A/N: I...still don't know how I came up with this. Wanted to write an AU with Greg as...well, something. And he ended up as a demon. It's sweet and cute and fluffy. There's at least one more part and it should be out in a week or two.

The shouting and the crash of good china faded and stopped as Mycroft firmly shut the door behind him, escape forefront on his mind. He had changed into far less noticeable clothes - jeans and a button-down, rather than his three-piece suit - but it was always good to make sure there were no servants that might recognize him. It had been a mistake, coming home for the holidays. Sherlock had begged him, had begged Mycroft to not leave him alone in that house. Yet there was nothing he could do, nothing he could do to stop the shouting and screaming and crying.

It wasn't a wonder that Sherlock had turned a cold shoulder in his direction after yesterday. Mycroft just hoped the damage done to their relationship was not irreparable. A family function had dissolved into mass chaos and Mycroft had left at the first opportunity. It was only once he was safe that he realized he had left fourteen-year-old Sherlock behind. Sherlock had locked himself in his room and refused to allow anyone admittance. Mycroft had attempted to break in, but Sherlock had (quite impressively) shoved several, large pieces of furniture up against the door. All he could do was hope that Sherlock emerged from his cocoon before Mycroft had to go back to his final year of University.

The Holmes Estate was surrounded by large swathes of natural forest. As a child and even as a teenager, Mycroft had spent hours exploring when he had the opportunity. Some of his fondest memories of his younger brother were of the two of them traipsing about after one thing or another. Mycroft had quickly learned that Sherlock had an appreciation for the scientific method bordering on obsessive, and had bought him books and supplies to cultivate that interest. It had worked alarmingly well, to the point that Sherlock had nearly convinced Mummy to let him have his own laboratory in the house. Mycroft would have been surprised if Sherlock didn't have one in the next six months.

Not that it mattered, of course. Mycroft wasn't coming back again. He had already secured the job he wanted out of University, even though he had not officially graduated. His primary regret was Sherlock. It had been his intention to offer a space to stay, a place to live for his younger brother. It would be nothing extravagant - his minor position in the British government did not allow for a wide range of frivolities - but it would be something safe from his parents. However, after the prior day's events and Sherlock's more costly pursuits, Mycroft doubted he could offer Sherlock what he wanted or what he needed.

He walked quickly, appreciating the cold wind against his face. It was a change, being back at his home. Mycroft had been chubby growing up, and it was only due to a rigorous work and exercise schedule (and a well-maintained diet) that he had lost most of his childhood weight. Since most of the work had been done at University, the majority of the servants still treated him as if he was a child and attempted to stuff him silly. On top of his parents' incessant fighting, it was a disastrous combination.

The forest helped. He caressed limbs of trees and stems of plants, comforted by the light feeling of the greens touching his pale skin. Even the air was lighter, buoying him along in his journey. There was a small clearing in the middle of the forest, hidden from sight though it was. Mycroft had discovered it four years ago, right before he left to pursue his A-levels. Often when he would come home, he would bring his Work and hide out in the clearing when the weather permitted (which was not as often as Mycroft would have liked). Mycroft's brain was still running, cataloging everything from the types of trees to the different bird calls he heard echoing through the trees. He ignored it, ignored the differences and instead allowed himself to focus on the tranquility.

It wasn't long before he made it to the log that denoted the entrance to the small clearing. He slid under it easily, knowing the servants would never find him. If they even came looking, which he doubted. Mycroft looked up and froze. There was another person in the secret clearing. It wasn't someone he recognized, which meant it wasn't a servant or anyone attached to the Holmes household. That left a stranger, someone who was trespassing, then. "It is illegal for you to be here," he said, his voice frosty.

The brown-haired man (about his own age) looked up and watched him, curious. Mycroft took a few seconds to take in the rest of the other man's appearance. He was dressed in tight-fitting black leather trousers, although he was barefoot, and his tight black shirt fit snugly over his (Mycroft went dry-mouthed at this particular observation) well-muscled chest. He had short, chestnut brown hair, although there were the barest hints of silver at the very edges. His hair was likely to go silver early, and he would look magnificent. If Mycroft fancied men (which he didn't - he didn't, not at all, nope), this man would most certainly be his type. "I doubt that," the other man said with an amused snort.

"Just..." Mycroft let out an irritated huff. "Just leave me alone."

"There is enough room for two of us and civility, yeah?" He plopped down onto the grass, leaning against an oak tree that grew on the side farthest from where Mycroft was standing. "See? I'm not touching you, you're not touching me."

Yet, Mycroft's mind helpfully supplied. He squashed that thought immediately. No touching. No matter how much his fingers itched to touch the tanned skin that decorated the other man, no matter how - how nice he looked, under that so-snug shirt...he would look even better with it off...Mycroft gulped loudly and fought to look away, tempted by muscles and yummy, yummy chests.

Certain that he was flushed a nice crimson colour (the man was looking at him a bit oddly, and Mycroft damned his ginger hair and complexion to the darkest pits of hell), Mycroft settled on the grass as far away from sex-in-nice-shirts as he could. "I suppose that is an acceptable alternative." There was a flash of recognition in the other man's eyes and Mycroft frowned slightly. "Who are you?"

"Greg." The brown-haired man cocked his head to the side, his gaze assessing. "You're a Holmes, aren't you?"

"How do you know that?" Despite himself, Mycroft was more on edge. He had not made many enemies of his own yet, but the enemies his Uncle had made were numerous. It would not be long before Mycroft acquired his own - it was a noteworthy achievement, as he did hope to take his Uncle's position.

"You sound like one. Same posh accent." Greg's smirk made Mycroft want to kiss him and he stifled a groan. The man exuded sex appeal that even Mycroft wasn't immune to. That was Not Okay. "Are you okay?"

"No," Mycroft murmured before he could stop himself. He blinked slowly, startled. He had had no intentions of telling this - whoever he was - what was actually going on. He was okay. He was always okay. Things were always wonderful and fantastic, and that was the face you had to put on for the world (at least according to his diplomatic teachers). Yet - here, there was no one else. Just the strange man who seemed to know far too much. It didn't help that he was drop-dead sexy. If Mycroft was going to react this way every time he met someone who took his breath away, he was in trouble. "My name is Mycroft."

"Ah, so you're Edmund's son, then." Mycroft lifted an eyebrow at the mention of his father's name before he shrugged.

"I prefer to not be associated with my parents," he muttered stiffly.

"Yeah, I wouldn't want to be associated with those gits either," Greg said affably. Mycroft stared at him. It was not often that Mycroft Holmes was thrown for a loop, but here he was, performing a loop de loop that seemed to have no end. He did so hope it was not going to be a regular occurrence. "Look, you can find me if you want me. Even if you just want to chat, or." He paused and deliberately looked Mycroft up and down, lingering on parts that made Mycroft tingle. "For other reasons. You just need to say my name."

"Why would I want to see you again?" Mycroft scowled petulantly. He was doing his best imitation of Sherlock, because in reality, he very much wanted to see the mysterious man again.

"Because I'm a stellar conversationalist and I have fantastic trousers." Greg's white teeth were stark against the tanned skin and Mycroft couldn't help but grin in return. "Besides, I know - quite a bit about your family." Greg sighed, scrubbing his hand through his hair. "Don't ask me how." Slowly he scooted closer to Mycroft until he was sitting with less than six inches between them. "Spill."

And Mycroft did. He told Greg everything, from the fighting to the yelling to Sherlock being left behind. How hard it was to juggle a triple or quadruple major and how he had developed insomnia despite his best efforts to the contrary. So many things that he had never told anyone, he spilled to this man he had known for barely ten minutes. Greg had sat and listened patiently, asking questions when he wanted clarification and simply nodding reassurance when it seemed Mycroft needed it.

"Got a lot on your plate," Greg said thoughtfully. Mycroft tilted his head slightly to the side, hyper aware of how close they were sitting. "Well, I suppose I can help you a bit."

Mycroft bristled. "I don't need your help," he snapped. Greg cocked an eyebrow, challenging, and Mycroft scowled, relenting. "How can you help me?"

"For one, I can help with the sleep part." Greg's wink likely violated laws. Several laws. "For two...well, let's just say I have a way to get around that's rather reliable. And I'm bored."

"How old are you?" Mycroft asked suddenly.

"How old are you?" Greg parroted.

"Twenty," Mycroft answered easily. "Why aren't you saying anything about yourself?"

"Maybe I don't want to." Shifting so that he sat cross-legged, Greg moved closer so that his thigh was pressed against Mycroft's. It was warm - warmer than Mycroft had expected, and he frowned.

"Are you running a fever?"

"Nah," Greg said dismissively. "I just run a bit warmer than the average human, that's all." Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the odd word usage.

"The majority would say you run a bit warmer than the average person, not the average human."

"Bugger." Greg sighed. "Tiny slip-ups like that give things away, I guess."

"You wouldn't happen to be a serial killer, would you?" Mycroft inquired. "My brother would like to meet you if that is the case."

"Your brother wants to meet a serial killer?" Greg seemed amused by the idea. "Why?"

"Sherlock is forever fascinated by puzzles, and murders are simply one of many things that he is drawn to." Mycroft shrugged. No one ever knew why Sherlock did what he did. Most of the time Mycroft suspected that not even Sherlock knew what he was doing. He glanced up at the sky, noting the position of the sun. "It's getting late."

"Yes it is." Greg's grin was slightly bigger and Mycroft shifted, slightly uncomfortable.

"Will you be missed if you stay much longer?" Mycroft looked at him, curious. Greg didn't seem bothered by the question (used to it - or doesn't care). He even seemed amused (grinning wider, muscles shifting under [tight] clothes - excited).

"Nah, nobody's looking for me," he assured Mycroft. "I bet everyone's looking for you, though." Greg stretched, a smirk on his face as Mycroft observed how his movements shifted the muscles of Greg's chest. Purely kinesiology, of course. Data. For future observations. Maybe shirtless next time.

Realizing what Greg had said, Mycroft grimaced. "Perhaps. I should return. I sincerely doubt, however, that many people are actively looking for me or are concerned about my whereabouts." He thought for a few moments. "I should also confirm that the house is, reluctantly, still standing. Despite what was probably Sherlock's best effort."

Greg snorted. "You seem to care about him quite a bit."

Mycroft nodded, standing as he did so. He cleaned off what he could of the evidence that indicated he had been in the clearing. It would be enough to fool the staff, certainly, but not Sherlock. He stifled a groan at the thought. There wasn't much that could be done to escape Sherlock's wrath even without the abnormal circumstances. "He is my brother."

"That's not the only reason?" Tilting his head, Greg watched Mycroft as he stepped towards the exit. "I'll be seeing you, Mycroft Holmes."

Mycroft left the clearing contemplating the best way to tell the staff to watch out for an attractive man in extremely tight clothing. Then he spent more time wondering what he would request that they do with him. Throwing him out probably wasn't the right option, but telling them to tie him to Mycroft's bed was also out of the picture. It probably wouldn't end well if Sherlock got his hands on him, either. The house came into view and Mycroft sighed, shoving Greg to the back of his mind and leaving him there. There was no clue as to what was still going on in the house and he needed to be alert.

The house was ghostly silent when he walked in. Immediately Mycroft headed to Sherlock's bedroom, hoping that the teenager was there. The door opened easily and Mycroft froze in the doorway. That was never a good sign. Cautiously he backed out of the door frame before he tilted his head upwards. Juvenile. Sherlock had hung a bucket of pudding and triggered it to the door. Prepared for Mycroft to come, then. "Sherlock?"

A trip wire, Mycroft thought as he attempted to slither through the half-open door. Sherlock had set up the trap so that it looked like it was attached to the door but when one attempted to sneak through the gap, they set off a small wire that was attached to more. A bloody trip wire. He hadn't even thought to look for one, distracted as he was by his meeting earlier. Because of his ineptitude, he was now covered in pudding. Sherlock two hundred and three, Mycroft thirty seven. His beloved country was certainly in trouble if a fourteen year old could outwith him with a bucket of pudding. It was chocolate flavoured, too. His favorite.

"I know you would rather eat it, Mycroft, but you do not need to work on your pig imitation." The sneering voice came from the opposite side of the room - Sherlock's wardrobe. All of fourteen years old and a spitfire. Mycroft would consider it his personal miracle if Sherlock made it to his majority without being assaulted at least once. Sherlock had started attempting to disprove Mycroft's theory as soon as he could talk.

"Sherlock, as much as your witticisms never cease to amuse me, we do need to discuss the fact that I am now covered in pudding."

"Indeed. Please remove yourself and the offensive pudding from my room so I may summon the staff to take care of it. If you do not remove yourself promptly, I shall call them and tell them to take you with it." Sherlock crawled out of the wardrobe like a gangly crow. His curly hair was flying in several directions and he was wearing a too-long wool coat that gave him the impression of a too-short superhero. He would grow once he was older, and catch up or surpass Mycroft's six feet of height, but for now Mycroft had at least a head on him.

"We will talk before I leave," Mycroft warned the teenager. With that he turned around and strode confidently out of Sherlock's room. It was both a win and a loss. Sherlock had removed the furniture barring his door, yet Mycroft had not thought to check for a trip wire before entering Sherlock's domicile. It was something he should have learned after the Great Melted Chocolate Incident of last year, but he had been sorely distracted.

He walked back to his room in silence. It was good for his dignity that Sherlock's room was not far from his. What was bad for his dignity was that he missed yet another trip wire walking into his own room and was doused in some kind of foul-smelling powder. Mycroft used the language he had been taught growing up by the staff and swore until he was nearly blue in the face.

"What is that?" Mycroft nearly groaned at the sound of Greg's voice. The evening continued getting worse.

"How did you get in here?" Mycroft snapped, turning to look at Greg. The man was propped against Mycroft's wardrobe, standing in the shadows with his arms crossed over his chest.

"I see pudding and - is that talcum powder?" Greg peered closer and then laughed. "Talcum powder. Clever of him."

"I do not think clever is the right word," Mycroft said with a sigh. He was angry at Sherlock, yes - anyone would be after that particular combination of pranks. Repairing his relationship with Sherlock was going to be near-impossible. Not that anyone except for himself would blame him if he didn't try. Regardless of what went on between them, Mycroft was going to do his duty and do his best to look after his little brother. No matter how much it made Sherlock hate him. For now, he had to focus on the stunningly attractive man who had managed to get past one of the best security systems in the world to show up in Mycroft's bedroom while Mycroft was covered in a ghastly combination of pudding and what did indeed seem to be talcum powder. "I need a shower."

"I can help with that."

"No you can't."

"Oh, yes I can." Greg smiled charmingly at Mycroft's scowl. "At the very least I can get your clothing to the laundry before the maids can find it." He paused, examining the carpet. "Maybe even get some of the talcum powder out of here. Help you save some face."

"How..?" Mycroft trailed off, uncertain and amazed. Neither were emotions he was exactly comfortable with in his position in life, but he also didn't think he was in the position to refuse Greg's offer. "Yes with the clothing and the carpet, and you stay out of the bathroom."

"For now."

"Fine." Mycroft half-scowled as he grabbed a cotton pair of pyjamas and stomped into the large bathroom attached to his bedroom.

Carefully he removed his clothing and set it to the side. It was probably beyond assistance; not that it mattered, he had plenty more. He turned on the shower and stepped under the spray, welcoming the heat onto his skin. Of course Sherlock had used cold pudding. Feeling the goosebumps under his sensitive fingertips, Mycroft waited for the water to work its magic. "I think your clothes are beyond repair." Mycroft jumped, nearly slipping and landing on his arse. "You're a jumpy boy, Mycroft."

"Gregory!" Thankful that the shower door was (hopefully) opaque enough to maintain his modesty, Mycroft scowled at the lanky shape visible through the glass. "What are you doing in here?"

"Mm, everything else was easy," he answered dismissively. "Not my fault your brother seems to have some nasty pudding recipe." Mycroft saw the shape shift slightly, settle into a new position. "Besides." He paused. "I'm quite enjoying the view." Mycroft would later swear that the undignified squawk most definitely wasn't him, although he attempted to cover his parts nonetheless. "Oh, don't worry," Greg told him. "I like what I see. No need to be shy."

"Easy for you to say," Mycroft muttered. Reluctantly he uncovered himself, if only to wipe the shampoo out of his eyes. It was probably the quickest shower he had ever taken, despite the fact that he desperately wanted to linger under the spray. He was especially quick over his groin - he really didn't need an erection when there was someone else in the room. Despite that, he made sure that the talcum powder and pudding were thoroughly cleaned from his skin.

"Oh, I'm not shy." Although he couldn't see Greg, Mycroft could guess that he was grinning - and doing so rather wickedly. The man had no scruples. Not that Mycroft seemed to mind, to be honest. He knew nothing except for Gregory's name and that he looked like sex on legs. Or what Mycroft presumed sex on legs would look like, having no particular experience in that area to judge.

"I did note that." He turned off the shower and paused. Here was something he had not anticipated - how to get a towel without exposing some part of him to the other man's eyes. Despite his best efforts he was certain that Greg had gotten an eyeful before he had secured a towel about his waist. "I am not comfortable with getting dressed while you are in the room."

Greg let out an exaggerated sigh. "Ruin all my fun, don't you." He nodded slightly to Mycroft, who turned around to pick up a second towel, smaller, to use on his hair. When he stood up again, Greg was gone. He paused, startled. Narrowing his eyes, he ran through what he had learned about the man and focused intently on what he could deduce from Greg's physical appearance and mannerisms. He was clean-kept, yet not overtly stylish - cared about his appearance but didn't fuss over it. Contradicted itself with the fact he seemed to live on the Holmes land - needed more data there.

The primary conclusion Mycroft came to was that he was off. He moved with a supernatural ease, he seemed to disappear and reappear without thought, and he had absolutely no problem being in a bathroom with a naked Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft wasn't certain which part of that unnerved (or excited) him the most. He scowled down at his nether regions, imploring them to behave, and then set about changing for the night. The cotton pyjamas slid easily over freshly-dried skin, the fabric comforting to someone who spent the majority of his time in impeccable suits. The difference in texture helped him set aside work and rest in what little time he had, although he certainly had became accustomed to sleeping wherever and whenever he was able to.

Walking out of the bathroom, he wasn't surprised to see the black-clad man lounging on his overly large bed. Mycroft stopped just out of the door and his gaze swept the floor. All traces of pudding and talcum powder were gone as if they had never been there. "You are efficient in the tasks you complete."

Greg's grin was predatory and Mycroft had to stop himself from taking a half-step back. His gaze lingered on Mycroft's groin and then trailed up his body before finally meeting his eyes. "And pretty damn good, if I do say so myself."

"You are a bad man," Mycroft admonished him. "I do not even know your full name, where you live, or where you go to school."

"Pesky details." Greg waved a hand nonchalantly.

"Nor do I know exactly how you managed to make it into my home unacknowledged. Or how you got into my bedroom, much less my bathroom." Mycroft cocked an eyebrow and tilted his head. "I require information."

"And what do I get in return?"

"Whatever you want," Mycroft retorted bravely. He hoped.

"Oh, love." Greg shook his head and Mycroft started at the endearment. "You don't want to promise me that." Making eye contact again, he licked his lips deliberately. "You might not like the outcome." Laying back on the bed, Greg stared up at the ceiling. "You would not like the truth if I told you, nor would you believe me." He settled his hands behind his head, relaxing. "So less worrying about the details and let's have a bit of fun, yeah?"

Mycroft stiffened, insulted. Yet the anger was tempered with amazement - that this beautiful, odd man wanted him (even if it was just for a bit of fun - whatever that meant). "I do not 'have a bit of fun'," he snapped. "And I am quite logical. I am certain I would believe what you told me as long as it was the truth."

"Ahh, but see, love, your logic is what gets the best of you." Shifting slightly on the bed, Greg made room for Mycroft. He patted the side of the bed. "C'mere."

"I think not," Mycroft said, his feathers ruffled (metaphorically, of course). "I demand that you tell me what is going on." He scowled. "In the disgusting colloquialism, I demand that you 'spill the beans'."

"Aww, resorting to common language now are we?" Greg chuckled. "Come and sit, and we'll have a chat. If you don't want me to disappear by then, we can do something more - fun."

Mycroft walked over to the bed as if it was going to jump up and attack him at any second. Considering Greg was still perched on it, it was not an unreasonable assumption after the bathroom incident. "I am not a slave to my baser instinct," he informed Greg sharply.

"Never said that you were." Greg did some odd motion on his chest. "Cross my heart and hope to die." He snorted as Mycroft settled on the edge of the bed. "You're going to fall off like that."

"No I'm not."

"Really, I'm not going to jump you, or bite you. Unless you want me to. Which I know you do - don't try and deny it - but we can discuss that later." Mycroft eyed Greg skeptically, watching the man take a deep breath. "If there is a later, anyway."

"I require proper wining and dining," Mycroft informed him. Or he thought so, anyways [anyway]. Despite being twenty one years of age, he had spent the majority of those twenty one years perfecting the ability to have plenty of social interaction yet not come out with a single date. Being a single gay male in the increasingly complex world of politics was quite lonely. Not that it mattered, really, because who would put up with Mycroft and his schedule? Having an incredibly minor position in a minor branch of the British Government brought along a whole host of difficulties.

"I'm not human." Greg's voice crashed through Mycroft's thoughts.

"That's not possible."

"I'm afraid that it is," said Greg, his tone amused. "I'm a demon. From hell, yes."

"No you are not. Is this some kind of joke? Am I being - filmed for some horrible American television show?"

"Of course not. Although if anyone was to have a shown where someone pranked a posh bloke and hid in their home and loo, it'd be the Americans."

"Rightfully so." Mycroft blinked, distracted. "Why are you not telling me the truth?"

"I am telling you the truth," Greg repeated, his tone patient. "I was kicked out of hell and banished to Earth."

"Why?" Mycroft asked dumbly.

"Apparently one can be too nice to survive in hell." Mycroft could see the change in Gregory's posture, the tenseness that indicated some old hurt lied underneath those words. He was not pleased that his first instinct was to soothe this obviously deranged man. "Look at the evidence, Mr. Logical. I appeared in your home without being detected. I appeared in your bathroom, for hell's sake."

"And disappeared."

"And disappeared," he agreed. "I can travel between shadows. Not very often, really only in the evenings and overnight, but it's a useful skill to have." His chocolate eyes flickered to Mycroft and then back away.

"Is that why you wear black?" Mycroft blinked, not having intended to ask a question. Much less one that indicated that he might believe Gregory's horrendously false tale. Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the sight of the quirk at the edge of Greg's lips. The man was amused, although startled by his amusement. Possibly the first time he had heard that inquiry? "And how do you know my father?"

"I was banished a long time ago," Greg answered slowly. "I knew your father when he was younger. This estate is built right over a gate to hell." He flashed a smile at Mycroft's snort of amusement. "Yeah, I know. Anyways, I've been watching you for a long time. Er, your family, that is," he added hastily. "You caught me off guard when you came into the clearing. I didn't expect you to be there."

"Does my father know you?"

"No, although he might have a vague impression of my face. Demons age a lot slower than humans." Mycroft had slid closer on the bed and Greg's eyes kept flickering between the auburn-haired man and the ceiling as if he was afraid that looking at Mycroft would cause him to disappear.

"So you are a demon." Mycroft attempted to wrap his mind around the theory. "Not a homeless lunatic who has taken his stalking to a new level?"

"Yes to one of those, but I won't tell you which," Greg responded, cheeky. Mycroft swatted at his arm, playful. "Be careful, your humanity is showing," he teased. Mycroft scowled at him. "So you believe me, then?"

"Possibly," Mycroft answered tentatively, testing the words. "The data seems to indicate that it could be a possibility, as unlikely as it seems."

"Finally," Greg said with a sigh. He turned back to Mycroft. "Now can we get on with the good stuff?"

"Wining and dining, Gregory."

"You're pushy," Greg told him. "Proper dinners, proper dates."

"Dating? Is that what you're proposing? I thought you were just out for a bit of fun."

"Ahh, Mycroft," Greg tsk-tsked. "Nothing is a 'bit of fun' with a demon. We're quite..." he trailed off deliberately, maintaining eye contact. "Possessive of things we have become attached to." Mycroft gulped under the intensity of the brown eyes - they rivaled Sherlock's at times when he was making deductions.

"And you've - become attached to me?" he asked tentatively. Greg's smirk answered his question and Mycroft sat quietly, uncertain as to what was happening. Some things fell into place (the shadows, the bathroom, things like that), yet others provoked even more questions. There were no such thing as supernatural beings - were there? Apparently there was, and the sexy creature laying in his bed propositioning him was one of them. And he seemed very, very interested in Mycroft, both for his body and his mind.

Mycroft would be mad to turn him down. Yet he had to do it on his terms. If Greg would agree. Greg nodded slightly. "Your terms," he told Mycroft. "Human relationships are quite different anyway." There was a certain set to his mouth, some tension in his frame that made Mycroft frown. More painful memories, then. Mycroft opened his mouth and Greg shook his head. "Time for bed for you."

"I told you earlier. I can't sleep." Pausing, Mycroft scowled at the bed. "Besides, you are on the bed."

"Your point being?" Greg scooted to the edge and gestured to the wide expanse Mycroft could chose from. "Plenty of space for you."

"Please remove yourself from my bed."

"Nah."

"I will call security."

"No you won't."

"Yes I will."

"Look, I told you I can help you." Greg looked at Mycroft, his eyes quiet and intense. "In more than one way. Come lay down." Mycroft eyed him skeptically and Greg's expression hardened. "You're being stupid."

"I'm a Holmes," Mycroft snapped. "We're not stupid."

Greg sighed and rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. "You can't actually believe that crap."

"I have an eidetic memory and -"

"Yeah, yeah." Greg dismissed Mycroft's words with a wave of his hands. "There are different types of stupid, you know." He closed his eyes and opened them, sitting up and settling cross-legged. "You're scared." His eyes swept up Mycroft's body, leaving him feeling more exposed than he had when he was naked. "You've never kissed anyone before, much less what I was proposing." Greg rubbed a hand to his forehead, sighing. Mycroft had gone pale and taken a step back.

That - that - ugh! Mycroft didn't know what to say so he merely stood against the wardrobe. Maybe if he opened it, and got in, it would spirit him away to another world. If Greg was actually a demon, surely it couldn't be that far fetched. "Doesn't work," Greg said helpfully. Mycroft jolted. This wasn't the way it was supposed to work! He was supposed to be reading Greg's mind, not the other way around.

"Can you read minds?" Mycroft asked suspiciously.

"Nope," Greg answered with a laugh. "Although that'd certainly be useful. So why are you taking so many subjects at Uni?" Mycroft stared again, thrown for a loop by the change of subject.

"I want to know everything," he answered finally. "Politics, economics, philosophy - how people act, why they do it, how the governments work, interact. It's a giant system, like clockwork, and it's fascinating." Cursing his freckles and pale skin, Mycroft realized he had gone bright red. "I do tend to be a bit verbose, my apologies."

"No, I like to hear it." Greg smiled broadly, encouraging. Tentatively Mycroft edged forward until he was sitting on the bed, as far away from Greg as he could manage.

"Well, we're learning about the political systems of the African countries in my politics class," he started, slow and cautious as he waited for Greg's expression to change, to become vacant. But it didn't. Warmed by his obvious interest, Mycroft launched into a more convoluted explanation, detailing nearly everything he had learned in the class so far and all that he found interesting. Greg watched his face intently, nodding and asking intelligent questions when Mycroft paused for breath. By the time Mycroft realized he had been talking for nearly three hours, his voice was hoarse and he was starting to yawn. He turned bright red. "I'm sorry, I do have a tendency to ramble."

"It's all good, love." Greg laughed. Mycroft had inched closer as he had talked, gesturing enthusiastically to match the tone of his voice. "It's damn sexy to watch you talk about politics. It's clear you love it, and you work hard for what you want. No surprise there."

Mycroft stared at him. "You keep calling me that endearment." He narrowed his eyes. "Are you mocking me?" Greg looked startled and then frowned.

"I wouldn't mock you. Why, have some people - ah," he said softly, exhaling. "It's a sore spot for you. Due to your lack of relationships."

Mycroft looked mortified. "I am supposed to be the one deducing you!" He laid back on the bed, glaring viciously at the ceiling. It was not going the way he wanted it to. Then again, he had no idea what direction he had desired it to go in the first place and then he realized he was going in circles and that it didn't really matter. Years later, Mycroft would learn to appreciate the traits that he and Sherlock had in common. Mycroft had just learned to control them.

"I'm hard to read, even by demon standards." Greg's voice was soft, wistful. Mycroft turned to look at him and he was staring up at the ceiling, his face regretful. "I'm half human. My mother was a demon, my father a human she met and fancied. I'm a half breed, hated on both sides."

Mycroft paused, not certain what to do with this information. "What does that mean?" he asked cautiously. He shifted closer to Greg, until he felt the demon's bony elbow against the side of his head.

"It means I have no place to call mine. I belong in neither world, but drift between the two." He sounded bitter now, and Mycroft flinched at the hurt. Greg lifted his head up and smiled at Mycroft. "None of that matters, though," he said with a chuckle. "I'm here with you, aren't I." Mycroft blinked, not certain whether to be dazzled or confused. "Time for you to sleep now, love." Greg's smile was warm, his voice rough, and Mycroft yawned again.

"Don't want to," he muttered rebelliously. He was ignoring the part of his brain that was telling him he sounded like Sherlock. That was preposterous.

"Are you alright with me sleeping on your bed?" Greg inquired. It was the first time he had asked instead of assumed, and it threw Mycroft for a loop.

Mycroft considered the question, his first response hesitant. Yet Greg had been nothing more than kind to him, lewd jokes aside, and he had listened and supported Mycroft more than anyone else Mycroft had known, and he had only known Mycroft for a day. A thought lingered in the back of Mycroft's mind that he was falling for Greg, and falling hard. Or had already fallen. Semantics, really. "I have never done that before," Mycroft admitted, mildly embarrassed.

"Lay on your side," Greg murmured, his voice suddenly soothing and hypnotic and far too close to Mycroft's ear for his liking. Yet Greg hadn't moved. Frowning, Mycroft did as he was told, getting settled.

He pushed himself up to look at Greg. "Don't you have pyjamas or something? Won't that -" Here Mycroft gestured to Greg's leather trousers - "Be uncomfortable? You can borrow some of mine, if you would like. They should fit you satisfactorily."

"One of the silly human customs, I take it." Greg got up from the bed with a dramatic sigh, going to grab the first pair of pyjamas he saw - cotton, slate-gray - and sitting them on the dresser. He had his back to Mycroft as he slipped his hands down to his waist and pulled his shirt off, exposing the expanse of nicely tanned skin. His muscles flexed as he moved and Mycroft had to bite back a whine of disappointment when Greg slid the pyjama shirt on. Mycroft had to choke back a whimper as Greg stripped off said leather trousers, revealing a perfectly formed arse. Oh god. He went - naked under his trousers.

"There are pants in that dresser. New ones," Mycroft croaked, his throat suddenly unbearably dry as all of his blood supply went flowing down to his nether regions. He had read about this in the chauffeur's hidden stash of romance novels, but never expected to actually experience it.

Greg let out a long-suffering sigh. "If I must." He walked over to the dresser, naked from the waist-down, giving Mycroft a very good look at - well - everything. Mycroft forced himself to swallow and attempted to compose himself so that he wasn't staring lewdly at Greg's backside.

From the grin Greg gave him when he looked over his shoulder, Mycroft wasn't doing a very good job. Greg grabbed a pair of new pants and slid them up, wiggling his hips deliberately as he settled the black pants on his hips. Mycroft couldn't stifle his whimper and Greg chuckled low in his throat. Groaning, Mycroft grabbed a pillow and covered his face with it. He realized he was blocking the view and lifted it just enough so he could see the tantalising black pants disappear as they were covered by slate-grey cotton.

It was then that Mycroft realized he was cherry-red out of embarrassment and arousal. He stuffed the pillow back over his face, scowling petulantly when he felt it yanked from his grasp. Greg's expression was warm, amusement clear in his smile. "You're free to look, you know." He paused, a slight crease on his brow as his gaze swept Mycroft's face. He crawled onto the bed next to Mycroft. "Who told you it wasn't okay?"

Mycroft looked away from the searching look, humiliation hot and heavy in his chest. It was dampening the arousal, and for that, he was thankful. He wasn't ready for that. "No one. I just am - not familiar with the social etiquette in this kind of situation."

Greg slipped a finger under Mycroft's chin and turned his gaze to meet Greg's. "If I'm offering, you're free to look, alright?" Mycroft hesitated, and Greg must have seen it in his face because his brown eyes clouded over. Greg leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. "We'll deal with that more tomorrow, love. Roll onto your side. No, don't worry about your duvet, I can keep you warm."

Mycroft looked at him, studying his face for a minute before nodding and rolling over. Gone was the playfulness, the lewd teasing, the quirky smiles. In its place was a quiet solemnity, warm and comforting, and it reassured Mycroft like nothing else. "What are you going to do?" Hating the hesitancy in his tone and the tension coursing through his frame, Mycroft tried to force himself to relax.

"I'm just going to lay with you," Greg said softly, his voice back to the honey-warmth of earlier, coursing through Mycroft's veins and Mycroft felt like he was melting into the bed. "My lips might touch your hair, or the back of your neck. I can't do much, but one thing as a demon I can do is put someone to sleep - no, love. Not forever. Just enough for your body to get the rest it needs. You won't have nightmares - yes, I know about those. Shhh." A warm, comforting hand slid its way up Mycroft's tense body.

How did he know that much? No one knew about the nightmares. No one. Not even Sherlock. "A demon can tell," Greg murmured. A warm body slid in behind Mycroft's and he jolted, quieting once Greg's warm hand slid over his middle and pulled him back against the inferno behind him. "I'll be here in the morning." Greg's nose nuzzled the back of his neck, and Mycroft shivered at the sensation.

Mycroft felt Greg's lips on the back of his neck next, tracing occasionally up into his hair. It was warmth and comfort and confusing, all mixed together in a package. How was he supposed to sleep when he was dealing with all of that? "Sleep." Greg hummed against the pale skin of Mycroft's neck and Mycroft felt his eyelids start to droop. "There you go, love," Greg encouraged softly. Mycroft slept.