When Sherlock had simply texted him an address, Greg had assumed that it had something to do with the case they were currently working on. That was why he'd been understandably confused when he arrived to the warehouse and saw no sign of Sherlock or John, who would have at least thought to send him a text… unless they'd been kidnapped.
He thought he recognized the black motorbike parked near the door to the obviously abandoned place, but put it out of his mind, withdrawing his gun and holding it in both hands as he prepared to go in after the reckless idiots who had a higher close rate than anyone Greg had ever known. He'd seen a lot of things as DI, but one of the most remarkable was the strange but wonderful bond between the genius and his conductor of light, who managed to make Sherlock a little bit human. He wondered, not for the first time, whether the elder Holmes brother could be made a little more human as well, and scowled at himself.
Being single again, he reminded himself, was not a reason to fantasize about the most mysterious, handsome man he'd ever met. Even if by some miracle Mycroft was gay, or bisexual, or anything that would even give him the slightest chance, why would he ever want someone like Greg? He was sophisticated and polished, everything that the cop knew he would never be, and there was no chance of that ever happening.
Turning his mind back to his work, Greg began to move a little faster when he heard a shriek of pain, though fortunately it wasn't a voice he recognized. Finding Sherlock or John harming a suspect wouldn't be completely awful, and it also wouldn't be the first time. They were so overprotective of one another, he didn't understand how they had missed the fact that they were both in love with the other. He just figured they'd catch on eventually, and fervently hoped he wasn't there when they did.
Quick, silent steps took the cop into the heart of the warehouse, and he heard another long, drawn-out moan. No, this wasn't like Sherlock and John at all, he thought, frowning. Was something else going on here? He couldn't imagine why they would want him to be there… at least, he didn't understand until he peeked the corner, finger ready on the safety of his pistol just in case, and found Mycroft Holmes, dressed in black leather, smiling coolly down at a man strapped to a table with several small, red cuts covering his skin.
"Are you going to tell me what you know, or do I have to get… creative?" The man practically purred the words, ignoring the whimpers of his captive.
"I… I'll tell you anything! Please, please don't kill me." The man was a mess now, babbling and spewing out all his deepest, darkest secrets, and Mycroft pulled out his phone and quickly dialed his assistant. As if on cue, she and another man emerged from a different doorway on the far side from where Greg watched from the shadows, wheeling the man out on the metal stretcher that had been holding him in place.
Letting out a shuddering breath, the DI thanked whatever God existed that it was over… and then he froze when Mycroft glanced up sharply, those mercurial eyes meeting his and widening for a long moment before his normal expression of cool indifference—a shield, Greg's racing mind provided—settled over his features.
Knowing that the game was up, Greg swallowed and walked into the room, careful not to put his pistol away. He didn't think that Mycroft would try to use that knife on him, and he knew better than to try and report the government man. Even if he could get past his affection for the elder Holmes brother, no one would believe him anyway.
As if sensing the direction of the DI's thoughts, the other man smiled a little, a fake expression, before grabbing a rag and painstakingly wiping the blood off the knife before sliding it into a leather sheathe on his hip. He'd obviously done this before. It was only when he spoke that Greg realized that though his claws were currently sheathed, that could change at any moment. The whole world underestimated this man. He wasn't only dangerous in an office. He was just plain dangerous, and for some reason, that fact sent all sorts of chills running up and down his spine, and not the bad kind, either.
Mycroft's expression changed when he saw the shiver Greg couldn't subdue, as if he'd disappointed him somehow. Then the mask was back, colder than ever. The cop would almost have believed the rumors, then, that Mycroft had traded his heart for his power. He just might have fallen for it, were it not for the emotion he'd seen in the man's eyes just moments ago. He might be the Ice Man to the world, but there was a molten core beneath.
"Did you imagine that I got to where I am by shaking hands and kissing babies, Gregory?" Mycroft's silky voice was pitched low, and there was a hint of arrogance to it that the DI normally would have wanted to kiss away. Now, however, he was pretty sure that that response would land him in an institution, and that, only if he was very lucky.
"No. But I never imagined this." Running a hand through his silver hair, Greg glanced around the warehouse to make sure they were the only people there before holstering his gun, well aware that even if he'd been forced to choose between living or dying, he couldn't put a bullet in beautiful, dangerous Mycroft Holmes.
Mycroft stared at the man he'd loved from afar almost from the first time he'd seen him, silently cursing his brother for this. He'd known, had to have known, about his infatuation with the DI. And this was his revenge for even that small intrusion on Sherlock's world, even if he'd never meant to do anything about it. There was no way he would ever be able to seduce the silver fox now, even if he'd worked up the guts. Now that Lestrade had seen him as a monster, he doubted he would ever be able to look at him without seeing blood on his hands.
And yet, the government man thought, it was probably for the best. Now he could let go of his foolish hopes and focus on reality, instead of dreaming that he might ever earn the right to call this man his. It had always been a pipe dream anyway.
"No, I don't suppose you did. There are likely a number of things about me that you would never intuit." Mycroft couldn't quite hide the bitterness in his tone, and he knew his lips had turned up in a humorless smile. Greg looked confused, and he decided he might as well lay it all out on the table. Undoubtedly the DI already considered him a villain, which wasn't entirely wrong. He did bad things, but he did them to bad people, in the pursuit of good. He knew that to a man like Lestrade, who wore honor like a second skin, his motivations wouldn't matter half so much as his actions. And that was probably what made him do what he did next.
Rounding the table slowly, letting the other man track his every movement with his eyes, Mycroft waited until they were only inches apart before stopping, grateful that the DI was only an inch shorter because he did not want to look down at him while he did this.
Almost painfully gradually, now, he reached up and tangled the fingers of one hand in that silver hair while the other hand moved to Greg's hip, holding him still so that he would have to struggle to get away when Mycroft's lips came down on his.
Greg's eyes widened as the other man kissed him, stunned that his dream seemed to be coming true, despite everything else he'd witnessed that night. Letting out a little gasp, he responded to the kiss eagerly, aware that if it was the only time he would ever get to touch this man, he wanted to do it right. In the meantime, he let his hands wander as they pleased, over muscled shoulders, down a leather-covered chest, and then around to cup Mycroft's arse and grind their hips together.
Mycroft wondered if he was dreaming as he drowned in the kiss, surprisingly gentle despite their environment and the degree of lust he felt for this man. His body was burning up beneath the leather, and he could never remember feeling this way about anyone else, even when they were naked and beneath him panting his name. Nothing had ever given him a thrill like this, and he never wanted the kiss to end.
But end it did, as is true of all good things, and Mycroft, unable to bear the thought of whatever he might find in Gregory's eyes, turned away with his eyes closed, opening them only to head toward the door and get on his motorcycle so he could go home. He didn't make it two steps before Greg had spun him around and drawn them together again, pupils blown wide as if he was drowning in lust… his expression an echo of the feelings Mycroft was currently struggling with as well.
"I—" He started, but didn't get any farther because just then, Greg's lips were crushing down on his again, and coherent thought went out the window.
"You turn me on so God damned bad, all leather and steel and danger. Let me take you, Mycroft. Even if you hate me in the morning." Greg's voice was a low growl, and it went straight to the taller man's groin, making him almost impossibly hard.
"The only one who might regret this is you. If you take me tonight, you don't get to walk away." Mycroft answered demand for demand, because blind compliance wasn't in him, and he was relieved to hear Greg's dark laugh, just before he found himself pressed up against the warehouse wall—how had they gotten here?—with a knee rubbing at his crotch, making him moan low in desire.
"That sounds fine by me. Take me home on that bike of yours and I'll keep you up every night for the rest of our lives. Provided you dress like this more often. I like the suits, don't get me wrong, but you're a fucking wet dream in these leathers, Mycroft."
The government man was the one who shivered now, taking Greg at his word and snagging his wrist, pulling him toward the door. Greg followed, his footsteps every bit as urgent as Mycroft's.
Ignoring the fact that this was all almost too good to be true, Greg pushed Mycroft back against the door almost as soon as they were safe inside, devouring his mouth as if he'd spent his entire life starving for this one man, this one moment. And maybe he had; he only knew that the world was on fire, and the only thing that could keep him from burning up was this man's touch, despite the fact that every stray caress had flames licking over his skin.
Pulling Mycroft away from the door, Greg shoved his leather jacket off his shoulders to land on the floor, but neither of them paid it any mind, too busy trying to divest one another of their remaining garments. Mycroft was practically poured into the leather clothing he'd been wearing, tight fitting pants and a vest with silver buckles running up the center, a strange reflection of the button down suits he normally wore. He was a marvel of leather and steel, but Greg couldn't spend nearly as much time savoring that fact as he wanted. He'd wanted this for far too long, and couldn't seem to stop himself from practically tearing at the garments to get to skin.
Mycroft seemed to share his sense of immediacy, fortunately, because those nimble fingers, which only half an hour ago had been wielding a knife with precision and slicing into another man's skin, had already undone his trousers and were busy shoving them down his hips. His shirt was next, quick since it was one of his rare days off and he'd been wearing a tee shirt, and then they were both standing there in just their pants, staring wide-eyed at one another as if they couldn't believe what was happening.
Greg was the first to recover, and though he didn't know exactly where the bedroom was, he followed a hunch and tugged Mycroft up the stairs, a direction they'd been stumbling in their mad rush to strip one another down. The younger man opened the door and took the lead, pulling Greg inside and practically throwing him on the bed. Grinning wickedly, Greg waited until he was close enough before turning the tables on him, grabbing him and flipping them so Mycroft was beneath him.
"Lube." Mycroft said breathlessly, snagging it off the nightstand and shoving it into Greg's hands. Understanding instantly, he grabbed the waistband of Mycroft's pants and yanked them down his hips, discarding them off the side of the bed before following them with his own. And then he was slicking himself up.
"In me. Now." Mycroft practically snarled the words at him when Greg went to slather his fingers with the stuff and prepare the other man properly. Taking him at his word, because he honestly wasn't sure how much longer he was going to last, Greg leaned down and delivered a bruising kiss against Mycroft's lips while slipping inside him, the tightness making him moan while Mycroft let out a cry of pleasure and pain, one seemingly feeding the other.
Figuring out what his partners wanted had always been a skill of the DI's, and he understood that this was not a moment in which to slow down and make sure his partner was comfortable. He set a brutal pace, thrusting in with an animalistic passion that had Mycroft sliding nails down his back, the sting warning him that he would probably be sore in the morning, and possibly need to shower off blood. Somehow, the idea of wearing Mycroft's marks on his skin, evidence of a complete loss of composure, spurred him on, and he moved even faster until, with a scream, Mycroft threw his head back and released all over their chests.
Greg followed soon after, inadvertently biting Mycroft's lip and tasting blood as he did so. He continued moving until he was spent and then flopped to his side, unsure what would be expected of him now.
Apparently gentled by what they'd just done, Mycroft instantly followed him, laying his head on his shoulder and draping an arm over his torso, tangling their legs together. For such a normally immaculate man, he seemed extremely unconcerned about the mess they'd just made.
"So what is this, then?" He asked after a moment, tilting his head up to look at the DI. Greg looked at him for a moment and then laughed, dipping his head to give him another kiss before responding.
"I don't know. But it feels too damn good to walk away from. I'm in this if you are."
Mycroft thought about that for a long moment, and then nodded slowly. He wasn't quite sure how it had happened, but he wasn't going to take this connection with the cop he'd wanted from afar for so long for granted.
"Then stay. Stay the night, stay however long you'd like." Greg nodded, then smirked, an unholy gleam in his eyes.
"If I do, will I get a repeat performance with you all done up in leather and steel?" Mycroft smirked back.
"I think that could be arranged." And then they were both lost to another smoldering kiss, and spoke no more.
