It was the smell of nicotine that hit him first. Even before anything else, the curl of smoke that hit his lungs and made his mouth water with need caught Gregory Lestrade's attention as he exited 221B Baker Street, angry and frustrated. It was nothing new, leaving the residence of Sherlock Holmes frustrated, but there was an extra layer to it this time, because of the nature of his visit.

The headlines read "Sherlock Holmes Returns from the Dead" when in actuality, he'd never been gone to begin with. It was a clever ruse, the kind of thing that the DI should, no doubt, have guessed or intuited on his own. But no, he'd found out from the morning papers, and hadn't believed it until John had called, sheepishly explaining that he may or may not have punched the consulting detective, and if he could possibly manage it, could he send over a cold case or two to keep the genius from climbing the walls, never mind that until six hours ago he'd thought him dead?

Lestrade had brought the damn cases, but instead of being properly grateful, Sherlock had smirked, taken the files, and shut the door in his face. Business as usual, except for the fact that Greg had spent two years doing everything in his power to prove the man's innocence and Sherlock? He couldn't even manage a proper greeting.

Of course, judging by the smoker's presence, he wasn't the only one who'd received a rude welcome to the flat. The incongruous sight of Mycroft Holmes leaning against the brick wall, a cigarette held to his lips, was almost more shocking that his little brother's resurrection.

"I didn't know you smoked." Were the first words out of his mouth, and he cursed himself for never being as suave and together as he wanted to be when it came to this man. Instead of commenting, however, the younger man smirked, flicked some ashes off the tip, and returned the cigarette to his mouth, making the cherry glow violent red for a moment as smoke once again filled the air.

"Would you like one?" Mycroft made the offer even though he already knew that yes, the Detective Inspector very much wanted a cigarette. He had been torn between staring at Mycroft and the cigarette, and it was rare for his attention to waver from the person he was addressing. His addiction was obviously a powerful thing, but then, a man who so often burned the candle at both ends and asked for so little in return was entitled to his vices.

That was, after all, why the politician, who feared no one and nothing and bowed to no influence other than his own, had gotten hooked on cigarettes from the first time he'd tasted the sweet poison back in his school days. For a mind as powerful as his, it had been a shock to his system to discover that such a simple thing could ground him. The need that burned inside him for the toxic little tubes reminded him that he was human. It was the same reason he carried the umbrella—to prove he wasn't impervious to the weather—and the same reason he occasionally got drunk and let men take him home.

Of course, the last time had put a stop to that particular vice, and the fault belonged entirely to the man standing in front of him now, nodding. Mycroft withdrew his silver cigarette case and slid one out, handing it to the DI and getting out his lighter. Greg cupped his hand around the top to protect the flame from the light breeze while Mycroft set the tip aflame, thinking that this was the closest they'd been since that night.

There was probably no way that Gregory remembered, of course. Heartbroken over Sherlock's death and John's depression, he'd gone out and gotten completely smashed at a pub only a block from Mycroft's apartment, and the people he'd had watching Greg had alerted him to that fact. Sighing, he'd gone out in the rain and walked that block, going in and ordering his own drink and attempting to talk to the increasingly sad DI, whose tone grew more morose with every sip and shot of alcohol.

Eventually, when Mycroft had finished his drink—he didn't imbibe alcohol often, but every time he tasted that particular brand of whiskey now he was reminded of that night—the two of them had headed outside together, hanging onto one another for the support. Well, Greg was holding onto him for support. Mycroft was holding on, on the other hand, because he'd wanted to for years, and this was probably going to be his only chance ever, and he was trying to battle the guilt of keeping secrets and manipulating people and oh, how he wished that he could have been Greg's friend, and had the right to comfort him.

Instead, the two had gone to a hotel, because taking him home would have felt too much like entrapment, and they ordered room service and more alcohol, and Greg had talked Mycroft into another glass, slurring his own words.

When they'd kissed, the taste of alcohol had mixed with nicotine, and to this day, he still thought of that night whenever he smoked. He'd been trying to cut back, but every time he saw the Detective Inspector, or knew he was going to, he started smoking like a chimney once again, a nervous habit he wasn't even sure he wanted to kill. At least for the three minutes it took them to finish and snub out their cigarettes, he could pretend that they were friends, that the DI wanted to be around him. He could pretend Greg cared, with that crooked, sun-bright smile on his face, until he was forced to walk away.

There was no way the other man remembered that night in the hotel room, and Mycroft, ashamed of having taken advantage of his pain, had left before Greg had woken, leaving nothing but a cigarette and his old lighter on the nightstand so that when the man woke, craving nicotine, it would be there for him. He had been able to do that much, at least.

Still, he didn't try to make small talk as he and Greg worked their way through these cigarettes, knowing that every word he memorized and hoarded like treasure would only made the craving harder to stand. Because ever since that night, the thing he'd been craving wasn't nicotine, anymore.

It was the silver fox who'd moved so passionately in him that it had made him cry out, experiencing the best orgasm of his life and giving him a few brief moments of peace, a novelty in his life. He longed to experience that again, and it didn't seem to matter how long ago it had been, he was still suffering through withdrawal.

Nodding to Gregory when he finally snubbed out the cherry, Mycroft tossed the butt into the alleyway before taking a deep breath and heading up the stairs.

Greg waited until the politician had disappeared before letting out a breath, his head falling back against the bricks as he inhaled the smoke and let it back out. Mycroft Holmes was many things—an enigma, incredibly powerful, shrouded in mystery and intrigue at every turn, potentially lethal… and definitely a lethal kisser.

Somehow, Greg doubted that he remembered the night they'd shared in the hotel, or knew how sad he'd been to wake up alone, nothing left to show for the night but a cigarette and a silver-cased lighter, the man's initials engraved in the bottom. It had long since run out of juice, but he hadn't been able to throw it away. It sat on his desk at work, and when he was sad or tired or just plain lonely, he would pick it up and stare at it, wondering why he'd never had the guts to bring it up to the man he'd never been able to forget.

When he'd first met Mycroft, the man had been a royal pain in his ass. But then he'd started to see the man behind the icy mask, watched the way he always took care of his brother, and he'd begun to admire him. Attraction had come later, and had surprised him. Then everything went all to hell, with Sherlock "dead" and his divorce coming through all in the same week, and his guilt had carried him to a bar where he could drown his sorrows for a few hours.

That had changed when the elder Holmes had walked through the doors and sat down beside him. They'd both started out sober, but Mycroft had seemed willing to buy Greg as many drinks as he wanted. He'd poured every other one into the bush at his side just so he could prolong his time with the redhead, and had been beyond shocked when he'd suggested that they go to a hotel to continue talking, as the bartender had been starting to look at them with a frown on his face.

More than willing to take his chance, Greg had pretended to be as drunk as he would have been had be imbibed everything he'd pretended to, and he'd been able to hang off Mycroft for the entire walk. When they'd gotten to the hotel, things had gone swimmingly, and it hadn't been long before they were kissing. And then Greg had been worshipping the younger man's body with his own, trying to convey, in one night, all the longing and desire he'd experienced despite himself.

His heart had broken a little when he'd woken to find himself alone, but he knew there was no way Mycroft could have remembered their interaction, or he'd have said something. He'd probably assumed they'd gotten drunk, talked, and passed out. There was no way he could have known how much that night had meant to Greg, so he'd put it out of his head, sure in the knowledge that if Mycroft remembered, he'd have said something.

So as Greg snubbed out his own cigarette on the weather-worn bricks behind him, he sighed one last breath of smoke into the air, knowing that this was likely the only way his breath would be mingling with Mycroft's anytime soon. He wanted badly to recreate that night, but wasn't at all sure it would be welcome. Why would a sober Mycroft want anything to do with a greying, broken-down old copper?

"Why would a man like Gregory Lestrade ever want anything to do with a stuffy, humorless, unattractive man like me?" Huffing out a breath and wishing he'd lingered for another cigarette, Mycroft glared at his little brother, who was smiling a little evilly at him. No doubt he was pleased that he'd gotten a reaction to his wild claim that the DI wanted him. Well, Sherlock could mess with him all he wanted, as long as he didn't admit Mycroft's attraction to the man who was so far out of his league that it was laughable.

"I believe he enjoys your ass in those dress pants, though you're right about your personality leaving a lot to be desired." Sherlock had been beyond pleased to return home and discover, upon seeing Greg Lestrade, that he had slept with, and was now enamored with, his older brother. Unfortunately, they both seemed to consider one another off limits, for some bizarre reason he had trouble understanding. Why wouldn't they just take what they wanted, as he'd done with John that very morning?

Then again, both men were so painfully "polite" that they would probably spend the rest of their lives dancing around one another without ever admitting their feelings. Even though sentiment almost always made Sherlock uncomfortable, he thought, in this case, that it was a good thing. Both men needed someone, and perhaps he could earn a favor or two for nudging them in the right direction.

John would probably tell him he was doing the right thing for the wrong reasons, but as he would then point out, why did his motivations matter as long as the right thing was accomplished?

That would make his doctor sigh and roll his eyes, but Sherlock would just smirk and change the subject… or he could simply snog him into submission. That idea certainly held merit. Even so, he was currently busy, so that train of thought would have to wait until he got his annoying older brother out of his apartment.

While Mycroft sputtered at his little brother's comment about his ass, Sherlock decided to be blunt.

"Mycroft, if you insist on not using the skills you yourself taught me, I must do it for you. So let me tell you this. Every time you encounter the Detective Inspector, the two of you spend the entire time awkwardly attempting to not get caught staring at one another. It is painfully obvious to everyone who sees you together that the amount of sexual tension between the two of you would likely override anyone else's common sense. You are stubborn, yes, but that doesn't change the fact that your desire for the DI has gotten to an unacceptable level of distraction for you. Even your assistant has noticed you are not yourself when he is around. You've already slept with him once; why not do so again?"

"I… Sherlock. You can't just say things like that!" Mycroft stared at his little brother, who merely raised an eyebrow, obviously unimpressed with his rather weak rebuttal.

"And why not?"

"Because, Sherlock, my… one night stand with Gregory as fueled by alcohol and his guilt and anxiety, and we are barely acquaintances when not inebriated, and there is no possible reason for him to be attracted to me. You're forgetting that he was married to a woman. If he looks at me, it's probably because he wants to keep an eye on me. People have a habit of not trusting me."

"JOHN!" Sherlock yelled, and the doctor almost instantly came down the stairs, grumbling about the early hour before heading to the kitchen to make tea. Still, there had been a small, silly smile on his face when he'd locked gazes with Sherlock.

"I take it you're the one with the limp today? I'm amazed you gave up control." Sherlock didn't get a chance to respond to this jibe because John came back into the room at that moment—and his older brother was right, in any event—and there was a better way to get revenge.

"John, what's your opinion of the way Lestrade treats Mycroft?" There was no inflection in his voice, so he obviously wasn't leading the witness, so to speak. Which was why Mycroft's jaw nearly dropped in an unseemly way when the calm, polite doctor spoke.

"If he gets any more obvious about it even Anderson's going to figure out that he's into him. Of course, Greg would probably die before admitting it. He doesn't know you like him back, you see." This last, John said apologetically to Mycroft, who looked as if he'd just swallowed his tongue.

"I… I need a cigarette. I've got to go." Standing up without bothering with a polite goodbye, Mycroft swept out of the flat, leaving John confused and Sherlock smug. Before the blonde could ask for an explanation, he'd been flipped onto his back on the couch, and he forgot he'd wanted to ask anything at all as those sinful lips came down on his.

Mycroft sat in his private room at the Diogenes Club and thought about what his brother had said, toying with his silver lighter. God, but he needed a cigarette. Unfortunately, he'd smoked his last after his frustration visit to 221B Baker Street, and had been too agitated to remember to pick up a pack. He was thinking about the text he'd sent not ten minutes ago.

Do stop by the Diogenes Club for a drink at your earliest convenience- MH

Not a minute after that, he'd received a responding text, referencing, no doubt, one of Gregory's conversations with John, though he'd heard a similar version from Sherlock and immediately got the joke.

And if inconvenient, come anyway?- GL

Now he sat and waited, wondering if the DI would take him seriously. Despite the strange mixture of anticipation, fear, and excitement churning in his gut, he took the time to straighten his suit when he heard a knock at the door, collecting himself as much as he was able to before opening the door to admit Greg, who followed the Club's code of silence until the door was closed.

"Hi, Mycroft." Grinning a little nervously at the politician because he wasn't sure why he was there and was hoping not to make it too obvious that he was lusting after him, Greg took a seat on the sofa stretched along the side wall, the cushions plush and luxurious.

"Hello, Gregory." Prim and proper as ever, Mycroft surprised him by taking a seat beside him and crossing his legs in an elegant manner, fingers twitching ever so slightly. If Greg didn't know better, he'd have thought the other man was nervous. But what reason had he to feel that way? He wasn't the one with a massive crush on someone who was completely unattainable.

Not sure what to say, Greg pulled a fresh pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and cursed when he realized he'd forgotten to snag a new lighter. Sighing, he moved to tuck them away again, but he was stopped by a surprisingly gentle hand snagging his wrist and preventing him from doing so.

"If you have an extra cigarette, I have a functional lighter. I believe we can both get our fix that way, if you're amenable?" Greg nodded, holding one cigarette out for Mycroft to light. He smiled a little regretfully when he realized that the lighter was a copy of the one he'd held onto since that night.

The memory was haunting him, or else he would likely never have done what he did then. But after Mycroft lit the cigarette, instead of handing it over, he deftly shifted his wrist and placed the butt against the politician's lips. Eyes wide, Mycroft accepted the action, looking at him with something akin to longing before gesturing for him to hold the other cigarette up, lowering his gaze so Greg wouldn't see. Now that was interesting.

"So what does England require of me today?" Greg teased, happy when he earned a blush that turned the tips of Mycroft's ears pink.

"Aah, yes. Well, this was not a business call, Gregory. And I do wish you would refrain from picking up my brother's habit of referring to me as the government. I merely occupy—"

"A minor position, yes, I've heard the speech. And I don't believe a word of it. But if you didn't ask me here for official business… what did you ask me here for?"

Mycroft hoped he was not deluding himself into hearing that note of hope in Greg's voice. He decided to ease slowly into this, so he could save himself even a fraction of the embarrassment he would suffer if his brother had actually been putting him on. He would then also find a slow, painful way to dismember his brother, as well as a clever way to hide the body where no one, not even Sherlock himself, would have been able to find it.

"Well, it was recently brought to my attention that you are, perhaps, not completely straight."

Lestrade blinked, suddenly nervous. Was Mycroft going to suggest that his bisexuality made him incapable of doing his job, or made him unfit to watch over Sherlock?

"Mycroft, look… It's not going to affect my work, or anything. I've always been bi. We're not sex maniacs, or whatever the news reports us as being. Well, I'm not, anyway. And I know Sherlock's gay, but it won't be an issue, I swear. He's not my type."

"No?" Mycroft asked softly, hoping it wasn't obvious, how he was holding his breath waiting for the answer. His hand clenched reflexively around the handle of his omnipresent umbrella, holding tight while he tried to keep the hand holding his cigarette from shaking visibly.

Greg didn't notice, his own hand curling into a fist because that soft voice slid along his skin like silk, and was possibly more addictive than the cigarette he was trying not to crush.

"No. I like polite blokes, for one thing. I'm cool with the intelligence, but I prefer the kind that doesn't throw it in my face. Charm is always nice, and I like them shy, too. And I'm partial to redheads…" The last comment was spoken under his breath, probably not meant for Mycroft's ears. But he heard it anyway, and the blush on his cheeks deepened.

"Aah. I see." Biting his lip, because it was now or never, Mycroft inched closer, his knee bumping against the DI's and causing him to look over at him sharply. Mycroft slowly removed the cigarette from between his lips, his own held at his side, and kept eye contact the entire time.

"So if I were to kiss you right now, you wouldn't object, then?" Lestrade's head tilted ever so slightly, an answer and an offer all in one. Unable to resist, Mycroft moved into the kiss, and it was so much like the first one they'd shared that night, minus the alcohol, that he felt like he was experiencing deja vu.

"Not going to run away this time, are you?" Greg said when they paused for air, and the younger man laughed sharply, shaking his head.

"Not bloody likely. I've a craving for you, Gregory, worse than my need for nicotine." They went back to snogging, but it wasn't long before they both needed something more.

"Your place or mine?" Greg panted impatiently, and Mycroft shrugged elegantly.

"The back of my car, for all I care. Let's just go. I do think my place is closer, though.

The second time they had sex was in the back of Mycroft's fancy black car, with the driver having tastefully put up the barrier so he could neither see nor hear what transpired in the backseat. Thanks to his rather circuitous route through London, the two men had cleaned up and were presentable again, if a little rumpled, and exited the car and entered the flat in a completely composed manner. At least, until they looked at one another and started laughing.

"I can't believe we've just done that…" Mycroft finally got out, shaking his head at their audacity. Greg just shrugged, that wicked, crooked grin still on his lips, making him look like a much younger man. Mycroft was in awe of how he'd managed to snag him in real life, but wasn't about to count his blessings.

"I imagine that at some point, we'll get slightly better control over ourselves. The first few weeks of a relationship are usually fairly intense, but after that, things tend to die back a little."

That thought made Mycroft a little sad, but then he replayed what the DI had just said. Intrigued, he decided to test whether he'd been making conversation or whether there were something behind it.

"Is that what this is, then? A relationship?"

"Is that what you want it to be?" Caught off guard by the simple question, Mycroft took a seat, gesturing for Greg to do the same.

Did he want to be in a relationship? Past experience told him no. Putting labels on things led to expectations, and what if Greg wanted to… no, that was absurd, and he killed that thought before he could even finish it. The last thing Gregory Lestrade would ever aspire to be was a social climber. But he would have expectations, in a relationship. He would probably expect displays of sentiment, as well as at least some information on where Mycroft was and what he was doing, and he would undoubtedly dislike the frequent but unavoidable trips that he had to take out of the country to fix problems before they even fully materialized.

Mycroft could technically delegate, but he did the work for one simple reason: he was the best. Between his sheer intellect, memory, and political prowess, he was a force to be reckoned with. There were representatives of other countries that had even called upon him to act as a mediator in matters not at all related to England, and he'd always found a compromise that solved the problem thanks to his working knowledge of the methods and issues of each political system.

This, though… this was entirely out of his range of comfort, not something he'd expected at all. So far, they were just two blokes who bummed cigarettes off one another and occasionally fucked drunk in hotels and sober in the backs of cars. Could he risk trying for more? Would Greg even want more with him, once he got to know him? Mycroft knew he was no prize.

He was a much better conversationalist than Sherlock, that much was true, but he knew that people were very rarely interested in the things he knew, or how he knew them. Most people thought that he was a snob, but in reality, he was simply painfully shy, due to a childhood full of rejection as a freak. He'd been even worse than his brother, due to the fact that he was slightly overweight and had the misfortune to not be quite so visually stunning.

"Mycroft?" The question was gentle, but he realized that he'd taken far too long to offer an answer. He couldn't help panicking a little, despite the fact that the DI was starting to look concerned.

"Look, if I've asked for too much…" Running a hand through his hair, Greg felt his heart sink as he opened his mouth to tell Mycroft he was cool with going on as they had been. The politician held up a hand before he could speak.

"You haven't. It's only… I've never actually done this before. I don't have friends, Gregory, let alone boyfriends. My own brother despises me. I am not an easy person to be around. People do not try to endear themselves to me unless I have something they want, and while that means that I am used to being approached, it is rarely for such… simple reasons as yours. Engaging in any form of relationship is a risk for me, because it would give me a vulnerability, making you a target, and even beside all that, I find myself terrified because this is not my area. In any way."

Realizing that Mycroft had only been pulling away all along because he thought he'd be crap at dating, Greg laughed softly, pulling him close for a quick, affectionate kiss.

"Mycroft Holmes, it's quite lucky for you that relationships are my division, or at least one of them, and that I don't see a need to make obnoxious public declarations of our situation. We can play it by ear, not kick up a fuss about it. Be just two blokes who hang out, see where that takes us. I might not be as much of a liability as you think, and if you're worried, there are ways around that. But don't worry about being rubbish at this; I've enough experience for the both of us. You don't need to run away from this, if it's what you want."

"I… I do want this. But I'm afraid you're going to have to teach me how to do this for real, Gregory."

"First, quit worrying. You're doing fine, darling. Don't be afraid to be yourself around me. I know you're posh, and I know you're brilliant, and if those things put me off I wouldn't be here. Let yourself relax, My."

"I… that is possibly the first time anyone has referred to me by any kind of nickname in… a very long time." That, of course, was an exaggeration. No one had actually ever referred to him by any sort of nickname. Even the boys who'd loathed him at school and university had been afraid to be on his bad side. Mummy and father had always treated him like a small adult, and Sherlock was more likely to call him "git" than "brother," or even his name. Not, he realized now, that "brother" was actually a nickname anyway. It was a title. So was "git."

"Is it okay, though?" A little amused by the wondering expression on Mycroft's face, he promised himself that even if the politician said no, he was still going to slip it in occasionally, if only to shake things up. He could always claim to forget; Mycroft knew and remembered everything, true enough, but Greg was just a normal human with a normal mind.

"Yes." He said, and Greg grinned, earning a small smile in response.

"So what do you do when you're not bending countries to your will, Mycroft?" The question was teasing, but Mycroft, who'd taken it seriously, frowned.

"I sleep and eat and get back to work."

"Sad. We'll have to change that. How do you feel about takeaway and a bit of telly?"

The days came and went as Mycroft and Greg eased into their relationship, learning how to talk to one another. For Mycroft, who rarely if ever communicated with anyone in an unofficial capacity, it was strange. He found he made a great number of mistakes when he tried to behave like a normal human being, but Greg didn't seem to care if he knew sports terms or could handle a night at a pub with other blokes.

Things changed for both of them. Greg spent his nights off at Mycroft's flat, when the politician was free, instead of going to the pub with his mates. Mycroft learned a little about sports while he did paperwork on the couch beside Greg, and although he never understood the appeal, he understood that the nights after one of his lover's teams won were often even more exuberantly celebrated than other nights.

They fell into a rhythm, and eventually, the cop let his flat go altogether, moved his things in with Mycroft, and they shared cigarettes, stories about Sherlock, and as much of their lives as possible, the air around them always full of cigarette smoke and happiness.