"S'the same thing you said last night."

"That fact, Gregory, does not render the situation any less true."

"And the night before that."

"Please, Gregory. Let's not make an unfortunate -"

"Unfortunate?" The DI slumped deeper into his chair, swiveling around to stare blankly at the dimming London sky beyond his office windows. "What's unfortunate is that I keep letting you put me off like this. What's unfortunate is that I foolishly believe you'll make good on the same promises you've broken for weeks now. And why do I do this to myself?"

"Gregory…"

"Because I'm desperate, that's why. You damn Holmeses are just alike, aren't you. Make people dependent, then give what you want, when it suits you." Mycroft's heavy sigh filled the receiver in response. "Well I'm done being desperate. For either of you."

"Gregory, I've tried to explain about the nature of my work, I thought you understood…"

"Understood what? That you haven't felt the same since… whatever-the-hell it was that happened that night? That you don't love it the way you did, but somehow it's still worth giving up everything else in your life?"

Another sigh. "I haven't given up everything in my life for my work."

"Haven't you?"

"Gregory, I will provide with you as many details as possible to help you comprehend -"

"Comprehend?" The detective rose to his feet and began pacing the now well-worn path in the non-descript industrial carpet of his office.

"While you are correct in your description of my recent change in attitude toward my work, it has nevertheless required particular concentration of late. You must see that I have had no other choice."

"You always have a choice."

"Perhaps that is indeed true for most men, and for the first time in many years I admit I find myself slightly envious in that regard. However, as dwelling on that will provide no benefit, I will not do so. Given the time, I really should be going. I've hours, if not days, ahead of me. I will call you -"

"Tomorrow?" Greg spat sarcastically into the phone.

"Yes, of course."

"Maybe this time..." he stopped pacing, suddenly aware of the clenched fist in his pocket, "maybe this time, don't."

The detective pitched his mobile onto his desk, wishing he had been using his landline - slamming the receiver down would've been much more satisfying. He paused a moment, then punished a stack of manila folders for the misdeeds of his absentee… what? Boyfriend? I'm damn near fifty, he thought bitterly. And besides, we never even shagged.

"I...um...bad day, sir?"

Lestrade looked up to find the new sergeant in his division standing in his doorway. Taking in the young man's poorly disguised anxiety, he realized the figure he must've cut: files scattered across the floor, vein in his temple throbbing, knuckles pressed painfully into the woodgrain of the desktop. I look like an exasperated chief in one of those damn police procedurals on telly. He wanted to laugh, but failing to find enough lightness in himself, he merely rolled back his shoulders and sighed.

"Mountain of paperwork," he replied with a half-hearted smile, "bureaucracy, eh? Anyway," he continued genially, stooping to collect the detritus of his momentary lapse in patience, "what can I do for you?"

"Answer your phone."

"Excuse me, sir?"

Though Anthea's uncanny ability to materialize at will had been an asset since the first week she'd taken up the position, at this precise juncture, Mycroft found himself irritated by it.

"Nevermind," he snapped, jabbing at his phone as the voicemail prompt greeted him once again. He had rung twice already that day, and, against his better judgment, had left messages both times. He would not further his digital humiliation by leaving a third, especially within earshot of his assistant. After sending Anthea away with several assignments pulled out of thin air, he returned his attention to his mobile. It was unlike Gregory not to at least respond via text. And it is unlike me to waste time and energy waiting for a phone call from someone from whom I require nothing. He refreshed his email, drummed his fingers on his desk, and collected his mobile once again.

Unlock::Messages

Are you two embroiled in any cases at the moment?

Not a thing. - JW

Have you checked in with the police?

Lestrade's got nothing on either. Slow crime week. - JW

Suspect normal people would be happy about that. - JW

I suspect you are right.

Let us know if you've got anything. Please? He's teaching Rosie the basics of dissection… - JW

At least it's not vivisection, Dr Watson.

Oh god. - JW

He'd gathered the information he needed. With a brief message to Anthea that he would continue working from his private office at the club, he strode purposefully down the corridor and into the lifts. If he maintained his usual pace (which he hadn't since Sherrinford), the primary project with which he'd been concerned should be satisfactorily concluded in four days.

He was already stepping from the car as it slid to a stop in front of cold white walls. A storm had been threatening for days, and appeared on the verge of breaking. The clanking of the old-fashioned key in the iron gate was drowned out by the memory of a voice.

You always have a choice.

"New voicemail one: This is Mycroft Holmes, calling today as promised. Please call me back at your earliest convenience. End of message. To delete this message, press -"

The phone was on speaker, causing the hollow beep to echo through the empty room.

"New voicemail two: Gregory. This is Mycroft, attempting to contact you once again. I can be reached at any time -"

The beep sounded once more.

"You have no voicemail messages."

Lestrade sipped his second glass of scotch. He'd returned home early, entering his flat just as the bruise-colored clouds gave way. Now only the prematurely blackened sky was visible beyond his windows; only the sound of the downpour spattering hard against the glass broke the silence left by his deleted messages. Until his mobile chimed again, this time unbidden.

Do you intend answering any of my calls?

No.

Then given the weather, I hope you will at least consider answering the door.

Three incongruously faint raps followed. Damn.

"Coming," the DI called in response, pausing to down the remainder of his drink, pour another, and drain half of that before wrenching open the door to reveal -

"Jesus, Mycroft." He gaped at the six feet of soaking wet tweed standing before him. "What in the bloody hell have you been doing?"

"May I come in?" Neither his voice nor his mannerisms betrayed him, yet there was something oddly uncertain in his eyes.

"Huh? Yeah, 'course." Lestrade stepped back, securing the locks before turning to find a dripping government official gingerly hanging his coat over a chair. "What are you -"

"Oh," Mycroft lifted his coat, a flash of disappointment crossing his usually-stoic countenance. "Yes. Right. Apologies. I shouldn't have assumed I would be welcome here long enough to -"

"I don't care about the damn jacket. Why are you sopping wet? Where the hell have you been?"

"Three glasses of scotch works wonders for your vocabulary, I see. In case you hadn't noticed, there's a rather significant storm sweeping across the city this evening."

"Yeah, I got that bit. But," Greg's voice faded as he stepped down the short hall toward the bath, "are you telling me you got that wet walking from the car to my flat?!"

"I did not employ my driver's services this evening. Thank you," he added, accepting the proffered towel and drying his face and hands.

Greg's mind wandered as he became aware of the bleach spots and loose threads on the faded blue flannel. At the memory of the plush ivory-toned bath linens he'd used the morning after he'd sustained those injuries on duty - the morning he'd woken feeling particularly well-rested despite the bruised rib - his face began to burn with embarrassment. He stared into the amber drops lingering in his glass, willing himself not to begin a visual inspection of the flat from the perspective of the man now standing in a small puddle on the scuffed wood floors.

"Gregory, the appointment of your residence is not my concern. The reason I've come -"

"Wait. What d'you mean, you didn't use your driver? How'd you get here?"

"In spite of the constant jibes from my brother, I am in fact capable of the most primitive means of transportation, even when covering a fair distance…"

"You're saying you walked here? In this?!" He gestured unnecessarily toward the window. "Even with an umbrella -" He stopped speaking abruptly and cast a suspicious eye over his unexpected guest. "Where is your umbrella?"

Mycroft shifted his weight uncomfortably. "It… met with a rather untimely end." He swallowed hard and stared toward the glistening flecks of water crashing through the light of a street lamp.

"Let me get this straight. You walked here. In the rain. Your umbrella broke. And you still didn't call a car to pick you up? Didn't hail a cab? Why?"

Mycroft fixed his gaze on the DI's forehead just between his brows, hoping he'd be fooled by that age-old trick for avoiding eye contact. For all his feigned bravado, he was not yet ready to venture an explanation for his spontaneous and ill-advised departure from his work.

"Perhaps you would be so kind…" He gestured toward Greg's glass, patently ignoring the slight break in his own voice.

Greg nodded slowly as he filled a second glass, silently indicating a deeper sort of understanding. He took a long draw of the newly poured scotch before handing it over, keeping his gaze fixed firmly enough on his companion's to catch the flash of hope in his eyes, then leaned back against the kitchen doorframe, still cradling his own drink.

Mycroft tried not to appear as grateful as he felt for the moment of relief bought by the warm sensation of liquid courage, as he had once heard Dr. Watson call it. Unfortunately, that moment was rather short lived, as he choked slightly at Lestrade's next question.

"Thought you had all that work to do then. Some potential world crisis to attend to? So let's have it. Why are you here?"

Suddenly he could see himself: lying to his assistant about working to stand dripping wet, uninvited, in the middle of Gregory Lestrade's modest flat, sipping desperately from a glass of mid-range whiskey. The absurdity of it was too much, and he felt something inside of himself unravel.

"I… This." He motioned elegantly to the space between them. "I came with the hope of…" he licked his lips, "with the aim of… I came to apologize. My lifestyle is my burden. I never should have drawn you into it and expected you to simply accept that I… you see Gregory, when it comes to my work, you must understand. I have no choice. And when it comes to this -"

"You always have a choice."

"Yes, you've said that before, quite recently in fact. And while from your perspective, I can see -"

"You're standing here. Not in your office. Not at the club, or in your cavernous bloody house, or in your car racing to Downing Street. Here. No driver, no umbrella. Have I got it right so far?"

"Well, yes. However -"

"And this," he imitated Mycroft's gesture, with rather more force, "is not something you apologize for. This," he stepped forward, rapidly closing the distance between them, "this, Mycroft Holmes, is a relationship. There are long nights and work demands, and scotch and complicated family and rows. There is no protection from the storm. We weather it together, or we don't. I've been married, I've been divorced. I'm a father and a police officer and I've never wanted the trouble of dating another man. Yet here I am, three glasses in over fear of losing you." As he paused to take a breathe, weary eyes searched his.

Abandoning his half full glass on the table behind him, Mycroft closed his eyes, unwilling to witness the potential humiliation that would result if he had miscalculated. Leaning forward the spare few inches left between them, his lips carefully grazed those of the DI. Before he could pull away, a hand twisted into his damp jacket lapel and he heard the sound of a second glass being put down.

"Tell me now, because I already have one Holmes wasting my time. My, do you really want to be in this with me?"

"Yes," he breathed back, barely audible over the growing crash of rain against the windows. Greg's mouth met his again, and he was being pulled slowly out of the room, pivoted around the doorway, and maneuvered backward down the hall without once losing the sensation of full lips pressing gently, nipping lightly against his own.

He felt himself being turned again as they entered the small bedroom.

"You're sure?" The inquiry was directed against his lips.

"Yes," Mycroft responded, surprised by his own lack of doubt.

One of Greg's hands still gripping his jacket, the other slipped to his hip, shoving him against the wall with startling force.

"Say it. I need to hear you say it."

"I want to be in."

"Good," came the low growl in his ear. "So do I…"

His jacket, waistcoat, and necktie had been thrown to the floor before Mycroft fully processed what was happening. Despite Greg's rather obvious intentions, his brain had momentarily short-circuited at the realization that he was being undressed by another man for the first time in his life. Excepting medical professionals, of course. (A fact which is equally obvious and irrelevant at the moment, Dear Brother.)

"Do shut up."

"Haven't made a sound," the detective answered, shoving Mycroft's shirt from his shoulders and dropping with surprising ease to his knees on the faded carpet. "Though in a few minutes, you won't be able to say the same…" he added casually, nimble fingers already removing an ostrich leather belt. Is he bloody joking with this?

Mycroft released a tense breath as his head hit the wall behind him, eyes closing at the sensation of a steady hand pressing unabashedly against his mounting erection while impatiently lowering the zipper on his trousers… trousers that were now at his ankles, laces of his imported Italian shoes loosening…

(Well, I'm glad it was worth skipping the pastries after lunch.) I thought I told you to be quiet. (No, Mycroft, you told you to be quiet. We both know it isn't me that's truly bothering you, is it?) Leave, Sherlock. (Why would I leave when it's just getting interesting. So what is it? Does the idea of sex alarm you, Big Brother?) If you absolutely must know - no. Sex is not the problem. If you'll recall, I'm not the Holmes referred to as "The Virgin," now, am I? No, Sherlock, sex has been a regular occurrence in my life - (Yes, remind me how that regularity was maintained?) There is nothing wrong with consenting adults engaging in brief sexual encounters to achieve - (One night stands, Mycroft. They're called one night stands.) So bloody what? What is your point? (These 'encounters' seem to have come to a full stop immediately following your first evening home from hospital. If it's not the sex that concerns you in your current situation - one you've been most terribly neglecting - then WHAT IS IT?)

"It's intimacy," he mumbled through gritted teeth.

"It'd better be," Lestrade countered, rising to his feet. "I didn't spend decades ignoring the desire to climb into bed with a man just to throw it away on some one night stand. Oh..." he tilted his head up slightly, locking their eyes, "oh, I see..."

Mycroft felt the sudden flush creep over the skin on his face, his neck, his chest, and it burned hotter at the realization that it was all visible as he was now, somehow, clad only in a thin pair of plum colored silk pants that left nothing to the imagination. And despite his anxiety, that nothing was rather substantial at the moment. Mycroft swallowed in an unsuccessful attempt to gain control of the situation - or at least of himself.

"You're still dressed."

"Nothing gets past you," Greg teased, grinning as he tossed his jersey to the floor. "If you ever want to trade in all that power and wealth for a thankless job and a sad little flat, you'd likely make a good detective. You'd have to pass the psych first, of course…"

Mycroft smiled gratefully, wondering how someone so seemingly ordinary could know exactly what to say.

"This thing... you and me? Yeah, it's intimacy, alright. But tonight," he drew close enough to inhale the lingering scent of damp cotton that clung to a long, freckled neck, then, without warning, rolled his hips hard against his partner's, relishing the pleasure-infused gasp escaping into the narrow space between them, "tonight is also about sex."

A warm breath on his jaw; the scent of whiskey and London flooding his senses. An insistent tugging at the waistband of his pants, drawing him forward. And then he was on his back on the worn duvet - no satin, no Egyptian cotton, no discernible threadcount. The sound of his own arrogance muffled by the tongue tracing his ear. Scraping wood. A drawer opening. One hand sliding up his inner thigh, setting the fine hair on end. An angled wrist nudging his legs further apart.

"Gregory."

Lips closing firmly over his carotid, tongue now pressed under his chin, against his pulse. Teeth grazing down, down, closing over his clavicle.

"You should know… I… am always the…"

A growl vibrating against his shoulder, giving way to a devilish smile.

"You may be the most powerful man in Britain," Lestrade paused, laving his tongue against a fiercely peaked nipple, "but for once, lie back and try not to think of England?"

He sucked hard, pressing his free hand to the other sharp pink bud, expertly timing the rotation of fingertips and tongue until a reluctant, shuddering breath was released beneath him. Right hand slipping further up the leg of impossibly posh shorts. Mycroft felt a warm, dry knuckle drag gently along the underside of his increasingly tight sac.

"Perhaps, though, it might be more appropriate if I were the one to…" he poured out in a rush, clearly far closer to alarmed than not. "That is, you haven't done… this… before."

"Just because I haven't been with a man," Greg returned in a maddeningly smug tone, stroking the slick tip of his middle finger over Mycroft's instinctively clenching entrance, "doesn't mean I've never done this before." His left hand ran slowly over Mycroft's abdomen, through the dark auburn hair on his chest, until his thumb brushed lovingly across his lower lip. "I know you bloody Holmeses have your hangups over control or whatever it is. But My." A soft kiss; the taste of stale coffee layered with scotch. "Trust me."

A strong tongue reached up, drew him down. Lestrade pushed forward slowly, slowly, breaching highly guarded territory. Drawing a solitary digit in and out, focusing on the lips devouring his, the hard-soft body moving beneath his own, the overwhelming desire to destroy this man just to have the pleasure of putting him back together, piece by piece, until he was a strong as he pretended to be.

A faint snapping sound; a brief pause; a withdrawal. Then the renewed request, cool and wet, and thighs tensing fiercely in response. The words sounded huskier now as soft lips curled gently around his ear.

"You've got to relax, My."

"Easy for you to say, my dear detective," he quipped in a failed attempt to veil the quiver in his voice. "You're not the one being compromised."

"S'that what I'm doing to you?"

"To be fair, you are still mostly dressed, whereas I…"

Pushing up on his arms and lingering a moment above oddly innocent pools of crystal blue, Greg slid off the side of the bed, standing with his eyes fixed on the man for whom he was prepared to dramatically rewrite his public identity. Holding the first two fingers of his right hand slightly aloft, he released the buckle on his belt - the chink of the metal deliciously vulgar in the silent room - and quickly removed all that was left between them, returning to his prior position with the sneaking suspicion…

"You said I'd never done this before," lips moving against a long neck, fingers circling, pushing forward, "that I'd never been with a man," mouth trailing across the hot flesh of a chest that rarely sees the light of day, "and of course you were right. But it's not just me, is it…" drawn out kissing up the other side of his neck, jaw, fingers pushing in past one barrier, waiting, past a second, "you've never done this before, have you… been on this side of things?"

In and out, in and out, scissor, curl, withdraw, deeper deeper deeper. Rhythmic breath matching the heat-pressure-pulsing of an extremely aroused officer against his upper thigh. In, in, scissor-curl, withdraw. Deeper deeper. Snap, pause. A new request, a deep breath. Pushing forward, more slowly this time. A prolonged exhale.

"Are you afraid?"

A negative response through breathing that was coming thicker now.

"Well I am."

Long-fingers trailing up a tanned spine. In, in… in. Withdraw. In, in, scissor, deeper.

"We both stand to lose something tonight, you know. Something we can't get back." Deeper, scissor, withdraw. Scissor, in, in, in. "We're all each other's got, after this."

A hand gripping his back, a neck craning to press moist lips to his shoulder.

"So tell me, really, My. Are you afraid?"

Chestnut irises staring down, wide, honest, and open.

"No."

Greg smiled. "Liar."

Lips tangling, tongues vying for dominance. Out, in, scissor, curl. Withdraw. Shifting hips. Snap, pause.

The final request. Another arm wrapping around a slightly bronzed back.

One hand braced above Mycroft's shoulder, Greg gripped his absolutely aching cock with the other, suddenly wondering how he'd lasted so long like this. Granting himself a few firm strokes, his attempt to ease his own tension failed as he caught sight of the pool of pre-cum already formed on his partner's stomach. He aligned himself with the warm, dark place that he would be the first person to enter - maybe the only person, he realized with unparalleled satisfaction - and pressed forward slowly slowly slowly, relishing the sight of his own body disappearing into his lover's.

Even, painfully well-controlled huffs of breath arose from Mycroft's throat, eyes closed tightly against the welcome intrusion. Mental drawbridge temporarily lowered, he admitted to himself that he'd taken every opportunity over the past weeks to deduce the exact proportions of his potential paramour. (Come off it, that's pretentious even for you.) Fine… boyfriend. And now that those proportions were driving ever deeper into him, it was clear that he had underestimated; he had never been so pleased to be wrong.

Fully seated, Greg placed his arm along Mycroft's side, resting his weight on it as his forehead fell against the other's jaw. For all his previous experience, this was almost too much. It wasn't only the tight, hot muscles surrounding him, pulsing, enveloping every inch of him… it was the feeling of stubble against his skin, the broad chest beneath his own… the knowledge that he was falling in love…

Hands beginning to trace his shoulder blades, hips stirring below him. He lifted his chest, exhaled, and began to move.

Hips pulling back. Withdraw. Pressing forward. Careful, slow. Back, forward, back, forward. A relieved sigh matched by a hiss-moan. Back, forward, back back, forward. In, deeper, out out, in in in. A hum of satisfaction; not nearly enough. Withdraw, press, in in in, out out, in. Increasing the pace. Deeper, deeper, withdraw, return. In in, pulling back, back, almost completely out. A whimper of protest from below, a sound he didn't know the man could make. That was it; that was what he wanted. What no one else would have: Mycroft Holmes, begging.

Faster now, faster, his back arching, in, out, in, out, in in in, out, in in out in out in out, legs drawing up along his sides and

"Fuck!" A pale neck arching up up, knees gripping his sides, in out out in in deeper deeper… "Fuck… fuuuuuck!"

"Yes, Christ," body straightening, hands gripping his waist, watching as his back arches toward the ceiling, harder harder harder…

"Fuck… fuck… me… Greg!"

"Oh yes…" faster, harder, driving him down down down into the sheets, nails digging into hips, deeper deeper, rhythm faltering, losing control, "oh Jesus, YES!"

"Now NOW fuck Greg NOW!"

Both backs arching, eyes clenched shut, one two three four -

"FUUUUCKKKK!"

Collapsing in a tangle of limbs and sweat. Minutes pass to the sound of ragged breathing. The rain had stopped, but neither noticed. It didn't matter now.

Mycroft felt the mattress shift, heard footsteps leave the room, retreat down the hall. He granted himself the uncharacteristically trusting luxury of lying, exposed, with his eyes shut, until he was interrupted by a warm flannel being placed on his stomach. A stomach which he now realized had been on full display for an alarming amount of time. After wiping himself down and setting the cloth aside ("just drop it on the floor"), he drew the sheet up to his chest.

"Really, My, you're not as subtle as you think." A strong hand slid beneath the thin cover, and he flinched as the detective's palm traced the curve of his body. "None of that, now. And no crash dieting, either. You might've noticed that these," the DI trailed the back of his hand over what must've been rather bruised love handles, "turned out to be rather useful this evening."

Greg rolled toward the wall, plugging in the mobile on the nightstand, then glanced back over his shoulder and smiled.

"You're not leaving, so don't bother thinking up excuses." A tender kiss. "Get some sleep, My." He turned back onto his side and switched off the lamp. "Oh," he added to the darkness, "and Anthea will have your briefcase and a clean suit here by 6:00am, so don't worry about what you'll wear tomorrow."

Following an impressed hum, a soft hand grazed over Greg's back, over his ribcage, down his chest, his abdomen. Fingers played across his hip for a moment, then slid lower.

"Actually, I'm rather more concerned about what I might slip into… tonight."