Chapter Twenty-One: Fatigues
Author's Note: The following sexual acts were requested by Sunshine Through The Storm, as well as the Ooh, Chicken Salad part. Yes, we're both insane, and that makes us awesome :)
Also, this story now has 300 reviews. 300 REVIEWS! That's just... I can't even... I love you guys, all of you! Each and every review, even if it's two words, is just amazing. Thank you so much for all your support, you make writing even more fun :)
Anywho, on with the chapter!
Warnings: M/M slash that includes rimming, oral sex, fingering, penetrative sex, role play, slight d/s themes, slight spanking, as well as dirty language, and the destruction of an oven door.
Mycroft was still furious. Greg was too. Yes, he'd cleaned his old bobby uniform, and it was as good as new... but still, Mycroft couldn't get the image of Sherlock and John doing stuff with it out of his head. It was slightly easier for Greg because he wasn't related to Sherlock or John, but he was still annoyed that the younger Holmes had stolen his uniform.
He knew Mycroft was plotting revenge; his boyfriend wouldn't let something like this go unpunished. Greg himself was at a loss as to how he could make Sherlock pay. They'd already used the man's coat, as well as his purple shirt, and one of John's better jumpers... what was left?
Greg spent a week trying to figure something out, and it didn't help that he'd had to call Sherlock twice, the consulting detective grinning stupidly as he flounced around. Sally and Dimmock- who was back at the Yard but stuck behind his desk- demanded to know what had happened.
After hearing how many people were in the pool Greg relented and filled the other two officers in on what had happened. Sally cackled at the uniform thing and Dimmock patted Greg's back, saying he and Mycroft would get the other couple back.
'When's this thing gonna end?' Sally demanded. 'I wanna collect my winnings.'
'You gotta split that with the rest of us Mystraders,' Dimmock reminded her.
'We'll win, Dimmo, mark my words,' Sally said. 'We're winning and those mother fucking Johnlockers are going down.' She leapt to her feet and turned to the other officers dotted around the room. 'Here that? Johnlockers. Going. Down.'
She received boos and hisses from the Johnlock supporters throughout the room, but there were claps and cheers from the Mystraders. Though Greg was slightly embarrassed at the amount of people who'd taken an interest in his sex life, it was nice to see so many people who were rooting for him and Mycroft to... well, root.
He shook his head and headed back to his office, wondering if Mycroft had thought of anything.
{oOo}
'I'll be a minute, Artemis,' Mycroft said as he stepped out of the car.
Artemis- or Anthea as John and Greg knew her- nodded and slid over the backseat to shut the door as her boss ascended the stairs to 221. He knocked and Mrs Hudson answered, the woman raising both eyebrows.
'Mycroft, hello, dear.'
'Mrs Hudson,' Mycroft smiled politely. 'May I come in?'
'Sherlock and John aren't here,' Mrs Hudson said, though stepped back to let the politician in. 'John's at the surgery and Sherlock's down at the hospital doing God knows what.'
Mycroft nodded as the woman shut the door, turning to face him. 'Yes, well I... ah, left something in 221B, and need to retrieve it.'
He knew the landlady didn't believe him, but she smiled none the less and said, 'Be good, dear.'
Mycroft thanked her and quickly walked upstairs, using his umbrella to push the already open door all the way in. He stepped into the flat and looked around, seeing the usual destruction that Sherlock left in his wake.
There was nothing in the sitting room or kitchen Mycroft and Gregory could use, so the politician headed to the bathroom. Again, there was nothing, and he stepped into the room Sherlock and John now shared.
It was extremely clean, even with Sherlock Holmes as one of the inhabitants. There was a large framed poster of the periodic table on one wall, a framed poster of one of the earlier Doctors from Doctor Who on the other wall, with a black and white picture of a hospital Mycroft wasn't familiar with beside that.
There was a queen-sized bed covered in fresh blue sheets and a beadspread the same colour, a bedside table either side with a lamp each. On John's side were a few novels and magazines, while Sherlock's had a variety of lubricants.
Mycroft smirked and went to inspect them, finding one that was strawberry-flavoured. Pocketing that for later, Mycroft continued his search. The dresser was filled with underwear, socks, and pyjamas, and Sherlock's favourite dressing gown was hanging on the back of the door.
Filing the dressing gown away for possible use, Mycroft pulled the large wardrobe open. Sherlock's various suits and shirts were all on the right, his polished leather shoes beneath with belts and other odds and ends, while John's clothes were on the left. Mycroft knew that the only reason the bedroom was clean was because of John; being in the army for half his life had left John with an OCD-like behaviour to have everything neat and tidy.
Mycroft spent a few minutes going through the wardrobe but came up empty. He and Gregory had already used one of John's favourite jumpers, and Sherlock's coat and silk shirt. Sighing, Mycroft closed the wardrobe and exited the bedroom.
At the last minute he decided to have a look in John's old room, now the spare bedroom. When he entered he found the place mostly clean, though the double bed was stacked high with various books and equipment Sherlock couldn't fit anywhere else.
The dresser was empty, but Mycroft got lucky with the wardrobe. A few of John's older clothing was still hanging in there; old jeans, jumpers that Sherlock disliked on him, and worn Doctor Who shirts. Mycroft flicked through them all before coming to the last hangers.
John's old army fatigues were well-worn, though pressed, clean and in good condition. There were khaki-coloured camouflage trousers, with matching jackets that all had Watson stitched onto the left side in black thread. The shirts were a sandy brown colour and all hanging neatly.
Beside the fatigues was John's dress uniform. It consisted of a dark blue tunic with matching trousers with a peaked hat that was sitting wedged between the railing and top of the wardrobe. The medals John had been awarded were still attached to the tunic, and Mycroft carefully removed them and placed them in the bedside table drawer.
Mycroft went back to the wardrobe, eyes roaming over the two uniforms, before settling on the heavy-duty brown boots sitting on the bottom of the wardrobe.
An evil smirk pulled at his face.
While Mycroft loved the idea of wearing John's fatigues and showing Gregory some discipline, the simple fact was that Mycroft was about five inches taller than John, and while John was broader than the politician, there was no way Mycroft would fit into his trousers, shirt, or jacket, and Mycroft knew for a fact that his shoe size was bigger than John's.
But Gregory was only three inches taller than John, and they were similar in body structure. Greg also had the same shoe size.
His smirk widened, blue eyes roaming over the fatigues and imagining a certain DI wearing them and hissing filthy words in his ear.
Oh, yes, Mycroft mused as he took the clothing. This could work very well.
{oOo}
Mycroft didn't have time to put his plan into action. He suddenly found himself with a mountain of work, and spent three weeks rushing between high security business meetings, and sitting behind his desk pouring over pile upon pile of top secret documents to try and keep the latest crisis from getting any bigger.
Greg was used to it, but he still missed his boyfriend. Crime had been a bit slow lately so he found himself with a lot of free time and no boyfriend to kiss and cuddle. He spent his days and nights roaming around the large flat he shared with Mycroft, making tea and microwavable dinners because he couldn't be bothered cooking if Mycroft wasn't there.
He hadn't seen his partner in a good two weeks; they'd exchanged the odd text, and the even rarer phone call, and Greg sighed as he sat on the sofa. As usual there was nothing on TV, and Greg didn't want to watch any of the DVDs he and Mycroft owned. He tried reading for all of five minutes before tossing the book aside.
It landed atop the various clothing Greg had left over the sofa, and the DI's eyes roamed over the other crap he'd left lying about.
Hmm, I should probably clean up, Greg thought, eyeing the five dirty mugs sitting on the coffee table. Myc will kill me if he gets home and I've trashed the flat.
Figuring it would at least give him something to do, Greg stood and began cleaning up.
It didn't take him long to clean the sitting room, and he dumped the dishes in the alredy full dishwasher and turned it on. He put his clothes in the washing machine and left them to wash while he headed to the bedroom.
It was the messiest place of all; Greg really became a slob when he was tired, and there were clothes, books, magazines, and shoes all over the place. He folded everything away and straightened the books on his bedside table, while wiping a layer of dust off Mycroft's books. He set them in their proper place too and went to the walk-in wardrobe to put his clean clothes away.
When Greg was done he stacked his shoes in the little shelves available but stopped when he saw a box he'd never noticed before. It was a plain thing, black, and Greg raised an eyebrow as he shuffled across to it.
He pulled it open and was surprised to find what appeared to be an army uniform, complete with boots. Then he noticed the name.
'Oh, Mycroft, you sneaking bastard,' Greg grinned, running his thumb over the Watson stitched into the jacket. 'This'll show those fuckers.'
Greg tugged his mobile from his tracksuit bottoms and slid it open, quickly dialling his boyfriend.
Mycroft answered on the fifth ring.
'This had better be important, Gregory, I'm very busy.'
'I love you too,' Greg snorted. 'And yeah, it's important. Any idea when you'll be off work?'
'Well, most of the situation has been detained, now it's just last minute paperwork and meetings,' Mycroft said. Greg heard shuffling paper, as well as someone tapping at a keyboard. 'I should be done within three days.'
'Three days?' Greg groaned. 'But I miss you.'
'I miss you too, but it can't be helped,' Mycroft said. 'I'll be home Friday night.'
'Good,' Greg smiled. 'Um, another question; any idea what Sherlock and John are doing on the weekend?'
'Well, Sherlock recently received a private case, and he sent John ahead of him to the country while he finished off something for Mrs Hudson. He's joining John on Saturday afternoon and they'll most likely be gone until Monday.'
'Are you sure?' Greg asked.
'I already looked over the case,' Mycroft said dismissively, 'it's painfully obvious but it'll take Sherlock at least a day and a half to figure it out, and John will want to rest before coming home. Why?'
'No reason,' Greg lied, glancing over the uniform. 'So Friday night?'
'Most likely around ten, but I can't make any promises,' Mycroft said. There was a muffled shout and Mycroft said, 'I have to go, Gregory, I have a meeting.'
'Okay,' Greg said, 'make sure you eat something, alright? And I'll cook on Friday.'
'Okay, love,' Mycroft said and Greg heard him standing and his PA say something. 'I have to go, I love you.'
'Love you too,' Greg said. 'See you Friday.'
Mycroft hung up and Greg did too, pushing his mobile back into his pocket. He glanced the fatigues over again and smirked.
'Oh, this is gonna be great.'
{oOo}
Text To: Mike Dimmock
From: Missy Fortuna
Hey, put me in as Johnlock. I was talking to Sal the other day and you Mystraders are gonna be paying up big time, bitch :D
Mycroft was exhausted when he finally walked into the flat at eleven-thirty Friday night. Greg had dinner waiting in the oven and peeled Mycroft's coat, jacket, and waistcoat from his tall frame, while Mycroft leaned heavily against him and groaned.
Greg chuckled and pulled Mycroft to the dining room table, making the politician sit as he quickly re-heated their dinner.
Mycroft nearly fell asleep five times during dinner and Greg had to drag him upstairs. After brushing his teeth Mycroft stripped to his birthday suit and climbed right into bed, not bothering to look for pyjamas.
'M'sorry, Greg,' Mycroft mumbled against his pillow as the DI joined him. 'M'just... t-t-tired.' He yawned thickly and Greg smiled, running his hands through his boyfriend's hair and hearing Mycroft hum.
'S'alright, Myc, I get it. Just rest, 'kay?'
'Mm, sounds... good...' Mycroft mumbled before trailing off as he fell asleep.
Greg kissed him softly before snuggling up to his partner.
{oOo}
Text To: Missy Fortuna
From: Mike Dimmock
Fuck you, Missy, don't make me come down to Gangs and show you how real cops do it.
Mycroft woke midday Saturday feeling better rested then he had in weeks, though absolutely starving and a bit horny. Greg was already up and Mycroft pulled on a pair of pyjama bottoms and his dressing gown before heading downstairs.
Greg was eating a sandwich at the table while reading the paper, and smiled when Mycroft walked across to him. 'Afternoon, gorgeous.'
'Mm,' Mycroft hummed, kissing the DI softly. 'I haven't slept in this late in months.'
Greg smiled as Mycroft stepped up into the kitchen, heading for the coffee machine. 'Yeah, well you needed the rest.'
'I'm looking forward to just sitting and doing nothing,' Mycroft said. 'No reading, no TV, just... nothing.'
'How interesting,' Greg snorted.
Mycroft chuckled as he rejoined his partner. 'I've spent the last three weeks reading copious amounts of top secret disasters and plans, Gregory. I don't want to set eyes on any more text, thank you very much.'
'M'kay, if that's what you want,' Greg said.
'Would you like to join me?' Mycroft asked.
'I will unless I get called for a case,' Greg said. 'Oh, we're going out tomorrow for lunch, okay? So no work, no nothing. You, me, out.'
'Yes, sir,' Mycroft smiled.
Greg grinned.
{oOo}
Text To: Mike Dimmock
From: Missy Fortuna
Ooh, I'm shaking, Dimmo. Piss off and put me in the pool.
'Gregory, I thought we were going to lunch,' Mycroft said as he stepped out of his car.
'We are,' Greg said, turning to speak softly to the driver. The man nodded over the backseats and Greg shut the door.
'But we're at 221- oh, what have you planned?' Mycroft asked, catching on quickly.
Greg smirked and went around to the boot. Mycroft watched as he pulled a black box out- a black box Mycroft was very familiar with.
'You found it,' the politician smiled.
Greg nodded and slammed the boot shut. 'Yup. Now get upstairs, Mr Holmes, now.'
Mycroft was quick to comply and soon found himself in the kitchen of 221B. Greg looked around carefully before saying, 'You wait here, and that's an order.'
Mycroft nodded, watching as Greg disappeared. He placed his umbrella against the table, which was covered in Sherlock's various experiments, and stood waiting quietly. When Greg returned all the blood in Mycroft's body instantly rushed to his cock. He looked absolutely fuckable in John's fatigues, even if the sleeves were a little short.
'Glad to see you approve,' Greg smirked as Mycroft's eyes ran over Greg slowly. 'Now, Holmes, is it?' Mycroft nodded and Greg rushed across the kitchen, grabbing Mycroft by the back of the head. The taller man winced as his head was wrenched back and Greg hissed, 'Is that any way to answer your commanding officer?'
'N-No, sir,' Mycroft gasped.
'What should you have said?'
'Yes, sir, it's Holmes.'
Greg snorted and let Mycroft go, the politician instantly standing tall. 'You've got an attitude, Holmes, and I'm gonna fuck it out of you.' Mycroft's eyes widened and Greg smirked. 'Yeah, that's right,' the DI continued, smoothing down his fatigues. 'I've heard you're a little slut who likes cock- is it true, Holmes?'
He glared at Mycroft and the elder Holmes quickly said, 'Yes, sir, I like cock.'
'How much do you like it?'
'Very much, Captain Lestrade,' Mycroft smiled.
Greg chuckled. 'Good, good. I like sluts, Holmes.' He closed the distance between them and grabbed Mycroft's arse, quickly grinding their crotches together. Mycroft gasped and his hands twitched, but Greg said, 'Did I give you permission to move?'
'No, sir,' Mycroft answered.
Greg squeezed his arse tightly and Mycroft let out a soft whimper. 'Good, you're learning. Soon I'll have you taking my cock without moving an inch.' Mycroft's eyes widened slightly and Greg snickered as he continued to knead his boyfriend's cheeks. 'You've got a gorgeous arse, Holmes, anyone ever tell you that?'
'Yes, sir.'
'I bet it takes cock good,' Greg continued. 'It swallows long, thick cocks regularly, doesn't it?'
'Yes, sir,' Mycroft said, voice having dropped an octave.
'Tell me what you like, Holmes,' Greg ordered. 'Tell me what cock sluts like.'
Mycroft was breathing heavily by this point and wet his lips as Greg stared at him. 'I... I like being fucked, sir.' Greg raised an eyebrow. 'Hard,' Mycroft elaborated, feeling a faint blush colour his cheeks. 'I like being bent over any available surface and taken from behind, Captain, and I like writhing about beneath strong men like yourself as I'm fucked into a mattress.'
Greg licked his lips slowly, eyes darkening in arousal. 'You like that, huh?'
'Very much, Captain Lestrade.'
Text To: Missy Fortuna
From: Mike Dimmock
Yeah, yeah, keep your knickers on, bloody hell. You're in, alright?
'Mm,' Greg mused, digging his fingers into Mycroft's arse. Mycroft could feel Greg's hardening cock pressing against his thigh, and it was all he could do not to rut shamelessly against it. 'Well you're my whore now, Holmes, and I'll give it to you just like you like,' the DI finally continued. 'I'll fuck you six ways till Sunday, so hard you can't sit right in those posh offices of yours.'
Mycroft moaned softly.
'You'd like that, wouldn't you?' Greg smirked. 'Your arse aching from a thorough pounding?'
'Yes, sir,' Mycroft said quickly.
'Imagine it, Holmes,' Greg said, leaning up to whisper in Mycroft's ear as he continued to knead the man's arse. 'My prick breaching your tight little hole, slamming into you hard and fast as you fight against whatever I've tied you to.' Mycroft moaned loudly. 'My balls slapping into your gorgeous cheeks, the slick wet sound of my manhood pounding into you.'
'P-Please, sir,' Mycroft whimpered.
'What was that, Holmes?'
'I w-want you to touch me,' Mycroft begged.
'Already?' Greg said, drawing back. The politician nodded quickly. 'What a greedy little whore you are,' Greg chuckled. 'Where do you get off on telling me what to do?'
'I didn't tell, I ask-'
Greg grabbed him forcefully and Mycroft gasped as he was slammed into the fridge, various notes that had been stuck to it fluttering through the air.
'Don't you dare backchat me, you filthy fucking slut!' Greg hissed. 'You're nothing but a piece of arse for my pleasure, got that? I'll use you in any way I see fit, Holmes!'
Mycroft was painfully hard by now, eyes dark with arousal, cheeks pink and breathing laboured. He didn't know why Greg shouting at him and calling him a slut was such a turn on, but it really was.
Suddenly Greg was wrenching his head back again, fingers twisted through his hair painfully and nails digging into his scalp. 'Do I make myself perfectly clear?' Greg demanded.
'Y-Yes, Captain Lestrade,' Mycroft gasped.
'Good,' Greg said, keeping Mycroft's head tilted. He leaned forward and nuzzled the taller man's soft skin, Mycroft tensing.
A warm, wet tongue licked up his throat and Mycroft had to stiffle groan, a yelp when Greg bit hard into his neck. The DI knew better than to leave marks though, and quickly moved on, pressing soft kisses to Mycroft's neck, his jaw, before tugging lightly on his ear.
'Mm, you're a gorgeous slut, I'll give you that,' Greg murmured. 'So eager to please me.' His free hand squeezed Mycroft's arse. 'I wanna see that gorgeous fucking arse you've got, turn around.'
He didn't give Mycroft an option, tugging the man forward and spinning him around. He forced the politician against the counter, Mycroft gasping as his arms and stomach came into contact painfully with the hard wood.
Greg wasted no time in ripping Mycroft's belt free, his trousers and underwear soon pooled around his ankles. Greg crouched to help Mycroft from his shoes and socks, and he tossed everything across the kitchen.
Mycroft stood bent over the counter, arse on display and cock hanging hard and weeping between his legs. He whimpered when Greg's hands softly caressed both cheeks, before a slap rang out followed by a sharp sting.
Mycroft jolted and Greg grabbed his hips, grinding his clothed erection against Mycroft's arse. Mycroft moaned and Greg hissed, 'Fuck, you're so fucking hot, you know that?'
Mycroft just moaned again.
'Standing there, waiting for me,' Greg continued, rutting hard against the younger man. 'And fuck, your arse.'
He slapped Mycroft again and the elder Holmes moaned loudly, Greg smirking behind him. He slapped Mycroft again before grabbing both cheeks, parting them roughly and watching Mycroft's skin turn white where his fingers dug in. Mycroft's puckered entrance came into view and Greg nearly lost it; fuck, he didn't know how Mycroft turned him on so quickly without doing anything.
He leaned over Mycroft, front pressed to the politician's back, and hissed in his ear. 'You might be a slut, but I think you keep yourself clean like a good little boy, don't you?'
'Of course, sir,' Mycroft answered, trying not to thrust back against Greg's ample package.
'Good, 'cause I wanna have a little fun before I fuck that tight hole of yours, Holmes.'
Text To: Mike Dimmock
From: Missy Fortuna
Kisses :)
Mycroft didn't know what he had in mind, but as long as Greg actually touched him he was completely fine. So he stayed still, leaning on his elbows, with his arse on show and Greg behind him.
He felt his cheeks being spread again and a thumb ghosting over his entrance. His muscles automatically clenched when a dry digit tried to wriggle into his hole, and Greg said, 'Jesus fuck, you're tight.'
'All for you, sir,' Mycroft said, trying to relax.
'Bit dry, though,' Greg commented. 'I'll have to change that.'
Suddenly a warm tongue was licking between his cheeks, and Mycroft couldn't hold back the moan or the little jolt his hips gave. Greg slapped him hard and it just made Mycroft moan that much more as the sting mixed deliciously with the arousal burning through him.
Greg chuckled. 'A pain slut too, eh?'
'The right kind of pain can be very pleasurable, sir,' Mycroft answered.
'Mm, we'll see about that. But stay fucking still unless you want my cock in your arse with no lube.'
Mycroft stiffened and Greg rubbed his cheeks softly. He knew his boyfriend wouldn't really enter him with no lubricant. While Mycroft was occasionally open to being fucked with no preperation- sometimes he really needed the pain- Greg entering him dry would cause some serious damage. Of course Greg loved him, and would never do that- he'd also feel quite a lot of pain- but Mycroft's body still tensed in fear.
Greg leaned over him again, rubbing Mycroft's arse softly. 'Good boy, stay still and let Captain Lestrade take care of you.'
Mycroft slowly relaxed and Greg crouched down, tongue wetting his lips before sliding up Mycroft's arse. The politician groaned but didn't move as Greg's wet organ softly lapped over his entrance. Greg smiled, happy with Mycroft's self-control, and decided to thrust his tongue right into Mycroft's arse.
No sex for three weeks had Mycroft amazingly tight, and even Greg's tongue had trouble working past the ring of muscles. He pulled the younger man's cheeks further apart and buried his face between them as he thrust his tongue in.
Mycroft moaned loudly, head bent as Greg rimmed him. It felt amazing, incredible, and Mycroft's cock was leaking steadily, pre-come dripping onto the tiled floor.
Greg hummed as he worked, his tongue twisting and flicking inside Mycroft before drawing back to run over his slightly dilated hole. Mycroft whimpered and mewled every time Greg withdrew, and the DI slapped him lightly on the arse to remind him to keep still.
After a few minutes Greg dropped his hands from Mycroft's arse to tug his trousers open, though kept tonguing the man's hole. Once he'd got his aching cock out, he slid the bottle of lube he'd found in the box from his pocket.
Greg had noticed earlier that it was flavoured lube and smirked against his boyfriend as he popped the cap. Mycroft, of course, heard the sound and his body tensed, just waiting for a deeper penetration.
'Look at you,' Greg said as he pulled back. 'Practically begging, you greedy little prick.'
Mycroft didn't respond and Greg poured gel onto his fingers before sitting the bottle on the floor. He trailed his left hand up Mycroft's thigh and over his slightly-pink arse, Mycroft quivering slightly when the DI using his fingers to spread Mycroft's cheeks.
With no warning at all, Greg thrust two fingers deep into his boyfriend, and no amount of control could stop Mycroft's hips from jerking, a deep groan erupting from his throat.
Greg smirked as he quickly finger-fucked his boyfriend, only scissoring his digits slightly; he really wanted Mycroft to feel him when he used his cock. Greg withdrew his fingers after a few minutes and leaned up to lick gel from around his hole, Mycroft moaning.
It tasted a bit like strawberries and Greg hummed as he stood. He pulled Mycroft up and said, 'Get out of your clothes now, you slut.'
Mycroft was quick to comply, tearing his jacket, waistcoat, tie and shirt off. He let them all drop to the floor and Greg smiled. He grabbed Mycroft's chin and said, 'Clean my fingers like a good little boy, m'kay?'
Mycroft's mouth immediately dropped open and Greg thrust both fingers into his mouth, Mycroft's lips closing tightly and sucking back on the digits. His tongue ran up and down Greg's skin until all the flavoured-gel was gone, and Greg moaned as his fingers slid out wetly.
'What else can you do with that mouth, Holmes?'
'Anything you want, sir,' Mycroft answered breathlessly.
He was achingly hard, and his arse really needed something much larger than fingers shoved in it, but Mycroft was too into the role to worry about that. Greg smirked and forced him to his knees, and Mycroft saw that his partner had already freed his erection.
'Open wide, I've got a present for you,' Greg said sweetly.
Again Mycroft's mouth dropped open, only this time Greg rammed his cock down his throat instead of his fingers. Mycroft choked but that didn't stop Greg, who moaned and tipped his head back. He threaded his fingers through Mycroft's ginger-brown hair and tugged painfully as he set up a quick pace, hips snapping as he buried himself down his boyfriend's throat over and over again.
Text To: Sally Donovan
From: Cheryl A Sherman
Oi, put me in this pool thing. Scotland Yard has suddenly become a lot more interesting; you people are lunatics.
'Fuck, you're fucking amazing,' Greg gasped, eyes shut tightly. Mycroft grunted around him, arms by his side as his boyfriend abused his mouth. A few more thrusts and Greg pulled out, not wanting to come down Mycroft's throat. He dropped to his own knees and Mycroft gasped in surprise when Greg crashed their mouths together, giving the politician an extremely filthy kiss that made his cock ache.
He practically squealed when Greg touched the long neglected organ, and the DI chuckled against his lips as he stroked Mycroft from root to tip, thumb flicking through the steady stream of pre-come.
'Fuck, so hard for me already,' Greg said. 'You want me to fuck you, Holmes?'
'Yes, sir,' Mycroft panted, body trembling.
'Mm, you're a good whore, so I'll give you all the cock you need.' Mycroft looked relieved as Greg pulled back, grabbing the politician's clothes. He laid them out on the floor before the oven and said, 'Lie down, slut.'
Mycroft quickly did as he was told, feeling extremely exposed as Greg stood beside him still fully clothed.
'Hmm, we need something...' Greg mused before looking down at his boots. 'This'll do.' He bent and pulled the laces from John's army boots, Mycroft watching as the DI quickly got the two laces free. He crouched beside Mycroft and said, 'Arms up, wrists together, above your head.'
Mycroft raised an eyebrow but did as asked, and Greg quickly looped the laces tightly around his wrists. He then looked around, wondering what he could tie Mycroft too...
He smirked and made Mycroft shuffle back until the politician's hands reached the oven door. He tied his partner's wrists to the handle, and Mycroft looked up in alarm.
Greg snickered. 'Yeah, I know we broke our own oven, but this is Sherlock and John's, so who cares?'
Mycroft smiled and nodded as Greg crawled between his legs. The DI licked his lips as he looked at a thoroughly debauched and extremely horny Mycroft Holmes lying spread before him. He grabbed Mycroft's legs and hoisted them over his shoulders, Mycroft shifting a bit as his hips were lifted.
Greg shuffled forward and grabbed his cock, moving until the head was pressing against Mycroft's hole.
'You wanna be fucked, Holmes?' Greg asked, quickly falling back into their role-playing.
'Yes please, sir,' Mycroft begged. 'Fuck me like the whore I am, please.'
'Good answer,' Greg said before thrusting in. He moaned as he pushed in, Mycroft's muscles fighting him all the way until the last three inches, where he slipped in completely, balls resting against his lover's arse.
'Fuck,' Mycroft breathed and tugged on his arms; bad idea, because the oven door popped open and Mycroft yelped as he caught it, quickly saving himself from being smacked in the face.
'Right, probably not a good idea,' Greg mused. 'Hang on.' He grabbed Mycroft's hips and shuffled back awkwardly until Mycroft was completely stretched out and the oven door was hanging open. 'Much better.'
Mycroft chuckled before quickly sobering. 'Please, Captain Lestrade, fuck me hard.'
'Oh, I plan to,' Greg said, rolling his hips so Mycroft could feel every inch of him. 'You like my prick in your tight little hole, Holmes?'
'Uh... y-yes, sir,' Mycroft nodded.
'Fuck, you feel amazing, squeezing around me so tightly,' Greg moaned. 'Fuck, Holmes.'
'Fuck me, please!' Mycroft begged. 'Please, sir, I need it!'
Greg couldn't hold back any longer and quickly pulled out before thrusting back in. He set up a furious rhythm, Mycroft sliding against his clothes and whimpering, gasping, and mewling as Greg pounded into him. The slick sound of the DI fucking his partner filled the kitchen, as well as his balls slapping against Mycroft's cheeks, and their ragged breathing and common curses.
Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft's thighs and leaned back on his legs, pulling the politician with him. Mycroft moaned loudly as Greg slammed into him, hitting his prostate and sending delicious pleasure racing through the man on the floor.
'You like that?' Greg grunted, sweat already dotting his forehead, his cheeks red and lips parted as he panted hard. 'I said did you like that?' he shouted and slammed in hard, Mycroft whimpering beneath him.
'Y-Yes, s-sir,' he panted.
'You like me fucking you hard like the filthy cock slut you are?' Greg asked. Mycroft nodded. 'Look at you, taking my prick in like a greedy little whore,' he continued. 'Your arse just swallowing me again and again, your muscles so fucking tight around me.'
He let out his own moan, Mycroft tugging on his restraints as he arched under his partner. His arse was feeling thoroughly abused and so very fucking full, and the sight of Greg fucking him and muttering filthy words was definitely a turn on. Added on were the sore red marks that were appearing on Mycroft's wrists, and the politician was having a pretty good fucking time.
Greg leaned forward suddenly, bending Mycroft's legs up to his chest. The younger man cried out as he was filled yet again, Greg sliding in deeper then before and snapping his hips roughly, his balls slapping against Mycroft's arse.
'F-Fuck that feels g-good, Captain,' Mycroft moaned, Greg panting above him. 'Fuck, your cock, it's so big.'
Greg groaned again.
Text To: Cheryl A Sherman
From: Sally Donovan
Normal's overrated. What's with everyone going for Johnlock, huh? I'm telling you, Suits'll win this.
'Ah!' Mycroft cried when his prostate was hit. 'Fuck, sir, just there, again! Oh fuck, you fuck me so good.'
Greg lost it then and crashed their lips together, the two men panting against each other as they fucked. Greg dropped one hand to grab Mycroft's cock, the politician gasping against him as the organ was tugged roughly.
'Come on, Holmes,' Greg hissed against his lips. 'Come with my cock buried in you and my hand around your own. Come on, you greedy little slut, you know you want to.'
Mycroft whimpered, moaned, and thrashed against Greg and the laces keeping his wrists tied together. The oven door was now protesting loudly, screeching as it was pulled and bounced by the fucking couple.
'Come on, Holmes, I wanna see you come!' Greg ordered. Mycroft whimpered. 'NOW!' the DI shouted and slammed in hard.
Mycroft arched up as he came, exploding all over his chest and the fatigues Greg was still wearing. He shuddered as Greg milked the climax from him and the DI buried his face in Mycroft's heated and sweaty neck, continuing to fuck his boyfriend hard.
The last shudders of Mycroft's orgasm were just dying down when Greg finally came, shooting his load deep into his boyfriend's body and crying out against Mycroft's neck. The politician's muscles were still amazingly tight and tugged the orgasm from his as Greg half-heartedly thrust, his shaft now twitching.
They panted together, Mycroft's legs still bent and Greg lying atop him.
'Greg, my legs,' Mycroft moaned.
Greg pulled back and said, 'Sorry,' as he let Mycroft's legs drop, the politician groaning in relief. Greg was still buried inside him and smiled as he leaned down to press their lips together, the two exchanging soft, languid kisses.
'That was very nice,' Mycroft commented when they broke apart.
Greg chuckled. 'I'd hope so.'
'Mm, just what I needed,' Mycroft smiled, tugging on his wrists.
'Do you think we broke their oven?' Greg asked.
Before Mycroft could answer, the front door of 221B opened and Mrs Hudson walked in. 'I heard scream- oh dear!'
She stood frozen in shock as Greg leapt back from Mycroft, sliding out of the man's tender hole and falling on his arse as his trousers caught around his thighs. Mycroft tried to sit up, forgetting he was tied to the oven door, and there was a loud shriek and crunch as the already old and rusting door tore right off and slammed into the floor, pulling Mycroft back with it.
The politician groaned in pain and Mrs Hudson covered her eyes. Greg was wincing and rubbing his arse, his cock spreading lube and come all over his crotch.
Poor Mycroft was stuck where he was, completely naked and looking thoroughly fucked. His blue eyes were wide as Mrs Hudson started walking backwards.
'Right, well,' the woman said, clearing her throat, 'just... clean up when you're done, dears; this is a kitchen, remember... and... well...'
She was out the door a few seconds later, slamming it behind her. Mycroft groaned again and tried to sit up, but his arms were now pulled over his head, wrists still attached to the oven door. 'Gregory?'
'Sorry,' Greg said, shuffling forward slowly and trying to tug his trousers up. He soon got Mycroft free and the politician winced, rubbing his wrists. 'I didn't hurt you too bad, did I?' Greg asked.
'No, the door did,' Mycroft said and scowled at it. 'I'll be bruised for weeks.'
'Ah, well,' Greg said and smirked, 'you'll remember the thorough fucking you got from Captain Lestrade.'
Mycroft chuckled and pressed their lips together, Greg still smirking. 'Come on, love, we'd better clean up before Mrs Hudson decides to come back and get another peek at us.'
'I can't believe she saw us naked,' Greg groaned, helping Mycroft stand.
'Us?' the politician scowled. 'No, my dear Gregory, me. She saw me completely naked, you just had your cock out.'
'Whatever,' Greg said dismissively, looking down at his crotch as Mycroft grabbed his clothes. When the younger man was dressed, Greg said, 'So, another oven door has met it's end because of our sex life.' Mycroft chuckled. 'What do we do with it?'
Mycroft smirked as he looked from the door to the fatigues Greg was still wearing. 'Leave that to me, Gregory.'
{oOo}
Text To: Sally Donovan
From: Cheryl A Sherman
Johnlock for the win!
John groaned as he finally sat, his feet aching from chasing lunatic criminals around the fucking countryside all weekend. Sherlock looked as fresh as a daisy and bounced into the kitchen, jumping over the luggage John had dumped by the door, his coat and scarf going flying as he stood before the kitchen table.
John kicked his shoes off and grabbed the remote, deciding he'd make tea after seeing what was on.
There was a few minutes silence as Sherlock took his jacket off and sat at the kitchen table to go over one of his experiments. John yawned, flicking through the channels and wondering what takeaway he could get for dinner.
'John?' Sherlock queried suddenly.
'Mm?'
There was a pause before, 'Didn't we used to have a door on our oven?'
John frowned. 'What?'
'Ovens comes with doors, yes? Over the front of them, to keep the heat in? Just below the stove top?'
'Um...' John frowned further, 'yeah...'
'I thought so.'
'Wait, what?' John said, turning to look over the couch. Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, face pressed to his microscope. He pointed over the table and John craned his neck, but he couldn't see the other side of the kitchen from where he was sitting.
Finally he stood and stretched before heading towards Sherlock, who didn't move.
'What are you on about?' John asked.
Sherlock pointed again and John turned, only to frown once more; the oven door was missing.
'Um... well, that's... odd,' John tried.
'We did have an oven door, right?' Sherlock said without looking up. 'Not that I ever pay particular attention to the kitchen besides where my experiments are, but we did have an oven door if memory serves me.'
'Yer, we did,' John mumbled, crossing his arms. 'What the bloody hell?'
'Maybe someone broke in,' Sherlock mused.
John looked at him. 'Why would someone break in and steal our oven door?'
'Don't ask me how the teenage mind works; bunch of lunatics.'
'Oh, so it was teenage oven-door stealers, then,' John snorted. 'Those bloody gangs and their oven fixations.'
Sherlock just shrugged and the doctor looked at their oven again.
'That's just really odd,' John said. 'Maybe Mrs Hudson broke it.'
'Why would Mrs Hudson use our oven door?'
'Well, she'd be using our oven,' John said, stepping closer to the machine. 'You know, maybe hers broke and she used ours, but then ours broke too.'
'I see... well Mrs Hudson certainly has been hiding her strength.'
John smiled and went back to his boyfriend, kissing his cheek. He didn't expect anything in return and Sherlock didn't give it, more than focused on whatever experiment he was running.
'I'll ask her tomorrow,' John said, heading back into the sitting room yawning. 'Too tired now,' he added, flopping onto the couch and grabbing the phone to order some much needed food.
Sherlock just hummed and nodded, having already forgotten about the oven.
{oOo}
Text To: Cheryl A Sherman
From: Sally Donovan
And you call ME insane.
When John asked Mrs Hudson the following day, the woman blushed, stuttered that she had nothing to do with any oven doors anywhere, and hastily made her escape. John was even more confused then before as he lugged the shopping up to 221B, kicking the door all the way open and shuffling in.
Sherlock was lazing back on the sofa and John didn't bother asking for help; he wouldn't get it. He'd just dumped the groceries on the floor- Sherlock was still using the table- when there was a knock on the door.
John turned to see a pretty young woman, probably in her late twenties, with caramal coloured hair and bright blue eyes. She was wearing jeans and a jacket, and had a large brown-wrapped parcel at her feet. She smiled warmly at him before glancing down at the BlackBerry she was tapping away at.
Pretty girl; BlackBerry; one of Mycroft's people.
John crossed to her and said, 'Can I help you?'
Sherlock sat up quickly, always on the lookout for John flirting with women; not that he needed to worry, John definitely prefered cock now, but still.
'I have a package for Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson,' the girl said, not looking up from her BlackBerry.
'Erm... okay, from who?' John asked. The woman just smirked at him and pushed the package so it was leaning against the doorframe before turning and heading downstairs. 'Wait, I don't have to sign or anything?'
'No, I know who you are, Dr Watson!' the woman called over her shoudler before disappearing.
'You'd think your brother would have a hord of pretty young men at his disposal,' John muttered as he grabbed the heavy package.
'No, he tried that,' Sherlock said, peering at the package curiously. 'They all either wanted to sleep with him or take his job, so Mycroft sticks to hiring women now. They're smart enough not to fall in love with a gay man.'
John dropped the package onto the coffee table and Sherlock immediately tore it open.
They both froze as their oven door was revealed, the white metal slightly scratched up and with brown laces tied around the handle.
'I don't understand,' Sherlock said.
'It's our oven door.'
'Oh,' the genius said, 'okay... why did Mycroft take it?'
John had a bad feeling, especially when he saw the laces. And then he noticed there was something else beneath the door, and picked it up.
'THAT SON OF A FUCKING BITCH!' John screeched.
Sherlock looked at him in alarm as John tossed the door aside in favour of glaring at his army fatigues; fatigues he thought were still upstairs in his old room.
'John?' Sherlock questioned.
John seethed as he spotted the folded paper stuck to the front of his jacket with a needle. He ripped it clear and flipped it open, Sherlock leaning over to read with him;
My apologies, I'll send someone to fix the oven - MH
Fuck you and fuck your oven door. Payback's a bitch - Greg
John blinked and Sherlock said, 'Mycroft and Lestrade broke our oven door.'
'Yeah.'
'Most likely while having sex.'
'Mm-hmm,' John nodded.
'And while Greg- because Mycroft's too tall- wore your army fatigues.'
'Those fucking mother fucking stupid fucking pricks!' John shouted, shooting to his feet and kicking the oven door. 'What the fuck is their problem, huh? What did I ever fucking do to them?'
John continued to rant and Sherlock let him, while thinking how truly clever and diabolical his brother was. When the soldier had stopped shouting, Sherlock said, 'This is perfect retaliation, John.' His partner looked at him. 'We stole Lestrade's uniform, so they stole yours.'
'No, you stole Greg's uniform!' John shouted. 'I just... enjoyed it with you.'
Sherlock chuckled and glanced back at John's uniform. 'You know, I never even thought to ask if you still had your fatigues.' He sighed. 'A pity we never used them.'
'And now we never can, because you won't use anything that came into contact with your naked brother,' John groaned, flopping back onto the couch. 'I hate you all; every single one of you.'
'What did I do?' Sherlock pouted.
John scowled at him and folded his arms. 'Bloody Holmeses.'
Text To: Sally Donovan
From: Cheryl A Sherman
:p
{oOo}
Text From: Ooh, Chicken Salad
To: Mike Dimmock
Mystrade's going down, bitch :)
Dimmock read over the text at least four times before scanning the number, trying to remember it. Of course he could barely remember his own mobile number, let alone anyone else's, and scowled as he sent a text back;
Text From: Mike Dimmock
To: Ooh, Chicken Salad
Who is this?
He didn't have to wait long for a reply;
Text From: Ooh, Chicken Salad
To: Mike Dimmock
Your boyfriend! Give is a kiss!
'Right,' Dimmock said, standing up from his desk and storming from his office. He turned to face the officers sitting at their desks, all of whom glanced up from their work. 'Who the fuck is Ooh, Chicken Salad?'
There was a lot of snickering and Dimmock scowled.
'Seriously, who the fuck's taking my phone and changing all the names?'
'Your boyfriend?' someone suggested.
'Shut the fuck up, I don't have a boyfriend!' Dimmock shouted.
'Clearly,' another officer commented. 'If you did you wouldn't be so cranky.'
'Dimmo needs a shag!'
Soon there was a chant of Dimmo needs a shag! and the young DI fumed as he slammed his office door shut. Sally Donovan popped up from behind Sergeant Wentworth's desk, chuckling and grabbing the young man's phone.
'Who wants to see him go pink again?' she asked.
Everyone cheered.