Hot. Hot, hot, hot, hot, hot. August in London, the one week out of the year where it was summer, and Greg was working.
His office was hot – stuffy and smelling of rotted banana (could he find it? Of course not.). His shirt was sticking to his back. He was sweating in places he didn't know he could sweat. Half of his team had disappeared on "emergency" leave (probably buggered off to Cornwall), and his DCI was hugely pregnant and massively irritable (Greg remembered when his sister had been pregnant with his nephew, Jack, and how uncomfortable the heat had made her. Just not to the extent that she had blamed anything with a penis for all the evils in the world).
All in all, New Scotland Yard was not a good place for the likes of Greg Lestrade.
It turned out that the Tube at rush hour wasn't much better. There were enough examples of body odor to keep Sherlock happy for weeks, cataloging them all.
And it was only Tuesday.
His Islington flat wouldn't be much cooler, but there was beer in the fridge, and that had to count for something, right?
Tube delays. Naturally. Greg considered bailing for the bus, but he was trapped in the middle of the car – wedged between a patchouli-reeking teenager with dreadlocks and little concept of personal hygiene and three city boys – so waiting it out beneath the urban jungle was his only option.
When he was finally, finally able to shove his way out of the train and up onto the street, it was still baking.
The seven blocks to his flat were torture.
Parked outside was a familiar black car, and the stress and heat of the day seemed to melt away.
Mycroft was also having a bad day.
Anthea was visiting her mother.
Jerry, his driver, was down with stomach flu.
Mrs Cameron was having her monthly bout of harpy-dom, which, ever since David had become the PM, had been Mycroft's problem. (Mycroft swore he'd never vote Conservative again if he could help it).
And the US Presidential candidate had just finished chewing Mycroft's ear off regarding Ed Miliband (or Ted Milleniban) and his un-American attitudes. Mycroft couldn't blame the Labour Party for it (as much as he wanted to), but he did resolve to have a quiet word with the Secret Service detail accompanying the candidate – perhaps some non-lethal lacing of the candidate's evening cup of hot milk with some laxative, and he'd think twice about his foreign policy platform.
"So you see my issue around this?" demanded the candidate.
"Of course," Mycroft said. "And I shall do my utmost to ensure that you have a restful, pleasant stay on our shores."
The candidate glared at Mycroft and muttered something to his assistant, a disgusting, weasel-like youth with acne and halitosis, about quaint British traditions and the fobbing off of the leader of the free world on low-level bureaucrats.
Mycroft chose not to point out that the candidate was still only a candidate. Being called a low-level, pettifogging bureaucrat amused him. Counting one's chickens really got on his tits.
And then, then, as he walked down to the un-cooled garage, his day got truly horrible.
Sherlock had been by.
More to the point Sherlock had been by, borrowed his car, and returned it, having apparently used it for rally driving.
At least he'd left a note – scrawled in dust on the bonnet: Thank you, brother dear. Love and kisses, SH
For the first time that day, Mycroft started to sweat. Mostly with fury.
There was just enough petrol for him to get to Greg's flat in Islington.
"Mycroft!" Greg exclaimed as Mycroft rolled down the window. "I didn't think…"
"Greg, love, don't ask stupid questions. Just get. In. The. Car."
Greg was no fool. When the British Government ordered you into his car, you got into his car.
"So, erm…" Greg leaned against the side of the car (and regretted it immediately, as his arse came away covered in dirt) as Mycroft fought with the petrol pump. "What's… going… oh, let me."
Mycroft surrendered the pump with a poisonous glare and Greg grinned cheekily as the numbers on the meter began to click merrily away.
"Nothing," he grumbled. "Just… a difficult day."
"'cor, you can say that again," Greg said. "What happened to your car? I didn't even know you knew how to drive."
"I do know how to drive," Mycroft replied icily. "Do you remember that time where there was something that you discovered I could not do?"
"No, neither do I. But as it is, it's not my fault the car is in the state that it is. There is one very simple, very logical explanation for the state of my car and he responds to the name of…"
"…Sherlock. I didn't know he could drive either," Greg mused. "Better run his license tomorrow, just to check."
"I would see that as a great favor, Greg," he said.
Greg grinned and replaced the pump.
"Where are we off to?" he asked Mycroft.
"My home," Mycroft replied. "I have had a terrible day, Greg, and from the looks of things, you have as well. Donovan is in fact surfing with Anderson down at Cornwall this week, and your DCI will be going into labor soon. Combine that with Mrs Cameron and the American candidate, and we both, I think, deserve a quiet night in. Together."
The shiver that ran down Greg's spine had nothing to do with the weather, which continued to be hellishly hot.
Mycroft's home, tucked into a leafy corner of Highgate, was a tribute to understated opulence. Well, not so much understated, but Greg had got the idea. What was interesting was that it didn't actually belong to Mycroft, the man, so much as it belonged to Mycroft, the British Government.
"Her Majesty and I agreed," Mycroft once told Greg, "that we both enjoy these little bolt holes. Phillip does too, for that matter, but he has to ring me first, in case I have company."
Greg really couldn't think of a suitable response to that.
As he pulled into the opulent bolt hole (as he'd since dubbed it), Greg grinned as a glimmer of an idea took hold. The traffic had been terrible, and the tendons in Mycroft's neck were not only visible, but also a bright purple.
And as much as Greg loved Mycroft, winding up Holmeses in general, and Mycroft in particular, was something of a sport to him.
"D'you know what would really be nice?" he asked Mycroft.
"No, I don't. I'm a genius, not a psychic," Mycroft snapped.
"Very ha, Mycroft. No, what would cheer you up no end would be a clean car."
"I'm not in need of cheering up, as you so curiously put it," Mycroft snapped. "Now come inside." The penny dropped. "A clean car?"
"Yes," said Greg, pulling himself out of the car and beginning to tug off his shirt. "You're all in a snit because Sherlock borrowed your car without telling you and returned it looking like it had been through the Paris-Dakar rally. And I know you, Mycroft Holmes. When things are not perfect, you get your knickers in a twist."
"My knickers are not in a twist," Mycroft insisted with a great deal less conviction he normally would have, had Greg not continued to strip down in the middle of his drive in the late evening sun. Trousers joined shirt in an untidy pile on the topiary by the front door, and Greg was hopping around, trying to get his shoes and socks off.
It was rather an arresting sight – Greg Lestrade, in his pants and vest, wiggling his now-free toes in the dust on the driveway.
"Right. Hosepipe?" he asked Mycroft.
"Erm… garage. I think there's a bucket in there, too."
Greg trotted round the side of the house and Mycroft unlocked the doors with his key fob. Still in a daze, he retreated to the front door, where he gathered Greg's shirt and shoes and hung them on the frankly hideous knocker.
Greg returned as Mycroft was finishing lining up his shoes and socks beneath the knocker and removing his jacket and waistcoat.
"See? There you go," Greg exclaimed, dropping bucket, hosepipe, sponge and a bottle of cleaning agent Mycroft had never seen before. "Good that you're loosening up a bit. Now, unless you want to get wet, stand back." And then he turned on the hosepipe, "accidentally" splashing Mycroft's pristine white shirt and dark tie.
Mycroft glared at him and took off the tie and unbuttoned the shirt at the collar and the cuffs as a concession to Greg's frivolity.
Mycroft Holmes was a man of broad experience and sophistication. He had seen more things in his lifetime than many people could even dream of. He had dealt with world leaders and people who thought they were world leaders. He had been shot at, shot, and even, on one memorable occasion, walked across the Iraqi desert in full pack and camouflage from Baghdad to a small outpost near the Kuwaiti border, where he'd been picked up by Red Adair's fire-fighting crew. (This was, incidentally the reason he disliked legwork so much – the blisters on his feet had given him trouble for weeks.) And never you mind what he was doing in Baghdad in the first place.
But one thing that Mycroft Holmes had not counted on seeing or experiencing was the sight of Greg Lestrade in his pants and vest, barefoot and grinning, and – oh God – soaking wet, lathering up his car.
Mycroft swallowed hard.
Greg was winding him up, he knew. Don't think for a minute that he didn't know exactly when Greg Lestrade wanted to irk him. But, unlike when Sherlock did it, Mycroft considered Greg's attempts as a token of Greg's affection for him.
And, truth to tell, he rather liked it.
"Enjoy the view." Greg grinned and bent over to pay special attention to a wheel-well.
Greg's vest was soaked through – Mycroft could see the pale skin underneath, the smattering of freckles across his right shoulder, the surprisingly well developed muscles of Greg's back, the curve of his lower back as it met his buttocks.
And now his pants were soaked too, a dollop of soapsuds running down Greg's right hip as the wet fabric clung to his arse.
There was no way, Mycroft thought, that Greg could possibly not be doing this deliberately. He adjusted himself through his trousers and tried to think about Margaret Thatcher in the bath. He also unbuttoned his shirt a bit more.
Then Greg bent over the bonnet of the car to reach the far side, and all thoughts of Maggie-in-the-bath vanished.
Greg straightened up and aimed the spray of water at the car, washing away the bubbles and grime. Then he turned the spray on his chest, and his vest, if it were even possible, became wetter. Oh God, then on a lower setting, over his head, and there was water cascading down everything.
Mycroft's cock pressed painfully against his trousers as Greg stripped off his vest and wrung it out, only to rub it over his chest (smattering of silver hair on the chest, tight dark nipples, bead of water tracing down to his stomach – Mycroft cataloged) and across his stomach (slight bulge consistent with aging, line of hair disappearing into the waistband of his pants) before he tossed it aside and gestured to the car.
"There we go! Easy-peasy," Greg said. "And you know, for the first time today, I'm feeling actually comfortable."
Mycroft raked his eyes over Greg's frame, lingering at the waistband of his pants and then lower, at the hardness pressing against the wet fabric, the pale flesh showing through the fly in the front. He swallowed.
"Yes, Mycroft? Care to admire my handiwork?"
"Greg…" This time it was more of a growl. "Greg, take off your pants."
"Is that an order?" Greg asked as Mycroft advanced to him.
Before Greg could comply, Mycroft was on him, kissing him savagely, licking at his jaw, biting at his lips, sliding his tongue in his mouth while his hands skated down Greg's stomach and he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of the pants.
"Christ," Greg groaned.
"Up against the car," Mycroft muttered into Greg's mouth as he rolled his still-clad hips against Greg. "Now."
Greg began to move, but again, Mycroft was too quick for him, pulling his pants down and spinning him around, pressing him against the still-wet bonnet of the car.
"Fuck, Mycroft," Greg grunted.
"Yes, exactly," Mycroft murmured, rubbing his trousered erection against Greg's bare arse.
"Yes. Yes," Greg said, his hands grasping for purchase on the wet metal.
Mycroft reached his hand around, grasped his cock, and began to jerk, slowly, carefully.
"Ff-uck," Greg grunted. "If you… I'll…"
"No, you won't, actually," said Mycroft, pulling away. "You'll come when I tell you to, and you'll come from my cock and my hand, and you'll come all over the bonnet of this car. Do you understand."
"H-hhagh, yes," Greg shouted as Mycroft pressed a damp finger against his hole, and then another one.
"Fuck, you're tight, Greg," Mycroft murmured into his ear. "Can you… without…"
"Yeah, yeah, just, please, Mycroft, please…"
Mycroft squatted carefully for a moment, wincing as his trapped erection throbbed, and separated Greg's arse cheeks. A deep breath, and then a gust of warm air across Greg's puckered hole. Mycroft smiled as he began to lick delicate circles around the hole, while Greg cried out above him.
Not too much, obviously; not enough to spoil the game, Mycroft thought as he pressed his tongue gently into Greg's hole and Greg made another desperate sound. Tongue, fingers, tongue, fingers, as Mycroft gently opened Greg up.
"Please, please, please, please," Greg was chanting.
"Now?" asked Mycroft.
"Fuck me, please – oh, oh God," Greg cried out as Mycroft pulled away, stood up, and rapidly freed his erection from his trousers. He took himself in hand, smearing pre-ejaculate down the shaft, and pressed into Greg's tight hole.
Greg whined and bucked back into Mycroft.
Mycroft slammed into Greg, pressing him against the bonnet of the car as he gave in to the urge to thrust and thrust. Beneath him, Greg was moaning, pushing back into him, begging him to please, please, please, God, please…
Sweat began to trickle down Mycroft's neck and between his shoulder blades as he fucked Greg against the car. Sweat ran in rivulets down his calves as his cock filled the tight heat that was Greg. Where his legs met Greg's his trousers were soaked.
It was perfect.
Orgasm coiled low in his belly and he redoubled his thrusts, pulling Greg upright a little bit and grabbing his cock.
"Oh, fuck, fuck, yes," Greg groaned as he began to come, splashing white over the dark paint of the car. Mycroft continued to thrust, jerking Greg's cock as his own orgasm rushed through him and he emptied himself into Greg.
"Fuck," he muttered, trying not to collapse against Greg.
"Exactly," Greg agreed with a chuckle and a flinch as Mycroft gently drew out of him.
Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled.
"Oh, doesn't that just prove it," Greg said ruefully as he bent down and pulled up his pants. "Spend all that time washing the car, and the minute you finish, it starts to rain."
"Mmmm," Mycroft said, pressing himself against Greg. "Why don't we try getting you cleaned up instead?" he asked.
Greg chuckled. "Thought you'd never ask," he said and kicked the hosepipe, sponge, and now-empty bucket ahead of them as they walked to the garage, Mycroft carrying the rest of Greg's clothes.
"Cheeky," Mycroft murmured fondly.