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Four years since his last holiday, and Greg’s spent a full week doing nothing much. Lying about on the beach. Reading books in a hammock. Drinking rum at noon and not worrying about it, his work, his ex, his awful flat, or Sherlock Bleeding Holmes. He hasn’t so much as glanced at the disused dating apps he’d re-added to his mobile before his trip, but that’s nothing new, and Greg’s been too content on his own to worry about that, either. 

It doesn't matter that Sally calls him a sad sack, his sister thinks he’s going to die alone, and his brother recently informed him: You know, if you don’t use it, it falls off. Greg’s fine, and this trip proved it. He hasn’t felt so good in years, and he didn’t need to be with someone to manage it. 

It’s been transformative. He packed his suitcase last night and thought about how lovely it would be to get back to freezing cold London and open his bag and smell coconut sun cream and traces of the hibiscus soap the hotel provided. Greg boarded his flight out of Jamaica this morning feeling good about going back. About trying to hang on to some of Vacation Greg when he did. About taking time to smell the roses. Or, hibiscus, as the case may be. 

But his flight isn’t a direct one, because he’s not made of money, and his three hour layover in New York has turned very quickly into a nightmare so bad that Greg’s laughed a little hysterically to himself about a dozen times. 

It went a bit like this: Plane landed and then sat on the runway for two hours while ground crews fought to de-ice their path to the gate. Greg exited the plane, sighing at the two remaining hours he’d be spending in the airport til his red-eye flight to London. Greg realized very quickly that he was lucky to have landed in New York at all. All inbound flights are now being diverted. Outbound flights are grounded. Freak snowstorm becomes Greg’s most hated pair of words of all time in under an hour. 

So here he is. 

At JFK. 

In a blizzard. 

On New Year's Eve. 

Greg had hoped to be asleep on the last leg of his trip, somewhere over the Atlantic, when midnight struck. Now here he is in the early New York City evening, thwarted by ice on the runways and impending buckets of snow.

“Good luck finding a hotel on New Year's Eve in the tristate area,” a harried local mutters,, texting furiously beside him, trying to figure out her route home. 

Rental cars are sold out, save for an obnoxious manual drive sports car that would make it ten feet in ice like that, nevermind the promised foot of snow beginning to come down mixed with the sleet. 

Fuck, Greg thinks, instead of saying it aloud to the poor bloke behind the Hertz counter, and takes a deep breath. 

He wanders, dragging his suitcase behind him, and finds a place to pop a squat. The cold tile wall at least keeps his aching back upright. A few hours on a plane and a couple more pacing the airport have undone most of the vacation relaxation. Greg scrolls through his mobile, trying to figure out his next move. It takes some effort to shove aside a creeping sense of dread, his growling stomach, and a discordant background loneliness that comes with being stuck in an airport in a foreign country on a holiday like this. He ignores that, as well as the passing of other passengers beyond the screen of his phone until - inexplicably - someone says: 

“DCI Lestrade?” 

The first thing Greg registers is a pair of sky-high heels. He blinks, thinking, It can’t be. But he follows the legs attached to the heels up to a crisp dress topped with a gorgeous red wool coat, all covering the slim figure of Mycroft Holmes’s PA (real name unknown to Greg, even this many years on). 

Anthea, which is what John Watson had claimed the woman is called, and to which she had shrugged and tilted her head when Greg asked her later, smiles vaguely at him, waiting for him to say something.

‘Hello,” Greg says numbly, brain still struggling to contextualize her in their current setting. “Anthea?”

“Mm.” Her mouth quirks on one side, as if her name is a private joke between them. “What, may I ask, are you doing on the floor?”

“Wallowing,” Greg replies without thinking, a bit wild with desperation and hunger at this point. “You?”

“Well, I’m not on the floor.”

“Would you like to be?” Greg makes a show of scooting over. “Pull up a piece of wall, miss, there’s plenty.” 

She smiles with both sides of her mouth this time. “May I suggest an alternative?”

“I’m all ears.”



“Hey, Mycroft,” Greg sighs, climbing into the back seat of the SUV as he’d been told to do. His bag is being loaded into the hatchback as he does. “How’s tricks?”

“Wha—” Mycroft looks away, watching Anthea put herself into the passenger seat up front. “What’s happened?” 

“Snow,” Greg says simply. “Flight delayed. New Year's. And you’re here to attend a summit tomorrow. New Year's Day? Really? Can’t you people take a day off?”

Mycroft huffs. “It’s symbolic.” 

Greg grins at him. “I’ll bet. Listen, Anthea offered me a ride. I’ve got to try and find a place to stay on the way into the city.” He waves his mobile. “Hope you don’t mind my tagging along.”

“Of course not,” Mycroft says.

Greg watches him cross and uncross his legs. The man looks perfectly put together as always, despite the fact he just got off an international flight. How does he do that? Greg knows that he looks a mess and can’t help feeling a bit grubby and burdensome next to him. 

“I’m afraid the journey into Manhattan will be slow going,” Mycroft continues. “The heaviest of the snow is yet to come, but the ice is significant.” 

“Well aware,” Greg murmurs, already opening his travel app and trying to figure out how much he can afford to spend tonight. He’s going to end up in some grotty hostel, he just knows it. 


“We decided months ago that you’re going to call me Greg,” Greg says, glancing up from his mobile with a grin to soften it, make sure Mycroft takes it as the teasing it’s meant to be. “Remember?”

“Apologies.” Mycroft musters a smile that seems uncomfortable on his face, unsure of whether it should be bigger, smaller, tilt this way or that. 

He always smiles like that. Greg’s always wondered what he looks like when he really laughs. “Anyway, you were saying?”

“You’re unlikely to find a room in the city tonight.”

“I know.” Greg chews at his lip. “Maybe a hostel, I was thinking.”

“Don’t be silly,” Mycroft says. “I have a residence here. Or rather, my family does, and I am the only one who has used it for decades. There are four bedrooms, and a restaurant on the same street. I happen to have reserved myself a table there tonight in lieu of a tiresome party. You would be welcome to join me.” 

Greg wants to say yes immediately. Wants to jump at the chance to be around Mycroft, to see what his place here looks like. Greg’s seen the London flat twice, and had been shocked at how unpretentious it was. In fact he’d been a bit concerned at the bareness of the place. A family residence might have photographs. Greg’s always wondered what the Holmes brothers looked like as kids. He’s always wondered what sort of family, what setting and what circumstances, spit out a Mycroft and a Sherlock. 

And honestly, Mycroft… Mycroft is Greg’s what if, which has always felt strange to acknowledge, but there it is. 

Greg had been feeling a bit bold after his divorce, back before Sherlock’s fake death and the fallout, and had started an idle, aimless campaign of flirting with the man. Just because he could. It’s taken on a bit of a life of its own over the years, and not so long ago there had almost been… Well, there had almost been.  

He shoves all of this down as he nods. “That would be… if you’re sure I’m not putting you out.” 

“Not at all.”

“Alright.” Greg tells himself to be cool, to let go of the romantic notion that this is anything but a lucky coincidence that will keep him from sleeping in an airport all weekend. “Thanks. Thank you, Mycroft.” 


“I know, it’s awful.” 

Greg buries a snort in his hand and shakes his head “No, no. It’s… Interesting.” 

Mycroft sighs and motions with his arm. “The bedrooms have been recently redecorated,” he says. 

Greg takes one last look at the incredible tackiness of the lounge, and allows himself to be herded. The room Mycroft takes him to is very nice, indeed. Classic. Clean lines and lovely dark wood. Crisp white sheets. It looks like a hotel, and Greg says as much. 

“As I prefer it,” Mycroft says. “The monstrosity of the rest of the flat is all my grandmother’s doing. It took me decades to get my mother to agree to allow me to make changes. I’m waiting - have been waiting for years - for my parents to fly over and take what they want from the rest of the flat. Whatever is left can be sold.” He adds darkly, “Or burned.”

Greg laughs and parks his suitcase beside the bureau. “It’s not that bad.” 

“The woman attempted to recreate Versailles in a thousand square foot flat. It is suffocating.” 

Greg shoots Mycroft a grin as he throws himself down to sit on the unbelievably plush mattress with a sigh. “You’re so particular.”

Mycroft sniffs. “There is nothing wrong with being particular.” 

“I never said there was.”

They pause, the silence a little awkward but mostly not, Greg’s happy to note. It’s almost like they’re the friends Greg has been telling Mycrof they are for years, even as the man refuses to be pinned down by such terms. 

“When’s dinner?” Greg asks, breaking the silence. 

“Ah.” Mycroft takes a glance at his watch. “An hour and a half. It’s a late reservation, I hope you don’t mind?” 

“Of course I don’t mind. You’re buying me a posh dinner on New Year's Eve in New York City. Come on, Mycroft.” 

“Did I say I was buying you dinner?” Mycroft takes a lazy step back toward the door. “I don’t recall saying that, exactly.”

Greg feels another spike of hope at the teasing tone. That’s flirting. He’s heard that from Mycroft before and it’s definitely the man’s version of flirting. He forces himself to shrug and say, lightly, “Alright, well I just said it.” 

Mycroft huffs again, his little silent laugh, and leaves, tossing last words over his shoulder. “Dress is casual, but no Hawaiian shirts.” 

“I was in Jamaica.”


Greg laughs as Mycroft tugs the door shut on his way out, a quiet little click. He falls back onto the mattress and rubs his hands over his face. 

God, he isn’t even sure he has clothes in his bag that would work for a New York snow storm. He’ll let himself lie there contemplating it for a minute, but then he’ll need to get himself into a shower and do something about the vacation stubble he’s been sporting for a few days. 

Greg sighs and sinks further into the plush mattress. 

This is all perfectly fine and normal and good and not at all weird. 


Dinner is gorgeous, of course, and the company is really lovely, about which Greg is pleasantly surprised. It’s not that he didn’t know that dinner with Mycroft could be nice - it has been in the past - it’s just that he’s so keyed up after the day he’s had that he’d expected the entire thing to be weird. Tense. Awkward. Greg’s managed to make it that way before. Usually because he couldn’t stop thinking about that time. 

So, maybe it’s the stress of the day. Maybe it’s the way his muscles have returned to Jamaica levels of relaxation thanks to the absurd water pressure in Mycroft’s fancy New York shower, or maybe it’s the wine they’ve been drinking. Whatever loosens Greg’s grip on things, he’s feeling lax and a bit brave while they’re waiting for dessert, and he finds himself going for it without consciously deciding to do so. 

“Do you remember the night of John’s wedding?” He asks, watching his own finger tracing along the rim of his wine glass, unwilling to make eye contact for this - just in case it gets embarrassing. More embarrassing. 

They’d been sitting in comfortable silence, so Mycroft doesn't go quiet, necessarily, but Greg can feel him go stock-still across the table. 

Shit, Greg thinks. I made it weird. He nearly says ‘Nevermind, nevermind, of course you don’t, it was nothing, don’t worry about it.’

Instead, Mycroft says, tentatively, “Of course I do.”

Greg is so surprised that he glances up in time to catch Mycroft looking at him. 

Mycroft hides in his wine glass very quickly, almost quickly enough for Greg to miss what his eyes had just done. 

“You do?”

Mycroft nods and drinks and says nothing more. 

Greg swallows hard and fiddles with the stem of his own glass. “Okay,” he says. “So… so I’ve always wondered…”


Mycroft is clearly trying to do the cold blooded lizard thing, his posture slackening as he leans back in his chair, his eyes almost expressionless where they stare at Greg over the rim of a glass. 

The thing is, Greg’s seen him do that before. He knows it’s bullshit. 

So, he takes a breath and says, “Why didn’t anything happen between you and me that night?”

Mycroft blinks, slow like a cat, but he says nothing. 

Greg bites down on a smile. “Don’t make me do all the work,” he says. “You prick. I hate when you do this to me.”

“Well,” Mycroft says, putting down his glass and flicking his eyes away from Greg’s. “It always works.”

“Well,” Greg mimics, “normally we’re talking Sherlock, politics, football, or gossip. That’s not what we’re talking about now. And I asked you a question.” 

“Did you want something to happen?” Mycroft volleys it across the table. 

Greg opens his mouth to speak, but dessert arrives. He snaps his mouth shut and settles back in his seat, letting the server place his creme brulee down in front of him. 

When the server scampers off, they observe each other: Greg with his spoon poised over the crackle shell of his creme brulee, Mycroft all but ignoring his fancy chocolate torte. 

“Did I want something to happen?” Greg quirks an eyebrow before looking away to tap his spoon down into the burnt sugar with relish. “You know the answer to that. Did you?”

Mycroft’s fork clinks against his plate. 

Greg carefully does not look up. If he watches Mycroft take a bite of chocolate that dark right now he’s going to pass out or make a scene or cry or all of the above. 

“Yes” Mycroft says, once the first bite is gone. 

Greg looks up. “So, why didn’t it?”

Mycroft’s impassive exterior falls away, twitch by twitch and breath by breath. “I… am not adept at such things.”

Greg takes a bite of sweet, perfectly set custard and hums. “Christ this is good,” he sighs. “I ordered this that night.”

“I know.”

Greg licks his lips. Makes a show of it. “Mycroft.” 


“You met me at the Yard.”

“I thought Sherlock would be with you. I worried the wedding would be a trigger. I worried it was a danger night.”

“It wasn’t,” Greg says softly. “Which is good. But Sherlock wasn’t there. You invited me to dinner, since I missed the food and the dancing at the wedding.” 


“Dinner was hours.” 


“It always is.” Greg takes another bite. “We’ve had dinner a lot, you and I. It’s never just dinner.” 

Mycroft busies himself with raking perfect hash patterns in the surface of his dense pastry and speaks to it instead of to Greg. “You are… I enjoy our conversations.”

“Great,” Greg murmurs. He sets down his spoon, suddenly too full of butterflies to take another bite. “But do you want to kiss me? Do you want to take me back to your flat and do unspeakable things to me? Or is this all just conversation?”

Mycroft inhales sharply and his fork clatters against his plate. 

Greg remembers Mycroft the night of the Watson wedding. The way his cheeks had been a little flushed from the whiskey they’d indulged in after matching ramekins of creme brulee. The way his shoulders had gone loose, his posture lazy. The way his eyes had gone lidded. 

Greg remembers saying he might just grab a cab, but making no move to do it. He remembers standing very close to Mycroft outside the restaurant. He remembers thinking: Just kiss me. I can’t be the one to do this, you have to, so come on. 

Now, Greg nudges his foot against Mycroft’s under the table. Slots their shins together. “So?”

“It’s never just conversation,” Mycroft says, his eyes cast down as he rubs an absent finger over one eyebrow. 

He looks worried. Stressed. And that won’t do. “So why didn’t you make a move?”

Mycroft huffs. Looks up. Moves his hand away from his face in a gesture of open-palmed uncertainty. “As I said.”

“Okay.” Greg shrugs. “So you’re not great at making a move. I’m making one right now. So?”

Mycroft signals for the bill. 


It’s snowing gently as they walk back to the flat. There are maybe two inches on the ground so far, over a thick layer of ice. The road is a mess, and cars are sparse. The sidewalk is very well salted, but Greg steps gingerly anyway. 

At one point he does slip a bit, startled by a sudden gust of wind whistling between the tall buildings. He uses it as an excuse to curl his arm around Mycroft’s. Mycroft does his little breathy laugh again, and Greg pauses. He tips his head back a bit, gets his other hand up on Mycroft’s shoulder as if he needs to hang on with both hands. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Mycroft smiles, taking Greg’s invasion of his personal space easily. He even pulls him in close, free hand on Greg’s hip, turning him more firmly into Mycroft’s body. “I don’t mind,” he says. 

“You could kiss me now,” Greg suggests. “Here in the snow. Very… uh… romantic.”

“Atmospheric, even,” Mycroft murmurs, face tilted toward Greg’s. 

“Yeah,” Greg agrees. “That.” 

Mycroft tips even closer. Their noses brush. Greg’s breath catches somewhere in his throat. 

Come on. 

“Inside,” Mycroft says, devastatingly soft, a bare inch from Greg’s lips. 

Greg shudders and the fabric of Mycroft’s beautiful long wool coat is stiff under his fingers where they grip tighter. “You’re a cruel man,” he says, but moves away. He manages to resist speeding up his steps, knowing that a concussion from falling over will end this in a shot. 

“Clearly, though inexplicably, you seem to like that.”

Greg glances over his shoulder, surprised again at the flirty joke, and grins. “Yep,” he says, because that just about covers it, and hurries into Mycroft’s building. 


Coats are shrugged off and hung in the closet by the door, and they stand there, suddenly completely devoid of the ease that had flowed between them minutes before. Greg fights the urge to shove his hands in his pockets and rock back on his heels. 

Mycroft won’t look at him now, seeming intent on fixing his cuffs just so. 

Greg sighs. “We don’t have to. I know it’s awkward, seeing as you’re stuck with me thanks to the snow, so…”

Mycroft’s fingers still at his own wrist. “I am not stuck with you,” he says, just as softly as he had murmured the word inside so close to Greg’s mouth before. 

Greg decides in that moment that if he has to wait for Mycroft, he’ll be waiting til next year, so he steps forward. A hand at the back of Mycroft’s neck is all he needs to guide him where he wants him, and then Greg gently brings their mouths together. Mycroft inhales sharply through his nose, and his hands go instantly to Greg’s waist, hanging on maybe a little tighter than he means to, but Greg doesn't mind. He pulls away just far enough to tilt a little to the side and fit their lips together again, putting more intent behind it now, open and lush, and things go scorching from there.

Between one breath and the next, Greg is turned and pressed hard against the door, Mycroft’s tightly gripping hands sliding down to his hips and pushing him back or pulling him forward - both, in turns - and Greg opens gladly for Mycroft’s kiss, his tongue, and shoves his hands up into Mycroft’s hair, mussing it up like he’s always wanted to do. 

It’s good. It’s top-five-all-time-best-kisses good. Greg thinks he might have crumpled to the floor if he weren’t pinned to the door, all the blood in his body rushing south and leaving him dizzy and disoriented. But not so much so that he doesn't notice the way Mycroft’s body trembles against his, or the way his own breath is starting to come too quickly, growing short and just shy of hyperventilating. 

Greg cups Mycroft’s face and gentles his own lips, waiting for Mycroft to catch on and do the same. And just like that, it’s a soft, sweet thing; not hesitant, but less urgent. Mycroft’s hands unclench from Greg’s hips and his arms move around Greg instead, holding him rather than gripping him, and Greg sighs because actually, that’s what he’s wanted more than anything for years now. It’s easy to curl his own arms around Mycroft’s shoulders. 

What had started a bit X-rated slips gently into a sort of classic film clutch. Violins should swell in the background. Greg smiles into the next press of lips. 

“I apologize,” Mycroft says, face tucked next to Greg’s. Greg can’t see his eyes but he can feel the heat of his skin where their cheeks press together. 

“What for?” Greg’s surprised at the rasp in his own voice. He clears his throat. “That was… really good.”

“I hadn’t intended to… maul you.”

Greg laughs. Giggles, really. He traces his fingers along the bottom of Mycroft’s hairline in the back, sweeping over the soft, vulnerable skin there. “I don’t mind,” he says, and forces Mycroft to let him look at him, just a little. The foyer is dim, but Greg can see the dark intensity of Mycroft’s eyes, and the nervous set of his mouth. Greg kisses that second thing, just quickly, and then takes pity and rests their foreheads together to give Mycroft a reprieve from being observed from up close. “It was really good, Mycroft.”

“...good.” Mycroft’s arms tighten. 

“We should’ve done that years ago.”


Greg initiates another velvet soft kiss, fitting Mycroft’s lower lip between his own and nipping gently before drawing back again. One of Greg’s hands finds its way to Mycroft’s face again, thumb sweeping over a high cheekbone. Mycroft shivers against him and it’s just… 

“Can I…” Greg forces himself to lean away, to gently press Mycroft back and give him some space before Greg asks. “Can we go somewhere? The lounge is fine, we don’t have to—”

Mycroft shakes his head almost violently. “Not the lounge,” he says, and takes a step back, catching one of Greg’s hands and pulling him along. “My bedroom. If that’s—” 

“Yes, it’s alright.” Greg lifts Mycroft’s knuckles to his lips and brushes a kiss over them. “Lead the way.”

Mycroft’s cheeks are blazing and he’s back to looking anywhere but at Greg, but he nods and turns. Greg expects him to unlink their hands; he doesn't. He hangs on tighter. 


“Just sit down right here,” Greg says gently, guiding Mycroft by the shoulders to the edge of the bed. “You’re shaking.”

“I am not.” 

Greg smiles and holds out his hands. “Wrist,” he prompts. 

Mycroft gives him his left hand and watches Greg remove the cufflink. “I’m fine,” he says on a delay.

Greg bends to kiss the bared wrist, and then the palm of Mycroft’s hand, before curling Mycroft’s fingers closed and guiding it down to rest on his knee. “Other wrist.”

Mycroft offers up his other hand. Greg watches him lick his lips and clocks the quickening rise of his chest. 

The cufflinks go to the bedside table after Greg repeats the process to the other wrist and palm. He settles his hands over Mycroft’s shoulders, squeezing a little. Mycroft at least has stopped averting his eyes. He watches Greg’s face calmly - at least outwardly - and holds still. 

“This one time,” Greg says after a moment, “your brother had hared off to Dartmoor, and you sent me after him, and it was an absolute bloody nightmare, but when I got back to London you offered me dinner as thanks for putting up with the two of you and your hijinks.” 

Mycroft laugh-huffs and shakes his head. “I remember,” he says. He covers one of Greg’s hands with his own, tracing the tanned back of it. “You had a tan then, too.”

“That was the last vacation I took before this one.” Greg sighs. “I’m starting to think everyone’s right; I work too much.”

“You do,” Mycroft agrees. “But so do I.” 

“Anyway,” Greg says. He gives Mycroft’s shoulders one last squeeze before sliding his hands away, the left one slipping out from under Mycroft’s long fingers. Greg takes a breath and sinks to his knees. He registers Mycroft’s widened eyes, but doesn't pause. He begins to untie Mycroft’s left shoe. “Anyway,” he repeats. “That was the first time I really wanted to snog you senseless.” 

He doesn't look up from the pristine leather brogues. He removes the left and works the laces of the right. 

“You were married, then,” Mycroft says softly from above. 

“Just barely,” Greg agrees. “Went on that holiday by myself, anyway.”

Mycroft’s hand reaches, tentative, toward Greg’s hair. 

“Yes, please,” Greg murmurs quietly, and the fingers thread through just as he peels Mycroft’s sock away. Greg leans into the touch. “I wasn’t seriously trying for anything, when I started getting flirty with you. Not at first.” 

“I…” Mycroft clears his throat. “I wasn’t sure you were, until John Watson’s wedding.” 

Greg gets rid of the other sock and his fingers get distracted by the fine bones of Mycroft’s right ankle for a moment. He can hardly believe he’s actually doing this. Kneeling at Mycroft Holmes’ feet, touching the soft skin on the insides of his ankles, being carefully petted by him all the while.

Greg looks up, leaning back into the cup of Mycroft’s palm. Mycroft’s fingers tighten, massaging his scalp a little. Greg lets his eyes fall closed and he hums. When he opens them again, Mycroft is watching him with his lips parted. Greg lets his hands wander, skimming over the fine fabric of Mycroft’s trousers, up his shins and over the hard knobs of his knees, until he’s rubbing idly over the tops of his thighs. 

“That wedding was over a year ago,” Greg says, even as Mycroft’s fingers keep up the gentle scritch over his scalp, even as he leans back into it with a sigh. “You tease, I wanted to let you make the first move. A year, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft’s hand tugs him forward and up, urging Greg to rise up on his knees to accept a kiss, one that lasts, stretches out like melting caramel. The corners of Mycroft’s mouth still taste like chocolate. 

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft tells him. “I will try to never make you wait again.” 

Greg goes instantly breathless. It’s not like Mycroft just offered him a commitment or anything, but. Well, actually, for Mycroft, any statement of future plans or intent sort of does count as an offer. Greg wants it intensely, suddenly desperate to say something daft like I could take such good care of you, you know. Instead, he steals another kiss and works on getting Mycroft’s trousers open. 



Later, Greg’s working on a theory in the back of his mind, about Mycroft Holmes being the most patient bastard on the planet. That, or he’s got a hell of a thing for edging. Could be both. They’re both a mess of bitten lips and suck marks, sweaty and shaky. The sheets are a wreck around them, the floor littered with clothes and braces, shoes and a designer tie. 

Greg holds Mycroft against him, his back to Greg’s front, an arm over Mycroft’s chest to keep him close, the other hand wrapped tight and slick around genuinely the nicest cock Greg’s ever seen. Mycroft’s hand, flung up and buried once again in Greg’s hair - he seems to like that, touching Greg’s hair and wrecking it, wrapping it around his fingers and pulling it - tightens with every twisting upstroke of Greg’s fist. 

“Is it midnight yet, do you think?” Greg pants it out against the hot stretch of smooth skin between Mycroft’s ear and shoulder. “Might be cool if I can make you come just as it strikes twelve.”

Mycroft laughs and moans and yanks Greg’s hair. “Who—  who cares what time it is?” He gasps, and his thighs tighten around where Greg’s been lazily thrusting. 

Greg gasps against Mycroft’s throat and then laughs, countering by speeding his strokes only to slow again as the sounds spilling from Mycroft’s surprisingly filthy mouth get really interesting. 

Mycroft says something about being able to wait. 

“Yeah, well, I think we both know you can,” Greg mutters, and strokes him faster again, whining himself as Mycroft pulls his hair, harder now because he’s gone utterly mindless, taut and trembling against Greg’s chest. 


“No more waiting,” Greg tells him. “I want to watch it happen, come on Mycroft.”

He gasps, and then gasps again with a strangled cry when Greg finds his nipple and pinches, just a little, lightly like Mycroft had clearly liked earlier if the way he’d begged had been any indication. Greg hooks his chin over Mycroft’s shoulder to watch. Mycroft’s already twitching, trying hard not to shove his hips forward into Greg’s grip, because each time he does, Greg loses the delicious friction of his clenched thighs. 

“You feel so fucking good,” Greg says, low and a little gravelly - he’s learned that Mycroft likes that, too; likes his voice - and sucks a mark into his neck that will fade quickly, but does exactly what Greg intends it to do, making Mycroft jerk and writhe as Greg’s scraping with his teeth before licking over the salty skin. 

Mycroft sobs. His fingers spasm against Greg’s scalp, and he comes over Greg’s knuckles. 

“Perfect,” Greg breathes. 

Mycroft releases Greg’s hair all at once, the loss of his hand almost as painful as the pull had been. He reaches back, grips Greg’s hip, and tries to shove back. “Please.”

It doesn't take much, or much longer. Greg is more than happy to take the cue, fucking between Mycroft’s thighs without a thought for form or finesse. It’s incidental that each thrust drives Mycroft’s cock through the circle of Greg’s fist again, drawing overstimulated whimpers from his chest until he gently moves Greg’s hand away, laces their fingers together messily and holds them over his own chest. 

It’s that. That does it. It’s objectively filthy, a little gross, but it’s… it’s good. Greg likes it, likes the mess and the intimacy. 

It’s what he’s wanted, needed, and now he’s coming like a bolt of lightning just hit the base of his spine, so hard he can’t even groan with it. His mouth falls open, silent, against Mycroft’s shoulder, and a stray tear even leaks from the corner of his eye. It’s a lot. It’s good. 

Greg realizes he’s gripping Mycroft’s fingers, and probably too tightly, but when he loosens his hand, Mycroft doesn't let go. 

“Alright?” Greg manages, though he hasn’t even begun to catch his breath. 

“Yes,” Mycroft says, breathless too. “The most alright I’ve ever been, perhaps.” 

Greg presses kisses to the back of his neck, the crook of his shoulder. “Yeah,” he says. “Me, too.” 


It’s twelve minutes after twelve, the numbers glowing in green on the microwave in the kitchen, where Mycroft has dragged him, naked, by the hand in order to pour glasses of champagne he digs out of the refrigerator. 

“Is Anthea going to walk in on us?” Greg asks, fighting the urge to cross his hands over his bits. 

“Anthea has her own suite, with a kitchen, one floor below us.” Mycroft hands Greg a glass. “And anyway, she had a date planned, and I believe the lady was waiting for her when we arrived. I don’t expect to see her until tomorrow at breakfast, when she will doubtless emerge in a very good mood, and won’t torture me via my schedule for the entire day.”

Greg clinks his glass to Mycroft’s. “Well, cheers to Anthea’s date, then.” 

“To Anthea’s date,” Mycroft echoes, grinning in amusement. 

Greg would say something - tell Mycroft how dearly he’s wanted to see a real smile like that on his face, how long he’s waited - but he’s afraid that if he does, it will go away. So, instead, he presses his lips just to the side of it, on Mycroft’s cheek, and then another to his temple, the corners of his eyes where they crinkle. 

“Happy New Year,” he murmurs as Mycroft draws him in close. 

“Happy New Year, Greg.”