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It’s the kind of situation that would have likely made his mum give him a good wallop upside the head. Greg sits at the pub, wishing that he were alone, nursing a pint of beer in the hopes that if he ignores his companion long enough his wish might come true. The back of his head aches in tune to the dull throb in his ribs, both warning him against sudden movement. He probably shouldn’t be drinking right now, not after the day he’s just had, but he needs something to help him deal with the proposition that Sherlock has just laid in front of him.
See, the thing about Sherlock is that Greg does love him. He can't help it by this point; overexposure to Sherlock Holmes typically tends to end one of two ways: people either love him or want to murder him. Fortunately for Sherlock, Greg happens to fall into the former category. He can even admit, in his more honest moments once he's had a pint or two, that he cares a lot about John Watson. The two of them, they're genuinely good men. Maybe John a bit more than Sherlock, but to his credit Sherlock has been trying lately and as far as Greg is concerned that's what counts the most.
But he's not in love with either of them.
For most people that's not really an important distinction, but Greg's come to realize that it matters. He sees the way Sherlock and John look at each other. The private smiles, the affectionate little touches - a seemingly casual brush of hands, shoulders bumping, standing a smidge to close - and the meaningful expressions all speak of something that Greg doesn't have, or want, with them. He loves Sherlock, he likes John, and the handful of times that he's had sex with them are something to be remembered as the best sex he's had in his whole life.
But that's as far as it goes. He doesn't want to move into Baker Street, doesn't have any particular desire to kiss Sherlock or John outside of sex, doesn't even stick around once the orgasms are finished. He puts in the effort and then heads out while those two get all cuddly and soft with each other. And it's not like he minds when they get like that. He was married for over ten years, he knows what at gift it is to be able to wake up next to someone and know they're there because they want to be.
It's just that he doesn't want that with them, and he's reminded of that all over again every time they fall into bed (or on the sofa, or the desk, or sometimes the floor - once even the backseat of his patrol car) with each other.
That's why he hesitates, because there is someone he does want that with, and he can’t stop himself from wondering if he’s shooting himself in the foot every time he gives in. He takes a sip of his beer, and then another deeper, longer pull, trying to ignore the set of steely eyes boring into the side of his head. But it's easier said than done, ignoring Sherlock Holmes. The man's more tenacious than a puppy with a bone. Greg finally sets his empty glass down and sighs.
"I dunno, Sherlock."
"You've never objected before," Sherlock says.
"And I'm not objecting now."
"So your answer is yes?"
"No," Greg says, and, when Sherlock pouts, rolls his eyes. "I don't mean no as in, no I won't have sex with you and John, I mean no as in..." He trails off, realizing he has no good way to conclude that sentence. Because the truth is it's been a really long week and he could use a good orgasm or two to help him relax, even if it means going home to a cold, empty bed afterwards.
He’s never going to get what (who) he really wants. That scenario is so far out of his league he tries not to think about it. At least he knows Sherlock and John. They're not strangers, and Sherlock is as close to what Greg wants as he’s ever gonna get. This will be familiar, comfortable, but not boring. Things never are with Sherlock around.
As though sensing weakness, Sherlock carefully presses on. "I promise that you'll like it. I've been working on this scenario for quite some time now. It's a complete surprise for both you and John."
"Did John agree to that?"
"John trusts me."
Greg stares at him with narrowed eyes.
"I'll only tell you what I told him," Sherlock says with a haughty sniff, like Greg and John are the ones who have proven in the past that their judgement can be a little (a lot) skewed at times. "You and John will be two mates hanging out for the night having a beer. Both of you are straight until I break in and bend you to my will." He leers then, and about half the blood in Greg's body does an abrupt about face and plummets south. It's absolutely not fair how crazy sexy the bastard can be.
"And then what?" he says, sounding only slightly more breathless than he thinks he should.
"You'll have to come home with us to find out."
Greg looks at his empty glass. He's got an offer on the table here, and his only other option - going back to his cramped, empty flat where his only company will be his right hand and whatever fantasy he can dredge up - is less than appealing. "I'm in."
Sherlock's smile is blinding. "Excellent. The cab is waiting for you out front."
"How did you even know I would say yes?" Greg complains to empty air. Sherlock's gone, lost in the crowd, and there's no telling when or where he'll pop up again. With a long suffering sigh, he tosses a handful of bills on the bar and gets up.
There is indeed a cab waiting right out front, and Greg gets into it sulkily. The cabbie takes off without waiting for him to speak, joining the late afternoon traffic. Left with nothing to do but wait and try not to get himself so worked up he goes off with a single touch, Greg stares out the windows and watches the pedestrians passing by. A couple of times his eyes catch on CCTV cameras and he wonders if it's his imagination that the cameras seem to be following the progress of his cab through downtown London. Wishful thinking, no doubt. He smiles a little bitterly and looks away, drumming his fingers impatiently on his leg.
The cabbie refuses payment and the door to Baker Street turns out to be unlocked. He leaves it like that and heads up the steps, knocking cautiously on that door before he tries the knob. His stomach growls angrily at the scent of pizza and John glances up at him from where he's sitting on the sofa, grinning. He’s dressed casual, jeans and a loose shirt, and there’s no indication whatsoever that anything untoward is about to happen in the next half an hour. Greg hesitates briefly, uncertain, until John waves him over.
"There's plenty. I ordered lots."
"Looks fantastic," he says honestly, shedding his coat and shoes, He grabs a slice before he sits down next to John and takes a huge bite, eyes nearly fluttering shut as his taste buds rejoice. "Bloody hell that's good."
"Best place in London," John says, not a little smugly, and sets his feet up on the table.
Apparently they're really not talking about this and that's fine. The remnants of jittery energy slowly begin to subside as Greg works his way through three pieces of pizza and another beer. He turns down the offer of a fourth piece, because even though he's supposed to be oblivious to what's about to happen he doesn't think it's a good idea to stuff himself. On occasion, Sherlock can get inventive when it comes to positions and throwing up isn't sexy as far as Greg's concerned.
He turns his attention to the telly, but the show really isn’t that interesting. It’s some kind of documentary that John seems genuinely intrigued by, probably because it’s one of the few times he can watch something without Sherlock hovering around trying to change the channel to Jeremy Kyle. But there’s a reason Greg didn’t want to go into the medical field. He quickly finds his eyes growing heavy as the beer makes its way through his system, the narrator’s dull, droning voice drifting away as he gives himself over to a light doze.
John swears, sudden and loud, and Greg comes back to himself with a jolt. He blinks stupidly, trying to reconcile the scene in front of him with what he fell asleep to. John is sprawled on the ground in front of the sofa, hands cuffed behind his back, pinned down by Sherlock’s considerable weight. A string of furious curses are muffled by the gag Sherlock has just tied around his mouth. Sherlock stands up gracefully and turns to Greg, and he reacts automatically but even as he tries to get his feet under him he know it’s too late.
Sherlock tackles him to the sofa and pins him embarrassingly easily, holding him down and cuffing his hands behind his back as well. It doesn’t take Greg long to recognize the cuffs. They’re his, the very set he’d used not three hours ago to subdue a prisoner, and he remembers leaving them in the safety of his flat before heading to the pub. Which means Sherlock broke into his flat again. He draws in a deep breath, pissed, and chokes when fabric is pushed into his mouth.
“I’m not in the mood to hear objections today,” Sherlock says with a cruel smirk, keeping the fabric in place with another strip tied firmly around the back of Greg’s head. It’s both amazing and chilling to see how quickly he can transform, how genuine and believable this all seems. A chill runs down his spine and he forgets about the plan, losing himself in the moment with a stifled demand.
“This was pitifully easy, you know. You really should think about your security. I had no difficulty getting in or tying up the two of you,” Sherlock adds, hauling Greg off the sofa. In spite of the roughness of his movements, he’s gentle as he lowers Greg to the floor beside John. Greg glances over at John, noting the anger mingled with fear, and clenches his own hands uselessly. How could they have allowed themselves to be taken so off guard?
For a moment – a very long moment that leaves Greg tense from head to toe – Sherlock moves out of sight. He finally comes back and kneels down. Greg tries to kick him but Sherlock’s anticipating that, gripping his ankle and using another set of cuffs to effectively hobble his legs by looping the chain around the leg of the sofa. It limits his range, makes it nearly impossible to kick or squirm away. He growls, flopping around on the floor like a fish, and finally manages to roll over onto his belly.
John’s ankles are cuffed too, now, and Sherlock has an arm wrapped around his waist. He pulls John up onto the chair with him, settling him onto Sherlock’s lap, and takes a pair of scissors to John’s shirt. “Best be careful. I wouldn’t want to cut you,” he says, and John goes still.
Greg watches the progress of the scissors with mounting horror. Sherlock is clinical and calm, cutting a line straight up John’s chest and then across the sleeves. The flimsy fabric tears away easily, leaving him naked from the chest up. The denim of his jeans is a little tougher to cut through, and there’s no escaping the mortification on John’s face as he’s left clad in only his boxers. Sherlock chuckles, low and dark, and slides his finger under the waistline of the material.
“I wonder what you have under here,” he muses. “Have you ever wondered, Greg?”
He jerks in response, surprised at being addressed, and Sherlock’s smile turns mocking.
“I bet you have. I bet you’ve wanted to get your hands on this for a long time,” he says, slapping John on the thigh. John yelps. “Just like I bet you’re far too secure in your masculinity to ever want to find out. That’s what this evening is about, though. Crossing lines, making boundaries disappear. I do get so tired of having to watch you both eye fuck each other when you think the other isn't looking.
He looks at Greg. “Would you like it if I prepared him for you? Slicked his hole up, let you watch, set him down on top of you so that you could fuck up into him? I’d even hold him up, if you asked nicely.”
Jesus. John’s cheeks are bright red, probably about the same shade as Greg’s because he can feel his face burning too. He hasn’t fucked either of them, but he can’t deny that it has crossed his mind once or twice. His cock hardens at the thought and he’s glad that he’s rolled over on his belly, hiding the evidence of his shame.
Sherlock gaze is far too knowing for comfort. “You’d like that. And John would, too. After tonight he’ll know what it’s like to have a cock in his arse whether he wants it or not. I already know he’ll love it, but by then he will too.” He slides his whole hand into John’s boxers and John whimpers, head tipping back. “So maybe I should let him suck your cock, get you nice and wet, first. Introduce him slowly.”
“No.”
The new voice is entirely unexpected. Greg jumps and then winces at the sharp jolt of pain. It’s not enough to stop him from craning his neck around to see what’s going on, and he can see by the expression of shock on John’s face that this is just as much of a surprise to him. Sherlock, on the other hand, just looks like the cat that’s finally got its paws on the cream.
Mycroft Holmes leans against the doorframe, fully dressed in his suit, apparently unsurprised by finding his little brother in the act of deciding how he’s going to force two men to molest each other. His cool eyes scan slowly over the scene, lingering on both Greg and John in turn. It feels like he sees everything and Greg squirms, the shame building hotter in the pit of his stomach. He wants to scramble to his feet and offer an explanation – something, anything, that sounds better than the reality.
“We agreed, Sherlock,” Mycroft says at last. “You may do whatever you like with John, but Greg is mine.”
John’s eyes dart to Greg, but he can’t look away from Mycroft. His head is spinning at this new revelation. Mycroft steps slowly into the room and it’s like watching a lion stalking prey, only in this case the prey has been trussed up and tied and is just waiting to be devoured. Greg’s breath comes in short pants as Mycroft kneels in front of him. The first brush of those cool fingers against his chin makes him shiver, made worse when Mycroft leans over and warm breath washes over his ear.
“If you don’t want this, you need only snap your fingers and it will stop.”
The words are so softly spoken that it takes Greg a moment to register them. He opens eyes he didn’t realize he’d closed, looking up at Mycroft. He’s still confused by what’s going on, but just the mention of the safe word that he, Sherlock and John had worked out months ago calms some of the tension raging through him. It’s a solid reminder that this is a game, just harmless role play, and Mycroft and Sherlock aren’t really out to hurt them. He’s not sure why Mycroft is here, but Sherlock loves John and that counts for a lot.
He takes as deep breath as he can and deliberately lets his hands go loose.
Mycroft’s smile is as wicked as it is approving, and he trails one line down Greg’s spine. “The scissors, dear brother, if you please.”
Sherlock hands them over without argument and it’s Greg’s turn to feel the cool kiss of metal against his flesh as his clothing is methodically cut from his body. Unlike Sherlock, though, Mycroft does not leave him with boxers to hide behind. He is left bare to the room, the flesh of his buttocks prickling in the chill, though it does little to diminish the heat between his thighs. If he had even a little less self-control he would be rutting against the floor like a dog.
As it is, he shivers when the tips of Mycroft’s fingers glide down his back again. He can’t resist arching into the touch, his spine curving like a needy cat. Mycroft chuckles, a sound so eerily reminiscent of his brother just minutes ago that Greg’s eyes fly open. He swallows hard when he sees Sherlock and John. Sherlock’s got John’s thighs spread and a hand still buried in John’s boxers, only now the movement of his wrist suggests that he’s got at least one, if not two, fingers plunged deep inside his captive.
John has his head tipped back, his whole body wracked with shivers of pleasure, the arm locked around his waist preventing him from being able to move away. Drool runs down his chin around the gag and his face is flushed pink with arousal, eyes glazed. He’s still struggling, weak jerks of his arms and shoulders as his thighs clench. He catches Greg watching and looks torn between humiliation and desire, and that is a reaction that Greg knows damn well is not feigned.
The cuffs around his ankles tighten and then go slack as Mycroft effortlessly lifts one side of the sofa to slip the chain free. “Fight me, and you will not like the consequences,” he says, and it sounds low and rough and not at all like Mycroft Holmes.
To hell with that. Greg lashes out immediately with his feet, pleased when he makes contact with Mycroft’s stomach. He twists free, pushing his arse into the air as he prepares to straighten up without the support of his bound arms, and goes shocked still when a heavy, punishing blow lands across his arse. An arm curves around his neck during his momentary stupor, wrestling him down and pinning him to the floor with embarrassing ease. The flesh of his buttocks aches when he comes into contact with the floor and he whimpers without thinking, unable to hold it in even though the pain is nothing compared to what he’s gone through before.
But this – this isn’t about before, it’s about the here and now, where he’s just some poor sod who was in the wrong flat at the wrong time and the man hovering over him wants things that he’s really not prepared to give. He whimpers again, not wanting to fight the way John does, seeking mercy, and Mycroft slides a leg across his thighs and straddles his belly.
He tilts his head to the side, watching Greg through narrowed eyes. “You’re going to behave?” he inquires, reaching down to pinch one of Greg’s nipples. He twists the nub, rolling it slowly between his thumb and index finger, then unexpectedly digs the nail of his index finger into the soft pink flesh. Greg gives a muffled cry of pain, trying to wrench away, only there’s nowhere he can go because Mycroft’s weight has him thoroughly pinned.
“You could punish him more,” Sherlock says, sounding almost eager. “He gave me quite a difficult time, too. I always told you that they would be spirited.”
“Yes, you did,” Mycroft murmurs, finally releasing Greg’s throbbing nipple. It hurts even more as the blood rushes back in. “But as amusing as your initial idea was, Sherlock, I’m not certain it’s feasible. John seems to be enjoying fucking himself on your fingers far too much for it to be his first time.”
John shakes his head vehemently in denial, but Sherlock just laughs. “He’s more eager than I was expecting. Takes three of my fingers so easily. He’ll feel wonderful around my cock. I love the way he fights.”
With another warning tap to Greg’s thigh, reminding him that fighting will not be tolerated, Mycroft slides off him and pushes his thighs up and open. He feels bared for the man’s intent perusal and can’t stop the humiliated blush that burns at his cheeks. His cock is hard and bobbing between his thighs, twitching when the corner of Mycroft’s mouth slides up into a smirk.
“I’ve been waiting for this for some time now, and it seems that you have as well Detective Inspector,” he says, but it doesn’t come out sounding like a respectful title. More mocking, disdainful, like something a child should be proud of. “There’s no point in fighting me. I can see how much you want this.”
Greg whines and can’t help squirming, shame and embarrassment crawling over him in waves. He jumps at the first touch of a finger to his entrance, unprepared for the chill of the slick lube. He has no idea where or when Mycroft got it from and can’t catch his breath as the lube is smeared sloppily between his cheeks. With his other hand Mycroft pushes down the zip of his trousers, thumbing open the button, and pulls his cock out. He lubes himself quickly, never once looking away.
His legs are lifted, ankles settled over Mycroft’s head and around his neck, leaving Greg completely spread open and unable to get away even if his hands were somehow freed. He struggles at the first press of a cock to his hole, panic chilling his arousal. He’s never been taken without preparation before. He moans a protest around the gag, gasping when Mycroft grips him firmly by the hips and begins to push in.
It hurts. Discomfort burning on the edge of true pain and he tries to breathe through it, pressing his shoulders to the floor like that might help make the difference. The pressure is maddening, impossible to escape, and he chokes on the tears that well up in his eyes, feeling pinned and helpless. Taken. He’s never felt like this before.
Mycroft only stops when he’s bottomed out, his bollocks resting against Greg’s arse. He wipes his thumb across Greg’s cheek, smearing the tears. “Tears won’t do you any good. I’m not a merciful man and I take what I want when it isn’t freely offered to me.” He rolls his hips slowly, testing, and Greg flinches at the sting.
He turns his head away, seeking a distraction, and finds John and Sherlock. John’s naked now too, impaled on Sherlock’s cock, the equally iron grip on his thighs ensuring that he’s not going anywhere. They’re not fucking, though, just sitting there like any other day, but Sherlock’s whispering in John’s ear and Greg can only imagine what filthy things he’s coming out with. John’s eyes are heavily lidded and every minute or so he shakes his head weakly, but his cock is fully hard and leaking.
His eyes are drawn back to Mycroft when the man pulls out, thrusting back in for the first time. It doesn’t hurt as much as Greg is expecting, but it’s still painful. His erection has flagged from the intrusion, his cock resting flaccid against his thigh, and Mycroft reaches down to cup his penis. He holds the soft flesh in the palm of his hand as though measuring and then, proving that the Holmes brothers have an excess of hidden surprises, leans down and sucks Greg’s cock into his mouth.
“Oh god,” Greg says, or tries to say, it comes out slurred around the gag but he thinks Mycroft can make it out anyway. It’s been a damn long time since he’s had a blowjob like this, all kitten licks and gentle suckling, tongue dipping into the slit and lips sealing perfectly around the head. His thighs tremble and he clenches his hands into useless fists as his cock starts to re-harden fast.
How can Mycroft be doing this? How can he be this flexible? His toes curl with the pleasure and he moans again into the gag when the wet heat disappears. Mycroft straightens up, wearing a satisfied smile, and starts fucking into him in earnest, gripping Greg's waist and dragging him down into each thrust. Greg waits for his erection to flag again but it doesn’t, not when each thrust seems to be perfectly aimed so as to rub against his prostate. The thrilling little sparks dance up his spine, siphoning off into his blood until the temperature feels unbearably hot.
“This is how you take control, Sherlock,” Mycroft grits out, his face reddening from exertion. He slows down, eliciting another whimper, and trails his fingers teasingly across Greg’s cock. “You don’t force it. You make them want it. It is of no consequence if they tell themselves that it was forced on them, that they can forget it because of that.”
“I know how to take control,” Sherlock snaps.
“Do you really? Or do you only have it because even now, when you’re trying to force yourself on him, John lets you have it?”
Sherlock looks furious. He wraps his long fingers around John’s cock and begins pumping, his hand almost a blur, like he’s determined to bring John off as fast as he can. It’s like a competition, Greg realizes dazedly, and no sooner does that thought pass through his mind than Mycroft begins fucking him again. Long, deep and slow, blurring the edge of pain into something that renders Greg unable to see, hear or even think through the pleasure. It’s overwhelming and he can’t control it, any of it, the groans and cries escaping without his knowledge.
Mycroft touches him then, pulling at his cock once – twice – three times, and Greg will remember afterwards to be thankful for the gag that muffled his shouts so well. As he lies there, stunned and exhausted, he hears Mycroft grunt and then the pace picks up, fucking him harder, even deeper than before, until Greg is writhing from oversensitivity and begging him to stop. He clenches his muscles hard in a bid for relief and Mycroft groans, hoarse and raw, before his hips stutter to completion.
Hot breath washes across his cheek again as Mycroft bends over him, fingers touching the fabric crudely tied across his face. Mycroft picks at the knot until it falls apart, and Greg breathes a sigh of relief at finally being able to spit the wad of fabric out. His mouth is bitterly dry and he smacks his lips, swallowing a handful of times. He needs a drink of water. But before that, he needs an explanation.
He stares up at Mycroft in weary confusion and is rewarded with a smile so tender that his breath hitches in surprise. “M-Mycroft?”
“I wasn’t lying. I’ve waited a long time for this,” Mycroft says, and there’s no hint of the angry mocking that had been there only moments before.
“I don’t…” Greg blinks, lets his head roll to the side. He’s somehow not surprised to see that John and Sherlock have finished too, that John is free of both the gag and the cuffs but is still sitting astride Sherlock on the chair. They seem to be in their own private world, one that’s full of the affectionate and caring touches that had made Greg so hesitant to come here in the first place.
Gentle fingers comb through his sweaty hair as Mycroft finally pulls out. The warm gush of come makes Greg wrinkle his nose in disgust and Mycroft laughs a little, slipping out from under Greg’s cuffed ankles. He digs into the pocket of his trousers and comes up with a key, which he uses to unlock both sets of cuffs. Greg sits up carefully, mindful of his ribs and the fact that his head is still spinning a little, and gingerly rubs his wrists. His hands are tingling from having lain on them for so long.
“You and Sherlock planned this?” he says finally.
“Yes,” Mycroft says without the slightest hint of apology. “I’ve known for a while now about these little games. I have to confess to a bit of jealousy on my part.” He rolls his eyes at Sherlock’s snort.
“I wasn’t lying either,” Sherlock calls out. “I’m sick of the eye fucking that’s been going on right in front of me.”
“Sherlock,” John scolds.
With the long suffering air of big brothers everywhere, Mycroft ignores the outburst. “It seemed like a good opportunity to approach you.”
“That. That seemed like a good way to approach me?” Greg says in disbelief.
“I did give you the option to stop.”
And Greg hadn’t taken it. Still doesn’t want to. He flexes his fingers and licks his lips, suddenly feeling a bit like a teenager even though he’s freshly fucked, sitting naked in the middle of a room that doesn’t even belong to him. “Is that… all you wanted?”
By way of response, Mycroft curls a hand around the back of his head and tugs him in for a kiss. Greg goes willingly, tipping his head up to meet Mycroft’s mouth. It’s chaste considering what just happened, sweet brushes of tongue and a little nip to his bottom lip before they separate. It leaves him giddy, almost drunk on possibilities. He’s been taking what amounts to second best all this time, never thinking that he could have what he really wants.
He straightens up a little, grimacing at the ache that shoots up his spine. It has nothing to do with his ribs, this time. Mycroft looks at him with concern and Greg just gives him a rueful smile. “I enjoyed myself more than I thought I would, but maybe next time you might be more generous with the prep. I’m not a kid anymore.”
Mycroft smiles and pulls him close, wrapping his arms around Greg’s back. He’s warm and Greg can’t help burrowing into that as a voice whispers into his ear, “Next time, I plan to fuck you with my fingers for hours until you’re begging me for my cock.”