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They've fished Sherlock out of the river by midnight. He's not in the best mood when he's returned to the bank, just downstream from the Northumberland Wharf Waste Transfer Station - covered in weeds and filth, bundled into a traditional orange blanket by paramedics, and then informed that the Matthams brothers both got clean away in the chaos.

They've got to stay here until CID have been. Lestrade's on his way, just pulling himself into some clothes. It's been a hell of a night - and John has a feeling it's not over yet.

Sherlock has a look in his eye that suggests someone will get the sharp side of his tongue before morning. His shoulders are high and stiff, and he's oddly quiet. John knows the warning signs well by now. Hoping it's someone else who takes the bite for once, he opts to keep his mouth shut and sits quiet on the wall next to Sherlock, keeping him silent company as he broods, stinks and glowers in his blanket. Flashing lights from the ambulance cast their shadows long across the cobbles.

It's not going to be easy explaining the Matthams brothers' escape. John hopes Greg feels like being lenient today.

When a black car finally arrives on the scene, and the tape barrier is lifted to permit its passage, his heart stirs. A few questions, a look of despair - maybe a slap on the wrist for show - and they can get Sherlock back to Baker Street for a shower.

The car hasn't brought Greg.

Seeing a familiar head of auburn hair rising smoothly from the backseat, John's mood sinks.

"Oh, good..." he mutters.

Sherlock shoots him a sharp little frown. "What?" He turns to follow John's gaze.

"No, no - don't look. It's nothing."

Sherlock puts two-and-two together. His expression sours. "For heaven's sake..." he mutters. "Is there no peace?" He hides himself deeper into his blanket. "Pretend we're not here, John."

Mycroft is already walking this way - and he's not happy in the least.

"I...  think he might've spotted us already," John says, trying not to smile.

Sherlock mumbles something that ends with, "... save my sanity...", and reluctantly pulls his face out of the blanket.

Mycroft comes to a halt before them. He leans upon his umbrella, casts his sharp eyes from one to the other, and waits with unconcealed displeasure for an explanation.

Sherlock looks at him - then slowly shakes his head. "Oh, Mycroft... have you no shame?"

John glances sideways, confused. Sherlock's face is a blank wall. Nothing crosses it.

He lifts his head in time to see Mycroft's tongue poke into his cheek.

"Not particularly." Mycroft's eyes are as hard and grey as flint. "Skipping ahead to important matters... might I request an explanation of what you were doing in the Thames, little brother? I hope you're looking forward to Weil's Disease."

John looks between them again, suspecting he's missed something.

"You can request an explanation," Sherlock says, with a scowl. "You can request as many as you like, brother mine. Whether I'll then supply you with one, barefaced hussy, is another question."

John's eyes fly wide. "Sherlock - what are you - "

"Showing up here to rebuke me," Sherlock snaps, "with all the dignity of a Hackney slapper, carrying her knickers in her handbag. Did you think you were handling it discreetly?"

Mycroft rolls his eyes so hard it hurts even to witness. "For God's sake."

"Whoa, whoa - hang on - " It takes John several seconds to switch his brain back on. "What're you talking about, Sherlock?"

Annoyed, Sherlock leans back on the wall. He folds his arms.

"My brother has been forced to peel himself from the arms of his recently acquired but now regular male lover," he says, "in order to come and admonish me in person. Luckily he anticipates being back with his carnivorous bit-of-rough within a maximum of three hours, so at least our tedious lecture will for once have a time limit."

As Mycroft lays a hand across his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose very hard, John realises his mouth is open.

He closes it.

"That's - erm - "

"For heaven's sake," Sherlock sighs. "Must I always spell everything out, John? Surely even you've noticed the signs..."

John casts a wild look at Mycroft, hardly daring to meet his eyes. "Sherlock... maybe you should just - "

Sherlock throws back his head with a dramatic sigh, groans to the full depth of his throat, and says,

"The suit, John. The tie. The state of him - where do I even begin? I suppose we'll have to start somewhere..." He gestures at Mycroft from the ground-up, a quick slash of his hand. "Obviously the suit is new, and given my brother's giddy sartorial exorbitance, that's not necessarily a surprise - but the colour is outside his usual pallet. He tends to toneless neutrals in the hope that it extinguishes some of the colour in that unequivocal ginger mop of his - unaware that it actually just makes him look ginger and ill. And now he's suddenly hurled himself into a passionate affair with muted navy, and expects nobody to realise he's been receiving copious compliments on his natural colouring? He's flaunting his hair and eyes as brazenly as a peacock. I can barely look, John. It's almost making me nauseous."

John closes his mouth again.

He hadn't noticed the suit was new.

"Sherlock, you - can't take a navy suit and - "

"John," Sherlock nearly sobs. "John, please - just for once - utilise your eyes. You were given them for a purpose. It's a new suit, and it fits him."

Mycroft looks about ready to strangle Sherlock. "Why," he demands, outraged, "in the name of my sanity would I purchase a suit that doesn't - "

"It fits your recent weight gain, Mycroft! Clearly you're not intending to lose that six or seven pounds you've put on since January - and yet the thing is tailored to fit you, not to hide you. You're not resigning yourself to the additional weight, you're embracing it. Restaurants and dessert with two spoons, is it? I'd recommend moving to a dessert each, brother mine. Maybe then your paramour will be able to restrain himself from snacking on your neck for supper. Hoped the darkness would cover the edge of this evening's souvenir, did you? It doesn't."

Mycroft looks away across the river quickly, rubbing his mouth in annoyance. His shoulders shift; it eases his collar half an inch higher.

John lifts his face out of his hands. He pulls himself together, and mutters, "Sherlock, how can you know... 'male'?"

Sherlock groans. "The stubble rash, John. The overly casual stance. The lingering whiff of a high-street men's eau de toilette - 'Givenchy Gentleman' is it, Mycroft? Judging by that outrageous dry-down from iris into black vanilla. Hardly your usual price bracket. I won't mention that those knees have been in vigorous contact with a carpet very recently. I suppose it's possible you could have taken the sacrament kneeling before a female lover, but let's be statistical here."

John wonders briefly if this is a dream. He hopes so.

"The - 'overly casual - '?" he says. The second it leaves his mouth, he realises he doesn't want to know.

"Sherlock." Mycroft's eyes blaze. "Enough."

Sherlock snorts, flashing a smile from ear-to-ear. "Walk to the car and back, brother mine," he jeers. "Show us that brazen little hip-wiggle again." He tips his head towards John. "Be grateful, John. It's not recommended to leave them in for more than three hours. The pair of us will be home by dawn."

John nearly passes out. "Oh, God! Sherlock, stop - "

"At least he's not hit you like a home-run and headed for the hills like the last few did, Mycroft... this one's fond of you, is he? I suppose that preserves at least a shred of your dignity. The cufflinks were for your birthday, if I'm right. A rather ostentatious pair, far more bling about them than you'd choose for yourself, but you like the man enough still to wear the ugly things... birthday last month, possibly tallying with the purchase of the suit... unless you really have drowned yourself in sentiment, dear brother, and you celebrated your six month anniversary together with gifts. Then again, looking at the utter disgrace of that tie, I wouldn't put it past you..."

John looks up through his fingers, despairing.

Mycroft stares back. He's gone as pale as the moon behind him, every speck of colour drained from his face. His tie looks perfectly normal to John.

Sherlock waits.

He'll wait all night if he has to.

John inhales. "For Christ's sake," he sighs. "Fine. Go on."

Sherlock nearly purrs.

"Only a madman could believe my brother's hands were responsible for that Windsor knot," he says, sleekly. "Not a horrendous job, though... a professional man at least. He knows what he's doing, even if he hasn't your fussy precision, Mycroft."

He lifts his chin.

"The angle suggests someone shorter - two inches, maybe - doing it from behind. (Don't, Mycroft. Believe me that you've demeaned yourself enough this evening already.) There's a slight crook to the left within the knot itself, but it's been adjusted on the surface with care. It suggests the use of a full-length mirror. He's used to using one himself, and it's only natural for him to position you in front of the thing before he sends you off into the night - so there's a protectiveness for your appearance and reputation. How sweet. I'll wager that the full-length mirror in question is that horrendous antique you inherited from our grandmother, which means you've had him in your bedroom this evening, at your house - which means he's passed all the requisite security checks - which means you're envisioning quite the future with this lucky, lucky man, brother mine... I'm delighted for you both. Perhaps you'll spend less time harassing me now."

Sherlock's smile gleams in the darkness.

"Perhaps we should skip the tiresome lecture," he concludes, "and you can wiggle your way on home to him. He'll be missing you terribly, I'm sure, and far be it from me to interrupt the soft pangs of love's middle-aged dream. Is he going to take your surname, or you his? Actually, Mycroft... don't tell me. Let's leave something to the imagination."

There's another car arriving.

John barely sees it until it's cruised to a halt beside the ambulance. He can barely see a thing - the silence is crippling him, and he doesn't know where to put his eyes. Mycroft has turned the colour of fresh cherries. He looks like he's tempted to become the second Holmes dredged out of the river tonight.

Lestrade arrives into the horrified silence without a clue, throwing shut the door of his car.

"Fun and games as usual, Sherlock?" he says, tossing his keys in his hand. "You know some of us are busy sleeping at midnight, don't you? Could've thrown yourself into the Thames at a more convenient hour, mate..."

The silence continues.

Lestrade pauses. He looks from Sherlock to John, and then with concern to Mycroft, who's staring down at his shoes with his eyes tight shut. His knuckles have gone white around the handle of his umbrella.

Lestrade clears his throat. He scratches his stubble. "What've I missed?" he asks.

Wondering if they're about to get the whole sorry explanation again, John glances worriedly across at Sherlock - who's turned as white as the ambulance doors.

"What?" John says, alarmed.

Sherlock's staring at Lestrade as if the man's a ghost. "No."

"What's the matter?" says John. "It's Lestrade. He's come to ask about the Matthams brothers."

Mycroft turns his head up to the sky, crushing the handle of his umbrella in his hand. He inhales and mutters a brief prayer.

As the penny drops, so does John's jaw.

 


 

It takes half an hour to fish Sherlock back out of the river. It would have taken less, but the process is lengthened by his determined evasion of his rescuers, treading water beneath an upturned shopping trolley until someone agrees to swear on their mother's life that Mycroft is no longer on the scene.

He refuses to look at Lestrade while paramedics tend to him again. He keeps covering his eyes and groaning.

"We were planning to tell you in a month or two, mate... somewhere quiet." Greg raises an eyebrow. "Somewhere not near a river."

"Go away, Lestrade. We are no longer friends."

"That's a bit harsh, isn't it?"

"How could you? How absolutely could you? I can't cope." Sherlock curls inside his shock blanket. "John. Do something."

Greg glances at John, fighting a smile. John fights his too, folding his arms across his chest and looking down. 

Greg braces himself with a breath.

"How could I what, mate?" he says. "What's the problem?"

"Aggnhh. Lestrade."

"Date your brother?"

"Aggnhh. Lestrade."

"He's allowed to see who he likes, Sherlock. Was I meant to come to ask your permission first?" Greg pushes his tongue across his teeth. "Maybe if you didn't get yourself into trouble so often, I wouldn't have kept running into him all the time."

The shock blanket groans. "Don't you dare blame me for this, Lestrade. You brought it upon yourself."

"Yep. And you're going to have to make your peace with it, aren't you?"

"That remains to be seen."

"What else're you going to do, Sherlock? Avoid us both for the rest of your life?"

"A splendid suggestion," says the shock blanket. "I shall implement this immediately. Go away, Lestrade."

"Or," Greg says, still smiling, "maybe you could stop seeing things you're not meant to, learn to put a sock in it, and get over yourself."

Sherlock audibly huffs. "I doubt that's possible."

John has to agree. The day Sherlock gets over himself, the sun will freeze.

"Yeah?" Greg says, amused. "Your brother manages." He prods the blanket carefully. "He can do your magic trick too, you know... figuring people out at a glance. He just chooses to keep it to himself. There's a novel concept, huh?" Greg bites his lip. "Maybe there's things he spots about you and keeps to himself."

"I'm not striding about London like some wanton Soho strumpet, Lestrade. There's a difference."

"'Having a boyfriend' is now called being a strumpet, is it?"

"Hnngh. You're engaging in - excessive things."

"Hang on, let me get a pen... gonna need to write this down so I remember... right. What counts as not excessive? Just so I know what I'm allowed to do to your brother." Greg pokes the blanket again. "Standard missionary's okay, is it? You can't take issue with that. How about oral if we promise to feel guilty the next day? Is that cool? I'll ring you up beforehand to get your blessing, how's that?"

Sherlock withers into the corner, tightening his shock blanket around his head.

"John," he begs. "John, take him away. He's torturing me."

John smothers his smile, keeping it out of his voice. "Pretty sure what you just did to Mycroft counts as 'torture', Sherlock... you can leave me out of this one."

"So we're agreed, are we?" Greg says, with a grin. "You're going to keep your nose out of your brother's business, and keep yourself out of the Thames. I'm going to get your brother a stiff drink and a shock blanket of his own. John's going to get a medal some day for putting up with you. And you're both going to get your arses to Scotland Yard tomorrow morning, to explain to me why the Matthams brothers are now on the loose again. Right?"

Sherlock says nothing. He simply groans.

Greg straightens up from his knees, and scruffles the top of the blanket. It twitches away from his hand.

"Bye, mate. Bye, John - see you in the morning."

John smiles, wondering if Sherlock will have emerged from the blanket by then. It's not likely. "Bye, Greg. Have a good night."

"Don't tell him that!" Sherlock cries in despair.

Greg hops down from the ambulance. He flashes a grin back at them.

"I'll give your brother your best, Sherlock." His eyes glitter. "And mine."

He strolls away, sliding his hands into his pockets.

"John?" says the shock blanket, after a minute.

John bites down into his grin. "Yep?"

"Can you carry me back to the river, please?" Sherlock slumps slowly onto his side. "Weigh me down with something first."

 

Chapter Text

Mycroft's on his second scotch before he even starts to calm down. By the end of the third, he's blown himself into exhaustion. He finally collapses against Greg on the sofa, massaging the bridge of his nose.

" - incredible. Absolutely incredible."

It's nearly two in the morning.

Greg sneaks an arm around his shoulders, and quietly loosens Mycroft's tie.

"His ability to astound me never wavers," Mycroft says. "Never. Never once. How he hasn't been physically assaulted by someone by now, I don't know."

Greg doesn't really know, either. Sherlock wouldn't be so bad if he knew when to hit the mute button. For a while when they first met, Greg wondered if he didn't actually realise he hurts people - but now the years have gone by, he's reached the conclusion that Sherlock just doesn't care. The truth is the truth, as far as Sherlock's concerned, and it's fair game.

Slipping Mycroft's tie free of his collar, Greg drapes the length of ice-blue silk over the back of the couch. Mycroft barely notices.

"M'sorry," Greg says, his voice gentle. "I mean it. At least there was only John to hear."

Mycroft sighs, pushing his hands across his face.

"God almighty," he mumbles. "I shan't be able to look the man in the eye..."

Greg smiles gently. Mycroft's a private person; this mess is his worst nightmare. "You think you're the first person Sherlock's embarrassed like that? John'll be used to it by now. He won't say a word, love. This'll blow over... I promise."

Mycroft says nothing, still slowly rubbing his face.

Greg coaxes him to sit back. He brings Mycroft to lie against his shoulder, places a kiss on the top of his head, and murmurs,

"D'you want another scotch? Help you sleep."

Mycroft draws a long breath. "No," he says. "I've - possibly had one too many as it is."

"S'alright. Nowhere we need to go tomorrow... we'll sleep late.  If you're hungover, gorgeous, you're hungover. I'll do us a proper breakfast, we'll send Sherlock the bill for your alka seltzer, and that's that."

Mycroft huffs. A small smile finally crosses his mouth.

"That easy?" he murmurs, glancing up at Greg.

Greg grins; he presses a kiss to his hair. "That easy." He nuzzles at the gentle hollow of Mycroft's temple, breathing in his scent, and lays a hand on Mycroft's stomach. His fingers slip between the buttons of his waistcoat. "Out of curiosity... how fast did Sherlock spot...?"

Mycroft closes his eyes. "Instantaneously. Some of it, I could have taken greater pains to conceal..." He tilts his head against Greg, sighing. "Then, my focus was hardly at its best when I left the house. I'll have to blame you for my lapse in vigilance, I'm afraid."

"Blame me," Greg hums. He eases open the first button, his fingers sly and fond. "I can take it."

Mycroft bites his lip, choosing not to comment. He stirs, stretching a little as Greg continues his idle coaxing apart of buttons. He rests his head back against Greg's shoulder.

"Did he spot the...?" Greg murmurs. He has to know.

Mycroft makes a small, pained noise. "Yes," he says. "I - didn't think he'd be familiar enough with - "

"Huh. Sherlock, you dark horse."

"Apparently I was utilising an 'overly-casual stance'."

"Christ." Greg kisses Mycroft's forehead, trying not to smile. He parts Mycroft's opened waistcoat, untucks his dress-shirt gently from his trousers, and starts on the lowest button. "You still comfortable?"

"Mmh. For a little while."

Heat prickles through Greg's abdomen. "S'okay, sweetheart. Don't think you'll have it in you much longer."

Mycroft's breath catches. He doesn't speak, just watches as Greg quietly unbuttons his shirt, letting his fingertips graze the tender skin beneath.

"You were gorgeous there in your new suit... you know that? If he'd not figured it out from you, Sherlock would have guessed it from me..." Greg strokes his mouth over Mycroft's temple. "Staring at you.. 'big pupils', isn't it? Giveaway sign? My pulse all over the place... the hard-on might've tipped him off as well..."

Mycroft shivers. "Greg - "

"Watching you," Greg hums, and dips his mouth to Mycroft's ear, catching the lobe between his lips. "Thinking about that inside you. Still open for me. Ready."

The noise Mycroft lets out ripples through his body like heat. It's almost a whine; his body strains in Greg's arms. "Greg."

"Shhh, baby... s'okay..." Mycroft's breath snaps at 'baby'. He only permits it when he's turned on, at which point he almost needs it. "Still restless for me?" Greg murmurs. "Shall we get back to where we were, mm?"

"Y-Yes..." Mycroft flushes, breathless at once. "Yes."

As Greg reaches for the clasp of Mycroft's trousers, he finds the fabric straining to accommodate Mycroft's cock. He's hard already beneath his clothes, thighs spread with the gathering pressure, and as Greg cups his crotch and rubs with the heel of his hand, Mycroft groans desperately. The sound shakes its way from him as a shudder. He starts to rock, timid, pressing up against Greg's hand and then down against the thickness he's had there all this time.

Unzipping Mycroft's trousers produces a moan of relief; slipping his hand inside brings a gasp of Greg's name.

"There we go..." Greg ghosts his teeth over Mycroft's ear, wrapping warm fingers around his cock as he eases it free from the fabric. "There you are, baby... doesn't matter what Sherlock thinks he sees, mm? Only matters what you and me see."

Mycroft's face twists. As Greg strokes him, lazily, his body tightens and he starts to pant.

He's keeping something in his mouth.

Greg can hear it - feel him battling with it. He waits, stroking, kissing the soft skin just behind Mycroft's ear.

The words finally come in a gasp. "He - called me a 'barefaced hussy'."

Greg immediately smothers his smile. "He did, did he?" he rumbles.

Mycroft bucks up into his grip. "Mnh."

"Huh. Have to have a word with him about that."

"N-No - don't - "

"Making slurs on the virtue of my innocent Mycroft? Unacceptable."

"Oh - God - "

Greg pushes down Mycroft's trousers with his free hand, loosening the fabric. Mycroft groans and wriggles to help, panting as he kicks his way free of the expensive garment.

Greg's heart squeezes at his eagerness.

It's been this way for six months now. Mycroft cornered him at a crime scene one night in January, and began a curiously lengthy apology for Sherlock's behaviour over the years, ignoring Greg's every protest that it wasn't necessary. He finished with a request for Greg's help and advice - Sherlock, his worsening impulses - and said there was a hotel nearby with an agreeable bar. Perhaps he'd allow Mycroft to buy him a drink.

The next morning, Greg woke up in a king-size bed in a suite - with Mycroft nestled against him, naked, kissing gently at his jaw.

Six months now, and there's no sign of Mycroft growing bored of him. They're only getting closer by the day. The man he once knew as Sherlock's cold and slightly stiff older brother, wearing three layers of wool even on the hottest days of August, has opened up into a friend, a confidante and a lover. Though they spend every minute they can together, it never feels like it's enough.

Many of those minutes are spent in bed.

Mycroft likes touch. He likes pleasure and playfulness. He needs trust as strong as castle walls around him before he can relax, but when it's there, he blooms like a rose.

The sound he makes as Greg pulls him onto his lap is heaven.

"Sit facing me, baby?" Greg murmurs. Mycroft trembles and sits astride him. He's flushed, his pupils huge, and he's gazing at Greg as if he's everything. Greg pushes his hands slowly beneath Mycroft's open shirt and waistcoat, reaching up to free both from his shoulders, slide them gently down his arms. "Mmhm... that's better."

Mycroft shivers, now naked on his lap. Greg is still fully clothed.

"Lean against me, sweetheart," Greg says. His stomach tightens as Mycroft settles against his chest, shy arms looping around his waist. Greg kisses his bare shoulder; he starts to stroke Mycroft's back. "You can forget the things your brother said, okay? You're not a hussy. You just like me looking after you. Nothing wrong with that."

Mycroft quivers. He nuzzles into Greg's neck, anxiously pushing his thighs further apart. He doesn't speak - listening, Greg thinks. Needing.

"Doesn't make you a hussy to sit on my lap sometimes," he soothes, running his hands along the length of Mycroft's back. It arches timidly beneath his touch. "Just 'cause you like to sit with me, and let me help you come... you're not a hussy, baby."

Mycroft makes a tight sound against his jaw. His hips rock a little; his cock rasps against the fabric of Greg's shirt.

Smiling, Greg lets his fingers drift all the way downwards.

Mycroft gasps as he takes hold of the toy. He starts to shake at once, whimpering, his breath tightening into panting. The first plea grips Greg's heart. "Please - " He pushes back, desperate. "Please, Greg - "

Can't say no to you, darlin'...

The first thrust makes Mycroft cry out. He fists his hands in Greg's shirt and bucks, pushing his cock against Greg's stomach. His thighs spread; he begs in soft, frantic sounds.

Heart pounding, Greg wraps his free arm around his waist. He holds him close, holds him still, and slowly starts to fuck him with the toy.

Mycroft moans against his shoulder. He shakes, heaving, and his hands clench tighter. As Greg deepens the thrusts, he writhes and arches his back, panting at full pelt, whimpering something against Greg's shoulder that he doesn't catch.

"Good, baby?" Greg closes his eyes, kissing the side of his head. "Feel nice?"

The desperate, stricken nod warms his blood.

"Missed me," Greg soothes, letting his voice ease low into his throat. "Wanted me. Wanted to come right back here, straight back to me, carry on..."

Mycroft sobs his name, back bowing as he arches against the steady fucking.

Greg bites his lip. He noses at Mycroft's ear.

"Gorgeous?" he whispers.

Mycroft trembles, his breath hitching.

"I want you," Greg murmurs. "Now... that okay?"

"F-Fuck..." Mycroft reaches at once for his shirt, wrenching it up out of his belt. His fingers fumble as he snaps open Greg's buckle. "Oh fuck, Greg..."

It takes a little shifting to find an angle where this works - but when it works, it works. Mycroft braces his hands on Greg's thighs behind him, swallows hard and drops his head back, breathing hard as he moves on Greg's cock. They take it slow and deep - no rushing, no hurry. It's two in the morning. They were here like this at midnight, kissing and fucking and taking their time, when phones began to ring.

Greg's not leaving for anything this time.

There's no emergency in the world will make him stop this twice in one night.

Mycroft's body feels like perfection - white-pale, familiar and responsive under his hands, trembling with enjoyment at his every touch. When Greg brushes his thumbs across his nipples, Mycroft's face contracts with a moan and he digs his fingers into Greg's thighs, rocking harder, panting. The flush which floods his expression sends Greg's temperature spiking. His balls draw tight, his body clenching with each snug shock of pleasure. He's getting close; Mycroft is, too.

They've been close since they left the restaurant at ten.

Raking his hands up Mycroft's chest as he rocks, Greg swallows hard. He drags his focus through his brain for language.

"Mine," he breathes. It rises from him in a groan, hoarse. "My Mycroft."

Mycroft's teeth press into his lip, each buck of his hips now restless and impatient. His cock gleams at the tip, pink and swollen, leaking as they fuck. "Yours," he gasps.

"Mine." Greg wraps both hands at his waist, bringing him down a little faster, a little harder. Mycroft cries out and obeys, slamming himself down over and over, arms shaking with the effort. "My gorgeous. My Mycroft... my hussy."

Mycroft lets out a broken, desperate sound. Pleasure wracks his face. "Yes - "

"Mm hmm?" Greg can barely breathe. He tightens his grasp on Mycroft's waist, braces a foot against the coffee table and ruts upwards, hard, heat raging beneath his skin. "Moaning on my cock - moaning for me to fuck you harder - "

"Yes - fuck, f-fuck - yes - "

"My hussy, baby? All mine?"

"Y-Yours - " Mycroft's face twists, blushing in desperation. "Your hussy - "

"My hussy," Greg breathes. "Mine." His fingers twitch, digging into Mycroft's waist as pressure screams its way towards breaking-point behind his cock, everything pounding, everything hot. "Going to show me, baby? Show me how good it feels?"

Mycroft knows what he's being given permission to do. He throws his head back with a whimper, reaches a shaking hand for his own cock and takes hold of himself, urgently fucking his own fist. His cry of pleasure aches through the quiet house. A few more seconds, a few desperate tugs, and Greg feels Mycroft's entire body tighten in warning.

He drives himself deep into Mycroft, drags him down and holds him there. Mycroft's mouth crushes against his own as he comes. There's heat spattering between them, wet on his shirt, Mycroft's body contracting around him, Mycroft's desperate moans pulling him through.

Two hours of needing it; orgasm runs Greg down like a runaway train.

When he comes back to his body, Mycroft is still kissing him. He's shaking.

"Please." The whisper nearly breaks his heart - panic, longing and fear, all in one. "Don't - d-don't tell - "

Greg wraps both arms around Mycroft at once. He pulls him close, holds him tight, and shuts his eyes.

"Darlin'..." he breathes, his heart banging against his ribs. "Darlin', I won't say anything... of course I won't. Nobody else's business what we do. Nobody else's business what you enjoy."

Mycroft trembles. He slips his arms around Greg's waist, nervous, his breath tight and shallow. He doesn't say a word.

Greg threads his fingers through Mycroft's hair. He places a kiss on his cheek as they breathe together, soaking in the rush of hormones. Every time they do this, it gets better. He doesn't want Mycroft to feel ashamed of it for a second.

"Your brother needs a taste of his own medicine," he murmurs, at last. "If he can dish it out, he can take it too. Might even do him some good."

Mycroft shivers. The first curl of a smile touches his mouth, as he cuddles into Greg's shoulder. "What do you suggest?"

 


 

Mycroft decides it's best to let the opportunity arise naturally. He's certain that it will.

Sure enough, within three weeks, Sherlock is caught sneaking his way into a crime scene in Pimlico. The case is possibly connected to one of Sherlock's current endeavours, but not clearly enough to give him any rightful access. If it fell under Greg's authority, he might have been permitted freely under the tape - alas, the investigating officer is one DI Reynolds, who isn't pleased to find Sherlock concealing himself beneath the victim's bed. Protests that he simply needed to look inside her medicine cabinet for a prescription of sleeping pills are ignored.

Mycroft gets the call as he leaves an important meeting.

As he slides wearily into the car, and asks the driver to take him to Pimlico, he receives a text message.

 

[15:03] on my way... will be a few minutes...

[15:03] tell boy wonder I'm not happy. Better have a bloody good explanation.

[15:04] Love you xxxxx

 

It makes Mycroft smile. He replies, slips his phone back into his pocket, and prepares himself to dispense a dose of medicine.

The dynamic duo have been stationed beside a police car, awaiting their punishment under the watchful eye of two uniformed officers. Mycroft supposes they don't realise that they're lucky. Most of Scotland Yard would have consigned Sherlock immediately to a cell rather than contacted his handlers. It seems that DI Reynolds is the forgiving type.

As Mycroft approaches, with his assistant striding at his heels and his head held high, Watson spots him coming first. A discreet warning is issued to Sherlock, who mutters and rolls his eyes. The dramatic sigh is visible across the street.

Mycroft comes to a halt before them. He lifts an eyebrow, and waits.

After some time, his little brother finally deigns to look up at him.

Sherlock casts his eye up and down, and Mycroft has no doubt that he sees everything - the weekend he's just spent hidden away in Greg's untidy flat, the fried breakfast Greg cooked him in the nude, the restless coil of their bodies as they fucked one last time before the working week began. Greg made him sob this morning. He nearly broke Greg's bed as he climaxed, wrenching at the handcuffs, begging Greg to come inside him. He can still feel it now.

He lets Sherlock see it all, hoping he doesn't miss a single thing.

Sherlock takes his time. He then gives a quiet, disgusted tut.

"How is Lestrade?" he enquires, coldly.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow.

"How's the tragic masturbation?" he asks. "Has John caught you returning his medals to the drawer yet? I hope you clean them thoroughly first."

As Sherlock turns the colour of a postbox, Watson's eyes nearly drop from their sockets.

Mycroft hears his assistant breathe in very hard beside him. It's a rather magical noise.

"Greg is en route," he adds, coolly. "He's not at all impressed, and has a number of things to say to the pair of you about the sanctity of a crime scene. You're fortunate he had a pleasant weekend, Sherlock."

He smiles.

"Don't thank me, little brother. The look on your face is reward enough."