A NICE PLACE TO VISIT

Chapter Four

"Thanks, mate, merci." Greg clapped the chef amiably on the back and picked up the dark acacia wood serving tray. In the hallway he passed John, who was swimsuit-clad and carrying a towel and a paperback book, and they exchanged cheerful greetings. Walking carefully so as not to upset his important cargo, Greg made his way to the library where Mycroft had secluded himself for the better part of the morning to tend to the free world.

He kicked gently at the bottom of the door several times in lieu of a knock, calling, "Room service."

After a moment, Mycroft opened the door, looking a little tight around the eyes but otherwise as handsome as Greg always thought him now. He was clothed casually once again in jeans and a striped, pale lavender button-up. As much as the waistcoats sparked Greg's imagination, with their trails of tidy little buttons directing him down Mycroft's body, he more than approved of casual Mycroft as well. It was the way the rolled-up sleeves revealed his freckled forearms, or the exposed hollow of his throat, or the fit of those jeans…or it was just the man himself, in any attire. The forearms were very good, though.

"Is it dinner already?" Mycroft patted absently at the front his shirt, where his silver pocket watch normally would have nestled in the pocket of his waistcoat, then rubbed his temples between the thumb and fingers of one hand while he held the door open for Greg to enter.

"And hello to you, too."

Mycroft looked slightly abashed. "Hello."

Greg looked around the room for a convenient spot to set the tray. The library seemed like a very Mycroft sort of room, warmer and more subtly rich than the rustic look of the rest of the villa, with one panelled wall devoted entirely to books. Mycroft's laptop, now closed, rested atop a polished mahogany desk, and Greg pushed it gently to one side to make space for the serving tray. "Yes, it's that time. I won't keep you. I just wanted to bring you this—" he gestured at the tray "–and make sure you'd be ready for tonight."

"Of course I'll be ready," Mycroft said, his expression softening. "I'm very much looking forward to it. Whatever 'it' is."

Greg tried to sound coolly mysterious. "My turn for a surprise, that's what. Now kiss the cook and have your lunch." He felt almost wickedly domestic, trying on this nurturing role. It was a role he'd always felt came naturally to him, but one his ex-wife had been strangely reluctant to let him play, as if he were insulting her own abilities by doing so.

Mycroft frowned in dismay at the silver-covered dish on the serving tray. "Kiss…Gerard?"

"No, cleverest man in all of England. Me. I made your lunch."

"Did you?" Mycroft lifted the cover from his lunch plate. A little bubble of laughter escaped him. "A sandwich." He noticed his beverage. "And a lager."

"Yeah, I'm a rubbish cook," Greg grinned, feeling absurdly proud of the way the tension in Mycroft's face had already eased. In fact, Greg fancied he looked touched by the gesture. "In the interest of full disclosure, Gerard was the one who pointed out the rosemary bread. And, um, the tray. But I'm great at slicing and stacking things together. So I did all of that part."

"Well. In that case, I feel quite spoiled."

"Then what should you be doing?" asked Greg in a leading tone.

Mycroft stepped forward and obligingly bestowed an appropriately satisfying kiss on the cook.

xxx

John lay in the sun, just on the edge of a doze, his skin prickling in the heat. Beside him his paperback lay neglected on his towel alongside his sunglasses and a beaded glass of what was once ice water. A shadow passed in front of the orange-tinged light filtering through his closed eyelids and then there was a dramatic flopping sound beside him followed by a gusty sigh. John grinned.

"You smell like coconuts."

"I don't want to burn," murmured John.

"Then you shouldn't be exposing yourself half-clothed to ultraviolet radiation. Come back to the house."

"It feels nice." John propped himself up on his elbows and opened his eyes, squinting as they adjusted to the light. He looked up at Sherlock, who was sitting beside him, leaning back on his hands with his face tilted up toward the sun. His profile was framed by a clear azure sky. Sunlight kindled glints of deep auburn brown on the arcs of his dark curls. His cheeks and lips were already flushed with warmth. John knew he would never tire of looking at Sherlock, just looking at him. He was fascinating, hard and soft, dark and brilliant all at once. He was…glorious. "I love you so much," John breathed out before he realized he intended to speak at all.

Sherlock turned and gave him a long, curious stare. He eased himself onto his side, spreading a big hand across John's stomach and propping his head up with the other. "You're hot. And oily. And sweaty," Sherlock observed.

"I am all those things," John agreed, "And so much more." He wiped a finger through the layer of suntan lotion on his shoulder and rubbed a little on Sherlock's nose, which immediately wrinkled in affront. "Don't want you to burn, either."

"That's disgusting," he complained.

"You've had worse things on your face."

Sherlock sniffed and slid his hand slowly up to John's chest and back down. "That's because you're frequently disgusting."

"Disgust isn't usually the sentiment you express at the time."

"Only because I'm sparing your feelings."

John snorted laughter at the concept. "No, you aren't."

"John, I need you to come back to the house."

There was no mistaking the intent in Sherlock's voice or eyes. "Sherlock, are you conducting some sort of experiment regarding my sexual stamina?" John asked lazily as his thoughts began to thicken along with his cock in automatic response to Sherlock's arousal-deepened baritone. This would be their…sixth time? Or was it seventh? In four days? "Not that I'm complaining. Just…wondering."

"No." Sherlock tugged at the drawstring around John's waist. "Although it's an excellent idea. Of course, if I were conducting such an experiment, I couldn't tell you."

"Because informing me would skew the results."

"Obviously."

"Really, though. What's come over you these past few days?"

"You, if you recall," Sherlock rubbed his hand across John's stomach again, insinuating his fingertips slowly under John's waistband.

"And you're being funny," John captured the hand and held it in place, forcing his eyes fully open so he could take a more focused look at Sherlock. "I've never seen you like this, you know."

"Funny? I'm frequently funny. It's hardly my fault you have an underdeveloped sense of humor."

"Not funny. Well, yes, funny is part of it. You've been…affectionate. And…sexual. Very sexual."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Yes, all right, I've seen you be sexual…and funny and affectionate, but not usually all…together. And not usually for so long."

Sherlock assumed an offended expression. "Problem?"

"No, it's…good." He laced his fingers between Sherlock's. "I like you like this. Holidays must suit you. I was afraid you'd be bored here."

Sherlock shrugged and looked away.

"Well, in fairness, you've not been idle, considering the 'sexual' part of all that. You've not left much time for getting bored."

"I just…want you. A lot. All the time. John, I mean to keep you, whatever it takes." Sherlock leaned over and kissed his oily shoulder. He looked down at their joined hands and frowned. "I should tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"I'm supposed to. I do know that. I mean to…say it…every day, I want to, but…."

Oh. John swallowed hard and squeezed Sherlock's hand. "It's fine, Sherlock." They were just words, after all. He would rather not hear them at all than hear them forced out. He had no doubt of Sherlock's feelings.

"But I do… All the time."

"Even when you think I'm an idiot?" John teased him, as he always did when Sherlock looked at him so earnestly that it made his chest start to ache.

"Yes."

"Even when you're an idiot?"

Sherlock smiled a little as he fell in with John's light tone. "Yes."

"So really quite a lot, then."

"John," Sherlock's tone grew darker, more insistent. "Come back to the house."

"Wait, what do you mean, you 'mean to keep me?'" John frowned. "What do you mean, 'whatever it takes?'"

Sherlock slid his hand free from John's so his fingertips could tease the trail of golden hair that disappeared into John's swimming trunks. In spite of the sun's warmth on his body, John's skin broke out in gooseflesh.

"Sherlock…"

Sherlock's voice dropped impossibly deeper and he pulled at John's hand. "John, come back to the house now."

xxx

A breath of warmth still lingered in the early evening air as Mycroft and Greg strolled along the pavement in Avignon. The tip of Mycroft's umbrella made a familiar tick noise as he touched it to the pavement with each step.

Greg looked very comfortable in a navy cotton blazer, light blue button-up, and a pair of beige Chinos. Subtly inspecting the fit of Greg's prêt-à-porter, Mycroft silently envisioned possible alterations and additions to his wardrobe, imagining how nicely a bespoke suit would showcase Greg's beautifully-proportioned, masculine physique. Almost as strong as his desire to undress Greg was Mycroft's desire to dress him, for Greg's pleasure as well as his own. He resolved to keep those thoughts to himself, though—especially after the tie debacle—fearing Greg might find the desire intrusive or insulting…or creepy. That had been the abrupt and relationship-ending reaction of the only other man he had once, very long ago, offered to clothe in style, thinking it would be sensual, thinking it would be fun.

As he did not know their destination, taking Greg's sartorial advisement on faith, Mycroft had foregone wearing one of his three-piece suits for the evening. He had opted instead for an ensemble of separates combining a linen-blend blazer, puppytooth trousers, and a sleeveless button-front jumper, all in shades of grey, which resulted in a similar visual effect and comfortably familiar feel. A pale lilac paisley silk tie added a seasonally-appropriate and pleasant splash of color. The umbrella felt like a requisite component, although Greg had noted, genially enough, there was no forecast for rain.

Mycroft smiled judiciously in response. "It is always going to rain. The only question is when." He kept his umbrella.

Having been officially forbidden from investigating any potential date scenarios once Greg had announced his intention to take Mycroft out for the evening, Mycroft was honestly surprised when they arrived at the Opéra Théâtre d'Avignon. The surprise—and what a rare and delightful sensation it was to be surprised—was not as much in the venue as in the performance itself. "Hoffman!" he exclaimed. He looked quickly to Greg, who looked pleased but not knowingly so. Or at least no more so than was usual—he thought Greg frequently looked like he knew something Mycroft didn't, constantly making him wonder when he would learn what it was. He did not look, however, as though he knew of Mycroft's particular attachment to Offenbach's opera. Mycroft was certain he had not mentioned it at any point—it was another pleasure that by long habit he kept tucked away for safe, private enjoyment.

"It's all right, then?" Greg offered that disarmingly open, boyish smile that always made Mycroft's breath catch. How did he do that? Mycroft had not looked that boyish even as a boy, but then charm had never been his weapon of choice, so it would likely have been wasted on him. He wished he knew how to induce a reciprocal response in Greg. He seemed to manage it on occasion, but frustratingly, only inadvertently. No, charm was not his area.

The carousel across the square from the entrance to the opera house was already brightly lit although the sun had not yet set. Mycroft watched the painted horses prance in slow motion as the carousel revolved. "Les contes d'Hoffmann, Tales of Hoffman, it's a…special favorite of mine. It was one of the first operas I saw as a boy, and I was transported. Quite transported. I imagined at the time I had learned a great deal about the way the world worked. It's a fantastical production, romantic and dark. Have you seen it before? Are you familiar with the story?"

"No, on both counts." Greg scuffed the toe of one shoe on the pavement. "But I do have it on good authority there are some songs about beer."

Mycroft laughed. "So there are. Oh, I do hope you like it. I'm…touched. That you selected this particular performance for us is…remarkable." He gave Greg a curious, appraising look.

Greg scuffed his shoe again, this time with a thoughtful frown, and then seemed to come to some decision. "Well…" He pulled his mobile from one of the side pockets of his blazer. He brought up a text message and showed it to Mycroft. "I did have a little help."

Mycroft frowned at the text on the small screen, and his eyes widened in surprise—and what a rare and…peculiar…sensation it was to be surprised.

LES CONTES D'HOFFMANN. OPÉRA THÉÂTRE D'AVIGNON. HE'LL LIKE IT. –SH

"I'm…I'm astonished he was even aware of my fondness for it," Mycroft said quietly as his assumptions on his Sherlock's attitude toward this budding relationship...and toward his older brother in general...somersaulted in his brain. Not that he needed Sherlock's approval.

"I don't think I was meant to tell you he sent it to me," Greg admitted, "But if you're that pleased, I couldn't take all the credit, could I? Even though I did want to impress you."

"Yet you took his recommendation seriously."

"Why wouldn't I? You think he'd offer me bad advice just to wind you up?"

Mycroft gave Greg a pointed look, and Greg huffed a laugh.

"All right, he absolutely would, but not this time. You know, I think I'm finally starting to understand him. A bit. Mycroft…are you all right?"

It seemed that Greg might understand Sherlock better than he did himself, in some ways. Although he had encouraged their association, even relied upon it, Mycroft wasn't sure how he felt about that…but this was not the time to consider his connection—or lack thereof—with his brother. "I'm very well," Mycroft assured him. "Although I feel the need to inform you that any efforts on your part to impress me are, by now, superfluous."

Greg squinted at him for a moment, then ducked his head, grinning and blushing. "Yeah? Well…you haven't seen the seats we have yet. Last minute purchase and all—they certainly won't impress you. Sorry."

The seats were dreadful and Mycroft was nevertheless once again transported by the entire experience. Greg's knee pressed against his during the performance, a warm and welcome reminder of his presence, and bobbed adorably in time with the Barcarolle. Mycroft wondered what it might be like to take him dancing—somewhere, somehow. When their hands touched on the armrest and Mycroft's fingers curled around Greg's and pulled his hand to rest lightly atop his thigh, Greg offered no objection. When the performance concluded, Greg applauded with enthusiastic approval and an enormous smile at Mycroft that was positively electrifying. Mycroft, very close to being out of control of his emotions, beamed at him.

The temperature had cooled considerably and the stars were twinkling between blue-grey streaks of cloud when they exited the theatre along with their fellow concert attendees. The crowds at the café tables in the Place de l'Horloge outside the opera house were dwindling and the breeze rustled the leaves of a brightly lit row of tall trees. The night seemed to Mycroft to have an air of quiet contentment. Or he was simply happy. He refused, for the moment, to deconstruct the sensation. Perhaps Greg shared a similar feeling, for he drew in a deep, satisfied breath and looked up at the sky with a smile.

They walked through the softly-lit streets chatting with shared humor about their vastly different experiences of music, while Mycroft simultaneously allowed himself to imagine Greg sitting alongside him in his private box at the Royal Opera House for the season's performances. He swung his umbrella jauntily in time with his step, walking closely enough with Greg that their arms or shoulders brushed frequently, loathe to be out of physical contact with him. When they arrived back at the car, Mycroft stopped Greg with a hand on his arm as he was unlocking the door.

"Greg, thank you for this evening. I've enjoyed it immensely."

Greg turned to lean back against the car door and smiled. "You're welcome." He looked smug, and well he should.

Then all Greg did was reach out and brush one finger along the inner edge of the lapel of Mycroft's blazer, a light, simple touch, but Mycroft felt a charge run through his body at the sense of intimacy the small gesture conveyed. Mycroft did not approve of the public display of affection, at least not for himself—after all, one never knew who might be watching—but he was moments away from recklessly disregarding that guideline. He shivered in frustration. "Greg?"

"Yes?" Greg's eyes were so very dark and always dancing. He moved his hand to Mycroft's tie, holding the knot gently between his fingers. "Is there something you want?"

Mycroft swallowed. "Greg. I…want…I need…" He spoke five languages fluently. English was one of them, but suddenly he had no words. His brain was empty. His brow furrowed as his agitation seemed to vibrate palpably in the air. The teasing expression slid away from Greg's face. He put his hand on the back of Mycroft's head and pulled him in for a kiss, open-mouthed, gentle, and searching, and—ah, that was it. That was precisely what it was he had wanted to say. "You," Mycroft breathed. "I need you. I want you." He started a subtle, seductive campaign of slow, soft kisses that began at the base of Greg's throat and meandered upward.

"Mycroft?" Greg's voice was ragged in his ear, his fingers softly massaging the back of Mycroft's neck.

This was what bliss felt like, wasn't it? "Yes?" Mycroft's voice came out in a whisper.

"Stay with me tonight."

Mycroft closed his eyes and exhaled a long sigh, wondering how he would possibly survive the return drive. "I would like that very much."

xxx

When they arrived back at the villa, thanks to Mycroft's call ahead to the house manager, a bottle of wine and a tray of delicious-looking confections—small cakes, macaroons, meringues, and delicate, flaky puff pastries—were waiting in Greg's bedroom. Greg popped a chocolate cup filled with lemon cream into his mouth on his way to the shower.

When he came back out, still damp-skinned and damp-haired, Mycroft was already waiting for him, pouring two glasses of wine. A half-eaten strawberry cake rested on a small plate beside him. He was wearing a silky russet-colored dressing gown over a set of similarly silky buttoned-up dark blue pyjamas, looking decorous and conservative. Even in sleepwear, Mycroft managed an untouchable look that challenged Greg to touch and muss and rumple all the man's self-control entirely away. "Hello." Greg's voice came out much more huskily than he had expected it to.

Greg was wearing nothing but the towel around his hips. When Mycroft turned toward him, his cheeks flushed with approval at the sight of Greg's exposed body, and Greg took a moment to congratulate himself on every extra second he'd resentfully spent at the gym after his divorce when he'd really rather have been home lying on his sofa with a slice of pizza in his hand. He circled Mycroft slowly, letting the backs of his fingers slip across the smooth fabric of his dressing gown. "You know, Mycroft, when I think about undressing you, it's usually the suit."

Mycroft raised his hand to just barely touch the leather cord at Greg's throat, his eyes lingering on the charm attached to it—a small, simple, gold five-pointed star. His gaze drifted down to Greg's towel-clad hips. "You've…made undressing you an easy task for me, I see."

"I'm not feeling especially shy."

"Good," Mycroft's eyes met Greg's. He brushed his fingers against the side of Greg's waist. "That's good, isn't it?" He licked his lips. He looked hungry. "Would you…like to start with a glass of wine?"

"No." Greg pulled his towel off and dropped it on the floor. "I wouldn't."

"Ah," Mycroft breathed.

Greg pressed himself against Mycroft and slid his body up until he was on standing on his toes. "You feel good." His mouth met Mycroft's already-parted lips. Greg kissed him, languid and deep, his fingertips tracing light patterns across the silk. "You taste good." Mint and strawberries. "You always taste good. Come here."

He pulled Mycroft away from the table, into the soft white light in the center of the room. He wanted to see what he was doing. He wanted to see Mycroft respond. "Hold still." He studied Mycroft's half-closed blue eyes. "All right?"

Mycroft nodded dreamily. "All right."

There was no rush. Greg reminded himself there was no rush. He smoothed Mycroft's hair back and kissed his face near the corner of his eye, where there should be more laugh lines. He untied the belt around Mycroft's waist. The fabric of the dressing gown sighed as it fell open. Greg slid his palms over the dark blue silk covering Mycroft's chest, feeling the small peaks of his nipples and where the texture underneath changed from smooth skin to springy hair. A little tuft of reddish curls peeked out of the top of Mycroft's pyjamas. Greg brushed his nose against it and Mycroft's breath gusted out. His hands continued to move, slowly, experimentally, over the gently padded curve of Mycroft's stomach, dipping below the front his pyjama waistband where his fingers encountered another tuft of hair.

Mycroft swayed into his touch. His eyes were closed and the tip of his tongue was touching the corner of his mouth, his expression soft and relaxed. He was rubbing folds at the side of his dressing gown methodically between his fingers.

Greg thought he had figured something out. Another piece of the Mycroft puzzle. Something Mycroft wanted. Something he was afraid to name, but clearly craved. Something Greg should have noticed much earlier.

Soft.

Mycroft liked soft, craved soft. Soft clothes, soft music, soft voices, soft touches and kisses. Maybe it was because there were enough hard and cold things in his life. God knew there were in Greg's, too—beatings, murders, cruelty, apathy, lies, hate. There were times all he wanted, needed, was something that was soft and warm and simple. And just maybe he could make it okay for Mycroft—strange, fascinating, powerful, isolated Mycroft, swathed neck-to-ankle in silk before him—to want that, too.

Greg crouched down on one knee and stroked from the back of Mycroft's knees, stroked down his calves and back up the front of his thighs. Strong thighs. Mycroft made a low humming sound. Greg let his hands travel higher, kneaded his thumbs into the crease where Mycroft's thighs met his hips, and sent a heavy, hot breath over the swell of his growing erection. He wasn't sure whether Mycroft would feel it through the layer of fabric, but the humming sound was repeated, louder, and Mycroft's hand moved to rest lightly on top of Greg's head. Greg smiled his satisfaction at this gesture of encouragement.

He rose, reaching for Mycroft's hands and placing them on his own hips. Mycroft's palms felt warm and damp against Greg's bare skin. "Now you."

Mycroft's eyes opened, their grey now hot and smoky, and locked onto his, and Greg's breath caught in his throat as the phrase the most dangerous man you've ever met flashed into his mind. Oh, God. He'd found the on switch, all right.

Mycroft pulled Greg against him firmly, deliberately, hip-to-hip, put his mouth on Greg's neck and paused there, breathing in his scent. Then there were teeth raking slowly down the side of his neck, and a flick of tongue that made him tremble, ending in a soft bite at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. No, he reminded himself, tipping his head back to expose his throat, he had seen Mycroft's reflection in mirrors. "Jesus," he groaned. Heat rushed from everywhere in his overheated body into his groin.

Mycroft rumbled his approval, and kissed the sensitive spot behind Greg's earlobe as he stroked his hands down Greg's back and pulled him in even more tightly, rubbing their erections together. Greg grunted inelegantly, clutched two handfuls of silk at Mycroft's waist and hung on as Mycroft moved against him, and Christ he would never think of a set of pyjamas as conservative again. His skin tingled with slippery friction. He closed his eyes, shutting everything else out, and felt.

He found himself being walked backwards toward his bed as short, manicured nails raked his back. He pulled at Mycroft's shoulders, strained forward to kiss him. Mycroft nipped at his lower lip, denying him, and shoved him onto the bed and okay, maybe not everything Mycroft liked was soft. Then Mycroft pushed his thighs apart and took Greg's cock into his mouth and every word of glorious praise Greg tried to utter came out blissfully profane. When Mycroft sucked on one of his long, white fingers and pressed it into Greg, Greg lost the power to summon words altogether. He bucked and wriggled and moaned, bereft of all dignity, until finally Mycroft, lips wrapped around the head of Greg's cock, looked up at him and Greg came as if he'd been commanded to.

Mycroft snaked an arm under his hips and rocked him through his orgasm. As Greg's thighs trembled with aftershocks, Mycroft kissed his way up his stomach and his chest and his throat and whispered, "Beautiful" in his ear. He rolled them over together onto their sides and pulled Greg's hand to his groin, pressing his erection into his palm. "Please." It was a plea. It was a politeness. It was also an order.

Greg wriggled his trapped arm out from beneath his own body to pull Mycroft's head to his for a desperate kiss as his other hand began to move, stroking Mycroft's silk-covered cock. When Greg slid his hand inside Mycroft's pyjamas and finally touched him skin to skin, Mycroft pressed his face into the crook of Greg's shoulder and groaned loudly, incoherently. It might have been his name, but Greg wasn't sure. And, fuck, why was there no lube, wasn't Mycroft supposed to plan for everything? He licked his palm and wrapped his fingers around Mycroft again, who was bright pink from his forehead to his collarbones with the flush of pleasure. When Mycroft came, it was with his face buried in Greg's neck and fingers digging hard into Greg's arse cheek, and Greg was the one who groaned, "Oh, God."

They held one another, panting and damp with sweat, in silence broken only by the soft sounds of the kisses Greg pressed to Mycroft's face. Mycroft petted the line of Greg's hip and thigh and blinked as though he'd just stepped into bright sunlight.

"Wow," said Greg.

Mycroft laughed softly. "Agreed."

Greg kissed the crinkles at the corners of his eye.

"I…" Mycroft looked down at himself, "need to clean up. I apologize. I wasn't…well-prepared."

"Was this," Greg pointed, chuckling, toward Mycroft's now-sticky pyjama bottoms, "somehow a surprise to you? Because I thought my general intentions were clear."

Mycroft contemplated him with a wry smile. "Yes. Your intentions were clear, but even so…you make me…even when I know what to expect, you always surprise me. I don't entirely understand it."

"Is that a good thing?"

Mycroft's response was a hard, determined kiss.

"I'll take that as a 'yes', then?" Greg said when his lips were again freed, tingling.

"Do."

While Mycroft excused himself to his room, dressing gown wrapped around his body to conceal his disarray, Greg picked up his discarded towel and made his own visit to the loo. He straightened the rumpled duvet upon his return to the bed. Deciding nudity was a fine theme for the night, he crawled into bed without donning any additional clothing.

There was a quiet knock at the door.

"Er. Come in?"

The door opened and Mycroft appeared, still in his russet dressing gown but having changed into a set of cream-colored cotton pyjamas and a worried expression. "You…do want me actually to sleep here with you? Is that correct?"

Greg sat up. "Of course I want you to sleep here." Mycroft smiled, looking reassured. Greg watched him curiously as he closed the door and padded across the room. "You…um…don't you usually spend the night with…lovers in your…other relationships?" he asked, feeling awkward at the topic of other relationships. A lot of people didn't, he was well aware, but Greg acknowledged himself to be a cuddler and had always liked his partners to share his bed after sex.

"Lovers." Mycroft paused beside the bed and rolled the word on his tongue, snorted a humorless laugh, then looked away, frowning and avoiding Greg's eyes. "I don't have 'lovers.' In the past…I have…for the most part…had 'arrangements' more so than 'relationships,'" he said haltingly. "And, no, we did not typically spend the night together."

Greg blinked as he processed Mycroft's careful choices of terminology. "I see."

Mycroft pulled his dressing gown around himself a little tighter, still looking away. "You disapprove."

Greg looked at him. His hair was still wildly disheveled, and disapproval was not at all what Greg felt. "No." The sex had been brilliant, but this was where lovemaking truly began. Greg Lestrade knew what Mycroft Holmes needed, what he needed himself, what he so badly wanted to give: I'm going to hold you, Mycroft, so softly, all night. He pulled the covers back. "Get in."

xxx

The light in Greg's bedroom was cool grey and a gentle rain was pattering against the windowpane when Mycroft returned through the door from the hallway. He had slipped away earlier, beset by a romantic notion, with a kiss to Greg's forehead and some low words of morning greeting that Greg clearly hadn't been quite alert enough to take in. He returned with a beautiful breakfast tray for his lover, complete with a silver cream and sugar set and a cheerful yellow flower in a vase. Greg, sleepy-eyed and deliciously rumpled, ran a hand through his hair and wriggled up to a sitting position.

Greg blinked several times and took in Mycroft's jeans—Mycroft noticed how much Greg seemed to like it when he wore jeans—and lightweight heather green knit jumper. His face broke into a wide grin as his eyes settled on the tray. "That's for me? Really?"

"Good morning," Mycroft said smoothly while his heart swelled with pride at Greg's surprised and delighted expression. "I have answered your roast beef sandwich challenge with brioches, fresh from this morning's oven." He put the tray down on the mattress next to Greg and sat down carefully on Greg's other side. "Butter. Raspberry jam, if you prefer. And of course, café."

Greg leaned over the brioches and inhaled. "Oh, that smells good." He reached for Mycroft's hand and pulled it to his mouth to drop a kiss on Mycroft's inner wrist. "Remind me to kiss the cook properly later."

Mycroft's lips twitched. "I'm sure Gerard will be flattered. He had already prepared these."

"Oh. Well. I think he will be, actually! I'm not so bad to kiss, I've been told."

"I expect he will count himself very fortunate."

Greg sighed and grinned at him significantly. "I could get used to this, you know." His eyes were warm and affectionate, and Mycroft's smile slipped.

Oh, so could I.

Mycroft thought there may not have been anything he had ever wanted more in his life than he now wanted to get used to this—waking up warm and contented next to Greg in the morning, being the reason Greg woke up warm and contented. It made his throat tight to think of it. He wanted it all the mornings. He wanted to watch him pull on his ludicrously bright socks, wanted to press his cheek against Greg's jaw and smell his skin just after he shaved, wanted to bring him tea when he came home after a long day of police work. Home. He was allowing terms like lover and home to infiltrate his mind now. Mycroft's jaw clenched. He had let himself go too far, indulged his foolish, sentimental desires and appetites to the point where he didn't know how he could possibly let them go. He didn't want to let them go. But let them go he must.

It always rained. The only question was when.

As Greg busied himself happily preparing his coffee, Mycroft rested his hand against the side of Greg's sheet-covered thigh in a soft, secret, defiant gesture of claim, and turned his face away toward the window to watch the rain fall.

xxx