Archive of Our Own

"I'll phone you," Mycroft murmured into Greg's shoulder.

Rays of tentative dawn light filtered through Mycroft's bedroom curtains, striping the thick ivory duvet on the bed they had warmed together through the night.

"I'll miss you." Greg pressed against Mycroft, trying to feel every one of his waistcoat buttons through the soft cotton fabric of his own pyjamas. When his efforts provoked a heavily regretful sigh from Mycroft, Greg pressed his advantage and wriggled until he felt the chain of the Mycroft's pocket watch, too.

Mycroft pushed him away with a chiding expression that did not tally with the fond look in his eyes. "Gregory, I have a…proposal."

"Yeah? I thought what you had was a flight to catch." Greg grinned his satisfaction at the easy success of his wriggling manoeuvre, perfectly willing to give Mycroft ample reason to delay his departure time.

"Alas, not quite that sort of proposal."

"All right, then?"

Mycroft cleared his throat. "It has occurred to me…some time ago, in fact…you could, if you so wish…" Mycroft paused with a look of mild self-disgust at his hesitant speech, then arranged his features into an expression of affected casualness. "You should stay here whilst I am away." His gaze drifted away from Greg's face and then flicked back again almost immediately, as if he were unable to resist assessing his reaction.

Greg's eyebrows rose. Well, this was interesting.

They had fallen into a comfortable routine, he and Mycroft Holmes, since their relationship had blossomed a scant few months ago. When Mycroft travelled, Greg went about his days at New Scotland Yard, returned to his plain little flat in the evenings, and then greeted Mycroft with all due affection and fondling upon his return. On the evenings they were able to spend together, Mycroft listened to the details of Greg's day and responded with the correct amounts of sympathetic nuzzling or giggle-inducing sarcasm. And although Mycroft never shared any details of his day's work, Greg could read his moods well enough to know whether it was a night to stroke his hand through Mycroft's hair or to put his tongue up Mycroft's arse. On the following mornings they parted, hasty but happy, after coffee and toast-crumb goodbye kisses. Good meals, good music, good conversation, good sex, and always good kisses. It was…good. Really good.

At least it was good for Greg. Frighteningly close to becoming everything he wanted in a relationship, prosaic as his ideal relationship might be. He wondered, just now and then, if the simple comforts they found in one another were enough for a man like Mycroft Holmes.

A man who apparently now wanted Greg to be in his home even when he himself was away. Greg converted the flattered pleasure that unfolded from his chest into a cheeky grin. "You sure about that? Who knows what I might get up to here all alone? Try on your clothes. Invite all my mates over for pizza and pillow fights."

Mycroft's mouth twitched. "I'm not sure John is the pillow fight type."

"And we're going to play pop music on your stereo system. And dance."

"If that is what will make you feel most at home, by all means, enjoy yourself," Mycroft said silkily. "I don't doubt the surveillance staff will be entertained."

"You said no cameras in the house!"

"Did I?"

"You know I believe you when you tell me those things."

"I'm most pleased to hear it," smiled Mycroft pleasantly.

"Bastard." Greg tweaked one of the little buttons on Mycroft's waistcoat, knowing perfectly well he was joking about the cameras. Probably.

"And as for your initial threat," Mycroft gave a gentle tug to one of the buttons on Greg's pyjama top in turn, the humour in his eyes warming. He leaned in to Greg's body and whispered, "I quite like the idea of you in my clothing."

"Mycroft, believe me, I would be in your clothing right now if you didn't have a flight to catch."

"You'll stay?"

"Yeah." Greg looked down to hide the flush of shy happiness he felt warming his cheeks. "I'll stay."

"Excellent," Mycroft said. He appeared to be a little flushed as well. "I'll inform the staff."

"And you can think of me here, in your pyjamas, eating pizza, whilst you're off on your exotic adventures."

"You know perfectly well my adventures have little in common with the exotic."

"Evenings in casinos, dressed to kill in your tuxedo, playing baccarat for diamonds. Intrigue. Coded messages. High speed chases. Cold-hearted seductions. Leaping into lifting helicopters to escape gunfire."

"Well, now you mention it…" Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "I do sometimes make my own cup of tea. And just the other day I started using a new toothpaste."

"You can't fool me, you know. I am a detective. I know you only pretend to be an average, boring sort of man here at home," Greg teased, feeling a bit heady with his new semi-resident status, daringly using the word home as if this were actually his home now, "but it's just so you come off more of a match with your average, boring sort of partner." Partner. There was another daring word.

"Boring?" Mycroft frowned.

"New toothpaste?" Greg pressed forward and kissed Mycroft's frown, pressed forward until his pyjama buttons clicked against Mycroft's waistcoat buttons. When they parted, he smiled, "I like it."

Mycroft sighed. "I do wish—"

"Yeah, I know," Greg said. He kissed the corner of Mycroft's mouth, spun him around by the shoulder, and gave him a slap on the hip. "Off you go. And…Mycroft?"

Mycroft turned, pausing at the bedroom doorway.

"There aren't really any cameras in here, are there?"

Mycroft gave him a long, thoughtful look before assuming a supremely benign smile. "Certainly not."

+++

After a flurry of open-and-shut murder cases at the beginning of the week, London's criminal classes had apparently taken the rest of the week off. It had turned into a slow few days for Greg's team, giving him some much-needed time to catch up on some much-hated paperwork. With Mycroft away, he had even convinced himself to work into the evenings to get it all out of the way. This morning he had conscripted Sally into helping him wrap of the final details on his reports. Such was her enthusiasm for the task at hand she was presently slumped in his corner office chair, head lolling, inspecting the ends of a twist of her hair.

The sedately-suited, extremely average-looking young man who entered his office did not knock, simply opened the door and closed it again quietly behind him. Sally sat up in her chair, frowning at the man's nerve.

"Can I help you?" Greg asked pointedly, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms in his favourite deceptively-casual pose.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade." The man gave him a polite nod. "My employer requests your urgent attendance upon an important matter."

"Oh, really?" Greg lifted his chin, staring at the man curiously. He did not recognise him at all, but his voice and his manners were both crisp. Familiar. "And your employer is…?"

"Known to you, sir." The man stepped forward and produced a small, ivory-coloured calling card in one hand, which he offered to Greg.

Greg took it and inspected it, front and back. He was not surprised by the front, which bore Mycroft's name in neat, black Copperplate font. When he flipped the card over to check the back, however, his brows drew down and then immediately flew toward his hairline as he read the short, hand-written note there: Boring, am I?

"Boss?" Sally prompted, watching him with concern.

He waved her down as he rose from his chair, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "It's all right, Sally. I have to go out for a bit. Can you just…finish this up?" He gestured at the document open on his computer screen.

"What—?" she frowned, then huffed a great gust of indignation. "Oh, fantastic."

Greg raised an eyebrow at her.

"I mean yes, sir," she said with a sweet smirk of a smile as she took a seat in the chair Greg had vacated.

"Uh huh." Greg turned back to the bland young man. "I take it there's a car waiting?"

"There is, sir," he replied, blandly, re-opening Greg's office door for him to exit.

It was a bit before time for the lunch crowd, but pedestrian traffic was starting to pick up and Greg could smell coffee and fresh-baked bread along with the usual exhaust fumes and pavement odours. A lazy summer breeze stirred his hair. His steps quickened by anticipation, he squinted in the sunlight, searching along the kerb for the usual sleek-yet-inconspicuous black saloon. He stopped short when he saw the car that was waiting. Oh, you can't be serious.

"Seriously, is that—" he turned to address his escort, but the man had vanished, blended away into the camouflage of passersby. Greg hitched his shoulders. "All right, then."

He opened the back door of the gleaming, elegant, gunmetal grey, and almost painfully sensual Aston Martin Rapide and slid into one of the deep leather seats. The driver, a short-necked muscle-y sort of bloke with a receding hairline of close-cropped blond hair, was watching him closely and silently in the rear-view mirror. Greg was half afraid the he'd gotten into the wrong car after all and was on the verge of an apologetic exit when the driver finally spoke.

"Seatbelt."

"Um. Right." Greg fished around over his shoulder until he found the strap and fastened the belt.

"Safety first," the driver said in a gruff, thick London accent. His eyes slid away from Greg and the Aston Martin growled its awakening.

He knew better by now than to bother asking any of Mycroft's drivers where they were going, and he was not going to make an exception for the stubble-jawed block of testosterone currently transporting him. What the hell was this all about, anyway? What was Mycroft up to, exactly? As the car pulled away from the kerb, Greg pulled his mobile out of his pocket and considered it for a moment, rolling it in his hand. He seldom phoned Mycroft during work hours or travel, since it was unlikely he'd catch him at a convenient time to talk. Well, sod it, Mycroft had started it this time. He pressed a number on the keypad to dial.

The car swerved hard. Greg's mobile bounced out of his hand and into the floor well of the opposite seat. "What the—!"

"Hang on," the driver said steadily. "We're being followed."

"Followed? By who?"

"Not part of my job to ask," the driver said.

Greg twisted to look behind them, but apparently the design features of the Aston Martin Rapide included quite a small, high back window. As he pushed himself up on his hands for a better view, the car's brakes squealed and his body lurched forward in its seat.

The engine's growl escalated to a roar as the car accelerated. On the pavement, heads jerked round in surprise as they flew past.

The driver's elbow dropped. A shriek of protest, a shudder, and they were spinning. Greg gasped as the force of the spin pressed him against the interior door. Big Ben. His eyes tried to latch onto the landmark, but it was already gone. A blur of tree leaf green and concrete grey slid past his window.

The driver's leather-gloved hands levelled on the wheel and they flew forward again. They wove between cars and Routemasters, scraped past a rattling lorry. Past a shout from a burly lad in a zebra crossing. Greg's teeth clicked together hard as the car bounced over something in the street it clearly wasn't meant to bounce over. The sound of a car horn blared beside them and faded away.

He'd had his share of pursuits before, but this was…more. Any second now, he was going to hear shattering glass or tearing metal. His arse was clenched. His knuckles were white where his fingers clutched the end of his soft leather armrest. 

The car's deceleration was as unexpected as the acceleration had been. They finally slowed as they passed the Cenotaph, its flags fluttering gently in the day's breeze. By the time they crossed the A4, Greg had his breath back.

"What the bloody hell was that?" he demanded.

"Don't worry," the driver said, sounding almost cheerful. "You'll be delivered on time. The deal is the deal."

"On time for what?"

"Your appointment." He glanced at his wristwatch.

They pulled onto the kerb again on the side of Trafalgar Square, across from the National Gallery. Greg unfastened his safety belt and leaned forward. "Now what? Have a wander around the Square? What appointment?"

"Not part of my job to ask," the driver smirked, then jerked a thumb toward the National Gallery entrance. "But I'm told you might enjoy the exhibit in Room 34."

"Room 34," Greg repeated gamely.

"You've got about," he checked his watch again, "three minutes to get there. And you'd best be on your way before we attract attention. I don't think I'm meant to park here."

"Yeah," Greg said wryly, reach for the door handle. "We certainly wouldn't want to attract attention."

He exited the car and jogged across the Square, threading his way amongst meandering tourists. Room 34 of the National Gallery was sparsely populated with several more tourists, girths encircled with brightly-coloured bumbags, some locals, and a small group of university students. Nobody especially noteworthy. Nobody who looked like he might have an appointment with them.

He did a circuit of the room, keeping an alert eye on the other occupants whilst pretending to examine each painting. On his own, he wasn't much of a one for art. Ships, portraits, landscapes…they were nice enough, but it was Mycroft who brought them to life when he was there to provide his illuminative and often irreverent art historian services. Although, to be fair to himself, he had been the one to reduce Mycroft to an uncharacteristic bout of suffused laughter with his own creative interpretations of several works at the Tate Modern. His wit had earned him a delightful, rare public snog against the wall of a remote—and he trusted camera-free—alcove in the gallery.

Mycroft, you gorgeous bastard, what are you up to?

Well, clearly he was somehow being thick as to the next step of this…whatever it was he was doing here. With a sigh, he fished around in his blazer pocket for his mobile, only to have its emptiness remind him with a jolt that he'd left the phone on the floor of the Aston Martin. Shit. He rubbed a hand over his forehead and then started to giggle. He'd left his mobile on the floor of a runaway Aston Martin. As you do.

"That's not the usual reaction to this particular piece," murmured a man's soft voice.

Greg turned. One of the uni students had lingered behind his companions, seating himself on one of the Chesterfield settees arranged in the centre of the room for viewing the artwork. The slight young man gave him a small, impassive smile from beneath a thick mop of dark hair and behind a pair of black-rimmed spectacles. Something about him reminded Greg of Mycroft. He was dressed a bit primly in a cardigan and button-up, but that wasn't—Greg blinked. Umbrella. The young man's hand was resting on the handle of an umbrella that looked very much like Mycroft's.

"Although perhaps a cheerful sort of acceptance is the best refuge when one cannot escape the oncoming," the man mused on, eyes fixed over Greg's shoulder. "An apt choice for the day's viewing, Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Greg's eyes flicked to the painting in front of him. An steam train, oncoming, crossing a bridge over the Thames. He turned back to the young man on the settee, clearly no student, who had picked up the umbrella in one slender-fingered hand. He offered it to Greg with a gentle quirk of one black brow.

Not like Mycroft's umbrella. This was Mycroft's umbrella. Greg recognised the nick in between the first two sections of the curved bamboo handle.

"A quarter turn of the handle clockwise readies the weapon for firing. Open the canopy and press the bottom spring to fire."

Greg blinked and then snorted a laugh as the man passed him the umbrella. "You must be joking."

"I'm not known for my sense of humour," he responded evenly.

Greg blinked again. And again, then squinted at the mild-faced young man. "And why is this particular painting an apt choice?"

One corner of the man's mouth twitched up. "I was hoping you'd ask. Waterloo Station. Your next destination, Detective Inspector. You will receive further instructions there."

"I…I've lost my phone," Greg said, rather stupidly. He was beginning to feel immensely out of his depth.

"I'm sorry for your loss." The man stood and checked his watch again. "I really must run. And as you have only fifteen minutes to reach your destination, I would suggest you run in a more literal fashion. And do be careful with that." He nodded toward the umbrella before turning toward one of the room's side exits.

Swearing, confused, and, yes, excited, Greg headed for the main exit at a jog. At Charing Cross, he pushed his way through to a carriage spot on the Northern line and arrived, sprinting up the stairs, inside Waterloo station in just under the allotted fifteen minutes. He had not taken three steps into the crowded concourse when he started to ring. Hestopped and stared down at his own pocket, which had at some point since he left the National Gallery evidently acquired an occupant. Not his own mobile, although that would not have surprised him at this point. A pay-as-you-go phone, showing a number he did not recognise. All right, then. He answered.

"You are being followed. Your life is in danger. Listen to me and follow my instructions exactly."

Greg's pulse rate jumped. The voice on the line was…strange. Not Mycroft. Not a voice he recognised, although the cadence was familiar. Electronically altered? "Who is this?"

"Do you want to have a chat or do you want to live, Detective Inspector?"

Scanning the crowd, Greg once again saw nothing and no one out of the ordinary, neither friend nor foe, but he knew he could assume little based on safe appearances. His gaze turned upwards, where he spotted a camera set high atop a white-painted steel roof support column. The camera was, of course, pointed directly at him. He gave it a single, sharp nod.

"Very well. Proceed to your right, towards the far wall. Walk quickly but do not run. Do not deviate from my instructions."

He wasn't in any real danger. Was he? He tried telling his body that, but it responded with the fuck, you say of an adrenaline surge and propelled him forward. One hand gripping the phone, the other clutched in the black polyester cover of Mycroft's umbrella, he rolled his eyes sideways back and forth, watching for trouble. The concourse floor seemed to be roiling with people, their voices a menacing murmur that broke over the brick walls. A sharp laugh behind him ricocheted off the trusses of the glass roof. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

"The news kiosk on your left. Move behind it. Quickly."

Greg shifted to his left, using the opportunity to look over his shoulder. Just a game. A man pushed through the crowd. A pair of black eyes shifted in his direction. A woman's head turned quickly. Metal. Was that a glint of metal? Weapon?

"The newspaper on the bottom rack. Look at it now. Get down," the voice on the phone snapped.

He dropped hard to one knee, staring at the newspaper's headline without seeing a word.

"Wait…"

His heart hammered. The kiosk attendant leaned over the counter to peer at him curiously.

"Wait…"

He looked at the umbrella gripped in his left hand and thought…maybe he should ready…no. No. You complete arse. Mycroft's umbrella was not a gun and he would never live it down if he aimed it at someone.

"Stand up. Straight ahead. The cafe. Do not turn round. He is just behind you. Go now."

Greg bolted forward.

"Do not run," the voice hissed in his ear. "Through the kitchen. Back exit. When you reach the corridor, turn left. Three doors down."

At the back of the cafe, ignoring the curious stares of the kitchen staff, Greg shouldered his way through the kitchen and into the eerily quiet back access hallway. From the far corner, the red light of another camera blinked at him. He paused in front of the third door, head swivelling toward the camera.

"Go through. At the front of the shop turn the corner to your right. There will be a photo booth. It is currently unoccupied."

Feeling wild-eyed, Greg threaded his way through the souvenir shop and found his way to the booth. He dove between the stiff blue curtains, struggling to pull them closed without dropping either umbrella or mobile. "All right," he finally breathed into the phone. "I'm here."

"Well done, Inspector." Just for a moment, the voice sounded smug enough to be Mycroft. "The threat has been dealt with. You can relax now."

"Relaxed isn't exactly the word I'd choose for how I'm feeling at the moment."

"Oh, Detective Inspector. Have some fun. Take a photo. In fact, I insist."

"Take a photo…"

"And you must be thirsty after your exertions. I suggest you bring your snapshots, along with any unopened messages you may collect, to the bar at Dukes Hotel in St. James. The Number Six martini should be to your taste."

"Number Six…" Greg repeated as he rested Mycroft's umbrella gently on the bench and started setting up the booth for a photo.

"You are expected in exactly fifteen minutes. Your mobile will self-destruct in exactly five seconds."

"Fifteen minutes..." Greg squinted at the button to take the photos, nodding. "Wait…destruct…what?"

The palm of his hand was growing warm. Fast. Hot. Burning hot. A white light flashed.

"Fuck!"

He flung the phone to the floor of the booth, where it crackled once, snapped pink sparks, and then issued a thin stream of blue-grey smoke.

Fanning anxiously at the air behind him, Greg peered out from between the booth's curtains, checking for anyone nearby who may have noticed the smoke. Once satisfied of his continued inconspicuousness, he retrieved from the booth's pickup slot a series of five extremely unflattering snapshots of himself in various stages of an alarmed grimace. Underneath the snapshots was a small, sealed, cream-coloured envelope. He rubbed a thumb over its delicately-textured surface. Secret messages.

High speed chases. Intrigue.

Greg smiled.

Mycroft, you gorgeous, gorgeous bastard.

He suddenly thought that Dukes Hotel sounded like a very interesting destination, and whatever his alleged timetable, he could hardly wait to get there. He looked up, scanned the girders and walls until he spotted the nearest camera, and held Mycroft's umbrella to his chest in a sort of salute. On my way. He fancied the red light on the camera gave him an extra wink.

Off the Jubilee line, he covered the distance from Green Park station to Dukes Hotel alternating between a fast walk and a jog, grinning the whole time like an idiot. He exulted in the pull of air into his lungs, the scent of grass from the park, flowers from hotel courtyards. When he stepped into the quiet opulence of the Dukes Hotel lobby, he took a moment to smooth himself down, then headed for the bar after a nod to the receptionist on duty.

"Number Six martini!" he announced far too eagerly to the white dinner-jacketed barman, who responded with a faint lift of his eyebrows.

"An excellent choice, sir." The barman caught the eye of a passing waiter and gave him a quick, upward jerk of his chin before deferentially gesturing Greg toward an open table. "If you'll make yourself comfortable."

Greg obligingly made himself comfortable in one of the table's two blue velvet club chairs, stretching his legs out underneath the glass-topped walnut table. After a moment, the nodded-at waiter re-appeared with a silver trolley. He mixed a gold-tinted martini with a twist of lemon rind and served it to Greg in a chilled, sweating glass along with a cocktail napkin and an unmarked, black key card. He tapped one fingertip on the card. "Room eleven, sir."

Greg took an experimental sip of his Number Six and shivered as the dry, icy tang hit the back of his throat, then glanced at the key card and shivered again in anticipation. He forced himself to stretch his legs back out. Finish the drink. Enjoy the feel and taste and the moment of pampered comfort in the cosy, plush little bar. And when his glass was empty, and his head felt warm and just the tiniest bit fuzzy, he picked up the key card and went in search of Room 11.

When he opened the door, it took Greg's eyes a moment to adjust from the bright hallway light to the darkness inside the room. To his right, a bed. Crisp white duvet, ivory padded headboard. To his left, a silver-framed mirror above a dark polished wood desk. And directly in front of him, a window with its long, thick ivory curtains drawn against the sun, where a seated figure was silhouetted against a sliver of light.

"Good afternoon, Detective Inspector." Mycroft's voice was silk-swathed steel. "I believe you have something for me."

The hairs on the back of Greg's neck bristled at Mycroft's tone. In the early days of their acquaintance, before any friendship or romantic interest, Mycroft had affected a cool and commanding demeanour in his interactions with Greg, but he had never shown him the full force of Mycroft Holmes. This must be what he sounded like.

Greg dipped a hand into his blazer pocket and retrieved the cream-coloured envelope, holding it between two fingers. He cocked one eyebrow. "This what you're looking for?"

Mycroft rose slowly from his chair and approached Greg, his movements fluid and unhurried. Controlled. Predatory. The room was so quiet each footfall on the soft white carpet whispered in the still air. "How kind of you to collect it for me."

"It must be important," mused Greg, giving the blank surface of the envelope his attention. He didn't need to look at Mycroft to feel his gaze pinning him in place as he stalked him across the close space.

"Oh," Mycroft breathed, "it is." He stopped mere inches in front of Greg, and reached out to stroke his fingers along the underside of Greg's tie, knot to tip.

The tie, Greg suddenly remembered, was Mycroft's. One of his favourites—a rich dark blue silk with a subtly contrasting interwoven pattern. After all…he'd said Greg could wear his things. His socks were also Mycroft's, the navy cashmere. And, yes, he had slept in Mycroft's pyjamas. Had lain in the middle of the big bed they so often shared, tugged the waistband down to his hips and masturbated in Mycroft's pyjamas.

"Thing is…" Greg jerked his chin up in challenge and moved the envelope away from Mycroft, "I'm not sure I should just give it to you. If it's important, you must be willing to…negotiate for it." He pulled the envelope back a bit farther, taunting.

Mycroft reached toward him, not for the envelope but for Greg's other hand. His fingers slid over Greg's, a soft caress that ended with his umbrella returned to his own hand and Greg unable to pinpoint when he had let go. "I don't negotiate," Mycroft smiled, steady-eyed, as he dropped the umbrella at the foot of the bed.

"You think you can take it from me?"

Mycroft's gaze drifted down Greg's throat and over his shoulder in an insolent assessment. He touched the tip of his index finger to the tie once again, letting it linger as he slowly circled Greg's body. When he was behind him, Mycroft pressed his chest against Greg's back, his hips to Greg's backside, and breathed warm next to Greg's ear, "I think I can take you, Detective Inspector."

"You'll have to be very convincing to sway me." Greg's voice had turned to a tumble of gravel.

He felt Mycroft's slow smile against the side of his neck.

"I do enjoy a challenge," Mycroft purred as he wrapped one hand in Greg's tie, effectively collaring him.  His other hand reached unerringly for Greg's erection, which had entered into the spirit of their little game with tremendous, tumescent enthusiasm.

Greg groaned and dropped his head back onto Mycroft's shoulder, turning to look at him, offering his jaw, his mouth for a kiss. Mycroft did not take the bait; with no outward expression of interest or passion save the darkness of heavy-lidded eyes, he watched Greg's face as his hand moved over the fabric of Greg's trousers, confidently exploring the hard curve of his cock beneath. Greg's eyes drifted to the envelope still in his outstretched arm, to the ceiling, and then squeezed shut as Mycroft's hand dipped between Greg's thighs and cupped his bollocks with a lifting squeeze that was almost gentle.

Greg raised up on his toes, moaning, and then was abruptly released.

Mycroft crossed to the chair in front of the window and re-seated himself, brushing down his navy pin-stripe suit. He carefully crossed his legs and folded his hands together on one knee. "Detective Inspector, if you would be so kind," he tilted his head back and let his eyes sweep Greg from toe to head, "as to undress for me."

Greg was by no means unwilling to comply. Mycroft's cool facade was admirable, but Greg could make out the flush staining his cheeks now. He knew that beneath that buttoned-up three piece suit, the pale skin of Mycroft's throat would be ruddy with desire, and his cock as hard as Greg's was now.  Greg tucked the envelope back inside his blazer pocket, then shrugged the blazer off his shoulders. It fell to the floor with a whuff.

His tie sighed as Greg pulled it from its knot and, with a belligerent look to Mycroft, let it fall in a careless crumple. "I thought you were meant to be seducing me," he lamented, holding Mycroft's gaze as his fingers moved to his shirt buttons.

"And I seem to be succeeding admirably. Move a bit to your left, if you please." Mycroft pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at the time. "The light is better."

"It's one thing to fuck you…Mr Holmes," Greg said as his shirt joined his blazer and tie on the floor. He was pleased when Mycroft's gaze switched quickly back to his face. He took a small step to his left. "It's another thing to yield to you. How's the light here?"

"Much better." Mycroft granted him an unperturbed smile as he released the bar of his watch chain from its waistcoat button hole. He placed it gently on the small accessory table beside his chair without taking his eyes away from Greg's. "You follow instructions well."

His voice sounded thick.

Greg smirked. Toed off his shoes. Brushed a hand down his centre, where the sunlight filtering through the window caught in the soft trail of hair leading into his straining trousers. "When it's to my advantage."

Mycroft's tongue darted out to moisten his lips.

Greg let his hand slide lower. Over his belt buckle, over his erection. With no effort to hide the lust in his eyes, he squeezed himself, savouring the fullness in his hand, remembering how it felt inside Mycroft's hand, inside his mouth. "You're used to getting what you want far too easily, aren't you? Just sit back and watch it all happen. Barely have to lift a finger," he taunted.

"On the contrary, Detective Inspector, if you will remove the rest of your clothing you will find that is precisely what I intend to do." Mycroft said, reaching into his jacket pocket. He withdrew a small tube of lubricant and ran the pad of his thumb over the cap. "Precisely and repeatedly."

Greg thought for a moment his trousers and pants might just spontaneously burst off him, but he was ultimately forced to remove them himself. He stood in front of Mycroft's chair, completely naked, cock jutting forward eagerly.

"And, yes, I am used to getting what I want." Mycroft slid to the edge of his chair. His eyes wandered Greg's body possessively, intimately, and his voice dropped, deep and rough. "You, Gregory. You are beautiful."

Greg's flustered heart inserted a flurry of extra beats as Mycroft leaned forward slowly, sliding his cheek past Greg's erection to press his nose into the softly padded flesh of his lower belly, inhaling Greg's scent. One of Mycroft's hands rose to brush along the back of Greg's thigh, fingers dragging enticingly up to the crease of his arse. His legs shuddered at the soft, tantalising, frustrating contact, and for a moment it was all he could do not to grab Mycroft's face between his hands and shove his cock into it. He breathed out something that was probably a profanity and held himself still.

Mycroft rubbed a smug smile across the shaft of Greg's cock as he shifted back in his seat. "Spread your legs," he said softly. The cap on the lubricant popped open with a flick of his thumb.

When Mycroft's slicked fingers slid between his thighs, behind his drawn balls, Greg's body started forward inadvertently. He braced himself hastily with a hand on Mycroft's shoulder.

"That's right," Mycroft said, head tilted back to gaze, open-mouthed, at Greg's face. "Lean on me."

He pressed a fingertip inside Greg, and Greg  let out a small, embarrassing whimper.

The self-satisfied smile returned.

"Bastard," Greg whispered as he wriggled down onto Mycroft's finger, wanting more.

"When it's to my advantage," Mycroft said, but his expression held no calculation. His hand curled gently over Greg's hipbone as he began working his finger slowly in and out of Greg's body. He watched Greg's face intently, reverently.

Greg bit his lip, staring back, caught in that intense gaze. They had fallen into a comfortable routine, he and Mycroft Holmes. Hands. Mouths. Lights low. Condoms, when they were called for, for the sake of courtesy and clean sheets. Safe and soft and wonderful. They were men settled in their preferences, men who knew what they wanted. How to ask for it and give it. Not without exploration. Not without passion, of course. Tongues and teeth and filthy, filthy words. And tender words. But this was an entirely different kind of intimacy. The kind that was a bit scary. The kind where he wasn't sure what was going to happen next. The kind where someone knew him better than he knew himself.

"You expect me to talk?" Greg panted the challenge, playing the game, giddy with fear and excitement. Mycroft's game.

Mycroft smiled slow delight. "No, Mr. Lestrade. I expect you to scream."

And switched to two fingers.

With a strangled, inarticulate sound, Greg grabbed Mycroft's hair, urging him forward helplessly. Mycroft obliged him, leaning in to lick a wet line up the shaft of his cock before sucking the head into his mouth. Greg shuddered and squirmed between Mycroft's fingers and mouth, trying not to pull or push or do anything to break either delicious connection. Had he ever been this turned on before? Mycroft hummed around his cock and sucked him even harder, crooking his fingers just enough to send a jolt of pleasure through Greg's body so intense he thought surely his legs would buckle.

When Mycroft switched to three fingers, Greg gave up on standing and crawled into his lap, awkward and uncoordinated, and kissed his need into Mycroft's mouth as deeply as his tongue could reach. His leaking cock quivered against the cool buttons of Mycroft's waistcoat until Mycroft's hand, no longer able to reach inside him, wrapped around the shaft. Slick hand. Quick strokes near the base. One finger just brushing, teasing the head. Sodding hell, Greg just might scream. He was so hard he could cry.

"Mycroft."

Mycroft practically flung Greg backwards, pushing him off his lap and three steps back to the bed where he toppled onto the mattress, legs dangling over the side. Mycroft fumbled at the buttons of his flies with slippery fingers until he finally had his trousers open. He lunged onto the bed, pushing a knee under Greg's thigh, wrapping one arm underneath his leg. Shoving a hand into his cotton pants, Mycroft pulled out his thick, wet-tipped erection and held himself poised between Greg's legs. Breathing hard, he looked to Greg.

"Yes," Greg groaned, stirring his hips until he felt Mycroft's cock against his arsehole. He was beyond fucking prepared. His perfect, considerate, brilliant lover. He was aching. "For god's sake, fuck me. Go. Yes."

Mycroft pushed his full length into Greg in one movement, and Greg cried out with relief. Mycroft turned his face into Greg's leg, mouthing and biting at the tender skin on the inside of his knee as he pulled out and slid himself in again. Slowly. Again. Faster. Again. Harder. Harder. His gaze was locked on Greg's face.

"Are you ready—" Mouth agape, wet-lipped, Mycroft huffed out a hard breath with each snap of his hips. "—to give me what I want, Detective Inspector?"

Full and trembling and half-blind with sensation, Greg couldn't play the game any more. His face, his eyes, the clench of his body all spoke his surrender, his utter devotion. There was nothing in him now but raw truth. "Mycroft," he rasped, "I would give you anything."

As the words broke from Greg, they broke Mycroft, who collapsed on top of Greg with a desperate, animal groan. He drove himself into Greg with a furious determination, rolling and rocking his hips as though he might never be close enough, never be buried deep enough inside Greg's body. Prim, controlled Mycroft Holmes, who allowed Greg to see the ragged, bestial, glorious human inside. Let plain, mundane Greg see. Mycroft's grunts of sweaty effort were loud in Greg's ear, and Greg felt delirious with privilege.

"Come on," he growled against Mycroft's sweat-damp neck, tasting the salt on his lips. "Come on. Oh, god, come on." Greg's skin was so hot, but his teeth were almost chattering with the need to come. But first, Mycroft would come inside him.

Greg wrapped his legs around Mycroft's hips and locked his ankles together, squeezing. Against his chest, his inner thighs, the stiff slide of Mycroft's suit fabric, the scrape of buttons and seams against his bare skin. Against his back, the slippery whisper of cotton sheets as Mycroft's weighted thrusts pushed him into the mattress again and again.

Mycroft threw his head back when he came, mouth open, breath caught in his throat until the final snap of his hips when his fractured groan of relief echoed from the corners of the room.

Greg was too desperate for his own orgasm to wait for Mycroft's recovery. He shoved Mycroft's hand toward his cock. "Now. Please. Now."

All it took was the touch of Mycroft's hand, and Greg was coming, full of Mycroft's still-thick cock, full of his stunned gaze. White-hot onto the pinstriped waistcoat, onto the crisp white tails of his shirt, onto his pale, elegant hands.

When Greg's vision cleared, he blinked up at the smooth, white ceiling. One of his legs had fallen to the side, but the other was still hitched over Mycroft's thigh. Mycroft's weight was settled on top of him again, lifted steadily by Greg's long pulls of air into his lungs.

"God," Greg gasped, hot breath rushing across Mycroft's neck.

"Gregory," Mycroft whispered reverently.

+++

Freshly-showered, Greg and Mycroft were wrapped in the hotel's white cotton dressing gowns and in each other's arms on top of the big, rumpled bed. Greg had opened the room's curtains once again so a large rectangle of sunlight could spread itself out lazily across the white-rugged floor, touching one corner to the wrinkled pile of clothes in front of the white upholstered chair. Given the state of their attire, Greg had no idea what they were going to wear home later that evening. Send it all out for emergency service, first, perhaps, he mused. He wriggled his toes happily and rubbed his fingertips into the soft, nubby cloth of Mycroft's robe.

"Mycroft…your umbrella doesn't really have a gun, does it?"

"Certainly not," Mycroft murmured drowsily into his hair.

Greg heard the hint of mirth in his voice and frowned at him suspiciously.

"Your mobile is being returned to New Scotland Yard."

"Oh, good. Is it going to blow up at some point?"

Mycroft gave a small shrug and kissed a smile against Greg's temple. "Probably not."

"Mycroft, you do know I meant me, right? I'm the boring one, not you. Me."

"So you enjoyed the day?"

"Seriously? Christ, Mycroft, I haven't had that much fun…you…I…it was…" He shut his mouth and rolled his eyes. "For god's sake. I enjoyed it so much that only you could come up with words eloquent enough to describe how much I enjoyed it. I can't believe…you set all that up. For me."

"My work was concluded earlier than expected," Mycroft arranged a modest expression on his face that still managed to look suspiciously like preening. "It wasn't all I would have liked, but it was the best I could do on short notice."

"I was a bit disappointed that I didn't get to leap into a helicopter under heavy gunfire, clutching my bag of diamonds."

"Mm," Mycroft insinuated his toes underneath Greg's calf. "I've found heavy gunfire is frowned upon in Whitehall. But we aren't quite finished, you know. There is still a message to be delivered."

"Oh, yeah, I forgot. Well, I guess you did earn it. This round to you, Mr Holmes," Greg grinned, scrambling off the bed to retrieve the envelope from his blazer pocket. He presented it to Mycroft with a flourish. "State secrets?"

"No." Mycroft smiled as he took the envelope, but a tiny line of worry had formed between his brows. "It isn't a secret."

"Read it to me, then," Greg suggested, wriggling back under Mycroft's arm. He leaned his head back onto his propped-up pillow and waited. He felt Mycroft take a deep breath. "Mycroft?"

Mycroft offered the envelope back to him silently, his expression grave.

With a curious frown, Greg slid a finger under the lip of the envelope to open it. He pulled out a matching cream-coloured deckle edge stationery card from within. On it were only three words, written in Mycroft's small, controlled, scrolling hand. Greg felt his throat tighten. He read it again, just to be certain.

"Is it…" He cleared his throat gruffly. "Is it a code?"

"I think the intended meaning is straightforward," Mycroft said quietly, "but it may require extensive…ongoing…analysis to be certain."

"Yeah." Greg flung a hand up to grip the arm draped round his shoulder and swallowed hard. Prim, controlled, Mycroft Holmes, who allowed Greg to see the vulnerable, hopeful human inside. What had he ever done to deserve this? What had he ever done? "I think so, too."

+++

They had fallen into a comfortable routine, he and Mycroft Holmes. Greg shuffled across Mycroft's limestone-tiled kitchen floor, dressed for work except for his sock feet, bleary-eyed yet intent on his goals of toast and coffee. As he passed, he brushed his fingers through the sleep-ruffled hair at the nape of Mycroft's neck and received a soft grunt of pleasure in return. Mycroft, wearing his shamefully nicked Dukes Hotel cotton robe, turned the page of his newspaper. Greg knew he had already received every piece of news he could possibly need in his early-morning briefing, but that he simply liked the feel of the newspaper.

"You're slow out this morning," Greg said, crunching into a bite of toast as he leaned back against the black marble worktop.

Mycroft folded his paper and issued a dramatic sigh. "I suppose I am. A most uninspiring agenda awaits me this day."

"I suppose even you're allowed a bit of a lie-in once in a while." Greg took a swallow of coffee and grinned over the rim of the mug at Mycroft. "You did put in a hard day yesterday, as I recall."

Mycroft waved an airy hand. "Nothing like your work, of course. Despite your assertions to the contrary, we both know your daily life is far more stimulating than mine."

Greg snorted out a few toast crumbs. "How's that, then?"

Brushing down his dressing gown, Mycroft rose and carried his empty tea cup to the sink. "The usual, of course."

Greg bent over to peer underneath the breakfast table.  "Have you seen my work shoes?"

Mycroft ducked around the corner of the kitchen door and re-appeared with Greg's shoes dangling from his fingers.

"What do you mean the usual?" Greg asked, setting aside his toast to take the shoes.

"You only pretend to be an average, boring sort of man to appease your very dull, government-employed…partner. But you can't fool me. I have some experience with surveillance. Your days are spent apprehending dangerous suspects."

"Paperwork," Greg mumbled into his coffee mug.

"Restraints. Rough interrogations." Mycroft folded his arms, favouring Greg with an arch expression.

"What? You know we don't…" Greg blinked. "Oh."

Mycroft lifted one eyebrow calmly. "Handcuffs."

Greg looked down at his simple, black shoes, and grinned. Comfortable, maybe. Routine, no.

"Well, you'd best be off. Have a good day," Mycroft leaned in with an absurdly cheerful smile, brushing a kiss against Greg's temple, "my love."

Greg sucked in an enormous breath of pure joy.

And began to plot the interrogation of Mycroft Holmes.

+++