounded, but the words just poured out. "I don’t know how to be without you. How am I supposed to handle the work and the meetings when I don’t have you to come home to? Jesus, Di, I can’t even balance the accounts. You know how shit I am at maths. Oh, God." He buried his face in her lap and wrapped his arms around her legs. "God, Di, please don't do this to me. I can't do this without you."

"Oh, don’t give me that, you big softie. You can and you will." She ran her fingers through his hair, gently stroking over the back of his neck. "This is a good thing. You’ll find someone else. Someone... well, someone more your own speed. You’ll see, love. Now, stand up, and get yourself sorted."

Greg stood chewing at the inside of his cheek as Di gathered up her things. "Are you going to your mum's?"

"I’ll leave the number on the fridge," Di promised. She stretched up to kiss his cheek. "I’ve got to catch the train. Promise me you’ll take care of yourself?"

"Yeah, okay."

Greg listened to the sound of her footsteps down the stairs. As soon as he heard the door close behind her, he let out the sob he’d been holding in.

***

It was a story he’d heard a thousand times. A story everyone knew. You made a mistake, and God, or the universe, or whatever it was inside a man that turned him wrong, punished you for it. Five people were dead and he didn’t know a thing about how to stop it from happening again, his wife had walked out on him, he’d practically assaulted his training sergeant, and now he was sat back at the pub where it all began.

Greg slid his fingers through the condensation. He could smell it. God, he could practically feel it running down his throat. It was a hell of a thing to be staring down a pint glass, knowing there was no solution at the bottom of it and being tempted to try anyway.

The last thing I want is to watch you drink yourself to death like your dad did.

His hands balled into fists. Good man, his dad. A good copper, too. At least, that’s what mum used to tell him. He’d been so young when it happened, it was hard to remember what he was like.

Greg fished a fiver out of his pocket and left it on the bar along with the pint.

It was a nice enough night. Cold, but clear enough to see the stars over London. He walked past shops and cafés and takeaways and hoped a bit of fresh air—well, as fresh as air got in this city, anyway—might clear his head. There were probably meetings tonight, somewhere he could check in. If he looked in enough church basements, he’d probably find one.

He chuckled to himself, but his heart wasn’t in it. He didn’t want to be steeped in other people’s misery tonight. He just wanted someone to talk to. Di would likely still be on the train. Anyway, he didn’t much feel like bothering her. I know you love me, but things haven’t been all right for a long time now.

He’d barely paid attention to where he’d wandered. Nothing but shops down here. An offie on the corner caught his eye. It would be easy. No shame in it, really—if a man couldn’t get good and pissed the night his wife left him, when could he? He probably looked mad, or homeless, standing there on the pavement with his hands in his coat pockets staring through the window not knowing whether he was strong enough to resist a second time.

He hadn’t meant to end up like his old man. It’d been stress, at first. Stress he’d always blamed on the job, but it was more than that, really. They used to go places together, used to take the trains out somewhere they’d never been and just sit kissing and laughing in the back car. They’d made love, too, but it had got harder and harder. Stress, Greg had said. Ordinary stress, and if drinking had given him a convenient excuse not to perform, well, who could blame him? He’d fucked Di enough to keep her happy, at least in the beginning.

Funny, how things turned out. You thought love was enough and sometimes it was, until it wasn’t anymore.

"It won’t bring her back, you know."

Greg suppressed the urge to lead his response with a fist to the face. "Funny, how you just keep popping up, pretending to know something about me."

"I don’t pretend, Inspector. That your wife left you tonight is as plain to me as your wedding band. Only slightly less obvious is your repressed homosexuality, which no doubt played a key role in your wife’s choice to try her hand elsewhere."

"You’ve got three seconds to make a run for it before I beat your arse, you spoiled, puffed-up junkie bastard."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You haven’t denied it."

"What?"

"You’ve not bothered to deny it because you know I’m right. It’s all finally caught up with you and I can see that you’re tired of running," he said, taking a slow step toward Greg. "There’s no need to run any longer."

Greg stumbled backwards, his back hitting brick. Shit. "You get the hell away from me, or—"

"You’ll put me in cuffs?" Sherlock braced a hand on the wall next to him, his voice a low rumble. "Not the best course of action, Inspector. I might even like it."

Sherlock’s lips touched his neck and Greg’s knees went to jelly. A second later, he found himself crushed against the brick, Sherlock pinning his wrists overhead. His mouth was chapped and feverish, his body all angles. One hand snaked down to squeeze Greg’s crotch roughly.

There was barely any time at all to process it before Sherlock was pulling back. "My accommodations are this way."

Greg’s heart thudded with every thump of his heels as he followed Sherlock through side-streets and byways, not knowing what the hell he was doing and helpless to do anything else. By the time they made it back to Sherlock’s "accommodations"—a dingy-looking squat—he was harder than he’d ever been in his life.

Sherlock kissed him again, pulling at his clothes and driving him backwards. His thighs hit the edge of something. Table, maybe, or a desk. Glass crunched under his heel. His mind immediately supplied the image of a needle and he tensed.

"They used to manufacture test-tubes here," Sherlock said.

"So you’re clean."

"I’ve not been anywhere you’d need to worry about."

It wasn’t what he’d meant, not really, but Greg didn’t get a chance to protest before Sherlock dropped to his knees, heedless of the broken glass. Greg gripped the edge of whatever it was he was leaning against with both hands as Sherlock lowered his zip.

"You’re not, you know, for hire, are you?"

"Please," he sneered as he fished out Greg’s cock. He gave it a long, firm stroke and Greg bit back a grunt. "For future reference, I’d prefer it if you came in my mouth and not on my face. Provided it’s all the same to you."

With one swift motion, he swallowed Greg’s cock. One hand, he kept wrapped around the base. Deft fingers tugged lightly at his foreskin and Greg’s knees quaked. His eyes rolled to the ceiling and shut of their own accord. It only seemed to magnify the sloppy, suckling noises coming from below.

His forearms quivered with the effort to hold himself up against the warm, strong hand cupping his balls. The mouth sliding along his cock slipped off and then down further. He moaned at the warm wetness as his balls were sucked on, the hand viciously tugging his cock in time. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been sucked off like this. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been sucked off, full stop. The hot mouth sucking at his balls switched back to the head of his cock and he nearly collapsed at the tight suction.

He finished with a grunt, fingernails scratching against the tabletop. Once his cock slipped free, it was only the arm curling around his waist that kept him from sagging to the floor. A hand turned his face to the side, his mouth meeting with lips rubbed raw. Greg shuddered as the rough fabric of Sherlock’s trousers grazed his softening prick.

Sherlock ran his nails lightly over the back of Greg’s neck. "There’s a mattress in the corner."

Half a dozen steps was enough to jumpstart his better judgment. Separated—if that’s what this really was—didn’t mean ‘not married’. And there’d been that comment the last time he’d seen Sherlock, about there being another homicide. For all he knew, he’d just been sucked off by a serial killer with an exceptionally talented—

"Be it far from me to discourage you from engaging in what little brain activity you’re capable of," Sherlock interrupted, "but at the moment, I would prefer that you cease your tedious consideration of whatever circumstantial evidence has led you to conclude, erroneously I might add, that I’m the madman responsible for your last two homicides simply because I possess the ability to extrapolate beyond the obvious. I did rather hope to spend the evening otherwise occupied."

He dove in for a fierce kiss, his tongue pushing into Greg’s mouth. Right, well, he could give Sherlock the benefit of the doubt for the moment, albeit grudgingly, but Greg wasn’t about to take him off the suspect list entirely. Not even if he did feel fantastic. Greg reached tentatively between them, fingers skirting the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers a moment before daring to dip inside. Christ, he hadn’t been so frightened since—well, ever. It wasn’t as if there was a pistol or a viper or something down there. It was just a cock. Another bloke’s cock, but a cock all the same.

Greg firmed up his grip and gave Sherlock a good pull. His mouth went slack against Greg’s. Relief coursed through him. He could do this. Hell, he could do this well. Bit obvious, wasn’t it? All the bits right there on the outside and no mystery at all as to what to do with them. You’ll find someone else, someone, well… more your own speed. You’ll see, love. The angle was all wrong, of course, not to mention the unfamiliar girth, but the rest was exactly his speed.

Sherlock wriggled his trousers down a bit and it was even easier. His hand curled warmly around Greg’s cock, still hanging out the front of his trousers. Greg laughed a bit as he broke away.

"You’re laughing. Why?"

"I am just a bit older than you."

"State of mind," Sherlock said. "Completely and utterly irrelevant. I’ll prove it."

He batted Greg’s hand aside and wrapped his own around the both of them. Good luck with that—he hadn’t got it up twice in the same day since he was Sherlock’s age. Still, he had to admit it did feel nice, Sherlock pumping them both in his hand as he sucked kisses into Greg’s neck. Greg ran his hands up beneath Sherlock’s shirt. Ribs like slats, smooth. He thumbed over a nipple and Sherlock bucked against him. Greg’s cock gave a sympathetic throb.

Feeling bold, Greg turned his face towards Sherlock’s wandering mouth, catching him in a kiss. There was just nothing like it, was there? Someone breathing into you, and your lips so full of sensation it was almost as painful as it was exquisite. There were tastes there Greg didn’t want to think about, but it was easy enough to push them from his mind as his cock plumped under Sherlock’s attentions and their grind grew more frantic. God, it was going to happen, wasn’t it? There was a warm gush of fluid as Sherlock came and before he’d even had the chance to slow, Greg was following, coming so hard it hurt.

"I told you," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, all right," Greg conceded, tiredly. He felt he’d been wrung dry. "But you’re still a smug twat."

***

"Your mobile rang while you were asleep. A woman named Sally. She left a message. Several, in fact," Sherlock said, as if the moment Greg opened his eyes was the perfect moment to begin this conversation. "You’ve another body, if I’m not mistaken."

Greg rolled onto his back and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "What’s this about Sally?"

Sherlock dropped Greg’s mobile on his chest. Rather unceremonious, that. Greg blearily opened up his voice messages, cringing at the increasingly shrill register of Donovan’s voice as she asked, rather fairly in all honesty, where the fuck he’d fucked off to with a madman on the loose.

Greg glanced over at Sherlock, who was doing God only knew what with a hot plate. He still wasn’t entirely certain he hadn’t fucked off with the madman himself, but that may have been the guilt creeping in. The sour taste in his mouth made him grimace. He needed a cup of coffee and a hot shower, preferably in that order, before he even considered checking out their perp’s latest Christmas present.

"When did you wake up, anyway?"

"I didn’t sleep," came the reply. "Do you take sugar in your coffee?"

"No."

"Good, because I don’t have any." Sherlock presented him with a chipped mug filled to the brim. Greg eyed it, warily. "If I’d wanted to drug you, I’d have done it while you were snoring on my mattress."

Greg snatched the mug from him. "I do not snore."

"You have a deviated septum. Of course you snore."

"Yeah? You get a good look at that last night?" Greg rolled his eyes and cautiously sampled the coffee. It was, surprisingly, not bad. He took another sip. Not bad at all. Good, even. "I didn’t mean to put you off your sleep."

Sherlock waved him off. "I’ve been thinking about your case. The last victims—all three of them women, yes?"

"Yeah, but the first two—"

"Were men," Sherlock said. "Not important. Have you identified the victims? Were they local?"

"I really can’t tell you anything that’s not been in the papers."

Sherlock’s eyes were flat and cold. "You still think I’m responsible."

"No," Greg said. Not really. "But you’ve got to admit you don’t make it easy to believe you’re innocent, telling me it’s not over and bringing it up all the time. What’s it to you, anyway?"

"A puzzle with a missing piece."

"And I suppose you think you can find that piece."

"I think I’ve already found it. I’ll need to see your most recent crime scene for verification, of course."

He had a feeling he was going to need more than a cup of coffee to deal with this. "Now, hold on a minute. I’m not about to let a civilian poke about in one of my crime scenes. You’re not qualified, for one, and even if you were, I barely know you, let alone whether I can trust you."

"You trusted me enough to fall asleep knowing I could potentially turn out to be your serial murderer," Sherlock pointed out, "which suggests you were never wholly convinced by your own theory. It would be convenient, to be able to single me out as the killer, yes, but as desperate as you are for this to be over, you’ve been a police officer far too long to let your desperation get in the way of your need to know, to be correct. You don’t want just any man behind bars, Inspector. You want the right man," Sherlock said, taking Greg’s cup out of his hands, "and I am more than qualified to deliver him to you should you permit a minor breech in protocol."

God, he couldn’t believe he was even considering this. "As much as I’d like to think you’re doing this on account of me being such a bloody fantastic shag, I’ve got to ask—are you expecting some kind of compensation?"

Sherlock snorted. "Hardly."

"You’re just gonna do it, then. Out of the goodness of your heart, I suppose. Holiday spirit and all that?"

"Get your coat, Inspector."

***

"Come on, Sally, don’t look at me like that. Forensics has had a week on this and they haven’t turned up anything."

"And you think he will?"

"Worth a shot, isn’t it?"

Sally shook her head in disbelief. "You’ve gone mad. Absolutely bloody mad."

Greg was beginning to suspect she wasn’t too far off. He didn’t even know what Sherlock was doing anymore, circling the body with his hands clasped behind his back. It was like watching a dog chasing its own tail, the way he’d been going round and round since Greg had let him loose.

"Gloves! Someone bring me gloves!" Sherlock shouted, abruptly crouching next to the body. Forensics wasn’t buying it. Anderson scowled sourly in his direction, arms crossed over his chest.

"Sod it all," Greg muttered.

It had taken him years to make detective inspector and in the span of five minutes he’d been demoted to errand boy. He grabbed a pair of gloves and passed them to Sherlock, who promptly snapped them on and shoved his hand down the front of the victim’s trousers.

"Sherlock, what in God’s name—"

"Rings."

"Rings?" Greg looked at her hands. "She’s not got any."

"Not on her fingers," Sherlock said, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. Apparently satisfied with her other orifices, he stuck his fingers in the girl’s mouth and fished around a bit. Greg grimaced. "Ah, there we are." Sherlock dropped them on the pavement one by one. Greg counted four. "She must have swallowed the last one before succumbing."

"What makes you think that there weren’t just four? And how the hell did you know to look for them in the first place?"

Sherlock hummed a snatch of music that sounded vaguely familiar.

"Is that meant to be an answer? Because I don’t follow."

"Your third set of victims. They were French ex-patriots, weren’t they?"

"How did you—but that wasn’t the third," Greg protested. "This is the third. And what’s being French got to do with anything?"

Sherlock scooped up the rings, letting them jingle in his palm. "The first was likely unremarkable, easy to overlook, but the rest are quite obvious. She wanted someone to notice. Five golden rings, three French hens, two turtledoves—those would have been your lovers."

Suddenly, it clicked. "Are you telling me these are patterned after that song, what is it, ‘Twelve Days of Christmas’? And what do you mean, ‘she’?"

"The victim isn’t wearing lipstick and yet there are traces of it on the back of her hand, presumably where she attempted to fight off her assailant, who was wearing a rather garish shade of red. You can see it here." Greg crouched down next to him and there it was, smudged right over her knuckles. "Your murderer is a woman. Not a very clever one, I might add. She seems to have forgotten the four colly birds entirely, unless she’s baked them into a pie somewhere. Blackbirds," he said, at Greg’s look of confusion. "You’ll need to find your first victim, likely someone with the surname ‘Partridge’, but locating your killer should be simple enough."

He straightened. Greg stood up next to him. "So, you think she’s left DNA behind with the lipstick?"

"Of course not. That would be absurd."

"Right," Greg said. "Right, because stuffing a dead girl’s mouth full of gold rings is just an ordinary day, but what I said, that’s just mad."

"You’d start killing people too if you had to listen to Christmas music twelve hours a day," Sherlock said. "All three incidents we know of have been executed late in the evening, but before midnight. That says morning shift. The events of the song are spaced over twelve days but the murders have been spaced unevenly—she’s had to fit them around her work schedule, which says odd hours, which almost certainly means shop assistant. Going by her lipstick, she’s been hired part-time for the holiday rush, likely at one of the larger, cheaper chains. You’d never see that shade of red on the high street."

Greg looked back and forth between Sherlock and the victim, trying to wrap his head around it. "I hardly know whether to kiss you or take my fist to your face."

"I’d prefer not to be a part of your public spectacle."

"Right. Well… I suppose I’ll run that name, then. Call around and see what shops’ve been playing that song," Greg said. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. Sherlock didn’t seem like the sort to shake hands and anyway, it was a bit formal, shaking hands with a man who’d sucked you off. "Thank you, Sherlock. I mean it."

"I’ve programmed my number into your phone. Text me when you’ve brought your murderess to justice."

Greg watched him walk away. Sally appeared at his side a moment later. "You’ve found something worthwhile, then?"

"Yeah," he said, eyes still on Sherlock. "Yeah, I think I have."

***

"You were right about us," Greg said, as soon as she picked up. "I can’t keep lying to myself, or to you. You need someone who treats you right. I’ve been selfish, Di, thinking I could be that person."

She was silent for a long moment. "No hard feelings, then?"

"I care about you too much for that. I do love you, you know, just…"

"You don’t need to say it."

"Probably figured it out a long time ago."

"I had my suspicions," she said. There was another lapse. "So, how are you keeping without me? Not in too much trouble, I hope."

"No, it’s good. I’m good. Got my case sorted. Still going to the meetings."

"I’m happy to hear that."

"How’s your mum?"

"Oh, you know her. There’s nothing a cup of tea won’t fix and all that." Greg could hear her exhale. "Don’t take it the wrong way, but I miss you. Just a bit."

Greg smiled. "I know. I miss you, too. Look, um, I’ve got a few things to take care of, but why don’t you pop in at the weekend? We’ll sort the flat, take care of the tricky bits. I love you, Di."

It had taken a week to hammer things out. They’d found victim zero without much difficulty. By some stroke of luck, Sherlock’s shop assistant had left a bit of DNA under his fingernails. They’d had her in custody within twenty-four hours and her confession a day later, but they were still taking care of the paperwork and taking care to leave Sherlock well out of it.

Greg fiddled with his mobile a minute before finding Sherlock’s number, listed as "Holmes, S.".

You want to get a Chinese or something? GL

Less than thirty seconds later: Not hungry. SH

"Git." He was in the middle of typing an appropriately affronted reply when the second text came.

Address? SH

So much for an attempt to ease into things. Greg sent his address and received I trust your wife isn’t home. SH in return. Not merely a git, but a cheeky one at that. He was about to tuck his mobile away when it buzzed again.

Nudity preferable. SH

Greg snorted. Not a chance. GL

:(

Put the kettle on. SH

Ten minutes later, Sherlock swept in without so much as a knock. He walked right past the kitchen. "Hey, where do you think you’re going? I made us a cuppa."

"Upstairs. That is where the bed is, isn’t it?"

"You’re not getting me naked," Greg shouted after him. "And don’t you dare go through my stuff, Sherlock!"

He gathered up the mugs and trotted up the stairs after Sherlock. He’d made the damn tea and Sherlock was going to drink it whether he liked it or—

"Wow."

"Is there a problem, Inspector?"

"It’s just that you’re very…" Fit, hung, pale. "Uh, very naked."

"Yes, thank you for your thrilling rendition of the obvious."

"I’ve got hot tea in my hands," Greg warned. "Don’t tempt me."

Sherlock rolled onto his front and gave Greg what he had to admit was a spectacularly fetching view of his arse. Greg set the mugs on the bedside and took a seat on the bed next to him. Sherlock mumbled something into the pillows.

"Sorry, didn’t catch that."

Sherlock lifted his head. "You’re concerned about sleeping with someone else in the bed you and your wife shared, falsely mistaking it as a sign of the state of your marriage when in fact it was more to do with what you did out of bed than what you ever did in it that has culminated in your separation and impending divorce."

"It could be that," Greg said. "Or it could just be that I wasn’t expecting you to run up here and shuck your kit." Sherlock harrumphed. Greg gave him a good smack on the arse, delighting in his indignant yelp. "I only did it because you deserved it."

Sherlock turned onto his back. "Are you not naked yet?"

"What is it with you and your determination to get me out of my clothes?"

"You only shared the pertinent details about your case with me after we’d slept together."

"Yeah, and?"

"I assumed you’d be interested in my assistance on your next case."

That one took a bit to piece together, but once Greg got the shape of it, he almost wished he could bring himself to dump a mug of tea on Sherlock.

"Are you seriously telling me you thought I was planning to trade cases for sex?"

"Is it the thought of sharing your cases or continued sexual relations with me that upsets you?"

"You are unbelievable. Has anyone ever told you that?"

Sherlock rearranged himself primly. "I very much doubt there is anything denigrating, pejorative, or disapproving that you could possibly say that someone has not already said to me."

There was no hope for this one. None whatsoever. Greg flopped back on the bed. "What the hell am I doing?"

"Accepting what is not within your power to change. Surely you’ve made the connection?"

"Are you quoting that damn serenity prayer at me?"

Sherlock walked his fingers along Greg’s arm. "It seemed appropriate."

Appropriate was just about the last word Greg would ever assign to any conversation with Sherlock, past, present, or future. They lay in silence for several minutes, Sherlock continuing to run his fingers lightly over Greg’s arm and chest.

"Why do you do it? The drugs, I mean."

"Because the world is tedious."

Greg rolled over to face him. "And being coked out of your mind changes that?"

"It does nothing to cut through the tedium, but it does have the effect of speeding things up. That’s the difference between you and me, Inspector. Well, one difference. I flee the center, the calm, the ordinary life. Centrifugal motion. You seek it out, in the hopes that by slowing down you might find enough time to catch a glimpse of the world outside your mind. Centripetal motion."

"So it’s physics, then. Why we’ve cocked-up our lives so much. Not psychology at all."

Sherlock smiled, just at the corners of his mouth. "Physics of the mind. The will in motion."

"Well, thank god we got that sorted."

Sherlock slid his hands up under Greg’s t-shirt. "Now to get you naked."

"I’d say you were tenacious, but honestly, I think you just might be the single most stubborn person I’ve ever met."

"Says the man who practically needs a written invitation to—"

"Yeah, okay, I get it. Enough with the melodrama."

Greg pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it to the carpet before letting Sherlock push him back on the bed. He sat across Greg’s hips, surprisingly heavy despite the sleek look of him. And, of course, naked as the day he was born. Greg ran his hands up and down Sherlock’s thighs, enjoying the crinkle of hair against his palms. The position provided a rather up close and personal view of his cock, which was just beginning to swell past the foreskin. The sight was far more fascinating than it had any right to be.

As Greg watched, Sherlock rolled his foreskin back to reveal the head, red and glistening against a backdrop of dark hair. Emboldened, he tugged at Sherlock’s hips. He’d never sucked a cock before, but how hard could it be, really?

"Just, a bit closer, so I can…yeah, that’s good."

Sherlock wrapped a hand around the base of his cock, as if offering it to him. His own cock stirred appreciatively, pulse thudding as Sherlock smeared thin, sticky fluid over his lips with the head of his cock. He’d never really been one to make a show of his masculinity or to enjoy the sort of domineering command some of his superiors seemed so fond of, but he hadn’t ever thought of himself as the sort to enjoy being toyed with like this, pushed outside of his comfort zone.

Finally, he worked up the courage to let his tongue slip against the head. Sherlock pushed a bit against that and Greg put a little more pressure into the motion as he licked over the slit. He found himself with a mouthful of cock in rapid order. He gagged slightly and Sherlock squeezed his shoulder.

"Relax your jaw."

As soon as Greg did, Sherlock began to rock slowly in and out of his mouth. Oh, God, God… Greg closed his eyes and swallowed the saliva welling in the back of his mouth, his face flushed with embarrassment and arousal as Sherlock fucked his mouth. That he might have some minor—minor, mind—submissive tendencies was somehow even more startling than the fact that, after twenty-five years of marriage to the same woman, he was finally figuring out he’d rather roll around in bed with a bloke than with a bird. Better late than never, he supposed.

Just as he’d started getting the hang of it, Sherlock extracted himself. Greg wiped away the spit slicking his chin with the back of a hand.

"Wasn’t that bad, was I? No, on second thought, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know."

Sherlock smiled. "Turn over. I’ve something else in mind."

"Hang on just a minute. You’re not—because I haven’t and I’m not entirely sure—"

"Anal intercourse was not actually what I had in mind."

"Oh. Right, then." Greg rolled onto his front with a slight feeling of trepidation. "Still, not sure I quite like the idea of not being able to keep an eye on you."

Sherlock’s lips were hot against his ear. "Don’t you trust me?"

"About as far as I can throw you." Something cold dripped onto the back of his leg. "Ugh, what the hell is that?"

"I don’t want this to chafe," Sherlock said. He squeezed a hand between Greg’s thighs, smearing him with cold jelly from mid-thigh all the way up behind his balls. Those he rolled in his hand briefly before withdrawing. "It will be easier on your knees."

Greg shifted position, wondering what he’d got himself into when Sherlock settled against his back, bringing his cock up between Greg’s thighs.

"You can grip me more tightly," he murmured, as he began to move. "I’ll inform you of any discomfort."

"Course you will."

It was odd, the first few thrusts. He’d never had anything slipping in and out of his legs like that and he wasn’t sure how to hold himself for it, but once they settled into a sort of rhythm, he began to see the appeal. Sherlock’s cock slipped over his balls with every pass, rubbing just enough to get him moving back into it, but not enough to bring him off. His cock bounced against his stomach as Sherlock thrust between his legs with little grunts and moans.

Greg bit back a moan. "This what they teach you public school boys?"

"Among other things," Sherlock said, sounding only slightly out of breath as he gave a particularly firm thrust. "How does it feel to have a spoiled Harrow boy like me fucking you, Inspector?"

Inspector, Christ. The title had never done much for him before, but hearing it from that mouth, at this moment, was like a little jolt of electricity right to Greg’s cock. He dropped his forehead against his forearms with a groan and pushed back into it. Sherlock slapped his hip with a resounding crack and his cock started to dribble.

"Come on," Greg panted, "bring me off."

Sherlock’s hand snaked past his hip and wrapped around his cock. Greg thrust gratefully into the tight grip, fucking himself back and forth between Sherlock’s hand and Sherlock’s prick, still wedged up between his thighs. Sherlock mouthed at his shoulder, sucking at the skin. He sank his teeth in and Greg spilled into his hand without warning, unable to help himself.

He caught his breath as Sherlock rocked to a slow stop, his come bursting hot and sticky between Greg’s legs. He folded down against Greg’s back, breathing harshly against the back of his neck as they lay chest to back, sticky and blissful.

"You can stay if you want. Over, I mean. Only if you want to."

"I wouldn’t mind the use of your shower."

"Sure, yeah. Make yourself at home."

Sherlock nuzzled the nape of his neck. He hadn’t looked like much of a cuddler before, but then it was always the odd ones, wasn’t it? In any case, Greg didn’t mind. He yawned into the pillows.

"What time is it, anyway?"

"Time to sleep."

Now there was an idea he could get behind. They’d solved the case, he was working things out with Diane, he was starting to get comfortable in his own skin again, and even if Sherlock was without a doubt the most irritating super genius junkie-cum-detective he’d ever had the privilege of meeting, Greg thought he might be just the person to get him through the rest of AA without trying to drown himself in a bottle.

It was exhausting work, this midlife crisis business, but it was well worth it.