Work Text:
The cell was tiny, completely dark and inescapable. This alone was enough of a problem for Greg, but sharing said cell with Sherlock was a different kind of hell altogether.
They were pressed close together even when standing as far apart as possible. Greg had already sustained a number of hits from Sherlocks pointy elbow. He had been trying (and failing) to get a signal on his phone, and in the process had probably given Greg a black eye. Only probably, though- it was too dark to tell.
‘We’ll just have to wait, then,’ Sherlock said, sounding about as pleased as Greg felt. ‘John will realize something’s wrong.’
‘So will Sally.’
Sherlock snorted and Greg jerked his knee upwards, making Sherlock yelp. He had no idea what part of him he’d hit and didn’t care.
‘Will we run out of air?’
‘Doubt it.’
‘Dehydration?’
‘If we’re very unlucky.’
Greg scowled at Sherlock, because even though Sherlock couldn’t see him he could probably still deduce that he was doing it. It was his fault they were locked in, after all.
‘You shouldn’t have pissed them off,’ Greg said, for the forth time.
‘You’ve said that four times already.’
‘I know. That’s because it’s true. I was right, you were wrong, now we suffer together. Satisfied?’
‘Very,’ Sherlock snapped. ‘Suffering. We’ll be fine.’
‘Yeah, maybe. Doesn’t change the fact that I can think of at least ten things I’d rather be doing.’
This was not entirely true. Under different circumstances Greg would have rather enjoyed being alone with Sherlock, pressed up against him in the dark, no chance of interruption. His fantasies had always involved beds, however, and easy access to food and water.
‘Not true,’ Sherlock said. ‘You’re voice went up an octave on the last three words. Rather be doing. Clever, lying to me when I can’t see your face to understand what I’m missing.’
‘Ah, you called me clever,’ Greg said, glad that the dark was covering his rising panic. ‘I’ll have to write that down in my dairy. September the seventh, Sherlock fucking Holmes called me clever while we were trapped inside a treasure chest.’
‘It isn’t a treasure chest and you’re avoiding the topic.’
‘Am I really? You should be a detective, a brain like that.’
Distract him, Greg found himself thinking. Work him up, keep him from probing. Maybe, for once in his unlikely life, Sherlock would take the fucking hint.
‘Sarcasm, Lestrade! Deflection! A feeble attempt to distract me. Fascinating. The only conclusion I can draw is that you rather want to be stuck here with me, like this.’
Greg said nothing. Surely Sherlock wouldn’t be able to deduce anything from nothing? His heart was hammering inside his chest, and his palms were slightly sweaty. Karma was a bitch.
He had imagined something like this often- getting caught up in a case with Sherlock, both experiencing the inevitable adrenaline rush, then in some dark alley or disused briefing room at the Yard, kissing Sherlock, having him.
And this was the reality: he needed to piss, Sherlock was being insufferable, and if they were unlucky they’d die of dehydration before anybody found them. Brilliant. Typical.
‘So,’ Sherlock said, his voice abruptly low and thoughtful. ‘You wanted to get me on my own, hmm? Have a little chat with me, man to man? Or is your interest the nonverbal kind?’
Greg heard himself make an undignified, miserable noise of defeat. He would have given almost anything for Sally to interrupt. Armed with this knowledge Sherlock would be unstoppable…
‘Look,’ Greg said, desperate. ‘Look, this isn’t how I wanted you to find out. I don’t even think I wanted you to find out. It’s just. Now really, really isn’t the time. We should focus on getting out. Or. Not dehydrating. Less talking.’
‘Yes,’ Sherlock said. He seemed closer than before. ‘Less talking.’
Greg felt Sherlocks lips brush against his jawline. He jumped, startled, and felt Sherlocks hands come to rest on his shoulders. There was no room to move away, no possibility of distancing himself from the situation. In the total darkness every physical sensation seemed to be amplified.
‘I don’t mind,’ Sherlock said. ‘I’m actually rather flattered. I never thought you’d be interested, you know. Ex-wife, always telling me how annoying I am…’
‘You are annoying,’ Greg said. ‘Doesn’t mean I don’t- well. But. I didn’t think you did… this sort of thing.’
‘Haven’t done recently,’ Sherlock said. His lips brushed against Gregs neck as he spoke. ‘Not since university, and Victor… but if you want, you and I could.’
‘We could?’
Greg felt slightly lightheaded. Maybe they were going to run out of air, after all.
‘We could.’
Sherlock kissed him properly. Greg kept his eyes open (what was the point of closing them, in total darkness?) and kissed back, feeling Sherlocks slight stubble, chasing Sherlocks teasing tongue with his own.
The space was limited. Even so, he managed to get his arms around Sherlocks shoulders, pulling him close. The heat of his mouth was astounding. And his assumptions had been correct- Sherlock was a fucking phenomenal kisser.
‘Oh god,’ Greg said, as Sherlock pulled away to bite at his neck. ‘This is- amazing-’
‘Yes, I am,’ Sherlock said, his voice low and dangerous.
Only minutes ago he’d been desperate for Sally to interrupt. Now Greg was rather keen on her and John not finding them right away. Perhaps they could get caught in traffic, or-
His thought was cut off as Sherlock bit his ear lobe and tugged. Greg managed to get a handful of Sherlocks hair and pulled it, the soft curls thick between his fingers. Sherlock sighed.
There wasn’t enough room to pull his head all the way back, Greg noted sadly. Already his elbow was pressed uncomfortably against the wall. Worth it, though, for the feeling of Sherlocks hair in his fist.
‘Christ,’ Sherlock said. He shifted his weight, leaning up and pressing most of his hip into Gregs stomach. He was heavier than he looked, Sherlock, and Greg felt his bladder complain at the pressure. He ignored it, though. The feeling of Sherlocks lips against his own was distraction enough. He could feel Sherlocks growing erection through the thick fabric of his trousers.
Greg pushed his hips forwards, pleased to hear Sherlock gasp. He wanted to hear every possible sound Sherlock was capable of making. If only there was more light… he was going to miss the look on his face, the first time he came because of Greg… but there would be other times…
‘Sherlock,’ Greg panted, ‘stop leaning on my bladder. I’m going to piss myself if you keep it up and, in case it slipped your notice, there isn’t a loo in here.’
Sherlock went very still against him. Even without any visual clues Greg could tell that something had shifted. If anything, Sherlocks breathing sounded even heavier.
‘I’ll say it was me,’ Sherlock said, voice low.
‘What?’
‘Me, not you, if they see,’ Sherlock continued, apparently oblivious to the fact that he was making no sense at all. ‘I assume you’d rather that?’
‘I’d rather what?’
Sherlock pressed himself even harder against Greg, as if trying to give him a clue. The urge to piss really was becoming unbearable.
‘Urolagnia,’ Sherlock said, ‘or urophilia. Considered to be a form of salirophilia. But more commonly known as watersports. I want you to. I want you to. And when we’re found, you can say that it was me, that I couldn’t hold it in. They’ll never suspect.’
‘Oh my god,’ Lestrade said. Sherlocks semi was now rock hard against him. There was no mistaking the rasp of desperate arousal in his voice. No mistaking the way Sherlock was nearly shaking against him.
‘Here, though?’ Greg said. ‘We might not be found for, well… a while, Sherlock.’
‘I give them fifteen minutes to find us,’ Sherlock said. Greg couldn’t detect a lie in his voice. ‘Not long, not really. Please? Greg, oh god, please.’
The sound of his first name in Sherlocks voice, half-broken with lust, shattered what little resolve he’d had.
‘Fine, ok,’ Greg said. ‘Get as close as you want.’
Sherlock pressed very, very close.
Greg had never deliberately wet himself before, and certainly not in the presence of another adult man that he was attracted to. For a few moments he found that his body wouldn’t cooperate at all. It felt illicit, but having Sherlock aroused and squirming against him was all the encouragement he needed.
He let go. His bladder seemed to deflate in relief, and Sherlock moaned a low, animal sound, his hips pressed against Gregs. His piss was hot, and ran down his leg, the sensation almost ticklish. He could feel his pants and trousers were soaking, even his socks- knew the front of Sherlocks trousers could be no better, they were pressed so close.
As he felt his bladder empty completely, he heard the sound of a zip. Sherlock had pulled open his trousers and was now trying to get his hand between them, clearly desperate to get off. Greg reached down, ignored the wetness of their clothing, and wrapped his hand around Sherlocks damp cock. He could feel pre-come leaking from the slit already.
‘You really like that,’ he said, aroused by Sherlocks arousal. ‘We’ll have to do it again sometime.’
‘Really?’ Sherlock sounded desperately hopeful. ‘In a bed, maybe?’
Well, Greg thought, he did have a mattress protector tucked away somewhere in his flat…
‘Yeah,’ he said, tightening his grip on Sherlocks cock. ‘I’ll be you and me, in the light this time so I can see the look on your face as I let go.’
Sherlocks hips were jerking forwards, desperate to move. But it was nearly impossible for him to thrust properly, not with the limited space available to them.
‘I’ll soak through my pajamas, probably,’ Greg said, trying to picture it. ‘And the sheets. You’ll be sitting on top of me, yeah? Naked. Watching me.’
‘Greg, oh fuck, Greg-’
One of Sherlocks hands gripped his shoulder hard enough to bruise. His voice was higher than Greg had ever heard it.
‘Do you like that idea? Me pissing in your bed?’
‘Yes, fuck. I do, I do. Greg.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Greg said. ‘I will. Look at you now, desperate to come all over me. Bet you love feeling my wet clothes against your cock.’
He twisted his arm slightly, his hand moving around Sherlock so hard and so fast that under different circumstances he’d be worried about chafing. Sherlock was shaking, his breath coming out in desperate, short bursts.
‘I’m going to-’ Sherlock said, and Greg kissed the sentence away, his fist sure and swift around Sherlock as he came, moaning, his hips jerking against Gregs, his tongue lost in Gregs mouth.
Slowly, Sherlock returned to earth. He was breathing hard. Greg wiped his hand on Sherlocks pants and pulled his trousers up, pulling up his zipper carefully. Sherlock lent against him, clearly to exhausted to move.
‘Don’t you fall asleep on me,’ Greg said softly. ‘Sally and John will arrive any minute now.’
‘You’ve got to act all outraged,’ Sherlock murmured. ‘You know, with me… the things you put up with…’
‘I’m not ashamed,’ Greg said, but he felt Sherlock shake his head.
‘You and I work with Sally and John. I’d rather them get used to the idea of, um, us generally, before…’
‘Before hitting them with the rest of it? Fair enough. I think it might be a bit much for John to find out, all in one day.’
Sherlock snorted, amused. Greg kissed the top of his head, feeling oddly tender. He wished there was enough room to hold him properly, comfortably.
‘Did you mean what you said? About the… bed and things?’
‘Yeah. Corse I did.’
‘Good. I mean, I don’t need it all the time, but I would really-’
‘It’s ok,’ Greg said, kissing him again. ‘It’s all ok. I like how you react. Whatever you want, yeah? It was good.’
‘Good.’
Distantly, Greg heard the sound of a door slamming open, of John calling out Sherlocks name.
‘Better get in character,’ Sherlock said to him, sounding amused. ‘I’m free Friday night, unless you have any interesting cases for me. Sound good?’
‘Sounds brilliant.’
Sherlock kissed him on the lips, swiftly. Greg could tell he was smiling.
‘We’re in here!’ Sherlock bellowed, loud enough to make Greg grunt. ‘Hurry up, John! Honestly!’
He pulled away from Greg and started to hammer on the locked door. Greg tried to contain his smile, but it was rather difficult. He’d never been so keen for Friday in his life.