A/N This is a short bit of Mystrade fluff with a chaser of Sally Donovan tartness to cut down on the sickly sweetness. It has little or no bearing on the plot, but I wrote it because I wanted to. I cannot in good conscience blame John for this flight of fancy, but I might be able to blame Greg. He was feeling a bit horny after that scene with John in the loo. So that might be a good enough reason for this chapter.

So, yeah, enough pointless rambling.

Warnings-rated M for M/M smut…Also, the sugar content may be bad for your teeth and possibly for your diet as well. You have been warned.

Chapter 19

Greg Lestrade pinched his forehead and messaged his temples, ignoring Donovan's tirade. What a night, Christ it was almost morning. Of course, it could have been worse, thought the detective inspector. Hell, it very nearly was worse. Sherlock nearly got himself killed while solving this case. And while the case was solved, the serial murderer (a cabbie, no less) was shot dead, and Lestrade had no official suspects. The paperwork alone would take all next day. And he did not look forward to explaining any of this to his superintendent and, God forbid, press corp who would use this case to highlight the Yard's incompetence and somehow turn it into a case of police brutality.

He should be grateful that Sherlock was even still alive, and that was thanks to that army doctor. Greg wondered what he ad Sherlock were getting up to now. Then he decided he really didn't want to know.

"I've warned you. I've warned you a thousand times." Sergeant Donovan continued her harangue. "Sherlock Holmes is a danger to the public. And yet you left that poor little man alone with him…"

"Poor little man?" repeated Greg incredulously. "Poor little man? I thought he was supposed to be the dangerous one! You said that Watson was the shooter. You insisted that he killed the cabbie. You held John Watson at gunpoint because he was so dangerous!"

"Yeah, well, he's got an alibi now, And now that I've had time to think about it, even if Watson did shoot that Hope guy; he did us all a favor," said the sergeant decisively, brushing curly, dark hair off her forehead. "My point is, Watson's a wounded vet with PTSD and we abandoned him to the likes of that psychopath, Holmes. You know how he manipulates and takes advantage of people. It ain't right, and you know it!"

"Oh for God's sake, Sally. I'm sure Watson can take care of himself…"

"I bet Holmes already has him brainwashed, or maybe he's using blackmail. You know he blackmails people all the time. Richardson, down in holding, she said…"

"Sally, enough. The incident with Richardson was resolved. And we both know she wasn't entirely innocent," said Lestrade.

"But that soldier, he's already vulnerable because he's being stalked by some other psychopath. The same one who wanted to murder your partner," exclaimed the earnest Sergeant. "So of course, Watson is probably afraid and confused and Holmes is taking advantage of it."

"Oh God, Sally. John Watson is not another stray waiting for you to rescue him. Haven't you got your hands full trying to save Anderson," Lestrade regretted his words as soon as they left his mouth.

"Have you met his wife? Have you?" demanded the coffee-skinned woman grimly. "Anderson is no angel; I know. But that woman he married is take'n 'im to the cleaners. This time, she made him sell his car. His car! So she could go on holiday with her cousin. I bet you fifty quid it's not her cousin. And she's hit him, I've seen the evidence…"

Oh God, thought Greg gripping his aching forehead. The visual of Anderson with hidden bruising, now revealed to the light of day was enough to make the detective inspector feel ill. Then he felt guilty. If what Sally said was true, then Lestrade should at least try to offer Anderson support. He sighed deeply. He'd have to call Anderson in tomorrow. This night just kept getting worse and worse.

"…no one understands him. You know, he's actually very good at his job. But when was the last time you bothered to give Anderson an "atta boy" for a job well done. No, you save that for your pet psychopath, just 'cause he's family. And then you leave a mentally compromised, injured man alone and virtually naked with that predator. Did you see his bruises and that bite on his shoulder? Did you actually look at him?"

"Sally, yes. I saw. They do corroborate his statements…"

"They mean that someone is abusing him. That man is being systematically abused, and how d'you know it's all from that Irish businessman? How d'you know Holmes isn't involved? He probably controls Watson by beating him!"

"That's ridiculous. Now you're completely out of line," said Lestrade fed up. He did not want to think about the soldier standing naked in the loo. It was embarrassing. It was disturbing. It was arousing. Shite.

"I'm telling you Watson needs protective custody; in fact, I have a guest room. Watson could stay with me until…"

Well, now her cards were on the table.

"You think he's cute," said Greg hiding his grin behind his hand.

"What? NO!" said Sally taking the turn a bit fast. Luckily, they had the road to themselves this early in the morning.

"Yeah, you do. You were turned on," Lestrade chuckled openly. "You liked what you saw, and now you think John Watson needs saving, huh? My advice it that you concentrate on your menagerie, Sally. Try to remember; you already have a cat, three dogs and some creepy, weasely thing."

"It's a ferret named Veronica. And she's adorable. And…"

"And I was taking about Anderson," said Lestrade straight-faced.

Sergeant Donovan stopped the car and then punched her boss's shoulder. She was strong, and it hurt. "That's exactly what I'm on about. Anderson gets no respect, not even from you. I should make you walk the rest of the way. I really should."

"Pax! Pax!" said the detective inspector with his hands up in surrender. "I was out of line. I'm sorry. And Anderson's problems are no joking matter. He's very lucky to have a friend like you, Sally. Okay?"

"Damn straight," snarled the younger woman, heading her car back on to the deserted street. "But Watson…"

"Look, I have no idea what Watson sees in that arrogant consulting detective. Maybe he gets off on geniuses; even you gotta admit Sherlock's a genius. John Watson is old enough to make his own decisions, and strong enough to handle Sherlock. And an ex-soldier like him won't appreciate you getting involved."

They drove in silence for a few minutes.

"He was kinda cute," Sally finally admitted. "All blushing and pink, like. And sticking his nose up in the air, like he could care less that he was starkers." She began sniggering again. "But he din't fool me for a minute."

Lestrade began chuckling too. "Yeah. You know, i have to admit I thought he was a bit cute. And for the record, this conversation never happened. I'll deny it under oath," he added.

She pulled her car over to the side of the road, a block away from the mansion where Lestrade lived with his lover. His supposedly late lover. She sobered up. She was one of the few who knew the truth that Mycroft Holmes was alive and in hiding, directing the search for the man who ordered his assassination.

What a fucked up mess this was, and, as usual, her boss was stuck in the middle of it. Sometimes, Sally thought that Mycroft Holmes was almost as bad as his bother. Always manipulating Greg Lestrade. Always bossing him around.

Hopefully, her boss didn't know that he was one of her pet projects too. She worried about the effect that the Holmes brothers had the detective inspector. She was concerned about how they stressed Lestrade out. Well, one of these days, he'd have to admit that the Holmes brothers were screwing him over, and Sally would be the first to help rescue him. Right after she said, 'I told you so."

"Thanks for the ride, Sally" he said. "You were right; I was too tired to drive. Haven't gotten much sleep lately."

"Yeah, I was right. Well, I better mark that down on the calendar," she said gruffly. "Look, you get some rest and don't come into work this morning. No…" she held up her hand to stall his protest. "I scheduled the news conference for 2pm. I "leaked" some tidbits. Enough that everyone will know that the serial suicides were murder and that the suspect was killed by some unidentified criminal element. I may have implied it was sorta gangland style."

"Brilliant, Donovan. At the very least, that will buy us some time" Lestrade was grateful for his lieutenant's support. "Good job. Atta boy!" he added with a boyish grin.

She scowled and punched him again.

Greg unlocked the main door, which was draped with black bunting and wreath, as was befitting a house in mourning. Christ, the thought that it could have been real was enough to freak him out.

The butler/bodyguard nodded at him, as he passed through to the hidden elevator, leading down to the 'dungeons', which is how Lestrade refered to Mycroft's secret underground lair. Which begged the question; just how many secret basement hideouts were there in London?

The elevator doors slid open to reveal Mycroft waiting, already dressed for the day. It would appear that the British Government was dressing down today; he wore his dress trousers and a tailored button down shirt. There was no tie, and, instead of a suit jacket, a silky grey cardigan topped off the elegant ensemble.

"Mycr…" Lestrade was cut off when his taller partner leaned down to give him a chaste kiss. The kiss deepened and lasted until the elevator doors tried to close on the rumpled detective.

"I thought you'd be sleeping, Myc. Shouldn't you be in bed?" asked Greg with concern.

"I should not. It's half four, I am always up by this time, Gregory. And don't fuss; I'm fine," drawled the politician. "The bruising will take time to heal, but it really doesn't bother me as long as I take it easy. I must say that John Watson's balm seems to really help; he's a clever little man."

Mycroft had been guiding his partner to the large bedroom, which had been his sickroom only a day ago. Now it was filled with a paper strewn desk, a chest of drawers and a very comfortable looking king sized bed.

"In fact," said the politician smoothly, "you are the one who will be going to bed now. You haven't slept in over 38 hours."

"I also haven't showered and…"

"I anticipated that, Gregory and everything you need is in the en suite bathroom," said Greg's ginger-headed companion. Mycroft went in and began filling the tub with hot water. He helped Greg slip out of his jacket and began unbuttoning his shirt.

"Myc, I think I can handle this," chuckled the detective inspector, who secretly loved this unexpected attention.

"And I think you deserve a little 'TLC', as you like to call it, Gregory," said Mycroft. "Now, I know how hard this has been on you, trying to find the man who hired the sniper and then there was this terrible business of the serial murders. I am well aware that my sibling has caused as much confusion as he has helped solve crimes… Gregory, you will allow me," insisted the ginger, batting his partner's hands aside and removing the very wrinkled shirt.

His nimble fingers soon had Greg undressed. Then he tried to lead his lover to the tub. However, the stockier man insisted on another embrace before getting into the tub. He held Mycroft delicately, as if the minor government official he might break.

Finally, Mycroft all but pushed his boyfriend into the tub.

"Silly man, you're falling asleep standing up, now sit down and get soaking, said Mycroft mock sternly.

"Listen, Myc," said Lestrade. He was reluctant to break the romantic mood but felt Mycroft needed to know what happened with his brother. "Look, I have to tell you about Sherlock. He found the murderer. But there were complications, and … well, Sherlock behaved foolishly."

"It's fine, love. The miscreant has already confessed everything, without any urging on my part," said the British Government sourly. "He even used the phone instead of texting. I was given to understand that our marksman was Johnny on the spot, literally, shooting the assassin and saving Sherlock."

"Wait, did you just make a joke? You?" asked Lestrade who gratefully accepted a mug of ale from the ginger. He assumed one of the minions brought it in to the bedroom, while Greg was naked and in the tub with an open door…creepy. He forced himself to not think about Mycroft's staff lurking about and instead took another swallow of beer.

"I have no idea, Gregory, did I make a joke?" said Mycroft slyly.

Lestrade snorted into his nearly empty mug. Mycroft smirked and sipped his cup of tea. He leaned against the door jamb, admiring his lover.

"Of course, Sherlock phoned me for another reason; we had much to discuss. He has finally given me a name, Jim Moriarty, probably James really. Of course we're still searching for his underground offices. It's quite extraordinary that this Moriarty has been able to hide his activities so well, right under our noses." Both men grimaced at that thought, because both men took their jobs seriously. Greg protected London. Mycroft protected everything else.

"It is also strange that this criminal genius is so fascinated by the same man who has finally captured the attention of my, hitherto very unromantic, brother," mused the ginger.

"Yeah, that was bothering me," admitted Greg leaning his head back, not looking at all bothered right now. "I'll tell you what. I was suspicious of Watson. I mean he just happened to be there at the right time to save Sherlock and all. And of course Sherlock had to complicate it with another one of his virtuoso performances. But, in the end, I still trust him, John Watson I mean. Not Sherlock. I wouldn't trust your little brother as far as I could throw him." Greg's voice was little more than a murmur as his eyes slid shut. "No offence."

"None taken. I am well aware that you have been one of Sherlock's staunchest supporters since before I finally got up the courage to court you," a faint blush crept graced Mycroft's usually pale cheeks. "Well, to cut to the chase, Sherlock gave me the unvarnished tale of his and Doctor Watson's adventures. My assistants examined phone records, tapped into Sherlock's computer, and even found the cabbie who drove the good doctor to the school grounds. It all checks out. Doctor Watson apparently deduced that my reckless brother had voluntarily run off with a serial killer. Watson managed to track my brother down, just in the nick of time. He saved my little brother's life." Mycroft sighed. "There is more to that army doctor than meets the eye. And London's resident genius both sense this.

Mycroft was startled out of his monologue by snoring.

"And you, my dear, are sound asleep," said the British Government tartly.

The detective inspector woke easily enough, so that Mycroft did not have to strain himself when helping the stockier man to bed. However, Greg was back asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. Mycroft ran his fingers through the silvered hair and took out his phone to send a text to his little brother. He hated texting but didn't want to wake Gregory.

I understand that despite my advice and despite the danger, you are keeping him. Anon1

Mycroft hit send. A response followed quickly.

Obviously. I believe that I can make him happy. Imanon2

Mycroft nearly dropped his phone. Sherlock wanted to make someone happy? Impossible.

I suspect you are now overwhelmed by my maudlin sentimentality. Do not be. I will continue to avoid all sentiment, except in the matter of my new PA. Imanon2

Very well. If you are set on this path, there is nothing I can say, except that his personal history does not suggest that he will welcome your advances. Do not set yourself up for disappointment. Anon1

2Wrong. You must be suffering from cake withdrawal. I can assure you that he was most receptive and now rests satsifactorily. Imanon2

Dear God. His brother, Sherlock Holmes, was smitten, badly. He was so far gone, that he was bragging about his virility. Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, perhaps he should check to make sure that the apocalypse had not started without him. As if. Another message arrived.

He and I are of course cognizant of the threat that Moriarty presents. I have instructed him to pretend that he and I are only flatmates and colleagues. We shall maintain this fiction until the threat is eliminated. Just keep your promises Mycroft-all of them. Imanon2

Very well. Keep your flatmate out of trouble until the arrangements are complete. Perhaps you could divert him with your newfound domesticity. You could serve him breakfast in bed, unless you were planning to have him for breakfast. Anon1

Perhaps that last bit was uncalled for. But really, he hated it when Sherlock bragged about his sexual prowess, really it was so adolescent. And this Watson was entirely different from Sherlock's usual one night wonders; surely he deserved to be treated less like a feather in Sherlock's cap.

And perhaps you should attend to your partner. I do not appreciate the way he ogles my John. Imanon2

Dear God. My John? Sherlock was already calling the soldier MY JOHN'? Impossible.

And what the hell did he mean by implying that his Gregory would be tempted by that foreshortened excuse for a has-been soldier.

Attend to my partner indeed! He studied his sleeping partner. He trusted Gregory implicitly.

He nibbled delicately at one manicured fingernail. Still, if Sherlock and that Jim Moriarty saw something special in John Watson, then perhaps Gregory had too.

Very well. I shall attend to my partner. Mycroft threw back the covers and lowered himself onto the softly snoring, conveniently nude detective.

Mycroft was more than fit enough to kiss his partner to wakefulness. Strong arms gently encircled the lithe politician, as Mycroft slowly but steadily kissed, licked and bit every exposed part of his partner's very inviting body.

He had made his way down to Gregory's soft belly, lightly furred with light brown hair. Greg's hand gently combed through Mycroft's reddish hair, but otherwise, he held eerily still. No doubt, the older man harbored some absurd notion that he might hurt Mycroft. Silly man, Mycroft had a couple of bruised ribs, the rest of him was fine. Mycroft was a genius; he could certainly manage to attend to his partner with out straining his ribs.

To begin with, there was nothing wrong with Mycroft's mouth. He shifted south and began biting his lover's thighs, moving up toward the prize. In fact, Mycroft's mouth would be able to attend to all of his Gregory's needs. His talented mouth forced a groan from his panting lover, who arched up into Mycroft. This was more like it, thought the ginger. Mycroft was determined that his Gregory would not be able to restrain himself at all.

As his silver haired man fell apart underneath him, Mycroft ensured that there would be no need for his Gregory to ogle anyone else. Ever. Again.

A/N Actually, I have very little to say, except THANK YOU.

Thank you for reading, following and favoriting this fic.

Thank you for reviewing, nothing makes my day like reviews! Thank you to sasodei-iz-awesome, consulting smartass, Quiet Time, foxeeflame, power0girl, dana-san, anyrei1, SamuelE8688, Wicked Winter, 8of9 and InuChimera7410.

Disclaimer-SHERLOCK belongs to the BBC and or Moffat or Gatiss. I own nothing except my flights of fancy. How dull.