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If asked, he won’t be able to tell for sure which of the three facts about this particular spot on human body, where the spine meets the skull, was the first one he’d learned. Fact one: it’s the most obvious way to kill a person with a pencil: sticking a sharpened pencil right between the skull and the spine results in immediate death. It's the easiest of fifty-seven ways to kill someone with stationery.
It’s the spot where the brain divisions that control breathing and heartbeat are closest to the naked skin and not protected with bone tissue. Which also results in fact two: severe hypothermia will most probably be lethal if this spot is unprotected. Chances of survival in extreme weather conditions are significantly higher for someone who’s wearing a scarf and a high collar.
The third fact is completely illogical and deeply embarrassing, because it concerns Mycroft’s own reactions to having this spot touched. He does not jump to awareness, does not attempt to defend himself from the obvious death threat, does not even try to avoid the touch; instead, he becomes painfully, distressingly aroused.
Lucky for Mycroft, people hardly touch him at all, let alone thoroughly enough to find the sole spot that brings embarrassment. His few lovers – again, lucky for him – have usually been rather inconsiderate, and overlooked Mycroft’s weakness in favour of their own satisfaction. He’d prefer it stayed it that way. Really.
Which is why when Gregory-call-me-Greg Lestrade cups the back of his head within seconds of their very first kiss, Mycroft hopes (with the tiny part of his brain that is still remotely functional) that through the excitement of their first romantic encounter Lestrade will fail to notice how that touch affects Mycroft.
And it’s Gregory, Gregory kissing him, that’s enough to drive Mycroft crazy without any additional stimulation; how did they and up like this, kissing in an abandoned warehouse, clinging to each other like their lives depend on it; this certainly wasn’t part of the plan, trust Gregory to be the only person on Earth capable of ruining all Mycroft’s plans all at once, trust him to drive Mycroft to insanity in a matter of seconds, and now he’s making love to Mycroft with just his tongue and the palm of his hand at the back of Mycroft’s neck. When they finally come up for air, Gregory looks as wrecked and Mycroft feels, so it’s all fine. It’s good.
Mycroft cannot afford attachments but, if you think of it, neither can Lestrade. It doesn’t make them a perfect match, of course, but for once Mycroft wants this one thing for himself, common sense be damned.
One kiss in a warehouse becomes three kisses and a makeout session (Mycroft would have felt like a teenager if only he had a teenage experience of making out), then one meeting becomes two, then three, four – all in unconventional places, all quite enjoyable and agonizingly short. They talk more than they touch, and this is not according to Mycroft's plan either, and still very much okay. They don’t call their meetings “dates” because that would be juvenile and misleading. They are not dating.
There’s the warehouse, and then an abandoned factory, and the top of a building that’s not what it looks like. Then there’s a park – that particular encounter would have passed for a normal date had it not been at two o’clock in the morning. And then, finally, for the inevitable fifth time, Mycroft books a room and texts Gregory the address of the hotel.
Lestrade arrives minutes after Mycroft, and they don’t talk, not this time, not even to say hello. Instead, they lock the door and head straight for the bed. Gregory’s kisses are different this time; the difference is so subtle that one less observant would probably miss it, but not Mycroft. Mycroft can feel that Gregory is less self-conscious now that they are doubtlessly alone in a locked room, and he’s more in control. That gives Mycroft a new thrill: he half-expected Gregory, after more than a decade of marriage to the same woman, to be the less experienced one, more submissive and gentle. There’s nothing wrong with that, but this is Gregory, and Mycroft wants all of him, not just his soft side.
As it happens, Mycroft cannot point the exact moment they lose their clothes; as much as he’d love to see Gregory slowly undress for him, it will have to wait for another time. Now they are naked in a matter of seconds. They fall on the bed, entangled, and then Gregory is trailing soft touches with his fingertips down Mycroft’s back while sucking gently on his earlobe. His touches are light, almost teasing, and yet still persistent: fingertips running from Mycroft’s shoulder blades to his arse, lips on his ear, chin, neck, collarbone, nipples.
Mycroft isn’t completely immobile, he too is stroking, kissing and licking, but, for what seems to be the first time in his life, he’s completely given up control, succumbing entirely to his lover’s will. Probably that’s he why soon finds himself face down, with Gregory nipping at his neck just below the ear, breath heavy and hot. Then he feels those lips touch his shoulder, his spine between the shoulder blades, the small of his back... Lestrade’s fingers are touching Mycroft’s arse, oh-so-gently, and Mycroft wants more, wants all of it, he spreads his legs, expecting Gregory to grab the lube, touch him there, start preparing him, or maybe even move his lips lower, touch him with his tongue...
Instead, Gregory’s lips move up, leaving a wet trace on Mycroft’s skin, making Mycroft tremble with anticipation; Lestrade takes his time with Mycroft’s shoulder blades, covers them with open-mouthed kisses, licks, and tiny bites, and Mycroft can’t hold back a moan. It gets even more blurry after that: he can feel the softness of Gregory’s lips and the rough touch of his stubble on his back, Lestrade’s hands caressing his sides, from his hips to his armpits, his own cock growing impossibly hard against the sheets, Gregory whispering something into his skin, making him shiver almost painfully.
Then Gregory gives Mycroft’s back a long hot lick, leaving a wet, rapidly cooling trace, and then moves his mouth up to Mycroft’s shoulders, gives his neck a couple of light kisses – and then settles down just below the hairline. Mycroft has never been hit by a lightning but he expects this is what it feels like: a charge of electricity running through his body, making everything sing, and hurt, and feel, and get a little numb at the same time. Gregory’s hands are still caressing Mycroft’s sides, adding to the sensation, but it hardly matters anymore, nothing does, because Lestrade’s mouth is right there. He’s just kissing at first barely even letting his lips touch the skin, breathing into Mycroft’s hair; and then there’s tongue, and teeth, and the roughness of the stubble – down Mycroft’s neck, then back to the spot again, licking and biting and breathing until it’s too much to bear, and then leaving for less sensitive areas to give him a moment to catch his breath – only to come back again before Mycroft can fully recover.
‘You like that, don’t you?’ He hears Gregory whisper. ‘This.’ A bite at his ear. ‘And this.’ A lick at his neck. ‘And especially this.’ A light kiss at exactly the right spot.
He’s vaguely aware of Gregory’s cock slipping between his legs, and Gregory’s hand holding his. He’s pretty sure his moans turn into screams at some point or another, and Gregory’s lips no longer leave the spot to let him breath, they’re just there, all the time, with the teeth, and the tongue, and the stubble. His every nerve ending is electrified, and every touch – Lestrade’s hand on Mycroft, his cock rubbing behind Mycroft’s balls, his chest touching Mycroft back conveying every heavy breath – is magnified now, burning.
‘Can you come for me, sweetheart?’ Gregory whispers into his hair. ‘Just like that, just from this?’ Another bite, another lick. ‘I know you’re almost there. C’mon.’ He feels a light touch of teeth, and just like that he’s done, screaming into the pillow, orgasm so overwhelming he almost blacks out. Lestrade holds him through it, his mouth never leaving the spot, whispering endearments and encouragements. When he’s beginning to come to himself, he feels Gregory move between his legs – one friction, two, and Lestrade stiffens, biting into Mycroft’s shoulder.
‘Okay, this was,’ Lestrade says into his neck, ‘one of the hottest things I’ve ever experienced.’ He touches the back of Mycroft’s head with his fingers lightly, and Mycroft shivers.
‘You’re a menace, Gregory.’ Mycroft sighs, unwilling to move just yet. “Too observant for your own safety.’
‘Nothing wrong with being observant for a good cause, My,’ Lestrade whispers in his ear, and all Mycroft wants is to probably purr. Or do something equally unbecoming. But.
‘How did you just call me? Nobody calls me that.’
‘Nobody calls me Gregory.’
Mycroft’s eyelids are heavy and brain is barely working. He’ll have to leave this argument for later. For now, he turns in Gregory’s arms to face him, gives him a peck on the cheek and immediately falls asleep.