holmestice | Fic for kedgeree11: Opposition Party

Greg fumbled for the phone and knocked it off the bedside table. "Fuck." With a groan, he stretched over and actually managed to find it and answer it by the fourth ring. "Hello?" he rasped.

"Inspector?"

Greg peered at the display on his phone while his eyes adjusted, and blinked until he could focus. "Mycroft?"

"I am sorry to wake you, but I would have waited if it had been possible. I require your assistance."

"What the hell...?"

"My brother isn't answering his texts, and-"

"Mycroft," Greg growled. "DON'T put me in between you and-"

"This is an urgent matter. A colleague's life may hang in the balance."

"Why isn't he answering your texts? Did you do something?"

"Inspector."

Greg heard an unusual note of strain in Mycroft's voice and relented. "What do I need to do?" he said with a sigh.

"I would like to brief you on the situation, and then have you relate it to Sherlock."

"I can pass him a note before class, sir."

There was a moment of silence before Mycroft answered. "Inspector. I would like to send a car to pick you up in ten minutes."

Greg looked at the clock. "Jesus, it's 3:42? Mycroft, what in the hell could be-"

"Inspector. Ten minutes?"

"Fuck, Mycroft, just...just give me a moment. You woke me out of a dead sleep, okay? What the hell were you doing still awake?"

"I was not."

"You sound it."

"I was awakened a considerable amount of time ago to deal with this...issue."

Greg scrubbed a hand over his face. "Fine, Mycroft. Fine. I'll see you in ten minutes." He stabbed the mobile off and tossed it to the side, then flopped back onto the pillow. "Get up. Now," he said to himself.

And promptly fell back asleep.

He awoke with a shock to find Mycroft shaking him awake. "Inspector."

Heart in his throat, Greg shoved himself to sitting and hastily covered himself with the duvet. "Jesus christ, Mycroft. What the fuck are you doing?" He vaguely remembered something about Mycroft, something about...

"You were meant to be dressed and waiting. You fell back asleep."

Greg groaned and pressed his palms to his eyes. "Ngh. Sorry."

"I've taken the liberty of making you a cup of tea."

"Mycroft. How are you in my house? You made tea?"

"I think you'll find it exactly as you like it."

"Did you break into my house?"

Mycroft held up a steaming cup of tea, complete with a saucer Greg didn't even remember owning. "Please, Inspector. I need you to be coherent now."

"I'm coherent enough, damn it. Did you break into my house?"

"Such an ugly choice of word, 'break'."

"Why is it always terminology with you?" Greg took the tea from Mycroft and sucked down half of it straightaway. He admitted to himself reluctantly it was perfectly made. But that really wasn't the point.

"May I help you find your clothing?"

Greg blinked at him. "No you certainly may not. Get the hell out of my room while I change."

Mycroft held up both hands in submission and sauntered out the door. "You have five minutes, Inspector. And then I'm coming back in."

"I don't need chivvying out the door like a schoolboy, Mycroft," Greg called through the closing door.

"On the contrary. It appears you do," Mycroft said, and the door clicked shut.

Greg rolled out of bed and stretched, then threw on the closest clothing to hand. His limbs shook with clumsy weariness. After splashing his face and cleaning his teeth he felt a bit more human, and he opened the door to find Mycroft poised to knock.

"Ah, good," he said. "Shall we?"

"This is a weird fucking morning," Greg said.

"You curse a lot more when you've just awoken," said Mycroft.

"I curse a lot more when some arsehole has woken me up before 4am because he and his brother are having a little spat."

Mycroft stopped short and turned to face him. "I woke you because I need your help, and I know you'll get the job done. You've proved that to me, Inspector."

Greg's brain was still a bit logy, and he didn't know what to say. So he just stared at Mycroft open-mouthed, then Mycroft spun on his heel and oozed out the front door. Greg recovered and followed, giving the door a glance-over as he locked it behind him. There was not a scratch on it. Fucking Holmeses.

Greg dozed lightly in the car ride, and Mycroft didn't say a word. "Where are we going?" Greg said after about twenty minutes, and cleared his throat. It sounded sleep-rough and slurring.

"My office," Mycroft said. "I would prefer to talk there."

"Is there any way I can get you to stop doing this?"

Mycroft looked out the window. "I don't believe so, no."

"No bribe I can offer? Information I can trade?" Greg slumped against his own cool window and discreetly tried to rub the bleariness from his vision.

"Of course not."

"So I'm pretty much stuck being kidnapped according to your whim."

"I assure you, this is not whimsical. Whimsy is a spontaneous flood of inspiration and fun, and both of those are thin on the ground when I am involved."

"I don't know if I'd say that."

"Indeed?" Mycroft turned to look at him.

"Whimsy is alive and well and living on your desk blotter."

"I beg your pardon?"

Greg chuckled. "Cabbages and sealing wax. Never mind. I'm just...exhausted. I was doing paperwork until one." He pressed his forehead to the window. The coldness helped.

They rode in silence the rest of the way to Mycroft's office.

"Why do we have to do this here?" Greg asked as they rode up in the lift. He was slumped against the wall.

"There is evidence which I would prefer not to be transferred to any other location."

"But transferring me is just fine."

He didn't miss the smile quirking the corner of Mycroft's mouth. "Indeed so."

"You're such a knob."

Mycroft's head snapped to him and he blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me." Greg let his head tip back and he closed his eyes for the last remaining seconds until they arrived at Mycroft's level.

"I hardly think name-calling is necessary," Mycroft snapped as he led them to his office. To Greg's surprise, there was another of Mycroft's endless stream of assistants sitting outside, typing away on the computer. She looked up just long enough to nod at him, then went back to work.

"Why is she here right now?"

"Does it matter?" Mycroft said. He shut the door and the usual silence of his office fell heavily around them. It was particularly noticeable at this hour; perhaps it was something to do with the darkness outside the windows and the wavering reality that sleep-deprivation inspired.

"I was just asking-"

"Sit down, Inspector."

Greg stayed standing, but he did consider throwing himself onto the sofa against the far wall, rolling over, and taking a damn nap. "Listen, Mycroft, I am doing you a favour here-"

"I asked you to sit down."

"No, you told me to sit down."

Mycroft expelled a heavy breath, then sat on the edge of his desk in front of the chair Greg usually found himself in. It looked oddly casual, but then, this was an odd night. Greg sat and looked up at him, waiting.

Mycroft folded his hands in his lap and looked miles away for a moment. "I have an acquaintance. We have known each other for many years, and he currently works for the GCHQ as a translator, chiefly in areas of Mediterranean politics. Melas came into London for work three days ago and has not been seen since."

"Why aren't you going through the proper channels for this?"

"Because," Mycroft said quietly, and crossed his arms over his chest in a vulnerable gesture, "I said that he has not been seen since, but I did not say that he had not been heard from."

Curious. Greg sat up straight, finally awake. "You've heard from him."

Mycroft nodded. "I have, yes. In the process of doing some manner of work for which he was kidnapped, he managed to smuggle out a code for me. He does not know where he is being held, but he did allude to a strange situation with another Greek prisoner and a woman, as well as substantial fear that if the authorities were to become involved it would mean his life."

"Did he give any more details?"

"He did not. Unfortunately for us. And for Melas."

Greg blew out a breath. "Where do I start?"

"You start, Inspector, by looking over this file and then contacting my brother."

"You're not going to let me bring this file anywhere, right?"

"Correct."

With a sigh, Greg opened up the folder Mycroft had handed him and perused its contents. He whistled. "Syria? He's been working on something with Syria?"

"And another with Palestine."

"That's not good news."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "No, Inspector, it is not."

Greg closed the folder on his index finger. "I don't suppose you could get me a cup of coffee? I'm going to need it."

Mycroft leaned back to press the intercom button on his phone, and Greg's sleep-sodden mind instantly zeroed in on the sensuality of the position. The long line of Mycroft's thigh eased up into his slim torso and then further into his neck, craned back and corded with tension. Greg felt a mutinous stab of desire, and yanked his gaze away and back down to the folder. But his heart rate was still elevated, and he fancied he actually could see the thump of it through his shirt. Jesus. He marshalled his thoughts back to the crisis at hand, and after a few minutes the assistant came in with the coffee. As he took it from her she smiled. She was lovely-all of Mycroft's assistants seemed to be, as if he lived in some sort of Bond film, and some day he really was going to have to ask Mycroft about that-and likely brilliant, and could probably kill him with her little finger, but a traitorous thought still compared her with Mycroft and found her wanting.

Which was utterly, massively ridiculous, and Greg needed to stomp that thought immediately. What a horrendous idea.

He sucked down the first cup of coffee without tasting it, then started more slowly on the second as he memorised as much of the file as possible. When he'd finished, he set it aside and took a deep breath. His gaze lighted on a large oil painting above Mycroft's desk that Greg was sure hadn't been there before.

"Is that one of yours?" he guessed.

Mycroft didn't glance back. "Yes."

"Did you just paint it?"

Mycroft denied it with a twitch of his head. "I didn't. It's one from university."

Greg examined it. It was hard to say what it was supposed to be, and Greg didn't feel he knew enough about art to guess. But the colours were warm and rich, and the shapes blended into one another with easy gradations and smooth, confident brushstrokes, and Greg wasn't really sure how he was supposed to feel. He felt... He was unsure. It was a surplus of emotion. "Were you angry? No. Sad?"

"...Both, I suppose." Mycroft was examining his face with intricate focus.

Greg avoided Mycroft's gaze while he contemplated the painting and sipped at the coffee. "You had talent."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Greg was almost becoming fond of that expression. "Is that to say I don't now?"

"How am I to know about your particular talents unless you show them to me?" Finally Greg looked Mycroft in the eye, and was stunned to see a light of humour there.

"I thought you could extrapolate."

"I'm a detective, not an art critic."

"Yet you saw fit to comment."

"It was a passing compliment, not a scathing critique."

"Lord save us from small favours. I'd hate to feel the keenness of your tongue."

"When you feel my tongue you'll know it." Fuck. Greg regretted saying it right away, but even then he couldn't make himself break their locked gaze.

But neither did Mycroft. His breathing was heavier, and he had colour in his cheeks, and Jesus christ did Greg need to find a way to break this tension before something...happened. He wasn't feeling in his right mind enough to handle whatever the hell was going on here.

Finally, he clutched at reality. "I should probably call your brother."

That seemed to be the right thing to say, because the tension sapped from the room immediately in a frigid wash. Mycroft blinked and stood, then wandered behind his desk. "Please do," he said, and picked up the topmost file. "We've waited too long already. It's a shame you don't have an eidetic memory."

"Yes, what a shame I'm perfectly average in that respect, and have to memorise things the hard way."

Mycroft looked up innocently. "Quite."

"What a shame we're not all as brilliant as you and your brother."

At that, Mycroft's expression melted into a scowl. "I did not say that."

"You meant it, though."

"On the contrary, I-"

"No, no. I understand. It must be difficult to stoop to our level on a regular basis."

"You are purposefully misunderstanding me." Mycroft stood.

"No, I think I understand just fine." Greg stood. "You need my help to talk to your brother. I understand that. But it's troublesome not to be able to have your emissary be as brilliant as you." He slapped the file down on Mycroft's desk. "I'll go be your toady now. You're welcome."

"Inspector-"

"I'll text you when I know he'll take the case."

"Inspector."

Greg opened the door. "Don't worry about it." He swallowed down his anger; this wasn't the time or place to get involved in emotional displays. A man was missing, and at this moment the onus fell on Greg to fix it. And he had to do so without his team and outside the legal purview of the force. This was a very, very bad idea. "I'll be in touch," he said, and closed the door behind him before Mycroft could follow. He nodded at the assistant, who didn't even look up at him, and pressed the down button on the lift. Greg begged for the door to open before Mycroft emerged from his office and, luckily enough, it did. He rode down with his heart pounding, drying his sweating palms on his thighs, and tried to focus on a plan to get Sherlock in on the case.

In the end, appealing to John's strong moral judgement worked a treat. Soon, they were on Melas's trail, following on from his last whereabouts before his disappearance, and after two frustrating days Greg barged into a row house to find Melas suffocating to death in a small, enclosed room with an unknown, recently-deceased man.

"Call my brother," Sherlock said, as the paramedics rushed Melas into the ambulance. He knelt down to examine the corpse and snapped on his gloves.

"I'll call him later. We're not done here."

"Call him now, Lestrade. He keeps texting me, and it's annoying."

"He can wait." Greg was still annoyed with Mycroft, but he couldn't put his finger on why.

Sherlock shrugged and reached his fingers into the corpse's mouth. "Suit yourself," he said, as John made noises of disapproval.

They determined the corpse's name (Paul Kratides) and his physical state (weakened from starvation), but they didn't get much further than that before Greg's mobile rang.

"Lestrade."

"I hear you've successfully found Melas."

Greg sighed. "Yes, Mycroft we did. I can give you more details later, but right now I still have work to do."

"I would appreciate it if you would take some time and explain now."

"Mycroft," Greg said, starting to feel the annoyance crawl up his throat. He ignored the smirk on Sherlock's smug face, and felt annoyance about him too. Fucking Holmeses. "I can't. I have work to do."

"This is important."

"This is too! A man has-" He growled quietly. "A man has died, we're not done with the investigation, and you are going to have to wait." He saw Sherlock's head rise from where it was bent over the corpse, and Greg scowled at the look of shock on his face. He left the room to find a quiet corner.

"The political implications of this are more important right now. The dead man won't be saved if you take fifteen minutes to explain it to me."

"It's not going to be fifteen minutes. You're going to tell me you're right outside the door, and that I have to get in the car because this house isn't secured, and it's going to take an hour. And that's only if you don't drive off and leave me halfway across the city. Again. No, Mycroft. I will talk to you later."

"Inspe-" was all Greg heard before he rang off viciously and strode back into the room.

"Not one word," he said preemptively to Sherlock, and surprisingly the man's mouth clicked shut. John looked ridiculously amused at the entire spectacle so Greg scowled at him, too. "Just tell me what we've got, Sherlock."

After the scene had been handed off to SOCO, Greg strolled out to the front pavement. He desperately wanted a cigarette.

"You mustn't give in to the cravings," came a voice to his right. Greg huffed and walked over to Mycroft.

"I don't plan on it." He didn't bother asking how Mycroft knew what Greg was thinking about. "I had been planning on getting a coffee."

"Would you mind terribly if I accompanied you?"

Yes. "No. Fine."

Greg walked briskly toward the nearest Starbucks, but Mycroft on his long legs easily kept up. With a stab of dark humour, Greg hoped that Mycroft would get out of breath and drop behind. But it obviously hadn't happened yet, if it was even going to, because Mycroft still had adequate breath to speak. "I presume that the rush has passed, and you have some time to give me a report about the case."

Greg stopped short, his annoyance rapidly blossoming into fury. "I don't report to you. I don't report to you. I am not your underling, I don't work for you, I am under no obligation to do anything. I risked my job to take this case outside the proper channels. And because there was a dead man at the scene, I'm going to be called on the carpet for violating procedure, so thanks for that, Mycroft. Thanks. I look forward to the official reaming I'm going to get later today."

Mycroft's expression was blank. "I apologise, but it was necessary-"

"No, Mycroft. No. Don't try to wave this away. You had me do something illegal for you, and I did it, and now I'm going to pay the price for it. As it should be, but don't you dare wave this away like it's nothing, or like it was your due. I don't owe you anything. In fact, you still owe me." He held up a hand. "You know what? I don't want to talk to you right now. I'll send you a report, maybe after I find out whether I still have my job or not."

Mycroft blinked at him. "I don't think that's a very secure-"

"I'll send by damn courier or something. Just. Just don't talk to me." And Greg stormed off. Thankfully, Mycroft remained behind.

After that, Greg avoided contact with Mycroft like plague. He sent off a begrudging report, managed to bend under the withering reprisal from the Chief Super but not break, and spent the next few weeks absolutely not calling Sherlock in on cases.

Until he got a text from John.

Need backup at 221B tonight at 8pm. Secretive. Don't scare off the potential murderer.

Oh for fuck's sake. What the hell were they up to now?

He spent most of the day texting the both of them, and he even stopped by the house, but for the first time ever no one inhabitant was home. Panic and anger was rising in his throat by mid-afternoon, so he sent a text to Mycroft.

What the hell is your brother working on?

A few minutes later, he received a reply.

I cannot answer that, Inspector. M

Like hell you can't. They're requesting backup now, but didn't say why. And now they're not responding. Where are they?

My brother and John are perfectly fine.

That's it. He was done with this.

Ten minutes later he was standing in the front lobby of Mycroft's office building with a threatening security agent pressing him to the wall.

"Call Mycroft. Tell him I want to talk to him. Now."

"Sir, I need you to stop causing a scene."

"I've seen you. You know who I am. Get Mycroft."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, sir."

"Tell him I'm sick of being whipped around by him and his brother. If he put Sherlock onto something, he needs to tell me, now, before I can use police resources saving his arse."

"Sir, please step outside. Mycroft is in a meeting right now."

"What, is my voice going to disturb them, five storeys up?" Greg was furious-with the Holmes brothers' secrecy, with their tendency to use him like a tool but disregard him whenever they liked, with the oleaginous tone of the security man's voice as he tried to calm Greg down. He was having none of it.

"Sir, please don't make me subdue you."

"Get Mycroft. NOW."

"Sir..."

"Oh, they're not going to hear me. These walls are fucking soundproofed, aren't they. Get Myc-"

The security guard moved, and for one heart-stopping moment Greg thought he was going to be broken and left in a million pieces in the lobby to be swept out with tonight's trash. But instead, the guard held up one finger, so Greg fell silent. The guard listened to the voice coming through his earpiece. "I can escort you up now."

Greg started with, "I don't need an escort," but stopped after that. He'd hardly been an example of perfect decorum, and this was the sort of place that required it. Now that he had got his way, he felt like rubbish. Greg was still blisteringly angry, no mistake, but as he rode up in the lift it became tempered with a bit of shame.

He was manhandled out of the lift just in time to see the door to the stairwell closing. Standing in the doorway to his office was Mycroft, glaring daggers at Greg through the small waiting area filled with pot plants and the omnipresent assistant.

The security officer let go of Greg's arms and fell back into parade rest at his side. "Thank you," Mycroft said to him, and his voice was cold. "I believe I can take it from here." He stepped back into his office, glaring at Greg all the while, and lifted his arrogant face to beckon him inside. "Inspector Lestrade. Please join me in my office."

"Gladly," Greg spat, and stalked past him into the room.

The door had barely shut before Greg found himself crowded against it. "Don't you ever come in here and cause such a scene again," Mycroft growled. He wasn't touching Greg anywhere, but it was a near thing.

Still, Greg leaned forward another inch into his face. "So when your friend might be in trouble, sure, you can break into my house. But when it's your brother, everyone can go hang?"

"I told you. My brother is fine."

"How am I to know you're not blowing me off?"

"I think you can assume that if my brother's life were on the line, I would take any help offered."

"I don't assume anything, when it comes to you."

"Not even about my brother?"

"Especially him."

Mycroft leaned further into Greg's personal space. "You don't think I care?"

"I think you're arrogant enough to think you can handle things you can't."

"And I think your hero complex is getting a little too large to contain."

"Hero complex."

"You desperately want to save people. Desperately. Even if they don't want to be saved."

Greg was losing track of the conversation. "And you think you're infallible."

"I have to be."

"And don't you think...that's how I..." Mycroft's face was right there, with his smell surrounding Greg. "This is the way I do things. This is how I do things by the book."

"You are astoundingly deluded about yourself, aren't you?"

"Pardon me?"

"You do things by the book only if it suits you. Otherwise you ride roughshod over the rules until you get the desired result."

"Ridiculous."

"I have two words for you, then: 'Drugs' and 'bust'."

Greg spluttered. "Excuse me? What the hell right have you to say word one about it? You do whatever you like and then go back and fix the record afterward."

Mycroft's eyes flashed fire. "What are you accusing me of exactly, Inspector?"

Greg leaned forward and sneered. "The same thing you're accusing me of, Mycroft."

Mycroft's narrow chest heaved with fury, and his breath hit Greg's face, and without a second thought Greg closed the distance. His mouth closed viciously over Mycroft's, and he panted as his brain suddenly flooded with white-hot desire. He felt Mycroft's hands come up and grab his head, and that same desire surged throughout the rest of his body. He groaned.

Mycroft was holding his head in place and biting at his lips, over and over and over again, making a whining noise in his throat. It ratched up Greg's lust until his body raged with arousal; he could barely breathe, or think, or feel anything except want. He grabbed around Mycroft's ribs and squeezed their bodies together, then clawed his fingernails down the back of Mycroft's expensive white shirt.

A guttural noise ripped from Mycroft's throat and he gasped into Greg's mouth. "Gregory."

Oh Jesus christ. "Oh fuck." He heard himself making a high whimper and crushed it into Mycroft's mouth.

Somehow he found himself with his arms pinned between Mycroft's back and the wall, but still he pressed tighter, unable to get nearly as close as he needed to be. He ground against Mycroft's thigh and felt Mycroft cry out into the kiss. Mycroft himself was already getting hard, rolling his hips relentlessly against Greg's body, and arousal pulsed like lightning in Greg's blood. He dragged his hands down to Mycroft's arse and clutched two massive handfuls, then pulled their lower bodies together and writhed.

The kiss broke as Mycroft's head fell back and hit the wall. He gasped audibly, then let it out with a broken cry that briefly sent Greg's brain offline. He groaned in response and applied his teeth and lips to all that skin on Mycroft's neck. The combination of smoothness and the barest rasp of stubble was delicious.

He felt hands working at the base of his spine, then he realised Mycroft was pulling his shirt tails out of his trousers. The feeling set off a Pavlovian chain of memory in Greg's brain, and suddenly he was ten times harder, ten times more desperate for skin. He ripped Mycroft's shirt out of his trousers and shoved his hands up underneath his vest to place them flat on his hot, smooth back.

Mycroft made a splintered noise and wormed his own hands under Greg's shirt. Greg shuddered at the sensation of those slender, delicate hands kneading desperately at the muscles near his spine as they writhed together, relentlessly chasing friction against each others' thighs.

Greg pressed his face to the crook of Mycroft's neck and inhaled, and there was that smell, that incredible smell. His eyes rolled back and he moaned, loudly.

"Gregory," Mycroft whined, then he scraped his nails down Greg's back.

More. He needed more. He needed all of it. His eyes couldn't focus, so he blindly unfastened his own belt buckle and flies, leaving Mycroft to his own. Their knuckles brushed together in their desperate frenzy, as did their mouths. Greg's trousers dropped to his ankles and Mycroft's did a few seconds later, then they pressed together once again. He felt the fabric of Mycroft's pants with remarkable fidelity, then realised that his cock had pushed through the flies on his shorts and was rubbing against the cotton of Mycroft's boxer briefs. His knees went weak, but Mycroft was the one who moaned.

He shoved his hands down the back of Mycroft's pants and was gratified when Mycroft's hips kicked forward. His own cock jumped against Mycroft's thigh, and he swallowed Mycroft's groan in their kiss. It was biting again, harsh, and Greg tasted blood in his mouth. He didn't care.

Mycroft had barely been quiet since the kiss began. He was noisy, vocal, letting out a constant stream of gasps and whimpers and moans as he groped down Greg's back and shoved his tongue in his mouth. His enthusiasm was hotter than hell, and Greg groaned. It had been ages since he'd been laid, and he was rapidly losing control of himself. The breakdown of the usually-restrained man pressing against him pulled an animalistic growl from Greg's throat, and he ripped Mycroft's pants down to his ankles.

He caught Mycroft's cry in his mouth and swallowed it. Then he let his hands feel every goddamn inch of Mycroft's body he could reach: up under the shirt to his hips and back, down lightly-furred thighs, and around to that narrow arse that was flexing and tensing with each roll of his hips. That body. It was lithe and just a little soft, and it made Greg feel a visceral tug of need that curled his fingertips into Mycroft's arse cheeks and pulled them apart.

Mycroft ducked his head and pressed forward, harder into the kiss, almost shoving Greg off-balance, but Greg leaned into it and fought to push Mycroft back into the wall. Mycroft growled, a guttural thing that made Greg's eyes roll back, and he tore Greg's pants down to his knees. Greg huffed out a breath when he felt Mycroft's nimble hands grasping and clutching at his arse.

Greg broke the kiss and let his head fall to Mycroft's shoulder so he could breathe. He licked up Mycroft's neck inside the collar and then bit down, hard, right on the meat of his shoulder, getting a mouthful of cotton. Mycroft's hips kicked forward, and before Greg's brain registered a plan with the rest of his body he found himself with Mycroft's cock in his hand.

It fit there perfectly, slim and sleek and already damp. Both of them groaned. Greg's eyelids fluttered against Mycroft's shirt as he rolled his forehead back and forth with the satisfaction of it. Only a moment later did Greg feel the cool of Mycroft's hand close around the hot skin of his cock, and Greg moaned down between their bodies. Mycroft was panting in his ear.

Mycroft's hand never stopped moving. It slicked over the head and down to Greg's balls, pulled them for a moment and slid back up. God it had been so long. Greg's head was full of Mycroft's scent as he thrusted into his hand over and over, pulling at Mycroft's cock and feeling it twitch in his palm. It was a bit slicker after that, and Greg smeared wet circles of pre-come around the head. He heard Mycroft groan through a clenched jaw.

"Yesss..." Greg moaned, and sped his hand. The picture in his mind of what they looked like was pornographic, hot as fuck with half their clothes still on, panting and gasping and getting each other off in a frenzy against a wall like teenagers. He puffed like a steam engine into the humid crook of Mycroft's neck as he felt his orgasm begin to coalesce down at the centre of him, a knot of pleasurable tension that drew nearly all his focus. Nearly all, because he spared just a bit for listening to Mycroft. It had been a while since Greg had had sex, and though hadn't the foggiest idea how long it had been for Mycroft, Greg suspected it hadn't been any time recently because he was rapidly losing cohesion. His hips thrusted in an unsteady pattern, he clutched hard at Greg's shoulders for leverage and he kept gritting out a wavering moan over and over. It made the hairs on the back of Greg's neck stand on end to hear this man go completely to pieces. It was unbearably hot, and Greg's orgasm was already starting to tighten in his balls when Mycroft's hit.

His spine bowed as his hips rolled all the way forward and he grated out a tortured cry into Greg's ear. It sounded as if he were pushing out the orgasm, like ground glass and pained pleasure and something just on the edge of tolerance. Mycroft's fingers dug into Greg's shoulders as he held himself up. Then it was as if he'd broken through some kind of wall, and Mycroft's orgasm seemed to become slick and easy. His hips juddered and he convulsed repeatedly, moaning with uncontrolled bliss as he came in loose spasms all over Greg's hand and their shirt tails.

Oh Jesus fuck. God Greg needed to come. He had been nearly there already when Mycroft's took him, and now he was desperate for it. However, he worked Mycroft through the end of his orgasm first, wanting to draw out this precious period of time with Mycroft lost to the world. Just as he decided the man was too far gone to reciprocate, Greg felt a slick hand wrap around his cock. It tugged-forcefully, confidently. thoroughly. The wetness and the shock and the roughness knocked him suddenly over the edge. He clutched close to Mycroft's body and moaned into his ear as bliss slammed into him, leaving him senseless, squeezed and rocked with pleasure.

Greg rubbed up against Mycroft as he ejaculated, furiously satisfying the urge to come all over Mycroft's body and clothes. He rode out his orgasm onto Mycroft's thigh. When the spasms finally relented he shivered, then he moaned into Mycroft's ear. Mycroft shuddered and Greg smiled hazily as hormones coursed through his system. He sighed and let his forehead fall to Mycroft's shoulder while he attempted to catch his breath.

There was silence, and then Mycroft cleared his throat. "Erm," he said, then let that stand on its own for a while.

Greg puffed out a few breaths as his entire nervous system reset itself. "Well..." His knees felt like rubber.

Mycroft shivered with a violent aftershock. "Ungh."

Greg rubbed his mouth on Mycroft's shirt and tried to think of something to say, but he still felt a bit vague and fuzzy. He wanted a nap.

Awareness settled in, brick by brick. They were standing in Mycroft's office with their pants and trousers around their ankles, a mess of semen all over their shirts, their thighs, and their hands. Mycroft's hair was a wreck and his face was blotchy with a receding flush, and Greg's mouth was still abraded raw. He tasted the tang of copper.

Still, Greg felt a sense of satisfaction he hadn't felt since lord-knows-when. He really didn't fancy having the talk they were bound to have. He really just wanted that nap. And maybe some dinner.

Instead he wiped his hands on his shirt and pressed his forehead against Mycroft's collar. He refused the notion that he was hiding. "Erm. So."

Mycroft cleared his throat again. "Yes."

"That...happened."

"...Yes."

Greg pulled himself together and stood up. He still avoided Mycroft's eye, however, choosing instead to stare at the wall behind him. From this distance he could see the subtle speckle of the paint. He let it mesmerise him instead of focussing on the issue at hand.

Mycroft swallowed and shifted from foot to foot. "I..." Greg felt a thrill of apprehension, not having the foggiest idea what Mycroft was going to say next. "...I have a shirt you may borrow for your ride home, if you wish."

It was a little better than expected, but Greg was unsure about the strange intimacy of wearing another man's clothes-even for a ten minute car ride. He'd rather just clean up as best he could and flee for home. "Erm. Where's the nearest restroom?"

Mycroft pointed to a door in the corner, and Greg found a full, well-appointed bath behind it, complete with a gleaming shower stall and towels and a medicine cabinet. It smelled like Mycroft in here. Greg shivered.

He cleaned up as best he could; he was going to have to strip once he got home anyway, but he'd rather damp shirt tails tucked against his stomach than a slimy mess. When he emerged from the bathroom, Mycroft had completely changed into a new suit and was fastening up a waistcoat to the top button. His hair was still a wreck, however, and spots of pink still lingered on his cheeks. His mouth was swollen-red. Greg felt a pang of affection but swallowed it down.

While Greg watched, Mycroft attempted to smooth his hair with his palms. He grabbed a suit jacket from his chair and shrugged it on as Greg shut the door behind him and stepped back towards Mycroft's desk. Mycroft said, "I've, er. Sherlock is... Sherlock is investigating a missing crown diamond. He has set a trap for the thief, but there is some danger the trap might fail so I asked him to ensure he had backup. I expect his mobile is off because he's doing some undercover investigation, and it's probable John is with him. Last I heard from my agents he's fine, Inspector. But I... I appreciate your concern."

"If not my methods."

"Well..." Mycroft glanced across the room, out the window and down into St. James Park. A smile just barely graced the corner of his mouth. "Not those, no."

Though the side effects felt fucking incredible. Greg blew out a breath. "I'll call in a team and be ready. Do I need an explosives unit?"

Mycroft shook his head. "I don't expect so. This is a slippery man, and a murderer, but the likelihood of him escalating the destruction is minimal."

"So you know who it is, then."

Mycroft's mouth was a line. "Yes. I do."

"How?"

"He was the man who was in here just before you so gracefully interrupted."

Greg blinked. "What?!" He looked around, as if the man could be hiding somewhere. "Here?"

Mycroft inclined his head. "We met to discuss an unrelated matter. Sherlock was sure it was he but I remained unconvinced, so I invited him to go over a policy change. The way he held his hand in his pocket confirmed for me he was the man."

Greg shook his head, uncomprehending. "What...?"

At that, Mycroft pinned him with a glance. It was the first time they'd had full eye contact since before they'd had sex, and the hairs on the backs of Greg's arms started to rise. It added fuller weight when Mycroft said calmly, "He was fingering a gun in his pocket."

A heavy awareness settled into Greg's brain, then, a realisation that standing in front of him here was a colder, stronger, more complex man than Greg had ever given him credit for being. It was attractive, and it was terrifying.

Greg pulled himself up tall and swallowed. "I'm going home to, er, change, and then I'm going to prepare a team for tonight."

"I'll be eating at Simpson's this evening, should you need me." For a second Greg thought Mycroft was going to invite him along, but the moment passed. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or not.

He also didn't know what to say to that. "Okay," he ended up with, and stepped toward the door. "You know how to find me, if you have an update. More information."

A small, wry smile graced Mycroft's face, though he didn't look directly at Greg. "I do."

"I know." Greg stopped with his hand on the doorknob. "I'll...erm..."

"Good luck tonight, Inspector. For my brother's sake, if nothing else."

Greg swallowed and forced a smile. "Thanks."

After his shower, Greg wiped the steam from the mirror and caught a glimpse of something that made him groan.

Oh, fuck.

He didn't remember him doing it, but somewhere in their frantic clash Mycroft had apparently sucked a bruise into Greg's neck where it would plainly be seen by everyone and their mother. Talk about feeling like a teenager. Goddamn it, Mycroft. He was going to see Sherlock in a few hours, and there was no way on earth this was going to excape comment. Goddamn it.

Opposition Party - Part 3