Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.
Warning: SEX. Totally hot, I can't believe I wrote that scene SEX. Enjoy. And try not to skip over the non-sexy parts. ;-)
Chapter Forty Three
"When We Take a Breath"
"Any word yet?" Mycroft asked her softly, eyes darting to the young woman nearby. Anthea saw Violet, huddled in her uncle's suit jacket, forlornly gazing at the CCTV screens.
"No, sir. Nothing. We know the CIA moved in on Leinster Gardens over an hour ago. No chatter on whether or not they got Mary." Anthea replied, head low, modulating her voice so it wouldn't carry to Violet. "It's well into morning now, hopefully we'll hear from Sherlock soon."
Anthea couldn't help herself. She was tired, anxious, and so worried for John, Sherlock and even Mary. She reached out, and did something she had never done before. She wove her fingers through those of the man standing next to her chair, her hand small in his, holding tight. She felt him twitch the tiniest bit, but he didn't shrug her off. Mycroft held her hand, and Anthea watched the CCTV cameras alongside her girlfriend, and the man who was so much more than her boss.
Silas Williamson wasn't one for fits of rage, displays of anger beyond occasionally raising his voice. As he stared at the operation room's camera feeds and listened to the radio traffic, he found himself re-evaluating his usual need to be cool and calm.
"If I hear any of you say the words 'I don't know' or 'We lost another officer' again, I'm going to rip your spines out through your mouths." His words dropped like acid in the dismayed quiet of the Ops Room, his technicians wisely keeping their heads down. There was no response, just the shuffle of feet on carpet and a quiet cough from a corner.
The entire evening had gone to hell and back the second they got the information packet from MI6. If it wasn't for the officers reporting back a glimpse of a short, blonde haired woman at the fake house in Leinster Gardens, he would be tempted to say this whole night had been a setup. There had been a sniper waiting for them at the safe house, and three of his men had died within minutes of each other, and six more fell in the next two hours. He sent a team after the initial group, and they carried out the bodies of half of his people. Nine of the first eighteen were dead.
"Contact my deputy back at Headquarters. Have him send me two more teams." He picked up his jacket from the back of his chair, and left the room. Williamson pulled out his cellphone, and dialed the US Embassy in London.
"It's Director Williamson. I need the Ambassador at his earliest convenience." He told his State Department contact when the man picked up. "Tell him it's as I predicted- Mycroft Holmes isn't playing ball."
Sherlock paced beside Mary, noting her pale face, and the way she held her shoulders. Something had happened while they were briefly separated, and whatever it was, it had been enough to disturb her calm exterior. It hadn't been the slaying of the CIA assassins, as she was not the type to grow maudlin over killing in self-defense. He'd seen the shine of tear tracks on her cheeks, and her voice, while controlled and even, was deeper, as if she were fighting sobs.
John was just behind them, still covering their progress in the tunnel system, though Sherlock suspected that their pursuers were long gone. He led them safely through the river tunnel, and past the ancient sewer lines of London, and now they were within a few hundred yards of Mycroft's house. Sherlock had been unable to get a signal on his mobile, and even at the river run off tunnel he had gotten nothing.
John had no luck either, and Mary had left her mobile behind, burned with the rest of the items at Leinster Gardens. So Sherlock pushed them on, figuring everyone could stop worrying as soon as they got back into Mycroft's basement.
"Mary, he's not going to arrest you." Sherlock told the woman at his side, and he saw a flash of deep blue eyes in the light from his torch. "Mycroft won't do that, I won't let him. John won't let him."
He had been thinking that she might be worried about what kind of reception she would be getting, that maybe she was scared. He had no clue what a pregnant woman would be feeling or experiencing, so he figured he'd at least try. She was his to keep safe, because of John, and for herself. He liked Mary; she was hard, stubborn, and intelligent. Rather like him, in the simplest of ways. He didn't hold his broken ribs against her; she had every right to be mad at him. Though it had been less mad, and more violently enraged at the time.
"I know. I'm fine Sherlock. I just need rest." Her thin voice threaded through the damp dark, and Sherlock found himself reaching out, hand inches from her elbow. She sounded very tired, as if she were seconds from falling.
"Mary, you okay?" John asked, walking up to Mary's other side. His doctor was concerned, and Sherlock saw John reach out for her as well. Mary moved closer to Sherlock, drifting away from John as they walked. John dropped his hand, and went back to looking at the ground.
"I'm fine." She sounded so tired, and Sherlock got a tiny tendril of worry through his core when she reached out for him. She gripped his arm, fingers tight in his coat sleeve.
Sherlock said nothing, and slowed his pace by a stride or two, giving her a reprieve without mentioning it. She held on, and Sherlock let her. John glanced over, and he saw Mary's hand clutching at his sleeve. John got a sad, resigned expression, but it faded as the light levels in the tunnels increased.
"John, go ahead, tell them we're coming." Sherlock told his doctor, and was thankful when John raced ahead of them, his figure obscured by the brilliant lights at the end of the tunnel.
Mary must have been waiting for him to go, as she stumbled into Sherlock, legs shaking. Sherlock caught her, swinging her up in his arms. She was shorter than Violet, but far more muscular. Sherlock grew worried as she rested her head on his shoulder without complaint, her arms around his neck. He felt the cold steel of her gun on the back of his neck, her grip firm and sure despite her sudden frailty. He wasn't overly concerned, and increased his pace up the old coal tunnel to his brother's home.
Mary rested on Sherlock, the tall man holding her easily to his chest. He was strong, far stronger than she would have expected for someone so lean. Her small bag hung from her shoulder, over Sherlock's arm, and she felt it prudent to put her weapon away. Mycroft's security people would likely be jumpy, and an armed foreign assassin would make for some tension.
The lights ahead were bright enough that Sherlock was clearly illuminated, and she could see. She pulled her arm down, and tucked her nine mil under her shirt, in her waistband. Sherlock gave her a sideways glance, but kept on in silence. Mary felt her extremities shaking, and it was hard for her to even hold her head up. Her muscles were so tired she was starting to get numb, her mind disconnected from her body.
This lethargy had come from nowhere, knocking her hard about thirty minutes prior. Seeing Jaime, feeling her, knowing she was alive and well and free made her heart break and bleed and erupt in a painful joy, a riot of emotions she had never felt before. Much of the long walk through the catacombs was spent silently crying, Mary avoiding the torchlight as best she could so that neither man saw her tears. Mary was shocked, amazed at how out of control her emotions were, right up until she remembered she was pregnant.
Hormones, crazy fucking hormones. And it's going to get even worse…..
Mary couldn't keep her eyes open anymore, and her head rolled on Sherlock's shoulder. The lights were so bright, and she could hear people talking loudly. Voices surrounded them, and Mary picked out the cultured tones of Anthea, the accent of Violet, and a man's voice, which she figured must be Mycroft, as he sounded exasperated and confused all at once.
"I've got her John, she's alright." Sherlock said, his deep voice rumbling under her ear. "She needs to rest, I'm taking her upstairs."
Sherlock carried her for what felt like forever, and she was floating in a gentle place, halfway between sleep and consciousness. It wasn't until she felt a soft bed beneath her that she tried to open her eyes. Violet was smiling down at her, fingers brushing at her cheek. Anthea was at her shoulder, face conveying her concern. Mary peered past the girls, and saw John, Sherlock, and a taller man who must be Mycroft standing in the hall, all of them watching her.
Mary was burdened by a heavy, peaceful feeling, and she barely registered Anthea turning away from the bed, and closing the door on the three men in the hall.
"Hey Sexy. Let's get you cleaned up, then you can sleep, I promise." Violet told her, and she scooped an arm under her shoulders, helping her sit up. "No one can sleep covered in shit."
Mary felt wretched, as if she'd fallen asleep in a car and just peeled herself off the seat. But she had enough of herself intact to whisper thanks to Violet. Anthea came to her other side, and between them they managed to get her on her feet, and in the bathroom. Mary voiced no objections to being stripped down, her only action to take her nine mil back from Anthea as the operative pulled it from her waistband. Mary put the gun on the back of the toilet, and Anthea made no protest.
Violet turned on the shower, and Mary laughed as Violet got in with her, still clothed in what looked like a man's suit jacket and pajamas. She was unique, Violet Hunter.
"No ideas now, Mary. I don't fancy explaining to my uncles why I let you pass out and die in the shower after that spectacular and very stinky rescue. Here's the soap, turn around."
Mary was fairly certain she fell asleep on her feet, Violet scrubbing her clean. She came out of her daze when the water was turned off, and Anthea folded her up in a big puffy robe. She grabbed her gun as the two women helped her back to the bed, and Mary slid the gun under her pillow. She was so tired, she didn't question Violet slipping under the covers with her. She was safe, and warm, and the young woman was familiar. Mary fell asleep with one hand on her gun, with Violet between her and the door.
Anthea stepped out of her room, softly closing the door behind her. She took one step before nearly smacking into John and Sherlock, Mycroft lounging on the other wall.
"Have the three of you been out here the whole time?" She was incredulous, and found them all utterly sweet. They wouldn't appreciate being thought of as sweet, but here they were, waiting to see how Mary was.
"She okay?" John asked, concern and worry clear.
"She's asleep. We got her cleaned up and tucked into bed. She's sleeping in there with Violet right now." Anthea said, and she gave them all a quick once-over. "May I suggest you two get a shower, too?"
John and Sherlock were filthy from head to toe, and John was bleeding from some kind of injury on his upper right arm. She pointed at the blood trail on his coat sleeve, and he did a double take. Then he noticed the mud, muck and the highly questionable odors coming from their clothing. He pulled away from the wall, nose crinkling at the smell. Sherlock didn't even react, just grabbed at John's arm, trying to see where the blood was coming from.
"The guest room next door is fully stocked. Your clothing will be cleaned and returned after we've all gotten some rest. Mycroft, I'm assuming you'll be sleeping with Gregory, so I'll be taking your room. Everyone, go to bed." Anthea ordered the men, and she shooed John and Sherlock until they went next door, where they would hopefully shower and sleep. It may be morning, the winter sun rising, but they had all been awake far too long and were damn near useless.
"My room?" Mycroft asked, still leaning against the wall, his eyes intense and dark.
"Biggest bed in the house, mine's got two beautiful women passed out in it." Anthea told him, one brow arched sassily at him. He gave her that rare and fleeting grin, before he walked down the hall to the stairs.
"Mycroft." She called softly. He stopped and looked back. "I'm putting the whole house on level one lockdown, in case we get some uninvited visitors while we're sleeping."
"Always thinking ahead. Thank you, dear." Mycroft gave her that very intent look again, and disappeared down the stairs.
Anthea went in Mycroft's room, and stripped down, one piece of clothing at a time, texting orders on her mobile as she went. Level One lockdown in affect. No one, not even the Prime Minister, would be able to enter Mycroft's townhouse without his permission.
She slid under the covers, and buried her face in his pillow. Anthea fell asleep breathing in his pine and scotch scent, as tired as if she had been the one wandering through London's catacombs.
"John, you're bleeding." Sherlock said to him, both hands on his arm, making a burning sensation race over his arm.
"Ow! Yeah, got shot." John replied, shrugging out of his shirt. His right arm, just below his shoulder was burning and itching, where a bullet grazed him. It left a slight furrow, gauging the skin, cauterizing most of it as it raced by him in the tunnels. A thin line of blood was oozing from the end of it, smeared all over the skin on his arm from his sleeve.
"YOU GOT SHOT?" Sherlock shouted, making him jump. John looked up at Sherlock, startled, to see his detective paler than usual, hands shaking. Sherlock had that blasted, manic look in his eyes, the same he'd gotten last month when Death and Mary had lit him up with lasers while he was napping in his chair.
"Look, it's just a graze! Sherl', love, I'm fine. I'll disinfect it, and wrap it up. I'll be okay in a week or two." John snagged Sherlock's hand, and pulled him over.
John forgot about the mud and questionable smells; he kissed Sherlock, little nips and licks on his firm lips until the panic faded from his detective's brilliant eyes. Sherlock sighed heavily, and finally looked at the injury.
"Oh…. It's not that bad… I forbid you from getting shot again, John." Sherlock declared, his gorgeous face going stern and grim.
John laughed softly, and pulled Sherlock after him to the shower in their borrowed room. Sleepovers at Mycroft's were never boring.
Greg's first thought when he woke up was that he should really get used to seeing Mycroft every time he opened his eyes. He was sitting in the exact same spot he had been the night before, the only difference this time was that his jacket was missing, and it was morning.
He had awoken earlier, while it was still night, hearing what sounded like numerous people walking around in the halls of this giant house. None had come to his door, and he took another pill, and fallen asleep wondering what Mycroft was doing, and if he would come back anytime soon.
Light came in dull and grey, but it was enough to illuminate Mycroft as he took off his shoes. Greg breathed through his nose, pulling in enough air to clear sleep and pills from his brain. Mycroft was taking off his clothing.
Mycroft is taking off his clothes. Dear God, I'm still asleep. Or I'm really high.
"Morning." Greg said, softly. Mycroft sent him a glance over his shoulder, and held his gaze for a second, before pulling off his socks and standing up. Greg's body was still feeling the drugs, but watching Mycroft was sending sharp tingles from his gut all the way to his toes, his hands.
"Good morning, Gregory." Mycroft moved to the head of the bed, and Greg was really awake when Mycroft took the corner of the blankets and flipped them back. He looked up, and he found it impossible to pull away from the sight of Mycroft, as his hands went to his tie. The red tie unknotted in slow motion, long slim fingers tugging the silk away from Mycroft's neck. He didn't see where the tie went, as those fingers were working at the shirt buttons, one at a time, all the way down to the waistband of his trousers.
Mycroft undid his belt, tugging it free from the loops, and threw it away, landing on a chair nearby. The shirt followed, leaving Mycroft wearing just a thin white tee and his trousers. Greg was nearly hyperventilating, as those wonderful fingers unsnapped his fly, and the sound of the zipper opening made Greg's entire body shiver, head to toe.
Greg dragged in a breath so deep his wound hurt past the pills, but he hardly felt a thing when Mycroft dropped his trousers and stepped out of them. He was wearing simple black boxers, and he was next to Greg in the bed faster than he could process the fact all of this was real, and now.
"I've been awake for over twenty four hours, Gregory. Move over, I'm not sleeping on the edge." Mycroft told him, and Greg moved back, letting the other man get comfortable.
Greg had no idea what to do. Mycroft was clothed, and so was he, and yet it felt like he was naked and exposed, vulnerable. His nerves were tingling, and he was surprised to see that the sheets weren't on fire from the heat pouring off of him. Mycroft wasn't moving, his expression calm, but with a hint of mirth around the eyes.
"Come here, Gregory." Mycroft said, and he lifted the arm closest to him, inviting Greg to rest on his shoulder.
Greg gulped, knowing Mycroft saw the nerves written all over his face. This was so new to him. A month of barely being conscious, with some stolen kisses and subtle hand holding was not enough preparation for being in the same bed as a man you spent years obsessing over. And he had been obsessing, even during his marriage, while it fell apart and his wife left him. He had been obsessing while Sherlock was dead, thinking he would never see Mycroft Holmes again, having failed to protect his little brother. Greg had gone through his life on empty, his job and the company of his brothers and sisters at Scotland Yard just enough to keep going.
It was all different now, so far removed from his previous reality he felt like he was living life again from the beginning, everything experienced for the first time. The pain killers were wearing off, and his mind was clearing, his senses rushing to inform him of every little detail of all that he was experiencing. The pain was tamed, and he was thankful, not wanting Mycroft to move away, not wanting him to stop touching him.
Greg put his head on Mycroft's shoulder, awkwardly hugging his stomach, unsure of where to put his arms, and he felt foolish for keeping a few inches between himself and Mycroft's side. Mycroft's arm came to rest on his shoulder, and Greg found himself getting red in the face when Mycroft gently pulled him snug to his side. Those few inches of buffer were gone, and Greg gave up. He put an arm over Mycroft's stomach, his hand tucking up securely on Mycroft's side.
Mycroft said nothing, just held him. Greg started to relax, the other man's steady breathing reassuring, his warmth on this cold winter morning welcome. Mycroft pulled the blankets up with his free arm, and they held each other in the quiet morning, every breath together getting easier, more natural.
"I'm not going to jump you Gregory. Go back to sleep." Mycroft whispered, and he moved his head, just enough to see Mycroft looking at him, eyes half shut and blinking slowly.
But what if I want you to jump me? I want you. Can't you tell? I don't know what I'm doing, help me….
"Sorry." Greg mumbled, and he buried his face in Mycroft's shoulder. Mycroft smelled so good. Pine needles, scotch, and the scent of him. So wonderful that Greg took a deep lungful, holding it before letting it out slowly. He did it again, and finally noticed as he exhaled that Mycroft was laughing. His chest was shaking, just a little, under his face, and the arm around his shoulders was hugging him closer.
"That tickles." Mycroft gasped out, his voice a whisper. Greg peeked up at him, and found a grin on his face to match the one on Mycroft's. Greg did it again, and he laughed himself when Mycroft started to giggle. Mycroft Holmes was ticklish.
"Something wrong?" Greg asked innocently, and with the arm still curled up under him, tickled Mycroft's ribs.
Mycroft laughed out loud, swatting lightly at Greg with his free hand. He was convulsing and laughing and Greg loved every second. He kept doing it, as Mycroft begged him to stop, peals of laughter interspersed gasps for air, tears running from his eyes. Greg was relentless, and used both hands, racing them across Mycroft's stomach as the ice cold spymaster had a giggle fit in bed.
"Stop it! Oh dear God, you evil man!" Mycroft laughed so hard his pillow fell off the bed, and Greg was laughing with him. He raised his hands to attack again, but Mycroft rolled over on top of him.
Greg found himself fully under Mycroft, his arms up over his head. Mycroft had done it swiftly, and gently, and there was the barest of twinges from his injury. The pills were still numbing the pain, but wearing off fast enough that his body was able to respond to the man above him. And his body responded strongly, waking up eagerly. All thoughts of laughter fled, as Mycroft settled his hips right on top of his groin, legs between his. There was no time to be startled, his lips trapped under Mycroft's.
The lips on his were firm, and moved with expert ease. He gasped, and Mycroft took advantage, tongue slipping in his mouth, the tip teasing his own. Greg stopped, stopped thinking, stopped breathing, and stopped being everything else but the sensation of the man on him, his weight, the heat, the hard cock pushing against his groin.
His eyes shut, and he tipped his head to the side, returning the kiss, his tongue sliding along the side of Mycroft's. They were so deep in each other that they were breathing each other's air. Greg moaned, the sound escaping into Mycroft's mouth, and Mycroft responded by the gentlest of thrusts with his hips. Greg did it again, and Mycroft moaned with him, gyrating with his hips so very gently on top of him, rubbing over his groin.
Mycroft lifted his head, and his eyes skewered Greg with their intensity. Greg kissed along his jaw, working his lips towards Mycroft's ear, sucking on the lobe before nipping the little piece of flesh. Mycroft thrust his hips when he did, pushing harder, cock insistent and hot and making Greg moan.
He was hard too, so hard the fabric of his sweat pants was making him quiver as Mycroft rubbed himself on him again, hips pushing him down in the mattress. He was burning up inside, a tight ball of liquid flame rolling in his center, waves flowing over, lapping down his limbs to his toes and fingers. He found a sweet, delicious spot on Mycroft's neck, and sucked, teeth lightly scraping over the salty skin. Mycroft gasped, arching his neck, giving Greg better access.
Greg took his chance, this moment to mark Mycroft, show the world he had done the impossible and made the spymaster his. Mycroft belonged to Greg, forever. Mycroft may have his hands locked over his head, hips spreading his thighs, cock rubbing so dominantly over his own- but he belonged to Greg, and only Greg. He sucked hard, tongue lapping at his neck, teeth nipping. He pulled back, and groaned when he saw the livid red mark low on Mycroft's neck. It would bruise up a brilliant deep red, and Mycroft would see it, know who marked him, no matter where he was or what he was doing.
Mycroft thrust harder, grinding on him, and Greg threw his head back on his pillow, and he thrust his hips back, wrapping his legs tightly around Mycroft's thighs, locking his ankles. Mycroft kissed his face, his jaw, his neck, every touch sending sharp jolts of heat through his core to his groin.
"Let me fuck you, Gregory." Mycroft whispered in his ear. His words made Greg cry out, eager and willing and terrified. "I'll be gentle, please."
"I've never….I don't know how." Greg gasped, Mycroft's thrusts stealing his ability to speak.
"I have, I know what to do… I've wanted this for so long." Mycroft was begging, lacing his plea with wet, openmouthed kisses, each one knocking down Greg's resistance, his nerves. "Please."
"Yes, please yes!" Greg told his lover, tongue rubbing on Mycroft's, the wet heat addicting.
Mycroft let go of one of his arms, sliding a hand down his shoulder, his chest, to his hip. He lifted away quickly, and Greg's legs opened, and in one smooth motion Mycroft had his sweatpants down around his thighs. The cool morning air made his skin tighten up, hairs all over his body lifting, and Greg cried out as Mycroft pulled his sweats all the way off.
Mycroft knelt on the mattress between his legs, eyes locked on the throbbing cock bared before him. He pulled his shirt off over his head, and slid his fingers under the waistband of his boxers. Greg was panting, chest rising and falling fast, watching as Mycroft pulled his boxers down, revealing his own cock, rigid and full. Greg's arms were still over his head, and he found he couldn't move, even though Mycroft wasn't holding him anymore. He was held down by the sight before him, the absolutely engrossing, unbelievably sexy and erotic man who made his blood pound.
"Fuck me." Greg whispered, overcome by everything, shocked and aroused and utterly lost as to what to do next. All thoughts of injury and indecision were distant memories, fading away until the savage heat burning just under the skin.
"I plan on it." Mycroft came back over him, holding himself off Greg with his arms, staying on his knees. Mycroft reached past him, and Greg heard a drawer in the nightstand opening. Mycroft came back with a small bottle, and Greg huffed out a quick burst of laughter at the sight of the lubricant.
"I think you've been planning this since before I moved in." Greg whispered, as Mycroft went back to kneeling between his legs. He lost all laughter when Mycroft, without warning, cupped his cock and balls in one hand, lifting him and gently squeezing. It felt so fucking good, so different, he cried out, eyes shutting. Mycroft wrapped two fingers around the base of his shaft, and with his other hand, cupped his balls and tugged, just the tiniest amount.
Greg's hips jerked when Mycroft stroked up his shaft, fingers knowing immediately what he liked, as his brain melted out of his ears and his body spontaneously combusted. He heard whimpering, and crying, and he wondered who was being tortured until he realized he was making those noises; Mycroft destroying him with each firm, slow, awesome stroke and tug. Greg was thrusting an inch or so off the bed in time with Mycroft's hands, the spymaster working him, owning him with confident mastery. Greg surrendered, trusting implicitly that Mycroft would see him through the lust and nerves to the other side of lake of fire that burned inside of him.
Mycroft increased his pace, Greg shamelessly crying out in time with his hands, hips jerking and thrusting, his own hands grasping the headboard above him. He was so close, and he wanted something he couldn't voice. He wanted Mycroft. So badly.
"Please!" Greg cried out, his entreaty echoing off the walls.
Mycroft stilled, making Greg sob out in denial, so close to an orgasm he damn near slipped off the edge as Mycroft lifted his hands away. He was panting, tears running down his temples, lungs burning from breathing so hard, his cock aching and throbbing. He heard Mycroft open the bottle, and he cracked open his eyes, to see the spymaster rubbing lubricant over his own cock. The sight made his cock twitch, so hard it hurt. He could watch that forever.
Mycroft shocked him intensely when he poured more lubricant on his fingers, and without warning, rubbed his fingers firmly over Greg's ass. His legs were spread, and Mycroft grabbed the thigh opposite from his injury, lifting his leg up, granting him better access. His long fingers spread the lubricant around the tight hole, pushing and teasing. Greg jerked, his cock throbbing in time with Mycroft's ministrations. He panted, each breath loud and exhausted, hands gripping the headboard, as Mycroft put his fingers to his ass and thrust two of them knuckle deep.
"Fuck!" Greg cried out, clenching his ass cheeks, lifting his hips, Mycroft's hand following him as he did. It was so new, so different, he had no chance to decide whether or not he liked it as Mycroft spread him open. The dripping lube on his fingers was cool, and Greg writhed on the bed when a few drops entered him, easing Mycroft's fingers as they slid deeper. Mycroft pushed his fingers as deep as they could go, and he curled them just a bit.
What happened next would stay with Greg his entire life. It was a supernova of light and sound and it all happened in his head, behind his eyes, blinding him and rendering him deaf, oblivious to all but the powerful touch deep inside him. A touch that lit a fuse, burning up his spine to meet the explosion of ecstasy that raged in his head and heart.
"There you are, that's it… perfect." Mycroft whispered to him, as Greg sobbed and pleaded for mercy, Mycroft's fingers rubbing his prostate, expert little motions that made him scream raggedly each time. Mycroft knew every centimeter of that bundle of life-ending pleasure, and he showed Greg just how perfect he thought he was with his fingers.
"Please!" Greg whimpered, crying in need, begging.
Mycroft pulled his hand away, and when he left, Greg mourned his absence, feeling empty. Mycroft grabbed his leg again, and Greg cried out in shock when Mycroft lifted him by it, his knee bent over his shoulder, hips off the bed a few inches. Mycroft roped his arm securely around his thigh, and with the other, maneuvered his cock to Greg's ass.
"Please, dear God please….."
Greg was sobbing, using his free leg to lift his hips to Mycroft, and he was begging, begging for Mycroft to take him. The man above him was a stranger, eyes ablaze with lust, panting hard with need, his expression far from the icy mask he usually wore.
"I love you." Mycroft whispered, breath harsh and ragged. And with those words he thrust forward, the broad head of his cock pushing relentlessly on the tight hole. Greg gripped the headboard so hard he was certain his fingers were about to snap off, and the bed would break.
Greg was shaking, clenching every muscle in his body, unable to breathe, mouth open in shock, eyes burning. Mycroft held him still, pushing in, and the tension was so high that when the hard head of Mycroft's cock finally breached his ass, Greg moaned helplessly with relief, his whole body shuddering. Mycroft sank himself to the hilt, seating his cock as deeply as it could go.
Greg screamed softly, overwhelmed. The long hard throbbing cock in his ass was so new, so different, the heat coming from it making Greg sweat. It hurt too, a powerful burning at his entrance, stretched far wider than two fingers worth. The pain melded with the stretching, the tension, and his body was clenching instinctively on the invasion.
"You are so tight, so fucking tight." Mycroft groaned. He wasn't moving, just throbbing in time with his heartbeat, buried to the hilt. Greg was whimpering, eyes locked on Mycroft, incapable of moving, and not wanting to. He was overcome, thoughts erased, fears evaporated like steam poured over a fire. He was the fire.
When Mycroft began to move, not pulling away, rocking his hips, Greg reached out with one hand, and Mycroft clasped it. Their joined hands pressed hard to Greg's hip, as Mycroft held him up, and took him.
The spymaster pulled back, and carefully withdrew, Greg clenching tightly around him, his hand squeezing Mycroft's so hard a part of him was worried he might break something. The long length inside him pulled away, leaving an achingly empty feeling behind.
"Noooo…" He begged, words escaping on their own, and he tried to push himself on Mycroft, but he had no strength, his body too weak to make his lover return.
"Shhhh….. I'm here." Mycroft reassured him, and thrust back in, a long, sure deep stroke that made fresh tears run from his eyes.
"Love you….." Greg's eyes shut, and he arched his back, as Mycroft withdrew again, and thrust back in, faster now. The pace was slow, relentless and without pause, the spymaster taking him again and again. The pressure, the stretching, all of it was too much, too overwhelming. Yet his body craved it, ached for it, and Greg cried out in time with Mycroft, each stroke sending jolts of heat and electricity though his body. They were so tangible he would swear to his dying day that they were both in a firestorm, lightning striking on them both.
"More…." Greg called out, and suddenly he lost his grip on Mycroft's hand. The spymaster grabbed his other thigh, and even as he thrust, not once breaking rhythm, he lifted Greg's other leg to drape over his shoulder. Greg had both legs on Mycroft's shoulders, and he was fully exposed, his ass level and perfectly aligned for Mycroft to do as he wished. It changed the angle, the depth of his thrusts, and Greg screamed again, both hands slamming into the headboard, clutching. His cock was rubbing over that special place deep inside, slipping across it with every thrust, back and forth. A keening wail of disbelief and sweet, hot, raging pleasure escaped from him, a sound he could never replicate if he tried.
Greg's body let Mycroft in, no resistance now, the steady beat and thick heat opening him, every thrust becoming more and more welcome. His cock slid in and out, and Greg did his best to please his lover, consciously tightening his muscles as Mycroft withdrew, easing as he thrust back in.
The room fell away, the bed beneath them fog under a strong morning sun. They were alone, their bodies straining and clinging to each other. Mycroft was groaning, every time he thrust hilt deep. Greg pried his eyes open, to see Mycroft watching him. Their eyes met, held, and the heat flashed hotter, higher.
"Now!" He demanded, his orgasm coming forth, a band of tension pulled tight in his core. And it snapped, a reverberation of pleasure in his foundations. Mycroft whipped his hand out, and stroked Greg's cock as he came. His seed spilled out in thick spurts across his stomach, Mycroft thrusting fast as he worked his lover.
Greg shattered, his yells of release loud in the room, his body convulsing. He surrendered to the fire, writhing in the flames, unaware of the universe as he burned, tightening around Mycroft so much he pulled a shout from the other man.
Mycroft plunged deep, and Greg could feel him coming, his cock jerking and swelling. Mycroft came hard, shuddering against Greg's hips, arms wrapped around his legs, head back as he breathed through his own orgasm. A space of a single breath, the time between heartbeats, was perfection, the two of them joined together wonderfully as any lovers could hope to be.
Greg eventually crawled out from the fire, the pool of liquid flame that simmered still in his core. He blessed whatever fortitude he had possessed to keep his eyes open, to watch Mycroft's impeccable control break apart like ice under a summer sun. It had captivated him, seeing the man he loved past all reason and expectations come apart and just let go. To be himself, at a basic and primal level that Greg appreciated and understood intimately.
Mycroft stirred, and pressed a kiss to his knee. Mycroft's tight grip on his legs eased, and the spymaster lowered a leg one at a time to the bed, withdrawing gently as he did. Greg felt a twinge, but he was okay with the ache. Sex wasn't meant to be only soft sighs and pretty words. It was fine to come out on the other side of it sporting a bruise or two, if both partners were happy. And by all that's holy, was he happy.
Greg moaned at the state of his shirt, wet thick stains on it. He shrugged, glad he had been wearing it, and peeled it off, finally naked as Mycroft. The poor man was still kneeling on the mattress, head low, breathing fast. Greg threw his shirt away, hearing it hit the floor. Greg opened his arms, and nudged at Mycroft's hip with a toe.
"C'mon here."
Mycroft lifted his head, and Greg grinned in sympathy at the exhaustion, the sated look on the spymaster's face. Mycroft awkwardly crawled up his body, avoiding Greg's injury, and he cuddled Mycroft to his shoulder. The poor man was still breathing hard, his heart racing, and Greg got the fleeting thought that while Mycroft certainly knew what he was doing in bed, it was obvious he hadn't been doing anything other than sleeping in it lately. Which was just fine with him, he wasn't the type to share.
Mycroft snagged the blankets, and managed to pull them up over their shoulders before collapsing completely on Greg. He kissed Mycroft on the top of his head, snuggling closer, no space between them under the covers.
"I love you, Mycroft." He whispered. He never meant those words more than he did right now.
"Love you too." Came the sleepy reply, and Greg did his best not to laugh in delight as the most powerful man in England passed out on his shoulder, naked as the day he was born, a smile on his face.
Greg was so happy, content, relaxed, that he was able to ignore the incessant throbbing of his wound. The pain came out in sharp jabs, in time with his heart, complaining bitterly about the exercise he had just gotten. Greg was so happy he chuckled, thinking that his recovery would be a lot faster if he had this kind of physical therapy every day.
Mary felt the faint twinge, rubbing her hand over her lower abdomen as the pain came and went. She pressed her face into the sweet smelling pillow, wondering when the settee had gotten so comfortable, and the smell of lilacs was refreshing. Her stomach flinched as another sharp pain radiated out from under her hand, and Mary gasped.
She wasn't at Leinster Gardens anymore, and there was something wrong…
Her eyes shot open, fear choking her, bile welling up in her throat. She was cramping, enough that it was making her cringe. She started to pant, fear making her bite her lip and struggle to sit up. Violet was sleeping next to her, and Mary fought back tears, panic screaming in her heart.
"No…. please no…" Mary begged, and she sat up against the headboard, pulling her knees up to her chest, arms tight to her stomach. "Violet!"
Violet jerked awake, and pushed her hair out of her eyes, looking around the room in confusion. Her eyes landed on Mary, as the blonde woman panted around the pain.
"Mary? What's wrong?" Violet sat up, and put her hand on Mary's shoulder, her face growing alarmed as Mary shook violently, tears pricking, one falling free to trail down her cheek.
"Get John! Now! Please." Mary pressed a hand to her mouth, and she tried her hardest not to panic, not give into the fear that she may be having a miscarriage.
Sherlock stretched, opening his eyes. The day was nearly done, the sun setting fast, dark clouds littering the horizon. He was able to see out over the private garden of his brother's house, and spotted a few flakes of snow coming down. Just looking outside made him cold, and he shivered as the sun set with one last brilliant flash over the city.
The twilight gloom was enough for Sherlock to see clearly, and he stared at the ceiling, mind and heart distracted by a nagging, incessant feeling that he was forgetting something. Missing something- an occurrence that so rarely happened, that when it did, he had no place to hide.
Sherlock turned his head, to see John fast asleep next to him. The white bandage around his arm was still pristine, which meant the bullet wound hadn't bleed as they slept. Sherlock didn't bother hiding his relief, John sleeping, and no one else around to see his emotions.
Seeing John injured earlier had torn at him, a choking sense of loss and terror clawing its way up his throat from the hole it cowered in, deep inside where he kept all his insecurities and fears. The fear that he would lose John Watson was his deepest, ugliest secret, one so vile that he refused to think it; he would repress it and the horrid emotions that accompanied it with ruthless effort.
He sat up, crossing his legs, and propped his chin on his steepled hands, elbows on his knees. Sherlock watched John sleep, his lover relaxed and peaceful. The grey in the doctor's blonde hair was slightly more pronounced than it had been years ago before he left, on his two year hunting expedition for Moriarty's syndicate. The lines around John's eyes, and the faint ones near his mouth were deeper, but not to the casual observer. Sherlock wasn't a casual observer; every aspect of John was dutifully observed, analyzed, and catalogued. John Watson held the honor of having the largest part of Sherlock's mind palace devoted to him, and all things concerning him too.
Sherlock breathed deep, and relaxed, eyes drooping shut. He focused on each breath, and sank down into his mind palace. He fell away from the guest room, the bed beneath him, and opened his eyes to his mind palace. He shrugged his shoulders, popped up his coat collar, and walked behind the memory of himself and John, as they strode together down a street in London.
The day was cold, but not as cold as it currently was in London. This was the Christmas before the Fall, John dragging Sherlock out shopping for something or other as they came back from a case. John mentioned something about getting Mrs. Hudson a smartphone, or a laptop, so that she didn't have to keep borrowing Mrs. Turner's.
This Christmas was preserved not because of the trauma of The Woman's supposed 'death', nor was it preserved because it was the last holiday they had together before Sherlock faked his own death and left John behind. This memory was special to Sherlock because of what it had done to him, in the briefest of instances.
Sherlock followed Spectral Sherlock and John as they stopped at an electronics store, John going in after Spectral-Sherlock grumbled and shoved a handful of notes at him for his part in buying Mrs. Hudson's gift. Sherlock had refused to go in the store, seeing the sheer number of people in there, the numbers making his head hurt and his patience, already nonexistent, fray at the thought of mingling.
Sherlock flinched at what he was about to see, and took over the memory, removing the Spectral version of himself, and placing his view of the memory in his direct control. He had no desire to see how past-Sherlock would deal with what was about to happen.
So John had gone in alone, dodging his way through the holiday crowd. Sherlock watched him through the windows of the storefront, bored out of his mind, and idly deducing every person John had bumped into while in the store. He bumped into a lot of them, and Sherlock found himself enjoying the process of deducing each one as quickly as possible before John collided with someone else. He was winning, as much as anyone could win such an activity, and split his focus, deducing people as part of his mind would try and predict who John would collide with next.
So engrossed was he in watching John and the deductions flying off the people in the store that he almost didn't see the gun, or the junkie wielding it. One of the people who accidentally bumped into John had backed up quickly, as John walked on, and that person then smacked hard into the well-dressed drug addict looking at a laptop. The addict's coat pulled against his hip, and Sherlock had seen the silhouette of a gun under the coat.
Sherlock trembled as the memory of absolute terror choked him, wracked his limbs, and shattered his preoccupation with playing. John was in a crowded, small store surrounded by people stressed out and neurotic from the holidays, and there was junkie in there carrying a gun. It had all the earmarks of a total bloody disaster, and John was trapped in the middle of it all. Sherlock watched the junkie, who hadn't done anything more than snap at the other person, before returning his attention back to the laptop.
Sherlock had pulled out his mobile and texted John. He hadn't told him about the gun, or the junkie; all he had said was that he was tired of waiting, and John needed to hurry up or he would get left behind. Sherlock hadn't known what to do with himself; the junkie was making no aggressive moves, but the potential for violence was there, and John was too close. His doctor had replied, saying he had found what he wanted and was on his way out.
Those few minutes before he came back out to Sherlock's side on the street had been an interminable hell of a wait. Sherlock was at a loss, thoroughly confounded by what he was feeling, by what his body was experiencing. He felt ill, sweaty, chilly and hot. He was rarely sick, but as John made his way out of the store, passing the junkie as he did, Sherlock could have sworn he was dying.
He had no experience with fear, nothing tangible until a few months later when he and John had gone to Baskerville, met the Hound, and tasted the terror fog. So when he felt terror that day as John went shopping for a silly present, Sherlock hadn't known what it was, or how to process what he was feeling. All he had known at the time was that John, his John, was too close to something dangerous, and was just past his reach. He had felt foolish, silly, and crammed everything he was feeling as deep as he could, just as John had rejoined him on the sidewalk.
John had started for home, and Sherlock had paced beside him the whole way. He ignored the tiny part of him that was berating himself for walking so near to John as they traveled back to Baker Street.
If he had the experience then that he did now, he would have known that he was deeply, passionately, devastatingly in love with John. And that no matter the depth of his infatuation with The Woman, if he had come to terms with what he was feeling, she never would have deceived him, pulled his attention away from the grand picture. He would have won all that much sooner, and her hold on him would have be lesser than it had been at the time.
So this memory remained, for its simplicity. It had driven home to him how deeply John had imbedded himself in Sherlock's psyche, his cells, his entire being. For the longest time he had no idea why he kept it, why he would think of it, why it was saved rather than discarded.
It was saved because it was there, in that moment- that Sherlock Holmes had begun to realize that there was nothing that frightened him more than the prospect of losing John. The thought hadn't fully crystallized until the confrontation with Moriarty months later, but that day during Christmas was its genesis.
"Sherlock?" John's voice threaded its way through the streets of his mind palace, jarring him from his uncomfortable memory. "Oh, I see. Stay in there, love. Don't rush back."
Sherlock slowly came back, part of him smiling as John recognized that he was deep in his mind palace. Most people had no clue, and would rudely interrupt, some even touching him to get him to 'snap out of it', whatever 'it' was. People were idiots. But not his John; his doctor knew instantly what he was doing, and how to treat him. And for that, Sherlock prized his doctor even more. There was no one in the whole world who knew him better than John Watson.
Sherlock sighed, withdrawn completely from his palace, and blinked his eyes open. John was sitting up, facing him on the bed, and Sherlock had no word to describe the look on his face other than love. John loved him. He dropped his hands to his knees, and stared at John, eyes taking in every inch of his well-muscled and naked doctor.
"Morning." Sherlock said, and he smiled back as the doctor gave him that sweet smile.
"Morning, Sherl'. What were you after? Anything in particular?" John asked, and he inched forward a bit on the wide mattress. John mirrored his pose on the bed, hands clasping his knees, eyes bright even in the fading light. Sherlock figured he could lean forward, and without much effort, press his lips to John's.
So he did, keeping his eyes to John as he bent forward, and he kissed his doctor, his lover. He felt John smile as he kissed him, noses rubbing together, eyes so near that Sherlock could see the deep grey blue in perfect clarity. There was kindness in those eyes, a warm, loving man with the heart of a lion.
"I was after you, John." Sherlock said, deepening the kiss. He lifted his hands, framing John's face, and he tilted his head just enough to let him lick at John's lips, before sliding his tongue past them. John responded, their tongues meeting in a slow, patient dance.
The kiss was gentle, intimate, and Sherlock resisted the urge to make it faster, harder. He wanted to be slow, savor every taste, every wet slide and breathy gasp of air. John met him touch for touch, his own hands rising to grasp Sherlock's wrists, thumbs over pulse points. His doctor's fingers rubbed over his skin, smooth and light, small sparks bursting across his skin as they drifted down to his elbows, and back up to his wrists.
Sherlock let his eyes close, breath mixing with John's, his doctor making quiet moans of delight as they kissed. John sighed, happy, and Sherlock wouldn't let him pull away from their kiss as his doctor knelt up on his knees. John pushed Sherlock back, slowly, mouth compelling him to lay down, on his back. John came over him, straddling his hips, their naked bodies touching as intimately as their tongues and lips.
John broke off the kiss, lifting a bare inch or so back. His lips were red and swollen, face flushed. John was aroused, his cock rubbing over Sherlock's stomach as he leaned over the detective. It was hot, and hard, and Sherlock moaned softly, shivering as John throbbed between them. John thrust softly, not too much, just enough to rub his cock over Sherlock's flat stomach.
"I love you, John." Sherlock told him, hands rubbing up and down John's sides, settling on his hips. Sherlock tugged, pulling John down on top of him. John rested fully on top of him, his muscular weight wonderful and invigorating.
His arms braced on either side of Sherlock's head, and their kiss began anew, as if it had never stopped. They shared but one breath between them, the same love, the same heat, building so patiently. This heat was theirs, a fire banked for now, content to burn as deep red embers instead of a raging inferno.
"I love you too, Sherlock. I've loved you for years." John whispered in his ear, breaking the kiss to nibble gently along Sherlock's jaw. "I fell so hard, so surely. What I fool I was, all those years ago."
"A fool?" Sherlock asked, lifting his hips the smallest amount, pressing John's arousal more firmly to his stomach. Its heat was incredible, and Sherlock wanted to feel more of it. His own arousal was growing swiftly, and John must be aware of it, as it was snuggly planted along his ass.
"I missed so much by not recognizing my feelings for you. I knew I loved you, I truly did, but I didn't know how much, and in what way." John told him, planting a kiss just below his ear. Sherlock gasped, and his hands gripped John's hips tighter. "I think I fell for you the second you winked at me, after you blew my mind with those irritating and incredible deductions, the first time we met."
"Oh! ... John…" Sherlock moaned as John began to rotate his hips, alternating between rubbing his cock on Sherlock's stomach, and moving so Sherlock's cock rubbed on his ass. "I'll wink at you every day for the rest of our lives if that's what it'll take to keep you mine."
"I'll never stop being yours, Sherlock." John said, serious and intense. "You have every part of me, forever."
The sound of a door crashing against a wall was loud, even though their door was shut securely. John and Sherlock both turned to the door, just as they heard someone bang on it rapidly.
"John! It's Mary! She thinks there's something wrong with the baby!" Violet yelled through the door.
Sherlock lifted John off of him, and the doctor jumped from the bed, grabbing a pair of pajama bottoms that he hadn't bothered to put on before they went to bed. John grabbed a robe, and ran to the door. Sherlock was on his heels, pausing only long enough to hop into his own bottoms as John flung open the door.
Violet ran back to Anthea's room, where Mary had been sleeping with her all day. John followed, robe billowing out behind the doctor as he ran the few steps to the room next door, swinging in to the room.
Mycroft's bedroom door opened down the hall, and Sherlock saw Anthea come running from his room, barefoot and disheveled from sleep. She joined Sherlock at the door to her room, watching John approach the curled up form of Mary as she huddled on the bed. Her soft sobs were barely audible from where they were standing, but Sherlock felt an icy chill run over him as he stood in the hall.