“Why is it definitely an MI-5 forgery, Sherlock?” Greg has watched the detective rambling all over his scene for a full ten minutes, occasionally bursting his thoughts at the nearest tech, none of whom are providing him with whatever answers he wants.
Greg sighs. “Fine. Sally, can you get in touch with our MI-5 liaison-“
“Don’t bother. Entirely unconnected to the murder. They’ll just push you off the case for nothing.” Sherlock stands suddenly, looking at Greg with an alarmingly analytical expression. Greg has never been more certain that he’s up to something. “You should take it to Mycroft.”
“Mycroft? Your brother? Lurks in warehouses and likes casual abductions, that one? No, thank you.” The elder Holmes is someone Greg has primarily communicated with only as a last resort, when Sherlock has been in serious danger or suffered a relapse, and Greg’s always found him… a bit intimidating.
It’s the suits.
It’s probably the suits.
“You don’t have any plans tonight because your girlfriend- sorry, is it ex-girlfriend now?- is off with a football- mm, no, rugby player- you can’t stand the sight of your own flat right now and you love a good drive in the country.”
Greg glares, but conceding that Sherlock is, of course, irritatingly correct, he finds himself spending his Friday afternoon driving out to the secluded manor that apparently serves as Mycroft’s weekend retreat. Rookridge Hall. Sherlock had been somewhat insistent that he ought to drive it out right away, it would be tempting the ire of Mycroft’s people to wait longer.
He had been right about the drive- it’s glorious outside of the city, the first fall colors weaving through the trees. Definitely worth the trip, even if nothing else of interest happens. He’ll have a slow ride back into the city around sunset, and that should be a perfect lead-in to a few beers- possibly more than a few beers- and a leisurely night of meandering through whatever’s on the telly.
The gate to Rookridge is very discreet- the drive barred and the walls high and ivy covered, with obvious security cameras aimed toward the path. He pulls up, finding a neatly shielded panel with a keycode and a buzzer, which he presses, suddenly wishing he’d bothered to call ahead. Mycroft obviously has this place locked down within an inch of its life, if Greg steps out of line he’s liable to get shot by some sort of MI-5 assassin guards and never returned for burial.
“Yes?” a smooth woman’s voice answers.
“Ah- dropping off something for Mycroft Holmes?”
“You aren’t a delivery service.”
He hopes the cameras can’t see the stupid face he must be making. Fucking Sherlock. Should've mentioned it’s a bloody fortress. “It’s from his brother. Or, well... it’s a police matter. DI Greg Lestrade, New Scotland Yard.” Digging out his badge, he waves it in the general direction of the cameras he can see. “He knows me. Just- if you could send someone out, I can leave it with them, even.” He feels more awkward than he’d anticipated, surrounded by all this surveillance. God, and he lives with this all the time. No wonder Mycroft always carries that aura of dramatics about him. He must always be performing.
After a long pause, the gate simply swings open. Greg breathes a sigh of relief as he pulls into the long drive toward the large manor in the distance. The drive is long, but the trees surrounding it are spectacular. If he had any artistic bones in his body, he’d be getting out of the car right now to pause and take some pictures to try and capture the colors of it all in some extravagant painting later.
At the end of the drive there’s a circle- he supposes he’s just meant to pull up and hike up the steps to the front door, so he does, leaving his car parked below. The door opens before he gets there, revealing a younger man who must be a butler, as he’s wearing a crisp black tie and white gloves.
….and absolutely nothing else.
“Inspector Lestrade?” Greg makes a small noise in the back of his throat that the butler must take for an affirmative. “Master Holmes has asked me to take you through to the lounge. If you will follow me, please.”
Greg follows, his feet working where his voice has utterly failed. Nude staff. Nude staff? Was it… some sort of security protocol? No one can attack you if you can see quite thoroughly they aren’t armed?
It also gives him a fair view of the butler’s arse, which he can’t quite seem to stop looking at, though to be fair he’s not precisely used to seeing any nude folk outside of his own bed or a decent porno. He certainly wasn’t expecting to find any out here.
There’s more, too- as they pass through the hall, Greg spots a naked woman dusting an enormous bookshelf, and another man carrying a tray up a staircase.
Maybe they’re all nudists? That seems plausible. Weird, but plausible. He shouldn’t judge, to each their own and all, he’s just… a bit stunned.
The butler leads him to a comfortable lounge complete with a piano and a full sideboard of liquors that likely cost about ten years of his salary, if not more. He’s invited to make a selection, but he demurs, remembering that he has to drive.
After that, he’s left alone.
Greg feels a bit like when he was younger and tried weed for the first time, like everything around him is just slightly off and he is no longer entirely sure of his place in reality.
“It’s a long way to drive, inspector, just to run an errand.”
He turns- Mycroft is at the sideboard, having somehow snuck in without being heard, and Greg finds himself again struggling to bring words to his lips as Mycroft presses a glass of amber liquid into his hand. He ought to be saying no to that- driving - but he finds he really needs to drink it.
Mycroft is not in a suit. He’s in shirtsleeves, which is jarring enough by itself, but that’s not the real source of Greg’s now slightly flushed skin and abortive measures in gathering his thoughts into a single coherent string.
No, that’s all down to the fact that Mycroft Holmes is wearing leather trousers.
There’s a strained noise emitting from his own throat that he can’t stop, and he’s definitely blushing. Fuck. He’s never going to be able to look Mycroft in the eye again. Or Sherlock. That git had to have known. Greg’s going to have to find a way to get one back at him. Perhaps a nice “accidental” dip in the Thames.
“He was trying to embarass me, inspector, but my brother refuses to believe I don’t experience shame.”
Greg chances a glance up. Of course this Holmes can see straight through him just as well as the other one. Mycroft has one brow half-lifted, quietly amused. “Er- sorry, I- I don’t mind what anyone- gets up to, you know, just- bit of a shock.”
“Of course. Why don’t you sit down, inspector?”
He does, having another long sip of his drink- it’s good, whatever it is- and extricating the ID from his pocket in its little evidence bag. “It’s, uh- just this, really. Sherlock said it’s, you know, your territory.”
“Did he.” Mycroft takes a look at it, turning it over. “Well. He is not entirely wrong, though I think he took some advantage of the opportunity. His sense of humor is a bit juvenile at times.”
“Oh- no, it’s, you know, your staff. Whatever- is fine.”
“Ah, he told you this is my home, did he? Misleading, that.” Mycroft wanders back to the sideboard, pulling out a drawer and extracting a slim, black card that he hands to Greg. Rookridge Lodge and Specialty Hotel Services. “I do own the property, but I do not live here. I merely visit from time to time to… check on things.”
“It’s an inn?” Greg asks stupidly. An inn full of… naked people. “And specialty services are….”
“It’s not a brothel, Gregory. That would be illegal.” Mycroft smiles thinly. “No one here is paid for sex, as payments are made for rooms and dining hospitality only. The staff here have signed certain contracts with regard to their treatment, and are offered generous compensation as full-time employees, complete with benefits.”
“They are nude, yes. That is generally part of the contract.”
Greg has the feeling Mycroft is being very patiently indulgent with him as he stares at the card. He’s going to need another bloody drink to get his head around this. “Um. So what are... specialty services?”
Mycroft smiles. Definitely indulgent. Greg feels himself blushing again and looks down, but then there’s those blasted leather trousers and that makes it worse , so he inhales deeply and looks pointedly out the window. Trees. Clouds. Anything but sex. “A certain list of acts are permitted at any time with any working employee, upon verbal request and agreement. That young man who brought you in here? Bent over wherever you like. Or on his knees.” Greg flushes more, remembering the pert curve of the butler’s arse. Jesus Christ. “More complex needs are coordinated as a part of room service, with employees who have authorized their participation in whatever the client has requested.”
“It’s… a sex resort.” Greg’s voice has gone a bit high. Oh my god. Why is this so embarrassing? He’s going to kill Sherlock for tossing him into this without warning. Mycroft is entirely unmoved- he even seems to be enjoying watching Greg squirm. Goddamit, Lestrade, pull yourself together. “You own a sex resort.”
“Mmm. It’s a sound property investment, and I assure you the market for such things is quite robust. Quite a lot of people are willing to shell out considerable coin to discreetly fulfill their needs.” Mycroft swirls his glass, the amber of the liquid spinning gently, catching the dimming light. “Why don’t you stay for dinner, inspector? Our kitchens are superb, and I can give you a tour.”
Greg swallows. He should drive home, where he can have about six beers and try to delete this entire experience from his brain.
He is, however… just a little bit curious.
“Alright,” he hears himself say. “Should I pull the car round first? Just left it out front since I thought I’d be, uh. In and out.” He flushes again. Fuck. No more potential double entendres for the rest of the evening.
Mycroft smiles again. It makes Greg feel fidgety.
Ten minutes later, after he’s parked himself in what used to be the barn- apparently they don’t have a valet for that as patrons have expressed a distaste for someone else’s naked arse in their cars, a complaint which he can understand- he’s walking back to the side door when he hears the distinct sound of fucking. He can’t help but look- it’s a reflex, really.
The couple is out in a field, the woman in a full riding costume, save the britches that have been lowered to her knees, and the man behind her is nude save a kerchief about his neck.
It’s only when she looks up and smiles at him that he has the sense to keep bloody walking , scurrying red-faced back into the manor.
“You know quite a lot of our patrons have an exhibitionist streak,” Mycroft says, startling Greg as soon as he comes through the door. He’s standing by the window, openly watching the proceedings outside without even a flicker of shame. Greg’s not sure if he envies him that level of… comfort.
“Do they?” Greg jams his hands in his pockets, trusting that his coat is keeping the threat of a bit of interest in his pants from being visible.
“Mm. Voyeurs and exhibitionists… quite common, really.” Mycroft turns and starts down the hall, Greg following just behind. “There was even sufficient interest in patrons acting as staff for recreational purposes that we have specific weekends dedicated to it.”
“In acting as….” Greg blinks. “They want to- just- let anyone…?”
“Oh yes. On those weekends we have the staff pretend to be patrons- the patrons themselves sign up for certain types so we know who to have ‘pursue’ them, of course. It’s all well laid out in advance.”
A affirmative noise is all Greg manages to make, something high in the back of his throat that sounds like an “Nnnnnhn.” How does he make this sound like just another casual job? Paperwork for the sex hotel. Christ.
They’ve stopped by a large glass door through which, Greg realizes after a moment, is a standard, if rather posh, hotel gym. “This is our gym- functional, of course, but I assure you we maintain a high cleaning standard on the mats.” Greg lets out a low heh that he hopes does not sound as awkward as it feels. “And our pool. Whirpool tubs are en suite, but there’s no communal hot tub- too much of a medical risk when no one respects the required time limitations in the water.”
“Right.” Greg swallows. The pool has a very handsome lifeguard, sitting casually on a chair with his legs spread and spinning a whistle while watching a couple lazily drift around the water on inflatable rafts. How is this normal? It all feels a bit out of body, especially since the sight of the lifeguard’s decidedly fit figure and rather generous endowment has made his cock jump. Again.
He crosses his hands in front of his coat, trying to keep everything looking casual. It feels safer to hide it.
“And the dining room.” In here, Greg has the sudden feeling he’s underdressed, but at least that is a more familiar form of embarrassment than everything else he’s experienced today. Everyone here is in finery, save the waitstaff, who are all in little aprons, and the woman who appears to be serving as a buffet board for… sushi?
Oh, Jesus. He doesn’t know if he can actually eat off a person. That seems… unhygienic?
“Don’t worry, we’ll be dining privately.” Greg does not fail to notice the pleased little curl in Mycroft’s grin. Don’t think about how much he can deduce. Just… don’t. If Greg thinks about it too hard he might just become so mortified that he just dies. Possibly for the best.
Privately apparently means a small table right by the kitchens, separate from the rest of the hall by what seems like a one-way glass window. The cooks are all dressed as normal cooks, at least, which gives Greg a sense of relief. Mycroft chuckles, a musical sound Greg has never before heard. “Of course they’re dressed, Greg, there’s fire and oil. Never cook naked. Goodness.”
Greg lets out another little awkward heh . “Do they not, um….”
“No, the chefs are here for their culinary skills and nothing else, though they are all exceptionally discreet.”
The food is quite good. Mycroft had not been exaggerating that. Greg lets him pick for both of them, his mind still a bit too anxious to fully focus on the menu. “So’m… Sherlock knows about this place?”
“Oh yes. The entire concept horrifies him, of course.”
“Not that he has any idea what the experience is like. And what about you, inspector?”
“Hm?” Greg looks up from his steak and finds Mycroft’s steely eyes studying him in a way that feels just a bit greater than mere friendly interest. Don’t suppose most friends have a pleasant chat at the sex hotel that one of them owns. Of course, if he didn’t know better, it might sound like Mycroft is asking him about his own experience.
“You don’t seem horrified.” Mycroft doesn’t break eye contact as he sips his wine. It makes Greg fidget for reasons he’s not inclined to overanalyze right now. “If you’re interested, I would be happy to set you up with a room.”
“Oh god.” Greg must go red in an instant, he can feel the heat of it on his cheeks. “I, ah- I’m sure it’s all out of my-”
“Complimentary, of course. You deserve some rewarding relaxation after all your work managing my brother. It’s the least I can offer.”
“I, uh. Heh. I don’t-”
“Whenever you like, inspector. You have my number.”
Greg manages to squeak out an assenting grunt.
After dinner, Mycroft walks him to the barn, passing the library where a woman in the scantest suggestion of a maid’s uniform is being rather lovingly tended to against a stack of books by a woman in a full evening gown.
Greg worries he’ll never be able to see posh clothing without blushing again.
“Do consider it, inspector. We can tailor any experience. I’m happy to help.”
“I’ll. Uh. Think about it. Thanks.”
He drives home with half a persistent erection, barely able to concentrate on the brake lights of the vehicles in front of him. Fuck. He can’t stop playing it over. The shameless sounds of sex, people just fucking in the open- and if that’s the public side, what the hell must they get up in the rooms?
As soon as he gets through the door to his flat he can’t get out of his clothes fast enough. He has to take himself in hand now, get this urge under control and dealt with so he can relax and just watch the telly. A normal Friday.
He falls onto the couch with his trousers open and shoved past his arse, his cock jutting out like a needy mast. There’s no need for subtlety, not with Becca off fucking whatever man she’s holding over him now. There’s always someone with her, always some comparison she needs him to be better than so she’ll deign to come back.
Maybe that’s why it’s mostly the men he’s thinking of. The butler and his pert arse. The lifeguard and his casually swinging whistle. The stablehand.
Take them anywhere. Oh, fuck, the possibilities. Sex whenever and no judgements at all. No wonder Mycroft is so fucking calm all the time. Bet the man has never been pent up in his life.
His mind wanders on him, drifting through variations of Rookridge as he strokes until he finds it landing on the idea of leather. Mycroft’s trousers. He’d never seen that coming.
He can’t help wondering what Mycroft was getting up to in an outfit like that. He shouldn’t- he should resist it- they’re acquaintances, maybe friends, it’s best not pull him into sex fantasies, but there he is all the same. Was he with someone before Greg got there? Private office, maybe, and someone obedient and pliant- his mind substitutes the butler, that strikes him as potentially Mycroft’s type, though he’s not sure why that matters.
Mycroft’s voice drifts through his mind. “Bent over wherever you like. Or on his knees.” Greg swallows. God, what kind of power would that be. Run a hand through the butler’s hair and push down, have those soft lips wrapping his cock....
He splays, legs straining against the band of his trousers as he comes with a shout.
When was the last time he came like that? Sure as hell hadn’t been with Becca.
He lies there, panting, cock spent all over his work shirt. “Jesus.” That was… what it was. Fuck. It’s just to get it out of his system. That’s all. He needs a beer. A nice cold, beer. Bit of cleaning up and he can just… watch something. Something mindless.
And definitely not think too much about how he just came picturing Mycroft’s cock in someone’s mouth.
He rubs his face, dragging his nails through the scruff of his two-day beard.
Just the once. Done with it now. Normal weekend. Back to the grind on Monday.
Peeling himself off the couch, he stumbles to the bathroom with his pants sinking over his thighs and held up with one hand, cursing.
Fine. Fine. This is all… normal. Normal reaction, that’s all. Startled into it.
Still, when he lets his mind wander later on the pleasant rocking waves of pre-sleep, it’s leather he’s thinking of, and that smooth voice telling him he deserves a reward.