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Opposition Party

Chapter Text

It had been a long, busy, stressful week.

"Sherlock," Greg said, massaging his fingertips into his forehead. "Did you really have to clock him over the head with the fence post?" He blinked. "Wait. Explain to me first where you got a fence post."

"It was—" Sherlock hissed as John did something in his examination of Sherlock's shoulder. He was bleeding all over John's hands, but John didn't seem to care. "It was in the lumber yard."

"You chased him through a lumber yard? Where is there a lumber yard?"

"Or maybe it was someone's storage. Whatever." His voice sounded hazy with pain and blood loss. With his free hand, Sherlock waved that away as unimportant, then he rested it on John's head and stroked his hair for a moment. Greg peered at them suspiciously.

Sally radioed from the car that the suspect—6'3" of muscle, no longer armed with a several board-feet of nail-studded oak—was finally coming around from the unconsciousness into which Sherlock, John, or both had sent him. Greg pointed at the two of them. "When I come back, you're going to tell me if I'm sending you to hospital." As he rounded the corner out of the alley, his suspicions were confirmed when he caught John pressing his lips to Sherlock's forehead. Huh.

The suspect spat and swore, but wasn't giving up anything useful. Greg told Sally to let him stew a while longer while he took care of Sherlock, and she pulled a face. He very nearly rolled his eyes at her. The grudge was tiresome.

"Sir, he can handle things on his own. He does it all the time."

It was a fair point, but as he opened his mouth to explain that while she didn't like Sherlock, Greg sadly did, so if she could kindly hold her horses while he ensured Sherlock wasn't going to go into some sort of septic coma in the middle of a filthy alley, he looked down the street to see Mycroft strolling along, spinning his umbrella without a care in the world.

His world brightened.

"He's in the alley," Greg said to him while he was still ten feet away, unable to wipe the grin from his face.

"I know."

"I know you know."

Greg sauntered around the corner toward Sherlock and John, pleased to have Mycroft at his back.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked as John finished cleaning the wounds on Sherlock's shoulder and started to inspect them.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Might I suggest a light round of antibiotics after having several puncture wounds driven into one's shoulder?"

"I've had my jabs," Sherlock said. Then he jerked as John did something to the second wound.

"It looks like you're getting your jabs again right now," Greg snarked, amused at Sherlock's usual unwillingness to just go to hospital without putting up a fight. Every damn time, he did this, even if he fully intended to go to hospital in the end. He caught Mycroft's eye, and was delighted to see humour there, with a fond smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. Greg smiled back at him for a moment.

"No." Sherlock sounded strangled. "No no." Then he groaned, and Greg looked at him. "Oh, you've got to be joking."

"What?" John asked, busy covering up the wounds with precision, for all that the bandages were temporary.

"Them," Sherlock said, and jerked his chin. "Lestrade. And Mycroft."

"What about them?" John started cleaning off his hands with another sterile wipe and scanned them both, obviously looking for some clue what Sherlock was talking about and not succeeding.

"They're…shagging," Sherlock spat with distaste, and John's face immediately cycled through a series of expressions—shock, disgust, amazement, bemusement, comprehension—before he finally settled on a not-entirely-convincing smile.

"Oh," he said. "Er, that's great." Greg supposed John had never really been Mycroft's biggest fan, but that didn't really matter. It was just sex. It's not as if they were together.

Mycroft settled in for a casual bicker with Sherlock to get him to submit to the fancy facilities to which Mycroft usually dragged him, and John stood up to get out of the line of fire.

"How long has that been going on?" John asked quietly as Mycroft crouched down to speak with his brother in low, biting tones.

Greg shrugged. "A few weeks."

"So he's what. Your boyfriend?" John was clearly putting a brave face on it, which Greg appreciated no matter that it wasn't necessary.

"No, it's casual," Greg said, shaking his head, staring at the curving line of Mycroft's back and the way he was holding his umbrella.

"Is it?" John asked, and something in his tone caught Greg's attention.

"What? Yes, definitely. Why?"

John shook his head, his eyebrows creeping toward his hairline. "No reason. No. That's… That's good. A bit of fun."

"Exactly." Ah. And here was Greg's chance to change the subject. "Like you and Sherlock?"

John flushed crimson. "Erm."

Greg smiled and chuckled at him, then clapped him on the shoulder. "The case with…the diamond thief. Sylvianus?"

"Sylvius," John corrected, then smiled sheepishly.

"You both looked knackered."

"Shut up."

"And like you'd been up to something."

"We had."

"Is that why Sherlock had hickeys on the brain?"

John's eyes shot wide. "Was that—" He pointed over his shoulder at Mycroft. "Was that him?" At Greg's smirk, John's face blossomed into an expression of delight so pure Greg was sure he was going to strain something. "Oh, wait 'til he figures it—"


"—out," John finished, and started laughing his arse off as Mycroft stood up and brushed pointlessly at his trousers.

"Oh god, just. Take me to hospital so I can get away from them and delete it. Delete it all," Sherlock was saying as Mycroft walked over to the mouth of the alley where Greg stood. He had a supremely evil smirk on his face.

"This almost makes the constant distraction worthwhile," Mycroft said, leaning over and purring against Greg's ear.

Greg smirked, his arms breaking out in gooseflesh. "Almost?"

"Very nearly."

"You two are such children."

Sherlock scowled at them as John ushered him out of the alley towards Mycroft's car. John flashed an amused grin as they went past.

When they were gone, Mycroft looked around them and took Greg by the jaw, pulling him up into a brief kiss. "Tonight?"

"Can't tonight," Greg said, and kissed him again as an apology. "Paperwork. I'll be done far too late for supper."

"I wasn't talking about supper."

A slow grin spread across Greg's face. "Well now that's all I'm going to be thinking about while I'm filling out reports."

"Good." Mycroft kissed him again. "I wouldn’t want to think I took the night off for no reason.”

"The entire world won't fall to pieces if you take the night off to shag like rabbits?"

"I've ensured it won't."

"Lucky me."

For a moment, Mycroft flashed a smile that stopped Greg's heart. It was real—lines around his eyes and nose, white teeth, bright eyes—and beautiful for all that it was fleeting. Greg blinked and Mycroft's usual expression of quiet amusement was set in place again. He wondered if some day that happiness might linger. He leaned up to kiss him softly.

"Isn't your sergeant going to wonder where you are?"

"Let her wait," Greg said against Mycroft's mouth.

"Prerogative of the boss?"

"You should know."

Mycroft's nimble fingers scratched at the back of Greg's neck, making him shiver.

"Are you going to tell me tonight why you were in Dartmoor?" Greg asked, capturing Mycroft's face in both hands and sucking lightly on his lower lip.

"No," Mycroft said.

"Are you ever?"




"I'm going to go back to work, then." Greg couldn't stop kissing him.

"Wise." Mycroft nuzzled his face into Greg's hair. "I need to bring Sherlock to hospital."

"I will be a responsible boss. And then later I can make you scream."

Mycroft shivered, then chuckled, a dark thing that quickened Greg’s breath. "Perhaps tonight I can demonstrate just what happens in that en suite."

Arousal flared in Greg’s gut and he had to shut his eyes for a moment. “Yes. I think that sounds like an excellent plan.”

“Mmm. I can’t wait.”

“You are such an arsehole. Damn you.” How the fuck was Greg meant to concentrate now?

“At last you understand.”

"As if I didn’t know that before," Greg said. "Okay. Here I go." He mustered all his self-control and stepped back, trying not to look too hard at Mycroft for fear he'd just want to ruin him against the alley wall. He blew out a slow breath to steady himself.

"Here we both go," Mycroft said, and smirked, and together they walked out of the alley into the fading sunlight.