John Watson was not only adept at reading upside-down, he could also read backwards. Which occasionally put him into some uncomfortable positions - one of which was in a tiny waiting room outside of some random MP's office, sitting across from Mycroft's assistant (who was back to calling herself Anthea today). She was ignoring him and typing madly on her phone, like usual. This time, however, there was a mirror directly behind her seat, and John couldn't help but read - as it were - over her shoulder.

Mycroft slid his pants and trousers off, his face austere and
beautiful. "I warned you," he told the French spy. "You don't
fuck with the British Government - the British Government
fucks you."

The tiny brunette cowered and hid her face. "I'm sorry,
Monsieur Holmes! Whatever ze problem is, I'm sure we can
solve eet togezer!"

"I have no doubt of that," he said calmly. "Take off that
ridiculous disguise and lie down on my desk."

He smoothly unbuttoned his shirt as she disrobed, leaving
himself completely nude, proud cock standing at attention and

John tore his eyes away from the reflection, praying he wasn't blushing too furiously. All this time, all those uncomfortable rides in Mycroft's black cars while she "texted" beside him, and she was writing . . . he couldn't even think the word. He also couldn't help but take another peek.

squealed as he thrust into her, strong and sure. His face
contorted into a sneer. "Is this the intelligence you were
looking for?"

"I'm always eager to learn more details about ze British
Government's . . . assets," she panted, flushed with desire.

"And your conclusions?"

"More substantially endowed zan I realized," she gasped.
"Oh, Monsieur Holmes, I need more! Give me harder!"

He flexed his hips more firmly, fingers bruising her hips as

"Are you ill?"

John snapped his attention up to Anthea's questioning expression. He cleared his throat and swallowed. "Ah, fine."

"Because you look a bit flushed."

John sucked in a deep breath and pointedly looked up at the clock. "I'm fine," he reiterated.

"He'll be done in just a few minutes," she said, eyes already back on her phone.

John nodded and closed his eyes. There was no way in hell he'd ever be able to look at Mycroft again without thinking about. . . that. And blushing like a schoolgirl. He wondered whether Mycroft knew about what his assistant was ostensibly texting. On the one hand, he couldn't imagine Mycroft not reading all her texts - he was a controlling bastard like that, so he must have been. But on the other hand, that meant she'd only be writing terrible sex scenes like that if she knew both that he would spy on her and knew he wouldn't mind, which indicated - oh Christ.

John resolved to never, ever talk to Mycroft about sex. Ever.

"Doctor Watson?" The door opened and the MP's secretary poked his head in. "Mr. Holmes wants you to join the discussion. Can I get you anything? Tea, perhaps?"

Yeah, tea's not going to cut it. John levered himself up out of the chair and managed a tight smile. "No thanks - best to get it over with."

"Right this way, then."

He followed the secretary with heavy footsteps, praying Mycroft wouldn't be quite as adept at reading his mind today as he usually was.

Mycroft's carefully neutral expression faltered the moment John stepped into the room. It was replaced by something almost as neutral, but not quite. John swallowed.

"Sorry for making you wait," the MP said, offering his hand.

"He's fine," Mycroft said smoothly. "Plenty to occupy his mind. Right, Dr. Watson?"

John shook the MP's hand mechanically. "I, uh, yes. Fine."

"Excellent." Mycroft's gaze lingered a little too long on John before he reseated himself and nodded toward the folder on the table between them. "Back to work, then."

John's last thought before business claimed him was fuck, Sherlock can read me like that too.