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For Your Protection

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“They want me to what ?”

The shout from Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade could be heard all the way into the street. His chief had just given him a new assignment and it was not what he had been expecting. Greg was the top detective inspector in the Major Crimes division at Scotland Yard. He was on the very short list to be the chief next year when the current one retired. In any case, he was a big shot and was used to receiving orders for difficult, and sometimes unusual cases. This, however, was most unexpected.

His partner, Sally Donovan, stuck her curly head into his office’s door. “Everything okay, Lestrade?” she asked. While he was sure she was used to him having random outbursts, rarely had those outbursts ever been about a case as a whole.

Greg was pacing back and forth, the paper in his hand waving. Never in his life had he simultaneously felt so humiliated and degraded.

“No, Donovan, everything's not okay!” he shouted. “Since when do I have to play the babysitter of some bloody stuffy Parliament bureaucrat?”

Donovan rushed into his office and shut the door. “Christ, Greg, that’s a secret assignment! Parliament is trusting you to be a guard for a dignitary. No one outside of you, the chief, and I can know about this. Pipe down!”

“Don’t tell me to pipe down, Donovan,” he huffed. “Can you believe this? I am the top inspector in this entire company, and yet they are telling me I need to go on a protection detail? They give that job to the rookie bobbies!”

“No, you don’t understand. This isn’t like the protection details we have all done,” Donovan explained. “The chief told me about this because I am assigned backup in case anything happens. Now, I wasn’t given the entire story, but there is something to do with an assassination threat. There is no one more qualified to take on his protection than you.”

He scoffed. “MI:5 had no reliable agents? Really? Come on, that’s preposterous!”

She shook her head. “Rumour has it that you were personally recommended.”

Greg looked back down at the paper. He knew that if he refused this assignment, there was no way he would ever be promoted to detective chief inspector next year. He sighed. It looked like he was going to have to follow around some boring old coot for a week. This was not how he had expected his last year as DI to go!

***

Personal recommendations aside, Greg felt that he was being belittled by his superiors. How could he be expected to be a protective detail? He had solved high-profile murder cases, and had recently--with the help of an outside assistant--brought down an international criminal who had robbed Buckingham Palace, stolen precious artifacts, and organized an assassination attempt on a particularly high profile individual.

This was so far beneath him; he was used to giving orders, not taking them! And he especially didn’t want to take them from some old bastard with a stick up his arse. Greg was to meet him as he exited his helicopter, and he was early, so he reviewed the file on the man.

“Mycroft Holmes. Elected to House of Commons in 1995. Has risen in his position year by year.” He paused in his reading. So, that was twenty years ago. This bloke must be the head of the House, or very near it. It made Greg feel a bit nervous about this detail. If he screwed up, it could mean more than just his job: it could compromise all of Britain’s security.

Well, I can only hope this guy won’t be too much of a spoilt, self-important arsehole for a week. Anyway, it’s just one week. Take his orders, and I can be free to be in charge again, he thought, wondering if he could light a cigarette. And yet, even the knowledge of how well this will look on my resume can’t possibly make me feel good about bowing to another’s will. God knows two alpha men can’t get along together for a prolonged period of time without bloodshed.

He ran a hand through his prematurely greying hair. At thirty-nine, he wondered if it would be too pretentious to buy hair dye. He had kept his locks short due to the colour, but with just enough length to tug on. It was a bit of a stress reliever for him. He had been told that it added to his sex appeal, not that that would be of any assistance to him in this situation. He heard the helicopter coming before he saw it. It bore an insignia on the doors he did not recognize.

The blades ceased their spinning, and it became much quieter as the door opened, and a woman who looked like a secretary stepped out. He could see she was carrying a sidearm under her coat. She approached him and asked for his ID.

She took it - wallet, badge, and all - and brought it back into the helio. After a moment or two, she came back and gave them to him, nodding her head that his ID checked out.

He sighed again. Unnecessary protocol. He’d gone through it during his takedown of that psycho who robbed the Queen back in the springtime. Thankfully his MI:6 liaison had been able to get the process done faster. He watched as the woman disappeared back in the helio and waited impatiently for his charge to exit the craft. If he’s as old as I think he is, he probably needs a walker , he thought. Sure enough, he saw a black cane at the door, but the man using it was not what he had expected.

Inch by inch Greg’s charge was revealed: over six feet tall, ginger hair that waved in the wind and sharp, shrewd blue eyes. Milky skin that looked as soft as silk. Thin, pink lips. A suit that cost Greg’s monthly salary.

He was not old. In fact, he must have been only a year or two Greg’s senior, but appeared much younger. Greg could picture the lean body under those stuffy clothes and had to stop himself. He had learned long ago that attraction in the workplace was just one big clusterfuck, and he did not want to go through that ever again.

Though that man made him want to reconsider his opinion on romance at work!

Why he was using the cane was a mystery; he seemed to be able to walk just fine. He held a black umbrella to shield himself from the rain that was just beginning to fall and walked towards Greg at a leisurely pace, giving the DI time to admire him.

“Inspector?” he said, his voice soft but with a clip that talked of wealth and privilege.

Greg nodded. “Yes, sir. Pleasure, Mr. Holmes.” He held his hand out, and after considering it for a second, Mycroft leaned his cane against his leg to shake his hand.

“I assume you know why you’ve been given this assignment,” he said.

“I…they said I was recommended to keep you safe during your stay in London,” Greg replied.

Mycroft nodded, never taking his eyes off of Greg. The DI was unsure if he was nervous or aroused. “Good. Then I assume you have secured a vehicle to transport us, or will we spend the entirety of my stay on this dreadful rooftop?”

Yep, he might be handsome and young, but still a bastard, just as I predicted, Greg thought. His attitude was enough to still the hard-on that had been beginning in his trousers. “We’re taking my personal car. Less conspicuous. Come on.”

They went down the elevator, Greg tried to regain his dignity under the condescending stare of his charge. He was reminded of his old liaison, how he had been unraveled under the gaze of an alpha. However, his old friend Sherlock was a beta male, at least, who simply put on an alpha mask in public. He was expected to be flustered by an alpha. Greg should not have been undone by this man’s simple gaze. He was. He was completely unraveled and that scared him. It also pissed him off. How dare someone encroach on his territory like this? He felt out of place and angry.

“Where are you staying?” he asked Mycroft. “They didn’t put anything in writing in case of, well, you know.”

“Indeed I do know. And I will not be telling you anything until we are safely in your car and I can be sure that there is no hidden surveillance,” Mycroft replied.

When they did get to Greg’s car, Mycroft looked aghast. “This is what I must drive in? Truly? It’s not a bad joke?”

That made Greg snap. “Well, excuse me if I don’t make enough money to buy a Rolls Royce or an Aston Martin, but some of us have average paying jobs. You know, blokes like me who keep this city safe for people like you to come and criticise, while you get loaded from sitting on your arse and signing papers.”

Instead of getting angry, Mycroft laughed. “Oh, I was warned about you. Come on. Get in and let’s go. We’ve no time to waste.”

“Warned? What did people have to say about me?” Greg asked, offended, as he started his car.

Mycroft leaned back in his seat, his icy eyes sparkling. “That you’re quite the cheeky fellow. I don’t mind a bit of lip, but remember your place, Inspector.”

“Oh, and where is my place? Under your posh boots?” he asked, wishing he had the right to slap that smug look right off of Mycroft’s face.

Instead of responding, he said, “The Savoy. Give them this at the front desk and make sure they give the keys to the Royal Suite. I will accept nothing less.”

Of course not, Your Majesty, Greg thought, biting his tongue so it didn’t accidentally slip out of his mouth. This week was going to be Hell. He wondered if he could buy himself a muzzle so he could shut up before he got fired?

Pulling up to the Savoy, he saw security take Mycroft in a back way so he was not seen on camera, and he had a valet park his car. Feeling wholly underdressed, he walked up to reception and silently handed them the paper Mycroft had given him.

The man behind the desk smiled and gave him two keys to the Royal Suite. He went and got Mycroft from the back room, taking the service lift to the proper floor. At the door to their room, he stopped Mycroft from opening it.

“What is it?” the man asked, impatient.

Greg pulled out his pistol. “Can’t be too careful, can we? Wait here while I check the room and be sure that it’s clear.”

He went into the room, unaware of its sheer size and opulence. He felt utterly out of place amongst the antiques, art, and expensive furnishings. There was a sitting room, a study, a kitchen, dining room, a humongous bathroom with a hot tub, and a bedroom with the biggest, softest looking bed he’d ever seen.

The closet alone was almost as big as his current flat!

He shook his head and went to tell Mycroft that it was all clear. The man was leaning against his cane gracefully, on his phone. He seemed to be ordering his luggage delivery.

The older man followed him into the room, surveying it fondly. “I do love this place,” he commented after he had finished his call. “I don’t stay here often; don’t want to develop a pattern, of course. But when I do I always feel the most at home.”

Greg watched his gaze. From the window you had a lovely view of the Thames, Big Ben, and could just see Westminster. It truly was a stunning view. Greg was never one for luxury, but he admitted to himself that he could get used to this.

“So, what do you do now, anyway?” Mycroft asked him. “Just...follow me? How tedious.”

Greg shrugged, gingerly sitting on a chair. He felt as if he was not good enough to even sit in this beautiful place. “That’s just the job. I’ll sleep here in the evenings, and follow you wherever you desire to go during the day. When out and about, I will do my best to be as invisible as possible so as not to arouse suspicion.”

“Do you remember the man you took down who robbed the Tower of London?” Mycroft asked unexpectedly.

“Why do you ask about him?” Greg wondered.

“Because, despite his death, he still has people. Bad people. He’s the reason I even need a police detail following me.” Mycroft sighed. “Ah well, better you than my brother.”

Greg wanted to ask what he meant, wanted to ask so much. He wanted to do so much. Mycroft was lounging on a chair opposite him. He was ramrod straight, so to call it “lounging” might be a bit of a stretch, but he was more relaxed than he was an hour ago. He was...alluring. Strange. Intriguing. Greg wanted to unravel the tightly wound man before him. He wanted to see him lose his control.

His thoughts, unprofessional as though they were, rolled downhill like an errant snowball, gaining more substance by the second. He hoped that the man could not see the visions in his eyes.

Oh, boy, I am so screwed!

***

Greg Lestrade. Mycroft had seen the name in the papers. Mycroft had heard about him on a more personal level from his younger brother, William “Sherlock” Holmes. Sherlock had been the man who had helped Greg take down that mad bastard whose criminal affiliates were still a threat. Sherlock was the one who suggested Greg be Mycroft’s bodyguard during his stay in London.

Sherlock, recently married and on his “working honeymoon” in Dartmoor, wanted his older brother to be as happy as he was. Damn the little bugger for never minding his own business!

“He’ll be good for you, Myc,” he’d said when he and his new husband had been getting ready to leave for the countryside.

“Good for what, exactly?” Mycroft had asked, already wary.

Sherlock had just given him that knowing look that Mycroft knew so well, waggled his fingers exaggeratedly, and went to get in the car. He rolled down the window. “Greg and I have our differences, but I know that you need someone like him in your life. Sex aside, if it’s not me, he’s the best man you can get to protect you. So even if you don’t shag him, give him a chance at doing his job.”

His husband had poked his head around him. “I agree. He’s good at what he does, and he also seems kind of lonely.”

“And what do I care if he’s lonely or not?” Mycroft had asked, wishing that he wasn’t so pale, it meant his blush showed even more.

Sherlock shrugged. “Maybe you don’t care now, but you will after you meet him. Trust me, Mike, he’s right up your alley.”

Mycroft hated it when his know-it-all baby brother was right.

He had barely glanced at Greg’s ID when it had been given to him. At this point, it didn’t matter if he was on the up-and-up. If someone was trying to kill him, they’d do it regardless of who was protecting him.

So when he exited the copter and saw Greg standing there, he was certain his heart was going to stop. Mycroft was not a romantic person. In fact, it had been years since he’d even had a decent shag in a hotel. His body’s physical reaction to Greg was unexpected and inappropriate.

Greg was a good-looking man with an air that somehow reminded Mycroft of the American fifties greaser style. He could easily see him in skin-hugging denim trousers and a black leather jacket, smoking a cigarette while leaning against a classic muscle car.

His hair was prematurely greying, but that only added to his sex appeal. His deep brown eyes had a warmth to him that his body language and attitude did not betray. His blunt ways should have been repulsive, but instead they were endearing. Mycroft liked a man with a bit of snark to him. He’d never want someone meek and submissive. He liked his men with a bit of fight in them.

As Mycroft watched Greg make some calls to his chief and superintendent, he admired the hard body beneath the cheap suit. He knew many officers who worked up the line at Scotland Yard and stopped taking care of themselves. Greg had obviously stayed on at the gym if the strain on his white button down was any indication.

Greg hung up the phone, breaking Mycroft’s thoughts. “Okay, let’s go over your itinerary.” Mycroft handed him a file and Greg started entering times and locations into his mobile.

“What’s this? A day left blank? Whatever will you do with your precious time?” Greg asked sarcastically.

Mycroft gave a slow smile. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll think of something.” He felt some joy in seeing that Greg had caught his double meaning. He was never the world’s best flirt, as his brother constantly reminded him.

“Well, it looks like we’re all set to begin your week-long stay here. I have to ask, are any of these appointments not mandatory? The less you go to these high-profile places, the better it is for you.”

Mycroft shook his head. “All are mandatory, I’m afraid.” He stood up. “I’m going to soak this unforgiving weather out of my bones. Order dinner, will you? I’m not picky.”

He walked away and smirked as he heard Greg call, “I’m your guard, not your bloody butler!”

That evening, as he saw through the crack he left between the bedroom door and the jamb, Greg was watching something on television, staying awake as long as he could. Mycroft opened his laptop and put in all of his passwords.

The good thing about being the second most powerful man in England was that if you wanted information, it was all at your fingertips.

They had lied to Greg about Mycroft’s role in Parliament. Well, more like downplayed. No one liked having the burden of protecting a man as powerful and integral to Britain’s security as Mycroft was. Mycroft was more than a member of the House of Commons. Much more. In certain ways, he played a bigger role in their security than the prime minister ever could.

He looked in his files for Greg Lestrade and the file came up quickly. He had become a bobby at eighteen, forgoing university because he could not afford it. He was ambitious, headstrong, intelligent, and very brave. The alpha male of the lower classes , Mycroft thought.

He was everything Mycroft had never known he wanted.

The Holmess were not extremely wealthy; Mycroft had acquired his own fortune, and in turn had assured his brother’s as well. The boys had grown up comfortable, went to the best schools and universities. Mycroft had always been the way he was; cold, rude, too smart for his own good, and yet hiding a very boyish heart. He had buried his emotions when he was young, usually because he had to care for his too-sensitive brother at their boarding school.

When he became of age and went into government work, he found that he enjoyed running things. Not just things - everything. His new life had left little room for romance, and for years he had not minded the lack of romantic connection. Flings were all he dared to enter into. He was too powerful to ever entertain the idea of a relationship; what if they were with him simply to gather intel only he could provide? He had convinced himself that love was too risky and, therefore, had abstained from it.

Now, he realized that, while he had everything one could want, he was missing one important thing: Greg Lestrade. He wanted him badly; he wanted him more than he had ever wanted anything in his whole life. And what Mycroft Holmes wanted, Mycroft Holmes got. By any means necessary.

He reread the account of the homegrown terrorist Greg had taken down with Sherlock and sighed. Greg was quite the hero. That only made him sexier in Mycroft’s mind.

Mycroft peered through the door again and saw that Greg had fallen asleep. He could faintly hear the TV, but couldn’t see the screen. The light cast blue and white flashes over Greg’s sleeping countenance. Mycroft shut his laptop down, went to the sitting room, and placed a blanket over Greg. He stood there for only a moment, watching him. He was absolutely captivated and there was nothing he could do about it.

He hated it when Sherlock was right…

***

“I don’t know what’s more horrifying -  your taste in music or the fact that you insist on singing along out of tune,” Mycroft complained.

It was their second full day together, and Greg was driving Mycroft to a meeting. Greg was slowly figuring out what made Mycroft tick, just not in the way he wanted. The man was impossible to read, emotionally. Annoyed was his most constant state. Greg wondered if he was, in fact, asexual. It would be a disappointment, but at least Greg could then forget about his increasingly dirty fantasies featuring the man.

It wasn’t that he was particularly attractive (though he was), or his wealth. It was his power, his carriage, and his innate dominance. That usually was not a turn on for Greg, but for some reason those qualities were a turn on this time.

He even liked the way he dressed. The three-piece suits were a little much, but they were so sexy. He fantasised taking his time with him when he undressed him. Slowly taking off layer by layer till Mycroft was bare beneath him.

“Watch it!”

His passenger’s exclamation jerked him from his reverie as he nearly veered into the next lane.

“I thought you were being paid to protect me, not kill me!” he complained.

“Sorry,” Greg mumbled, glad that they were approaching the nondescript cafe. This was quite an unusual place for a meeting, but he guessed that that was why it had been chosen. He left Mycroft to his meeting and sat in a far corner where he could watch the entire shop. Mostly, he watched Mycroft. He wondered what he was drinking, what his lips would taste like if he kissed him when the meeting was over, and what Mycroft liked. He also wondered why on Earth he was attracted to that overgrown five-year-old with a bad disposition.

Sex was something Greg enjoyed, with both men and women. In thirty-nine years, no one had attracted him like Mycroft did. Just watching him aroused Greg. He was so buttoned-up, so put together. Greg wanted to watch him come undone at his hands. He wanted to make him lose some of that control he seemed to cling to.

When the meeting was up, Mycroft met Greg at his car. “Hey, I was wondering...why do you carry that cane? You seem to walk fine,” Greg asked.

“Oh. This. It was a gift from my father. My great-grandfather had always carried a walking stick, not out of necessity but because it was in fashion. Grandfather did the same, and do does Father. I do it as well. My brother wouldn’t dream of it,” Mycroft replied.

“Oh.”

“My turn to ask a question. What on Earth were you thinking, marrying Francine DuPont?”

Again, Greg nearly crashed the car. “How the hell do you know my ex-wife?”

“No need to be alarmed. I checked you out thoroughly when you were working with Sherlock. That woman is a walking train wreck of a solicitor.”

“Sherlock?” It finally dawned on him just who had recommended him for this job. “Wait, Sherlock Holmes is your brother?”

“I’m afraid so,” Mycroft said with a sigh, but he was smiling a little as well.

Greg had to digest this. “Sherlock, you bastard,” he said. “It seems we were set up, Mr. Holmes.”

“You don’t need to tell me that,” Mycroft said. “And call me Mycroft. I get enough ‘Mr. Holmes this’ and ‘Mr. Holmes that’ all day.”

Greg nodded. “Francine was a mistake. I thought I was happy, but I wasn’t. So to answer your previous question, I don’t know what I was actually thinking. And, if I’m being honest, I haven’t been with anyone since our divorce.”

“I can tell you’re in need of a good night to let off steam.”

Greg felt embarrassed that his need for sex could be that obvious. “Really? You can tell that just from knowing me for forty-eight hours?”

“I could tell a great deal of things about you from knowing you eight minutes,” Mycroft replied, and wouldn’t say another word the rest of the day.

Greg couldn’t wait for his day off!

That day off just happened to be raining. Pouring, to be exact. And, for some Godforsaken reason, Mycroft wanted to go out. Which meant that Greg had no choice but to go with him. The rain was subsiding, at least.

“I’m never in the city with leisure time, so I’d like to go to this little restaurant I particularly enjoy. It’s been nearly a year since I’ve had the time to go,” Mycroft said. It was within walking distance, so they left Greg’s car at the Savoy and walked to Patisserie Valerie, a French bakeshop that served afternoon tea.

“It will be difficult to be inconspicuous in here,” Greg commented. The place was small but very lovely. Not a place he’d usually go, much too high class, but it seemed comfortable enough.

“I realize that. Why can’t we be just two chaps having tea, eh?” Mycroft wondered.

Greg regarded him. He obviously had no idea how different he was from normal people. It was another trait Greg found that he liked about the man. “Because you’re in a tweed three-piece with a pocket watch on a gold chain, carrying a walking stick along with your umbrella. With all due respect, you’re not very low-key. Not that I mind. It’s just that you are recognisable.”

Mycroft pooh-poohed. “It’s quite all right. It’s not as if there had been an actual threat to my life; just fear. Come, Inspector.”

“Greg.”

“Very well. Come, Greg.” Mycroft did the unthinkable -  he held the door open for the DI. A man of his stature never, ever did things like that. It just wasn’t how it was done. Greg thought that he was foolish for feeling flattered.

The tea was like something out of an old film. Despite the elegance of the place, Greg felt very comfortable there. In fact, this felt less and less like work and more like, dare he say it ? A date. Mycroft was still as haughty as ever, but he was more genial at the same time. Less guarded. He even managed to make jokes.

“If you put any more milk in your tea, I think a cow is going to come and give you a punch up the bracket,” he commented.

“Ah yes, and I see that you take yours plain and bitter. Is your tea a form of self-expression then?” Greg retorted, leaving Mycroft speechless.

When tea ended, they began the short walk back to their hotel, but immediately Greg’s mind told him that something was wrong. Very wrong. Call it instinct, sixth sense, or whatever. Greg had saved many a life, including his own, by following that nagging point in his mind that screamed, “Danger!”.

He grabbed Mycroft by the arm, making the man jump. He had been walking behind him, admiring his round arse, when the feeling had hit.

“Something is wrong,” he said, and if he put his lips too close to Mycroft’s ear as he whispered, he could chalk it up to the paranoia of not wanting to be overheard. “Stay behind me.” He reached into his coat and pulled out his gun, thumbing the safety off. The streets were crowded, and it was difficult to see if anyone was watching them particularly. He needed to thin the herd. He cocked his head and motioned for Mycroft to follow him. The end of the street, not far from the hotel entrance, would provide him a better view. He hoped it was a false alarm, but his gut told him that it was not.

Sure enough, there was a young lad who was coming too close for Greg’s liking. He nearly sighed when the boy started walking in the other direction. He was ready to put his gun away when the kid made a sudden turn towards them. Greg saw the knife in his hand just in time and managed to grab the kid and spin him around, holding his gun at chest-level. Filled with adrenaline and little else, he declared himself. “Police! Drop the weapon!” He heard it clatter to the floor.

“You’re under arrest, you little bastard, for attempted murder on an English dignitary. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

The kid was whimpering. He really was quite young.

“Who sent you?” Greg asked. When the lad didn’t respond, he repeated the question.

The kid stammered. “N-no, one sir. I swear. I don’t even know who he is; he just really looked quite posh, and I thought—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know what you thought. Now let’s see how the magistrate likes what you were thinking.”

Thankfully, there were bobbies on duty there to take the kid into custody.

Greg looked towards Mycroft, who was quite pale indeed. “Are you all right?”

Mycroft nodded. “Not the first time I’ve been in this predicament, believe me. Let us just go back inside, huh? I think I left my umbrella in the cafe and I’m beginning to get quite soaked.”

Greg’s nerves were singing. To think that he had not noticed the kid ‘til it had been nearly too late! He felt like a fool and was belittling himself for his inattentiveness. Well, he had been paying attention, just not to what he was being paid for.

They hurried out of the steadily pouring rain and made it to their room, but only after leaving a trail of water from the elevator to the door. Were a detective, or assassin, following them, they couldn’t have left a clearer trail to follow.

Greg sighed and leaned against the door. His body was still on edge. That was close...too close. Had that been a paid assassin, Mycroft would be nothing more than blood and memories.

“You saved my life.”

Greg looked up to see that Mycroft had stripped to his shirtsleeves, hanging the wet clothes over the dining room chairs to dry.

Greg managed a smile. “Part of the job. Actually, that is the job.” He started to remove his dripping jacket.

Mycroft gave an audible sniff. “Had you been paying more attention, none of that would have happened.”

Greg had been starting to calm down, but those callous, condescending words sent him back over the edge again. Not caring about propriety, he stalked over to where Mycroft was standing and got in his face.

“You ungrateful, imbecilic, posh bastard! For once in your life, could you possibly step down from your high-fucking-horse and manage a simple thank you? Really, two little syllables, and yet you are incapable of including them in your vast vocabulary! It’s men like you that make me wonder if the entire human race isn’t full of pigheaded wankers.

“No wonder you carry that stick around everywhere. It’s mate is apparently shoved up your arse!”

Greg knew that he was going to be fired; disgraced. He’d never work in law enforcement again. At that moment, he didn’t give a damn. He was so sick of Mycroft’s attitude.

“You know, you might be rich, powerful, and sexy, but that does not give you the right to—”

That was the very moment when Mycroft silenced him by pushing his tongue into his mouth and grabbing the back of his head tightly to keep the DI in place.

Greg could not think. All he could do was feel; Mycroft’s surprisingly soft lips, warm tongue and rough hands grabbing him. He was pressed so close he could smell Mycroft’s subtle cologne mixed with rainwater, and he could feel the heat of his body through his thin shirt. Greg could not comprehend what was happening, but his body took over.

He wrapped one hand around Mycroft’s neck and placed the other on his hard chest. He slipped a finger in the small space between the buttons, feeling the softness of his skin. He felt Mycroft’s other hand wrap around his waist, pulling him closer so that his thigh slid against what was either a very hot compact umbrella or Mycroft’s hard on.

Greg moaned into the kiss, and Mycroft just grabbed him tighter, his hand moving down to squeeze Greg’s ass. Greg felt himself being manoeuvred and shoved up against the nearest wall. Hard. Mycroft stopped kissing him and just gazed down at the DI with an intensity that Greg had never seen before. His eyes were crystal clear, his lips were swollen, and Greg wanted him more than anything.

“You are being paid to do whatever I ask of you this week, are you not?” Mycroft asked, his voice low and husky. Greg could only nod. “Then what I want is you, in that bedroom, naked and begging me for more than I am already going to be giving you.”

Mycroft’s hands held Greg captive against the wall, and he could barely breathe. This was a fantasy he hadn’t ever imagined coming true, and now that it was, he was absolutely terrified and totally turned on. He could feel himself hard, straining against his pants.

“Tonight, my dear Greg, you are mine.” Mycroft bent his head down and nipped at his neck, making him moan again. He moved back, grabbing Greg by the arm and leading him into the vast bedroom.

Greg started to unthaw when he realised that this was not a dream. This was his only chance to ever be with a man like this again. He stepped up to Mycroft and tugged him down into another kiss, taking this opportunity to run his hands over his body, stopping to cup his erection through his pants.

He had just a second to wonder if that would even fit inside of him before he was thrust away from Mycroft’s body.

“Strip,” the man ordered, his tone brooking no disobedience.

With shaking fingers, Greg started to unbutton his dress shirt, revealing the abs he worked quite hard to maintain. When he saw Mycroft’s eyes raking him in, he grinned. Moving to his trousers, making sure that the other man’s eyes were still on him, he unzipped them and was left standing there in only his black boxer briefs.

He was not standing for long. In a flash, Mycroft had him pinned to the soft mattress, his hot lips caressing his skin. Greg’s cock twitched when Mycroft took a nipple in his mouth and gently bit down, sending shockwaves through the DI’s body.

Mycroft suspended himself above Greg and said, “It has been years since I have seen a man as fucking delicious as you. I have wanted you since I laid eyes on you, and I am going to have you, right here and right fucking now.”

Greg felt his cock being manhandled through the thin fabric of his shorts. Slowly, they were lowered from his hips and his pained erection was freed. He hadn’t been this hard since college.

He thought perhaps he might feel those delectable lips on his cock, but instead Mycroft stood up to rid himself of his confining clothes. The man was thinner than he’d expected under those bulky suits but no less perfect. Despite being taller, Mycroft was not as broad as Greg was.

Manicured hands reached out to touch Greg. Despite the cold, Mycroft’s body was so warm as he wrapped his hand around Greg’s erection and slowly began to move. Greg wanted to close his eyes to savour this more, but he couldn’t bring himself to break Mycroft’s intense gaze.

Moving from his cock and going to his chest, Mycroft caressed every inch of him. Bending his head down, he kissed and sucked on Greg’s skin, leaving bruises in his wake. Greg had never been manhandled like this before, and he was surprised to find that he liked being vulnerable to a man so much more powerful than he.

***

Mycroft had spent a lot of time wondering what Greg looked like naked; the reality was much better than the dream. He was broader and more solid than Mycroft had thought he’d be. Broad shoulders, a six-pack, and a tapered waist led down to his leaking erection that was now pressed against Mycroft’s stomach as he bent over the DI, licking and biting every inch of that perfect, tanned skin of his.

He noticed a few scars, some unidentifiable, but one that was certainly from a bullet wound. He did not want to picture Greg in danger. He wanted to make him feel alive.

Moving back down, he licked up Greg’s cock and felt the man jerk in surprise.

“Fuck!” he said, his hand automatically going to the back of Mycroft’s head. Mycroft moved his hand and went to look into those beautiful, deep brown eyes. He could get lost in them and be perfectly content.

“Oh, no, you’re not in control here, Inspector ,” he said. “You are to keep your hands to yourself  ‘til I tell you to.”

Greg managed a weak grin. “I don’t take orders very well, Mycroft.”

Mycroft pressed his body hard against Greg’s, feeling the light hairs on his chest brush against his skin. “You will, or else I will find a suitable punishment for you. Remember who’s in charge here.” Was it his imagination, or did Greg twitch against him, turned on by his power? Good.

In one quick movement, Mycroft took all of Greg into his mouth, tasting the salt of his skin. He heard Greg gasp as he started to suck, going at an unbearably slow pace. Propping himself up with one hand, he massaged Greg’s sac with the other, his fingers trailing down to his hole. At just a brush from his fingertips, he felt Greg’s muscles clench.

Pulling his mouth off of him with an obscenely wet pop, he moved his mouth lower, to lick at Greg’s entrance. He felt Greg’s breathing speed up and more precum gathered at his tip. He tongued his hole, pushing in just a bit, just to hear Greg’s moans.

Pulling his tongue out, he went to position himself over Greg, the tip of his thick cock at his lips. Those perfect lips. He’d been dreaming of seeing how they’d look wrapped around his cock.

Without hesitation, Greg opened his mouth, just giving what would be the equivalent of a kiss to Mycroft’s head before he sucked the tip into his mouth. His tongue; the man was a genius, and he was making Mycroft lose the control he had been trying to hard to maintain.

Grabbing Greg’s silky hair in his hands, he steadied his head and pushed his cock further into his hot, wet mouth. They moaned in tandem as Mycroft started to move, fucking Greg’s mouth steadily. He felt Greg’s hands grip his arse and squeeze, pinch, and then caress. He was going to stop him, but it felt too good to cease.

Mycroft moaned as Greg gave a particularly hard suck, saying, “Fuck, you take cock so well. What on Earth were you doing with a wife for five years?”

Greg answered by fingering Mycroft’s hole, making his body jerk and spill more precum down Greg’s throat.

“No, you are not getting me off that easily, love,” Mycroft said, moving back, pulling his cock from Greg’s hot mouth. He took  Greg by the hips and admired. Damn, Greg’s body was so perfect: every tanned inch was enough to seduce a respectable man like meto sin . , Mycroft turned the man onto his stomach, hips raised and pert, muscled arse in the air. His hole was still wet from Mycroft’s earlier ministrations, and Mycroft’s cock was covered in saliva. Without any more preparation, he lined his head up with Greg’s arse and slowly pushed the tip in, stretching him wider than he had probably ever been stretched. “I hope you like it rough,” he whispered, bending over him so that there was not an inch of space between their bodies.

“Son of a—” Greg was gasping.

“Aw, what’s the matter?” Mycroft asked tauntingly. “Do you want me to stop? Too much to handle, big bad Inspector?”

Greg scoffed. “You talk a big game, but is it all just talk?”

Mycroft pushed in a bit more, unable to hold back a moan as that tight heat enveloped him. Greg was still panting, but now he was trying to wriggle back, and get more of Mycroft’s cock inside of him. His back and arm muscles were straining, sweat dripping from his skin. He was like a sex god from old mythology, and his vocal responses to Mycroft’s movements was almost too much to bear.

Mycroft found himself not moving for a moment, just staring at Greg’s rough beauty. His profile, with his sharp nose and chin, long black lashes, and perfectly bitable neck. Instinctively, Mycroft knew that the rest of this week would not be enough to satiate his lust for this man.

“What do you want?” he rasped in Greg’s ear. “Tell me what you want me to do to you. Tell me how much you want me to fuck you. Tell me you want me to leave you a moaning, cum-covered mess.”

“Damn it, Mycroft, yes! Yes, that’s what I want!” Greg cried.

Mycroft pushed in just another inch. He was only halfway, and yet he could already feel his Greg was trembling, so close to coming.

“You didn’t say please ,” he teased, biting the tip of Greg’s ear.

“Please! Fuck me, please!” Greg cried.

In a quick movement, Mycroft fully seated himself in Greg’s arse, reveling in the tight heat that now surrounded his cock. Pulling out, he snapped back in, setting up a steady yet unforgiving pace. For a long time, the only sounds in the room were their moans and the sound of flesh against flesh.

Mycroft eventually tightened his grip on Greg’s waist with one arm, and the other hand lightly gripped his throat, tipping his head back to look in Mycroft’s eyes. Greg’s were clouded over with desire, and the look on his face was very nearly Mycroft’s undoing.

“You. Are. Mine .” That last word was punctuated with a hard, deep thrust. He kept himself buried to the hilt in Greg’s hot flesh. He moved just a bit, to keep up the stimulation as he repeated that previous statement. “All mine.”

“Yes,” Greg gasped. “I am. I am yours.”

***

His . When had he become the property of Mycroft Holmes? He didn’t know, and he didn’t give much of a fuck while that huge cock was buried so deep in him. A pleasant ache he had forgotten about was burning from his arse to his stomach. He was covered in bite marks. His cock was so hard it was painful and he was leaking precum onto the expensive sheets.

He was loving every second. Even when Mycroft made him beg. Especially when Mycroft made him beg.

He felt his hips being manhandled again, pulled upwards as Mycroft let go of his throat to take hold of his aching cock. Greg gasped at the sudden friction, and then Mycroft began to move inside of him again.

The new angle gave his lover access to that one spot that made Greg see stars.

“Do you want to come? Tell me,” Mycroft commanded. “Beg for it.”

Greg wanted to refuse. Who was he to command him? But this felt too good, and he couldn’t make himself deny that order. “Please. Let me come. Fuck me harder and make me come!” Greg let out a yelp as the assault on his hole became even more vicious. Every thrust hit that sweet spot, and every sharp stroke of Mycroft’s hand on his cock brought him closer and closer.

He felt himself shudder as his hips jerked, his seed spilling all over the sheets beneath him as he cried out Mycroft’s name.

Mycroft kept stroking his slowly deflating cock as he continued to fuck Greg’s now overstimulated body. In a moment, he heard Mycroft moan and felt him spill his hot seed deep inside of Greg, marking him as his.

They both remained in that position, sweat slicking their bodies and their breath coming hard. Slowly, Mycroft pulled himself out of Greg, and the DI almost whined at the sensation of no longer being filled to the brim. Greg flopped down onto his back, slightly wincing at the pain, but mostly he was satisfied.

Mycroft lay propped on his elbows next to him, his soft hand caressing Greg’s chest. Greg was afraid to speak. Afraid that the dream would end. Afraid that Mycroft would kick him out. Afraid of his own emotions.

Greg rolled on his side looking into Mycroft’s clear eyes. His body was throbbing, but it was a good ache, the best kind of ache. Someone needed to say something.

“I thought I was here for your protection, not your entertainment,” he joked weakly.

“Still with the smart mouth,” Mycroft murmured, but most of the spite was taken out of his voice. “I thought I had taken care of that a moment ago.”

“Oh well,” Greg said. “We have the rest of the week to see if you can fuck the attitude out of me...or vice versa.” He let his hand trail down to Mycroft’s currently soft cock, stroking the silken flesh. He hoped that Mycroft wanted to spend the rest of the week with him.

Mycroft laughed. “Really? You think three days is sufficient to fuck you into submission? No, love, I’m going to need much more time to claim you over and over again.”

Greg’s breath caught in his throat as he felt his cock twitch at the very thought.

Mycroft pulled him closer by the waist. “You know, Sherlock set us both up with this whole thing. He said you’d be good for me in more ways than one. I really hate it when my brother is right.”

Greg laughed and placed a kiss on Mycroft’s neck. “Yeah, well, for once I don’t mind if it means I get to suck the cock of the sexiest man in Britain.”

Mycroft kissed him, hard and possessive. “Mine,” he whispered, smiling softly.

Yes, he was Mycroft’s. He’d surrender his alpha male status to ensure that he would be by his side for a long time to come. For his protection.