“Christmas Eve drinkies!” Molly exclaimed. Mrs. Hudson passed around the tray of fancy little... goblets? Drinks glasses? They weren’t flutes... more like tulips... Lestrade wasn’t certain what they were called. He took one anyway and raised it for the toast.
“Cheers everyone.” John Watson said. “Happy Christmas.”
Lestrade looked at the faces around him. Molly looked happy. She had a new boyfriend that was neither a psychopath nor a Sherlock look-alike. “I’m a physicist.” He’d said when John asked. Sherlock had ‘tsked’ skeptically, and the man had laughed with good nature. Lestrade liked him.
Sherlock’s no-doubt caustic comment had been cut off by Mummy. She was impatient for her turn with Rosie. John’s daughter took after her father — blonde, compact, easygoing until you ran up against her stubbornness and temper. She was almost two now, and though the bags under John’s eyes had deepened, he glowed when he looked at her.
Mummy took her from Sherlock’s arms. He seemed disconcerted to see her go, but John set a calming hand on his arm and Sherlock settled. His glance at John was telling — to everyone but John apparently.
Sherlock had stepped in as a second parent to the little girl. John had let him — he needed the support desperately — and after eighteen months, Sherlock was as invested in the child as he was in John. Lestrade feared the detective was in for a world of hurt when John inevitably found another woman with whom to pair. Lestrade had heard John say, “A girl needs a mother.” More than once.
But for now, John’s hand on his arm made Sherlock look indescribably happy.
Lestrade understood all too well. He’d been settling for scraps for years. Lestrade had allowed himself to look to his ex-wife for a bit of companionship over the holidays. They shared a daughter, it had come to seem inevitable that they’d share a pint at hers when he brought Georgianna home... and after the girl was asleep, fall into bed together again. They were both lonely... he’d looked forward to it.
Except his ex- wasn’t lonely anymore. She had a new husband to cheat on.
Lestrade told himself he was glad — it had held him back. He deserved a real relationship...
Chance’d be a fine thing. Lestrade put his work first — you didn’t rise to the rank of DCI by making it home for dinner. He saw more of Georgianna now than he had before the divorce, even though he only had her overnight every other weekend and on holidays.
He was a shite father. Lestrade had no idea how John Watson did it alone. Even with Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson to help, he couldn’t fathom it.
“What are you doing here!?” Sherlock’s animosity cut across Lestrade’s thoughts.
“Of course Myckie is here!” Mummy returned. “He’s your brother.”
Mycroft looked just about as happy as Sherlock to be there. He was holding a gaily wrapped gift.
Mummy surrendered Rosie to take the present. “Just a little something for the child on Christmas Eve, John.” She said.
“Erm... thanks, Mrs. Holmes.” He looked at his daughter fondly. “You’re too generous.”
Lestrade caught the look that passed between Sherlock and his mother. He suspected Sherlock had given her a list of things Rosie needed. Lestrade remembered how quickly they grew at that age. Kids were expensive.
He glanced over at Mycroft to see his reaction — and caught him looking.
Lestrade had noticed Mycroft looking at him appraisingly before. The first time he hadn’t been certain — it was Mycroft after all, The Iceman. When Lestrade was certain, when it was undeniable that Mycroft was checking him out, the timing had been awkward. And Lestrade wasn’t sure if he wanted to do anything about it. He wasn’t sure if Mycroft himself wanted anything to come of it.
It had been a long time since Lestrade had been with a man — before his marriage. Before he’d even met Jude. He hadn’t expected to go that route again.
But it felt great to be desired. He’d always thought Mycroft attractive… so prim and cool, Lestrade wanted to take him apart, find out what he hid behind that cold exterior. Maybe he deserved a Christmas present…
So Lestrade looked back. Brazenly. He caught Mycroft’s eye and held it, smiling lazily and letting his hand travel over his abdomen leading Mycroft’s attention downwards...
Mycroft was startled — he really hadn’t thought Lestrade knew? But he recovered quickly, the smallest upturn of his lips saying so much: rue at being caught out, pleasure in Lestrade’s response, an invitation for more...
The elder Holmes brother crossed the kitchen to stand near Lestrade. They both watched Rosie ripping paper off her present, John helping and Sherlock beaming at them both.
“Detective Inspector.” Mycroft said softly.
“You should call me ‘Greg.’” Lestrade answered.
“Perhaps I should.”
Mycroft was wearing a three-piece suit in a muted tartan and a tie with the tightest, straightest Windsor knot Lestrade had ever seen. He wanted to peel it off the other man, piece by bloody, bespoke piece, and run his hands over the vulnerable skin underneath.
Lestrade felt interest pooling low in his belly.
Rosie was more interested in the shiny wrapping paper than the gift. Mummy, Father, Sherlock and John were all grinning foolishly.
Mycroft made a disgusted noise. “I fear my brother is headed for yet another disaster.”
“Yeah.” Lestrade agreed. “He’ll take it hard when John starts looking for a step-mum for Rosie.”
“I’ve warned him...”
Lestrade nodded. “Who knows, maybe John’ll pull his head out of his arse...”
Mycroft scoffed. “Little chance of that.”
Lestrade turned to the other man, meeting his eyes with a smoldering gaze. “Slightly better chance that I won’t spend Christmas morning alone this year.”
Mycroft’s breath caught, and red bloomed on his cheeks. Lestrade noticed that Mycroft was liberally freckled. It was adorable. “Won’t you be with your daughter tomorrow?”
“Boxing Day.” Lestrade replied easily. “I’m working tomorrow. Someone’s gotta do it.” He shrugged. “What about you? Does the British government take Christmas off?”
Mycroft smiled without warmth. “I’ll check in. Make certain everything’s running smoothly.” Lestrade noted that his eyes were more green than blue. It suited his fair skin and auburn hair.
Rosie squawked and both men looked over. She’d moved on to another gaily wrapped gift, Sherlock urging her to rip the shiny paper.
“He’s good with her.” Lestrade observed.
Mycroft rolled his eyes.
“You’ll be spending tomorrow with your family.” Lestrade mused. “John said he and Rosie were at yours this year.”
Mycroft looked like he’d rather shove tacks in his gums than host his family at Christmas.
“It’ll be fun.” Lestrade told him. “Rosie’s a good age for it. She’ll keep everyone occupied.”
“Your daughter is… somewhat older.”
Lestrade laughed. “Somewhat, yeah. Georgianna’s fourteen — perfect age to be embarrassed by her dad.”
Mr. Holmes held a sock puppet up to Sherlock. “I’m Sockie.” He said in a high-pitched voice. “Let’s sing ‘Jingle Bells’ for Rosie!” Sherlock responded with a look of horror. John fell off his chair laughing.
The horror was reflected on the elder brother’s face. “Guess some kids will always be embarrassed by dad.” Lestrade murmured, amused.
“I lay the blame squarely on my father.” Mycroft responded. “He does it purposefully.”
“So I do.” Lestrade admitted. “It’s too easy, making my daughter cringe. It’s a laugh.”
Mycroft’s eyes flicked over the copper. “That’s… evil.”
“Yep.” Lestrade grinned. Surreptitiously he brushed his knuckles against Mycroft’s hand, letting their fingers tangle. He heard Mycroft’s breath hitch.
“Can I —” Mycroft choked slightly, stumbling over his words, his cheeks growing red again. “I can’t stay long... can I offer you a ride… erm, home? Greg.”
Lestrade grinned. “Yeah. Sounds great. Let me say goodnight to everyone.”
Mycroft nodded. “I’ll meet you outside.”
Mycroft slipped out without comment, but it was ten minutes before Lestrade extricated himself from the party. When he told Sherlock he had to get going, the detective had peered around the room, then given Lestrade a look somewhere between suspicious and disgusted. But he hadn’t said anything. He’d only glanced at John longingly. Lestrade clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. “Hang in there, mate.” He said.
Sherlock’s response was a brusque, “Shut up.” Which earned him a reproving look from John.
When Lestrade finally emerged from 221, Mycroft stood by a shiny car looking cold and, Lestrade thought, relieved that he hadn’t been stood up.
“Sorry.” Lestrade said, sheepish. “Took longer than I thought.”
“Think nothing of it.” Mycroft murmured and opened the car door.
Lestrade climbed in. The pale expanse of leather was buttery soft. He slid across the seat and Mycroft followed him. He looked stiff — he was anxious, Lestrade realised. He hasn’t done this in a while either.
The car started moving. Lestrade wasn’t sure where they were going. He didn’t care.
“You aren’t wearing your seatbelt.” Mycroft chided, clicking his closed.
“If I did, I wouldn’t be able to do this.” Lestrade cupped Mycroft’s jaw, feeling the slight roughness of end-of-day stubble, and kissed him.
Mycroft looked shocked. But before Lestrade could withdraw, Mycroft pulled him closer, his hands on Lestrade’s shoulders, and kissed back. His lips were dry and warm and Lestrade teased them with the tip of his tongue. He felt Mycroft smile as he nipped his lower lip, capturing it briefly between his teeth.
Lestrade pressed Mycroft into the soft leather, still teasing with soft brushes of his lips and tongue. Mycroft made a noise, aroused and impatient, that sent a rush of heat to Lestrade’s groin. His fingers dug into Lestrade’s neck, ruffling the short, silver hair.
Lestrade opened the other man’s mouth with his own and explored with darts of his tongue. Mycroft deepened the kiss and Lestrade allowed it, enjoying the taste of the other man. He let his hand wander lower, find its way under his coat, rake over a nipple, feel it stiffen through layers of wool and cotton.
“Ngh.” Mycroft was pleasingly vocal. It surprised Lestrade. He hoped he was a screamer in bed — that was always good for the old ego. Lestrade redoubled his efforts scraping his thumbnail over the erect nipple, enjoying how Mycroft arched into his touch.
For a long moment, Lestrade let himself go, caressing Mycroft’s tongue and teeth and palate with his own, plunging in fully until he felt Mycroft shiver. Then he moved his mouth over the other man’s jaw to his ear. He sucked on an earlobe, eliciting another breathy noise. Lestrade kissed Mycroft’s throat open-mouthed, his breath hot above the high collar.
Mycroft tugged his face up, so their lips met. Lestrade obliged him, kissing him breathless, delighting in the feeling of the elegant fingers in his hair and on his neck. He wished he could shift position, get some friction on his throbbing groin — and on Mycroft’s obviously excited member. Lestrade considered palming him through his trousers but decided to wait until they were indoors — he didn’t want to escalate in the car.
Lestrade had forgotten how different it was, kissing a man. The rough intensity, the raw strength of his partner, pushing harder, overpowering and being overpowered — all juxtaposed with astonishing gentleness, the feeling of being cared for, not just having to take care… Lestrade wondered why he’d given it up.
Societal pressure. Lestrade was attracted to women, it was easier being presumed heterosexual. Being with a man would have held him back at work… and he wouldn’t have had Georgianna — shite dad or not, he loved her madly. He wouldn’t want to imagine life without her.
But now… he had rank. If the scandal surrounding Sherlock’s ‘death’ hadn’t gotten him demoted, a boyfriend surely wouldn’t. Especially if the boyfriend was one of the most powerful people in the country.
Lestrade laughed at himself, prompting a quizzical look from Mycroft. He was getting ahead of himself — he was having a holiday snog in the back seat of Mycroft’s car, not getting married.
“Something amusing?” Mycroft asked, his guard up.
“Just feeling lucky.” Lestrade grinned. “Come back here.” He pulled Mycroft close, wrapping his arm around his back, and kissing along the other man’s hairline, his cheekbone, his jaw. He nudged Mycroft’s cheek with his nose, lining up their mouths, kissing him hungrily. He thrilled at the way Mycroft held him, his fingers digging into his shoulders, bruising him through his heavy coat.
They were panting, kissing and pawing at each other, all restraint gone. Lestrade tugged at Mycroft’s tie, undoing the perfect Windsor knot. He pulled the strip of silk free, tossing it aside — it would have made a fine binding for wrists in other circumstances. He opened the top button of the high-collared shirt and buried his face against the triangle of flesh. Mycroft moaned, luxuriating in the attention.
Abruptly Mycroft tensed and pulled away. “We’ve stopped.” He said.
Lestrade sat up. They’d steamed the windows — he hadn’t done that in thirty years. He grinned at Mycroft, taking in his kiss-red lips and mussed hair, the disarrangement of his clothes. Seeing him without a tie was… shocking. Lestrade thought he could get used to it. He could grow to quite like it.
“We’re here, sir, at DCI Lestrade’s residence.” A tinny voice told them.
“Come up for a nightcap.” Lestrade suggested, brushing his knuckles against Mycroft’s warm, red cheek.
Mycroft nodded. He leaned forward and pressed a button, spoke into a grille. “Thank you, Daniel. Please return to Baker Street and take my parents to their hotel when they’re ready. Then you can go home, I’ll take a cab from here.”
“Very good, sir.”
Lestrade opened his door and slid out, Mycroft following. He led the way to his front door as the sedan pulled away, felt for his keys and unlocked it. He held the door open for Mycroft.
“I’m on three.” He said, heading to the stairwell. Mycroft climbed behind him silently. Lestrade unlocked the door to his flat and gestured for Mycroft to precede him. Inside, Mycroft looked around. Lestrade tried to see it through the other man’s eyes. It was spare — just the basics, couch, telly, coffee table, dining table. Most of it had come in flat DIY packages. For decoration he had a print of a painting he favoured on the wall over the couch and a few photos of Georgianna pinned to the refrigerator.
“Take your coat?” Mycroft handed him his overcoat and ubiquitous umbrella absently, still taking in the airiness of the sparsely furnished rooms. A row of windows lined one wall, closed against the cold, white curtains still. The flat was ruthlessly clean — Lestrade had a Ukrainian woman come every week, a luxury he afforded himself because he had neither the time nor the inclination to do it but had a deep need for it to be done.
Lestrade hung their coats in the hall closet, then flicked on an old iPod in a speaker dock. He dialed a playlist and adjusted the volume. As he went to the little bar on the kitchen worktop, Johnny Matthis began crooning softly. “I have Irish Whisky, Bruichladdich, gin, tonic, and beer. And water.” Lestrade recited, ‘Christmas Eve drinkies!’ echoing in his mind. “What can I get you.”
“Bruichladdich?” Mycroft asked.
“Yeah. The Laddie Ten. Not the oldest, but one of their best.”
“I’ll try that, thank you.” Mycroft turned his attention back to the print on the wall. He named the artist. “Cy Twombly.” It didn’t sound like a question.
“Yeah. Bet you didn’t expect that.” Lestrade joined him, handing him the whisky in its rounded glass. “I have Hockney in the bedroom.”
Mycroft blinked. “If I’d known that, I might have tried this sooner.”
Lestrade shrugged. “Timing. Bit naff sometimes.”
Mycroft appeared to have no answer for that. He gazed around the large room again, the lounge delineated by a gray rug, the black dining table and its silver chairs standing solemnly, architectural in their simplicity. “I’ve seen your office, Lestrade…”
“Greg.” He corrected.
Mycroft smiled, warmth in it despite his distraction. “Greg.”
“My office is cluttered with files and paperwork and all sorts of shite. Stuff just seems to stick to my desk… I don’t want that where I live. Cigarette?”
“You smoke in here?”
“Out the window. I don’t like for Georgianna to breathe it.”
Mycroft took a sip of the whisky, warmed from his hand on the glass. He swirled it and sniffed it first then cautiously drank. His eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“Not bad, innit.” Lestrade said, amused. “Not your usual standard, I’m sure...”
“No. It’s... good.” Mycroft still appeared surprised. He turned 360 degrees, surveying the elegantly spartan flat. Then his eyes snagged on Lestrade — creased trousers, shoes in need of shining, the careless way his collar protruded from his sky-blue jumper...
“You seem… astonished.” Lestrade said, hiding his smile. He hauled open the window closest to the dining table and sitting on the sill, knocked a fag from his pack and lit up. He blew the smoke out the window. “Everyone has the same reaction.” He said. “Not that I entertain much.”
There was a gleam in Mycroft’s eyes that Lestrade couldn’t parse. He took a slug of his own whisky and sucked on the cigarette. “Come here.”
Mycroft obeyed. “Drag?” He asked, holding up the cigarette. Mycroft took it from him and inhaled with the dedication of a serious smoker, blowing the smoke out the window. Lestrade watched it disappear into the cold night.
Mycroft took another puff then handed the cigarette back. “Cy Twombly!” He repeated.
Lestrade laughed at him, extinguishing the cigarette against the outside wall and dropping it out the window. He set down his whisky and closed the sash. “Cold out.” He mumbled. He turned back to Mycroft and used the taller man’s lapel to tug him closer. He kissed him, and Mycroft responded immediately, the hand unburdened with whisky finding Lestrade’s waist. “Wanna see my Hockney?”
Mycroft smirked. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”
“You’d be wrong.” There were no other boys. “But now that you point it out, maybe I…”
Mycroft cut him off with a kiss. Lestrade slipped his hands under the other man’s jacket and pushed it off his shoulders. Mycroft let it fall. “You have too many clothes on.” Lestrade said. He began unbuttoning Mycroft’s waistcoat, his hands fumbling the watch fob.
“You as well.” Mycroft said, and the sky-blue jumper was rucked violently to his chest. Lestrade raised his arms and Mycroft pulled it off.
Lestrade carefully detached the gold watch and its jeweled fob and handed it to Mycroft who set it unceremoniously on the dining table. Greg grinned and pulled Mycroft closer, letting his hands wander to his arse and cup his buttocks. Mycroft’s little, “Uhn!” made Lestrade harden in his trousers. He gripped Mycroft’s arse more firmly and pressed himself against his thigh, feeling the other man’s arousal on his hip. He rocked his pelvis, panting as Mycroft kissed his neck, then bit the tender area below his jaw. He heard himself moan.
With an effort, Lestrade pulled back. He took Mycroft’s hand and led him down the hall to his bedroom.
Lestrade did indeed have a Hockney print. He’d got it at the David Hockney retrospective at the Tate and it was huge. It showed a rectangular pink building and a bright blue swimming pool. A yellow diving board led the eye into the pool where a splash indicated someone had just gone in the water. There were palm trees in the background, their leaves very green against the vivid sky.
His bed was below it, the duvet cover echoing the colours in the Hockney print. Bed table, lamp, charging cords, dustbin. The rug a muted pattern.
And that was it. Lestrade had shoved his dresser into the closet. If Mycroft opened the door, he’d find a jumble of shoes and laundry on the floor below the hanging suits and shirts in dry-cleaner's bags, Lestrade’s secret clutter.
Mycroft eyed the room. “A Bigger Splash.” He said, naming the painting.
Lestrade didn’t bother to smile as he kissed him, but his eyes danced with laughter. He was enjoying this!
He felt Mycroft’s clever fingers on the buttons of his shirt and he began unbuttoning Mycroft’s as well. He seemed to have twice as many as he needed on the still-crisp shirt. Underneath he wore a vest — as did Lestrade. He huffed with impatience, shoving Mycroft’s shirt and waistcoat off his shoulders and letting them fall to the floor. Then he shrugged his own off and let it drop.
Lestrade yanked Mycroft’s vest from his trousers, running his hands underneath, feeling the muscles of his back and the slight softness of his abdomen. He pushed it up and Mycroft shucked it, tousling his auburn hair. Lestrade grinned and pulled his own vest over his head. Then they pressed together, bare chest to chest, Lestrade learning the other man’s curves and angles with his fingertips.
Mycroft sighed deeply, his lips against Lestrade’s temple. “Greg.”
Their kiss was needy, a clash of teeth and tongues. They wrestled, and Lestrade groped for Mycroft’s trousers, opening the flies and pushing them down, feeling the other man’s cock spring free. With a pleased grunt, he pushed Mycroft onto his bed and, freeing his own erection, climbed on top of him. They rubbed their pricks together. Mycroft licked his palm and encircled them both. It felt amazing.
Lestrade’s groan was loud in his own ears. It had been a long time since another person had touched him there.
Mycroft shoved at Lestrade’s trousers. “Get these off.”
Lestrade kissed him once more then stood. They both still wore their shoes, creating an impediment to trouser remouval. He took hold of Mycroft’s foot attempting to untie the burnished wingtip. The thin laces defied his fingers. He worked at them, Mycroft’s long legs and erect cock… waiting…
Lestrade’s grin began to turn to giggles. He struggled with the laces, the neat bow becoming a knot. “What are you doing?” Mycroft asked.
“I’m...” Lestrade’s shoulders shook with laughter.
“Greg?” He dropped the wingtip. Mycroft was propped on his elbows, staring.
Lestrade tried to stop laughing, but glancing at his own partial nudity, new gales burst forth. His limbs were rubbery, and he collapsed onto the floor, helpless. “We do this again,” He guffawed. “We keep our trousers on until shoes are off. I can’t concentrate with that right there.” He waved his hand at Mycroft’s prick.
A prick that was rapidly losing firmness. But Mycroft smirked. “You’re ridiculous.” He said primly.
Greg roared — and Mycroft tittered. He prodded Lestrade with his foot. Lestrade grabbed Mycroft’s thigh and pulled. Mycroft slid to the floor next to Lestrade with a thump.
“Look at us.” Lestrade giggled. “Bare-arsed.” He leaned against Mycroft, shaking. “God, you smell good.”
Mycroft untied his own shoes. He elbowed Lestrade. “Hurry up.” He prompted.
Lestrade broke out in fresh peals of laughter, but he pried the shoes from his feet and shimmied out of his trousers. Mycroft finished undressing and began kissing his neck. Lestrade leaned into his touch. “We’re still bare-arsed on the floor.” He muttered.
“We don’t have to do this.” Mycroft said coyly.
“Fuck that!” Lestrade insisted, his mirth finally fading. He sprang up and pulled Mycroft to his feet, wrapping his arms around the taller man. “Oh god.” He moaned as they pressed together from chest to knee. Mycroft’s mouth sought his. Their kiss was intense, their panting breaths hot.
He shucked the duvet back from his bed in one motion, then bullied Mycroft onto it. Lestrade bit his lower lip and admired the long limbs furry with copper hair, the auburn treasure trail stretching from navel to bush. Mycroft's long cock was fully erect, ruddy with arousal, foreskin retracted, damp head revealed.
Lestrade liked the look of Mycroft in his bed.
Lestrade was stockier, his body hair still mostly dark where his head had gone silver. He was broad-chested and thick-thighed with a trace of definition on his abdomen. His cock was thick and heavy, hot where it bumped against his belly.
Mycroft held out his arms and Lestrade joined him, his big hands roaming, finding the turgid prick and stroking it, pulling back the velvety foreskin. Mycroft moaned aloud. Lestrade tasted the narrow chest, licking the hard nub of a nipple, moving lower and rubbing his face on soft belly. Mycroft’s scent was musky with arousal.
Lestrade licked Mycroft’s cock, tasting the desire that seeped from its tip. Mycroft’s “Ahh!” was loud and lewd. He stroked the shaft with his big hand and took the head in his mouth, sucking on it, laving it with his tongue. He caressed Mycroft’s balls, feeling their soft weight and rubbed his knuckles against his perineum.
Mycroft groaned loudly and spread his legs. Greg ventured lower, caressing the tight ring of muscle, hearing Mycroft’s breath hitch and gasp. He reached blindly for the bedside table and opened the drawer, groping inside. He opened the tube of slick and applied some to his fingers.
He took Mycroft’s cock into his mouth, feeling it press against the back of his throat. He sucked and pulled up, his fingers using his saliva to stroke the shaft. With his other hand, he massaged Mycroft’s hole with a lubed finger, rubbing, pressing. He breached, and the other man gasped. Lestrade waited, giving him time to adjust, twisting his finger gently.
When he felt Mycroft relax, he pressed in farther frigging back and forth. Mycroft’s approval was vocal, and he rocked against Lestrade’s hand. He jacked Mycroft’s cock rhythmically, and slowly introduced a second finger. Mycroft opened for him, digging his heels into the bed and fucking himself greedily. Lestrade bent his fingers and ghosted them over the sensitive, walnut-shaped bundle and Mycroft, taut with pleasure, sang out.
“Do you,” Mycroft gasped. “Do you have a condom?”
Lestrade felt all the blood in his body rush to his cock. “Yeah.” He croaked. He took his hand from Mycroft’s prick and awkwardly groped in the drawer. He handed over the condom, pressing kisses to Mycroft’s thighs.
Caressing Mycroft’s cock to ease the way. Lestrade shoved a third slick finger into him. “Ngh!” Mycroft pressed himself down onto Lestrade’s fingers and rocked slowly.
Mycroft tore the condom wrapper open with shaking hands. “Come here.”
Lestrade carefully extricated himself and sat up, pausing only to admire the winking gape of his hole. Mycroft met him with a panting kiss, desperate and needy. Lestrade held him tightly, sucking on his tongue and lips, groaning as Mycroft’s hands found his cock and rolled the rubber on it deftly.
Mycroft lay back and Lestrade followed him, planting hot kisses on his mouth and jaw, worrying an erect nipple. Lestrade found the lube again and slicked his cock liberally. He lifted Mycroft’s legs, kissing along his knees and lined himself up. He sought Mycroft’s eyes. “OK?” he asked. Mycroft nodded and Lestrade pushed in.
He swore, overcome. Mycroft was molten hot and so tight! Bloody hell, it had been a long time! Lestrade groped for Mycroft’s hand and their fingers intertwined. Mycroft’s breath was hot on his face as he began to move.
Slowly at first, exploring the depth and heat of the other man, trying to find just the right angle. Then faster and harder as Mycroft urged him — then begged him. Lestrade’s movements became more focussed, more intense. He bit into Mycroft’s shoulder, then kissed it. Mycroft reached for his neck, his fingers grasping. Lestrade’s breath was harsh, Mycroft’s a gusting moan. Sweat dripped from his face onto Mycroft’s neck and he spared a moment to lick the salty drops, all the time thrusting into Mycroft’s willing hole.
“Greg!” Mycroft begged. “Greg…”
Lestrade sat up and yanked Mycroft’s hips onto his lap, pounding into him. He took Mycroft’s cock in hand and jacked it along with his thrusts. He changed his rhythm, executing a slow, sleazy grind with his hips — then fucked hard and fast again.
Mycroft’s mouth hung open, but he was silent, all sound trapped. Then it gushed forth in lusty, keening cries as his orgasm spilled hot over Lestrade’s hand and his arse contracted even more tightly around his thrusting cock. He watched fascinated as 'The Iceman’ shattered. He fucked him through it, crooning softly.
“God, you’re beautiful… look at you …”
Mycroft’s shudder carried seamlessly into Lestrade, and he fell over the brink into his own climax, feeling like he would burst. His entire body clenched uncontrollably, spasming, trembling. The jolts of pleasure electric — sparking over his skin, all hair on his body erect. The world was black, roaring in his ears…
…Mycroft’s legs were wrapped tightly around his waist, his fingers dug into his hips and he twitched with aftershocks. Sweat sheened Mycroft’s torso and tears streaked his temples. Lestrade’s head buzzed pleasantly as he met Mycroft’s heavy-lidded gaze.
He leaned over and kissed the man, tasting salt on his lips. Mycroft released Greg slowly, letting his limbs go limp.
Lestrade carefully pulled out and disposed of the condom, tossing it into the bin and grabbing tissue. He eased himself down, next to the taller man, his lips ghosting across a damp shoulder.
“You OK?” He asked, mopping the cum from Mycroft’s abdomen.
Mycroft’s smile was warm, his eyes unfocussed. “Yes. Very.”
“Good.” Lestrade stretched his arm over the man’s chest, holding him, pressing haphazard kisses into his skin.
“I should…” Mycroft began, making a weak movement with his arm.
“Go to sleep.” Greg rumbled, pulling the duvet over them. “Stay.”
Mycroft sighed deeply and shivered into Lestrade’s embrace.
Lestrade held him, his easy smile failing. His throat felt thick. He didn’t know what he’d expected from the Christmas Eve lark, but this wasn’t it… this was… more…
More than he’d felt in years — a huge, sweet throbbing for the man beside him. He couldn’t breathe.
Mycroft Bloody Holmes! The Iceman!
Lestrade huffed unhappily. He had no idea what to do.