This page is somewhere for me to keep all the amazing fanfics and art I see so I can revisit (especially since tumblr). Sometimes I post original stuff of mine, too. Not only Mystrade, but I liked the username.
I was thinking of these cute babe and babu and their fantastic corset!lock art
And decide to draw my own but this is a Mycroft one …
The Goldfish Corset is a fan fiction based on this fan art. Go forth and read!
That’s my fic. I was just thinking about this one and I guess I never posted it on here
Mycroft has a little scar on the back of his thigh. Whenever Greg asks about it, the story changes every time.
One of them is true. Greg will figure it out some day
On the night before their wedding
“I was eleven years old. Sherlock was four. He was cross with me about something, I don’t remember what. But he was upset enough that he bit me. I had to have six stitches.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The scar on my leg. That’s the true story. You can even ask my mother.”
Greg smiled. Mycroft had been making up stories about that scar ever since Greg found it the morning after the second time they had slept together. He thought the original story had been true, but then Mycroft had changed the story completely the next time they went to bed together. From then on Greg would ask about the scar and Mycroft would make up a new story. Some seemed like they could have been true, and some were so far-fetched that Greg would laugh outright. (Though when it came to Mycroft he supposed anything could be true).
“Why tell me?”
“Because we’re getting married tomorrow. And I plan to tell my husband the truth whenever possible.”
“My my my, you’re a new face.” Greg felt his grump fall away like water, and looked up from his book.
“Forgot me already?” Greg grinned, dimples in full display. Despite the fact the guy wasn’t even supposed to be at the Fire Station, Greg was always welcoming to Mycroft. Not that he was giving away anything or letting the man become a nuisance ( not to the other fire fighters; his own concentration on the other hand…) but he could allow the well spoken man a little leeway, surely?
“Well you vanished for a week, I had to drink one black coffee and two espresso before a meeting instead of my usual black. I was wired for the rest of the day.” He smiled, and handed over the aforementioned double espresso.
“Oh, bless you Mycroft.”
“Your blessings received.” Greg smiled into his cup at his… friends witty retort.
OMG
THANK YOU, ANON. ❤ I love writing these little one shots so it makes me
really happy that people are enjoying them. Here comes a follow up to my
original Mystrade ficlet for the wonderful anon!! 🙂 This one was a lot of fun to write. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did!
Greg’s
feet fell especially heavy on the steps to 221B Baker Street. It had been a
long two days. He hadn’t slept yet so it still felt like one. He was holding coffee
in one hand and a bag full of take out in the other. He pushed the door open at
the top of the stairs and made his way over to the kitchen.John
was asleep on the table. Sherlock nudged him with his elbow and he sat up with
a confused sound. “Grant brought food.” the consulting detective quickly
explained.Greg
was too tired to correct him. He put the bag down on the table and nodded. “Breakfast
for everyone.”
She pushed her hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear. The soft flutter of eyelashes and Mycroft was enraptured.
Quickly looking around the deserted museum hall, he moved behind a marble statue and quickly pulled out his sketchbook and two graphite sticks. The next 20 minutes were filled with the sounds of the echo of faraway feet of other patrons in different rooms, of graphite on paper, and the pause of Mycroft getting distracted every time the woman did something.
A movement of her head, causing her short hair to fall back in front of her face.
A shuffle of her legs to sit more comfortably on the granite seating.
A flex of her arm as she checked her phone.
“Ow.” Greg looked up from his files. The boy who had been sat there for a few hours now had gotten a papercut on one of the photocopy pages. A tall thing, waifish like a forest spirit. Greg dipped behind the desk and quickly grabbed a small plaster from the box and headed out to the library floor.
“Oh, Thank you.” His voice was deeper than the youthful pout of his lips suggested, on closer inspection the jaw was soft with weight, as the occasional stray hair a morning shave had not managed to grab showed he was more than the child Greg believed him to be. His hands were soft with privilege, however, not with fat, long and thin to the point of awkward.
“You’re welcome.”
“You okay in there?”
“No.” Came the reply through the bathroom door.
“Babe please.”
“No.”
“What about a pretty Please?”
“Will a more attractive please change the weather?”
“No.”
“Then I am staying here.”
‘This Mycroft is an arsehole.’ Greg thought as he sat across from his blind date. Julien had assured that this guy he met had been nearly perfect for him, and had set him up to meet him the following day.
Julien had to have been joking, because this guy was nowhere near what Greg would think as a “Posh totty with restrained passions”.
Yeah, he was dressed well, a great suit on a fine body, a black wool mixed with something artificial that made the fabric shine.
True, the restaurant he had gotten a last minute reservation in was amazing. A beautiful chandelier that hung low in the room, warm bright light emitting from the fake candle flame shaped bulbs, and somehow Julian must have said something because Greg had always loved chandeliers.
Sure, he was good looking, an ethereal kind of face, blue eyes and pale skin but his attitude stank like shite.
Mystrade-Lecroft 