Title: Voice
Author: Tiffany F
Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade
Fandoms: Sherlock
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Don't own and claim nothing but the plot.
Warning(s): None
Summary: Lestrade calls Sherlock to a dull homicide. There has to be a reason, but what could it be?


The second Detective Inspector Lestrade caught sight of Sherlock Holmes, he knew that he was in trouble. No one else would have been able to pick up on it, probably not even John, but Lestrade had known Sherlock for several years and, in that time, had studied him minutely. He prided himself on being the only one the consulting detective would let close to him, both physically and mentally. Even John, who seemed to have a slightly humanizing effect on Sherlock, was kept at a slight arm's length. He didn't seem to know it though. Sherlock was remarkably good at keeping everyone in the dark about himself. He had a look that put people off, left them thinking whatever they wanted, but never once being close to the truth of the situation.


"Lestrade. Where is he?"

"Inside. Four flights up and the lift is bust," Lestrade said. "So's the A/C." He swallowed hard, knowing that he would regret his next words, but saying them anyway. "D'you want to leave your coat and scarf in my car?"

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, and then his mouth twitched. Lestrade had picked up on his little game and was willing to play it. That made the day even more interesting. "Yes, I think I will," he said, trying not to smirk. Sherlock could feel John staring at him as he removed his scarf and long coat, tucking them both safely in the DI's car. Sherlock put his mobile in the inner pocket of his suit jacket and adjusted it slightly. "Lead the way, Lestrade. Where's Anderson?"

"Out sick with the flu," Lestrade replied. "You've got Matthews up there waiting for you."

"He's only slightly less likely to destroy evidence before I have a chance to look at the crime scene," Sherlock said in a low drawl. "What made you call me, Lestrade? So far it sounds like a simple, boring homicide."

Why had he called in Sherlock? Lestrade's head was swimming from the tone of voice that Sherlock was using, wondering how John proved to be completely immune to it, and realized that he'd just wanted to see the younger man. There was a slight mystery to the case, but Lestrade knew that Sherlock would dismiss the whole thing as boring. Unless he was able to play with the inspector a little. "We don't know who the kid is," he said as they climbed. God, he wished Sherlock was in front of him on the stairs, that new suit of his looked almost skin-tight. "There's no ID and no personal effects in the room. The building is set to be demolished to clear the way for a new office building."

"Dull," Sherlock sighed. He pushed around Lestrade and started up the stairs at a slightly faster pace, eyes taking in as many details as possible. "Very dull, Lestrade. I should almost say, exceptionally dull, but I haven't yet seen the crime scene."

"Second door on the right up there," Lestrade said, mouth a little dry as he watched Sherlock's arse move as he walked up the stairs. He was so focused on the sight in front of him that he tripped twice and almost fell over once, if John hadn't caught him.

"You okay?" John asked softly.

"Yeah, thanks," Lestrade replied. "It's probably just the heat getting to me. I should have left my jacket down in the car too."

"It is warm," John agreed.

They both paused as Matthews stormed out of the crime scene room, face red. "Why is he even here?" he demanded when he caught sight of Lestrade. "This isn't a mystery, Lestrade. We don't need Sherlock Holmes's help with this one."

"You never know," Lestrade replied. "Go on down and get something to drink. The heat up here is horrid. I don't want you getting sick."

Matthews stomped down the stairs. Lestrade sighed and walked to join Sherlock and John in the crime scene. John was off to the left side of the body lying on the floor, looking at the dead teen's hand while Sherlock was studying a shoe. "Quite dull, Lestrade," Sherlock said, not looking up. "The boy is from a middle class family, father is an office worker, mother raises dogs and flowers. He was here to meet his lover for some sort of a romantic liaison that obviously got out of hand and resulted in his death. The lover is one of his teachers and is also the murderer. What possible use could you have for me here?"

Lestrade's mind was still reeling from the tone of voice Sherlock was using, slightly deeper and richer than his normal speaking tones, even when he was trying to prove how stupid someone else was. "What else can you tell me?" he asked, slipping out of his jacket. It was hot in the room, but he needed the cover it would provide too. "C'mon, Sherlock. I know you've observed more."

Sherlock looked back at him and, when he realized that only Lestrade could see his face, smiled. Lestrade's eyes flickered a little, and the game was on. He knew he was going to lose, and didn't really want a witness around when he did, but also knew that John was pretty unobservant of what was going on around him. Maybe they would get lucky.

"Teenage boy, just turned seventeen a few weeks ago, from a middle class family," Sherlock said, standing up so he could walk around while he was talking. "He has at least one older brother, more likely two based on the wear to his jumper and jeans. Old shoes with new laces, the shoes have been patched several times to make them wearable. Hair is cut at home, by his mother, most likely with the same shears she keeps for the dogs."

"Dogs?" Watson asked.

Lestrade bit back a growl. He didn't want to hear John talk. That was the last thing he wanted. The interruption dulled the growing pressure in his trousers a little and Lestrade shifted to make sure his jacket was still covering everything.

"Yes, dogs, many dogs so likely a kennel," Sherlock said, obviously equally as annoyed at the interruption as Lestrade was. "All the same breed, medium sized, probably a corgi or basset hound. Our victim didn't like them, didn't spend time with them, but he couldn't help coming into contact with them as he went about the house. So, some of the dogs are family pets or the mother rotates the animals through the house to help with socialization. Numerous hairs from the dogs are adhered to his jeans and sneakers, even stuck in the worn treads. He didn't spend a lot of time at home, but didn't run with a gang of any sort. Spent all his time at school or at the library studying. That's likely how his lover got a hold of him in the first place."

"But he's dressed, Sherlock. If he was here to meet a lover, wouldn't he be more, naked?" John asked.

Lestrade tasted blood trying to hold back the growl that time. He knew he shouldn't be enjoying hearing Sherlock talk about a homicide victim like he was, it was sick and wrong but oh so very hot. The younger man came alive around crime, and Lestrade had learned to just go with the flow.

"What do we know about his lover?" Sherlock asked. He checked a couple of corners of the room, making sure to get the best angle to let Lestrade see how tightly his trousers pulled over his arse. "State-funded school teacher, not overly bright, late 30s to mid 40s and wears absolutely hideous jumpers."

John flushed red and looked away. It's all Lestrade could do not to laugh. "How do you know about the jumpers, Sherlock?" he asked.

"There's fibers caught here on a rough board," Sherlock replied. "Not even John would be seen in a jumper that combined mustard yellow, lime green and," he pulled out his magnifier again, "pumpkin orange. A man with such an appalling lack of fashion sense should have been reported to the police years ago. How could anyone trust their children to a man who wears such cheap and obnoxious clothing?"

"We don't all have your funds, Sherlock," Lestrade pointed out. "What happened to our victim?"

"He was strangled during sex," Sherlock said. "His lover's fingerprints are visible on both sides of the throat, showing that one hand was used to put pressure on while the other was likely used for balance just by the victim's left shoulder. This was not an intentional homicide, the lover lost track of what he was doing when he neared his climax - always a danger for the inexperienced - and killed his partner. He then redressed him, sloppily, and fled, taking the victim's bag with him."

"Hang on, how do you know so much about fetish sex?" John asked, looking at Sherlock with a puzzled expression on his face.

Lestrade would have liked to know the answer to that question too, but knew that Sherlock wouldn't answer it. "The bag is the key to the whole affair," Sherlock said. "The teacher would have left on foot, not wanting to call attention to the fact that he had been in this building, that would have raised some awkward questions and might have led to a premature discovery of the body. He would have been carrying the bag with him, thinking that he couldn't be caught with it. Would it be better to chuck it close to the crime scene or when he was well away?"

"Sherlock," Lestrade said, hoping that didn't sound like a moan.

"We need to check the side streets within a five mile radius of the building," Sherlock replied. "John, you head west. You're looking for a very worn black leather tote. Probably has some monogramming on it, faded, been in the family for years. More likely his father's than his older brother's. Inside will be school books, an appointments book, and the usual gadgetry kids carry about these days. Text me a picture if you find anything like that."

John nodded and left. Sherlock looked at Lestrade. "We'll work together," he said. "I'm sure there's an alley close by where we can spare five minutes."


The younger man grinned. "I'd take care of you here, Detective Inspector," and Lestrade shivered at the low rumbled tone, "but we might be found."

"Let's go. The sooner we finish, the sooner we find this teacher cum lover."

Sherlock smirked. "How appropriate a title for him," he said. "Can you manage the stairs in your current state?"

"Yes, thank you," Lestrade said. His body was on fire and walking was more painful than anything else, but he had the promise of Sherlock at the other end of it and knew that he would be more than able to survive. He always lost when they played their game, but it seemed like winning to him. At least he hadn't climaxed with John in the room. Sherlock's voice had done that to him before, even at crime scenes. That would have been a little hard to cover up.

Lestrade gasped when he was grabbed and pulled into a room on the second floor. "Sherlock."

"I don't want to wait." Sherlock plucked the jacket from Lestrade's hands and smiled when he saw the bulge it had been concealing. "Where do you want my mouth today, Greg?" he asked. "You didn't orgasm, you deserve a reward for that. It would have shocked John horribly."

"Suck me, you bastard," Lestrade managed. "I don't know why I let you do this to me."

"Because you like it. Listening to me, seeing me excited by crimes excites you," Sherlock said. He undid Lestrade's belt and zip, pulling down the fabric just enough to free the erection that had been hidden from his view. "That's the real reason you called me here today. You were hoping that I would be willing to play with you. Even your team, Greg, could have solved this case."

"Sherlock," Lestrade started, only to break off into a choked back moan when Sherlock suddenly leaned in and took his cock into his mouth. He normally didn't get to choose what the younger man did to him after one of their rounds, but he would be lying if he said that the feel of Sherlock's mouth on him wasn't his favorite thing of all. It even beat out the feel of Sherlock's body around him, but only just, and that was a little too risky out in public. But Lestrade knew that he would be seeing the younger man at his flat that night.

The hum with a suck pushed him over the edge he had been teetering on for the last half hour, and Lestrade had to work to stay on his feet. Sherlock licked him clean, swallowed a few times and leaned back. "You're getting better at this, Greg," he murmured as the inspector managed to put himself back together. "Next time I might just have to up the ante a little."

Lestrade reached down and pulled Sherlock to his feet, kissing him roughly. "You do that and I might not survive until the night and you creeping into my bed," he murmured against Sherlock's lips. "I'd strip you bare and take you at the crime scene. Then what would happen?"

"I'm sure Mycroft could help us get out of it." Sherlock kissed Lestrade again. "But I would rather not share this you with any of the dunderheads on your team. Come, Greg; we have a killer to catch."

It was all Lestrade could do to stop from jumping Sherlock in the first dark alley they checked.