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A Rough Indulgence

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Though he does not advertise his gifts as openly as his brother, Mycroft can read people much better. Sherlock can read facts , of course -the detail in a frayed coat or a well-cleaned bit of jewelry -but Mycroft has settled silent, secret wars with a well-placed word in the right ear at a party.

So he knows what it is he sees every time Lestrade looks at him. 

His eyes linger on Mycroft’s arse when he believes Mycroft is unaware of his gaze. When they converse more often than not Lestrade’s eyes drift down to land on Mycroft’s mouth and linger when his tongue brushes over his lips. He’s aware of it like a second pulse running through his veins when they’re standing close together, huddled under Mycroft’s umbrella in the rain while Lestrade fills him in on whatever it is Sherlock’s done now, his breath shaking when Lestrade’s fingers wrap his own to take over the duties of holding the umbrella. The man’s touch lingers when he claps his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder in greeting, and it slips lower than propriety would dictate when he pulls Mycroft aside to discuss his wayward brother. Mycroft would be lying if he said he didn’t have the urge to swoon right into that firm, broad grip.

Mycroft tries not to dwell on what it would be like to indulge such an interest, but his focus has always been primarily on two things, and two things alone. First, caring for Sherlock, and second, keeping England standing. Letting himself consider Lestrade in such a manner has always been relegated to brief moments before bed, imagining the man’s hands on the lapels of his suit, pressing him against the wall or into the plush leather seats of his private cars, just letting himself be taken. It’s not something he’s ever permitted himself to consider an achievable outcome, not in the real world outside his bed.

There’s never been much room for indulgence.

He nearly gives in once, in a moment of weakness at a political benefit for the Met where they both happen to attend. He’s a glass or two in when he manages a moment to himself, scurrying out to a dark balcony with a cigarette in his mouth and his hand in his pocket, feeling about for the cool metal of his lighter.

He’s stopped by the grating drag of a match and a spark of a flame in the dark. “Need a light?”

Mycroft’s cheeks heat immediately, just from hearing the low timbre of Lestrade’s voice. He leans forward, bringing the cigarette in his lips to the light in Lestrade’s hands, only murmuring a quiet “thank you” as he pulls away again and fills his lungs with smoke.

“Enjoying the party?”

“As much as I can.”

“So not much at all.” Lestrade smiles, and Mycroft catches himself staring at the beckoning curl of his lip, just visible in the glow of his cigarette. “You don’t have to pretend, you know,” Lestrade murmurs, his voice a low temptation. 

Mycroft looks off into the dark, trusting that his blush will not be visible. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” He’d be embarrassed to sound like an Edwardian heroine if he didn’t somehow feel like one as well, shy and embarrassed and fantasizing about a man in uniform like one of Austen’s more impulsive young ladies.

Lestrade steps closer, reaching out a hand to grasp his tie and pull gently. It makes Mycroft’s heart pound, the blood rushing in his ears as his hand lingers just below Mycroft’s collarbone. “Yeah, you do. You always do, Mycroft. Even if you think you’re not allowed to want things.” He leans in, pausing just a breath away from Mycroft’s cheek. “So I know full well you know exactly what I’ll do to you if you let me.”

His hand relaxes, gently smoothing the tie back into place and stepping away.

“And you know where to find me when you’re willing to admit that you want it too.”

It is a tantalizing enough proposition that it keeps Mycroft distracted for nearly a full month, though in the end, a series of crises that had to be handled with urgency and care are enough to pull him back to his duties. The country needs him. Sherlock needs him. Mycroft Holmes is not a man permitted to have needs of his own.

Still, there are little ways he can keep an eye on things and carve out a moment for himself at the same time. Personal visits to New Scotland Yard are one of them. 

Mycroft makes his way to the cell Sherlock is being held in and lifts a brow at his brother as one of the uniforms scrambles to acquire the key. “Brother mine, you do realize crime scene protocols exist for a reason?”

“They were interfering with my deductions.”

“The little booties and the terribly chic blue jumpsuit? I’m sure they were, but you did know what you were signing up for when you threw yourself at a government bureaucracy in exchange for a bit of amusement.”

Sherlock pushes past him, his sharp shoulder jostling hard into Mycroft’s suit. He sways, as he must, but he ignores the childish effort to annoy him. “Your input is not required.”

“Is it not? Then next time you can enjoy languishing a bit before my inevitable rescue.”

“But it is inevitable, Mycroft. Because you are nothing if not predictable.” Sherlock marches off in a swirl of his show coat as Mycroft sighs, dismissing the requests for paperwork with a few careful words regarding the Home Office, though he pauses when his gaze lands on a pair of dark eyes watching him from down the corridor. His traitorous mind helps not at all, the memory of a hand on his tie and the scent of cigarettes in the air a subtle thrum in every pump of his blood. “Inspector.”

“Mycroft.” He holds out a hand, beckoning Mycroft toward his office. “Might I have a word?”

“Certainly.” Mycroft can spare another moment, especially if it grants him a lengthy look at that lovely masculine jawline, speckled by silver stubble. “I do apologize for my brother, Inspector,” he offers as they enter Lestrade’s domain, Lestrade holding the door open for him like a gentleman before closing it firmly behind them. It’s organized chaos - paperwork abounds and there’s stale coffee and donut dust on the desk. Perhaps that’s what the man smells like up close when he hasn’t been smoking, coffee with a hint of sweet underneath, with sugar on his lips….

Mycroft swallows, putting on one of his usual thin smiles. “I am aware you have been more than patient with Sherlock’s… particular struggles with regulations.”

“It’s getting out of hand, Mycroft.” Greg folds his arms, leaning his head back against the door. “He fucked up evidence on this one- I know, it’s shite he says won’t matter, but just because he says something isn’t important doesn’t mean my people don’t have to log it. Chief Super’s been up my arse about it, the rest of the team bloody hates him, and if he goes off on his own like that again m’not sure m’gonna be able to keep him on. S’too disruptive.”

Impossible. No, Mycroft will not let Sherlock lose what he has here, with the Met and Lestrade. Even if it’s predictable that he salvages his brother’s messes. “I’m sure with the correct word, the powers that be shall-”

“That doesn’t help, Mycroft. People know when you’ve forced it, because the Chief Super whinges about the Home Office for at least a fortnight. You’re not going to help him like that, not really.”

It must be you, then. Lestrade is the one keeping Sherlock afloat here, and if Mycroft’s influence cannot assist him…. 

Well. There is something else he knows Lestrade wants. Something, perhaps… perhaps he may also want. And if he has an excuse for acquiring it….

That. That would not be predictable .

It feels like a flower blooming in his chest the moment he knows his decision is made. Everything is heady and colorful and bright as his blood picks up its pace. “Is there anything I can offer you, then, Inspector? To make things… easier for you?” Mycroft’s tongue swipes over his lips. “If I… let you… do you what you like?”

There’s a dark flash in Lestrade’s eyes as he looks up, one that ripples through Mycroft straight to his- well, he’s never felt anything like that before. 

He analyzes it in seconds. Lust. Pure, carnal desire, and not the soft, tender variety. His cheeks feel warm, adrenaline winding apace like a tremor through his body that heads directly to his own cock. Physiological responses are not a new development, but he’s only ever found them difficult to control when it comes to the man before him.

He sits back onto the edge of Lestrade’s desk, opening his posture. Inviting, glancing back at Lestrade through his lashes, hands gripping the hard wood of the desk like it might try to fly off on him.. Lestrade isn’t the sort of man who’d act without thinking he has permission to do so. 

Mycroft takes a breath. 

What’s one indulgence, after all?

“Anything at all, Inspector.”

He tries to ignore the thrumming of his own pulse in his ears as Greg contemplates him. Mycroft can see the precise moment Lestrade decides that his offer is indeed of a sensual nature, and a thrill ripples through him to watch those deep eyes darken even further, his gaze narrowing in an almost predatory fashion. That stare fixes on him, pinning him to the desk in a way Mycroft cannot break, not even when he realizes the mild click he’s heard is Lestrade flipping the lock.

Mycroft Holmes has never quite had the experience of his mind going offline, but this feels close. He doesn’t move as Lestrade draws close, far closer than traditional propriety would allow. The heat of their proximity makes him want to fidget, but he’s not offered himself like this before, not ever, and for once he isn’t quite sure what to do.

Lestrade smiles, reaching out. His fingers brush lightly along Mycroft’s jaw, winding under his chin and tilting his face up. Mycroft lets him, entirely unresisting. “M’sure I could find a way to use you, Mycroft. Make you earn all those favors your brother demands. Is that what you want?”

Yes. He opens his mouth to say it, but his tongue feels dry and too thick. But something in his expression must convey it all the same, because Lestrade steps closer, planting a leg between Mycroft’s thighs that sends a jolt of electricity up his spine as the Inspector leans closer. Mycroft can feel the heat of his breath, and there is that slight hint of coffee and smoke that’s even better than he imagined. 

“You do, don’t you? Look at you. Slipping so easily. Can’t speak?” Lestrade’s thumb strokes along his jaw in a possessive caress that Mycroft can’t help but lean into. “That’s alright. You can show me what you want. If you want to wipe this little episode of Sherlock’s off his slate, you get on your knees and beg for me to fix it.”


Mycroft looks up, eyes wide as he finds himself slipping toward the floor. Lestrade is positioned so he nearly has to slide down the man’s leg to manage it, which seems to be the point as Lestrade doesn’t move at all. He lets Mycroft grind over his leg and down, and Mycroft is vaguely surprised to find himself hard by the time his knees hit the floor. 

He swallows.

A man with Mycroft’s power is not practiced in begging, but he tries all the same, halting as his words fail to come easily. “Ins- Inspector, please. Please let me make up for it. I’ll- I’ll do anything you like.”

“That’s very sweet, Mycroft.” A hand brushes through his hair, pulling just enough to tilt his head exactly where Lestrade wants him. “You want to be good for me, don’t you? I think you’re probably a very good lad at heart and no one’s taken the time to tell you.”

He pulls Mycroft closer, just next to the zip of his trousers, close enough for Mycroft to feel the heat of him and catch the faint scent of masculine musk within. “Will you be good for me and suck me off?”

Mycroft reaches out, his mind a blur as the analytical side quiets in favor of something he has not felt in a long time. Pure sensation. The zip draws down, and with a few shifts of fabric he frees Lestrade’s thick cock from within. It’s been years since he had a liaison of any sort, a decade at least since he had any real passion about sexual encounters. 

Somehow, now, it feels like he’s opening the floodgates. 

He isn’t tentative, he knows enough to recall what’s worked for him before. He strokes his tongue along the shaft, teases with flicks and lapping twists, sucking intermittently, all the while looking up to gaze at Lestrade, who’s looking back at him like he’s just won some sort of battle.

“Look at you. Diligent, aren’t you, Mycroft? Knew you would be.”

The praise ripples through him, urging him on. He takes in as much as he can- he couldn’t open his throat before and he knows enough not to try it now. As much as he’d like to impress Greg there’s only so much one can do when he’d just end up choking on it. 

The hand in his hair tightens, and he can feel the muscles in Lestrade’s core begin to tense under his finger tips. “That’s it,” Lestrade murmurs, voice only a little shaky. “M’gonna- you’re gonna swallow for me, aren’t you?”

Mycroft moans an affirmative, and the vibrations from his throat must be enough to push Lestrade over the edge. He pulls Mycroft by the hair, closer, filling his mouth as Mycroft swallows.

When Lestrade pulls back, Mycroft finally becomes vaguely aware that his chin is wet and messy as Lestrade swipes a finger through the saliva, sighing contentedly. “All you posh boys. So pretty when someone makes a mess of you.” The hand that had hold of his hair begins to stroke it, possessive yet still a caress, and Mycroft feels the odd urge to lean into it. “Now. M’gonna give you a choice, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft looks up. He can feel his mind trying to parse this and not quite managing, his thoughts silent in a way that’s shockingly… relaxing. He nods, still on his knees and feeling no particular urge to get up.

Lestrade’s foot angles up, just stroking the underside of Mycroft’s cock, which seems to have remained hard all by itself without Mycroft even managing a single thought for his own pleasure while he was busy seeing to the Inspector. But having it touched in such a manner makes him very rapidly aware of his neglect, and he quietly lets out a soft whimper.

“Yeah, you want that, don’t you? But here’s the choice.” He strokes up once more, and Mycroft finds himself clinging to Greg’s hips to keep himself from making noise. “I can make you come now, right in your fancy trousers, and we’ll call it square. You can go back to your usual whispers and keeping the Chief Super in your pocket, and let your brother dig his own grave with the forensics team, and I won’t interfere.” His foot grinds back down, and Mycroft has to bite his lip to keep from moaning out loud. “Or, you can wait, and I get to decide when you get to come. You won’t be able to come until I say, and you’ll be earning back all that good will your brother’s been wearing down, and you’ll be earning it for a while. But, when I do make you come, I’ll make sure you’re so lost in pleasure that you forget your own name.”

He cups Mycroft’s jaw, keeping him facing upward, and swipes another bit of saliva from his lip. “Which’ll it be?”

Mycroft’s voice sounds hoarse as he answers, but, good lord, he wants. “The- the latter. Please,” he adds on, which seems to add to Lestrade’s curving smile. 

“I thought so. You’re going to be so good for me, Mycroft. I can tell.” He lets go, allowing Mycroft to sink down a bit as he steps back. “Now, let’s get you cleaned up.”

He digs through his desk, producing a chocolate bar that is thrust into Mycroft’s hands. “Eat that while I find the wipes.”

Mycroft starts to protest- his eternal diet- but Lestrade simply lifts a brow at him and he finds himself putting a piece in his mouth. Now that’s a power nations would kill for.  

It takes some digging- organization is not Lestrade’s strong suit- but he eventually fishes out a soft cloth handkerchief that he tidies up Mycroft’s lips and chin with, gently kissing each spot after, the rasp of his stubble leaving the tingling trace of his affection in his wake. He even straightens Mycroft’s tie and smoothes his ruffled hair back to something resembling it’s usual order. “There we go. Can’t have you looking a mess at work, can we?” 

Eventually he helps Mycroft up and makes sure both their trousers are straight. “Did you finish your chocolate? Very good.” His hand runs over Mycroft’s hair once more. “Do you have water at work, or should we get you a bottle on the way out?”

Lestrade is so attentive that Mycroft hardly realizes what’s happening before he’s escorted to his car with a water bottle in hand and another chocolate bar in his pocket. It’s not until he’s sitting in the back, staring vacantly into London traffic, that his mind actually turns back on and lets him process, filing each feeling, each scent into the endless vault of his own memory.

He hadn’t been entirely sure what to expect, but he feels so very… good about it. Letting Lestrade take control of him, letting him be in charge for a bit, and then having him so… caring, after, was simply… incredible. His heart rate is even, there’s not an iota of stress in his veins as he lets himself sink into the leather seats and drift in their smooth softness.

It’s actually the most relaxed he’s felt in years.

So perhaps it’s not so surprising, when his brother irritates one of the techs to the point of being tossed out of a crime scene just a few days later, that Lestrade texts him. And Mycroft answers, promptly and with little fanfare, arriving at the Met and making his way to Lestrade’s office only to exit later with lightly rumpled knees and a stray curl dangling down his forehead. 

And the next time.

And the time after that.

He rather enjoys the smile he wears when leaving, knowing that the rest of the Met has no idea what he’s been up to. It’s his secret, his prize for doing so well for Lestrade. 

It’s so nice to have something- someone- that’s just for him.

As the months pass, it becomes their regular arrangement. Lestrade summons him when Sherlock’s done one of the many, many things he does to irritate the Met at large, and Mycroft ensures he gains his privileges back. It may be a pretense- Mycroft does not believe Lestrade is capable of coercion of that sort, not really- but it is one that appeals to him on a fundamental, primal level.

Mycroft very much likes earning his rewards.

They’re at a crime scene that Sherlock’s just vanished from, in typical fashion, to run off after some lead he didn’t fully explain (to the plebians, at least - Mycroft understood exactly why his brother felt an urgent trip to the London Zoo was in order) when Lestrade leans in toward his ear on the pretense of offering a light. “Do you know what he’s done today?”

A thrill runs through him. He knows that tone. “Something untoward?”

“He lifted my badge. He thinks I haven’t noticed yet, but that’s illegal, that is.” Lestrade’s eyes are dark behind the smoke of his cigarette. “There’s real punishment for that. Jail time, even.”

“And if we could come to… alternative arrangements?” It’s work not to sink to his knees right there, saliva filling his mouth in eager anticipation.

Lestrade exhales, the smoke rushing to fill Mycroft’s lungs as he lets himself close his eyes and breathe it in. It’s a promise of what’s to come that he can keep with him the rest of the day in the lingering scent on his suit. “I’ll come to yours.” He walks off, glancing back with the red ember at his lips like a beacon, the lighthouse calling Mycroft to its beautifully rough shore. 

After work, Mycroft readies himself. They have a system for this- brief texts, should one or the other be held up by matters of import. Lestrade does not hold urgent matters of the state against him (or, once, the Queen personally requesting Mycroft’s attention), nor does Mycroft mind (much) if someone’s murder requires solving. 

Tonight there are no such issues.

Lestrade meanders up to his door with the stalking gait of a jaguar, not that Mycroft has been eagerly awaiting his appearance on the cameras for the last thirty minutes or so. Mycroft would hate if he had to, god forbid, actually ring the buzzer.

He opens the door just as Lestrade reaches it, beckoning him in. “Good evening, Inspector.”


The pleasantries last just long enough for the door to close before Mycroft finds himself manhandled against it. Lestrade’s teeth drag along his throat, a hand roughly cups the half-hardness he’s been dutifully ignoring all evening, the anticipation more than even his copious self-control can manage. “Knew you’d be gagging for it,” Lestrade breathes, hot in his ear. Mycroft can only manage a whimper, his fingers grasping the linen of Lestrade’s work shirt, a plain button-down that carries the lingering scent of cigarettes and coffee and London rain.

“There was naughtiness today, Mycroft. You willing to make up for that?” Mycroft nods, vigorously. Yes, yes he very much is. “That’s good. You’re always good for me, aren’t you?” Lord, if that doesn’t run straight to his cock. Lestrade knows it, too, as he has since the first time they began- whatever this is. Labels have never seemed of import, only that it’s happening and that he would very much prefer that it continue to happen. 

He’s moved with rough kisses and stern hands to his office. Lestrade likes his office, likes to sit in Mycroft’s large throne-like chair and put Mycroft on his knees under the desk, or bend him over on the antique wood. Mycroft kept it clean before, now it is positively spartan, because he does like to have things ready for Lestrade’s visits. 

As usual, Lestrade draws him toward the chair, but when he drops into it instead of pushing Mycroft down to his knees he pulls the slimmer man with him and turns, putting Mycroft over his thighs, and-

Oh. Oh, Christ.

A hand works its way into his hair, pulling just the right amount as his arse is squeezed and roughly fondled. “Look at that. All pert in your posh trousers. Do they look at you in Whitehall? I bet they do. Wonderin’ why they’ve got a sudden urge to bite into a peach.”

The first smack cracks loudly even through the layers of fabric Lestrade has not yet deigned to remove. He likes it that way, Mycroft knows, likes mussing up his suits before unwrapping Mycroft like a present. Mycroft wraps his hands around Lestrade’s ankle to ground himself, letting out a moan as Lestrade’s hand comes down again. “How many do you think for a stolen badge, Mycroft? Think you can do twenty?” His hand tightens in Mycroft’s hair, pulling his head up enough for Lestrade’s lips to brush his ear. “That’s twenty before I get your pants off, mind. And at least ten after.”

Mycroft lets out a choked-off cry of “oh, fuck -”, the delicious anticipation of both pain and pleasure almost too much. Lestrade releases his hair with a chuckle and a long, soothing pet.

“That’ll be last. If you’re good.” His hand comes down once more, and Mycroft whimpers from the sting of it even as he grinds his now full erection into the side of Lestrade’s thigh. “Now, that’s three. Clever boy like you’s gonna have to count the rest for me, alright?”

He switches to the other cheek and Mycroft stammers out a “f-four.” 

“That’s it. Good lad.”

“Fi- fuck- five-”

By ten he’s certain he’s going to wear the red-tinged imprint of Lestrade’s hand through the next fortnight. The sting ripples through him like an electric spark, he feels the tingle of it even in his fervently blushing ears and every desperate twitch of his cock. By twenty the pain has become a bearable haze of pleasure and he’s clutching at Lestrade’s leg, nuzzling his face against rough cloth open-mouthed and moaning out the numbers into fabric dampened by his own saliva. His cock’s dripping, leaking into his trousers, and he can feel the shift in wetness as Lestrade finally pulls them down to his thighs to survey his work. The gentle hand rubbing over his arse is far more soothing than it has any right to be, even when a finger teasingly strokes into his cleft. “Gorgeous, you are. Made you all red and pretty.” His finger swirls about Mycroft’s entrance, making him groan with unabashed want. Lestrade chuckles. “I know, you want me to fill that up for you, don’t you? But you have to earn back my badge first, like a good lad.”

He spreads Mycroft’s cheeks apart, and Mycroft buries his face further into Lestrade’s thigh, the open vulnerability of it heating his face. One finger, wetted by Lestrade’s tongue, presses against him, just a little, just enough to make him tilt his hips toward it, a motion that is only rewarded with another sharp, stinging smack across his rear. “Keep still, Mycroft. That’s one. Maybe I’ll play with you a little between each, hm? See if I can make you beg for it.”

The finger pushes in a little with a dull pressure, swirls as Mcyroft’s body relaxes into it, and then stays there as Lestrade’s other hand smacks down once more. Mycroft’s fairly certain he whimpers a plea that’s either for mercy or more , but it’s getting hard to tell what noises he lets out and which are merely a part of the escalating hazy buzz in his mind. Another smack comes just as Lestrade gets what feels like two knuckles deep, and Mycroft lets out a rather undignified, whining grunt. 

At five, that same finger hooks with purpose and presses directly against his prostate.

Mycroft keens like a wounded animal and can’t help a spasm as his legs attempt to react, but he’s held in place at the hip by the broad expanse of Lestrade’s calloused hand and the weight of his arm. He can feel his cock spasm desperately as Lestrade spanks him twice more, once on each cheek. “Not yet, Mycroft,” Lestrade growls, low and dark. “What’s my rule?”

His mouth manages to come up with the words, breathless and slurred as they are. “Come on- come on your cock or not at all.”

“That’s right.” The pad of Lestrade’s finger pushes, and Christ but it’s a near thing as Mycroft works against the urge that feels like it’s trying to claw his way out from his spine, he’s so desperate to come. He openly yelps now through the final three strikes, even though they’re less sharp on his skin now, the pain a dull, forceful motion next to the pleasure that joins it. 

All at your hands.

All yours.

I’m all yours, aren’t I?

A gentle caress follows, cool with lotion, soothing over skin that must be harshly reddened. “Perfect. Just perfect for me. You get your reward now, don’t you?”

“Mmmhmmmff,” Mycroft eloquently agrees, having collapsed in full across Lestrade’s lap, his cheeks wet with tears he doesn’t remember shedding. He made it. He didn’t come. He’s been so good. The sound of Lestrade’s zip makes him smile with pride, as does the click of the cap on the bottle of lubricant he’s taken to keeping in his desk drawer.

“Up. Arms behind your back.”

He stumbles as he rises, but he lets Greg guide him, hands on his hips as he’s turned and bent over the desk. There’s a rasp of leather on cloth as Lestrade pulls out his belt and wraps the span of it about Mycroft’s wrists, tightening it just enough that he’d have to genuinely work to get them out. Slick fingers gently spread ready him, their gentle heat a soothing contrast to the ache across his arse. “There we are. All nice and wet and ready for me. My perfect little fuck toy, aren’t you?”

Mycroft moans, loving the possession of it. He always has. There’s something about being Greg’s plaything that’s endlessly appealing. “Y- yes, Inspector.”

“Of course you are.” The blunt head of Lestade’s thick cock presses against him, torturously slow as the man pushes in. He’s always slow about the first entry, gliding with far more patience than any man should have until he’s fully seated, but after that- after that he fucks hard.

Each snap of his hips thrusts Mycroft’s thighs against the wood, and they’ll be bruises tomorrow but Christ they will be worth it. The pace is so vigorous that Mycroft cannot do a thing but let himself take it, his bound hands pulled back for leverage when Lestrade really bears into it, arching his back up.  Mycroft knows he’s shouting throughout it, especially when Lestrade drives against his prostate, but very little of it is sensible until his mouth starts begging before his mind can catch up, demanding the orgasm he’s been waiting all day for. 

“Please- please, can I- oh, fuck, please, Inspector-”

Lestrade’s voice is rough and tight- he must be close himself, but Mycroft can still hear the pleasure in it that’s he’s asked , he’s done well. “You can- you can, go ahead, let’s see you spill all over your desk- make a mess, posh boy-”

Mycroft screams as he comes, Lestrade still fucking him through it as the world whites out. He knows his body goes limp and pliant, and Lestrade takes the rest of what he needs as Mycroft collapses into the slick of his own come, panting. The Inspector’s own release is only a bit later, a rough grunt and the hard press of Lestrade’s fingers into his hips grounding them together as though they’re sharing one body. He floats, hazy, through the tidying up, still doing as Lestrade tells him- drinking a bit of water, having one of the chocolates Lestrade seems to keep in his pockets all the time now.

By the time he begins to come back to himself, he’s still nude but wrapped in a blanket on the couch in the cinema room, his head in Lestrade’s lap. The Inspector has shed most of his own clothing, it seems, and he’s down to the comfy undershirt and boxers he must usually wear under his work things. Mycroft instinctually snuggles closer to the man’s heat, and a hand cards through his hair softly. “Hey there,” Lestrade murmurs. “Back with us?”

“No,” Mycroft mutters back petulantly, because he rather likes the soft, sleepy place he’s in, but Lestrade only chuckles at him.

“I see.” The hand strokes again, quite- fondly, actually, if Mycroft had to put a word to it. “It’s late, you know.”

He can hear the unspoken question in it. Lestrade usually leaves, after he’s ensured Mycroft is up and about, but Mycroft’s always had the sense he doesn’t really want to. It’s Mycroft that keeps the distance, Mycroft that never wanted this to be more than an indulgence. An indulgence will only be pleasure, nothing more, but at the same time… it cannot hurt him.

But now… a mere indulgence does not seem like quite enough.

“Will you… will you stay?” The words leave his mouth before he has time to regret them, time to wonder what will happen if Lestrade says no.

Lestrade’s hand hesitates, just for a breath, before resuming its gentle stroking. “Would you like me to?”

It’s an out, Mycroft knows. Lestrade is giving him a choice to make sure Mycroft means it. Strangely, Mycroft is, even with so many possible ramifications that even his mind has no way to parse. Human complexity is like that, he supposes. And he is, after all, human. 

Perhaps he can want something of his own after all.

“I would. I would like it very much… Gregory.”

He cannot see it, but he’s certain Lestrade- Greg- is smiling. “Alright, then.”

And he does.