A/N: Hello darlings! I have posted on time! Aren't you proud? Um...I've had this since Monday, but in our defense, my beta, OldPingHai and I wouldn't have been able to get together later in the week.

But to make up for me holding on to it, have a little bit of Mycroft whump and some delicious smut. Be kind on the smut, this only my second foray into sex in this fandom.

Enjoy! Until next week!

The days slipped by, and summer moved into autumn and then winter. It was two weeks before Christmas when that black car pulled up beside John as he was coming back from a night out with his rugby mates.

John looked at the open door and then with a sigh and shake of his head, he slipped in beside Mycroft's PA.

"Hello, what's the name today?" he asked.

"Hello, John. Anthea will be fine."

John sighed. Apparently he still wasn't going to get her real name. "Where am I being taken this time? An abandoned warehouse, his office at Vauxhall Cross, or the Diogenes?"

She smiled, her eyes never leaving the phone in front of her. "None of the above, actually."

John's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, well, that's a change." He squinted out into the dark, but couldn't make out any of their surroundings due to the tinted windows. "So where are we going?"

She just shook her head and said nothing the rest of the trip. The car rolled to a near-silent standstill and she indicated that this was his stop. He got out and looked around. He was in a nice neighborhood, stately without being pretentious. That's when he realized that he was looking up at Mycroft's home.

Worry stirred a little in his gut as he walked up to the door. It opened before he could knock and there was a tall, regal-looking fellow in a suit on the other side. The man said nothing as he led the way further into the home. John would have liked to have seen more of the place, but everything seemed cast in shadow, and well...John thought it felt sad. Lonely, even. All this home and no one to share it with. John shook his head. He had enough on his plate without having to worry about Mycroft.

The man stopped in front of a set of heavy wooden doors and opened them for John. The doctor was used to the silence of Mycroft's underlings, but this coupled with the loneliness the house seemed convey, made everything oppressive. The doors closed tightly behind him and in the dim light of one desk lamp, John could barely make out the figure at the desk. John knew internally that it was Mycroft, but the creature before him was so unlike the well-kept-together man that John had trouble believing it.

Not even when Sherlock was in the hospital had Mycroft looked this disheveled. His hair was in disarray as though he had run his fingers through it constantly. His jacket was nowhere to be seen, the waistcoat was unbuttoned and hanging off rounded shoulders. The tie was loosened and the top button undone. The shirt was rumpled, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

He looked for all the world like a man who has just been given a death sentence. John then noticed the near-empty carafe of brandy and the very empty tumbler next to it. John stopped to wonder how full that bottle had been when Mycroft started to imbibe, and then realized it wasn't any of his business.

John turned around and hunted for a light switch. He found one and flipped it. When he turned around he wished he could turn it back off. Mycroft was blinking owlishly at him, dark circles around bloodshot eyes. The man's face was gaunt and pale, and John wanted to get him immediately to a hospital.

"Hello, John," the apparition muttered, sounding like the politician, but not. The voice that came was weary and rough, like someone who had been crying for hours or someone who hadn't spoken in days.

The politician tapped on the paper in front of him. "Would you care to explain this?" The please was so heavily implied that John took a step back, before surging forward to pick up the paper.

John frowned. "How long have you had this?" He completely ignored how Mycroft got it. That was irrelevant. Mycroft could have gotten it any number of ways.

"A week."

John's frown deepened. "That's when I got it..."

Mycroft sighed heavily. "I am immediately notified when either one of you makes a purchase that large."

"That's a bit creepy, Mycroft."

The man looked torn. "I can't- I have to know."

John's nose wrinkled in confusion. "Know what?"

"Are- oh god," Mycroft put his head in his hands and then drew them down until the tips of his fingers pressed over his lips. He sighed deeply. "Are you leaving my brother, John?"

John's head rocked back as though he had been slapped. "God, no. Never, Mycroft. How could you think that?"

"Because it's happened before."

John raised an eyebrow. "Sherlock's had a boyfriend?"

Mycroft huffed. "I'm not sure either one would have classified their relationship as such, but yes." John's other eyebrow raced up to mirror its mate, eyes wide in shock.

"That is not the point, however; the point is that this young man was close to my brother and left. He had bought this lovely plantation in India, and Sherlock thought that they were going to go together."

John's face scrunched up. "Let me guess: the bastard left in the middle of the night, leaving Sherlock behind."

"And thus began my brother's love affair with drugs."

"And you're worried he'll go back."

Mycroft looked him square in the eye, "It's happened before."

John closed his eyes. Yes it had. It had happened before: not even two months into John's marriage to Mary, Sherlock had gone back to the drugs. Despite the younger man's protests to contrary.

John opened his eyes. "I promise, Mycroft, this isn't that. Call it a grand gesture on my part."

Mycroft's eyebrows rose and he finally took in John's appearance. His eyes raked over the short doctor's form. He held out his hand for the paper John was holding. John handed it back.

"Just make him happy."

"I can promise I'll try." He turned to walk away and then turned back. "Thank you for not just killing me or shipping me off somewhere dismal."

Mycroft chuckled. "I'm just glad it wasn't what it looked like."

John shook his head. "See you around, Mycroft."

"Until then, John."

John went home, feeling pensive. He hadn't thought much about Sherlock's romantic past. He had asked Mrs Hudson once during the Irene Adler fiasco, but other than Janine, John hadn't seen him with anyone. But it did seem more than a tad ridiculous that Sherlock had never had a romantic entanglement before Janine.

John walked through the door to their flat and smiled at the sight that greeted him. Sherlock was in his sleepwear and blue bathrobe, curled up on the sofa, sound asleep. John took off his coat and kicked off his shoes. He walked over to where his lover lay and knelt down, carding Sherlock's riotous curls.

The detective stirred to consciousness and blinked up at him.

"Hello, beautiful," John greeted. "You could have gone to bed, you know."

Sherlock surged up and kissed him hard. "But if I had," he murmured, "I wouldn't have been able to do that." And then he began kissing trails down John's neck.

The doctor moaned. "And what a loss that would have been."

Sherlock chuckled into John's shoulder. "Indeed." His hands came to John's waist, slowly moving upward, pulling the blond man's shirt out of his jeans as he continued to nibble on John's neck.

John threw back his head, the moan turning into Sherlock's name.

"I missed you," Sherlock purred.

"Oh god," John huffed, his breath coming in short pants. He lifted his arms and allowed Sherlock to remove his jumper. His hands dropped to Sherlock's shoulders, and he pushed the robe off those slender shoulders to puddle at his waist. Sherlock slipped his arms out of the robe and then began to attack the buttons on John's shirt.

Soon both shirts were gone, dumped onto the floor, and both men ran their hands over each other's chest. Their kisses were heated and refused to stay on their mouths, instead roving over necks, ears, shoulders; anywhere they could reach without denying the other the pleasure of kissing their partner.

Sherlock reached for John's belt and pulled it off. The shorter man couldn't help but moan as Sherlock undid the button and slid down the zip.

The detective spread his hands on his lover's hips and panted into John's stomach, trying to catch his breath. Even though they had done this several times, for Sherlock each time felt as heady as the first.

"Go on," John urged. And with one swift movement the detective had pushed down both John's jeans and pants to his knees. John stood up and removed them rest of the way. Sherlock looked up at him adoringly. John's heart ached with how exquisite that expression looked on his lover. He reached down and pulled Sherlock to his feet to kiss him passionately. While their lips were occupied, John got busy divesting his boyfriend of the rest of his clothes.

"You gorgeous thing," John murmured against Sherlock's lips.

The detective chuckled as John pushed him back down on the sofa and straddled him.

"Someone is eager," Sherlock whispered.

"For you? Always," John replied, thrusting his hips forward.

Sherlock moaned and his hands went to grasp the doctor's arse. John's hands gripped Sherlock's shoulders as the detective gently lay John on the sofa. He bent over him, peppering John's chest and neck with kisses.

John couldn't take any more teasing and thrust his hips up to get friction. Sherlock obliged his love by grinding down.

"Oh!" John breathed. "Yes!" His legs wrapped around the taller man's hips and drew them together, trying to feel every inch of Sherlock's skin.

"I've got you," Sherlock assured him.

John nodded as the detective began rocking his hips against John's. The doctor threw his head back as pleasure surged through every bone in his body. Sherlock latched onto his lover's neck, purpling a bruise there and repeated the process all over John's chest.

John's breath became ragged and he began to thrust up, chasing his climax. Sherlock arched his back, his arms ramrod straight as he came. John felt the warm liquid hit his chest and with a few solid strokes from his lover's hand, followed into oblivion.

Sherlock jerked his head up as semen hit his chin. John was mortified for about two seconds before giggles welled up in his throat, threatening to bubble over. When Sherlock cracked a smile, John gave into the laughter, his love following suit.

They curled up on the sofa, and John whispered, "You know I'll never leave you, right?"

Sherlock snuggled close and nuzzled John's ear. "Mhmm."

"Good."

There were a few moments of contented silence before Sherlock spoke. "Mycroft told you about Victor, didn't he?" he murmured.

"Is that the bastard's name?" John bristled. "I still have friends in that area of the world. I could call in a couple of favors."

Sherlock chuckled. "Thank you, but no. He doesn't deserve the attention. No, John. I'm quite happy where I am at now. I didn't need to go chasing that past any longer. I have you."

"Too right." John settled his anger, before looking up at Sherlock, "Mycroft's already done something, hasn't he?"

"Not this time," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "No, it was my father. Everyone underestimates him, but he can be quite formidable. He flew down there and in three days found out where Victor was staying. He went and tore into Victor, gave him a proper dressing down. Victor called a couple days later to apologize and even offered to fly me down there to him."

"What did you do?" John asked, breathless.

"I told him where he could stick his offer. But the way he left changed me. He didn't apologize because he thought what he did was wrong, but because my father made him. I tried to block him out with drugs and then I found out what wonderful things it could do for my talent..."

"I'm glad you got clean, though."

Sherlock cuddled John close, "Me, too. Me, too."