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Mycroft Holmes approached the The Packet Hotel with his lip curled in distaste. Yet, approach he did. He had a job to do. Information to obtain. The newest double-oh agent had an assignment.
The two story, freestanding building was grey stone trimmed in limestone, the windows not as numerous as you'd like, but clean, and glazed with red and blue stained glass announcing the name of the public house. It would be cheerful with sunlight pouring through. It was evening; the yellowed lamplight of the bar softened everything.
He entered the vestibule, tugging off his gloves, tucking them into his pocket, umbrella hanging off his wrist. His eyes swept the room and – ah – there he was. Lestrade, braced fetchingly against the bar rail, inviting posture, hip canted, low-rise denims showcasing a flat abdomen, and a large belt buckle drawing the eye to – hmm. The dossier was correct. He may have been married once, but Lestrade was open to men as well. That would make his task simpler.
The crowd hardly filled the place, grouped in friendly clusters watching the footy on telly. Mycroft taking a spot directly next to Lestrade did not seem too strange. He hooked his umbrella on the edge, laid his coat across the stool beside his, and sat, tugging down his waistcoat. Lestrade checked him over perfunctorily before turning back to his pint and looking at the television.
“What'll it be?” asked the publican.
Mycroft barely held out any hope, but asked, “What is your best brandy?”
The man rummaged under the bar for a moment, then came up holding a bottle, label out.
“Oh dear.”
Beside him, Lestrade snickered. “Not your usual sorta place, I take it?”
Mycroft favored him with a wry smile. “How observant of you. I'll have that bourbon, instead. Rocks. Thank you.” The barman moved away to make his drink. “You seem very comfortable here.”
Lestrade smiled. “I am. Nice place. People leave you alone. When you want to be alone.”
“I'm sorry. Would you rather I moved away?”
A cheer went up as the goalie blocked an attempt.
Lestrade shook his head and smiled. “No. S'fine. It's not one of those days. Greg.” He held out his hand. Mycroft took it and shook.
“Holmes. Mycroft Holmes.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr Holmes. So, do they call you Mike, or what?”
"Mycroft will do.”
“Hmm. Might stick to Holmes.”
Mycroft feigned slight recognition. “Have I seen your face in the newspapers? Yes, D.I. Lestrade. Of New Scotland Yard.” Lestrade shrank back a bit at that. “Please, that was an ugly business, I know, but, as I occupy a minor position in government, I understand your desire for privacy. I won't press you on that.”
“Right. Yeah. Okay.” Lestrade relaxed again as Mycroft's drink was set before him. Mycroft sipped at it. Not horrible. “Enjoying that?”
“Yes,” said Mycroft.
“But it's not your brandy, is it?”
“Have you ever had a very good brandy? If you had, you might not tease a man for wanting.”
“Ha. No, Mr Holmes, I never tease.” Lestrade's ears went pink at that, and Mycroft took the opportunity to hold his gaze for a long moment. Very good. Lestrade cleared his throat. “But you know what? My Super took me out to a good steak place once. About halfway through my meal, I smelled something... angelic is the only word for it. Heavenly. I followed my nose over to the next table where a man had a snifter up on one of those contraptions, with the candle? Heating it?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I asked the waiter. Thirty year old Chateau Something Something. Best thing I ever smelled. Hundred pounds a shot. ”
“Yes, well Chateau Something Something is a very highly regarded producer.” Lestrade chuckled and smiled, flashing straight white teeth. Mycroft tamped down a wave of arousal. In time, in time.
“Anyway, it smelled so wonderful, I can hardly imagine what it would be like to taste it. Part of me never wanted to. Can you imagine getting a taste of something that precious, touching on ambrosia like that, and never getting to have it again? Everything else would pale in comparison.”
Mycroft smoothed his expression. “Yes. A terrible position to be in.”
“And me on a copper's budget? Best not to aim too high, and get used to that kind of thing.”
They fell into a comfortable silence, drinking their drinks, watching the match.
After a time, Mycroft sighed. Lestrade swung his head around, raised his brow.
“I'm more of a cricket man, you see. I never could understand the attraction of football. Tell me, Detective Inspector, am I missing something, or is it as simplistic as it seems on the surface?”
Well, that was the perfect question. Lestrade expounded for twenty minutes and another pint on the finer points of defense, offense, strategic substitutions, and all. Mycroft was not convinced. He was interested in sport on a higher, geo-political level. He couldn't care less about men getting balls to go fast and far into defensive territory, although he appreciated the pure athleticism of it. He said as much. Lestrade only laughed, and tried again. It prompted touching, though, a clap on the shoulder, a shake on the arm to make a point. Progress. This was really too easy. The man was pliant, just drunk enough, and obviously intrigued.
Mycroft watched Lestrade finish a pull on his glass. He stood, sliding his slim wallet from his breast pocket. The man's face fell, gratifyingly, to see Mycroft prepare to leave.
“Going already? Game's not over.”
Mycroft caught his eye and held it. He leaned in slightly, speaking low and rough in Lestrade's ear. “I'm going out for a smoke. I do love to have something long, firm and hot in my mouth. Care to join me?” He quirked a smile as he swung his coat about his shoulders.
Lestrade swallowed hard, agog at being so blatantly propositioned. An expression crossed his face that perhaps he'd got it wrong, but then came to his senses. He shook himself, grabbed his pint and downed the last as he grabbed his jacket. He signaled to the barman with two fingers waggled over the glasses to put it on his tab, and Mycroft led them out.
The empty lot beside the bar wasn't terribly narrow, didn't offer the kind of privacy you'd want from a dark alley at night. It would do.
Mycroft leaned his umbrella against the stone wall, then himself; a touch of insouciance, a large measure of masculinity. He knew he was not classically handsome, but neither was Bond, and he seemed to do very well. Confidence was key.
Lestrade liked what he saw, and sidled up close. He leaned in, scenting at Mycroft's throat. He looked up with his ebony eyes, especially piercing in the dim of the alley, the silver of his hair catching the streetlight. Gorgeous man. When he smiled, he seemed to bare his teeth – a hard smile from a hard life. Mycroft gently grasped his shirt collar and tugged, the merest of suggestion, bringing him closer.
“Do you kiss, Detective Inspector? I would kiss you, if you'd allow it.”
Lestrade grunted softly as he leaned up to press his mouth over Mycroft's. Mycroft mirrored him in all things, determining what Lestrade would allow of a stranger, careful to not scare him off, spook him before the job was done. First, to open his mouth and deepen the kiss – beery, tasting of bourbon, now, tasting of tongue. Delicious. Second, to mimic Lestrade's roaming hands and grasping arms, tugging Lestrade closer in an embrace, daring to smooth his hands down and down along Lestrade's curvaceous bottom. He clenched his hands, digging in his fingertips, tugging his cheeks apart slightly. Lestrade approved, making a show of writhing against him. Thin denim hid little. He slid his hand around to Lestrade's fly, tracing his generous cock, smoothing it with his palm between them. Lestrade frowned and groaned, grasping Mycroft's head as he bucked into the pressure, devouring Mycroft's thin lips, biting softly at his jaw. Mycroft couldn't contain a moan of his own. That only fed the D.I.'s desire.
“I need that cock in my mouth.” Mycroft ran his hands through the velvety buzzcut, sucking at Lestrade's lip, until Lestrade pushed him down by the shoulders. Mycroft went, sliding down the wall to his knees, fumbling with Lestrade's flies, as the man braced himself against the stones, eyes never leaving Mycroft's face and blown pupils, not until he tore them away to watch Mycroft take him in hand, pump him, then lean forward to take him in his mouth.
Lestrade exhaled like it was his last breath, a death rattle, silent as Mycroft sucked him firmly, deep. Lestrade's knees buckled, and Mycroft eased up until he locked them again, taking a wider stance. Mycroft pulled his denims farther down, exposing buttocks, grasping at that flesh, pulling him in close, encouraging his thrusts. He let the D.I. fuck his mouth, sucking when he could, but the man was so far gone already.
“Fuck me. Uhh, good. Yes. You posh thing, you. Filthy. Yeah. Gorgeous. Suck it. Suck-- nnngh.”
Mycroft cupped his arse, pressing Lestrade's pelvis to his face, almost choking on the long prick slamming the back of his throat, jarring his head against the wall. Lestrade's knees buckled again on a moan. His braced forearms kept him from falling on Mycroft as the shocks wrenched through him, bowing his back, clenching, seizing and holding.
“Christ, you are good at that.” Lestrade slowly regained himself, standing, putting himself away quickly, buttoning his jeans, checking the street furtively. He helped Mycroft up. “Thanks.”
“You're quite welcome, Detective Constable.”
Lestrade frowned. “Detective Inspector, actually.”
“Not after tonight. Not unless you do exactly as I ask.”
“Look, this was fun, but I'm going to get – ” Lestrade began to back away.
“No. Do you see that camera there?” Mycroft glanced at the street. “And that camera there?” He swung his head and indicated the traffic camera on the next street over.
“What are you saying? They aren't even pointing at us!”
“They were a moment ago.”
Lestrade blanched. White as a sheet. “What do you want?”
“We will get in my car, and drive to New Scotland Yard, where you will go inside and bring out certain files. You will bring them to me, and then I will leave. You will not see me again.”
Lestrade dragged a hand down his face, backing up a step.
Mycroft continued. “I'm sure being bisexual in the force these days is better tolerated than it used to be. However, I'm sure that public sex is still frowned upon for the crime it is. And such a seedy one, too.”
Lestrade turned in place, his hand dropping, as he bent at the waist, propping himself up, hands on knees, huffing. He straightened.
“Yeah. Red.”
“I'm sorry?”
“Red, Mycroft. Stop. I can't.... ”
“Oh. Gregory, are you alright?” Mycroft stepped close, wrapping his hand around Greg's neck. “I'm sorry. What was it?”
Greg slid an arm low around Mycroft's back. “That hit way too close for comfort. Just knowing your reality, what Sherlock and John go through? It's too real. I can't. Not even funny.”
“I'm so sorry.”
Greg shook it off. “No. It's good. I enjoyed it. Getting seduced by MI6? Very sexy, you were. Just that last bit.” He blew out a breath. “No.” Mycroft petted him, ran his fingers around an ear. Greg had always liked that; he calmed visibly. “What about you?”
Mycroft smiled fondly. “What about me? I'm fine.”
“No, I mean it's your turn. I just got a fabulous blow job from a double-oh agent in a deserted lot. Need to see to you, now.”
Mycroft gripped the hair at Greg's nape. “I'm fine.” He kissed him.
“No you're not. And, apparently the fear of blackmail is a great sobering agent, and I'll be ready to go again, so why don't we go back to yours, and I'll pretend to be the gigolo you've hired for the evening and give you the ride of your life?”
A wicked smile spread across Mycroft's face. “Or the other way around.”
“Or the other way around. I'm easy. I fuck people for money, remember?”
They turned and started off, close to each other.
Mycroft picked his way over some rubble, balancing with his umbrella. “Next time, we use my club. Much nicer.”
“I can't talk to you at your club.”
“A challenge.”
“That you are, Mycroft. That you are.”
Himself at his local. The pose that launched two thousand words.