Finally Sherlock was asleep. After Mycroft had ensured John Watson was under twenty four hour surveillance. After Mycroft had ordered the secret service in to guard him. After LeStrade had got Special Branch investigating the attempt on his life and an armed response unit on standby. It wasn't a happy sleep. He was curled in to a ball on the bed in Mycroft's spare room, having been given much needed blood and a p-air of Mycroft's pyjamas. He had protested about both but more vehemently about the pyjamas. It wasn't a happy sleep. But it was sleep never the less.
Mycroft sighed and collapsed on to the bed. He had divested himself of his suit and blood streaked shirt. He would have them burnt. He knew that they would never be clean of the smell of Sherlock's death and La Neige's enjoyment. He had scrubbed himself in the shower and had managed to remove most of the stench of the day from his skin. All he wanted to do now was sleep. To curl up with Greg and fill his senses with the smell of him.
Greg traced the pattern of hair on Mycroft's chest and belly, tickling him a little, making him wriggle. He breathed deeply, revelling in the chocolate and cinnamon, wishing that Mycroft felt as warm as he smelt. He looked over every inch of that tired body. Studying. Committing it to memory. It felt as though it was important to remember.
He noticed the scars on Mycroft's body, half hidden by the reddish brown hair. So many scars. Old scars. A lifetime of living dangerously mapped on the pale skin. The contours of being.
"What's this one?" He ran a finger along a muscular thigh, along a pale mark a few inches long.
"Bicycle. Aged nine. I was wearing shorts." Somehow the image appeared in LeStrade's head was of a tiny Mycroft in tailored pinstriped shorts.
"What are these from?" He traced a series of scars along Mycroft's stomach. Probably more recent. And they had been stitched. Mycroft looked a little uncomfortable. He stayed Greg's hand before answering.
"They are from the only time i have ever been glad to be fat."
"But you're not fat." Lean and Well built? Yes. Fat? Not a chance!
"I was once. So fat in fact, that when I was stabbed six times in the belly, the blade of the knife was unable to damage any vital organs."
"You were stabbed six times? What the hell happened? Who stabbed you?" What was past was prologue, but that didn't stop Greg from being livid about it.
"Who do you think? Who would be the only person allowed close enough to me?"
"Sherlock?"
"Yes."
"Sherlock stabbed you six times?"
"Yes."
"In God's name why?"
"I'd taken his heroin away from him." Silence. Greg was struggling to wrap his head around this latest slice of Holmes family life.
"So you used to be bigger? That's why Sherlock is always making wise-cracks about your diet?"
"Yes. He seems to take great pleasure in reminding me at every opportunity."
"I am going to kill the little shit." Greg motioned to leave the bed.
"Unfortunately it seems only I can do that. And I'd much rather you stayed here with me." Mycroft ran his fingers through the grey spikes. "After he stabbed me, I decided to lose weight. It really worked out for the best. You wouldn't have looked twice at me then."
Greg rolled over so he was on top of Mycroft, looking into eyes half filled with sleep, half filled with lust. Eyes that despite everything that had happened seemed to be peaceful, contented. He felt their erections touching. That tiny electric shock of pleasure every time he realised that Mycroft wanted him. Needed him. He breathed in the rich aroma that was Mycroft Holmes. Something so purely sensuous it transcended the physical world.
"I wouldn't care what you looked like." Which was quite true. Greg had known he had to have Mycroft even before he had seen him. When he was just a name in an anonymous black car. "I've waited so many years for you. I've been on my own for so long." He ran his hands over Mycroft's solid shoulders, just to check he was really there. "We were meant to be."
And then he allowed himself to melt against Mycroft's body. Feeling the gentle passion as it began to swell inside them both. Knowing that if they were careful, this could last forever.
Sherlock opened his eyes. He knew where he was. Mycroft's house. He could smell him. The rich scent of expensive food and he could smell LeStrade, the spices and cordite. And the two of them together? Without hearing. Without seeing. Sherlock could smell what they were doing. And his mind was on fire. The focus was so sharp. Like the Heroin. Every nerve ending. Every brain cell. And only one thought.
"I need John Watson."