Mycroft lay quite comfortably with the gentle weight of Greg LeStrade on top of him. He was relaxed. Dozing. At peace. Before Gregory. Before the bite. Before he died. His nights had been almost sleepless. An hour or two at best of fitful sleep, unable to switch his mind off. Unable to relax. But now, he lay not quite awake, not quite asleep, with all of his limbs melted against Greg's. Unable to move. Not wanting to move. With one thought: Mine.
As he slept Greg's subconscious took over. Possessively covering Mycroft's body with his own. Covering Mycroft with his scent. Drinking in Mycroft's own smell. Grinding against him. With one thought: Mine.
Greg awoke. Fuzzy. He wanted two things. Blood. And Mycroft. He had known hunger before. Bone biting desperation as he had staggered around the gas lit streets of London, not quite understanding what was happening to him. Until the family had found him and he had fed for the first time. He had known what it felt like to have your whole body raging at you, desperate. Hungry. And none of it compared to the desperate need he had at this moment for the man beneath him. Greg was barely in control as he ran his hands roughly over the pale body sleeping beneath him. Feeling the sleek muscle responding to his touch. The familiar arousal pushing into his thigh.
The blue eyes flickered open. A smile of surrender. That was how the blood bond worked. Greg bared his teeth, biting down on the meat of Mycroft's chest. Feeling the blood flow over his lips. Thrusting forward in to Mycroft. Drinking. Thrusting. Possessing.
Mycroft felt the sharp bite on his pectoral muscle. Felt the now familiar sensation of his blood flowing into his lover's mouth. Felt the burning, painful pleasure as Greg entered him. The world narrowed to an area a few inches squared just behind his belly button. And then it seemed reality was stretching. Expanding and contracting in time to the rhythmic movements of Greg's penetration. Everything was white hot and blisteringly focussed. They were heading towards the very apex of passion.
Greg felt Mycroft tightening around him, the long arms pulling him closer, holding him. Mycroft was strong. Almost disturbingly strong. Greg could feel his ribs being crushed. He could feel his orgasm being squeezed from his body. It hurt. But it was wonderful. He pounded against Mycroft, throwing his head back.
"Mine." He grunted it through clenched teeth. And felt Mycroft bite down on his shoulder as they came together.
"Mine." Mycroft breathed through lips covered with Greg's blood. The embrace was gentle now, as they both drifted back to sleep.
In the shadows, unnoticed by either man. Sherlock watched.