Greg let himself in and shut the front door behind him with a sigh of relief. He hung his dripping coat up, kicked his shoes off and staggered through to the living room to collapse on the sofa.
“Fucking hell, what a day,” he muttered, sliding down and resting his feet on the coffee table. Both of his big toes poked accusingly out of holes in his damp socks. “Don’t you start,” he said to them.
What he really wanted now was a cup of tea. No, a beer. No, an enormous whiskey. He stared indecisively at the kitchen door, trying to work out which he wanted enough to bother getting up.
Greg’s phone buzzed. He pulled a face and dug it out of his trouser pocket.
Would you care to have dinner with me tonight? MH
Greg blinked. Was that one of the security protocols? It had been ages since he’d had to use them.
His phone buzzed again.
It’s not a code. MH
How odd. Greg contemplated the kitchen door again and remembered that there wasn’t anything in the fridge even slightly resembling food.
Excellent. The car will be there in forty minutes. MH
He stretched, yawned and pushed himself up off the sofa with great reluctance. His not to question why, his but to put on a clean shirt in case they went somewhere posh.
After nearly falling asleep in the shower, Greg managed to get dried off and dressed in clean clothes just in time to meet the large black car that drew up outside. The driver set off in silence and Greg passed the short journey flicking through the newspapers that were tucked into the pocket on the back of the seat in front. Eventually they pulled up outside a large townhouse in a quiet west London street.
“Good evening, Detective Inspector,” said Mycroft when he opened the door. “Thank you for joining me.”
“Call me Greg,” said Greg, not for the first time, and he stepped into the hall. It was elegant and cold – not a million miles from the man in front of him, still dressed in a three-piece suit even in what was (presumably) his own home. “So, what’s he done this time?”
“Excuse me?” said Mycroft, raising one eyebrow. “Please, allow me to take your coat.”
Greg shrugged it off and watched Mycroft hang it on the large dark wooden coat-stand. “Your brother. What’s he been up to now? Must be pretty horrific if you’re buttering me up.”
“Strictly a social occasion, I can assure you.”
Greg regarded Mycroft with frank disbelief.
Mycroft shrugged one shoulder. “Yes, well. If you’ll come with me?”
He turned and walked away, leaving Greg with no choice but to follow him.
The dining room was dark and formal, the only light spilling in yellow pools from the small side lamps and the candles on the table.
“Cosy,” remarked Greg.
Mycroft waved at the two places set at one end of the huge dining table before going to the sideboard where a collection of dishes were keeping warm on an electric plate-warmer. “Would you mind pouring the wine?”
Greg chose the seat next to the head of the table and sat down. There was an open bottle of wine already on the table and he filled both their glasses two-thirds full. The soft, warm smell of the wine mingled nicely with the spicy aromas of the food.
“I don’t eat in here often,” said Mycroft, his back to Greg as served food onto plates.
“I’m shocked. Lovely little room like this?”
Mycroft slid an exquisitely arranged plate of food in front of Greg. “It suffices.” He put another full plate on his own place and sat down. “Tell me, have you always been so sarcastic or is it the bad influence of my brother?”
Sat as they were across the corner, it actually was quite cosy. Greg’s knee was only an inch or so from Mycroft’s.
“If you’d ever had a conversation with me that wasn’t about work, you’d know.” Greg lifted his glass. “Cheers.”
Mycroft clinked his glass delicately against Greg’s before taking a sip, closing his eyes in pleasure. He had an interesting face – not conventionally handsome, but expressive. Greg had often wondered what it looked like when Mycroft let his guard down (if such a thing was even possible).
Greg looked away and tasted the wine himself. It was subtle, smooth and deceptively rich.
“So, what’s this all about then?” said Greg as he cut into the dark glazed cut of meat. “I’ve known you for seven years and you’ve never wanted to chat before.”
There’d been a time – back when they first met – when Greg had thought that Mycroft was attracted to him, and that all the stiffness and formality was to cover up. He’d caught him looking a couple of times, which had been a nice ego boost – it had even led to a few private flights of fancy. Over time, he’d dismissed that theory in favour of ‘cold-blooded bastard’.
Mycroft took a bite of his food before replying. “I thought it might be nice to have some company for dinner for once. You had the necessary security clearance and weren’t busy.”
“Lucky me,” said Greg, not buying that for a second. He forked a slice of meat into his mouth and made an undignified noise.
“Bloody hell,” he said when he’d finally swallowed the salty, savoury mouthful of tastiness. “What is this recipe?”
“Roast lamb with anchovies and olives, I believe,” said Mycroft thoughtfully. He glanced at Greg and smiled slightly. “I must confess that I did not cook it myself.”
Greg laughed for the first time in Mycroft’s presence.
Conversation continued while they ate their food, albeit at a slower pace and mostly about current affairs. Greg would have made more effort but it was delicious and he was starving. At last he mopped up the remaining smears of sauce with his last potato and ate it before sitting back.
“So,” he said, watching Mycroft delicately cut his remaining food, “do you live here on your own?”
Mycroft, mouth full, merely nodded.
Greg realised their glasses were empty and topped them both up. He swirled the ruby liquid round his glass, watching the red pattern the reflected candlelight made on the thick white tablecloth.
“Not married, then,” he continued when Mycroft had swallowed his food. “Or, sorry, civil partnered.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the assumption but didn’t correct it. “Obviously not.”
“Why not?” Greg was honestly curious. Besides, it felt oddly nice to be getting to know someone better, even in whatever weird capacity this was. For the last few years it had felt like everyone was moving further away from him.
Mycroft put his cutlery down and picked up his wine-glass. “A long-term relationship would be … difficult, in my position.”
Mycroft raised both eyebrows at that.
“That would be a half-way decent excuse if you were anyone else but I know you. You have a frankly terrifying amount of power – I can’t imagine you couldn’t make it work if you wanted to.” Greg took a swig of his wine, suddenly aware that it sounded as if he spent more time thinking about Mycroft than might be appropriate. Which was true. “I mean, if that’s not the sort of thing you want then that’s fine.”
Mycroft gave Greg a long, unreadable look. “And how is your ‘love-life’?” The inverted commas were audible.
Greg winced. “Alright, I suppose I asked for that. It’s fine, thanks. Non-existent, but fine.”
Mycroft twirled his glass by the stem. “You’re not interested in finding a new relationship?”
“Not a serious one, no.” More trouble than they were worth. As much as he missed the sex and intimacy, Greg had no illusions about his ability to sustain anything longer-term.
Mycroft took a large sip of his wine. “And a non-serious one?”
Greg considered the question, both in the abstract and in what he was becoming increasingly convinced was the particular. He could feel his face warm and his cock twitch just at the thought of it. “That would be … yeah. I haven’t looked but one of those would be good. Better, even.” He held Mycroft’s gaze.
“How interesting.” Mycroft drained his glass then pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. “I believe it’s time for dessert.”
Dessert was a sinfully dark chocolate mousse that melted as soon as it touched Greg’s tongue. He found himself licking the spoon clean without even meaning to, and was gratified when he noticed Mycroft staring.
Mycroft poured them each a small glass of dessert wine which they drank while arguing about music. Greg felt nicely relaxed, with a pleasant undertone of anticipation that fluttered and curled round the edges of his awareness.
Eventually Mycroft put down his empty glass. He hesitate for a moment before looking up.
“Thank you for coming tonight,” he said at last. “I enjoyed this.”
“So did I,” said Greg honestly. He had, more than he’d expected to. “That was fantastic, thank you.”
Mycroft drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Would you like to see the rest of the house before you go? There are some rather fine paintings.”
Greg grinned, unreasonably tickled that even geniuses had to resort to the old stand-bys. “Yeah.”
They left the dishes behind without a second thought.
“And this is the drawing room-“
“The library has some rather nice prints –“
“So it does.”
“And here is my bedroom,” said Mycroft, pausing with his hand on the door handle.
Greg leaned in and rested his hand in the small of Mycroft’s back. “What’s the ceiling like?” he murmured into Mycroft’s ear.
Greg had the rare satisfaction of seeing Mycroft ‘Cold Bastard’ Holmes flush bright red.
“See for yourself,” Mycroft said eventually, opening the door.
Greg sauntered in and looked upwards at the plain white ceiling. “Oh, very nice.”
There was a click as Mycroft shut the door. “It’s difficult to appreciate it fully while you’re standing.
“Is it now.”
In lieu of answer Mycroft stepped close and kissed him.
His lips were warm and soft and sweet with wine. Greg opened his mouth instinctively and put his hands on Mycroft’s waist, just holding him in place, enjoying the physical contact and the firm solidity of his body.
“Oh,” said Mycroft, a little breathlessly, as Greg kissed him back.
“Why do you wear so many clothes?” muttered Greg, sliding his hands under Mycroft’s jacket and waistcoat and pulling out the tails of his shirt before he could finally lay his hands on bare skin. “That’s better.”
Mycroft kissed him again, pressing closer so that Greg could feel the beginning of his arousal.
“Hello,” he said, smiling, and gave Mycroft’s bum a cheeky squeeze to pull them closer together.
“Good evening,” said Mycroft blithely, unbuttoning Greg’s shirt, and Greg laughed out loud.
It was definitely fair to say that Mycroft had a more efficient approach to undressing, getting Greg’s jacket and shirt off before Greg could manage more than a few waistcoat buttons. He was handicapped by the sheer tactile joy of touch, reluctant to take his hands off the few inches of naked flesh he’d managed to uncover. He was achingly hard and his skin buzzed with excitement.
In the interests of fair play, Greg decided on a change of tactic. He took a firm hold of Mycroft’s hips and walked backward. When he hit the bed, he sat down and pulled Mycroft forward to stand between his legs.
“Oh yes,” breathed Mycroft as Greg ran his hand over the hard line of Mycroft’s erection before quickly undoing his belt and trousers.
Christ, but Greg had missed cocks. Mycroft’s erection was thick and dark and warm in his hand, palpable evidence of his desire, and he couldn’t resist taking it in his mouth. Ignoring the choked-off sound from above him, he licked and sucked as saliva built up in his mouth, savouring the tang of pre-come on his tongue, running his fingers through the damp nest of ginger curls at the base.
“Stop,” gasped Mycroft at last.
Greg pulled off reluctantly and looked up. “Really?”
“I’d rather fuck you,” said Mycroft, unbuttoning his shirt. “Take the rest of your clothes off.”
Greg complied, tossing them onto the floor. “Some people ask, you know.”
When he was fully naked, Greg sprawled back on the bed, cock standing proud and flushed. “So, how do you want me?”
Mycroft paused in the middle of climbing out of his trousers to stare. “Hands and knees,” he said eventually, sounding strangled.
Greg complied happily. There was something strangely freeing about letting someone else take charge for once. Besides, it might have been the best part of a decade since he'd last done this but that wasn’t for lack of appeal.
One of Mycroft’s hands stroked over his arse. “Beautiful,” he said quietly. “Absolutely stunning.”
Mycroft stroked one cool wet finger over his arsehole. “Touch yourself.”
Greg took his weight on one hand and stroked himself with the other – not too fast, just enough to keep his arousal simmering. Mycroft’s touch was gentle and confident which helped Greg relax – nothing like letting an amateur at your arse to make everything tense up.
He’d tried fingering himself a few times over the years but somehow it had never worked as well as when someone else did it – too intense, too weird. He was enjoying it now though, oh yes.
“Ready?” asked Mycroft eventually.
“Past ready,” said Greg honestly. “Getting close to desperate.”
Mycroft laughed softly. “Very well.” He stroked his cock up and down Greg’s cleft, paused, and pushed inside.
Fuck that was good. Greg held his breath til Mycroft was all the way inside then let it out in a groan.
“Oh yeah,” he grunted. “Fuck me.” He put his other hand back down on the bed to brace himself better.
“I am endeavouring to,” panted Mycroft, rocking slowly in and out in gradually increasing thrusts.
Greg let his head hang down as he let the sensations wash over him. Thick, smooth sheets stretched beneath his knees and clutched in his hands. Thin fingers curled tightly around his hips. The sound of heavy breathing, his own and Mycroft’s, filling the room. The faint taste of Mycroft’s cock in his mouth, and the remembered feel of it against his tongue. And Mycroft’s cock, firm and demanding, imposing itself on him again and again until it drove out all other thoughts with its pounding pleasure.
“Oh Christ,” he gasped, taking himself in hand. “I’m going to come.”
“Just a moment,” said Mycroft unsteadily, thrusting harder. “Hold on for a minute, please.”
“No chance,” said Greg, desperately pulling at his cock. “I’ve got to – ah, fuck, there!”
He squeezed his eyes shut as his orgasm hovered on the brink for one long, shining moment before punching through his body in a sweet shock of ecstasy that left him gasping.
Behind him Mycroft swore and started to pull out.
“No,” said Greg, reaching behind to grab clumsily at Mycroft’s thigh. “Don’t stop.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Come on, fuck me, I want to feel you come.”
Mycroft did, thrusting with a desperate, frantic gratitude that Greg could feel in his bones, shoving himself in deep until at last he stilled and shivered as he came.
“That was brilliant,” said Greg into the quiet as they stayed there, sticky and panting and close.
“I – yes,” said Mycroft, and that was possibly the first time that Greg had ever heard him stumble over a sentence. “Thank you.” He pulled out slowly and Greg collapsed forward onto the bed.
Some time later he became aware of movement. He rolled over to see that Mycroft, wearing a dressing gown, was folding Greg’s clothes neatly onto a chair. Mycroft’s own clothes had disappeared, presumably into a laundry basket.
“Sorry,” offered Greg, a little embarrassed. “Dropped off.”
Mycroft looked up and smiled. “Quite alright, I assure you.”
“Do you want me to go?”
“Not unless you want to,” said Mycroft. “No.”
Greg went and cleaned up in the en-suite bathroom before coming back and joining Mycroft in bed.
“I’m afraid I have to leave at seven tomorrow,” said Mycroft, shuffling up against Greg. “You’re welcome to stay and sleep if you like.”
Greg shook his head and wrapped one arm around Mycroft, revelling in his warmth. “I’ll go with you. Can you drop me off at home?”
They lay quietly for a few minutes.
“Was this your plan for the evening?” asked Greg at last.
Mycroft laughed, very quietly. “Would you believe me if I said no?”
“I might.” Greg thought for a moment. “Didn’t take you for an impulsive man.”
“On very rare occasions, yes.” Mycroft’s breath was warm against Greg’s ear. “The last time was in 2005.”
“Will it be another nine years til the next one, then?”
Mycroft was quiet for a moment. “Perhaps not.”
Greg smiled and stroked Mycroft’s side. He felt a strange reluctance to stop touching him, as if his permission would expire if he took his hands away for more than a few minutes and then they’d have to go back to being people who didn’t touch.