Author's Note: The slash is yet to come. Stay with me.

"Dinner?" Lestrade's eyebrow rose as he shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. "You're asking me to dinner? Like what, on a date?"

Mycroft fidgeted with his tie, hoping it concealed the tight lump in his throat. "Um, yes. A date, if that's alright with you."

Greg smiled. "Yes, that's fine with me. I didn't realize you—, well, I thought you were, but—"

"I'm not," Mycroft broke in. "Well, the fact is, I'm not really, um—" he stammered. "I'm afraid I'm not very good as this sort of thing."

He was rewarded with a widening of Greg's smile, the gesture making his heart pound fiercely beneath the layers of his suit. The echo was so loud in his ears he wondered if Greg could hear it, because it was near to deafening.

"You're doing fine," Greg replied. "Relax."

"Yes, well," Mycroft shifted on his feet again, "I've never asked a gentleman for a date before. I'm out of my element, as they say."

"Never?"

Mycroft shook his head.

"What about women?"

"Sadly, no. My experience in this area is severely limited and I'm beginning to see, rather lacking." Oh, God, this was a horrible idea. Why did I listen to Anthea?

The smile on Greg's face didn't waver, but the softness vanished, replaced with a glint of something else. A steady coolness, born of confidence, hovered over the Detective Inspector's features and an unsettling edge crept into his whiskey-colored eyes.

Greg paused for a moment, and then he spoke in a voice that sounded like dripping caramel.

"That's alright, Mycroft. I've done this before."

The rich sound and the innuendo it contained melted over him, turning his knees to water, threatening to unman him here and now. That was a voice he could get used to hearing for days on end. Hushed whispers, breathless moans, and fevered gasps suddenly began to worm their salacious way into his ears and Mycroft could feel the blood coursing through his body in a rush. He wanted to hear more. Much more.

"I would like," he began, trying very hard not to notice the point of Greg's tongue as it swiped across his lips, "I would like to get to know you better. I thought, perhaps, a date was a way to make that happen."

"I see." Again with the smooth rumble of that honeyed voice.

"I was hoping you would be agreeable. To a date, that is. With me."

"Of course." This time the smile changed, a seductive baring of strong, white teeth with a hint of danger. Chills ran down Mycroft's spine, tingling all the way. Dazzling. God, but the man was beautiful.

Mycroft cleared his throat and found his voice. "How do you feel about that?"

"No."

The world could have imploded around him and he wouldn't have noticed the devastation over the sound of his heart plummeting to his feet.

"Um, no?"

Greg nodded. "That's right. No." He withdrew his hands from his pockets and stepped close, the spicy-sweet tang of his aftershave tickling Mycroft's nostrils. "If you want a date with me, then you have to ask me properly. Sending me surveillance footage and cufflinks won't cut it. Neither will kidnapping. Not the way to go about it, you see."

"Er, well—"

"I understand this is…new for you. So, I'll let that slide. Once." Greg drew in a deep breath and released it slowly, carefully, before finding Mycroft's eyes. "This is not a business proposition. We're not making a deal, here." He moved closer still, their bodies inches apart, and Mycroft's lungs suddenly stopped working along with most of his brain, as his body began to reroute all his blood and synapses into one prominent portion of his flushed anatomy. A long, tanned finger came up and stroked the knot of his tie, forcing blood to pool at his groin, the sensation growing and insistent. "If you want something from me, Mycroft Holmes, you have to ask nicely."

The man was downright evil. Satan in tweed. Had to be, because what was going on within his trousers was decidedly less than angelic.

"Nicely?" he choked out.

"Mmmhmm. No subterfuge, no pretense." Greg licked his lips again and Mycroft's erection jumped. "Just tell me what you want."

God, this man. "I want—"

"Yes?" Greg murmured, eyes fixed on his.

"I want to take you to dinner." The words were forced from throat with considerable effort to not sound like a squeak.

Greg released another long breath (did he even know what that was doing to him?) through his nostrils, the warmth trailing across Mycroft's face like smoke. "There. That wasn't so difficult, was it?"

He managed a strangled noise and shook his head.

"Very well," Greg said, "In that case, I would love to have dinner with you, Mycroft."

"Um, yes, good. It would be my pleasure."

The short chuckle was a low, feral rumble that made his mouth water. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. But dinner is an excellent way to begin."

"Yes, dinner." Christ, could he sound more like a stuttering idiot?

The flash was back in Greg's eyes. "I think you should know that I'm very intrigued by you. And that I find you extremely attractive. Extremely. Just in case you weren't sure. I want very much to get to know you better, as well."

Yes, definitely Satan. And he was damning him on purpose. He could practically feel the fires of Hell nipping at his heels while Greg just looked so damned…smug. You beautiful bastard.

"One more thing, Mycroft." God, but the way he says my name. Greg's hand moved and the long, mesmerizing digit ran slowly under the edge of his lapel, fingering it with purpose. Mycroft tensed, clenching his jaw to keep from gasping. "Lose the Saville Row trappings. I want to find out what's beneath the hand-stitched Egyptian wool. You need to be slightly more…unraveled for dinner at the pub."

"The-the pub?"

Greg nodded. "Yes. It's more casual. Like I said, this is not a business proposition."

Mycroft swallowed. "Fine. Tomorrow, then? Half-seven? There's a pub down from Sherlock's flat—"

"Perfect." He leaned in and whispered, "It's a date, then."

Mycroft stood stunned, unmoving, as the finger continued its maddening descent from the corner of his lapel down to the center button of his jacket, curling ever so slightly around it to draw Mycroft forward.

All coherent thought fled as Greg's lashes (those long, thick lashes) fluttered closed and his mouth parted on a breath, brushing their lips together in a soft, warm kiss.

The sensation from just that brief touch was staggering, not at all what he remembered from the few kisses of his past, and this one served to erase them all from his memory instantly. There was never this much heat, never the promise of this much fire. There was only Greg and the tingling taste of him, spreading like flames across his lips. A deep moan escaped him as his eyes closed and he leaned into the embrace, savoring the feel of the gentle pressure and the sweet ache it was producing.

The light, slick friction was drugging and Greg opened his lips on a ragged groan, thrusting his tongue inside, swirling around the warm, wet recesses, tasting him in one long, agonizing pass.

Mycroft shuddered as Greg pulled back slowly, breaking the kiss, his amber eyes sparkling with pleasure. He brushed the pad of his thumb across the bottom of Mycroft's lower lip and grinned devilishly.

"Well, well," he breathed huskily, "Looks like I've flipped the lid on Pandora's Box. Wonder what sort of demons I've unleashed."

Mycroft could only stare, bleary-eyed, shaking trying to regain his faculties.

Greg recovered easily and sniffed. "I'm off then. Do us a favor and call for the car. You owe me a ride home."

He turned and headed for the door without another glance, strolling away, hands back in his pockets, humming. Mycroft quickly texted Anthea and tucked his mobile away with shaking hands.

Yes, what demons, indeed?