He swam back to consciousness and nearly passed back into oblivion as his nose was assaulted by the combined scent of the Holmes Boys. Sherlock was close. Peering down. Curiosity more than concern etching around his eyes. Mycroft was further away. Leant against the wall, but his eyes were unfocussed. Looking off into some distant place. The same expression Sherlock got when he visited his "mind palace". Greg wondered what Mycroft would have. If Sherlock had a palace, Mycroft probably had a "mind lair" an "underground mind lair." He almost chuckled to himself, but he was trying not to breathe in.
"Oh Good. You're awake. You really have to stop passing out like that LeStrade. It's most disconcerting." Sherlock's cheekbones zoomed in to Greg's field of vision. He resisted the urge to smack him one. Strange. He never wanted to bite Sherlock. There was something very off putting about deductive reasoning. Greg suspected it would taste funny.
Greg turned his attention back to the other Holmes. Not what he had been expecting. Tall like Sherlock, broader but still elegant, the dark hair short and carefully groomed, slightly thinning. The planes of his face were more rounded than Sherlock's, but the long nose and jutting jaw line still managed to be aristocratic. He was beautiful.
And in that moment of realisation, Greg knew he would destroy him. That was the price you paid. Ultimately. He'd had a good run. A hundred and seventy two years all told. A hundred and twenty four since he had been on the beat in Whitechapel and had made the mistake of trying to stop a murder. Sure he'd got the man. But not before the teeth had sunk deep into his throat. He'd pushed his assailant away, onto a broken chair. And the man had turned to dust before his eyes. It was too late for the poor girl on the bed. And realising that no one would believe him. Believe what he had seen, he had run away. He was still running now. But it seemed he was not running fast enough.
Greg was snapped back into the present by Sherlock huffing and leaving the room. Obviously his brother had said something. And Greg was alone. Alone with Mycroft Holmes. He allowed himself the smallest of breaths. The tiniest fix of that deep chocolate scent. Mycroft Holmes smiled at him. And moved closer.
"There's no need to be frightened Inspector. I do understand." Closer still. Greg could feel his veins beginning to rise, demanding to be fed.
"You do?"
"Of course." He smiled revealing perfect white teeth. He leaned closer. "I know what you are."
"Really?" Greg tried to turn away. Looking desperately for a way out. He didn't want to die. Well, he was already dead he supposed, he just didn't want to end.
"There's no need to be embarrassed Inspector. Although I must admit I've never had that effect on anyone before. As a matter of fact, it is rather flattering." The cold blue eyes trailed up and down his body. Greg knew he was trembling now.
"Mr Holmes. You have to understand. It wasn't my fault." He was trapped.
"Of course it's not your fault. You can't help being Gay. None of us can."
"No... What?" Greg looked up at the earnestly sympathetic expression on Mycroft Holmes' face, and then followed the Cobalt gaze down to the front of his own trousers, where there was a very obvious straining erection and the evidence of a recent and rather enthusiastic ejaculation. That hadn't happened to Greg since he was a teenager.
"Now, why don't we see if we can't make you a little more comfortable?" And Mycroft leant forward, capturing Greg's mouth with warm sensuous lips. It took a second. Perhaps two, before Greg lost the battle with his own urges, as he tasted Mycroft for the first time.
He could hear every vein in his body screaming for the blood. And as Mycroft gently kissed him, pressing his body against Greg's, he was oblivious to the teeth gently scraping his throat as Greg surrendered, unable to hold on any longer.