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Mycroft woke when he heard Gregory slip off his shoes at the top of the stairs: two soft thuds on the small Persian carpet on the landing. Then he heard the D.I. tiptoe down the hallway toward the luxurious corner bedroom where the British government himself lay curled up on top of the duvet. Mycroft had nodded off about 3 a.m. after a valiant but futile effort to stay awake until Gregory arrived. Now dawn was breaking. Narrow beams of transparent yellow sunlight haloed around the edges of the curtains on each of the four tall windows, giving the room a soft welcoming glow and easing Mycroft out of his dreams, all of which starred a handsome detective inspector lately, it seemed.
Gregory had spent four nights sleeping--really just chasing fitful naps--in his office while bringing a child kidnapping to a bloodless conclusion. Mycroft had followed the twists and turns of the case closely and felt a tickle of pride when Gregory's team had the kidnapper safely tucked away in the cells and D. I. G. Lestrade garnered particular praise in the Guardian and the Times. Finally, thought Mycroft, the end of the case. Gregory will take the weekend off, and spend 48 hours beneath this very goose down duvet--preferably beneath, on top of, and beside me.
They had been seeing each other for only a few weeks, so the relationship still felt new and fragile. Their first real conversation, first kiss, and first sweaty shag had happened all within a matter of hours as one year ended and the next began. But so far, at least from Mycroft's perspective, it was quite perfect. Now just peering through one half-open eye to watch Gregory undress brought a small, hungry twinge to Mycroft's chest.
Gregory climbed onto the bed in his plain white cotton boxers, half-hard cock peeking out, and began gathering the detritus strewn about when Mycroft had fallen asleep--files, pens, mobile, black reading glasses. Mycroft opened both eyes, smiled, and grabbed at the waistband of Gregory's boxers to pull him closer. "Finally," he murmured in a lower register than usual--his just-woke-up voice.
The two men embraced and caressed each other until Gregory began to push his hands into Mycroft's dressing gown, opening it up to kiss the pale pink chest and neck. Mycroft now realized he had not put on his pyjamas after showering the night before, and quickly rolled off the bed, heading toward his well-appointed dressing room.
"What are you doing? Come back here!" came the protest.
"I'll be right back. I just need my pyjamas."
"Oh come on--don't be daft! I'm just going to rip them right off. "What a waste of time."
"Gregory, you know I simply don't allow people to see me naked. That's all. I will be back in less than a minute, and then . . ."
"I'm not just people, Mycroft."
Mycroft sighed and quickly located his dark blue silk pyjamas and slipped into them. He was not going to let this familiar argument derail a rare opportunity for morning sex and cuddles. He intended to go back to bed and move things along with as little chatter as possible.
"Yes, I know. I didn't mean to imply . . ."
The D.I. interrupted impatiently, "After all, I'm your . . ."
Mycroft looked across the room with a practiced raised eyebrow. Gregory paused, apparently not sure he should finish the sentence.
Mycroft tried to soothe him. "You know it's just my personal preference. It's nothing to do with you, Gregory. I just want you to respect my wishes."
"Well, I don't want to respect your wishes on this," he grumbled. "We've been together for a while now, and I expect to be together a lot longer, so let's get over whatever hang-up you've got."
Sensing that this argument was not simply going to disappear, Mycroft breathed deeply, trying not to let exasp eration creep into his voice. "First, it's not a hang-up. It's just my preference. And second, what do you mean by a lot longer?"
When D. I. Lestrade became agitated, he often reached for a pen or pencil, or some other cigarette substitute. He was currently twisting Mycroft's gold-nibbed Montblanc between the thumb and index finger of his right hand, and, Mycroft thought, looked ready to light it up at any second. Mycroft did not fidget. He maintained a Zen-like calm when under stress. Now he was feeling extreme stress and therefore completely motionless.
Gregory revealed more than a little frustration when he finally answered "Well, I guess I meant that I like you a lot, and I think we get on like best mates, and I think we should stay together for as long as possible. How's that? I'm kind of a long-term guy, Mycroft. What about you?"
Mycroft remained still. He could not bring himself to smile or offer even a noncommittal shrug . He simply said, "I see."
"Oh. Lovely sentiment, Mycroft," snorted the D.I. "I guess I see too. I see I shouldn't have brought it up. Look, if this is just a cheap and cheerful couple of fucks for you, then you need to tell me that right now. Seriously. It's a bit more than that for me, so . . . I need to know, and we probably need to go our separate ways sooner rather than later, okay?"
Mycroft could feel his pulse quickening and a few beads of sweat forming on his forehead. Gregory had climbed off the bed and was putting his shirt on. No, no, no. You can't leave, he thought. But aloud he could only respond, "This is all quite difficult."
"Difficult, is it? Okay. Let me make it easy, then." Lestrade angrily searched for the socks he had dropped on the floor. "You know, I need to get home anyway. I need to check the post and all that. Mind if I make a quick coffee downstairs before I leave? I don't want to fall asleep in the car. "
Mycroft forced himself to take a step towards Gregory, thinking that would show concern or conciliation or . . . something. He sensed he had said something that hurt the man, but did not know precisely how to mend things. "No. I mean, don't go. Why are you leaving? I don't understand."
"I don't have the energy to play any word games with you or do any fond farewells right now, Mycroft. Really. Just . . . It's fine. I'm just going, okay?"
"Absolutely not. You will not leave." No, don't give him orders, thought Mycroft, berating himself for not finding the right words. "I mean . . . What I mean to say is: Please don't leave. We can discuss this. You have the wrong impression."
"Do I?"
Gregory still looked angry and wounded, so Mycroft tried again. "Of course. Yes. I do want . . . more. I am not against a longer horizon for our . . . for this. It's just that I haven't had any particularly lengthy relationsh ips, so it's difficult to know how to proceed. The . . . " he struggled for the right word for a moment. "The type of intimacy you're suggesting has never been an issue in the past."
Gregory's face softened slightly, but he continued putting on his socks, as if still intending to leave, saying, "That's pretty hard for me to believe. You've mentioned other men, Mycroft. I mean, you're not a monk--you're bound to be seen naked sometime. It's inevitable. Hell, I've seen your sodding brother naked--when he's run out of clean sheets. And we're barely friends. It's not so much that I have to inspect every patch of skin. It's more that you don't seem to trust me for some reason. You're trying to hide from me all the time, and I don't like it. Makes me think you're about to toss me to the kerb any minute. What's the longest you've stuck it out with someone, Mycroft?"
Mycroft could have explained that until he met D. I. Lestrade he had kept to a strict rule of dating men for whom he had no particular fondness, so that the inevitable parting brought relief, rather than sadness. And on the rare occasion when he met someone he liked, Mycroft preferred to reject the man before being rejected himself, thus minimizing the risk of any emotional distractions and keeping things tidy.
"Hmm. I believe prior to you . . . two weeks, perhaps. I have never found anyone I cared to be with--other than you--for longer than that."
"I beg your pardon? Two fucking weeks? Jesus." Incredulity replaced anger in Gregory's eyes as he walked closer to Mycroft, hand outstretched to touch the sleeve of his pyjamas.
Mycroft stepped backward, recoiling from the touch. Perhaps he had revealed too much, but now that Gregory had brought Sherlock into the conversation, Mycroft felt even more anxious. He took a breath and decided to press on, thinking he could certainly get the Inspector to understand his point of view. "Gregory, try to understand. Physical beauty is not something that I possess, and I am simply not comfortable prancing about naked the way you are." Certainly, when one spends one's formative years standing beside Sherlock in every family photo . . ."
"You think you're less attractive than your lunatic brother? That's just insane. Half the time he looks like a bloody alien or a vampire or something," teased Lestrade.
Mycroft snickered, but then looked defiant. "Obviously, I am superior to Sherlock in every possible way--except this one. And although I have managed to decrease my former substantial girth through a variety of means, I am aware that many flaws remain. Let's stop discussing this now, shall we?"
"Okay, Mycroft, I think I'm starting to get it now. And I almost want to punch you to get you to wake up and just look in the mirror. Is that why it always has to be as dark as a coal mine in this bedroom? Why you alway s wear four or five bloody layers of clothing for me to tear through?" Gregory was smiling now. "That's got to stop, by the way. It's exhausting--all those damn waistcoat buttons are killing me. I'll show you my calluses!" He grinned and waved his hands accusingly. Mycroft smiled, perversely pleased at the thought of his stubborn buttons marking the D.I.'s fingers.
"Listen up, now." Greg was using a take-charge tone that Mycroft hadn't heard outside of the crime scenes he'd visited in search of Sherlock. He rather liked that tone, at least judging from the little twitch he was feeling. D.I. Lestrade continued, "We're going to tackle your stupidity one step at a time, right? Come here . . ."
Mycroft felt a little frisson of excitement, but answered blandly, "No."
"Yes. As long as you don't have a tattoo of Maggie Thatcher on your arse, everything's going to be fine."
Mycroft felt his excitement and anxiety--along with the size o f his cock--increasing. Gregory seemed to really want him these past few weeks, but what if it all went horribly wrong now? What if he changed his mind the minute all the imperfections were revealed? He felt slightly sick at the thought and demurred, "There's nothing of interest for you to see--definitely no tattoos. Just a mass of freckles and pasty white skin."
"Shut up, Mycroft. You can't see yourself objectively. That's my job. Objective point of view."
"Hmf. You're hardly objective."
"Oh, why is that?"
"Because you . . ."
"Yes? Go on." With every word, Gregory was inching closer, having managed to get within a foot of Mycroft now. And that little twinge in Mycroft's chest now became an urgent ache.
"Nothing."
"Tell me what you were going to say," Gregory now used his bossiest D.I. voice. The one even Anderson would heed.
Mycroft looked into the distance, past the D.I.'s shoul der, unwilling to make eye contact now. "I really can't presume . . "
Mycroft found it difficult to follow the rapid chain of events that unfolded just then. Gregory seemed to decide he was finished talking and listening. The Inspector reached out and pulled at the buttons of Mycroft's pyjama top in one swift movement. It flew open, revealing a pale chest and a pattern of soft brown and ginger hair leading to the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, tented with an erection Gregory couldn't possibly be expected to ignore.
Gregory buried his fists in the silk fabric of Mycroft's top, pulling forward so that their bodies were pressed against each other and Mycroft's arms were pinned at his sides. Wet lips slid across Mycroft's mouth, hard and demanding, refusing to pull away until the necessity of breathing forced both men to jerk backward for a deep gasp. Gregory stared into his lover's darkening eyes and slid one leg forward between Mycroft's thighs, twist ing to grind hip to hip and cock to cock.
When they kissed again, Gregory's tongue thrust deep to fill Mycroft's mouth, sending a wave of warmth and pleasure through his core. Some might describe this feeling as drunk with lust. But Mycroft had always avoided intoxication and concupiscence, so he was not sure precisely what was happening--but he did know he never wanted it to stop.
He wrestled his arms free of Gregory's tight embrace. Long graceful fingers slid into thick, silver hair, tugging and twisting. Gregory tightened his grip around Mycroft's waist and growled, urged toward a more intense arousal by the sensation of those fingertips pressing against his scalp, and the sting of pain as Mycroft tugged harder.
Gregory pushed his hands downward to stroke Mycroft's cock through the silk before pulling the man's pyjamas to his ankles and then helping to kick them off. Gregory dropped to his knees. Mycroft swayed ba ckward, feeling Gregory's face buried in tender skin and hair and licking playfully at his testicles. Now Mycroft felt nothing but heat and sweat. A tongue tracing the veins of his cock, tasting his pre-cum. He wondered if Gregory knew how much . . . and then Mycroft felt Gregory's mouth tightening around the long curving shaft and sucking greedily. Yes. No more thinking now.
Mycroft's legs began shaking and his body swayed again as dizziness overcame him. He closed his eyes and choked out a wordless grunt of objection when Gregory slid his mouth away.
"I want every part of you--everything," whispered Greg as he stood to remove the pyjama top. Mycroft kept his eyes closed, not wanting to see the disappointment he anticipated. But then he felt kisses grazing his skin--starting at his neck and moving over shoulders, arms, chest, ribs, abdomen--and so tenderly, really just breath and the barest suggestion of warm lips.
Harder. Please kiss me harder.
Then Gregory's hand was stroking Mycroft's cock, just before his mouth glided over it again, and fingers, slick with pre-cum, were sliding around to press between Mycroft's buttocks. Mycroft inhaled as those fingers went deeper, then sighed and gripped his lover's shoulders while lips and fingers moved in slow, deliberate rhythm.
Mycroft gave himself over to just feeling now, eyes still closed, tightening around Gregory's fingers before thrusting his hips sharply as he raced toward the precipice. Then he plummeted over the edge, flying, falling, breaking apart. Pulsing into Gregory's throat while he tried to prolong the pleasure with flutters of tongue and fingers, until Mycroft finally cried out, "No. Stop. Can't" .Boneless. Breathless. Reaching for an embrace.
Mycroft felt himself being pulled onto the bed, and felt warm arms encircling his vulnerable, motionless body. Felt Gregory's chest hot and sweaty against his back. Good, thought Mycroft as he tried to slow his breathing and heartbeat. This is good.
Still breathless himself and ignoring his own hot and heavy cock for the moment, Gregory now began to mark Mycroft's damp back and shoulders with bites and kisses. Then nibbles and kisses on palms, fingers, wrists, arms and elbows.
Mycroft stretched and groaned. "Ahh . . . yes, please . . ."
Now Gregory was licking and sucking at the pale pink flesh of hips and thighs, lingering at the backs of knees. Mycroft begged for a respite. Too ticklish, too sensitive. Gregory relented briefly. They giggled together for a few minutes, Gregory's ear to Mycroft's chest, listening until his heart slowed to a more normal pace.
"Turn over." The boss's voice again. Mycroft's neck and face went red, and he moaned another protest as he turned to expose his freckled back and round white bottom. "No tattoo of Maggie after all," said Gregory, grinning. "Thank god."
Mycroft laughed, but punctuated the laugh with a quick intake of air as Gregory's tongue licked down his spine. Stubble scratching and tickling at the same time. Mycroft felt his partner's own leaking cock graze his back and hip.
"Gregory, let me . . ." Mycroft reached back to grasp the erection, starting to stroke and twist.
"Not yet. You're going to come again first."
Mycroft laughed into his pillow, then turned his head to scold, "No, you sadist." He turned around, embracing the tormenter, exchanging wet, urgent kisses, shifting upward to rub their cocks together--one soft, one hard. Kneading Gregory's back, nipping at his chin and jaw. Gregory indulged the rebellion for a few minutes, then deftly turned Mycroft over again to continue exploring and claiming the rest of the territory.
Mycroft felt Gregory kneeling between his legs and digging strong, thick fingers into his hips. He felt hands, then a tongue sliding over and between the cheeks of his arse. Mycroft's response was an exclamation that had never before breached his respectable lips. Mycroft then felt the bizarre sensation of laughter vibrating there, and an embarrassing flush of heat and excitement as the detective's tongue kept dipping and flicking tentatively at the entrance his fingers had visited earlier. Oh God. Fingers. Breath. Tongue. There. Please, there. Mycroft shuddered and grasped at his pillow.
Reaching under Mycroft's hips and feeling a new erection, Gregory pulled Mycroft's body upward, spreading his cheeks and thrusting his tongue deeper. Gregory's hand inched around and circled Mycroft's cock.
How is this too much and not enough at the same time? wondered Mycroft in a daze. He felt on the verge of losing all control of his body and mind again, so he quickly whispered, "I want . . ."
Gregory paused, resting his head on Mycroft's back, kissing softly. "What do you want? Tell me."
Mycroft found he couldn't really speak coherently. But he managed to turn over and pull Gregory down to rest on top of him. This. This. This, he thought. He needed the warmth and weight pressing down on him. Mycroft wrapped his long fingers around both their cocks and began to pull and squeeze in a quick, steady rhythm. They moaned each other's names, with Greg adding curses and some blasphemy to the chorus.
Mycroft felt completely at ease in his own skin--for the first time he could remember-- as he watched Gregory's head tip back to reveal a stubbled throat that needed to be kissed. They both jolted forward violently, gasping and clutching at each other.
And everything was quiet again, breathing synced, bodies still.
"Gregory . . . where are you? Did you leave?"
"Just getting a towel--you've made quite a mess here, My."
"I did? This was your doing."
Gregory took the warm, damp towel and gently cleaned his hands and Mycroft's, then their stomachs and chests.
The two men finally crawled underneath the obscenely soft duvet and lay close together, foreheads touching, fingers intertwined.
Mycroft was almost asleep when Gregory whispered, "I want you to turn over again."
"Surely you're joking," Mycroft protested, yawning, then laughing. "I'm paralyzed."
"Oh, get your mind out of the gutter, Mycroft. This is something different. Turn over."
Gregory tucked his own knees behind Mycroft's and Mycroft let out a contented sigh in response. Mycroft could feel fingers and lips on his back, which was covered with an intricate pattern of light and dark freckles--something Mycroft had never revealed to a lover before.
"Mycroft, you know all the places I touched you? Kissed you? All that skin, plus the bones and muscle underneath--it's all just bloody gorgeous to me. And I can't believe you've been hiding it. You're a selfish bastard."
Mycroft squirmed in embarrassment, and pulled Gregory's arm around his waist.
"And especially this masterpiece here. Your back--the freckles on your back make me desperate to touch you." He now began punctuating his words with kisses across Mycroft's shoulder blades and down the center of his back. A kiss every few words.
"This is like a map of the night sky, Mycroft. (kiss) And I'm claiming it. (kiss) Doesn't belong to you any more (kiss) because you completely failed to appreciate it. (kiss) I'm going to memorize every freckle. (kiss) And you know what a plodding idiot I can be. (kiss) This will take months (kiss)--probably years. I'm rubbish at memorizing. (kiss) And then I'll forget it all and have to start over again. (kiss) But it's okay. We have plenty of time.(kiss)"
Greg wrapped both arms around Mycroft again and pulled him closer. "Understand what I'm saying?"
"Yes, I think I do. You've made your point clearly, and--and thank you. Map of the night sky?"
"Mmmhmm. And I always wanted to be an astronaut."
"Go to sleep, Inspector."
"Mmm. Nice to be home again."