[ He woke up around 20 seconds ago (give or take - he's in no mood for precision here) and is currently sitting up in bed, having managed to drape himself in the sheet rather than the duvet. He's naked underneath and sticky, still, from last night. His breath smells and tastes like cock. John's, to be precise. He smacks his lips, then gets to his feet, each movement slow and borderline clumsy. His body still remembers the explosion of his orgasm, his jaw still remembers the feeling of John's cock, stretching it to its limits. And more importantly, his mind remembers, too.

How he'd... submitted.

How he'd wanted to.

Blinking, he pads over to the window and opens it, letting in the pseudo-fresh air from outside (in the middle of London? Hah) before making his way into the hallway with his sheet draped around his body like a make-shift toga. He keeps drawing a blank on any and all emotions related to the act of simply... giving in. There's no mental judgment, no Mind Palace Mycroft telling him not to be such a weak and stupid little boy. He thinks, perhaps, there might be, given time. But right now, he just feels slightly empty as well as... fucked. Very fucked, at that.

The smell of bacon and eggs and beans makes him squint into the kitchen, poking his head past the doorway first before shuffling inside the rest of the way. His eyes the paper between John's hands automatically as he heads for his chair, the content making him raise an eyebrow. He has to clear his throat to speak and even then, he sounds frankly terrible. ]

Let's hope she got the photos before they fled. Mycroft might just have an aneurism, if so. And resultant brain damage. [ Pause. A dreamy half-smile. ] Or death, even.