Work Header

Voice by Voice

Work Text:

Two points, Lestrade thinks. 1) He doesn't know how this happened, how this barreled into his life like the contents of a shotgun, and 2) The length of Mycroft's fingers, the brandy still on his mouth, cool and firm, a revelation.

The byproduct of an equation where the variable factors are time, proximity, convenience, and a certain amount of psychosexual desire, would be Mycroft's explanation of the whole affair, which begins, as many game-changing events in Lestrade's life does, with the matter of Sherlock, and goes off the rail sideways with Mycroft handing Lestrade his card with his long, pale fingers and an elegantly tilted eyebrow.

(Both the Holmes brothers do this, but they're different. With Sherlock, he's saying that you're a cockup, that you're not worth his time, that you are intellectually trumped by the mold in his bathtub. With Mycroft, he's saying that you're not a cockup yet, but you will be, and he can tell you exactly when it'll happen).

How Lestrade interprets it is this: Anthea shows up at his flat one night with an emerald striped Savile Row tie folded over one arm and the announcement that Mycroft has invited him to dinner.

Dinner, Lestrade repeats.

Dinner, she says and smiles so that he can see the edges of her teeth.

Lestrade thinks, He is either going to drive me to a back alley and shoot my brains out against the wall, or this is going to be the most awkward date imaginable. All he hopes is that the latter won't lead to the former. There are probably Whitehall protocols for how to deal with the lousy suitors of the British government, and Lestrade? Is sort of fond of where his testicles remain, thanks very much.

So that's how it happens, with wine and quails and Mycroft's steady stream of conversation about the characteristics of later Mozart while Lestrade grows more and more horrified, and more and more drunk. It's the only seduction Lestrade knows of which involves him nearly passed out on Mycroft's sofa at the end of the night, and Mycroft going on and on about the mating habits of snails and what that might mean for the next parliamentary election — not, he clarifies, that he was being indiscreet, it was merely conjecture. And Lestrade groans, pulls himself up onto his knees, and says, Let's be indiscreet together if you'll shut up.

And now, months later, this is how it continues.

Lestrade doesn't think too much about it. Mycroft does enough damn thinking for both of them. All Lestrade knows is that he wants this, surprisingly and sometimes clumsily, and that there's lots of brilliant pleasures in life, but right at the top of that list is the ability to fuck with Mycroft Holmes.

Fuck with him, fuck him, hey — Lestrade's getting good at both.

Right now he's got Mycroft sitting on a chair in his private room at the Diogenes Club, legs splayed wide with Lestrade kneeling between them, his mouth on Mycroft's cock. The chair is some horrid shade of auburn paisley, and it hurts Lestrade's eyes to stare at it too often, but that's all right. He'd rather look at Mycroft instead. Mycroft's still in his three piece suit, but there's a flush of sweat around his collar, and the way he's unbuttoned his trousers at the groin is not how his tailor had intended it.

Mycroft has a sex-newness to him that Lestrade finds bizarrely endearing. The height of Her Majesty's Service, all those James Bond types in their posh cars and the ladies in teetering stilettos, danger and passion and espionage, practically screaming do me, do me now. And Mycroft in the middle of it, perfectly pressed, one pinkie extended as he sips his tea. Lestrade loves it. Mycroft hates it — or at the very least is embarrassed by it, because it's hard to hate a bloke who's on his knees with your cock in his mouth. Mycroft is embarrassed because sex is messy and undignified and yeah, yeah, hello Mycroft, this is the emergency exit, be prepared to be shoved out.

Mycroft moves tentatively at first, and then more firmly, thrusting up into Lestrade's mouth with the sort of politeness one gives to old ladies crossing the street. Lestrade responds by running his tongue along the thick vein on Mycroft's cock, hoarding his stuttered gasp, an off-key note. Mycroft's hips jerk; and then he frowns.

"There a problem?" Lestrade asks.

"Don't be ridiculous." Mycroft's eyes flick to the locked door. "Only, this doesn't strike me as the most appropriate venue for —"

"For two men having oral sex?" Lestrade finishes.

Mycroft looks at him dryly.

"I'm not going to arrest us for public indecency, if that's what you mean."

"That's not what I mean, and you know it," Mycroft says, shuddering a little at Lestrade's hands moving on his hips. "The Diogenes, however, is an old and established club." Mycroft lets out a yelp. "Stop biting me!"

Lestrade doesn't listen. It feels good, after toeing the line for his superiors and getting his rabble of a team to toe the line as well — after a day of all that, it feels good to be the one who breaks the world order. Our wild lives beginning in three, two, one, he thinks, biting Mycroft's thigh again and licking the little wound with the flat of his tongue. Mycroft squirms. He'd never admit to it later. He'll call it a shift of my bodily position or some other such bollocks, but Lestrade can call a spade a spade. That is most definitely a squirm, and when Lestrade goes back to sucking Mycroft's cock, that is most definitely a gasp.

Silence in the Diogenes, and Lestrade wants to pull down every curtain, to break every dish, to make a bloody righteous mess of it, starting with Mycroft right here, alert and human, even if no one else but him sees it. Good, Lestrade thinks, and his tongue darts out to lick the underside of Mycroft's balls. Mycroft stiffens, and there's a sound that's almost a moan, but not quite, cut off midway through and swallowed.

"Oh come on, you," Lestrade says, lifting his mouth.

"What?" Mycroft asks behind gritted teeth. There's a hint of colour in his cheeks. Lestrade strokes it with a finger. Mycroft closes his eyes.

Clearly, this means Lestrade is going to have to try harder. And Lestrade is very good at two things. 1) his job, and 2) things that involve hard, and harder. He's got plenty of patience; working with the people he does, he has to. He smirks a little when his next lick makes Mycroft open his eyes, and then again when a followup makes Mycroft go cross-eyed.

Mycroft's skin is often cold (low blood pressure, he explains once, and an indoor life spent with the luxury of air conditioning), but Lestrade warms it up slowly but surely, working with his tongue and his mouth to melt Mycroft into his chair. Mycroft puts up a good fight. He'll give him that much. He holds his spine straight and his legs steady, which just makes Lestrade even harder for it.

He takes Mycroft down, piece by piece, and then he takes him apart.

Still, the quiet sounds. The muffled gasps. The soft hisses. Mycroft's hands so courteously gripping the armchair, until Lestrade raises his head and says, "You can hold me by the hair. I don't mind." And Mycroft's eyes go thin and dark. His fingers reach out, and Lestrade shivers at the first stroke.

"Yeah," he says, "something like that."

Mycroft's a slow shot. Like everything else, he takes his bloody time about it, gets good and ready and when everyone else is waiting on the doorstep with their brollies turned out and their car engines turned on, only then will Mycroft come waltzing out, the duke of his own domain. So Lestrade settles in for the long game, and he removes one hand from Mycroft's hip to finger his balls, playing with them meaningfully as his mouth makes wet, slick noises in the silence of the room.

His fingers gently squeeze, and Mycroft lets out a groan for real.

So he does it again.

He imagines the old men with their vellum-bound books and their India ink, sitting outside, unknowing. He wonders if he can get Mycroft to make noises loud enough for them to hear. So he fumbles in his coat pocket for the lube, and Mycroft makes a disbelieving sound when he sees it, like really, is that where your mind is. But it is, basically, and Lestrade holds Mycroft's gaze as he slicks up his fingers, and then pries the rest of Mycroft's trousers down around his thighs.

Mycroft makes another sound, a good sound.

"Up a bit," Lestrade says. It's mind-blowing how Mycroft obeys. Lestrade slides one finger in with incremental strokes, and his other arm's holding Mycroft up, feeling Mycroft's whole-body shudder.

He moves his finger in and out, and Mycroft sucks in all of his breath.

Two fingers, and he urges Mycroft to move with him. Mycroft gives him a look with slitted eyes, ever the skeptic, but Lestrade just smiles and kisses him, with his mouth this time. With both their mouths, sliding together, awkward, almost boyish, singularly stunning. Lestrade slides in a second finger slowly, and Mycroft groans deep in his throat until Lestrade crooks his fingers to find the spot he's looking for.

Mycroft freezes, and then he says, "Gregory," in a perfectly audible tone of voice, which in the Diogenes sounds unforgivably loud.

"Gregory," he says again, a quick breath of a sound, and then he comes, spilling over Lestrade's fingers and onto both of their shirts, making a glorious mess, a mess they're never going to be able to explain to the other members of the club.

Sometimes it feels like there are whole countries between him and Mycroft, but right now, like this, the space separating them is like the space between dominoes.

"Let me," Mycroft says, after, and Lestrade is all too happy to climb up onto the chair and practically straddle Mycroft's lap. Mycroft takes him in hand, and then, with great concentration, strokes him to his own orgasm, which bends Lestrade's back and makes him bury his face in Mycroft's suited shoulder.

"You're laughing," Mycroft observes, and he should be complaining about Lestrade's weight on him, but he doesn't show any signs of letting go.

"Genius," Lestrade says. He looks into Mycroft's flushed face, and tenderness sideswipes him like Sherlock operating a motor vehicle. He tilts his head, indicating the door. "You think they've guessed what we're up to?"

"If I knew beforehand just how deep your penchant for exhibitionism runs, I might have given second thought to this entire affair," Mycroft says. He strokes Lestrade's back.

"Ah," Lestrade replies, "but you know everything."