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.
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Mycroft: Ha! I win!
Greg: What? How? I have you pinned to the ground?!
Mycroft: Exactly!
Mycroft’s spine stiffens. Slowly, he turns. Damnation. Devastatingly attractive, as always, but this time wearing black tie, and carefully shaved. Haircut, too, by the looks of it. Briefly, he mourns the loss of the long, scruffy silver hair Lestrade had been sporting the previous week, when Mycroft had picked up Sherlock and John from their latest escapade. Dark, soft brown eyes. Damn, damn, damn.
“Detective Inspector,” he says superciliously, lengthening his neck, tipping his head to the side. “I had not expected to see you –”
“– at a posh do like this?” finishes Lestrade, shooting him a grin. He runs a finger inside his collar, and Mycroft tries not to notice the soft, golden skin of his neck. “Just here accompanying my old mate Karen. She climbed the greasy pole and gets asked to all these things. Lowly DI like me’d never normally be invited to stuff like this,” he smiles, gesturing slightly at the glittering ballroom.
On a date, thinks Mycroft. Something in his chest tightens at the thought, and he valiantly tries to ignore it. “I see,” he says, crisply. He’s just opening his mouth to make his excuses when Lestrade interrupts.
“’S’pect you’re working, are you?” he asks, taking a couple of glasses of champagne from a passing tray, and handing one to Mycroft. “Shaking hands, taking names, threatening people?” he sips his champagne. Brown eyes, crinkled with amusement, twinkle at Mycroft over the edge of the glass.
Mycroft raises an eyebrow. Flirtatious? Surely not. Drunk? Does not seem it, but – “I am sure I do not know what you mean, Detective Inspector. I never threaten.”
“Sorry. What is it called, then? A subtle air of menace?”
Mycroft cannot help returning Lestrade’s warm smile, just a little, the merest twitch at the corners of his lips. “Perhaps.”
Lestrade grins. “Well, you’re dressed for it, anyway. You look like James Bond.”
Mycroft ignores the way his stomach clenches, and calmly raises an eyebrow. “I am not sure I should call James Bond subtle, Detective Inspector.”
“Nah, maybe not,” says Lestrade, taking another sip of champagne. “Looks good in a suit, though.”
Mycroft struggles to get his breathing under control for a few moments, during which time he witnesses Lestrade’s expression go from open and amused to guarded, and slightly worried. “Bond’s brand of diplomacy would certainly not be welcome in my profession,” he says quickly, hardly hearing what he’s saying. He takes a sip of champagne, mouth suddenly dry.
Lestrade’s eyes are cautious, but he gives a lopsided smile. “True. Bet you’re stuck here ’til the bitter end. Bond would’ve flounced out by now, with some hot young thing on his arm. Although.” He nods to where Anthea, wearing a plunging jewel-red ballgown, is talking composedly with a senior Minister.
Mycroft gives a quick flicker of a smile, and drops his gaze to the intricate pattern of the fine ballroom floor. Ah. So that is it. “I see,” he says, voice as neutral as possible. “My ineligibility as a Bond figure becomes still more glaring.”
There’s a brief beat of silence. Mycroft watches through his eyelashes as Lestrade gulps down the rest of his champagne. “Always wondered if you two were…” says Lestrade.
Mycroft’s head snaps up. “Why?” he asks, and his complete bafflement must be obvious.
Mycroft looks away across the dancefloor, stomach heavy. The taste of champagne has turned acid in his mouth. “She would appreciate being taken away from the Minister, I am sure,” he says flatly.
Lestrade clears his throat, but Mycroft keeps his gaze turned away, scanning the crowd.
“You know what,” says Lestrade, after a moment. “You were right. Bond’s not like you, not really. He’s more of a blunt instrument. Gets stuff done any way he can. More like a policeman, you might say.”
Mycroft half-raises an eyebrow, but does not turn to look into Lestrade’s eyes.
“Thought I might get out of here,” says Lestrade, and his voice is strange, perhaps a little breathless.
Mycroft nods tersely, mentally preparing his own reason for ending the conversation.
“D’you want to come with me?” asks Lestrade, and Mycroft’s head snaps round.
“I beg your pardon?”
Lestrade’s eyes are crinkled. Relief, apprehension and a kind of amused defiance are written all over his face. “Bond never leaves without someone good-looking on his arm.”
Mycroft blinks several times, tipping his chin up. His long fingers tighten around the champagne flute. He wishes he had his umbrella. There is an extended moment, during which the confused press of sounds in the ballroom seem to fade entirely away.
“Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice is full of pained concern.
“No need to worry, Mycroft, they’re both going to be okay – if only this bloody idiot didn’t insist on taking a dip in the Thames every few months we’d be –”
“If only he did not insist on dragging my husband in with him,” says Mycroft, eyeing Sherlock with intense disfavour. “For goodness’ sake. It is the middle of the night. They could contract pneumonia. Where is the ambulance?”
“On its way,” says John stoically, crouching down next to Sherlock. “I’d be more worried about whatever stomach bug they’re probably going to get.”
“Oh for –” mutters Mycroft, rolling his eyes. He slips his coat off and attempts to put it around Greg’s shivering shoulders, where the sodden white shirt clings to his chilly, goosebumped skin.
“Up,” says John firmly to Sherlock. “You’re going to keep moving.”
Mycroft raises an eyebrow as Sherlock obeys the army doctor without a word of complaint. He turns back to Greg, who is feebly resisting his attempts to wrap him in the coat.
“Gregory. Just take the jacket.”
“No chance. I know how much that thing cost,” says Greg, trying for a grin despite his chattering teeth. “And it’s more than my monthly pay cheque. Well, after tax,” he concedes, with a shrug.
Mycroft presses his lips together, and tries again to put the warm navy woollen coat around his husband’s shaking shoulders. He growls exasperatedly in his throat when Greg pushes it away again.
“Gregory Lestrade,” he hisses, crouching down so that he can seek out and hold his stubborn husband’s gaze. “I am putting this coat around you, whether you like it or not. Do not make me restrain you.”
“Kinky. We’re in public, you know.”
Mycroft fixes him with a baleful stare that is only slightly undermined by the fact that he can’t keep the corners of his mouth from twitching when Greg is giving him that cheeky grin.
They can hear the ambulance in the distance, now. Mycroft wraps the coat firmly around Greg’s shoulders, and slips his arm tight around his waist for good measure.
“Your dry cleaning company are going to curse you,” mumbles Greg, head tipped in towards Mycroft’s shoulder.
“Not as much as the Yard is going to curse you when you take sick days with whatever horrifying form of dysentery you have managed to contract in your unplanned foray into wild swimming.”
Greg snorts slightly. “You’ll look after me,” he says, drowsily. “Y’always do.”
“I do, and I will,” murmurs Mycroft. “I must say, however, that I find an officer of the law to be a surprisingly high-maintenance husband.”
That wakes Greg up. He gives a sudden guffaw of laughter, and turns to look Mycroft in the eye. “You’re complaining about me being high-maintenance?” he grins, holding up the sleeve of the insanely expensive soft wool coat – and suddenly they’re both laughing, uncontrollably, sodden and shivering on a London kerb at three in the morning, ugly streetlight and the howl of approaching sirens lending the scene a bizarre, nightmarish quality.
“I love you,” says Mycroft, and it’s the first time he’s said it out loud, in public.
“I love you too,” says Greg, and he says it all the time, everywhere, but his eyes are soft and dark. They don’t let go of one another’s hands, even when the paramedics arrive.
Thank you for the prompt, Anon! 😊 16. “aaah I can’t stop blushing… No you’re not helping at all”. NSFW!
[16:57] Where are you, Detective Inspector? MH
[17:03]Mycroft, we’ve been together for a year. You might dare to call me Greg. G
[17:04] Where are you? MH
[17:07]Press conference for the Nellan case. G
[17:08] You said Sergeant Donovan would be running that. MH
[17:10]She is, but I’m her supervising officer. I have to be here. Why? You home? G
[17:10] Yes. MH
[17:14]Early! Why? G
[17:21] Unexpected meeting cancellation. MH
[17:22]Are you sulking? G
[17:28] I do not sulk, Detective Inspector. MH
[17:31]I wish you had a fancy title, so I could let you know when we’re on formal terms too. You must have a PhD or two, right? I could call you Dr Holmes when you’ve done something wrong. G
[17:32] You can call me ‘Sir’. MH
[17:35]Ha. And now I know why you’re sulking. You came home horny, didn’t you? G
[17:36] Such vulgar terminology, Gregory. MH
[17:39]Oh well, at least I’m ‘Gregory’ again. G
[17:41] I cannot wait to wrap my lips around you. MH
[17:44]And now you’re playing dirty. G
[17:45] All is fair in love and war. MH
[17:49]You’re making me blush in a press briefing. G
[17:50] Delightful. MH
[17:50] I will make you beg, too, when my tongue is inside you. MH
[17:52]You’re not helping at all. G
[17:53] I am not trying to help. MH
[17:54] The noises you make as I fuck you with my tongue are addictive, Gregory. I need to hear them again. MH
[18:02]Just so you know, you’re paying for this taxi. G
Thank you very much for this, Anon, and for your kind words about my writing! I’m so pleased you like it. As always, I’ve taken slight liberties with the wording of the prompt, but I hope you won’t mind too much.
Greg makes it back from the bar with just seconds to spare. Mycroft looks at him, eyebrow raised; a silent interrogation on why he has failed to return bearing drinks.
“No time to explain,” mutters Greg, lips tight. His stomach feels hot and heavy, the aftermath of a sickening swoop of adrenaline. He’d spotted them just as he neared the front of the crush at the bar, heading towards him. “Sorry,” he says, making hurried, pleading eye contact with Mycroft. “Can I hold your hand?”
Mycroft blinks, several times, face blank.
“Greg!” Her voice is high, raised above the barrage of noise in the crowded bar. “Oh my god! Fancy running into you here.”
He swivels on the spot, eyes closed for a long, deep breath. Bracing himself.
“Leanne,” he says, as warmly as he can manage. “Quite a turn-up for the books, yeah.” He nods at the man with his arm slung casually around Leanne’s waist. “Peter.” He’d probably have continued, talking wildly to cover the awkwardness, but the breath is knocked from his lungs by the warm, reassuring lacing of Mycroft’s fingers with his own.
There is a moment of loaded silence.
“And – who’s this?” asks Leanne, smile now noticeably a little fixed.
Greg swallows, but Mycroft holds out his hand. “Mycroft Holmes,” he says, pleasantly.
They shake, briefly. Mycroft ignores Peter.
“Right. And you’re –”
“Yes,” says Greg. He smiles a soft, warm smile. Long, elegant fingers in mine, the ridge of his ring against my palm – and how many times have you thought about those fingers, Greg? Christ –
“I – right. I’m Leanne,” she says, hitching her smile back into place. “I’m –”
“Gregory’s ex-wife.” There’s a minute pause, which Mycroft somehow manages to imbue with a world of disdain. “Yes.”
Their group is a small puddle of silence in the otherwise loud bar.
Greg struggles to breathe as Mycroft swipes the pad of his thumb gently, soothingly, over the backs of his knuckles.
“We were just off,” he says, after a moment. “Got a –” he waves his hand vaguely. “You can have our table.” He passes Mycroft his beautiful navy coat, which he folds over his arm.
He’s not letting go of my hand, thinks Greg. He’s keeping hold of it the whole time we’re in sight of them. God. He –
There’s a round of insincere nice-to-see-you’s, and then they’re walking away, hands clasped, and Greg isn’t entirely sure this isn’t a dream.
“This place is going downhill,” says Mycroft, leaning in, a stage-murmur easily loud enough to carry as far as the table they’re leaving behind.
Greg keeps his expression as impassive as possible, but he squeezes Mycroft’s hand.
Outside in the street, he gives a shaky laugh. “Mycroft Holmes, you bitch,” he grins. His chest feels tight, and he knows his cheeks are flushed, hectic with adrenaline and awkwardness.
The corner of Mycroft’s mouth twitches. Somehow, neither of them has let go of the other’s hand.
Greg stops, and tugs Mycroft round to face him. “Thank you,” he says. He runs his free hand across his face, then through his hair, tugging a little. “Fuck. That was – thanks,” he says again, sighing.
He feels Mycroft trying gently to extract his fingers, and that’s –
“No, wait,” he says, urgently. “Actually – no.” He bites his lip, and looks up into Mycroft’s dark grey eyes. There’s a long, breathless moment.
“I lied,” he says, in a rush. “This wasn’t a drink to – to talk about Sherlock. I – like you. A lot. And this –” he holds up their joined hands, “– is a case in point. You’ve only ever supported me, in whatever.” He takes a breath, suddenly unsure how on earth to go on.
“You have supported me, too, Gregory,” says Mycroft, gently, and Greg loves his full name as he never has before.
He nods. “Yeah. Yeah. I s’pose I have. And – that’s important to me. Special, I think.” He squeezes Mycroft’s hand again. “What I’m trying to say is – what I should’ve made clear – this was – I wanted this to be a date. And – maybe you’ll agree to go on another one with me? Somewhere my ex-wife isn’t, preferably,” he adds, with a slightly rueful huff of laughter.
He dares to look up into Mycroft’s eyes. He catches the flutter of a blink, but then Mycroft gives him a small, genuine smile.
“I should enjoy that.”
Fuck. Right. Fucking hell. “Good.”
There’s a short, slightly stunned silence.
“Should we now let go of one another’s hands, Detective Inspector? Since we are not yet ‘on a date’?”
Greg grins. “Don’t think there’s an official statute on that, Mycroft. I’d rather not, but we’ll go with whatever you want.”
“I see. Then I shall call my car.” And Mycroft’s thumb resumes its calm, smooth pattern, brushing across Greg’s knuckles.
#that awkward moment #when sherlock knocks on mycroft’s door #and greg answers
Reblogging for the tags.
The fucking tags
“Hi Sherlock” 🙂
the face of Sherlock is going to be priceless.
‘Gavin, what on *earth* are you doing to my brother?’
@redgreyandpurple I might be non-native, but I think the right preposition here is “in” my brother, not to…..
Personally, I like the idea that Sherlock breaks into Mycroft’s house (knock on the door? Boring.) only to find Mycroft bent over the couch and Greg fucking him into tomorrow. He freaks out, and ten minutes later, this is Greg dealing with him…
I NEED THIS FIC
“Oh fuck – oh Christ!” moans Greg, biting Mycroft’s bottom lip much harder than he’d meant to as the front door crashes open. “Jesus – fuck, Sherlock –”
Mycroft’s eyes are round, wide, and he seems frozen. Dishevelled, formal shirt hanging open, tie tangled loosely round his neck, he sits straddling Greg’s lap. His lips are red, cheeks stained hectic with arousal and embarrassment.
Greg’s hands tighten on Mycroft’s hipbones. He has the absurd urge to laugh.
“Urgh,” says Sherlock, eyes narrowed. He swallows, darting glances taking in Greg’s shirt and jacket, strewn across the arm of the sofa and floor. “This is a new low, even for you, Gavin.”
Mycroft’s blush deepens, and Greg wants to punch Sherlock. Behind it, though, behind Sherlock’s cold silver eyes, he sees the twist of fear. Fucking idiot. That’s how he sees the world, and its people: his, or not. As if that were ever possible.
“Get in the kitchen, Sherlock,” he says, voice measured. “Give us a minute.” The pad of his thumb smoothes gently over Mycroft’s hipbone. “Put the kettle on, since you’re making yourself at home.”
Sherlock slams the kitchen door behind him.
Mycroft is still frozen, avoiding Greg’s eyes.
“Hey,” murmurs Greg gently, hands on either side of his face. “We knew he’d find out eventually.”
Mycroft gives a tiny half-shake of the head, seemingly not ready to react.
“Up,” sighs Greg, placing a kiss at the corner of his mouth. “Go and get in bed. I’m going to talk to him.”
“I –”
“If you two talk, there’ll either be screaming or murder. Not interested. Bed. Now. I’ll come and get my dressing gown.”
“Whatever, Mycroft. If he ever actually makes a move on John, I’ll get your name tattooed on my arse.”
Mycroft suddenly develops interest in matchmaking, brother’s personal happiness, etc. “Isn’t John looking nice today.“
Or maybe he gets it above his hipbone, where just half the writing – the floating cursive lifts of the m, f, t, h, l – peek above the waistband of his trousers.
It drives Mycroft fucking nuts.
Greg knows how much it turns Mycroft on and purposely keeps stretching his arms up to lift his shirt and reveal it.
When Mycroft can take no more he pins Greg down on the bed, strips down his trousers and pants before proceeding to trace the letters with his tongue over and over again.
Tenth wedding anniversary, in the same hotel suite where they honeymooned, Greg discovers his present halfway through anniversary sex when he murmurs to Mycroft to turn onto his front.
Brief interval for laughter. Photographs.
“Don’t you dare send that to Sherlock. So help me, Gregory Holmes-Lestrade…”
“Whoops I slipped.”
“Greg…!!”
“Babe, I didn’t actually. You know I didn’t.”
“Babe. Gregory, you only call me that when you wish to irritate me further. I am not a small animated pig.”
“The fact you even know what that is, now…”
“Ample proof of ten misspent years. Yes.”
“Horrible bastard.”
“I note you are still hard, however.”
“Darlin’, I’ll be rock hard til kingdom come knowing what’s under your posh suits.” His thumb traces the signature. He leans across Mycroft’s back, kisses his shoulder and behind his ear. “Let’s put this pillow under your hips, gorgeous. I think we both know what’s happening now.”
Mystrade-Lecroft 