The story is sequel to an original story also posted by directedbysherlock on , called "Holmes is Where The Hart Is." This story posted here could be read as a stand-alone, but might make more sense if the other story is read first.
Bora Bora, Mycroft had said.
Harry fell hard to his knees, the heavy weight of his assailant on his back pushing him down onto the bamboo floor.
A nice little vacation, he had said.
With one hand Harry wedged two fingers underneath the hands that were tightening around his neck; the other hand was on the floor to stop from falling flat.
Just the two of us…
Harry's eyes darted to his Tokarev tt-30 which had been knocked from his hand, tantalizingly close.
Plenty of time for rest and relaxation…
He was struggling to breathe. He stretched as far as he could, his fingertips just brushing the butt of the pistol…not far enough.
Under control. He had this all under control. There was still the toe blade in his shoe, if he could manage it...
He almost grasped the pistol, but the polished timeworn wood slipped past his fingers.
Stay alive. Got to stay alive. Don't give up. Don't give up.
The room was going black from the edges, narrowing to pinpoints of white light…
Fuck, where had it all gone so wrong…
His hand went limp.
One hour earlier...
Harry Hart adjusted his bowtie as he carefully descended the torchlit path to the beach, ran his hand over his hair still damp from the shower. The sandy path gave way under his oxfords, sucking at his feet; it felt almost like walking in slow motion. At the end of the path he paused, his heart skipping a beat and his breath catching at the sight of Mycroft in his formal tuxedo, impeccably turned out as usual. Everything always went into slow motion when he looked at Mycroft, which could never be often enough.
Mycroft was sitting at a white linen-covered table in the middle of a sandy clearing. Silver cutlery, polished china, and crystal glasses glinted in the candlelight. A ring of palm trees, fronds gently wafting in the sea breeze, framed the scene. Mycroft looked especially attractive as he sat with his head down and hands folded and resting on the tabletop before him, as if deep in thought.
"Mycroft," Harry said softly in greeting, walking up to the table. Luv, he suddenly wanted to call him, his heart pinching with emotion as he looked down at Mycroft, but his own reserve held him back. "Sorry I'm late."
Mycroft looked up slowly. "You're always late." Then he smiled. "I just barely arrived, myself."
"This is lovely. It was thoughtful of you to arrange this. This dinner, this trip to Bora Bora, everything is perfect."
"I'm delighted you think so. It's a special occasion, after all." Mycroft crooked a finger and a waiter materialized from the darkness. "Champagne?"
"Please."
The waiter filled both glasses to the brim.
"A toast?" Mycroft suggested as he stood up, holding out his glass. "I think it's in order."
Harry smiled in return. "One year exactly since the day we met."
"To the very best of times."
"The very best." Their champagne flutes softly came together with a bell-like ping. Harry then raised the flute to his lips, still holding Mycroft's eyes after they had toasted, then they both sat down.
"How was your day?" Mycroft asked, unfolding a linen napkin with a flick of the wrist, then smoothed it over his lap. "Did you catch any of your butterflies? You were out all afternoon."
When Mycroft had first suggested this trip to Bora Bora several weeks ago over the phone, Harry thought of the walls in his own flat where he had more frames than he could count filled with his butterfly collection. There was a specimen he did not yet have…Nacaduba Catochloris...found only in the islands of French Polynesia.
But another thought had followed immediately. There was another rare specimen that he knew of, found only in those same islands, at least according to his last known whereabouts; Lazlo Feldman, embezzler and spy. Trader of weapons, drugs, secrets, whatever you needed, on the 'top ten most wanted lists' of Interpol and the CIA. Also MI6… and the Kingsmen. Recent intel said that he was planning an attack on a G20 summit meeting that, not unexpectedly, was planned to be held on this very island in less than a week.
Might have been a coincidence…and then again, perhaps not. In the deepest recesses of his heart he had wanted to believe the former, but the logical part of his mind could not exclude the latter. In the end, did it really matter? Days filled of Nacaduba Catochloris and nights of Mycroftis Holmses sounded too good to pass up.
Harry considered his words carefully before he answered Mycroft.
"I saw what I came for. I walked through the most beautiful valley. Extraordinary."
"Did you bring any specimens back?"
Harry shrugged ruefully. "No. I'll probably just buy one online to add to my collection. I dislike killing innocent things. I just wanted to see it in its natural environment. The thrill of the hunt is enough for me."
Mycroft slid his hand across the table, rested his fingertips on Harry's. "I didn't know you were so sentimental." He let his hand rest there a few long seconds, electricity sparking between them, before he slowly withdrew it again. "Ready for dinner?"
"Starving," Harry agreed, but he was hungry for far more than that.
Mycroft caught the waiter's eye again and nodded. The waiter promptly disappeared to fetch the appetizers.
Just then Mycroft's phone chimed. He sighed, then pulled it out of his jacket pocket and read the text message, a dark cloud passing over his face. He then slid it back into his pocket and looked up at Harry. "Will you excuse me for a moment? There's a call I can't avoid. In private, I'm afraid. You understand, of course."
"Of course."
Harry stood up from his seat as Mycroft left, Mycroft grazing a hand slowly over his shoulder as he passed him, sending a shudder through Harry. They'd arrived last night; the trip had been long and they'd both been so jetlagged they'd gone straight to bed. But not before Harry had slipped out with the excuse of having a smoke on the veranda, but while doing so spoke quietly to a local contact in the shadows and placed a motion detector outside the door of the bungalow.
They'd slept for hours, their backs touching or arms thrown across chests, legs tangling, a soft kiss brushed against a shoulder, a hand resting gently on a hip, but nothing more. He'd not yet had his fill of Mycroft Holmes, and that simple touch of fingertips had set him on fire. A primal need was building within him as every minute passed. They were both busy men, they had such little time to spend together and he relished every minute of it. For the moment they were still separated by formal tableware and civil conversation, touched just by the brush of a hand or the scorch of a glance, but the wait would make it even sweeter.
After their late breakfast they had parted ways, each having spent the afternoon at their own devices. Mycroft to catch up on some reading, and he to catch butterflies. Or so he had told Mycroft.
Harry waited until Mycroft was well down the path and out of sight, then reached around beneath his jacket to pull out the two Tokarev tt-30 pistols he had tucked in their holsters at his back, holding one in each hand. It was true he'd gone to the valley, just as he'd said. But he had really been away for the afternoon to survey a villa, far outside of town in that beautiful, isolated valley, rented by a certain Mr. Lazlo Feldman. Damn if the Kingsmen hadn't tasked him with this assignment the very next day after Mycroft had suggested the trip. It felt like cheating, oddly enough, this little dalliance on the side, when he was supposed to be on holiday. It had been years since such a thing had bothered him. If it ever had. But then again, during all those years, there hadn't been Mycroft.
He had climbed up the side of a mountain, just enough to get a good vantage point over the villa, where he found a pile of boulders that would provide good cover. He took the parts of a sniper rifle out of a black nylon bag provided by his contact and put it together quickly and expertly. This wasn't the type of job he liked or usually did, but apparently the threat was imminent enough to warrant these extreme measures. He laid flat on his stomach against the incline of the hard, grey rock, the rifle perched on the rocks before him.
It was also true he had seen the butterfly. The rocks beneath him were warm from the sun, and a bead of sweat trickled down his forehead and splashed on his nose. He pulled his eye away from the scope to allow just enough room to wipe it away with his hand. At that moment a small, iridescent butterfly descended in front of him and landed just at the end of the rifle, clinging precariously with its feet. It flexed its pinkish gossamer wings a few times, then held them together and upright, now completely still as if taking a little nap. Hello, Nacaduba Catochloris.
Harry put his eye back to the scope, and watched for an hour more, the butterfly still keeping him company, and saw…nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was quiet, almost too quiet. Harry remained immobile, patient and lethally silent in the brush. The villa was like a tomb, the air was still and suffocating with the heat and humidity. The butterfly had remained at the tip of the rifle for a long time, until it suddenly flapped its wings and soared away. He was sad to see it go. A bad feeling began to form in the pit of his stomach. Mycroft was the analytical one, but he relied on his gut instinct; and it was almost never wrong. It felt all wrong.
Eventually he pulled the rifle apart and left it in the bag for his contact to pick up. The intelligence was wrong; he'd seen nothing. Maybe Feldman was long gone. He'd have to go back later for a closer look inside the villa, maybe after dark. He was already trying to think of what excuse he would have to invent...already dreading the little white lies that would inevitably spill from lips one after another.
Which all led back to why he was now scouting the perimeter of their dinner table in a tuxedo with a couple of guns he'd had strapped to his back; he had tried to track Lazlo Feldman, but it was more than possible Lazlo Feldman was tracking him. His sixth sense told him to beware.
But as it turned out, he saw nothing suspicious; no footprints where they shouldn't be, and he found no other lurkers in the bushes. He reholstered the pistols and returned to the table and sat down, waiting for Mycroft to return. But his eyes never stopped scanning for danger.
It was more than ten minutes before Mycroft returned. Harry had started on his second glass of champagne, had already smoked a cigarette before he heard him returning, the soft crunch of heels on sand and shells. He stood up. This time Mycroft did not stop with just a light touch to the shoulder. He stopped in front of him, ran a hand just around the back of his Harry's neck and firmly pulled him forward. He brushed his lips across Harry's once lightly, then once again, more insistent this time, a promise of more to come. A sigh from deep within Harry's chest escaped from his lips and passed into Mycroft, causing Mycroft to pull him closer for a few long seconds before he finally stepped away, letting his forehead rest against Harry's.
"I'm so pleased you're here," Mycroft whispered.
"I wouldn't have missed it for the world."
At the sound of the waiter returning they broke apart and sat down again, smoothing down the fronts of their tuxedo jackets. The shrimp cocktail appetizers were placed before them, and they each tucked in with gusto.
Harry looked at Mycroft over the tabletop, the candlelight illuminating the sharp planes of his face, now starkly outlined in black and white relief. He didn't think Mycroft had ever looked sexier to him. His blood was already running hot from their earlier brief contact, he felt intoxicated with his nearness, attuned to Mycroft's every nuance.
There was something about Mycroft tonight that seemed different; something alert, energized, on edge. Dangerous. It was not that Mycroft was never not alert; he just hid it behind eyes that were falsely hooded. Harry was almost certain that Mycroft just pretended to laze back in his armchair, smoking a cheroot or nursing a brandy as if he couldn't be bothered. He often remarked how much he detested legwork; perhaps he was just pretending about that, too. They knew almost nothing of each other's work, and had agreed to keep it that way. But still, Harry wondered...who was Mycroft, really?
Harry felt on edge, too, responsive to the energy crackling between them, the potential of danger everywhere. He raked his eyes over Mycroft and devoured the sight of him. He thought of Mycroft, nude, laid out against the crisp white sheets of their bed, the blades of the tropical ceiling fan cutting through the air and causing the gauzy mosquito netting to billow softly at the sides. His hands running all over Mycroft, his lips grazing where they pleased. Mycroft moaning his name. Harry could feel himself stirring already. His forked the the last piece of his shrimp and placed it in his mouth, savoring it, his tongue running across the salty, fleshy surface ridged with veins.
He was startled when the phone buzzed lightly in his pocket, so deeply engrossed he had been in thinking about Mycroft. He'd rigged it so that the motion sensors would send a signal to his phone if activated. He knew what that meant; someone was near the bungalow. Snooping or maybe innocently cleaning, either way he'd have to check it out.
He quickly searched his brain for an excuse, felt that twinge of guilt and pain again at having to come up with a lie. He pushed it aside. His glasses were folded and stowed in an inside pocket of his jacket, but Mycroft didn't know that. He made a display of sighing heavily.
"Shit. I've forgotten my glasses. Please excuse me just one moment while I go back and fetch them, would you?"
Mycroft hesitated for just a fraction of a second, then his face smoothed into an impassive mask. "Of course. I'll have the entree sent down."
"Sounds perfect. I'll be just a moment."
He tried not to hurry as he went back up the path, but halfway there he began to run, his heart suddenly pumping with adrenaline. He really didn't know if he was running with anticipation towards the action, like he always had in the past, or running to get this over all the faster so he could get back to Mycroft. He veered off the path into the thick undergrowth at the edge of the beach and stopped, still hidden, to get a view of the bungalow.
He could see nothing amiss, not yet. He reached behind and pulled out one of the Tokarevs and as calmly as he could, regained the path and continued down the wooden walkway to the bungalow, willing his arms to hang loose and casual and not suspicious at all to a casual observer, despite that dark weight in his hand and heart.
He opened the door, nudged it farther open with his toe, gun in hand. He paused at the entrance, looking inside at the dark interior, only faintly lit by the moon. He immediately noted a drinking glass that was two inches from the spot where he had set it down. A chair was angled incorrectly. His eyes next focused on something glinting on the floor. Water. Drops of water. Someone had been in here. Or still was...
It took only a second, one small second of distraction when he suddenly realized the threat was behind him, not in front of him, and it nearly cost him everything. Something crashed into his back, wet and slick and rubbery, propelling him headlong into the bungalow. He lost his grip on the Tokarev and it fell from his hand, clattering on the floor and skittering out of his reach.
Wetsuit. Of course. The drops of water. Come up from underneath the bungalow. He felt strong hands close around his throat, a heavy weight bearing down on his back, relentlessly trying to pushing him forward. Harry struggled to maintain his balance but he was pitching forward.
The room reverberated with the thump of kicked chairs knocked into walls, the water glass falling and breaking, grunts of exertion, cursing. It seemed to go on forever but was probably just a minute or two. Those hands were closing relentlessly, choking off his air supply...oddly, his thoughts were drifting...
Bora Bora, Mycroft had said…
The struggle continued, he pulled at the iron grip around his neck, was trying to get an angle to activate the blade in the tip of his shoe. But he was growing faint, the room was dimming…now he was thinking only of Mycroft.
Fuck, where had it all gone so wrong...Too late. All too late. Why had they waited so long to be together. Why hadn't he ever told Mycroft how he felt…
Suddenly, Harry heard a resounding thwack and the pressure mercifully released and he slumped forward, gasping for air, but he only allowed himself that one second to recover. His vision still blurry, he immediately lunged forward for the gun on the floor that had been just out of his reach, feeling for it with his fingers. When he made contact with it, he staggered to his feet and spun around with arm outstretched, pointing at his assailant, the other hand reaching behind him for the other Tokarev which was miraculously still holstered there.
As his vision cleared, he looked past the crumpled figure on his knees on the floor between them, to a pair of unmistakable black brogues, up those long black-clad legs, to the outstretched arm of Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft was pointing a Glock right at the head of the man that he had clearly just rendered nearly unconscious.
Mycroft was wearing only his white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, the braces of his gun holster visible. His previously coiffed hair was mussed and his lip was split at the corner, and a single coin-sized drop of crimson blood stood out on his collar. He firmly held the gun outstretched with a perfect stance and without an ounce of indecision; he clearly knew how to use it.
Harry had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.
"My God, Harry! Are you alright?"
Harry ran his hand under his tight collar, rubbing his neck. He pulled at the knot of his bow tie and loosened it, flicked open the first button of his shirt. He nodded. The bruising wouldn't be pretty in the morning, but he would live another day.
They held each other's gaze for several long seconds, one on either side of the intruder, both holding guns pointed at the lolling head. Harry was breathing heavily, sucking in precious air; Mycroft looked like he was fighting for self-control. Neither moved towards each other, even though Harry desperately wanted to, desperately wanted to feel the reassurance of that hard body against his, wanted to back him into the wall, crush his lips over his. In the end, neither of them moved.
"You're a terrible liar," Mycroft finally said, his expression inscrutable. "Your glasses were obviously in your pocket." With his free hand, he pointed to his own eye. "And you get a little twitch, right there in the corner of your right eye, when you're fibbing."
Harry tossed his head, dislodging that curl of hair that always fell across his forehead when things got rough.
"In this particular instance, I am extremely grateful that you know me that well."
Mycroft narrowed his eyes as he assessed him, his features hardened. "Are you working? Was this trip about work? Two Tokarevs seem a little overkill for butterfly hunting, don't you think?"
Harry glanced at the two guns he held, shrugged, then tucked one back under his suit. "Are you working?" he snapped back. "I don't think you used that Glock for a bookmark."
Neither said anything more. They continued to stare at each other, both still pointing their weapons at the intruder. Reassessing, recategorizing, recalibrating. Harry didn't want to argue, not now, but there was a situation at hand, there was work to be done. He had to do this fucking thing called duty. This ugly work that had never seemed like such a chore until this very moment, when all he really wanted was to spend a few uneventful days with his lover. Maybe that would never be more than just a dream.
Harry suddenly sighed in resignation. He gestured at the body. "Lazlo Feldman, I presume? No point pretending we don't both know who this is."
Mycroft nodded, then frowned. "There was one more. I took care of him on my way up. The waiter, can you believe it? He's not dead, just unconscious. Bound and gagged in the boat by the beach, covered with a tarp."
Harry raised his eyebrows, surprised, although he knew he shouldn't have been. "And here I thought you said you didn't do fieldwork."
"Well, I said I didn't like it. I never said I didn't do it."
Harry could feel the corner of his mouth begin to twich with amusement, but he tamped it down. Their guns began to lower incrementally.
"That damn waiter tried to whack me the minute you left. Apparently he thought he could, that stupid git." Mycroft cleared his throat, then continued with that familiar hint of arrogance seeping into his tone. "I find that allowing people to underestimate me increases my chances of survival in critical situations by 65.4%."
Harry let out a short bark of something close to laugher. "I've never underestimated you."
Mycroft's eyes narrowed again. "Perhaps. Except when it comes to my knowing where your glasses are. Surely you know by now, Harry. I notice everything about you."
Just then, the intruder stirred and looked up to the ceiling, a transcendent and triumphant look on his face, and Harry saw an object in the man's hands. He could tell that Mycroft saw it, too, his arm beginning to swing up; but Harry was faster. He'd been ready for this moment for more than fifteen years.
Harry pulled the trigger and felt the butt of the gun kick back in his hand, felt his own blood suddenly pounding in his temples; heard the soft yet sharp yap of a silenced bullet firing, hardly louder than the beating of his own heart; saw a red hole appear on the man's forehead as he fell backwards and hit the floor, about the same size and color of the drop on Mycroft's collar; could smell the air, acrid with smoke and iron from bullets and blood, tangy with sweat and fear. A small grenade, pin still intact, rolled from the man's hands and slowly came to a stop.
A few seconds passed as they each stared at the body in shocked silence, still pointing their guns at it, just to be sure.
"I almost missed it," Mycroft finally said, a little dazed. "I would have been too slow."
"I never miss that. Not anymore."
"In this particular instance, I am extremely grateful that you never do."
They stared at each other again, not speaking, only the loud sound of a ticking clock in the room filling the silence, until it was Mycroft's turn to sigh in exasperation.
"Jesus, Harry. I was supposed to bring him in alive. It's a bit difficult to interrogate a corpse!"
"Well, should I have just let him pull the pin? Besides, it was always going to end this way, sooner or later. Those were my orders."
The clock ticked. Blue-grey eyes bored into brown.
"So, it seems we are in a bit of a pickle," Mycroft said. "One of us is going to have to call this in. The question is, who?"
"Do you have a team here? You must, I don't think you've had that Glock down your pants this whole time. Someone must have passed it to you."
"Not a team. A contact." Mycroft glanced meaningfully at the Tokarev at the end of Harry's arm, still outstretched, then back up to him. "Do you?"
"No. A contact, same as you. But I can have a team here, in less than thirty minutes. They've been standing by and are fully able to deal with this. Discreetly. Like it never even happened. Can you?"
Mycroft was silent for a moment, then suddenly bent his elbow, pulling his gun up with sudden decision.
"Call it in," Mycroft said curtly, turning away and holstering his gun.
"As you wish." Harry pulled back his arm, let it fall to his side. He looked down at the body on the floor. "Go on, then. I'll call when it's done."
He took a deep breath, looked up again at Mycroft, beginning to feel shaky in reaction to their near miss, the fact that he had nearly lost Mycroft beginning to fully settle in. His heart turned over in his chest at the sight of blood on Mycroft, now fully realizing the beating Mycroft had clearly taken in his own fight. But he didn't let himself go, not yet. "You'll need to change that shirt, it's covered in blood."
Mycroft looked down and grimaced. Then he walked over to a dresser drawer, grabbed another white shirt, and disappeared into the bathroom. Harry took out his phone and made the call. When he came out a few minutes later, Mycroft's hair was combed and slicked back, his shirt was changed, and the blood had been washed away.
Harry slowly slid his phone back into his pocket, unsure what to say. Mycroft broke the silence.
"I realize that in a situation like this, you have more, shall we say...flexibility. But this is difficult for me, you know, handing this over to you. Not knowing who you really work for, or why." Mycroft lifted his fingertips to his lips, looked down and saw that they came away bloodless. "And yet I do believe we are on the same side, for what it's worth. This isn't how I like to do this...but for you, I will." Mycroft then looked back up at Harry. "So just answer me one question. Did you even really see that butterfly? Or was that all a lie, too?"
Harry blinked in surprise, first hurt and then anger spreading through him. And guilt. He was wide open now to feeling everything he had tried to put aside, but now Mycroft had just boldly dared to poke at that wound.
"And what about you? Did you really want to have a holiday with me, or was that all a lie? Just a cover for your ops?"
Mycroft bristled, his fist clenching at his sides. "Why did you come?" he demanded. "Did you come here for me, or for the work?"
Silence stretched between them, the ticking of the clock annoyingly loud.
Harry swore and impulsively swung his arm to the side and shot the alarm clock off the table, silencing it forever, bits of it exploding against the wall.
"Dammit, Mycroft! For you! For work! For both, all right? If you can bloody well tell me how you separate your work life and your private life, I would be fucking overjoyed to hear about it! Because I sure as hell don't know how! I don't know it's even possible anymore!"
Harry instantly regretted his outburst, knew this argument was futile. He holstered the gun, ran his hand under his collar again. He took a deep breath.
"Mycroft." Harry's voice was softer this time, almost pleading. Fuck it. They had nearly just died and he might never have told Mycroft how he felt. He would have no more regrets. "Do you even have to ask me that? After all this time, don't you know me? Don't you know how I feel about you? Don't you know? I love you, Mycroft. More than I should. I always have, all those years I watched you and knew everything about you, but never said anything to you...until that day one year ago on Savile Row. The best damn day of my life. And I'll always love you, god help us both."
Mycroft's eyes slid to the remains of the clock, then back to Harry. His thin and elegant lips parted and he exhaled ever so softly as if on the verge of speaking. But he said nothing, his face pale and strained.
Harry's heart stilled in his chest. He wanted to hear Mycroft say it, too. More than he had ever wanted anything, wanted it so much and he was shocked by the depths of his own need and desire to hear it. But this had all happened too fast. Mycroft was too reserved, too guarded. Harry knew all that, and yet he had blurted it all out, anyway, his timing all wrong. He felt hollow, mortified, defeated.
"Right. Well." All business once again, Harry ran a hand over his hair to compose himself, and straightened his shoulders. "I should have known better than to expect a response to that. My apologies."
Mycroft winced, took a step towards him. "Harry-"
But the moment had passed. Harry slowly took a step backwards even as Mycroft had moved that step forward.
Something flashed across Mycroft's face but it disappeared again just as quickly, his eyes now hooded like so many times before. Mycroft waked to the door, laid his hand on the latch, turned just slightly towards Harry before he spoke.
"Just make this disappear. For both our sakes."
He then exited the bungalow without another word, closing the door softly behind him, leaving the work to Harry.
An hour later, Harry was just straightening things up in the room. His team had come and gone, arriving by raft which moored under the bungalow, unseen in the darkness. The room had been professionally scrubbed. Maybe not up to the standards of a UV light, but for now, it would do.
Harry sat down on the edge of the bed. He felt tired, so tired. He ached all over. He picked up his phone, punched in Mycroft's number. Mycroft picked up but did not say anything; Harry could hear his breathing, the crash of ocean waves in the distance, voices and music far away in the background.
Harry's throat felt dry and sore, his voice was hoarse.
"Come back." It was all he could think to say. Mycroft hung up without a reply.
It was quiet in the bungalow save for the soft lapping of waves against the stilts and the hum of the ceiling fan, the loud ticking of the clock which had been replaced by an exact duplicate, the beating of his own heart in his head; he found his hand shaking a bit as he held the phone. He didn't know what was happening to him. He was always clear-headed in the heat of the action. Always. And he rarely had any reaction after the fact, it had all become so routine to him.
But he hadn't counted on a near miss with the love of his life on the island of Bora Bora. He hadn't counted on, in fact, ever having found love again. He hadn't counted on telling Mycroft he loved him in an argument over a dead body. No, he had hoped he might have done that better.
It was unwise, he knew, to love him at all. Everyone around him had known it would be unwise for them to be together, and he had been warned, for years, to stay away. He was impulsive, he'd been told. Reckless. It would all come to no good, he'd been told.
"Kingsmen should think with their heads, not their dicks," Arthur told him severely over the top of a glass of brandy, as he slowly folded one neatly pressed knee over the other, nearly one year ago to the day. Harry had been called in, as he knew he would, after he'd blown up half a block of Savile Row when he'd thwarted that attempt on Mycroft's life. He'd gone rogue on that one; he knew he'd pay for it.
"Please, Arthur. I'm not a teenager to be scolded." His voice sounded almost convincing, even to himself.
"Then don't act like one. For god's sake, Galahad. Of all the men you could have, and I'm sure there are many, why the devil does it have to be Mycroft Holmes? Forget about him, lad. Don't get too close. We don't need that kind of scrutiny around here. For all our sakes, forget about him."
But he hadn't, of course. And he couldn't, not ever again.
He felt uncentered, raw.
Just make this disappear. For both our sakes…
Make what disappear, Harry wondered. The body, or the words that had passed between them? Would it be better if they had never met, for both their sakes?...
The door slowly opened, and Mycroft walked in. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, his shirt was open several buttons down, and his pant legs were rolled up and damp and sandy at the folds, as if he'd been wading in the sea. To Harry's astonishment, Mycroft's feet were bare. He never went barefoot. Ever.
In one hand Mycroft held his shoes, which he dropped to the floor. The other hand held a bottle of champagne which he held out to show Harry.
"Despite the utter carnage of the dinner table, what with having to defend myself against that assassin waiter, this bottle miraculously survived."
Mycroft took a swig from the bottle, then crossed the room to stand before Harry. He laid a hand on Harry's shoulder, squeezed it gently, held out the bottle to Harry again. Harry took the bottle, and taking a grateful swig he searched Mycroft's eyes for clues, but found he could not tell what he saw there. And then Mycroft smiled, ever so slightly.
"The rooms looks good. Exactly as before. I knew my trust was well placed." He glanced over at the nightstand. "Right down to that annoying clock, which I see has unfortunately been replaced."
The hand moved up from his shoulder to slowly run through Harry's hair, his fingers tangling in the thick curls. Harry sucked in his breath, relief flooding through him. He sank forward against Mycroft, his head resting against Mycroft. Mycroft took the bottle back from Harry, held his head against him, his fingers still brushing through his hair. Harry's arms snaked around Mycroft's waist.
"I wasn't sure you'd be back."
"Don't be daft. It's our anniversary, and we have this champagne to drink."
"Don't you ever just want to quit? Find a way to just disappear, and never look back?"
Mycroft didn't answer right away. "I don't think either one of us is ever going to do that. Do you?"
This time, Harry didn't answer. He wasn't so sure.
"Harry." Mycroft spoke his name, pulled his attention back. "I'd like a dance with you. I love to dance. I know you dance beautifully, I've seen you."
Momentarily forgetting his melancholy, Harry's curiosity overcame him. "When have you seen me dance? We've never danced."
"The Enthronement of the Grand Duke of Luxembourg. That was quite a party, as I recall. You were very dashing. Top hat and tails. I'm afraid I abused the security camera footage quite a lot that night. It might have gone missing, in fact."
Harry had to laugh. That had been eight years ago.
"You danced a lot with that particularly beautiful young lady."
Harry laughed again. "She tried to stab me a knife she had hidden in quite a provocative place! I threw her over a bridge later."
"Oh, I know. I saw it all. Very satisfying ending. You saved the Grand Duke, and I was very happy to know she wouldn't be coming on to you again like that, ever. Even if she was just trying to kill you."
"Were you jealous?"
"Exceedingly."
Mycroft's fingers were still massaging through his hair, and Harry leaned into his hand, his heart becoming lighter by the second, buoyed by every word that Mycroft had just said; Harry bloomed under the feel of Mycroft's fingertips now stroking across his cheek, dusting over his lips, now under his chin to pull his face up to look at him. "Dance with me, Harry."
"There's no music."
Mycroft tilted his head, his eyes went to a window that looked out over the bay, towards a group of lights across the water.
"Listen carefully, I can just hear it."
Harry fell silent, and sure enough, just over the sound of the waves, he could hear the faint strains of music. Harry closed his eyes, afraid this fragile truce might not last.
"Mycroft, listen. About what I said before-"
"-Harry," Mycroft cut in, then stepped back slightly. "Stand up. Shut up. You never know when to just shut up, do you." His words were rough, but his voice was soft. Seductive.
Harry blinked, momentarily surprised, then slowly smiled."It's been said before."
He stood up slowly, slid one arm around Mycroft's waist and pulled him towards him, leaned down just slightly to nuzzle against Mycroft's neck. Without shoes, they stood nearly the same height, only one inch difference between them.
They began to move to the music, turning in slow circles, passing the bottle of champagne between them. Eager to taste more of Mycroft, Harry tugged at the shoulder of Mycroft's shirt, pulling it down to expose more bare flesh. In turn, Mycroft's free hand tugged gently at the braces that held the Tokarevs snug against Harry's back, and finally working the holster free he pulled it off and carefully laid the guns across a chair behind them, their lips never separating even as he performed this delicate task, still dancing to the notes that drifted across the bay.
The firearms now out of the way, Mycroft grew less gentle and more insistent, pulling Harry's shirt from his waistband, working at the buttons of Harry's shirt, popping them free one by one. They began to move around more, circling each other faster and faster, not in time to the music anymore but to some rhythm of their own only they could hear.
The bottle that was being passed was jostled and as they drank it frothed and slid down the sides of the bottle, over their hands, their clothes, exploding in foamy rivulets as they took the long neck of the bottle into their mouths, sometimes nearly drinking from it at the same time, the taste of champagne and cigarette smoke passed back and forth as tongues explored and lips left sticky sweet trails across their skin.
The bottle was finally emptied and it fell to the floor. Both hands now free, Mycroft quickly pushed off Harry's shirt and dropped it on the floor to fall over the empty bottle. His hands roamed free over the hair of Harry's chest, running over the planes of his abs, dipped lower to his belt, just under the waistband, his long fingers just brushing the tip of Harry's erect cock. Harry shuddered, ground against Mycroft's hand. Harry's hands flew to Mycroft's waist; soon the floor was covered with a trail of unwanted clothing.
Mycroft slowly manoeuvered Harry backwards towards the bed until his legs hit the edge and he fell backwards, Mycroft coming down on top of him, face to face.
Harry reached up, grabbed Mycroft's head between his hands, breathing heavily, looked up into his eyes, searching. And this time he could see that Mycroft's eyes were dark, dilated, unguarded. He loved him so much it almost made him angry.
"Fuck you," Harry grated out, his cock straining upwards, rubbing against Mycroft's equally erect cock laying heavily across his stomach, trapped under his weight. "Fuck you for ruining me. I'll never want anyone else. Never."
Mycroft hands came down and closed over his wrists, holding them down against the bed, just above and to either side of his head.
"See that you don't." Mycroft leaned down to kiss him, slowly ground against him. Harry moaned, his hips lifting up, seeking more pressure. Mycroft's lips pulled away, just enough to speak again. "You were wrong, you know. You should expect something of me. You should expect everything of me."
Mycroft reached down between them and took them both in his hand, working them both fast up and down, grinding against Harry, each taking their time, taking their pleasure, until finally Harry's breathing began to quicken harshly and he swore under his breath, his hips bucking up against Mycroft, who soon followed.
Mycroft suddenly shuddered, arched, and came against Harry, warm and wet. Something broke free in him, something between a sob and a shout. And then his shudders slowly began to recede as Harry held him firmly against him, but his breathing remained ragged, his words as intense as his release.
"Harry. Oh God. Oh God. I'd die for you. You know that, don't you, Harry? Today, when, when I thought...christ. I can't lose you. I can't. I'd do anything for you. Anything."
Harry stroked the back of Mycroft's neck, ran his lips over the freckles of his pale shoulder, the tang of salty sweat still on his tongue, reveling in Mycroft's rare burst of words. A few seconds of silence passed, and Mycroft's breathing slowly steadied, the beating of his heart that Harry could feel against his chest began to come under control. Harry leaned his head closer to Mycroft, and whispered in his ear.
"You say that almost like you love me."
"I never said I didn't..."
Close enough, Harry thought, his eyes closing, smiling to himself. Close enough.
The next morning, Harry stood outside the bungalow, leaning against the railing to watch the morning sun rising over the water, smoking a cigarette. He was tired, and he was going to have to wear a collared shirt or a scarf or something around it for days to hide the bruising from the attack. He was sore all over, although that he might blame on a variety of evening activities. All in all, he'd never been better.
They cut their vacation short, at least on Bora Bora. Probably best not to hang around, considering all that had happened. They had chartered an early morning flight. They were going to spend the last of their vacation days together, as far off the grid as they could get, at a location they weren't planning on revealing to anyone. Both of them had a couple of promising bolt holes to choose from, they might not even decide which until mid-flight.
Harry heard the door to the bungalow shut, and he turned around to see Mycroft walking towards him, carry on bag in tow, looking as dapper and handsome as always. If it was possible for a man like him to feel weak in the knees, he felt a little weak in the knees. When Mycroft as near enough, he gently reached out and bunched Mycroft's crisp shirt in his large hand, pulling him towards him for a lingering kiss.
"Ready to go, Luv?" Harry asked, when they finally parted.
If it was possible for a composed man like Mycroft Holmes to blush at the use of an endearment, he definitely blushed. He was almost a little flustered, looked down to smooth out his shirt where Harry's fist had crinkled it, but he could not the pleased look off his face.
"Yes, Harry. We'd better get going."
Harry stuck his cigarette between his lips and grabbed his jacket and his own carry on bag. They walked to the end of the walkway, then turned back to have one last look at the bungalow before they left.
Harry took one last drag, then tossed the butt to the ground and crushed it under his heel.
"What do you think, Mycroft? Is it possible men like us can get a happy ending?"
Mycroft smiled, almost sadly. "Do you?"
"Yes." Harry said it with more bravado than he felt. He wanted to believe it, despite everything he knew that would stand in their way.
"You beautiful, beautiful liar. " Mycroft leaned forward and gently kissed the corner of Harry's eye, the one that always gave him away, then kissed him on the lips. "But one can always hope."
Harry sighed. A wind stirred, skimming over the top of the water, pushing little waves before it; ruffling through Mycroft's carefully combed hair which he reached up to smooth down.
"An east wind," Mycroft murmured, looking out over the water. But then he turned back to Harry. He slipped a hand into his pocket. "Lest we left anything incriminating behind…"
Not even a second later, their bungalow erupted in an impressive fireball, a shockwave of heat and wind rushing over them.
Harry had ducked, not expecting the explosion. When he straightened up, taking his hand away from his face, his gaze moved from the burning wreckage to the serene expression on Mycroft's face, who had barely even flinched.
"That one's on me," Mycroft said, deadpan.
Harry burst out laughing. "Jesus. I knew I loved you for a reason."
They quickly made their way to a waiting taxi and within minutes were at the airport.
In the papers in the days that followed, there was much speculation about what had caused the fire in bungalow #22 at that resort hotel in Bora Bora. But there was never any mention of a Mycroft Holmes or Harry Hart; so far as the world knew, they had never, ever been to Bora Bora.