“—we’ll smooth things over, as necessary.”
Greg pinches the bridge of his nose, resists whining his frustration into the phone though he’s sure the owner of the silky voice on the other end of the line knows exactly what he’s thinking.
“It really can’t be helped, Detective Inspector. I’m sure you understand.”
“Fine. Fine, just give me,” he checks his watch, then his paperwork, rubbing a palm over his eye, “give me half an hour. We’ll be out.” There’s the temptation to add, you owe me one, but he represses it. Mycroft Holmes owes nobody.
Peterson, as expected, is not happy.
“This is our division, Lestrade. The higher ups can’t just sweep in like this, it’s ridiculous! It goes against every protocol we have.”
“Believe me,” sighs Greg, “I have said this. The higher ups we are dealing with made those protocols.” And clearly think it’s fucking fine to walk all over them, he doesn’t add.
“There’s nothing I can do now. Clear the team out and we’ll meet this afternoon to clear up the paperwork at say…four?” That might mean he gets home at a reasonable time. He likes to be optimistic about these things.
As it turns out, he doesn’t make it back until past nine, M&S pizza in his bag and a bottle of Merlot under his arm. He wrestles with the lock a little, throws the pizza in the oven and collapses on the sofa, pouring himself a generous glug of wine.
Bloody fucking Holmeses.
Greg is so, so drunk. So drunk. And it’s all Mycroft Holmes’ fault. Everything is the fault of one Holmes or another, why not this? Mycroft, with his umbrella, and his legs, and his…legs.
He prods the bottle of wine, tips it upside down, and a thin stream dribbles into his glass. He tips his head back and holds it against his mouth, licking lazily at the curve of the glass and arching his neck backwards to look at the clock in the kitchen.
Shit, it’s 1am.
He’s halfway down some kind of sugary Starbuck’s monstrosity, head pounding, when his phone rings with a disgustingly loud and offensively cheery brrring! He picks it up quickly, to save his eardrums.
“G’morning. DI Lestrade speaking.”
“Good morning Detective Inspector.”
Greg slumps a little further in his chair with a long sigh, and swaps the phone to his other ear, picking up his coffee to take a long swig.
“Mm. What is it?”
“Ah, feeling a little worse for wear are we? I’m sure you’ll be glad of the excuse to get out of the office later, then.”
“Shall we say eleven o’clock?”
And the line is dead before he’s had a chance to ask where and Jesus Christ it’s possible Mycroft is actually more irritating than his brother which, really, is an accomplishment he could almost be proud of. As if he needs another reason to be unbearably smug, and honestly for all that he comes across as polite and smooth he’s actually quite a rude fucking bastard isn’t he? Greg resolves to tell him so. Right after he’s finished this coffee, and possibly two more. Maybe three.
By eleven he’s feeling slightly more human. He slides his sunglasses on as he steps into the sun to hide the worst of the dark circles ringing his eyes. As expected, the sleek black car is waiting next to the kerb for him. He knows better, by now, than to try to talk to the driver. Or to refuse to get in. It deposits him at…Speedy’s?
Mycroft is sitting at one of the Formica-topped tables looking perfectly at home, umbrella propped up against a chair. His suit is a soft grey and he’s wearing a hat, which, fuck, should look ridiculous, but actually…
All thoughts of telling him off for being rude are quite far from the forefront of Greg’s mind, which is abruptly mostly absorbed by legs, legs, and long pretty fingers which are drumming impatiently on the table.
Greg swallows, pulls off his sunglasses, suddenly feeling inexplicably like an awkward teenager. Mycroft’s sloe-eyed gaze follows him around the table as he shuffles clumsily into his seat. Their knees brush in the space between the chairs.
Mycroft slides a cup of coffee towards him. He sips gratefully, and of course it’s the perfect temperature, perfect amount of sugar.
“What did you want, Mr. Holmes?” he says, voice still rough.
“Ah, just to make sure things were…smoothed over, shall we say. With regard to the unfortunate incidents of yesterday.”
In Holmes-speak, he thinks that might mean we cool?
He nods. “We’re cool.”
Mycroft’s mouth twitches. Ah, so there is a sense of humour hidden in there.
“It’s bloody annoying, just so you know. But it’s your job. I understand.”
“Nevertheless, I’m sorry. And that it kept you so late, I’m sorry for that too. I’d rather there weren’t any ill feelings between us, Inspector. Goodness knows that one Holmes is rather enough to deal with at any time.”
Greg smiles into his coffee cup and nudges his knee against Mycroft’s. “Sherlock doesn’t provide me with coffee for my troubles though, so you’re ahead of him on points already there.”
“Oh, is that how it is?” says Mycroft, a definite twinkle in his eyes. “Well then, I shall be sure to butter you up at every available opportunity.”
Greg definitely doesn’t blush.
Sherlock has just been fished out of the Thames by a very pissed off looking John Watson the next time they meet. John is yelling, gesticulating. Sherlock is trying to look contrite, and mostly failing to look anything other than unbelievably smug. A bedraggled looking jewel thief is being bundled into a waiting police van.
“Coffee?” comes a low voice from behind him, and he suddenly finds himself sheltered from the persistent freezing drizzle by a large black umbrella. He takes the offered flask gratefully without turning, but inhales the smell of expensive aftershave and damp tweed that permeates the air.
“You’re well ahead of him, you know,” says Greg. “You haven’t done anything particularly irritating in the last month or so, and have provided me with at least two cups of coffee. And you won’t be traipsing round my office later like a giant wet crow, perching on everything.”
“Mm,” says Mycroft, and takes a hipflask from his pocket, pouring something golden and peaty smelling into the cup.
“Now that’s just cheating,” says Greg. Damn, it’s bloody good.
Apologies for today. Bureaucracy. M.
Not even gonna ask how you got my number. Not to worry, I’ve simmered back down to ‘mildly irritated’ now. FYI, Sherlock’s edging closer to you on points. He solved a murder case for me in 20 mins last week.
“DI Lestrade speaking.”
“Good afternoon, Inspector. I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time.”
“Oh God, what’s he done now?”
“You will be glad to hear that this call doesn’t have anything to do with my brother.”
“If anything, that’s more worrying.”
“Nothing too serious, I assure you. I am in need of your assistance.”
“Are you alone in your office just now, Inspector?”
“Er, yes. Why?”
“Prying ears. Now, this is entirely up to you, but I would be extremely grateful if you would be willing to lend yourself to an investigation that is not precisely above board.”
“What would it involve?”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you that, Inspector, until you have agreed to it. Regretfully, it’s one of those tedious ‘top secret’ affairs.”
“Oh? Why don’t you use someone who’s already in your employ?”
“I need someone I can trust unequivocally.
“Are you still there, Inspector?”
“Uh, yes, yes. I mean…are you--? Sorry. Yes, I’ll do it.”
“Splendid. Are you free to discuss the particulars this evening?”
“I think I can stretch to the price of another coffee at Speedy’s if you’re amenable.”
“Ah, I know your game Mycroft Holmes. I can be there by six-ish.”
“Excellent. It would perhaps be wise to keep the rest of your evening free, if possible.”
“Will do. Shall I bring anything?”
“Just yourself will be fine. See you this evening, Inspector.”
“Am I right in thinking,” says Greg, after he’s zip-tied a struggling overweight businessman and divested him of eight James Bond-style hidden knives, “that it would be best to just forget about everything I’ve seen tonight.”
“That would be wise,” says Mycroft. He still looks absolutely unruffled, despite almost having been stabbed in the throat about ten minutes earlier. There’s a delicate spatter of blood on his neck; he dabs at it with his pocket square, looking irritated.
Greg can’t even begin to process what went on in there; like two supervillains having it out in a Clapham warehouse. He decides to push it aside for now.
“Thank you for your assistance on this, Greg. It will make everything run much more smoothly if we have your signature on the paperwork.”
“Sure. I’d say ‘no problem’, but…” he brushes dust off his knees from where he’d flung himself to the floor to avoid taking a throwing knife to the gut.
“I’m thinking if you want to stay ahead of your brother in points after this, I’m going to need some sort of liquid encouragement.” He’s probably being ridiculously obvious, but his heart is beating double-time and Mycroft looks really good when he’s outwitting ridiculous supervillians in grubby warehouses, and they’re standing so close to each other that he can feel the heat of Mycroft’s body through his clothes. A reminder that he is entirely human; flesh and blood.
“Now?” says Mycroft.
“Is now a bad time?”
“Now is perfectly acceptable.” Mycroft opens the door of his waiting car and Greg slides into the back.
In the car window, Greg watches the reflected line of Mycroft’s profile; the tired curve of his mouth, his gently fluttering eyelashes. He loses himself in the flickering shadows of passing streetlamps over Mycroft’s face, his neck, until he becomes aware that he’s probably staring and that it’s probably weird.
“That the kind of thing you do often then?” he says, breaking the silence.
Mycroft turns to look at him, gaze flicking over his face, before turning back to the window.
“Yes,” he says, “though that particular level of melodrama is usually reserved for Sherlock.”
There’s a long pause, in which Greg thinks again of the businessman with his fake Russian accent, his oiled goatee, his plump fingers heavy with jewels.
“Thought I was gonna piss myself laughing when he brought out those tiny little knives,” he says, suddenly. “Him with his big fat sausage fingers. And that fucking beard!”
Mycroft makes a strange strangled noise, and Greg looks over to see that he’s clearly struggling to hold in a laugh. The sight makes him giggle abruptly and soon the two of them are howling. Tears stream down Greg’s cheeks and Mycroft is holding his stomach, one hand over his mouth.
“Were you expecting a white fluffy cat?”
“I bet he’s really disappointed that we didn’t hack out his eye. Then he could’ve had an eye-patch too.”
Mycroft dabs at his face with his pocket square, lips still twitching. In the light from the window, Greg can see a tiny droplet clinging to one of his long eyelashes.
Their hands are resting close together on the soft dark leather of the seats. Greg crawls his fingers slightly closer to Mycroft’s, suddenly giddy with anticipation. His breath comes shaky as his little finger brushes Mycroft’s ever so lightly, and he hears a soft sigh before they are sliding their hands together slowly, every nerve alight. Greg pushes down the elated giggle that bubbles in his throat and lets out a shaky breath, gently brushing their thumbs together. He glances at Mycroft, who slides his tongue over his lower lip with a sly smile. God, he’s got a lovely mouth.
The driver deposits them at what Greg assumes is Mycroft’s flat. They’re still in central London, but the air is thick with the scent of wet greenery, and Mycroft’s front door is hung dripping in fragrant honeysuckle. Greg is drunk on adrenaline and laughter and he steps slightly too close behind Mycroft as he slides the key into the lock. Mycroft’s indrawn hitch of breath is almost covered by the snick of the latch. Greg, emboldened by the way Mycroft has almost completely stopped moving, slides up to press against his back. He’s just at the right height to push his nose into the soft hair at the nape of Mycroft’s neck, inhaling the familiar scent of tweed and aftershave mingling with the sweet honeysuckle in the air. Mycroft gives a shuddering exhale, pushes the door open and pulls him inside.
He ends up backed against the wall in the darkened hallway, Mycroft long and warm and delicious against him and then Mycroft’s lips are brushing soft against his, just a whisper of a touch that sends sparks of electricity down his spine. Greg groans against him, opens his mouth and Mycroft is gripping his hips and sliding his tongue hot and wet into his mouth and oh fuck. He pulls away, gasping, and Mycroft shoves him back hard, pressing his hips forward – oh. Oh. Greg’s head falls back against the wall. He tingles all over, and all he can think of is getting his hands on skin. They fumble against each other, moaning and giggling in turn and Mycroft bites down on his lower lip and sucks it into his mouth. Greg’s cock jumps and he pushes himself against Mycroft’s long body.
“C’mere.” Mycroft smears the word against his mouth as he pulls away and walks them backwards to the darkened living room. They fall on the sofa, still kissing, and Greg can’t get enough, wants to breathe him in, swallow him whole. He writhes, moves his hands down to push and pull Mycroft’s long legs until they’re wrapped around him, then he grinds down against the hot hard line of Mycroft’s cock where it rests heavy against his. Mycroft pants into his mouth and squirms upwards. God, it’s perfect.
“Oh, Jesus,” he says, “oh Christ, this—this is—”
Mycroft’s teeth graze his ear, and he slides both of his hands down to Greg’s arse and pulls them together firmly, “Am I going to make you come?” he murmurs, voice thick and dark as treacle.
Greg feels a flush of heat flow through him, the words going straight to his cock. Sweat prickles on the back of his neck and he drops his head to Mycroft’s collarbone, licking a long wet stripe upwards. “Yeah,” he gasps, “yeah I think so. Are you--?”
“Yes,” hisses Mycroft, arching under him, “more.”
Their hips grind together almost painfully and Greg is suddenly frantic, writhing and smearing their lips together and feeling as Mycroft groans and gasps under him – prim, proper Mycroft Holmes and he’s coming apart beautifully; Greg can feel as his back arches and his cock jerks and pulses in his trousers.
“Oh God,” he says, burying his face in Mycroft’s hot neck, “oh God.”
Mycroft wrenches his head up and kisses him harshly, at the same time shoving into the back of Greg’s trousers to grasp a handful of his arse. Greg lets out a helpless noise, squirming in the grip and suddenly Mycroft’s fingers slide hesitantly downwards and Greg grinds down and comes with a shuddering groan, collapsing bonelessly on top of him.
The room is lit sodium-orange as the streetlamp outside filters through the gap in the curtains and Greg lifts himself with no little effort and gazes down at Mycroft, who lies spread out beneath him, eyes half-lidded. He looks almost ethereal, dark-eyed and soft-mouthed; a world away from the Mycroft who probably reduces men to tears on a daily basis. This Mycroft’s head falls back, exposing the sensuous length of his neck, and Greg’s breath catches in his throat that he is allowed to see Mycroft like this; exposed, relaxed and languorous like a giant cat. He brings their mouths together gently, drinking in the small soft noises that fall from Mycroft’s lips.
“I’m somewhat…sticky,” says Mycroft eventually, “would you join me in the tub?”
“I’d like that,” says Greg, and he feels his spent cock give a half-hearted twitch.
“We’ll have time for that,” Mycroft murmurs against his lips. “We’ll have time for everything.”
Greg stands awkwardly. There’s a cramp in his leg, his trousers are ruined, and he can feel the stubble burn on his lips and he doesn’t think he’s been this happy in at least ten years. He laces their fingers tightly together, and follows Mycroft up the stairs.