Complications

About four hours and far too many drinks later, Lestrade somehow found himself sitting on the a couch in a rather well-furnished apartment. He could not remember exactly how he had gotten there, just that it had something to do with ice and not being able to go home yet.

"What kind of tea do you like?" called Mycroft from the kitchen.

Lestrade frowned. "Oh, whatever you'd like."

The young man returned a little while later with an ice pack. He rolled his eyes at the detective.

"Come on, Gabby. You've got to elevate that ankle of yours, or the swelling will never go down."

He grabbed a throw pillow, propping his leg up on the coffee table and clamping the ice pack around it. Lestrade hissed in pain at the contact, and Mycroft looked at him, a faint line of worry on his face.

"I'm sorry. Did that hurt?"

"I'm fine," hissed Lestrade.

"Liar."

Mycroft leaned over, kissing him gently on the forehead.

Lestrade recoiled slightly at the contact, but the alcohol had dulled his inhibitions somewhat, and, to be honest, the man wasn't trying anything too forward as of yet.

You have to get him to talk.

"What's wrong?" asked Mycroft, icy blue eyes bright with concern.

"Nothing. My leg," he muttered.

"So it does hurt. Well, now you've admitted it, I'm afraid I don't have much of a choice."

Lestrade froze. "A choice?"

This. This does not sound good.

The man leaned close, whispering in his ear. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to make you forget about your ankle."

"I. . . I. . . uh, I really don't think -"

His protests were cut off as Mycroft kissed him. It was gentle at first, as though the aide were afraid to alarm him. Not that it stopped him from being alarmed. He wanted to pull away, but Frost was depending on him. And the sooner he got his information. . .

So he kissed back, trying not to think about what he was doing.

Imagine he's a woman. You can do that, Greg. Just. . . Imagine.

It wasn't that difficult to do, he realized as his fingers snaked into the younger man's hair. His skin was smooth and soft against the detective's, and the way he caressed his jaw with light, tripping fingers. . .

Suddenly, he pulled away from Lestrade's mouth, nibbling gently along his jaw line. Lestrade gasped in spite of himself as the man reached his ear, nipping it gently.

He tensed as Mycroft suddenly pinned his arms down with surprising strength, hissing in his ear.

"So, what do you want to know? Detective Sergeant Brown, CID."

Lestrade tried to fight back, but Mycroft swung a leg over him, pinning him down. He nuzzled against Lestrade's temple, humming with amusement.

"It's been fun, but, see, I pinched your warrant card back at the club. I know who you are, Gabby. So why don't you just tell me why you're here."

"I. . . I. . ."

"What do you want, Gabby?"

Lestrade sighed. He might as well be honest. . . To a point.

"Tell me about Rhylstone."

Mycroft pulled back, smirking at him. "See, that wasn't so hard."

He kissed Lestrade again on the mouth, briefer this time.

"It's about the trafficking ring, isn't it?"

Lestrade stared at him in shock.

"Oh, don't look so surprised. I've been collecting evidence against him for months. You're lucky I hate the bastard."

Damn, he's good.

Lestrade was impressed, in spite of himself. "So you're. . ."

"Working against him? Of course. And you're going to help me bring him down, aren't you?"

"But why would you want to -"

Mycroft smirked. "You do not want to know what that man makes his subordinates do. He's a monster. And besides, I can't abide corruption. It is one thing I can never stand. Call me an idealist, but I like my civil servants actually serving their country."

Lestrade smiled. "I suppose that makes you a hero, Mycroft Holmes."

Mycroft smirked sardonically, pulling him close. "I suppose."

This act of tenderness startled Lestrade almost more than the initial kiss. "You do realize I was playing you earlier, yeah?"

Mycroft kissed the tip of his nose. "Not as well as I was playing you, my dear. And I do believe mine was the better hand."

Lestrade's mind raced.

There's no need to keep up your cover any longer, is there? You can run. You can leave. You can get the hell out before things get complicated.

But, somehow, he wasn't able to move. Not yet.

Not until the job is done.

And that hesitation made all the difference in the long run.