FIC: Painting Pictures On Silence, NC17, BBC Sherlock AU. 3/15

elfbert

He stood on the steps of 221, the heavy binders full of DVDs in his arms, and gave a small wave as the car pulled away from the kerb. Then he let himself into the house, feeling as if he'd stepped from a dream back into reality thanks to the smell of chemicals that greeted him on the stairs.

He walked into the sitting room to see Sherlock bending over a bubbling pot of blue liquid.

"Got those audition tapes," he called, putting them down on the coffee table.

"Excellent. And the photographs?" Sherlock said, without looking up.

"And the photographs," John answered, and headed past the experiment to put the kettle on.

He sank into the armchair and put his feet up, resting his head back on the cushions and closing his eyes. He could still feel the solid, warm body pressed against his back, if he imagined hard enough, and the hands dragging over his body, from hips to chest. He smiled, and hoped there would be a way for him to spend more time with the man.

"What's that for?"

Sherlock's voice made him jump and spill tea onto his jumper. "What?" he asked irritably.

"The smile. You were thinking, and smiling about it."

"Nothing – music, stuff," John frowned.

Sherlock made a small 'Hmp' noise and flopped onto the sofa, grabbing his laptop and the DVDs.

An hour later John was pretty sure he never wanted to hear anyone sing anything ever again. The show reels were repetitive and generally utterly horrific – each show tune more jarring than the last.

"Going to shower," John announced. "And when I come back, I want to watch the show Lestrade's on."

"Mmm? Yeah," Sherlock waved a hand.

As it turned out, John didn't have to push the argument – he presumed Sherlock had also had enough of the questionable talent on the discs. Sherlock spent the first half of the programme pointing out the guest's addictions, habits and secrets, whilst also commenting on the host's inability to construct a sentence correctly.

John wasn't aware that he had leant forward in his chair until Sherlock shot him a knowing look, and even then he couldn't bring himself to care.

"And now, playing a hit single from his last album, it's…Lestrade!" the host shouted, and the audience clapped and cheered.

John smiled as he saw Lestrade on the stage, his shirtsleeves rolled up, hair with a little gel rubbed through it, and a smile on his face. He waited for the applause to die down a little, then leant forward slightly to the microphone.

"This one's going out to Harry, from her brother, John," he said, voice low and gravelly.

John could feel Sherlock's glare as if it were boring into his skin, but he ignored it, transfixed to the television, watching Lestrade play, the easy movements, the way his eyes closed as he sang certain parts, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips – the way those lips almost brushed the microphone as he sang, and the almost-haunting sound of the husky voice and lone guitar. It was far cry from the stadium-filling anthems The Rox were famous for, but somehow suited his voice perfectly.

As the song ended the audience screamed and shouted, and John saw the same expression on Lestrade's face as he had earlier, when he'd asked to stay and listen in the kitchen. A slightly embarrassed smile, as if he didn't quite believe the audience were genuine in their appreciation – and if they were, that he didn't deserve it.

John watched as Lestrade removed the guitar, putting it down in a nearby stand and made his way across the studio to the comfy chairs, where the host was waiting for him. His phone beeped, and he glanced at the screen, unsurprised when it said '1 new message - Harry'. But he ignored it, focussing on the television.

The talk mainly focussed on the musical, veering off to talk about Lestrade's last solo album and The Rox at the end.

"Of course, we really can't finish without remembering Tommy Dillon," the host said. "And his recent – tragic – death. Can I ask what impact that may have on the future of The Rox?"

Lestrade sat silently for a second, then wiped his hand over his mouth. John wanted to reach into the screen and tell the host to shut up - that it was too soon to think about the band when the man’s friend had just died. But he knew it was a question everyone wanted an answer to, so he just glared at the screen - and waited hopefully for the answer.

"Yeah, well…it's…" the close up showed the moisture in Lestrade's eyes, and John felt his heart clench inside his chest. He wanted to protect the man – stop the grief being broadcast to millions. "It's all so recent, y'know? Tommy and I first met when I was twelve. It might sound a bit trite, but we were like brothers. I'm still having a hard time realising that he won't be sitting at the back throwing drumsticks at me when I play something wrong," he gave a smile, visibly pulling himself together. "So, it's a bit early to make any decisions. But obviously, for the commitments we've already made we do have someone who's a very talented guy, who's played with us before. He's got a tough job, but I know he's up to it, and he'll do Tommy proud. And Tommy'll live on through the music, and the fans, I know that he won’t be forgotten."

The host reached out and gripped Lestrade's arm, thanking him. Then explained to the camera that he was going to play another song, whilst Lestrade made his way back across the studio.

John blinked, swallowing down the tears that threatened, and he knew Sherlock's attention was at least half on him, but he stayed focussed on the screen, refusing to be embarrassed.

Lestrade reached the stage and shrugged his shirt off, revealing a sleeveless t-shirt which showed off his muscular arms, both biceps a solid mass of tattoos, bright and colourful. John could hear women in the audience screaming as Lestrade picked up his guitar – a different one, this time, and slung the strap around himself.

The song Lestrade played over the credits was one of The Rox's classic tunes, and the audience went wild, clapping and singing along. The backing band were good enough, and as the credits rolled Lestrade thanked them, between verses. John sat back in his chair and sighed.

"Isn't he just…I mean, he's one of the most talented musicians alive, really. Amazing. And I was in his kitchen…"

"Anyone can become proficient on a musical instrument," Sherlock answered.

John rolled his head on the cushion to look at Sherlock, who had once again picked up his laptop and was now studying something, the glow of the screen highlighting the sulky expression on his face. "Writing great music isn't about that – he writes amazing songs, and the band's been going for…twenty five years. There aren't many bands who've managed that, let alone still be topping the charts."

Sherlock ignored him, so John turned back to his 'phone, pressing to read Harry's message.

'Fucking HELL', it read. John snorted with laughter. Short and to the point, that was Harry. He suspected he'd hear from her again, wanting more detail, at some point. But for now he was content just to know he'd undoubtedly put a smile on her face. He sat and listened a short while to more musical torture as Sherlock continued to play the auditions, then decided to head to bed.

Once there, staring up into the darkness, tunes and lyrics still spinning in his head, he couldn't help but wrap his fist around his cock, trying to imagine what Lestrade would be doing now – arriving home, probably taking a shower – the water cascading over him, darkening the silvery hair, running down over rough stubble and pink lips, then over the strong chest and arms. He imagined himself stepping under the water, pressing kisses against the collarbones and neck.

He muffled the groan that escaped his lips, his hand moving faster. He could imagined those lips teasing the tip of his erection, as they had brushed over the microphone, the tongue slipping out, tasting him, soft and wet. And once he was nearly there, thighs quivering as his muscles tensed, Lestrade could turn him around, slip into him, strong arms holding him, fingers digging into his hip and shoulder, pulling him back onto a thick, hard erection. John clenched the muscles in his arse, imagining being filled, thrust into, and he shuddered as he came, panting loudly into the silent room as his heart beat peaked. He thrust lazily into his slick, wet fist, wringing every last bit of pleasure from his orgasm, then relaxed, muscles heavy, feeling the tickle as cum dripped between his thighs. He cleaned himself, roughly, with his boxers from the day before, and let the relaxation overtake him, drifting to sleep.

John jumped awake, eyes wide, heart hammering in his chest, trying to work out what had woken him – then the irritating tune of his phone began again. He wondered if he'd somehow left an alarm set as he fumbled for it. Then he saw the name on the screen - 'Lestrade'. His mouth went a bit dry.

He hit the green button. "Hello?" he cursed his voice for sounding so broken and swallowed hard.

"Hi, John?" Lestrade's voice said.

"Yes, yes…what can I, er, do for you?" he asked, wiping the sleep from his eyes and sitting up.

"This…I don't know, this might not be…I didn't know if I should call or not. My house was broken into last night, and…I don't know, maybe it's connected to the murders, or…"

"Your…shit! Um, right, we'll come up, definitely. It might…are you okay? Was anything valuable taken?"

"Just a guitar, nothing else. And I'm fine. Look, I'll send you a car – and…Sherlock, too? Where does he live, I'll get the same car to fetch you both."

"Sherlock, yeah, we live together, it's…the number's two two one, flat b."

There was a pause, a silence, and John worried for a second that the connection had been lost. Then Lestrade's voice was back. "Right, it'll be…ten minutes? Is that okay? Or…longer?"

"No, ten minutes, fine, see you shortly," John smiled, looking forward to seeing Lestrade again.

"Right. And thanks – it's…thanks," Lestrade finished.

John sat still for a second, before looking down at himself and realising he most definitely couldn't go anywhere before a shower – there was no way he could look Lestrade in the face, knowing he was still covered in his own semen from a fantasy wank the night before. He shot out of bed, grabbing a towel and shouting for Sherlock.

Sherlock appeared from the sitting room, looking completely calm and wide awake.

"Lestrade, car, ten minutes," John said, as he headed for the bathroom. "His house got broken into last night!" He slammed the door behind him.

He was ready just in time, noticing the car pulling up outside as he finished dressing. As he ran down the stairs Sherlock stepped out in front of him, holding a large bag.

"What…?" John began.

"You clothing, wash bag and laptop. You're going to stay with Lestrade until the murders are solved."

John felt his eyes widen. "To protect him?"

"To watch him," Sherlock answered, deadpan. "I've packed your gun, bottom of the bag."

"Wha…to watch him? But…"

Sherlock just gave him a look, and John shut up, because he was being given the opportunity to spend more time with Lestrade, and he'd be insane to jeopardise it. He took the bag and walked out to the car, wondering what it was that had made Sherlock so suspicious of Lestrade, and wondering if there was a chance he really could be involved. But he wasn't about to discuss it in front of the driver, so sat in silence, watching the landscape rolling by the windows and the city becoming countryside.

"We'll walk from here," Sherlock said as the driver pulled into the gateway, the gates blocking his path.

John looked at the cars parked along the verge, and then spotted a gaggle of people near a gap in the hedge, some sporting huge cameras. He climbed from the car, still watching them as Sherlock spoke to the constable at the gate and got them through. He swung his bag over his shoulder and walked up the now-familiar driveway, although today it was covered in parked police cars and a forensics van.

The front door was wide open, and John could see Sherlock already cataloguing details about the house, the windows, the large gardens and anything else he could see.

They stepped inside the door and John could hear Lestrade's voice coming from the kitchen. He steered Sherlock that way and saw Lestrade leaning against the kitchen worktop, one hand wrapped around a hot mug of coffee, the other gesturing as he spoke to a police officer. John couldn't help but notice he was wearing the same clothes as the night before, and looked completely knackered. He felt a tiny spike of something – jealousy, perhaps – inside as he thought about what Lestrade might have been doing in the intervening hours. Probably had someone in London, stayed the night with them, then got back early in the morning to discover the break in, he decided.

Lestrade looked at him, and within seconds years had fallen from his face as he smiled.

"John…and Sherlock. Thanks for coming," he pushed himself away from the counter and walked over, hand outstretched. John took it, Sherlock turned away. "I've no idea if this is related but…well, I just thought…" he shrugged.

Sherlock walked around the room, then down the corridor, looking into each room. John shrugged to Lestrade and they both followed until they ended up in the trashed interview room.

"What was taken?" Sherlock asked.

"Um, just a guitar – that's all," Lestrade answered. "Or, all that I've noticed. Nothing else seems to have gone."

"Mmm. Valuable?"

Lestrade shrugged and ran his free hand through his hair. "Not really – I mean, there's other stuff that's worth more, other guitars, even."

"What was it like?"

"Fender Stratocaster, red body. There's loads of pictures of it, I can dig you one out, if you want?"

Sherlock already had his phone in his hand, and turned it to Lestrade. "Like that?"

Lestrade nodded. "Yeah, that's the one."

John glimpsed the picture and turned to Lestrade. "But…that's your favourite! I mean, your favourite guitar…you…someone stole it?"

Lestrade shook his head. "It wasn't – the two in my studio are my favourites, really, and there's a few others I'd take above that one."

"But…" John started.

Sherlock stared at him, eyes narrowed. "Why did you think it was his favourite?"

John glanced between the two of them. "It was…there was an article, in a magazine. You said…"

"Oh, yeah, but that was just for the sponsorship. They sponsored that tour, so I had to say all that. It's just marketing bullshit."

Sherlock looked interested, then spun to look at the rest of the room. "Clearly all this was done for show. They weren't looking for anything – just making mess for the sake of it. A show. What time did you discover the break in?"

"About…five, maybe? Something like that." Lestrade pulled his phone from his pocket and pressed a few buttons. "I called the police at twelve minutes past."

"Why? Did something wake you? What happened?"

"Wake…no, I was in the studio, I was working. I can't remember why I came out – coffee, or the toilet, or something. And found all this," he gestured. "One of the dogs ran down here, she was…I don't know, acting oddly, so I followed her."

"What did you do then?" Sherlock asked.

"Apart from shit myself and think I was about to be murdered, you mean?" Lestrade laughed.

Sherlock just stared at him.

Lestrade's expression grew serious again. "I called the police – I mean, I had a quick look around – the dogs were with me, so I sort of knew no one was still here. And…then I phoned the police."

"Dogs…why didn't they alert you to the break in? They would have done something – shown some signs of agitation," Sherlock said.

"They were in the studio with me – it's soundproofed, I was playing, I don't suppose they could have heard anything out here, probably – I don't know, they didn't make a sound though."

"And no alarm?"

"Well, there is one, but I only set it at night, or when I'm out. I mean, when I'm asleep. So…time just sort of…I didn't know it was so late, and I hadn't set it. Insurance company'll be livid."

Sherlock made a noise that sounded a lot like disbelief to John.

"There's CCTV – but the police didn't think it would be much help. You can…" Lestrade said to John, gesturing toward the office.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, despite not being the person addressed.

It took a few minutes for Lestrade to pull up the relevant footage and burn it to a DVD for Sherlock, and then Sherlock announced he was done. Lestrade looked at the rapidly depleting fleet of police cars and noticed the forensic officers were packing their kit away. He yawned widely, and John could now understand why he was so tired.

"Yeah, right, I guess…" Lestrade started.

"John will be staying with you from now on," Sherlock announced, in a matter-of-fact tone.

"He…you will?" Lestrade looked at John.

"Um, yes…we thought…"

"For your safety," Sherlock stated, already wandering away. "He's very highly trained in such matters."

"Right," Lestrade smiled at John. "That's…good."

One of the police officers approached and Lestrade turned away to talk to him, and Sherlock grabbed John's arm and led him away slightly.

"Keep a close watch on him," Sherlock said in a low voice.

"What? I will, you think he's in danger?" John couldn't help but glance over his shoulder, only to find Lestrade was looking at him – or, more exactly, at Sherlock's hand on his arm. He shrugged it off quickly.

"No, I think this is a set up. It's all too convenient. No publicity is bad publicity, John," he gave Lestrade a pointed look.

"Sherlock! You can't mean…the CCTV showed someone breaking in."

"CCTV can easily be faked, and I hardly call a dark picture of someone with height and build matching Lestrade's evidence. He could have made that at any time, the system here is open to doctoring."

"I…right, I will," John knew there was no point in arguing. But he didn't want to believe that Lestrade could have anything to do with the murders or the break in.

"Right, I'm returning to Baker Street. Report to me at regular intervals."

"Yes, I will," John called after his rapidly retreating form, and didn't bother worrying about how exactly Sherlock thought he would get back to London.