#punch-drunk

"Not in a holiday mood, Inspector?"

There was something about the way the elder Holmes drew out the word "mood" that caused Greg to do more than glance at him and toss off a polite nothing. He was in a right mood indeed and the only reason he was here at Baker Street at all was because. Because. Well, because it was Christmas, and he was alone, and it was the least he could do for John and Sherlock, who were trying to rebuild their lives after the shit storm that had been the last six months. Not that one surly DI standing in a corner drinking overly boozy punch and glowering at his shoes was liable to lighten anyone's load, but...eh, what else has he to do? "No," Greg finally answered, realizing he had been staring absently into Mycroft's eyes without answering. "Not as such."

"Got the bluuuuues?" Mycroft asked, and Greg realized he was rather stupendously tipsy. Nothing you'd notice at first glance; not a hair out of place, his usual sartorial splendor was intact. But he was definitely well into his drink.

"You seem to be enjoying the Christmas spirits," Greg said with quiet humour, mouth tipping.

"Ha!" The younger man stared into the depths of his paper cup emblazoned with a cartoon reindeer, it's antlers hung with ornaments. "I see what you did there." He grinned a tiny grin, face suddenly younger and lighter, "This punch is dreadful, however."

"A-fucking-men," Greg agreed, running his tongue over his fuzzy teeth. There weren't enough savoury nibbles in the flat to counteract the hideously cloying aftertaste.

Stepping a bit closer, Mycroft lowered his voice conspiratorially, forcing Greg to lean in. Christ, the man's cologne was discreetly lethal. Greg wondered how many people had been overcome by it and licked the man on his perfect pale neck. Just there where the pulse thrummed, Greg thought, flushing. Wait, wasn't he saying something?

"Seems an especial shame to imbibe this dreck when I have a sixty year old bottle of Macallan whispering my name," Mycroft stared at the cup in Greg's hand, "I've been saving it for a special occasion, yet always found an excuse not to open it."

"Not something you crack open and neck at the end of a tough Tuesday," Greg said with a rough laugh, clearing his throat. Jesus it was a bit hot in here, wasn't it? Or maybe that was the residual heat coming off the look Mycroft Holmes was giving him. Did the man realize how...inviting...his half-lidded gaze was?

"Not alone, at any rate." Yeah, that velvet rumble wasn't helping.

They drank in silence for a moment. Greg nervously drained his cup, wondering if he was losing his mind. Surely Mycroft Holmes wasn't trying to promise with his sexy eyes and his pale throat and his husky voice what he seemed to be promising. It was Greg's loneliness and the lethal punch and the seven month dry spell he'd barely noticed until just now.

"I finished it," Greg said in surprise, lifting his paperlight cup to take another gulp just for something to do and finding naught but dregs.

"Do you hear that?" Mycroft's tone was arresting, and he held up a slender hand, eyes locking with Greg's. He tilted his head, eyes intense, "Its your alimentary system begging you not to refill your cup."

Greg snorted a surprised laugh, grinning at Mycroft, who looked roguish. "Don't do it, Greg, have pity on your poor body." He put a hand on Greg's forearm, "It is too divine to be so maltreated."

Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit, holyshitholyshit. "Hnng," said Greg.

"You agree with me, how delightful," Mycroft purred, eyes sparkling. "I hope you'll also agree that our presence won't be terribly missed if we depart. Perhaps you will agree too that having ingested unwise quantities of this virulently magenta liquid it would be prudent for you to accept a ride home from me." He smiled devastatingly, "*Whose* home we end up at is up for grabs."

Daniel Collins had been part of the Ministry motorcade for seventeen years; for fourteen of those years he had been privileged to drive Mr. Holmes on many occasions. His work required of him many qualities, not the least of which was discretion. Although he wouldn't dream of sharing with anyone his thoughts about the people he chauffeured, Daniel amused himself with noting the little quirks of their personality, critiquing their manners, chuckling over their habits and in general becoming familiar with very circumspect and private people.

Before tonight, he would have said Mr. Holmes was one of the most private and circumspect of them all. The man was renowned for his cold manner, although he had personally always found him civil if not effusive. Not the kind of man to chat about Arsenal's latest loss, or ask after your family. And if he had a personal life he never let it bleed over into his work life. The most personal thing Daniel knew about the man was that he suffered migraines, and that he had an exceedingly difficult relationship with his brother.

Daniel rather suspected the two were connected.

He never anticipated a guest. Following a politely worded request to take them to his employer's home in Chelsea, the smoked black glass divider had purred up and Daniel was left to speculate. It was late, although not terribly so, but given that it was Christmas Eve, the man accompanying his employer must be a close friend. Very close, as Daniel had never once delivered anyone to Mr. Holmes' residence aside from his assistant. Perhaps they were going to enjoy a night cap before he would be bidden to drive the man home and (hopefully) be released for the night.

Tonight, Christmas Eve, when he wanted nothing more than to be home with his wife and daughter (and unfortunately his in-laws), Daniel had sighed over being required to squire the government man about. Given past experiences, he had comforted himself with the thought that he would have either driven him back to Whitehall (where the poor man would no doubt work until the early morning hours) or deposit him at the solitary splendor of his home before midnight had struck.

Pulling up to the kerb in front of the darkened house on Cheyne Walk, Daniel walked around and opened the door. "Thank you, Collins," his employer said smoothly. "You may leave as I'm sure your family is eager to greet you. Have a happy Christmas."

So, he wouldn't be needed before morning.

A very good friend indeed, Daniel thought, face impassive as he nodded and bid them both a polite goodnight and a pleasant Christmas season. His eyes flicked to the sideview mirror as he waited to pull out into traffic. Although the two men did not touch as Mr. Holmes unlocked the door, there was something in their body language that made Daniel think that for once the reserved politician wouldn't be spending the holidays alone.

Stepping out of the building, Mycroft pocketed his mobile and extracted a Silk Cut from the slim case in his pocket. The night was frosty, almost frigid, but windless, and his slightly battered gold lighter struck easily. The wavering orange flame warmed his nose and he watched the light for a moment after his cigarette glowed.

Mycroft flipped the lighter closed; as always a feeling of juvenile pleasure overtook him at the snap-thunk it made. Smoking always made him feel vaguely rebellious, as if Mummy were going to catch him and scold him for setting a bad example for Sherlock. Never a worry expressed for his health, just for the example to his baby brother. Not the time for gloom, Mycroft reminded himself. Tonight it was Christmas Eve and he was planning on taking home the utterly delicious Greg Lestrade and for once ushering in Christmas with a tiny bit of fucking joy.

As if summoned, he heard the faint creak of the newly repaired front door as it opened behind him, and the scrape of Lestrade's brogue on the pavement. A sudden wash of masculine heat at his back, the faint, stale smell of faded cologne, and a smile curled Mycroft's lips as pickles of awareness spread out from the small of his back. The man had animal magnetism practically oozing out of him. He was double damned for a fool to think of spending the night with the man, as if it would mean nothing. But it was one night. He was giving himself this one night.

"Change your mind?" The DI asked, when he didn't turn around. He stepped to the side and lifted an inquiring brow, a defensive look of humour tipping his mouth into a sardonic smile. "Don't tell me... The cold cleared your head and you realized you couldn't possibly."

Mycroft smiled. It was true, he was indeed almost entirely sober (he had not been particularly intoxicated to start with), but he most certainly hadn't changed his mind. "My driver should be here in approximately two minutes. I thought I'd take advantage of the time to smoke."

"Mind if I join you?"

Mycroft smiled as he extended his case before the other man could finish patting down his coat pockets. "You finished the last one before coming up earlier. You mean to stop on the way home... You were considering spending tomorrow in your pants, smoking, watching television and eating whichever ready-meal in your freezer tastes the most like real food."

Stop, he told himself, but apparently the lethal punch was still coursing through his veins, altering his good sense." You're afraid it makes you pathetic, a sign that you're old and past it, when in fact you're unknowingly the object of desire for several coworkers, despite the considerable age gap."

Hands steady, Greg slid one out, tucked it between his lips and leaned in to Mycroft, holding his eyes as they glanced the tips together. When his cherry glowed, Greg straightened, "You know it's hot when you do that, right?"

A surprised, humourless laugh escaped him and Mycroft shook his head. "That's not normally the reaction I get."

"What do you normally get?" His silver hair glittered in the wash of the headlamps approaching; his driver was right on time.

"Normally they tell me to go fuck myself," Mycroft said, wincing at the faintly bitter tone he'd let bleed through. Thankfully the Jaguar rolled silently to a stop at the kerb and Mycroft gallantly held the door for the other man. Greg paused, meeting his eyes, and dropped his cigarette, which hissed faintly as it hit the damp pavement. There will be snow before morning, part of Mycroft's brain helpfully supplied.

"Well tonight that's my job," Greg sort of growled, slipping past him and climbing in the back seat.

hello i'm kyle sometimes i play music 

My body's starting to ache like crazy, not to mention I broke my toe at the beach last week, but it's somewhat thrilling as a preview to what attending school will be like (I plan on traveling to NYC, from Pittsburgh, once a week for the next two years). Gonna be rough, but that's okay.