Summary: Written for serriadh, on the prompt of "Sherlock/Lestrade, possibly with Sherlock wanting Lestrade to be a bit rough with him - FOR SCIENCE! - and Lestrade being horribly conflicted."
Warnings: Contains biting/scratching/liberal use of riding crop.
AN: Intended as part of the Cryptic 'verse, but it's not necessary to have read the others.
Sherlock looked up, a picture of wide-eyed innocence that didn't fool Lestrade for a second. "I want you to thrash me. With the whip. A simple enough request I'd have thought."
Lestrade took a second to muster his thoughts. Every time he thought he was getting a handle on Sherlock's little ways he'd throw something like this into the middle of an otherwise reasonably sane conversation and he'd end up floundering again.
"You. Want me - to - " he started slowly and Sherlock huffed with impatience.
"Good God Lestrade, have you been taking valium or something? Look, here." He snatched the riding crop off the sideboard and threw it across to where the older man was sitting on the sofa.
Lestrade caught it instinctively, then didn't know what to do with it. Settled for laying it gingerly onto the cushion next to him. But apparently that was wrong too.
"Oh for - it won't bite you, man!" Sherlock grabbed it back and sat down in its place, uncomfortably close, one knee just touching Lestrade's, hardly firmly enough to be deliberate - but he was becoming more and more aware that nothing Sherlock did was accidental.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You'd prefer I asked someone else to abuse my naked body? John maybe? He'd be professionally clinical I imagine. Actually, Sally now, she'd probably have no problem with beating the living daylights out of me - "
Lestrade choked. "Wait a minute, you didn't say anything about being naked!"
Sherlock lifted the whip, drew the end of it slowly across Lestrade's cheek in something that wasn't quite a caress.
"Well I'd hardly get the desired result if I remained fully clothed would I?"
"And what exactly is this desired result? Other than to demonstrate that you are completely cracked and I'm probably headed the same way for even having this conversation?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I need a comparison. I've got empirical data on the formation of bruises with regards to deceased flesh, but for cross-referencing I need to study the same thing on living tissue - formed under the same conditions, and in such a way that I can time the development of the bruises. While ideally I'd need someone of the same build and susceptibility to bruising as the deceased, I imagine you'd object if I inflicted it on an innocent member of the public," he paused to smirk at Lestrade's expression, "so the next best thing I can do is use my own body. And I can hardly effectively thrash myself, so that's where you come in." He sat back looking pleased with himself. "Don't tell me you're not interested," he added more quietly, with a sly look sideways.
"Well I'm not denying there've been occasions where I'd have liked to smack you one," retorted Lestrade, ignoring the implied suggestion.
"Well, here's your chance," declared Sherlock cheerfully. "Come on."
Lestrade hovered awkwardly by the bed as Sherlock rapidly and unselfconsciously stripped off his clothes. He was fidgeting with the leather crop between his hands, running his fingers along its length, balancing it across his palm, trying to get used to the feel of it. Once he twirled it, baton-like, stopping abruptly when he suspected it made him look like some kind of freakish majorette.
But now Sherlock was naked, and sprawling before him on the bed, and his mouth went dry.
It wasn't the first time he'd seen Sherlock naked, wouldn't be the first time he'd touched him. But his instinct was to reach out and stroke that inviting flesh, to kiss and caress and debauch it, not to harm it in the way he was being asked to. Lestrade wondered, fleetingly, whether such hard use would have more of an effect on Sherlock than his attempts at love-making had, whether this was an elaborate excuse - but no, if Sherlock wanted something he'd have asked for it. He didn't seem to have time for pointless evasions, he'd lie when it suited him, but in everything else he was embarrassingly direct.
"Have you gone to sleep up there?" Sherlock twisted his head round to stare pointedly at Lestrade, who hadn't moved.
"What - what do you want me to do? Exactly?" Lestrade asked, moving closer, unable to take his eyes from Sherlock's bare skin, so pale and perfect he hated the idea of marking it.
"Hit me with the crop. As hard as you can. Back, buttocks, backs of the thighs. I'll tell you when to stop." Sherlock turned back to face the headboard, chin resting on his folded arms.
"Right." Lestrade wiped his palm on his trousers and took a firmer grip on the handle. "You're - sure about this?"
Sherlock sighed. "Yes."
"Right." Lestrade bit the inside of his lip. "Right," he said again, to himself.
Raised the riding crop and brought it down across the rising curve of Sherlock's buttocks. Even as he did so, some reluctant part of him pulled the blow slightly, so even though the loud crack it gave made him wince, Sherlock made an irritated noise and looked round.
"For goodness sake I didn't ask you to tickle me. If you're not going to do it properly we might as well stop wasting my time."
Lestrade gritted his teeth and brought the crop down again, more sharply.
Sherlock sniffed. "Better, but still hardly what I'd imagine you're capable of. Why don't you try - "
Lestrade hit him a third time, harder still, and watched in fascination as Sherlock's buttocks twitched under the blow.
"You're getting there, although I'm starting to wonder if I shouldn't have asked Mrs. Hudson. You should see that woman with a dusty rug - "
Despite knowing Sherlock was trying to wind him up, Lestrade couldn't suppress the wave of irritation that swept over him, and he lashed out again, this time with his full strength. The inadvertent little noise of surprise Sherlock let out went straight to his groin, and before he really thought about what he was doing Lestrade was laying into him over and over with the whip, in something approaching a frenzy.
It was addictive, the swishing noise of the crop, the crack as it met Sherlock's skin, the pattern of red lines building up over his body. Lestrade's own breathing sounded loud in his head, but after that first not-quite gasp, Sherlock had remained silent. Lestrade hit him harder and harder, part of him wanting to make Sherlock cry out, trying to see if he could break that iron control, and all the time getting harder and harder himself, until he thought he'd surely come just from the intensity of it.
It was a quiet instruction, and Sherlock's voice was perfectly calm and steady, but Lestrade snatched away the crop as if he'd been yelled at. Stood there breathing raggedly, looking properly at the mess he'd made of Sherlock's back for the first time. Red weals covered the skin, although he noticed guilty they were mostly centred on his backside.
Sherlock remained lying on his front, stretching his shoulders slightly, but giving no other sign of discomfort. On the other hand, nor did he look inclined to move.
Lestrade reached out despite himself and touched one of the marks with light fingers. He was both horrified and horribly impressed with the result, couldn't quite believe that it was he who had done this.
Sherlock, who'd been taking precisely no notice of him since the culmination of his beating, and had in fact been mentally noting the time and the number of strokes administered, turned slightly at the gentle touch that somehow stung more than the blows had.
"Sorry." Lestrade snatched back his hand, and Sherlock suppressed a smile. Typical of the man to apologise for doing exactly what he'd been asked to. On the brink of offering the apparently necessary reassurances, Sherlock looked properly at Lestrade for the first time and bit them back. Looked thoughtful.
His glance had provided a certain amount of interesting information concerning the Inspector's current state and this could be useful. He smiled a hidden smile and turned over, grimacing as his tender flesh came into contact with the bedclothes. Looking up at Lestrade, he found his lip curled in a sympathetic wince, watching Sherlock settle himself carefully.
"Was that - " Lestrade started, then had to pause to clear his throat, when his voice came out embarrassingly hoarse with strained arousal.
"Oh, yes, just what was required," Sherlock replied in an irritatingly normal voice, before continuing in a slightly more insinuating tone - "you know I also need some evidence of bite marks..."
The part of Lestrade's mind that was never quite off duty shouldered its way through the warm heavy fug of desire and he looked more sharply at Sherlock.
"Have you been biting my corpses?"
"What?" Sherlock looked abruptly shifty. "No, no of course not. Look, come here." He held out his hand imperiously, and Lestrade found his legs were carrying him closer regardless of instructions originating any higher than his groin.
"See, you enjoyed that didn't you?" Sherlock murmured, running an exploratory hand up the inside of Lestrade's thigh and only stopping when he reached the top. He rubbed a firm thumb over the incriminating bulge in his trousers, and smirked at the stifled noise that it prompted.
"I shouldn't have. That was - insane."
Sherlock waved an airy hand, whilst continuing with the other to do things that were making Lestrade's legs want to shake. "Consenting adults, blah blah blah - "
"That wasn't meant to be a compliment." Lestrade sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling it was probably just as well before his legs gave way.
"Thank you anyway." Sherlock leaned closer and held his gaze. "Wouldn't you like to bite me, Lestrade?" he murmured. "Bite me, scratch me, mark me - make me yours?" He leaned closer still, breathed the final two words into Lestrade's ear. "Hurt me?"
"Christ." Lestrade's cock throbbed agonisingly in the confines of his trousers. Sherlock's hands were already on his shirt buttons, and he felt faintly dizzy. "What are you - ?"
"Might as well both get what we want." Sherlock pushed the shirt off his shoulders and started on Lestrade's flies, leaving him to shrug off the shirt the rest of the way, and drop it to the floor. Sherlock's fingers were taking liberties with his underwear, and he bit down on an incongruous laugh as the long fingers brushed a ticklish spot.
Pushing Sherlock off and standing up again, he gave up on any idea of retaining a shred of dignity and finished undressing himself. Settled back to the bed, erection pushing up against his stomach eagerly.
"Tell me what you want," he said quietly.
Sherlock picked up one of his hands, guided it to his own shoulder, held it there covered by his own. "I already told you."
"But - "
"No limits," Sherlock said softly. "Anything you like. Anywhere. As long as it leaves a mark."
Lestrade swallowed. "You'll tell me to stop?"
Sherlock lay back, pulling Lestrade with him, and shook his head. "No. It's up to you. Entirely."
"God, Sherlock - "
"You'll do it?" By now they were lying full length, loosely in each other's arms.
Lestrade let his eyes roam over Sherlock's body, the long limbs, the enticing neck, the shift of muscles under the skin, and let himself wonder what it would feel like to sink his teeth into that warm and willing flesh.
He dipped his head to mouth at Sherlock's collarbone, at first just a brush of lips, a flick of tongue. This time Sherlock kept silent, understanding he'd need to work up to it, confident that he would. The Inspector was a man of his word, after all.
He wrapped his arms more firmly around Lestrade's chest, holding him closer, aware of the rigid cock pressing against his hip. Lestrade took his cue from the embrace, a scrape of teeth now in his kisses, drawing lightly across the skin, a small nip here, a gentle bite there, holding pinches of Sherlock's skin between his teeth, teasing the flesh with his tongue.
Given free licence, he moved his attention to Sherlock's neck, more kisses followed by a swipe of tongue, and then without warning a sharp suction, fierce but fleeting, and Sherlock almost laughed aloud with triumph. As it was, he gasped a little, taken by surprise, and in his arms Lestrade struggled for a better position to work from, ending up kneeling either side of Sherlock's thighs and working his way down his body.
He was using fingernails now as well as teeth to mark his passing, adding lurid scratches to Sherlock's chest and sides that echoed the earlier marks on his back. Lestrade's mouth roved eagerly over the muscles in Sherlock's arm, kissing, licking, grazing with his teeth, seeking out the more delicate skin on the underside of his arm - and biting down, hard.
Sherlock actually yelped, and it was Lestrade's turn to laugh, low in his throat. He was getting into this now, and if Sherlock wanted it - well it wasn't as if he didn't know which bits of the body would be most painful.
Beneath him, Sherlock pushed upwards with his hips, increasing the friction, encouraging Lestrade's efforts, driving him further with every responsive breath that escaped him.
Drunk with arousal, Lestrade was practically rutting himself against Sherlock's body. Held fiercely tight in strong arms and feeling the warm skin slide against his own, he pinned Sherlock to the bed and sank his teeth into his shoulder until the taste of copper brought him halfway to his senses. But Sherlock's hand on the back of his head pulled him in again and he crawled lower, scraping nails across the vulnerable planes of Sherlock's belly, nuzzling Sherlock's semi-erect cock as he passed, entertaining the idea of delivering a nip, but deciding that was a liberty too far, even if the bloody man did deserve it.
Settled instead between his legs, bestowing teethmarks on the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, and the groan that this elicited from Sherlock, the tightening of a hand in his own hair, was enough to break him. Lurching back up the bed to sprawl across Sherlock's body he thrust against him, once, twice, three times, feeling his orgasm plucking at him like a riptide, thrust once, twice more, and bit down onto the nape of Sherlock's neck as he came.
"You didn't come." Lestrade trailed a hand down Sherlock's cock, which was rapidly losing what interest it had previously managed. He wasn't especially surprised, but had thought maybe this -
"That wasn't the objective," Sherlock replied, stroking a hand down Lestrade's back to reassure him that the fact that he had, was quite permissible.
"What was then?" Lestrade enquired, faintly irritated at Sherlock's usual matter-of-factness when it came to his lack of interest in such things.
Sherlock looked at him. "That wasn't all some sort of elaborate come-on, if that's what you were thinking. I really do need teethmark data. And it's not the sort of thing you'd be prepared to do under normal circumstances, so while you were - in the mood, as it were - " he shrugged.
"You used me!" Lestrade sounded vaguely hurt and Sherlock rolled his eyes, and looked critically down at Lestrade's come-smeared stomach.
"Can we assume I've already made it up to you then?"
Lestrade let out a huff of defeated breath and slumped against Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock slipped a loose arm around him and looked at his watch.
"Am I boring you?"
"If the data's to be at all effective I need to know how long since the marks were inflicted," Sherlock replied with a touch of impatience.
"Inflicted. Right," Lestrade repeated in a neutral voice.
"Oh, stop it."
Lestrade laughed quietly. "You're no fun. I can't even feel sorry for myself properly with you around."
"Oh, because you're so ill used?" Sherlock checked to make sure the wry smile on Lestrade's lips was genuine, and settled back against him.
"Conf-used, mostly," Lestrade said dryly. But he didn't object when Sherlock pulled the duvet round them and turned out the light.