Mycroft looked down at Gregory Lestrade. The photographs didn't do him any justice. He kept his objective in mind as he stepped closer to the man that was close to breaking. He hadn't anticipated he'd submit so easily.
It wasn't an act either. The Constable wasn't cowering in fear. He'd already accepted his fate. He had nothing to hide. Mycroft felt like cursing the wind.
"What is your relationship with my brother?"
"I don't know, honest I don't."
Mycroft's inner polygraph affirmed his statement. He didn't want to know if they were romantically involved or what they had been up to.
"I suppose an apology is in order," Mycroft said smoothly. The Constable looked up at him with a confused look on his face, "When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes one learns to be discreet. Hence this place," Mycroft pulled out his day planner, "Sherlock has been under your care for over a month and in that time he's been clean?"
"Yes, as far as I know."
"You don't know?"
"He's free to come and go as he pleases. I just know he hasn't been slamming coke like he was."
Mycroft nodded, "And he's spent a good sum of his community service sentence at a two-hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street?"
"Yeah, Mrs Hudson… he erm… stole from her once so he's sort of repaying his debt to her."
Mycroft shut his planner, "Do you know of a James Moriarty?"
"No… name doesn't ring a bell."
"Hm," Mycroft found himself torn. He should very discreetly dispose of the man before him. Make him 'disappear'. It would be an easy enough task, his family was small; his friends were few. He'd be a missing person no one missed.
The other part of him thought it might be worth the effort to give the man's life a new direction. He had the resources available.
But, first and foremost, Sherlock's safety was his number one priority.
"Fortunately I can provide accommodations for two guests at my abode in Kensington."
"I really don't mind the hostel, Sherlock was the one-"
"I insist," Mycroft said with the least threatening smile he could muster. Sherlock needed to be closely monitored, this Lestrade fellow was merely a bonus.
Mycroft set Gregory Lestrade free. He'd have the car bring him and their luggage by around afternoon tea time where he'd become better acquainted with the man before his brother showed up at his door demanding an explanation.
Mycroft found himself preening in the mirror for far too long. He kept debating his battle dress. He felt an odd flutter of nerves that he wasn't accustomed to. He was certain it wouldn't take much coercion. Gregory Lestrade's past was loose at best, with both males and females.
He tracked down three males that had been intimate with the man. His first, Henry Knight, remained elusive. He was an ugly little thing with big ears and a crooked smile. Mycroft didn't see what the Constable saw in the boy. No death certificate existed but that didn't mean that one should discredit it as a possibility for the man's disappearance.
Gregory Lestrade's past lovers remembered him vividly and all spoke about his struggle with alcohol. Mycroft decided to lock up his liquor cabinet, just in case.
He looked through his options in suit jackets. It needed to scream 'touch me'. Marled wool seemed the best choice. Satin pants underneath, but those were for later. He fussed over his feet; his last pedicure was far too rough and rubbed his heels raw and uneven. He'd have to look into having the woman deported.
Tie, no tie.
He'd have to mirror Gregory Lestrade's appearance. No tie, shirt's first two buttons undone, jacket left open. Mycroft tongued his cheek. He pulled in the jacket closed, pulled it out.
I'll have to unbutton it to sit anyhow.
He'd greet him at the door so he wouldn't feel intimidated. He went through the motions of greeting an imaginary man. The door bell buzzed. There was a policeman's knock on the door.
I'm not ready.
Mycroft felt flustered. He held the cologne bottle out and sprayed several times and walked through the cloud of musk. He coughed several times. Better than spraying himself directly, he didn't want to appear desperate.
He hurried down the stairs carefully and quietly, not wanting to sound like an elephant charging. He opened the door and went to greet Gregory Lestrade, as rehearsed, and then he saw his brother standing beside the man, scowling.
It took every bit of Mycroft's resolve not to scowl back, "Gregory, do come in. Sherlock," The Constable walked in tentatively, taking the place in. Mycroft and Sherlock started a glaring contest. He could hear Sherlock's teeth grinding.
Good, I have him backed into a corner.
Sherlock threw his rucksack on the floor. Mycroft's lip twitched briefly. This was too good; he was going to turn into an indolent child under his roof. He could dress like a man all he wanted but Sherlock would always be a bumbling little child.
"Have a seat, the kettle's just boiled," Mycroft motioned to the dining room. Sherlock lifted his eyebrows and straightened up. He strolled into the dining room with a haughty gate. Mycroft wanted to reach out and trip him with his foot.
"Um, don't mean to sound rude, but is there a place I can put my bags?" The Constable appeared utterly lost in the foyer.
"Oh perish the thought, here I'll show you your room," Mycroft looked towards Sherlock who was starting to turn red with anger.
Very good. He's fit to have a tantrum.
He showed the man up the stairs to the first floor. He opened the door opposite of Sherlock's. It was usually reserved for intimate purposes but was still tastefully decorated with a Victorian charm.
"I can't thank you enough for allowing us to stay," The Constable extended a hand.
"Think nothing of it," Mycroft shook his hand firmly, "Tea?"
"Um, yeah, sure," he placed his gaudy kitbag and rucksack next to the bed and followed Mycroft back down the stairs. They started hearing soft music coming from the dining room.
"Sherlock, how-" Mycroft started. He had to compose himself before he strangled his brother in front of his guest, "That was locked away in my room."
Sherlock cradled the Sderci violin to his chin and gave his brother a look of pure defiance.
The game is on.
After tea, Sherlock quickly stole away with his copper and hid in the bushes for a quick snog session. He could tell Lestrade reveled in the possibility of being caught. He felt him smiling against his lips. Lestrade laughed softly with each break. He tugged Sherlock closer and near tumbled over the underbrush. He was positively giddy with excitement.
Sherlock was less than pleased to be under his brother's roof with his lover. He knew Lestrade wasn't his brother's type. Lestrade had a boyish charm, a rebellious streak, and a well maintained sense of immaturity. Hell, they were snogging in the bushes!
Lestrade was motorbikes and punk rock while Mycroft was luxury sedans and Kenny G.
Things were getting heated and Sherlock had to tear himself away and gasp for breath. He saw Lestrade smiling from ear to ear. His shirt was all rucked up and his cheeks were flushed red. He kept biting at his bottom lip to conceal his impish smile.
"Wow," Lestrade laughed running his hand through his hair. He looked at Sherlock with lustful eyes, "What does your brother do again?" he laughed nervously. Sherlock grabbed him by the hips and brought their bodies closer together.
"Does it matter?" he asked with a low sensual rumble.
"Does he have hit-men?"
Sherlock looked away for a moment. Lestrade started trying to pull away, "No," He lied.
"We should probably head inside, 'fore he comes looking for us," Lestrade said, looking toward the ground. Sherlock looked at him disappointedly, "We've been at it for at least fifteen minutes, he's gonna suspect-" Sherlock captured his lips once more and ground into him with his hips. Lestrade started pushing him away, "Sherlock, really, we just stepped outside to smoke. Sherlock!" Lestrade batted his hands away as Sherlock tried to pull down his zip.
Lestrade pulled up his zip and stepped out of the brush. Sherlock emerged shortly after and placed a hand on the small of Lestrade's back, "Sherlock," He squirmed away, "Don't," Sherlock gave him a look, "Your brother has been kind enough to not have me killed, don't change that."
You have no idea how right you are.
"I don't want him thinking I'm some… perv," Lestrade spat. He stayed a good distance away from Sherlock while he pulled out his packet of cigarettes. He placed one between his lips and lit it up, taking in a long drag, "Need one?"
"No," Sherlock said with a sigh, "Quit."
"You serious?" Lestrade took another long drag and exhaled a smooth and steady stream of smoke out of his luscious kiss-wet lips. Sherlock's mind blanked. He wanted to lean forward and reclaim the man's lips. Maybe he'd accidentally trip and cause their bodies to come crashing together.
God, why did he have to take that stupid pill Jim gave him? Now he was stuck as randy as a stallion, in his damned brother's house.
The miniscule meeting was a resounding success and Jim was beyond pleased with Sherlock. Sherlock had made a major discovery about the mole's right hand man or in this case his left hand woman. Jim was beyond elated. They were infinitesimally close to uncovering the mole. He need only track down The Woman.
"Who do you know at Buckingham Palace?" Jim was on the edge of his seat, about to pounce.
"Old friend of mine… um… an equerry," Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"Friend?" Jim inquired with a wry grin.
"Colleague," Sherlock blushed.
"This woman's all but fucking royalty," Jim said, looking through the photographs that were strewn out on the coffee table.
"She um… is… fucking royalty," Sherlock corrected.
"She's an extortionist," Jim said, staring at the photos, "And a contortionist," He picked up one of the particularly naughty photos and gave it a mischievous grin, "Might keep this one in my private collection."
"She works fairly remotely. Her mobile phone is her life-line."
"Get that phone," Jim said standing up to loom over Sherlock. He stroked under Sherlock's chin, "You look… sad," Jim said, mimicking Sherlock's expression.
"It's nothing."
"Bedroom troubles?" Before Sherlock could respond, Jim went into the kitchen and started pulling out different pill bottles. He looked over the labels and started discarding the unwanted ones over his shoulder. He found an unlabeled bottle full of little blue pills. Sherlock looked intently as Jim pulled out a bottle of nasal spray.
Jim strolled over confidently and held out the bottle of tablets for Sherlock, "Dr Jim's love potion, snort this, take the pill, and call me in the morning. That is if you can still stand," he laughed. He started to scowl at Sherlock who was looking over the pills.
"What's it for?"
"Hypertension."
"I don't have-"
Jim yanked the bottle from Sherlock's grip and twisted off the top. He pulled out a pill and shoved it into Sherlock's hand.
"Take it."
"What phase of testing is it on?" Sherlock asked nervously.
"Clinical, now pop the pill."
Sherlock ran his thumb over the pill. Jim looked at him intently, "For… fuck's sake," Jim pulled out another pill and popped it into his mouth, he held it between his teeth for Sherlock to see, then swallowed, "I'm not going to poison you."
Sherlock placed the pill in his mouth and swallowed hard. He grimaced at the bitter taste. Jim snorted the nasal spray before passing it off to Sherlock. Sherlock looked over the label.
"Jim… this is for lactating women," Sherlock said looking over the warnings.
"Would you just-" Jim growled. Sherlock inserted the nozzle into his left nostril and squeezed the bottle. He felt the spray run down the back of his throat and his eyes started to water, "Atta boy," Jim said, patting his shoulder.
Sherlock left Belgravia feeling like a bull on a rampage. He barely just intercepted Lestrade at the hotel. When he was informed they'd be staying with his brother he wanted to scream in frustration.
Any time Lestrade laid his hands on him he raged with hormones. He wanted him desperately. Everything about him screamed sex. His jeans were tight in the crotch, his button down was straining against his masculine form. His shoulders were so broad and his thighs were deliciously firm. He looked amazing when he was clean shaven.
Every time Sherlock brushed up against him, he could feel his cock start straining. It was starting to really hurt, but the guy wouldn't take a hint! Just watching Lestrade smoke was making him rock hard. Those damn lips.
Sherlock let out an unintentional whimper.
"Sherlock, what's wrong?" Lestrade happened to look down, he turned and shielded his eyes. He sputtered a laugh.
"S'not funny," Sherlock winced and hopped up and down on the balls of his feet.
"Sorry, can't help it," Lestrade's eyes started to water as he tried to hold back his belly laugh.
"Please," Sherlock begged.
"Just go toss off in the loo."
"Greg," Sherlock whined. He drew Lestrade into a hug, pressing his firm member against his abdomen. Lestrade let out a nervous cough and looked away uncomfortably.
"He's gonna see us…" Lestrade complained. Sherlock shoved him away a bit too harshly. God, how he regretted it when he saw the anger in Lestrade's eyes, "Hey!" he barked.
Sherlock covered his ears with his hands and stormed away. Last thing he wanted was to be reprimanded. He walked right through the hedges, climbed the brick fence, and left without delay.
He heard Lestrade's shouts but he kept walking with his hands stuffed in his pockets. He drew his overcoat closed to conceal his blasted erection. He felt betrayed.
He strolled by the white stucco terraced houses, kicking a pebble as he went. He suddenly felt relaxed. More relaxed than he'd ever been before. His knees gave out and his face hit the pavement.