Unashamedly Mystrade, again.

Connecting

When he thought about it all, Greg really couldn't wrap his head around how fast he had fallen for another man. He watched the man in bemused silence as he leaned over the bath and soaped a flannel.

"Good. Now, I propose to bath you..." Greg's first thought was that Mycroft wanted to help him yet again, and he protested his independence.

"God, there's no need for that. I can manage now." Mycroft, however, had refuted the need to help him, while stressing his own agenda. As the words tripped from a mouth that bore a positive smirk, in a voice that had deepened with desire and become husky with need, the full import of what Mycroft intended hit Greg like a ton of bricks.

"This isn't so much about getting you clean as allowing me to be positively filthy."

The words rang around Greg's head over and over again. His mouth dried, despite his close proximity to a fairly substantial body of water. "Oh. Well then, don't let me stop you..." he managed to say in a voice that lacked strength. Mycroft's smirk widened and his next words, the purring sound of his voice, went straight to Greg's groin.

"Indeed, you couldn't if you wanted to."

Greg took a deep breath as his cock filled completely. He watched Mycroft lather the flannel and proceed with the task in hand, unable, indeed, to do anything constructive about it except lie there and let himself be taken care of, in more ways than one.

Embarrassment had coloured Greg's memory of being cared for by Mycroft in the first few days after they had let him out of hospital. He hated being a patient, fretted at being confined in bed for long and disliked the fact that he should be reliant on anyone for his welfare. John sympathised with him and confessed to having felt exactly the same way but, as Greg's doctor in this instance, he stressed that Greg allow himself time to heal and not to try to do too much too soon.

The elder Holmes had insisted that Greg return with him to the ancestral manor in the country, where he could be properly cared for. Mycroft had suggested—God forbid he actually demand—that John and Sherlock come along as well. Mycroft argued eloquently that the idea served multiple purposes. The doctor could be close by in case Greg should need assistance, he could check on his patient regularly and both John and Sherlock would be close by to assist and approve—or disapprove of, as Sherlock pointed out—Mummy's plans for the wedding. The arrangement had made perfect sense and once John had agreed, Sherlock had grudgingly capitulated.

So Greg found himself being helped to dress, to sit up in bed, to eat, to wash, even helped to the toilet, although he refused point blank to allow anything further where that was concerned. He wasn't paralysed and said so. Nobody was wiping his arse for him. Even so, he wondered how he would have coped if he'd returned to his lonely flat by himself. So he swallowed his pride and accepted the help gratefully. Mycroft was actually kindness itself. He was gentle, careful, attentive. He spent time with Greg, simply sitting there reading a newspaper or sharing tea and scones. He moved his office into the bedroom—his files and laptop, Blackberry and briefcase—and sat working in quiet solitude, mostly texting and emailing, retiring briefly now and again into the hall outside the bedroom to make or take a call.

Greg stayed ensconced in the big comfortable bed watching crap daytime television—there was a plasma on the table across the end of the bed—reading the newspaper when Mycroft had finished with it or simply giving in to sleep. When Mycroft took a break, usually when their butler, Jones, arrived with tea and scones, they talked about anything and everything. They found a mutual appreciation of cricket, tennis and golf, although Greg's liking for football and rugby fell on deaf ears. Mycroft's love of opera left Greg floundering a little, and Greg's liking for Gilbert and Sullivan was met with polite disdain and amusement. They found they both liked classical music: Chopin, Mendelssohn, Liszt, although some of the things Greg liked were met with polite restraint from Mycroft who would never see the value of punk rock or New Romantic ballads.

The first time Mycroft had offered to bath him, Greg had been too surprised to refuse. Mycroft had proved himself the perfect manservant, thorough and helpful, gently laving him with a washcloth so soft it had to be expensive. He had dried Greg off with equally soft towels and taken care to make sure he was kept warm. Greg had slept exceptionally well that night, worn out by the exertion but feeling more like himself than he had in weeks. He was cared for, cared about, and that fact alone was inestimable.

Now, though, there was no embarrassment. Greg watched Mycroft through half-closed eyes as the man bent to his task, bathing him thoroughly before moving on to more pleasurable pursuits. It was entirely typical that he get the pragmatic business of cleanliness over with before turning his attention to a different goal.

At the first gentle squeeze that obviously had nothing to do with being bathed, Greg's eyes flew open and he moaned softly.

"Are you quite alright, Gregory?"

"I'm f. ...fine...God, that feels good." He lay against the end of the bath and tipped his head back. Moments later he felt fingertips trace feather-light down his throat, over his Adam's apple and along his clavicle. They descended over his chest, lavishing attention on a nipple, rolling the little nub of proud flesh between thumb and index finger. Greg gasped, arching his back a little, making waves in the bath as he did so. He heard Mycroft's soft chuckle as he allowed his other hand to continue to stroke and squeeze.

Soft lips caressed Greg's ear, Mycroft's husky voice whispering filthy suggestions as the water splashed and slapped around him. "When you're well enough, Gregory, my darling, be sure I am going to fuck you, slowly. Agonisingly slowly in fact." The slow suggestive drawl brought Greg's flesh out in goosebumps. "Oh, I am going to take my time with you," Mycroft whispered. His lips pressed kisses to the shell of Greg's ear, tongue tip tracing the shape. Warm breath huffed softly across the damp skin of Greg's neck, making him shiver. "I am going to possess that strong body of yours, bend you over the desk in my study and take you, very hard—" each suggestion was punctuated with a kiss "—very fast, and very, very deeply. Then I would like it if you would return the favour, and fuck me in return, maybe over the back of the Chesterfield, or maybe you would like me on my knees on the rug..." Greg took a shuddering breath and couldn't help himself, he moaned; a soft groan loaded with passion and almost desperate need. He surprised himself again, wondering at the feelings coursing through him elicited by another man; a good looking, enigmatic man but a man nevertheless.

Mycroft smiled, a neat little playful grin, his hand slowly working Greg's shaft beneath the water. "I think we ought to finish this when you're out of the bath. Otherwise the water will go cold and you'll get a chill. Come on, now." He ceased his stroking and became businesslike, insisting on helping Greg towel down and put on a warm robe. He offered an arm for Greg to lean on as they went back into the bedroom, guiding him to the bed, pushing him down onto it. Greg lay back and Mycroft opened his robe, peeling back the soft fabric from his chest, whereupon Greg watched as Mycroft's head dipped and his tongue lapped at Greg's nipple, teasing it to hardness. Greg's cock jumped and he gasped, and Mycroft moved to nurse the other nipple, sucking and lapping, his hand straying south to grasp and massage Greg's erection.

"Want to touch you..." Greg ground out through gritted teeth.

"By all means, Gregory. Don't let me stop you. Although I am doing this for you, not for me. I want you to relax and enjoy it."

"Oh, I am, don't worry on that score." Greg reached up to slide a hand behind Mycroft's neck and drag him in for a kiss. "Just want to kiss you, actually."

Their lips met in a searching kiss, a messy connection of tongues and teeth, each man tasting and exploring the other, leaving them both breathless and wanting more. Mycroft almost regretfully pulled away and his head dipped, lips kissing down Greg's chest and belly, feeling the muscles flinch under his touch as he worked his way down. Despite Greg's distinguished pepper-and-salt grey hair, Mycroft was interested to note that there were few grey hairs elsewhere. As he followed the trail down from his lover's light dusting of hair across his chest to the nest of darker curls at his groin it seemed the majority of the grey was reserved for more visible areas. Mycroft felt strong fingers card though his hair and heard Greg's breath stutter and catch as Mycroft's mouth found its goal. He lapped at the slit and the salty taste of precome blossomed on his tongue before his lips slid over that beautiful erection.

Greg's hips bucked as Mycroft's hot wet mouth closed over the head of his cock. Greg couldn't help watching, he couldn't look away as his prick slid all the way in, bumping the back of Mycroft's throat. The man's tongue swirled around the shaft as he pulled back, then drew Greg back in again, sucking hard. "Christ! That...what you do...with your tongue. It should be bloody illegal." Mycroft chuckled and hummed and that had Greg gasping and bucking and wondering where Mycroft had learned to give such a fantastic blow job.

"Why, Detective Inspector, are you planning to have me arrested for indecency?" he purred.

"I think...we can come...to some arrangement... Mr. Holmes..." Greg gasped, laughing.

"Good. I can think of nothing more tedious than a night in the cells...although the thought of being handcuffed does have its appeal..." He let that little tidbit hang in the air and continued where he had left off.

Greg lost all sense of time as the gentle onslaught of sucking and licking brought him ever closer to release. Mycroft wouldn't let him up, wouldn't dream of letting him do more than lie on the bed and be given the best oral sex of his entire life.

"Harder..." Greg whispered eventually. "I'm not going to come if you don't..."

Mycroft smiled and nodded, sitting back to reach for a small bottle on the nightstand. Greg regretted the loss of contact but it wasn't for long. He watched as Mycroft squeezed a generous measure of lube into his palm and then wrapped his hand around Greg's shaft. He gave it one or two gentle tugs and then pumped hard and fast, his grip just right, just tight enough, adding a slight twist to the downstroke which brought his lover to completion with a soft cry, his back a lovely arch as he spent himself over Mycroft's fingers.

The look Mycroft gave him, a soft, almost vulnerable look loaded with tenderness, made Greg smile in complete and utter happiness. He sat up and grabbed Mycroft into a hug, wrapping his arms around the not-insubstantial frame of his lover and holding him close. Greg felt soft breath on his neck and a gentle kiss beneath his ear. Their lips met again, each opening to the other, tongues tasting each other again, kisses deepening and lengthening while they explored each other lazily. Greg leaned back against the headboard of the bed and drew Mycroft down so he was lying over Greg's knees. Greg let his hand drop to massage the bulge under the soft fabric of his trousers.

"God, I want you, My'," he said softly. Mycroft gasped and moved to stop his hand, arresting his movement with gentle fingers on his wrist.

"It's alright, Greg. I need sleep, don't fret about returning the favour." He leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to Greg's temple. "You can pleasure me tomorrow if you've a mind to," he said throatily. "Right now, I need my sleep. I have to be up early. I have a meeting I cannot miss and the car will be here at eight." He chuckled at Greg's crestfallen look and patted his cheek. "Go to sleep, my darling. John will shout at me if I don't look after you. I have some paperwork to organise first but then I'll come to bed."

Greg smiled. "Okay. Don't stay away too long. Promise I'll be a good boy."

"That's a shame, I was hoping you would be a bad boy, Gregory. You do it so very well."

"Oh, that's nothing. I can be positively filthy when I want to be."

"That's good. I look forward to finding out just how filthy you can be, tomorrow..."

0o0o0o0o0

A knife flashed in the streetlight and the rain, lightning dancing in the prematurely dark sky, leaden with heavy thunderheads. Rain splashed as he ran, feet flying down the slippery pavements, slithering and sliding as he ducked into dark alleyways. Terror and pain made him run faster, his pursuers close behind but never visible, harrying him into fresh bursts of speed, his lungs screaming with the effort. Abruptly, he ran up against a dead end, the dingy, dirty alleyway blocked by a brick wall, impossibly high and too slick with the pelting rain to climb. Gasping, lungs labouring, he turned, aware how unfit he was to face this unseen threat, the bile rising in his throat at his helplessness...

"It's alright, Gregory! Calm down, darling. You're safe..." Mycroft's voice reached him through the fog of sleep and nightmare. He thrashed free of the constricting sheet and blankets, struggled to sit up, chest heaving, and hissed in pain as his aching chest made itself manifest. He was shaking, gasping, sweat pouring off him.

"Jesus..." he coughed, doubled over with it, felt a gentle hand rub soothing circles on his back.

"Easy, Gregory. Try to relax. I'm here..."

"Thank God," he ground out through teeth gritted against the pain. Gradually, he calmed, leaning against Mycroft as the man held him close, stroked his hair, soothed him.

"Are you quite recovered? Should I call John?" Greg sat up again carefully, testing his strength. When nothing else threatened to give way, hurt or otherwise debilitate him, he shook his head.

"No, I'm okay. Sorry if I scared you. Scared myself..." he huffed an exasperated laugh. "Damn. I don't want one of those too often."

"Care to talk about it?"

"Nothing to talk about. I was running away from something. Classic pursuit dream, unseen foe, terror...Nothing tangible. I maybe need to talk to that counsellor now."

"I can call someone in the morning. I'm honestly surprised you are so...amenable to this, Gregrory. John was far from cooperative."

"Why? Just because John had a shit time and was put off for life doesn't mean I'm going to be the same. Besides, I need a counsellor, not a psychiatrist. I need to talk things through, not So no, I won't refuse your offer. If I asked you not to push me about it, it was only because I need to come to these things in my own time, not that I won't do them at all." He watched Mycroft nod, satisfied. Then Greg lay back, taking a deep breath as he relaxed into the comfort and warmth of the big bed. Mycroft leaned over him, blue eyes gazing into Greg's deep brown.

"Well, for now, maybe I can...distract you?" Mycroft had that filthy smile on his lips again. Greg grinned.

"You did a great job during my bath. What did you have in mind this time?"

"Something gentle, indulgent." Mycroft's voice was all it took to make him erect.

"Mmm, so hard..." Greg smiled, enjoying the feeling. Mycroft's fingers stroked along his length and Greg sighed with pleasure.

"You're quite well-built," Mycroft commented with a smile. "Respectable girth too. I fear I cannot hope to compare."

"Don't be so daft, My'. I've seen you. You're not so bad yourself, you know. Won't be long now and you can do everything you promised."

"Oh, I shall, Gregory. I shall. Now, though, you need to relax. Roll over." Which was how, five minutes later, Greg found himself face down and subject to Mycroft's considerable experience at massage.

Reviews, as ever, are welcome.