As Greg Lestrade pulled up the covers and rolled onto his side, he decided that whatever the nurse had injected into his IV, he wanted some for home consumption. He was suddenly no longer worried about tomorrow's surgery, and the walls were such a lovely shade of white….

He was also so hard that he couldn't roll onto his stomach without wanting to rut against the starchy sheets. Mycroft had kissed him goodnight an hour ago, a gesture that normally acted as a prelude to hot, sheet-twisting, mattress-soaking sex. Watching his lover depart with the rest of the visitors had left him lonely and frustrated until the medicine cart came around. Now he was high and frustrated.

After glancing over his shoulder at the window on his door, Greg curled his fingers around his stiff length and indulged in a few strokes, hoping to reduce the tension enough to get some sleep. It didn't work: the pleasant arousal escalated into an urgent heat, making his stomach and thigh muscles tighten and tremble. Beads of pre-come shimmered on the tip of his penis before dripping onto his knuckles.

Damn! Lestrade rolled onto his back and stared down at the tented blanket over his hips. He couldn't risk an illicit wank here: there would be no way to hide the evidence from the nurses afterward. Going to the toilet with 'little Greg' pointing the way would have been an exercise in embarrassment even if he weren't hooked up to an IV and feeling too loopy to sit up, let alone walk.

The door opened. Lestrade quickly drew up his knees and watched as a tall, lean man in blue scrubs and a surgical mask entered, perusing a chart.

"Mr. Gregory Lestrade. It says here that you're having knee surgery tomorrow morning. I was wondering if there was anything I could do to make you more… comfortable… beforehand."

Hearing that voice, Lestrade's mouth opened and his heart leaped. Mycroft, grinning broadly at the response, lowered the mask from his face and pulled off the plastic cap, letting his tousled red hair hang loose.

"Yes," he declared, eyes devouring the growing bulge under the thin hospital sheet, "you're definitely too tense right now. Let me help you relax so you can get some sleep."

"You can't be here," Greg declared, only half-kidding. "They kicked out all visitors at eight."

Mycroft Holmes set the chart on the bureau– next to the three dozen blood-red roses he'd sent earlier- and sauntered toward the bed. "When's the last time anyone barred me from a public place and not been fired afterward?"

"I've never known that to happen."

"And it never will." Mycroft leaned forward until their lips touched. Lestrade opened his mouth eagerly to that possessive tongue and let the taste of his lover elevate his overall giddiness and arousal. When nimble fingers glided teasingly over his covered erection, the DI moaned and rutted against them. "I could not go home without wishing you goodnight as I usually do, Gregory. A kiss was woefully insufficient for both of us, as I can see."

Lestrade laughed, but his libido surged. Mycroft rarely wore anything that couldn't double as evening wear. Seeing him in loose-fitting surgical garb was almost as titillating as watching him stride across the room naked.

Noticing his lover's eager scrutiny, the older Holmes brother toyed with the stethoscope around his neck. "It's been years since I donned a disguise. I forgot how amusing it is to become someone else for a while. Dr. Holmes. Hmm."

Lestrade flopped back against the pillows, enjoying the light dizziness. "I think I might have a medical kink," he slurred.

"Please relax while I conduct a few tests to verify that conclusion," Mycroft declared officiously. He cleared his throat, gripped the blanket hem between manicured fingertips, and slowly drew it back. Greg wasn't wearing pants, and his drab hospital gown was bunched up around his waist, exposing him in all his sticky, rigid glory.

"That can't be comfortable," Mycroft mused. His graceful fingers closed around the shaft and stroked slowly and expertly upward. When the foreskin glided moistly over the head, Lestrade's hips jerked.

"Mmm, yes, that's definitely where it hurts, doctor," he sighed.

"I noticed. So much excess discharge." Mycroft held his glistening fingers out. "We'll have to drain that before they take you to the operating theater."

Lestrade's eyes gleamed. "Got anything you can poke me with to get it all out?"

A mysterious smile. "I have implements on my person, yes. One is rather big, but I'm sure you can handle it."

In his stoned, horny state the DI found that outrageously funny and began to laugh. Mycroft pressed a hand quickly to his mouth and gestured for silence.

"Please, Mr. Lestrade. Other patients might become alarmed by the noise."

Greg jerked his face away and chuckled. "No, they won't. They're as fucked-up as I am right now."

"Language, sir," Mycroft tutted. His tone was disapproving but the glint in his eyes told a different story. "It appears that your medications have rendered you volatile. I must take measures to ensure my own safety as well as yours."


"Yes." After laying a towel on the bed, he seized Lestrade's shoulders and flipped him quickly onto his stomach, taking care not to dislodge the IV needle or tangle the tubing. Greg yelped in surprise as his wrists were secured in soft restraints. Where the hell had those come from? He was about to ask when Mycroft pressed a warning hand against the back of his neck.

"Do be quiet, Mr. Lestrade. I'm about to conduct a series of tests and silence is mandatory."

When he felt strong fingers spreading his cheeks open, he panted, "Don't know if that's possible. I might have to bite the pillow."

"If that's what it takes, go ahead."

"Why not? Give the nurses a giggle- OW!" A sharp slap on one arse cheek cut him off.

"I said silence."

Greg nodded, resisting the urge to squirm as the heat from his spanked flesh spread to his cock, which was wedged tightly between his belly and the coarse towel. When he felt one wet kiss after another circle his puckered entrance without actually penetrating it, he whimpered in frustration and tried to lift his hips, to get that tongue where it would make him see stars.

"Please," he begged.

Mycroft paused, his breath hot on the spit-wet flesh. "Yes, Mr. Lestrade? Is there something you want?"

Lestrade couldn't speak coherently any more. The drugs and his now-vicious desire were at war, one trying to dampen his responses, the other sharpening them. "Please…" he repeated, with a wriggle of his hips.

Mycroft, as usual, knew what he needed. He climbed onto the bed and gently raised Lestrade into a kneeling position, careful not to aggravate his injured knee. Then he bent down, buried his aristocratic face in Lestrade's buttocks, and lapped at the twitching sphincter muscle again, applying firmer pressure this time.

Greg's hands closed into shaking fists and he moaned into the pillow, shaking with pleasure. "More," he pleaded, pushing back. Mycroft traced soothing circles on his lower back before stiffening his tongue and pushing inside. Lestrade's response was speedy and violent: his hips rocketed backward, and only a firm grip on them saved Mycroft from a broken nose. Encouraged, the elder Holmes continued to fuck him with his tongue, licking and pressing at his opening until Lestrade felt wet, open, and increasingly desperate. His cock leaked all over the towel.

"Feels so good," he slurred. He felt his lover smile against his moist skin in return. His voice sharpened into a gasp as one of Mycroft's hands descended to his cock and gripped it. After palming Greg's dripping cockhead long enough to slick his hand thoroughly with pre-ejaculate, Mycroft began stroking him off.

Lestrade's brain officially went offline. All his awareness was now focused on his body, on the heavenly pleasure that resulted when he glided through Mycroft's tightly closed fist on the forward surge, followed by the sensation of a hot, wriggling tongue probing his arse when he pulled back. He was a prisoner- there was no escape, no mercy. Not that he wanted any.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he chanted breathlessly into the pillow. He turned his face to the side, the saliva-soaked pillowcase brushing his cheek, and saw that Mycroft was still dressed. He closed his eyes and imagined how debauched he must look: naked, hospital gown bunched under his arms, wrists cuffed against his lower back, while his composed lover coolly and methodically used fingers and tongue to take him apart. The imagery scorched his brain and provided the last impetus he needed to achieve orgasm.

Greg convulsed against Mycroft's face, voice rising in pitch from low whimpers to a shrill whine as he came forcefully and messily all over the towel. Even after his cock stopped spurting and Mycroft carefully lowered him onto his side, he continued to shake all over. With the pre-op sedation lowering his inhibitions, his body went through post-release shivers until the proverbial afterglow hit and his mind and nerves fell silent.

Lestrade was vaguely aware of Mycroft uncuffing him and removing the semen-loaded towel. He heard water running in the room's small sink, followed by approaching footsteps. Then warm fabric brushed all over his body, removing sweat, saliva, and residual sperm.

"Better now? I think you responded very well to treatment, love," Mycroft murmured against his ear. A hand caressed Greg's waist and thighs in a loving gesture.

"Mmmm." Lestrade's eyes were beginning to close. Mycroft pulled the blankets up over his shoulder, sat on the edge of the bed, and held his hand.

"I'll stay here until you fall asleep, and come back in the morning," he promised.

Lestrade smiled in response. His last thought before succumbing to slumber was that Mycroft may not have been a real doctor, but his healing touch could not be denied.

A/N: Thanks as usual to my lovely beta-mine, chasingriver.