When John woke he was starving hungry. Somewhere in the house and its maze of rooms, someone was frying bacon. It was dark outside. Sherlock was not in the room. Gone. The only trace of his ever having been there was the dent in the pillow and a solitary black hair. John felt his stomach cramp again and he got to his uncertain feet in order to pursue the smell of bacon.
When he found the kitchen he sincerely wished he'd stayed in bed.
Mycroft Holmes, shirt open, buttons ripped off and scattered everywhere was, and here John struggled for the mot juste before deciding that there probably wasn't one and settling for Banging. Mycroft was banging Greg. Greg who was sat on the edge of the worktop, his jeans and boxer shorts abandoned on the floor and his legs wrapped around Mycroft's waist. Mycroft still had his jeans partly on. Which was a good job, because if John had got an eyeful of Mycroft's pert arse clenching as he rammed into Greg, well John would have probably put both his own eyes out with a potato peeler.
Mycroft gave one almighty final thrust, growling with clenched teeth. Clenched fangs perhaps? Could you clench fangs? John shook his head. Clearing his slightly blurred sight in time to see a series of thick pearly ropes come surging out of Greg. John stood slack jawed, waiting. Not wanting to move or draw attention to himself. And at the same time wanting to run away. Far away. Greg, collapsed against the taller man's chest, ran a sensuous, searching tongue across Mycroft's nipples. And then he sank his teeth in. Mycroft threw his head back, his long pale neck completely exposed, the gingery stubble rasping against the top of Greg's head.
John had seen enough. More than enough. He cleared his throat. Two pair of bloodshot eyes swivelled towards him. Greg's dark brown eyes looked almost completely black, alien as they focussed on him. Mycroft's eyes were a startling contrast of piercing blue and deep crimson framed by his pale skin. In any other circumstance he would almost be beautiful.
Greg was obviously still coming down from whatever highs Mycroft had taken him to and barely registered John. Certainly he didn't act like a man who had been caught doing whatever it was this particular act of debauchery classed as. In the kitchen. On the work top. With another man. Or vampire. Or. John thought his head was probably going to explode very shortly as his brain tried to process and make sense of the new terminology.
"John." Mycroft's voice was low. Calm. Seductive even. And there was that smell. It kind of smelled like freshly made Bakewell Tarts. All jam and almonds and rich buttery pastry. John shook his head.
"Sorry. I...I was hungry." John felt his knees shaking.
"Not at all. I should have realised you would be." It was difficult to accept the silky courtesy in Mycroft's voice. Especially when he was still, from what John could see, very firmly inside Greg, and gently rutting against his buttocks.
"Er...yes..." John's mouth was dry, his legs were water and he was possessed by the strangest of urges to kiss Mycroft Holmes right on that sensuous, cruel, blood covered mouth. John's fight or flight mechanisms collapsed. So did he.
Mycroft rolled his eyes and pulled out of Greg, cramming his still hard cock uncomfortably into his jeans. Greg slid off the counter, somewhat resentfully and retrieved his own abandoned clothing as Mycroft picked John Watson off the floor with no more effort than if John had been a child.
"We really are going to have to stop him doing that you know. Sherlock will get so upset if he realises what's going on."
"You can't help being the one everyone wants!" Greg ran his hand down Mycroft's chest, drawing a small moan out of him.
"Can you make some sandwiches? I'll put them by his bed for when he wakes up again. Oh and see if you can persuade Sherlock to stop sitting on the roof. He might listen to you Gregory." Mycroft flashed the briefest of smiles and slipped from the room.
Greg turned, looking at the mess they had made of the kitchen and thinking it might be an idea to clean up.