Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John bit back a laugh as he chased Sherlock through the streets of London. He'd never imagined his life like this, especially not since being wounded. But my God, did the man make him feel alive. They were chasing a suspect across rooftops and damn if jumping from one to another didn't feel a bit like flying all over again; something he missed but was no longer capable of doing. But even if he could never fly again, he had Sherlock, he had London, and he was once again doing good in the world, chasing this mad detective. He landed with a grunt on a broad roof and saw Sherlock and the suspect dart around a corner.

The man they were chasing was a butcher Sherlock suspected to be the doer of the recent rash of horror movie-style killing, if only he could get a look at his shoelaces! But being a butcher, the man seemed to have armed himself with nearly all of the knives he had in his store, strapping them to the inside panels of his long coat. 'Like a Bond villain,' John had said, not that he'd gotten the reference. The man had already lobbed several smaller steak knives towards the detective and his flatmate, and Sherlock had subtly increased his speed, keeping John away from the projectiles as best as he could. The man was a soldier, a strong man, but he was only human.

John cursed as the two vanished from sight. Well without Sherlock to see... he unfurled his wings. The left one was lame and he'd never be able to fly properly again, but he could use them for a burst of speed. They stroked back, and he corrected for the weaker wing, landing several feet further than he had been and reaching the corner just in time to see the butcher, back against the wall ready to hurl another knife. Without thinking John threw himself past Sherlock and at the man, crashing as his lame wing gave out but knocking him down with his good wing. Hastily he hid his wings again, ignoring the screaming pain as he bodily pinned the butcher, hoping Sherlock was too surprised to have seen.

Sherlock blinked, mind working furiously on the image of golden wings sprouting from John's back that was burned into his retinas. The right wing had looked strong and powerful, but the left was small, a bit withered, like a limb after months spent in a cast, and had a bald scar in exact approximation to where John's bullet scar was on his shoulder. And even though the wings disappeared as soon as Sherlock had righted himself from John's abrupt tackle on the suspect, he had seen them. And he had never felt happier at the sight.

John got the man’s arms behind his back, sitting on him. "If this is the right crazy butcher you should call Lestrade." He took a breath and looked up at Sherlock. The man had a look of wonder. Shit. He'd seen.

All the signs were there and he'd become so complacent in his own rare existence that he didn't think to see. The quick, unwavering loyalty. The steadfast bravery. The contemporarily skewed moral compass. The drive to protect. A soldier and a healer. A Guardian. His flatmate. His John.

John bit his lip. Damn. "Sherlock. You're staring into space for no bloody good reason." He shifted a bit to get his mobile, trying to keep the man pinned and away from his knives.

"You know it's for a good reason, John." He knew his voice had deepened, not just from the chase, but the realisation. All this dancing they had been doing around one another, words unsaid and yet shouted loud in each long look and each lingering touch. It all accumulated now, in this mome-- John’s right hand had been holding the criminal’s wrists down as his weak, injured left arm turned carefully to pull his mobile from his pocket when suddenly, the man he was restraining bucked violently and the doctor gave a pained cry as his bad arm was wrenched sharply. Sherlock moved without a second thought.

John found himself flat on his back a few moments later, looking up at Sherlock. He was arched over John, glorious dark wings against the starlight. "Oh my God," he muttered. A groan to his right made him glance over. The suspect was cuffed and apparently semi-conscious. He turned his attention back to Sherlock. "You're a Guardian," he breathed, feeling lighter in his heart.

John sounded as stunned as he felt and Sherlock smiled down at him. "Obvious," he scoffed, voice teasing despite the scathing word. He'd never thought he'd have the man underneath him like this, and he mourned John's wound all over again, realising that if John would allow him to take him as Mate, that they would never be able to partake in the traditional mating dance in the sky.

John licked his lips. He resisted the urge to offer himself right then and there. Self consciously he rubbed his aching shoulder. "We need to get this suspect in."

Sherlock most decidedly did not want to move. He wanted to explore this new avenue, a city’s worth of streets and side streets. But John’s expression was pained and he seemed to be trying to keep pressure off his shoulder, and the suspect was attempting to wriggle away from them on his stomach, like an earth worm. It may have been amusing had he not been the one who’d just hurt his John.

“Sherlock.” John put a little more force in his voice. What he wouldn’t give to fly with this man. This Guardian. But that was never going to happen, though perhaps they could enjoy some more ground-based pursuits. But not with a suspect to turn over and the way his body screamed in pain. HIs wing hurt from use, echoed and magnified by the wrenching his shoulder had received. He forced himself to a seat with a wince and grabbed the suspect’s ankle. “Right shoelaces?”

Repressing the desire to grumble with annoyance, Sherlock mumbled “Tedious” under his breath, even as he popped up to his feet before reaching a hand down to help his flatmate up. The expressions on the other Guardian’s face spoke volumes about the level of discomfort and pain the doctor was in, even as he remained absolutely silent. In quick motions, the detective strode over to the handcuffed man and crouched, pulling both shoelaces free and ‘humph’ing in success. Seconds later, a text was shot to Lestrade as he rose, looking over his shoulder at the small man leaning against the rough brick that made up the building’s chimney.

“Lestrade’s on his way?” asked John, pushing away from the chimney and standing on his own two feet. He was very carefully not moving his arm. It had been stupid to try and use his wings and he was going to be paying for that for a while. “You’re going to want to put your wings up before they get here.”

“No,” Sherlock said shortly, prowling towards the man and slowly backing him right back up against the chimney. His wings rose high in a display of dominance and curled around them, closing them in the dark in a display of protection. He didn’t want to put his wings away now that he’d discovered John had them too. He wanted to enfold his flatmate in them. He wanted to feel the golden wings lain out submissively under his own dark ones. He wanted to marvel at the contrast of their feathers at the same time that he marveled at how John felt under him and around him. He wanted John. He’d wanted since the beginning but now that he knew they were of the same ilk, the only thing that could stop him from getting was his potential mate’s heart-felt rejection.

John shivered. He released his wings, biting his lip to keep in the cry of pain as his left hung uselessly. Damaged. He’d thought no one would ever want him like this. But Sherlock clearly did. And by all the Gods he wanted him just as much. He’d wanted him before he’d known his kind, even more so now. “Sherlock,” he panted, then swallowed. “I want this. I do. But I’m in pain. And Lestrade is on his way. I promise you, I do want this. Just not now.” He touched Sherlock’s cheek with his good wing, the golden feathers shining faintly in the darkness.

Sherlock was mesmerised by the sight of John’s wing emerging in the bubble created by his own wings, hypnotised by the stark difference in colours. And then those feathers whispered against his cheek and he closed his eyes. “I know. I know,” he murmured. “But first, I just want... Please...?” Without waiting for a reply to an ill-formed question, Sherlock ducked his head and pressed his lips to John’s, greedily inhaling the startled gasp.

John moaned softly into that kiss. Oh how much did he want. Sherlock’s lips were soft and insistent, everything he’d ever wanted. He parted his lips and felt the warm tongue sliding into his mouth. But then Sherlock was pressing him back and his wing was jostled and his knees nearly buckled as he groaned with pain. He’d landed all wrong when it had given out.

John’s pained sound had him jerking back, able to do nothing else other than stand there and flutter nervously. “I’m so sorry, John. I just... I’m sorry.” With a near-silent rustling, he finally slipped his wings away, hating the restricting feeling that came with the action, and now that he knew John was also a Guardian, he didn’t want to ever put them away. But then, he wanted to spend all his time with his flatmate wrapped up in his feathers too, and that was hardly practical. John out his wings away and straightened to his fullest height, the pain mostly cleared from his face, but it was obvious he was still feeling it in the way his eyes crinkled at the corners and that his left shoulder wouldn’t fully push back to military bearing like his right. Guilt swept over him at the knowledge that he was in part responsible for this pain. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Hey,” John reached up and touched his cheek. “It’s okay. Really. We’ll take care of this and go home and get me some paracetamol and I’ll be fine.” He forced a smile as the police sirens wailed somewhere below them. “Come on, Lestrade will be up here in a minute.”

Sherlock turned to look at the butcher who had fallen either asleep or unconscious while they’d been occupied and then turned back to look at John who was slowly walking (limping) towards the roof access door. “John,” he called as he let his wings back out, spreading them their full span, resisting the urge to preen when the other Guardian turned and his eyes widened as he traced the lines of his feathers. “When was the last time you flew?” John’s head cocked in that adorable way it tended to when he was confused and his brow furrowed as his lips parted to answer, or to snark why didn’t Sherlock already know (he did, the question was obviously rhetorical), but Sherlock was already rushing at him, sweeping him into his arms right before they went over the roof’s edge together.

John gasped and tightened his arms around Sherlock’s neck. But the wind was in hair and the city was below them and John laughed. His shoulder still ached and he longed to unfurl his own wings, but this was brilliant and beautiful. Sherlock was warm above him, sure arms holding him close. It wasn’t quite the mating dance, but John was grateful. He leaned into his ear. “This is wonderful, but we really should go home.”

John was beautiful like this: cheeks flushed with delight, smiling so brightly, the wind ruffling his hair. Once again, regret that he couldn’t have met John before the bullet that ruined him washed over him and his arms tightened. “You’ve never seen the roof of Baker Street, John.” It wasn’t a question. If the man had, they would’ve have found one another out much sooner.

John's eyes went wide. "What's on the roof?" His heart beat a little faster in anticipation.

“You’ll see,” he replied cryptically, with a just-as-cryptic smile. Flying took significantly less time than even taking a cab did, and soon he could see the familiar roof. He knew John assumed that he was out doing Work-related things when he left the flat without a word, or perhaps going to Bart’s, and he did do those things, but he just as often simply went up to the roof, to the shed that had been converted into a nest filled with old blankets and several jumpers he’d nicked from John’s closet. His landing was silent and he put the other Guardian down before walking over to his makeshift nest and ducking inside.

John stared in wonder as he followed. He let loose his wings with another wince. The nest smelled like Sherlock and himself and it felt right. He smiled at the other Guardian, flexing his good wing. "Guess we both should have said something sooner." His heart ached. He could give Sherlock his body of course, but there was so much more his damaged body couldn't do.

Sherlock just hummed in response as he sat as far back into the corner as he could. “Come here,” he said softly. Slowly, John approached and moved to kneel in front of him. Sherlock snorted, wrapping his hands around the smaller man’s waist and turning him away before pulling him down, nearly into his lap. As soon as the other Guardian was seated, Sherlock spread his wings, filling the small space with his feathers as he gently extended John’s injured wing, and began to preen it.

John moaned softly. It had been so long since anyone had taken time like this. The wing still ached badly, but Sherlock's long fingers were deft and gentle and he didn't shy away from the bad spot. John shivered and blushed, covering his face with his good wing.

His wings had never been injured like John’s had but when he had been young and still learning to use them, before Mycroft went away to uni, his older brother would do this for him, massage away the aches of use. Sherlock had never had anyone else that he wanted to do this for, not even in his own family, and doing it for someone other than a younger family member was considered terribly intimate. But John didn’t flinch away from his touch, didn’t curl his hands into fists, though he did cover his face with the edge of one wing, the sweet scent of his arousal just beginning to bloom in the air.

"Sherlock," John whispered his name. He didn't know much about other Guardians, but he did know that he was odd in that no one else in his family displayed the gift. When he'd first displayed the wings he'd panicked and ran, but an old man in the park had seen and understood and told him some things and at least taught him how to hide himself in plain sight. There had been lovers, all of them human. But he'd never wanted them as much as he needed Sherlock now. He shifted his hips, trying to relax into his touch, feeling Sherlock's own arousal behind him.

There was just enough room in the small building to mate and Sherlock planned on taking full advantage of all of it. John’s left wing was fully relaxed and pliant in his grasp, and his right was draped as if there was no energy left in the limb to keep it up. Slowly, he shifted the man in front of him forward, encouraging with pokes and prods to lay his head on his folded arms, before he began to tug at fleshy hips to get the man to his knees as he rose to his own, pressing firmly against John from behind.

John moaned softly. "Yes, Sherlock." His wings hung slightly forward, a golden curtain in front of his face. The cool night air touched his skin as Sherlock got his trousers down. He hoped the man had lube somewhere up here; he needed to be taken. His hips undulated in anticipation, seeking friction against his leaking cock

Slowly, gently, Sherlock draped his own wings over John’s, covering them entirely as he freed his own cock. From an inner coat pocket, he withdrew a packet of lube, something he’d been keeping in there in the 1-in-a-3,719,642,805th chances that he would finally receive a signal from John that opened up an opportunity like this one; apparently this one chance. His teeth ripped open the packet before drizzling some of the liquid on his other hand’s fingers, wasting no time before he pressed one inside his soon-to-be mate.

It felt amazing. John rocked back against his finger. Opening his eyes, he saw the black feathers covering his own. It was beautiful, a perfect contrast of light and dark. "More," he panted.

Sherlock had met other Guardians in the past, seen the different traits that seemed to manifest based on location and bloodline. He’d seen the personality traits that evolved from the animalistic qualities of the Guardians, the adapted primal instincts. As possessiveness swept over him, he had the thought that he should further investigate avian mating habits because it didn’t seem likely that they would feel an emotion this strong, this binding. He hadn’t stopped pumping his finger and as soon as John was loose enough, he pressed another finger inside, scissoring them gently to encourage the loosening. He began to shuffle his wings in minute shifts, watching as his feathers began slipping between John’s with every motion. It looked as innocent as holding hands, but the trust that this level of proximity implied was just as intimate as his fingers being inside the other Guardian, if not more so.

John was losing himself to the lust. He felt enveloped in Sherlock. Safe. Protected. His addled mind tried to remember the last time he'd felt this utterly secure and came up blank. He'd grown up inside a war, long before he'd ever set foot in Afghanistan. The bald spot in his wounded wing was full of Sherlock's feathers and it made him feel whole despite the lingering ache. John groaned as Sherlock withdrew his fingers and pressed his blunt cock against him. "Please," he mumbled.

As Sherlock slowly pressed inside, John... well, he didn’t tense so much as curl in on himself, as if he was trying to make himself even more submissive in the taller Guardian’s eyes. His back arched, his head dropped down exposing the back of his neck above the collar of the shirt and jacket he still wore, his wings seemed to stretch out just a little more, and he gave a little sigh as Sherlock’s stretched to accomodate. Slowly, Sherlock draped his chest across John’s back, careful of the wing joints but wanting to surround the man in every way he could. Only once he settled did his hips begin to move, pulling out slowly only to push back in at the same pace. There would be times for a quick, rough fuck, but not this first time, not with John’s arm and wing sore and strained and with the elation of their discoveries filling them.

This was perfect. John moaned at the sensations over and around and in him. He wanted to meet his thrusts, but the position didn't allow it. So instead he submitted, willingly, glad to be here, so very glad for what Sherlock was. He took his own cock in hand , breathing in Sherlock's scent, so close already.

As Sherlock stroked his own cock with the tight, damp heat of John, John’s arm shifted underneath him to begin paying attention to his own lonesome cock. Pressing his lips to the tan skin of his soldier’s neck, the detective settled more comfortably over his mate, bracing himself with one hand so the other could wrap around John’s waist, so he could add his hand to the one on his mate’s cock. Gently, he pressed his fingers between John’s, lacing the digits together and taking over the pace, forcing the other man to slow just enough to match his own smooth thrusts. He lips would twitch each time he would hit John's prostate because the smaller hand would stutter, only able to continue without losing rhythm because his own was helping it along.

John was getting close, so close. He felt his balls tighten and he gasped as Sherlock hit his prostate again. "I'm going to cum," he panted, feathers going a bit frizzy as he curled around himself more, eyes squeezing shut.

Orgasms, when his body demanded them of him in the past, had always been a quick affair, a sudden rise and fall of chemicals before biology allowed him to continue his Work. This was different, so far from typical he could only wonder what he’d been doing in the past. It approached in slow waves, like the tide coming in, the ebb and flow of pleasure lapping up his spine and whiting out his vision. With it, the bond did the same, reaching out for John and connecting immediately, the thin strand thickening with each beat of their hearts. As John curled under him, his own body followed the line of his mate’s as he thrust one more time, coming deep inside while the cock in their hands pulsed in time with his own as ejaculate spilled over their fingers.

Blearily, John slowly opened his eyes. Sherlock's weight was comfortable over him. Cautiously, he reached out a hand and carded through the wall of feathers before him. He sighed happily, content. His heart sang inside of him, knowing he needed no one else.

The bond was still shaky, still needed time to solidify, but it was there. Carefully, Sherlock wrapped both arms around John’s waist and lifted him backwards, his cock sliding out wetly as he settled with his back in the corner and his mate against his chest. The man was malleable in his tight grasp as he shifted his own black wings with the golden ones beneath them, so that they draped around the two of them like a warm, living cloak. John slipped quietly into unconsciousness as it began to rain, filling the air around them with a warm, damp humidity. Dropping his face to nuzzle the trusting curve of a solid neck, Sherlock closed his eyes and smiled.

FIN

Chapter Text

Mycroft Holmes watched Sherlock carry John Watson from the roof. He quickly erased any CCTV footage that had evidence of their natures. About bloody time they'd figured each other out. He sighed and picked up his mobile. It was late, but Gregory would be free as soon as they booked the suspect. He shrugged on his coat and sent a message. Perhaps it was time he was honest as well.

Greg glanced at the message on his mobile and a soft grin interrupted the scowl he’d been wearing for the last several minutes. The last message he’d received from a Holmes had informed him that the serial killer he’d been looking for was on the roof and that the evidence he needed was on the man’s shoelaces. Of course when he’d arrived, Sherlock hadn’t actually been there and a flash of the mountains of paperwork he’d have to file flashed before his eyes. But another text from a Holmes, one whom he loved in quite a different way, was enough to make him put all that stress on the back burner. As Sally shoved the now-conscious suspect into a car, he waved her off and rocked back on his heels on the pavement. Before a minute had passed, a sleek black car was pulling up in front of him and there was no containing his grin now.

Mycroft waited in his study, turning a glass of wine in his hand as he watched the fire. Rain struck the window, a soft background melody. He was anxious, tense. A Guardian did not reveal his or her nature lightly, usually only in dire emergencies... Or when making commitments to the one they loved. Mummy had never told them when she revealed herself to their father, but she was an eminently practical woman, so no doubt it had happened around the same time as she'd decided to marry him. Did he want to marry Gregory? Certainly he didn't want to live without him, but there were so many risks in making a public commitment. But revealing himself might be the ultimate test of their relationship so far. The car pulled up outside and he poured a second glass of wine.

Seeing his lover was so rare that Greg practically bounced from the car, then bounded up the steps to My’s house, the doorknob clicking open easily under his grasp. “My?” he called out, listening for the response that came from the study a moment later. They’d been together for years at this point, almost as long as he’d known Sherlock, but he still got as excited to see his lover as a schoolboy did with his first girlfriend (or boyfriend). He locked the door behind him before shedding his coat and his work, leaving them at the door before following his boyfriend’s answering call from the study. And promptly froze as soon as he walked through the doorway. My was holding a wine glass in each hand, one he’d clearly been sipping on and the other clearly for Greg. It wasn’t that which stopped him, rather the hard line of tension in his love’s shoulders, a line he was never without in public and a line he was never with in private. So something had to be on his mind, and it had to be big. Something big that My thought he needed a drink for...“Are you breaking up with me?” he blurted, heart pounding in his chest.

Mycroft blinked. "What? No...I no, Gregory." He hastily set the glasses down and reached for his lover’s hands. "I apologize if that is what you thought." He didn't know what to say. Fear gripped his heart. Was this a mistake? He never wanted to see panic like that in Gregory's eyes again. "Never mind. It's not ultimately important."

The relief he felt at My’s confused response was in every line of Greg’s body as let out a deep breath. “No, no it is important. It just... you have this way you hold yourself when you’re not with me, and no matter how dire something is out there, you always keep it out there.” He darted forward mid-speech to peck a startled Mycroft on the nose before continuing. “And yeah, that may have been an overreaction, a bit, but you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I’ll admit it, I’m always a little worried that you’ll find someone who’s younger than me, smarter. Someone who doesn’t have the kind of job I have that keeps me up for days at a time and makes me come home to you too exhausted to do anything other than sleep most days. So when I walk in and see you looking like that...” he shrugged a shoulder. “I can’t help it. So whatever it is, it’s important.”

Mycroft swallowed, startled by the declaration. He hesitated between folding Gregory into his arms or downing the rest of his wine. He settled for kissing his forehead and taking a few deep breaths. "I do not wish to frighten you, Gregory. That is why I am tense. And I am beginning to believe it may have been a mistake to tell you this thing. I cannot lose you." It was the closest he could come to saying that he loved him.

His lover’s reticence to speak was starting to worry him immensely. What had he done? “Why do you think that telling me... whatever it is will make you lose me?” he asked instead. “Are you afraid of someone taking me because of this knowledge or are you afraid of me taking myself?” He wanted to kiss away the tiny frown between his usually-unruffled boyfriend’s eyes but doing that would certainly lead to... other things. And being distracted by other things would not get this thing settled.

Mycroft saw his worry. He took a step back. "You have always honored my secrets and understood when I cannot divulge. This one...well." He took another breath and let his wings stretch, trying to keep a calm mask as he looked up at Greg's face.

Greg’s jaw dropped faster than when Molly had shed her coat that first Christmas party at Sherlock’s. Behind his lover, his normal, human lover, spread a pair of large, auburn wings, wings that matched the colour of his hair perfectly. Actually, ‘large’ didn’t begin to cover the size. They were massive, arching out from behind him and brushing the walls of the study. They were gorgeous as hell, and he was just standing there, staring with his mouth wide open.

Drawing his wings closer to his body, Mycroft took a step towards his lover, anxious. "Gregory?"

“Fucking hell!” Greg flinched at the way My recoiled at his words and instantly he was reaching out, grabbing onto shoulders smaller in his hands than they looked and tugging the man (angel?) back towards him. Uncharacteristically, his posh boyfriend stumbled into his chest and Greg slipped his arms over his shoulders, cautiously threading his fingers through feathers softer than any he’d ever felt. Softer than anything he’d ever felt. “Mycroft Holmes...” he whispered, beyond awed at what he was being shown.

"I am a Guardian." Mycroft rest his head on Greg's shoulder, wings leaning into the touch. "It means that I have these and bear a certain duty. I...have never shown anyone outside my family my wings."

“A Guardian?” Greg echoed, sorta not really paying attention, too entranced by the slide of those soft feathers through his fingers. Then it caught up to him. “Wait, family? So Sherlock--”

Mycroft raised his head and looked into the deep brown eyes. "I trust you to keep this secret, keep this knowledge safe. Please, Gregory." He shifted his wings, enjoying the touch but still anxious.

Greg almost jerked back as the wings in his hands rustled but maintained his posture with a blink and kept at what he was doing. “Of course. Whatever you want. Anything.” God, how where his feathers so soft? He didn’t want to stop touching them, didn’t want to stop watching his fingers parting through the auburn waves. “Can I fuck you with these out?”

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. "I am glad you are not put off your priorities," he said dryly, secretly pleased.

“Well, seeing as my first priority is you...” Greg teased, finally pulling his fingers from feathers to thread through hair instead, pulling his lover into a deep kiss. The tentative way Mycroft responded and the way he relaxed against him spoke volumes to how worried he’d been about revealing his secret and Greg just tightened his grip and kissed him even more firmly.

Mycroft moaned softly and arched his wings around them. He put his hands on Greg's waist and parted his mouth. Now that this was out, he could relax. He wanted to give Greg anything and everything he wanted. And possibly convince him to stroke his wings some more.

As they parted and dove back in, over and over, Greg walked them backwards in blind search of My’s desk. Or rather, the comfortable chair behind it. He’d always wanted to fuck the man in it, and what better time than now? His heel hit the base and he practically fell into it, accidentally ripping himself from a mouth he could spend eternity devouring. But when he blinked and looked up, the sight that greeted him was well worth it: My’s hair and clothes disheveled, cheeks flushed, eyes glazed, wings draped behind him like a cloak. Without pause, Greg undid his fly and shoved his trousers and pants just below his bollocks, his cock standing proudly at attention as he reclined in the leather.

“Come here, My,” he whispered with a grin, already reaching into an inside coat pocket in which he stored a great deal of single-use lube packets. They didn’t see each other often, and sometimes their meetings were so quick there wasn’t time for foreplay.

Mycroft cracked a tiny smile. Instead of getting in his lap, he leaned against the desk (carefully avoiding catching his wings) and began unbuttoning his waistcoat. Bringing one wing forward, he gently touched Greg's cheek before dipping it down to brush his cock. Gregory Lestrade was like no one else and his ready acceptance did nothing to diminish his care for the man.

A strangled sound was yanked from his throat at the first touch of feathers against where he was most sensitive, followed by a second one as they did it again. He managed to contain the third, but when he realized My was giving him a slow strip-tease, he couldn’t keep his moan at bay. Away went the waistcoat, followed by the button-up shirt, then the shoes and socks, and then trousers. And finally he was just in his pants, and Greg was dizzy with arousal from the slow, gentle, soft brushes. When those pants finally joined the other articles of clothing, he groaned a single “My...”, startled by how devastated he sounded before they’d even started.

Mycroft pulled his wing back, leaning into kiss his lover. "Are you going to be able to hold on?" Before Greg could answer he went to his knees, wings arching as he licked a hot stripe up his lover's cock. He wanted Greg inside of him, wanted the strong hands on his hips. Reaching back, he touched his entrance, eager to get himself ready.

“BLOODY FUCK!” Greg shouted, throwing his head back at the hot, wet (unexpected) heat on his cock. That silver tongue darted over him again and he had to curl his hand on the chair’s arm to keep from putting it back in auburn hair. Because if it went back in that hair, it would pull, and My liked to punish him when he did things like that. “No, I won’t be able to hold on,” he growled, thrusting the lube packet at the man--Guardian--between his knees. “Hurry,” he encouraged, waving the little bit of liquid-filled plastic frantically.

"Don't you dare come without me," growled Mycroft, sitting back on his heels. He tore open the packet and looked up at Greg. His dark eyes were nearly black with lust, sweat standing out on his brow and glistening in the silver hair on his chest. He looked positively delicious. Mycroft fingered himself open hastily, knowing it would probably hurt, and not caring one fig.

“Then you’d best get on my cock and fast,” Greg growled back, leaning forward to wrap hands around biceps and yank his lover up. Deliciously fleshy thighs surrounded his and knees held tight around his hips as he gently lowered Mycroft down. The look in those blue eyes as his cock split the man open was as delicious as the low breathy moan that emerged from between pink parted lips, and the inspector couldn’t help the upward thrust of his hips, wanting to be fully sheathed and now. My looked disheveled. Greg wanted him wrecked.

Mycroft groaned. His wings fluttered a bit as he sank down, sending papers scattering. "Gregory," he whispered, hands on the man's shoulders. With another thrust Greg filled him completely, stretching him. Leaning in, Mycroft nipped the joint of shoulder and neck, wings curving around them. He could feel Greg's heartbeat and knew it was only for him.

“Nnnngh,” he groaned, feeling the difference in the lack of preparation in the tightness around his cock. His lover curled over him, wrapping him up in a feathery cocoon and he tightened his grip on Mycroft’s waist, holding it slightly aloft and bracing his feet in order to thrust up and thrust up hard. The British Government was alway collected, unruffled, and it never failed to make Greg want to leave a lasting impression, even if that impression was bruises from his fingerprints and extra effort put in to not walk with a limp. His bollocks were slowly growing tighter and tighter as he continued to thrust into the welcoming, wet heat, encouraged along by the way My was gasping against his neck and trembling in his arms.

Mycroft's hand went to his cock. Greg was so close. He could see he was about to lose it. With a wicked little smile, Mycroft brushed a wing along a certain spot behind Greg's ear...

“BLOODY FUCK!” Greg shouted for a second time that night, pulling My down as he thrust up, coming rather spectacularly inside his lover. Something tugged at his heart. Something, something... “My?” he gasped, confused as his orgasm prolonged unnaturally and his very being seemed to echo happiness and MycroftMycroftMycroft.

Mycroft was surprised himself. He wrapped his arms around Greg's neck, wing fluttering from both orgasm and nerves. "I...it's a bond that can happen when you're seeing my true form. I'm sorry," he was suddenly afraid. He didn't mean to make Greg do anything he didn't want to. Burying his head against his shoulder he shook slightly, feeling the bond himself and wanting to embrace it.

“A... bond? Like...” He had no idea what words to put to it. Greg rubbed a hand over his face, trying to find words to describe how amazing he felt. “It feels like... like you’re hugging me from the inside. God, that’s a shit explanation.”

"Is it okay?" Mycroft’s voice was uncertain. "Do you wish to bond like this?”

“Okay? My... Can’t you... can’t you feel it? Doesn’t it feel this good to you too?” Greg’s head was swimming, overwhelmed by the emotions inside of him, that feeling welling up in all of it and taking over anything else. His heart was pounding in his chest like it would after a case and he was gasping into sweat-damp auburn hair, fingers fluctuating around fleshy hips, feeling his arousal rise and his cock thicken impossibly for a second time. He wasn’t twenty anymore. There was no way that he could possibly have a second erection in the same night. But he was. And it was rising so closely on the heels of his orgasm that it felt like he was ready to come again. Immediately.

“Of course I do,” Mycroft raised his head. He leaned in to kiss him, tasting him. He was sweet and delicious, even more than usual. Groaning, Mycroft ran his hands through the short gray strands, wings flexing around them as he felt Greg start to fill him again.

“Good. That’s good. Because that’s how I usually feel about you. Just... mmm... stronger. I like it.” His hips began to shift again, thrusting up minutely. A second orgasm was sitting right behind stage, just a few strokes from zipping through his veins a second time. “It won’t fade will it? Because I really... really want it to never stop. Ever. My God, My... Oh fuck.” He gave a few shallow thrusts and then the second orgasm came up fast, but it washed over him slow and his vision went dark with it, that same feeling in his chest swelling and intensifying. “Oh My... Please. Please don’t let it fade.”

Mycroft held him close, wings shaking. “Gregory…” The words were on the tip of his tongue, the words he could never say. To anyone. “I am yours,” he said instead, swallowing it down. He had to be stronger here. After all, Gregory was only human. He kissed him again and carefully got up. Taking a few breaths and hiding his wings again he put an arm around his lover and guided him up to his bedroom, silently praying that this all hadn’t been a huge mistake.

When Mycroft moved to pulled him down into his bed, large, comfortable thing that it was, Greg shifted them so that he was on his back, his redhead splayed out on his chest. He stroked a hand down the freckled back and then back up, and then raising his other hand to cup a shoulder blade in each one. “Can you make them come back?”

Leaning up to kiss him, He brought back his wings. They were folded tight against his back. “I am glad you did not run.”

That tension was back in My’s shoulders and translating into the way his wings curled in on themselves rather than spread wide like when he’d first shown them. “I’m yours too, you know,” he said suddenly, sliding his fingers into feathers and feeling them jump underneath his hands. “I don’t know if we’ve been avoiding saying it on purpose but, I love you. You know that, right?”

Mycroft took a deep breath, his heart aching. He stretched out a wing so Greg could touch his feathers better. “I do know, Gregory. And I am so grateful.” He wished he could say the words. He hoped Greg knew how much he cared.

Emotionally constipated git. He snorted and ran his hands along the outer bones, forcing the wings to drape wide parallel to the bed. With every sweep of his fingers through the auburn feathers, My relaxed against him little by little. “I find it funny that you’re grateful, you know. I’m the grateful one. Without Sherlock, who apparently has wings, we never would have met. We could have passed each other on the streets, or even at some crime scene, and you never would have given me a second look.” As the body laid over his stiffened at his words and he could practically building a speech of rebuttals building in his lover’s head, he shushed him. “Just because you love me now doesn’t mean you would have been interested in some alternate timeline that never happened. And that’s all that matters to me, the here and now. That’s what I’m grateful for.”

“My world would be colorless without you,” said Mycroft softly. He tucked his head under Greg’s chin, relaxing further against him. “There is so much I cannot share with you, I am glad you accepted this. And that feels very good.”

Greg huffed out a laugh. “I’m glad. Will leave these out? When it’s just us?”

“Maybe not all the time. But if you wish it.” He leaned up to kiss him again, feeling the bond thrumming between them.

Greg had a brief flashback to The Princess Bride. That day, she was amazed to discover that when he was saying "As you wish", what he meant was, "I love you." “Yeah,” he whispered, laying his head back on the pillow, relaxing in the knowledge that he was loved by the person he loved. “Yeah, I wish it.”

FIN