A/N:

Hey, so as I promised this chapter has a little smut in it, nothing to 'bad', though.

Also thanks to beccabrrr for having a look at this chapter and helping me change a few things so it's better english now :D

A deep raspy moan filled the room, echoing in quite an unnatural way, and Greg noticed that the sound had passed from his own lips.
He opened his eyes to be greeted with a smug grin and piercing blue eyes.
"My, my Gregory, I wouldn't have expected you to be the vocal type."
He could feel a blush forming on his cheeks, although he knew it didn't make much of a difference; his body seemed so heated already that he must have been flushed all over.
He had never been 'the vocal type,' though. It just seemed he couldn't help it this time.
"What the …?"

Just then he felt a sudden jolt of pleasure, and while tossing his head back breathlessly, he realized that the other man had touched that hidden spot inside of him, which could only mean he was penetrated by his...fingers. Yes, fingers, he thought.
He looked down his body, and his assumptions were proven to be right.
He could see the other's hand being positioned at his entrance, and the delicate feeling that spread in him, even though the other didn't move, was quite overwhelming.

"That was not by any means a request to stop making noises." Fine eyebrows were raised and Greg could see the tip of a tongue wetting reddish lips. Just when he wanted to start talking, though, he felt another hand touch his cock at the same moment the little bundle of nerves inside of him was hit again.
"Fuck!"

Greg woke to the sound of his alarm, his hand already on the off button. He sat in his bed for a moment truly disorientated, while the images of his dream flooded his mind. Frowning, he tried to blink them away, but they were distressingly persistent. He ran his fingers through his short silver hair, and a muffled sound could be heard.
Fuck! This was no good.
The D I fell back onto his bed and lay his arm over his eyes, as if not seeing anything would make him invisible. His throat and lips were dry and he licked them, just to be reminded of his dream again.
What the hell had happened? How on earth did his mind come up with such crap?

He could feel his heart still beating too rapidly, and his skin against the bed sheets was damp with sweat, but most frustrating of all was the throbbing of his cock.
Since when did he have wet dreams about men? Since when did he have wet dreams of…Mycroft Holmes?
It was funny how during his dream he had never seen the entire face of the younger man, but still he was dead certain it was the older Holmes he had been dreaming of.
Greg wasn't quite sure if he should be angry with himself, or laughing at his fucked up imagination.
Having one, ONE nice chat with the other, and learning that the other preferred male company, just shouldn't be enough for something like this to happen. Did he, in some twisted way, fancy the redhead? After all, this had been quite an explicit dream. Also he had never expected to long for penetration when he fantasized about sex with another man (which he admittedly had done every once in a while). He had never felt the urge for that.
In the end none of his experiences with other men had been that pleasant so he had always been sure that he preferred women.

Either way, he had to do something about his all-too-tight pyjama bottoms, so he got up and made his way to the shower.
When he stepped in, he even considered getting rid of his problem in a more pleasant way, but then, shaking his head vigorously, he came to his senses and decided to have a cold shower.
There was no way he could ever do something like that while still having the images of his dream floating around in his head. He was quite sure he literally could not meet the older Holmes and look him in the eye, if he did.
Even though the younger man might not brag about his ability to deduce certain things as much as Sherlock had, he was still most certainly able to find a way of knowing that Greg had had such a dream and later on jerked off to it.
Come to think of it, Sherlock might even be the bigger problem.
Hell, if he ever found out, he would probably be disgusted and never stop talking about it, no matter who might be around.
Greg's skin was flushed from drying off and trying to get warm. He pulled on his dressing gown and stepped into the living room. His feet left behind wet footprints, but he didn't care, he was just glad to feel the comfortable warmth of the sun-heated rug on his skin.
This was going to be a long day.

It was a good thing he didn't know how right he would be.
Shortly after arriving at the yard, his team was called out to a particularly brutal murder, and on the way to the crime scene, he earned half a dozen concerned looks from Sally, letting him know he looked as bad as he felt.
"Everything alright, Sir?" she asked, when he had to step aside and calm down after seeing his most filthy and gory scene in years.
He might have been used to the sight of corpses and, let's say, creatively killed and tortured bodies, but the day had started anything but well and he didn't feel up to investigating a place that could have starred in any bad horror movie.
He sighed in resignation. "Yes, I'm fine; I just need a few secs."
Sally looked as convinced as he was with his statement, but went back to her place anyway. "Okay, just let me know if there is anything wrong."
Greg was grateful that Sally didn't insist on his being unwell. As mean and nearsighted as she might have been concerning Sherlock, she wasn't a bad person.
Not that he would name her for the Nobel Peace Prize or anything, but they did get along somehow. In fact all of his colleagues were ok, more or less. Even Anderson could be kind of nice, if he wanted to.

Greg decided that he had had enough time getting some fresh air and walked back into the building. He was met with a stocky young Sergeant, white as a sheet, who handed him a note:

'I would say, this is probably a shock to you, but then again I know John has already told you. So for the record I'm not dead.
Contact my brother if you want some help with this case, he will convey all information to me.
Also I'm disappointed in your observational skills, to think I might have thought they had improved over time, but as always you see but don't observe.
SH'

Greg's eyes grew wide with surprise and he turned toward the young man who had given him the note. "Who gave this to you?" he demanded, shaking him roughly by the shoulders.
"I… I'm not sure. If I didn't know better, I would say it was Sherlock Holmes."
"Are you sure about this?"
"Sir, you're hurting me…"
The D I let go of the younger man. In his excitement he had hadn't noticed and now felt rather guilty.
"I'm sorry…just tell me what you saw."
"Well, the man looked like those photos; he's been in the papers for quite some time, hasn't he? But he's dead?!"
"I don't know," Greg answered, before he ran off.
"Oh, and his hair, it was different…"
But Greg wasn't paying attention to the Sergeant anymore. If he was lucky he could still catch up with the younger Holmes. The thought of having to see or speak with Mycroft again so soon was anything but soothing, so he hoped he could speak with Sherlock first.
He hurried past Sally and Anderson, who had apparently decided to have their lunch.
"Have you seen him?" Greg asked breathlessly, as the two watched him open-mouthed.
"Who?"
"Sherlock! Argh, forget it, I'll miss him if I wait until the two of you can bring yourselves to answer."
He could feel Sally's concerned gaze as he hurried on.

Sadly, Sherlock was nowhere to be found.
Well there was no way around it then. He had to talk to Mycroft. It was childish to act like this anyway. He was thinking about how he could contact the older Holmes, when he came up with a much better idea.
There was no way Sherlock hadn't gotten in touch with John, if he had even shown up at a crime scene…