I have a "carpe diem" mug and, truthfully, at six in the morning the words do not make me want to seize the day. They make me want to slap a dead poet.
Two-thirty in the am was not a pretty time in London. For that matter, that pm of that time wasn't all that wonderful either with the traffic just starting to build and far too many grumpy people beginning to trickle their way home. It was the early morning hours that had too many awake who had no right to be.
Mycroft Holmes stood before a glass wall that some architect had decided to put in his hotel room. Granted, it gave a heart-stopping view of the city of this country as if it were jeweler’s velvet laid with glittering gems, but none of those lights out there were the ones of London. Hands folded behind him and posture perfect, Mycroft gave the view below a withering look that would have sent that particular architect scurrying away with numerous apologies.
The glare of his Blackberry lit Mycroft's face briefly as he studied the email message for the sixth time since receiving it ten minutes ago.
His lover wasn't much for words, and Mycroft would be the first to admit it. Gregory Lestrade was blunt to a fault. Of course, the attached graphic of Greg laid out bare on their sheets, his face buried in Mycroft's pillow with his hand...
Mycroft wasn't one to give into base urges, so instead he stood there watching the city sleep while that picture was burnt into his mind, especially with Greg's hand caught mid-stroke.
However, there would be reprisals when he got home that involved Greg's handcuffs..
John Watson tried to cover his head with his pillow as the shriek of a tortured violin came from the other room. Why, oh why, did he live with a man who managed to wring such horrible sounds from a usually beautiful sounding instrument. He could remember the violin's being called the 'human voice'. It was as if Sherlock were using it to scream out his boredom and mindlessness when he couldn't articulate it himself. If craving for narcotics had a voice, that painful noise was it.
Slogging his way to his laptop, John stared at it blankly. There was nothing he could think of to blog about, and there weren't any comments he needed to reply to. Now if he could only convince himself that the little digital display didn't read 2:30 am.
Another 'musical' shriek from below sent a shudder through his spine. Maybe the Stradivarius he saw when peering through the F-holes on it was a fake. People had hoped for more far-fetched things surely.
Clicking over to Sherlock's site, John Watson grinned to himself and flushed a bright red. It might just distract Sherlock for awhile, at least long enough for him to get back to sleep.
Verbal pornography usually wasn't his forte`, but John could cut and paste with the best of them from some of those NC-17 sites. It wouldn't take much to compose a letter.
Gregory Lestrade sighed as he rolled over yet again and found that sleep was still eluding him. Mycroft's pillow, the man's cologne still clinging to it, was ending up a tease. The picture that he had fired off to Mycroft had been a tease as well, although he had finished himself quick enough. How could he resist with that scent still imprinted all over their sheets and that damned pillow? How could he try to sleep with that wrapped around him and knowing that the man himself was about three timezones away?
“Fuck,” he said outloud. Ha. Let Mycroft's microphones pick that up and relay to him. There were listening and seeing devices all around him, and Lestrade knew it. If Mycroft wanted, he probably could have watched Greg stroking himself with his nose buried against Mycroft's pillow live instead of recorded. A small smirk rose as he hoped Mycroft had.
“Need you. Want you,” he muttered into Mycroft's silent pillow.
If Mycroft were here, it meant that some assassin that was luckier than smart couldn't get off a shot. If Mycroft was here, then he wouldn't be in some distant night where anything could happen.
“Just come home.”
Hearing his phone chirp annoyingly, Lestrade gave up on the pretense of sleep and flipped it open to view his email.
He stopped and slid on his glasses then to make sure he was seeing what he thought he was.
Evidentally, he had underestimated the Holmes brothers' (or at least one of them) ability to make a point.
Flight arriving in four hours.
Hands on the headboard and legs spread.
Clothing is not optional.
I want you bare.
And people called him blunt.
It was shortly a surprisingly quiet night in Holmes-Watson household sometime after three am.
By the time a certain flight had landed, the same could be said of the Holmes-Lestrade one.