Author's Note: Leap of Faith is the sequel to another of my fics, Act of Love. Although you're welcome to enjoy this story on its own, I recommend that you check out the prequel first. You can find it linked on my profile page.
This inaugural chapter is dedicated to IBegToDreamAndDiffer, a fellow Mystradista who's written some amazing fics about our favorite lovers. If you have not read her stuff yet, please do.
Mycroft Holmes hadn't done this in years. As he unbuttoned his silk shirt and reclined on the blanket, letting the warm breeze tickle his naked flesh, he admitted that Gregory Lestrade's idea had been a good one.
"Star gazing puts everything in perspective, Myc," Gregory said. "Any time life gets to me, I scarper off onto my roof with a couple of pints, lie back, and look at the stars." He pointed heavenward. "All those constellations, going on forever. Makes my own problems seem small in comparison."
"Mmm. I used to star-gaze when I was a child. Sherlock was afraid of heights, so the roof was an ideal spot to get away from him. I became quite the amateur astronomer." Mycroft turned his head on the folded suit jacket that now doubled as a pillow. "But I never had a ravishing Detective Inspector for company."
Gregory chuckled. It was a deep, throaty noise that made Mycroft shiver. "And I never had the most brilliant man in England –not to mention the sexiest- lying half naked beside me." He rolled onto his side, the late summer heat causing sweat to trickle down his bare chest, and propped his head up with one arm.
Mycroft rolled over too, so that they were face to face. His shirt fell open, exposing his own chest. "I told you today that I love you, right?"
"You've told me at least a dozen times. But who's counting?"
A lazy, sensual silence descended, broken only by the sounds of traffic below. They had returned that morning from the Holmes family estate in Yorkshire Dales, and already they missed the clean air and rural silence. Mycroft's Knightsbridge town house was the epitome of luxury, but desire for the illusion of wide open spaces drove them onto the roof after dinner.
"So how are you feeling, Myc?" Gregory's features, softened by affection, looked concerned.
"Health-wise, never better. Now if Mr. Moriarty were safely contained I'd be much more relaxed."
"Has he texted you again?"
"Not since yesterday. He's quite looking forward to an eventual encounter. And to be frank, so am I." Mycroft knew without having to look that bodyguards lingered in the street below and on the neighboring rooftops, engaged to ensure that no such confrontation occurred. But he harboured no illusions: if James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran wanted to get to him, they'd find a way. A showdown could never be prevented, merely delayed.
Gregory frowned. "You are not leaving my sight until that fucking psycho is behind bars."
Bars never held men like Moriarty for long, but Mycroft didn't correct him. "No?"
"Not for a second." Lestrade reached out and laid his other hand on Mycroft's waist. "He wants you, he has to go through me first."
I'll kill him before he ever gets that close to you, Greg.
Lestrade's fingers lowered and caressed the soft skin of Mycroft's hip, just above his trousers. The elder Holmes, feeling heat pool low in his belly, sighed and touched Gregory's face. The policeman shifted and kissed his palm. His moist lips made Mycroft's cock stir and bloom with arousal.
"Greg," he breathed. "Please….. Make love to me right now."
Lestrade took him by the shoulder and rolled him onto his back. "Thought you'd never ask."
Their lips, arms, and legs intertwined, accompanied by lusty moans and aggressive rutting. Mycroft could feel Lestrade's erection grinding against his with such delicious friction that he risked coming in his trousers before they could get naked. Lowering his arms from Gregory's shoulders, he reached down between their tightly pressed bodies and undid his lover's trouser fastenings.
"Oh, Christ, Myc," Lestrade groaned when Mycroft grasped his erection, pulled it free, and began stroking. "Yeah, yeah, do that thing with your thumb across the head…oh, my God!" His hips jerked and slick, clear pre-ejaculate trickled forth, lubricating the way for more energetic strokes. Growling, he tackled Mycroft's mouth with sweeping tongue movements and nearly tore the elder Holmes' trousers and underwear off.
"Careful, they're expensive!" Mycroft half-laughed half-gasped.
"I'll buy you a new pair, you posh tease," Lestrade grinned against his lips.
Mycroft arched his back and cried out when Gregory's teeth and tongue tackled that sensitive place below his jaw that always made him a captive. Every nerve in his being sizzled with desire and an energy he'd never known with anyone else. Earlier in the summer, when a well-intentioned but nearly-disastrous experiment of Sherlock's convinced him that he was dying, Mycroft had conditioned himself to experience people, love, life, and emotions with greater intensity than before. Even after the ruse was discovered, his elevated capacity for living in the moment remained.
Moriarty was out there somewhere, technically placing Mycroft back in the shadow of death. But right now all he focused on was the warm breeze that blew across his heated skin, the icy brilliance of the stars, and the feel of the man he loved sighing and straining against him.
His own cock brushed wetly against his knuckles as he continued to milk Gregory's erection with long, slick pulls. "Got lube?" he choked.
"Shirt pocket." Lestrade kept one hand on Mycroft's arse while he rooted for it. "Ah- here we-"
At first Mycroft thought he was hearing thunder. The tumultuous overhead boom sent his confused stare skyward. But there was nary a cloud in the sky. What….
"Myc! Oh my God," Lestrade gurgled.
Mycroft's eyes shot back to his lover, and widened in horror. Gregory was falling back against the blanket, grasping his shoulder and gulping for air. Blood ran between his fingers in thick, sickening rivulets.
"GREG!" Mycroft hurled his own body over Lestrade's. Raising his head, he hollered, "Sniper alert! Man hit! Call 999!"
The street below came to life. Neighbours rushed to windows and doorways, bodyguards charged into the house and thundered up the stairs. Although he couldn't see them, Mycroft knew that night vision lenses were being turned in all directions, seeking the shadowy gunman who may very well have killed Gregory Lestrade.
"Greg!" Mycroft looked back down. "Hang on, I've called-"
Then he stopped, because one look at those vacant eyes told him that Gregory wasn't in them any more.