Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but he owns me.

A/N: Sincere apologies for the extreme delay. I just finished moving five states across the country. Expect regular updates now, at least twice a month.

Short chapter this time, just to get myself back in the story.

WARNING: SEX!

Chapter 65

"What He Wants"

Mycroft's Townhouse

January 19th

Pre-Dawn

"Don't stop," Greg sighed, eyes fluttering shut as Mycroft moved between his legs, the leaner man riding him slow and sure. He settled deeper into the soft bed, running his hands along Mycroft's sides as the spymaster woke him thoroughly. Waking with a hard cock nudging at his opening before he even had time to think was perfection, making him groan and sigh, languid and content.

"Never stop," Mycroft gasped as he plunged deep, lifting Greg's left leg behind his knee and putting it over his shoulder, opening Greg wider for his cock to slide in and out. The burn was powerful, Mycroft having spared minimal time preparing him before taking him deep and fast. There was more than enough lube, and Mycroft moved with a vengeance. Heat built slowly in Greg's core, the wet slick generously applied to himself and his lover letting Mycroft move with ease, stretching him, going deeper with each thrust.

Greg opened his eyes, catching the light from the lone street lamp outside the townhouse in a narrow beam that sliced through their bedroom, illuminating Mycroft's face above him. His skin was cast in golden hues from the false dawn, sweat running from his temples, eyes fierce and intense, as Mycroft lowered himself to rest his weight fully atop Greg. His long arms wrapped under and up around Greg's shoulders, gripping hard, giving the spymaster more to push against.

Greg groaned, eyes rolling back in his head, as Mycroft's angle changed, his thick, hot cock plunging right over his prostate, hitting it dead center with each driving thrust. The sound of sex filled the room, sweaty flesh hitting flesh, the wet noises of a well-lubed cock and hole mixing with their deep groans and gasps.

This was fucking. Primal, needy, messy fucking, the both of them reduced to lust and aching want as their higher functions succumbed beneath a layer of rutting heat. Greg relaxed, lifting his other leg higher, giving Mycroft more access, instinctively submitting to the man riding him with desperate need.

It was the look in Mycroft's eyes that drove all ability to think out of Greg's head. This was a wildness, all animal instinct to the fore, the possessive drive of the beast to dominate and claim his mate. Mycroft now revealed a side he never showed anyone, rarely even Greg, even in their most intense couplings. The vaulted and esteemed mind of Mycroft Holmes was usurped by the madness of lust and urgency, and Greg submitted to his own desires that this state in his mate pulled out of the corners of his lower mind.

Head thrown back, mouth wide as short, rough cries burst free from his throat on every brutal thrust from the man on top of him. He was crying, a constant stream of tears pouring down his temples into his dark gray hair, the sensations too intense to bear. Mycroft grinned down at him, a smile full of white teeth and taut lips, eyes bright and feral, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose. Greg lifted his knees higher, tilting his hips, and both men groaned at the change in angle, the spymaster tagging his prostate now with greater accuracy, fucking him deeper. Mycroft bottomed out with each stroke, and Greg cried out every time in matching rhythm, fingers clawing at the spymaster's shoulders.

"Mine," snarled the spymaster, and Greg was barely coherent enough to moan in response. Mycroft paused his ruthless pace, slowly withdrawing until the only tip of his rock-hard shaft remained inside, and he took a painful handful of Greg's hair. Tipping Greg's head so they were eye-to-eye and it was impossible for Greg to look anywhere but into Mycroft's eyes, the spymaster repeated his claim. "You're mine, Gregory."

"Yesss…. Oh, God," Greg whispered brokenly, as Mycroft slammed himself balls deep, resuming his frenetic pace of plunge and swift withdrawal. "Mycroft!" Greg screamed, the possession in his lover's words, the tight grip he maintained in his hair enough to send him roaring over the edge of his climax, plummeting into an orgasm that made every muscle clench from head to toe.

Mycroft rode him through his orgasm, slamming in deeper and deeper with each downward thrust, the spymaster ruling his body, forcing Greg to spray thick ropes of seed between their bodies, the hot liquid adding to the rivulets of sweat running from them to the sheets.

"I'll never let you go," Mycroft whispered, words ragged, and he curled his lean body over Greg. Burying his swollen cock as deeply as it could go, he made Greg cry out at the intense wet heat filling his body as Mycroft came.

Greg must have passed out, as he came to with Mycroft cradling him to his whip-lean chest, long fingers running through his sweat dampened hair. Dawn was approaching the horizon, and soon the day would encroach on their secluded space. Mycroft's heart beat true and hard beneath his ear, his skin damp and flushed, chest rising and falling with each life-affirming breath. Greg lay limply on his lover, lacking even the energy to lift his head and gift Mycroft with a smile.

Eventually he found the power to move, lifting his chin slightly. He saw Mycroft watching him, his eyes black in the gray overtones of the pre-dawn hour.

"I will never let you go, Gregory," Mycroft murmured, fingers feathering through the strands of hair over Greg's forehead, the touch light, yet full of promise. "I cannot bear another loss. My heart won't survive it."

"I won't be going anywhere, love. Not while there's breath left in my body," Greg promised, meaning every word.

His body, now awake, was complaining, still sore and battered from the explosions. He was far better off than most, and luckily he would escape this near-miss with naught but scrapes and bruises and a few minor cuts. He was alive. Others weren't.

"Any plans for the day? Other than the obvious?" Greg asked into the quiet that had developed after his vow.

"I shall be tearing apart the fabric of our society in an attempt to discover the domestic terrorists that decided to bomb our streets," Mycroft intoned, looking up at the ceiling above their bed as his fingers continued to play in Greg's hair. "But other than that, nothing."

"I wonder if I'll be able to sleep in this morning for once…" Greg mused, just as his mobile trilled from the nightstand. "Speak of the Devil," Greg moaned, and he couldn't find the initiative or the strength to reach for it.

Mycroft plucked the offending piece of technology off the nightstand, and checked the Caller ID. "Not the Devil, Gregory. A lesser scion at the Yard, apparently."

"No rest for the wicked, or the righteous who chase them," Greg groused as he accepted the mobile, swiping to answer the incoming call from Dispatch.

Highgate Cemetery

January 19th

Dawn—Early Morning

"Oh fuck me, Sherlock," Violet gasped, covering her mouth, eyes wide, spinning away from the scene at the base of the statue. She gagged, and John put a hand on her shoulder, holding her steady.

"Not the morning for requesting illicit relations, niece of mine," Sherlock replied, tugging his gloves over his lean wrists before ducking under the crime scene tape and heading for Lestrade and the corpse. Violet gave a rough snort of laughter even as she tried to keep the bile down that threatened to expel her breakfast.

Technicians clad in dull blue bodysuits canvased the graveyard, in the oldest section of Highgate where an early morning mourner had come to see the Angel of Death statue in this little traveled nook. Police vehicles filled the narrow street that wove among the headstones, and the gravel and cracked pavement crunched under booted feet and tires, breaking through the morning layer of frost.

Violet exhaled roughly, and dropped her hand from her mouth, and she leaned on John, the older man a solid and comforting presence at her side. The short ex-army doctor was calm, the gore a few yards away not affecting him in the least, not that she could see. His smile was small and tight, restrained in the horrific, oppressive atmosphere that seemed to hover over the graveyard despite the rising sun.

"Not going to pass out, right? I don't need to be trying to treat you for a concussion out here, surrounded by overzealous coppers. Too many things to hit your head on, and too many hands wanting to help," John said, a wry smile twisting the corner of his lips as he took in her pallor and her nod. "Good. I'm too tired to fight off smitten policemen."

"Pfft," Violet scoffed, steadfastly refusing to turn around and watch her youngest uncle work the bloody crime scene. Maybe if the corpse wasn't still hanging from the statue she could manage it, but with the body swaying in the cold winter wind and the frosted blood glittering in the pale sunlight, it was just too much for her to handle.

"Don't 'ppfftt' at me, young lady," John said, dark blue eyes twinkling, even as he glanced past her shoulder to check on Sherlock. "Half of the men who report to Lestrade are in love with you. I swear they fight over who gets to respond to calls when they learn the two Holmes and the doctor are with Lestrade at a crime scene."

"I don't come every time you guys have a case, so I don't think that's what's going on here, buddy," Violet grumbled, nudging his side with her elbow. "They could all be here for Sherlock ya know. My uncle's famous. And sexy."

"That he is," John drawled, his dark blue eyes crinkling as he sent Sherlock an expression mixed equally with love and irritation. "Or maybe it's the chance to work a serial killer case that's drawing them in like bright yellow flies to honey."

Violet humphed in agreement, eyeing the hordes of police in glaringly bright jackets, the yellow so offensive it was impossible to miss. Which was the point, she knew that, but she still missed the dark blue and blacks of the average American cop's uniform. And the hats here were weird, too. Though the winter versions weren't so…stiff.

"Do they have the body down yet?" Violet asked, still refusing to turn around. She could hear Sherlock's deep and elegant baritone and Lestrade's more unique accents over the subtle thrum of engines and other people's conversations, but not the individual words.

"Not yet, no," John said ruefully, and Violet sighed.

"Why did I come with you guys again?"

"We ended up in the same cab because you and Sherlock were so absorbed in ignoring each other after the other day's incident that neither of you noticed we were here until it was too late?" John supplied, a soft chuckle escaping his lips, making her glare at her soon-to-be-uncle.

"Oh yeah, that's why." Violet blew out a sharp breath of air, and leaned even more on John's shoulder, grateful for the heat pouring off his compact body. He may be short, but he was all muscle. Not rock solid, he was in his forties and he didn't work out often that she could see, but the last two years of stress, grief and bicycling nearly everywhere had left John Watson strong and lean enough to prove age and size didn't mean everything.

"Is he okay?" Violet had to ask, biting her lip. "After what happened?"

"You mean after you chased him from the room when you asked him about your dad, and accused him in a round-about way of looking the other way while his brother killed tons of people?"

"Well, fuck. Yeah, that. He okay?"

"He's never going to be okay, Violet. Stable, occupied, distracted and entertained are the states we all need him to be in, but okay is something he will never be. And we don't want him to be okay."

"You sound so certain of that," Violet said softly, looking John fully in the face, ignoring the flashes of white sheets in the corner of her eye as people moved around the spot where the body hung suspended from the statue. For some reason John's words made her feel sad, almost defeated. Sherlock deserved happiness, and peace.

If Sherlock couldn't be even just a simple 'okay', then Violet didn't know what she would do. She didn't know how this conversation turned to Sherlock's potential to be happy and carefree, but she found herself suddenly wishing with everything she had in her that she could provide her uncle with a measure of the peace he must surely be lacking.

John gave her a quick look, then a longer one as he registered the sadness she couldn't hide. "Oh Violet, love. No. He's happy, most days. He loves me, he knows I love him, and we have never been closer, more in tune with each other. His heart is safe, and thriving. It's his demons that will never be gone, not completely, and they have scarred him so deeply he may never recover from them. His past has changed him, made him the way he is now, and for Sherlock to become the generic definition of 'okay', he would stop being the man we know and love."

"Oh, well, we can't have that," Violet said tearfully, smiling as she wiped at her eyes. "A 'normal' Sherlock would be downright scary."

"We would all be lesser for it, too."

Violet relaxed, and turned sideways, dropping her head to rest on John's temple, and one of his arm's wrapped around her ribs, pulling her close. She hugged him around the neck, the height difference almost making the hug impossible, but they managed. Violet closed her eyes and let the man she loved as much as her two uncles hold her tight, the steadfast and strong doctor making her feel safer than she had in weeks.

John watched his fiancé quietly, rubbing his free hand over Violet's hair as she kept her eyes off the dead woman, who resembled a savaged piece of meat and less the human she would have been hours before.

Sherlock did his utmost best to tolerate the fluttering techs, all of them whispering excitedly amongst themselves as the coroner and his assistant gently lowered the latest victim to the body bag waiting beneath the Angel.

Or he was ignoring them, until a certain phrase caught his ear.

"You! There! The moron with the cheating wife and three cats!" Sherlock snapped, pointing to one of the techs draped in a blue body suit, looking like an overripe berry with his winter clothing doubling his size. The tech jumped, hand to his chest, visibly swallowing as Sherlock crooked a finger at him, imperiously summoning him over.

The tech stumbled through the snow and ice, his stub nose and glasses giving him an especially idiotic appearance. Sherlock eyed the tech, who was now sweating with nerves, despite the chill and sporadic snowflakes.

"What did you just say?" Sherlock demanded, scarf picked at by an errant breeze. The end smacked the tech in the face, who was too frightened of the taller man to do more than blink.

"Sir-r-rr?" he stammered, glasses fogging as his breathing sped up. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and grimaced.

"What did you just say? Mere seconds ago? Is your brain incapable of retaining thoughts past a handful of seconds?" Sherlock said, any patience he may have had soon exhausted by the idiot in front of him. Less a man and more a goldfish; he wondered if Mycroft was looking for any new aides.

"Oh! Um. Well…..I said this looked like another one of the Gothic Manslayer's victims?" the tech offered with trepidation, face going red as Sherlock gave him a scathing look of incredulity.

"Gothic Manslayer?" Sherlock shouted, utterly floored with the moronic misnomer. The entire graveyard went quiet but for the wind, and Sherlock saw John break away from Violet and start heading his way through the tombstones. "Who in the Great Abyss of Wasted Potential came up with that moniker?"

The tech shakily raised his hand, and then squeaked in terror as Sherlock threw up his own hands in disgust, waving the short man away just as John gained his side. The tech ran for the comforting presence of his cohorts, the lot of them hiding behind a garish headstone.

"I hear that come out of anyone's mouths while I'm in hearing distance I'll resort to truly dreadful experiments at NYS!" Sherlock roared, sending the techs into hiding deeper in the cemetery. He spun to John, who gave him a small, tight smile, eyes distant, their blue somehow cooler. Not because pf his antics; but for the presence of the corpse nearby, his doctor withdrawn to protect himself.

"Did you hear that, John? 'Gothic Manslayer'. My brain actually hurts now. Blinding pain, right through my brain, all due to the level of stupid in my immediate environment. That's it John; I'm allergic to stupid." Sherlock moaned piteously, running a hand through his curls before twirling to observe the coroner removing the body from its restraints.

"There is no such allergy, though if it's ever discovered I'm sure you'll have it in spades," John patted him on his lower back, a solid presence at his side. Some warmth crept back into his eyes, his voice, and Sherlock played up his antics, hoping to earn a real smile from his lover.

"Be careful with those ropes! Don't contaminate them!" Sherlock snapped at the coroner, who very manly withheld a return comment. "Couldn't they come up with something marginally original and somewhat accurate? Where's the standard of education in this country?"

"In the toilet along with the rest of the world? No one needs to think anymore, now that our mobiles know our lives better than we do," John retorted, and Sherlock snorted in agreement.

"How about the Glorifying Misogynistic Woman-slayer? Or the Gothic Monster? The Devil's Disciple?" Sherlock perked up at the last one, thinking hard about how it sounded. He shrugged, shelving the idea for later.

"What?" John asked, the doctor's perception towards his moods ever sharpening. "You liked that last one, didn't you?"

"Don't know what you're on about," Sherlock said primly, stepping over a short stone and approaching the body where it lay atop the black bag.

John chuckled, a short yet rich sound that melted into Sherlock's bones. He fought back a smile, but sent his doctor a sideways glance under his lashes. John gave him a smile, a real one this time, and followed in his wake as they approached the body.

Violet wrapped her coat tight under her chin, watching as her uncles did their job. Thankfully they obstructed her view of the corpse, both men looking down at it as they gestured, presumably talking about evidence and clues. Violet shivered, hunkering down deeper into the warm folds of her ladies' Belstaff, squinting against the morning sun.

A smooth rumble echoed over the headstones, and Violet turned. She saw the approach of the Jaguar as it ghosted like a demon through the frozen mists and shadows of the cemetery, moving police personnel and vehicles by sheer presence….and the government plates.

The luxury car purred to a halt inches from her black leather boots, and across the top of the car the driver opened the door and stood.

"Ms. Hunter, Mr. Holmes requests your presence at your earliest convenience," he intoned gravely, eyes hidden by black shades. He looked as nameless as any other governmental employee around the world. They all seemed to come standard in a black suit, stony expressions, and black shades. And zero personality.

"At my earliest convenience? Surely he means at his convenience. Which means now, I suppose," Violet said wryly, the sun glinting off the frost building on the top of the car. She gave the man a wink, and grinned widely as a pink hue bloomed on his cheeks. It may be from the cold air, but she doubted it. Seems this peon had some hot blood in him after all. "Please tell my uncle that his convenience matches mine. I'll be along in a moment."

He nodded curtly, and slipped back inside the car, shutting the door quietly. She pulled out her mobile, and flicked on the screen. No texts. Weird. Mycroft usually sent a text, or she would get an alert of some kind that Mycroft was sending for her. The aides in the bunker probably upgraded the system's security in the last few hours.

Violet turned back to the crime scene, and put two fingers to her lips. She let rip a blistering whistle, making every living person and probably some deceased look in her direction. Dozens of eyes landed on her and she grinned wide, cocking her head and letting the breeze carry her long black hair off her shoulders. Men stared, and she let a bit of deviltry enter her smile, twitching her grin into something devious. She laughed, and a few men stumbled nearby.

Maybe John was right after all.

John and Sherlock both turned to look, and she nodded and waved a hand towards the luxury car. John saluted and gave her a goodbye wave, before returning his focus to the body. Sherlock stood still for a moment, then slowly nodded as well, before returning his attention to the body.

Violet strode to the rear, and opened the door, slipping inside the warm interior. The butter soft leather seats cradled her as she shut the door, and the car pulled away, taking the tight curves of the cemetery road with liquid agility.

Streets blurred by as the car wove through the city, and she held her mobile in one gloved hand, watching as the rising sun moved across the black screen and her lap. She was so entranced by the shifting light that when the ride went on longer than she thought, she lifted her head, and saw she was on the far side of town.

Nowhere near Mycroft's townhouse and the bunker.

The car pulled under an open bay door, and disappeared into the shadows of a vast, empty space. Some kind of warehouse.

The car slowly came to a stop, and Violet gaped in confusion as the driver turned off the car, pulled the keys from the ignition, and exited the vehicle. He slipped away into the shadows before she could ask what was going on, and she sat back in her seat, feeling a hint of fear.

She stared, one hand on the door handle, and she was about to get out as well, when her mobile chimed. She jumped, and swore under her breath as she opened the text.

Get out of the car, Ms. Holmes.

Ms. Holmes? Why call me Ms. Holmes? Everyone knows its Hunter, not Holmes. I was only ever a Holmes before we moved to the States when I was two. Before Mom changed our names.

Violet stared at the mobile, afraid to leave the dubious protection of the car. The driver had the keys, and could open the vehicle, but the doors shut could give her a few precious seconds to dig out her stun guns and call Sherlock. She opened a call to Sherlock even as she hit the locks, but a dull thunk from the door made her stop.

The locks weren't engaging. The mobile chimed again, and she saw the text even as she accessed the phone.

Get out of the car, Violet.

Violet dialed Sherlock, and held the mobile to her ear, but the flat tone of a dropped call was all she heard. She brought it down from her ear, and stared at it, truly getting alarmed now.

It chimed again. Another text.

Now, Violet. We won't have much time before they come for you.

"Fuck."

Sherlock turned back to watch as Violet got in the car, the black Jaguar disappearing in the early morning mist.

Something was wrong.

"Sherlock?"

He moved, walking towards the small one lane road the car had taken to get to the crime scene. He stared down at the thin layer of ice and snow, the treads of the car perfectly outlined.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted, almost in his ear. Sherlock glared at him, and pointed to the ground.

"Call your lover, Detective Inspector," Sherlock ordered, taking out his mobile and bringing up traffic patterns.

"What? Why? He just sent for her, he won't bring her back now, just because you want him to." Lestrade shook his head, and was about to walk away when Sherlock grabbed his collar and yanked him back.

"That wasn't Mycroft's car!" Sherlock shouted, as John ran to them where they stood.

"What's going on?" the doctor asked, eyes wide, intent on Sherlock.

"John, that wasn't Mycroft's car. Wrong plate series, wrong tire tread pattern. Different driver. It took me too long to piece together, the crime scene distracted me!" Sherlock spun, glaring at his mobile as it slowly loaded, reception bad here amongst the dead.

"What?" Lestrade asked again, obviously not following along.

"Violet's been abducted! Again! And I'll be damned before I let Mycroft blame this one time on me, too!"