Next chapter as promised, I had realised that my last one didn't have Mycroft in it so I've made up for it in this chapter; and this is where everything gets VERY interesting ;)

I hope you people like but I don't know if I can finish this off in the next few days or not, it just depends since my brain is literally killing me (I'm too much like Sherlock to enjoy being ill) and so if I'm not cold-free soon you might not find out what happens next...

Anyway, I hope you enjoy and will REVIEW! (that doesn't sound desperate at all does it?)

Kasey

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CHAPTER THREE

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A NEW PLAN AND REPERCUSSIONS

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"There is nothing wrong with going to bed with someone of your own sex. People should be very free with sex, they should draw the line at goats." - Elton John

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He had it planned, all planned out, he knew his brother; knew every weakness, every strength and he was going to use everything he had to get what he wanted. He'd watched and he'd waited; silent and patient like a spider observing its prey about to become ensnared in its custom-made web of silken poison, until it was the right time for him to step in and have what he'd so patiently worked to acquire. And if he'd known that all it would have took was for him to send a text to his brother asking for assistance he'd have done it weeks ago!

Nodding at the driver who was looking at him in affirmation, he felt the car pull away from the kerb and glide along the bridge, pulling up when they reached the point where a lone figure was leaning on the wall looking down into the dark and murky depths of the River Thames. Quickly vacating the car, he stepped out into the chilly night air and briskly moved over towards the stationary figure which neither acknowledged his presence nor the fact that he was leaning further and further over the wall in his drunken stupor.

"It's quite cold tonight; perhaps you should be home sleeping doctor?" Mycroft said in his usual intonation, he thought it would be pointless for him to scare the already flighty-looking doctor; mostly because he was more worried about the fact that he was inclined to think that John would fall into the Thames in a failed attempt to get away from Mycroft.

The drunken figure of John Watson startled slightly and looked across at Mycroft, who was leaning on the wall, and gave him a lop-sided smile which even in a drunken stupor made Mycroft want to reach out and just take him, " he'lo Mycr'ft, wha' you doin' 'ere?"

Mycroft didn't sigh, he didn't shake his head in sadness, and he most definitely did not shake in anger at what his brother had driven John to; namely because he too was at fault for this and so felt guilty. Guilty? He felt guilty, he felt regretful and it gave him cause for pause because he had to analyse, he had to understand why this man was eliciting such feelings in him that no-one, no-one had ever managed to draw from him. He had always believed that drawing blood from a stone would be easier than making him feel in such a manner as this, to care about another's welfare beyond the necessary ties of blood and family, but this man had done the unpredictable, had surprised him and it made him both feel elated and wary at the same time.

"Why are you out here John?" Mycroft asked softly, swiftly side-stepping the doctor's question, he looked down at the man who'd captured the heart of not one but two sociopaths, because Mycroft knew that he was as much a sociopath has his younger sibling but he was far better at staying in character and for far longer.

John's only answer was a shrug before he turned away and looked down the river, taking in the blurred, blurred to him at least, view of London City in the dead of night; he found that it was echoing something inside of him, something he couldn't find nor define and he didn't have the sufficient control of his body or mind to contemplate it for long because of how completely and utterly bladdered he actually was. It was almost magical the sight of the tar-black water flowing beneath his feet out as the tide lowered and gravitational pull of the moon affected the sands of the river banks and the larger oceans of the earth; that had always been hard for him to believe when he'd been younger, that it was the moon that controlled the tides but as he'd grown older and researched the fact he realised that it was infact entirely true and it amazed him because it was such a fascinating and powerful feat that he couldn't not believe that his life was insignificant when compared to the moon and her wily graces.

"Come now John, it's rather cold and I do believe you may catch a chill being out here any longer," Mycroft said decisively, almost as though he was scolding the doctor, and without any further preamble Mycroft turned around and walked back over to his car and climbed in, leaving the door open so that John could join him; if he chose to do so of course.

He refused to think over the possibility that John would decline and remain on the bridge well into the morning because he wanted to believe that his terrifying intelligence was at its sharpest and most worthy, but deep down he just didn't want to think that even drunk and free of inhabitation that John Watson didn't want to be around him for longer than was necessary. It did worry him, correction it terrified him that a single dull person could make him feel like this and behave in this manner; as though he were young and inexperienced again. But somehow, though he didn't like it, it felt right that it was John making him feel like this; he highly doubted he'd have been anywhere as calm if it had been someone else such as not-Anthea making him feel anything like this.

His worrying and insecurity though seemed to have no place in the moment since John had obviously decided that getting in the car would be in his best interests and had according climbed into the car, or a more accurate term would be fell in, and slammed the door shut with a tremor-free hand. The drunken doctor looked at Mycroft and said, his words still slurred but Mycroft could hear the distinctive militaristic tinge to it, "I don't wanna go back home t'night... don't wanna see Sherl'ck."

The manner in which John said those words told Mycroft that his plan had worked perfectly, that everything he had done was justifying the fact that he was smarter than Sherlock because he would never lose his temper with this man because John was just too special to lose because of a few rash and thoughtless words spoken in the heat of anger. Mycroft nodded and said smoothly, "of course John, perhaps it would be better if you stayed the night at my home; it is not far?" he raised an eyebrow in quiet questioning and made sure that his words sounded polite and slightly unsure, as though he was expecting John to decline the offer but of course he knew John would say yes, he knew John would acquiesce in his current intoxicated state and so waited in silence for the admittedly alcohol-inhibited thought-process of the doctor to process his suggestion and respond accordingly.

"Alright then," was all John said after a good while and Mycroft made a mental note to never try to hold a conversation with the doctor when he was drunk as he realised that the man couldn't really focus on anything, but that also made him wonder about the actual amount of alcohol the man had consumed in one night. He decided that he would find out so that the next time this occurred he could gauge the reaction of a relatively sober John compared to the obviously plastered John who was staring in fascination at the streetlights flashing by through the tinted window.

It took them a little over half-an-hour to reach Mycroft's home, his mansion, and he silently got out and hovered next to the car door as John managed to haul himself out of the car and promptly nearly collapsed on the gravel driveway, the only thing that saved him from a painful meeting with the gravel was Mycroft who had immediately reached out and gripped John's arms in a firm but gentle grip. He didn't notice that Mycroft had somehow kicked the car door shut and that the car was now pulling away back down the drive, he didn't notice the fact that it was cold and dark, the only thing he noticed was Mycroft and how tantalisingly close the taller man now was to him.

John's incredibly intoxicated mind seemed to be trying to tell him something, something important but John's body was behaving upon its own accord and as a man of action who had learnt to react to instinct rather than thought in the midst of a war, John firmly ignored his mind and listened to his body which was relaxing and leaning in closer to Mycroft's own. He felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the alcohol still surging throughout his system and that warmth only grew when Mycroft pressed against him and he moaned at the contact of the man as he felt something that was obviously hard pressing into his upper thigh.

Mycroft's grip upon his arms tightened slightly, in lust or weariness John didn't know but he didn't care because right now all he wanted to do was feel the man not contemplate the many and varied aspects of Mycroft Holmes. It was almost a unanimous decision on his part, his entire body working in unison, when he tilted his head up and captured Mycroft's lips in an almost desperate and heated kiss which he found was more than reciprocated by the imposing figure gripping him so tightly that some part of his still functioning mind whispered to him that there would be bruises as a result, but it just made him moan louder and Mycroft growled in agreement with John's fevered moan. Their kiss was so passionate, so filled with wanton desire and intoxicated lust that it was a battle between them when they both began to fight for dominance over the kiss; Mycroft's tongue battled with John's and deftly wound its way around John's own but John wouldn't be outdone by the taller man and somehow managed to gain control of the kiss, his tongue diving into Mycroft's mouth and making its presence known on every tooth and gum and Mycroft groaned loudly and John swallowed up the moans and groans they were both making until they had to break for air.

Their heavy, laboured breaths were the only things they could hear along with the beating of their respective hearts, and they stared at one another in silence until Mycroft's grip on John changed; his hands sliding down John's arms to grasp his wrists and drag him into the mansion and up to Mycroft's master-bedroom. John had but a moment to actually take in the sheer size of the room along with its decor before he was being shoved onto the bed and pinned by the man who was now taking command of their situation; and John's whole body became alive in a single moment as every nerve exploded and every synapse screamed out in pleasure as Mycroft began his power-play of John Watson.

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Birds sang in the trees just outside the window and John grumbled in annoyance as those feathered fiends tweeted and chirped so as to inform in what the already shining sun was obviously failing to do; it was morning and he was lying in his bed with a killer hangover. No, wait. His bed wasn't this soft, his bed didn't have silk and satin sheets, his bedroom didn't have tree outside it, his bedroom didn't have more than one window and his bedroom definitely didn't have mahogany furniture that just shouted at you that you were somewhere expensive.

And it all came back to him, fractured and blurred memories of the night before and it woke his sleepy and inattentive mind so suddenly that he thought he may end up with whiplash as his head jerked up and his eyes shot open. He rolled around onto his back and levered himself up onto his elbows giving him a clear view of the entire room, which was empty save for himself and his clothing which looked to have been washed, dried and pressed before being placed on a hanger. It made him want to shiver and he lifted the covers to check that-

Yes, he was indeed completely free of clothing and the only thing that was hiding his modesty was the silken sheet pooled at his waist. Shivering as he became aware of the slight chilliness of the air in the room he quickly gathered the sheet around himself and slipped off the bed, padding over to his clothes and that was when he froze for the second time since he'd woke. He looked down at himself and realised that he was covered in... oh God...

He couldn't help himself, it felt so good, so freeing and he gripped the bicep of the arm closest to him tightly as he tried to stave off the inevitable. Oh God it felt so good, and this was heaven to him. The lips covering his own were passionate and the sounds they were both making were so erotic and sexual that he couldn't help himself; he cried out into the kiss, his hands curling tightly around whatever they were gripping whether it was material or flesh and he came, his entire body spasming so dramatically that he heard a response to his own cry which he swallowed as Mycroft came inside of him.

His legs felt like they couldn't support his weight anymore and it took every fibre of his being for John to grab his clothes and dash off towards the open door near to him which was to an en suite bathroom. He closed the door, desperately but quietly, and leaned against the door breathing hard. How had he? Why had he? What had he done?

He groaned in self-loathing and guilt as he hung his clothes on the back of the door and forced himself over to the shower cubicle, he turned the taps on, discarded the sheet at his feet and climbed underneath the beautifully hot spray. Placing his hands on the wall either side of himself he leaned forward resting his forehead against the cool tiles and letting the hot spray hit his back; closing his eyes he tried to think back to before that had happened, he tried to find the reason why and it eluded him as he remained there unmoving.

It was only when the water began to cool and John's mind was moving at its usual speed and not throwing up random snippets of the night before that he managed to turn the shower off and climb out. He dried himself off with what looked to be an Egyptian-cotton towel before dressing and gathering up the sheet which he automatically folded up, he was ex-military afterall, and he slowly opened the bathroom door into the bedroom. He peered out and was both relived and worried when he saw no-one waiting for him, quickly he placed the sheet on the bed and slipped on his shoes which had been neatly placed next to what looked to be an ornate writing desk circa the 1800s.

Once his shoes were on John took a breath and opened the door that he guessed led to the rest of the house he was in, and he wasn't disappointed as he stepped out silently into a long hallway that was sparse and plain compared to the bedroom he's just left. Looking to his left the only thing John saw was a single large plate-glass window and a Ming vase on a table, so he looked to his right and had more look; at the end of the hallway was a large staircase which he walked down, his footfalls still silent even though he guessed there was no reason for him to be so quiet, so cautious. Upon reaching the bottom however he realised that his shoes would make an audible sound on the tiled floor and he sighed and decided to stop with the stealth tactics; the carpeted floor upstairs had been convenient but he couldn't be silent on tile and so he thought why bother.

After he took three steps in the direction of the doors which he just knew were the main front doors however a voice floated out of the open doors opposite the main front doors and John froze, "come now John, you can at least stay for breakfast."

Slowly, carefully, cautiously John turned around and stared at the seated figure of one Mycroft Holmes who was sat at a rather spectacular-looking table which was adorned with various delicacies and John noticed that the table had only been set for two; himself and Mycroft. He managed to smile tightly and said, "Well Sherlock'll be wondering where I am and I think he's waited long enough," and he noticed, somewhat confused but satisfied, that Mycroft winced minutely at the mention of his brother.

Mycroft's eyes locked with John's own and Mycroft said, his tone holding no space for argument, "Sherlock can wait a while longer John," and then the man smiled politely and the commanding tone was replaced with his usual polite request, "please, sit."

John knew that it was probably a bad idea, he knew that he should probably just tell Mycroft to buggar-off and leave, but he didn't know where he was and the only memories he had of the journey to Mycroft's home consisted of streetlights that were far too bright flashing past until they were replaced with darkness. And so, with the knowledge that this was a bad idea, John moved over to the table and sat down carefully in his allocated seat trying not to squirm at Mycroft's almost predatory smile.

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To Be Continued...

I did it! YES! :D

Sorry, I'm just very elated since I've managed to do this chapter whilst being unbearably ill so now I feel like I've accomplished something... now, if you don't mind I'm going to go and die in my bedroom from influenza; have a nice life people :P

P.S. Do review of course and give me your opinion since I love to hear them and it makes me feel better (it might cure me quicker and then I could finish this better and not doing typos every five seconds because I'm coughing :D)

Kasey