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holmesticeTitle: Remember When I Moved in You
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
billiethepoet
Author:sc010f
Pairings: Mycroft/Sherlock; Mycroft/Lestrade; Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Incest, explicit sexual content.
Notes: Chapter headings are song titles or quotations cribbed from various sources. And of course, none of these characters are mine. I promise to give them all a good scrub-down and plenty of therapy before I put them back. And of course the beta team who put up with me also deserve medals (and therapy).
Summary: “The beginning of love is the will to let those we love be perfectly themselves, the resolution not to twist them to fit our own image. If in loving them we do not love what they are, but only their potential likeness to ourselves, then we do not love them: we only love the reflection of ourselves we find in them”
― Thomas Merton, No Man Is an Island
Mycroft believes that he must trust no one. When the past comes to light, he proves himself correct. This time, over the body of Greg Lestrade.
Give me something to believe.
"Do you think there's something wrong with us?" Sherlock gasps as Mycroft thrusts up against him. The back of Sherlock's legs are straining as he pulls his thighs back further, pulling Mycroft deeper.
Mycroft's answer is a groan, torn from his throat.
"Of course," Sherlock pants. "Ordinary people don't do this. Incest isn't exactly approved of in polite society."
Mycroft stiffens and shudders as his orgasm is torn from him. He droops, grabs Sherlock's cock, and with a few vicious tugs, makes Sherlock groan, his head thrown back, colliding with the tower of dishware piled behind him.
Plates crash to the ground, glasses shatter.
Mycroft backs away, pulling up his trousers, tucking himself back into his pants and straightening his clothes. Before him, Sherlock lolls on the table, trousers hanging off of one leg, pants tangled in them. Come is dripping from his arsehole, still stretched and pulsing after the frantic fucking he's been given. His cock is softening, lying dark against the creamy skin of his thigh. His shirt is open, the white vest beneath it rucked up, but not far enough to have avoided being splashed with Sherlock's now drying spunk.
"You'll want a towel, brother mine," Mycroft says, throwing a dishtowel at him. "Do be sure to clean up properly, people will talk."
"People have nothing better to do," Sherlock scoffs, dabbing at his stomach and cock with a hiss. "Especially at weddings."
Mycroft favors him with an icy glare.
Sherlock throws the towel aside and reaches down to untangle his trousers and pants.
"Cigarette?" offers Mycroft.
Sherlock grunts and pulls up his trousers. He takes the proffered lit cigarette, drawing in the smoke and sighing. He follows Mycroft to the service door where, together, they watch the wedding guests dance – Mummy looks so happy, waltzing in Mr Hardwick's arms. Even Auntie Helene seems to have deigned to look tolerantly pleasant. Strains of music drift through to the abandoned scullery.
"Do you think there's something wrong with us?" he asks Mycroft.
Mycroft shrugs.
"Hearts are broken. Lives end. I told you, Sherlock. Institutionalized caring, like this? It is not an advantage."
What Remains, However Improbable
The day that the Decree Absolute is signed and Susie packs off with her PE teacher is also the day of Sherlock and John's wedding. Greg cannot help but think that there's irony there.
In any other time in his life, he'd have gone, comforting himself with the bitter and somewhat cynical thought that indeed, he was just a sad wanker going back to his mostly-empty flat at the end of the night to sleep off his hangover.
But now, these days, it's a bit different.
When it comes to matters of the sexual (certainly this isn't about matters of the heart), what Greg has is definitely unusual. And probably a bit unethical, but he did sign a release. And it is legal (for the most part), and discreet. Two things definitely required for a man whose job depends on upholding the law and not being noticed by the press.
Very simply: Greg Lestrade and a handful of others (both men and women) are members of Eros Services. They are matched with a partner of their sexual preference – Greg has chosen a man – and they meet at a mutually agreed location and have sexual intercourse.
Greg hadn't ever expected to become part of this sort of organization, but when one day, after it was official that Susie had moved out, an invitation to lunch with a representative of Eros Services dropped onto his desk, his curiosity got the better of him.
The price the representative had quoted him made him choke on his sip of wine, but as he was about to excuse himself, she’d pushed a contract across the table to him. A contract that explicitly stated that his membership had been more or less paid for by an anonymous donor – the same anonymous donor who had suggested Greg's name to the Service in the first place.
"Consider it," the representative had urged. "It is fully legal, and safe."
"This sort of Service caters to the rich and powerful," Greg had objected. "Why me?"
The representative smiled.
"Obviously, somebody believes you in need of our Services. I'd consider it, Detective Sergeant."
All participants are carefully screened prior to, and during their term with Eros Services. All sexual activities are mutually agreed to prior to any contact, and following that, the contracts are renegotiated regularly.
Greg's contract isn't that odd: a man, apparently rich and/or powerful if his townhome is anything to go by, in need of regular shagging. He isn't abusive, weird, or smelly. In fact, as shags go, he's pretty good. The only odd thing here is that Greg has never seen his face.
Every encounter takes place in the dark. Greg doesn't know his name, not even a pseudonym. Greg's never seen his face. He never talks, but to whisper, and always comes silently. Most of the time, even Greg's been blindfolded. Not that he minds that, either.
They never speak, not really. Only whispers of adjustment: like that/up/over/God, that's good/please more, and he is always gone before Greg returns from his shower.
It would hurt a bit, he thinks, if he knew that the romance, the true intimacy, the love that John and Sherlock seem to share was something that everyone could be granted.
But really, Greg thinks as he loosens his tie, it's impractical for a man like him.
And what's more – completely improbable. But he can, he thinks, enjoy the evening: watching the man he tried for six years to keep from killing himself dance with the apparent love of his life.
Greg grins.
It's sweet, really.
The reception hall is littered with streamers. The tables are cluttered with discarded silverware, half-finished glasses of water and wine, flutes of champagne. Here and there, couples and small groups have gathered, chairs moved to form circles or seats for two. The band is playing quietly now, and one or two couples sway in time to the music on the dance floor.
He notices Greg standing by himself at the bar, drinking whisky and watching the couples dancing slowly. It isn't the first time he's seen Greg Lestrade, not even the first time they've been in the same room together. Obviously, Mycroft's made note of his existence from the moment that he'd had his first run-in with Sherlock, and has kept tabs on the man ever since. It is a coincidence, as far as Mycroft's life is ruled by coincidences, that Greg is also the only person other than Sherlock whom Mycroft has allowed into his bed.
Not that Greg knows this.
Now Sherlock, it seems, has no need for either of them. Mycroft follows Greg's gaze to the dance floor, where Sherlock and John are swaying together, lost in each other, separated from the world and cocooned in love. A small smile tugs at Mycroft's lips as he turns back to Greg, who is also smiling.
His eyes are so old, Mycroft thinks. He turns away as Greg glances over to him. It would never do for him to see, for him to divine Mycroft's thoughts. Would never do for him to know that it is Mycroft whom he fucks so vigorously with his hands, his mouth, and his cock. Mycroft who knows just how to fuck his pretty, greedy, tight little arsehole until he cries out, tears soaking through the blindfold as he comes.
Greg turns away and Mycroft's gaze is immediately drawn back to him. He watches as Greg takes another sip of his whisky, watches his throat work down the drink. If Mycroft could, in fact, see Greg's face, his throat, watch the Adam's apple bob as he swallows his come…
But no, Greg could never know.
The guests have mostly left. Only Sherlock and John remain on the dance floor. Mycroft lounges at his table with his new sister-in-law, Harry, and Greg, tie undone, jacket slung over the neighboring chair, slouches at the bar.
The band finishes their song, and the music hangs over the almost-empty space.
Mycroft sips his drink – ever abstemious, it is merely water – and looks over to Greg.
He watches as Greg rises, moves over to shake Sherlock and John's hands, clapping them on the shoulder, wishing them well.
He watches as Greg takes his mobile out of his pocket and glances at the screen.
Mycroft sees Sherlock smirk, and can almost hear the conversation.
Greg is almost asleep when he notices that the band has finally stopped playing.
He is exhausted, almost drunk, and pleasantly sated by good food and good whisky.
Watching John and Sherlock dance together, celebrate their union, fills him with a sense of longing; the knowledge that you are loved, cared for, that there is someone devoted to you, just as you are devoted to him (or her, Greg supposes, more out of deference to the awe his ex-wife inspires than to any real sentimental feeling), that there is someone who doesn't mind the socks on the floor, who lets you worship his (again, or her) body, allows you to call his (or her) name in the night.
His own circumstances, he knows, are not the norm. But it does net him regular, satisfying sex, and takes care of the support payments. But as he watches Sherlock and John part, smiling at each other like fools, it tugs on his heart.
"John. Sherlock. Congratulations. Try not to kill each other, or blow up London, or … anything for a few days, eh?" Greg asks, clapping John on the shoulder. "Give us all a rest."
John laughs and shakes his head.
"You won't get an argument from me, mate," he says. "Can't make any promises about him, though."
Sherlock rolls his eyes and is about to make a comment when Greg's mobile buzzes. Out of habit, more than any desire to answer it, Greg pulls the phone out and squints at the screen. It says one word: Eros.
Greg hurriedly tucks it away, but not before Sherlock sees it.
"Eros?" he asks. "That's… interesting."
"Sherlock…" John's voice holds a familiar note of warning.
"G'wan," Greg scoffs.
"Please, Lestrade, there's not much about you I don't already know. You must be quite popular there."
"It's not a service. Prostitution, as you may know, Sherlock, is illegal in this country," Greg huffs.
"No, no, of course not. Far be it from me to quibble with your odd choice of personal habits."
Greg folds his arms across his chest.
"And what's that supposed to mean?" he asks belligerently.
"Well, it's legal, no reason for it not to be," Sherlock says dismissively. "I just find it curious that you're so insecure in your own sexuality that you agreed to use the Eros services in order for you to have a shag."
"SHERLOCK!"
Greg shakes his head and notices that Sherlock is staring across the room.
"What?" Greg asks.
"No. Nothing," Sherlock replies. "Just… something unusual."
"Wouldn't be the first time with you," Greg grunts and claps John on the back again.
He doesn't notice Mycroft watching him as he leaves the reception.
"But don't you want to know?" Sherlock asks, taunting him.
Greg shakes his head. He really, really doesn't.
That night he moves in the man, surrounded by his heat, his nostrils filled with the scent of sex and sweat and the barest hint of cologne that marks his client as his.
Funny he should think of him that way. As his.
Can you really own somebody? Something?
Greg reaches down for his cock. It's hard and leaking.
The man groans below him.
Greg wants to soothe him. To call his name. In the gloaming, he can see the man's arm thrown out, his hand clinging to the headboard, the other hand clenching the bed sheets, pulling them out – the corner of the mattress exposed.
It's okay. I'm here. You're safe. I promise you. Fall apart. I will keep you safe. Here. In my arms.
But as he thinks these things, as he moves within this man, now gasping, chasing his release, he hears Sherlock's voice, mocking him. The derision-sowing seeds of doubt.
The man above him groans again and Greg feels wetness coating his hand, his arse tightening around his cock, and he's overwhelmed.
"Sherlock…" he hears, and he freezes.
Moments pass. Greg breathes. Below him, the man is panting, wrecked. Greg's cheek is sticky from the sweat where he lies pressed against his thigh.
It's okay. I'm here. You're safe. You can trust me. Whatever it is you've done, it's okay. It's me. You're safe here.
Mycroft is gasping for air, his knuckles white and arms trembling as he grips the headboard.
His body is flushed red from exertion, the back of his neck beading with sweat.
"P-pl-please," he groans. "P-please touch me. Oh, God…"
The bed shifts, banging against the wall, but neither of them really care, because Greg reaches down, takes Mycroft's hard and leaking cock in his hand.
Sweat and precome and lubricant, the heat radiating off Mycroft. Greg takes a deep breath, leans over and buries his face in Mycroft's neck, licking and biting.
Mycroft's moan of relief shudders through Greg.
"Oh, God…"
Mycroft tenses and shudders as his orgasm overwhelms him. Greg shouts as Mycroft tightens around his cock and gives in to the urge to fuck Mycroft, the primal urge to thrust and thrust and thrust.
The noise Greg makes as he comes is something between a growl and a roar.
Mycroft is panting; he’s dropped his hands from the headboard and is resting his head on his forearms. Greg droops, not quite collapsing onto his back, as he slowly pulls his softening cock out of Mycroft.
"Sherlock…" Mycroft groans feebly from between his arms. Greg freezes. A second, two, pass.
Mycroft flops onto his back as Greg peels off and wraps the condom in a tissue before throwing it in the general direction of the wastebasket.
"All right, sunshine?" Greg asks as he stretches out below him, to rest his head on Mycroft's thigh.
Mycroft smiles a smile of hazy, endorphin-fueled pleasure, but then stiffens as he hears Greg's murmur.
"All right," Greg says, reaching up to stroke Mycroft's hip. "All right."
Maybe I've Been Here Before
Lestrade is drinking again.
Not that he knows that I can tell. Something is bothering him. And now it's bothering me. I can't focus when he's like this. All distracted.
John is telling me to leave him be.
He doesn't realize how damaging that can be. Doesn’t understand the effect of that on the work.
"It's not about the work, Sherlock," he says. "Stop brooding. Greg's just divorced. That's bound to take a toll. Plus, he's not at your beck and call twenty-four seven."
I favor John with a whithering stare. There are some things that he will never understand.
He thinks I don't "get" human relationships. He thinks that I'm, if not innocent, then very ignorant.
He couldn't be more wrong.
Something's happened. Happened to Lestrade.
"Mycroft's here," John announces from the sitting room window. "Wonder what he wants."
I ignore him. John can sort my brother out for himself. These protozoa are much more interesting than anything Mycroft could possibly have to say.
But then the fat prig walks into the kitchen, and I have to look up.
It's written all over his face.
Do you think there's something wrong with us?
Caring is not an advantage.
How many times have those words echoed in my head?
Well, I've allegedly fallen in love, haven't I? And now he's coming to me because he thinks I can help him.
I cannot help but smirk.
Yes, there is something wrong with us. From the moment you said "yes" to me. And now, now you need my help.
Because you've learned to care.
Is It Ever Enough
Greg's hands are bound above his head, but loosely. His partner. No, client? No, partner – whatever he is, apparently trusts him enough not to tie him so tightly that he cannot escape. But why? Why does he trust him?
No, why does Mycroft trust him? Because the other night, the murmured "Sherlock", the voice so familiar, so out of context, but so true… Who else can it be?
And of course Mycroft would not, however, trust him to keep his secret, and Greg's eyes are covered by what Greg thinks is a necktie. Only a thin crack of light shows through the silk, but Greg isn't really paying attention to that.
Mostly because the man, the partner, the client, has Greg's cock in his mouth and is suckling on it, sweetly, tenderly, and then aggressively. Greg bites back a groan as slicked fingers penetrate him, gently scissoring, then withdrawing, thrusting then withdrawing – fucking him ever so softly, until he knows he must be loose and open.
The man releases Greg's cock from his mouth and Greg does groan this time at the loss of sensation.
But the man is back, this time at Greg's feet. Picking up a foot, sliding his hand down the ball, the arch, to the heel. The tongue exploring the hollow above the ankle, the hand sliding down the calf. A mouth to the inside of his kneecap.
Greg thinks that he might die from this.
It's probably fine, he also thinks, if he does.
Hands again, on his thighs. Parting them. A swift stroke to his cock and then the stretch and burn of the other man's cock pressing into him.
It's perfect.
Greg doesn't care that his thigh muscles are screaming, that his chest and shoulders are quivering with the effort of holding himself still. The man is moving inside of him, strongly, the slip-slide of lubricant, the feel of his skin.
And the necktie begins to slip. Greg knows he should try to adjust it. To close his eyes, not to violate the terms of their contract, the terms of their trust.
But the man is fucking him.
And the necktie is slipping.
Greg opens his eyes as the necktie falls away.
Bound, he watches as Mycroft Holmes fucks him, his head thrown back, the tendons of his neck standing out, his knuckles white as they grip Greg's thighs. A bead of sweat trickles down Mycroft's neck, hits between his collarbones, settling in the groove, the suprasternal notch.
Greg should look away. Should close his eyes.
But the way Mycroft's mouth drops open, the complete exposure, the vulnerability of his expression and pose, although it's Greg who's tied up… Greg cannot look away.
Mycroft adjusts his hips and Greg nearly shouts as he grazes his prostate.
A thrust. A second, and a third, and Mycroft stiffens and cries out as he comes. They are both unprotected; Greg feels the heated surge of his come.
And then Mycroft drops his head and locks eyes with Greg.
The air seems to leave the room as Mycroft pulls out of Greg painfully fast. Greg shouts as his cock, still hard and leaking, slaps against his stomach.
The look of betrayal on Mycroft's face sears into him. He closes his eyes and hears the door slam as he is left alone. Bound. Helpless.
Minutes pass as the quiet of the house settles around him.
The door opens and a woman in a dark suit enters. The representative from Eros Services.
Silently, she unties him, hands him a towel and a glass of water.
Greg cleans and dresses himself while she watches.
As he finishes, she hands him an envelope. In it is five thousand pounds. In cash.
"I regret to inform you," she says. "That your contract with Eros Services is terminated. We are refunding the deposit made for your contract, and of course, anything that has transpired between you and your chosen partner whilst under contract remains confidential."
Greg nods, still too stunned to speak.
The representative ushers him out of the bedroom and down the corridor.
Outside, a taxi is waiting, and Greg climbs in.
"I am so sorry, Mr Lestrade," the representative says through the open window, "that we could not have continued this relationship."
Greg stops at the Off License around the corner from his flat before he goes up.
He spends the rest of the night drinking whisky and shouting abuse at Sherlock on his mobile.
And From His Lips, the Broken Hallelujah
It had been an experiment that had grown out of control. John would…. Well, John being John, he would be horrified.
But he's so conventional sometimes.
I do like watching him sleep. He looks so peaceful – if everything in the world was as simple as John makes it.
Perhaps that's why I love him.
Perhaps that's why Mycroft was so wrong.
"Sherlock, shut up," John mumbles into the pillow. "You're thinking again."
The desire to seduce. To watch Mycroft crumble. To test, to push. I don't need to push John, because most of the time, John's right along there with me. Mycroft always pushed back.
And he says that caring isn't an advantage.
John says that it's the greatest advantage of all.
"I love you," I say.
"Mfph," John replies. "I love you too, Sherlock, now would you please go to sleep?"
Outside, it starts to rain. I wonder how long Lestrade is going to stand on the pavement outside the Diogenes Club. I wonder what he thinks it's going to achieve.
One Year Later
The reception hall is littered with streamers. The tables are cluttered with discarded silverware, half finished glasses of water and wine, flutes of champagne. Here and there, couples and small groups have gathered, chairs moved to form circles or seats for two. The band is playing quietly now, and one or two couples sway in time to the music on the dance floor.
All lives end.
All hearts are broken.
Greg's not sure why he's here – other than to play happy families for Susie and her PE teacher. Simon wasn't exactly glad to see his father, and Katie wouldn't talk to him. In fact, the only people who do talk to him are the bar staff. And Susie, briefly.
The PE teacher shakes his hand, but doesn't look him in the eye.
Greg's slumped at the bar, watching his ex wife dance with her new husband, her head resting on his shoulder.
Ah well, alone at a wedding. Again.
At the far end of the hall, the door opens, and a man slips in.
Nobody pays him mind except for Greg, who suddenly sits up. The world rocks under him and he nearly falls.
Mycroft Holmes, in his perfect suit, with its perfect waistcoat and tie, crosses the room.
Greg's first thought is that Sherlock is in trouble.
His second thought is that he is, in fact, drunk and hallucinating.
His third thought, as Mycroft moves up to him and kisses him, hard, is that he has died and this is some sort of fucked up afterlife.
Mycroft pulls away, doubt clouding his eyes.
Greg tries to think of something to say, anything.
But instead, he slides from his stool and takes Mycroft's hand, leading him to the dance floor.
The beginning.
Recipient:
billiethepoetAuthor:
sc010fPairings: Mycroft/Sherlock; Mycroft/Lestrade; Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Incest, explicit sexual content.
Notes: Chapter headings are song titles or quotations cribbed from various sources. And of course, none of these characters are mine. I promise to give them all a good scrub-down and plenty of therapy before I put them back. And of course the beta team who put up with me also deserve medals (and therapy).
Summary: “The beginning of love is the will to let those we love be perfectly themselves, the resolution not to twist them to fit our own image. If in loving them we do not love what they are, but only their potential likeness to ourselves, then we do not love them: we only love the reflection of ourselves we find in them”
― Thomas Merton, No Man Is an Island
Mycroft believes that he must trust no one. When the past comes to light, he proves himself correct. This time, over the body of Greg Lestrade.
"Do you think there's something wrong with us?" Sherlock gasps as Mycroft thrusts up against him. The back of Sherlock's legs are straining as he pulls his thighs back further, pulling Mycroft deeper.
Mycroft's answer is a groan, torn from his throat.
"Of course," Sherlock pants. "Ordinary people don't do this. Incest isn't exactly approved of in polite society."
Mycroft stiffens and shudders as his orgasm is torn from him. He droops, grabs Sherlock's cock, and with a few vicious tugs, makes Sherlock groan, his head thrown back, colliding with the tower of dishware piled behind him.
Plates crash to the ground, glasses shatter.
Mycroft backs away, pulling up his trousers, tucking himself back into his pants and straightening his clothes. Before him, Sherlock lolls on the table, trousers hanging off of one leg, pants tangled in them. Come is dripping from his arsehole, still stretched and pulsing after the frantic fucking he's been given. His cock is softening, lying dark against the creamy skin of his thigh. His shirt is open, the white vest beneath it rucked up, but not far enough to have avoided being splashed with Sherlock's now drying spunk.
"You'll want a towel, brother mine," Mycroft says, throwing a dishtowel at him. "Do be sure to clean up properly, people will talk."
"People have nothing better to do," Sherlock scoffs, dabbing at his stomach and cock with a hiss. "Especially at weddings."
Mycroft favors him with an icy glare.
Sherlock throws the towel aside and reaches down to untangle his trousers and pants.
"Cigarette?" offers Mycroft.
Sherlock grunts and pulls up his trousers. He takes the proffered lit cigarette, drawing in the smoke and sighing. He follows Mycroft to the service door where, together, they watch the wedding guests dance – Mummy looks so happy, waltzing in Mr Hardwick's arms. Even Auntie Helene seems to have deigned to look tolerantly pleasant. Strains of music drift through to the abandoned scullery.
"Do you think there's something wrong with us?" he asks Mycroft.
Mycroft shrugs.
"Hearts are broken. Lives end. I told you, Sherlock. Institutionalized caring, like this? It is not an advantage."
The day that the Decree Absolute is signed and Susie packs off with her PE teacher is also the day of Sherlock and John's wedding. Greg cannot help but think that there's irony there.
In any other time in his life, he'd have gone, comforting himself with the bitter and somewhat cynical thought that indeed, he was just a sad wanker going back to his mostly-empty flat at the end of the night to sleep off his hangover.
But now, these days, it's a bit different.
When it comes to matters of the sexual (certainly this isn't about matters of the heart), what Greg has is definitely unusual. And probably a bit unethical, but he did sign a release. And it is legal (for the most part), and discreet. Two things definitely required for a man whose job depends on upholding the law and not being noticed by the press.
Very simply: Greg Lestrade and a handful of others (both men and women) are members of Eros Services. They are matched with a partner of their sexual preference – Greg has chosen a man – and they meet at a mutually agreed location and have sexual intercourse.
Greg hadn't ever expected to become part of this sort of organization, but when one day, after it was official that Susie had moved out, an invitation to lunch with a representative of Eros Services dropped onto his desk, his curiosity got the better of him.
The price the representative had quoted him made him choke on his sip of wine, but as he was about to excuse himself, she’d pushed a contract across the table to him. A contract that explicitly stated that his membership had been more or less paid for by an anonymous donor – the same anonymous donor who had suggested Greg's name to the Service in the first place.
"Consider it," the representative had urged. "It is fully legal, and safe."
"This sort of Service caters to the rich and powerful," Greg had objected. "Why me?"
The representative smiled.
"Obviously, somebody believes you in need of our Services. I'd consider it, Detective Sergeant."
All participants are carefully screened prior to, and during their term with Eros Services. All sexual activities are mutually agreed to prior to any contact, and following that, the contracts are renegotiated regularly.
Greg's contract isn't that odd: a man, apparently rich and/or powerful if his townhome is anything to go by, in need of regular shagging. He isn't abusive, weird, or smelly. In fact, as shags go, he's pretty good. The only odd thing here is that Greg has never seen his face.
Every encounter takes place in the dark. Greg doesn't know his name, not even a pseudonym. Greg's never seen his face. He never talks, but to whisper, and always comes silently. Most of the time, even Greg's been blindfolded. Not that he minds that, either.
They never speak, not really. Only whispers of adjustment: like that/up/over/God, that's good/please more, and he is always gone before Greg returns from his shower.
It would hurt a bit, he thinks, if he knew that the romance, the true intimacy, the love that John and Sherlock seem to share was something that everyone could be granted.
But really, Greg thinks as he loosens his tie, it's impractical for a man like him.
And what's more – completely improbable. But he can, he thinks, enjoy the evening: watching the man he tried for six years to keep from killing himself dance with the apparent love of his life.
Greg grins.
It's sweet, really.
The reception hall is littered with streamers. The tables are cluttered with discarded silverware, half-finished glasses of water and wine, flutes of champagne. Here and there, couples and small groups have gathered, chairs moved to form circles or seats for two. The band is playing quietly now, and one or two couples sway in time to the music on the dance floor.
He notices Greg standing by himself at the bar, drinking whisky and watching the couples dancing slowly. It isn't the first time he's seen Greg Lestrade, not even the first time they've been in the same room together. Obviously, Mycroft's made note of his existence from the moment that he'd had his first run-in with Sherlock, and has kept tabs on the man ever since. It is a coincidence, as far as Mycroft's life is ruled by coincidences, that Greg is also the only person other than Sherlock whom Mycroft has allowed into his bed.
Not that Greg knows this.
Now Sherlock, it seems, has no need for either of them. Mycroft follows Greg's gaze to the dance floor, where Sherlock and John are swaying together, lost in each other, separated from the world and cocooned in love. A small smile tugs at Mycroft's lips as he turns back to Greg, who is also smiling.
His eyes are so old, Mycroft thinks. He turns away as Greg glances over to him. It would never do for him to see, for him to divine Mycroft's thoughts. Would never do for him to know that it is Mycroft whom he fucks so vigorously with his hands, his mouth, and his cock. Mycroft who knows just how to fuck his pretty, greedy, tight little arsehole until he cries out, tears soaking through the blindfold as he comes.
Greg turns away and Mycroft's gaze is immediately drawn back to him. He watches as Greg takes another sip of his whisky, watches his throat work down the drink. If Mycroft could, in fact, see Greg's face, his throat, watch the Adam's apple bob as he swallows his come…
But no, Greg could never know.
The guests have mostly left. Only Sherlock and John remain on the dance floor. Mycroft lounges at his table with his new sister-in-law, Harry, and Greg, tie undone, jacket slung over the neighboring chair, slouches at the bar.
The band finishes their song, and the music hangs over the almost-empty space.
Mycroft sips his drink – ever abstemious, it is merely water – and looks over to Greg.
He watches as Greg rises, moves over to shake Sherlock and John's hands, clapping them on the shoulder, wishing them well.
He watches as Greg takes his mobile out of his pocket and glances at the screen.
Mycroft sees Sherlock smirk, and can almost hear the conversation.
Greg is almost asleep when he notices that the band has finally stopped playing.
He is exhausted, almost drunk, and pleasantly sated by good food and good whisky.
Watching John and Sherlock dance together, celebrate their union, fills him with a sense of longing; the knowledge that you are loved, cared for, that there is someone devoted to you, just as you are devoted to him (or her, Greg supposes, more out of deference to the awe his ex-wife inspires than to any real sentimental feeling), that there is someone who doesn't mind the socks on the floor, who lets you worship his (again, or her) body, allows you to call his (or her) name in the night.
His own circumstances, he knows, are not the norm. But it does net him regular, satisfying sex, and takes care of the support payments. But as he watches Sherlock and John part, smiling at each other like fools, it tugs on his heart.
"John. Sherlock. Congratulations. Try not to kill each other, or blow up London, or … anything for a few days, eh?" Greg asks, clapping John on the shoulder. "Give us all a rest."
John laughs and shakes his head.
"You won't get an argument from me, mate," he says. "Can't make any promises about him, though."
Sherlock rolls his eyes and is about to make a comment when Greg's mobile buzzes. Out of habit, more than any desire to answer it, Greg pulls the phone out and squints at the screen. It says one word: Eros.
Greg hurriedly tucks it away, but not before Sherlock sees it.
"Eros?" he asks. "That's… interesting."
"Sherlock…" John's voice holds a familiar note of warning.
"G'wan," Greg scoffs.
"Please, Lestrade, there's not much about you I don't already know. You must be quite popular there."
"It's not a service. Prostitution, as you may know, Sherlock, is illegal in this country," Greg huffs.
"No, no, of course not. Far be it from me to quibble with your odd choice of personal habits."
Greg folds his arms across his chest.
"And what's that supposed to mean?" he asks belligerently.
"Well, it's legal, no reason for it not to be," Sherlock says dismissively. "I just find it curious that you're so insecure in your own sexuality that you agreed to use the Eros services in order for you to have a shag."
"SHERLOCK!"
Greg shakes his head and notices that Sherlock is staring across the room.
"What?" Greg asks.
"No. Nothing," Sherlock replies. "Just… something unusual."
"Wouldn't be the first time with you," Greg grunts and claps John on the back again.
He doesn't notice Mycroft watching him as he leaves the reception.
"But don't you want to know?" Sherlock asks, taunting him.
Greg shakes his head. He really, really doesn't.
That night he moves in the man, surrounded by his heat, his nostrils filled with the scent of sex and sweat and the barest hint of cologne that marks his client as his.
Funny he should think of him that way. As his.
Can you really own somebody? Something?
Greg reaches down for his cock. It's hard and leaking.
The man groans below him.
Greg wants to soothe him. To call his name. In the gloaming, he can see the man's arm thrown out, his hand clinging to the headboard, the other hand clenching the bed sheets, pulling them out – the corner of the mattress exposed.
It's okay. I'm here. You're safe. I promise you. Fall apart. I will keep you safe. Here. In my arms.
But as he thinks these things, as he moves within this man, now gasping, chasing his release, he hears Sherlock's voice, mocking him. The derision-sowing seeds of doubt.
The man above him groans again and Greg feels wetness coating his hand, his arse tightening around his cock, and he's overwhelmed.
"Sherlock…" he hears, and he freezes.
Moments pass. Greg breathes. Below him, the man is panting, wrecked. Greg's cheek is sticky from the sweat where he lies pressed against his thigh.
It's okay. I'm here. You're safe. You can trust me. Whatever it is you've done, it's okay. It's me. You're safe here.
Mycroft is gasping for air, his knuckles white and arms trembling as he grips the headboard.
His body is flushed red from exertion, the back of his neck beading with sweat.
"P-pl-please," he groans. "P-please touch me. Oh, God…"
The bed shifts, banging against the wall, but neither of them really care, because Greg reaches down, takes Mycroft's hard and leaking cock in his hand.
Sweat and precome and lubricant, the heat radiating off Mycroft. Greg takes a deep breath, leans over and buries his face in Mycroft's neck, licking and biting.
Mycroft's moan of relief shudders through Greg.
"Oh, God…"
Mycroft tenses and shudders as his orgasm overwhelms him. Greg shouts as Mycroft tightens around his cock and gives in to the urge to fuck Mycroft, the primal urge to thrust and thrust and thrust.
The noise Greg makes as he comes is something between a growl and a roar.
Mycroft is panting; he’s dropped his hands from the headboard and is resting his head on his forearms. Greg droops, not quite collapsing onto his back, as he slowly pulls his softening cock out of Mycroft.
"Sherlock…" Mycroft groans feebly from between his arms. Greg freezes. A second, two, pass.
Mycroft flops onto his back as Greg peels off and wraps the condom in a tissue before throwing it in the general direction of the wastebasket.
"All right, sunshine?" Greg asks as he stretches out below him, to rest his head on Mycroft's thigh.
Mycroft smiles a smile of hazy, endorphin-fueled pleasure, but then stiffens as he hears Greg's murmur.
"All right," Greg says, reaching up to stroke Mycroft's hip. "All right."
Lestrade is drinking again.
Not that he knows that I can tell. Something is bothering him. And now it's bothering me. I can't focus when he's like this. All distracted.
John is telling me to leave him be.
He doesn't realize how damaging that can be. Doesn’t understand the effect of that on the work.
"It's not about the work, Sherlock," he says. "Stop brooding. Greg's just divorced. That's bound to take a toll. Plus, he's not at your beck and call twenty-four seven."
I favor John with a whithering stare. There are some things that he will never understand.
He thinks I don't "get" human relationships. He thinks that I'm, if not innocent, then very ignorant.
He couldn't be more wrong.
Something's happened. Happened to Lestrade.
"Mycroft's here," John announces from the sitting room window. "Wonder what he wants."
I ignore him. John can sort my brother out for himself. These protozoa are much more interesting than anything Mycroft could possibly have to say.
But then the fat prig walks into the kitchen, and I have to look up.
It's written all over his face.
Do you think there's something wrong with us?
Caring is not an advantage.
How many times have those words echoed in my head?
Well, I've allegedly fallen in love, haven't I? And now he's coming to me because he thinks I can help him.
I cannot help but smirk.
Yes, there is something wrong with us. From the moment you said "yes" to me. And now, now you need my help.
Because you've learned to care.
Greg's hands are bound above his head, but loosely. His partner. No, client? No, partner – whatever he is, apparently trusts him enough not to tie him so tightly that he cannot escape. But why? Why does he trust him?
No, why does Mycroft trust him? Because the other night, the murmured "Sherlock", the voice so familiar, so out of context, but so true… Who else can it be?
And of course Mycroft would not, however, trust him to keep his secret, and Greg's eyes are covered by what Greg thinks is a necktie. Only a thin crack of light shows through the silk, but Greg isn't really paying attention to that.
Mostly because the man, the partner, the client, has Greg's cock in his mouth and is suckling on it, sweetly, tenderly, and then aggressively. Greg bites back a groan as slicked fingers penetrate him, gently scissoring, then withdrawing, thrusting then withdrawing – fucking him ever so softly, until he knows he must be loose and open.
The man releases Greg's cock from his mouth and Greg does groan this time at the loss of sensation.
But the man is back, this time at Greg's feet. Picking up a foot, sliding his hand down the ball, the arch, to the heel. The tongue exploring the hollow above the ankle, the hand sliding down the calf. A mouth to the inside of his kneecap.
Greg thinks that he might die from this.
It's probably fine, he also thinks, if he does.
Hands again, on his thighs. Parting them. A swift stroke to his cock and then the stretch and burn of the other man's cock pressing into him.
It's perfect.
Greg doesn't care that his thigh muscles are screaming, that his chest and shoulders are quivering with the effort of holding himself still. The man is moving inside of him, strongly, the slip-slide of lubricant, the feel of his skin.
And the necktie begins to slip. Greg knows he should try to adjust it. To close his eyes, not to violate the terms of their contract, the terms of their trust.
But the man is fucking him.
And the necktie is slipping.
Greg opens his eyes as the necktie falls away.
Bound, he watches as Mycroft Holmes fucks him, his head thrown back, the tendons of his neck standing out, his knuckles white as they grip Greg's thighs. A bead of sweat trickles down Mycroft's neck, hits between his collarbones, settling in the groove, the suprasternal notch.
Greg should look away. Should close his eyes.
But the way Mycroft's mouth drops open, the complete exposure, the vulnerability of his expression and pose, although it's Greg who's tied up… Greg cannot look away.
Mycroft adjusts his hips and Greg nearly shouts as he grazes his prostate.
A thrust. A second, and a third, and Mycroft stiffens and cries out as he comes. They are both unprotected; Greg feels the heated surge of his come.
And then Mycroft drops his head and locks eyes with Greg.
The air seems to leave the room as Mycroft pulls out of Greg painfully fast. Greg shouts as his cock, still hard and leaking, slaps against his stomach.
The look of betrayal on Mycroft's face sears into him. He closes his eyes and hears the door slam as he is left alone. Bound. Helpless.
Minutes pass as the quiet of the house settles around him.
The door opens and a woman in a dark suit enters. The representative from Eros Services.
Silently, she unties him, hands him a towel and a glass of water.
Greg cleans and dresses himself while she watches.
As he finishes, she hands him an envelope. In it is five thousand pounds. In cash.
"I regret to inform you," she says. "That your contract with Eros Services is terminated. We are refunding the deposit made for your contract, and of course, anything that has transpired between you and your chosen partner whilst under contract remains confidential."
Greg nods, still too stunned to speak.
The representative ushers him out of the bedroom and down the corridor.
Outside, a taxi is waiting, and Greg climbs in.
"I am so sorry, Mr Lestrade," the representative says through the open window, "that we could not have continued this relationship."
Greg stops at the Off License around the corner from his flat before he goes up.
He spends the rest of the night drinking whisky and shouting abuse at Sherlock on his mobile.
It had been an experiment that had grown out of control. John would…. Well, John being John, he would be horrified.
But he's so conventional sometimes.
I do like watching him sleep. He looks so peaceful – if everything in the world was as simple as John makes it.
Perhaps that's why I love him.
Perhaps that's why Mycroft was so wrong.
"Sherlock, shut up," John mumbles into the pillow. "You're thinking again."
The desire to seduce. To watch Mycroft crumble. To test, to push. I don't need to push John, because most of the time, John's right along there with me. Mycroft always pushed back.
And he says that caring isn't an advantage.
John says that it's the greatest advantage of all.
"I love you," I say.
"Mfph," John replies. "I love you too, Sherlock, now would you please go to sleep?"
Outside, it starts to rain. I wonder how long Lestrade is going to stand on the pavement outside the Diogenes Club. I wonder what he thinks it's going to achieve.
One Year Later
The reception hall is littered with streamers. The tables are cluttered with discarded silverware, half finished glasses of water and wine, flutes of champagne. Here and there, couples and small groups have gathered, chairs moved to form circles or seats for two. The band is playing quietly now, and one or two couples sway in time to the music on the dance floor.
All lives end.
All hearts are broken.
Greg's not sure why he's here – other than to play happy families for Susie and her PE teacher. Simon wasn't exactly glad to see his father, and Katie wouldn't talk to him. In fact, the only people who do talk to him are the bar staff. And Susie, briefly.
The PE teacher shakes his hand, but doesn't look him in the eye.
Greg's slumped at the bar, watching his ex wife dance with her new husband, her head resting on his shoulder.
Ah well, alone at a wedding. Again.
At the far end of the hall, the door opens, and a man slips in.
Nobody pays him mind except for Greg, who suddenly sits up. The world rocks under him and he nearly falls.
Mycroft Holmes, in his perfect suit, with its perfect waistcoat and tie, crosses the room.
Greg's first thought is that Sherlock is in trouble.
His second thought is that he is, in fact, drunk and hallucinating.
His third thought, as Mycroft moves up to him and kisses him, hard, is that he has died and this is some sort of fucked up afterlife.
Mycroft pulls away, doubt clouding his eyes.
Greg tries to think of something to say, anything.
But instead, he slides from his stool and takes Mycroft's hand, leading him to the dance floor.
The beginning.
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no subject
Date: 2012-06-18 07:45 pm (UTC)I love how you showed a broken relationship between Sherlock and a slightly more broken Mycroft. Then Sherlovk figures it out and accepts it long before Mycroft gets there, even when it's obvious he wants to love and be loved. Especially when the right person is standing right in front of him.
Brilliant. Thanks for the lovely gift.
no subject
Date: 2012-07-02 02:03 pm (UTC)You did a very fine job of it and structuring it around my wacky request for weddings was great. :)
no subject
Date: 2012-06-18 11:00 pm (UTC)