AN: Sup, bros! I finally worked up the courage to put one of my Mystrade stories up. There is never enough Mystrade in the world. I don't know if I'll continue this story or not, but let me know what you think by reviewing, please.

Warnings: mentions of death and violence, male/male kissing

I do not own Sherlock or its characters. Those belong to Godtiss, Moffat, and ACD.

Have fun, bros!

~Kiro

Britain's Devil

Gregory's hand slipped over his flesh, the blood that spilled from the bullet wound in his shoulder soaking over his half-off shirt and sticking over his skin. He had been chasing yet another criminal on yet another case on which he brought Sherlock Holmes yet again. This time he had gotten himself shot. His head was light from blood loss as his glazed eyes peered into the darkness of the alleyway. He heard the uneven triple click of footsteps and cane, belonging to a dark figure approaching his near-dead frame.

Greg tried to cough out a plea to the figure, but all that emerged was a strangled gurgle.

"Now now, Detective Inspector, it is quite rude to die before I can even get a word in. Here," the figure, a man judging by his silky voice, waved a hand and Lestrade no longer felt like he was dying. He no longer felt like anything, actually, and he was just kind of... floating. When Greg looked down all he saw was concrete and his own body… transparent. He wasn't sure what exactly happened but whatever it was it was good, he supposed. He glanced behind him and saw himself, glassy eyed and dying but with bleeding and breathing stopped in mid-flow. It was as if time had simply stopped mid-death. Now thoroughly confused but sure he wouldn't be dying any time soon, half-Gregory turned back to the figure before him, whom he could now see quite clearly.

The man was dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, a blood-red tie tucked into his pinstripe waistcoat over a white button down. The "cane" that Greg had thought he heard earlier was, in fact, a tacky black umbrella with one of those bent wooden handles with finger notches. Finally, Greg's eyes rested on the figure's face. A large nose dominated a politely attractive face below a receding auburn hairline. Icy titanium eyes swallowed by pupils, probably from the low lighting, regarded the ethereal Greg with a cool and calculating, oddly half-smiling stare.

"Now that has been dealt with for the time being, I believe that you have questions about your current state," he motioned to the 'body' of ethereal Greg, which he now realized was transparent, "who I am, what I'm doing here, etc, etc." The man's voice was honeyed, slightly bored, definitely mocking, and quite cold but for an odd warm note.

Greg shut his mouth, which had fallen open sometime between his pain stopping and the sight of his body mid-death, and thought. This man was obviously powerful, judging by his ability to do whatever he'd done to Greg, separating and pausing body and consciousness. Lestrade thought he felt a small twinge of familiarity at the man's expression, but he shook off the feeling. Greg really didn't have time to contemplate who this person might be, but he obviously wanted something from Greg, otherwise he wouldn't have gone to the effort. Besides, if the man could pause Greg dying, perhaps he could help.

"No, but I do need to know what you need from me and why I, a dying man, should care." Lestrade stared right into the figure's eyes as he said this, watching the man's face twist into mild amusement.

"Ah, someone who has their priorities straight. I suppose that makes sense, you being the DI who consults with Sherlock Holmes on cases. But enough on my dear brother, this is about you, Gregory. I have a proposal." Greg's mind stumbled over itself. This man called Sherlock his brother, which alone made Greg feel sympathetic. Then he said that he had an offer for Greg, which was interesting in and of itself. However, at the forefront of Lestrade's mind was one question that probably shouldn't have registered at all- how on Earth had he morphed from Detective Inspector to Gregory? This probably should not have been the first thing in his mind, but his brain was oblivious to this fact. Gregory shook himself from his reverie and reigned in his thoughts.

"A proposal? What kind of proposal?" Again the unnamed man's face formed into mild amusement at Greg's stumbling confusion.

"Why a proposal, dear Gregory, an offer. I give you something, in this case your life, and you give me something, in this case your alliance."

Gregory pulled his mind from the gutter- dear? How did he get to dear with this handsome devil?- and back to the matter at hand. Life for alliance, whatever that meant.

"And who would I be allying myself with?" He ground out, studying the man before him.

The man held out a hand with a smirk. "Mycroft Lucifer Holmes, King of Hell, Devil, Satan, and underground ruler of Britain."

Greg opened his mouth. He then closed it. He opened and closed it again. His fish impression only spurred some light amusement from Mycroft. Greg clenched his fist then relaxed it, heaving a sigh of defeat. Again he opened his mouth.

"So you tell me you want my alliance, whatever that means, then you tell me that you are Beelzebub himself essentially. Because I definitely want to ally myself with evil. You aren't very good at getting people to do what you want, you know that?"

At this, Mycroft put a wry smile on his face and clarified.

"Beelzebub was the second Satan, after Lucifer. There have been six in all, not a hereditary title, but earned, much in the manner of the CEO position in some companies. So no, I am not Beelzebub, however, I am Satan, which is the proper term for King of Hell. Devil is my class of daemon, which I suppose you could call my species. It is more of a ranking, but whatever best suits itself to your sensibilities."

Greg gaped, then shut his mouth again.

"Fine, so suppose you are Satan, a demon, and you are pure evil. You are then the literal king of evil, making me want to do anything but ally myself with you. What do you mean by alliance, anyhow?"

Mycroft's expression grew serious at this.

"First of all, I am neither pure evil nor the king of pure evil. I rule Hell, which, if you recall, punishes people for the horrible things that they have done in life. I overrule chaos, literally control it and punish the users. Without anyone to rule chaos it would overrun the land. In fact, that is exactly what happened when the last Satan perished. World War Two was the consequence of no ruler over Hell. It only took a few months of confusion to start the chaos that took years and years to quell, with my… inexperienced guidance. I am not anything that should be called evil, Gregory. I am simply doing my best to do what I can, though the little things I allow in place of the large wars may seem horrible to outsiders."

Greg remained silent through this speech. It was obviously said often enough to become habit, but the man's ice mask had melted to show the slightest bit of anger and hurt during this explanation. Greg felt somewhat inclined to believe him, then, all of it. That bit of emotion was hardly faked, in fact it seemed that Mycroft was not even aware of its appearance. That made this story seem, if not real, then at least a possibility. It was certainly a better possibility than that of Greg having dying hallucinations of his charge's hot brother being the devil.

"Alright, then, maybe I believe you. What kind of alliance do you mean?"

The Satan relaxed ever so slightly and managed a somewhat mysterious smile in spirit-Greg's direction.

"Ah, yes. It would be expected in such an alliance that you help me and my people, using your place in the police force, to control how the murderers are punished. Which are released from custody to be later killed in a gang war, a more fitting punishment than a few years in prison, which will be sentenced to death. Rest assured that every change made will lead to the maximum punishment on the offender's part. Oh, and of course, you would need to provide me with weekly updates on my brother. I do worry so about him."

Greg, for the third time this conversation, felt his mouth fall open. It was somewhere around "released from custody," or maybe it was "gang war," he wasn't sure. He managed to close his mouth, annoyed at how often he was gaping like a fish in front of this man, this "Satan." Lestrade carefully gathered his thoughts.

This man, this near stranger, had just paused his life. He claimed he was Satan. He also claimed that Satan was essentially saving the world from constant World War Three. He then asked Greg to literally let criminals go. Also, these men would get worse punishment when released than if they remained in custody. If he said yes, he would remain alive. If Greg said no, he would die.

Greg was certain he would have a headache if he'd had a head to ache. As it was, his morals were playing tug-of war with his mind. Live and have a constant moral battle, deaths and betrayal of his country weighing on his conscious. Die and he would be free of this, free of the moral battle, but then he might still be left at this man's mercy. It wasn't as if Greg had lived a sin-free life, after all.

It was a difficult decision, but one that Lestrade knew he wouldn't be able to sleep on. As he looked at Mycroft, the man standing still as an oak in the dingy alleyway, he thought of another thing. He would be seeing this man in a comfortable setting for once a week checkups on Sherlock.

Now while Greg wasn't one to let his judgment be swayed by lust, there was something about this man that made his mouth water. He knew that he was lost as he looked into those steel grey eyes.

"Right. I'll do it. Is there some sort of contract I have to sign in blood or something?" Greg said it in a joking manner but as he looked at the Devil he hoped it wouldn't actually be something like that. His fears were abated when a light chuckle came from Mycroft's soft throat.

"Ah, no, dear Gregory, nothing like that. In the interests of time and convenience Hell has long since turned to a much more expedient and equally emotion-charged manner of sealing deals."

"And what would that be?"

Gregory almost regretted saying yes when he saw the devious smile on the other man's lips.

"Why a kiss of course."

Greg did a double take.

"What?"

Mycroft let out a wry chuckle.

"A kiss, Gregory. A pressing of lips together in union of oral apparatus. In this case, for the trade of a life and alliance, it will require tongue. Although I must say that you are definitely one of the more pleasant people I have had to kiss to seal a contract, so I cannot say that I am displeased."

Greg flushed a deep red, or at least he would have, had he been in his body. As it was, he didn't know if his immaterial body flushed or not. At the very least, his embarrassment showed on his face, as the Devil smirked.

"Uh, right then. Uh- I guess we just get to it th-"

Lestrade was abruptly cut off with a pair of thin pink lips meeting his. He was surprised that they didn't go right through him as the wind and the cold did, but soon that faded into the back of his mind.

It was easy to tell that Mycroft had done this often. His lips molded to Greg's, moving against his in a sensual, sweet whisper of flesh on ethereal flesh. Greg remembered that he was supposed to be kissing back and did exactly that, moving his lips against the Devil's.

Mycroft's tongue parted his lips and swept across Gregory's, opening them with a slight pop of saliva. He swept his tongue against the inner edge of Greg's lips. Lestrade brought his tongue forward to sweep Mycroft's with a clumsy flourish.

With tongue contact, the contract was sealed. Greg felt the Devil's tongue retreat, a smack sounding as it left his mouth. He made a small unconscious whimper of disappointment.

However, soon pain came back to Greg with a vengeance. His breath faltered as the stabbing pain of a bullet wound made itself known. Above the haze of pain he heard a yelp and a familiar rough tenor sound ahead of him in the hallway. He was vaguely aware of an army doctor's arms winding around him, picking him up, applying pressure to the wound. All he could think about were perfect lips and a devilish smirk, but as he peered past Dr. Watson the suited figure was gone.