When John woke up he was laying on clean sheets. The room was unfamiliar, tastefully decorated and sparsely furnished. A guest room? John shook his head, trying to remember. And then his hand flew to his throat. Opposite him, his reflection did the same in the mirror of the dresser. John scrambled across the tangle of bed linen to look closely at himself. Two faint scratches on his neck. That was all. He felt no different.

John assumed this was Mycroft's house from expensive but understated decor. He remembered being in the car and some crazy story about vampires. John laughed out loud. He must have passed out and that bit was just a dream. And then he heard a noise. It sounded as though it was coming from down the corridor, another room on the same floor. The unmistakable sound of two people engaged in vigorous sex.

Mycroft and Greg. Had to be. Obviously not all of it had been a dream. John could hear voices now. Low whispers punctuated by bedsprings and the thud of a bed banging against a wall. Strangled moans and small cries. John heard someone crying "Yes" repeatedly. "Harder"

And John suddenly remembered how angry he was. And that Sherlock was still alive. John marched down the corridor barefoot. Someone had removed his shoes and sock before putting him to bed. He listened for a moment, determining that the noise was happening in the room at the end of the corridor. And taking a deep breath John slammed the door open.

Mycroft Holmes was naked. And he was covered in blood. All down his chest and belly, sticking the hair together in little red spikes. Greg LeStrade was writhing on top of him, slowly being fucked into oblivion by the taller man. He was also covered in blood, but it dripped from his mouth and ran down his chin. Greg's cock pointed upwards, unattended and straining as Mycroft thrust upwards into him, his head back and eyes closed. Another thrust from Mycroft and Greg was unable to hold on any longer, his hand grasped at his cock and he worked his fist frantically on himself until the milky fluid spurted from the head. Mycroft continued to thrust until he cried out and then bit down on Greg's shoulder drawing more blood.

It took a few seconds for the blue eyes to clear. Mycroft's pupils were huge as he turned his head to look directly at John. Greg followed his lovers gaze and had the good grace to look embarrassed when he saw John standing there. Mycroft continued to stare at John, even as Greg climbed off of him, releasing his still hard cock with a wet sound. Mycroft stood up, his cock dripping with the remains of his own orgasm, and John was suddenly aware of how very different to his brother Mycroft actually was. How much bigger and stronger he seemed.

Sherlock always seemed somehow frail, brittle, like he was made of spun glass and silver and if you dropped him he would shatter into a thousand pieces. Sherlock was pale, his skin almost like mother of pearl in its iridescence. John had of course seen Sherlock naked on numerous occasion, regarding him with the detachment of a doctor, as was only proper. He was only vaguely aware of Sherlock's genitals, it was probably the one area he had never been required to stitch or apply antiseptic to in their acquaintance. Yes, he'd looked. But purely in a medical capacity. And in that same capacity, John had noticed the neat penis and testicles nestled shyly in the black curls of his pubic hair almost apologetically.

Mycroft was nothing like his brother. Covered in blood, he looked bulky and dangerous, his cock jutting Satyr like in front of him. Mycroft wasn't made of glass. He was made of ice. The kind that you can beat with a sledgehammer or cut with a chainsaw and it just looks at you and says "so what else have you got"

"Can we help you Doctor Watson?" The voice was not quite there. As though it was a recording being played back through the mouth of the body in front of him.

"I..." John struggled to find the words. "Where's Sherlock?"

"He's safe."

"Where is he?" John was backing towards the door. He had the same irrational fear now that he'd known in Afghanistan. On those nights when the desert closed around them and seemed to swallow all the light. You knew that really there was nothing in the darkness but your own imaginings. But they could turn the slightest breeze into a banshee's cry and send hoards of brain-monsters loping towards you. That feeling. That. John swallowed.

"My brother has been restrained for his own safety." Mycroft paused. John could feel his legs slowly collapsing under him. "And yours."