Sherlock: In Other Words: Thank You
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters: Lestrade, Mycroft
Words: ~ 1100
Rating/Warning: nc-17. PWP
Summary: Mycroft has a unique way of showing his gratitude (hint: blow-job). And he looks good while doing it.
A/N: I don't know what makes me want to write Mystrade porn, but I'll enjoy it while it lasts. Prompt's here: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15253.html?thread=83895701#t83895701
In Other Words: Thank You
"We must stop meeting under such circumstances."
Mycroft Holmes' slyly amused voice startles Greg. He looks up and sees him through the mirror, standing only a few steps behind him in the cramped hospital toilet. His pristine appearance stands in stark contrast to Greg's own battered face.
The DI curses inwardly and gives Mycroft a nod and a wry smile as a greeting, before he resumes his efforts at getting the worst of the blood out of his hair with a damp paper towel. He looks about as bad as he feels, a grating mix of exhaustion and aimless energy coursing through his veins.
He just wants to clean up enough to not scare people in the tube and then get home to a cold beer, a bit of mindless telly and a long lie-in the next morning.
Mycroft steps closer, hovering around the edges of what would be a respectable distance, and peers at the gash on his temple. "No lasting damage, I hope?"
The man smells of rain on fine wool and expensive aftershave.
Greg smells of blood and disinfectant, of sweat and that mouldy cellar the counterfeiters used. They really should stop meeting under circumstances like that.
"No," he says. He doesn't want to be rude, but he doesn't exactly want to deal with Mycroft either. Not now. Being almost killed while saving one Holmes-brother should exempt him from dealing with the other.
It's not that he dislikes Mycroft Holmes, it's rather the opposite problem. That combination of starchy neatness and the roguish humour that shines through now and then does things to him. Things he might have indulged one time or two in the privacy of his own lonely bedroom, but that he'd rather keep to himself. Especially when he looks and feels like the worn-out remains of himself, while Mycroft looks-
His thoughts stutter to a halt when he looks up at the man and is met with a truly devilish smile.
Caught, he thinks distantly. Entirely possible that his heart stutters to a halt, too.
Mycroft's smile broadens, like he knows all of Greg's secrets. He might, he certainly knows the only one Greg can think of at the moment.
He steps closer, and Greg looks down to break eye-contact for a moment, so he can remember how to start breathing again, but he gets distracted by the perfectly pressed lines of Mycroft's shirt collar against soft-looking skin.
"It seems I owe you a favour, Inspector," Mycroft says. "But what do you get the man who has everything?"
The kiss is surprising and weirdly familiar at once. Controlled, but utterly dirty, and Greg can't figure out if that's how Mycroft kisses or how Mycroft deduced Greg imagined it - and that is part of it. He can just stand there, dazed and aroused, and let it happen, let himself be kissed like it was an invasion, with Mycroft's strong, soft hands carefully tilting his head just so.
"I might have a concussion after all," Greg stutters out into the tense silence after Mycroft pulled away.
The impossible man chuckles as he steers him gently against the wall. "Are you experiencing a feeling of disorientation?"
"You could say that." He leans back against the cool tiles and tries to find his footing in a reality where Mycroft Holmes kisses battered police inspectors in tiny hospital toilets.
Mycroft smirks and sinks to his knees, carefully ironed creases flattened by dirty tiles. Greg makes a strangled noise and give up on reality.
He watches Mycroft Holmes on his knees before him, jacket spreading open and his manicured hands wandering from Greg's ribcage to his flies, glimpses of delicate wrists under starched white shirt cuffs.
Greg can't remember if he has ever been this hard without being touched, but the thought vanishes when Mycroft slides his hand into his trousers and encircles his cock with his long, careful fingers.
"God yes!" Greg mutters - can't really help muttering.
Mycroft glances up at him with a smug smile, then his concentration switched back to the matter at hand. He pulls Greg's trousers down just enough to free his erection, then leans in to take it in his mouth.
Oh, he's good at this. Shouldn't be so good the way he dresses and walks around... always so proper, but now look at him, on his knees, humming contentedly while sucking on the straining cock in his mouth. Neat, soft hand that has never seen hard work caressing a sliver of skin at Greg's thigh, the other holding his hip firmly under the wrinkled mess of his shirt.
Mycroft gives head like he kissed Greg before - like he was summoned by guilty fantasies of lonely nights. He takes control and his tongue does uncanny things - Greg clutches at his shoulder, fine pinstriped wool under his fingertips - and when Greg's vision is beginning to go dark, he swallows him down to the root.
When Greg comes to his senses again, Mycroft is standing up, still neat, not even his hair looks untidy. How can he still look so perfect after this, while Greg is a mess with rumpled clothes and - oh. He pulls his trousers up hastily and tries to sort out his shirt, then he looks back up at Mycroft, who licks his lips and any thoughts Greg might have been gearing up to sizzle out.
He wants to kiss those lips until they look bruised and muss up that hair and-
Mycroft smiles. "I wouldn't mind that."
"What?" he asks stupidly.
The smile broadens into that knowing grin. "Thank you for your heroics today, Inspector."
He turns to the sink and washes his hands, a glimpse of delicate wrists under starched white shirt cuffs. Greg is staring.
"Yeah, I had a feeling that you are profusely grateful," he says, confusion stark in his voice.
Mycroft looks greatly amused. "Or would you have preferred dinner?"
"I- erm." Greg stops himself from stammering something completely embarrassing. "Are you asking me out?"
And somehow that simple question has Holmes look away. "Well, would that be-"
"Yes," he interrupts. "I'd like dinner with you. Preferably when I'm not smelling or bleeding for once."
Mycroft smiles again, somehow more genuine than before. "There's a car waiting outside to bring you home."
"Do you want to..."
Mycroft shakes his head. "I still have an appointment that can't be postponed."
"Right." Lestrade hesitates, then thinks, sod it, and kisses Mycroft, a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. "But we're having that date."
For almost a second, the man looks baffled. Greg counts it as a small victory.
.
Characters: Lestrade, Mycroft
Words: ~ 1100
Rating/Warning: nc-17. PWP
Summary: Mycroft has a unique way of showing his gratitude (hint: blow-job). And he looks good while doing it.
A/N: I don't know what makes me want to write Mystrade porn, but I'll enjoy it while it lasts. Prompt's here: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15253.html?thread=83895701#t83895701
In Other Words: Thank You
"We must stop meeting under such circumstances."
Mycroft Holmes' slyly amused voice startles Greg. He looks up and sees him through the mirror, standing only a few steps behind him in the cramped hospital toilet. His pristine appearance stands in stark contrast to Greg's own battered face.
The DI curses inwardly and gives Mycroft a nod and a wry smile as a greeting, before he resumes his efforts at getting the worst of the blood out of his hair with a damp paper towel. He looks about as bad as he feels, a grating mix of exhaustion and aimless energy coursing through his veins.
He just wants to clean up enough to not scare people in the tube and then get home to a cold beer, a bit of mindless telly and a long lie-in the next morning.
Mycroft steps closer, hovering around the edges of what would be a respectable distance, and peers at the gash on his temple. "No lasting damage, I hope?"
The man smells of rain on fine wool and expensive aftershave.
Greg smells of blood and disinfectant, of sweat and that mouldy cellar the counterfeiters used. They really should stop meeting under circumstances like that.
"No," he says. He doesn't want to be rude, but he doesn't exactly want to deal with Mycroft either. Not now. Being almost killed while saving one Holmes-brother should exempt him from dealing with the other.
It's not that he dislikes Mycroft Holmes, it's rather the opposite problem. That combination of starchy neatness and the roguish humour that shines through now and then does things to him. Things he might have indulged one time or two in the privacy of his own lonely bedroom, but that he'd rather keep to himself. Especially when he looks and feels like the worn-out remains of himself, while Mycroft looks-
His thoughts stutter to a halt when he looks up at the man and is met with a truly devilish smile.
Caught, he thinks distantly. Entirely possible that his heart stutters to a halt, too.
Mycroft's smile broadens, like he knows all of Greg's secrets. He might, he certainly knows the only one Greg can think of at the moment.
He steps closer, and Greg looks down to break eye-contact for a moment, so he can remember how to start breathing again, but he gets distracted by the perfectly pressed lines of Mycroft's shirt collar against soft-looking skin.
"It seems I owe you a favour, Inspector," Mycroft says. "But what do you get the man who has everything?"
The kiss is surprising and weirdly familiar at once. Controlled, but utterly dirty, and Greg can't figure out if that's how Mycroft kisses or how Mycroft deduced Greg imagined it - and that is part of it. He can just stand there, dazed and aroused, and let it happen, let himself be kissed like it was an invasion, with Mycroft's strong, soft hands carefully tilting his head just so.
"I might have a concussion after all," Greg stutters out into the tense silence after Mycroft pulled away.
The impossible man chuckles as he steers him gently against the wall. "Are you experiencing a feeling of disorientation?"
"You could say that." He leans back against the cool tiles and tries to find his footing in a reality where Mycroft Holmes kisses battered police inspectors in tiny hospital toilets.
Mycroft smirks and sinks to his knees, carefully ironed creases flattened by dirty tiles. Greg makes a strangled noise and give up on reality.
He watches Mycroft Holmes on his knees before him, jacket spreading open and his manicured hands wandering from Greg's ribcage to his flies, glimpses of delicate wrists under starched white shirt cuffs.
Greg can't remember if he has ever been this hard without being touched, but the thought vanishes when Mycroft slides his hand into his trousers and encircles his cock with his long, careful fingers.
"God yes!" Greg mutters - can't really help muttering.
Mycroft glances up at him with a smug smile, then his concentration switched back to the matter at hand. He pulls Greg's trousers down just enough to free his erection, then leans in to take it in his mouth.
Oh, he's good at this. Shouldn't be so good the way he dresses and walks around... always so proper, but now look at him, on his knees, humming contentedly while sucking on the straining cock in his mouth. Neat, soft hand that has never seen hard work caressing a sliver of skin at Greg's thigh, the other holding his hip firmly under the wrinkled mess of his shirt.
Mycroft gives head like he kissed Greg before - like he was summoned by guilty fantasies of lonely nights. He takes control and his tongue does uncanny things - Greg clutches at his shoulder, fine pinstriped wool under his fingertips - and when Greg's vision is beginning to go dark, he swallows him down to the root.
When Greg comes to his senses again, Mycroft is standing up, still neat, not even his hair looks untidy. How can he still look so perfect after this, while Greg is a mess with rumpled clothes and - oh. He pulls his trousers up hastily and tries to sort out his shirt, then he looks back up at Mycroft, who licks his lips and any thoughts Greg might have been gearing up to sizzle out.
He wants to kiss those lips until they look bruised and muss up that hair and-
Mycroft smiles. "I wouldn't mind that."
"What?" he asks stupidly.
The smile broadens into that knowing grin. "Thank you for your heroics today, Inspector."
He turns to the sink and washes his hands, a glimpse of delicate wrists under starched white shirt cuffs. Greg is staring.
"Yeah, I had a feeling that you are profusely grateful," he says, confusion stark in his voice.
Mycroft looks greatly amused. "Or would you have preferred dinner?"
"I- erm." Greg stops himself from stammering something completely embarrassing. "Are you asking me out?"
And somehow that simple question has Holmes look away. "Well, would that be-"
"Yes," he interrupts. "I'd like dinner with you. Preferably when I'm not smelling or bleeding for once."
Mycroft smiles again, somehow more genuine than before. "There's a car waiting outside to bring you home."
"Do you want to..."
Mycroft shakes his head. "I still have an appointment that can't be postponed."
"Right." Lestrade hesitates, then thinks, sod it, and kisses Mycroft, a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. "But we're having that date."
For almost a second, the man looks baffled. Greg counts it as a small victory.
.