When the endorphin rush subsided and the white haze that filled his vision and brain had finally come back to actual colored shapes, Greg realized he was buried against the crook of Mycroft's neck, still breathing deeply as if he'd run a marathon.

There was a hand running through his hair, and his fingers were wrapped around the other hand. His face was wet.

Hell, that had never happened before. Get it together you ponce, nobody likes anyone who cries after sex.

Greg sucked in a deep breath, moving his face to rub it against the sheets before letting go of the hand, and rising up.

"Sorry, not exactly light." he muttered good-naturedly. "Let me just..."

He needed to move, slide out of Mycroft, wash up. After that was a blank.

One step at a time. He started with the obvious first.

Greg moved, sliding his now softening cock from Mycroft, half falling beside him, a leg still entangled with his, Greg's cheek resting against Mycroft's shoulder.

"Christ." Was all he managed to get out. There was a second step but right now, he couldn't be arsed to care too much about it.