It's been so long since we've posted anything up here, and... well, for those of you who stayed around, thank you. For those of you who've never read any of our stories, WELCOME! Our names are Calabash and Drifta, and we enjoy writing Sherlock porn. I warn you, this gets pretty damn graphic, so if you don't like swearing/rough sex/slash, then this IS NOT for you. This was written as just a single story, but we had so much fun that there may or may not be add ons in the future.
Once again, the wonderful Calabash is playing the part of the fabulous Detective Inspector Lestrade, and I, Drifta, do my best to keep up as Mycroft Holmes. We hope you all enjoy this PwP!
There was a time when his worn brown sports coat and the rough edge of his chin gave the other members of the Diogenes Club pause. When he walked down the halls, shuffling his large feet and sighing, he would receive wary glances and huffs from the gentlemen sitting around in posh chairs around ornate furnishings. However, the presence of Gregory Lestrade was now such a fixture that he barely caused a stir anymore, and for some reason, this irritated the inspector. He paused by the parlour, his fingers itching for the cigarette he'd flicked out of the car window as he parked. No one looked his direction, not even the footmen. He clucked his tongue, eyebrows knitting. Greg turned left, making his way through the familiar, winding corridors. He knew where he was going. No one spoke to him, as was tradition, and that was fine, just fine. He hadn't a single idea what he'd say to these tosspots anyway. They were busy running the world; he was busy making it worth living in. He halted in front of a large mahogany door, and he rapped on it once before pushing it open. Greg waited for the heavy thing to latch behind him, and then he cleared his throat. "Mr. Holmes."
Mycroft looked up from his laptop and smiled thinly, his eyebrows arched elegantly. Mycroft was a man of perfect poise and composure, he was the type who was never surprised, never caught off guard, and never outdone. A well-manicured hand rested atop the lid, shutting his laptop silently, his thin lips curving downward. "You were smoking." Was the first thing he said, a hint of displeasure in his voice, and a look of disapproval on his face. "I thought I made it clear that you were to quit." He gestured to the seat in front of his desk and propped his elbows up, long fingers lacing together as he fixed Gregory with The Stare.
Mycroft was a busy man and he rarely made room in his life for anyone floating in the sea of goldfish he was surrounded by. Oh, it wasn't that the men and women he did fraternize with weren't goldfish as well, it was simply that they were influential ones, people whose favour he needed to curry. Mycroft did not have friends, he made it a point to only ever have acquaintances. Which was why Gregory Lestrade was such an anomaly in his life. "You know how smoking displeases me." Mycroft made time for the Detective Inspector, despite his ordinary status in life, for two reasons: Gregory was one of Sherlock's trusted friends, therefore worth keeping around to spy on his brother (make sure the wretched man wasn't getting up to anything untoward), and also because Mycroft Holmes, despite being a veritable machine in all other aspects of his life, had needs. The man before him was attractive, loyal, and obedient, three things that recommended him for this position. It had all started two years ago when Mycroft and Gregory had been forced together because of Sherlock's addiction. Mycroft had resisted it at first, not wanting to fraternize with such a lowly individual, however, his tune quickly changed after Lestrade saved Sherlock's life. Since then Gregory had been a sort of fixture in Mycroft's life. It was easy, something that Mycroft did not need to over analyse. It was perfect.
"And you know how being pulled away from one of the biggest cases of my career displeases me." Greg slouched forward, hands in his pockets, his gait one of casual ease. He'd spent the first several months of their... relationship... walking on egg shells and jumping the moment Mycroft called for him. But as of late, the need for independence had reasserted itself, and he began to grumble at him, question his orders, speak his mind. He was actually rather surprised he hadn't been quietly disposed of by now. At the sharp look he received from the other man, Greg thought maybe it was still a possibility. He flung himself in a chair opposite the great desk, eyeing his companion. Mycroft looked extraordinarily alert. He was well groomed and looked rested. Greg shifted in his chair uncomfortably. He had a feeling he knew what that meant, and immediately he began to run through his calendar in his head. Surely something was on the docket for that evening...
Mycroft pursed his lips and removed the little black book from an inner pocket next to his heart. He flipped through it, scanning each page filled with perfectly scrawled words, before turning to the next. He continued like this for three minutes before replacing it and turning to his notes, as though to cross reference some bit of information. This continued for a good fifteen more minutes; Mycroft shuffled through the many pages atop his desk, occasionally fiddled with the ring on the fourth finger of his right hand, sipped at his tea. When he finally looked up, it seemed to be with some mild surprise that Gregory was still sitting there, waiting for him. "Oh, I do apologise, Gregory, I thought you had somewhere to be. I believe you called it 'one of the biggest cases of your career'... what is it?" He picked up a packet and removed several stapled sheets of paper before continuing. "Ah, yes, the murder of three prostitutes. By all means, if this is a defining moment in your career, I would hate to tear you away from it." The sarcasm in Mycroft's voice was almost perfectly veiled, his expression one of bland politeness.
Greg seethed. It was enough that he was called away from his work to sit across from Mycroft Holmes and watch as the man played petty mind games with him, ignoring him, pretending he wasn't there... but for him to belittle the police work that Lestrade poured his heart into every day was too much. The detective inspector stood, his brown eyes narrow. "Every moment is a defining moment," Greg hissed, and stabbed a brown finger at the other man. "You are defined in the small moments, and I will treat each case like it is the most important case of my career, because everyone is. Those women were brutally murdered, and I'll see that the man is found. And if you've nothing better for me to do than watch you act like a highbrow bastard behind a desk, then I'll be off. Good day, Mr. Holmes."
"You will stop smoking, Gregory." Mycroft said in a low voice that carried across the room. He was looking down at his papers again, not seeming to pay Gregory any heed. "They were killed because they stole several kilos of cocaine and a good deal of money. You will find that the murderers are half way to Cuba by now." At the silence that followed Mycroft straightened and gazed lazily at his plaything, who was staring back at him, clearly wanting to ask how, but not wanting to give Mycroft the satisfaction. "I enjoy brain teasers, one rarely finds good ones in the papers anymore." He explained, replacing the documents in the file and holding them out to Gregory. "I believe this means you are free tonight." It wasn't a question.
The worn fists clenched by his sides, and for a moment, Greg wavered, his face contorting. The file sat there in Mycroft's hand, hovering in the space between them, and after a moment of warring with himself, Greg growled and snatched the folder. He sat back down, thumbing through it, frustration written all over his handsome features. He hadn't even heard Mycroft's last comment, so engrossed was he in the sudden solving of a case that had plagued him for weeks. To have it solved in such short order felt like cheating, but he couldn't resist. Greg sighed, wedging the file under his arm and lifting his eyes to Mycroft's. "I've tried to stop," he admitted at last, tapping his feet on the carpet. "I get too stressed out."
Mycroft nodded, folding his fingers together. "Indeed. Your ex-wife, I presume." Oh, he could see her work all over Gregory. If Mycroft was any judge of it, and, indeed, he was the best judge, he would say that Gregory had talked to his ex first thing that morning. He was dressed in a more slapdash manner than usual, and he'd worn his old brown dress coat, the one he'd probably worn when he'd first met his ex-wife. He'd missed two spots while shaving, and was wearing mismatched socks. She must have been a great distraction. Mycroft's jaw tightened imperceptibly. "Your case has been solved, your meeting with her postponed to..." he glanced at Gregory's twitching fingers, "next week, I believe," he repeated, "you are free tonight."
This time, Greg heard it. His head snapped up, and he felt his chest constrict. Mycroft was gazing at him intently over steepled hands. Greg found this amusing. Sherlock did it as well, when he was thinking, and it made the inspector wonder where the pair of them had picked it up. It was such an odd habit. "I... was... meeting some chaps down at the pub," he said feebly, unable to meet the burning turquoise.
"I will expect you at eight thirty." He said dismissively, opening his laptop again and typing in the password. Gregory let out a sigh and shuffled to the door, but just as he was about to open it, Mycroft spoke one more time. "If I so much as catch a whiff of tobacco I shall be very disappointed," said the man, typing away at a secretive document. Heat flooded Greg's face, and he fled the room, the heavy doors slamming behind him. Not until sunlight mingled with a dreary, damp rain hit his cheeks again did he stop and gasp for air. How? How had he gotten himself into this situation? He'd told Sherlock once that he was not Mycroft's lackey, that he didn't just do what the elder Holmes told him to. But that was a lie. He did exactly what he was told, when he was told, how he was told, and he did it without question. And it wasn't because he was afraid of Mycroft, though at times, he was. After all, Mycroft Holmes was the most powerful man in Europe, possibly the world, and Greg was one of the few men that talked back to him regularly. One of these days, Mycroft would have enough of it. But in spite of this knowledge, the thing that kept Greg in line was not fear, but lust. He sighed, reaching into his pocket and tossing the half crushed pack of cigarettes onto the ground. By the time he got back to his office, Mycroft's men would already be there, keeping a close on the entire department. It would be a hell of a day. He glanced at his watch, counting the hours down to 8:30.
Mycroft's week had been abominable. That was really the only way to say it. He had three different world leaders breathing down his neck for decisions he did not want to make, and to top it off he had the bloody Prime Minister pestering him about spies being EVERYWHERE. Of course they were everywhere! One did not get this high into politics without being constantly watched! The elder Holmes brother desperately hoped that this tactic would distract the raving man, for he needed a moment or two of peace. A moment or two to himself, or possibly, with Gregory Lestrade. Ah, Gregory Lestrade. There was an interesting fellow. For all the world Mycroft could not understand what it was about him that was so intriguing. At first he had assumed it was the dogged loyalty and the frankly blessed quality of silence, but on closer inspection he was much more than that. He was, surprisingly enough, smart - or as smart as a normal person could be - and he didn't get on Mycroft's nerves. He had an almost calming effect on Mycroft, which was one of the reasons the most powerful man in Britain kept the lowly DI around for so long. Not that he couldn't cut him loose whenever he chose. There was no lasting attraction there.
Five minutes to 8:30 found Mycroft sitting in his preferred arm chair, dressed in a slightly more comfortable attire: crimson linen trousers, a crisp white button up, and a black silk robe. He had a glass of sherry next to him and was reading a book, stalwartly refusing to keep glancing at the clock.
Greg stood outside the front door of Mycroft's upscale home in the heart of London, wavering on the steps for a full five minutes as he stared at his wristwatch, staring at the seconds ticking by. He'd made the mistake of being too eager once, and showing up twenty minutes before he was told. He'd been dismissed outright with a lecture on punctuality, and had spent the evening alone, drinking in his flat. It mattered not whether he was early or late, Mycroft did not appreciate untimeliness. And so he waited, heart in his throat, until the long hand finally clicked to the six, and he stepped up to the door, punching the bell. He shifted, and smoothed his silver hair nervously. He'd made sure he left work early enough to freshen up this time, trading his jeans for brown trousers, his blue cotton shirt for a tie and dinner jacket. Again, he wondered at himself, at the madness of the turn of events, but it did not stop him from punching the bell again, and worriedly glancing at his watch. He'd said 8:30... hadn't he?
Mycroft's lips curved as he heard the bell ring at exactly 8:30. That was one more thing about Gregory that he rather enjoyed - the man learned quickly. He rose up from his chair and glided to the front door, pulling it open. He had to press back a smile of satisfaction when he saw the man standing before him, dressed up and eager; it was more than satisfying. Not a word was spoken between them as Mycroft stepped aside and allowed the detective inspector to enter his home. This late at night there was no one else in Mycroft's house. His housekeeper had left for the day three hours before, and the two maids he employed had been gone since three. They were all alone.
The door closed behind Gregory and Mycroft pushed him up against it, pressing their lips together, his tongue forcing its way forward, tasting the man's mouth. "Good," he murmured when he pulled away, his eyes dark with hunger. Not a trace of cigarettes. Gregory would be rewarded for that. "Come this way."
The kiss had taken his breath away. Greg followed him meekly, not bothering to look around at the opulence like he used to. He'd been to this house many times now, and though there were many things of great value and beauty here, he'd learned along the way that there was nothing so beautiful and valuable as the company he kept. Mycroft led him down a dark hallway, his footsteps silent on the wooden floors, and Greg plodded behind, sounding to his own ears like a clumsy herd of elephants. John and Sherlock often joked about Mycroft, calling him a vampire, a ghost, but there was something to what they said. Mycroft was unearthly in a wonderful, frightening way. He glided over the floors, pale and mysterious, and as Greg watched him, the inspector's doubts and misgivings disappeared. He knew where they were going, and he couldn't wait to get there.
Mycroft lead his clandestine lover up a flight of stairs and down another hall until they reached the master bedroom. He pushed open the door, turning the knob slightly so that the room was illuminated with a dull glow. "Come." Mycroft didn't like to speak much during these interactions; that would be putting a name to their meetings that they just ought not to have. He and Gregory slept together, that was it. There were no romantic attachments, no soulful conversations, and the only lingering glances to be had were lust filled ones.
He sat on the bed, opening the dressing gown to reveal his body beneath it, one leg resting atop the mattress. A finger curved toward the man standing somewhat stupidly by the door. "Come." Mycroft repeated, a small smirk growing on his lips.
Greg wanted a cigarette. His fingers twitched, and he approached with slow caution, his brown eyes studying the smile suspiciously. In the history of their time together, a smile was rarely a good thing. He continued until he was standing just in front of the other man, knees bumping into the high mattress. Greg ran his hand through his hair. His heart was racing, and his mouth felt dry. He wanted to say something, anything to break the tension, but it wasn't prudent to speak... not yet. Later, his moans and pleas would be appreciated, but anything else in this moment would only be frowned upon. Greg lifted his hands, cupping Mycroft's pale face and caressing it tenderly. His lover looked velvety and warm in the low light.
Mycroft pulled Gregory down, kissing him deeply, passionately. "It pleases me when you do as I say." He murmured, breaking his own rule and speaking. After all, Gregory did deserve a reward, and Mycroft knew the man better than anyone else did. He had studied him for years before making his first move. "I am very happy." Shifting over so that there was enough space for Gregory to lie down next to him, Mycroft tugged his companion on the bed, one hand roaming up and down the firm chest, mapping out the well-known anatomy of Gregory Lestrade. Even after doing this deed countless times Mycroft did not tire of it. That was one more surprising thing about Lestrade. "Because you have done such a fine job, I shall grant you one wish. Name anything and I will see to it that it is done." The powerful man smiled at his lover, nipping his chin.
Greg opened his mouth to tell his lover he wanted a cigarette, damn it, but then he stopped himself, and contemplated a moment. The hand roaming his chest felt good. Light. It was dancing over his rapidly beating heart, and Greg took a shaky breath, arching up to meet Mycroft's lips in a rare, sweet embrace. "Do... I have to decide now?" he asked quietly, murmuring into his mouth and shivering as the smooth hand began to wander down his stomach.
"No," Mycroft's smile grew and he kissed Gregory again before lying on his back and staring at the man. Trust Gregory to come up with something like that. The man was smarter than instant gratification. "You may name it at any point in the future." Thin, crimson covered legs opened, and Mycroft beckoned his lover closer. He'd half expected Gregory to ask for a cigarette, and he was very pleased that he hadn't. That might have soured Mycroft's mood. "Come." He murmured, reaching up to the dark mahogany table that sat beside his bed and flipping the light switch that rested on it. Mycroft Holmes did not fuck with the lights on.
The room fell into darkness, and next to Mycroft, the detective heaved a great, disappointed sigh. He did not speak, however, but slid in between Mycroft's legs and bent to kiss him, grinding his firm body down into his lover's. He didn't mention how very much he'd like to actually SEE him, to see the expression on that pretty face as he sank into him. Greg knew better than that. Instead, he began to work his thumbs into the elastic waistband of the crisp linen trousers, and he tugged them down, biting and sucking on Mycroft's lower lip the entire way. He grunted to show his appreciation for the flavour of the wine on Mycroft's tongue, and to encourage the slender hands that were plucking at his clothing as well.
Mycroft ignored the disappointed sigh, knowing that Gregory would not feel the same if he actually saw Mycroft without his clothes on in the full light of day. No one did, therefore no one saw it. He groaned as a hand wrapped around his cock, rubbing up and down, paying close attention to its sensitive rim. A tiny growl escaped Mycroft's lips as he tugged at Gregory's shirt, irritated that the buttons were giving him such a difficult time. It wasn't that he was eager to feel Gregory's firm, warm skin against his, it was simply that he had not had sex in two weeks and he wanted it now. "Next time wear a bloody t-shirt." He hissed, finally working the damn thing down and off his lover's broad back. Trousers and boxer shorts soon followed, leaving Gregory as naked as the day he was born, just how Mycroft liked it.
"Well excuse me for dressing up a little for you," Greg snarled back, and dove into the long, ivory neck. He bit down on it, licking the salty skin, and felt quite pleased with how the evening was going. This was more than they talked in bed, well, really ever. Most of the time it was a series of grunts and moans, then possibly some muffled shouting, before Mycroft sent him on his way again. Actual conversation was unheard of. He alerted Mycroft to his pleasure in this change by rolling his naked hips against Mycroft's leg, hard, and squeezing his prick. Mycroft gasped, and Greg took advantage. He pulled off the rest of his clothes, very swiftly, and rolled over to snatch at the bottle of expensive lube he kept in the wooden box on his bedside table. He knew where it was by heart now, and even in the pitch dark, the weathered hands found the glass bottle with eagerness and surety.
Mycroft moaned, hooking a leg around his lover's waist and drawing him closer. "Shut up and do as you're told." He growled, secretly enjoying the banter, hands twisting in Gregory's hair as he pulled him into a furious kiss, biting at his lower lip and gnashing his teeth at the warm, wet tongue. Already the elder Holmes brother was hard, his cock bobbing and slapping against his stomach with every divine movement. Gregory's hands were upon him, he could feel the cold fingers, slick and wet with lubricant, circling around, drawing a line from his perineum to the tight ring of muscle. He let out an involuntary gasp, relinquishing control of the kiss for a precious few seconds as a finger breached the hole, plunging inside him, cold, wicked, and perfectly sinful.
The sound shot straight to Greg's dick, and he growled, sliding the finger in and out of Mycroft's tight body to see if he could make him do it again. Mycroft was rolling and twisting in his arms, arching his back and spreading his legs wide, and Greg's cock throbbed as he slid another finger in quickly, and began to fuck him in earnest. Damn, he loved finger banging this man! The noises Mycroft made were wonderful, animalistic and guttural, and Greg thought there was nothing in the world better than listening to him whine and snarl as the rough fingers penetrated him deeply.
Mycroft's hands worked beneath the headrest, nails digging into the backside of the wood, palms shoving up into it as he pushed down on the fingers with all his might, legs spread as wide as they would go. These nights were full of wonderful release for the man who had to watch everything not only he did and said, but everything everyone else did as well. These nights he was able to relax and be himself, at least in bed. He did not have to hold back, he could shout and snarl as much as he wanted to. In here he was simply Mycroft Holmes, he wasn't, as some people enjoyed calling him, the Shadow King in here. "Faster!" Mycroft demanded, muscles standing out as he arched his back high into the air, angling himself so that the fingers pushed deeper inside him. "Come on!"
That was the signal. Greg smirked and added another finger, slamming them hard and fast into his lover as he uncapped the bottle again with his left hand, and began to drizzle the liquid onto his heated, aching cock. It was cold, and he hissed, but a few quick pumps with his hand warmed the slippery lubricant. Mycroft was squirming beautifully now, moaning and crying out, and Greg pulled his hand out, immediately lining up his thick shaft. "Tell me," he whispered urgently. "Tell me to do it." This was the best part. Fuck, yes. He waited, trembling, his hands gripping Mycroft's hips so hard that he knew there would be bruising tomorrow. But he did not move. He was a wild, caged animal, staring into the darkness with bright eyes, searching for any glimpse of light in the returning stare of his lover.
Mycroft grabbed the back of Gregory's neck, his nails digging into the man's skin as he did so. "Do it now." He commanded, his tone dangerous. "Slide your cock in me now." The usually composed man let out a snarl, then, his face twisting in impatience as he threw himself back on the bed and lifted his hips, his feet firmly planted on the soft mattress. He could not wait to feel the heat of Gregory's thick cock as it pierced him open. Nothing else worked like this man's dick did, nothing else quite fit him so perfectly. The wonderful searing stretch and the immediate warmth as thick veins scraped his insides was next to nothing. And the moment when the head found his prostate... Mycroft moaned, hand trembling with anticipation. "Hurry."
Greg let out a whimper, partly because he knew Mycroft loved that sound, that submissive noise escaping, and partly because he couldn't bloody stop it. With powerful hands, he lifted the skinny ankles up, over his head and apart, and with one quick snap, he was buried inside of Mycroft Holmes.
They shouted in unison, pleasure bursting in one, pain in another. He waited until the gasps of the man below were less tremulous, less panicked, and when Mycroft grew still, Greg began to move. He knew how he liked it now... steady and shallow in the beginning, to set the pace, then faster, deeper, harder. They would fuck until Mycroft lost all control, and Greg would walk away with gashes on his back left by the manicured fingernails. He wouldn't have it any other way.
With a swift peck on the lips. The detective inspector began to thrust gently, cursing under his breath. "Fuck. You're tight today."
Mycroft flushed, eyes opening wide at the brazen cheek of the man. He knew he wasn't allowed to talk, let alone to say something like that! Requests were fine. Begging was fine. But that! Mycroft's dick throbbed and he let out a little whine. He was only allowing this sort of behaviour because Gregory had pleased him so. Tomorrow it would be back to how it usually was. For tonight, though... "I haven't had sex in two weeks, what do you expect?" Mycroft shot back, digging his nails into his companion's back so hard that he felt the skin break beneath. Tomorrow it would go back to normal, so why not enjoy this just a little tonight? After all, Mycroft was never afraid to try new things.
Would wonders never cease? Greg's rhythm stuttered, and his grip on the ankles loosened a bit, just for a moment. Then he was back, gripping harder than ever, thrusting faster, his teeth bared. "Haven't you?" he gritted out, and let out a cry as Mycroft's silken body constricted around him. Their flesh slapped together in the blackness, and the sound was disgusting and wonderful. "Feels... fucking good," he crooned, and turned his face to press wet kisses and long licks down the porcelain ankles, and the soles of his feet. Mycroft gasped below, and Greg began to pound him cruelly, ramming him into the bed even as he lavished attention on one foot, then another, with his tongue.
Mycroft threw a hand to his mouth, holding back the sharp cry as Gregory's mouth found his foot. He flushed, thankful of the pitch black room, for it protected him. "Bite me." He whispered, his voice low and full of desire. "Bite it." He longed to feel the sharp pain of teeth ripping at skin, and this was a spot no one would ever even have the slightest chance to see. No marks, he always said, but what was the problem with marks if no one could see them? Mycroft never padded around in bare feet around anyone. To emphasis his command, he pushed his foot hard against Gregory's mouth, his body tightening around the cock inside as he rammed down, arching and twisting in a manner that he knew would drive his partner off the deep end.
It worked, better than Mycroft imagined. Greg bellowed, and his teeth sank down in the baby soft flesh of his foot as his body lost itself to the mad pace. It was a good thing, a damned good thing that this was not their first time together... Greg had just enough grey matter left to contemplate this before he went, however briefly, absolutely insane. If this had been their first sexual encounter, he had no doubt there would never be another, and he might find himself in serious danger of losing his life. But it was Mycroft's command, and so he followed it, as vehemently as possible. Both feet received the manic attention, teeth tearing and mouth sucking, until they were red and torn from the sharpness of his teeth and fingernails. He continued to fuck Mycroft into the mattress, long after he shot his first load, snarling and snapping and moaning... and suddenly, with a start, Greg realised he was moaning Mycroft's name. Over, and over, and over again... Mycroft. Mycroft. Mycroft.
When Mycroft first heard his name fall from Gregory's lips that night he knew that there was something different behind it. It wasn't the usual gruff cries, or the hungry snarls, this was... this was like a mantra, a holy chant spoken a multitude of times. He swallowed hard and pushed that thought back into his head, banishing it. Gregory's cries were not what worried him, what worried him was the urge to return them with his own.
Lips tight together, uttering only grunts and moans, Mycroft let Gregory fuck him, over and over. They went on into the early morning, both as eager for more as the other. They were not satisfied with one go, or even two, no. They came four times that night, the ferocity dying only when Mycroft's body collapsed, unable to move another inch. He lay there, panting and gasping for breath, his body covered in fluids. The bed around him was sticky and wet, sweat clung to his hair and forehead, his chest rising and falling heavily as the light grew grey outside his window.
Greg fell beside him, rasping, and the moment his head hit the pillow, his eyes began to close. Sleep was so alluring, like a siren, beckoning him with silken pillowcases and thick, warm comforters. Mycroft's bed was like nothing else; it was plush, welcoming, and Greg wanted nothing more than to succumb to its seduction. But... the grey light from the window fell on his lover's face, and Greg blinked, pushing up on his elbow. Mycroft was a mess. He was wrecked from head to toe. His hair was askew, his skin bruised and mottled with ejaculate, and he was absolutely filthy. The detective inspector groaned softly, and with a huff, he rolled out of bed, staggering to his feet. "Don't move," he murmured, and shuffled out of the room, quite naked.
Mycroft propped himself up, frowning at the door. What on earth could...? But Gregory was back a few moments later with a bowl full of warm water and a hand towel. Mycroft flushed and sat up, his eyes widening in shock. Gregory sat beside him dipping the cloth in water and slowly began to clean him up, like a lover would. Mycroft sat in silence, allowing the gentle touches, his heart thumping wildly against his chest as Gregory tenderly wiped sweat and ejaculate from Mycroft's wiry frame.
"There." He hadn't spoken a word throughout the entire process, and neither had Mycroft. He'd simply lain there, still and wide eyed, while Greg's sandpaper hands moved up and down his entire body, washing him. But he hadn't thrown him out, either, and that was probably a step in the right direction. Greg set the bowl and cloth aside, and yawned, rubbing his eyes. He picked up his watch, and sighed. He had to be at work in three hours. He glanced around wearily for his pants and trousers, eyes not meeting Mycroft's. This was the difficult part. Here was where Mycroft rolled over without a word, and Greg let himself out of the house. He'd never stayed this long, though, and somehow... it seemed worse. He gathered his socks, struggling to keep his eyes open as he sat on the bed to pull them on his bare feet.
"I..." Mycroft began, looking down at his hands. "You have to work soon. You might as well... stay here." He gestured to the bed, refusing to look at the silver haired man. "You earned it." He moved to his side of the bed and lay down, his eyes closing. Gregory HAD been very good, after all. If Mycroft didn't reward him for the good things then he wouldn't know when to keep doing them. "But you're not allowed to smoke after this. Don't ever think of it repeating if I smell a single whiff of cigarette on you. Do you understand?"
Greg stared at him back, eyes round, mouth hanging open. He shook himself, but he wasn't dreaming; Mycroft was letting him stay over.
"Thanks," he managed, and crawled back into the bed, still gazing in wonder at his lover's back. They lay still and silent for long minutes, then, because he was Greg Lestrade, and didn't know when to quit, the police inspector flipped onto his side and slowly crept an arm around Mycroft's waist. He pulled him closer, drawing his back to his chest, and he buried his face in the chestnut hair. "Night."
Mycroft lay there, trying to decide if he liked it or not. After all, that was what this was about, doing things he liked. He saw something he wanted, he took it. Slowly, very slowly, he began to relax, and, after a short while he found that it wasn't... wasn't too terrible. Perhaps he would have to allow it to happen again to decide whether he truly enjoyed it or not. One thing was for sure, he did not feel the hollowness in his chest that he usually did after he heard the door close behind Gregory, and that - that was a revelation. "Don't get too cocky." He muttered back, closing his eyes. "You're still on trial basis."
"I thought you liked me... cocky." Greg smiled into the nape of his neck, then chuckled when Mycroft stiffened. "I'm joking. Sorry. I'll be quiet." He kissed his shoulder, and yawned again, closing his eyes. This was significantly better than going home to his empty flat after a shag. This was relaxing, and comforting.
In a few seconds, Greg was asleep, breathing softly in the back of Mycroft's head.
Mycroft did sleep, eventually, but mostly he lay there watching the sun creep up over the horizon. This sort of warm, comfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach made him uneasy. The most important thing, though, was that having Gregory around felt good, and that was what this was all about, wasn't it? That was how it had started. Mycroft had promised himself that as long as it felt good he would continue doing it. He needed a little stress relief in his life, and if this was the ticket, then he would not deny himself. It wasn't like he was going to fall in love.