First - thank you to everyone who's enjoyed the stories I've written before this one. It means the world to me to see that you're reading what I write! Make sure to leave some feedback for this one - first time I've written for these two characters!
Second - I borrowed a few lines from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's story "The Greek Interpreter" where he explains about the Diogenes Club. You'll probably be able to find it.
I don't own anything having to do with these characters or the show - I just make them do what I think they would enjoy.
Lestrade is exhausted. He's just now leaving the office at - he checks his watch and groans - 1245am. Not only was there another grisly murder today, John hadn't been at the scene with Sherlock. Without him, Sherlock seemed utterly lost and unfocused, so was more caustic to Anderson and Donovan than usual. Sally had finally snapped at a particularly vicious deduction and tackled Sherlock before anyone could stop her. Both were find, except for some wounded pride and a couple of bruises Sally'd gotten in before Lestrade had hauled her off the tall, pale detective. Nightmare of paperwork, that. Now, however, he's leaving and he's got a warm bed at home and a day off tomorrow.
A sleek black car prowls out of the darkness and stops at the curb outside the building Lestrade is exiting. He gives it a curious glance, as he's certain he's the only one left in the office, but shrugs and continues down the stone steps. When he's just about to turn for home, the door opens and a slim female hand beckons him. Lestrade checks behind him, and to both sides before pointing to himself and mouthing, "Me?"
The door opens wider.
Lestrade, resigned, climbs in the. He figures if he's kidnapped, it's either Sherlock's fault or Sherlock will save him. Though he'd never admit it, Lestrade does know Sherlock is father fond of him - John mentioned this over a pint one night.
Inside the car, Lestrade is surprised to see a minibar and a startlingly attractive woman on her Blackberry - presumably the owner of the hand. She glances at him.
"There's Scotch and water in the bar. Help yourself."
"How do you know - "
"Detective Inspector Geoff Lestrade, good at football, five dogs at home. Never married. Parents still together, still hoping for grandchildren..." the woman smirks at Lestrade's face - mouth comically open, eyes bugging. "My employer makes it his business to know as much as he can about things he's... interested in." Her eyes and tone both tell Lestrade quite clearly that she's no idea why her employer is interested in him of all people.
"Who is - "
"He prefers to remain anonymous at this time."
"Where - "
"You'll see when we arrive."
"Are you - "
"No, I simply have answered all of these questions before." She smirks at her phone, but Lestrade has a feelings it's directed toward him. Instead of further questioning, Lestrade scoots to the bar and makes a quick scotch and water. He's surprised at how unsurprised he is that they have his favorite scotch. The rest of the trip goes by in a silence punctuated only by fingers on a Blackberry and ice in a glass.
"Ah here we are." The woman says finally. Lestrade looks out the window. They're in an extremely posh part of London. Outside of the most utterly non-descript building Lestrade has ever seen. It fits in with its fellows on either side - brick, ivy crawling artfully along the walls, a charming wrought-iron fence outlining a meticulous lawn, and real gas lamps on either side of the door. A short walk made of flagstones connects the sidewalk with the stairs leading to the door, which gleams black in the flickering light.
Lestrade looks quizzically at his traveling companion.
"Welcome to the Diogenes Club."
Lestrade stares at her. She seems to realize that he's not impressed - or doesn't know where he is.
"There are many men in London, you know, who, from shyness, some from misanthropy, have no wish for their fellows Yet they are not averse to comfortable chairs and the latest periodicals. It is for the convenience of these that the Diogenes Club was started, and now it contains the most unsociable and unclubable men in town. No member is permitted to take the least notice of any other one. Save in the Stranger's Room, no talking is, under any circumstances, allowed." She sounds as if she's reciting a speech rehearsed ad nauseum.
Lestrade blinks. "Oh my God." he breathes. "I've heard of the place but I didn't really think it existed!"
"Obviously it does. Now go on in. Remember - no speaking, not for any reason. Since you're not a member, you're fair game. Enjoy your evening." The door opens, a clear dismissal. Lestrade clambers out and stands on the sidewalk long after the car slithers into the night, looking at the building. Finally, he straightens his jacket and approaches the door. He hesitates, not knowing if he should just go in or knock. After a few moments, he raps quietly but purposefully on the gleaming black surface. As if they are waiting for him (which they probably were, Lestrade muses), the door swings inward silently. He steps over the threshold and the door immediately clicks shut.
Lestrade's first impression of the club is that of extreme wealth. Everything from the carpet under his feet to the wallpaper is the best money can buy. The silence is not oppressive, as he'd thought it might be. Instead, it's sort of soothing. He goes to the bar, writing down his order on a handy napkin. Once he's served, he turns, leans his elbows on the beautiful wood of the bar, and surveys the room.
Leather wing-back chairs are scattered through the large room in groups of three, four, and five, or sometimes just two on either side of a small wooden table. Magazines and newspapers are piled high on most available surfaces - tables, shelves, the mantle of the fireplace on the far wall. Well-dressed men occupy most of the chairs, reading, smoking, dozing in a couple of cases. Taking another sip of his excellent Glenfiddich and water, he lets his eyes rove to the other side of the room. More leather armchairs, more expensively tailored men... Lestrade chokes on his drink and blinks his eyes several times to make sure he's seeing correctly.
In front of several of the chairs, men are kneeling. From his place at the bar, Lestrade can see that several of the men in the chairs have their trousers open and their cocks down the throats of the men on the floor. As he watches, one man in a beautiful Westwood suit drags the thin man at his feet onto his lap, kissing him. Lestrade looks away, having a feeling he knows where this is going.
Is this what this club is really for? he thinks, trembling. Rich, powerful men come here for anonymous sex? Silent sex? Lestrade's thoughts are whirling and he's never been so incredibly turned on in his entire life. His blood is singing in his veins and he feels a little dizzy. He drains his glass and turns to order another. When he turns again, a tall, sort of ginger man is standing in front of his. The other men in the room might be well-dressed, but this man also exudes class and sophistication. Lestrade can practically smell the blue blood coursing through his long limbs.
When Lestrade's eyes reach the stranger's face, a sardonic ginger eyebrow is lifted. Lestrade realizes he's just given this man a serious once-over and ducks his head, embarrassed. A smooth, manicured hand lifts his chin - Lestrade lifts his eyes to see the most suggestive smile he's ever seen and eyes full of filthy, filthy promises. The man tips his head towards the back of the club. Lestrade's heart leaps in his chest and his cock is hard as steel. He nods, and the mystery man's face explodes in a warm smile.
They pass several men being serviced in the armchairs, but Lestrade's mystery man - Lestrade decides to call him Joe, for lack of anything better - pulls him insistently to a door Lestrade hadn't noticed before. It leads to a tight but lavish hallway, with doors every few feet. In the utter silence, Lestrade can hear what's going on behind the doors, and it only gets him hotter.
Joe leads them into a room about halfway down the hallway. The flips a switch, and a dim, romantic light floods the room. Just like the rest of the miraculous place, it's furnished with only top-quality furniture - mahogany end tables, an overstuffed armchair, a queen-size bed with a brocade duvet. Fresh flowers adorn a small table set between two plain but masterfully crafted wooden chairs. Lestrade gapes in astonishment. Joe chuckles behind him - it's a rich, sexy sound and heat bursts through Lestrade's entire body. Blushing, Lestrade quickly shuts his mouth and shucks off his jacket. When he looks around for a hook or closet, Joe holds out one of those beautifully manicured hands, in which Lestrade places his (old, rather threadbare) jacket. Joe throws it casually over the back of the armchair and gives Lestrade a slow once-over. Boldly, Lestrade watches and catches the appearance of Joe's tongue wetting his full bottom lip. Unable to stop, Lestrade strides over to him, catches his face in his hands, and kisses him.
It is a brilliant first kiss, as these things go. Their lips move harmoniously, neither fighting for dominance this early in the game. Joe's hand smoothes up Lestrade's back and slides into the silvering hair at the nape of his neck, his other hand resting on Lestrade's hip. Lestrade's hands drift further into the gingery hair, grabbing on lightly. He deepens the kiss, touching his tongue lightly to the other man's lips. This tiny action seems to break a damn inside of Joe - suddenly, his hands are everywhere and his tongue is mapping the roof of Lestrade's mouth. Lestrade moans at the onslaught and pushes Joe's gorgeous jacket off his broad shoulders. It drops unceremoniously to the floor. Both men are working frantically at buttons and a tie and a waistcoat and finally they're skin to skin.
Lestrade pulls back, panting. He smoothes his hands over Joe's face, thumbs running over cheekbones so prominent they cast their own shadows. He sighs, thinking of his own daft-looking face, then pulls his mystery man over to the bed. Together they remove the duvet, and Lestrade pushes Joe gently back. Settling above him, Lestrade begins to kiss Joe's hairline, down to his long nose and brushing over his lips. He moves down and presses his lips to the pale neck, laving his tongue over the pulse point. This wrings a slight moan from the man below him, and Lestrade sucks lightly. A louder moan this time. Bolder now, Lestrade sweeps his hands over soft shoulders and down slightly muscled arms. His lips burn a trail of fire down Joe's throat to his chest. Lestrade seeks out a nipple, which causes its owner to stiffen, then thread his fingers through Lestrade's hair, effectively keeping him there. Lestrade tongues the small bud of flesh into harness, then bites softly - a sharp gasp from above is his reward. After a quick kiss, he moves his mouth to the other nipple, but keeps his fingers brushing over the one he's just left, making sure it remains sensitive.
Joe is panting from the attention. His hips are thrusting upward slightly with each breath, but Lestrade continues his slow, sinuous onslaught.
"Mycroft."
Lestrade lifts his head from the nipple he's currently suckling. He raises an eyebrow.
"My name. It's Mycroft."
"Geoff."
"Pleasure. Now please..." Joe - Mycroft, Lestrade corrects himself - arches himself up into Lestrade. Both men moan at the contact. Lestrade gives one nipple a rather severe twist and bites down on the other at the same time. Mycroft keens his pleasure and pushes gently against Lestrade's head, pushing him further down his lithe body. Lestrade complies, kissing and tonguing his way over Mycroft's soft belly, stopping at his navel to dip his tongue in. Mycroft twitches and snorts with laughter. Experimentally, Lestrade touches the tip of his tongue to the outer rim of the indentation, slowly working his way around. Mycroft tries to wrest his body away, giggling, but Lestrade is stronger and holds him down, pressing more kisses in a spiral away from Mycroft's belly button.
He runs a finger underneath the waistband of Mycroft's silky, tailored trousers, raising his eyebrows, impressed, when he can feel the head of Mycroft's cock under his fingers. The other man is hard, precum already leaking out. He pushes the button slowly from its hole, eyes on Mycroft's face the entire time. When he receives no sign to stop, Lestrade quickly tugs the zipper and begins to edge trousers and pants down Mycroft's hips. Mycroft arches off the bed in assistance, and Lestrade pulls everything off in one smooth go. Standing at the foot of the bed, he peels what feels like silk socks off of Mycroft's long feet. Once they're bare, Lestrade takes one big toe in his mouth and sucks gently. Mycroft's eyes fly open, goggling at Lestrade, who grins around the toe and wraps his tongue all the way around. With a groan, Mycroft closes his eyes and one hand drifts to his aching dick. Lestrade swats it away, now running his tongue up Mycroft's calf, stopping every so often to lave circles around a particular point. His fingers mirror the path on the other leg, creeping ever closer to the particular part Mycroft so obviously needs touched.
Finally, Lestrade reaches the apex of Mycroft's thighs with both tongue and fingers. Mycroft is shaking with effort of keeping his hands off his cock - hands which are currently fisted tightly in the Egyptian cotton sheets. Lestrade palms Mycroft's balls, weighing and fondling them, swiping a thumb across the thin skin. A whimper comes from above when his tongue retraces the path. Achingly slow, Lestrade flattens his tongue against the base of Mycroft's thick cock and runs it all the way to the weeping tip. Mycroft shudders and bucks, but Lestrade keeps one large hand on each hip, anchoring him to the bed. After repeating this once more, Lestrade opens his lips of the head of Mycroft's cock, and slides oh so slowly down, inch by inch until it hits the back of his throat. Relaxing his muscles, Lestrade swallows him still further, and his triumph is solidified by the surprised yelp he hears torn from Mycroft. Pale blue eyes find his, and Lestrade can read the question there. He nods. Mycroft lifts his hips again, Lestrade relaxes again. Seeing that Lestrade is willing and able, Mycroft pumps harder and a little faster, fucking the older man's throat. His breath is coming in ragged blasts and he's so close now. He unwinds his hands from the sheets and shoves them in Lestrade's hair, thrusting becoming erratic. The gagging noises only spur him faster. Finally with a cry and an almighty thrust upward, Mycroft comes, semen pouring out of his cock and into Lestrade's mouth. He swallows every bit, savoring it, sucking softly through the aftershocks.
Now it's his turn.
He crawls up Mycroft's body, planting kisses randomly until he reaches lips. Mycroft smiles languidly, kissing him softly. Lestrade quirks an eyebrow, and Mycroft's smile turns sultry. He flips them so Lestrade is on the bottom. Then he begins is thorough examination of every erogenous zone Lestrade knows he had - and some he wasn't aware of, like the tiny spot just under his left pectoral that causes him to jump practically off the bed. After this, Mycroft lets out his little huff of laughter. Lestrade blushes, but Mycroft clicks his tongue and his eyes smoulder. There's another spot about an inch below his right knee that, when licked and tongued, causes his cock to harden to outrageous proportions.
"Please..." Lestrade whimpers after Mycroft returns to his knee for the third time. Mycroft send him a wicked grin as he clambers off the bed. A tub of complimentary Vaseline rests in the drawer of one of the bedside tables, and Mycroft pops it open with ease born of practice. Jealousy flares up in Lestrade of the men who were there for all that practice, but he quickly tamps it down as he watches Mycroft coat two fingers of his right hands with the grease, then insert those same two fingers into his arse.
Lestrade nearly comes right then and there.
Mycroft makes rather a show of preparing himself, not that Lestrade is complaining. He takes his cock in hand as he watches Mycroft shoves those long, aristocratic fingers into himself. Eventually, Mycroft decides he's ready and moves back over to the bed. He swats away Lestrade's hand and kneels, one leg on either side of Lestrade's hips. Watching Lestrade's face like a hawk, he penetrates himself slowly. Lestrade feels his cock push through the tight ring of muscle and knows he's just about there. Suddenly, Mycroft sits all the way down and Lestrade bows off the bed like his spine is made of elastic. A groan of utter ecstasy rips out of his throat. So tight and so hot and so ready... Lestrade begins thrusting upward, hard. Years of policework have made his legs strong and he uses them to the utmost now. Mycroft leans back, his hands on the bed behind him, face a mask of passion and pleasure. Lestrade wipes a hand from neck to cock, feeling it begin to grow hard again in his hand. Mycroft moans loudly as Lestrade starts to pump his cock in tandem with his thrusts.
Lestrade can see when Mycroft begins to get uncomfortable in this position. He pushes the other man off his cock and rolls up, pushing Mycroft onto all fours. Mycroft stretches like a cat, getting down on his elbows and thrusting his wanton little arse into the air. Lestrade gives it a sound smack before thrusting his cock back inside. Thrusting shallowly, he reaches around and takes Mycroft's cock in his hand again, pulling and twisting. The other man's breathing tells him he'll be coming again shortly, and Lestrade means to join him. Taking a hand off the hard member, he finds a nipple and tweaks it roughly. He can hear Mycroft chanting "Yes yes yes" under his breath and grins. As soon as he feels his balls tighten and his orgasm draw closer, he grabs both of Mycroft's hips to anchor himself and pumps harder than ever. Flesh slaps against flesh and they're both moaning each other's names and Lestrade is so incredibly close -
Just as he tips over the blinding edge of orgasm, Mycroft bellows his release and coats the expensive sheets in his come. This causes him to clench around Lestrade's cock in a death grip, milking out his own orgasm. Lestrade thrusts a few more times, riding out his orgasm.
I just had sex with an utter stranger, he thinks, pulling out and collapsing. And I loved every single moment of it.
Mycroft pulls him into his arms, settling Lestrade's head on his shoulder. They lay together as their sweat cools and their breath slows. Every now and again the kiss, just for the hell of it. Too soon, Mycroft pulls away and begins to dress. Lestrade copies him, and within minutes they are back in the common room. Mycroft ushers Lestrade to the door and opens it for him. Lestrade sees the same black car as before waiting for him. Just as he's leaving, Mycroft pulls him back for a long, searingly hot kiss. When Lestrade is ready to drag him back to the room for found two, Mycroft releases him and presses his card into Lestrade's hand. He smiles and waves him off.
In the car, Lestrade looks at the card in his hand and bursts into hysterical giggles. Two words are printed in black ink on the fine white cardstock:
Mycroft Holmes