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Greg stepped off the elevator and was just gearing up to make his way across the crowded lobby, when a gentle touch to the arm stopped him cold.
“Inspector Lestrade.” It wasn’t a question.
Squinting against the harsh fluorescent lights, Greg turned. It was a woman; mid twenties. No make up, hair in a bun. She was wearing a grey suit and sensible pumps. In her hand was a bottle of Evian and a bag stamped with the logo of Greg’s favorite sandwich shoppe.
“Oh,” he said, recognizing her. Feeling like a bit of an idiot – granted, he’d only seen her once and he hadn’t slept in days - he waved his hand between them. “I didn’t recognize you with your hair up.”
He glanced at her hand - no ring. Then back to the bag. When his stomach rumbled, she smiled, but said nothing.
“That wouldn’t happen to be chicken curry on a whole wheat bap, would it?” he asked hopefully.
“Indeed.” She raised one eyebrow before handing him the bag. “Mr. Holmes thought that you might need lunch.”
Greg flinched, but it didn’t stop him from tucking the bag under his arm. “Did he now? I suppose we’re talking about....” He hesitated, a bit nonplussed by how quickly Mycroft had shed the cloak of anonymity. “....Mr. Mycroft Holmes and not his brother, Sherlock?”
Mycroft’s assistant snorted, then handed him the bottle. It was still cool.
“I do not work for Sherlock,” she stated simply.
“But you do keep him busy when his brother wants him out of his hair.”
Her mouth quirked, but she said nothing.
Greg shook his head and looked over at the security desk, where Henry, the officer on duty, cast them an inquiring glance. He turned back to the woman at his side, her face now expressionless.
“You don’t happen to have a name, do you?” he asked. “Seeing that it seems like I’m at a perpetual disadvantage with you people.”
“You may call me Anthea,” she responded.
“Is that your name?”
She smiled. “No.”
Greg barked out a short laugh despite himself. “So, if you can’t even tell me your name, does that mean we’re done here? Or is there more to life than being Mycroft Holmes’ errand girl?”
Not-Anthea frowned. “I am Mr. Holmes’ PA,” she corrected. “I am not his errand girl. However, that said, I am to tell you that he has sent a car and I have instructions to make sure that you have everything that you need. Hence, I brought you lunch.”
“How do you know I haven’t already had lunch?” Greg returned, more amused than annoyed. He must be tired.
“Have you?”
“No,” he answered. He twisted the top off the water and took a long drink. “And before you ask, though you may already know that too, I can’t remember when I had a drink of water last.”
He took another swig, obviously thirstier than he’d realized.
“The car is waiting,” she said, ignoring his dig. “Will you be going home?”
Draining the bottle, Greg shook his head. “Thanks for this,” he said, using the now empty container to motion to the bag secured beneath his arm, “but it’s not going to last more than a minute once I actually tuck into it. Given that I haven’t seen the inside of my flat in a week, I think the first stop is the store. I’m pretty sure that anything that I had in the box has gone off and I can’t imagine anything worse than to wake up with nothin’ to put in my tea.”
Greg yawned rudely, but he was past the point of caring. What he really wanted was to go find somewhere to curl up with his sandwich and go to bed. That is, assuming he got there before he was too tired to eat.
When she didn’t respond, Greg took a step back. “So, thank your boss for me - and thank you for the bap - but home, so to speak, isn’t in the cards just yet.”
“I have instructions to take you wherever you require to go or to procure for you whatever it is that you require.”
‘And what if I require my hands around your boss’s pretty throat?’ he thought, but didn’t voice.
She leaned forward ever so slightly. “I also have instructions to tell you that Mr. Holmes would like to remind you that you do have a change of clothing at his home and that there is a cold supper in the refrigerator, should you choose to partake.”
Greg opened his mouth to respond, but found himself speechless.
“What?” he managed finally.
“Mr. Holmes is not at home,” Not-Anthea clarified. “However, he would not be averse to finding you there when he returns.”
The right corner of her mouth twitched so quickly that if Greg hadn’t been staring at her, open mouthed, he might have missed it.
“I dare say he would be pleased,” she added.
“When’s he planning on returning?” Greg heard himself ask, imagining that he looked as surprised by his question as Not-Anthea did not. “I mean,” he stammered, “that is, assuming I say yes?”
“I am not liberty to say, Inspector,” she said, moving just enough to get him started towards the door. “However, I do feel compelled to say that Mr. Holmes does not open his doors lightly.”
Greg thought back to how he’d woken up alone in the stately three story townhouse - a modern mausoleum, filled with locked doors and two family photos, one of which he was now certain was of a very young Sherlock.
“What are you thinking?” she asked candidly, ushering him into the back of the now familiar black Mercedes.
Greg took a deep breath and couldn’t help but notice the warm desire pooling in his gut. Mycroft had been in the car recently; Greg caught a faint wisp of his aftershave intermingled with the heady scent of leather and curry.
“I think you should take me home, Not-Anthea,” he said, closing his eyes and falling back onto the comfortable seat that seemed to swallow him up whole – that or maybe he was just falling asleep where he sat, the last 96 hours finally catching up with him.
“Inspector?” she said, her voice sounding far away or as if she was speaking to him through a dream.
“You seem like a sensible girl,” he added, talking through another jaw splitting yawn. “So why don’t you just do whatever you think is best.” He slid down further into the leather seat.
“Just wake me up when we get there,” he murmured. “Whatever you decide will be fine.”
Which is how Greg found himself back at Mycroft’s dining room table, where Not-Anthea had deposited him to make sure he actually ate his sandwich before going upstairs, showering, and - hopefully - crashing.
Greg nodded and smiled at Mycroft’s PA as she sat a tall glass of chilled water next to his napkin.
“There is a platter made up in the refrigerator of cold meats, along with an assortment of cheeses and a fresh salad. There are also crackers and biscuits in the cupboards above the sink. If you decide that you’d like to order in, Mr. Holmes has an assortment of menus for takeaway - all of which have house accounts - that he uses when his brother is in residence.”
Greg blinked. “Sherlock stays here?”
“Mr. Holmes would prefer that he was here more than he is,” she replied noncommittally. “There is also wine in the cellar and ale in the cooler. However, if you do venture into the cellar, I would just ask is that you not take anything out of the southwest corner.”
“More than your salary’s worth?” Greg teased.
“No.” Her eyes glimmered with real amusement. “But definitely more than yours.”
‘Touche,’ Greg thought, with a bit of a start.
“Don’t worry, Not-Anthea, I’ll be fine with water. Besides, I’ll probably be asleep the minute you leave as it is.”
“Which is exactly why I stayed, Inspector,” she said, as she picked up her phone and grabbed her keys from where she’d left them on the table. “Mr. Holmes would never have forgiven me if you’d gone to bed hungry.”
“And is that important?” Greg asked. “You staying in his good graces?”
“Not in the way you might be thinking.” Not-Anthea turned to go. “I’d just hate to disappoint him. Goodnight, Inspector.”
“It’s not even 2:00,” Greg corrected, glancing over to the window to make sure that he hadn’t completely lost track of time, as well as senses.
Not-Anthea merely waved. “Then I shall simply say: sweet dreams.”
When Greg awoke, he had no idea where he was or what time it was. He reached for his phone, only to find his hand bumping up against a glass tumbler.
Positive that he’d left his phone on the bedside table - positive that he’d set the alarm to wake him up in a few hours before he’d fallen into the surprisingly unmade bed - he scrambled to sit up.
“You needed the sleep.”
Greg whipped his head to the right, to where Mycroft Holmes sat in one of the two wingback chairs in the corner. He was holding a book, his face illuminated by the soft red glow of a small LED.
And with those four words, everything came rushing back.
Forcing himself to take a deep breath, Greg pulled himself upright, before settling back against the stack of pillows. “What time is it?” he asked, not quite trusting himself yet to ask what he wanted to ask.
“It’s gone 9:00.”
Mycroft shifted the small reading lantern to the table; it cast shards of light across his features, giving his entire body an eerie glow.
“And if I had somewhere I needed to be?”
Mycroft’s mouth turned up on one side. “And do you?”
Greg snorted; he reached over to flip on the bedside lamp, bathing the room in a soft golden hue.
“Given that you’ve managed to add your number to my phone and get in to turn the alarm off,” he asked, “do you really expect me to believe that you haven’t also checked my calendar?”
It was hard to tell due to the shadows, but it looked like one of the most powerful men in Britain still had the capacity to blush.
Greg shifted, letting the sheets slide lower down across his hips – a movement that was not lost on his audience, if the sharp intake of breath was anything to go by.
In the silence that followed, Greg let his eyes own eyes wander.
Mycroft Holmes.
Expensive suit - this one black, paired with a steel grey shirt and an electric blue tie; eyes glittering with intelligence; aristocratic features; skin that hadn’t seen near enough sun; a guardedness of expression that vacillated between fear, arrogance, and reserve; long legs; and hands too delicate to exist on a man, yet fingers too long to exist on a woman - musician’s hands his mum would call them.....
He’d seen it before - this particular collection of detail - on someone else. That, mixed all too often with unhealthy doses of skepticism, scorn, and the inevitable boredom.
Even so, he’d been blind to the similarities. Too distracted by slick manners, a flash car, an immaculate house, and the power and prestige and the stability that those things implied.
But now that he knew?
The similarities were clear as day. As clear and distinctive as a bloody thumbprint at a murder scene in a snowstorm.
“So,” he said, when it became obvious that Mycroft wasn’t going to respond. “You’re Sherlock’s brother, huh?”
Mycroft straightened his spine and closed his eyes. “Would it help if I said not by choice?”
Greg choked back a laugh, for a moment forgetting that he was supposed to feel angry - or at the very least annoyed, if not out-and-out lied to.
“And you were going to tell me, when?” he asked, injecting just enough anger in his voice to let Mycroft know that he wasn’t totally off the hook.
“I was going to tell you,” Mycroft said. “I was going to tell you that very first evening, but then you made me...." He laughed softly, though it appeared to be more at himself than at Greg.
“What did you call it? ‘A legitimate offer?’” Mycoft shook his head. “Regardless, it was one that I, admittedly, could not bring myself to refuse, even though I assumed it would be revoked if you were truly aware of the circumstances of my identity.”
Greg frowned. “Sorry?”
Mycroft’s breath came out in something close to a huff. “You asked if you could come to mine. Which I took - to use your term - as a ‘legitimate offer.’ And, before you could come to your senses, I said ‘yes.’”
Greg thought back to their first encounter, when he had gotten into the car and handed Mycroft his money back. He had said, somewhat jokingly - more in an attempt to gain some control over the situation than anything else - that he assumed that the money that Mycroft had flashed was a prop to ward off a would-be mugger, as opposed to a legitimate offer to pay for sex.
He nodded. “Go on.”
“As you can imagine, Inspector, offers like that do not come my way often.” He looked away. “Especially from men, like yourself, whom I admire deeply.”
“You’d just met me.”
“But I knew of you from Sherlock,” Mycroft amended. “I knew that you had taken him under your wing and I was grateful. I had also observed you - shall we say - from afar and for long enough to know that I also found you aesthetically pleasing.”
He glanced up, catching Greg’s eyes.
“When I realized that Sherlock had taken your things and left you to make your way with little means and no identification, I felt obligated to track you down. It truly was my intention to return your possessions, seek forgiveness for my wayward brother, and ensure that you made it to your destination unharmed.”
Greg shook his head slowly; half disbelief, half amazement. “Until I asked you to bring me here?”
Mycroft frowned. “Those were still my intentions, though it became less clear how to introduce myself as the evening - and then the days - progressed.”
Greg closed his eyes and rested his forehead in his hand. “Okay, so maybe I’ll take your word on that. But let’s get back to this so-called unlikely offer.” Greg looked back up. “What on earth made you say yes?”
“As I said, offers like that don’t come my way all that often. In fact I can honestly say that one as immediately appealing as yours has been singularly unique in my experience.”
“Now that I don’t believe for a minute,” Greg scoffed. “A bloke like you? Surely you’ve got men, and women, throwing themselves at you all the time.”
“Men of my position, to say little of my disposition, are rarely desired on the basis of their personal qualities alone.” He sounded bitter. “So, yes, there have been offers, but none of the nature that you proposed.”
“Which was?” Greg pressed, wanting to make sure that he understood.
“That someone like you - actually, that you, in particular - would actually choose to spend time with me - in such a manner - based solely on physical attraction....” Mycroft’s voice got progressively lower. “...rather than for who I was, or what I could do for you....”
“So let me just get this straight,” Greg interrupted, gesturing to the air between them. “You - you - don’t think you’re attractive?” He asked, leaning forward until his elbows were nestled between his knees. “Are you joking?”
Mycroft actually looked embarrassed. “Growing up next to Sherlock, as you might imagine, was difficult for a variety of reasons,” he pointed out, his voice stiff. “Not the least of which being that he has always been too pretty for his own good.”
Greg sat back up, letting the sheet fall that much lower.
He wondered what they must look like.
On the one hand, there was Mycroft Holmes, sitting in his chair all buttoned up, holding a book on his lap, knees together, all prim and proper.
And then there was him, sprawled against a pile of pillows, arms open, wearing nothing but a sheet, his body betraying the fact that his anger had turned into something else entirely.
Deciding that pride, or the even the need to be right, was overrated, Greg lifted his arm in invitation. “So if the original offer was so singularly appealing, is there any reason why you are still over there?” he asked, turning his palm up.
Mycroft set the book aside with careful, precise movements. He then turned off the reading lantern, making it difficult for Greg to see his face.
“Are you asking simply for the sake of asking, Inspector?”
Mycroft’s voice traveled down Greg’s spine like fine silk; Greg could feel the warmth that had been pooling in his gut from the moment he realized where he was quickening and spreading throughout his veins like wildfire. His limbs felt heavy. His heart sped up in his chest.
“Are you asking simply for the sake of being difficult, Mr. Holmes?” Greg returned, his voice slipping into a matching purr.
Mycroft stood and slipped his jacket off; he paused for a moment, taking the time to fold it neatly and lay it across the back of the chair. Without taking his eyes from Greg’s face, he reached down with steady hands to remove his tie, then his watch. The waistcoat and the belt followed. Followed by the shoes.
“You can keep going,” Greg remarked, eyes narrowing as Mycroft moved towards the bed, still fully clothed in tailored trousers, the button down dress shirt, and God only knew what a man like him wore underneath.
Not once breaking eye contact, Mycroft untucked his shirt in a series of quick and efficient tugs, not once revealing skin.
“No, I don’t think I will,” he said, reaching for the sheet and pulling it back to leave Greg completely and utterly exposed.
Greg forced himself to relax into it, to let his thighs fall open under Mycroft’s heavy gaze. To welcome the flow of blood to his cock and the way his body shifted and stirred beneath inquisitive eyes.
“I was very pleased when Anthea informed me that you were here,” Mycroft said, his voice but a whisper. “I doubted that you would be.”
Greg took a deep breath and held it for just a moment, aware of how Mycroft’s eyes were tracking not only every micro movement of his body, but also the micro expressions on his face. He licked his lips, letting out the breath as slowly as if he were exhaling smoke.
“Are you just going to stand there?” he asked.
“I could,” Mycroft pushed the sheet aside. “Do you have any idea what you look like? Naked. In my bed? Waiting for nothing more than for me to touch you?” He skimmed his fingers across Greg’s abdomen, setting off a cascade of goose bumps.
“You like that, don’t you, Inspector?”
Unable to stop himself, Greg shuddered. “I also like it when you call me Gregory,” he said, arching up for another touch.
Without answering, Mycroft climbed onto the bed; he threw one clothed leg over Greg’s hips and lowered himself gently until their groins were perfectly aligned, separated only by the material of his silk trousers.
“You’re going to make a mess of those,” Greg warned, reaching up to slide his hands beneath the layers of cloth, looking for skin.
“Or you will,” Mycroft ground down, causing Greg to gasp. “In fact...” Mycroft leaned down, dropping a simple kiss on Greg’s lips before pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “....I’m quite counting on it.”
There was something inherently dirty about having sex with someone who was essentially still dressed. Greg loved it. He loved the twin sensation of silk and skin as he slid his arms, all the way to the elbow, underneath Mycroft’s fancy shirt so he could thread his fingers into the curly hair at the nape of his neck. He also loved the drag of Mycroft’s spiffy French cuffs along his inner thigh.
He’d never felt more vulnerable. Or more alive.
Mycroft gripped his hips, and Greg, fingers still twined in hair, gave him a sharp tug, pulling him down for another kiss - this one a little bit deeper, a little more honest.
Greg opened his thighs to better accommodate Mycroft’s frame as Mycroft rocked slowly against him. His hands slid up and down Greg’s flanks with each and every thrust, his touch bordering on reverent.
Mycroft aside, it had been a long time since Greg had kissed a man like this and he found himself having to fight the urge to take control of the kiss, to thrust his tongue in Mycroft’s mouth and have him take it.
To take, himself.
To dominate.
To own.
But something told him it wasn’t about that. And while he wasn’t about to give himself over to Mycroft completely - their relative states of undress aside - he decided to just go with it.
Relaxing his jaw even further, he flicked his tongue against Mycroft’s, luxuriating in the smooth slide, even as manicured fingers slid around his hips, cupped his ass, and lifted him off the mattress.
“You really are dead set on ruining those fancy pants of yours, aren’t you My?” Greg asked, and then returned his mouth to the underside of Mycroft’s jaw. Salt, sweat, something else. “Mmm,” he hummed appreciatively, shifting just so beneath Mycroft’s ongoing assault. “How did I get so lucky?” he asked, rethreading his hands through Mycroft’s hair and pulling him down for another kiss.
“No idea,” Mycroft murmured, not ever entirely surrendering his mouth. “Perhaps you were very good in a past life.”
“I could be very good in this life if you’d ever take those damn trousers off,” Greg growled.
“Not tonight.”
Much to Greg’s disappointment, Mycroft began to disentangle himself from their embrace, going so far as to remove Greg’s hands from where they’d travelled from his hair and tangled in the back of his shirt.
“Wait a minute!” Greg struggled to sit up, only to find himself pinned back to the bed by nothing more than a single hand to the center of his chest; he’d forgotten that Mycroft was stronger than he looked. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Greg’s erection was killing him and while things had been okay when there was still the possibility of sex, the thought that Mycroft was actually going to leave him here – like this – was totally not on.
“Never fear, Gregory,” Mycroft soothed, his hand making a path down Greg’s abdomen, taking a lazy detour through the trail of hairs leading south, before wrapping around the base of Greg’s cock.
It was the best thing he’d felt in years.
Well, that is, until Mycroft leaned down, taking the tip of his erection into his mouth for a light suck before sliding all the way down to the base, his nose pressing gently into the soft part of Greg’s stomach.
“Oh my God!” Greg moaned, reaching for Mycroft’s shoulders, trying to find something, anything, to hold onto. He had been so hard, for so long, he knew it wasn’t going to last, but God was it good. British government or no - hell, Sherlock’s brother or no - the man could suck cock like a pro.
Though even as that thought filtered through what was left of his brain, he realized it wasn’t quite right.
Mycroft Holmes didn’t suck cock like a pro.
He sucked cock like a man who loved it.
And, even though he knew that his brain was swimming in chemicals he couldn’t even hope to name, it seemed to Greg - even though he knew it couldn’t possibly be true - that Mycroft Holmes not only sucked cock because he loved it but because he also loved –
Shying away from the thought - because it wasn’t true, it couldn’t possibly be true - Greg slammed his eyes shut and once again gave himself over completely to the wanton onslaught of Mycroft Holmes’ exceptionally talented mouth.
Much later, though he couldn’t tell you when, Greg awoke to find himself playing the little spoon in the silk clad arms of his lover. The same lover, whose erection was pressed firmly against Greg’s ass.
“You want me to take care of that?” he asked, his voice clouded with sleep. He tried to turn, only to be held firmly in place by a Mycroft who was undoubtedly very much awake.
“It will be here in the morning,” Mycroft whispered, nuzzling his neck. “If your lapse into unconsciousness is any indication, you’re still exhausted. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”
“Never too bothered for that,” Greg scoffed, then decided to add before he could second-guess himself: “Well, maybe I should say, never too tired for you.”
Mycroft’s arms tightened around him; his breathing deepened. “Will you stay?” he asked, instead of responding directly. Though, Greg reckoned, maybe that was his response – he was a diplomat after all.
“Are you asking me if I’ll be here in the morning?”
Silence.
“Yes,” Greg answered, pushing his hips back, practically grinding against Mycroft’s lap. “I’ll be here.”
“Then it will keep.”
They lay there together for a few moments, just sharing the space. Over time, Greg’s breathing slowed to match Mycroft’s more languid rhythm, their chests rising and falling in unison. Greg traced the delicate contours of Mycroft’s wrists beneath the silky cuffs and Mycroft drew lazy circles on Greg’s stomach with this thumb.
“I’m not asking you for anything,” Greg began.
“You may.” Mycroft dropped a dry kiss at the nape of his neck.
Greg’s stomach clenched at the thought, because something told him that it wasn’t just an empty promise on Mycroft’s part. Part of him recoiled at that, the idea that he could so easily let himself be taken care of, but another part.... He pushed it aside.
“If this, whatever this is, is going to continue....” He took a deep breath, and shifted forward ever so slightly. “...I need to know a couple of things. So I need you to be honest with me - 100 percent. Can you do that?”
“Of course.”
“No politician double speak?”
He felt, more than heard, Mycroft’s laugher.
“None whatsoever,” he assured, his voice calm. “Tell me what you need, Gregory, and if I can promise it, I will.”
That’s fair, Greg thought. He took a deep breath and asked the first of two questions that had been dogging him since he first realized with whom he was dealing and just what, exactly, that might entail. “Did you have Wilson promoted so that I could be DI?”
Mycroft stiffened ever so slightly; in fact, if Greg hadn’t still been in his arms, he would have missed it entirely. “My?”
Instead of answering, Mycroft pulled him close. He buried his face in Greg’s neck and inhaled.
Greg, in turn, gripped Mycroft’s wrists, pulling him even closer. “Tell me.”
“I did have Wilson promoted,” Mycroft admitted.
Greg opened his mouth to say something, but a gentle nip to his jaw stopped him.
“But it was arranged before I met you,” he said. “Trust me, Gregory, not even I could manage to have someone promoted between the hours of 2:00 and 7:45 - which, if my sources are correct, is when Wilson called you into his office to offer you his former job.”
‘True.’ Greg sighed. “Go on.”
“My intention was to create a vacuum that needed to be filled,” Mycroft began. “If you were the man selected - by Wilson, not by me - you would have a more secure position and more solid footing from which to involve my brother in your work. If, however, the position was filled by someone else....”
“You would have tried to steer Sherlock in another direction,” Greg finished, relaxing ever so slightly.
“A strategy that, knowing my brother the way I do, would have been bound to fail.”
Greg snorted. “But you would have tried anyway?”
“Yes.”
“But you did open the Home Office to our investigation?” he pressed.
“Yes, I did.”
One of Mycroft’s hands, dipped treacherously, distractingly, low; Greg caught him by the wrist and pulled the offending appendage back up to his chest, tucking it just beneath his heart for safekeeping.
“I need to be able to do my job,” Greg said, even if it sounded like he thought that this - again, whatever this was - was something more than it probably was. Pride aside, he had to be sure.
“Of course,” Mycroft murmured, his lips dragging across Greg’s shoulder. “And the second thing?”
This time Greg did turn so that they were eye to eye.
“No bullshit?” he asked.
Mycroft nodded solemnly. “No bullshit.”
“Okay.” Greg took a deep breath and said as seriously as he could manage, “Please tell me that you and Sherlock are only children.”
Mycroft’s mouth dropped open, and then he began to giggle - a warm sound that grew into a full out belly laugh so effervescent that Greg, too, found himself dissolving with laughter.
“I’m glad you think this is funny,” Greg mocked, batting at Mycroft’s hands, which were once again pulling him close. “Answer the question.”
“Technically, my dear Inspector, it wasn’t a question,” Mycroft pointed out, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “But, yes, I can assure you - that unless my father was a consummate liar and a dire reprobate - Sherlock and I are the only two Holmes children in all of England.”