Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Surveillance was absolutely vital. Or so thought Mycroft. Sherlock was often a danger to himself and others, so people that knew the scintillating genius well enough would understand perfectly why he gave DI Gregory Lestrade a level 6. Considering that the very patient, often caring and overall alluring 46 year-old DI had a very close work relation with Sherlock, who in turn happened to run into trouble head-first if it meant closure for his deductions.

Of course it was needed, Mycroft wouldn't allow himself to make a less than sensible decision, even if the subject involved had managed to catch him off-guard a few times reminding him of how even the goldfish knew a trick or two.

What probably wasn't a need per-sé were the thermic sensors, the voice detectors, the wiretapping, extra ten cameras in private areas of Lestrade’s house and, of course, ECHELON seeds in his computer and phone for easy tracking and traffic of information.

Greg himself had been rather pissed off the one time he found a camera in one of his air vents recently as he moved out of his previous residence. The knowledge of this would possibly make him feel like a wanted international criminal and rather angered at one particular government official, who would swiftly disappear into his London high-security bolt-hole and avoid him in the depths of Diogenes Club were the detective ever look for him. Not out of cowardice, a man that had vast knowledge on how to kill a man with his bare hands would have little to fear of a man that all possible knowledge in fighting had been gathered in the streets during his teens and, to top it all, looked only too sensual with teeth clenched and doe eyes darkened further by pure, unadultered wrath. He simply preferred to avoid confrontation with a man he respected... In a vague sense of the word.

Ever since the very moment they met he had found himself fighting against Greg’s impressive will and determination, his fake smile falling often at the snark in the man’s retorts, making it clear he wouldn’t budge to power. Rather interesting at the moment, since if he had wanted, he could have had the Prime Minister on all fours just to have a place to rest his feet. But this little, slightly clever man was defying him. He was either the most stupid man to ever step on earth, or had actual fundaments.

When Gregory promptly rejected the generous amount of money with Her Majesty’s compliments that the younger man offered, Mycroft was far from surprised since it did fit his profile. Although the genius would easily quote where he was told to shove the check from memory. It had been... Strangely amusing. If the man was anywhere near as imaginative using his insults as he was solving his cases, he would become the best in Scotland Yard quickly enough. Alas, no such luck.

Of course, since his little brother was quickly overcoming his habit with narcotics and becoming a full time consultant, it only begged the question of what motivation was there and if he could possibly have an ally on Sherlock’s side, considering their current relationship. Against his will, Mycroft had to insist by appearing at the man’s office behind his desk, at his flat and taking him on a detour to his house in Dorset for tea.

In the very end, Greg’s observational skills managed to make him feel awe for a simple human being again.

“Whatever can I do for you to accept my terms, Inspector?” Mycroft was already worn to the bone with this silly matter and had at least a dozen better things to do at present than groveling like this man smirking deviously in front of him possibly wanted.

Mycroft offered the cup of tea and Greg didn't even look at it as he said “You can accept mine, for a change”, the low tone in his voice and interesting choice of words had his mind scattering for a few moments. He raised an elegant eyebrow in question.

“I will not spy on Sherlock for you” the grey-haired man had his eyes still fixed on his and his (handsome) features expressed unwavering strength upon his decision.

Enough, thought the government official. Narrowing his eyes “Then I believe this reunion is rather futile, yet again” with that, the red-head got up “If you’ll excuse me, I do have important things to do” as he left he heard it.

“Better than getting a simple DI into your posh house in Dorset to speak about your brother, I’m sure… You're telling, Mr. Holmes” when he looked back, Greg had picked up the teacup and was sitting back with that tale-telling smirk in his lips “You care about him and that much is clear, no matter how you’ll try and deny it now” Mycroft blinked twice rapidly and closed his mouth, his heart racing slightly “Yeah, why don’t you sit down and let someone else do the talking for once?” he offered. And the smile in those lips could easily succeed in inviting him to do a sitting in a train straight to the very core of a volcano.

Once he finally took the few steps to his seat, and rigidly sat back as Greg placed his elbow on the table, leaning closer. Too close, not enough to appreciate unfortunately “Look, I know Sherlock can be an exaggerated prick, but he is too right about something not to take him seriously when he tells me you that his brother’s a freelancer for the CIA and MI6” rising an eyebrow he continued “And you’ve done nothing to prove him wrong with appearing behind my desk with my boss’s approval, knowing where my house is and managing to have four cars boxing me in traffic and getting me all the way here”.

Silence was the best option at this moment, there was a breath pressing at his chest and there was a strange urge he hadn’t felt in quite a while building in the center of his stomach. Perhaps expectation. It wouldn't be the first time he had expected too much from a common, boring person and came out absolutely disappointed. So Mycroft kept his thoughts to himself.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. You do realize you don't need to be a genius to know that the money was real and the cameras weren't just malfunctioning” answered Greg to his own implicit question.

Ah, he noticed the cameras, thought Mycroft raising both eyebrows, wondering which technician would he fire so the rest would learn the lesson “I’ll give you updates on your brother, not frequent ones and only if he's hurt or had a... Uh..." a frown affected Greg's features. There was something wrong "Relapse" he ended with grief in his features and worry as he looked up. Worried about Sherlock, of course. Wrong, worried about touching a nerve. How considerate, thought the government official.

"All I wanted to make sure is that if there was going to be an exchange of personal information it could be with someone I can trust” he said, getting up “I’m sure you’ll get the details of our meetings, right?” Mycroft nodded once. The very picture of calm and peace “Brilliant, I can’t get one to shut up and the other one’s taciturn as fuck... Lucky bugger, that’s me” Greg sighed tiredly.

You could be, he thought looking at the ring on Greg’s left hand and sighing, unhappy marriage. Mycroft smiled and stood tall offering his hand, noticing Greg for the very first time “I believe we have nothing else to discuss on the matter and I do realize you are as busy as I am, but by all means take your leave when you feel rested enough. I hear the M3 can prove to be a taxing drive on a weekend” and their discussion dissolved into traffic and Sherlock’s latest shenanigans.

One way or another, watching the man regardless of the time and the level of danger he was being exposed to at the moment (Which was null, by the way) would be an easy feat and simply achieved by clicking on an icon an Mycroft’s desktop computer. Either that or an app installed in his phone. All it took was a few nanoseconds for the digital information to pass through wires, routers and electromagnetic waves to the device of his choice and he could see a fraudulent transaction between presidents of the third world, the scandal within the Prime Minister's living room, or Gregory coming out of the shower, receive visits from his sister, take out the trash, being waken upon an alarm or an urgent call (After all his work slept about as much as Mycroft's own).

As fascinating as it was looking at him banter with his younger sister and her husband through lunch, in theory it Mycroft studying Subject #5638 shouldn’t be an usual occurrence. Unless said visits were three international assassins, Sherlock, kidnappers, the Irish mob, and the likes of those aforementioned. Still, it just happened from time to time.

In a strange way it made Mycroft feel at ease and calm to watch the Detective Inspector drone through his evening watching a match or simply typing away on his notebook. It was as if he could secretly have the man's company for a few more moments than their usually short and to the point arranged meetings. It was a bit of indulgence the king in the shadows allowed for himself after a long day of stopping and provoking wars into a new world order. It was Mycroft’s own type of drug.

On one particular evening, the auburn haired man had gotten to his home early, only to be bothered by a very much worried French ambassador. Talking through his plans in his study, he poured himself a glass of good brandy, briefly thinking of sending his regards to Gregory upon his finalized divorce as he started the software and typed Greg's number in the entry menu. And soon after the cameras loaded lifting the current footage to his screen as he checked contracts and files neatly piled on his desk, along with other menial tasks as he spoke to a very desperate sounding French ambassador. So he was, for once, innocently minding his business when it simply happened.

The screen of one particular camera attracted his sight, eyes widened, he felt himself splutter and lose his focus on the world for a brief second as he swallowed thickly. Having Mr. Bernard asking if he was alright, he managed to cough, taking a longer sip of his beverage trying to calm his nerves and entertain his dry mouth "Très bien" he said, pale eyes still trained on Greg’s display in the computer screen.

Taking a sip of his glass he continued offering solutions and reassurance in quick, well pronounced French. Still unaware of Mycroft's avid attention to his movements, Greg pleasured himself on the screen.

It was camera number 12, so it was imbedded to the front of his computer, and his unheard grunts. He checked on the voice sensors and microphones, all functioning and recording for later use. The gritting of his teeth was possibly provoked by some sort of pornographic movie. One Mycroft could find once he was over with this blasted phone call.

As Mycroft was reaching a consensus about French Airlines situation and the plummeting frequency of the flights, Greg fisted his erection slowly biting his lips as Mycroft licked his own with feral intensity. Panting as Mycroft's leg bounced nervously from the floor. Raising a hand to tease his thighs and his lower stomach under an old looking CID tee as Mycroft dug his nails on his palm.

Oh, dear, thought the government official, suddenly unable to look away, a blush setting on his pale features and his heart racing. He could've invented another way of efficient multitasking, since at that very moment Mycroft was focusing less than a half of his attention on the Ambassador and nearing a fifty-eight percent on the screen simultaneously. Not losing a word, or image.

The Detective Inspector arched off his couch, rubbing a thumb over the head of his engorged, leaking member, caressing his bollocks in the process. The man regrettably stopped for a moment, clearly panting agitated. Hormones cursing in his blood, if his darkened eyes were of any indication and Mycroft would have loved to slash Greg’s veins to smell his arousal. As he stripped, the Detective Inspector’s member caught on the hem of his pants and bobbed in a lewd manner for the camera. Mycroft bit down on a manicured nail viciously. Was he leaving the couch? Where was he heading? A man like Gregory could take this to the shower, after quite so many years of marriage he must be used to having a clean wank in there. Perhaps the bedroom?

Getting ready to bring up all cameras and follow the silver haired man through his own abode when, much to Mycroft’s relief, he sat again. Stark naked, to make matters better and Mycroft's cold eyes followed a suddenly quickened pace in his thrusts. Lestrade's eyes closed, his dark eyelashes casted shadows like fans over his lower eyelids and his mouth opened in what could've been a delightful moan. Mycroft's lips parted along with the other man's in a restrained, muted sound. As if he could somehow swallow the sounds coming from Lestrade's mouth in spite of the distance, just as he listened to the French mandatary and fixed a few details so the nervous man could let him go.

At last and in a rather gorgeous display, Gregory came dragging a hand through his hair, opening his mouth in an exclamation, features contorted and thrusting into his own hand lazily a few more times. His doe eyes blinking slowly, panting tiredly and looking exhausted, overworked muscles flexing to each large breath, a sheen of sweat was making his skin glow in the light of his computer.

Just as the very British Government finally managed to hang up, rather abruptly too. He found himself letting out soft, heated pants, achingly hard in his pants. How long had it been since he last did something of the sort? Masturbating wasn't his strong point in what concerned his sexual life. Mycroft preferred the feeling of flesh, if that was the need to satisfy.

Gregory walked out of the frame, wiping himself out and Mycroft opened his legs, since crossing them was rather uncomfortable at this point. Oh, well, this would be rather bothersome, he thought pressing a hand to his eyes as frustration hung over his entire form.

Shutting his computer off and taking his phone, Mycroft walked through the darkened hallways of his house to his bedroom. Getting ready for bed calmly, trying to convince himself that he was not as affected as he thought (Preposterous), wondering how long had it been since his last sexual encounter (Almost ten months?), subjecting himself to a cold shower when a regular one and mind control did not appease his libido.

Once he was alone in his darkened bedroom, lying awake, cold and still regrettably aroused, feeling completely randy at the thought of the hand moving through the soft hair, he could practically feel the strands between his fingers and Gregory's mouth opening to moan loudly as Mycroft arched and opened his own mouth, swallowing him whole. For the first time in years, he slipped a hand under the covers and bothered touching himself. Needs must, he sighed. Pale eyes closed, brow furrowed in concentration, replaying Greg’s own session in his mind. Silently wishing to capture that orgasmic expression in his handsome features and frame in over his fireplace.

Mycroft whimpered and quickly enough he let himself go as he added a more vivid fantasy by merging a memory of Greg and him having a late night discussion on one of his cases which had just changed jurisdiction (It wasn’t convenient to have Sherlock investigating state matters after all) and instead of a couch under Greg’s bum, it had been a chair at the Diogenes Stranger’s Room. Instead of those rough hands, it was Mycroft’s tongue, his hands and the length of his body pressed to Gregory’s.

An idea formed in his head as he panted in the ecstasy of a post-orgasmic haze, nowhere near satisfied. Minor details needed time to form completely, still the task of taking Gregory to his bed should be easy enough, if he followed a few well-crafted steps. Considering being honestly socially active wasn't his forte, he was possibly in the dark with the details.

It was prudent to treat this matter with the care and reservations it deserved, but considering he did the same for less pleasurable reasons on daily basis it shouldn't be a problem if he particularly minded that it was a professional relationship that they would be compromising over a bit of rough. And there was the detail that the man was a bit averse to the idea of being associated with him after said small confiscation of a months’ worth of work from the Yarder's team, it could be a bit more complex to lure the man to shag each other silly over any hard surface available, yet not an unattainable goal.

So he slept peacefully while in the other side of town an exhausted, overworked DI Lestrade, shivered as he stood in a messy crime scene. Largely unaware of the secret war it would play out throughout the next few weeks.

Chapter Text

Classification and qualification of minds is a simple task. The terrible minds were often dedicated to menial tasks and found trouble where there wasn’t, often riddling themselves with silly matters and easily giving in to stronger wills. Decent minds were associated to individuals who knew when to lead and when to submit, the ones that had a vague intuition on how matters went and developed. Good minds were often leaders and get on with matters with fluidity, they were aware of themselves and their surroundings, frequently relying on their intuition regardless of their decent observations. Brilliant minds observed, dissected and controlled situations with ease, managing through their lives and other’s with capacity and audacity. Superior minds controlled leaders and brilliant men alike and without fault, no matter their position, their status, their likes and dislikes since these people were tremendously blind to the intricate and detailed planning within the Superior Minds.

The profile fitted and Mycroft rested assured (Most times, at least) that he would be rarely surprised. So he walked around his flat around 9 a.m., his maid had already served breakfast and even if he didn’t feel hungry he sat and opened the paper on a small Victorian table in the balcony, viewing the great city of London from his almost royal loft.

Mycroft was already dressed for his day and since his first meeting was late morning, he found himself free enough to take care of a few loose strings on French Airlines incapacitation, read the papers (He did enjoy fantasy and fallacy from time to time), updated his knowledge on MI5 moves around Arabian Oil co. and catalogued the recordings from Gregory’s previous evening… Activities…

The pornography he had chosen was not only too common but also heterosexual and rather vanilla, which forced Mycroft to go through the man’s file again, simply to make sure that those three encounters with men through Lestrade’s years at uni and school weren’t a fabrication of his hopeful mind. It was possible that after quite so many years of marriage, he would feel the obligation to hide his sexual preferences out of habit. Of course, during the eighties it had been easier to be straight than bisexual or openly gay, luckily for Mycroft he never truly minded other’s opinions as long as mummy approved, of course father’s opinion was taken in mind and he could only feel lucky to have two smart, understanding parents that would love him, not minding his sexuality. It seemed Gregory hadn’t had the same luck.

The Detective Inspector grew without a father, who abandoned his family when he was five and his mother passed away almost ten years later from heart disease. She was a young, liberal, French nurse once married to a pragmatic British engineer that had preferred to leave the country before committing to a family. The pictures were clear, absence and the man rather displeased with his life.

Lestrade grew with a step-father, one that would have reminded Mycroft of his own. The kind that tended of children with extreme care and warmth, he protected his wife and worked every day honestly and rightfully. He was a cabbie, former rally driver. Taught Gregory everything he knows about cars, gave him a younger sister to play with, but would have never aided him with his inner turmoil with his sexuality in his late teens. Stiff upper lip britton, after all.

So Greg limited his experimentation to a few nights during college. Even if nowadays it was evident that he repressed a latent interest in men as his eyes often strayed towards particularly handsome men and there were evident signs of attraction in his micro expressions. A 35,2 % of the time, in fact.

Ah, what to do with a closeted bisexual man? Mycroft smiled, well, make him uncomfortable enough to give into temptation first. Step one, then.

-

“Longest of days” moaned Sally as she entered his office after him. Pressing a hand to the top of her head as if holding her brain inside with that simple motion, she sighed and moved to Greg’s side as he posted two pictures onto the cork plate he had inherited with the office when DI Danson finally retired and left him with this grudge riddled position.

The grey-haired detective sighed tiredly and stepped back “So we have motive, the suspect is in custody and the constables already questioned the neighbors” he pressed the palms of his hands to his face “I have to deal with the posh sod court’s sending for The Blue Maids case, we have to put Gershels at Her Majesty’s mercy”.

The woman dropped on the couch tiredly and said “Well, if makes you feel any better I’m told they’re sending a new bloke… He’s a shark, lot of experience and plenty of convictions for Leeds” she stayed silent for a few moments and a grin grew onto her face “Dishy too, according to my source”.

“Of course Jenny would look at that first” muttered Greg putting his attention back on the board and making a few notes into the file he now held in his hands.

Sally got up rolling her dark eyes, “That’s how I know you and the freak are spending too much time together” there was a hint of humor in her voice “Just take it easy, boss. I’ll go check the blood pattern reports and follow the autopsy. Meet you at the morgue for lunch?"

Greg looked up and saw Sally standing there, with an open expression about her face. It had taken long months until he trusted her again and was still working through that stunt she pulled with the higher ups back when The Jump happened. That night he had punched a hole into his office wall, to avoid hitting her as she excused Sherlock’s death and blamed it to his guilty conscience. Broke the skin at his knuckles and was forced to go to an A&E. She claimed she thought he was impaired by how he felt for the little git… He thought she was partly right.

During the trials, where Sherlock’s name was cleansed, he had seen her grief as they worked together through cases. One point Greg had given to her was that she had been a trooper and dealt with it all on her own, the remorse of convicting and condemning an innocent man. A brilliant and unique man too. One she had practically pushed out of Bart's rooftop along with Moriarty.

Then after Sherlock’s comeback, she had been equally annoyed by the man, but you could see how she didn’t bother contradicting him. ‘After all a bloke that keeps a nation in the dark about his fake death has to have some wit about him’ she had admitted over pints and over the years where she suspected him to be a psycopath in the making. Greg had chuckled and hummed noncomittally as he thought, If she knew the other Holmes she would be absolutely frightened, then.

And that was it. Their crisis as coworkers had been a memorable storm surrounding a mad man and now they had come out of it as strong professionals and solid partners. So the DI looked up and lifted an eyebrow “Unless you wanna stay with the posh prick and walk him through The Blue Maids, I’d gladly trade him over an afternoon at the labs”.

She giggled and grabbed the keys to the panda car “Just put in a good word for me” Sally beamed and said “Fish and chips to go, if you’re feeling peckish for something in particular, text” and with a swish of the hips, she was gone. Greg scratched the back of his head, briefly thinking about food and then looking back at his 'Wall Of Gore' now packed with asphixiated women and now a man with a knife inbedded on the back of his skull. This was definitely going to be a long day.

-

When the attorney finally arrived it was a revolution, apparently. This was possibly the first time he had been called from the floor level about someone that wasn’t disgruntled family had arrived. Mr. Colin Prescott had produced a small earthquake on his wake, it appeared, since Greg had to lift his eyes to the door as he heard the mutters and old dogs annoyed exclamations, claiming for attention in the meeting room, perhaps a few loud sighs.

And he was a looker. Thought Greg, lifting his eyebrows, as the middle-aged man stood at his door, fitted suit, silk tie, stylish haircut and small smile curling up at the corners of his lips “Oh, are you-?”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, yes” he grunted, getting up and walking to the door “Come in, I’ve made a bit of space on the desk so you can leave whatever you need” he said, closing the door behind the man. There wasn’t just an aura of confidence about the man, but there was also the presence, how his honey colored eyes raked over him briefly and ever so politely moved away from Greg's way, as if to make his intrusion as amenable as possible.

Even if he did have a clean suit on him, Greg was painfully aware that he wasn’t wearing cologne unless the smell of the city’s smog would be qualified as a new trademark scent. So in comparison he felt too tired, too dirty, too divorced and too informal. Still, he put on his best attitude, in the end the bloke was here to help put a felon behind bars and he would have to be just a brain with information, so sod his looks. Pushing a hand through his spikey hair he sat behind his desk “Please, do sit” he signaled to the chair across from his own.

“I hope you aren’t too busy” said the man in his soft, yet low voice. Watching Greg put away a few explicit pictures into any envelope he could find.

“Always busy in the big city, you know how this goes…” he said and then muttered ‘Ah, silly me’, getting up to find the archives box where he kept the details on the case. Yet when he turned around he saw the quick motion of the man’s eyes up to his face… Blinking twice and letting go of the thought as quickly as it came to him, because a handsome bloke like that wouldn’t be looking at just anyone’s bum, possibly had a girlfriend or two or three, what was he doing? He looked at the box and opened it, without paying attention to the smirk and hint of a blush on the blonde’s features “So, this is what we’ve got on our man” he handed a particularly thick file, and repressed a shiver as Colin’s soft fingers discretely caressed his before taking the folder.

Sitting back and a bit further away from his desk a bit bewildered, yet trying to focus on his job, he watched the man put on a pair of rectangular glasses, as stylish as the rest of him and bit his lips while elegant fingers looked through the information. It took him ten minutes to be done with it, asking the occasional circumstantial question and detailing on the movements they would have to go through to successfully convict this man in England, since there was a possibility of extradition considering the murderer was Dutch.

The Detective Inspector could be only too happy to hear that they were likely to get a conviction, feeling reassured at the security Colin exuded as he spoke in his own professional jargon. Soon enough Greg smiled and said “Well, then that’s about it. I’ll send a copy of the files and pictures you can use for the trial… Just get us a conviction”

“Maximum penalty, of course” said Colin as he got his notebook and put Greg’s papers back in order “The work your team went through was very detailed and dedicated, I was quite sure I’d see the mess my peers have warned me about when it’s a Sherlock case”.

Greg chuckled and put away the box “When it’s a Sherlock case, you’ll know it for sure. I’ll apologize in advance if you ever have to meet him” he said with a bit of endearment in his voice.

Colin hummed and smiled back at him “I had a professor at uni that has a son with a massive IQ. He said it takes a patient man to deal with a genius” he said softly again, in a low voice “You are far more impressive than people told me”.

Regretting to have little to busy himself with he opened his mouth and shut it, frowning a bit unsure of what to say. Perhaps Sally was right and he had spent too many years under Sherlock’s influence and mental abuse to know how to take a compliment to his intellect anymore “Yeah, I-Your people seem to chat a lot about us, it would seem… " he chuckled, a bit bashful "We do our best, I’m sure your sources told you” he muttered.

The blonde cocked his head and there was something Greg could recognize in the back of Mr. Prescott’s eyes. A spark of arousal that usually ignited industrial engines and led to situations he hadn’t dealt with in months. It was then that it dawned on him like a bucket of cold water. This Crown Prosecutor was looking at his bum, he was flirting with him, he was attracted to him.

So this last line before the other man left made perfect sense “I’ve heard plenty about a silver fox, glad to make the acquaintance myself. Have a brilliant day, Inspector” the man shook his hand and the intensity in his honey eyes remained even as he stepped out of the door leaving Greg beyond dumbfounded.

The energy within his office was still too palpable. So he gave the other man a good five minute advantage, got his overcoat and, all but ran for the door. There was too much to do. At the morgue. The streets, fucking anywhere.

-

Feeling a bit better, he rationalized his current situation. Perhaps his panic was because he hadn’t been treated as an attractive human being in entire months, perhaps years since he received two clear compliments in one conversation. Or perhaps he had been too distracted with the break to notice, while and after dealing with his fluke marriage. After all infidelity did take a toll on one's ego, not to mention that his professional figure was doubted and object of public sarcastic remarks after Sherlock's death.

Even if Greg was well aware that he can, in fact, clean up quite well and look decent enough to draw the eye. These days, it doesn't really matter. These days, it's too late to feel sexy or attractive... Or so he thought, the nerve wrecking experience that was Colin Prescott had worn on him and left Greg tired enough to need a coffee. So as he exited the car near Bart’s Hospital, ready to go to the morgue and meet Sally and Molly. He sent a quick text ‘Stopping by Starbucks, want coffee? GL’.

Greg was already on the line when his phone chimed ‘One black, two sugars. One with milk and no sugar.’ he sighed and pocketed his phone. A young lad, probably old enough for uni, with sparkling blue eyes looked up at him and gave him a wide smile “Hello, sir. What will you be taking today?”.

“Hello. I’ll take three tall. Coffee, one with milk, one with sugar, the other black” he said offering a smirk at the man. Then stepped aside to wait for his order and pay the cashier. When it came it was three venti size and a package with something inside “Ah, sorry, mate. Not my order” he said.

The young man looked at him and blushed crimson. Fidgeting a bit, he pushed the order towards Greg again and said “It is, sir. Compliments on the house” he squirreled away and Greg looked at his retreating back as he went back to work.

Taking his order and walking outside, he stopped in the sidewalk… There was something clearly odd with the universe’s order today. And his suspicions were only confirmed when Molly opened the package to find one Jared Curtis number scribbled down on a napkin along with a muffin ‘to sweeten his day ;)’ according to the card.

And, for a brief moment, Greg thought Jared was too young to be his type.

-

The rest of his day went about as usual. No more flirtatious men with appreciative glances, or timid advances from strangers. Running after reports, dealing with victim’s families, open and close case at Bromley and call from the ex to remind him to take his couch from her house. DI Peters from vice, and now an old friend came up to him looking about murderous. It was a sensible choice to have him tell the wife he’d be turning in a bit later and going for a few pints together.

“I swear, mate. They do it on purpose, then Maggie doesn’t want me to go back to smokin’ and I have to deal with my undercover agents as if it was all easy peasy” he hit the white ball into the stripped yellow ball, he sighed when it hit the rail and didn’t actually make it into the pocket.

Greg looked at his mate and hummed “If your day’s anywhere near as your game, I think I get the idea” he teased and took his turn. Going for the red ball.

“Oh, look who’s funny. Keep talking and I’ll give your people a murder to investigate" Greg snorted and prepared to shoot “Plus I wasn’t the one being hit on by blokes all day” Bugger, he thought as he missed the shot by a good inch and seeing the white ball falling into the pocket.

Groaning, the homicide Inspector stood and narrowed his eyes at the short, sturdy, red-head in a silent question and Peters patted his back “Everyone knows, mate. Sally was bloody amused about it. Didn’t know you were into blokes” he said “Best if you didn’t scratch the table, you sodding tit. The wife will be making me kip at the couch if I dare spend extra money on shite like that” said the other man.

Not even bothering to argue he said “’s fine, it’s you and those thick, dolt glasses that won’t let you see” he said, not even bothering to deny the question about his sexuality. After all he had his few reminders on how it worked throughout the day.

They bantered and continued to play with familiar ease of two men who had joined the Police Force and had suffered through the same CID courses for entire years. Greg’s win, in spite of his initial failure and a good enough excuse to drink another pint, relaxing moral and making Peters go home tender and calm enough to deal with his sprogs and patient saint of a wife.

On his side, Greg decided to stay for one last pint and a bit of reflection. Grieving on his conviction that those three or four affairs had been simply that and he had come out convinced of his heterosexuality, just not to break his mum’s heart and be a good example for his younger sister.

Reminiscing on his experience with men was also a bit sad, randy hanky-panky and a bit more in darkened dorm rooms with strangers and maybe the one friend. Shagging each other silly after smoking spliff, or fucking around after a long night at the pub.

One think he couldn’t deny was that it had felt great, top or bottom, felt as good as shagging a bird. Of course there were obvious differences, but the romantic feelings towards his mate in uni had been very similar to that first crush he had on his ex-wife. Which had made matters confusing, back then he didn’t put too much thought in the gender he took to bed and often found himself smitten by the exceptional heart and mind. After all he had always been a closet romantic, but it appeared he had been a closet something else, as well. Even if he thought this entire matter again, he still honestly didn’t mind and could easily overcome the fact of being bisexual.

Still, think too much and you’ll only make a dog’s dinner of it, had been DI Danson’s last advice as he handed him the keys to his office. The old man probably didn’t mean these type of matters, but it did apply.

Greg lifted a hand calling the bartender to pay for his tab and the man told him that he’d get it, but also placed a pint in front of him ‘Poofter in the corner, served it myself, Greg’ he said reassuringly. Greg looked at said corner and there was this tall bloke, sitting with his friends, cute little smirk, brunette and dark eyes, long elegant face looked up and lifted his hand in a salute as his friends nudged at him. The bloke that was playing at the pool table next to theirs… Clearly overheard the whole conversation.

Greg snorted, saluting back taking a sip from the pint and put on his overcoat “Be nice, Marty” the bartender huffed annoyed “Tell ‘im ta for me, yeah?” he said in his low, raspy voice.

“Only if he asks” the big man warned “Have a good one, Inspector”.

“You too, mate” Greg walked outside, perhaps he’d pop into the office before leaving, he did have to make the copies for Mr. Prescott and review the blood pattern reports. Checking on his phone as a call came in he thought, perhaps not. The unknown caller ID and a black Mercedes waiting outside had always been the inconspicuous and trademark signs of the older Holmes.

Letting out a long, suffering sigh Greg didn’t even bother answering the phone and simply walked up to the car, a bit worn but he could take a few rounds with the younger man. Rounds as in discussion, not...

Greg peered in as he opened the door seeing Mycroft’s features illuminated by the pale glow of his phone's screen. Looking bored beyond belief as he tapped lazily on the device, reading rapidly through some thing or another. As far as the Detective Inspector knew it could be the very contract that sold the entire human race to the highest bidder, “Please come in, Inspector” said Mycroft in his low, quiet voice. Pale eyes trained on him, as cold and distant as ever.

Of course his odd day had to include aHolmes in its formula, it wouldn't be complete without one of these blokes, really. Greg muttered ‘Of course’ half to himself, half answering to the younger man. Sitting back accross from Mycroft and closing the door behind himself. Looking at a man in his car following them in the glass from the back of the car. Takes Mycroft Holmes to make an evening turn creepy and his nerves stand again, in spite of having two pints and a half on.

Hearing rustling, he looked at Mycroft and the younger man pocketed his phone “Apologies, complex matters.”

“Aren’t they always?” said the Detective Inspector crossing his arms over his broad chest, making the younger man look up and show the ghost of a smile, as he clicked his phone off and pocketed it leaving them in the low lights. Greg was vaguely aware that if he knew half of the things he’d been up to he’d have to arrest the man and that little glimpse of knowing smirk playing at Mycroft's lips spoke volumes on how they better off not telling and not knowing. Greg smiled back in the darkened car and looked down at his hands “Ok, I’m not sure of how much use I can be right now, but tell me, what can I do for you?”.

Mycroft simply hummed, unmoving. A hand on the handle of his umbrella and the other close to his face inspecting his nails, as the yellow street lights flashed through his pale features “Nothing much, Inspector. Worry not, I believe I shan’t take much of your time, simply wished to know about the last case involving my brother and how has he had been as of late”.

“Funny enough, John commented that he found you too often at your brother’s lately. Think you can answer those questions by yourself, these days” he said, a spark of sadness filling his chest in a spasm and knocking him out of breath. Remembering how Sherlock and Mycroft had even taking matters to fists in the past and now they were all grown up, Sherlock had his independent cases more often than not and Mycroft seemed to be able to chat amicably with him after The Jump. It seemed that the presence of a mediator wasn't as needed as it once was, all differences set aside and a caretaker had been relieved of his post by heroic John Watson.

The older Holmes seemed to know where his train of thought was heading and caught him gently “He doesn’t make a realistic storyteller, neither does John considering how enamoured he is with my brother’s skill” he paused for dramatic effect, “In the least you make a truthful witness."

Greg could make things difficult but felt all too tired to make his life impossible right now, so he’d humor Mycroft. Sighing, he sat back on the comfortable leather seats “Fine. Sherlock’s performance was appalling and brilliant as usual,” Mycroft lifted an eyebrow amused, yet not surprised “Well, he managed to insult only half of my team and made the widower cry just once, he almost crashes a police car and…” he paused, looking at the floor as an amused smirk grew into a proper grin “He caught our man before he was able to leave the country” he looked up into Mycroft’s eyes, a bit proud of how Sherlock kept surprising even himself in this gaame he called life.

Street light made Mycroft's skin and eyes glow in dark and bright patches as he he looked through, past, in you and over Greg, all at the very same time “I see", he commented. "He did not mention the incident with the car, but it was evident in the marks on his forearms, and if it had been fatal I would have been alerted. I also believe the car has been repaired to its original state-“

Greg nodded once in affirmation “Very well, and the man is waiting for conviction-”

Another nod “Are you feeling alright, Inspector?”Bugger, thought Greg as Mycroft blinked and frowned, he could practically see Mycroft's wide vision narrowing to land on him and burning through like laser “Difficult day, I take it.”

Mycroft hummed raking his eyes over Greg’s body and muttering ‘Ah, I see’. Without a doubt, thought the silver haired man. In Greg’s experience Sherlock was rarely wrong and rumor has it that Mycroft Holmes has never been wrong.

The man controlled more than he let on and that much was obvious if you looked closely enough. His power was deeply imbedded within the needs of high ranking people; he had earned the MI5's spooks fear and respect through talent and ruling their operations with an iron fist, reaching a 100% success rate according to Sherlock.

So if little brother was observant, big brother had to be frightening. The taller man looked at him unsure “Would you prefer to talk about it?”

Tosser, thought Greg sighing loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose “No, I think I’ll be alright on my own with that. Ta.”

“Are you quite certain? After all, one’s questions about sexuality should have been addressed at an earlier stage, perhaps it could prove more confusing now” the posh tunes in Mycroft’s voice made Greg sigh and feel a tad more annoyed. Why? Greg wondered in his misery “Well, because I went through those same matters myself, Inspector” said Mycroft.

Blinking Greg turned to look at Mycroft, who was now looking out his own window, yellows and flashing reds from the passing cars reflected on Mycroft's features. There was something in his reflection that made him look reachable, vulnerable “We talked about the mind reading, Mycroft” he commented and Mycroft’s reflection smirked, eyes connecting with his briefly. Greg turned to look out to the streets as they entered West End.

The lights from the streets illuminated them as the car took one last turn into Crouch End. Greg finally sighed and said “’m fine, really. It’s not such a big deal, I’ve always known, just... Didn't really have the time to truly define things, I guess, and I’ve never been one to mind those matters too much, definitely not starting now…” muttered Greg, looking at the passing streets in deep thought.

There was a moment of silence, yet terribly filled with words “I do hope you feel the same way about nicotine, considering how temptations arose these past few days” was all the comment Mycroft offered as a hook to take him back into lighter themes.

Greg chuckled and said “You offered advice on sexuality matters, leave my habits alone” he looked at Mycroft with a smirk and the taller man shrugged, looking at him in turn.

For a few intense moments, even if they were far apart within the confines of that wide back seat, Greg felt close to the other man. Mycroft looked at him as a kindred spirit instead of a rock in his way and he looked at the man in turn. They were a mismatched pair, indeed. Both professionals but in completely different jobs, partners with different security clearences, clever in absolutely different levels, caretakers with different motivations.

The car came to a stop and the bubble they were in burst, leaving Greg just a bit lightheaded “Ah, yeah. Well, if that was it…” he said politely, feeling a slight blush at the tips of his ears.

“Have a good evening, Inspector” said Mycroft, pale eyes trained again on the screen of his phone. Yeah, that was definitely his cue to leave.

Getting out of the car Greg watched Mycroft's minion climb in and stood in the cold street. It took him a few moments until it ocurred to him, narrowing his eyes at the retreating car. He wouldn't, would he?One way or another, Holmes had no reason to be pissed off to play such a petty game with him. In fact if anyone should hold a grudge should be greg after that stunt he pulled with the MI6, searching through his office and taking away a month's worth of work.

He knew the man to be a master manipulator, but this was absolutely ridiculous. Greg walked to his doorstep and with a last glance to the now empty street, got into his house, shaking his head. He was definitely too tired to function anymore if he was falling into the thought lane that lead to conspiracy theories.

-

Like riding a bike, it needs a close experience to elicit activation from the memory. How to hold balance. How to move your body as you push the pedals. What speed to take so he could move. You just needed to sit on a bike again after a long time and see how it feels.

The Crown Prosecutor assigned to Greg's case was something easy to stage, considering that the man was openly alluring as much as he was openly gay, often interested in straight men, often subjected to moving from district to district after destroying someone's life. Rather easy to get rid of him, as well if he expressed a true interest in Gregory, which was something a humble civil servant would not allow.

No. The difficulties had been in calculating the time until Gregory would get tired of long red-lights and park three blocks away from the nearest Starbucks, where an uni student with a weakness for older man he should imediately revise with a psychiatrist served and, of course, he could certainly pull a few favours to stage one last little push in the form of a pint, before having the subject meet with the very source of his confusion and grief. Mycroft smiled in the darkness of his car, quite happy with the results. Watching at the traffic move along and people go by over the window. Stage two was near by.

Chapter Text

Strong willed. What an unfortunate characteristic and blissful event to find someone with that personal treat. Torturous in its form and the most delightful of pleasures had been to see Gregory slowly succumb to his needs after two long weeks of waiting by the fire for him to come home ready to relax. Long evenings in which Mycroft had to bother searching for the man, only to find him kipping at his office's ghastly sofa after a rather long day that didn't seem to finish, at crime scenes, fast asleep at his bed fully clothed with an open file on his chest (How could someone quite so rough looking manage to look absolutely adorable?) and running about press-conferences and the office late at night.

London’s criminals didn’t seem to give Gregory a moment of rest. Too distracted for distractions, apparently. With his latest case pressing to be solved and the public's opinion heaving on his shoulders, Mycroft witnessed in the past and now how the Inspector came out brighter when stressed, admiringly dedicated and through in his investigation process.

Of course it was obvious that the burglar that broke into those infamous households lived in The City, possibly worked in administration and had a secret collection of bondage equipment, along with a bit of an obsession with serial killers. But the British Government didn't bother itself with those matters, he trusted Lestrade to do a decent job in time. He did have a fixation for asking the right questions to the right people, bothering to checking every direction when lost and move beyond his administrative post.

In all honestly, the man should be thankful that Mycroft was busy elsewhere, or he would have been visiting simply to help him wish to be away from his office, or subject him to their usual banters in which Gregory engaged with his usual rebellious antagonism, just to tire him enough to have him convince himself that he was ready for rest. Instead he waited patiently.

Even if the man was far enough from Sherlock's habit to deal with his body by basically ignoring it and certainly not overindulgent as the likes he could easily pinpoint at the Parliament. He was no monk, yet no saint. Of course Mycroft was very aware on how Gregory had searched for pornography that one time in that period, it seemed he did need to relieve his tensions and it had been, regrettably, heterosexual and terribly vanilla.

Yet the idea that Mycroft had carefully planted simply needed time to bloom, much like most of his visions. So the day finally came (No pun intended), after making an arrest for the serial rapist, much to Greg's relief (In every sense of the word).

It took one last encounter with Mr. Prescott once again, whose moves had become bolder enough to corner him into an elevator, slowly, like dancing and tease him for his blush. Even if Gregory stood his ground firmly and asked him politely enough to stand away before he'd feel forced to arrest him under the charges of sexual harassment and throw him into a cell. Mycroft simply smirked, it was refreshing and oddly reassuring. A man that stood for himself had twice the worth than your regular, thrice if you intended to form an exclusive arrangement with him.

Either way when he took his usual evening brandy to bed after a taxing day, adding an hour of running in that dreadful treadmill, only to find out that Mr. Prescott's incident, when Greg had a clear focus, provoked him to watch his first homosexual pornography. Simple images of tall, bright eyed men.

A spark of jealousy burnt through the tall genius as cold as liquid nitrogen. It was a good enough excuse to have Mr. Prescott visa request revoked and within a week he would find his way back to Australia. Thank you for your services, compliments on the British Government.

Enough games, thought Mycroft after seeing Gregory lying in the dim lighted bedroom, a book he had clearly tried to read after his... Curious research, open beside him. Mycroft had to stop watching, sighing exasperated as it seemed the older man could last a good amount of time and he was seemingly quite inspired as he worked himself in a fast, needy pace that had him arching off of the bed. For Christ’s sake, did he really need to do all that teasing and caressing up his chest? Lestrade’s eyes closed in concentration, legs slightly shaking in his urge to press up into his fist.

He couldn’t watch any longer. Feeling the need to do something with himself, Mycroft subjected himself to another good hour of running, putting his time to good use as he schemed and seethed. Anything to keep himself from running much in the same way to the Detective Inspector's residence, simply to make him stop thinking about another. He would make his own interest known enough along with his anger and simply have him right then and there. To go, please. In the very entrance door, for all to see that this infuriating, stupid man had an owner and anyone daring enough to touch would suffer dire consequences.

Sighing, he closed the door within the confines of his mind palace, all thoughts to be ignored until further notice. Jealousy was unbecoming, after all, and the source of his wrath would find himself in the first plane to his home land soon enough.

In the very least, Gregory had finally found the time to think, research and express his interest in a rather basic manner, by allowing himself to dabble in his little sexual fantasies. There would be time for the older Holmes to claim what was rightfully his. I must be mentally prepared for stage two, he thought angrily as he lay awake in bed, panting and too exhausted to sleep.

-

Walking around the body, abruptly stopping and pale eyes darting around. Humming, more pacing, crouching and taking his little lens to the woman's hand. The Detective Inspector sighed tiredly, "The material under her nails was taken to the lab. Results in an hour" Sherlock looked up to a well-rested and slightly annoyed Greg Lestrade. He didn't smile or comment, but his approval was clear as day within those pale, blue eyes.

Sherlock got up to full height and steeped his hands under his chin as John yawned. After all it was 4 a.m. "Asphyxiation. Nothing was heard in the houses nearby because no sound was emitted. Her vocal chords have been worked on” John nodded in confirmation of his previous observations “The murder doesn’t want her to talk, or move if her amputations are of any indication” Sherlock looked at the corner where a stack of limbs torn piece by bloody piece were set “It is likely that your murderer is practicing for a greater hit,” he looked at the corners of the ceiling “He took precautions” stepping on a chair he picked on a piece of wall and extracted a part of an adhesive tape “Garbage bags? No, the thickness and texture… Rubber pools cover, then. Might explain the lack of stains on the walls.”

“Check her computer; she will have spoken to someone on her dating sites. He wants a sex slave and these women keep dying. He picks particularly strong looking women. Someone that would survive this..." Sherlock nodded at the dismembered body on floor, over which there was a bed in his usual disdain "Procedure. Not professional work obviously, but well read. And the smell on her“ he pulled at one of her hands from the corner of the room and smelled it again, much to Sally’s displeasure who said ‘If he licks it, I’m bloody leaving’ "Ink conditioners, not the kind you would use in your printers. Industrial chemicals to help ink to print and stay in the pages of a book" Sherlock took out his phone, "Three major paper companies in the riverbank, two printing companies in West End. Thoughts, John." the blonde had crouched to follow Sherlock's observations.

"Yeah" he said breathlessly, smiling as he saw everything that Sherlock had observed with his own eyes "This person definitely tried to perform a surgical procedure, I don't really understand the prosthesis of arms and legs, vocal cords unceremoniously damaged beyond repair. If she survived she would have been mute, teeth removed, some of the roots are still imbedded... Who would bloody do this to a person?” it was then when his eyes widened and he muttered ‘Dear God’ in horror and Sherlock smiled, a bit proud that John could catch up as quickly as he did.

"Yeah, he's making alive sex dolls, not just sex slaves" Greg sighed and said "Sally, you and I will look into the companies Sherlock just mentioned," Sally nodded and said "I'll go to the office and get the warrants we need. If anything happens with the new attorney. Call me, she’s a bit of a pain" Sally nodded and with a last look to the scene and swiftly walked out.

Sherlock looked at the woman’s clothes, in a heap "The hairs on this woman's lapels are from the same brand of wigs we saw in those hands your people found a few days ago, not easily traceable since many tend to use them but the fibers under her nails might give you DNA" he said taking one into a bag "John, we must give Molly a visit" with that he simply walked out the little room in a rented house in the middle of London.

With a last look at Tiffany Stapleton's pale, bloodied face he looked up as his team entered and said "Ok, let's just wrap this up and get the body to the morgue. I want pictures of the underside of the bed," just to make sure she was actually dead when he placed her there, "Take the curtains into a bag and search kitchen and bathroom for fingerprints, I don't care how careful he was, there has to be something and we’ll find it" he might have made a rookie mistake. Aside from murdering a loved college girl, thought the Detective Inspector.

He walked outside a few moments later, feeling as sick as usual, these horror file cases took a toll on Lestrade’s fondness for humanity in general. These cases where murderers seemed to aim to make the people inspecting their cases’ stomachs turn and twist while they ran rampant, happily ending fruitful lives. Tiffany's face was one of the many that would haunt him, he could feel it.

Talking about being haunted, he frowned as he looked up to find a scene that would haunt him to his last day on Earth. The Holmes brothers. Talking. To each other. In his crime scene. Fuck. Feeling as if he was having his morning cuppa while sitting on a nuclear device with timers chiming into an explosion, he walked to the very limit of the yellow tape "Situation" he asked John, standing beside him.

The blonde looked at the taller man and snorted "They're fine, I know it's a bit odd, but after this deal they've been past, I think they found each other again" in spite of his reassuring words, Greg wasn't an idiot. There was something eerily guarded about Dr. Watson’s expression.

"You don't look as reassuring as you think" noted the homicide Inspector.

John looked up at him and back at the brothers speaking quietly, looking through a file "Yeah. I've never been good breaking the news to the patients for that exact reason. Battlefield was definitely a better place to do so" he shrugged "Saying 'You'll die' after a mine exploded in someone's face was bit overkill.”

Greg hummed "And you're all the way here because, what? Her Majesty's matters?" he asked brown eyes trained on the ex-soldier sideways.

"Apparently the Queen prefers to keep this a secret. So does Her Majesty, I presume..." Greg and John looked at each other and then giggled.

"Absolutely not, Mycroft!" Sherlock’s shriek could be heard from inside the house, since a few of the scientific police looked out the window. Greg turned to look at the brothers again. The younger Holmes looked absolutely indignant and Mycroft looked mildly annoyed, his face still turned as if the brothers had been looking in their direction. Mycroft sighed and the conversation quickly resumed to a little, angry banter. Where Mycroft smiled like the Cheshire cat, while the Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother as if he could murder him just then and there. As Greg and John approached, all the men could hear was Mycroft saying in a low, dangerous voice "Mind your business, brother mine".

"What a lovely coincidence, I was about to ask the same thing of you" said Sherlock in a biting manner.

There was loud warning in his grey eyes as he said "Sherlock..." standing to his full height, Greg noticed for the first time how Mycroft was possibly a good three inches taller than his younger brother.

"There is hardly any room for discussion considering your fat nose is occupying whatever space could be for it" said Sherlock as enraged (and childish) as he could possibly be.

Greg stood in the middle and said "Come on, Sherlock, no need for the name calling, is there? Let it go, yeah? You'll live longer."

The young genius looked at him, and his eyes opened in horror. He looked from him to Mycroft “Oh, for pity’s sake” was all he muttered, looking beyond consternated before walking away. John simply gave him an apologetic look and ran after Sherlock, possibly trying his best to catch the man before he decided to take the Watsons’ family car by himself.

Greg simply sighed, looking just as tired of this bullshit as he felt and said "'Please, no more home-visits to my crime scenes', 'Don't fight him in public', 'Just belt up and keep him mellow in my work space'" after quoting himself a few times he looked behind himself, just to see Mycroft looking down at his hands as he gripped his umbrella's handle "Doesn't really... Spark a memory? No?"

Looking up looking up marginally apologetic "I do remember, but I can hardly be blamed for my brother's volatile reactions" he said in that usual quiet, deep voice. Somehow it made him seem even more reserved and, for anyone blessed enough to have met both men, the striking difference between Sherlock and himself even more dismal and evident.

"Yeah, but doesn't excuse whatever you said get such reaction, Holmes" said Greg crossing his arms, still trying to reason the unreasonable since Mycroft's answer was as cutting as it could get.

"I shall not apologize for what I did" then he opened the door of his car, muttering a 'Good day' before climbing in. Not even bothering to look at the Detective Inspector, who was left behind, confused at Mycroft outburst. Frowning and feeling as if he should possibly apologize, but for what? Not even bothering to think on why was it that he felt he was missing something important. He’d see to it after papers were handed out and the bloke making human dolls was behind bars.

-

It wasn't two days later when he found himself sitting in the Stranger's Room by the fire with an oddly compliant Mycroft Holmes. The man never looked stressed, he was less of an unwavering natural element like his brother and more of an immovable object that divided and gathered currents at will.

Mycroft Holmes sat back ever so imperious, just as silent as Greg had found him when he entered the room. His forehead tense and eyes cloudy grey as ever, his features void of expression and still there was something there that indicated exhaustion. Yet he allowed himself to relax, his long (Bloody long) legs crossed and vastly ignoring how his phone chimed every few minutes as he did his data filing.

Greg often wondered how was it that Mycroft managed with that intellect, after all the man had once confessed to notice everything and to have a penchant for loneliness and abstraction for that very reason, these days. Sherlock had described Mycroft’s mind as the stars in the universe, each star representing information, constellations and galaxies formed and destroyed within seconds. That was Mycroft’s mind for Sherlock and blimey if that wasn’t a fascinatingly poetic way to describe the bloke that made his boss pee his pants on sight.

After looking at the other man contemplating the fire, he simply decided to break the silence “Sherlock’s out of the hospital, if you mind. Mary was too amused that he had managed to annoy three nurses before she picked him up and John was glad that he didn’t have to spend another minute in there, looked like one of those birds would have given him an enema, on the house” Mycroft hummed still lost in thought, but Greg knew that unlike his brother, he was always listening. Even in these states, “I think that the incident will teach him not to go on and end cases on his own… In printing factories, in the least…”

The Detective Inspector sighed and looked down into his glass as he said “Lucky bastard came out of it with a sprained ankle, he should count his blessings honestly” chuckling he took another sip and looked at the quiet man beside him. And there he was come to the surface. Slowly, as if emerging from deep sleep. His pale eyes came up to look at him and Greg asked “Nice trip back?” with a small smirk.

The younger man smiled back and said “Most picturesque, not quite as fun as hearing Sherlock provoking Hospital nurses again. I thought he would have learnt after the incident with Miss Connor” the auburn haired man picked up the phone in his pocket, rolling his eyes at the needy texting, muttering his apologies for the ‘annoying sound’ and firing a short text back as he walked around. One last chime sounded a few moments later and Mycroft simply hummed “That should be the end of my day” he commented and pocketed the device.

“Wish my day was as easy to finish” Greg mimicked his host and sat back as well “Just a text and nobody bothering me until morning.”

Mycroft’s smirk was still at the corners of his lips as he said “That could be easily arranged if you asked nicely enough” there was not only hint of humor in his voice, but the low tones made Greg’s mind go just about anywhere at this hour. Of course, the alcohol didn’t help.

“And owe you a favor? No, thanks” Greg took another sip of his beverage, not daring to look at Mycroft and give his brief consideration away.

“You could owe it to worse people” commented the red-haired government official.

Laughing quietly, “I’m vaguely aware that you have co-workers, yes” there was a hint of resignation in Greg’s rough voice.

Mycroft purred and closed his eyes, relaxing visibly “I believe you are demonizing me a bit too much.”

“Or I’m pulling your leg and see what comes of it, plus I know you’re too polite to tell me how impertinent I usually am, I’m sure you have people deported on less. So, ta for putting up with me” he lifted his glass in polite salute and took a sip.

“Deported…” the taller man scoffed a bit appalled “Certainly not” there was an enigmatic smirk on his lips “Oh, my congratulations on catching the man that was causing those inhuman slaughters, I do hope the Crown Prosecutor will be getting a conviction soon…?”

“Yeah, she’s brilliant, according to what I’ve heard” he looked up making memory of the old woman that appeared at his office, a true Dame. Mycroft hummed and Greg looked at his feet “I’m glad that the office left us with another decent attorney” said Greg with a small smirk, reminiscing a bit. When he looked up, Mycroft had his hands steeped under his chin and he gravely contemplated the fire again “Is there something the matter?”

Mycroft lifted his eyes and looked directly into Greg’s, pinning him to his seat. Slowly raking over his form, taking little pauses at places like hands, knees, shoes and throat. There was something intense about that look he was given, doing his best not to fidget. The older Holmes wasn’t stripping him with his eyes, mind you. He was dissecting him to nothing and back.

Greg swallowed hard. Blood thrumming in his veins and infinitesimal, enticing eyes climbed slowly, lazily back into darker ones. A positively devious smirk formed on Mycroft features and the homicide Inspector had to bring himself to look dumbfounded and pretend the thoughts in his head weren’t a bloody mess.

Finally, Mr. Holmes sat back “You were attracted to the previous attorney” in a bored tone, as if he was talking about the weather.

Clearing his throat, the DI shrugged “All that just to be able to tell I was attracted to an attractive bloke? Christ, Mike, you could’ve asked” he got a dirty look at the use of his shortened name.

“Mycroft, please” he asked politely, when his eyes spoke in a less educated manner. Lifting his eyebrows with a small, shit-eating grin Greg rebelled in the fact that he had that bit of a tip to make Mycroft Holmes uncomfortable. The man in question rolled his eyes and said “Oh, behave, Inspector.”

“And what’s the fun in that, Mr. Holmes?” he said before downing the glass in one go and saying “Plus, really, seems to me there are times and times to call you by your full name. When you tease a bloke about having being watching a bit of eye candy, you’re begging to be placed at a reachable level... Nicknames show that level of familiarity, so… Can’t be blamed, can I?”

Mycroft blinked, lifted his eyebrows “I had thought that familiarity required another level of understanding and mutual respect to others likes and dislikes” then he moved in his seat, sighing “I personally dislike being called anything other than Mycroft, and that name is often to be used with caution.”

“Oh, come on, Mycroft. Really, there are moments and moments to be called that. What would you have a lover scream in the spur of the moment? I’m not called Gregory often, even less in situations regarding that particular mind-set” Check mate, thought Greg as Mycroft blushed slightly and, admiringly, kept his bashful gaze on Greg’s.

Humming, he looked into his glass “I believe not, in my experience they are far too busy to call names” and air caught on Greg’s throat, even if he looked as impassive as ever. Of all things he could imagine Mycroft to be, a sexual being was certainly not one of them “Oh, seriously, Gregory. I had believed to be quite clear when telling you of my sexuality” the genius frowned.

“Yeah, but you know Sherlock, where you work, the ring. I always thought…” he trailed off.

Mycroft licked his lips and said “All that seems evident is often a screen for the undeniable truth" he said enigmatically, looking down at his hands and sitting straighter "I'm afraid I must disappoint you if you wanted to speak of my... Sexual dabbles. After all I am a gentleman and I very well know you needn't to have the talk on how homosexual sex works” Mycroft lifted an eyebrow and Greg saw why he had been closely stared at.

"I didn't shag the Crown Prosecutor if that's your accusation, and I am a gentleman enough not to comment on or ask about such matters, Mycroft" and that was a stale mate, both men stood their proverbial ground looking at each other in silence.

There was an intense atmosphere surrounding them for a moment, until Mycroft said it "Sherrinford. That was the name of the person that gifted me the ring, if you wondered" he said quietly, the auburn haired man looked at it as if he had ignored it for quite some time and slide softly, there was something bland about his expression. It was a simple flash of emotion, gone as soon as it came about. Greg didn't comment or ask, this person clearly meant the world to Mycroft if the hurt was still present quite so persistently “And you hardly ever think matters through, perhaps curiosity did get the best of you" right, ruin a moment, thought Greg rolling his eyes, only slightly annoyed.

The Detective Inspector shrugged "A simple recommendation, to let people in. I have been in the waiting room of a hospital, shared coffee, dinners and that time you met me at that odd pub-" Greg frowned looking away, both reminiscent and amused "The one in Spain, you said you happened by to tell me your brother was infiltrating some place...?"

"Ah, La Brava at Galicia, yes. You were particularly difficult to find and for that particular effort I'm afraid that John Watson could be hardly trusted as an insurance of my brother's safety" Mycroft returned to his ever so impassive expression and lifted his gaze back to Greg's features as the light from the fireplace and dim lamps of the room made wonders with the colour of his skin and that little grin he was wearing. He had possibly realized that he had fallen into Greg's trap "Not the brightest bulb of the dim lot, but I reckon you were quite good at philosophy…?”

Of all odd, back handed compliments, Greg let out a soft grunt and sighed tiredly "Law at London uni, yeah. Ta for not reciting my file, by the way."

Mycroft lifted his eyebrows "Quite welcome" and took a sip of his glass, making Greg let out a bark of laughter. Then restricting a bit of a smile in return, at his own achievement "Mike for limited occasions it is, then" he agreed.

Greg opened his mouth to reply and his phone sounded, he muttered ‘Bloody hell’ and he got up “Lestrade” he sighed and pressed his hand to his forehead “How many?... Christ, be there in five. Get the team together… Yeah, you go to sleep, I can last for a good twelve hours… Ta, mate” and with that he hung up “So, about that favour-?”

“Both of us know fairly well you would not take it even if offered, Inspector…” the younger man smiled that little, phantom of amusement, of courteous politeness, the one smirk under the surface of all that burning genius and cold . Greg snorted and got up, followed by Mycroft, who offered his hand. One strong grip, a smile on his lips and a strange light in his eyes.

After quite so many years of knowing each other, he allowed himself to think about exactly how attractive Mycroft Holmes could be. The very devil in Tom Ford all fake smiles and mysterious little hints in his expressions. Or he could be the worried brother, anxious to keep his baby brother safe from himself, human, yet not vulnerable. There would always be that cold, calculating side to him.

Of course during a few of their rows Greg had found himself restraining a thought of how hot it was to see Mycroft downright angry and, had he not been a married man, on more than one discussion he would have gladly and unceremoniously pressed the taller man against the walls and desks simply to let that pent-up, cold anger go somewhere. He sat at his car forehead against the steering wheel. After a few moments he sighed, feeling as if his mind had been mercilessly toyed with.

-

His shoes clicked on the ancient marble floors as he entered Mycroft's office at Department for Transport, it had always seemed to be a cover in Greg's eye. No civil servant would wear the Italian leather shoes Mycroft wore, nor sport bespoke Tom Fords. But he knew that Mycroft cared little for gossip, people could just go ahead and talk about him being old money, as long as they didn't go around hinting that he has a higher post than he lets on.

Of course people's opinion mattered little when you didn't let anyone in, the Detective Inspector was unaware of the precise moment when he categorized Mycroft as one of his friends. But somewhere between those first tense meetings to their now usual friendly nudges and mind games, they simply clicked. And even he doesn't exactly know Mycroft's precise position within the government, just bloody-high-don't-ask-ta. And he would simply look away even if his clearly doppleganger office held the greatest give-away, which would be the phone. It was a non-dial red-phone, for what it seemed it was a hotline with someone important on the other end.

The Detective Inspector had been called earlier to get a case file from that one time when he had gone into his Homicide Division floor to find a commotion. MI5 agents trashing his office to get the archives from Ambassador of Rosers case. Apparently it had been thrown above their security clearence. What a coincidence that Greg had just asked for Sherlock to give it a go, considering that every witness had been subsequently murdered in an execution manner. There was something off about it all. Greg had visited Mycroft to confront him about the matter, they fought and apparently it had been solved by the MI5 and Mycroft had kindly pulled some strings to give his old co-worker a bit of overly censored closure.

So that's probably why Greg walked through a long hallway full of cubicles, turning the usual few faces on his way in. If asked, he would honestly blame it on wearing the nice fitted suit he usually saved for trials. A month after the arrest of the live doll-maker, they were making a conviction. The bloke was going to be hanged even if it was the last thing Mrs. Newton did in her life. If Mr. Prescott had been a shark, this new Crown Prosecutor was a particularly vicious shoal of piranhas.

Knocking twice, he simply let himself into the room. And Mycroft was talking on the phone, in a foreign language. Likely Russian, he caught sight of Greg and nodded for him to come in, then motioned for him to sit down. As he continued to speak rapidly. Rolling the consonants in his tongue and his voice just a bit louder and deeper, just as smooth as ever. There was something sensual in the way he paced around the room and owned the entire place, that was Mycroft at work.

He never showed off this side of him. In fact he was, much like Greg, the kind to believe that the less you knew of his intelligence, the better. Or so he had confessed the very first time he realized that Greg actually showed he used his brain for something else than hat hanger. The visits he received from Mycroft had only been only a bit more frequent and the man in question just a bit more guarded since then.

And he had seen him focused in work only thrice. One of them provoked by Sherlock himself back when they first met, matters ended with them in a car, waiting for Sherlock to finish his futile search into a crack house, tense and waiting for the young man to finish his break-in for the case that had piqued the young man's interest.

And now here they were, after almost twelve years of being co-workers without the official title. Mycroft continued to pace and fiddled with a few papers set on his desk as Greg picked up the file, his long hand landed on it and he said one word, that said in other circumstances would have had Greg considering to let his pants drop "Here" he said, looking up from the contracts on his table.

With that Greg sat heavily on the chair and forced his mind to focus on whatever was in the bloody file, reading the same page ten times as Mycroft continued to speak mindless of what provoked in the other man. It took Greg a few tries before focusing completely, feeling a regrettable blush raising to the tips of his ears as his mind went into the gutter once and over again. He's a genius, this shouldn't be surprising. I speak three bloody languages, it isn't a big deal. How many language did the man know, anyway? Did he always have that voice?

Finally finishing the reading and reassured that the work Mycroft's men had done was through and had lead to a conviction, no matter what country the man behind the killings would be serving a scentence. Although considering it was the spooks work, Greg had learnt to believe about 50% of what he read, doubt strongly 30% and the remaining 20% could possibly be akin to the truth of what happened.

He looked up when Mycroft finally hung up and groaned. Bloody unnecessary, he thought and cursed at himself for not controlling his urges better, 'I need to start dating' was becoming a more persistent thought these days. Or just get a few one nighters with someone. He looked up to see Mycroft's pressing a few keys into his computer as he sat unbuttoning his jacket, then watched his long fingers speeding through the keys as he typed and pale eyes revising, approving and the notebook was off again. Mycroft sat back as serene as ever sparing a glance to his companion, Greg sat back and smiled "How's Putin doing?"

Mycroft's eyebrow rose and he said in that same low, provocative voice he used in russian "Quite well, sends you his regards"

"Oh, isn't that just lovely?" said Greg with mock endearment and Mycroft smiled that rare smile, the one that reached his eyes. The real one. A bit nervous that the man before him would read what kept him from reading that stupid archive, as he got up to leave "Well, got to run."

"Good luck with the trial, Inspector" he said and took the file, turning to leave it at a safe behind his desk. Greg took the liberty to notice the small of Mycroft's back, his long, elegant lines stopped over a nice bum and- "Are you quite alright?" Bugger, Greg blinked and looked up to see Mycroft only half turned, and confusion over his features and a slight blush dusting over his cheeks.

Blushing madly, Greg walked to the door saying "Ah-Yeah, I just-Sorry- I'll-Ah.. Just show myself out, yeah? Have a good one, Mr. Holmes" and he didn't stay to hear the retort, or see Mycroft's predatory glance to his own derriere as he walked away.

-

Bloody Holmeses! thought Greg angrily, as he exited 221B. Sherlock and Mycroft had been clearly having another one of those rows they usually reduced to murderous glances on one part and annoyed sighs on the other. But that wasn't what irked Greg, Sherlock had bloody nicked his handcuffs, bloody again and he had them on some corpse's hands in the fridge.

"Inspector" he turned to see Mycroft walking out and straightening the door knocker before walking down the steps, slowly and as autocratic as ever “I believe you forgot this.” And he handed him his badge.

Greg blinked and said “Ta…” the cogs in his brain worked slowly, meanwhile Mycroft waited under the lamp for his car to arrive “I didn’t drop this, did I?” he asked looking up at the auburn haired man inspecting his shoes attentively.

“Sherlock thought it would be quite fun to get you in a mood by nicking your badge as you left. Do try to never bump into him, Inspector. He has quick fingers.” Mycroft didn’t even bother looking up. His car arrived as he spoke and he walked to the door, as slowly as he ever did.

“Well, ta. But I shouldn't need to search your brother everytime I come accross him, for God's sake" Greg pocketed his badge, when a thought came to mind "And where did you get it?” the grey haired man narrowed his eyes estranged by the possibility. Of course, he thought smiling and pushed a hand through his hair as he looked up at the slight smirk of amusement on the taller man's lips as he innocently checked on his shiny Italian designer shoes spoke by itself of naughty behavior.

Mycroft’s eyebrow rose and when he looked up, the smirk was stripped of all innocence as he said  “Oh, Inspector, my brother is not the only one with quick fingers” he said it with that low, sensual voice. Bit of posh, bit of street and a lot of mysterious. Can you imagine? Mycroft all posh, prim and proper, pickpocketing someone like a street rat.

Greg remembered how to breathe only after Mycroft climbed into his car with a polite ‘Afternoon’ and the Mercedes promptly vanished into traffic, it took him a few moments to come to and remember his way back to the car, silently hoping that finding his coworkers sexy didn't become a habit.

-

“Assassination attempt?” asked Greg almost dropping his tea mug onto the floor as he felt his fingers weaken.

Sherlock hummed, still looking outside the window. The man would be unusually ecstatic and preening on how he knew that he deduce his way into another murderer’s path. Solving a case that had been open for about six months in less than 48 hours.

Mary sat next to her husband and cooed at the sprogging, while John handed Sherlock his own tea mug, the man looked at it, then turned and sat on his own chair. The silence that filled the room crawled under Lestrade’s skin and he stared into his mug.

“Yeah, apparently he's alright, but we haven’t seen him either in about two months, Greg” said the blonde and looked at his wife as she placed a hand over Sherlock’s.

“Are you feeling well, duck?” she smirked at Sherlock and he smiled back placing a hand in front of Watson’s daughter, mesmerized in the way she grabbed his finger. Sherlock smiled and Mary handed her out to him, then moved the mug away from the baby’s reach “I guess that even if it isn’t a surprise it would happen, it doesn’t hurt any less when our loved ones are hurt.”

It didn’t take a genius to look at the scene and know. Greg looked at the people before him and had the odd feeling that, in a way, this was Sherlock’s new support group. Mary was a sensible, smart woman and John was strong enough to keep him up. The baby, she healed Sherlock, he looked at her and cradled in his arms as if she was the most precious person in the world and the Watsons let the self-proclaimed sociopath care of their daughter.

It worked in an odd way, there was plenty of worry and love in each one of their movements, they mimicked and cared for each other. Where there had been fervent loyalty a few years ago, there was something deeper John and Sherlock had grown accustomed to. It felt like family ties had been founded within that deep bond they shared.

And now Sherlock was worried sick, so were the Watsons and Greg himself would have a go at the pub, try and call at the man’s phone later on, just for the sake of it when he felt a bit more relaxed and sure that he wouldn’t make a dog’s dinner out of things by saying something improper.

It had been two months since he heard of the younger man, last think he knew was that he was cancelling their periodic appointment because ‘urgent matters had risen’ and he needed to travel urgently. Greg walked out of 221B with a heavy heart, and bit his lips. Sod this, he thought taking his phone and calling the man as he walked to his car. He heard the dial tone a good five times and then a female voice “You’re being transferred to Mr. Holmes, Inspector. Please, hold.”

She didn’t give him enough time to say ‘ta’ and he heard it, relief washing over him as Mycroft’s quiet tones said “Hello, Inspector” and Greg sighed loudly.

“Bloody hell, you tosser. Sherlock has been on a rampage and I wondered what had put his panties in a knot, to learn that you had been injured! Bloody hell!” his voice got louder as he spoke and there wasn’t a sound on the other side of the line as he continued to talk “How are you? How bad was it? Are you alright? How alright in a scale from 1 to 10?” Greg held the steering will with a death grip, tension evident in his features.

There were a few long moments of silence “I owe you no particular explanations, but this is a secure line. I shall make it brief. Do tell my brother that if he wishes to know of my state, he can call me himself-“

Greg scoffed and said “Ok, no. Stop right fucking there; you think I’m calling you to inform him how you are? Even if he has manipulated me a few times into doing shite, that doesn’t mean I do whatever your brother pushes me into doing, Mycroft. This is an old friend worrying about you, you absolute prick. So if you’ll open your mouth now, it better be to tell me your state!” he said, rising his voice to a commanding tone he reserved for unruly Constables.

After a longer silence Mycroft said “It was someone working on both sides… They sent attackers and I happened to find myself in bad company. It hadn’t been aimed for me, I am deeply covered… Worry not, Inspector” he almost cooed that last sentence “I suffered minor injuries as collateral damage.”

Greg pressed a hand to his mouth and looked out the window thinking, thank God. Sighing a bit relieved “Brilliant, then” he said quietly, a bland expression on his features.

-

True preoccupation set in his brow, his eyes full of relief and a mild smile forming at the corners of his lips. Gregory’s features were mostly hard lines and sharp edges, but then again handsome and rustic. Not nearly as soft as his heart and this kindness in such a rapacious, merciless world was like balm to a wound.

Looking at him through the screen in his computer broke Mycroft’s own heart in pieces and forced him to sit, feeling weakened by this man's , he didn’t quite realize that he was wearing the same soft smirk as he looked at the man start his car “Was that all?” he asked as firmly as ever.

Greg rolled his eyes for the camera and looked up to it, giving it a dirty look. Oh, dear, where did you possibly come from? He wondered with a bit of humour “Yeah. Back to work, your brother saved almost thirty girls from a human trafficking ring and I’m supposed to help with the paperwork. Nice to, er… See you. Rest, yeah?” he asked grinning up to the camera “Christ, I must look like a mad man speaking to CCTV cameras.”

The British government smirked and said “Yes, well..” in a non-committing way.

Greg snorted and sat back crossing his arms, his face hidden from the camera “I blame you, just so you know”

“I’m always vaguely aware, yes” Mycroft frowned trying to find Greg’s expressions in the video feed, after all it was all very valuable information, this could mean they were finally ready for stage three.

“Have a good evening, yeah?” said the man in that rough, delectable voice.

Mycroft sat behind his desk carefully and winced as he said “Ah. You too, Inspector. Thank you for calling.”

And without further to say after a few moments, Mycroft had to end the call. How odd. Uncertain for a millisecond where he wondered if this care and worry was part of what he was searching for in Gregory. Perhaps. To be reviewed later on. Stage three, then.

Chapter Text

There were three main lessons an agent gained in the field, people active enough in secret service carried them for the rest of their lives. Mycroft was no exception in this matter.

Number one was to know your mission to the depth of the worst case scenario. Of course as a genius this was far from difficult to achieve, always holding several back up plans and paying little attention to his colleagues.

The second was to hide your intentions perfectly to ascertain your target. Do anything, be anyone, know everything.

Third was to manage through to capture, take it to the best of your ability to contain and often enough, exterminate. When forced to do so, keep it clean and simple.

After enough years of service, Mycroft kept these lessons present and found aid in them from time to time in his current secret endeavor. Still, playing to be the fool had been all too difficult for a man like himself, but many techniques became quite possible to master in his repertoire of deceit when the reason to act in such a way involved the possibility of having Gregory falling into his bed. So now Lestrade paid attention to whatever Mycroft highlighted for him, and he relished in the thought that even if the control the younger man held over the DI was subconcious, there was a great part of the hunger in Gregory's eyes that was 100% made by the man himself. In time suggestion would be absolutely needless.

But after the attack there were a few weeks of delay in his initial plan, he was forced to take a distance from the object of his burning desire and repose, in order to recover fully from his wounds. Now instead of using his usual schedule, Mycroft quickly turned to contingency plan and rested assured that in a few weeks’ notice he would see more of the Detective Inspector, the more he saw of the man the more he wanted to greedily posess his every thought and move, consume that fresh skin and make him release all that regrettable tension he seemed to carry on his slumped shoulders, the worry that furrowed his brow and the stress that laid in restless doe eyes.

Needless to say, the surveillance continued on a regular schedule, and since orders were to keep his state discretely out of the public eye, he was forced to work from his home at lovely Dorset. The large estate swallowing his quiet complaints and sighs as his leg pained him and the stitches on his side stung angrily when he woke up. One morning he risked a glance at his bare self in the mirror, scarred and broken, yet long and majstic. Days passed slowly and boredom ate at his brain, once well rested his mind was that much sharper, consequently Mycroft often found himself with free time in his hands.

The last of the documents revised and sent, and the younger man observed avidly through his usual means as Lestrade sang to an old B.B. King and Eric Clapton blues while cooked steamed vegetables for dinner. Dancing near the kitchen counter, swishing his hips as he hit a few chords in his air guitar and his rough voice went for the low notes in 'Nobody loves me but my mother' and, for a mad moment, Mycroft allowed himself to disagree wholeheartedly.

Often enough, usually when he read the papers or enjoyed a book, Mycroft was the lone witness of the officer’s life. He saw the diligent policeman leaving his workplace late, or his bed early in the morning. Driving Mycroft to do something uncharacteristic on one occasion when he had been alerted of Greg's movements as he slept soundly in a morphine induced stupor (He might have requested to be called when subject #5638 moved at odd hours). Mycroft turned on his tablet and there he was, getting up in the middle of the night. Sighing and grunting, complaining and old, trying to wake up fully and be to the half of his wit to work on a murder at Richmond Park. The auburn haired man couldn't help himself and sent him a warm cup of coffee.

Mummy once said that, in a healthy couple, understanding often came wordless. He witnessed it in John and Sherlock as they started their friendship and when he got a single text, 'Ta. -GL' as an acknowledgement… He would blame it on the painkillers, but the sight of Gregory pocketing his phone and taking a long sip of his coffee mug clung to his mind and burnt in his soul. He had caused harm, war, grief but this lifted some of the weight of his position and set a warm feeling upon his chest.

Mycroft's pulse quickened as he decided to do something foolish and he answered 'Quite welcome, Inspector. MH', grinning cheekily in the darkness of his rooms. 'No sleep for the wicked, they say. Getting better? -GL' was the provocative, yet painfully sweet answer. Oh, pay no mind, you are no such thing, he thought as he lay his head back onto the pillow, lulled by the sight of the Inspector barking directions to his subordinates with fierce determination and grieving sadness over the corpse of a young man.

Once he was finally released from his forceful leave, he returned to Gregory's life full of expectations to have to remind the older man how their attraction had progressed (And to the rest of his regular activities, much to Anthea's absolute pleasure), but once again he was proven wrong and their first encounter had been memorable.

It was a late afternoon at Picadilly’s emptied construction site, the skies were tinted orange and red, when Gregory walked into the abandoned building for their first meeting since the phone-call and, oh, Mycroft couldn't find the words to express the glow deep within those dark orbs as a broad smirk grew into them. Lestrade pulled the taller man into an embrace he wasn't quite ready for, "Glad to see you back on your feet, mate" he said patting on his back amicably, staying for the exact amount of nine seconds against the older man’s solid frame. Think of England, thought Mycroft as Lestrade's sandalwood and mint clean scent clung in the air surrounding him, in his clothes, in his nostrils, in his skin, in his bones and heart.

The genius was at loss for words as the Detective Inspector looked up to his eyes once again. He was dangerously close and even if he looked rough as ever, he was so vastly unaware of how those steely spikes ruffled by the wind made him look, or how that smile made him look boyish and absolutely breathtaking. It took an extra ammount of fifteen seconds to convince himself that kissing the man senseless then and there would be a ghastly idea, so he opted to take a timid step back and clear his troat before saying, 'Yes, well' trying to find his confidence desperatedly. In a minute he was his thirteen year-old self again, absolutely defenseless and infatuated with one young man from Geography class at Eton.

But this wasn't just some cute yet insipid young man, and whatever made his heart rate spike dangerously to a coronary condition wasn't just the lust he felt for that blonde boy. This was something that had matured throughout the years and bloomed with time, this was his dark sense of humor and warm worry, the tough lines in his face and the evident experience in his eyes, the shrewdness in his sided smirk.

It was unfair how Gregory chuckled so fondly and Mycroft was unprepared to hear it resounding within his own ribcage filling him with glee and light. There was such an acute affection towards him that, for a fleeting moment, the younger man wanted to call off his plans. Simply be content with this pure and unique person as his friend, or find a way around his impossible schedule to build something deeper and lasting. After that first meeting they parted with a bit of reluctance, a long goodbye reserved for loved ones.

There was a period of absence as Mycroft returned to his usual schedule. Meetings were appointed, ego’s appeased and projects returned to their usual pace. When he saw Detective Inspector Lestrade after a month at 221B with such a good timing that the interest was apparent and Mycroft enjoyed every slight second of attention as those dark eyes fixed on him once more.

"I should've imagined that you two would do something as ridiculous", had said Greg, even if the pitch in his voice had lowered to a sensual rumble, "Is there anything you Eton kids don't do?" Greg leant on the doorframe watching Sherlock jump off the desk and attempt to touch Mycroft's chest with his sword as he moved away in a flourish.

Mycroft hummed keeping his eyes on the target, a hand on his back and his sword up "Fencing was optional if makes you feel assured in any way" he commented in a bored tone, the sund of metal meeting as his brother and himself lounged against each other.

"I am awfully surprised that being naturally lazy you even bothered to attend to those classes, Mycroft", Sherlock's gring had ill intentions and he lounged forward again, where Mycroft trapped him.

"Your feet, Sherlock", he said. And Mycroft pushed Sherlock down, making his sword jump from his hand and placing the tip of his épée to the young man's chest as he said "Touché, brother mine." In the most sickeningly sweet tone he could master.

Sherlock grumbled angrily, Mycroft would have jabbed the sword in further and gutted Sherlock right then and there, but Gregory silenced their name-calling ever so gallantly and the older Holmes simply apologized for 'Sherlock's aberrant display of his manners'.

And, oh, the delight of having those eyes raking over his frame as he commented on how Mycroft looked 'all better, already'. Of course he referred to the murder attempt, but the brightness at the back of those dark eyes showed a glimpse of something more. Something welcome and expected. Certainly something Sherlock wanted to forget, if his expression was anything to go by and something Mycroft would promptly address. Gregory searched the flat for a few files and begging them not to kill each other since 'It would cause too much bloody paperwork', he left them to their devices.

The scene itself had been homely, familiar, heart-warming and it had made Mycroft sigh quietly at Gregory's retreating form down the street and around the corner, a lone longing glance was shortly spared to the older man's retreating back, burning through the wool of the detective's winter overcoat. Sherlock rolled his eyes in disgust. 'Old friend', he had risked to say and the two simple words were burnt in Mycroft's skull. Not as good as 'New lover', or 'Best shag', but Mycroft could settle with that for a few moments longer.

"Your upper 8th grade teacher would be so proud. You have a real friend." His brother commented it as if it was a true surprise even to himself (And it probably was), still it was in his trademark biting manner. Sherlock moved to pick up his blade and tossed it into the umbrella holster, next to the door.

Mycroft simply unbuttoned his jacket and sat on John's old chair, "Mind your business, little brother." The second sword flew over his head and landed in the same place as the other one 'Childish,' he muttered as he rolled his eyes and his younger brother smirked cheekily.

The auburn haired Consulting Detective sighed and said, "Yes, of course. I am the childish one and you are pining after my Detective Inspector" Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the possessive in that last sentence. Then as he picked up his Stradivarius, Sherlock huffed prissily and commented, "Simply refrain from breaking him, Mycroft, or I shall make your life a difficult one."

Massaging his temple, Mycroft simply let out a sigh as he said "I am painfully aware you would be a hindrance, yes" Then opened his eyes and looked at his brother, as he threw himself dramatically over the old couch, "Although I thought you ought to be telling others that in order to care after your own blood" he frowned disapprovingly at his younger brother.

"You tend to forget that I know you, brother mine." The younger Holmes narrowed his eyes at Mycroft's small, confident smirk as it grew, "Do keep my warning in mind."

Mycroft sat up straighter and dusted off his shoulder in one casual motion, "I shall" he said mindlessly and Sherlock's violin screeched under his fingers, as the younger man refused to talk with his older brother for the remaining time of his short visit.

Somehow, each meeting left Mycroft wanting to see Gregory more often. But scheduling would give away his main purpose rather unceremoniously and he preferred to keep the delicacy of his courtship a secret. Coincidentally Sherlock's website and John Watson's blog went through technical difficulties with their server and they seemed to have a problem with new posts and requests for the Consulting Detective's services. So within a week of having Sherlock wearing John Watson's patience thin, Greg was forced to step in with an acceptable ammount of cold cases.

It was a curious matter that would resolve itself, of course. On a good note, their meetings were just a bit more frequent as he had counted on how complicated it would be to deal with a bored Sherlock on daily basis for entire weeks. Greg came into his office a bit more often, seething, tired, angered, happy, defeated, drenched, smelling, in all states possible and Mycroft would open his doors, ever so kindly and patiently listen to his complaints, posting a mask of polite comprehension and diplomatic understanding as he shamelessly drank the sight of the object of his, at this point... Unhealthy interest.

They soon came to a point of relaxation and familiarity enough that flirting wouldn't be off the options. The first time he had dared compliment Gregory's hair, the older man had looked a bit surprised and a lot curious, but Mycroft withdrew timidly regardless of the positive reaction and it all seemed to vanish like a mirage before the older man could draw a conclusion or it could be considered a full step into the unknown sides of their rendezvous. In the end, the first step into the right direction had to be given by the Detective Inspector himself, otherwise these little 'coincidences' would be easily tracked to the M.I.6 Director and he wouldn't allow rightful suspicion to fall on him.

Soon enough there were those frequent looks low on his back, be it after dinner, getting out of his office, in 221B or heading towards the car. Mycroft wasn't quite so evident when catching Lestrade’s appreciative glimpses, but they were abundantly reciprocated. Either way it was a strong indication that there was hope and Mycroft’s plans were coming to a proximate resolution.

Of course, there was a variable he had counted on and discretely dreaded: The possibility of the grey-haired man's confusion on his attraction and how he would easily find an out for pent-up sexual tension elsewhere. Gregory Lestrade started openly dating men on a lovelyspring afternoon. Mycroft was faintly proud of the other man's display of his own sexuality, as well as of his own influence in this outcome.

First contestant had been a 38 year-old man Gregory had met through footie mates in the bleachers of a particularly exciting Arsenal match. Horace Phillips was the sensible kind, reserved and shy, fit and simple beauty, but with a fundamental lack in character to keep up with the clever mouthed Detective Inspector. Hence, boring him slightly still had not stopped Gregory from accepting to have a date with him. Mr. Phillips had gotten too drunk too quickly during that single opportunity, making the ever patient Lestrade take him home and subsequently never call him again, unless there was a match coming that Saturday. Of course Mr. Phillips blamed the alcohol much like Gregory, none of them noticed the barman dropping the pill in his drink.

Second contestant had been a personal assistant. Joshua McDowell, 40 year-old man with a striking resemblance to yours truly (Mycroft just thought it was fun in a sick way, since all the similarity in the world wouldn’t make him as enticing as the original), but Gregory needed to have a taste to see for himself. So Mycroft let him have his bit of collegial fun with his doppelgänger. The evening quickly dissolved into 'Mine or yours?' and they stumbled through the darkness of Lestrade's home restless fumbling and heated kisses.

That was when the heat detectors came in handy, see? Mycroft followed each of their steps, until the very moment when they hit the mattress. They rushed through a drunken hand job and Greg's orgasmic sounds, the way his hands clenched the covers and how he received a male body with absolutely no restraint, had been both a victory and a nightmare for the voyeur.

Particularly if you counted the loss of a perfectly good brandy, as its bottle had been smashed against the wall. Anything to keep himself from sending that Mr. McDowell to the middle of the Amazon (God knew that, if anyone, Mycroft Holmes could find a good enough excuse to do so. A believable one at least) and giving away his position in this matter (A position where nobody else but Mycroft Holmes could be allowed to draw such sounds from Gregory Lestrade's body).

C'est la vie, he thought as laid restless on his bed, Gregory's moans resounding in his mind, lust taking over again and jealousy raging in his veins, until h decided it was best to simply forget about sleeping at all and decided to simply get up and work a few extra hours.

The next day Sherlock had noticed both, his brother's foul mood in the traffic jam around the Westminister District and Greg's post-orgasmic glow. Not loudly, thanks to Mr. Watson, who was nearby and he knew he'd chide at him if he dared speak of Lestrade's endeavors, so the young man simply hissed angrily at the latter's blindness, attempting to accuse him of a crime he hadn't committed.

Of course, he was interrupted by Anthea requesting Gregory’s presence at the Diogenes Club to a timed meeting. And that encounter worked particularly well, considering on the previous night's events and the physical resemblance to the man that Lestrade had taken to bed, were a catalyzers that would work perfectly to aid Gregory in his indecision to simply aim a bit higher, to Mycroft perhaps. The result was promising even if it hadn't ended in passionate exclamations.

The alarm in the Stranger's Room sounded in a carefully planned emergency stunt. This event forced all notable members and their company to find the nearest panic rooms and bunkers to find their solace until whatever event occurred had passed. It just happened that in the Stranger's Room, there was one particularly small, old bunker built in the 70's. It lacked the luxury and comfort that the newest additions had and the... Space. The entrance was located on the right side of the chimney, designed for the lone user of the smallest stranger's room, usually reserved for calls.

Mycroft would be lying if he said he wasn’t absolutely delighted when Gregory tripped on a supply box, falling on Mycroft and having his back hitting the wall and Greg’s weight over him. Want had been present on both sides, it had been so easy to read it in Gregory’s features. Mycroft would have paid a fortune to have that expression liquefied into a scent and he would have worn it like Clive Christian No.1, the sensual odor of those parting lips and the dark notes of those aroused eyes.

And for the first time, the situation had been accidental (Of sorts, there had been an 87% chance that Gregory would trip over the supplies… But little damage had been done), even if the tinge of arousal quickly turned to having the man respectfully standing back and offering a hand to get Mycroft away from the wall, which Mycroft politely accepted (Unwillingly, since he would have preferred to be pinned and debauched against it. Thank you very much).

It wouldn't be long now, three days was a generous estimate, a margin of two days as error. It was time to show true interest and make an offer no sane man could refuse. Stage three was so close, he could taste it.

-

"Oh, God, yes" he moaned, his hand fisting his pulsing cock slowly, letting the feeling melt and shiver down his back. Greg's skin begged for more attention as the warm water streamed over his chest and stomach. He closed his eyes trying his best to picture those round, large breasts and the strong thighs, the wetness and warmth of an annonymous brunette he had seen earlier that day. Her lovely smile contorting in pleasure and teeth gnawing at her own bottom lip as her long hair fell around her shoulders.

But there was something disatisfying about the image and something daft at the back of his mind, he didn't even dare to see further but his mind provided regardless of his wishes. Because there was a part of himself that didn't expect the irrational thought to happen by. Still, when Greg's calloused hand reached up to touch her hair it was short and soft, her erotic smell transformed to a trademark and delicate scent. Masculine and sensual. Her dark blue eyes were pale and piercing through him. Her lips were thinner and turned up at the tips as her shoulders morphed to be wider, then Mcroft Holmes was fully clothed on top of him purring like he had that morning, "Most kind of you."

The heat of his body and the pressure of muscle hidden underneath the expensive fabric. Expensive from head to toe he would look so much younger if he let his hair be and match those freckles around the bridge of his nose, his sharp jaw and rare smile. Everything about Mycroft was epicurean sex, timid promise and cleverness teasing playing the Detective Inspector's brain as if it was a simple instrument.

Mycroft long fingers touched greedily, his freckles looked highlighted by the dim atmosphere of the narrow space of the underground bunker. His eyes darkened in the same way as that morning, his usually sharp tongue struggling through words. Greg threw all caution to the wind and gifted himself a shameless piece of fiction as he pictured the younger man flustered and undone, short-circuiting under his ministrations.

Greg's toes curled as he came shivering, biting his lips not to scream and supporting his weight against the cold tile wall pressing a hand to his mouth as he hummed. Well, fuck... he thought and blinked lazily, a few drops of water falling from his wet eyelids as the water still splashed. It would have been nice not to expect that, he thought. Because, honestly, as of late he had been seeing a lot more of Mycroft and even if he was the same old bussiness acquaintance. And even if he expected a change in their relationship when Sherlock came back from the dead, he hadn't counted on actually considering the older man as a sexual companion. Mycroft resumed washing his hair as he briefly tied a few loose ends on his latest plans for the Detective Inspector.

But one thing he didn't expect was their relationship to develop into friendship, or to find Mycroft to be even more interesting than he already was. As if a secret squirrel high up in the British Government wasn't bloody enticing enough, he had to be smart mouthed too. Bloody hell, he cursed internally and how Mycroft seemed to enjoy his quick antagonism and how they clashed and worked together. Greg wasn't the brightest man alive, but he had always been a bit too clever himself and one thing he hadn't counted on is in being attracted without the restriction of the wedding band.

Because God knows Mycroft was a dangerous acquaintance, and the younger man would have him expatriated if he learnt that he had become a hindrance to their strangely amicable but mainly professional relationship. After all the one to put the strange ideas about human relations into Sherlock's mind had been none other than the older Holmes. Hell, he had overheard that ridiculous 'All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage.' from his seat outside the morgue. Lovely situation really.

"Christ!" he hissed as the ice cold water hit his back and he rinsed quickly, cursing under his breath as he quickly closed the tap. Best to stay quiet with this matter, you don't really want someone like Mycroft fucking up what was left of your pride. Greg cleaned the fogged up mirror and sighed, "You're mucking up" he said smiling at his reflection fondly, before brushing his teeth.

-

Placing a few CD's into an archive box and leaning down to sign a few reports, he looked up to the clock. It should mind, the hour. Sally and Peters had come by to bid him goodnight and the sounds of the street were quieter. Like anyone would expect even at Westminister around 3:21 am. He pressed his fingers through his slightly long grey hair sighing. I'll get a haircut tomorrow, he thought, pretending he hadn't had the very same thought throughout the past few weeks.

He knew he should take vacations or leave days, visit someplace warm but much like those souls and ghouls walking around the hallways of the office, he would be restless if he did so. Work had always been a big part of his life and not only because he allowed it, but because he loved what he did. Crime never sleeps, so do most police officers. There's always a record to check, an alibi to get, a questioning to make, an arrest to carry through the filters of the law... Always.

The low, soul music that emerged from his computer. It barely helped him stay awake as he filed his closed cases. Greg stood from his desk rubbing his eyes, mumbling to 'No sugar in my coffee' sounded as he revised the documents he had just signed and placed them in their respective folders. Before he caught something out of the corner of his eye.

He noticed the older Holmes as he saw the man standing much like a vision in Tom Ford, at the corners of his eye. He turned to look quickly as if he wanted to catch his mind playing tricks in revenge for staying up to this late hour, but there he stood tall and proud as ever. Greg sighed, half in relief that he would live anotherday in the blissful advantage of sanity and at the bad omen the presence of the protagonist of his latest fantasies. The taller man stood quietly, with a fox smirk at his lips. As if waiting for him to come to terms with the imposing presence at his door, "Christ, you kids will kill me one of these days."

"My apologies, I did not wish to startle you or interrupt, you looked quite..." Mycroft stepped into the artificial light of the office, grey eyes inspecting the room as Greg gathered the gruesome pictures from his desk, "Absorbed in your work" he said quietly.

Greg let out a breath of a laugh "If you're really sorry you'll stop smiling, or I'll put a bell around your neck." He threatened in a light tone, pointing at him with a pen and watching the younger man rise an eyebrow. Challenging expression over his handsome features. Greg busied himself with clearing his desk of his notes, "Bit late for you to be up, world keeping you up tonight as well?" the Detective Inspector motioned for Mycroft to take a seat in the terrible plastic chair he offered to everyone that entered in his office, seeing him choose the old sofa.

The auburn haired man plucked a stack of files off of it and Greg's along with it. The owner of the office took the papers from Mycroft's hands, feeling a finger trace the backside of his hand accidentally, "Sorry for the mess, haven't really had the time to put order to anything else than old cases lately” he excused himself, feeling a blush rise at the back of his neck. Then he picked the jacket and hanged it, as the pale eyes followed him around the room, “You look like you're ready for a three week sleep, mate." he commented placing the pile of papers on his desk and tossing his overcoat on the back of the chair.

In the meantime, Mycroft closed the door and finally sat on the couch, crossing his long legs and making the old thing look just a bit more luxurious with his sole, royal presence. It was part of an attitude that brassed Greg off in a way, but it would be odd if Mycroft behaved any other way, "I assure you I am quite alright, I had enough time to rest during my forced leave" he said as if that had been the most tedious time of his life and the steely gaze lifted to look at Greg "I could ask a similar question to you, Inspector. But I believe it is as they say: Crime never sleeps."

He was painfully aware on how they were looking straight at each other and how the corner of his mouth had lifted in a pleased smirk, the companionship came off easy "That's what they say, but I assure you that in reality what keeps me up most times is the bleeding paperwork" he commented and as Mycroft's eyes crackled with amusement, dissolving into a chuckle. The office was terribly narrow and Greg felt a touch claustrophobic, as if the closeness in another narrow space would mean the inevitable would happen. As if it was a sign, first the bunker and now this. 

"Certainly, I know of your suffering" he said in his raspy, low voice.

"Do you really?" Mycroft lifted an eyebrow, "I always thought that someone at your office would at least" Greg offered with a playful expression.

Picking up a picture from the floor and hardly impressed by the explicit content of it "That’s more likely these days, I am generally subjected to reading, not so much... Ah, paperwork", with a delicate movement Mycroft left the picture on the desk.

Chuckling quietly Greg pulled another set of A-22.1 forms from the database in his computer and started passing notes "Your talents are better spent elsewhere I'm sure." Greg wanted to kick himself. What the fuck was he doing? Flirting with the most powerful man in the world. Classy. Bloody fuck. He pretended to be absorbed by the current form.

Pursing his lips, Mycroft refrained from commenting. And Greg didn't pay major attention to him as he made his way through suspect interviews. After all, if Mycroft needed something he would ask for it, the fact that he hadn’t was wearing on Greg’s nerves, "Would you mind joining me for coffee?" there had been something strange in Mycroft's wording.

He looked present, strangely void of expressions and looking directly at him... Blasted unreadable Holmes, Greg narrowed his eyes and his fingers paused over the keyboard as he turned to look at the other man, frowning "There isn't something wrong, you wouldn't make conversation and bring coffee into it" he said.

The other man let a small smirk grow into his lips this time, as if it was a gift for his quick observation, "Of course not." Greg's frown deepened.

"And if you needed my help with something I'd see a file around, since you know I prefer to have tangible information" he looked around the man.

Mycroft hummed approvingly, as he fiddled with his phone.

"Sure. Is everything alright?" asked Greg, feeling a bit of dread at the idea of whatever Sherlock might have done now.

The other man spun his umbrella, pale eyes fixed on the handle and he pressed his lips for a millisecond before saying “Nothing as urgent as you may believe and certainly not involving a third party. I simply thought you might wish the company.”

The possibility of Mycroft feeling unwell crossed his mind, because the implications of his words were quickly becoming surreal, “Are you alright?” he asked pointedly, looking at the pale man as his grey eyes lifted lazily to meet Greg's darker ones.

"Do I have to be mentally affected to ask you out for coffee, Gregory? After all, you did imply we have been long term friends. I thought it was a social convention." Greg winced and opened his mouth to appease the slightly strained official, but he was interrupted, "As engaging as it is to see you try to deduce my motivations for such a request, and as unbelievable as you might find it, which is only slightly flattering, I am afraid my incentive is simply to enjoy your company. And I wanted to give you a gesture of my appreciation by sharing a beverage with you, out of our regular encounters on emergency situations. Considering how I was kept up late and you, as a commiserating soul can understand how taxing that can be."

Mycroft got up and tapped his umbrella impatiently on the floor, Greg sat back heavily and hearing his chair squeak too loud in the thick silence, "Wow, now that's your compelling speech to take a mate out for coffee" he said and watched Mycroft's eyes narrow imperceptively, he just put his hands up and sad "Yeah, ok. I'm sorry, but I'm used to you appearing when Sherlock's broken something... Or someone, including himself, or… Crisis in general" he scratched the back of his neck, the odd atmosphere was setting around them and Greg could read plenty into it but refused to believe it and frowned, "Course I'd love to have coffee with you, if you don't mind we make it quick, I'd like to finish this century with these" he said unrolling his sleeves and buttoning his cuffs.

The taller man was a meagre distance of three feet away, "Lestrade" he said in a solid, grave, commanding tone and Greg stopped midway putting on his jacket before looking at the man "As always, I am vaguely impressed by your instinct and self-preservation since I do have an ulterior motive," Greg's eyebrow rose, he finished putting on his jacket with an expression that beckoned Mycroft to continue "I wanted to make you an offer" the other eyebrow joined the first, "I have noticed that your feelings towards me haven't been as amicable as you claim."

There was pregnant silence and Greg looked as if he was seeing the light at the end of the tunnel and it turned out to be a train. His features had turned pale and cold sweat formed on his forehead. Blimey, he thought as Mycroft continued "And I happen to have found a solution to this matter that has been distracting the both of us in a professional environment."

Crickey Moses, the DI swallowed thickly as he said "I have the feeling you're not offering coffee..." and Mycroft gave him a smile that would haunt his nightmares and wet dreams for years to come.

"You do have some foresight. Even at this hour, I see. I applaud your talent," and as he said 'talent' a shade of something dark and arousing passed through Mycroft’s usually pale eyes. Both men stood their ground for a few long moments, Greg’s mind processed the information and Mycroft simply waited patiently. He thought of John’s frequent warnings, he thought of how nice it would be to push the posh prick down that couch behind him and shag him into oblivion, he thought of Sherlock, he thought of The Queen, he thought of a cigarette, he thought of how (possibly literally) fucked he was.

Greg blinked and that's when someone knocked at the door making him jump slightly, as Mycroft calmly walked to open the door and received two cups of coffee, "Thank you dear, I shall be at the car in a moment."

Anthea simply said "Yes, sir. Goodbye, Mr. Lestrade" Greg nodded at her trying to hide how shocked and uncomfortable he felt. Mycroft placed the paper cup on his desk quietly and making eye contact he purred, "Do think about it, Inspector."

He realized he was gaping only when Mycroft was retreating, "Ah- I... Thank you for the coffee?" he said, still feeling as if he had fallen down the rabbit hole and was still trying to find his way back to the real world.

Mycroft wore a neutral expression, sipping from his own mug and saying "My intention was not to shake you up quite so much...” his long index finger tapped on the paper cup and Greg swallowed thickly, “Do have a good night and do not hesitate to contact me once you have found an answer to the matter." And with a hint of a smile tightly schooled to be hidden, the man left his office.

That last statement filled the air in the office. Dropping himself on his chair heavily and placing a hand over his mouth to keep any exclamations from coming out, the Detective Inspector looked at the coffee mug sitting on his desk. Mycroft knows, him having information was a dreadful position but him knowing, for certain and all doubts cleared by Greg’s own reaction at being caught off-guard… That was downright dangerous, shite.

So no such luck as taking a few glances at safe distance any longer "Shite" he muttered now, pressing his hands to his face and let out a pained moan. Of course Mycroft knew, even if he tried to keep his growing admiration at bay by teasing the younger man with their usual familiarity and quickly resuming to work instead of their usual banters, the tension between them these days had become apparent.

Mind you, what could possibly be the problem in saying yes and having his way with the ever so pristine and proper Mycroft Holmes? Well, as tempting as that was, Greg trusted his intuition greatly and there was something about this whole ordeal that seemed... Off.

Tossing another B-3.19 into the bin angrily, he sat back feeling tired, overworked and helpless. His phone went off and he stood to take it from the sofa. Mycroft's floral and spicy cologne still hanging around the air, a persistent reminder as he answered the phone, "Lestrade."

"Caught you up, boss!" said one of his Constables "All units were called to a small house in Lyon Street. I think The Butcher's done a bit of his work again. Inspector Ryan is in charge." And that bloke was a prick, always sticking his nose where it didn't belong. Probably a matter with the West District that brought them there.

Sighing and thanking grimly to the distraction, he picked up his overcoat and said "I'll be there in 20 with the Scientific Police Division, stay exactly where you are and claim jurisdiction. Anyone that touches anything will be arrested by yours truly and thrown into a cute little cell."

The constable's shaky voice said "Of course. And sir...?"

"Yes." he answered in a cutting tone as he walked to his car.

"There are five victims this time", her voice trembled like an earthquake. There was a possible horror scene waiting for him, then.

Greg let out a long sigh and said, "Be there in a minute, Constable. Keep me posted."

"Yes, sir" was all he heard before she clicked off. And that easily, what had happened a few moments ago was forcibly placed out of his mind for the time being.

-

After ten hours of looking and overlooking, waiting for analysis on every single thing and a press conference, paperwork, warrants and identification of two separate corpses. Melanie Yahmur and Luke Johnson were the lucky two that had enough teeth left to pin them down. No connection between them, any likeness, large age gap. This killer had remained in the shadows for entire decades and it appears that he had woken up from his sleep to cast his atrocities upon these people, as erratic and ambitious as ever, a bloke that just enjoyed killing.

Sherlock had been twenty-seven the first time Greg gave him this cold case, the man's frustration was palpable when he had to admit that he couldn’t solve it with the current evidence. He had nothing. No motive, no links, nothing resembling a clue. Just something about an Italian tourist, Gabriella Sechiutti, she had snapped a last picture of a large man's retreating lower back. Smart girl, he'd thought in grief as the middle-aged woman's eyes stared up to the ceiling in eternal resignation. Sherlock could tell that the man was in his mid-thirties by the size of his hipbone and that his profession possibly required brute strength, since his arms were well formed and the curve in his back.

So most would understand why Sherlock burst into his office the next day, as Greg talked on the phone with Sally, "I want to see the crime scene" he demanded. Greg lifted a finger, giving a single warning on his face, then he continued to listen to the details on the interviews to the neighbours and Sherlock rolled his eyes, taking the file and reading rapidly. Halting he sniffed, looked at the couch and picked a single hair from the fabric.

Finally hanging up, Greg put his jacket on and said "Taking the case, then?" he asked, looking at the younger man. Not quite as young as he was back then, not quite as thin, not as twitchy "Come on, I'll take you there. Where's John?" he asked.

"Emma has a fever and the Watson's are busy caring for her" Sherlock closed the file and looked at Greg's desk scrunching up his nose.

The Detective Inspector put his jacket on and said, "Ok, he'll catch up later, then. Come on." he urged and Sherlock did as asked, narrowing his eyes at him viciously. Greg rose an eyebrow and walked to the elevator "So, what you read in the file is pretty much what we have, but if you can find anything in the house, I'm sure the both of us will feel better and- What?" he asked once he realized Sherlock was sniffing near him, then his eyes opened and he muttered "Shite."

"You and Mycroft" was all Sherlock sentenced; there were a few people in the elevator with them. Only one clerk turned to look at them, Greg smiled apologetically and grabbed Sherlock's elbow as they stopped at ground floor, dragging him down the main hall and to the parking lot.

Once they found a bit more privacy in the car he said "Yeah, if it weren't for a certain someone, I wouldn't be receiving his late night visits."

“Late night visits?” asked the consulting detective, bugger.

Letting out a long, suffering sigh Greg pinched the bridge of his nose as they walked to his car “Just visits, talking. Why am I telling you this? We are bloody grown men and this is none of your business.”

“You are feeling bashful about something, Lestrade. Whyever else would you take up such color?” and the blush upon Greg’s cheeks and ears darkened as he glared at Sherlock’s amused grin.

“Get into the bloody car” He said in a low rumble. Sherlock snorted amused and the DI simply refrained from asking, as he started the car and checked his phone's texts one last time before driving.

"Do not be fooled, Gary. If you insist in behaving like an innocent maiden he will take advantage of such weakness” he commented in a mysterious way.

Sitting back, Greg just looked at the younger man as he revised the files "Whatever makes you think that when my brother does anything that doesn't grant him direct and personal benefit? There are no such things as coincidences. He taught me that himself and he did it for a reason, whatever you have found different in your life as of late has his imprint, if you cared to observe."

It was then when all odd feelings started making sense "I’m not sure I like the implications of what you’re claiming. " Either way, Mycroft Holmes, the immovable, monstrous mastermind wouldn’t bother to make an intricate scheme to put Greg through hell and back. But his life had been odd as of late, reacquainting with his sexuality and even dating, if the older Holmes wanted him, wouldn’t he just say something? Feeling the anxiousness at the pit of his stomach.

"He's worse than what you think, Lestrade. Tell me, have you felt unease about any events in your life during these past months?" Greg blinked and Sherlock spared him a sad glance, "Be careful" was his last comment.

Slowly the events started closing in his mind and "Why would he bother?"

Sherlock hummed, his eyes back to the file "He likes you for a reason no fair person could possibly fathom. I need to see the underside of the windowsill" he mused looking at the pictures. The younger man frowned as he noticed how they weren't moving, he looked up at the dumbfounded DI, "We have a meeting with a serial killer, Lestrade, start the car, or I shall take you there and I know how you detest my driving."

Greg cringed visibly as he started the car and started moving towards the exit of the parking lot, "I wouldn't have a problem if you didn’t tend to forget about what the lights mean and you knew what speed to take to the crime scene, seriously, how did you get your license?" Sherlock lifted an eyebrow with an expression that screamed 'Obvious'. Greg pinched the bridge of his nose and said "Forget I asked... Just don't upset our new Forensic expert."

Sherlock looked at the Detective Inspector impassively "Move quicker, Lestrade, I don't want to leave the crime scene to your incompetent colleagues more than necessary."

Greg rolled his eyes. As he got to Broadway Street, cool rage set in his chest as he slowly realized he may have been fooled. Mind you, he could certainly have a quick, angry shag with the handsome, devilishly infuriating Mr. Holmes, but giving him what he wanted simply wouldn't do now. Blasted luck, everyone surrounding him just had to be unreasonably mad.

-

The older Holmes was striving to find the end of his patience these days. At first he had been as amicable as ever, yet srangely close. Phisically close. Greg observed as the other man studied him, the forbidden tension now begged for attention and, as soon as Greg started making his own connections, the closer he got to a conclusion, the least he liked the implications of very single one of Mycroft's actions.

Soon enough Greg had withdrawed his usual friendliness. He turned to briskly answered mails, short salutes as he kept an excessively close eye on his crime scenes, no texts and short business calls. Mycroft's smiles had started wavering and there was an estranged look about his factions, soon enough the younger man took a large distance and then vanished into thin air yet again. Even if he was still trying to figure out the entirety of the game Mycroft was playing, the dreadful feeling that it was too late kept building. He felt like a single piece the British Government had been moving at will in a little scheme he wasn't aware of. That made him feel both disrespected and strangely disappointed.

Now the Detective Inspector jogged through Saint James Park, there were shadows in his eyes and his brain was still whirring restlessly at the thought of everything that had happened during this past week and a half. Greg clenched his teeth as anger set in his chest, heavy and cold. He had already yelled needlessly at his team, fought with Sherlock and even Peters had asked what got his panties in a twist, Greg had wanted to scream 'His bloody brother' and realized on how tied his hands were when he realized he held no tangible proof of his apparent suspicions. It was then that he realized that Mycroft was probably ten steps ahead of him in this design of his. So all he could do was run for dear life.

Mycroft Holmes. He stopped slowly, panting, spent and exhausted, heart hammering wildly in his chest as he keeled and caught up his breath. NSA's nightmare, MI6's handler, CIA freelancer, Met's shadow ruler, chums with The Royal Family and number one Emergency Contact in the PM's list. And he wanted to have an arrangement with him. Tall, posh, eerily clever Mycroft Holmes in his three piece bespoke suits, Italian designer leather shoes and Eton/Oxbridge/Babylon-on-Thames sprout. The man with a block of ice for a heart and only one ounce of humanity left to love his brother to the edge of a rooftop. The man that hadn't doubted to disappear after Sherlock’s funeral, cutting all ties with the Detective Inspector that had taken his younger brother under his wing, all silent indemnification handed in the form of several investigations on Sherlock's cases opening and Lestrade magically keeping his job.

The man that could own his house, his car, his life with a snap of his manicured fingertips, the man that had bent his arm around his back on more than one occasion, the man that knew everything and had a security clearance broad enough to walk all over his jurisdiction. That man. Interested in him... Greg shivered as the cool spring breeze seeped through his damp hoodie.

Christ, he could count the ammount of years he had defended Mycroft's check-up's on Sherlock while the latter had constantly claimed that his brother was simply satisfying his thirst for absolute control. He genuinely believed Mycroft as he put on a worried face as his brother dragged himself periodically into the crack-houses, "He's bloody worried for you, give him a break" And Sherlock had begged him not to believe the older Holmes, he hadn't... Or so he thought, years passed and they grew closer, he tended to fend for the younger Holmes and appease the older. He absolutely believed that camera he had found in his old house to be just a precaution... A chilling thought came to him. Big Brother's always watching.

His dark eyes looked at a camera posted at the corner of the block, the sweat on his skin cooling off and the spring breeze biting into his skin, chilling him to the bone as he walked back to the nearest tube station. Perhaps he wants to see if he can break me, he thought bitterly as he paid his fare. The Detective Inspector sat absorbed by his dark thoughts, only moving to give his seat to an elder woman. Perhaps he just wants to see how much pressure I can hold, but it seemed unlikely. Mycroft didn't do experiments. He was all precision, all absolute numbers, all perfection, all sharp observations.

Greg walked out of the underground and without paying major attention to his surroundings, he checked on his phone. Lately work had resumed to a mess of paperwork. It was as if every small case just added to the pile. That bloody thing had grown so much that he should start saving to get it into college soon if they didn't tame bureaucracy. And he had blamed Mycroft for it like every red light he caught, like every frustrating case he was forced to take, the fact that his groceries disappeared and the fact that his ex-wife was moving to Spain in a week. He knew it was unlikely, but paranoia ate at him. 'He likes you for some reason' had said Sherlock and it sounded mostly dreadful and just a tad... Just a bit... Interesting.

Still stressed out of his skull, Greg excused himself and entered a little shop in the corner just a block from his own flat. He deserved a bit of mindless self indulgence, so he bought a box of Pall Malls and lit one immediately. Nicotine hit the spot quickly, so he decided not to think himself silly any longer, Mycroft would get bored of watching him and his silly life quickly enough, right?

Wrong, he thought turning at the corner to see the one and only Mr. Mycroft Holmes standing at the very entrance of his home, waiting. For pity’s sake, he is the bloody devil after all, thought Greg and turned around to leave, “Lestrade” that quiet tone that commanded attention. And for no bloody reason made him shiver and turn to the source.

Knowing it was useless to fight once Mycroft Holmes made his resolve and apparently it was having him gagging for it on his knees. Bloody bad idea to think about that now when he's staring at you with the eyes and the smirk and the tap of his fingers and... Shite... Greg sighed, cursing at his luck and turned walking to his entrance door and opened it humming, feeling Mycroft’s cold, piercing eyes burning a hole on his back as he did, “I'm knackered, Holmes, not today."

He could see the manicured eyebrow lifting at his response. There was something wrong and it was bloody obvious, if Greg wanted the upper hand in this business he knew he should really leave his anger aside and be cordial in the very least, “I assure you I have better things to do, it will be just a moment, Inspector.” Greg looked at Mycroft, distant eyes piercing through him sharp as scalpel blades and Greg held his façade, holding his ground.Then he simply sighed tiredly and said, "Fine" looking away from the other man's prisine figure. For a mad moment he wanted to make the pristine looking man into a mess, instead he stepped on the butt of his cigarette and exhaled the remains of the smoke in a long, suffering sigh. After opening the door, he stepped aside “Come on, show me what you've got” he nodded to Mycroft’s briefcase and the man simply stilled for a few seconds, something humorless flashing at the back of his pale eyes, then he nodded curtly. It was infuriating how this man could keep composure.

Greg closed the door after them. He could practically picture himself pushing the posh git up the door, handcuffing him to the doorknob and making him confess. But instead he said, “Go on, make yourself comfortable” signaling to his little living room, he took a deep breath and moved through the kitchen to take a towel from the laundry room. On his way back, Greg unzipped his hoodie and pressed the towel to his face, “So… How can I help?” he asked and sat in the loveseat. Mycroft had taken a chair and unbuttoned his jacket, sitting down stiffly. The Detective Inspector did his best to sharpen his mind to meet the unspoken challenge. Taking the time to observe his adversary, mulling over the chances and ways he could play to cloud Mycroft’s mind enough as the other man ordered the papers on the table in two neat piles.

"I simply wanted to get your statement signed as that case the MI6 took is taking an ungodly difficult turn for the needlessly complex" said the self-proclaimed minor Government Official, "Worry not. I am far too distracted at present to think about our... Previous discussion" he finished delicately, looking at Greg as he sat back with that exasperating blank look.

Humming, Greg licked his dry lips and watched Mycroft's eyes follow the motion. Too distracted my nibs, he thought "Ok, and what do we have there?" he sat back feeling his mouth dry.

Mycroft started taking out papers and said "I simply need your signature on a few contracts of secrecy and your typed statement. I did get the mail, you see. Not much, I believe you can handle this much of paperwork, hm?" Greg wanted to break something, to punch the little smirk playing at the corners of Mycroft's lips, scream, rave, pull him to his bedroom and never call him again after shagging him senseless, he wanted to throw him out of his house.

Pressing his tongue on his teeth he took the papers letting his rough fingers slide over Mycroft's hand slightly as he defiantly smiled back, a game two can play. He watched the man's eyebrows twitch, the smile fall and then how he put distance between them as he sat back as impassive as ever, "Lucky you, I'm patient enough to do it without making you go through my boss to give me these papers..." Mycroft blinked repeatedly, confusion, "Lemme take a look." He was aware on how the tee still stuck to his skin, clinging a bit wet.

Mycroft cocked his head only slightly. Doubt, yes. Pale eyes fixed quickly around his hands, legs and neck, then back to his eyes. There was an imperceptible narrow of his eyes and a dangerous tilt in his mouth that spoke of impatience, "Do take your time."

Don't mind if I do, thought Greg and he did, looking through the pages and occasionally looking up, eyes connecting with Mycroft's own "Where do I sign, then?" he asked after going through the ten pages of bollocks, even if the jargon and seals seemed legitimate, printed in official paper, it was obvious that this was an excuse. There was no such thing as a Ply for Secrecy and Security Clarence resolution and this farse was too much for his already frail patience, so he couldn't resist to comment as he signed the fake papers "Next time you can just call and tell me you'd like to see me" he said turning the page and sighing "Anything’s better than having to sign these fake forms to give you a dignified excuse."

Mycroft was officially done, and it was clear in the way he sat back lifting his eyes to meet Greg's, as if the other man's words had pushed him and narrowed his eyes, steeping his hands under his chin as he silently observed Greg sign the fake papers, "I see you are quite done playing that little game of yours as well. Do tell me, how is it working? Have you gathered the information you needed? The revenge you wanted to achieve?"

The pen stopped mid scrawl and Greg looked up, feeling the wild anger inject as poison into his veins, "You do realize I could ask the same three questions to you, right?" he asked as he looked down and continued to sign the papers. Slowly going through them. The other man scoffed and Greg shook his head slowly,sounding disappointed and vicious, "What would your mum say about lying, Mike?" he asked and he heard Mycroft get up.

The homicide Inspector looked up, vaguely amused and vastly miffed as the man in question ripped the papers from under Greg's pen, tossing them into his briefcase and closing it as he said, "That's quite enough, Inspector. I believe it is best if I leave."

Standing up, he saw the other man closely. Mycroft looked as exhausted as Greg felt, there were a few worry lines in his face and his shoulders seemed to have given into the weight put onto them and there were shadows under his pale, reddened eyes. The rest of him was as flawless, from his trademark look to the strength in his voice, details that made Mycroft, the ruler, remained untouched. Snapping his mouth shut, Greg kept a wise silence.

There was a charged moment as Greg realized he had a check mate against the smartest man in the world (Even if he had a bit of help on the side) younger man opened his mouth and came closer an inch, then bared his teeth and simply turned to leave. Clearly not counting on a quick hand grabbing the younger man's arm, Greg felt slightly thankful that Mycroft didn't break it as the man spun and easily released himself from the death grip. Both glared at each other, looking equally offended and displeased, “We need to bloody talk, Holmes” the silver haired man sounded angry.

"There's little to say, it seems you have come to terms with the state of matters without my intrusion. I cannot see how you could possibly use my opinion now." said the younger man a teeth clenching tightly at the end of the phrase. There was something dangerous in him, but Greg stood his ground.

"Of course you would know a lot about my thoughts, right? God forbid I have that one bloody thing for myself," he accused and Mycroft took a step back. Not because Greg was looking rather violent, but because of his own ire “Just what the hell do you think you're doing?” he asked said in a low, firm tone.

Mycroft snorted and rolled his eyes "Your paranoia looks unbecoming, I simply wanted to do a bit of research on a deduction that's been disturbing my thoughts, you see" the younger man leaned closer to the older man as he said, "It seemed to me that someone had placed strange ideas in your head, distressing ideas and it seems it is quite true."

"And you're doing nothing to help me think differently, Mycroft. Answer my bloody question," asked Greg taking a step towards the other man, tempted to shake the answers out of him.

The other man was patient enough, taking a deep breath and pinching the bridge of his nose "Caring for a friend, or so I thought. And pray tell, what do you believe to be achieving with this behavior?”

Greg narrowed his eyes "A friend?” he let out a bitter laugh “Well, newsflash, Mike, friends don’t use each other for amusement”, crossing his arms before his chest.

“Oh, and you are the epitome of friendliness. You have suspected and judged me without any tangible proof for entire weeks,” he stated as he walked away and to the door, as if he was done with the matter entirely.

“You know? That’s rich coming from you”, and that was Greg’s final provocation.

The door closed as soon as it had been opened. Mycroft placed his overcoat, umbrella and briefcase on a chair near the darkened entrance hall, his face obscured by the dim lights as he took the last few decisive steps towards Greg. He wouldn’t attack him in his own house, would he? Even if he believed the brilliant man to be capable of many miracles and atrocities alike, he wasn’t likely to cause unnecessary turmoil and excessive violence out of nothing.

The kiss was a surprise. At first Mycroft’s angered frame crashed onto him with the force of the Nordic sea, pinning him to the farthest wall and that's when their lips connected. Greg kissed him first, but fuck if he was getting behind in whatever Mycroft wanted to start. It grew passionate and needy all too quickly.

Vaguely concerned by his smell as Mycroft's luxurious cologne intoxicated him, Greg relished on Mycroft’s hands clawing at his back and up his tee, dragging his nails down his back, breaking skin, as Greg bit down on the man’s lips roughly, fighting back and releasing pent-up frustrations.

This is terrible.

This is perfect.

-

Clever, clever man, thought Mycroft pushing his tongue into the disarming kiss. All anger and fight of power. Nothing more bittersweet than to have something you wanted given willingly for all the wrong reasons. The taller man let out a groan as Greg bit again, demanding attention and pushed the length of his frame closer to his own, asking for more. The unspoken words were driving Mycroft to the edge of insanity. The entire schedule of his dreadful plan flew out of the window as soon as the other man decided to throw Mycroft over the edge of want by acting smart.

Chasing each other in turns, finding the other's mouth. Desperate and angry, Mycoft let himself be abused and took all he felt the need to have in turn, for the world as he knew it could end that very moment. Greg turned the tables and pressed the taller man to the wall of his entrance hall and Mycroft grinned, lips red and swollen. They stopped their violent encounter shortly, breathing ragged and the animosity in Greg’s face looked raw and rich, far from placated. It had transformed into something between frustration and lust. Still, the detective clung to him as if all answers to their issues were between his arms (or legs, if he asked nicely enough).

He didn't want to discuss the impossible, he didn't want to know the truth, he didn't want to see Mycroft, he didn't want him to leave, he didn’t want to think. So as kindly and giving as ever, Mycroft obliged. Strangely enough, the plan worked along these lines sans the violence in the act, but who was he to say no to such a tempting offer? Taking Greg's hands from the bruising clutch at his waist to his shoulders and letting him push the taller man to his knees.

Muttering a string of curses as pale eyes looked up to see Greg blushing and anger dissolving into vulnerability, want and demand. The sight would challenge many images Mycroft had seen in his life and every word was music to Mycroft’s ears. Greg was wearing a light pair of cotton trousers for running so the other man’s interest was evident and growing, reachable. Pulling up Greg’s old tee, he placed feverish kisses over his waist and navel. Adoring every inch of skin he had seen in those pixelated images through a computer, they didn't do any justice to the sight of the man above him. Shivering and undecided.

Still, the detective inspector demanded. Greg’s mind, need and focus depended strictly on what Mycroft’s tongue and teeth would do to his Sartorius muscle as he sampled the salty skin, on how he brushed his teeth down his navel.

And there it was a hand on his hair and a needy buck of his hips against Mycroft's face. He was taken to that first night where he coincidentally saw Gregory pleasuring himself, and, oh, how right he was! Seeing this spectacle first hand was absolutely breathtaking.

Lowering pants and trousers in one swift movement, down to Gregory's ankles and taking in the view of one very hard and ready member. A shiver ran up his spine as the hand massaged his scalp, he closed his eyes and placed both hands on the other man's hips as a grunt left him.

He looked up, seeing Greg’s own attention in what he was doing. Eyes darkened by arousal and the spark of animosity against the genius completely burnt into dark arousal.

So he smiled up, and buried his nose in Gregory's crotch, it smelled of musk, sweat and dust. Masculine and wild. The cool, long fingers caressed up Greg's thighs and he shivered "Shite, Mike, really..." complaining on the verge of exasperation “On with it or I’m leaving to take a shower and have a wank.”

He grunted in disapproval and said, “If you would be so kind to shut up, I would be extremely…” Mycroft undid his own trousers as he spoke and gave a long lick to Greg’s member, feeling the man shiver and his knees buck slightly at the attention “Grateful”. The genius knew how to handle this rebellious colt, a bit of brute strength was in order to turn this man into a nice mare. With a firm grip at Lestrade’s arse and feeling the man lean on his shoulders completely “Say please and I’ll give you anything.”

Mycroft looked up with that grin that did bad things to good men and gave Greg's shaft another long, luscious lick as his hands found a way around to squeeze his buttocks. Greg hissed, closing his eyes for a second and looking back into Mycroft's pale ones, panting he cursed again loudly “Fuck, Mycroft, what do you-?” another lick and tongue staying to tease at the tip of Greg’s cock “Shit! Please, Christ, yes” he screamed arching off the wall, biting his lips and humming when his cock was engulfed in the younger man's wet mouth.

Only a bit of teeth at the base and so much tongue and slick and wetness, "For fuck's sake, fucking God, bloody-" was all Greg could mutter and then mouth fell open in a silent exclamation and his hazy eyes slowly closed as he left himself in Mycroft's hands. The hand that grip at his head fell on his shoulder gripping tightly, hips trembling as he made an effort not to fuck into the other man's lips. The government official smiled slightly as he thought, how sweet. Seeing how Greg’s free hand hit against the wall for support and restraint, knuckles turning white.

The weight of Greg's member in his mouth was exhilarating, the taste was gorgeous and the smell was perfect to fill in the lines of his previous fantasies, so working himself madly and bringing himself close was easy. He bobbed his head and changed the angles to pay attention at the most sensitive areas, the stimuli was calculated, every move was designed to make Gregory Lestrade orgasm.

Seeing how Greg’s muscles tightened, Mycroft tossed off wildly, taking Greg deep within his mouth and moaning as he felt himself come close. And that's when his name fell from Greg’s lips for the first time, it sounded like absolute glory.

The object of his affection was close to a devastating pleasure, biting a scream down on his hand (a matter that wouldn’t be possible in their next encounter within a week, if Mycroft’s calculations were anywhere near plausible). Brown eyes closed, losing himself to the rhythm in which the younger man swallowed his prick to his bollocks. Precision was key in everything Mycroft did and, like any other task, there was a statistical probability to achieve the best conditions to make a man beg for more.

"Shite, Mike... Please, don't stop" he saw Greg bite hard on his lips, encouraging the auburn haired man moan approvingly at the sound of his name, vibrations making Greg hum in turn, panting helplessly as Mycroft sucked harder, longer licks, deep sucks, knowing well it still felt amazing on Gregory’s engorged, wanton member.

The older man moaned again pushing a hand through his own grey locks saying, “I'm close, Mike- St- Christ, stop!” Seeing as the man wouldn't stop, it provoked him further and he came down Mycroft’s throat, moaning and dragging his free hand over his face before looking down again. “Have it your way, love” he said pressing Mycroft's head forward, fucking his mouth slowly as his prick softened and emptied.

The man's soft, passionate confessions, resounded in the hallway. Mycroft couldn't have enough, "Bloody brilliant" he moaned as Mycroft let go of the prick with a lewd pop, looking down as he came on Gregory’s old rug. Well, he would have to send someone to clean, it seems. Shivering through the last few waves of pleasure, as the Inspector’s hand mercifully caressed down the side of his face, the taste of bitter cum deep within his throat and regret started building.

Mycroft got up, taking his handkerchief to clean his hand and mouth, still panting and watched as Greg slowly sunk down to the floor, still debauched and half naked. Briefly considering to take a picture, but perhaps it would be more practical to steal all tapes and reports from this past hour.

The taller man walked to the mirror, Gregory's reflection over his right shoulder and he finally saw it in the distance. Regret, disappointment, the same anger but dimmed by emotions and it broke the agent to pieces. Best if I leave swiftly, he told himself, making a few last arrangements in his cufflinks and adjusting his belt. Straightening his tie and jacket. Combing the disarray of sex out of his hair. Licking his bruised lips, Gregory's scent and taste still there, making him feel cold. As if a rift formed between them, opening wider by the second.

Mycroft turned to look at the DI finally gathering himself to a cognitive state, he looked numb past the rush of sexual frustration. And that's the first time he risked to think this had been a horrible mistake, "I believe there is little else to discuss" he commented with a sigh, "Thank you for your time, Inspector. I shall consider your… Position regarding this matter. Worry not, I shall show myself out" he looked at the silver haired Detective attempting to make himself look vaguely decent, so he quickly fetched his overcoat, briefcase and umbrella as he walked to the entrance of Lestrade’s household, "Have a pleasant evening."

Sparing a last glance at the detective standing behind, messy hair and knackered, with a dazed look about his handsome features as he tried to collect his thoughts and opened his mouth as to speak, but the intonation in his voice could kill. Mycroft left in a haste, the car was still waiting outside faithful to his orders. He ignored Gregory’s request for his attention as he got into the safety of the vehicle and tapped the window to have it going, he sighed as the car started and left.

The encounter had been satisfying and painfully frustrating, if he was honest he was having a difficult time assessing exactly the type of admiration he held for the Detective Inspector. Once purely physical and of professional respect, slowly becoming a personal interest.

Perhaps… This once the scheme should come to a stop due to a major miscalculation. Mind you, the MI6 Director could be as close to a clairvoyant as most would dream, and even if he counted on the collateral damage of becoming attached to the alluring man, he never realized the prospect that he could possibly wish to have more would actually come into the equation, not even remotely. Neither had time or interest for something permanent so it was a ridiculous notion.

Yet having everything would be so tempting.

He walked into his house and could clearly imagine Gregory fast asleep in his leather sofa, shoes off and papers scattered over the coffee table. Perhaps the possibility to find him dancing in the kitchen, singing to an old blues. Coming in after jogging (And he would love Hyde Park to do so), he could see him debauched in their California king bed... The ghosts of possibility chased Mycroft’s thoughts into the shower and he ended his night as frustrated as a guilty man that hadn’t had enough for a last meal. Laying restless trying to convince himself that stage four was what he needed and he would be fine after it, even if his eyes seek for an answer in the darkness of his bedroom. Gregory's form asleep beside him in this enormous bed was a more tempting offer.

Mycroft sat up and his phone chimed. The stoic man looked at the text message and felt cursed, condemned to success and the perfection of his cold thought process, as the pieces fell into place and stage three melted into stage four. It would be two days until stage four if he risked an answer, but Mycroft's finger hovered over the send button as he remembered every moment where the Detective Inspector had proved to be invaluable. Be it as a friend or as a human being, as an example to his reeling younger brother or a surprising retort to the man that held the world on the palm of his hand.

He erased the text and placed the phone on his bedside table. Even if damage had been done, perhaps he could find a way to salvage their friendship in time. He cursed internally and closed his eyes tiredly. When had he let this matter to affect him quite so deeply? Answer came to him in one last, painful stab of unsullied truth: Gregory formed a greater part of him than he cared to admit.

Mycroft smiled bitterly, of course, he thought. Years of faithful companionship, brutal honesty and even sacrifice to keep Sherlock safe, in time they came to a silent understanding, a strong respect and now everything had been compromised for one mad moment of lust. Now it was time to hold his ground and wait for the storm to pass... He didn't drift to sleep, his mind didn't find rest and his emotions continued to be at war. The only thought that salvaged him in this moment of despair, was a distant memory of Gregory sitting next to him at a bench in Dorset. Laughing merrily...

Chapter Text

There were a few things that would actually surprise her. Of course if most knew the tests and trials that Annya Pakhomenko had confronted in her short 35 years of life, most would see why the young woman was simply unshakable.

She was only a few months old when her mother got her into a backpack, along with a few belongings and walked through military lines to freedom from a communist regime, holding her husband's hand and her child for dear life. Shoot-to-kill orders had been posted for a good nineteen years by then and 22 calibre bullets tend to take care of business quite easily, or so she would learn years after the event, after all back then she had been a new born baby. They had died in the act and that was all she knew of them.

Wilhelm Pakhomenko had heard her cries as he ran to the hole that would take them to the intricate sewer system, in spite of the rumbling storm around them. Of all six people in his party, he was the only one that didn't find it in him to leave a son of Germany to perish in the hands of the cruel winter and he let go of his wife's hand promising her he would find her on the other side. The tragic ending he didn't dare tell, was that the other side would find him in his sleep twenty-two years later as he exhaled his final breath.

When her foster father told her the story years after the event, his eyes shined with unshed tears, as he recalled the difficulties, and his cheeks reddened in the shame of this display of emotion. Even if he tried to stay calm and offer a reassuring smile, there were scars that ran deep within her foster father's soul that would never heal fully. That night in 1981 her saviour had taken her in arms and ran with more purpose, fire under his cold feet as he ran past the bodies scattered a few meters from the wall, escaping like a prisoner in his own country. Wilhelm ran for his soul, to find his love, to find his freedom, to give the little girl in his arms a life. Anthea's cries quieted down during the journey, as if even as a new born in the warmth of the engineer’s arms, she knew that silence would keep them both alive. He crawled over the bloodied mud of the wall's sewer system and only a day later, they were refugees in West Berlin.

Anthea's saviour had stayed by her side in the hospital. He said she looked like the death of winter and life of the sunlight, malnourished and hypothermia settling in her little five month old bones. Still she cried with all her might, protesting to convince them that she was strong enough to live. They had made it, two nameless strangers and closely connected in their misery. One mourning and one unaware, parts of the same tragedy.

The Berlin Wall fell when she was twelve years old and Wilhelm dared tell her that story only when she turned eighteen. In the official act of his foster father's recollection of data and the show of old newspaper clippings, she had stayed respectfully silent, listening him speak in his beloved, native German. And even if she had been too young to remember her victorious escape and her parent's sacrifice, this talk would stir the waters of her identity and the memories would fall like sand in the deep oceans after a storm. Settling slowly as they fall to the oceanic crust leaving behind soft whispers of what once was a rabid sea.

He calmly explained how he had simply claimed her as his own daughter in the hospital, at the time it was better than being sent into the system, the opportunities wouldn't have been the same for her and he had the patience and the means to find a decent job. They moved to England shortly after, where he found a second cousin that would help him find a job in construction, soon enough he was validating his old title and building for bigger enterprises as an engineer. Providing for his little family after that had been easy and Anthea had been a role-model daughter. A deep sense of gratitude overcame her as she listened to Wilhelm in stern silence and she reassured him with her ever present Cheshire cat smirk.

Wilhelm explained how the options had been to risk being shot on sight, or stay subjected to a life in poverty broken socialism/communism offered. “Neither option was life”, he said sniffing to cover his moved voice “But... It's always best to die on your feet, than kneeling down, little one”. He passed his hand over his blonde moustache and finished his story by saying he never knew her parent's names or hers for that matter. But his sister was called Annya, and she was just as beautiful as she once was. Anthea had been Annya's second chance at life. That had been the day when she learnt how she had been deeply loved and cared for, but it didn't erase the feeling that her name, her life didn't belong to her.

“You are a miracle, Annya. Never forget that”, and she couldn't, each of his words had been etched into her brain like scar tissue, fragile, angry and never fading completely. But others didn't need to know, she was never one to talk too much, or one to be surprised easily after learning her life story. Either way, she had been raised by a strict German father and a stern English mother (Once Wilhelm remarried), both found happiness together and Anthea slowly moved away and severed contact as they rebuilt a life together. In the end, he deserved his own second chance.

After coming to terms with the fact that she had willingly become an orphan, aiming for a job in secret service had been only logical. So she filled her application and her proud foster parents stood by her decision in the distance. She paid with sweat, blood and tears for Wilhelm's trials, letting pain seeped slowly from her as she met a merciless secret world and mastered whatever was left of her turmoil of emotions through self-control, discipline and precision in her techniques. She became as cold as the winter that had once tried to claim her life and as deadly as her sharp mind could manage.

“Anthea seems a suitable codename for you,” had said Mr. Holmes upon their very first official meeting with her. All Annya had to do was brief some Big Fish coming from the M.I.6 and he had requested for her presence for the rest of the Operation, since her stats and scores were the very best amongst her peers. She tried to make an argument with him and the tall man simply observed her carefully. People often talked about M around the agency, so when she witnessed his abilities first hand she was able to keep a calm and unnerved exterior, even if the simple looking man before her shook her reasoning to the very core and taught her efficiency. As a last stab he had explained why using the name of her adoptive father in feminine, no matter how brave he had been, was a stupid choice.

“Anthea would be better, considering your past experience. The goddess of blossoms, of life. Rather suitable, I would say,” he had ended once she did not respond. Mycroft Holmes had seen that stillness within her, her unwavering strength. And even if she was standing upright respectfully to her superior, he could see her relentless curiosity.

“Will that be all, Sir?” she asked and Mycroft seemed to be briefly surprised as his pen stopped over the papers she had handed him, as if he expected further confrontation. He was shooing her away with a swish of his hand, dedicating his efforts to decoding their informant’s letter.

Of course, she wasn't surprised to get a job offer a week after the enterprise was marked a success and, as soon as she accepted, a request for an immediate transference from M.I.5 to the M.I.6. She had used Mycroft's recommendations without a question and apparently that was something Mr. Holmes appreciated in a subordinate. Well, that and half of a functioning brain. The interview with her superiors had been war, the first week had been horror and the end of the first month she was full on survival mode again. Running through the border to West Berlin by herself this time.

But soon enough, she adjusted to her new post as Mycroft Holmes's Personal Assistant, even if micromanaging his life made her wish to go back to the field. But Mr. Holmes did not simply hope for her to do his bidding, he also taught her dearly and adopted her much like Wilhelm had, but for the sole reason that “I believe you have the type of mind that deserves to be nourished” and she strived to learn.

When they survived their first year working together, Mycroft was terribly delighted with her performance and had bought her tickets to the Opera. Carmen was on and she hadn't spared a moment for an entire week for something that wasn't sleeping or showering. For one crazy moment, Anthea hoped that the man that she had come to admire was to accompany her, but all hope was lost when he implied she should find a boyfriend to take with her. It was then that she finally understood that all appreciation Mr. Holmes felt for her was purely platonic.

Survive. Easy peasy, even when she possibly had the greatest crush on her boss. After all, she was lucky enough the way things were, she worked for the greatest mind in Britain, many would wish to be as close to The Iceman. But the closer she got, the more she saw that the ice didn't bite coldly enough. She saw the man she cared for the most trade himself for a few innocent people, as well as worried lines forming on his face as he sat beside his brother's cot in jail, the very one that behind his walls of control and manipulation was nothing else but a lonely man harbouring a broken heart.

Mycroft Holmes personal life agenda was always wide open with the exception of scheduled visits to his parents, then the odd visit to his younger brother. But there was no love life in the horizon as the years passed, it worried her slightly that someday the pressure of his position would get to him and break him from the inside out if he didn't find solace in someone's trusting arms.

But it all changed one day his younger brother was once again sent to the hospital. This time it hadn't been any type of known drug, aside from the rush of endorphins and adrenalin his own brain could produce. And with a tired stride Gregory Lestrade had met them in the waiting room for the first time. Wet and tired, smelling of the Thames and nicotine, cursing under his breath and excusing himself out of Mycroft's merciless questionings.

Mr. Holmes hadn't spared a second look as he scrunched up his nose at the detective Inspector “Place a meeting with the Detective Inspector”, he pulled the man's identity card from his own pocket (Cheeky as ever when he wanted) “Gregory Lestrade”, he handed her the ID, she would have to make it discretely reappear at the man's house, and walked with the same heavy steps into his brother's hospital room, hearing the younger Holmes rave inside.

It was surprising how matters developed after that. That first time he had seemed disappointed at the sight of the simple commoner that had saved his brother's life by offering him a distraction. He hadn't cared to hear the older man talk and thought an offer for vacations to recompose his broken marriage would be more than enough to convince the older man of monitoring his younger brother and reporting back to a worried third party. That didn't go as well as planned... Worlds crashed and slowly, Mycroft's opinion on the one and only Greg Lestrade changed.

A year later the story was quite different, he requested a meeting every three months and all it took was to see the man's eyes shine and a true smile grow on his face as Detective Inspector Lestrade marched into his office. Then the meetings came once a month on random days at random places, often lasted more than a few minutes and slowly came close to the few hours. Anthea would schedule meetings with Greg in Mycroft's social agenda and when he did not comment on the change, she counted it as a victory.

Soon after, Mycroft dared giving the older man his personal phone in the rare black linen card. Even if he had printed a hundred of different white cards, the black linen were simply five cards. Two had disappeared from the stack a few years prior, Anthea had one, Sherlock had the other and this was the third, the one she saw him handing to the Detective Inspector over dinner. And where the Iceman would insist that “Keeping such a relation was simply out of direct benefit”, her intuition read volumes of romance in the way his eyes shined and his shoulders sunk as the DI moved away and left each meeting.

“He's married, Sir”, she risked once, worried as she saw how he pined, staring after him. The tall man simply sighed and spoke an old German saying in it's original language, “Wo die Liebe hinfällt, das weifs kein Mensch. You should understand better than anyone, my dearest”, that said he walked to the car swinging his umbrella slightly, she smiled and followed after him. Defeated, once again as she buried all she felt for that great man under a thick layer of resignation.

The ways of love are strange indeed, she repeated in her mind. In Mycroft's lips it sounded dangerously akin to a knowing statement, there wasn't a threat behind it. Just painful longing and understanding. He quietly confessed that he did feel something for the married man, that he was very aware of Anthea's own infatuation and that it would be fine as long as they kept matters to themselves.

It was a quiet agreement from then on, she didn't speak of Mycroft's secret wishes and he pretended he didn't know of her own inclination. They kept guarding each other's backs and betraying each other, meeting and parting, romantic in a broken way. Because two broken hearts don't make a whole, but they insisted in living for each other just for the time being.

That night she had been woken up by an urgent call. Which, when dealing with Mycroft Holmes, often meant imminent disaster, “I need for you to retrieve all surveillance registered in subject's #5368 abode from eight P.M. to nine P.M.” he said in a disinterested tone before clicking off with a soft 'Thank you in advance, dear' The politeness was there, the irreverent dislike for fellow human beings and orders in the form of requests... But the quiet tone of his voice spoke of catastrophe and Anthea's back stiffened at the thought of whatever could be.

A few threats here and there, a 'if I hear you have a copy, I will find you and it will not be a nice meeting for you'. The technicians had been terrified enough by her soulless smirk and the vice in her brown eyes, in five minutes she had everything erased and what was left of it in a flash-drive in her pocket.

Whatever had happened with Mr. Holmes and the Detective Inspector (Subject #5368), must have been bad if a home visit to the surveillance department was needed. Considering that ten out of ten times she retrieved surveillance tape was because someone had: 1) been murdered, 2) shagged, 3) purchased a weapon of mass destruction, she had a good idea on what had happened with the Detective Inspector in order to ruffle her boss's feathers.

Even if Greg often had a way into making an impression on Mr. Holmes, it was never the kind he would wish to force to vanish. But matters had shifted into a place neither was ready, planets aligned in a way they could no longer ignore a mutual attraction during this past year. With Sherlock's miraculous resurrection and Mr. Lestrade's divorce filed, the path was suddenly open for Mycroft to either make a break for it, even with his impeccable display of manners and usually awkward social skills.

And considering the Detective Inspector had been turning down meetings and staying away from the M.I.6 director, this recovery mission could simply be a try to break free from his crush. Anthea snorted at the thought. Ridiculous, eyes still trained on the screen of her phone and head still arranging the day ahead of them.

For an entire week a few riots might have burnt Ukraine to crisps, the Greek weren't too happy with Mycroft's advances in their stock market speculations, and she didn't even want to think about the promoted, mutual industrial hacking between the U.S. and the Chinese. If Sherlock shot a gun when childishly bawling, this was Mycroft's version of a fit. Set the world ablaze as he sulked, mulling over his personal affections with a scotch bottle nearby.

It had been depressing and nerve-wrecking to the point where Anthea had been tempted to fetch the DI herself and force them to talk. In the end, she rather liked Lestrade's presence. It was a breath of fresh air in Mycroft's daily routine and she had learn to be thankful for it, even if the man was there for business more often than not and once he left, there was an aftermath to take care of since Mr. Holmes seemed a bit more pensive than usual. Now this behaviour... 'Erase and confiscate copies'... Anthea shivered slightly at the possibility of a fight between Mycroft and Mr. Lestrade. It was an unsettling thought, to the point where she felt sick.

She walked to the kitchenette and asked for a coffee, black with artificial sweetener. There was the occasional appreciative glance at her as she left that floor to meet her boss at the elevator; of course her looks were designed to attract and deceive, so every lascivious look her way was a small victory. Anthea answered the call after finishing the arrangements for this morning's reunion, and all her thoughts came swiftly to a halt when hearing Mr. Holmes grim tone as he said “Coffee, my dear. Thank you.” then he cut the call short.

She resumed checking the unanswered texts and mails. The French ambassador's hearty thanks (Send letter in answer, make boss sign), request for a meeting with Dame Edwards, MI5 was having a bit of trouble with Operation I-15 (Send mail, set appointment for morning, utmost importance if MI6 wanted to carry on with Condor), Harry had been seen with a porn star (Ghastly, set appointment for 3 P.M.), it was best if Mycroft was past his morning mood (He did ask for coffee, after all). Confiscate last night's recordings of Mr. Holmes meeting with Mr. Lestrade (... Done).

Saving the changes to her boss’s interactive agenda and filling in constant changes within it (Print copy of contract with Syria, find a digital copy of Italian's Constitution, dry-cleaners, arrange festivities for Trooping the Colour.) She finally looked up and almost dropped her phone as she did.

Oh, my, was her only thought at the sight that came out of the elevator. Catastrophe and desolation were set upon Mr. Holmes brow, he walked all fury and froze his P.A. as he passed by her taking the coffee from her hand, reading into her work and nodding in approval, he extended his hand and she placed the flash-drive in it “Most kind.” he said and resumed his walk towards the office without even looking at her. Shame was written all over that action.

So there was something decidedly wrong going on between Mr. Holmes and Mr. Lestrade. Her phone chimed with a text... 'Is your boss in his office? GL'. She blinked and looked up at Mr. Holmes. Those merciless, pale eyes were set upon hers for the first time, narrowed as he stood straighter to his full height, “I'm not taking appointments unless they are absolutely urgent. Code from orange to red.”

The signs of debacle were there. Mycroft looked edgy, placing his personal phone into the top drawer on his desk as he spoke, arranging his already perfectly styled hair. Nervousness? She felt dread take over her nerves of steel and she blinked again, waiting for an explanation but getting none as Mycroft simply took a single sip of his coffee mug, setting it aside. She kept her expression as impenetrable as ever, walking to his desk as the man sat down and opened his laptop, “All of your current meetings are set. Most yellow, only two code red. I believe you have a slot between half past five and seven o'clock.” she suggested.

The M.I.6 Director looked up at her this time, with little patience. Where most would've flinched or quivered, she stood still. After all, she had survived colder weather, “Anthea, I did not request for a detail of my agenda, since I received it a few moments ago as you finished the arrangements. Mr. Lestrade will have to wait for another day. I believe I will use whatever free time I have to stay home for today...” she raised an eyebrow and his expression closed up, “I do not need a sermon”, she differed “Do as asked”, he dismissed her and she nodded before leaving him to his day.

Certainly, there was absolutely no doubt now. Something scandalous had taken place in Gregory Lestrade's house and considering the man usually texted her when Mycroft was actually unreachable, Mr. Holmes was ignoring his calls and did not want to contact him. But why? And that was the golden question. Why would Mycroft suddenly cut ties with a harmless acquaintance so suddenly? Why would Mr. Lestrade use her to contact Mycroft?

Anthea sent an answer: 'He is not available at the moment. Would you mind meeting me? A'. She then looked up at her boss, watching him as he stared at his laptop. He looked as sharp and poised as ever, yet uncharacteristically distracted. After an hour and receiving no answer from the Detective Inspector, she sighed as this promised to be a long day.

-

As soon as his back hit the mattress he was wide awake, sleep wouldn't come that particular night. And he was strangely ok with that, since it seemed he needed to process more than he had initially thought.

Even if he had followed Mycroft's car to the street, the bloody thing dived into the main street and disappeared too quickly. The Detective Inspector didn't bother running after it even if his first instinct was to do so, he had to stop himself and assessed the situation. After all what had happened was in a rush of emotion, they had reacted to one too many years of pent-up tension, it was obvious that it would end up in fire and they'd burn together once they found a slight excuse.

It hadn't been evident until the divorce was final, to be honest. In a way, Greg considered that if Mycroft had waited quite so long, it was out of respect and consideration if nothing else. And even if he had been fooled by the younger man, there was something tangible in his despair as he possessed, teased and let the heat consume them both. Greg paced a few circles on the sidewalk, barefoot and grumbling, then he pressed a hand through his hair and sat on the front steps grabbing his head.

Years. Years of respectful distance, of companionship. He was happy with accepting that Mycroft would never look twice his way but since Sherlock opened his mouth and pieces started falling into place, slowly taking the shape of a conspiracy. The evening breeze felt brisk over his damp skin and soon enough, he got up reluctantly, as if he had half-expected for the man to realize that, if anything, they needed to sort this matter out for the sake of their professional relationship.

He got inside and ignored the living-room and the papers scattered around, he felt as if he was walking around a war-zone, evidence of violence dispersed around and the guilt weighing on his conscience. He went to his bathroom and turned on the shower.

It was odd to fight with Mycroft, though. Even if at their start they had clashed and confronted each other often enough, in time they found the same motivation to work. Keep Sherlock clean, keep the American Ambassador safe, find the Koh-I-Noor diamond, or share information on a particularly pressing case. But somehow the man known by his superiors to be absolutely impossible to work with ended up having a particularly good work relationship with him, perhaps because he didn't find the need to impose and Greg would follow his reasoning swiftly, acting accordingly.

"You two will kill me one day" he remembered saying from a hospital bed with a sprained ankle as the two Holmes brothers half-fussed, half-started a war on his bedside.

Mycroft sighed as Sherlock huffed angrily, "You are most certainly going to pass to a better if my dearest little brother keeps putting the both of you through unnecessary danger."

The youngest genius rolled his eyes, "I did tell him to stand back as I finished making the suspect confess fully, and in the end you have your culprit behind bars and the M.I.6 can rest assured that he will not see the light of day again, unless it is for negotiation."

"That doesn't excuse the dreadful way in which you handled the matter" said the red-haired man, heat flaring in his eyes as anger rose "You do realize that Gregory is your only chance to have a stable job, one you accept. I don't believe there would be anyone else willing-"

"-There would be others willing, considering the benefit he's reaping from this association-"

"-Sherlock, do learn when to be quiet!" he exclaimed in a low tone, narrowing his eyes to slits and Greg sighed.

"And you must learn to appreciate the assistance, otherwise you should simply deal with these matters yourself, fatcroft!", Mycroft's eyes widened and as his mouth opened, Greg muttered 'Oh, bugger', realizing he would have to intercede.

"Oi, children. People are resting 'round here, either belt up or leave", both brothers turned to look at him as if resenting the interruption "Don't give me that look, keep the fights to a minimum or else." He would have a been a great father, or so he thought when Mycroft crossed his arms over his chest muttering and looked away as Sherlock blamed it all on his older brother.

The worry was apparent for someone that knew how to look at the Holmes brothers, it wasn't just getting closure and the pat on the head at being brilliant, or the reassurance that the source of his brother's distraction and distension was still functional. The grip on the handle of the umbrella until knuckles turned white, or arguments falling to silence as Greg winced and complained while a very capable nurse wrapped his ankle in a removable cast, spoke of a deeper worry.

It had been then, he thought as he lay on his bed that fateful evening. Of course in time he had come closer with his fellow handler and they constantly commiserated on the trials of raising Sherlock, Greg had even dared joke on how they seemed to be a divorced couple, "In the best of terms" had commented Mycroft as he brought a cup of hot tea to his lips, a flash of a smile around his eyes.

Greg sighed and turned to his side, analysing where the guilt came from. Considering he had felt regret along with that jolt in his chest, that anxiety to simply seeing the illustrious man. During the days when his relationship with Lauren started to struggle, he didn't think too much about it, but he found a simple chat with Mycroft ten times more exciting than having Lauren waiting in her finest lingerie. Mycroft listened, discussed, it lighted his thoughts and relaxed him at the same time, the way he worked the knots in Greg's thought process, the way he followed his humour and the way in which he had to force himself to cut their meetings short.

He came out of those visits with a smile on his face or his heart racing in his chest and as he reached home, he felt he had cheated on Lauren to even think that someone else held his admiration.

And that night all of it had imploded in their hands, in their feverish kisses, he didn't really know who started the kiss, or if it had been Mycroft's intention at all. There was a distance of a step where everything became a blur. All he remembered was being pissed off and then just feeling arousal sky-rocketing taking him from 0 to 100 in a matter of seconds. How do you excuse yourself from that? 'Sorry, mate, don't know what came over me. Mind if we forget you blowing me senseless and simply go back to work?'... Yeah, no. That looked like shite and, much to his own surprise, it wasn't what he wanted.

Greg had his mind full of images of one posh bastard down on his knees, licking his lips, pale blue eyes looking up at him with filthy and promising intentions. That image of the infamous Iceman would be absolutely shattered if anyone were to witness what the DI had. Mycroft kissed as if he were taking prisoners and handled sex with the invigorating pace in which he took his conversations. It briefly made Greg feel so deeply needed, it had been raw, fast and perfect to the smallest move.

And after that he hadn't reacted quickly enough, although to be fair one does never expect that level of passion from-... And Mycroft got up so quickly, he was back to his usual self within seconds and out the door without a second glance back. All he could do was to follow the man outside and calling his name as the bloody limousine departed to wherever was a man like Mycroft Holmes to go. Be it his office and International Airport were at the top of Greg's assumptions.

The evening passed in a clinical study of emotion, were he felt beyond confused and numb as his concerns cancelled each other. It wasn't until eleven that he finally dared speak up. Whatever happened they had to resolve, however it would either send them five steps back to a friendship, or open the possibility to have a physical rendezvous to relieve tensions. In a brief moment of courage he sent: 'Must talk. Pencil me in for tomorrow. GL'.

After sending the text he let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, feeling a bit relieved and lay on his back, trying to sleep. The Detective Inspector gave up sleeping around 3 A.M. and simply headed to the office. Either way he had plenty to do with The Butcher still on the loose.

-

“Bollocks”, he muttered indignantly at Anthea's text and pocketed his phone. Sally looked up from the folder and blinked at Constable Martin, who fidgeted uncomfortably.

Sally rolled her eyes as the Inspector growled, “Sir, Martin's evidence file?”

The older man looked up from the sidewalk and the constable flinched visibly. So he did look as amicable as he felt. Good, “Yeah, good job, Martin. We'll review the leads you followed and will call you to form part of the search party. Stay on your toes,” he said and turned to go to his car.

Next month? Mycroft had enough time to make faux contracts to have an excuse to visit, but now he was too bloody busy? “Bollocks”, he said kicking a trash bin, much to Sally's surprise.

“Ok, wait right there, sir”, the younger woman pulled him forcefully. She wasn't particularly strong, so whatever was left of Greg's sanity made him stop and let himself be dragged by the woman, “What in the bloody hell? You have been frightening every constable that's worked with us throughout this past week, even Peters and I think there's something terribly off with you, sir. And-” she lifted a finger to interrupt Greg from making his excuses, or exclaiming something or another about how he wasn't a toddler she could scold (No matter how right she was), “being hard-headed isn't helping you solve whatever has been bothering you, maybe...” she sighed “Maybe you should ask the Commissioner for some time off” she said.

Lifting his sight to his Sargent, he sighed, “No, Sally. It's just a personal matter...” she looked at him. Curiosity filling her carbon eyes, “Nothing that I can share, but... I'll control myself from now on...” he said lifting his hand in defence, as if to physically stop the inevitable question.

“No” she said in a cutting tone, and she sounded exactly like his very conscience, “You'll either be an asset for the team, or I'll feel forced to report you for compromising the investigation, this-” she lifted his right hand, Constable Martin's file clutched in it “It has important evidence that may get us to The Butcher. There are three districts involved, vice is getting its ugly head in the case since we found the body in the crack-house, even the freak's adding to the team!” she huffed, “We need you on your clearest mindset, sir...”

It all hit him straight in his professional pride, Sally was often one to silence her little complaints about his methods and rarely one to make displays as lengthy as this. But it was a career changing case, one that had kept him on call for about two weeks now... He looked up into the clear, blue skies. Taking a deep breath he started on his way to the car. Sally followed him silently and the tension in the air was thick and stale.

Soon enough they reached the car and they got in, “You're right.” He said it once and clearly, opening the file and taking a good read to every paper within it. Neither policeman looked at the other, but the silence came to be comfortable.

“Good... I'd recommend a pint after work, but I'm not sure there would be anyone sane enough to put up with you”, she smirked and he started the car, mimicking her smile after tossing the file on her lap.

Humming he sighed, pressing a hand to his face remembering he had a press conference the next morning and said “Tell me about it, Peter's been e-mailing me rather than coming to see me”

She snorted and shook her head as she said “I'm unsure if that's a good or a bad thing...”

“Anything that gets some people out of our hair has to be a good thing”, he muttered and the Sargent let out a laugh, finally letting out the remains of the tension between them. He was in luck that Sally let matters go easily enough.

-

After that single scold he poured himself into work. Sod this, he thought, doing his best not to think of seeing Mycroft Holmes, all mighty, all knowing, gagging for it at his feet, coming with a cock deep in his mouth. Dyed auburn hair in messy swirls and a pale blush dusted upon his features making his freckles stand out. And Greg's mind wandered to what length of Mycroft's skin was covered in freckles, the colour of his pubic and chest hair... What sounds would come out of him were their positions reversed? Would he be quiet like the mice, or surprisingly loud and expressive...? How would those eyes look during his orgasm?

Tempted by the heat in his lower belly and his helpful mind to just give in and have a wank, but somehow the radio silence knocked all inspiration down even in the depth of the dark night, shoving every hopeful thought into a destructive little path of self-depreciation. He knew he should just storm into the man's office and demand an explanation... But maybe this was one of those 'heat of the moment' types of thing, Mycroft probably didn't know how to deal with this type of delicate matter, or maybe he just didn't care to remember it.

Either way, Greg ran, ate and worked, then went to bed, read something or another and tossed and turned until he fell asleep. Then repeated. As if he floated through life like a ghost. Sherlock hadn't noticed but John was more sensitive to the human factor and had asked him out for a pint.

“-So the case is getting Sherlock up the walls and Mary's worried he'll faint if he doesn't eat something. But you know how he likes to behave like a prick and make us beg-” the blonde snorted and took a sip.

Greg chuckled in good-nature, “Yeah, reminds me why I'm so awfully glad that's the Watson's burden these days.”

John lifted his pint in a toast, “Thankful enough to buy the pints?”

“For four years now,” his pint met John's in the air.

“Cheers, then. On your good health, mate” the shorter man took a long sip and sighed content.

"May you never give up with the clever tosser" he remarked before taking the glass to his lips.

Greg snorted and shook his head. God listen to this man, I'm going off my rocker, he thought taking a long sip and nursing his pint, staring at it thoughtfully while John rambled about his odd family. Matters had started with Mary making dinner and Sherlock playing with the little one, then something or another about fire. Soon enough Greg's mind returned to the vicious cycle as he started wondering where was the older Holmes and considered asking John about the man, since as far as Greg knew, he had vanished into thin air leaving nothing but his posh cologne staining Greg's clothes.

“-And, yet again, you're not listening”, at that sentence Greg turned saying 'Hm?' and John gave him that look. The 'Tell me everything, I'm a doctor' look, the 'I can make Sherlock keep the bowels from the bathtub, I can help you' look "Come on, Greg. I've known you for about five years now and I know that this is unlike you... Hell, even Sherlock noticed there was something off about you."

The detective Inspector thought it was funny and his eyebrows lifted in surprise, "Well, shite... That obvious, then."

"This pub night was his idea, he didn't come for obvious reasons but thought you could use the time off", the blonde looked surprised himself, and Greg whistled in amazement. Ever since they met they had met for pints a few times, and John's ever so possessive friend usually picked him up, called him, did anything to keep him closer to himself. Those little fits of jealousy were part of what made Greg think that there was something between them.

A few years back he had frequently been on the other side of the situation. Listening to John complaining about his roommate being the most impossible man on Earth, on his habits, on his faulty logic, on his narcissistic tendencies, on how he had used John's shoes for one thing or another or about whatever was in the kettle this week.

Those stories were often amusing for a bystander and Greg's nature was to laugh them off, make John admit to himself that no matter what he found in the kettle he wouldn't leave 221B. And on one occasion he had been close to hear the man admit an interest beyond friendly towards the Consulting Detective.

'But I'm not gay, no. I just... Can appreciate a good arse, is all. I would appreciate yours but you wear those baggy suits' ('Christ, John, don't appreciate my anything, will you?’ he had laughed heartily, interrupting the inebriated man) 'Sherlock's are too fitting, he does it to make people look. I swear' And Greg had simply listened to the rant with a quirk at the ends of his lips, thinking he would win the bet against Mycroft on when those two would find love with each other. Yet, for whatever miracle, it had remained platonic, even if they grew closer by the second.

Now look at them. John subjected to a jolly marriage with a wonderful woman and two toddlers, and the one with a crush on a man was the divorced policeman, how things change, he mused. Scattering thoughts and messy feelings that met, entangled and shoved at each other, “Nothing, mate, really” he said sighing tiredly, taking a larger gulp of his pint, and “Just having too bloody much with this case...”

John hummed like a knowing man, disbelieving and respectfully quiet, the men sipped on their pints. Greg turned to look at John and the blonde looked up at him with a small apologetic smile.

"How long have you known, then?" he said placing his pint down.

John sighed and grumbled at how evident he often was one of the lone criticisms and praises Sherlock had repeatedly highlighted, "Couple of days, Sherlock told me everything after Mycroft visited last week. I got in the middle of the conversation... Sort of heard something I shouldn't have..." he toyed with his glass looking down at it guiltily. The grey-haired man chuckled and licked his lips, unsure if he wanted to know what he had heard, "So... Mycroft..."

Greg sighed again and said "Seems so."

"Well, I always wondered how you two got along so well. Still, you know how that one can be..." he faked a shiver.

"Think he'll have me committed to a maximum security prison, then?"

John laughed.

"I think deportation would be tacky for him. Not his style." he scrunched up his nose in mock distaste as John giggled and picked up his drink.

The match sounded loudly in the background and for the first time in years he was paying absolutely no attention as John answered, "True, not creative enough for his sort, but I still think he can do worse things."

"He wouldn't murder me, you know how he'd have to pick up after you and Sherlock by himself. Don't think he'd bear it."

"It makes you sound so parenty to describe it like that," the blonde laughed and said, "I thought worse things, anyway."

Greg let out a bark of a laugh and mumbled, "Shut up" as he brought his glass to his lips.

"Still don't want to take care of Emma when Mary and I go out with Sherlock?" he asked mockingly, yet hopeful. Greg knew by good source that he was the preferred sitter if anything were to happen to the Watsons. And even if he didn't consider himself father-material, he had accepted the offer feeling rather honoured.

But at the moment he joked back, "As if I wasn't busy enough with you three. Mrs. Hudson managed well enough last time."

"Mycroft and Sherlock would do worse" said the other man as Greg glanced distractedly at the telly.

"I can't imagine children caretaking is in their area of expertise" he commented.

John stayed quiet for a moment before adding in a lower voice, "Nor are women, apparently."

"So it seems", Greg answered with a cutting tone.

John smiled regardless, "Are you always that combative?"

"He inspires that in me" confessed Greg looking back at the amused looking blonde.

"Does he..." John cleared his throat and carefully added with an accomplice look "Inspire anything else?"

And the grey-haired old dog was at the end of his patience with this matter as he said, "The sex is brilliant, if you wondered."

John sat back as if Greg's words had hit him in the chest, an appalled "Really??" left him before he could think.

And this was why John was mostly terribly amusing. He was rather smart sometimes and terribly caring as well, Greg felt lucky to consider him a friend but in the end these little moments were when he found himself fixated with the man. His reactions were always polite, yet honest, "Really" he answered nodding.

"You two are..." he trailed off pointing between Greg and another point in space that was supposed to represent the older Holmes. Even if the Army doctor had nothing against homosexuality, it was obvious he had never imagined Greg would go in for that sort of thing.

Greg looked down into his pint, "No, we're not... It was just... A mistake, I think."

And John decided to have an odd moment of cleverness as he asked, "And you want to."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Greg preferred not to answer. Because he liked to think he didn't know, he preferred to pretend that the answer wasn't a heartfelt 'YES'. Just because he had long since decided that it wouldn't be possible, that it wasn't what Mycroft himself wanted, that perhaps it was better to call it a mistake. Shite like that happened all the time either way, it was just a misunderstanding. Just in his head.

So he preferred not to know what Mycroft and Sherlock chatted about, or what John thought on the matter. Hell, he didn't want to have his own opinions on the matter, it was best left behind and leave it to move on. He ended up paying according to his word, and John patted at his shoulder as he said, “Best if I go back. The wife will have my head on a plate if I don't help her around.”

Once they were outside, the man took his hand and shook it firmly as ever, “Yeah, I should get some rest before going back to the office. Call me if Sherlock's onto something!” he said and John answered with an 'I'll do my best, mate' before disappearing into his little family town car.

It wasn't five minutes when he devised a familiar car, following him back to the NSY and couldn't believe his eyes as he turned to see the Mercedes parking around the corner. “Oi!” he shouted as he walked quickly towards it. Polished, black and the plate was nowhere to be seen, so it had to be his.

Still, after a bloody week of thinking, of turning his thoughts around, of revising his memory, of torturing himself thinking that he had done something ungodly. His pace slowed as he approached the car and by the time he found the door and knocked lightly on the back window, the frustration and the anger had vanished completely. Perhaps the lagers were finally hitting home, or the other man's absence had actually torn his resolve to further their confrontation.

The door opened to reveal Anthea and Greg's heart sunk into his chest as he struggled to find his smile, “Hey, miss. Long time no see,” he offered, there was something off about this entire scene. The car was the same and Anthea looked like a wet-dream, but the phone was nowhere to be seen and she had shadows under her eyes.

When she finally spoke it sounded like her voice came from the land of the undead, “Please, get into the car”, his smile fell slowly as she spoke and he did as told, looking carefully at his companion.

“Aren't you learning your boss's manners...?" he commented doing as asked, just because on top of her sickly state, she really couldn't get a cold due to being subjected to the evening's spring breeze. "Everything alright?” he asked in a quieter tone, tempted to place a hand over the girl's shoulder and support her, since it seemed she would pass out at any given moment.

She let out a short laugh and sighed, slumping slightly into her seat, “Course not," she said looking beyond moody and irritated, letting out her own city accent. "My boss has been making my life a living hell and even if I have tried to contain the situation. Any idea on what provoked that?” she asked.

Greg swallowed thickly, "Ah... Well-"

Anthea sighed loudly and Greg sat back silently, she looked dangerously knackered and for all he knew she could be here to get rid of the problem, "Listen, Lestrade. Whatever has happened between you two, you will have to be the one to fix it."

Now he knew, at least Mycroft thought about it as well and he felt as frustrated as Greg did. But why didn't he simply reach out and managed matters? He had always been the kind to find the common ground and negotiate. Hell, the man knew how to settle matters with his madman of a brother, of course he'd manage to talk a simple Detective Inspector about how irrational it would be to fall in love with him... And it hit fell on him like a bucket of iced water... He gaped as he though, make matters worse by falling arse over teakettle for the British Government. Brilliant move.

Greg hummed and bit his lips before speaking, he looked down at his hands as he said, “Well, I have some bad news, love” an earnest smirk on his lips, “I'm not sure if your boss would be so keen to see me these days.”

"Don't be absurd," she said with a desperate, yet amused smile on her face, then she slicked her lips and joined her hands, as if trying to convey the matter as delicately as possible, “Mr. Holmes, he's been... A bit off as of late, far too distracted and in his line of work it could be the difference between life and death."

"I... Ah-" he rubbed his forehead, feeling worry take over "He's alright, isn't he?"

"Barely" she said grimly and Greg felt the same dread that invaded him when he heard Mary joined the words 'assassination attempt' with Mycroft. "Today it's just affecting his mood, but if it affects his ability to discern once..." she made a pause and looked to the window "And it all started after whatever incident took place at your house this past Tuesday evening” at the mention, Greg's face dropped a shade and his eyes widened in horror, she lifted a hand.

Greg let out a quiet and raspy "And what do you know about what happened in my house?"

She tucked a strand of jet black hair behind her ear "I didn't mind much with that, but I can do the math..." Greg opened his mouth as to make an excuse for himself, but he didn't know what to say. He was nobody to simply burst in Mycroft Holmes office and demand to speak with him, "I do not know and do not care to know whatever type of discussion took place. It's none of my business, what is my business is my employer's satisfaction and I think it would be best for all of us, if you were to finally find him as you wished for the first few days after the incident and you could clarify matters with him...” then she sighed and looked at her feet, her eyes were glassy and fragile as she continued “Mr. Holmes... He's never been the kind to take onto others easily... I met him that way and even if most would think his social skills are to royal standards-"

Greg snorted, "... I know" he said with a bit of a fond smile "I've seen him dealing with Mrs. Hudson, when it comes down to it he's been raised by wolves just like his brother."

Anthea kept quiet for a few moments, and when he looked at her, affection still about his features, Greg witnessed it. She looked helpless, fragile and wintery, as if she envied him, "Since the day I met him, he hasn't shown interest in others in any personal way... You know him as well as me, he's the reclusive type of genius, but for plenty of reasons he has decided to reach out to you. To trust you in ways he wouldn't trust any other.”

Greg snorted muttering 'Reach out to me' and sat back humming, “You don't know about his little scheme, then.”

“Certainly not, I'm just his personal assistant” and when she lifted her gaze, a thought formed in his mind of how Anthea felt for her boss. The atmosphere around them described matters better than words could have, the woman simply sat back and said “We're here.” she informed him.

"Christ" he said looking up to see Babylon-on-Thames, "I'm not too keen on being thrown out from up there."

She snorted and said, “Be brave, he has been urging you to come to him."

He looked down at her, "You might be giving me too much credit, you know?"

Anthea licked her lips and in a quiet voice, she added "Perhaps, but he will listen to you as always."

The silver-haired Detective Inspector pressed a hand to his mouth, and looked at her. It wasn't a matter of being brave to confront Mycroft Holmes on a rampage, hell he had done such a thing on ocassion and it hadn't been too difficult when you approached him from the logical side of matters. But he suddenly regretted not stopping by the house and shaving, having a shower and changeing his clothes. Even if he had perfume on and had taken a quick shower at the Academy's bathroom, he didn't feel up to the standards of bespoke Mycroft Holmes. 

"He's in love with you” the quiet words sliced the silence in two and for some odd reason the Detective Inspector remained impassive, he had known in the back of his mind. After all he could expect a Holmes to show interest by trying to manipulate matters in his favour at those particular ocassions. Greg hummed. “He has been seeking for your attention longer than you would realize, in a more passive manner,” she continued and Greg had to turn and look at her, tired and human, unreachable and merging with the darkness of the leather seat, pale skin shimmering under the artificial lights of the street. She smiled the saddest, loneliest little smile “You hold a great advantage.”

So does he, he didn't say “And he just holds the entire stock of the British Army and plenty of bunkers” he joked looking at the young woman. They smiled at each other entertained with this little impasse and Greg's mocking words as he gathered a bit of peace of mind to chat with the Director and gave closure to Anthea's own worries and grudges, they were paper thin smirks that covered faintly the deep emotions that revolted under the surface. But there was peace slowly seeping in and they knew they'd be OK.

“I know this is quite sudden, and I am no one to ask you to reciprocate, but if you would find it in your heart to just speak to him and clear things out, I believe everyone within this country will be in debt” Anthea's dark eyes met his with a silent plea.

He smiled at her sheepishly, “I don't think he might be behaving like this just because of the, er... Discussion we had,” he blushed slightly, little of a discussion had happened after all “But I'll give it my best shot, yeah? So what am I facing here?”

Anthea opened the door and said “The usual madness, but tenfold” Greg groaned and exited the car after her.

-

Six days. Five hours. Ten minutes. Forty-two seconds.

Mycroft's fingers moved at the speed of light as he constructed a review on Operation Condor's latest advances. His mind reeled elsewhere as usual, well, 'usual' being 'these past few months'. Why would he do something as stupid as breaking his own rules? When had he let spontaneity take over and let himself assault a perfectly good work-partnership? When had he become quite so greedy?

Mind you, he owned only half of the world on a particularly bad way, but what he did he did out of how challenging it was. When Sherrinford's mind was only appeased by moral righteousness and utopic dreams, or Sherlock's mind felt alight with all the worthy intricacies of a mystery, Mycroft's own mind found peace in control.

Not power, not greed, but the perfection of a symphonic movement created by the vibratos of military action, the sonnets created by worldwide opinion and the adagio tranquilo of multinational government. The delusion and despair of power was left to those little, greedy souls that attempted to rule the world. Mycroft simply wanted to find the equilibrium, the equalization of a scandal and this panorama was just a mean to an end for him, a past-time of sorts.

And he regretted dearly translating said past-time into Gregory's life. He had disrespected a man he cared for, the only one for a long time if he was honest with himself. All answers to his questions would have been resolved by simply thinking of his past experience, he had never dabbled into relationships and all he did for himself was satisfy needs, but somehow Gregory offered more than a pleasant face and beautiful line. There had always been something magnetic about his resolve and his familiar ways, something dangerously attractive about his cheekiness and irreverent humour. Mycroft had thought about it enough as to pinpoint the very second when he had fallen helplessly in love for the other man, reluctantly recognizing his state.

Infatuated? What a silly, preposterous notion, he had thought at the time and the smile on his face refused to leave, even as he reached up and touched it as he looked at Gregory's retreating back.

Mycorft sat back and moved his shoulders trying to relax his tense muscled as he saved the lengthy document. He straightened in his seat as he heard a soft knocking. Mycroft simply said, “Come in” in a commanding tone. As he closed all documents in his computer and there was a brief moment where his hand hovered in the motion, a millisecond hitch in his breath, a millimetre wideness in his eyes, a split second of confusion.

He blinked slowly, estragned by the other man's presence “I see Anthea has found a way to get you in here without a security card...” he said in a gravelly inflection  and motioning for him to seat down.

“Never thought you'd expect less than perfection from her”, that smile. That captivating, half-smile and the inquisitive rise of an eyebrow. All of those ghastly mistakes and the confusion were worth this very second, “Mind if I take a few minutes from your agenda to talk?”

Mycroft blinked in confusion, lacing his fingers and knitting his eyebrows as Greg sat down across from him. Everything in this scene was awfully amiss, yet perfectly right. The fear of loss left him in slow, cautious waves and he sighed, feeling tired enough to sleep for a century, “Of course.”

Chapter Text

There had been a particular moment in his life such as this. One in which he had felt blinding anxiety over the unpredictability of the moment. It was difficult to deal with the utter surprise simply took over every cognitive sense and had him fidgeting uncomfortably, since it happened so rarely. It crushed his senses and it hurt in his bones, it impaired his ability of speech and damped his hands.

He could count the amount of times where he had felt quite so shocked (Because every second of surprise the DI had provided throughout the years had been beyond pleasant). When his mother had told him he would have a younger brother, the dread when his older brother was pronounced dead in Congo and somehow he couldn’t recall any particular relationship that would elicit such a reaction in him.

Mycroft frowned as Greg smiled uncomfortably, he didn’t take a deep breath, he didn’t pinch the bridge of his nose, he didn’t pass a remark on something or another to make polite conversation, he simply sat and watched the other man carefully observing him. That blasted man and his blasted accuracy, observing him when it took a five second glance to see sleepless nights, an extra pint, frustration and exhaustion. Greg could be a mirror to what Mycroft felt, if he was honest, and considering the ever poised man was thinking to simply send an apologetic, handwritten letter to mend their previous relationship, this situation managed to be strangely dissatisfying.

When the Detective Inspector looked at his hands and opened his mouth to speak, Mycroft couldn’t bear the words that would come out already. He got up and walked to a small table in the corner of his office, with a 52 year-old brandy and a set of glasses, he served two of them (Still attempting to seem vaguely civilized even if he had vowed to silence) and walked back to his desk with the glasses and two coasters.

As he handed the glass to the other man their eyes didn’t connect, their hands didn’t touch and the space between those, once comfortable connections, absorbed everything that was left unsaid into the void. The older man sighed and muttered “Thank you” as the red-head went back to the other side of his desk and sat straight as ever, not showing a single emotion that could be traced to the debacle taking place in his mind.

They nursed their drinks, the few feet between them giving Mycroft the perspective he needed as he enclosed himself in his thoughts. Pale eyes turning a deep shade of grey in the dim lights of his office as he thought of the complications it would imply if Gregory were to say anything else than what he could deduce.

After all Mycroft and the silver-haired policeman were terribly different, it was for the best, if you thought about it with a clinical eye. Greg wouldn’t feel at ease with the rank difference between them and there would be little they could talk about after a certain amount of time, of course Mycroft wasn’t one to tend to social interaction with much care and would certainly postpone romanticism in favour of duty. Greg wouldn’t be happy staying on his own in the large Dorset estate during the weekends or the comfort of Mycroft’s London properties. There would be noise attached to Gregory, there would be dreadful small talk and music he wasn’t particularly fond of, and Gregory’s guitar would resound within the big compounds. He didn’t suppose that the Detective Inspector’s old public school education included ballroom dancing as a discipline so the Galas and events he was usually invited to would make him uncomfortable and out of his depth. In the end, they would fight about work, Sherlock, Mycroft’s nonchalance, Greg’s attempts to escape through work… There would be something worse than sound and that was silence. This silence, he thought taking a sip of his brandy. What was he thinking when he let himself fall like this?

Mycroft felt an irrational resentment towards the object of his affections and it vanished as soon as he looked up to find those doe eyes directed at him, hair mussed from the wind and small, knowing smirk in place. The man’s expression dripped playfulness and fondness, it clenched onto Mycroft’s chest, clawing at a thought that screamed on how the security clearance wouldn’t be a major matter, it had never been and he had fallen in love regardless of position and class. Greg offered plenty of colour and noise, as much as he offered peace and order. And Mycroft would gladly sacrifice himself to make Gregory as comfortable as possible, as well as the other man would change the world simply to care for him if he asked. He saw Greg’s capability, the brightness playing at the bottom of those dark orbs and it was easy to simply decide to abdicate his post, simply disappear and live a happy, little boring life in the countryside hearing Gregory extract the most exquisite tunes from his guitar and relish in the mess he made. They would watch one another with the same fondness and grow old together, perish in their embrace and fade to nothing but a story of two men that loved one another.

He blinked and Greg was still waiting, ever so patiently “Hullo. Back already, I see.” And the man smiled baffling Mycroft beyond his comfort zone.

“Indeed” he commented dryly.

The silver-haired man sighed and took another sip of his drink “Your hair looks better when you leave it be, you know? It’s more of a natural look for you.”

He looked down suddenly remembering how he had decided to return to his original, conspicuous colours. As if attempting to find himself at a time where his emotions weren’t as conflicted “Thank you.” He replied pressing his lips into a thin line and looking down to his desk a bit displeased to not have a stack of papers or something else to distract his whirring mind.

Greg sighed loudly and muttered “Ok…” Mycroft looked up and watched the other man as he stared at a corner, with a hand over his chin for a few moments. Everything about his position exposed his level of exhaustion and the slight stubble spoke of long hours at work, his brow knit in concentration and creases around his eyes as he worried his lower lip with white teeth meant to flash the most delightful smiles. And, oh, how he regretted putting this remarkable, thoughtful man to the test. It was obvious he was looking for the most sensitive way to address the situation and as he did, Mycroft dedicated his time to openly admire him.

“Ok,” he repeated in a gruff tone “Been busy, lately then? You’re slipping away again.”

Mycroft blinked and looked emerged from his grief with the same stoic poise he ever had “I thought we had agreed upon the premise that I am constantly occupied.”

The chuckle was something he didn't expect, it set wrinkles around Greg's eyes and left a soft trail of glee in his mouth as it ended “True, that and your being a wordy bastard when you’re nervous.”

That blasted cleverness and the knowing smile, it overjoyed him and destroyed him in the same disarming way, he hummed with a soft smile upon his own mouth as he nursed his glass “I prefer to express myself this way than unintelligible slurs.”

“You mean using every word in Oxford’s Dictionary?” Greg risked in his conversations like he risked in a bet. Stop deluding yourself, you shall never be bored with this man and his appalling tendency to shock you speechless.

Rising an eyebrow and sitting straighter, preening slightly “Proper English is meant to be used.”

“I’m sure they’ll be glad to know there’s at least one person that knows every word in the book” said the man with the same teasing voice he used to use in their social visits.

Mycroft hummed amused “They manage to send flowers every spring. Had they put together a book on antagonistic retorts, I’m quite certain you would make them awfully proud”

Greg's face sported an estranged look, even if he was clearly following Mycroft's playful retorts “I don’t believe they have time to register my entire repertoire of comebacks.”

“Then I feel honored to be the lone recipient of your wittiest one-liners”the pale-eyed genius sat back and took his tumbler to his lips, in order to hide a full smile.

Greg bit his lips and looked down briefly considering his words before saying “Anything to remind you that you’re human, mate” taking his own glass.

Human, though Mycroft. Then looked up to the Detective Inspector as he risking a single glance. His voice was humorless, for a brief moment he remembered his years at college where he felt like the self-outcast monster looking into a world that didn't believe he existed. Human. The word resounded within the walls of his brain and it hurt, as Gregory might now believe that he was something that couldn't be salvaged... Much like many had believed prior to him, a surge of fight was overcoming him. He wanted to get up and shake the cheekiness out of Gregory, beg him to believe him that his sentiments were true yet terribly inconvenient. Convince him to stay forever. Persuade him to leave forever, his voice came out slightly hollow “Your tries have proved to be amusing.”

Greg had been observing him closely and a grave worry preoccupying his brow as he quietly said “Promise not to tell a soul”

“I should hope so,” he said quickly, placing his tumbler on a coaster and lacing his fingers “but you have better matters to speak of if you actually wished to harm both of our reputation. I believe I have been… Difficult for Anthea as of late and I believe we have nothing to clarify any further. Do you know your way out?” he asked.

“You’re not making me leave before even talking to me, Holmes” said Greg looking at him with a humorless expression. He looked up from his brow, decision set in his jaw and hard eyes.

Mycroft sighed looking bored at the nerve wrecking situation “Oh, here I thought this exchange we have been having for the past few moments counted as a proper conversation” he said, getting up and heading to the small library in the opposite wall “and I am not, but I know five security guards that would gladly do so for me.”He offered a fake smile to the older man, who received it with a snort.

Greg sighed and placed his glass on the desk, just beside the coaster making Mycroft's eyes narrow and his smile fall completely “And there you go again with your cute, little displays of power.” Mycroft scoffed and Greg sighed tiredly “If you don’t want to talk, fine, stay quiet. But then let me talk to you and clear things out, yeah?”

Mycroft crossed his arms before his chest and groaned slightly, looking absolutely frustrated “This shall prove amusing, disappointing, disastrous or all of the aforementioned.” Then he walked to the door and opened it “I would recommend that you simply assume I have induced you thoughts well enough as to understand your message and take your leave. Have a good evening, Inspector.” he signaled the exit with a curt movement of the hand and stood by the door.

Greg sunk in his seat with an amused smirk as he said “Piss off, you actually can read minds! Go on, tell me what I’m thinking and if you’re right I’ll leave, all good and nice.” He said taking his tumbler from the desk and taking a larger sip. Possibly aiding his patience, thought Mycroft.

“Simply that?” he asked after a few moments of silence, where the only sound was the loud tick-tacking of the wooden clock near the library.

The older man wore a wry expression as he said “Only that.”

Against his better judgment, since Mycroft preferred not to show off his hand, less with a mildly intelligent individual such as Gregory. But past experience taught him that, most times, people were easily repelled by deduction and even if he was walking on thin ice, since matters of the heart weren't his forte, he said “Fair enough.” with a wolfish expression and stood in front of the door, ready to open it again “As you entered you were actively thinking on how to address the matter since Anthea’s visit to your rendezvous at some pub in The City, possibly with Doctor Watson.” he remembered the smell as he had come close to hand the man his own drink, that cologne, only Mr. Watson used Boss “Certainly with Doctor Watson, then. I believe you found Anthea on your way out, got into the car and she talked you into coming in here and explaining yourself to me, when there is absolutely no need to do so. I am old enough and you were not my first, Lestrade. You thought of how letting me down gently and I assure you that it is not needed since there was no harm done.” he came closer to the door in order to hold the handle and open it again “So I agree wholeheartedly with your decision to keep our relationship-“

“Wrong” said Greg looking down into his glass nonchalantly and finishing it taking a quick gulp and hissing at the burn.

“What?” Mycroft blinked repeatedly and as he saw Greg look up raising his eyebrow, he recalled his manners and English as he repeated “I beg your pardon?” he said curtly.

Greg opened his arms as if exposing something and said something dreadful with the most peaceful expression “Date me.”

The M.I.6 Director stood there frozen. Had he been holding his glass of brandy it would have hit the floor promptly.

Blinking as if something deep within him was screaming 'Error 404: File not found', there was no precedent of this case and there was absolutely nothing he could say, there was no possible way in which Gregory had come in to ask such a thing. It had been obvious in the dejected way he walked, in the stern face, in the way he tried to address the matter. When he found his voice a few seconds later he said “Absurd.”

“No reason in making this too lengthy and talking about feelings isn't my strong point either. But you were partly right, you know?” he said sitting up with his wrinkled suit “I came in here trying to explain how you and I would be fine, that I was fine with leaving... Er... Well, what happened behind. I'm no virgin either and I know we are work partners often enough to compromise that” the man smiled with a slight mortification at the mention of the act that they had… Engaged in a few days ago “But when I saw you there with your coasters and nervous, it just-” Just? Urged Mycroft in his thoughts, still frowning and watching everything fall around them, Greg looked away trying to find the words and bit his lips again in that pensive way “I don't know, I thought that it would do no harm to give it a try. We do make a brilliant team and we do have fun together, after all so... We could take it a step at the time, test the grounds with no rush” he offered and it made so much sense, it frightened Mycroft. He trusted the other man enough but this...

“Certainly not” he responded ignoring how rude it was to simply address the matter without anesthesia. Be brave, it shall pass soon. One last exhalation left him as Greg started speaking again.

-

“Come on, Mycroft” said Greg with a meaningful expression on his features. It wasn't quite as sudden as he said it. Of course, realizing he was at Mycroft's feet was news to him, but he held the suspicion that it had been happening for a long time so by the time he knew it didn't feel strange or off at all.

“No” said the tall, red-haired man with a glazed expression, as he still held onto the doorknob.

Greg's eyes traveled from the man's hand to his face carefully. He sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly “Mycroft-”

“Absolutely not” he was interrupted by a panicked, strangled voice.

“Mycroft…” he repeated patiently, looking up at the man with a grave expression. Greg's patience was nowhere near wearing thin, but it was obvious to him that Mycroft's whole being wanted to move closer and the expression he wore beneath the schooled stern look was possibly panicked and distraught as his stormy eyes told in flashes. Emotion wavered in his voice and he watched Mycroft crumble, make his own battle to the outside as he frowned looking down at him with those glassy, bottomless eyes.

“You can use as many intonations of my name as you would wish, Inspector, and it shan’t make your preposterous proposition more appealing. Please, take your leave” he said in a quiet tone, trying to even his voice successfully. Still firmly holding to the doorknob.

“No, Mycroft. The next bloody intonation of your name better be a repeated moan or I'll let The Butcher slaughter whatever’s left of London if I let you continue torturing us both” he retorted just as firm. The red-haired man stood looking at him as if he were a rare specimen, with endless admiration and curiosity, yet terribly disturbed and estranged. “So, you’re mostly right. I did want to salvage our friendship, but as soon as you zoned out and left me to do my own observations. Christ, Mike, I’ve never seen a someone quite so… Affected at the sight of me”

“I am hardly affected” his knuckles were white on the doorknob as he held onto reality for dear life.

Greg raised his voice, slightly annoyed by the childish insistence and opted to lighten the mood “Belt up and let the grown-ups talk, yeah?”

Mycroft licked his lower lip and shifted his weight on his feet as he said “That’s-“

“Right,” Greg interrupted “So, that look of desolation, Mike. I’ve never produced that by myself,” he let out a bitter laugh under a quiet breath and placed the tumbler over the coaster as he pressed his hand over his mouth, feeling his stubble hard against his hand “I’ve never inspired what you and I did the other day, although I plea guilty. I enjoyed it like mad and did my share of the mess, so… However, I’m not the one to… Talk about these things, you know? Stiff upper lip and all… But I mean it. I have fun with you, you happen to be a brilliant friend, a solid colleague and a lovely sight when flustered, so… Why not? Dating I mean… Hell as far as I know we’ve been in about twenty proper dates by now and even if with how our jobs tend to clash, I think we could find a balance of sorts.” Greg lifted his eyebrows as he finished his case and watched the true expression come to the surface, it was one of utter horror and despair.

Mycroft's voice left in raspy wheezes “… I-… My-…” he struggled out.

He let his training take over as he saw Mycroft's free hand shake slightly and then the man paled “Breathing might help” he suggested getting up, observing the man from a safe distance of a few feet.

“Of course” he said breathlessly looking around, trying to fix his sight on a point in space.

“Are you having a panic attack?” asked Greg quietly and dragged his chair near to the other man.

Mycroft sneered “I do not do panic attacks.” He looked at Greg's offered hand.

“Except when you’re having one. Here, sit down… Deep breaths” Mycroft took Greg's hand and walked in a dignified, stiff step to the chair. Greg let the other man squeeze his hand and held back a wince. He knew Mycroft was stronger than he looked but this was ridiculous.

Mycroft's long torso fell forward and his sight got lost on the floor as he panted, taking deep breaths as Greg had requested. The older man smiled reassuringly and rubbed a hand over Mycroft's back, the younger man didn't bother to straighten his hair as a few strands fell over his worried forehead and tears threatened to leave the stormy eyes “I blame you entirely” he said stubbornly.

Humming Greg pursed his lips and said “Yeah, I blame myself too, don’t worry”

“Wha-?” he breathed out as he closed his eyes rubbing his forehead and grunting “You are absolutely insane.” he said through clenched teeth. Greg smiled at the thought that an expert in many fields, a bit mad himself was making that observation so it must be wildly true.

Greg snorted and smiled, kneeling next to the other man, still rubbing circles on his upper back as he now panted in a more relaxed way “I thought we had cleared that one when I started working with your baby brother.”

Mycroft chuckled and long fingers captured the few tears that left his eyes as he hiccuped “Yes” he said quietly, opening his eyes again and looked over to Greg with a faint expression of deep feelings he couldn't possibly convey. In time, thought Greg as he looked away to give the younger man privacy, humming softly “No. Not that yes, ‘yes’ I shall date you.”

He stopped rubbing the man's back and looked up into his eyes. The earnest look on Mycroft's usually expressionless features “Good,” he said with a radiant smile “Good. You’re doing well.” and he resumed the calming circles on the younger man's back.

They stayed there, silent and Mycroft holding Greg's hand tightly, yet not inducing any pain as he slowly relaxed. The older man cooed Mycroft sweetly as he spoke of one thing or another, the younger man dedicated the time to inspect their joined hands with a faint smile on his face “I believe I owe you a proper apology” he muttered.

“You do owe me a few thousand I’m sure” was all he answered and Mycroft sighed before sitting up, proper as ever.

Greg stopped touching his back but let him take his hand and kiss it, chuckling “The cheek you have.”

Watching the very British Government adoring look, he said “Think about it this way, you won’t be too bored if I’m here to pick little fights with you.”

“I am not bored even when we are sitting down silent.” confessed Mycroft softly, kissing his hand again “You manage to be fascinating.”

The DI whistled and looked in awe at what the man's lips did with a renewed interest, even if this crouching position would hurt once he got up and his knees creaked and muscles complained, now he relished in that moment “Now that’s something to help a bloke’s ego”

“I could put the words together in more languages that you’d care to know” the younger man's lower tones and piercing eyes struck in the precise mood.

Greg incorporated, leaning on the armrest of the old oak chairs “Just give over-talking, yeah? You got me.”he leaned in closer and saw Mycroft throw what was left of doubt.

Mycroft sighed and said “Don’t let me destroy you”

“I challenge you to try”was the last statement that left him, when the younger man crushed their mouths together, placing a hand on the back of his head. It was all action and reaction, they weren't entering wild, unknown territory any longer, now they walked side by side into something that had form and shape, something they knew and embraced.

The kiss ended far too soon and the promise of more to come was brilliant in Mycroft's eyes as he looked up. Hands still joined, and starry eyes as they smiled to each other. In the least they weren't going to fight through the trials of this alone. They never had even as they struggled through Sherlock's recovery, or a particularly taxing case with state matters in the mix. Mycroft sat up further and found Greg's mouth again, giving him a chaste kiss and saying, “I have work to do and you could use a moment to rest before you faint here and now. I shall call the car, yes?”

Greg's shoulders slumped and he said “Oh, come on, Mike, I still have the energy to shag over that nice desk of yours.” Mycroft rolled his eyes and he reached for his phone.

“I'm sure you are, but I believe you should buy me dinner first” the wolfish expression was back and he called “Hello. Could you please bring the car and take Mr. Lestrade to his abode?”

Greg licked his lips and no restaurants came to mind when he thought of Mycroft and a social environment. He didn't seem to be the sort to go to pubs and the DI couldn't possibly pay a night at Gavin-at-Windows. He'd have to ask someone that was out and dating, since after one too many years of broken marriage he couldn't possibly know of-

“I hear that Azou has private booths at a decent price, that if you have nothing against Moroccan cuisine. I can make time whenever you wish” stated Mycroft before he could get even more preoccupied than he already was on their upcoming date.

The older man chuckled and said “Taking notes, but you shouldn't be the one arranging our night out, you know?” he approached the man again and placed a kiss that lingered in the distance they took and made the red-head hum and seek for another, so Greg ended up speaking in a whisper over the younger man's lips “I'll take care of the details and make time this Friday night. Regardless of the state of The Butcher's case I'll make time.”

Mycroft spoke in a quiet tone as well “Doctor Hawking would be amazed at your ability, I'm sure.”

His smile widened and he looked at Mycroft's lips mimic him “See me bend the rules of Traditional Physics, that bugger won't see what's coming” Greg met Mycroft's kiss halfway and they deepened it, until Mycroft's hands surrounded the DI's waist pulling him impossibly close as they snogged each other breathless.

When Mycroft's phone sounded he let out a sigh and the delight in his expression was drained to a frown “Speak” he commanded and then “Thank you” then hung up. And placing a hand over the side of Greg's face, kissing him again “Car's waiting.”

Greg stood there, hands in pockets and said “Alright” meeting the pecks offered and watching Mycroft slowly disentangle himself from everything. Watching the younger man settle down and unwilling to leave, he said “Ok, just -” he kissed the younger man again and said “Don't disappear again, you know I can find you.”

The genius trailed a long finger over the other man's wrist and said “It is unlike me to run from matters and as we have reached an understanding I believe that shan't be a problem” pale eyes fixed into his and he was briefly dazzled “Do email me when you have chosen a place so I can arrange my wardrobe.”

Greg giggled and said “You'll look fine in whatever you wear, but I think I'll make you dress down.”

“I'll take the challenge” said Mycroft and those few feet to the door didn't seem to be a distance he cared to walk, luckily Mycroft joined him to the elevator. They walked together, hands in pockets. Tranquil expressions on their faces.

As Greg got into the elevator again, Mycroft simply offered his hand and Greg accepted it with a smile, knowing there were cameras and there was a reason why Mycroft would prefer to keep things simple.

As the doors closed, he saw Mycroft's tall frame as he was engulfed in the darkness of the hallway and he leaned back on the elevator, biting his lips and a smile on his eyes as he replayed their conversation, their promises and kisses in a loop. He got into the car and found Anthea's number.

Would it be cruel to let her know everything turned out ok? Perhaps, but the pain would fade in that gorgeous heart and she could easily move on. Handsome girl like that must have plenty of followers, after all. 'Do you know of any good Moroccan restaurants? GL' was all he sent.

The response came quickly enough as a simple 'Finally. I believe that Momo was a nice place, the boss would approve. A'

Greg chuckled 'Taking notes. How are you? GL'

The answer took a few moments longer and it was a plain 'I'm fine. A'

Many starts filled the air, even if they were old and stale, they had been stirred by these recent events and by miracle they had come unharmed out of the storm. Even if this had been a torrid start, Greg couldn't imagine it in any other way. Complex and passionate, difficult and rabid, calculated and messy, it had their trademark prints everywhere, entangled and in harmony.

He sighed and pocketed his phone, feeling smitten with everything that surrounded him for the first time in long years, as he watched the lights in the restless city pass them by as the car drove him back to Bromley. Feeling giddy and relieved. After all, who would imagine that the one to inspire the happiness about his features was Mycroft Holmes?

Chapter Text

He decided to dress up in a simple pair of dark grey slacks, navy blue jumper and light blue shirt. It had been the only attire he had approved of all sixteen looks Anthea had prepared, the young woman reassured him that he would look well enough for that particular restaurant and that he had plenty of time to prepare. He drank scotch as he styled his hair and shaved, listening to Vivaldi.

Giving another look to the full-body mirror, Mycroft appreciated the way in which it highlighted his hair colour and eyes. The scent he had chosen was floral yet held a low note of sandalwood and musk, which were often Gregory's preferred aromas. He calculated his dress-code, adapted his scent and highlighted each and every one of the features that Gregory found appealing. Honesty might as well be one of them, he thought giving his reflection a stern look, seeing the panic at being quite so open even in front of himself. But Greg wouldn't harm him on purpose, not out of spite and he deserved the full truth.

So, as he finished preparing for the evening event, calculating a few minutes to be fashionably late, he had spied on the live feed from Gregory's flat one last time before telling him everything. To see him racing through his own rituals, shaving and humming to My Sharona, then picking his clothes from the wardrobe. Mycroft closed his laptop. There were some things he would like to keep as a surprise. He smiled to himself and saw the car parking in the front gate of his old estate, sighing he looked at Anthea as she entered and she announced the car. Adjusted his tie and helped him to pick an overcoat “Vielen dank”* he said honestly and she smiled a small earnest smirk as she pushed him out the door and into the car.

Even if the wait in the car until seven brought Gregory to the door of his chosen restaurant had been excruciating, dinner had been wonderful indeed, along with the sardines, Moroccan couscous and Tajine (“I hear that would be the chef's recommendation”), the conversation had been grand and the wine choice delightful (“Go on, you're probably giving etiquette lessons on how to choose wine. Take your pick, it's on me.”)

Considering the teasing and the edge, the innuendo and the cheek kept in a natural flow throughout their exchange. Mycroft finally dares addressing the matter of how he felt towards Greg's presence using a single adjective: addictive. The sight was that much better than what surveillance tapes could offer.

The smart attire that wrapped the man was exquisite, his fitted dark grey suit, stylish to the black shirt and trendy shoes, the smile and the hair made him look all the more tempting and manly. And Mycroft had his chance to prove he can, in fact, dress down and cut a nice figure (“The man inside is quite the same.”, “Good, I hoped you wouldn't send a brilliant looking double.”)

So the fact that they decided to enjoy coffee at Mycroft's Kensington flat wasn't a surprise. Neither was the fact that at the first chaste kiss, matters escalated from coffee to dessert quickly.

The smiles Gregory offered and the pleasure at the tips of his fingers were enough to have him confessing his sins against the older man and he listened patiently as he recovered his breath.

“And I thought, I could simply take what I wanted” Mycroft looked at the man's hand as it landed on his chest and he shifted closer.

The older man tangled a leg around his long calves and scraped his teeth around his shoulders. His kink for freckles is more acute than my first assumption, thought Mycroft as Greg climbed to press his nose to the nape of Mycroft's neck and hummed “You do realize those cameras have to go now, yeah?” he rolled onto his back and sighed content, placing an arm behind his head “I mean, it could get us in trouble.”

Mycroft hummed and frowned “I would've thought that you would be angrier at being observed in such a way.”

The other man's face remained flushed but expressionless, he simply lifted his eyebrows as if he was contemplating the matter seriously “Oh, I'm livid. But I'm sure you'll find a way to compensate me, for instance-”

“We're not having sex in my office” said Mycroft in a final tone, as he placed a hand over his face. He was still painfully aroused but wanted to calm down so it could last for a second round, he wanted to make the death of this distance slow and sweet, but with the image of Gregory in his office with wicked intentions wasn't aiding the matter.

When Greg exclaimed “Oh, come on! And if I promise to make it worth your while?” Mycroft turned to look at him and that wolfish smirk, promised a good time, but unfortunately Mycroft wouldn't compromise... Yet.

“I do not doubt you shall,” he said turning to his side and grazing his fingertips over Gregory's chest and down his abdomen, watching the muscles shiver under them “but I prefer not to have intrusive thoughts as I speak to clients and colleagues.” He finished as he felt Greg's hands play with his hair, Mycroft closed his eyes and started mapping the man's shoulder and neck with mouth.

“Pity, I thought you controlled that better- Ow!”And teeth.

Mycroft hummed, smiling and Greg snorted out a laugh at how mischievous he looked “I do. But I get bored often as they speak and use what's left of my capacity to think of other matters.” he continued his ministrations on Greg's jaw and navel.

The older man's hands massaged the back of his neck and he let soft grunts at the back of his throat “Fantazise?” he asked when curiosity got the best of him.

“Not often” he admitted, lips still against Greg's skin as he purred under his soft, calming movements.

“About me?” he asked with a smile that said he knew.

“Plenty” the red-head admitted again. Hands flinching as Greg's free hands caressed his side making him sigh.

Greg kissed him sweetly and said “I'm flattered” against his lips.

“Quite welcome” said Mycroft falling onto his back as he tried to control his impending orgasm once more.

Greg propped his face on his hand and started playing with his hair again, for a brief moment Mycroft closed his eyes and lost himself to the relaxing sensations “So... In short, you stalked me, had people following me and messed with my mind to get me into your bed for a one-nighter... Somehow I'm getting the vibe that telling me wasn't a part of the plan or I'm on the bouts of heartbreak.”

Mycroft opened his eyes slowly and looked at Greg's endless, dark eyes. He raised a hand and caressed the man's jaw with his thumb, then sat up to level his sight with Greg's “It was not part of the plan and I am not quite done with you. But I believe it's best if we start whatever this is with a clean record. After all I am an old-fashioned man in a way and if you wish to have a healthy relationship it is only reasonable...” he finished and silence absorbed them. It was deafening, he held his breath and felt Greg's hand still on his hair. Hurt in his eyes and displeasure in his mouth.

“Then I think you'll spend the whole night talking and confessing” he said in a soft, private tone.

“I haven't done as much harm as you would accuse me of” he dodged swiftly and his hand clenched at the sheet that covered Gregory's intimacy.

The smile was relief washing over Mycroft “Oh, hush, love. I just accuse you when you're guilty as charged.” he said and leaned in for a peck.

“You shall never hear it from me, Gregory” answered, smiling back and leaning in to capture a deeper kiss, slipping his tongue in slowly, not conquering but requesting.

“Then I should confess I often fantasized about you” he whispered against Mycroft's lips, once they parted.

Mycroft's hand was now pulling Greg closer to himself by the waist “I know” he said.

“When I was married” he confessed with a bit of shame, and the genius raised an eyebrow as if saying 'Interesting' “Shut up. You took matters to bloody M.I.6 level, I was just innocently thinking that...”

“That...” urged Mycroft as he pressed the entire line of his long body to Greg's, and he witnessed how in his deep eyes his thoughts became a mess for a brief moment.

“That.” said Greg getting slightly breathless.

“I see.” commented Mycroft as he captured one and all of the Detective Inspector's pecks and kisses “You did so in the most inconspicuous way, even if I did suspect a slight interest a few times. Unfortunately I thought it had been a figment of my own imagination.”

The silver haired man sighed as Mycroft raked a hand through his hair and rolled on top of him “I thought you were used to being always right”

“The heart does tend to interfere with logic” and, God, it did he felt Gregory growing hard against the nooks and hollows between them.

The other man bit his lips as Mycroft rutted against him once and rolled them over, so he was on top “It does. But look at the outcome.”

“It is a pleasant sight.” was all he admitted and it was quite a lot in spite of being in such a simple wording.

Gregory licked his neck lavishly and asked in that low, cockney accent “Not too old and shabby for an elegant bloke like you?” it drove him mad and he could just close his eyes and enjoy the pace Greg was setting for them.

He moaned and sighed before saying “Not at all.” earning another tactical assault to his neck that was quickly making him into a hot mess, their tangled legs, their lined shafts and Greg's generous attentions as he made him melt slowly.

“Mind?” he asked in that rough voice, then kissed Mycroft on the lips and as he opened his eyes, he could see dark eyelashes over Greg's cheeks, the silver hair and dark skin glistening in the dim lights of his bedroom as he moved on top.

“God, no” he said gasping as Greg moved away to retrieve the lubricant Mycroft had set on the night table. He let out a shaky breath at the sight of the DI as naked as that first night he had seen him pleasuring himself, but that hardness between his legs inspired by him and him alone. Mycroft licked his lips hungrily and looked up at Greg that was making sure his hand was slick enough, but upon seeing him his face contorted into a smile that promised debauchery and pleasure.

Then pulled Mycroft on his side and pulled him close brusquely, Mycroft clawed at Gregory's lovely arse and pulled him impossibly “That's more like it.” said Greg in a strangled voice.

“Stop teasing, Gregory.” said the younger man in a demanding tone, flushed and distracted, feeling Greg's heart race over his own chest.

“Yessir” he offered and pressed a hand between them, pumping Mycroft's erection first.

“Bloody-” hissed Mycroft as Greg's hand caressed and teased, never quite enough. He looked at the light in the other man's eyes as he looked down to witness the mess he was making, his prick standing with interest and Mycroft felt helpless as the DI batted his hands away.

Greg's smile was so close and he didn't dare kiss it for it would disappear and he preferred to witness it just this once “Just enjoy and say more.” it was obvious that he liked to hear Mycroft's usual posh tones falling to a dirty string of curses.

“More” he said challenging the wrong man.

The silver-haired detective snorted, amusement reaching his eyes “Clever kid, are you?” he kissed the younger man as he started to pump his prick slowly. Too slow, too loose, but bloody perfect, thought Mycroft as he moaned pulling the man closer.

“Of the finest kind.. Oh, dear” he challenged and exclaimed, as his eyes rolled back and Greg pushed him onto his back. He was finding his way into his every spot as he sucked on his nipples and pressed needy kisses down his chest and belly.

Greg hummed, not quite happy with his work quite yet. They weren't all tenderness, they didn't have, so relishing on the feeling of the long shaft pressed under the base of his cock as Greg straddled Mycroft's hips and the younger man pushed up needing the pressure urgently.

Their sounds filled the room, and Mycroft's hands moved to the man's lower back as they pressed, grinded and tortured each other. Greg's lips tireless on Mycroft's own, even as a few moans and grunts escaped into it “God, you're majestic...” he muttered.

Greg panted and responded “You shouldn't-Bloody hell... Ah, you shouldn't be able to talk” they chuckled and Greg's hand reached the lubricant once again.

For now, Mycroft lost himself in Gregory's deliciously dirty kisses. Their lips and tongues, tangling and dancing. He enjoyed this far too much, being consumed by the intelligent man's taste and essence was all that he could wish.

Next thing he knew was that Gregory got himself ready for something to protrude him... Mycroft tilted his head to the side to give access to Gregory's bountiful kisses at his neck, the groans and the want were absolutely breathtaking and the white-hot friction that was going on in his lower areas was what unsettled him the most. "God, Gregory", he mewled, immediately embarrassed at how that low sound even escaped his lips.

His lover simply laughed and soon corresponded with a filthy moan, that would keep him distracted for years to come “Christ, there it is” he said arching his back, eyes closed. Mycroft blinked lost in the sight, he wanted to see that again. Repeatedly. For the rest of his days, and as the lips slowly parted.

Then Greg's expression turned as he opened his eyes to look down at him offering a smile that would cause wars and make messes, that did succeed in channeling all of Mycroft's attention towards him as he muttered “Now.” in a soft tone “Right now.” he mumbled in between hungry lips colliding against each other. "I want-" he felt what Greg was doing with his own fingers and touched from the slick entrance to the sturdy fingers penetrating it, to the wrist and “Now.” he repeated, stunned into confusion, seduced into mind-numbing areas he hadn't known.

Oh, and he expressed himself in a display of such freedom! Boys at Cambridge should have been ashamed at their displays of sexuality for they were nothing against this sight “In a rush, are we?” he asked in the lowest gruff tones he'd heard yet and they vibrated from his prick to the very insides of his mind driving him crazy.

“Oh, not a rush-- Ah... Simply, I believe you could find greater pleasures in letting me handle matters from now on” Because you've done enough to make a disaster out of me. Thank you, Queen and Country salute you dearly, he thought as Greg pressed his lips against his. They panted, puffs of hot breath on wet lips and he felt Greg aligning his shaft and lower onto it slowly “Oh, dear God” he exclaimed quietly as his knees trembled and he covered his eyes with a large hand as Greg towered him confidently.

“Come on, Mike, open your eyes" he said with a lascivious smirk and Mycroft did as asked, after all he did do his best to comply and be a good enough lover. Even if on this particular encounter he hadn't counted on full penetration he could see in the nervous face Gregory was making that he had been making a bit of research and... Previous testing. Confiscate all evidence for private use, he noted in his mind.

Mycroft panted and swallowed thickly “Very well, you can move whenever you feel certain of- Fuck!” he exclaimed as Greg started moving “Dear God, you will end me.” he shivered as the other man blinked lazily and tried to focus his eyes on the younger man as he watched his shaft come out and disappear within Gregory's body once and over again in the most pornographic way.

“You look stunning when aroused, you know?” he commented and continued to ride him. Rocking, moving up and falling hard, slow, then faster. Mycroft hummed and lost his words as all he could mutter were random words of what his thoughts could be. His hands clutched the tousled covers and he heard Gregory's distant voice, he felt his warm lips as he arched off of the bed and wiggled, raving under Gregory's constant ministrations. Opening his eyes to capture the sights.

God, the sights, he thought as he memorized every inch of whatever position Gregory was lost into. Once Mycroft sat up and decided to kiss the older man's chest, have him repeating 'Yes' and 'More' and 'God, you're beautiful' along with other simple, unbelievable, meaningful observations as he pumped his erection, doing his best to follow the pace.

His orgasm thundered through him. It split him in half and scattered his brains on the floor in a gruesome scene. Last thing he remembered was Greg's lips over his forehead as he fell onto his back panting helplessly, reaffirming “Tu seras mi muerte, mi fin.”*

And the last thing he listened was a warm and soft chuckle, like honey “I don't understand Spanish, love.”

-

Seven months later

-

“So it seems to be working quite well, I see” said Sherlock as snow crunched under his feet while they walked out of the back door of the cottage. Mycroft walked a few steps ahead of him and turned to see his borother's icy eyes follow mummy and Emma as they walked around the vast back yard the Holmes home offered. The little girl had decided to take upon the adventure walking awkwardly and babbling near the door, one enamoured Mrs. Holmes had joined her in her explorations, they now smiled and laughed as Emma grabbed onto Violet's hands and attempted a step.

Mycroft hummed quietly at Sherlock's remark on their present company. Remembering how the young man had once been... Averse to such a union. Mycroft's same wintery eyes fixed in the distance as he thought on how matters had changed throughout these past few months.

It was working in a strange way for them. Even if tragedy struck when Mary was found by old acquaintances and felt forced to fade into the distance due to how she put John and Emma's lives in danger with her attempts at redemption. She had cried plenty and begged for forgiveness, the only mercy she found was from Sherlock's insistence, he promised to talk to Emma about her, while John had been far too broken and angry to mind her. One thing was that she put Sherlock and John in danger, Emma had been another matter entirely.

Mycroft had been quick to offer her a relocation in a safe place, a new start, a new identity in exchange for her absolute disappearence. She would be erased from England, from every available tape, every second of the life she attempted had to cease to exist. She accepted with great pain in her dark blue eyes, seeing a husband that loved and loathed her with the same intensity. The family fragmented bitterly one night of August and they had been attempting to heal since.

The transition back to 221B had been painful for both Sherlock and the broken Army Doctor. The consulting detective tried too hard to mend John's heart even if he didn't know how to fix his own, or what role to adopt in order to work with this new family he had adopted.

But luckily, for most fights as they struggled to adapt, Greg had been present and he had given a proverbial smack upside the head to the 'widowed' man, "Don't even pretend to be angry at the only person in this room, aside from the little one, that has taken you in once and over again. Don't be a prick." he had said in the angriest tone he had witnessed from the grey haired detective. Sherlock's eyes were wide open, Mycroft was somewhere between uncomfortably aroused and terribly proud, and John turned to look at Sherlock, truly seeing him for the first time in years.

Mycroft had invited Greg to stay at his house, the air did fill with music and chanting and noise. He did snore quietly in their abode and, upon realizing on how alone he felt during those nights that Gregory wasn't around to make dinner, or watch a movie, or even help him relax by making love to him, slowly or roughly, sweetly or needy. It had been inevitable that one day he asked him to never leave again. Greg smiled and thought about it for exactly seven seconds. Now mummy was insiting that the next step was marriage. Embarrassingly enough, she obviously urged the man for the same reason that Mycroft kept quiet about the matter and it was because the older man carried a small box within his jacket pocket at all times, 

The door cloosed behind them and John walked towards them fixing his cablenet hat as he approached them and handed them mugs of egg-nog “Everything alright?” he asked.

Sherlock's cold eyes brightened to a pale green, full of life as he looked at his best friend and simply smiled “She managed with us, I believe she can deal with Emma.”

John chuckled and said “Didn't want to say it myself, but that's what I suspected. Still, you're being a big influence on her, don't act innocent." he said rubbing his hands together and stepping out of the path, into the snow "Excuse me, I have to show my daughter how to make snowballs.” and he started on his way, as the raven haired Consulting Detective rolled his eyes and Mycroft took a discrete step away from his younger brother's perimeter.

“You can hardly grasp the aerodynamics of-” and a snowball hit him square on the face. Mycroft raised an eyebrow and  his brother's cheeks reddened as he smiled himself, looking at his target. The younger man pushed his mug onto Mycroft's chest, and his brother took it muttering "Best of luck" before walking with a decisive step towards the blonde.

The door creaked open again and Greg poked his head outside, walking behind Mycroft and taking the extra mug “Keeping things nice, I see. Look away for a second and they start a war.” Mycroft looked at the man clutching his wool overcoat, wrapped in a scarf that Mrs. Holmes herself knitted for him and old pair of snow boots, Greg laughed, observing the scene “Look, he fell on his arse.”

Mycroft turned to see Sherlock getting up and John pressing a handful of snow to his head “Oh, too late to take a proper picture” he responded with a pout on his voice and Greg snorted, shaking his head.

Mrs. Holmes walked slowly towards them, deep amusement hidden beneath a displeased expression “Those two," she started dusting the snow off of his shoulders, as the little girl laughed in her father's arms "they are absolutely terrible. The little one will grow in that environment! Oh, dear, can you imagine if she wishes to take after her godfather's steps?” she said with a bit of hope and horror.

“I believe we shall keep our guards up if that is to happen” her son dragged his voice in bored tones as Greg ellbowed him in the ribs 'Be nice'.

The older woman didn't take notice in Mycroft's slight lack of patience “Oh, yes. The battle was unnecessary!” she exclaimed in a high pitch.

As Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, Greg interrupted “Best if they get tired, the day will end up earlier and we'll get a few moments of peace."

Mrs. Holmes giggled at the way the silver-haired DI treated his colleagues like children, patting him in the arm and saying “You're absolutely terrible, Greg.” Mycroft winced at how she shortened his boyfriend's name and saw her turn to go inside, sighing and making an effort at the stairs under her thick overcoat.

The DI turned to follow her, helping her inside only when she deemed necessary and at the door he turned to look at Mycroft. Alone in the snow and there was something igniting in his face as he offered a disarming smile to the lonely man and called out “Your father made tea, coming in?”

Mycroft observed the snow as it flew from Emma's little hands to her father and he pretended to be shot dead, falling to the floor. She hurried towards him almost falling on her way and Sherlock captured her in the nick of time, kneeling beside them as they hugged, laughing merrily. Guarding them dearly as he always had. As Mary would have wanted.

There were plenty of ghosts surrounding them, he mused as Sherrinford came to his mind. Striding in with his appealing smile, sharp wit and good heart, he turned to look at Gregory and walked slowly towards him.

Chances were that opportunities would come to all of them, even if great disgraces were to happen as well, they were resilient enough to keep moving. To grow and to find new roads to a modest happiness in a short life. To find peace. To protect those we dare love. Greg pulled him down for a kiss even if he was old and balding, even if he was nearly impossible to love, even if his hands weren't clean and his heart was often a null attachment to his body. Greg smiled up at him, that warm, wide, toothy smile he could never get tired of and Mycroft fell in love again. Like he did every morning as he watched him wake up, as every evening when he came into bed, joined him for dinner, through their joined cases, or when they argued.

Mummy entered the kitchen and looked at them smiling at her son, Mycroft stood tall and smiled back. Whatever he had done right to deserve this small heaven, he hoped he could cheat destiny to keep this bliss for the rest of his life.

Yes. Everything would be alright.

-

C´est Fini.