As Mycroft recovered, so did the formidable unit that was Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

Progress was slow at first. Mycroft took regular walks but sometimes stumbled and experienced head and chest pain, all lingering effects of prolonged unconsciousness and narcotic hangovers. Sherlock and John sat together at meals, talked often, and platonically shared a bed at night, but John gently rebuffed all physical intimacy aside from the occasional hug.

"It takes time to heal," Lestrade said one night as he and Mycroft watched them take a twilight stroll down the driveway.

"At least John has given Sherlock reason to hope. That's so important."

They turned away from the window, walked though the house, and exited the double doors that opened onto the massive back grounds. Parker had ordered the pool to be cleaned and refilled after everyone decided to spend the remainder of the summer at the manor. The pool technicians had completed their work earlier that day, and now Mycroft gazed longingly at the backlit blue water.

"Humid tonight." Gregory wiped his forehead. "Enough to make you want to go without clothes."

"I agree." Mycroft began unbuttoning his shirt.

"What are you doing?"

"Isn't it obvious?" He tossed the shirt onto a deck chair and unfastened his trousers. As he slid them off, he added, "You'd better jump in after me, in case I become weak and need rescuing."

Without waiting for a response, he pulled his boxers off, tossed them at Gregory's head, and dove gracefully into the water. When his head broke the surface, he simpered, "Oh, Mr. Policeman, help me, I'm drowning."

Lestrade put his hands on his hips and smirked. "Yes, you are. I reckon it's not anything some mouth to mouth couldn't fix, though."

"Definitely mouth to something." Mycroft paddled to the pool's edge, rested his forearms on the concrete, and grinned. "Coming to save me?"

"Of course. It's my duty."

Gregory dropped to his knees, undid his trousers, and took out his cock with one hand while grasping the back of his lover's head with the other. Mycroft greedily slid the entire rigid length into his mouth.

"Oh, Christ," Gregory groaned.

When his nose was buried in Lestrade's pubic hair, Mycroft relaxed his throat and hummed. The vibrations made the other man whimper and hips shoot forward so suddenly that he was nearly pushed back into the water. Grasping Gregory's thighs for leverage, Mycroft slowly, teasingly pulled back. He flicked his tongue across the weeping tip, and licked the bottom and sides of Lestrade's erection with broad strokes before swallowing him again.

"Myc, oh God, oh God. Whoever taught you to do it like this… they're a bloody genius."

I'm sure they are, Mycroft thought. They eventually became Prime Minister. But you don't really need to know that, do you?

He drew his head back, relishing Gregory's death grip on his hair, and focused all his attention on the wet, sensitive head. He covered it with moist, sloppy kisses and wagged his tongue across the slit, enjoying Lestrade's frantic responses. Glancing up, he saw that Gregory's mouth was open and uttering that stream of obscenities that always signaled imminent orgasm.

"Myc, oh fuck, fuck…. Suck me hard…..shit…. so fucking good…."

Mycroft was widening his throat for the home stretch when they heard footsteps moving through the house. Startled, he jerked away and Gregory jumped to his feet, tucking himself in and zipping up. Silent except for their hammering hearts and harsh breathing, they listened.

Sherlock's voice floated out the dining room window. "Thank you for that, John. It's made me think. It really has."

"I know, Sherlock. I have to tell you, now that we're inside, that I've been thinking too. Before I continue, do you know where Greg and Mycroft are?"

"Out walking like we were, probably. Go on."

"Okay." John paused briefly before continuing. "Look, it's going to take a lot of work for us to get back to the way we were, and all things considered, I'm not sure I want to bother."

Mycroft tensed, preparing to leap out of the pool and prevent a disaster. Gregory cocked his head and frowned.

Sherlock exhaled slowly. "You mean-"

"I mean-" John's voice quivered "-that I don't want to go through any more apologies, soul-searching and air-clearing. I want you kiss me right the fuck now. Then I want us to go upstairs and make up for lost time."

Sherlock let out a grateful sob just before weeping and soft kissing sounds commenced. When unsteady footsteps headed for the stairs, Gregory let out the breath he'd been holding, crouched, and touched Mycroft's arm.

"You hear all that, Myc?"

"Yes." Mycroft was so elated that he wanted to scream, weep, and shag his lover senseless. Deciding on the most appealing option, he climbed out of the pool, grabbed Lestrade's hand, and said, "Let's finish what we started."

He pulled Gregory into the house, not caring that he was naked and dripping water onto the Persian rugs and polished floorboards. They ascended the stairs, the thick carpeting muffling their steps. As they passed John's room on the way to theirs, the door was open wide enough for them to see John sitting on the bed, unbuttoning his shirt and staring in wonder and lust as Sherlock slowly disrobed in front of him.

Hearing movement in the hall, John glanced in their direction. One look at Mycroft's nudity and Lestrade's aroused expression told him everything he needed to know. He smiled quickly before focusing again on Sherlock, whose lean, pale body resembled a marble statue in the half-light.

Inside their room, Mycroft and Gregory threw their arms around each other and indulged in a prolonged, sensuous kiss. Knowing that they now had a lifetime together instead of two weeks, they intended to make love all night, without grief or anxiety or fear.

Lestrade pressed Mycroft against the wall. "Don't move," he whispered. "I want to touch you, and all I want you to do is enjoy it." He grasped his lover's wrists and guided them behind his back. Mycroft complied, linking his trembling fingers together to keep them in place.

Gregory applied wet, open-mouthed kisses to Mycroft's neck before settling on a sensitive spot just below his jaw and sucking hard enough to leave a bruise. His large, warm hand closed over Mycroft's erection and started stroking slowly and sensuously. The pain and pleasure made the elder Holmes sob and fight to remain still.

"You're amazing, Myc, and you're mine forever. Do you hear me? Forever."

"Yes." Mycroft closed his eyes and let the tears flow freely now. Forever.

Lestrade sank to his knees. He placed a tender kiss on one of Mycroft's spread thighs before wrapping his lips around his partner's bobbing cock head and applying a forceful, maddening suction. He stroked Mycroft's length with one hand and pressed a teasing finger against his entrance with the other. When he refrained from breaching the tight ring of muscle, Mycroft choked, "Greg, please, please."

At first he thought Lestrade didn't hear him. The sucking and teasing continued until he was ready to break down in frustration and use his fingers on himself. Then, without warning, Gregory scooped him up, carried him to the bed, and laid him on the mattress, positioning him so that his buttocks rested on the edge and his thighs draped over his kneeling lover's shoulders.

Mycroft was still trying to orient himself when a lubricated hand stole between his legs and two fingers buried themselves in his body up to the third knuckle. They moved inside him, fucking his slick channel with increasing speed and catching his prostate on each inward thrust. Mycroft clenched the sheets and arched his back, whimpering as his thighs gripped Gregory's head between them.

"You look gorgeous. I'm going to do this to you every day," Lestrade murmured hoarsely before adding a third lubricated finger. At the same time, he grasped Mycroft's erection and stroked it with equal force, robbing his partner of all coherent thought.

Mycroft Holmes, frequently described as the coolest and most dangerous man in Britain, surrendered to his lover, to this night, to the hands that were taking him apart. His hair was a mess, arousal flushed his cheeks, his cock leaked fluid all over Gregory's knuckles, and his tight hole clenched down on the digits that fucked all sense out of him.

Absorbed in passion and promise, Mycroft did not glance at his mobile, which blinked on the dresser. Anthea had repeatedly tried to reach him, in the end resorting to a single text:

Sir, Moriarty escaped confinement during transport to C4 tonight. Believed he had assistance from one Sebastian Moran. Search is underway. Instructions? A.

Half an hour after that message was received, another had arrived.

Game on, Big Brother. M.

He would see those messages later. At the moment Mycroft was only aware of the lilac and rose-scented night air, Gregory's warm lips and powerful body now descending on him, and the faint sound of Sherlock and John in the next room rediscovering their lust as well as love for each other.

As the man he loved slid gently into him, silencing his moans with loving kisses and pressing his naked and fevered skin deeper into the cool silk sheets, Mycroft Holmes hoped and prayed that life would always be this beautiful.


Author's note: I want to thank everyone who has followed this story faithfully and provided precious support and feedback. IBegToDreamAndDiffer, this final sex scene wasn't originally so intense, but I rewrote it just for you. Merry Christmas!

If there's interest, I'll write a sequel. Mycroft, Greg, Sherlock, and John against Moriarty and Moran... hmmm...