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Something Vaguely Heart-Shaped

Chapter Text

“Hey, I forgot the—what are you up to?” asked John, coming back into the flat abruptly, and belatedly realising from the sudden flurry of movement at the table in the sitting room, that he had just caught Sherlock doing something that he didn't want to be caught doing. “What are you doing?” asked John, and he went over to the table, but only to get the shopping list that he’d forgotten. Sherlock stayed seated at the table but he was obviously hiding something underneath it in his lap. John had a horrible idea that he knew what it was. His heart sank. Sherlock had been twitchy since stopping smoking again and John was worried. He wasn't a control freak, but if Sherlock was hiding something, John just wanted to know what it was. Both Sherlock’s hands remained discretely hidden, out of sight. John retrieved his list calmly from the other side of the table where he’d left it, without looking at Sherlock, and stood opposite him, folding the piece of paper over to fit it into his wallet.

He didn’t want to be the parent here. “I’d really like there to be no secrets between us…” he said carefully, as he folded the list over again and then tucked it into his wallet on top of his Tesco clubcard. “…But if you've got some cigarettes under there, I’d really rather know about them than not.” He closed his wallet and put it back in his inside pocket, and only then did he look up at Sherlock’s face.
Sherlock snorted in contempt at the very idea. “I do not have any cigarettes under there,” he said sniffily. “Anyway, I have two patches on today.” He suddenly brought both hands out from under the table and pulled up his dressing gown sleeve, holding his right arm defiantly out to John to demonstrate them. John glanced at the patches and then back at Sherlock’s face again. He was relieved to see he was wrong about the cigarettes. “What are you doing, then?’ said John, “Because there’s clearly something Secret Squirrel going on at this table…”
Sherlock’s brows drew together. “Secret Squirrel?” he said, derisively.
“Oh, come on, did you not have a childhood? Secret Squirrel was one of those Saturday morning cartoons when we were kids…”
“What was the general premise?” asked Sherlock, bringing his empty hands back to rest innocently on the table.
“Well, he was a spy, so stuff was secret, and he was also a squirrel. Therefore, 'Secret Squirrel'…it was pretty elementary, really," said John. "I think he had some James Bond aspirations,” he added, and then he realised and started to smile. He pointed at Sherlock accusingly with an amused look on his face. “And don’t try and distract me!” he said, which he suddenly knew was without doubt to be the actual point of Sherlock’s question.
Sherlock began to smile too at that. “If this is how it’s going to be, John, I'm not so sure I can take it…You knowing things…”
John moved round the table to Sherlock’s side. “Oh, I know a lot of things now that I didn’t know before,” said John mysteriously as he went, and when he got there, he leant down, a broad grin rising to his face. Sherlock couldn't help his own answering grin, but he didn't move as John leaned down and in and kissed him firmly on his smiling mouth. Sherlock returned the kiss quite enthusiastically and reached up to stroke his fingers through John’s hair. When the kiss broke, Sherlock said, “Then you also know I need coffee quite desperately, John.”
John laughed. “That’s not all you need,” he said, filthily. “Right, I’m going. Can you tell me what you're doing or is it something I'll find out about later?”
Sherlock looked amused. “If it works, you’ll find out later. If it doesn’t, I’ll tell you. And then I’ll make it work.”
John snorted laughter at the last bit. But he was satisfied with the answer. “Ok. Tesco’s it is then,” he said. “See you later.” And off he went.

By the time he got to Tesco’s - in fact, way before he’d even got through the automatic doors - he had been bombarded by Valentine’s Day merchandise everywhere and the incessant prompting to buy some of it for his Valentine…John didn’t really go for all this ‘Valentine’s day celebration’ stuff, he couldn’t help but feel it a cynical commercial attempt by the shops to simply extract more money from everyone now the enforced austerity of January was over, but all the same, he thought it might be a nice surprise to get something vaguely heart-shaped for Sherlock, it was their first Valentine’s Day together—but then a thought struck him - Sherlock, earlier - surely Sherlock, of all people, couldn't have been secretly…? ‘No,’ he thought. ‘No, come on! No way,’ dismissing the idea instantly out of hand as ridiculous. ‘There’s no way that would he buy into it - you’re delusional!’ he decided, and he grabbed a basket and got out his list.

 

~~~~

 

While John was in Tesco’s, deciphering Sherlock’s scrawled additions to his list, Mycroft was at his desk speed reading an urgent missive from the foreign office in Venezuela. Suddenly Anthea popped her head through the doorway. “A note, sir,” she said, producing a sealed white envelope and holding it out delicately between finger and thumb. She seemed somewhat bemused.
Mycroft looked at her. “A note?” he said.
“Yah,” she replied and she brought it into his office. Mycroft made no move to take it so she deposited it on his desk. “Hand delivered,” she added, mysteriously, as she put it down. Mycroft glanced at it in consternation. Plain business style white envelope, no cellophane window, rather cheap stationery, his full name hand-written in a hand that he didn't recognise, right-handed writer, in a rush, black Bic biro, the word ‘PRIVATE’ in capitals where the stamp should be, no other distinguishing features. He sniffed delicately. “Hand delivered by whom?” he asked, still not touching it.
“I’m afraid I don’t know, sir. It was left at the front desk,” Anthea replied. “It’s been checked for…anything,” she added, unnecessarily.
They both looked at the envelope.
“Would you like me to open it, sir?” Anthea asked.
“No. I should like to open it. In private,” said Mycroft, slightly sternly.
Anthea smiled. “Of course, sir,” she said. “I’ll leave you to it,” and she left the room.
As she shut the door, Mycroft was coming to the end of his mental list of all the possible letter-writers of his acquaintance and was still none the wiser, so he picked it up and sniffed it. Nothing. Nothing of note anyway, just paper, so he reached for his letter opener and opened it. A single sheet of fairly nondescript white A4 paper was inside, and in the same scruffy but rather intriguing handwriting as the envelope, read the words, “I’ve seen you looking. Why don't you find out what you’d like to know? Constantine’s tonight at 8.”
Mycroft was all at once totally horrified and deeply flattered. He was also stunned, floored and paradoxically delighted. He’d not seen this coming. Not in a million years. He’d thought there was certainly some chemistry, but…he swallowed. This was…surprising. How to accept or refuse the invitation, he wondered. There was no way to do so. The sender - and from the note’s contents, he now knew exactly who it was - had offered no option to contact them to do either.

He took up a sheet of private writing paper from his top drawer and his favourite pen, thought for just a moment and then started to write.

 

~~~~

 

‘Jesus!’ thought Greg, still holding the piece of paper in his hand. He swallowed. This was it, then. Hadn’t been expecting that! He swept a hand through his hair distractedly. He read and re-read the note. It remained unchanged. Thick, expensive pale cream paper, lovely neat but elaborate handwriting, and what was written there was blunt but straight to the point.
‘Alright then,’ he thought. ‘What shirts have I got clean?’
Sally Donovan chose that moment to knock on his open door, making him jump. “Hey,” she said, matter of factly, “We need to—” then she noticed and pointed at the paper in his hand accusingly, “— what’s that?”
“This?” he said, sliding it under some paperwork none-too-discretely, “Ahhh…Just…dealing with it. It’s a…w—er...witness statement.”
“Mmmm,” said Sally, believing that like she believed in fairies. She crossed her arms. “Not a Valentine’s card, then?” she asked, grinning impishly. “Who’s it from, Mrs. Lestrade, requesting a little romantic rendezvous?” She made a face to show she was just winding him up.
“Get out of it!” laughed Greg, hoping she couldn't tell he was blushing. Sally would just about keel over if she knew who it was really from. “The ex-Mrs. Lestrade, you mean! Anyway, if it was from ‘er, I’d be setting fire to it right now!” Too late Greg realised he’d left the empty envelope on top of the pile of paperwork.
Too late, indeed. Sally’s sharp eyes had drifted southwards. “Mmm. Doesn’t look like Mrs. Lestrade’s handwriting…?” Sally said, thoughtfully, looking down at it pointedly. She raised her eyebrows and looked at him without lifting her head. Greg snatched the envelope and stuffed under the paperwork pile. “Look, haven’t you got work to do?” he shot back, but he was smiling.
She smirked. “That’s what I was coming to tell you about,” she said, “Donnie Guttierez is downstairs, and he wants to make a confession…” and then she told him all about it.

 

~~~~

 

“Why were you so long?” asked Sherlock, when John opened the flat front door.
“Oh hello, John, how was Tesco’s?” replied John sarcastically, struggling to extract his key from the door, laden with shopping bags. “Let me help you with those bags…”
Sherlock took the hint and got up from his armchair, coming over to take two of them from John. He carried them through and put them onto the table, digging through one to see what John had bought. “Did you get my kefir?” he asked, looking for it.
“Oh! Bugger, was that the last thing you wrote?” John asked, grabbing the milk to put it straight in the fridge. “I couldn't decipher it. It looked a bit like ‘cat food’ but I didn’t think it was that. I tried ringing you but you didn't answer.”
“Busy,” was all Sherlock said. “Never mind, John, it wasn't urgent, I’ll ask Mrs. H if she can get some from Sainsbury’s when she goes out.” He’d found the coffee and was looking for the scissors in the top drawer to open the packet.
“Or you could just get it yourself?” suggested John, but he wasn't angry, just bemused. He paused. “Actually, you can unpack everything,” he said, “I just need to pop out again.”
Sherlock looked at him but didn't ask what for. He just frowned. “You’ve only just got back,” he said.
“I know,” replied John. “I’ve just got something I need to do. Back in about half an hour.”
“Now who’s Secret Squirrel?” asked Sherlock, getting the caffetiere down from the cupboard, but he didn’t press for anything more. They had to have some secrets from each other.

Chapter Text

At 7.59 p.m., Mycroft stepped out of the anonymous black cab at the kerb outside Constantine’s. ‘How the hell did Gregory know about Constantine’s?’ he wondered. He certainly hadn’t mentioned the place when they’d been chatting. Mind you, he mused, on second thoughts, he wasn't absolutely sure what he’d said. Too busy studying Gregory’s beautiful eyes, the way a lock of his silver hair fell forward and was swept back repeatedly. Did he even realise how very…attractive he was, Mycroft wondered. Possibly not. And his voice….rough, deep and as hot as the seventh circle of Hell. Mycroft thought he could have burned there quite happily all night; listening to Gregory talk so knowledgeably about how the different types of Iberian ham were produced in Spain and Portugal, and then give detailed instructions on how to make the perfect Spanish rice pudding; following his grandmother’s recipe, using orange peel, lemon peel and a cinnamon stick to flavour it. Mycroft had listened to it all, discretely enraptured. He checked his watch. It was now 8pm exactly. He adjusted his cufflinks unnecessarily and straightened his tie, before pushing open the black walnut door.

He glimpsed himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror as he strode past it in the short, dimly-lit entrance foyer. The vast antique mirror took up the entire wall of one side of the small room. It had a black walnut frame which matched the front door, and was itself framed by delicate green leafed plants in tall dark pots. Mycroft did a double-take to throw a quick appraising glance over, but only to be sure he looked presentable. Yes, he thought, pleased with his appearance, he’d been absolutely right about the new peacock blue tie after all. He had dithered slightly between this tie and his other new deep red one, as both went equally well with the charcoal grey suit, but no, he’d been right all along. Instincts were there to be trusted. As always. This particular tie really brought out his eyes, and it was a subtle but noticeable touch. He ran a hand lightly over his neat hair and, satisfied, stepped confidently into the reception area, the black-and-white chequered marble floor announcing his arrival.

The maitre’d looked up and smiled in a welcoming but not-making-too-much-of-a-fuss way as Mycroft approached him. “Mr. Holmes,” he said, tipping his head in a courteous almost bow, “Please come this way, Mr. Lestrade is waiting for you in the bar,” and he stepped away from the desk to lead Mycroft towards it. ‘He’s a member, even?’ pondered Mycroft as he followed the maitre’d.

Gregory Lestrade was sitting with his back turned slightly to Mycroft and the maitre’d as they approached the private bar. He was wearing the same smart navy blue suit that he’d been wearing at the party and drinking clear liquid from a short glass. Gin and tonic, deduced Mycroft automatically, from the style of the glass and the plump quarter of lime.
“Mr. Lestrade, sir,” murmured the maitre’d, making Greg turn round in his seat and then hurriedly stand up. “Mr. Holmes has arrived,” he added, somewhat unnecessarily, and then he stepped back discretely. They both thanked him at the same time, and he left them for a moment to greet each other.
“Well…hello!” said Greg, smiling awkwardly.
“Good evening, Gregory,” said Mycroft, not exactly smiling but just as awkwardly.
“So…” said Greg and he raised his eyebrows. Here we are, then, he thought.
“Yes. So..”
“Well…here we are then!” said Greg, voicing his thought, purely to make Mycroft smile, even if just out of politeness.
It worked - a bit - Mycroft’s lips curled upwards just the tiniest amount, but he still looked slightly awkward.
Oh bollocks, thought Greg. Unless I go first, we’re going nowhere. Sometimes Greg Lestrade knew what he really wanted and he just went for it. Now was one of these times. He took a deep breath. “So, what’s a nice guy like you doin’ in a place like this?” he asked with a warm smile, and Mycroft’s awkwardness vanished in a splutter of laughter. “This is the only two star restaurant I frequent,” he answered when he’d stopped laughing. “How did you—” but the bartender was back.
“Good evening, Mr. Holmes!” he exclaimed, warmly. “May I get you a drink?”
“Good evening to you, David,” replied Mycroft suavely, “and yes, please, but do give me a moment if you would, I’m just deliberating….” he scanned the optics behind the bar, considering.
“Of course…” The bartender turned to Greg. “And you, sir, would you like another G&T?…Was the Fevertree tonic to your liking?”
“Er, yeah! It was great,” said Greg, quickly finishing the dregs of his drink. “Thanks for the tip!” He turned to Mycroft. “So what are you having then?” he asked eagerly.
Mycroft had been watching Greg swallow the last of his drink and had come to a quick decision suddenly. “I think I quite like the look of yours,” Mycroft replied. “I haven't had a G&T for…quite some time,” he turned his attention to the expectantly waiting bartender. “I’ll have the same please, David, and with the Fevertree too…thank you.” David got to work and Mycroft turned back to Greg and smiled.
“Good day at the office then?” asked Greg cheerfully, and Mycroft made a soft sound of amusement. “You could say that, yes…” he said. “I had a very satisfactory result in soothing tensions between two…unhappy factions, let’s say.”
Greg smiled. He knew not to ask, really, but he wanted to get their conversational juices flowing. However, no sooner had the bartender made the drinks and served them, the maitre’d was back. “Your table is ready, gentlemen,” he said.
“Well. Cheers!” said Greg quickly to Mycroft, proffering his glass. Mycroft lifted up his own and clinked it. “Cheers,” he said, rather amused. This was not behaviour that Mycroft normally indulged in, but quite suddenly he felt freed from all the usual obligations of his customary behaviour. He found that right now, he didn’t actually care about what was normal for him and what was not.

 

Their table was one of Mycroft’s favourites, tucked away from the main restaurant area and screened lightly on one side by more of the strikingly verdant green and leafy plants in tall black enamelled pots. Constantine’s was unusual in that some of its tablecloths were a vibrant white, and those tables bore glossy ceramic candlesticks and bright white candles to match, but some - like the one on this table - were instead a deep, soft cream; matched by elegant, carved wooden candleholders painted a deeper cream colour, and set off beautifully by the burnished gold candles that they contained.
Greg really liked this table too, as it went. “So,” said Greg, smiling, after they’d sat down. “The note. I was really surprised that you—”
A waitress appeared at their table. “Good evening, gentlemen,” she murmured pleasantly, politely handing them the menus and the wine list. She went through the specials on the tiny, ornate, hand-held blackboard, and then left them in peace to make their choices.
“That I what?…You were saying?” Mycroft chased, once she was out of earshot.
“That you wanted to…you know…meet me. For dinner,” said Greg. He looked like he still couldn't believe his luck.
“Well. I think we both know why we are here,” Mycroft said steadily, thinking of what Greg had written. I’ve seen you looking, he thought, staring into Greg’s eyes, feeling his heartbeat increase involuntarily; just a fraction.
Greg smiled, the lines on his face deepening attractively. His eyes were very warm. “Well. I suppose we do,” he agreed. The smile never left his face. He looked down at the thick cream-coloured menu before him, still smiling. “Are we going for starters as well, then, or straight to the main?” he asked, running a finger down the list of dishes as he scanned them; rather charmingly, Mycroft thought. “When I came with Zac we had the duck for starters,” Greg continued, musingly, “but it was so fantastic I wished I’d ‘ad it as my main course…” but Mycroft’s attention had caught unpleasantly on the male name in that sentence.
“Zac?” he asked innocently, as if just merely vaguely interested and not looking up from his menu.
But Greg looked up. “He’s in the Fraud Squad,” Greg clarified. “He’s a really good friend of mine. Knows Mike Stamf—“ he stopped. “Do you know Mike Stamford?”
Ah, thought Mycroft. “I don’t, no,” he said calmly, still perusing his menu, as if the thought of Gregory having dinner with someone else here didn’t bother him at all. ‘Well, of course he’s been here before, you fool,’ Mycroft scolded himself tartly, looking down at the menu. ‘How else would he know about the damn place otherwise?’
“Oh, well, he…ah…he knows Sherlock and he’s an old friend of John’s. That’s how I—er, never mind.” Greg had picked up on Mycroft’s thoughts. “Yeah, well, anyway, we smashed a massive case together,” he explained. “A whole load of us came here to celebrate after - Zac’s brother was the maitre’d at the time. It was a while ago; it was that case where Sherlock worked out that the chihuahua breeder bloke…the one from the Isle of Dogs that we were questioning about those dodgy goings on at the warehouse unit?…” Greg paused. He raised his eyebrows and gestured with his hand as if to say, do you remember this one? Mycroft nodded quickly to indicate he was following the story and that Greg should continue. So Greg did. “Yeah, well, anyway, Sherlock realised that the bloke was also - pretty ironic, really - the Catford cat burglar. He’d been sleeping on the ex-girlfriend’s sofa all week…Sherlock got that from the dog hairs left on her cushions, do you remember?”
Mycroft remembered it well and said so. Sherlock had said something about it being an eight to him at the time.

They each examined the menus briefly and then discussed what they liked the look of. “What do we fancy then?” asked Greg with a grin, and as Mycroft announced his choice and began to describe the intricacies of Constantine’s extraordinary prawn and small seafood cocktail, Greg sipped his drink and watched him and thought, ‘I fancy you. That’s what I fancy.’

Over the first course, and during the brief wait between that and their main courses, they discussed so many obscure things that Mycroft was in turn intrigued, delighted, amused and surprised. Gregory was a superb dinner companion, he thought. He was entertaining, but thoughtful. He was sharp and intelligent, had plenty of opinions, but he was also a good listener and he asked Mycroft many things to get him to talk about himself. Mycroft, normally so reticent to discuss anything personal, had already warmed to Gregory’s gregarious manner during the Christmas drinks at Baker Street where they had finally met properly, but this evening he found himself not just warming but heating up; secretly hanging onto Gregory’s every word. ‘I haven't had an evening like this for an age,’ he thought, sipping his wine.

Greg, in his turn, loved making his friends laugh. He would work out their sense of humour quite quickly and then simply key into it. Sometimes it took a while, but it hadn't with Mycroft. Mycroft he had found as easy as pie. With Mycroft, Greg had soon realised, he just needed to be himself.

 

The wine flowed and the food was, as ever at Constantine’s, fantastic. Their conversation was natural and easy, and towards the end of the main course, Greg’s began to grow gradually what could only be described as slightly more…charged.

“I’m really enjoying this. Being out with you.” Greg said suddenly, on impulse, halfway through a conversation about their favourite dishes. “I wish we’d done this before now.” He swiped the last pieces of duck and remaining morsels of crisp potato through the dark sweet jus on his plate, and brought the forkful to his mouth, watching Mycroft carefully as he did it for his reaction to the words.
‘How refreshing,’ Mycroft thought. Honesty and flirtation. He was warming up to those two particular facets of Gregory Lestrade’s personality nicely. “As am I, with you,” he said sincerely in reply. “And I agree. I wish we’d done it sooner too.”
Greg looked down quickly, a strange expression flashing across his face, as if he were embarrassed, and put his knife and fork together neatly. He pushed them slightly to the left so they lay centrally, straight on his plate, at half past twelve. He raised his gaze back to Mycroft. “Well…I s’pose we’re doing it now, eh?” he said slowly. His dark eyes smouldered and his words were laden with suggestion. Hence the odd look on Greg’s face a moment before, realised Mycroft suddenly. He hadn’t been embarrassed at all - he’d just immediately thought of that little innuendo and had been wondering whether to say it or not. Mycroft also saw, in an instant, that Greg’s deciding to say it and him responding positively now would be the start of something else.

Mycroft Holmes was fully versed on all the delicate nuances of human flirting behaviour, and he knew how to utilise them, if he wanted to. It was just that he hadn’t wanted to in such a very long time indeed. However, he wanted to now. He really wanted to now. He warmed up his rusty flirting muscles with a twitch of his eyebrow and a slight lift to the side of his mouth. Then he really went for it. “We are indeed,” he said, practically purring the words, and allowing his the corner of his mouth to lift even further as he did so.
Greg did something with his own mouth then; not quite a grin, not quite a smirk, not quite a licking of his lips, but coupled with those deep brown, serious and sultry eyes of his it was a masterclass in the art of flirtation via a single, complex facial expression. Greg’s face said, “Oh, I think I really like you.” The whole thing simply rocked Mycroft’s world. He felt all at once, dizzy with desire, and with a deep, delicious clench of his stomach, found he was suddenly - embarrassingly - rather hot under the collar. Greg’s hand, which had been resting on the tablecloth, slid over and his fingers just touched Mycroft’s where they rested on the base of his wine glass. Mycroft had a hard time keeping his composure at that, but he maintained it and merely smiled in an encouraging way. Greg took this as the ‘yes’ that it was and moved his fingers up to lightly cover Mycroft’s. Now they were holding the base of the glass together, but somehow it didn't feel foolish. To Mycroft it was just…charming. He loved Gregory’s tentative gesture. He released the glass and took his hand away from it, taking Gregory’s fingers with him. On the tablecloth, unheeded by glassware, they lightly held hands like a couple of love-struck teenagers. Greg grinned at him and Mycroft found himself actually grinning back.

Just then, there was a sharp movement on the table next to them that Greg noticed out of the corner of his eye, and then the man at the table leaned in to the woman he was with and Greg distinctly heard the muttered words, “…just didn’t think we’d be sharing the place with a couple of queers...”
Greg didn’t move. Much. He widened his eyes at Mycroft and raised his eyebrows. He was making sure Mycroft had heard the unpleasant remark. He didn’t remove his hand from Mycroft’s and he didn’t throw his weight around. He just turned his head and kept his gaze completely fixed on the man in the blue shirt until he became uncomfortably aware of it. The man quickly became rather restless. It was obvious he now knew that Greg was staring at him, and he fidgeted in his seat, scratching his head vigorously and staring down at his half-full plate, pushing his food around without eating. Greg simply kept calmly staring over, and Mycroft - who knew the value of a bit of well-managed awkward silence to get exactly what he wanted - simply waited equally calmly to see what he would do.

Greg and Mycroft were not in the least bit uncomfortable with the present situation, but the occupants of the other table certainly were. After a few more slowly passing moments, Greg inclined his body slightly towards the other man and called over softly, “ ‘Scuse me, mate?” He sounded fairly friendly and he didn’t raise his voice. His tone sounded for all the world like he might be about to ask the chap if he had the time, by any chance? 
The man in blue glanced awkwardly over at them. “Me?” he said. The woman he was with appeared suddenly horrified and pointedly looked away from her companion to disassociate herself from the situation. 
“Yeah, you,” replied Greg, easily. He smiled.  “We don’t know each other, do we?”
“N—er, no...” the man stuttered.
Greg grinned. “Let’s keep it that way then…shall we?” he suggested. He was smiling but his gaze was very clear and direct. His gaze said what his words didn’t. 
“Er…right, ok…yeah, sorry,” the man said hurriedly and turned back to the woman he was with, who was clearly embarrassed and possibly furious. She had put her knife and fork aside, though her meal was also only half-finished, and she appeared to be looking around for a waiter. When one came over, she murmured something to him and before Mycroft knew it, she was asking for the bill. Greg turned his full attention back to Mycroft and smiled. “Now, where were we?” he asked, pleasantly. 
Mycroft liked the smooth and unshowy way that Greg had dealt with that situation. He liked it very much. Which was a bit of an understatement, rather. The truth was he was actually astonished to discover how it made him feel. He stroked his thumb over one of Greg’s knuckles. “I believe you had been just about to tell me more about the black label Iberian ham that you sampled on your holiday…?” he said placidly, his stomach swirling in an interesting way. 
Greg sat up and barked with laughter. “Was I?” he asked. “Bloody hell, what am I telling you about that again for? No, let me tell you about this amazing secluded beach I found by mistake one day instead...” and then he proceeded to relay an anecdote so full of humorous descriptions and the scenery and smells and sights of the island of Majorca, and so well away from the beaten tourist track, that Mycroft longed to go there more than he ever thought he would believe possible. “It sounds very beautiful,” he said, genuinely enchanted. 
“Oh, hang on, you ‘aven’t heard the best bit yet...” warned Greg, and then he grinned and revealed the punch line. “...It turns out it was only a bloody nudist beach!” 
Mycroft burst out laughing; a real and genuine laugh which was surprised out of him like a startled rabbit out of a hat. Greg grinned, pleased with his little bit of story-telling magic. His thumb pressed down on the back of Mycroft’s index finger and slid up the back of his hand. His fingers were broad and warm in Mycroft’s. “Wanna come back to mine for some cheap scotch after?” he said, his dark eyes sparkling. 
Mycroft looked at him and melted. “Yes,” he said, “I’d like to,” before he even knew he was going to say it. 
“Oh good, then that means I can show you all my holiday slides,” added Greg, sitting back in his chair and letting go of Mycroft’s hand with pretended relief, as if that had been his true incentive all along. Mycroft barked with laughter again. “Only your slides, Gregory?” he managed to ask daringly, recovering himself. Greg lifted an eyebrow. He liked where this was going. “Maybe some cine films an’ all...if yer lucky...” he added.
‘Did the man ever stop flirting?’ thought Mycroft, delighted. He thought he might be grinning again, but even knowing that, he didn't feel inclined to stop. This was wonderful.

 

The waitress came and cleared their plates, and then presented them with the dessert menu. Both of them felt inclined to express their enjoyment of the meal, which Mycroft felt had been absolutely exquisite - even by Constantine’s high standards. Maybe it was also something to do with the company. The company caught Mycroft’s eye. “So. Pud?” he asked, cheerfully, and then, “Have you got a sweet tooth, Mycroft?”
Mycroft smiled. Did he have a sweet tooth? Would the Prime Minister of Papua New Guinea like his hand-written invitation to visit Downing Street in the summer? Well, yes, of course, was the answer to both. Mycroft didn’t need to look at the menu. He’d already decided. “The creme brûlée here is to die for. Really,” he said, with a smile. Gregory perused the dessert menu thoughtfully. He blew out his cheeks and frowned a little. “Well…d’you know, I normally would, but I’m so stuffed after that duck,” he said. “Could I just…‘ave a little taste of yours?” Sharing food in a restaurant was not something Mycroft would ever dream of doing…at least, it was not something he had ever done. But maybe now was the time to break all the rules. “Of course,” he said smoothly. “Only not too much…It’s my favourite.” He lifted an eyebrow and smiled.
Greg openly smirked. “Ok. You give me what you think you can spare…” he said, brown eyes dancing, making Mycroft’s insides swirl again. This man will be the death of me, Mycroft thought, as Greg reached for his hand again across the table.

The creme brûlée tasted the best it had ever tasted. Even better after watching Gregory Lestrade lick some of it from a spoon right in front of him. He’s heavenly, thought Mycroft, looking down, delving further into his pudding, feeling Greg’s eyes on him all the time.
He’s so fucking hot it’s obscene, thought Greg, watching Mycroft crack the caramel surface delicately, and his long, pale fingers on the silver spoon as he removed individual shards of caramel and thin slivers of creme brûlée from the dish, one at a time.

~~~~

When they asked for the bill, Mycroft said quickly, “Let me get this, you get the next one,” and Greg didn’t argue with him. “Ok, sure, if you want…thanks,” was all he said. Which only delighted Mycroft further; the complicit agreement that there would be a next time, then.

When Greg stood up and slipped his suit jacket on, he never took his eyes from Mycroft. Mycroft tried not to notice as he tucked his gold card back into his wallet, but he glowed under Greg's gaze. Greg noticed that, alright, and he licked his lips. “I’ll get the taxi,” he said and he went to the bar to order one.

Chapter Text

The interior of the taxi cab on the way home quite quickly became a dark, mobile cavern of lust - or at least, the back seat did - because as soon as Mycroft got into the cab and slid across the leather back seat to sit behind the driver, Greg got in after him and slid confidently across the back seat too to sit right next to him. Greg leaned forward to give the driver his address and as the cab pulled away, they both almost immediately discovered that where Greg had chosen to sit would have a profound effect on the experience of the journey; what with Mycroft’s lower thigh and knee leaning into Greg’s every time they turned right, and Greg’s leaning into Mycroft’s every time they turned left, the frequent light touching of their knees and thighs with the movement of the car became a form of sweet and oft-repeated torture. Mycroft had never before considered the inordinate number of turns a vehicle might make when travelling in London until this evening. Eventually, somewhere along the Chelsea Bridge Road, Mycroft could bear it no longer and brought his hand up to rest seemingly innocently on his left knee - the knee that was next to Greg’s - almost at the point of their contact, and immediately before the next left turn, in a shameless attempt to encourage Greg to take his hand when they did so. And when they did, Greg did do so; wonderfully.

On the left turn, as their knees pressed together once again with the movement of the cab, Greg found Mycroft’s fingers there instead of the bony prominences of his knee. And so Mycroft's plan worked perfectly. Greg reached down and took hold of the long, elegant fingers, first gently interlacing them with the back of his own, and then lifting them and bringing Mycroft’s hand over to his own knee where he then enfolded Mycroft’s hand in his own in a tight, warm clasp; in the dark secrecy of the cab holding it much more fully than he had at the table in the restaurant.

He squeezed Mycroft’s hand briefly and then brought their clasped hands across his lap slightly, higher up onto his mid thigh, so that they could relax their arms comfortably as they rode along. Against his exposed wrist, Mycroft could feel the heat of Greg’s thigh through the fabric of his trousers. ‘God in Heaven,’ thought Mycroft, helpless in the face of such easily given affection. Not to mention the outright temptation. Mycroft swallowed hard, feeling the heat building in his face. Thank God it was so dark in the back of the cab because that had definitely made his ears go pink.
“Ok with this?” asked Greg astutely, noticing something going on with Mycroft.
Mycroft nodded briefly. “After being so amenable to such a public display across the table in the restaurant, one should certainly hope so,” he said seriously, but he was trying not to smile.
Greg blew out some air with a soft appreciative noise. “Oh, I love the way you talk, Mycroft,” he said quickly and sincerely, his voice low and conspiratorial, squeezing Mycroft’s fingers lightly again in his warm hand. Internal sparks had formed from his words and then, at the squeeze of his hand, flew from Greg’s firm touch up Mycroft’s arm and buried themselves in his heart.

Not for the first time this evening, Mycroft found himself rendered incapable of speech and he simply couldn’t provide a reply to that statement. Which didn’t matter though, of course, because Greg wasn’t expecting one anyway.

 

The rest of the ride was a blur of traffic, the cab radio set to some mostly inoffensive popular music station, their clasped hands warm and their thighs lightly pressed together side by side on the black leather seat of the cab; these last two details being very high on the list of sensory awareness in both their minds. Then, in a further interesting development, Greg suddenly began to stroke his thumb slowly over Mycroft’s. He did it again and again, the rhythmic sensation somehow both soothing in its easy reassuring familiarity but, each time Greg did it, also incendiary in its blazing newness. On the outside, Mycroft Holmes was all suave and calm collected control, but internally he was becoming a slightly frazzled and lust-addled mess. This was all so new. He could hardly think straight at the dizzying turn of events. What was this, now? he thought. Furtive, discrete glances across a crowded room and what had appeared to be a brief, innocuous chat at Baker Street, had somehow turned to anonymous letters, and from that to a very surprising and wonderful dinner and now...a simmering anticipation of what might be to come over a lust-filled cab ride across the darkened city. What next? Mycroft wondered helplessly, still rather incredulous. He hadn’t felt what he was feeling now since he was in his first term at university...and that really was rather a long time ago, he mused.

The roads became more and more residential until they eventually turned down a quiet side street of elegant, terraced Victorian houses; all decorative red brickwork with high bay windows and bevelled sills of pale stone. There were large, mature London plane trees dotted periodically in gaps in the paving slabs on both sides of the street, their seed pods dangling like decorative baubles from the bare branches. Greg directed the driver of the taxi and he came to a smooth stop halfway down the street, outside number 29. A low brick wall separated the front garden from the pavement, and the wall was clearly the same vintage as the house; constructed of the same dusky red and aged bricks. There were skeletal tufts of small-leafed hardy plants growing in various cracks and fissures in the old mortar, and in clumps around its base.

The driver stopped the engine and turned the internal lights on, and as he announced the charge, Greg dropped Mycroft’s hand quickly to delve into his pocket for his wallet. He leant forward to pay the driver. “Thanks, mate! Keep the change!” Greg said to him cheerfully, handing him a note and then sliding across and opening his door as soon as the cabbie had released the door lock.
“Much obliged, thanks, gents - have a nice evenin’!” the driver replied as Greg got out, stowing his fare and rather pleased with his generous tip. Mycroft made to follow Greg out from his side of the car onto the pavement while Greg held the door open for him, his left hand missing Gregory’s warm touch already. “Good evening, then,” Mycroft said pleasantly to the driver, as he stepped out onto the pavement, drunk on Gregory Lestrade and feeling quite unlike his usual reserved self. Of course the driver had no idea of any of this. “An’ you, guv!” he responded easily, checking his phone and re-setting the meter.
Glancing over at Greg’s house, Mycroft was somewhat amused to observe the coincidence that the garden path was tiled in exactly the same black and white chequered pattern as the floor at Constantine’s, though on a very much smaller scale and certainly not the same Italian marble.

Greg slammed the car door shut behind him and as the cab pulled away, Mycroft turned around to look at him standing on the pavement. They were close to a street lamp but not directly under it, and the vapour of their breath plumed out cleanly into the chill air. Greg smiled. “So…here we are then,” he said again, deliberately, and Mycroft laughed right on cue. “So…what’s a nice fellow like you doing in a place like this?” he quipped back immediately, and had the immense satisfaction of it now being Greg - instead of himself, for a change - who burst out with an unexpected peal of laughter.
Instinctively, on impulse, Greg broached the gap between them and reached for Mycroft’s hand again, squeezing it and then keeping hold as he leant forward quickly to kiss Mycroft lightly on the cheek. His lips were soft, the brief scent of his aftershave dark and woody. Mycroft was so taken aback that he had not seen that coming at all. 'What’s wrong with me,' he thought, looking at Greg with surprise, feeling Greg’s fingers once more laced between his own, ‘that I didn’t see that coming? Is this what emotional involvement does? Totally annihilates one’s senses?’
But Greg had thought nothing at all of his impulsive swooping kiss and was behaving perfectly normally. He grinned, delighted, at Mycroft. “You’re totally wasted in the British Government...” he remarked, still grinning, squeezing Mycroft’s fingers again.
Mycroft had managed to gather his wits enough to answer, and he squeezed lightly back as he did so. “Am I indeed?” he asked, intrigued. “And where should I be?”
Upstairs in my bedroom, mate, the filthy part of Greg’s mind responded immediately, but he said quickly, “On the stage - I can see you as the most poised, immaculately dressed, straight faced and haughty stand-up comedian I’ve ever seen. Your cutting wit would slay them dead!”
Now Mycroft gave a abrupt snort of laughter. “I can honestly say I have really never considered it as a career option,” he said, tipping his head in bemusement, stroking Greg’s hand with his thumb experimentally, just like Greg had in the taxi.
“Maybe you should,” said Greg. “Just for fun. I go to the Apollo sometimes, they do a stand up night, I’ll take you.” He started to smile then he added hastily, “To watch, I mean, not to actually go up there on the stage…” he paused, then said, “…but if yer did, then God forbid anyone who tried to heckle you! You could just look down your nose at them silently with those incredible laser beam eyes of yours and they’d shrivel up at yer feet. Christ!” He gave a mock shiver of fear at the thought of it, the comical boyishness of the gesture making Mycroft’s heart leap unexpectedly. “Oh, well, come on,” Greg continued, turning to go up his garden path, “let’s go in…I’ve promised you cheap scotch, ‘aven’t I?!” He led the way up the path, getting his keys out from his jacket pocket as he went and not letting go of Mycroft’s hand as he dug around for them. Mycroft was still slightly surprised by the comedian comment, almost dazed, even - the very idea - but, he thought, on another completely different track, he was at the same time marvelling over how often Gregory had managed to surprise him over and over again this evening. He felt taken out of himself, like he had earlier in the restaurant; once again released from having to be the person that he always had to be. It was so exhilarating, this freedom.

Greg let go of Mycroft’s hand to open the door and as he pushed it fully open and withdrew the key, he stepped inside and said over his shoulder, “Er, excuse the mess, I...er...didn’t plan on...” It was as if he suddenly remembered what state he’d left it in. “When I asked you back, I just thought...” He stopped in the hallway and gestured to an irregularly-shaped wooden board set high up on the wall, lined with assorted wobbly, handmade metal coat hooks, both large and small. It looked like a flat plank cut from extremely long piece of silvery driftwood. “There’s a—if you wanna take your coat off..or your jacket...” he said, walking on past it straight down the short corridor to where Mycroft could see the kitchen at the end, via the low level lights under the wall cabinets that had been left on. Greg threw out an arm to indicate an open door on the left side of the corridor as he passed it. “The lounge is in there,” he said, stopping to reach briefly round the door frame of the room to switch the light on, and then continuing on to the kitchen. “Make yourself at home! I’ll get us that scotch,” he said as he went.

As Mycroft took his coat off, he tried not to deduce but some things were impossible not to see. There were an assortment of other items of clothing on the coat rack, including an elderly and battered waxed Barbour jacket, which looked incredibly comfortable. Surely too big for Greg and very well worn, so must have belonged to a relation….vintage from the age of it, but not ancient, so…his father’s, Mycroft surmised. But why did Greg have it? Perhaps a question for another day, then, he thought. Mycroft hung his coat next to it, and as he did so, Gregory called out suddenly from the kitchen,“Highland Park, Laphroaig or Glenfarclas?”
Mycroft smiled. “I thought you said cheap scotch…?” he replied loudly, smoothing his coat sleeves down automatically and then unknotting his scarf. Greg laughed from the other room. “Well, there’s a dodgy offy round the corner if you fancy some Famous Grouse?” he suggested cheerfully, and Mycroft heard him opening and shutting cabinet doors. Mycroft slipped his scarf off to loop neatly across the top of his coat and walked towards the kitchen as he answered. “No, no, the Glenfarclas is perfect,” he said. “May I ask which blend?”
Greg was bending down to the freezer, searching for ice, just as Mycroft walked into the kitchen and so Mycroft was presented with a surprising and wonderful view of his rear. Not only that, but he had taken off his outer jacket and suit jacket and slung both carelessly over the back of a chair at the kitchen table. As he straightened up, ice cube tray in hand, Mycroft delighted at the sight of his back and broad shoulders encased in his crisp, light-coloured shirt. He turned around and grinned, disarming Mycroft completely. “You may ask,” he said, mock seriously. “It’s their 15-year-old Speyside single malt. It’s very good,” he held out the half-full ice cube tray. “Ice?’ he asked, lifting his eyebrows.
“Not for me, thank you, just with a little water, please,” said Mycroft. Greg put the ice cube tray back undiminished, shut the freezer door as he straightened up and turned to face Mycroft. He hadn't switched on the bright overhead light, and the low-level under-cabinet lighting was soft and pleasant. He looked at Mycroft and Mycroft looked at him.

Greg’s kitchen was pretty tiny and Mycroft was not. He was very big in the small room. Greg noticed. He couldn’t not. He bit his lip a little at the thought, looking Mycroft over, and Mycroft knew he didn’t even realise he was doing it. Very telling. And rather exciting. “What are you thinking?” Mycroft asked suddenly, just to see if he would tell the truth. What would he say? But Greg was unabashed. He smiled easily as he brought his eyes back to Mycroft’s and said, “I was just thinking that you’re the only person I know who wears a watch on a chain.”
Mycroft smiled back, delighted. He was quite sure Greg had been thinking something a little more personal than that, but he’d managed to sidestep the question easily. How very thrilling this all was, he thought. It was like a game. And this evening, he had realised that he could play this game very well, in fact.
“Ye-es," replied Mycroft slowly, in an amused but regretful tone. “It seems to be a fading trend, somewhat. Perhaps I should endeavour to reintroduce it.”
“Nah, don't do that,” said Greg dismissively, turning and reaching up into the open kitchen cabinet for the bottle of Glenfarclas. “I like it that you're the only one who wears one.” He turned his back briefly to open the bottle and then pour into the waiting glasses. Mycroft leant back against the opposite kitchen counter by the door, watching him do it, enamoured with everything about the man. Greg finished pouring the measures of whisky; recapped the bottle and then added water from a green glass jug in the fridge before handing Mycroft his drink.
“Thank you, Gregory,” said Mycroft warmly as he took it.
Greg lifted his own. “You’re welcome…cheers!” He stepped forward and clinked his glass with Mycroft’s. Mycroft smiled. “Cheers!” he said again, as he had in Constantine’s, once more feeling amused by the strangeness of his use of the word and the action. They sipped their drinks, enjoying the scent and the full, complex taste; heather and honey and gently smoky ripe, dark fruit. Greg leaned back against the counter and closed his eyes briefly in appreciation as he swallowed. “Ooh, thats good,” he remarked quietly with evident satisfaction. Mycroft hadn't needed to see that expression on his face and hear him murmur those words to know it was his favourite - he had already known by the amount left in the bottle, and its position on the shelf - but for other, more personal reasons, it was absolutely wonderful to behold both nonetheless. He didn’t say a word to himself about what he was doing, but he filed them away carefully for private quiet contemplation later.
Greg took another sip and remembered his manners. “Er, shall we go and sit down?” he suggested. He gestured with his glass towards the sitting room next door. “An’ listen, you can call me Greg...if you want…”
Mycroft hesitated, he didn’t move. “I don’t know if I do, I rather like the sound of your full name,” he said. “I’m all for full names. Do you mind very much if I call you Gregory?”
Now Greg hesitated. He made a ‘dunno’ sort of face. “Dunno,” he said. He seemed surprised. “I don’t mind exactly…it’s my name, isn’t it? It’s just…well, no one usually…everyone just calls me Greg.”
“I see. But…if you don’t actively dislike being called ‘Gregory’, then may I call you that?” Mycroft seemed unusually unsure of himself.
Greg shrugged and smiled at the same time. “Go right ahead!” he said, somewhat bemused by the asking of permission. But Mycroft was more than happy with that answer. “I shall call you Gregory then,” he said. “And I’m quite happy here, for the moment, if you are?”
“Whatever you like,” said Greg, amiably. “Feels quite nice to stand up after bein' sat down all night.” They smiled at each other and both took a sip of their whisky. It was obvious that Greg had suggested they move to the sitting room for the sake of the comfortable seats, but really, neither of them actually wanted to. Not only because, as Greg had said, they had been seated all evening, but also because standing here was good; it was good physically, true, but being near each other like this, admiring each other in the close confines of this small room was…even more so. Mycroft had noted without meaning to when he passed the sitting room, that Greg’s armchairs were rather far apart, and the tiny two-seater sofa that he had in there had looked much too much of a squeeze for both of them to relax on. Especially with the full laundry basket that was currently on it. In Greg’s small and cosy kitchen however, Mycroft could feel the energy and chemistry between them like the push of heat and the drift of sparks close to a bonfire. From the deep look in Gregory’s beautiful brown eyes, he knew he could feel it too.

Greg leaned back against his kitchen counter again, put his glass down and loosened his tie. He undid his top button but left the tie on. Mycroft thought his mouth might water. Just looking at him made Mycroft want to loosen his own tie. As a distraction, he swirled the last of the thick amber liquid gently in his glass and watched it circle lazily around.
“So what were you lookin’ at, at the party, then? said Greg, suddenly, thinking of his note. He lifted his own nearly empty glass again and drank, watching Mycroft as carefully as Mycroft had watched him.
How to answer that, wondered Mycroft. A myriad fascinating details was the truth, but perhaps start with the first thing that had caught his attention. “Someone made Sherlock laugh, quite uproariously,” Mycroft replied truthfully. “I was…very surprised to hear it. He doesn't often laugh like—well…I was speaking to John at the time, and he is the only person who I know who can do that, so I turned around to look and see who it was and I saw you standing there. You looked…you looked quite interesting…”
Greg snorted. “Flippin’ ‘ell, only ‘quite interestin’'? Is that all I get?” asked Greg, lowering his glass, pretending to be quite dismayed. Mycroft smiled wryly. He thought he’d been extremely honest already. As much as he realised that Greg was teasing him here, he also realised he was going to have to really leave his emotional comfort zone if this were to progress. This concept was also very new to him. He swallowed the last of his delicious scotch in one burning gulp. Dutch courage, he thought, and put his glass down on the worktop, leaning back against it with both palms hooked over the edge. He gripped it slightly with both hands. “What I should have said then, was that I found you interesting. Immediately. I was…. immediately very interested in you. Because of it. In getting to know you.” He didn’t even sound like himself. To his great surprise, he found it actually rather liberating to be so completely honest. 
Greg turned his beaming smile full on Mycroft. “Well,” he said, still with that teasing tone, “why didn’t you just say that, then? Why didn’t you just say so?”
There was a flirtatious challenge in Gregory’s dark eyes. He was seeing how far he could go. Or, Hell, perhaps not, thought Mycroft with a sharp spark of desire, perhaps he’s like this all the time.
Mycroft could feel himself grow warm again. In his face and…elsewhere. People did not tell Mycroft Holmes to ’say that then.’ They did not generally tell Mycroft Holmes what to do at all. Not if they knew what was good for them. But Gregory Lestrade didn't know about that and Mycroft found himself realising that Gregory being the sort of person he was, even if he did know, he wouldn't let that minor point bother him. How very liberating indeed.
Mycroft swallowed. “I still—I still am very interested in you, and in getting to know you…” he said, like it was a confession.
“Oh, this gets better and better,” purred Greg in a roguish voice and downed his own drink. “More?” he offered, lifting his empty glass. Mycroft nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak. “Please,” he murmured after a moment.

It was quite warm in Gregory’s kitchen and Mycroft had a lot of layers on. He also knew he didn’t look his best when he got too hot. He passed Greg his empty glass and then said, to explain, “I think if you’ll excuse me, I must take my suit jacket off too. It’s rather warm in here.”

The Holmes men had a knack of dressing and undressing that appeared as if they had been taught to do it as an elegant coordination of definite movements, rather than just as a necessary daily action. Mycroft drew his suit jacket off slowly as Greg stood still, holding Mycroft’s empty glass, and simply watched him. He made no pretence that he wasn’t enjoying every moment as Mycroft manoeuvred his long, lean body gracefully out of the garment, sliding it down off first one arm and then the other, and only when he’d completely removed it and draped the jacket over one forearm to brush the creases out, did Greg put the empty glass down, hold his hand out for the jacket and say, “Yours should go on a hanger. I’ll hang it up for yer.” It was clear that Mycroft’s jacket was without a doubt a little more upmarket than Marks and Sparks’s finest Autograph range, as Greg’s was. 
“There’s really no need,” said Mycroft, handing it over and knowing Greg was watching him as he looked down to straighten his cuffs. Then he looked up, caught Gregory’s eye and stroked his hair back lightly with one hand, appearing to be doing so in case the careful action of jacket removal had perhaps made it look mildly dishevelled. Of course it hadn’t; he was just preening himself for Greg and he knew it.

Greg however, had had almost enough of his favourite scotch by now to feel that it was time for some action. He said nothing, just held Mycroft’s suit jacket on one arm for a moment, looking at him with obvious pleasure, his eyes deliberately half-lidded and with that smile playing on his face. His eyes roved southwards down Mycroft’s body and back up again in quite a leisurely fashion. He hadn’t said a single word yet, but the flirtation mode in Greg’s brain had powered up again and it was running at full strength.
Even better, so was Mycroft’s - especially after seeing Greg look at him like that. “Do you see something you like?” he asked nonchalantly, and as he spoke, he gave a knowing smile, leaning back slightly against the kitchen counter in a blatant and unashamed come on. If that wasn’t enough, he kept the smile and lifted one eyebrow; Roger Moore style.

Greg absolutely loved it. He grinned and leaned back against his own kitchen counter momentarily. “Well, now…seein’ as yer askin’...I like you…I do like a hot man in a well cut suit. And you’re definitely that.” His voice was low and gravelly. His eyes lingered for a moment and then he hung Mycroft’s jacket on the back of the chair, quickly but carefully, and turned back to the worktop to pour them both a second scotch and then add some water.

Mycroft smiled as he was doing it all, his ears burning. He would have been able to tell without even looking at him properly what Greg had been liking just then from his stance and his posture, but it still didn’t hurt to hear it. Besides, he knew what he liked too and it was standing opposite him. He didn’t quite know if he could voice that brazen thought yet, however...and how very unlike him it was to be unsure whether to voice an opinion or not - brazen or otherwise, he thought. And now he could feel his damned ears going pink again. “What else do you like?” he asked suddenly, as Greg passed him his second drink, desperate to know.
“I like a man who’s taller than me,” said Greg instantly, sipping his own scotch.
Mycroft’s smile widened. “And why would that be?” he asked, seeing that something was coming.
Greg grinned and delivered, lowering his glass. “So I can shove ‘im up against the wall and show ‘im who’s boss.”
Mycroft burst out laughing. He actually had to put his drink down before he spilt it. He thought he’d never laughed so much in one night in his entire life and certainly never while feeling so aroused at the same time. “Gregory, you’re so…funny,” he said sincerely, when he could speak.“I…I like that. I didn't know I would, but…I do. I do really...like it that you make me laugh so much.”
“Well, I mean it. All of it. And I’m glad you like it because I aim to please,” said Greg, still grinning. He altered his stance, crossing his legs at the ankle and resting one hand on the worktop behind him. He sipped his scotch; his deep, dark eyes on Mycroft. God, the man’s gorgeous, thought Mycroft. He felt that he had been rather remiss and it really was time for a bit of mutual appreciation. “You’re very pleasing,” he said seriously, but with the smile still on his face. “And I think I should tell you that what I like is standing right in front of me...” Mycroft sipped his own scotch slowly, using the glass to cover his mouth after he had spoken words he could hardly believe he was able to say. As he lowered the glass again, he licked his lips discretely, feeling the sweet burn of the whisky pass down his throat. He didn’t even realise he was doing it until it was done, but he had mirrored Greg’s stance in a postural echo, leaning back slightly against the worktop and crossing his legs at the ankle.

“Really?” said Greg, thrilled at the candid admission, and noticing the body language. “Should I let you get a closer look just to make sure?” he grinned again to show he was still teasing. He put his glass down on the worktop next to him and crossed the kitchen in three short steps, watching Mycroft as he came, the grin still on his face. He stopped in front of Mycroft, who straightened up automatically, uncrossing the supposedly relaxed ankles and standing at his full height, both feet nervously together. He didn’t quite know what Gregory was going to do - well, he thought he did - but he wasn't sure what he should do now. Where was a copy of DeBrett’s when one needed it? He put his own glass down on the worktop too. This situation needed his full attention, that was certain. He swallowed. “Oh, I’m sure,” he murmured, quietly slightly terrified now the moment seemed to have arrived.
“Good,” said Greg. “So am I.” Greg moved in then, deliberately slowly, planting one polished, chocolate-brown Cheaney boot on either side of Mycroft’s shiny black Oxford brogues. “And I'm not jokin’ around now, I mean it,” he continued. “What else can I do to please you, Mycroft?” His voice was a dark, seductive whisper and Mycroft could barely breathe.

Chapter Text

Greg moved in then, deliberately slowly, planting one polished, chocolate-brown Cheaney boot on either side of Mycroft’s shiny black Oxford brogues. “And I'm not joking around now, I mean it,” he continued. “What else can I do to please you, Mycroft?” His voice was a dark, seductive whisper and Mycroft could barely breathe.

He leaned in till their thighs just about touched, resting his left hand on the worktop behind Mycroft as he did so to take his weight - for now, at least - and he lifted his chin to reach. He’s so bloody tall, Greg thought, desire building in his stomach like heat rising. “Well?” he repeated softly, teasingly.
For the second time that evening, Mycroft couldn't think of a clever answer or a single thing to say. Greg could see Mycroft not knowing what to say and he found it both endearing and, quite frankly, hot as fuck. ‘Fancy bein’ able to render Mycroft Holmes speechless!’ he thought, delighted. And then, smack bang behind that, the filthy part of his mind piped up. I’ll give ’im ‘quite interestin’ ’, it added, saucily. Greg grinned at the very idea. Oh yeah, he thought. Ohhh, yes please! “Hmmm...maybe I’m not quite close enough for you to tell?” he murmured softly, all full of flirty bravado. “Maybe I need to be...just a little bit closer...?”

Mycroft really didn’t think he could get much closer, but before he could voice that sparkling little gem of common sense, Greg leaned in and up and kissed him. Lightly, just a first press of his lips against Mycroft’s, closing his eyes to feel the sensation, and so Mycroft closed his own eyes - at first, simply experiencing the feel of Greg’s soft lips against his own, and then Greg’s warm hand stole up to the side of Mycroft’s face and held him there gently and Mycroft was just...lost in it. He brought his own hand tentatively up to touch Greg’s side and at the first contact with Greg’s body through the fabric of his shirt, Mycroft gasped - mid-kiss or not. This was...overwhelming...Gregory’s immediate proximity, his delicious, intoxicating scent, the feel of his body so very close, his feet tight against Mycroft’s, his legs beginning to press against Mycroft’s - where he was leaning further in and up to reach Mycroft’s mouth more firmly - and now, as he leant closer, Mycroft could begin to actually feel Gregory’s body taut against his own. While Mycroft was processing it all, on some other level, his hands were both beginning to get involved in their own early exploration of Gregory’s firm body and his broad back, and then, while Greg’s right hand was still on Mycroft’s face, the other left the worktop and found the bony curve of his hip.

It was too much. It was not enough.

Mycroft, who lived his life in complete control of everything, was losing it. How did ordinary people live like this, he wondered, astounded at the feelings and sensations suddenly coursing through his body from nowhere. He gasped involuntarily as Greg changed his position slightly and his mouth left Mycroft’s to dip down and find his jawline and his neck. Mycroft tipped his head back and bit his own lip to hold in some undignified sort of unformed sound as he felt Gregory’s breath and then his hot, open mouth alight on his neck, and then his lips and tongue warm and wet and delicate on his skin...‘Saints preserve us!’ he thought, ignited with a fire that was far from holy. Greg started slowly, but then went to town on the length of Mycroft’s long, pale neck, and Mycroft quickly became unable to repress the sound that was forming in his throat any longer. As Greg’s left hand swept up from Mycroft’s hip to his waist, and then slowly up his long back, the other that had been on his face slid round into his hair - Greg’s fingers curling delicately to caress the base of his skull - Mycroft experienced the surreal feeling of being encased by Gregory Lestrade and he could no longer stop himself. His mouth fell open and now he did actually moan softly. “Oh, Gregory!” he mumbled. He was shocked at himself. That had simply come from nowhere too. Greg released him for a moment. He drew back so he could see Mycroft’s face and paused, smiling delightedly and looking at Mycroft with something like wonder. He slid his hand that was currently in Mycroft’s hair back down the side of his neck and down to the top of his shoulder, turning his palm so the side of his thumb rested on the level of Mycroft’s collarbone through his shirt. He stroked it familiarly back and forth through the fabric.
“Ooh, I like the way you said that,” growled Greg darkly, leaning back in to briefly kiss Mycroft’s neck again and he made a little sound of his own deep in his throat, like a pleased sort of purry rumble. Then he said, as if considering how much, “Actually, I really liked it....I think I want to make you to say it again...”
Mycroft was acutely embarrassed at his slip and grabbed for the offered handle of control.
He turned his head so his mouth was directly next to Gregory’s ear, noting how wonderful his hair smelt. He leant closer, taking his time, and as he spoke, he allowed his breath to deliberately fill the pale, waiting whorl of Greg’s ear in three hot and powerfully whispered syllables. “Gregory...” he breathed dramatically, making the word sound as suggestive as humanly possible.

It was then that it hit Gregory Lestrade, as he remembered Mycroft’s words from earlier; I shall you call Gregory, then, he’d said, lightly, as if on a whim... and yes, oh yes, Greg suddenly realised just how much he really wanted to be Gregory to Mycroft. Especially now, like this...Oh, suddenly he really, really did. ‘Fuck!’ he thought, and he almost moaned himself. “Oof, say it again, just like that...” he demanded, and he flicked his tongue lightly up Mycroft’s neck and kissed it.

Mycroft nearly faltered at that but he also saw a perfect opportunity here to get his own back. He upped the ante on his Upper Crust accent and purred in a low, deep rumble, “Oh dear. Did you not hear me very well? Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough?” He paused for a long time, letting the sexual tension build incrementally; while Greg waited, unmoving, and then he growled, “...Gregory...” in Greg’s ear, louder this time, and with just as much thick, dark intent in his voice as Greg had just utilised on him.
“Mmm—oh fffwoar—Jesus, Mycroft!” Greg mumbled, the string of words indistinct, spoken as they were through his slightly gritted teeth. Greg pressed himself more firmly against Mycroft. “If you’re going to be saying it like that, Mycroft, I don’t stand a bloody chance!” he moaned. Mycroft replied by pressing his own body reciprocally harder against Greg’s. And for each of them there was absolutely no doubt about the other’s delight. Mycroft had deduced (correctly, of course) that Gregory Lestrade was very auditorily focused. Well, incidental deductions like that one really couldn’t be helped. One was a Holmes, after all.

But, Gregory was a Lestrade. And they did things their way...before Mycroft could get too smug, suddenly Greg shifted, lifting and moving his right thigh to insinuate it in between Mycroft’s, pushing his right foot down firmly between Mycroft’s ankles to settle it on the floor between Mycroft’s feet, shoving them both lightly aside with his own to be able to achieve this. He held Mycroft slightly more firmly as he did it, knowing he would be knocking him a little off balance. The tightened grip and the slightly rough treatment did amazing things to Mycroft, and now Greg was able to, standing with his right leg planted firmly between Mycroft’s, he pressed his right thigh deliberately further in and upwards slightly, and the space between their two bodies became almost non-existent; the pressure and the situation making Mycroft gasp in some air in a delightfully shocked way.
“Tell me what else you liked about me at the party...‘quite interestin’' is just not good enough...” said Greg softly, pleased with Mycroft’s enthusiastic response to his leg, and he slid his hand firmly round and over Mycroft’s lean right hip.
Mycroft breathed in again sharply. ‘Get a grip, man,’ he told himself, ‘for Heaven’s sake you’re gasping like a teenage—’ but then Gregory brought his mouth very close to Mycroft’s left ear, deliberately leaning himself across Mycroft’s body to do it. “What else?” he demanded gently, his wandering hand now sliding round towards the back of the prominent bony curve of Mycroft’s hipbone and down and round onto his arse.

Despite his self-flagellation about all the teenage gasping, Mycroft nearly stopped breathing altogether at that. “Gregory...” he murmured weakly.
“OK, c’mon, tell me,” whispered Greg enticingly, “and then I’ll tell you what I found interestin' about you.”
Mycroft needed to hear that like he needed air. He had already found Greg to be so honest; there was no duplicity or secrecy about him. Not here and now, at least, not when he was with Mycroft, like this, at this intimate moment. The enormity of all this honesty was astounding to Mycroft, and though he remained the safe keeper of many state secrets - both large and small, desperately important or otherwise - suddenly he could not keep his own. They tumbled from his lips like a confession.
Besides, he’d left his emotional comfort zone far, far behind the moment that Greg had pressed him against the worktop. “I—I like the way you hold yourself, relaxed but ready for...something, anything...” he said haltingly. “You always look so...laid back but I think you can really move when you want to.” He paused and swallowed, Greg’s hand stroking encouragingly up and then down his spine. Greg smiled against Mycroft’s neck. “Yeah?” he whispered.

Mycroft swallowed again. “I like your...your hair, your eyes...” he continued. “You’re very...attractive to look at...You...you were wearing the same navy suit at the party as you’re wearing tonight, I thought then that the colour really suited you...it so complements your skin and your hair...” Greg’s hand began to wander slowly down onto Mycroft’s arse as Mycroft spoke. He leaned even closer, tilting his head slightly to reach up towards Mycroft’s ear. “Go on,” he breathed as he passed Mycroft’s jawline, his mouth moving on upwards.

Mycroft Holmes, who claimed to play only a minor role in the British Government, gasped and practically shivered at the sensation of this man’s hot breath on his skin, his hand on his hip, moving down lower on his behind. He made a tiny sound of surprise that this would be all it took to bring him down. He swallowed hard again. He had to try to regain some composure, even if just for appearance’s sake, at least. “You're very forceful, I'm rather surprised,” he murmured, aiming for cool and suave.
Greg gave a soft snort of laughter. “Don’t be. I’m about as vanilla as a four-year old’s ice-cream on Clacton beach,” he said softly. “But I really like you. And I’m pretty sure I’ve got this right and you really like me...” before Mycroft could even answer, Greg altered his position and pressed his lower body full against Mycroft’s, to find Mycroft’s erection with his own. “Oh! Well, I definitely got that right...” he purred, deliciously pleased with himself, and Mycroft felt him smile against his neck once more. Mycroft made some kind of strangulated inelegant sound and Greg suddenly pressed harder against him. With that, Mycroft could simply take all this teasing no longer and he brought his hands up fast to slide his long, pale fingers into Greg’s silver hair and turn his face towards his own, where he kissed him with a building hunger that had suddenly raged from nowhere. In retaliation, Greg’s right hand gave his arse a proper squeeze, his other hand coming up to the side of Mycroft’s face and then round to cup the back of his head. They kissed fiercely for a few moments, pushing against each other, seeking friction, the hand on his arse sliding once again up Mycroft’s back to pull him closer still, until Greg broke away and looked at Mycroft, breathing hard. “Oh Jesus, you’re somethin’ else...” he gasped. His eyes were sweet, dark pools to drown in, Mycroft thought. “As are you...” he managed after a breath.

Greg went back for more, but their activities had moved them along the worktop a bit, and in his haste to snog Mycroft senseless, he misjudged the proximity of Mycroft’s half-full whisky glass to his backside. As Greg shoved Mycroft quickly back against the worktop, either his hand or Mycroft’s back (or a combination of both) caught the glass and jogged it. Instinctively, Greg grabbed for the spinning glass, but his quick action had the unfortunate effect of accidentally jogging it more, swilling the whisky inside it even more violently, and making some of it slop over the side in a small scale alcohol tsunami. Greg realised immediately what he’d done - a split second before Mycroft even moved in reaction from Greg's sudden movement and the noise of the glass. He jerked his behind away from the worktop and twisted round to look down and assess the damage. Greg, who was still holding the glass, whisky all over his fingers, stared in mute red-handed horror at the small puddle he had created on the worktop and - worse! - the large splash of it now adorning the seat of Mycroft’s immaculate charcoal grey trousers. The whisky on the worktop had meanwhile formed a little stream and now began to run joyfully towards the edge, and Greg looked frantically around for the nearest tea towel or a sponge before it got there and did any further damage. “Shit!” he exclaimed, mortified, putting the glass down quickly further back from Mycroft and instantaneously finding the washing up sponge was the closest. He snatched it up and let go of Mycroft, veering away from him to perform the rescue operation. He quickly scooped up the little stream and wiped around the puddle, glancing down in dismay at Mycroft’s trousers. “Oh Jesus, Mycroft, I’m really sorry!” he said. “Let me get you something to put on it, I’ve got some—” he leaned to the side to toss the saturated washing up sponge into the sink.
But Mycroft had managed to not let go of Greg completely, only relaxed his hold for Greg to move. “—No, don’t worry,” he said quickly, loathe to stop what they were doing for a mere splash of whisky on his Ozwald Boateng trousers.
But Greg held back. “It’ll stain!” he protested, “And your trousers are expensive!”
Mycroft could take no more procrastination. “Oh, hang the blasted trousers!” he asserted, and he demonstrated his total disregard in the state of his trousers by pulling Gregory back in and snogging him senseless instead; expensive whisky seeping through to his expensively-clad backside or not. Couldn’t care less! sang his internal voice gleefully as he indulged himself by running his fingers through Gregory’s gorgeous silver hair again and again.

They lost track of time for a while until Greg broke away again, needing to breathe, and - as if they hadn't stopped speaking for that marathon several-minute snog - took up the reins of the conversation and said in a rush, “Or you could just take them off?”
“What are you saying, Gregory?” Mycroft asked, pink cheeked, het up, more gloriously dishevelled than Greg had ever seen him.
‘That you’re beautifully, strikingly, haughtily gorgeous,’ thought Greg, and he said, “I’m saying I’d like to take you upstairs to my bed,” all his cards spread out on the table and no shame about any of them.
Mycroft smiled in a bright splash of laughter. “Yes,” he gasped. “Yes.”
Greg’s broad grin shone out then like his hair had shone so brightly under the moonlight outside. He said nothing about anything but he leaned back in carefully and kissed Mycroft gently. Mycroft kissed him back, not very gently. The kiss got more involved, Mycroft’s fingers found their way to the buttons of Greg’s shirt at chest height and stopped.
“Look, what about the whisky on your trousers?” Greg asked, concerned about the trousers, but pretty damn interested in where the fingers were going. “It’ll definitely stain if we leave it!” he repeated and then he gasped, as the cool fingers slipped deliberately between the buttons of his shirt to encounter his bare skin.
Mycroft smirked. “As I said, sod them!” he hissed, daringly.
Greg bubbled up with laughter at that, just as Mycroft had planned, and he caught hold of Greg while he was off-guard and laughing, and in an perfectly executed manoeuvre which resembled a dance step, guided him backwards, turning him quickly as he did so in a very tightly controlled way to spin him around and press Greg’s lovely behind further along the worktop, against the wide white edge of the vintage butler’s sink. Now their positions were switched and Mycroft was in the driving seat; much in the position that Greg had been a moment ago, standing with his feet on either side of Greg’s. “My turn to show you who’s boss...” purred Mycroft as Greg landed where he wanted him, a wry saucy grin on his face.
“Oooh Mycroft!!” growled Greg comically, greatly amused but also extremely turned on by Mycroft’s expert manhandling skills. “D’you think there’s an opportunity for some job-sharin’ here...?”
By way of answer, Mycroft went for him fiercely again, his hands everywhere; in Greg’s hair, down his neck, across his broad shoulders and over his back to slip down the sides of his thighs where they found his wonderfully pert behind, pressed against the Edwardian porcelain. Greg moaned into Mycroft’s mouth as his hands slid lower, his fingers digging into Greg’s thighs in his passionate caress. “Oh, if only you knew...” Greg mumbled as Mycroft released him.
Mycroft stopped and drew back slightly, studying his face. “Knew what?” he asked suddenly, all focused sharp attention, like a hovering bird of prey who sees its supper in its sights.
“....How fuckin’ often I’ve thought about doin’ this with you since that party,” Greg murmured quickly, bringing his own hands sliding up Mycroft’s back and into his coppery dark hair to claim him and bring his mouth down to Greg’s again. Mycroft was absolutely electrified; both by Greg’s actions and his use of the profanity. First there had been honesty and flirtation, and now there was honesty, flirtation and swearing. Swearing! What a truly intoxicating combination. Mycroft could never in a million years have dreamt that he might actually want to hear someone say such vulgar words as that one in his presence. He wondered if the total divine-ness of Gregory Lestrade could possibly get any more so.

They kissed each other passionately, their bodies striving to get even closer, their hands roving; on chests, on backs, down shoulders and arms...eventually they broke for breath again, and Greg stroked his fingers back and down through Mycroft’s hair as they separated. When he looked at him, Mycroft could see immediately that Greg was worried about something. “What is it?” Mycroft asked quickly, but with some reservations as to what the answer might be.
Hesitantly, Greg said, “Ahh, s—I’m...sorry about the swearing...” he trailed off awkwardly, feeling that maybe he’d over-stepped a line with his use of the f-word.
Mycroft hastened to reassure him. “No,” he replied quickly, “no...” Words were failing him. “It was...good. It was...fine.” Little did he know how much he resembled his brother at that moment. Maybe he would have been horrified to realise this.
But Greg was simply relieved. “You don’t...ahh...mind it?” he asked cautiously.
Did Mycroft mind it? Oh, holy Hell, no, was the truthful answer. Not at all. “No, I...I don’t,” he said, and then he added, “On the contrary...I rather...I liked it.” He gasped the last few words in a rush. “Feel free to...ah...you can say it again...if you like?” he offered, almost hopefully.
“You liked it?” Greg asked, equally hopefully.
“I’m afraid I did,” confessed Mycroft, feeling the blush return to his cheeks, his ears.
“Really? Oh, that’s...that’s good,” said Greg. “I...erm...I like saying it...you know... sometimes.”
There was a very heavily charged pause. Sometimes... thought Mycroft, instantly knowing exactly which kind of ’sometimes’ Gregory was referring to. Like a match to dynamite, Greg bent and lit the fuse. “What I said earlier...” he began, “are you still...d’you still wanna...?” he tipped his head to indicate the direction of the stairs. He lifted his eyebrows and smiled.
“Very much so,” said Mycroft, smiling back.
Greg grinned at him and then he reached down and took Mycroft’s hand. “It’s not much tidier upstairs, I’m afraid,” he said, and turned to lead the way.

Chapter Text

Mycroft followed him up the stairs, admiring his delectable behind, the shape of his body, the indentation between his shoulder blades precisely defined by his pale cream shirt. Mycroft glanced down at their linked hands and thought that it had been years since he had held another man’s hand…let alone kissed him wildly and repeatedly against his kitchen sink and then followed him upstairs to his bedroom…well, he considered truthfully, the sink moment had been a first, in fact…but what a first!

“There’s a bathroom there—” Greg said, pointing at a slightly open door to the left as they reached the top of the stairs, “—if you wanna…” he let go of Mycroft’s hand, “…y’know…” he grinned. Mycroft stepped up onto the top stair to stand beside him on the landing.
“I will, thank you…just give me a moment…” he replied.
Greg leaned forward quickly and kissed him lightly on the lips. “My bedroom’s this way,” he grinned, nodding his head backwards to the half-open door behind him. It was dark in Greg’s bedroom, but by the soft light spilling into the room from the hallway, Mycroft could see the long side and huge cast-iron footboard of a beautiful Victorian bedframe.
“I’ll see you in there, then!” said Greg, turning around and leaving him to it.

 

Though Greg’s house was old, it had been sympathetically modernised, and the back bedroom (Greg’s bedroom and clearly the largest of the three) had been extended out over part of the new utility room and loo extension downstairs, to add on a small en-suite bathroom. When a few minutes later, Mycroft stepped over the threshold and into Gregory’s bedroom, the first thing he noticed once again was the bed. It was impossible not to notice it. It stood side on to the doorway in the large room, and it was a truly lovely specimen, with a black barred headboard and footboard decorated with ornate mouldings in the shape of tiny starbursts, and topped at each corner with shiny oval brass finials. The other thing that Mycroft noticed instantaneously was that the bed was quite neatly made and that Greg was on it. He was facing away from the doorway, lying on his front - as if he had just walked into the room, turned the bedside lamp on and flopped down on his bed like a lounging teenager. He was fully clothed except for shoes and tie - the lack of shoes Mycroft could see immediately, the lack of tie, he couldn’t, but he had glimpsed the tie itself slung over the back of a small Victorian chair already piled with clothing, next to the bedside table. The little, creamy-coloured bedside lamp was giving off a soft warm glow, making entering the room akin to entering a small and cosy kind of cave.

To Mycroft’s immediate left, next to the slightly ajar en-suite door, hung a set of floor to ceiling thick, dark green curtains; patterned with a paler green and a delicate gold brocade - very William Morris, thought Mycroft approvingly. The hems were overlong and crumpled artistically on the floor - clearly deliberately to prevent draughts slipping underneath - so Mycroft knew instantly therefore that a large French window or small balcony must lie behind them. The room itself was painted a dark, rich green colour on two walls, much like the deep green shade of the curtains, with a lighter one on the other two, and the bedclothes were of a similar shade to the walls, but a richer, warmer green, perhaps a little lighter. Deep sea green, Mycroft thought suddenly, randomly, as he took his next step into the room, closer to the source of the dimmed light and to Greg on the bed. Greg twisted around and pushed up on his arms to swivel his body and turn to bring his legs over to sit up on the edge of the bed. He’d been looking at his phone as Mycroft had walked in, and now as he sat up, he put it to sleep and tossed it lightly onto the pile of GQ magazines stacked up on the nearest bedside cabinet. “Sorry!” he said, sheepishly, meaning being on the phone. “My sergeant just texted me…”
“Something up?” asked Mycroft cautiously, who knew the usual reason for late night phone calls and texts was rarely good tidings.
“Ah, no,” replied Greg, awkwardly, picking up on Mycroft’s thought. “She’s…sort of a friend…she was just asking me about…” he paused. Mycroft lifted his eyebrows. “…Asking me about my evenin’!” Greg admitted, making Mycroft smile.
“And what did you say?” he asked.
Greg grinned. “I said it ‘adn’t finished yet…but that it’s been bloody amazin’ so far…”
Mycroft laughed softly. “Glad to hear it,” he said. They grinned and looked at each other.
“Where’s yer tie gone?” asked Greg, wondering about its very conspicuous sudden absence. Mycroft smiled and patted his trouser pocket, where the neatly rolled tie now resided, tucked in like a tidy Swiss roll. “In here,” he said. Greg smiled back at his innate orderliness.
Mycroft decided to take the plunge. “Do you know, I’m rather intrigued to know what you liked about me at the party,” he said suddenly, remembering. “You didn’t quite get around to telling me…” He felt a little embarrassed that he was digging for compliments, but at the same time he found himself desperately wanting to find out.
“No, yer right! I didn’t, did I?” mused Greg. He sat back and rested his weight on his palms, his arms locked straight behind him. He’d also unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled his sleeves up a bit while Mycroft had been gone, and Mycroft discreetly took in the sight of his toned muscular forearms displayed so attractively. Greg smiled. “When I saw you across the room, talking to John and that other fella, you had such a haughty, disinterested look on your face…not about John, I didn’t think, but about the whole thing - about bein’ there, full stop. Like you was up on some untouchable pedestal…”
Mycroft was embarrassed further by the cold-sounding description. “Oh dear. That sounds most disagreeable,” he said, mildly chagrined.
“Not to me, it doesn’t,” said Greg. He confessed, sort of. “I knew you were Sherlock’s brother before we spoke…I’d heard a lot about you…And anyway, I like a challenge…” he grinned widely as he said the last sentence.
“Is that what I am to you, a challenge?” Mycroft asked, raising one eyebrow, good humouredly. But he wasn’t sure if that was all he wanted to be.
Greg snorted laughter and then his smile softened. “Listen,” he said warmly, “when I saw you at that party….” he paused and smiled more broadly. “Basically, I took one look at you and I knew I just wanted to knock you right off your haughty pedestal—” and here he actively grinned again, “—and stand underneath an' catch you.”
Mycroft’s heart, already softened beyond recognition by the evening’s events, melted.
Greg sat up a bit and held out one hand to Mycroft. “Come over ‘ere…” he said, inclining his head over to the bed behind him, his voice soft, rumbling and enticing.
This was it, thought Mycroft. Really it. “I don’t usually…” he began haltingly.
But Greg interrupted him. “Nor do I,” he said gently. He paused, then he said seductively, “Come ‘ere and let me knock you off your pedestal…”
And Mycroft was done for.

 

He took the remaining two steps over and stood in front of Greg, taking his hand and feeling as awkward as he had when his usual tailor hadn’t been there once, and he had had to deal with the new fellow.
Greg gripped Mycroft’s hand and with it, he pulled himself up lightly up to stand. Then he let go of it and instead brought his own hand up to Mycroft’s right shoulder, sliding it up to his neck as he leaned in slowly to kiss him. Greg’s other hand came up to rest on the front of Mycroft’s left shoulder, from there sliding down Mycroft’s chest, over his waistcoat, and down to the buttons at the front. He kissed Mycroft as he carefully unbuttoned each one one-handed, and as he opened the garment, he marvelled at the dove grey silk lining that was revealed, the inner material matching the waistcoat’s back panel.
“This is really gorgeous, Mycroft,” he murmured, then added with a smile “…like you,” before he began to slip it down from Mycroft’s shoulders but then he stopped and hesitated. “Look, er…I’m not droppin’ any of your clothes on the floor,” he said, “sorry to be so dull and unspontaneous, but they’re just too bloody lovely to just end up in a crumpled heap on my carpet…”
In the corner of the room opposite the en-suite door and next to the voluminous curtains, was a huge, old, free-standing wardrobe - walnut from the dark colour and 1920’s from the style, Mycroft had thought when he saw it. Greg went over and opened the thing and found an empty hanger. He hung the waistcoat on it and went to do it up, but the hanger was smooth and shiny and the silk lining of the waistcoat made it slip off to the floor, so Greg bent and picked it up and tried a second time. But before he could get the buttons done up to fasten it in place, the same thing happened again. “Jesus!” he snorted, in exasperation, snatching it up. Then he said, a bit crossly, “I can’t bloody see what I’m doin’ ‘ere!” and with the waistcoat in one hand and the hanger in the other, he and reached across to yank open one of the curtains.

The night outside was crisp and clear, and as Greg flung the curtain back, moonlight suddenly flooded in; a bright beam of it leapt across the bedroom, catching Greg in the centre of it - struggling to do up Mycroft’s expensive waistcoat on a cheap, plastic hanger.
Mycroft drew in breath softly at the sight of him concentrating on the task in hand, not realising how the moonlight lit up his features so strikingly. His hair was dark silver in the darkness, bright silver in the moonlight; he glanced up at Mycroft at the sound of his gasp, and oh, thought Mycroft, he’s so beautiful.

In the shadowy dimness of the room, lit now by the full moon and the soft glow of the lamp, he was like a pale flame in the night. “You look…lovely in the moonlight,” murmured Mycroft, slightly overawed.
Greg had managed the waistcoat and he hung the hanger on the inside of the open wardrobe door, turning to glance up out of the window. The sky was black as jeweller’s velvet, hung with sparkling stars, the moon a stage light shining bright down onto the silent back yards and gardens of Greg’s street.
“Christ, look at it out there!” he said, staring out. “It’s like some bloody romance film!”
‘It’s better than that,’ thought Mycroft gently, looking only at Greg. In the gleam of the moonlight streaming in through the window, he considered the idea that Greg looked like some kind of dramatic Pre-Raphaelite fallen angel from a Millais painting…and the amazing thing about that being that if he was, he was Mycroft’s fallen angel - for tonight at least, but right now, that was all that mattered.

Empty-handed, Greg stepped back over to Mycroft and Mycroft immediately reached out for his already open top button, sliding his long fingers into and down the neck of his shirt to the second button and opening it as he kissed him gently. Greg kissed Mycroft back as he moved his hands to undo Mycroft’s shirt buttons in return, but he kissed more fiercely, with growing ardour, and so between them they divested each other of their shirts, kissing each other all the while. Mycroft wished desperately too late that he’d spent more time on his running machine earlier that week, rather than researching new recipes on the internet to use up his last bit of black truffle oil, but Greg did not seem to notice his imperfections. His shirt unbuttoned, Greg slipped it from Mycroft’s shoulders and off, turning quickly to throw it one-handed to land on the chair between his wardrobe and his bed, on top of the pile of his own clothing. “Shall I close the curtain?” asked Greg, a little breathlessly, his hands running over Mycroft’s back and his shoulders, his mouth returning to Mycroft’s neck. They stood in clear view of anyone who happened to be looking out of their back window too.
“No, don’t,” gasped Mycroft, clutching at Greg’s shirt as Greg licked lightly up the side of his neck to the angle of his jaw. “Leave it. It’s wonderful in here with the moon streaming in. It’s simply gorgeous…”
Greg made a rumbling sound of approval in his throat, like he had before in the kitchen. “Oh Jesus, I love the posh way you talk, Mycroft…” he murmured, and he smiled against Mycroft’s skin. “I think I might ‘ave said that already…!” He paused and kissed the bit he had smiled against. “But, ‘onestly, I could listen to you all night.”
Maybe you shall, thought Mycroft, feeling a bit reckless, and he said teasingly, “Tell me how much you like it…”
Greg grinned against Mycroft’s skin again, sending a thrill up his spine. “Oh, I like it… Listen, I really fuckin’ like it…” he murmured the last few words deliberately harshly in a low, slow growl. His voice was gravelly, the words flung out to smoulder in the already stoked up fireplace of Mycroft’s desire. And as for what he actually said…well, Mycroft really liked that. He gasped a little involuntarily in amused arousal. “I confess I do like hearing you…say that sort of thing,” he said, awkward but honest.
Greg came up and kissed his mouth, his hands slowly moving round and down to the front of Mycroft’s belt. “Good,” he said softly. “Yer might get to hear it a bit more in a minute then…”
Mycroft could not answer that - not with Gregory Lestrade undoing his belt in this darkened, moonlit bedroom. He couldn’t think of anything to say but yes yes yes… Carefully, almost reverentially, Greg finished gently opening his belt, popped the fly button and slowly unzipped his trousers. He slid them down over Mycroft’s hips slightly with the backs of his fingers, caressing the curved bones of his pelvis lightly with both palms as he did it. “Oh fuck,” he said softly, mostly to himself. “Fuck, Mycroft, you’re gorgeous,” he whispered, looking down at Mycroft’s smooth stomach, his lower abdomen, the top of his underwear, and - where he could see it - the shape of his erection visible through his burgundy jersey trunks. Greg ran one thumb experimentally up and down over the edge of the waistband and the skin of Mycroft’s lower stomach, while Mycroft just waited, taut with nervous tension and desperate to see what Greg would do next. But Greg had noticed the discreet brand logo on the elastic of Mycroft’s underwear. Not to mention the feel of very expensive real silk. “Crikey, I think your pants might cost more than my whole suit!” he suddenly whispered in a mock awe-struck tone, and Mycroft actually giggled. It seemed everything this man said simply doomed Mycroft to fall for him more deeply.

Mischievously, Greg hooked his fingers into Mycroft’s belt loops at the side and drew him quickly forwards, while at the same time stepping backwards to sit down on the edge of his bed. He spread his knees as he went down, so that Mycroft could step in and stand just between his open thighs. As Greg sat down on the bed, he released the belt loops and slid his hands comfortingly down the sides of Mycroft’s thighs. So, he was now seated, directly in front of Mycroft, his face now much nearer to a significant part of Mycroft’s body. There was a poignant pause. Certain actions now seemed almost inevitable. Mycroft bit his lip nervously. “You…um…you don’t have to—” he started, but Greg interrupted him.
“—I don’t ‘ave to do anythin’ I don’t wanna do,” he said. “And nor do you. But right now there’s somethin’ I’d so fuckin’ love to do and I’m gonna do it unless you tell me not to….”
Mycroft swallowed. “And what might that be?” he asked falteringly, but, oh, he knew.
Greg grinned up at him and looked into his eyes. His hands moved up again to Mycroft’s hips and now he pushed Mycroft backwards slightly and slid slowly forwards off the bed, to land surprisingly lightly with one knee either side of Mycroft’s feet. Without looking away, he brought his fingers round to the open fly of Mycroft’s trousers and the top of his underwear and, lifting them away from his skin, began to slide the both of them down as one over his lover’s lean hips.
Still watching Mycroft’s rapt face, Greg brought his right hand slowly round from Mycroft’s exposed upper thigh and took firm but confident hold of Mycroft’s cock, his eyes never leaving Mycroft’s face. Mycroft gasped at the shock of Greg’s sudden definite movement; even though he had seen it coming and knew it was about to happen….the knowing about and the actual feeling of were two entirely different things. Greg didn’t take his eyes away from Mycroft’s and there was absolutely no way Mycroft could tear his gaze from Greg’s. His erect penis was nearly touching Greg’s face.
“I’m gonna suck your gorgeous cock,” murmured Greg clearly, looking directly up at him.
Mycroft thought he might faint. There surely couldn’t be enough blood in his brain to keep him on his feet right now. He had upwards of maybe 90,000 words at his disposal, in many different languages, and only one came out. “Oh,” he sighed weakly.
Greg laughed a little, and Mycroft felt his hot breath on his most sensitive skin. “That’s a yes, then,” Greg growled, grinning, and he dropped his gaze and his head and set to work.

With his left hand and forearm he reached round, gripping hard and tight around Mycroft’s arse and hip and back, and swiftly pulled him close, deftly controlling the angle and position of Mycroft’s cock with his other hand. With both his hands, his grip was fierce, but his mouth and tongue were gentle. Mycroft sucked in air in a sharp gasp and almost sighed it out in a long, low, shuddering moan. His own hands and long fingers tentatively found their way to Greg’s broad shoulders, his neck, the side of his face, feeling the stubble on his jaw, his hair…his gorgeous, gorgeous silver hair. Getting braver, Mycroft wove his fingers through and into it and made a tight fist in one hand, the sensation making Greg rumble his pleasure wordlessly in his throat. From high above him, Mycroft whispered Gregory’s name in response and gasped and moaned softly. He did all of these things over and over again, watching everything that Greg was doing entranced; almost unable to take his eyes away from the sight. Greg’s tongue and breath on his flesh were hot as sin, hot as fire. He didn’t say a single word, but he worked his hands and lips and tongue on Mycroft’s cock and on his bollocks like he was worshipping his lover’s body with his mouth. And if that was his intention, then Mycroft indeed felt truly worshipped.
Greg held firmly around Mycroft’s back and his arse the whole time to support him, to hold him upright; just once sliding down to squeeze the back of his upper thigh, digging his fingers in hard, making Mycroft moan more audibly. There was no doubt about who was in the driving seat, or who was in control, or who was boss, now. It was Greg. Mycroft had never, never before abandoned himself so physically or emotionally to someone like this. Never. In Mycroft’s neatly ordered world, this glorious, hedonistic abandonment to such a primeval activity simply wasn’t done.
But Greg clearly didn’t give a damn about what was or wasn’t done in Mycroft’s world. He didn't know or care. Or both. He was just gloriously, undeniably, refreshingly different.

Greg released him for a moment and sat back on his heels, rubbing briefly at his wet mouth roughly and unselfconsciously with the back of his hand to wipe away the excess moisture there. Mycroft had not stopped watching him and even that indelicate action made him quiver with pleasure. Greg shifted his body, like he might be about to resume what he was doing, and Mycroft reached out his hand. “Wait, I…I need…a moment,” Mycroft gasped, holding Greg firmly by the shoulder to stop him going back for more. “I am…I’m almost undone with this…”
“Fuck me, Mycroft…” whispered Greg, shaking his head a little and, looking up at him, the tips of his fingers stroking lightly up and down on Mycroft’s glistening cock. He was breathing as hard as Mycroft was. “You’re undone…? Christ, don’t worry - I think I need to stop for a minute an’ all…things are getting pretty fuckin’ close for me…listenin’ to you moan…havin’ you in my mouth…” He leaned back further, looking up at Mycroft, his hands both loose now on his own thighs, his shoulder blades resting against his bed. “You’re so fuckin’ tall and slim and lovely,” he said seriously, almost awe-struck. Then, simultaneously, he lightly jerked his thumb and head behind him at his bed. “I want you on this bed ‘orizontal now so I can lie on you and feel you against me. Get them trousers off.”

Blunt, unadorned and as passionately honest as Gregory’s words were, to Mycroft they made the most eloquent of love sonnets. Mycroft laughed a little and then sighed in rapture. “There’s nothing I want more right now than to do that,” he replied.

He stepped away from the bed to create a bit of space to undress and then he pulled up his undone trousers and pants and smoothly knelt down, first onto one knee and then the other, to untie his shoe laces and then one by one, remove his shoes. This was neatly done and easy enough, but socks were always an issue. One could not stand naked and remove the socks last, it was the most unromantic look that he knew. So, instead, he stood elegantly stork-like and managed to do it with some vague degree of grace, watching Gregory sit on the floor on his heels and watch him back, quite blatantly, as Mycroft then proceeded to remove every thread of his clothing. He slipped his trousers off and folded them loosely, going over to hang them delicately over the top of Greg’s wardrobe door, taking a deep breath before he slid his underpants off with his back to Greg, and then he draped those on top of his trousers, knowing that Greg was getting a full unobstructed view of his backside while he did it. “Cor, but you’ve got such a lovely arse…” moaned Gregory appreciatively from behind him, right on cue. His voice sounded like it was coming from higher up than the floor suddenly, and Mycroft turned his head to see he had indeed come up from the floor to sit on the edge of his bed. Nervously, Mycroft turned back to fully face Greg, now wearing nothing but a smile, and he covered himself discreetly with one hand. If there was anything more undignified than being naked apart from your socks, it was being naked with no socks and a massive erection waving about. Greg, of course, was unperturbed. He had stripped off his own socks while Mycroft had been undressing, and now he stood up to take off his trousers and own underwear. He kept Mycroft’s gaze as he slowly undid his own belt and flies and stripped off his trousers, and Mycroft watched Greg’s striptease just as avidly as Greg had watched his.

The comparison of Greg’s tanned skin with the black jersey trunks he was wearing was incredibly pleasing, and as he slid them down and off and Mycroft saw his tan lines, the paler skin underneath the pants and the prize that awaited him, he felt his heart speed up again. Good God, he’s lovely, thought Mycroft in an ardent rush of admiration. Greg folded his trousers over quickly and without ceremony and simply dumped them on the floor. “They can wait…I can’t,” he said with a grin. Then he asked, “You comin’ over?” and he flipped the duvet back off the bed and slid down into it. He arranged himself artistically, lying on his side, up on one elbow, his head resting on one palm and he looked expectantly at Mycroft. “Let’s get warm, then!” he said invitingly, spreading an arm over the empty side of the bed and smoothing the sheet down, and then he grinned again knowingly at the cheesiness of his invitation. But Mycroft just smiled shyly and got into the bed gratefully, feeling very self-conscious, as Greg shifted backwards slightly so that Mycroft had room to lie opposite him.

 

They lay for a moment facing each other, both up on an elbow, mirroring each other’s positions again; just like they had in the kitchen. Then Mycroft leaned towards and over him and lightly pushed him down to the pillow, kissing him passionately, moving his body further over Greg’s and stroking his pale hands down over Greg’s tanned skin as he went. Lying half over Greg, he drew back a moment and stared into his deep brown eyes. They were so dark they were almost black in the wonderfully shadowed and softly-lit cocoon of his bedroom. Greg’s silvered hair was so striking, not only in the soft, cold light of the moon but also against the deep sea green of his bed sheets. ‘I’m so lucky to have this,’ thought Mycroft, looking down at him. He felt all of 18 again.

Greg lifted his head from the pillow and kissed him lightly and repeatedly, growing more passionate and intense each time, and Mycroft returned the kisses, their ardour increasing. Mycroft moved closer and over Greg, and eventually his long limbs entangled Gregory possessively with no intention of letting go.

Greg liked Mycroft’s lovely long neck. Had thought about liking it for quite some time. Now he could actually get to it, he burrowed his head down to explore the smooth, sensitive skin directly below his ear, forcing Mycroft to take his weight up on his elbow for Greg to get there. He closed his eyes when Greg used his teeth, but he didn’t actually intend to make any sound at all, so he was surprised when Greg suddenly dropped his mouth away from Mycroft’s skin and said softly, “Fuckin’ ‘ell, Mycroft, when you make that sorta noise it makes me think of…” he stopped short.
“What?” asked Mycroft, frozen in a breathy gasp.
Greg tilted his mouth up to Mycroft’s ear and paused. “It’s really—ahh, do you want me to say it?” he whispered, his voice and still posture both heavily charged.
“Yes,” whispered back Mycroft, quite still too, on tenterhooks to hear what he knew Greg was going to say.
Greg breathed silently into his ear for two soft breaths, his hand now sliding slow over Mycroft’s back and down towards the rounded cheek of his arse. Mycroft waited like a tightly strung bow as Greg’s fingers trailed delicately round the curve of his hip on the way down.
“It makes me wonder what it would be like to—” he paused and then finished, “—to sleep together…” He had said it almost directly into Mycroft’s waiting ear.
Mycroft knew he wasn’t wrong about the sentiment that he thought Greg wanted to express, but that the words Greg had chosen were not the ones that had been foremost in his mind. “No,” said Mycroft, “say what you were going to say…say the other word…”
“Y’mean…” Greg waited, master of suspense. He knew exactly which word he had been going to use.
Mycroft, in his heated up state, could truly not tell if Greg meant to tease him or if he was still unsure whether it was permissible to use the word that he been using so freely for the last hour in this blunt way. “Yes,” he gasped, almost fiercely. “Say it,” he ordered.
Greg was instantly electrified by the command in Mycroft’s voice and he obeyed immediately. “It makes me wonder what it would be like to fuck you,” he said, directly in Mycroft’s ear, really emphasising the profanity, the words a hot spoken rush of physical desire. Used like that, in such a crude manner, the word should have been horribly coarse and vulgar and offensive to Mycroft, but oh God, it was not. It really was not. It was the complete polar opposite.
“Oh God, Gregory…” Mycroft moaned, low and guttural and full of fire himself.
Greg, getting into his stride now, continued roughly, “It makes me wonder what it would be like for you to have me…to fuck me…” before setting his mouth to Mycroft’s neck once more and using his teeth again, his hips and pelvis beginning to push up against Mycroft’s; the awkward angle he was at meant they were both caught deliciously between their two bodies, the friction just there but not quite enough. Mycroft moaned with his mouth closed a second time, more a long reverberation in his throat, and suddenly Greg released Mycroft’s neck and growled, “Right, my turn…” and he pushed Mycroft up and off by his shoulder and waist and shifted himself sideways under Mycroft to get out from underneath, turning as he moved to flip Mycroft over onto his back on the bed. Then he slid on top of his lover, lying almost directly between his long legs. Mycroft moaned out loud at the change of sensation and as he wrapped his calves around Gregory’s again, and felt the new firmer friction as Greg began to move once more, he actually growled in response. “Oh, that’s so good,” he murmured harshly, as Greg’s slowly thrusting movements picked up pace.

“Fuck,” Greg whispered. He took hold of Mycroft’s left thigh and bent the knee to bring it up higher, wrapping around his own arse and the back of his own leg, curling his arm around underneath to support it and hold it there. “Fuckin’ ‘ell, Mycroft…I can’t believe—mmmm—I can’t believe I can stop fantasisin’ about your legs now…” he gasped out the words brokenly, stroking up and down the underside of Mycroft’s thigh and then digging his fingers in, still moving his body in slow, tantalising thrusts. He began to move faster, rolling his hips harder against Mycroft’s, bringing another of those deliciously hot sounds emanating from his lover’s lips before Mycroft caught up and said breathily, “Stop? Stop what?” his hands roving hungrily on Greg’s smooth, broad back; one up to his shoulder, one sliding down to his lovely arse. “What do you mean, stop fantasising?” he said, and then he thought desperately, ’Please don’t stop!’ His mind didn’t seem to be working properly. He squeezed Greg with both his thighs.
“I mean…mmmm…I meant…stop fantasisin’ hopelessly, was what I meant,” replied Greg between breaths - also apparently having trouble processing - and he pressed his teeth lightly into Mycroft’s shoulder now, swirling his tongue, making Mycroft gasp again. Greg twisted slightly and shifted, pressing his cock more against the crease of Mycroft’s groin on his captured thigh. He moaned a little again from between closed lips in another of those deep rumbling purrs and then he concentrated. “I meant stop fantasisin’ hopelessly about what it would feel like to have your long legs wrapped around me. Because now I know…. and, Jesus!…It-is-fuckin’-lovely!” He said the last few words with such exuberant delighted, joyful enthusiasm that Mycroft laughed. He actually laughed. Then he gasped jaggedly as Greg suddenly pushed himself up a bit higher on the bed with his toes and moved across over Mycroft more, altering the position of his pelvis to press fully against him and finally his lovely cock swept and slid against Mycroft’s, full length. “Oh God,” Mycroft moaned loudly and instantly. “Oh God…”
Greg made a sound in response that caused Mycroft’s insides to tighten. Then he growled, “Mmmm, Mycroft!” low and deep and rough at the back of his throat through gritted teeth, and the way he said it crashed into Mycroft’s auditory memory palace, flung itself about and knocked down walls. Greg thrust himself hard against Mycroft in an exhilarating burst of pleasure. He did this three times more, building up a rhythm again before Mycroft grasped Greg’s shoulders and held him still to stop him. “Wait,” he gasped urgently, “wait! Before we both—I’d like to return the favour….”
Greg stopped moving. He kissed him briefly and came up off him a bit onto his elbows and forearms. “What?’ he said. He was panting.
“What you did…what you did to me…” Mycroft explained, equally out of breath. Greg rolled off Mycroft a little onto the empty side of the bed and one of his elbows, and stroked his other hand down Mycroft’s side. “You don’t ‘ave to—” Greg started, but Mycroft interrupted.
“—Oh, I know that,” he purred smugly, warmly, filthily. It seemed he had got his breath back.
Now Greg laughed, long and hard and joyous. “Ooh, you’re one smooth hot bastard, aren’t yer…yer know that, don’t yer?” he said, and now Mycroft pushed him up and off further, and slipped out from underneath, manoeuvring Greg expertly over onto his back as he did so. Greg allowed all of it, his hands on and moving down Mycroft’s own long back for a change as he and Mycroft switched position, Mycroft now looming above him on all fours in the semi-darkness.
“And I know that too,” said Mycroft suavely, “now, may I?”
Greg laughed heartily again. “Oh fuck, yeah! Please! Feel free! I’d abso-fuckin’-lutely love yer to!” he blurted out cheerfully, making Mycroft smile again. Honesty, flirtation, swearing and now all this wild, reckless abandon. He was in Heaven.

Mycroft shoved the covers down to give himself a bit of space and Greg threw his head back on the pillows as Mycroft went to work. “Oh!” Greg said. “Ohhh,” he sighed. “UhhnJesus fucking....ho—oly Christ…” he moaned brokenly, as Mycroft warmed up, approaching the task with great relish.
It would have been funny if it wasn’t so hot, Mycroft thought, his mouth busy, his hands full. Gregory’s thighs were tanned, hairy and extremely muscular...it was delightfully surprising. Mycroft dug his neat nails into them lightly and raked down and Greg moaned in his throat again. “Ohhh yeah,” he mumbled softly.
“Yes?” said Mycroft, after a particularly long slow lick, amused and aroused by Greg’s audio encouragement and barely pausing to speak before going back to his task, already knowing it was definitely a resounding yes.
“Ahh yeah, anythin’ you wanna do to me…” said Greg, “Mmmmyeah to all of it.” Mycroft glanced up at him. He had one arm up behind and under his head, his face was flushed, his hair in disarray of its normally neat swept up and over manner, and as Mycroft watched, Greg brought his other hand up and scrubbed through his already wild hair, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open. Oh, he’s glorious, thought Mycroft, drinking him in for just a moment before he went back to work again.

Gregory Lestrade was such a noisy lover. And the language! Mycroft didn’t have that much experience, but he had never had an experience like this one. It was as dirty as dirty talking got. Greg was as free and easy in vocalising his enjoyment as he was at making Mycroft laugh, and Mycroft loved every filthy word. He wondered if his ears might be at risk of spontaneous combustion.

“Oh yeah,” Greg said, "oh fuck me, yeah…” He said Mycroft’s name repeatedly, and moaned and gasped and groaned with pleasure. Mycroft’s ears were filled with the sound of him; his dark throaty voice, the swearing, his moans and sighs. The taste and smell of him were equally divine; by turns musky, salty and dark. It was very easy to get carried away.

Suddenly, Greg put his hand quite firmly on Mycroft’s shoulder. “Stop, wait, stop…” he gasped. He was breathing very hard. Mycroft lifted his head and wiped his own mouth delicately with his thumb and first two fingers. Greg happened to be glancing down at that moment and saw him do it, and he threw his head back against the pillows again and laughed. “Oh fuck!” he said through his laughter. “Fuckin’ ‘ell!” he said again delightedly. “Oh my God…” He lifted his head to look down at Mycroft again. “Come back up ‘ere…” he said. “I'm missin' you already…” The words made Mycroft’s heart sing.

He scrambled back up the decadently-trashed bed to kiss Greg, draping his body over Greg’s again, one knee bent up to support his weight and up high on his forearms, so that Greg could breathe. From this perfect vantage point, he bent his head lightly kissed him hello.
“Oooh, that was fuckin’ mmmmm!” moaned Greg in a deep growl when the kiss broke, making Mycroft laugh.
“You certainly seemed to be enjoying yourself,” Mycroft said, primly on purpose, and Greg burst out laughing himself. “You’re so bloody pleased with yourself, aren’t yer? Silver-tongued in more ways than one, eh?” he said, still grinning, sweeping a hand through Mycroft’s slightly excitable hair.
Mycroft could never have dreamt that such a deeply intimate experience could ever be so much fun. Or that he would ever want to use that disgusting three-letter word to describe it. But fun it was, and passionate, and terrifying in its intensity all the same. Mycroft leaned down and kissed him again.
“Listen, I really wanna come now. But I want us ter finish at the same time,” Greg said abruptly, his fingers stroking lightly on Mycroft’s lower back.
“Oh yes,” groaned Mycroft, rapturously, thinking of the sight he would make. “Who’s going to do the honours?”
Greg grinned. “ ‘Ow about I do you, you do me? At the same time?” he said.
Mycroft felt as if his insides were on a trapeze. “Yes, most definitely…sounds divine…” he said again in a breath and Greg lifted his head to kiss him again.
“Hang on,” instructed Greg, “I just need to reach my...” he twisted, half turning, half hanging off the bed, and stretched up under Mycroft to reach the knob on the drawer of his bedside table. He yanked it open and rummaged sightlessly (but effectively) around in his upside down position. “It’s in ‘ere somewhere,” he added, feeling about for whatever it was, making Mycroft smile at his contortionism. Mycroft also had the most temptingly glorious view of his neck; tendons and muscles taut with the strain of his awkward position, and so rather than helping his lover in finding what it was he was looking for, Mycroft helped himself to Greg’s lovely brown skin instead. He lowered his head and touched his tongue lightly to Greg’s neck, working his way up and nipping gently with his teeth. Greg snorted. “Yeah, make it more difficult, why don’t yer?” he said, amused, and then he suddenly located the item he was looking for. “Ah-ha!” he exclaimed in delight, as his fingers landed on something in the depths of the drawer, and Mycroft looked up to see what he had. Greg was clutching a small, blue glass bottle. It didn’t have a label on it, but Mycroft recognised the very distinctive Neal’s Yard shape of the bottle. “Unscented almond oil,” explained Greg. “I don’t have any…erm…proper stuff right now, but this’ll do.”
Mycroft smiled.
“I…I use it to massage my legs sometimes…” Greg added by way of explanation, “…after rugby.”
‘Oh,’ thought Mycroft, ‘oh…’ Immediately, the vision of his Gregory on a rugby field - muddied up, pumped up, kicking a rugby ball straight up between the top H of the field goal posts - sprang delightfully into his mind and glowed there like a shining dream. “Oh,” he said out loud, as Greg wriggled up out from under him slightly and Mycroft belatedly realised why and then lifted himself up off Greg’s body so that Greg could unscrew the bottle cap. “Of course,” Mycroft whispered, mainly to himself, thinking of Greg’s surprisingly muscular thighs.
Greg had got the cap off. “Alright, MI5,” he grinned, “I can see you’re enjoyin’ yourself working it all out!…” his tone changed. “Now I’m gonna work you out,” he said darkly, “lift up.”
Mycroft, all at once, delighted with this new, previously un-deduced knowledge of his lover and amused by Greg’s total understanding and acceptance of the Holmes’ brothers’ trait - one which most people found disturbing and odd - found himself enjoying being ordered about. Very much so, in fact. It seemed he and his brother had more than one thing in common.

He obeyed immediately, his cheeks and ears pinking more than they were already, coming up on both palms above Greg to make space, as Greg tipped the bottle generously onto his own lower stomach and top of his pubic hair. “Now come back down,” Greg said throatily, as he recapped the bottle briskly with a single careless twist of the cap and set it back without looking above his head on the bedside table. His hands, both now oily and empty, simultaneously slid down Mycroft’s sides to his hips and then his arse as Mycroft lowered himself back down to lie on Greg and they each pressed their bodies firmly together. “Mmmmm,” said Greg and then, “Oooh, your arse,” he moaned again, mostly to himself, as he squeezed it quite pleasingly hard. Mycroft’s auditory mind palace Greg-room was having to enlarge itself exponentially for all this vocal delight. Let alone all the visuals. The sensations and feelings he really didn't know quite what to do with yet… He lowered his head to kiss Greg, holding himself up on one forearm, with his fingers in Greg’s hair, and his other hand slipping under Greg’s shoulder; pressing his pelvis and rolling his hips slowly against Greg’s, the oil squelching filthily and silkily between them. Mycroft released Greg’s mouth to gasp at the slick sensation as their lower bodies began to slide against each other frictionlessly. “Gosh,” Mycroft whispered, “this is rather…”
“—Great, unnit?” murmured Greg, kissing him, pushing up against him, spreading the oil liberally between them.
After a few hedonistic moments of fervent snogging and sliding, Greg decided the distribution of the oil was fairly even. Even enough for his purposes, anyway. “Lift up,” he breathed again. As Mycroft lifted his body from Greg’s, Greg shifted out from underneath him, turning onto his side to face Mycroft and pushing gently Mycroft back and off as he turned so Mycroft got the hint to do the same. Now they faced each other again, breathing hard, flushed and oiled up. “My sheets are never gonna recover from this…” said Greg cheerfully and he reached slowly down, diving the backs of his fingers down against Mycroft's stomach to take hold of his lover’s cock.
“Nor am I,” thought Mycroft, as Greg’s fingers slid down his body, but then as Greg made contact, Mycroft gasped and reciprocated the action immediately, with no forewarning, making Greg moan softly. “Oh, Jesus,” he mumbled quietly, wrapping his left leg over Mycroft’s right and drawing him closer, entangling their calves together as he began to move his hand, his touch alternating every few strokes between firm and fast and slow and sweet. “Tell me what you like,” he murmured, the dark, secret sound of his voice low and soft in Mycroft’s ears.
“Oh, everything, everything,’ whispered Mycroft weakly, his heart pounding, all his years of carefully built up defences smashed to the ground. There was nothing left but to give in to this. And he truly didn’t have a single qualm about doing so. This emotional vulnerability was liberating in the extreme.

Their bodies and limbs entangled, they kissed again and again. Their hands worked on each other with a growing urgency and the moments seemed intense and endless. It occurred to Mycroft the odd sensation that time was not so much standing still, but continuing to happen outside the room.

Mycroft could not keep his other hand out of Greg’s hair. Like being attracted by magnetic forces, his fingers were drawn to it, and once again, he made another gentle fist of the soft silver strands and pulled a little. Greg moaned, his hand on Mycroft’s cock squeezing hard and speeding up. At the same time, his other hand slipped under Mycroft’s shoulder and dug his fingers in, making Mycroft groan out a little in return.

Within a few hot, gasped moments, they were both nearing their climax, and it was Greg who growled, “Oh God, I wanna see you come first,” his voice rough and forceful, his fist tight on Mycroft’s flesh, his body almost as close as he could get and still do what they were both so intent on doing. And something in Mycroft had gone irreversibly past the boundary and so he was no longer fully in control of himself when he whispered, “Oh, yes, Gregory, yes…I’m so very—” and at his brokenly gasped words, Greg gripped him hard with his thigh and swiftly shoved their hips closer together, and at that moment, Mycroft felt himself begin to experience such an explosive orgasm that he actually cried out. “Oh! Oh, God, Gregory!” he exclaimed, giving in to it completely, his hand stilled for a moment, his eyes closed in rapture, and as he utterly gave himself over to the incredible sensation, he heard his lover murmur, “Ohhh fuckin’ ‘ell, Mycroft, ohhhh yeah…” in a low, deep voice, like this was something incredible, something wondrous, something really special and amazing…and then as he began to come back to himself, he heard the sudden change in Gregory’s breathing and felt his body and his cock stiffen momentarily, and he wrenched his eyes open to see Gregory achieve the goal as well.

Gregory Lestrade was truly beautiful at the moment of his release, thought Mycroft, as Greg moaned long and low, and spilled himself between them both; his eyes shut, his mouth slightly open, his head rolling to one side as their fluids combined, meeting and mingling on his lower chest and stomach as well as on Mycroft’s. Mycroft watched him in captivated wonder, his hand moving slowly on Greg’s flesh until he finished.

Greg still had his eyes shut and his mouth open when he said, “Oh Christ, Mycroft, you’re like a bloody demon in the sack.” The smile that rose up across his face then was as beatific a one as any Renaissance painting Mycroft had ever seen. Mycroft had been thinking far more romantic-poet thoughts about the experience than the one Greg had just voiced, but he laughed. “Well, thank you. I think,” he said, but he was unoffended, unabashed, utterly charmed.
Greg opened his eyes and leaned in to kiss him, laughing as he did so.
Afterwards, Mycroft took a breath and, preparing for absolute open-hearted honesty, said, “Gregory, that was—”
But Greg was quicker off the mark with his suggestion for what it had been. “—Quite interestin’?” he interrupted instantly, with a huge grin, and they both fell about laughing. Warm in Gregory’s bed, held close in Gregory’s arms, Mycroft thought he had laughed more in the last four hours than he had in the last six months.

When they had stopped laughing, Greg nodded his head to indicate something behind Mycroft. “In my bedside cabinet, behind yer, there’s some tissues…you’re nearest…do you wanna grab ‘em?” Greg said, withdrawing his leg from over Mycroft’s and holding his body very gingerly for the purposes of damage limitation to his sheets. Mycroft - doing the same - arched backwards and found the small pack of travel tissues in the drawer instantly.
As they cleaned up, Greg said, “Christ, I really need a drink…” and then hastened to add, “…of water, I mean!” But the subject of drink had jogged his memory. “Hey, we left our whisky downstairs - did yer still want yours?”
Mycroft balled up his tissue and arched backwards to drop it neatly into the woven wastepaper basket that Greg had stowed under the bedside cabinet. “Oh God, no, delicious though it was, I shall be nothing more than a wet dishrag in the morning if I do,” he said, coming back up onto his elbow again, resting his face on his palm to smile softly at Greg.
Greg leaned forward and kissed him again as he tossed his own tissue over Mycroft’s shoulder - vaguely towards the basket on the floor, but missing it completely and not caring. “You could never be a wet dishrag - you long, tall hot drink o’ water, you,” he said reassuringly as he moved back to his side of the bed. Mycroft burst out laughing. Again! Where was his dignity, he wondered.
’Gone the way of your underwear, I expect,’ answered his sarcastic inner voice, which often sounded like Sherlock. He pushed it outside and shut the door on it.
“Not one word of what you just said makes any sense at all!” he said to Greg, his hand back on Greg’s shoulder, sliding down his side to his waist. 
“Yeah, I know. Good, unnit?” remarked Greg, smiling saucily.
The man just doesn’t care, thought Mycroft, he’s a law unto himself. He couldn’t stop smiling from the unbridled joy that this thought brought him.

 

Then they lay there for a moment in silence, Mycroft’s hand resting on Greg’s waist and Greg’s on Mycroft’s shoulder, stroking lightly, and then Mycroft thought that really he should be the one to say. ‘Better not presume…’ he decided regretfully. He couldn’t see an alarm clock and his pocket watch was in his waistcoat, but it was obvious that the hour was extremely late. Well gone midnight, he thought. “Well, I suppose I should order a taxi…” he began wistfully.
Greg suddenly rose up on his elbow, sliding his left hand from Mycroft’s shoulder down to his ribs. He wrapped his leg around Mycroft’s again to hold him still. “Don’t…” he said fervently, gripping hard with his thigh. He fixed Mycroft with his dark, warm gaze. “Stop with me…Sleep the night with me.”
Mycroft’s heart had been jumping around in his chest quite a bit this evening but it jumped another impressive triple somersault at Greg’s words. “Really?” he asked, his voice hesitant and surprised.
“Yeah, a’ course, really - I wouldn't ask you otherwise.” Greg grinned. “I would say I’d lend yer some of my pyjamas, but I don’t actually wear any….”
Mycroft, heart still thumping at Greg’s incredible offer, was amused. “Oh! What do you wear in bed then?”
Greg grinned and squeezed with his leg. “Ahhh, y’know!…Just a squirt of Chanel no.5….” and then he snorted laughter at his own joke. Mycroft, luckily - not being Sherlock - got the Marilyn Monroe reference immediately, and spluttered with laughter. “I see,” he said, delighted.
“Well, unless I ‘ave guests…” Greg added, sliding his leg up and down a bit, grinning boyishly, “…but I think on this occasion, it might not be a problem?”
Mycroft smiled so widely. This amount of smiling must be some kind of record. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this happy. “Oh, I don’t see any problem here,” he said smoothly, around the smile.
Greg reached forwards and stretched past Mycroft to reach for his phone on the bedside table. He clicked the home button and pulled a face. “Jesus! You don’t wanna know what the time is…” he said, and he switched it off again and turned it face down on the cluttered little table on his side of the bed. “But hey, I’ve got a pack of new toothbrushes in my cupboard,” he said as he settled back down again. “They were on special offer! Lucky I stocked up, eh?!”
“Lucky indeed,” agreed Mycroft, his fingers stroking through Greg’s silver hair again, feeling extremely lucky in all sorts of ways.