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Femme Fatale

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Dimmock's eyes are beginning to cross. It's the paperwork-—heaps and heaps of the stuff. Take a man on faith and how does he repay you? With your own sodding weight in overtime slips. Even if he manages to file half of what he needs to tonight, there’ll still be enough left over to bury him in. Dimmock grimaces over what must be his twelfth cup of over-brewed tea, massaging a cramp out of his hand. Lestrade is going to throw a proper fit once he gets wind of it.

"Him and his golden boy," he mutters. "Both of ‘em can rot."

"Oh, I don’t think there’s any need for that."

The voice nearly sends Dimmock bolting out of his seat. His first thought is that he’s going mad. He's finally snapped from the pressure, from the paperwork, from dealing with Sherlock cunting Holmes and now he's gone barmy for his efforts. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and gives his tie a good yank, in case he’s managed to stop the flow of oxygen to his brain, and finds himself staring up at a man who only moments before, hadn't existed at all.

"And where the bloody hell did you come from?"

It's not the most charming introduction, but Dimmock has had it up to here with men who can walk through walls and up the sides of buildings and, apparently, of the very shadows whenever they like. It’s more than any sane man can handle. The man standing less than yard away from him might well have walked out of another decade for all that he looks like he belongs there in Dimmock’s office, with his perfect pinstripes and his fob watch straight out of a 1940’s detective film.

His intruder smiles graciously. "Detective Inspector Dimmock, I presume?"

"Yeah, that's right," he says. He reaches for his tea and tries not to slop it all down his front as he gulps the rest of it. "Do I know you?"

"Not that I’m aware of, no, but I believe you had a run-in with my brother this afternoon." There’s more than a touch of irony in his voice. "Sherlock can be quite difficult, I’m afraid."

"Oh, so there’s two of you, is there? That’s just perfect. Exactly what I needed tonight." A heart attack is beginning to sound like an excellent idea. "Look, I’m swamped right now. I really can’t be bothered-—”

"Please, Detective Inspector," the man interrupts smoothly, "I haven’t come to make your life more difficult. Quite the contrary, in fact. Mycroft Holmes, at your service."

There’s something unnerving about that smile. It’s all in the eyes, Dimmock thinks. They’re boring into his soul and he’s not exactly in the right state of mind to be remembering what’s there to look at, but suddenly he’s gripped by the urge to confess every miserable, petty thing he’s done in his whole life as his mysterious guest edges his way around the desk, slow and feline and very, very dangerous.

"I, I---" Dimmock swallows. Get a grip, you tosser. "Why exactly are you here?"

"It’s my understanding that earlier this evening, you carried out a raid on the rather capricious whims of my little brother and have, regrettably, been left to foot the bill. Unfortunately for the both of us, Detective Inspector, Sherlock is not in the habit of cleaning up his messes."

"How d’you know that? It’s not been in the papers."

"I have my methods."

"Is that right?"

Now this, Dimmock can deal with. He's been with the Met for long enough to have seen his fair share of crooked coppers and seedy little crime lords who thought they could back him into a corner. Mycroft Holmes has a smart look about him, but he’s not half as clever as he thinks if he’s decided Dimmock is going to be threatened into anything. Not after pouring himself into all this paperwork.

Mycroft sighs. "Inspector, I can see you've already decided that I've come to you with some unsavory agenda, but I can assure you that isn't the case. All I ask is that you allow me to offer a hand in smoothing all of this over. I'd like to apologize on behalf of my brother and offer you a... token of my gratitude, for not simply drowning him in the Thames."

Before he can even open his mouth, Mycroft sinks to his knees in front of him and Dimmock's whole world gets an unexpected realignment. Something tells him he isn’t the femme fatale here.

"You're not... serious, are you? I mean, you're not, we're not---"

Mycroft flicks open the placket of his trousers with an ease that suggests complete and utter solemnity and Dimmock's train of thought conveniently derails in favor of something considerably more exciting, and far more unexpected, than an evening of paperwork. It’s not all bad, he supposes. Sherlock's brother---Mycroft, that's it, Mycroft---is certainly fit enough, and he would be lying if he said he wasn't impressed by the fact that it’s taken Mycroft no more than two seconds from start to finish to pull Dimmock’s cock out of his trousers.

He’s not quite reached the point where he doesn’t wonder how many blokes Mycroft’s had to practice that on, but he’s beyond being too fussed about it. If it means having his cock sucked purely for not beating Sherlock Holmes to a bloody pulp, Dimmock is prepared to overlook practically anything.

Six months stuck behind a desk and no time for anything but a quick wank in the toilets at lunch will do that to a man.

Dimmock closes his eyes at the wetness engulfing his cock, slumping down in his chair with a groan. Christ, does Mycroft have a talented mouth. It's perfect, absolutely perfect, with just the right amount of suction and softness and a bit of teeth on the pullback, exactly the way he likes it. He cracks open an eye and Mycroft is as calm as you please, eyelashes down against his cheeks like he's never known such serenity as he does now that he's sucking Dimmock off, and if that doesn’t make a man feel powerful, nothing will.

Part of him wants to drag it out, if only to keep watching, but somewhere along the way he’s gone boneless all the way down to his toes, helpless to lift so much as a finger. Orgasm steals over him all too quickly and it’s only by great fortune that he manages not to jerk his hips as he spurts into Mycroft’s waiting mouth. To his credit, Mycroft doesn't even blink, just sucks it out of him and keeps going until Dimmock’s spine has turned to jelly. No blowjob before compares and Dimmock is pretty sure that, unless Mycroft wants to leave his mobile number, none after will, either.

Mycroft dabs his mouth with a handkerchief before rising and it's all Dimmock can do to tuck himself back into his trousers instead of gaping at him like a clot. God, even his toes are numb.

"I trust we've come to an understanding?"

Dimmock nods. It's all he can manage.

"I'll have my secretary take care of the overtime," Mycroft says, pleasantly. "Good evening, Inspector."