Archive of Our Own

Turning his collar up against the cold night rain, Greg cursed his life, skinny-arsed junkies, and his own dumb luck, or rather, the lack thereof.

Fingers nearly numb, he shoved his hands back in his now empty pockets. 

His third night out on the streets playing “heavy” to a neurotic little fuck who knew more than was good for him, yet not quite enough to know who his friends are. That is, assuming he'd ever had friends.

Sherlock Holmes. Junkie. Public school drop out. Pick pocket extraordinaire.

Eccentric and brilliant at the best of times. Dangerously unhinged at the worst. Incredibly observant. And too stupid to keep his mouth shut when it mattered. 

Or too suicidal.

Last week he’d tipped off the Yard about the whereabouts of an - until that moment - unknown serial killer, to much applause and a blind eye to irises that were so blown wide with cocaine it was surprising that he could even see. 

Since then, he’d come to the attention to a couple of gang lords who would just as soon see him - and his smart mouth - silenced, preferably for good, than turn the other other cheek and let bygones be bygones. Which is why Greg had, well, taken it upon himself, to keep the kid alive  - at least until the kingpins and their gang of underlings could be brought to justice.

His mother always said that he could see the best in people.

His father said it was more about him being a sucker for strays.

Regardless, the last three days had seen him following Sherlock around town after his shifts, digging through dumpsters, listening him go on and on about 98 different types of tobacco ash. That is, when he wasn’t “deducing” the motivations, the sexual habits, and the dietary preferences of everyone in sight.

He had to admit that it was mighty impressive to see Sherlock take apart a complete stranger all within 15 seconds and nothing more to go on than the mud on their heel or the stain on their scarf. However, it was getting a bit tedious when four out of five times - almost without fail - ended up with a fist in someone’s jaw (usually his or Sherlock’s) or a high speed foot chase through God only knows how many back alleys and how much barbed wire.

Luckily the cheeky bastard had taken Greg at his word that he’d cuff him to one of the urinals at Bank Street and leave him there if he so much as uttered another syllable about Greg’s recent divorce, his cheating ex-wife, or his occasional walk on the other side of the street.

Chuckling at the memory of Sherlock’s face when he’d realized that Greg wasn’t bluffing, he almost missed the shadow that moved out of the doorway to his left and fell into pace behind him, masking the sound of footfall. 

Doing his best not to let his stalker know that he’d been had, Greg shifted to the right, readying himself to cross the street. There was a chip shop one block over that might still be open if he could get a good enough head start to actually get there. 

Not that he was surprised. He wasn’t in the best part of town - in fact, he figured his chances of getting knifed in this neighborhood was probably as high as being solicited, or being picked up for solicitation, given that it was half eleven and he was out without any identification. 

Though if he did manage to get arrested, chances are that he’d end up back at the Yard eventually.

'Damn Sherlock and his sticky fingers,’ Greg cursed as his shadow’s footsteps quickened, no longer worried about stealth.

He cast a quick glance in one of the darkened windows and caught a glance of his would-be assailant - ‘5’ 11”, between 13-14 stone - hard to tell, given the jacket. Though, given the nasty flash of silver he saw in the man’s right hand, he figured that it didn’t matter what he weighed. 

Taking stock of his own exhaustion, it didn’t look good. Every bit of his attention focused on the imminent attack, he stepped off the curb and, literally, into the path of a black mercedes. 

Like a deer in the headlights, he glanced over to the bulky shadow that had stepped back into a alley. For a moment he was tempted to stay where he was and lay his cheek against the wet, warm hood that was only about six inches from his thigh. 

The engine purred as sweetly as an overgrown house cat; the delicate rumble almost lost in the patter of rain. 

Not sure what his next move was - or even should be given that he was, technically, a member of the Yard and he had obviously been the target of a violent act - he turned his attention back to the car.

Despite the direction his evening he’d taken, he was nonetheless surprised to see the back window whir down, revealing a pale, thin wrist, holding a wad of notes.

‘You’ve got to be kidding.’ 

Choking back a laugh, Greg was almost relieved that his i.d., wallet, and phone were safely in the possession of one Sherlock Holmes. 

Pulling himself up straight, and hoping that that whoever was in the car was less dangerous then the man he knew was still in the shadows, Greg shook his head and walked slowly to the back of the car.

Still assessing his options, he took a long look at the car, which probably cost three times more than his annual salary. There were no distinguishing marks, other than an understated elegance that screamed wealth and power - which could work in his favor. Or not, depending on who was inside.

Suddenly feeling every bit of the rain that he’d absorbed since Sherlock had absconded with his i.d. and all his cash, Greg shook his head and grabbed the money. Without so much as a token of protest, the hand retreated back into the relative dry of the car.

And in a manner too smooth to have been initiated by a human hand, the door opened; leaving Greg little choice to step inside.

The interior was everything he had expected. 

Two sets of leather seats, facing one another. It smelled clean - and masculine - with just the right touch of peat and vanilla lingering in the air. It screamed money and calm. 

It made Greg’s teeth hurt.

The one thing, however, that he hadn’t expected (or at least hadn’t entirely anticipated) was the man sitting opposite him. He was young and lean. Long legs stretched out between them, taking full advantage of the generous floor space.

“I think this is yours,” Greg said, handing him the money. 

When the man made no move to take it, he continued. “I’m assuming that you were using it as a prop....” He motioned vaguely in the direction to where the he’d last heard his stalker. “....As opposed to making a legitimate offer.”

“And would it have been?” the younger man asked, his voice so smooth that the hairs on the back of Greg’s neck stood on end. “Legitimate, that is?” He reached out with a steady hand and plucked the money from Greg’s fingers without actually touching his skin.

Greg could feel himself start to blush and he shook his head slowly. 

He glanced down at his soggy coat, his dirty suit, and his mud caked shoes, before looking back across the aisle. Three piece suit, Greg noted. Made to fit, if asked to guess. And blue - a rich blue that not many men could pull off - and not something that Greg would have ever put with ginger, but it worked. 

Complementary blue shirt - again, not something that Greg would have every picked out for himself - just a touch lighter, and a tie that made him realize why they called it that. Because unlike the crumpled scrap of polyester around his own neck that felt more like a noose than an accessory, the piece of art gracing the man before him literally tied it all together - even the incongruous hair. He looked like he’d just come from the theatre - or a runway.

‘But then what’s he doing on this side of town?’ His inner cop chimed in, inviting him to take a closer look, even as he became aware that the car had started moving beneath them.

Ginger hair, thinning at the sides in a subtle widow’s peak. Slight forelock curling to to left. Small eyes, not quite beady. Brown or maybe hazel. Thin, manicured brows. Crow’s feet. On any one else, he might have guessed laugh lines, but on this man, he wasn’t so sure.

Nose, too large for his face, slightly crumpled on the left side. Probably not a fight, Greg decided given the overall air of softness the man portrayed, probably just an unfortunate defect of birth.

Thin, pale lips, held firmly in a decidedly noncommittal line.

Weak chin, with a dimple in the middle, likely to jowl with age or weight gain.

Overall, not a handsome man, but he had a compelling face for all of its lack of distinguishing features.

“Determining your answer by the lines in my face?” 

Greg settled back into the comfortable leather seats, situating his own legs around a very ornate umbrella - full length, silver handle. Potential weapon. Or maybe just another of the man’s many props. 

“And what question was that?” Greg returned, deciding to be difficult. “Sorry, it’s been a long night.”

The man offered a slight, if insincere, smile. “Would it have been a legitimate offer?”

“Ah.” Greg chuckled, nodding to the money that the man still held in his hand. “What would someone like you possibly want with someone like me, even if I wasn’t covered in a week’s worth of filth and staining your leather seats with a bucket of rain water?”

“A prop, then,” the man said, slipping the bills back into his jacket. “He would have mugged you, you know.” he remarked, his tone matter of fact.

“Well, he would have tried.”

“He was younger, stronger, and...” His eyes raked over Greg slowly, making him feel not entirely unlike Sherlock’s 99th sample of tobacco ash. “...I imagine, a good deal faster.”

“Doesn’t make him smarter,” Greg countered. “Nor does it make him a better fighter.”

“Is that a warning?” he asked, one side of his mouth turning up in a condescending smile. “Your way of telling me that you are a dangerous man?”

Greg shrugged. “Do you need to be warned?”

Without a word, Greg’s host turned to his left and flipped a switch. A panel slid back, revealing a bottle of Scotch and two glasses.

It was very James Bond.

“May I offer you a drink?” he asked, sidestepping the question.

Amused more than annoyed by the too obvious display of wealth, Greg sat up. “Sure. Why not?”

“You’re awfully trusting,” the man observed as he poured the alcohol into what Greg believed was an honest to God malt whiskey glass. The man held the snifter out to him, the stem firmly tucked between long slender fingers, the bulb of the glass cradled snugly in the palm of his hand.

“Is that a problem?” Greg countered. He took the glass gingerly and swirled the contents, causing the smell of vanilla, oak, and just an undertone of butter to scent the air. “Nice,” he remarked, taking a deep smell. “Shall we toast?”

The man laughed. “Not so trusting as to take the first drink, however?” He poured another, and swirled it around, also taking a deep inhale. “To caution,” he said simply.

Greg raised an eyebrow, before lifting his glass. “And to ginger blokes with blue suits and fancy cars, because I really didn’t feel like having to take that guy out.”

“Quite,” the man remarked, then raised the glass, taking the first sip.

After a few moments of silence, in which Greg simply luxuriated in his surroundings, drinking what he imagined was really good Scotch out of what he was pretty sure was real crystal, he finally decided to see where this was going. Literally, as well as figuratively.

“So,” he said abruptly. “Not that I don’t appreciate the interruption or the refreshment - because I do - but where, exactly, are you taking me?”

Greg’s companion closed his eyes and took a deep breath - one that he held for a good three seconds - before exhaling. When he opened his eyes, they held a hint of amusement. “I suppose that depends on where, exactly, you’d like to be...” He hesitated for just a fraction. “...taken.”

Greg bit back a smile. “And if I said that I wanted to be taken to New Scotland Yard?”

“Easily arranged,” the man answered without missing a beat. “If we’re done here, I can have my driver drop you anywhere you’d like.” He took another sip, his tongue darting out to capture a drop that clung tenaciously to his bottom lip - a lip that, at least in Greg’s opinion, was looking decidedly less and less thin with each passing sip. “Another?”

Greg nodded and held out his glass. “You haven’t asked my name,” he observed. “Why is that?”

“Nor have you mine,” the man returned. “Should I ask the same?”

Greg shrugged, and took another drink of the pungent liquid. This time, he let the liquor sit on his tongue, filling his senses. Setting aside all of his cop instincts that told him this was a bad idea, he took stock of his circumstances.

On the one hand, he was still soaked, it still was raining, and he had no idea where he was.

On the other, he was in a warm, dry car, drinking really good Scotch.

He could go back to the Yard, or probably even back to his flat if he was willing to spit out the address (or if he had the keys, which he hoped liked hell were at least somewhere in the vicinity of his phone and wallet).

Or he could do something else - someone else, like the posh bloke sitting across from him, pretty as a picture, not saying a word, sipping his scotch like a baby with a bottle.

Hmm, Greg tilted his head to one side and really thought about it: posh bloke, nice car, better suit. Soft, but probably pretty fit under all that silk. 

Anonymous. 

The air between them seemed to heat.

No matter what the stranger’s motives, he had probably - in all honesty - saved Greg from a pretty vicious beating, if not just a helluva lot of hassle. 

And he had a good nose for drink.

The Yard and a pile of paperwork or the posh bloke with a mouth that was getting prettier and prettier by the minute? It was a no brainer even for a tired old copper like him.

“So, the Yard is it?” the man inquired politely, moving ever so slightly to flick a piece of imaginary lint off his perfectly creased trousers.

Greg took a deep scotch flavored breath before meeting the man’s eyes. “And what if I said that I’d rather go to yours?”

“That, too, can be arranged.” Without so much as a blink, he swept up the umbrella and used it to tap the glass separating them from the driver three times. “You should finish your drink,” he advised, turning the weight of his attention back to Greg. “We’ll be there shortly.”

Stepping out onto the quiet residential street, Greg was somehow not as surprised as he perhaps he should have been to find that they were in Westminster. In fact, he’d bet this year's Christmas turkey that they were within spitting distance of Downing Street.

But before he could totally get his bearings, an insistent hand at his back ushered him through a wrought iron gate, and into an immaculately kept garden that was more Japanese miniature than English proper.

Without a word, his host made short work of the locks, before stepping aside to invite him in. 

Feeling ridiculously out of place in the pristine hallway, Greg turned, hands loose at his side. Only to have his coat being stripped from him from behind. 

In the shadows of the tiled foyer - Greg’s Mum would have called it a fancy man’s mudroom - he allowed himself to be stripped. 

First the coat, then the jacket. His host made a sound of disgust as he unknotted the cheap tie and flung it to the floor. 

Fast and efficient fingers loosed the buttons of his shirt, which, within seconds was reunited with the rest of Greg’s garments - making a strange patina on that what he guessed to be Italian marble.

At a less than gentle nudge, Greg raised his arms. 

He winced as the damp vest was pulled over head roughly, only to be tossed to the floor with a wet thud. 

As overly efficient fingers flew to his belt, he grabbed the man’s hands.

“Slow down, there.” Greg smiled his “crooked” smile; the one that almost always got him off the hook with his Mum and into deep trouble with his ex-. “I’m not the only one getting naked, here, am I?”

The man’s mouth twisted and, for the first time since Greg lays eyes on him, he looked nervous. Not scared, exactly. But definitely unsure. 

It was a good look on him, Greg decided. Only to find himself wondering just how many others had seen it before him.

“I assumed that you’d want a shower,” the man said stiffly. “And I would prefer that you not track water into the flat.”

Greg nodded, before brushing the man’s hands away. “Well, if that’s your primary concern, I guess I can take it from here.”

The ginger raised his hand in mock surrender, but instead of giving Greg his privacy, which is what Greg had intended, he simply took a step back. 

Almost as if to get a better view.

Feeling more embarrassed than sexy, Greg took a steadying breath. Trying to be as quick as possible, he kicked off his shoes and reached down to pull off his damp socks. Maybe the man had a point, he thought as he tossed the soaked cotton into the growing pile, he really did need a shower. 

Putting his vanity behind him, he returned his hands to his belt, but before he undid the buckle, he turned his attention to his erstwhile companion. 

In the hallway of his own home, Posh Bloke, as he’d come to be known in Greg’s mind, looked even younger than he had in the car, thinner and taller too. In fact, he probably had a good two inches on him.

He was pale, his skin a little bit like Greg’s grandmother’s china. 

There was something fragile there, and just a little too translucent to be entirely healthy. 

He wasn’t Greg’s normal type - not that Greg had had a male type in a while. But back in the day, they’d always been rough and tumble blokes who’d rather punch you than kiss you.

Something told Greg that it wasn’t going to go down that way tonight. 

He watched the man’s eyes as he stripped off the trousers and boxers in one fell swoop; he tracked the soft pink tongue darting out along the lower lip and the deep swallow that followed.

And he did his best to forget about what he must look like, naked, sodden clothes in a pile by his feet, with God only knows what he had in his hair after an evening dumpster diving with Sherlock, whom, at this moment, he wasn’t sure if he should throttle or medal.

Turning his attention to his immediate posh, public school boy, Greg ducked his head. “You said something about a shower?” he asked, refusing to be intimidated. Who would have thought it - him, naked as a jaybird in some posh Westminster flat, in front of some upper class bloke at least 5 years his junior. 

“Yes,” the ginger man swallowed again, making no attempt to hide his appreciation of Greg’s form. “Straight through and up the stairs,” he whispered. “The master bedroom is on the third floor and the bath is en suite.”

Greg snorted. ‘Of course it was.’ “You are coming?” he said, instead.

The man actually, honest to God, blushed; his embarrassment, oddly enough, putting Greg at ease.

“That is the plan,” he said, his voice wry. “I’ll set the alarm and get us another drink.” He cleared his throat, glancing down at the pile of clothes littering his otherwise spotless floor. “I’ll also make sure that someone sees to your things.”

So, not alone then, Greg noted, which, again, could work in or against his favor, depending. The alarm was definitely a plus, because if things got ugly, all he’d have to do is break a window or open a door. Not that he didn’t think that he could take him, but still.

As he padded through the semi-darkened townhouse (because no way, was this actually a “flat”), he found himself checking for possible exits. There was very little in the way of clutter or decoration, so no obvious items that could be used in a fight should things turn rough.

Even as he assessed his environment for threats, he cursed his brain. 

Granted, this was probably the dumbest thing that he’d done in a while - hanging around with Sherlock sodding Holmes not included - but he’d give anything if just for once he didn't have to weigh all the possible ways it could go pear shaped.

The bathroom was exactly what he’d expected. 

Just like the car, the rest of the house, and hell, the very man himself, it was fastidiously neat and tricked out to the nines without being too ostentatious. 

Running his hands across the towels that had obviously not been used, he felt his detective instincts kick into high gear. Not a soap splatter to be seen, nor even a bit of scum on the soap. The toothbrush, too, was unused. And he bet if he looked for a razor, it, also, would have never seen water. The edge of the toilet paper was neatly folded, like something you'd see at some fancy hotel.

So either this wasn’t Posh Bloke’s actual room or he had enough dosh to have whoever it was who was “seeing” to Greg’s things follow him around with all new towels and toiletries - on a daily basis. 

It was either that or house elves.

Catching a glimpse of his hairy, scarred chest in the tastefully gilded - but gilded, nonetheless - mirror, Greg had to laugh. What was he doing here? This was beyond posh. 

This was crazy. 

This was power. 

And for the first time since he chose the ride over the mugging, he allowed himself to really wonder just who it was who was going to be waiting for him on the other side of the door.

After a long, luxurious shower, every inch and orifice as clean as he could manage,  Greg grabbed one of the plush, never been used towels, and carefully dried off, starting with his hair, all the way down to his feet. Tossing that one into the tub, he grabbed another and tucked it securely around his waist. 

Never one to shy away from the light, he left it on, letting the golden cast illuminate his path into the otherwise darkened bedroom.

Again, the man that he found sitting on the edge of the bed was a surprise. 

Posh Bloke had showered as well - in his own room, if Greg had to guess. He wondered what it must be like to have so much space that you had a separate suite for one night stands. 

Ginger hair, nearly brown with damp. Gone was the three-piece suit. In its place were not the silk pajamas that Greg might have imagined, if he had thought to imagine, but rather a worn pair of jeans, purple striped socks, and a King’s College sweatshirt. 

“Don’t you clean up nice,” Greg teased, coming to stand in front of him. “You look even younger without the suit.”

“Which is exactly why I wear them,” he retorted, spreading his legs, inviting Greg to step inside.

Ignoring the silent summons, Greg stood his ground. Rocking back on heels, he took a moment to appreciate the long lines of this man who obviously had more money and power than he knew what to do with. 

Yet, if that was truly the case, why was he, Greg, here? As opposed to some Oxford bound intern with stars in his eyes, if not a bit of a crush?  

Surely this guy with his posh house and his Cambridge education could have anybody he wanted and surely he had more sense to want some recently divorced cop with a chip on his shoulder. 

It just didn’t add up.

“Are you just going to stand there?” he asked, his tone sharp. 

And for a moment, just one, Greg found himself thinking of Sherlock. Hell, he thought, dropping the the towel and taking the remaining two steps, maybe he should introduce them. 

Though, as he watched the other man’s pupils dilate, he thought better of it.

Not exactly sure how this was going to go, Greg leaned down, slipping his hands up underneath the sweatshirt and pulling it off. The man was bare underneath, a smattering of ginger hair at the base of his neck, leading to a thinner trail down the abdomen. 

Greg tossed the shirt onto the floor and ruffled his fingers through the man’s still wet hair.

“So what’s on the menu for tonight?” he asked, determined to keep it light. Blow job, hand job - he didn’t care. 

The man gave him a look. “Uhm...” he licked his lips, letting his eyes linger where they would. “That would be you.” 

Ten minutes later found Greg flat on his back.

“Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed, pulling the man in his arms down for another kiss. “Do you have a name?”

Posh bloke pushed himself up and grinned. “Well, it’s not Jesus Christ, certainly, but you can call me My.”

Greg blinked. “Short for Michael?”

“No, just My.”

“My?” Greg reached up, trailing his fingers up his abdomen, then back down to linger on his hip. “As in ‘Oh My God,” he teased, wrapping his other hand around his bicep and pulling him back down. “Or maybe ‘Oh MY fucking God?” he murmured as he slid his own lips from mouth to jaw and back again.

To his surprise, My snorted. 

“Or maybe just My...” Greg drew back, meeting his eyes. “As in ‘mine.’” 

My’s head snapped back, his eyes narrowing. 

And once again, Greg felt like he had been put under a microscope. 

“Yes,” My said finally. “My, as in yours.” With eyes open, he leaned down for yet another kiss, shifting his hips just so, his cock digging into the hardness of Greg’s hip. 

“My you taste good,” Greg muttered, half teasing, half not. It had been too long since he’d kissed someone like this, hungry, without apology. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it.

When he figured out what this was turning into, when he turned down the ride to the Yard, when My - still dressed in his touch me not three piece suit - had rapped on the back of the glass with a goddamned umbrella, he had no idea that it would end like this.

Sure, he’d thought maybe a blow job or a couple of rough hand jobs, hell, he might have even been convinced to put a leg up. But what he got was this - rolling around on a bed that was a thousand times better than the one he’d been missing since his divorce, making out like a teenager with a man who, out of his suit, looked more like a college student than the government spook he obviously was. 

“And what should I call you?” My whispered, burying his head in Greg’s neck, taking a deep breath, almost as if he were trying to breathe him in.

“Call me Greg.” Greg grabbed his hips, shifting the two of them closer, until he could get his hand around them both. 

“Short for Gregory?” My gasped, his face flushing bright red.

“Just Greg,” Greg managed, his hand sliding up and down the length of them. “But you can call me whatever the hell you want.”

“Gregory then,” My decided, reaching overhead to grab the lube. “You want this?” he asked, flipping off the lid and pouring the viscous liquid out over his fingers, before tangling them with Greg’s. 

As Greg continued to kiss and pull, My drew one of his slippery fingers down between Greg’s cheeks, fingering his hole. 

“Do it,” Greg urged, pulling away to take a breath. 

He gasped when My breached him, first with one finger, then another. “Holy, My!” he cried out. “Keep that up and I’m gonna come!”

My pulled his mouth away. “Don’t you dare,” he growled, batting Greg’s hand away, before taking him into his mouth, from tip to root.

“Oh my God!” Greg shouted, hands scrabbling down My’s back, trying to find something to hold onto as the younger man pumped his fingers in and out of his ass, the pressure a perfect counterpoint to the wet heat of his mouth.

Even as the lust that had been building all night began to crest over him, it wasn’t lost on him that this was the best blow job that he’d ever had. Nor was the irony that he was already trying to figure out how to get another one.

The first time Greg awoke was to the muffled sound of a phone ringing, followed by throaty, almost guttural syllables that sounded, at least in his near dream state, suspiciously like Arabic. 

As he slipped back into the ether, he also thought he heard a whisper, “Stay. Your things will be here in when you awake.” 

And he thought he might have imagined a pair of lips skimming softly over his temple, right above the eye and a ghost of fingers along the inside of his wrist.

And, finally, before he was lost all together, the words, “Until next time.”

He woke up alone, five minutes before the alarm. He flicked it off, wondering how much of last night had been a dream. The blow job was definitely real, the phone call, maybe. The Arabic? Not so sure.

Regardless of the interruptions - real or imagined - he felt more rested than he had in years.

Glancing around the room, he saw a suit bag hanging in the door between the bedroom and the bath. There was a slip of paper attached the hanger, and he didn’t need his glasses to know that his name was on it. 

Overnight dry cleaning? he mused, pulling himself out of bed and padding over to the bag. He unzipped it half way to see not only his suit - looking better than it had in years - but also a coral shirt and “matching" tie. He reached up to finger the dress shirt, which made even his best set of sheets feel like a bit like copper wool.

Letting go of the sleeve, he leaned up and snagged the piece of paper. 

Clean, white vellum - crisp. The script was much neater than his own - not at all feminine, but elegant. 

“Courteous sod,” Greg mused, as the grabbed the suit bag and tossed it on the bed to avoid it getting damp from the steam of the shower.

Greg took a step back and took a critical look at his reflection in the full length mirror. He had had to admit, he looked good. Coral and grey? He’d have definitely never picked that out for himself, but it was a good combination. Who knew? 

‘Well, My, obviously,’ his inner voice piped up, sounding surprisingly like Sherlock.

“Argh,” Greg groaned, crashing back to reality with a painful thud.

Somehow in his post-coital bliss, he’d forgotten how he’d landed here to begin with. No badge+No phone+No keys+No I.D.=Lots of Paperwork and one very sorry Sherlock Holmes.

But, no matter how tedious the day was going to be - either by filling out fifteen different forms in triplicate or chasing that skinny know-it-all around town getting his stuff back - he really couldn’t help but think that maybe it had been worth it. Even if he knew good and well that said know-it-all would "deduce" that he'd had sex - with a complete stranger no less - the minute he saw him and feel morally obligated to tell everyone in sight. Loudly.

For just a moment, he set all thoughts of Sherlock Holmes aside. In their place, he conjured up the image of My - he wondered if that really was his name? - on his knees, between Greg’s legs, holding his cock as if it were made out of gold. He’s been smiling - in fact, if Greg was pressed to describe him in that moment, the word that he’d use would be ‘sweet’.

He’d been sweet.

Enchanting…charming.

Yes, charming. And despite the unlikeliness of that having been the outcome, especially given the outset, Greg had certainly been charmed. My, or whatever his name was, had been so unexpected that he - Gregory Lestrade - had actually been charmed.

Chuckling at himself for being a sap, Greg sat down on the bed. He took one last look around the largely utilitarian room before pulling on a pair of new socks (again, three times the quality of the pair he’d had on last night) and slipping his feet into his newly polished shoes. 

“House elves,” he muttered to himself as he grabbed the jacket off the unmade bed and headed out the door. “It has to be.”

The rest of the so-called flat was equally well done. Heavy, classic furniture, and elaborately framed paintings - honest to God paintings - that looked like they should be in a museum, rather than a private home.

A quick look across polished surfaces revealed no clutter, no mail. Nothing with any identifying information at all.

The kitchen was more of the same. The granite cabinets offered no clue to the personality of their owner. In fact, the only thing “out of place,” was a fancy coffee maker that was sitting on the edge of the counter. Given that it was the only appliance in sight, Greg would be willing to bet ninety to nothing that it hadn’t been there last night - but, instead, had been brought out of where ever it had been stored for just his use. 

Machine aside, the actual coffee smelled heavenly.

A single coffee mug, the mouth narrower than the base for, what he assumed was maximum heat retention, sat by the shiny silver machine. He poured himself a quick cup, taking only a moment, to appreciate the rich aroma, before continuing his perusal of his immediate surroundings. 

There was also a wall phone tucked in discretely between the icebox and the light switch.

He glanced over to the small island where he saw a handled shopping bag, which he assumed contained his shirt and tie. Without bothering to check it, he wandered into the living room. 

Again, no personal effects, whatsoever. Just a couple of tasteful throw pillows, a couple of houseplants, and a ceiling to floor set of bookcases that filled the west wall.

Just as he turned to head back in the kitchen, he saw it or, rather, them: two small photos tucked on the third shelf of the first bookcase. Matching frames. Both, black and white. 

As he stepped closer, he was reminded of the old-time photos you might at a local fair, but as he leaned it, he realized that the woman - in the one - and the child - in the other - weren’t in costumes, despite the resin tint of the photographs themselves. He sat his coffee cup down and the shelf and took a longer look.

The woman was probably her mid-forties, though it was hard to tell. Sweeping black skirt, white, button down blouse. her hair in ringlets. Simple chain with a jeweled pendant. She wore a diamond solitaire on her right hand and an elegant filagree band on the left. She was regal, and quite lovely. Wife, Ex? He took a closer look. 

Same small, intense eyes, though less noticeable on her than on him.

Mother, most likely. 

The child, like the woman, was thin and likely tall for his age, which Greg guessed to be around 3 or 4. Big eyes, in contrast with the mother, assuming that’s who she was, with the same dark, curly hair. Besides being ethereally beautiful, the three words that immediately popped to mind were intelligent, inquisitive and sulky.

My’s Child? Maybe. 

But given the similarity of the two photos, it seemed likely that they were taken about the same time. So, if that were the case, the ages didn’t make sense. So if she is the mother, and this child is definitely not My's, other similarities, aside. Brother? Seemed more likely. 

Pretty sure that the woman was, indeed, My’s mother, or maybe even a grandmother - as opposed to a wife or girlfriend - he set his coffee aside and picked up the photo of the kid. He flipped it over, examining the back - the velvet covering held in place by three simple clasps. 

Despite the quality of the frame, or maybe because of it, it didn’t take much to open the back and slide the photo out. Taking care not to smudge the front, he held it by the edges and turned it over.

Greg laughed, disappointed, but not entirely shocked, to see a single initial and a date: S, 1979. Feeling like a stalker of the lowest sort - and not even a particularly good one at that - he reassembled the frame and set it carefully back on the shelf.

Grabbing his coffee mug, he glanced over at the walnut grandfather clock. It was 7:47. 

“Time to get out of here,” he muttered, making his way back into the kitchen. 

Though he had little doubt that My would not be the one cleaning up the kitchen, he still dumped out the rest of his coffee, gave the mug a quick wash, and rinsed the sink when he was done. If he had any clue as to where a bloke like My would stash his paper towels, he’d have been happy to dry the water splatter. But, since he didn’t, going through the kitchen cabinets seemed a bit too much prying - even in his book.

Taking a last quick look around, he slipped into his freshly cleaned and pressed jacket. He tossed his overcoat over one arm and grabbed the bag that held his yesterday’s shirt and tie with his free hand. He then went to the fridge, in search of the promised danish that, granted, he didn’t have time for now, but he could surely enjoy on his walk.

With his hand on the door handle, his eyes lighted on the phone. 

As all thoughts of danish fled his mind, he told himself that he was just going to use the phone to call his phone to see if Sherlock would actually pick up. Because if he did, his rational brain supplied, that would save him a lot of hassle down the road. What he didn’t even allow himself to think about is that by calling his own phone, he might actually get My’s number automatically on redial.

Hoping that the phone really rang out - and wasn’t a direct line to the servants’ quarters - Greg quickly dialed his own number. With a sharp intake of breath, he practically the dropped the bag in his hand, which immediately started ringing with an all too familiar ringtone.

Hanging up, he dumped the contents of the bag onto the otherwise spotless counter. 

Shirt: check. 

Tie: check. 

Socks: check. 

Phone, wallet, I.D., keys and badge: Bloody. Soddin’. Check.