Mycroft Holmes, MI6

A/N: I've stared at that post way too many times to not write some sort of nonsense for this pairing. So, let's just assume Mycroft used to be in MI6, and some idiots have made the mistake of kidnapping Greg. Let us assume this and go from there. Also, I'm horrible at writing fight scenes, and those aren't the main focus here, so don't expect a play-by-play of Mycroft's MMA/Jiu Jitsu/ninja moves. Anyway, enjoy!

Greg sighed as he was tied to a chair in a near empty room of some building in a rundown part of the city. He knew running down to the bakery for lunch would be a bad idea, but he didn't expect this to happen. Kidnapping. Honestly, what did he look like to them, some damsel in distress? Hopefully, Donovan had noticed his absence and started worrying. She'd call Mycroft and all of this would be resolved. While he was waiting for that to happen though…

"Why exactly am I here?" Greg questioned his captors calmly. They stared at him, a bit confused at the fact that he wasn't struggling, panicking, or screaming at them to let him go. The two men looked at each other, the taller of the two answering hesitantly.

"It's our knowledge that you're associated with Mycroft Holmes." Greg seemed unimpressed. "He'll be very eager to get you back. All we want is our money, and then we'll let you go."

"You're doing this for money?" Greg asked incredulously, wearing an exasperated smile. "You'd have better chances of getting away with breaking into Buckingham Palace than this!"

"And what makes you say that?" asked the other man, who was angered at Greg's unalarmed state. Before Greg could answer, the sounds of shouting and gunfire could be heard not far from the room they were in. The two looked at each other uncertainly, clicking the safety off on their sidearms. Greg wore a knowing smile. He wondered which capable agent it was this time. Anthea again? Agent Vedic with his mean streak? Maybe it was Sherlock. It wouldn't be the first time the consulting detective had saved him from a situation like this. Before he could wonder any more, the door burst open, slamming loudly against the wall to reveal-

"Myke?!" Greg exclaimed, eyes wide and jaw almost touching the floor. Clad in an all black outfit of kevlar and leather stood Mycroft Holmes, a command cap with the insignia of MI6 sitting upon his head. He had two automatic pistols holstered to his sides and wore a fiery death glare that could make the sun pale in comparison. The two captors raised their guns.

XxX

Mycroft knew the instant something was wrong. Call it old habits, but he could always tell when something was amiss, and, for some reason, his mind was telling him that something had happened to Greg. It wouldn't be the first time. Ever since his identity had been outed to Britain's criminal network by a mole in his ranks, he and anyone close to him had received countless threats, not that any of them had a chance of coming true. He had his best agents ensuring the safety of his family and friends every second of the day, and he himself was no stranger to this type of danger. He decided to call Greg, just to be sure. Greg didn't pick up. Odd. Mycroft called again, but it again went straight to voicemail. He waited a few minutes, but there was still no response. He sat up straighter in his chair, panic briefly flooding his senses before it was replaced by anger. Greg always answered him. If he didn't, he would text him why within four minutes and twenty eight seconds max. Every time. Every. Time.

He had no agents to spare at the moment, all of them either on an assignment or protecting John and Sherlock on their latest case, which took them to Sussex for the week. He sighed heavily. Counting to ten in his head before abruptly standing and grabbing his coat and umbrella. This was not the way he would've chosen for Greg, or anyone for that matter, to find out. It had been years since he'd donned the outfit, but it still fit him nicely, if a bit snugly around his stomach. No matter. Pulling on his combat boots, leather gloves, and command cap, he holstered his trusty guns to his sides and made sure he was properly armed, setting up a comm channel with Anthea, who was surprised when he did so.

"Sir? Why are you on our agents' secure channel?"

"I'll explain everything later, Anthea. At the moment, I need you give me Gregory's current location." Though curious and confused, she knew better than to ask questions, and relayed the address of an abandoned office building in a shady, rundown part of London. "I'll return home with him shortly, and before we get there, can you ensure that there's something nice waiting for us?"

"Of course, sir." Mycroft pulled a set of keys out of his leather agent gear, wondering if the motorcycle still worked. Only one way to find out. He finds it hidden away in a secured storage container in the underground parking garage below an empty building the next street down. Brushing a bit of dust off the seat, he inserts the keys in the ignition and turns them. The motorcycle gives a satisfying roar, and Mycroft is flying through the city in the blink of an eye, his only focus on getting Greg home safely. After a time, he slows down when he gets to the end of a narrow, almost barren street, only three buildings to choose from. One would be a boarded up house with a roof falling in. Another would be an abandoned warehouse. The last option was a semi-tall office building that, from the fresh fingerprints on the doors and slightly disturbed blinds at the windows, was currently in use. Seeing red, Mycroft leapt off his motorcycle, turning it off and pocketing the keys, and marched up to the door. He cautiously pressed an ear to it to see how many step away his first victims were, if they were armed based on the thud of their footsteps and movements. One unarmed, one melee, two gunman. He popped his neck, rolled his shoulders back. Piece of cake.

He found the door unlocked, quietly slipping in and sticking to any shadows he could. When three of the four had spread to other hallways and rooms, Mycroft made his move on a lone gunman, grabbing him from behind and suffocating him, just enough to leave him unconscious. Dragging his body behind a heavy piece of furniture, he continued moving, carefully turning the corner- And running straight into the other gunman, who fired off shots in warning, and some aimed at Mycroft. Wrestling the gun from the man's arms, he delivers a stiff headbutt and pistol whip, knocking the assailant down before being grabbed from behind. With a hard back elbow, they loosen their grip enough for Mycroft to aim a few well placed fisticuffs, stunning them before slamming the back of their head against the nearest wall, leaving them out cold. The last man, armed with a crowbar of all things, takes a wild swing at him. Mycroft ducks, then dodges the quick returning swipe, side-stepping the swing before catching the crowbar in his hands. With a sharp tug, he had it firmly in his grasp, proceeding to clobber the holy Hell out of his attacker until they fell to the ground, moaning loudly in pain.

Breathing slightly faster, he made his way deeper into the building, sprinting up several flights of stairs, throwing people off them as he did so. When he reached the top floor, he found the hallway swarming with armed guards, a majority armed with empty guns (Did they think he was stupid?) and knives. Rolling his eyes and muttering, "Amateurs," under his breath, he sauntered forward confidently, countering any punches or weapon swings directed towards him, sending everyone either to the ground or across the room. The last person standing cowered, putting his hands up as if to surrender, dropping his weapons. Mycroft regarded him for a moment… Then proceeded to deck him with a swift spinning kick to the midsection, hearing bones snap on impact as he went sailing into the door behind him, which burst open and backwards. His body hit the floor with a sickening thud, and he lay unmoving.

Staring ahead of him, his eyes settled over two idiots (for that's what they were trying to pull a flawed stunt like this) holding his Greg hostage. A couple, recently moved in together, were a part of the same network before leaving together and branching out on their own. Paid the "guards" a modest amount of money to keep watch over the building should anyone try and free Greg before a ransom was paid. Both armed with guns, each with actual bullets in them this time. The blonde man is skittish and slightly terrified, but has complete faith in his partner, ravenette, who would never let harm come to under any circumstances, and seems to be the brash, arrogant one who formulated this plan. His eyes swept over Greg. Unharmed. Bound, put not viciously so. They had no intent to harm him, only to capture him to get to me. My husband is much smarter than they give him credit for, however, already free of the ropes binding his arms, simply waiting for me to arrive. He even brought his gun this time.

"Myke?!" he heard the detective inspector exclaim, seemingly mind blown that his husband was dressed in such a way, making such an entrance. "What-?"

"M-Mycroft Holmes," the tall blonde started, hand shaking slightly as he aimed his gun at him, "Just pay us our five hundred thousand pounds and we'll let him go." Mycroft looked unphased.

"You're outgunned and outnumbered. Take off your sidearms and kick them over here," the ravenette demanded, cocking his gun and aiming at Mycroft. Greg looked to him in worry. Mycroft, hands up, slowly reached over to his left, unholstering one of his pistols.

"You know, I could have all of MI6 descend upon this building with a snap of my fingers," he threatened coldly. "All I'd have to do is say the word, and on my command, you would be surrounded, snipers targeting you from across the city, helicopters of my top agents hovering by the window, all of the rest tracking down every person you've ever loved, spent precious time with, befriended, and slowly, slowly killing them." The ravenette's arm shook, chills running down the spines of every other person in the room besides Mycroft. His tone of voice lightened up considerably, almost conversational. "Here's my counter offer: I let none of you go," he began, extracting his other pistol and gripping it comfortably, "And shoot all of you many more times than necessary." He smirks as he finishes his statement, quickly firing just a hair off from the guard now gaining consciousness on the floor. He yelped as several fast paced bullets bounced off the floor beside him, falling still with quick, heavy, panicked breaths. Then, effortlessly, he fired both of his pistols at the assailants' guns, watching them sail across the room. The two were baffled, unharmed, and unarmed.

"Myke, play nice now," Greg chastised him, standing and pulling his gun out as well as two pairs of handcuffs. Cut rope lay discarded at his feet, as did his phone, which showed an incoming call from Sally. After forcing the two down on their knees, cuffed behind their backs, in full view of Mycroft from the side, he picked up.

"Greg! Where have you been?! The Yard's been looking for you for hours!"

"A kidnapping, Sally. Where else would I be?"

"Another one? Who'd he send in this time?" Greg smiled thoughtfully at his husband, who gave a soft smile in return.

"Himself," he murmured.

"Himself? Wh-"

"Look, Sally. It's late, I was kidnapped, with guns this time, I'm tired, and want to go home. I'll make up whatever I missed when I come in tomorrow." After giving her the address and a brief goodbye, he hung up, turning to Mycroft. "Can we talk about it at home?" Mycroft nodded, trying not to let his anxiety show in his face. This was where it would all fall apart, he just knew it. At least Greg would spare him by leaving him in private. They waited for New Scotland Yard to get there before taking their leave with promises to give statements tomorrow, or, in Mycroft's case, threats to have their families put on the deportation list. Greg gave him a puzzled look look as he led them down the street, away from the squad cars. "Are we not going home in your town car?" he questioned. With a smug grin, Mycroft whipped his keys out of his pocket and led the way to his motorcycle. Greg's eyebrows rose tremendously. "Since when do you-"

"I shall explain everything when we return home. For now…" He offered a hand to Greg after he was seated, pulling the smaller man to rest against his back, arms tightly around his waist as they sped across the city to their shared house. Once parked and shut off, Greg turned Mycroft around to face him.

"I'm not mad, Mycroft. I know that that's what's going through that brilliant mind of yours, but I'm not mad, just curious." The sincerity in his eyes made Mycroft sigh heavily in relief, pulling Greg towards him in a passionate kiss. The silver haired inspector was startled, but kissed back just as enthusiastically. It wasn't until they found themselves barging through the door, a husky, "Gregory," escaping from Mycroft's lips, that Greg opened his eyes and looked around him. He was stunned to see the lights dimmed, candles softly glowing, illuminating the house in flickering gold, rose petals scattered across the kitchen countertops and up the stairs as a still steaming dinner awaited them at the table. His jaw dropped yet again, and Mycroft turned in his arms to the view, blushing at Anthea's interpretation of "something nice." Greg looked back at him. "Did you really think I would hate you because you're an ex-spy for MI6? Really, Myke, you know me better than that." Mycroft closed his eyes as Greg pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, plucking the command cap off his head and sweeping his fingers through dark ginger locks.

"After dinner?" Mycroft inquired, hands coming to rest on Greg's waist, squeezing softly.

"After dinner." Mycroft opened his eyes and took his hand, rubbing his knuckles affectionately.

"I have never loved you more."

He stole another long kiss from Greg, who replied, "Nor I, you," sitting them down at the table as he recalled his adventures from his active duty days.

Closing A/N: So, that craziness is out of my head now. Um… yeah. That, it… Yup… Ta-da?