Oh dear GOD. Mycroft wasn't entirely certain he hadn't shouted that outloud, for Gregory Lestrade and all unsundry to hear. As it was, he felt his hips twitch upwards into the direction of Gregory's altogether hungry mouth, and one hand went into Gregory's hair. Twisting silver strands around his long fingers.

He huffed out a breath, feeling his thoughts congeal, mind processing and cataloging everything to be remembered later. Fondly rubbed against, like a silken sheet. Another breath now, but it was a hum.

"...your mouth should be catagorized under dangerous weapons of mass destruction. At least mine."