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Mycroft doesn’t like flying. It’s tedious and tiring and vaguely claustrophobic. He rarely has to travel; his position behind the scenes makes it easy for him to pull the necessary strings from his comfortable place in London. When he does go places, he likes to take the train. It’s more civilized. When he steps into a well-appointed cabin on a train, carrying his sturdy leather case, neatly turned out in one of his classic three piece suits, Mycroft feels like he’s part of a long tradition.
But this time, Sherlock just has to drag his entire entourage to Australia for a case, and Mycroft can’t very well take the train to Australia. He can’t refuse either, not when Sherlock is clearly intent on causing trouble with the Australian embassy. Somebody has to be on hand to prevent an international incident, and as usual, the task falls to Mycroft. He sighs with discontent and wriggles a little in the seat. The case is not exactly official, and although Mycroft had been able to arrange tickets for them, he couldn’t quite arrange first class without a lot of difficult questions. If there is anything worse than being stuck in a plane with Sherlock for eighteen hours, it’s being in economy class.
Mycroft looks out the window, but it’s nearly full dark. He sighs and glances over at his seat companion. Mycroft has, of course, fully reviewed the file on Inspector Lestrade. He did that the first time the man accepted Sherlock’s help on a case. Mycroft is careful to vet anyone who has regular contact with Sherlock. Lestrade is reliable, steady, reasonably flexible (he’d have to be, to work with Sherlock) and has never hesitated to share information with Mycroft if he felt it was in Sherlock’s best interest. He is predictable, Mycroft thinks. An average man with an average story—workaholic, divorced, has a pint and watches the game with friends most weekends, lives alone. Nothing to make him remarkable… and yet.
And yet Mycroft can’t quite take his eyes off the line of Lestrade’s profile as the man sits sleeping beside him. There is a touch of stubble on his jaw, and his eyelashes are dark against his cheeks. His salt and pepper hair is mussed and sticking up on one side, and at some point he has removed his tie and undone two of his shirt buttons. Mycroft can see only a glimpse of collarbone and he has to take a deep breath and look away. He is working (he is always working) and he does not allow distractions from his work.
Mycroft stares resolutely out the window and finishes his bottle of water. He nods when the flight attendant offers him another; the recycled air on planes always makes him thirsty. He rests his head against the wall and lets the thrum of the engines roll over him, blocking out the soft sounds of other passengers. It’s late, and most of them are sleeping now. Lestrade’s steady, barely audible breathing beside him is soothing and Mycroft drifts.
*
He wakes with a start, disoriented. He’s slumped over in his sleep, leaning against the wall and slouching in his seat, and he has no sense of what time it is or how long he’s been out. The plane is dim, the cabin lights on low in deference to the late hour. Lestrade is still asleep, but he’s shifted and his head is now a warm weight on Mycroft’s shoulder. Across the aisle, John and Sherlock are leaning against each other, covered in the same blanket, obviously asleep.
He registers all of this quickly and automatically, his focus on more pressing matters. He had two bottles of water (and tea before the flight) and it has caught up with him rather dramatically. Not only is his bladder throbbing urgently, he’s so hard it is clearly visible through his trousers. He shifts, pressing his thighs tightly together, and tugs his jacket down. Mycroft clenches his jaw and takes a steadying breath. He puts one hand carefully in his pocket and gives himself a discreet squeeze, his hips jerking forward automatically. He forces himself to be still and casts a furtive glance about the cabin, but no one is looking his way.
Lestrade makes a small sound and settles more heavily against his side. His hair is brushing Mycroft’s cheek. Mycroft bites his lip and bobs his knees up and down. His toes curl inside his shoes and he can feel sweat breaking out on his forehead. Lestrade smells delicious, like warm cotton and something faintly earthy. Mycroft takes measured breaths, trying to will the erection down. It’s no good though; he’s not sure if it’s the frequent pangs of urgency or the feeling of Lestrade pressed against him but he hasn’t softened at all.
He rubs a little, through the thin, slippery fabric of his pocket lining, just to distract himself from the pressure. His back aches a little, and his bladder sends shivery little waves of need rippling up his spine. He can’t tell if he’s hot or cold, his skin prickling into goosebumps and his breath making a strained whine in his throat. Mycroft presses the ball of his thumb firmly over the head of his cock and he can feel the moisture there but god, it feels good to press, to squeeze. His eyes flutter shut and he shifts forward in his seat, a tiny thrust into his hand.
There is a rustle from the passenger in front of him and Mycroft freezes, holding his breath. Stop it, what on earth are you doing, you’re going to get caught, he thinks, but he can’t stop himself from squeezing again. He has to go so badly and it’s such a relief to hold himself, to ease the pressure just a little. Beside him, Lestrade makes a soft sound in his throat, a breathy, rumbling sound, and Mycroft bites his tongue to keep quiet. Lestrade’s hand is resting on the seat between them, and if he scoots over just a little, the backs of Lestrade’s knuckles will brush his thigh. Mycroft knows it’s a bad idea but he can’t keep still, his hips rocking from side to side fretfully, and the warmth of Lestrade’s hand through his trousers is a welcome distraction.
“Mmm,” Mycroft says (whimpers), quietly, the sound escaping between his teeth. He blows out a long breath between pursed lips and leans forward, nearly doubled over on the seat. He squeezes himself again, circling his fingertips just below the head, his thumb still pressed tightly against the tip. He can’t possibly get up like this, he can’t walk down the aisle, he’s not sure he can even stand without losing control but he can’t very well sit here and wait either. Mycroft pants softly, then controls his breathing again, counting each breath. Anything to distract him, to maintain control, he’s got to calm down long enough to wake Lestrade without giving anything away.
His bladder contracts and sends a sharp urge rolling through him, and he whines in the back of his throat and squeezes again, every muscle tense. There is more dampness under his thumb now but he’s not sure if he’s actually wet a little or if it’s just pre-come. His balls are tight against his body, his cock aching and he can’t let go but he’s afraid if he keeps touching he’s going to lose control in an entirely different way. Mycroft squeezes at the base of his cock, trying to move back from the edge, and he feels something flutter uneasily low in his belly. He gets his hand around the tip again just in time as another wave of urgency seizes him.
“Oh,” Mycroft whispers under his breath. “Oh, oh, come on, please.” It’s barely audible, but something about hearing the edge of panic in his own voice makes fresh sweat break out in a cold line all down his back. He licks his lips and then grits his teeth. Cautiously, he removes his hand from his pocket. The muscles in his thighs are quivering with effort, his hands tremble and his bladder twinges a warning. Mycroft crosses his legs and leans forward again, forehead resting against the next seat. He’s dizzy with effort and his vision swims until he blinks away the wet blur.
“Lestrade,” Mycroft says, and then again, a little louder. He shakes Lestrade’s shoulder.
“Mmm?” Lestrade mumbles. “Whazzit?”
“Excuse me,” Mycroft says. His voice is nowhere near as cool and collected as he wants it to be, but it’s not shaking. Not yet. “Sorry to disturb your rest,” he says. “If you could please let me get past?”
“What? Oh, right, yeah,” Lestrade says. He’s sleepy, his eyes dark and unfocused, and any other time Mycroft would appreciate the unguarded expression but right now he just needs Lestrade to get out of the way.
Lestrade fumbles with his seatbelt and Mycroft bites the inside of his cheek. His entire groin feels hot and he’s not sure what it is but he doesn’t dare check. He wants to put his hand back between his legs, he wants to squeeze and press and squirm like a child, he wants to let go. Now that relief is imminent (as soon as Lestrade moves and god, has he always been this slow?) his body is already preparing for it.
Then finally Lestrade is getting up, he’s stretching and twisting his back, he’s shuffling out of the way (slowly) and Mycroft slides sideways until he can stand in the aisle. Standing is nearly his undoing as gravity pulls at the new angle. He has to bob at the knees and press his legs together and he barely stops himself from putting both hands on his cock and squeezing frantically. His fingers dig into the backrest of the seats as he keeps his hands grimly in place, and he holds his breath and concentrates. Almost there, he only has to walk up the aisle and he can see the sign for the loo and he’s so close. Just a little longer.
He’s aware that Lestrade is watching him and he tries to walk normally but can only manage small steps. He walks lightly but each time his foot impacts the floor it sends a ripple through him and he’s breathing through his teeth, breathing fast and his bladder is an aching weight in his belly and if he doesn’t get a hand on his cock right now he’s going to leak, he really is, he’s going to make a wet patch on his trousers and everyone will see and he can’t, he can’t, he can’t…
And then he’s through the door into the loo and sliding it shut behind him and he’s got both hands scrabbling at his buttons and he’s wriggling and squirming and he presses through his trousers, hard, and closes his eyes and breathes. Makes himself focus. His fingers are trembling but he finally gets the button loose and the zip down and thankfully he’s not so hard now, the pain and panic have distracted him enough that he can shuffle forward and aim and there, there, there.
The relief buckles his knees and he props one arm against the wall and leans against it. His sleeve feels good against his sweat damp forehead, cool and soft. He breathes in long, ragged gasps and swallows hard and moans, quietly. The tension runs out of him and it’s gorgeous, it’s brilliant, he wants to keep doing this forever. His head is full of white noise and his skin feels oversensitive and hot and his legs are trembling, threatening to spill him to the ground.
When he’s finally done, he flushes and then turns to brace his hands against the counter. He blinks dazedly at his reflection. His face is pink, sweat beaded on his upper lip, his hair mussed and sticking up in damp curls. Mycroft washes his hands automatically and then he has to stop and lean against the wall and close his eyes for a moment. Just for a little while, until the rapid thudding of his heart slows and he can draw a deep breath again.
He’s doing that, leaning against the wall with his trousers still undone, breathing, when Lestrade slips through the door.
Mycroft stares. He opens his mouth but he’s not sure what he’s going to say, so it’s fortunate that Lestrade doesn’t give him the chance. He closes and locks the door behind him, and stalks forward, crowding Mycroft against the sink. “Feel better?” he asks.
Mycroft nods numbly.
“I’ll bet,” Lestrade says. “I can’t believe you waited that long. Thought I was going to lose my mind, trying to sit still, so close to you. You’re absolutely gorgeous when you’re desperate, did you know?”
“I… no,” Mycroft says. His voice comes out thin and breathless, lost.
“I was going to wait,” Lestrade says. “Was going to let you come and sit back down and pretend like I didn’t notice anything. I was going to be all polite and respectable about things, maybe ask you to dinner after the case, something normal and safe. I figured we’d work up to this, but not too fast.”
“Oh,” Mycroft says. Lestrade is close, pressed against him, their chests almost touching. He can feel the faint rumble of Lestrade’s voice, can feel the pressure against his hip where Lestrade is hard in his trousers. His own cock is already hard again, poking through his open fly, and he can feel the smooth leather of Lestrade’s belt against the tip, rubbing a little with each inhale.
“But then I thought, waiting’s overrated.” Lestrade grins like a shark. “What do you think?”
Mycroft’s hands curl around Lestrade’s waist and pull him closer, until he is hot and firm and snug against Mycroft’s hips. “I think I’ve had enough waiting,” he says.
Lestrade leans in and presses his lips to the hinge of Mycroft’s jaw, and breathes there for a moment, nuzzling, the rasp of his stubble leaving a long line of sensation on Mycroft’s skin. “I was hoping you’d say that,” he says. He peppers Mycroft’s throat with a long line of kisses, nipping the skin, catching it between his lips and nibbling gently and Mycroft squirms, panting for breath. Then Lestrade drops to his knees and looks up at him. His mouth is open and pink, his skin flushed with arousal, his eyes dark. He rubs his mouth along the side of Mycroft’s cock and Mycroft gasps, his hips stuttering forward.
“I’ve been wanting to do this so long,” Lestrade murmurs, almost to himself. Then he licks a flat, broad stripe up Mycroft’s cock, from the base to the tip. He swirls his tongue around the tip and laps at the slit, humming eagerly. Mycroft puts a hand over his mouth to muffle his moan and leans back against the sink. He’s already close, he’s been close for ages, rubbing and wriggling and squirming in his seat, balancing on the edge between coming and wetting and he can’t last long now.
Lestrade pulls him in, mouthing around the edges of the head, his lips slick and firm, and he bobs his head. His tongue does wicked things, flicking at him, stroking over the foreskin, rubbing it back and forth. He uses the back of his tongue, slicker and smoother than the front, then wriggles the tip against his slit and Mycroft puts a hand in his hair and tugs. “Close,” he warns, his voice breaking over the word. “Oh god, close, oh please.”
Lestrade takes him deep, working him in long, steady pulls, his hand stroking what his mouth can’t reach. His other hand curves around Mycroft’s balls, heavy and tight against his body. His fingertips rub carefully behind them, the skin slippery with sweat and spit, and Mycroft bites the side of his hand to keep from crying out. He’s thrusting forward now, he can’t stop, ragged little shuddery pushes of his cock into Lestrade’s hot mouth and Lestrade is moaning encouragement around him, taking him deeper, swallowing, his throat snug against the tip of Mycroft’s cock.
His knees buckle as he starts to come and he braces his free hand against the sink, his other buried in Lestrade’s hair, holding him close and he knows he shouldn’t but he can’t help it, he really can’t. The pleasure rocks through him in long, delicious bursts, and Lestrade sucks him through it greedily, lapping at him, licking until Mycroft can’t stand any more sensation. Lestrade leans back and wipes his mouth and grins broadly. Mycroft blinks down at him, then grabs him by the collar and tugs him to his feet.
“My turn,” Mycroft says, and kisses him fiercely, tasting himself in Lestrade’s mouth. He nibbles at Lestrade’s lips, runs his tongue carefully along the sensitive inner edge, hums in pleasure. Lestrade is still fully dressed, pressing eagerly at him through his trousers, rubbing against Mycroft’s hip. Mycroft gets a hand between them and deftly opens Lestrade’s trousers, sliding his fingertips in until he finds hot, smooth skin. Lestrade draws in a harsh breath and presses closer.
“Quick,” Lestrade says. “Please, god, don’t tease me, I can’t, not now.”
“Enough waiting,” Mycroft agrees. He curls his hand around Lestrade’s cock and sets up a relentless rhythm, twisting on each stroke, rubbing the foreskin around the head and keeping his thumb pressed against the tip. It’s slippery, all of it slick with pre-come, Lestrade must have been hard for so long. Lestrade pants against his neck, pressing frantic kisses into his skin, moaning. Mycroft goes a little faster and sucks a kiss into the soft skin just below Lestrade’s ear. He licks the skin there, then down to his collarbone, and it’s every bit as delicious as it looked peeking out of his shirt earlier. Lestrade groans and bites at him, his fingers clutched tight in Mycroft’s shirt, teeth scraping over his shoulder.
“I didn’t want to get up, earlier,” Mycroft says, whispering the words right in Lestrade’s ear. “I needed to, I needed to so badly, but I wanted to stay there with you leaning against me. I liked the way you felt, the way you smelled. I didn’t think I’d get another chance.”
“Oh god,” Lestrade mumbles. “The way you were moving, the way you couldn’t even breathe quietly, you couldn’t sit still, and you were hard, I could tell you were hard. Were you touching yourself? Trying to hold on?”
“Yes,” Mycroft says. “I had to. I couldn’t let go for a second.”
Lestrade is whimpering now, thrusting into his hand. “Thought I was going to come in my pants,” he says. “When you stood up, you nearly lost it, didn’t you? I wanted to touch you then, wanted to feel you shaking, losing control.”
“Yes,” Mycroft hisses. “Yes, almost, so close, now you, I want you to lose control, I want to see.”
“Oh,” Lestrade says, and he rises up on his toes, trying to thrust a little harder. “Oh, oh, oh god, oh,” and he’s coming, spurting over Mycroft’s hand and against the wall, his whole body shuddering. He goes limp and boneless against him and Mycroft holds him up, leans them both against the wall. He wraps his arms around Lestrade’s waist and rests his cheek against the other man’s hair. He presses a kiss to Lestrade’s forehead and sighs, content.
“Wow,” Lestrade says after they’ve been quiet a while, their breathing slowing, hearts returning to a normal rate. “That was amazing.”
“Oh yes,” Mycroft says. “Definitely worth the wait.”
*