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In the six minutes it took for Mycroft to arrive, at least a dozen different scenarios clicked through Sergeant Sally Donovan's mind, as if she were channel surfing through one disastrous, humiliating reality tv show after another. All while she raced around her flat, throwing dirty clothes in the sink and dishes into the laundry bag crumpled by the door. Wait. Scratch that. Reverse it.
Why was she so nervous all of a sudden?
Instead of leaving her wrung out and ready for a blissful sleep, her post-orgasmic high had made her do something really stupid. And now she regretted that rush of Xena Warrior Princess confidence. The rush that had set her fingers clicking on the keys of her BlackBerry, ordering Mycroft Holmes to get his naked arse in her bed right now--or general words to that effect. What the hell was she thinking?
Had she really called him a "prick?" Even just as a joke‚ or misplaced bravado, that was probably over the line. She did say some pretty rude things to him when they were winding each other up‚ but that wasn't what she was doing now, was it? Was she teasing him or were they going to cross into new territory now? She honestly wasn't sure.
She slipped into fresh pink underwear and splashed some water on her face and neck and under her arms. Put on a white cotton camisole, a cozy pomegranate-red jumper that skimmed loosely over her hips--and some black leggings. Comfort. Good. Better to open the door looking relaxed and comfortable rather than manic and slutty.
And she'd make some tea too--that would calm her down. The kettle had been whistling shrilly while she dressed, not helping with her attempts to untangle her nerves. After she'd downed three gulps of white wine from the bottle in the fridge, she pulled two of her grandmother's blue and white china cups and saucers from the cupboard, and managed to find the matching sugar bowl in a box on top of the fridge. The man certainly did love his tea, and she didn't want to insult him by serving it in stained Property of the Metropolitan Police mugs.
She debated the boots and decided to put them beside the sofa. She'd stay in her bare feet for now. If things moved along towards doing some of the things they'd talked about in the wee hours over the past few weeks, then it would be easy enough to grab the props. She ran through a checklist in her head. She had the boots, the handcuffs, the gun (a pretty realistic-looking toy), six condoms—seven if she counted the ancient, decaying one at the bottom of her handbag. She even had half a pint of raspberries and a cup of heavy cream in the fridge. Mycroft didn't have to show up with anything except that bloody umbrella and three-piece suit.
Jesus, those suits. They were never the latest cut or colour. Mycroft was not about chic lines or blatant vanity like his brother. He was old school in the best way. She'd been dying to try on one of his waistcoats since the first day they met at the Yard, on one of Sherlock's early cases. That day she'd got the tiniest glimpse of the lining of his jacket and knew it was a red paisley-patterned satin, which damn near sent her into a swoon. The desire to be buttoned up in finely tailored men's clothing--the scratch of wool and tweed on her bare skin, the smell of shaving lotion, and the smooth slide of an expensive silk necktie around her wrists came up again and again in her fantasies.
The thought that Mycroft Holmes in his bespoke wool and buffed Italian shoes soon would be standing in her flat--lovingly furnished in IKEA and charity-shop finds-- was sending little pulses of electricity into the tips of her fingers and toes.
There was something purely erotic in the contrasts between Mycroft and herself, she thought. She was no psychologist, but she guessed that was half of what kept her coming back for more with this man. His pale hands, proper Oxbridge vowels, and cool aplomb made for a naturally warm friction against her own caramel skin, Estuary r’s, and quick, defensive fits of anger. When she imagined making love to him, he was wrapped in her wrinkled bedsheets—damp and smelling of sweat and semen—and she was wearing one of his starched, pure white shirts. When she put on that shirt, she also put on his assurance—his inborn belief that everyone was there to serve and obey him. And as she rode him, in these fantasies, she controlled his movements and responses, made him come how and when she wanted.
There was a buzz from downstairs. Shit. She wasn’t ready, was she?
No big deal, Sally. You know him. He's all right. Even if he is a bloody spook or whatever. . . . no need to be worried. If things get out of hand or you start mucking it all up, just cuff him to the kitchen table and leave the flat. Then call Anthea. That girl's probably extracted her boss from much worse disasters than a crap date.
She lifted her finger, ready to press the button beside the door to let him into the building. She saw his face on the security camera and laughed. For once she could actually spy on him, catch him in an unguarded moment. And my goodness, for the first time she saw he was an ordinary man. Thinning hair, tired eyes, odd-shaped nose. He looked a little anxious, adjusting his tie one too many times. And he had a small bouquet of tulips in his hand--the silly old-fashioned git.
She pressed the buzzer and spoke into the small microphone beside it.
"Come on up, Mycroft. It's 6C. Lift is to the right as you walk in--but of course, you probably know that, don't you?"
She saw him smile, take a deep breath, and adjust his tie again before opening the door.
Sally ran her fingers through her curls, feeling calmer now she realized he was possibly as nervous as she was. She decided to risk a tentative "hello" kiss on his warm, thin lips when she opened the door. He responded with a sudden step back, as if she'd taken a taser to his chest. Okay, she thought, maybe this whole touching each other in the flesh will take awhile. Patience, Sergeant Donovan. Like on a stakeout.
Mycroft tried to recover, smiling and stepping closer, papering over the awkwardness with compliments. "You look beautiful tonight, Sergeant Donovan."
"You can call me Sally now, Mycroft," she said as she took his coat and umbrella and led him into the pine-and-white Swedish-modern-on-a-copper's-budget lounge that served as living room, dining room, and guest bedroom when needed.
He looked around and settled himself onto a white acrylic chair that swiveled awkwardly and immediately tipped halfway over. He frowned and she giggled as he tried to right himself.
She took the flowers from his hand and padded into the kitchen to search for a vase, thinking she liked Mycroft Holmes just like that. Off balance. She decided not to try to fill the silence. She liked that too, for now.
As she was tucking the flowers into a large, empty olive jar full of water, both their phones began buzzing. Messages from Lestrade and Anthea, marked urgent.
"What does yours say?" Sally asked Mycroft. "'Cause mine makes no sense."
He squinted at the screen of his mobile for a moment and shook his head. I've got more than one, and they're all nonsense. In one, she says: 'Pie and pudding? Not fair. Leave some pudding for the rest of us.' Well, it seems she's been drinking. If she's sending me a coded message it's far too encrypted for me to understand. Perhaps I should call her."
"Hmm. Lestrade is saying something about staying loyal to your team. I've no idea what that's supposed to mean. Yeah, we should probably call them . . . Oh wait. I've got something from John now."
She scanned the message:
Ignore GL's msg. At pub.
On our fifth round.
G and A drunk.
Comparing notes on involuntary celibacy.
Bloody masochists, all of us.
Enjoy your night with M. ; )
Sally replied quickly:
Thanks. Glad you're having fun.
How’d u know M is with me?
Anthea knows all!
She says—tell M to delete her last three texts.
She's sorry.
She's gone to the loo to throw up
Sally sporfled and read the text aloud to Mycroft before replying:
LOL.
John replied immediately:
Not funny from where I'm sitting.
Good luck with your Holmes.
Mad as a hatter‚ like his brother, I expect.
Sally felt herself blushing when she realized John had called Mycroft her Holmes. Well, since she'd told Lestrade they were dating, of course she should have known John and Sherlock would find out. She texted back quickly, while Mycroft was thumbing through a few more indecipherable messages from Anthea.
Not really my Holmes.
Just friends.
R U sure?
If just friends, better tell Greg and Anthea.
Bye.
OK. Maybe.
Bye.
“Mycroft— The doc seems to have it all in hand, so we needn’t worry.”
She was officially off-duty tonight and thought Mycroft should be too, so Sally took the man’s mobile away from him mid-scroll and dropped both into the drawer in which she kept string, scissors, glue, and miscellaneous buttons and broken crockery. She slammed the drawer shut with a grin, and set the teapot, cups, and sugar bowl onto a tray, cursing herself for having broken the matching creamer years ago.
Mycroft rose from his chair when she was laying out the tea cups on a small table beside the sofa. He stepped behind her and encircled her waist with his arms. She took a quick shaky breath before turning around in his arms, and looking up at him.
She could smell a musky cologne evaporating into air around him. He cupped her face in cool, long fingers, almost feminine in their softness‚ and kissed her. The muscles in his arms were flexed and taut. He was holding his breath and his lips were pressed tightly together against hers. It was all strange and uncomfortable and she wanted to squirm away, but didn’t want to hurt his feelings. The memory of how vulnerable and ordinary he’d looked before she buzzed him into her flat returned when she closed her eyes. So she wrapped her arms around his neck and tugged him closer, trying to shift their bodies together. Pieces of a puzzle that seemed like they maybe ought to fit, but she just couldn’t see the picture they were supposed to be making yet.
She warmed to the realness of him---not just his voice, but his body so close for the first time. Close enough for her to taste at last. She pushed her nose into the bit of soft pink neck above his collar and nibbled. He remained still, barely breathing, jaw clenched. He probably just needed a little encouragement, she thought. She began moving lazily against him. Her breasts flattened and firm against his chest. She lifted one knee, sliding the inside of her thigh against the outside of his leg and twisting so that her hip met his groin—looking in vain for an erection.
Nothing. Damn. He wasn’t saying anything; he wasn't moving or caressing her. Was she such a disappointment? What did he want?
Until this moment it had all been surreal, like an elaborate fantasy and Mycroft was a character she'd invented. Someone who fit the peculiar emptiness in her life perfectly, but who didn't intrude on the daily reality of work and friends and family. Mycroft was a Creature she'd fashioned in her mind and then brought to life over the echoing telephone lines and through the tap of her fingers on a keyboard. But now she'd let this Creature into her flat and was contemplating letting him crawl under her duvet, but she had no idea who he really was. Jesus--even Victor Frankenstein wouldn't have done something this stupid, would he? Hadn't she seen enough horror movies to know better? This was the time to run away screaming. To call the police—but fuck it all, she was the police.
She stepped back, out of reach, and looked at him again. Who was Mycroft Holmes when he wasn’t charming her with clever stories and fancy wine? Who was he when he wasn’t seducing her over the crackle of static on the phone line? She had vague notions about the frightening level of power he had, what he was capable of. And that mysterious power--the ruthlessness everyone at the Yard whispered about--was part of what drew her in. But even moreso, it was the fact that he never exercised that power with her. He was deferential, letting her lead, letting her decide when to push forward into some new place--just as she'd done tonight.
She stepped back another few inches, then turned quickly and walked back to the kitchen, muttering something about more sugar for the tea. She steadied herself by leaning against the cupboard, then running cold water over her hands and wrists. What if this had all been some freakish plot? (He is Sherlock’s brother after all—genetics will always out.) What if he was just collecting all her secrets--and then tonight he’d turn on her, and she’d be at his mercy. He’d have all the control. She couldn't stomach the thought of that.
He knew too much. All those dinners—she’d told him everything about her fear of not being good enough, being an imposter; her bitterness towards the Met, especially her DCI for overlooking her so many times; her anger at Sherlock not putting in the time and training that she and everyone else put in. Sherlock never followed the rules she had to follow. But still gained Lestrade's admiration, his respect. And on the phone she'd told Mycroft how she wanted to command him. Wanted to command and control every man who’d ever tried to push her around. She’d told Mycroft about Anderson. About Gregson. She’d confessed her fantasies about Anthea. About Mycroft and Anthea and her. Jesus, had she gone completely mad?
“Sally, are you all right? Would you like me to go?”
She should say yes. They should go back to the way it was before—just listening and talking, just voices. This was going to be too much. Maybe they should break it off completely. They both thrived on secrecy, on hiding things about themselves. This was just going to be so much nakedness--emotional and physical.
But she didn’t want him to leave. She didn't want him to leave.
She stepped out of the kitchen and looked at him, wrapping her arms around herself to hold in the emotions, so she could keep her voice steady, confident. “No. Stay. Let’s try this. I want to try.”
She quickly made her way to where he stood, slid both arms around his waist, and kissed him softly. One hand moved up to loosen his tie and unbutton his collar. She opened her mouth and licked at the seam of his lips, trying to explore, trying to invite him to do the same---sighing and purring to let him know she was ready. But he pulled away suddenly and in three quick, long steps was on the other side of the room, standing behind the sofa—using it as a barricade.
“Sally, I’m sorry. I have to tell you something before we . . . You may not want to go on if . . damn it, damn it, damn it.”
Shit. He was getting ready to tell her something awful, wasn’t he? He was married. He was sick and had a week to live. He was a priest, or a Russian spy or---what other disaster could it be?
“Tell me,” she said. “Out with it. Now.”
“My dear Sally, you must believe me when I say that I very much want to be with you. To touch you. I find myself thinking of little else these past weeks. You’re an unexpected joy in my life, and . . . “
She threw up her hands and barked at him, “Oh my God, Mycroft! Stop prolonging the torture, for fuck's sake. Tell me the problem.”
Resting his hands on the back of the grey leather sofa, he nodded and said simply, “I’ve never been with a woman. My partners have always been men, and . . . it’s been a long time-- over four years-- since I’ve been with anyone at all. I . . . I am sure I’ll be a disappointment, you see. I really should not have come tonight, but . . .”
Sally exhaled. Not married, not dying, not a priest. She smiled. But he was gay. Gay but magically turned bi-curious because of her? Jesus, every woman’s fantasy come true. She could handle this.
She stepped closer and motioned for him to sit next to her on the sofa. He gave her a strange look as he sat. Like he was thinking Did you actually hear what I just said?
She suddenly felt in control again, in command of herself and possibly—just for tonight—in command of Mycroft bloody Holmes. She was about to teach the British government a thing or two.
“Is that all, then? That’s not a problem, Mycroft—that’s an aphrodisiac. A challenge. You've just made this night a lot more interesting--and it was going to be pretty damn interesting already.”
Sally scooted close to Mycroft and continued to loosen and remove his tie. She threw one long leg across his lap to trap him. He smiled, tugged her a little closer, and kissed her--more eagerly now, but still unsure, full of questions. He let her lick into his mouth, before he started to explore hers.
She felt a little movement under her thigh. She giggled and kissed Mycroft more deeply. She reached between his legs just to confirm the diagnosis, and heard a gasp of surprise and pleasure.
She climbed onto his lap, straddling him and slowly unbuttoning his shirt, whispering into his ear, "Okay Mycroft. We're going to get you naked now, and I'm going to wear this gorgeous shirt. And you're probably not ever getting it back."