Lestrade shivered, hugging his arms tightly against him. His breath misted before him in a white plume. Cold. It was fucking cold. He rubbed his arms vigorously, trying to dispel the chill.
Water. He was standing in water. Lestrade glanced out in confusion- it stretched out in every direction, fading into the darkness.
Lestrade blinked and found himself up to his chest, trembling heavily in only his undershirt and trousers.
The roof fell in around him, moonlight rushing in- it was the pool, the damn pool, collapsing around him.
No, no, this was ridiculous, impossible, they’d gotten Sherlock and John out of there, they were fine, he couldn’t be here again.
He moved to rub his hands against his face and froze when he noticed the colour. The detective swore sharply, spinning as he took in the murky red of the liquid surrounding him.
A dark form bobbed towards him- swallowing, Lestrade moved towards it as quickly as he could, slowed by the drag of water and the unresponsiveness of his frozen limbs.
His breath stuttered and died when the form rose to the surface- white and bloated from a long drowning, Mycroft Holmes’ empty eyes stared at the black sky.
Lestrade’s eyes snapped open. He couldn’t move, sense-memory of glacial water and halting panic keeping him pressed into the mattress.
“Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice was soft, muffled by sleepiness and worry. He felt gentle fingers brush against his temple, turned his head to see the man propped up on his elbow, a crease between his brows. “Are you alright, love?”
He felt a great shiver run up his spine, relief unlocking his cage. Lestrade groaned, rolling onto his side to press against the older man. “I never want to be there again.”
“Where?” Mycroft sank back down slowly, rubbing Lestrade’s back with a broad palm as he pressed kisses into his hair.
“Anywhere I’ve lost you,” he answered eventually, a flush of something like shame heating his cheeks.
Mycroft exhaled, hand stilling against his back, fingers spreading against his ribs. “Oh, Greg. My Gregory, my darling, my dove.”
“Don’t know why you call me that,” he muttered against Mycroft’s neck. Despite his grumbling, Lestrade folded himself around his lover: arms wrapped around his waist, legs tangling together, tucking in close.
“Because you are,” Mycroft answered affectionately, wrapping his own arms around worn shoulders, holding him tightly against his chest. “My white knight, my peace herald.”
“This isn’t a fairy tale,” Lestrade mumbled, wishing with all of his heart that it could be; that he wasn’t the pet cop to a man with an archenemy that could steal the Queen’s crown with half a thought, that his lover wasn’t the British Government and Secret Service personified, that they weren’t at the risk of dying every day.
Mycroft chuckled warmly, pressing his lips against Lestrade’s brow. “It certainly feels like one.”
Lestrade was beginning to feel the prickle of embarrassed pleasure Mycroft incited in his more tender moods, flushed with warmth. “You’re ridiculous.”
Mycroft slid his hand down Lestrade skin, pressing against his side. He shifted away so that they could look at each other, smiling as he thoughtlessly rubbed circles against the man’s hip-bone with his thumb. “You make me ridiculous, Gregory.”
Lestrade sank into the mattress with a relaxed sigh, curling his fingers briefly around the hand on his hip before drifting his touch up Mycroft’s arm, fingertips pressing against his triceps. Flashing a smile, Lestrade shifted forward to press a light kiss against the other man’s mouth, whispering against his skin. “Love you.”
Mycroft pressed his palm flat against Lestrade’s lower back, pulling the other man flush against him, licking his mouth open. They twined impossibly closer, kissing languidly- on and on and on.
Drawing just far back enough to nudge Lestrade’s head to the side, Mycroft pressed closed kisses against his mouth and jaw, pushing farther to graze his teeth along stubble, breath hot against Lestrade’s ear. “I am mad about you, my love.”
“You call me far too many things,” he laughed, quiet and breathless, skimming his palm along Mycroft’s spine.
“You are far more things than I could name.”
“I think you’re going too far, now.”
“Greg,” Mycroft said, rolling over to press the other man into the mattress, kissing him hard and open. It carried all those things he had already said, and all the ones he never could.
Lestrade swallowed against the onslaught of emotion flooding his chest, gasping quietly.
“Love you,” Mycroft muttered against warm skin, endeavouring to kiss every inch he could reach without untangling himself. “Love all of you.”
Shivering, Lestrade shifted, trying to recapture that roving mouth. Getting nowhere, he reached up to cradle the other man’s face between his hands. Mycroft laughed warmly, turning to press kisses against Lestrade’s worn palm.
“Are you to kiss every inch of me, now?” Lestrade teased, pressing his thumb against Mycroft’s lip.
“I believe I’ve yet to hear a better idea, Gregory,” Mycroft sighed back, mouth stretching into a tender smile as his eyes flickered to Lestrade’s, caressing the man’s knuckles with his tongue. Sitting up properly, hips snug between his lover’s thighs. Grasping Lestrade’s hands with his own, Mycroft twined their fingers together, kissing a line from wrist to elbow. He moved slowly, a whisper of lips against skin, warm tongue darting out for the occasional taste, the occasional light pressure of teeth. Lestrade sighed, sinking back down again as his lids fluttered closed, more than happy to give himself up to the sensation.
He felt the slow build of heat in his gut as Mycroft moved from his arms to his feet, pressing kisses to the pad of every toe, licking across his arches, nipping at the tendons of his ankles, sucking kisses up his calves; groaned as Mycroft licked his way up his thighs, panted as he mouthed his way across his ribs, gasped when Mycroft paused just inside his left hip, swallowing thickly. “Mycroft.” He felt the man’s smile against taunt skin, teasingly pressing his tongue into Lestrade’s navel. “Mycroft,” he groaned, thighs tensing against the other man’s shoulders.
A heavy shiver ran up his spine, goose pimples erupting across his shoulders at the hot breath against tender skin.
Mycroft seemed to take pity, chuckling. He pressed a last, lingering kiss against a sharp hipbone before settling more comfortably between Lestrade’s legs, nuzzling his nose into dark curls. Lestrade gripped at his pillow, biting back a low groan at the first touch of heat at the base of his penis. Mycroft dragged his tongue up to the head, pressing briefly against the slit before sinking his mouth down.
Mycroft moved slowly, unperturbed, relaxed as he shifted, dry lips catching as he moved up and down, sinking a little lower every time, his thumb rubbing circles into Lestrade’s thighs as he held them apart.
Tiny tremors danced across Lestrade’s nerves. Waves of sensation crashed over him, higher and harder until he was gasping, desperate to hold on a little longer.
Mycroft drew away then, closing his fingers tightly around the base to help his lover hold back, pressing light kisses at the edge of Lestrade’s mouth as he reached past him to the bedside table, extracting a small bottle from the drawer.
Mycroft’s fingers drifted up Lestrade’s abs- he glanced down, smiling when he noticed the other man staring up at him hazily, pupils blown. “Still with me?”
Lestrade answered by pulling him down for a slow kiss. Rocking against him, Mycroft meanwhile squeezed clear liquid onto his fingers, dragging them between Lestrade’s balls.
The detective whimpered, hips twitching violently at the sudden shock of cold. Mycroft chuckled indulgently, leaning forward to kiss Lestrade again, slowly pressing a single finger into him. He moved as slowly and carefully as he had before, leaning on his free arm as he watched Lestrade’s dazed expression.
“Mycroft,” he gasped, head thrown back against their pillows. Mycroft hummed in reply, speckling Lestrade’s neck and shoulders with soft, closed-mouthed kisses.
“I think you’re beautiful, you know,” Mycroft smiled, smoothing his thumb over Lestrade’s sweaty brow even as his lover panted quietly, eyes hazy as they gazed up at him.
“Too nice, Mycroft.”
“If you say so, darling.” He pressed a second finger into him, stroking slowly, smiling when it drew a long groan that sounded as though it had come directly from Lestrade’s chest.
He drew away when he noticed Lestrade’s hips moving in small, rhythmic jerks, the other man’s lips moving soundlessly.
Pouring another liberal amount of clear liquid into his hand, Mycroft rubbed his fingers against his palm to warm it up before stroking himself languidly; he pressed kisses to the edge of Lestrade’s mouth and jaw before easing into him ever-so-slowly. Mycroft sighed when he felt Lestrade quiver against him, the other man gasping soundless, wrapping arms around his shoulders, clinging half-desperate half-mindless.
Mycroft refused to pick up the pace, holding Lestrade against him, jerking him off in time with his lazy thrusts.
The change that came over Lestrade’s face was as slow as their movements, a melting warmth until there was nothing left but blank, mindless pleasure. Mycroft swallowed, feeling a flush of fire at the sight, focusing his attention in its entirety on the minute changes in Lestrade’s expression, the soft breathless gasps torn from his lips.
Orgasm took them both by surprise, the final crest rushing through them together until they were both struggling to breathe, mouths meeting in the middle.
After an impossibly long moment where Mycroft could think of nothing at all, he regained himself enough to roll to the side, blindly flailing behind himself for a corner of the sheet to clean them both up before wrapping Lestrade back up in his arms, settling down for sleep.