Chapter Fourteen: Day Thirty-One

Soon it was two in the morning and Mycroft wanted to go home. He was tired and missing his flat, his bed, his boyfriend. Plus there was the alcohol. The sweet, sweet alcohol that was calling to Mycroft from all directions. The stress of the day, the mountains of paper work he'd been buried under since seven am, the plans he had to go over that could mean the deaths of hundreds of people; alcohol always made that so much easier to manage.

He felt his fingers twitch and pulled at the collar of his shirt. Fear was bubbling in the pit of his stomach. A panic attack... no, he couldn't have one here.

He swallowed and rubbed his eyes.

'You okay?' Cameron asked and Mycroft looked up at him.

'Fine,' he murmured.

But Cameron wasn't buying it and stood suddenly. 'Afraid Holmes and I have to leave, gents; important matters and what not.'

'National security, blah, blah,' O'Neal giggled. 'Go on, PM.'

Cameron smiled and shook all their hands before looking at Mycroft. Mycroft pulled himself shakily to his feet and said goodbye before following Cameron outside.

'Sir?' he asked.

'It's good to see you getting healthy, Holmes. I was worried.'

Mycroft sighed. Of course Cameron had noticed. Of all the people to find out he guessed David Cameron was the best. He was a good, honest man and wouldn't fire Mycroft because of a little problem.

'Thank you, sir,' he said.

'Go home, go talk to your boyfriend,' Cameron smiled. 'I'll see you tomorrow afternoon about that Atlantis Report.'

Mycroft nodded and watched Cameron disappear into a non-descript car. His own turned up a few minutes later and Mycroft fell into the backseat. He pulled at his tie and loosened it, his waistcoat, and his shirt. He felt like the car was closing in on him and took deep, calming breaths.

He said goodbye to his driver and stumbled into his flat, pushing the door closed heavily. Memories of coming home drunk after long nights and throwing up made his world spin. He managed to right himself and lean heavily against the kitchen table.

He had to call Gregory, to get him to come over. Because his need for a drink was overwhelming. The smell of it at dinner, the looks the men got on their faces as they consumed it. It made everything better, made everything go away.

Mycroft swallowed and walked into the bathroom, a place Greg hadn't checked thoroughly. Greg and Mycroft never actually used it and Mycroft pulled back the shower curtain. There was a very expensive bottle of wine sitting on the edge of the bath tub; a gift from O'Neal for his birthday the year before. Mycroft had come home drunk and stepped straight into this shower to wash away the smell of spilled alcohol. He'd left the bottle there.

He stared at it, could imagine uncorking it and taking deep gulps. It would wash everything away; the pain he was feeling in his gut, the tedium of having to put up with drunken men, the stress of work and life and everything.

Mycroft's BlackBerry chirped and he barely got it from his pocket without dropping it. 'Holmes.'

'Sir, don't drink,' A's calm voice came across the line. 'You don't need to.'

He swallowed heavily. 'But it's... right there.'

A could hear the fear in his voice and said, 'Sir, please. You've made it a month.'

'I need...' he paused and pulled at his shirt. He was sweating now, trembling, the need to have just one sip so overpowering. 'Just... just one,' he said. One couldn't hurt.

'NO!' A shouted.

But he'd already dropped the phone and reached for the bottle.

{oOo}

Greg burst into Mycroft's flat panting. He'd driven from Scotland Yard as soon as he'd got A's call. She'd sounded frantic and all Greg heard was, 'Drink... late night... needs you...' He'd come over as soon as he could but A had called twenty minutes ago.

Greg darted through the flat looking for Mycroft, checking the living room and kitchen thoroughly before heading for the bedroom and en-suite bathroom. Mycroft was nowhere to be found and Greg cursed, running his hands through his hair. He couldn't let a month of hard work, of pain and sweating and panic attacks, ruin this. Mycroft was doing well.

He went back down the hallway wondering where Mycroft was when he saw the door to the main bathroom ajar. He pushed it open and flicked the light on.

Mycroft was sitting with his back against the far wall, his hands curled around a bottle of wine. The cork was gone and there was liquid spilled everywhere.

Everything came crashing down and Greg groaned. He felt hurt and betrayed but couldn't really blame Mycroft; addicts were bound to relapse. It was the addiction, not Mycroft.

'Mycroft,' Greg sighed and stepped in, careful not to slip.

'I'm sorry,' Mycroft mumbled.

'Did you drink any?' Greg asked as he crouched beside his boyfriend.

Mycroft looked up at him. He looked tired and scared... but not drunk.

'No,' he whispered.

Greg let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. 'Thank god. I wouldn't have left you if you did, Mycroft, but I'm glad you didn't.'

'I couldn't disappoint you,' Mycroft swallowed and tipped more liquid onto the floor. Greg let him; his shoes and the bottoms of his trousers were already soaked. 'I wanted to but couldn't.'

'What happened?' Greg asked.

'Dinner with the Prime Minister and a few other politicians,' Mycroft said. 'They drank and I stuck with cordial. But the smell, the look, the memory of how being drunk felt... it almost tipped me over. Cameron helped me escape, sent me home.' He swallowed and poured the remaining liquid onto the tiles, drenching his already stained trousers. 'I needed a drink.'

'But you didn't have one,' Greg said.

Mycroft looked up at him. 'I need you more.'

Greg smiled and said, 'Can I have the bottle?'

Mycroft nodded and handed it over. He was shaking and covered in sweat, cold to Greg's touch.

'Come on,' Greg said and helped his boyfriend up. He made Mycroft take off his shoes and removed his own. He grabbed a towel and led Mycroft to his room. Making him sit on the expensive cotton, Greg said, 'I'll be back in a minute, alright?'

Mycroft nodded and sat mutely as Greg went to clean up the bathroom. Most of the towels had been splashed so he used them to soak up the liquid. He went and dumped the lot in the washing machine before stripping his trousers and shirt, throwing them in too.

He found Mycroft where he'd left him and made the politician strip to his underwear. Afterwards he pulled Mycroft into bed and held him tightly.

'Thank you.'

'You're welcome,' Mycroft mumbled.

'You're strong, Mycroft Holmes,' Greg whispered into his ear as Mycroft closed his eyes. 'I love you.'

'Love you... too...' Mycroft mumbled before letting unconsciousness take him.

{oOo}

They both woke to the cool and comfortable silence of Mycroft Holmes' bedroom. It was around ten am and neither man's phone had rung once. Greg suspected Anthea and thanked her silently as he turned to look at his boyfriend.

Mycroft was better, looked healthier and calmer, and managed a small smile. 'Good morning.'

'Morning,' Greg replied. 'How do you feel?'

'Better,' he said, 'thanks to you.'

Greg smiled and leaned over to kiss Mycroft softly. 'I'm glad.'

'I'm so sorry,' Mycroft said. 'I felt so out of control–'

'It's not your fault,' Greg said firmly. 'Myc, you wanted a drink but didn't have one. That's all that matters.'

'Really?'

'Yes,' Greg insisted. 'That's all that matters, alright? You're in control of it, you, and you stopped yourself.'

'I didn't drink because...' Mycroft trailed off and reached out to stroke Greg's face softly.

'Because?' Greg prompted.

'Because I need you more than I need alcohol,' Mycroft said. 'I've never loved someone as much as I love you, besides my family and that's not the same. I love you so much, Gregory. You complete me like nobody else ever has.'

Greg smiled and raised his hand to grip Mycroft's where it sat on his cheek. 'I feel the same, Mycroft. I've never loved someone like I love you. And I'm not going anywhere, now or ever, alright?'

Mycroft nodded and Greg leaned forward to kiss him again. It was soft and loving, tentative, the kind of kiss they might have had on their first date. The exact kind of kiss they shared eight months ago before everything had got intense and serious and insane.

Greg liked the kisses, the soft ones, but he was glad he got to experience the rough and hard ones, the needy ones that Mycroft Holmes only gave him. No one else was allowed to share those experiences, these experiences, with Mycroft. Only Greg. He got to see the loving Mycroft Holmes; the caring, casual, fragile man that Greg had grown to love. Only he got that Mycroft Holmes.

'I love you,' Greg said. 'I love everything.'

'Even my stupidity?'

Greg chuckled. 'I love your stupidity the most.'

Mycroft smiled and pulled back to look at Greg, enjoying the warm features he'd grown to know so well over the past eight months. Nothing was as beautiful as Gregory Lestrade in the morning.

'I need a cigarette,' Mycroft said suddenly and Greg frowned. That was definitely unexpected.

'Right.'

'Can... can I?' Mycroft asked and Greg blinked.

'What? 'Course you can. It's your body.'

Mycroft bit his lip. 'I don't want to upset you.'

'Mycroft, you could never upset me,' Greg said. Mycroft raised an eyebrow and he sighed. 'Fine, you could upset me; you upset me a lot. But you can smoke if you want, it's not up to me.'

Mycroft smiled and pulled himself from bed, Greg following. He grabbed the packet of smokes sitting on the kitchen table (most likely from Anthea, Greg realised) and proceeded across to the lounge room windows. He pushed them open and pulled out a smoke, lighting it quickly and sighing. He looked at Greg as he sat beside the window.

'Do you want one?'

Greg had been going so well but in that second, looking at a very sexy, dishevelled, smoking Mycroft Holmes, Greg felt his confidence crumble.

'Alright,' he said and sat before Mycroft. He took a cigarette and lit it, turning to blow smoke out the window. He suddenly found himself being pulled back and smiled, resting against Mycroft's warm, lean frame. 'Love you,' he said.

'I love you too,' Mycroft said.

They smoked mostly in silence, occasionally breaking it to mutter unimportant things to each other. Finally Greg sighed and stubbed out his third cigarette in the ashtray Mycroft had seemingly pulled from thin air.

'What?' Mycroft asked.

'Well, this isn't exactly how I planned on spending the day,' Greg admitted.

'Oh?' Mycroft said. Greg turned to look at him. 'I'm sorry, did you have somewhere to be? Work, you must have work, why are you still here? Up, Greg, you need to go to work.'

He pushed Greg up and carried the ashtray to the kitchen table. He set it down and turned to his boyfriend.

'Work, Gregory.'

'Mycroft, it's eleven.'

'You're late!' Mycroft said and turned to go to his bedroom. He froze again. 'What are you going to wear?' he demanded, facing Greg again. 'I got your clothes dirty. Where are they? I'll wash them. No, borrow one of my suits.'

Greg supposed he was still freaking out a bit because of the previous night. He was trying to take control of something, anything, and had decided to focus entirely on getting Greg to work.

'Mycroft, I'm not going to work.'

'Why?' he demanded.

Greg smiled. 'You need me.'

'Scotland Yard needs you.'

'Not today,' Greg said and moved closer to his boyfriend. Mycroft was standing in the entrance of his hallway, staring at Greg. 'I have the day off.'

'Why?'

'Ask your assistant.'

Mycroft smiled slightly. 'She gave you the day off.'

'It would seem she has the power,' Greg shrugged. 'My phone hasn't rung once. Neither has yours.'

Mycroft nodded slowly. 'I see. A has given us both the day off.'

'Yes,' Greg said and moved closer. 'And I have something very important I want to do.' He gave Mycroft a coy smile as he moved to stand directly in front of him.

'What do you want to do?' Mycroft asked.

He didn't seem to be getting Greg's meaning and the DI leaned back to look at him carefully. 'You mean... you don't know?'

'Know what?' Mycroft asked.

'Myc...' Greg said slowly and looked him over. The man really had forgotten and Greg giggled.

'What?' Mycroft asked, getting frustrated now. Greg continued to chuckle and Mycroft sighed. 'Your laughter is annoying, Gregory.'

'You don't remember,' Greg smiled and leaned forward. He pressed his hands against Mycroft's singlet, enjoying the warmth he could feel beneath.

'Remember what?'

Greg smiled again and ran his fingers along Mycroft's chest. 'It's been a month, Mycroft.' He looked up at his boyfriend carefully, waiting for the realisation. 'You've been sober one whole month.'

Greg moved closer so their bodies were pressed together and watched as Mycroft's eyes went wide. 'Oh.'

'Yeah,' Greg said softly, slowly. 'Do you remember our deal?'

Mycroft swallowed and nodded.

'What was it?'

'One kiss for every day I was sober,' Mycroft said, 'though we didn't exactly follow that.'

'No we didn't,' Greg agreed. 'What else?'

'One week and I got a grab, which turned more into a rub.'

'Yep.'

'Two weeks a hand job,' Mycroft said slowly and smiled at the memory. 'Three weeks and I got a blow job.'

'Yes,' Greg said softly.

'Four weeks...' Mycroft paused and gulped. 'Four weeks and I... you...'

'I made you come with my fingers,' Greg said, smiling. 'And my mouth.'

'Yes,' Mycroft said weakly, arousal flooding through his body. That had been a very good day. 'A-a whole month and...'

Greg leaned up to breathe the words into Mycroft's ear. 'One whole month and I let you fuck me.'

Mycroft groaned and shivered, Greg smiling as he saw Mycroft gulp and close his eyes.

'It's been seven weeks, Mycroft. Seven weeks since we last had sex. You remember sex, don't you?'

'Mm-hmm,' the politician managed.

'Your cock in my arse,' Greg said, keeping his voice low. 'Remember?'

'Uh,' Mycroft gasped.

Greg ran his hands over Mycroft's very warm chest, going down to his boxers. 'You fucking me while I play with myself,' Greg continued and Mycroft twitched. His boxers were forming a little tent now and he smiled. 'Me shouting your name as you fuck me.'

Mycroft grunted something like, 'Nngh,' and Greg grinned.

'Do you remember that, Mycroft?'

'Y-yes,' he whispered.

'Would you like to do that again, Mycroft?' Greg asked and pushed himself forward. His own erection bumped into Mycroft's. 'You've been sober a month... would you like to fuck me?'

'Mm.'

'What was that?'

'Yes,' he nodded.

Greg smiled. 'What are you waiting for?'

Suddenly Mycroft's hands were tight on his arms and his lips crushed onto the DI's, kissing him so hotly and passionately that Greg was worried he'd fall over from the force. Mycroft dragged him to the bedroom, squeezing the life out of Greg and sucking the breath from his lungs too.

Mycroft was everywhere at once; kissing Greg, running a hand through his hair, touching and kissing his jaw, running smooth hands up his back and along his chest and stomach. A hand dived down Greg's trousers to grip his cock and Greg groaned.

He stroked quickly, making Greg completely hard in a second. Suddenly Greg's shirt was being pulled over his head, the fabric tearing free in Mycroft's haste. He fell to take one of Greg's nipples in his mouth, sucking and licking and biting, doing everything in his power to completely arouse Greg like never before.

'Fuck-ing-hell,' Greg moaned as Mycroft ripped his pyjama bottoms down, freeing his cock. He stepped back to admire the view and folded Greg's trousers, draping them across the leather chair in the corner. 'Mycroft!' Greg groaned.

Back on the bed, he took Greg completely, sucking hard and playing with his balls. One hand ran along his chest and touched with the neglected right nipple, squeezing until the nub became hard in his soft fingers. 'Jesus-Christ,' Greg moaned. 'What... huh...'

He couldn't put anything into proper sentences. Since when had Mycroft been this sex crazy? He was like a machine, hitting every erogenous zone Greg had. Suddenly there was a finger being inserted into him and Jesus Christ!

And then Mycroft was straddling him and attacking his neck, sucking fiercely and licking at his hot skin.

'Jesus, Myc,' Greg groaned and pushed up, his cock sliding along Mycroft's arse.

'I missed this so much,' Mycroft moaned against his neck. He moved to his jaw, nipping at the stubble-covered skin. 'I need you,' he said and grazed his lips over Greg's skin. He hovered his lips over Greg's and looked him in the eye. 'I love you.'

'I love you too,' Greg said.

Mycroft moved again and stumbled from the bed. He slipped from his singlet and boxers before pulling open the top draw of his dresser. He grabbed the bottle of lube and looked down at it. 'I've missed you,' he told the liquid and Greg chuckled as Mycroft climbed back onto the bed. He slicked himself up and tossed the bottle over his shoulder.

'Animal,' Greg chuckled as Mycroft pulled his legs over his shoulders.

'I've missed you.'

'You see me all the time.'

'I mean like this,' Mycroft said and moved his cock closer to Greg's entrance. They both shivered at the touch. 'Not that I don't miss you all the time. But this...'

Greg sat up to capture Mycroft's lips and kiss him hurriedly. 'I know, I know,' he said. 'Now fuck me.'

Mycroft smiled and pushed in. They both groaned and shuddered. Finally, after seven weeks, sex again!

He set up a breath-taking rhythm, Greg moaning and pushing down to meet his thrusts immediately. He grabbed Mycroft's arms and tried to drag him closer, loving how Mycroft invaded him so smoothly, so forcefully, so fucking hot.

Greg reached for his own cock and he began pulling, everything combining in a fantastic net of panting, of need, of lust and of Mycroft Fucking Holmes. Greg would never tire of getting fucked by the man, of seeing Mycroft come loose and pant and sweat and–

Greg swore loudly as Mycroft pushed him back, angling himself so he could fuck his boyfriend deeper and harder than before. Had sex always been this good? Had Mycroft always been this good? Seven weeks without sex certainly seemed to have improved the younger man's abilities.

'God... Myc...' Greg moaned. 'Right... there... fuck!'

Mycroft was panting and thrusting, his hands finding Greg's hips to pull him closer and closer. The waves of ecstasy shuddering through the politician's body was like nothing he'd ever experienced before. It was like he'd never had sex with Greg and this was their first time.

And it was fucking fantastic.

'Fuck, Myc,' Greg groaned and squeezed himself tighter. 'Gonna... come!'

'Yes, please,' Mycroft begged and managed to open his eyes. 'Come for me.'

'Fuck,' Greg groaned.

'Come,' Mycroft commanded.

Finally an orgasm twisted at his body, at his very soul. It shattered everything inside him and ripped out a noise he was sure he'd never made in his life as he spilled come across his hand and stomach. He pulled at his cock, his leg, Mycroft, his hair, just trying to claw back into reality from the mind-blowing ferocity that was smashing through his body like a supernova. That one man could make him feel like this...

Jesus-Fucking-Mother-Fucking-Christ!

Greg tightened and clamped down around him completely, tugging Mycroft over the edge. Everything went white, then dark, then red, and then nothing mattered but the sheer force of the pleasure moving through his system. Mycroft swore louder than he ever had before as something so primal, so fucking good, ripped at every nerve he had. He was aware of Greg moaning beneath him and he managed a smile through the haze.

Gregory. His Gregory had done this. He felt so out of control; completely lost in the power of the pleasure that held him. Being with Greg, whether in bed or just having dinner, was the only time Mycroft felt it was okay to lose control. He felt completely safe with him and knew, without a doubt, that he would always be comfortable giving himself over to Gregory Lestrade. Mycroft bowed down to the pleasure cascading through his body completely, letting it wash over him. His love for Greg, Greg's love for him, the sex, the dinners, the company, everything. Mycroft would bow down to it every fucking time.

He found himself falling and Greg groaned as he managed to roll Mycroft aside. They laid on the bed panting and blinking, amazed at what they were feeling. Sex had never been that good.

'Greg-ory...?' Mycroft managed after about ten minutes. He was content to just lie there forever and ever. Forget the British Government, forget about his wayward brother. There was just Gregory, for now and forever.

'Y...yeah?' Greg mumbled back.

'I... fuck.'

'Yeah,' Greg said. 'I agree.'

'I love... you.'

'Love you too.'

'Gregory?'

'Yer?'

Mycroft managed to roll onto his side and Greg did too, though with much groaning and cussing. He suddenly felt like he'd aged a hundred years.

'Thank you for everything you've done for me. Without you... I'd be lost.'

'Same here, Myc,' Greg smiled. 'I'd kiss you but I'm completely fucked.'

Mycroft chuckled. 'I'd hope so.'

'Now I know why people wait a while when they get married,' Greg mumbled. 'The wait is definitely worth it.'

Mycroft smiled and closed his eyes. 'Greg?'

'Mm?' the DI yawned and peeled his eyes open. Mycroft was watching him with one eye and looked exhausted. 'What?'

'We are never, ever waiting again,' Mycroft said firmly.

Greg grinned. 'Oh, I agree, Mycroft,' he said and Mycroft smiled. 'I agree one hundred percent. If I ever have to wait seven weeks for sex with you, just fucking kill me right now.'

Mycroft chuckled and slowly leaned forward to kiss Greg softly.

Greg kissed him back and they both fell asleep quickly, holding each other tightly.

{To Be Continued...}

Author's Note: And that is once again the end. Sorry if I got anything wrong but I researched alcohol withdrawal, diazepam and panic attacks before writing any of this. If it's wrong it's the internet's fault, I swear.

And sorry if this is too OOC. But pain and withdrawal can change us drastically. And really we barely know anything about Mycroft from the BBC other than the fact that he's uptight, brilliant, dramatic and cares about his brother. And I think all that is in here. So cheers for reading.

Cheers,

{IBegToDreamAndDiffer}