John watched from the shadows, through the chink in the curtains. Greg was naked. Reclining on the bed. The other man was straddling him, head thrown back, long neck exposed. John saw the bite. The teeth sinking into the pale flesh. Not just a love bite or even some kind of pain play. This was designed to draw blood, to torture the jugular vein raised up blue against white skin. Red, white and blue.
John was shocked. Well not exactly shocked. He always guessed that Mycroft Holmes would be one kinky bastard. Only not quite this kinky. Not quite this out of control. And John had always pegged Greg LeStrade as Mr Ordinary. A career policeman, a little bit old fashioned even. Certainly not a bloke to do something like...well like this. It wasn't that John had never entertained the possibility of Greg being gay, he'd never really thought about it if he was honest.
Greg leaned backwards, the blood dripping down his chin matching the streak of crimson running down Mycroft's neck and chest. Both men writhing with pleasure. John felt slightly sick. The slender plains of Mycroft's body a parody of Sherlock's. All long limbs and pale skin and sweat. Mycroft's brow furrowed, his head flopping forwards against Greg as the Detective Inspector thrust deeply into him. Then he threw his head back once more, the blood oozing from the wound on his neck dark and sluggish.
John wanted to turn away. He knew what was going to happen. Literally what was coming next. But John Watson found himself unable to turn away as he watched Mycroft's orgasm fountain from his body and cover Greg's chest and stomach. As he watched Greg thrust three more times before collapsing backwards, spent. As he watched Mycroft Holmes lean forwards and bite down on Greg's chest and then smile, his mouth dripping with blood.
John took a step backwards, nearly losing his footing on the balcony. He was cretin that watching Mycroft and Greg having whatever perverted sex this was did not give him the moral high ground. Mycroft stood, untangling his long legs from the sheets, his erection still impressively evident as he walked across the room to retrieve his dressing gown. There was a long mirror in the bedroom, opposite the window and John suddenly realised the there was a possibility of being seen as Mycroft turned. On the bed Greg said something, a low rumble, and Mycroft smiled, that cruel, cold smile of his and returned to the bed. But not before pausing to look out of the window.
John ducked quickly and stealthily climbed over the balcony rail and shinned down the drainpipe. The slippery drainpipe. He lost his grip half way down and slid painfully back to street level.
"Ow! Damn. My leg." He hopped away as quickly as he could, puzzling what he had seen.
Above him, on the roof, crouching low, a pair of silver eyes and their owner watched John Watson limping up the street.