Mycroft stormed into his living room, nostrils flared, and slammed the door with the force of an earthquake, angrily chucking his briefcase across the room. The case flew through the air and crashed into the mantelpiece, shattering a photo frame that held a picture of Sherlock, which made Mycroft smile for a split second. But the case burst open and a tidal wave of unopened condoms, economic reports and receipts for Domino's Pizza spilled across the floral carpet, sending Mycroft into the depths of misery again. He sank down onto his maroon chaise longue with an expression on his face akin to that of a dying moose. It had been a long, hard day in his minor position in the British government, and the stress was really getting to him. Normally, his solution would be to drown his problems in cake and chocolate, but unfortunately in all the chaos of the day, he had forgotten to pick up these necessities, and this was the last straw.

Mycroft put his head in his hands in despair and began to cry softly. I'm tired, angry, stressed, and alone, he thought, and to top it all off, I need to go on a diet but I simply do not have the time or the willpower. My life is a mess. Tears cascaded down Mycroft's cheeks as he wept over his miserable life.

And then, suddenly, he remembered. The thought hit him like a wet fish slapping him across the face, and his tears instantly dried up. He remembered. The one thing that would always be there for him, no matter what. That one thing that never failed to make him feel better about himself. That one thing that was absolutely the perfect way to forget the stress of the day.

Mycroft leapt up from the chaise longue as if a firework had been rammed up his rear end, and charged across the room like a rampaging bull. In an instant, he was on his knees scrambling around in the spilled contents of his briefcase, searching for his mobile phone. He found the purple-cased Blackberry under a pair of Anthea's underwear, and he speed dialled the number that he needed so desperately. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Mycroft was about to give up and lob the phone across the room when a voice answered.

"Hello?"

Mycroft's heart leapt like a galloping deer.

"Greg?"

"Mycroft? Ah...I thought I might hear from you today. What can I help you with?"

"Greg...you know what I want."

"Haha, I do indeed."

"May I?"

"I have to leave in ten minutes."

"I'm on my way."

Mycroft was at the police station in minutes. The entire building was in darkness, except for one room that glowed with warmth. Mycroft felt his heart glowing as well. This was the room he needed. The same room as all those times before.

The door to the station was locked, but this was not an obstacle for Mr Mycroft Holmes. He reached into the depths of his underwear and pulled out his carefully hidden key, and unlocked the door. Occupying a minor position in the British government may be stressful, but the unlimited access was useful for times like this.

Mycroft bounded across the visitors' area. He knew the way to the room, he had been there many times while following Sherlock on a case. And also many times for the same reason he was going there today. His physical condition was not really up to running, but he could not help himself. Panting like an overexcited Saint Bernard, he charged up the seven flights of stairs. By the time he reached the floor he wanted, sweat was pouring off him, but he didn't care. All he could think about was what was behind the door in front of him. He reached for his key again and rammed it in the lock, his sexual thoughts spinning out of control. He kicked the door open with the force of a horny male elephant and barged into the room.

And there, standing in the middle of the grimy carpet, illuminated in the light of the moon, was his lover.

"Hello, gorgeous", Mycroft crooned. His lover said nothing, but Mycroft did not need words. The sexual magnetism that was pulsating between them was enough. Mycroft took a few steps forward so that he was standing right in front of his lover. Mycroft tossed his problems into his 'mental trash bag', a technique his therapist had taught him, and allowed his burning sexual desire to rage through his whole mind, body and spirit. His erection instantly sprang up, the size of a London bus. Mycroft took his lover's hardness in his hand and caressed it carefully. "Tonight, we can forget about the world," he whispered, pressing his face close to his lover's, "I am going to take you on the ride of your life." Mycroft could stand it no longer; he pulled his lover close and they both collapsed onto the floor in a tangle of ecstasy.

The sunlight bursting through the Venetian blinds hit Mycroft like a knife trying to slice across his eyeball. "Mother of fuck!" he grumbled, shoving a hand over his weary eyes. Then he remembered the night before, the night of passion and love, the night that had filled his body with feelings that were out of this world. Mycroft and his lover had banged long into the night, and the memories were fresh in his mind. His stress would not be coming back for a long, long time.

Reminded of the one who had given him all these magnificent feelings, Mycroft rolled over to get a glimpse. Clear as day, his beautiful lover lay there next to him on the floor, perfectly still. Mycroft beamed and planted a kiss on his lover's face. How lucky he was.

The sun sliced his face again, reminding him that everyone would be arriving for work soon. Hurriedly, but without disturbing his love, Mycroft got up. There were several stains on the carpet where he and his lover lay, but it was so filthy anyway that a few extra bits of grime wouldn't hurt. He gathered his clothes from where he had thrown them the night before, whilst humming 'S and M' by Rihanna and chuckling to himself. After retrieving his tie from Anderson's plant pot, he waltzed into the employees bathroom with the grace of a humpback whale. Mycroft yanked his clothes on and splashed water onto his face, then danced back into the room. His lover was already dressed and waiting for him, and the mere sight sent Mycroft's heart pumping again as he remembered the night before.

The sudden gong in the distance announced the fact that it was nine o'clock. The workers were always very prompt, so the passionate pair would not have time to vacate the building. Mycroft could already hear footsteps on the stairs. He grabbed hold of his lover and they both sat down on the sofa, and Mycroft pulled out a few reports from the filing cabinet so it looked as if they were doing some work. The two lovers looked at each other, but before they could say anything, there was a click in the lock, and the door swung open slowly.

Lestrade trundled into the room, huffing and puffing like an old steam train.

"Oh, hi Mycroft. You're here early! Sorry about yesterday, I had to lock up before you got here, the wife kept calling and I had to get home. I left the light on though. Did you manage to find it?"

Mycroft smiled to himself. "Oh yes," he said, in a bizarre seductive drawl that alarmed Lestrade, "I found it."

"Good. Try not to leave your umbrella here again though, the security guys don't like me leaving the lights on when no one's here. This must be the fifth time you've forgotten it! Perhaps you should get some kind of umbrella alarm," Lestrade joked.

Mycroft sighed in a girlish manner. "Yes." he said. Although he preferred to have his encounters at the police station, the effort that it took to walk up the stairs wasn't fun, and Lestrade was starting to get suspicious – and quite rightly so! He gazed lovingly at the item in his hand. His beautiful umbrella, his soulmate, his best friend, and the ride of his life. This was the end of their police station era, and boy, had it gone out with a bang! Mycroft knew that soon enough they would find a better place to ram. Anywhere was fine as long as they were together.

"Don't worry, Greg," he beamed, "I'll try not to let it happen again."