Give Me A Label (I'll Make Confetti)

Chapter 4: The Real Mycroft Holmes

Different house, same people, and Greg was getting frustrated. He hadn't been laid since the weekend before and was getting annoyed; a blow job just wouldn't cut it.

Dimmock had headed outside early on to phone Molly- that boy was so whipped- and Joe had caught sight of a pretty seventeen-year-old wearing denim short-shorts that were trying to disappear up her arse. Dylan was chatting to Matt Sanders and BJ Masters, the latter with his arm wrapped around Sally Donovan, who was starting to look bored.

Greg was on his fifth drink when he spotted a blonde boy, probably about eighteen, with gorgeous blue eyes and a slim body. He was considering putting the moves on the guy- and hopefully getting a fucking shag- when he bashed into someone.

Greg groaned and rubbed his arm as he turned to face the guy he'd crashed into-

- only to almost drop his drink and fall right over.

He was standing face-to-face with Mycroft Holmes... just not a Mycroft Holmes he was used to seeing. If Greg hadn't spent hours in the boy's company during those stupid tea parties, he might have mistaken him for someone else.

But no... no this was definitely Mycroft Holmes.

The tall, normally posh boy was dressed in black; black leather trousers that left nothing to the imagination, a tight black t-shirt over his skinny torso, and a well-fitted black jacket that had silver buckles all over the front and cuffs. His ginger-brown hair was a mess and he had thick eyeliner marking his blue eyes, as well as dark eyeshadow smudged across his lids. Add to that the tongue-piercing Greg could see, as well as the black nail polish Mycroft had painted on, and Greg's lower half was taking a definite interest in Mycroft Holmes.

'Lestrade,' Mycroft said, pulling himself up and checking to make sure he hadn't spilt his drink or dropped his cigarette- yes, that was a cup of beer in his left hand, a half-smoked cigarette held between his right index and middle fingers.

'I... er... huh?' Greg stuttered.

Mycroft's lips pulled into a smirk, and his tongue darted out to moisten the bottom one, drawing Greg's attention to it completely. 'Is there a reason you decided to try and knock me over?' Mycroft questioned.

Okay, so he still talked like a posh tart, but really... Greg's eyes flicked over his body again.

Damn was he looking fine.

'I... n-no,' Greg stuttered unintelligently, making Mycroft chuckle. 'What are you doing here?'

'Having a good time,' Mycroft said, raising his cigarette to his lips. He took a long drag and tilted his head back to blow smoke above him and away from Greg. 'Isn't that why people frequent parties?'

'Erm... well, yeah,' Greg said, eyes raking over the taller boy. 'But you... I mean, you're you.'

'Quite a good eye you have there,' Mycroft said, smirking condescendingly.

Greg huffed. 'You know what I meant!'

'Do I?'

'Are you being this annoying on purpose?' Greg demanded.

Mycroft's smirk widened. 'You've met my brother, yes?' He took a large gulp of beer and another drag of his cigarette.

Before Greg could ask- well, demand- what the hell Mycroft was doing at this party dressed the way he was, BJ Masters stumbled over with his arm still wrapped around Sally Donovan. He grinned when he saw Mycroft and said, 'Mikey, having fun?'

'Mm, that remains to be seen,' Mycroft mused, eyes roaming over the crowd. 'There's never anyone interesting at these parties.'

Mikey? Greg thought, mind stalling once again.