A/n: To chasingrivrer, for her birthday!

Warning: contains sibling incest.

Greg Lestrade thought the whole thing sounded fishy, but he went anyway. Because Mycroft Holmes had summoned him.

In his text, Mycroft said that he had information about the Brixton killer's identity, which was as good as saying that the case was solved. But instead of picking him up for a private chat, the elder Holmes requested his presence at a stately, Edwardian-era building in Pall Mall. All Lestrade knew about the place was that it was a private members' club, and the men who went there made more in an hour than he earned in a month.

As the Detective Inspector pulled into the parking lot at the back, he took out his mobile and checked the text from Mycroft again.

Do not use the front entrance. Knock on the red door at the back and show the doorman your identification. He will be expecting you. Please be aware that there is a rule of silence in the common areas. You will be escorted to my suite, where I'll ensure that you get everything you need.

Strange and intriguing. Like the sender.

Lestrade had known Sherlock Holmes for over five years, and Mycroft almost as long. Sherlock was his not-so-secret weapon against London's swelling tide of baffling crimes, and while he had a semi-paternal fondness for the younger man, Sherlock's routine arrogance toward the investigative team, witnesses, and even Lestrade himself turned most of their encounters into ordeals. Mycroft, on the other hand, was social grace personified, even if he displayed it in ways calculated to gain an advantage. Although the bisexual Lestrade found both brothers attractive, he was more drawn to Mycroft, who was the silent sword to Sherlock's loose cannon.

At any rate, he'd be glad to wrap this case up. The pressure from the press, public, and his superiors was almost unbearable now. Once he left this rendezvous site with a name, Lestrade would make the arrest and then book himself a long vacation somewhere. For the sake of his blood pressure, if not his sanity.

The red door opened before Lestrade even knocked. An elderly man in an elaborate doorman's uniform peered at the badge that the DI held out, nodded, and gestured him inside. As he followed the man across the tiled foyer and down a hallway, Lestrade couldn't help staring about. The place reminded him of a vintage hotel: plush red carpeting, marble-topped tables with jungle-sized floral arrangements, and low-hanging light fixtures emitting a gentle glow. But no hotel was this quiet. He wondered if talking would be akin to blasphemy here. Probably.

Finally the doorman stopped before a pair of richly polished double doors and gestured at the handles as he mouthed the words Unlocked. Please go in. Lestrade nodded his thanks and rummaged for his wallet to offer a tip, but the man smiled tightly, shook his head, and left.

Lestrade wasn't sure what he was expecting when he opened the doors and entered the chamber. But it wasn't the sight of Sherlock, naked, white, and collared, kneeling before a fully dressed Mycroft.

Giving him a blowjob.

Mycroft sat in an elegant antique chair by the fire, looking powerful and forbidding in a dark suit that made his snow-white linen shirt and red silk tie pop with color. He held a glass of amber liquid in one hand and rested the other on Sherlock's bobbing curls in silent encouragement. His expression indicated approval of his brother's oral skills, but Lestrade also detected genuine affection in the slight curl of his mouth and the warmth in those normally icy blue eyes.

Sherlock's back was as smooth as white marble, the muscles undulating gracefully as he worked his head up and down. His buttocks, however, were an alarming shade of red.

Good God- he's been spanked!

Mycroft smiled in greeting before nodding toward the chair beside his. His lips moved: Have a seat, Detective Inspector. Sherlock pulled off of his brother's wet cock long enough to glance at the newcomer and grin crookedly. Then he resumed his task, slurps and light moans advertising his enthusiasm for it.

Lestrade felt the blood drain from his face and rush down to his cock, which was fully hard by the time he sat down. He had no idea what, if anything, he was supposed to say. What DO you say when you witness two handsome brothers –one of them the most powerful man in Britain- enjoying each other sexually? He was so close that he could feel their body heat- even through Mycroft's suit- and smell the musk that accompanied their arousal. It was too raw and intense to be masked by pricey colognes, and his response to it was so visceral that his crotch actually ached.

Something was going on. He didn't need to be Scotland Yard's top DI to know that Mycroft wanted him to see them like this. The question was: why?

He cleared his throat, and then cringed at how explosive it sounded in these surroundings.

Mycroft smiled again. Don't worry. May I offer you a drink?

Lestrade swallowed. No thanks. Working.

Very well. One moment. He bent toward Sherlock and whispered. The younger Holmes reluctantly stopped the oral worship, tucked his brother back into the expensive trousers, and sat back on his heels. Lestrade gazed at his red arse flesh and the polished leather collar, and felt hot, dizzy, and aroused. Maybe he should have accepted that drink after all.

Mycroft ruffled Sherlock's curls and gestured for him to sit beside his chair, facing their visitor. When Sherlock complied, Lestrade saw a brightly polished tag hanging from his collar. The world's only consulting detective was also fiercely excited: his flushed and rigid cock rested heavily against his thigh, the head smearing clear fluid on the skin. He kept his eyes on the floor except for occasional quick glances at Lestrade, who had never seen him so docile. Sherlock appeared to be, if not happy, at least peaceful. The DI envied him. I need peace too, he thought. God, so much.

Welcome to the Diogenes Club, Mr. Lestrade. You didn't run away screaming when you saw Sherlock and I like this, so I was right about you. Mycroft's brilliant blue eyes fell to his tented crotch. Yes, you're responding as anticipated. This is marvellous.

Lestrade had so many questions darting through his head that he didn't know which one to ask first. He finally whispered, How did you know?

That one covered everything. How did Mycroft know that he'd find them irresistible in their current personas: the suave elder brother dignified and dominant, the younger one silent and submissive? Or that the sight of them unashamedly enjoying each other would turn him on so much? Or that Lestrade's fantasies revolved around submitting to a stronger will?

Mycroft sipped at his drink. You told me.

Lestrade sighed. I'm sure I did somehow. Was it in the way I tied my shoes when you saw me last? Or how I combed my hair this morning?

It was everything… Gregory.

Mycroft had never called him by his first name before. Lestrade felt something shift, bringing him fractionally closer to a collar and position at the other man's feet. He stared at the floor, and waited.

And hoped.

It was the way you got into my car without complaining whenever I sent for you, no matter how inconvenient the timing. Your obvious reluctance to leave my presence afterward. You love police work, but often feel overwhelmed at being in charge all the time. You want to be taken, and forcefully. You want your will to stop existing for awhile. And that can be arranged here.

Mycroft stood. He gently cupped Lestrade's jaw, forcing him to look up. What he saw in the older man's dark, lust-blown eyes made his smile widen. If this is what you want, I need you to say it.

I want this, Lestrade whispered, having no more time for shyness or embarrassment. I want to submit to you. Let you do whatever you want with me, even if it's nothing. His voice was low and controlled, but the combined admission and plea made his cock twitch furiously against his zip. Please.

Affection and admiration softened Mycroft's regal expression. Without breaking their commingled stares, the elder Holmes raised his glass and sipped. Then he bent down, still holding Lestrade's jaw, and pressed their lips together. The DI felt the smoky, richness of 25-year-old Glenlivet flood his parched mouth and he drank eagerly, tongue sliding over Mycroft's as he swallowed. It was only one drink, but he was immediately intoxicated. With lust.

While they kissed, Mycroft dropped his fingers from his new submissive's face to his pulse. Lestrade let his pounding heart transmit his escalating need, and Mycroft responded. The elder Holmes stood up straight, handed his glass to Sherlock, and pulled Lestrade to his feet by the lapels.

Don't move, Gregory.

No, sir.

Lestrade was no longer thinking about the office, about the cases, about the infuriating Donovan and Anderson. There was only the taste of premium scotch on his tongue, a silent chamber with a massive four-poster bed that hinted at unimaginable future pleasures and two handsome men so close to him that if he dared, he could touch Sherlock's glistening flesh or Mycroft's tailored suit. The first inklings of peace edged into his consciousness as he realized that none of his usual stressors could reach him here. Mycroft- his Dom- wouldn't let them.

Mycroft's fingers worked swiftly on his shirt buttons. Lestrade remained in place, eyes lowered as he was quickly and methodically stripped naked. The elder Holmes handed each article of clothing to the still-kneeling Sherlock, who would fold it neatly and lay it on a side table. Then Mycroft began touching him lightly, running appraising fingertips over his arms and chest and brushing his rigid nipples. Lestrade stood with his back straight and eyes down, the rigid inspection drawing up memories of his days in basic training for the police force. But none of his instructors ever touched him so intimately, so possessively. When he felt a cool hand slide under his balls, testing their firmness, and then caress the entire length of his erection, he shuddered in excitement, but remained in place.

Look at me, Gregory.

Lestrade did.

I am a Dominant, but not a sadist. Any time you want me to stop, I will. You just have to say it. Understood?

Yes, sir.

Mycroft sat down again. I saw you admiring my brother's delightfully red arse. Want one of your own, do you?

Lestrade could only nod. Spanking was a kink he knew he definitely had, but the few (female) partners who'd indulged him wanted to be on the receiving end. He was weary of being the top dog, the aggressor. Mycroft alone understood what he needed.

His thoughts were interrupted when a vicelike grip closed around his wrist and pulled him down across a pair of strong thighs. He gasped, and then moaned lightly when a rigid erection prodded against his bare side.

Please, sir….

Mycroft ran his fingers over a yellowing bruise on Lestrade's hip. A robbery suspect had body-slammed him into a brick wall over a week ago, leaving him limping and in pain for days. He barely noticed the old injury now, but he could sense the elder Holmes cataloguing it and calculating ways of pleasuring him without aggravating it further.

CRACK! The first blow landed heavily on his right buttock. A second one marked the left cheek a moment later. The stinging pain blossomed into a hot soreness and then a burning itch that made him squirm and rub his prick against Mycroft's thigh. The elder Holmes allowed the frottage, but chuckled nastily and began to spank him harder.

Naughty boy. But you've needed this for so long, so I'm inclined to be charitable. Sherlock, if you'd be so kind?

Lestrade saw Sherlock move in his peripheral vision. Then he felt hands grasp his hips (avoiding the bruise) and pull gently back until he was no longer pressed against Mycroft's leg. He nearly yelped in shock when the younger Holmes slid, on his back, into the newly-created space underneath his clenching belly and wrapped soft lips around his aching cock. Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows and bobbed his head, letting Lestrade fuck his warm and wet mouth while Mycroft increased the force of the spanking.

As the heat exploded inside him, racing through his groin and sending him into the first flickers of orgasm, Lestrade sobbed quietly behind clenched teeth. It was all so perfect, so unbelievable, just what he craved. Mycroft made an approving noise and aimed his blows at the juncture of his buttocks and upper thighs, driving him deeper into Sherlock's throat, until he was spurting one wad after another onto that talented tongue. It had been ages since he'd climaxed so intensely, and he slumped as soon as his body stopped shuddering and jerking.

Mycroft rubbed soothing circles over his burning arse. I normally don't allow an orgasm this soon, but you needed it. Better now, hmm?

Lestrade watched the sweat drip off his forehead onto the carpet. Yes sir. Thank you, sir.

He felt Sherlock's silky curls brush his thighs as the younger man slid out from under him. Mycroft took him by the shoulders and guided him into a kneeling position.

Now it's your turn to watch, Gregory.

The elder Holmes wiped his forehead with a silk handkerchief, the only outward sign that he'd recently indulged in exerting activity. He was still turned on, judging from the way his cock ruined the perfect crease in his trousers, but remained the epitome of self-control and grace.

While Lestrade watched, Mycroft helped Sherlock to his feet and embraced him. The younger man was still erect, and regarding the DI with some of his old arrogant grace. But his typical anxious edge was missing, leaving in its place a lazy sensuality.

Mycroft tipped Sherlock's chin up with one graceful forefinger, baring his throat. Sherlock sighed in bliss when his older brother applied slow, delicate kisses to that smooth flesh before biting down and sucking a bruise to the surface, just above the collar line. He clasped his hands behind his back- touching without express permission was apparently forbidden- but his cock defied restraint by painting a slick trail across the front of Mycroft's trousers. When Mycroft dropped both hands to that beautiful red arse and clasped it, Sherlock shuddered all over and whispered, Yes, yes, My. Yours. Always yours.

For the first time since he'd left his twenties behind, Lestrade was hard for the second time in ten minutes. But he kept his hands on his knees and eyes on the brothers, and refused to touch himself. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt such an intense mingling of arousal and peace. Maybe never.

Mycroft guided Sherlock toward the bed, tongue laving over the neck bruise and fingers now pinching his firm pink nipples. When the younger man's arse collided with the high mattress, Mycroft pushed him onto it and climbed gracefully up after him. They shifted about before settling on their sides, Mycroft's chest pressed against Sherlock's back. The contrast between them was erotically stark: Mycroft wore a finely tailored suit, not a hair out of place, while the man in his arms was completely nude and bore the signs of rough lovemaking. Sherlock rubbed his cheek against his brother's and sighed happily. The Holmes brothers were so beautiful together in this silent chamber; it was hard to believe that outside the Diogenes, their relationship brought the expression 'like cats and dogs' to mind.

Mycroft reached under the mountain of pillows, produced a small bottle of lube, and had Sherlock pour some onto his right hand. Then he bent one of Sherlock's impossibly long legs at the knee, parting his buttocks and revealing his tight pink entrance. Without removing his own clothes or even rumpling his tie, he proceeded to vigorously finger-fuck his brother, stretching and opening that tight hole in preparation for a bigger invader. Sherlock pressed his full lips together to mute his shameless moaning. His hips rocked, riding Mycroft's slick fingers, but his eyes- those brilliant grey eyes- were on Lestrade.

Lestrade, he mouthed. Please….

Lestrade looked at Mycroft, who nodded and gestured for him to approach. The DI got unsteadily to his feet, walked to the bed, and climbed onto it. His lips sought Sherlock's, eagerly tasting his own release while his fingers lowered to the younger man's hot, sticky cock and gripped it. Sherlock's arms went around his neck and drew him closer, until their chests were crushed together and his erection pushed aggressively against Sherlock's belly. He yearned to be buried in that tight heat that now clenched around Mycroft's thrusting fingers, and nearly exclaimed in surprise when he felt a warm hand applying a generous coating of lube to his shaft.

Lie on your back, Gregory.

Reluctant to tear himself away from Sherlock but refusing to disobey Mycroft, Lestrade rolled onto his back. Sherlock got up, straddled him, and leaned down, panting urgently, while Mycroft guided the DI's cock between those firm arse cheeks. Oh shit, it felt so good and hot and gripping, but he wondered if Sherlock was completely ready: the young man's lips tightened at the penetration and pain flitted with lust in his eyes. Lestrade was on the verge of saying something when Mycroft grasped his brother's hips and forced him all the way down. Both Sherlock and Lestrade groaned and quivered when pubic hair collided with stretched sphincter.

Mycroft wasn't sympathetic. He grasped Sherlock's hair, forcing his head back, and whispered silkily, Ride him, brother mine. Nice and fast, like I trained you. Hurts, doesn't it, but you can do it because it's what you were made for. That's a good boy, Make me proud.

Yes, Sherlock whimpered. Yes. He shifted and bounced experimentally, seeking a comfortable angle. When he found it, he eagerly rode Lestrade's shaft, panting and gasping. Lestrade saw Mycroft kneel behind him, the fabric of his trousers brushing the DI's thighs, and tug forcefully on his nipples.

Such a good boy, taking so much cock like this. And I'm going to give you more.

Sherlock moaned eagerly and bent forward until his chest was pressed against Lestrade's. They gasped into each other's mouths when a lubed fingertip traced slowly, teasingly, around the tight seal where their bodies joined. Lestrade didn't immediately grasp what Mycroft intended to do, but Sherlock did. He broke their kiss and pressed his face against the side of Lestrade's neck, breathing deeply.

Oh... he whimpered. Yes. Please. I want both of you.

When Mycroft's finger glided inside, increasing the tightness around the DI's cock, Lestrade shivered in pleasure and Sherlock eagerly reclaimed his mouth. Kiss me, Lestrade. While their tongues dueled, the two men felt Mycroft carefully introduce a second finger and twist them slowly, gently. When Sherlock tensed, Lestrade saw his brother reach under his belly and stroke his cock, skilfully neutralizing the discomfort with a pleasurable distraction.

Then the fingers were gone, but Sherlock did not remain looser around Lestrade's shaft for long. Behind him, outside the DI's fevered vision, an unbuckled belt slid free of its loops and a zipper was undone. Lestrade shifted his head on the pillow and saw Mycroft, who was kneeling, lower his trousers and pants to mid-thigh and grasp Sherlock's hips. The elder Holmes shuffled forward, staring intently down, and then it was happening: a slow, persistent push into his brother's body.

Easy, Sherlock, he soothed, stroking the shuddering man's back and sides. Relax.

Sherlock nodded jerkily and stroked himself, all the while leaking pre-ejaculate onto Lestrade's stomach. The DI felt light-headed from the intensity of it all: the tightness around his cock was unbelievable, and his hips trembled with the urge to thrust, but he didn't want to injure Sherlock, so he held still and let the Holmes brothers guide the action.

Finally Mycroft's entire length was buried in Sherlock. Lestrade felt the elder Holmes, who was straddling his bare thighs, draw back slightly before pushing in. All three of them moaned at the resulting stretch and burn.

You both feel marvellous, Mycroft sighed. Lestrade echoed that conclusion: the feeling of another cock rubbing rapidly against his in that tight arse was so intense he could barely breathe properly. He wouldn't last much longer at this rate. But when Mycroft began talking, the stream of profanities that replaced his normally cultured speech cut Lestrade's stamina time in half.

You're a lazy whore, little brother, he chuckled darkly. Look at you, riding two cocks at once and making Gregory and I do all the work.

He slapped Sherlock hard on the arse. Lestrade felt the reverberations from the blow tingle on his cock, making his limbs shake. He dug his fingers convulsively into the duvet and gasped.

This is your penance for having such a delicious arse. It's made to be fucked by your betters. You wouldn't dream of refusing me when I want you, would you?

No, Mycroft, no. I'm yours.

Mycroft peered down at Lestrade. I'm going to work you up to this level, until you're begging to be spanked and fucked. I imagine it will be quite endearing to behold. When you come to me, expect to be a tool for my pleasure, and nothing else.

Lestrade felt that hot coiling in his belly. He sped up his thrusts, bouncing Sherlock inches into the air. Yes, sir.

And you, slut. Mycroft was really coming undone now. His perfectly groomed hair was falling across his eyes, his tie had worked itself out of his waistcoat, and he was sweating freely. He dug his teeth into Sherlock's shoulder, drawing an ecstatic cry from his brother, and snarled, By the time we're done with you, you won't be able to even walk.

Mycroft, please. Sherlock's face was a mask of bliss and terror combined. I'm going to come. Please, let me...

Oh really? You think you deserve it?

No, but please, please, please...

Lestrade had never heard Sherlock beg before, let alone so desperately. It was unquestionably one of the hottest things he'd ever heard.

Very well. But me first.

Mycroft gave a final, punishing thrust that knocked Sherlock forward. Then he came. Lestrade felt hot semen spurt into that tight passage, covering both their cocks and spilling out onto his thighs. He pleaded, Mr. Holmes- MYCROFT- I have to-

Yes. Join us!

No sooner was that permission granted than Sherlock ejaculated with such force that his come spattered all over Lestrade's chest. Some even got on the DI's face. Lestrade wasn't complaining though: Sherlock's sphincter clenched spasmodically around his cock, causing him to shoot an explosive load up into that perfect body, where it mingled wetly with Mycroft's release.

No one screamed or shouted. The influence of the Diogenes was too strong for that. But nerves sang, blood roared, and muscles thundered. Together, it was all such beautiful music.

Lestrade, covered head to toe in a fine sheen of sweat and mind blanketed in contentment, was only dimly aware of Sherlock rolling off him and Mycroft reaching up to press a button in the headboard. When Diogenes attendants came into the room minutes later with hot wet towels and red silk robes, he perked up in surprise, but their hands scrubbing his exhausted, sore body felt so good that he laid back and let them work their magic.

Finally they left, and Mycroft was sitting up on the mattress, one arm holding his sleepy, sated brother in a loving embrace. When Lestrade gazed at them, the elder Holmes smiled warmly and extended his other arm. The DI crawled languidly over, letting his new Dom draw him close.

All right, Gregory?

Better than all right. Thank you so much, Mycroft.

You're welcome. Oh, and the Brixton killer? Mycroft provided a name and added, Evidence you need for a warrant has already been couriered to your office.

Not caring how desperate he sounded, Lestrade whispered, I'll see you again, right?

Sherlock chuckled wearily at that and Mycroft hugged him tighter.

More than ever before, Gregory.

Lestrade couldn't wait.