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.
Author: mystrade-lecroft
This page is simply somewhere for me to keep all the amazing fanfics and art I see so I can revisit (since tumblr might implode). Sometimes I post original stuff of mine, too. Not only Mystrade, but mostly.
Greg loves how their
relationship affects him physically.
It’s not the shortness of breath when he sees
Mycroft dressed in his best tuxedo, nor the speeding up of his heart when
fingers brush his as they pass the wine at dinner. It’s not even in the increased stamina
he notices when he chases down a pickpocket who didn’t check that his mark wasn’t
a detective inspector.
It’s in the soreness of his abs after Mycroft
holds him on the edge of an orgasm, easing him closer and letting it fade, over
and over until he tips over the edge, muscles clenched and vision whited out.
It’s how his glutes ache after he fucks
Mycroft hard over the table, angling to avoid his prostate, drawing it out
until Mycroft screams his name.
It’s absolutely the roughness of his throat
after Mycroft presses him against the wall of their private lift, pushing him
down and fucking his mouth until he almost chokes on cock and come.
Greg loves how their relationship affects him
physically.
imagine a dating app which notifies you if someone’s swiped right on your profile, even if you haven’t already swiped on them
imagine sherlock stealing mycroft’s phone and installing the app on it, uploading a profile for him. he gets the phone out of mycroft’s coat and back in without him noticing. (rosie is a great help in that regard. it’s so much easier to pickpocket mycroft these days.)
imagine greg, on a friday night, being wound up by his colleagues in the pub about his permanently single status; them pushing him to install the app. his new constable’s just got engaged to a lass he met through it. it sounds like a stupid idea to greg
–
how can you know if you want to go out with them when all you’re looking at is a picture?
–
but he’s a good enough sport to let them push him into installing it. he can just delete it later anyway
imagine a case that takes sherlock and john out of london, and mycroft’s worried for his brother, so greg finds himself haring off after them. he has no idea mycroft’s there too
even if it’s ridiculous (and the local police aren’t best pleased to have a met detective rocking up on their patch), the hotel greg’s been booked into is gorgeous. he hasn’t slept this well in months. he has a run every morning and starts taking long, relaxing baths.
he finishes a book, for the first time in months.
one night he’s sitting in the bar
–
john and sherlock have buggered off somewhere (probably to do something horribly dangerous) and greg’s savouring the last of his glass of whisky before bed
it’s idle curiosity. he opens the app. he plays with the settings. he wonders what his colleagues would say if they knew he’d checked the third box (‘anyone’,
instead of ‘women’, or ‘men’) after ‘looking for’.
the photos cycle, endlessly, and you just swipe
–
left or right, no or yes. it’s hypnotic after a while, and the strangeness of it (the basic nastiness of a yes or a no based on looks alone) fades away
–
left, left, right, left, hesitate
–
left, right, right, left, left, left, right
–
fuck.
oh, fuck.
that last one was…that was mycroft.
fuck.
cold realisation runs down greg’s spine.
it’s nothing, though, to the bone-deep shock of adrenaline when he looks up
–
eyes wide, hand tugging at his hair
–
and sees mycroft holmes, legs crossed in an armchair next to the crackling log fire
“Wow, this coffee is good. Since when does NSY provide actual coffee? We sure didn’t have this in Fraud.” Sergeant Lewis, the newest member of the homicide team, took another sip and closed her eyes blissfully.
“Don’t get too used to it–it only happens when we have a case that drags on for over a week and the boss starts banging his head on his desk. Just wait until we have a case that drags on for two weeks–last time there was catered Italian food for all of us pulling an all-nighter. It was seriously the best lasagne I’ve ever had in my life. Seriously, I have dreams about this lasagne.” It was Sergeant McAnally’s turn to adopt a blissful expression. “And it’s just our division, anyhow.”
“Ah, that explains why the lads from vice keep trying to sneak into our break room. So does the DI bring this stuff in?”
“No…we reap the benefits because some insanely posh rich bloke decided that,” Sergeant McAnnally nodded her head at the open office door of Detective Inspector Lestrade and gave a pause for Lewis to take in the full picture. Lestrade was wearing a suit that had been freshly pressed on Monday morning (it was now just past one on Wednesday), and it had suffered several indignities from a spiteful meatball sub at lunch. His eyes were rather bloodshot with lost sleep, and the bags under his eyes would have been charged an extra fee at the airport. The papers and photos and discarded coffee cups were covering every surface of his desk, and a pile of folders on the edge were in imminent danger of collapsing onto the floor. He had been running his hands through his hair, rather greasy after not having had time to shower that morning, every three minutes, so it was now standing up at strange angles and spikes. Scrubby silver stubble and an extremely itchy looking spider bite on his chin from searching a dusty attic for evidence the night before added to his scruffy appearance.
“DONOVAN!” He roared. “Tell the fucking bastards on forensics that if they don’t get that report to me in the next fifteen minutes they’ll be pissing out of their fucking ears for a week!”
Sergeant Lewis nearly dropped her coffee. “Oh, dear.”
“That,” McAnnally continued, “was what he wanted as a trophy wife. Or, well, trophy husband, in this case.”
“Well, um…there’s no accounting for taste?”
“Eh, maybe, but he cleans up well. You should have seen him in the tailored suit, no doubt chosen by the posh husband, he showed up in to the Christmas do last year. The words ‘silver fox’ were bandied about.”
“Well, maybe I can imagine it if I squint…”
McAnally grinned. “We’ll make a believer out of you. I’ve got pictures on my phone. Maybe don’t mention the photos to him, though?”
“He doesn’t like having his photo taken?”
“Nah, it’s not that, he’s a complete ham after a beer or two. It’s just, well, we needed to document the full effect of the suit…” She scrolled a moment and checked to make sure no one could see over their shoulders before holding the phone up.
Lewis peered at it a moment before it registered exactly what she was seeing. “Oh…OH. Um, well, yes, that is one of the better arses I’ve seen in a while.”
“Mmmhmmm…and look at this angle…”
“MCANALLY! LEWIS! THAT BETTER BE A NEW LEAD YOU’RE CHECKING ON THAT PHONE! GET ME THE CREDIT CARD STATEMENTS!”
McAnnally hastily stuffed the phone back into her pocket. “Yes, sir! Right away!” She zoomed off, and after a moment of freezing like a deer in headlights in front of the raging Lestrade leaning out of his office door, Lewis scuttled after her.
hear me out, what if Greg Lesteade isn’t really Greg Lestrade? What if he’s been deep undercover for a long time? What if he and Mycroft were together but Greg had to go undercover so that’s why they’re never in the same room? What if that’s why Sherlock never calls him the right name? Because he never bothered to learn the alias? What if that’s why he stays with a wife that cheats on him? Because he doesn’t care since he’s not in love, and/or she’s the mark? What if?!
Mycroft settles into his end of the couch, England jersey on, just before the anthem. He’s a bit surprised at how many of the crowd sings along, but it is nice to see such an outpouring of national spirit.
Greg, ever the attentive husband- at least until kickoff- pours him a whiskey. He has his own selection of beer already arrayed in front of him so he doesn’t need to get up to replenish until at least the half. “How are we feeling about her majesty’s chances today, love?”
Having only done a cursory bit of research, Mycroft is not precisely sure. But he isn’t going to admit that. “I feel confident in our abilities.”
“Mmmhm.” Greg smiles mischievously. “As do I, but as a reminder, if we lose….”
“Then I shall expect the full range of your creativity, darling.” Mycroft smiles in return.
“You read my file.” The fingers in his hair stilled for a moment, but only a moment, resuming their carefully paced drag through sweat-slick strands quickly enough that he might have missed the pause at all, if he had not been on such high alert.
“I didn’t need to.” Soft with reassurance and understanding, and oh how Greg wished he could bottle that feeling, those words, and keep it safe in his breast pocket for the days where pills and distractions simply weren’t enough. “Tell me Gregory; what do you need?”
“This.” He replied, without needing to think, gulping down lungfulls of air as he tried desperately to ground himself. “Just this, for a bit longer.” Holding on to his living, breathing lifeline, Greg buried his face into Mycroft’s stomach, the soft fabric of his grey waistcoat contrasting against the too-solid buttons which pressed almost painfully into his cheek and forehead. “Please.” The plea was somewhat late and decidedly muffled, yet Mycroft did not seem to mind, one arm wrapping around Greg’s back to hold him secure against that reassuring warmth.
“For as long as you need.” The methodical drag of his fingers continued without further interruption, until Greg’s fluttering heart rate eased and his breathing slowed to match, the last few dregs of panic finally fleeing his system.
Mystrade-Lecroft 