Obviously Mycroft was very touched to be asked to the evening reception. He’s often had the impression that Her Majesty is quite fond of him (she seems to enjoy his more acidic flashes of wit) but finding out that he’s included among two-hundred close friends and family was still quite startling.
When they get there, it turns out the Queen wanted to meet ‘this fabled Lestrade fellow’ who has so enchanted the power behind the British government. She’s delighted by Greg, who behaves himself beautifully and doesn’t once call her ‘Lizzie’. He asks her if she made all these canapés herself. The Prince of Wales, upon being introduced, says, “Ah! You’re Mycroft’s chap, are you?” and shakes Greg by the hand – and, after another glass of sherry, the Queen informs Mycroft that his fiance is a rascal and he’s done terribly well for himself. Mycroft fights a smile with all his worth and agrees.
By the end of the night, she and Greg are sitting on a couch together as he explains how to stop the cherries sinking in her fruit cake (”Quarter them, make sure they’re bone-dry, and get some ground almond in the mixture to hold them up”). The new Duke of Sussex very graciously helps to separate the two (”Nana, I think Mycroft might want to get to Cliveden before midnight…”) and Greg is grinning to himself all the way there in the car.
Next week, a fruitcake arrives in the post for them.
Greg takes pieces of it to work for his morning tea break.
Nobody believes him.
Category: Uncategorized
Locked Door
for @daynaan-black-dawn who asked for them being locked up somehow 🙂
Mycroft followed Greg Lestrade down a flight of stairs and into a flat, the door shutting behind them.
Greg turned, looking over his shoulder at the elder Holmes brother. “Thanks for helping me out with this, Mycroft. I really appreciate it.”
“I do have to admit that you piqued my curiosity,” Mycroft replied.
“It has nothing to do with showing up Sherlock?”
Mycroft huffed in amused irritation. “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”
They came to what looked like the living room of the apartment that they were in. “This is where it happened,” Greg said.
Mycroft rolled his eyes at Greg’s back. The large bloodstain on the carpet gave it away, he thought.
The younger man began to walk the perimeter of the room, taking everything in, his arms folded behind him. Every now and again he would pause to look at a book more carefully or draw a finger down a shelf as if to check for dust.
Greg leaned back against a wall, crossed his arms, and watched quietly. He was amused by the differences between Mycroft and Sherlock and their approach to deductions. Sherlock never shut up, rattling out a stream of verbal nonsense at times until he finally came up with what happened. Mycroft, on the other hand, was quiet and reserved as he was in life.
After a few long moments of silence, Mycroft finally turned to Greg. “I know you do not want to hear this, but it was his wife,” Mycroft said quietly. He pulled out a sheet of paper from where he had retrieved it between two books.
Greg let out a long breath. He had had his doubts about the wife’s alibi, but now he knew.
“Thanks, Mycroft.“
Mycroft merely nodded.
Greg sighed heavily, pushing away from the wall. He slowly led them back down the hallway to the door. Greg turned the knob, but nothing happened.
"Is there a problem?” Mycroft asked from behind Greg.
“Yeah, the door knob won’t turn,” Greg muttered.
“Shall I try?” Mycroft inquired.
Greg shrugged and stepped back, allowing Mycroft to try. Mycroft turned the knob; nothing. Nothing at all.
“Well, this is rather inconvenient,” Mycroft said.
“Yeah,” Greg sighed, running a hand through his silver strands before rummaging about in the pockets of his coat for his mobile so he could ring Donovan.
After a few minutes of what Mycroft would consider bickering, Greg hung up his phone and turned to Mycroft. “She’ll be here in about an hour.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but wisely said nothing.
“D’you want to sit down?” Greg asked. “In a room not covered in bloodstains,” Greg quickly added.
“Very well,” Mycroft said and once again followed Greg.
They sat somewhat awkwardly in the kitchen, on rickety wooden chairs that didn’t seem to fit the room.
Finally, Mycroft broke the silence. “I was glad to receive your call,” Mycroft said quietly.
“Really?"
"Yes. I had been hoping to contrive a meeting with you for some time.”
“Let me guess. About Sherlock." Greg sounded disappointed. The last time he and Mycroft had drinks, he was certain that there was something there between them, but then Mycroft had to leave in a hurry, and Greg never had the nerve to say anything about it.
"No. I wanted to apologise about our last meeting. I did not wish to leave so suddenly. I … was enjoying your company.”
Greg smiled. “I was enjoying yours.”
“Perhaps we could try again this evening? Over dinner?”
Lovely Anthea, can I get a drabble? Hurt/comfort or first meeting if you can
At first glance
Mycroft Holmes watched the scene from the warmth of his car and felt slightly guilty about it. He had only come because some policeman had called him, telling him that Sherlock had fallen into the Thames.
What the policeman had not told him, was that he had gone in after him. Nor had he mentioned that he was a silver haired fox and absolutely gorgeous, but in the heat of the moment, perhaps Mycroft’s emotions had abandoned all caution or care.
With slight reluctance, Mycroft extracted himself from the car, and gripping the handle of his umbrella tightly, strode over to where Sherlock was being examined by a pair of paramedics.
“What are you doing here?” Sherlock spat nastily.
“I see a dip in the Thames hasn’t improved your manners or temperament, brother mine,” Mycroft calmly replied.
The paramedics looked at each other, and then back and forth at the brothers nervously.
“Piss off, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, but there was less vitriol in his voice this time.
“Very well. I can see you are in good hands here,” Mycroft intoned.
Having assured himself that Sherlock was fine, it was time to thank the policeman- no, the Detective Inspector, he deduced. Calmly, he walked over to the other ambulance, where the silver haired inspector was explaining that he was absolutely fine and did not need to go to hospital.
The inspector must have seen him, because he suddenly turned in his direction and stared at him with a curious look. After a few seconds, he finally spoke. "Can I help you?“
Mycroft inclined his head in greeting. "Mycroft Holmes. You rang me regarding my brother.”
The older man did a double take. "You’re Sherlock’s brother?!“
“Unfortunately, yes.” A smirk played across Mycroft’s lips. He couldn’t help himself, the inspector was even more gorgeous up close.
The detective inspector barked out a laugh as he lowered himself out of the ambulance, ignoring the paramedics completely. "Greg Lestrade,“ he said, holding out his hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” Mycroft said, shaking the offered hand.
“Good heavens! You’re freezing!” Mycroft exclaimed.
“It’s what happens when you end up in the Thames,” Greg said with a shrug, as if it were a weekly occurrence.
“Thank you for rescuing Sherlock. Although, you may find he is more trouble than he is worth.”
Greg chuckled. "He’s a good lad, just needs to think before he leaps.“
"Indeed,” Mycroft said. He paused a moment. "I should let you go. You’ll catch your death standing around like this.“ He began to turn away towards his waiting car, but at the last moment changed his mind.
"Detective Inspector?” Mycroft inquired.
“Yeah?”
“Once you’ve dried off, can I buy you a drink? It is the least I can do after you rescued my brother.”
Greg offered him a dazzling smile, and Mycroft knew at that moment he was done for. "I’d like that.“
King Me
“Lestrade,” Sherlock says bursting into Greg’s flat. “It was…. Mycroft? What are you doing here? And what the hell are you two doing?”
“We’re playing checkers,” Mycroft replies, still somehow looking smug as he sits in only his boxers.
“You mean strip checkers,” supplies a partially undressed Greg.
“If you don’t like it, brother mine, you’re encouraged to leave.”
“And I’ve just jumped you. Off they come,” Greg says with a smile and eyebrow wiggle.
Mycroft stands and moves his hands to the waistband of his boxers.
“No!” Sherlock yells while running from the flat, slamming the door behind him.
“I’ve still more pieces on the board,” Mycroft says as he sits back down nude.
Greg grins, “Oh I’m sure we can think something to do.”
The Silver Stud
(or, when an author procrastinates, this happens).
“Detective Inspector.”
“Mycroft? Christ, what are you doing here?”
Greg stretched. Paperwork was a bitch, and his back was not a fan of so many hours hunched over his desk.“I apologise, I am aware it is quite late.”
“Late?” Greg checked his watch. “It’s past
midnight on a Wednesday, Mycroft.”“Of course. I apologise, I’ll leave you in
peace.”“What are you talking about? Come in.”
Mycroft sat on the guest seat in Greg’s
office.“What can I do for you?” Greg prompted,
when he didn’t look like speaking.Mycroft opened his mouth to begin speaking,
then closed it again. He looked a little helplessly at Greg.“Ah.” Greg nodded, sitting back. “This is
about last week.”“It is.”
“I thought it was you. You saw me coming
out of the Silver Stud.”“I did.”
Greg narrowed his eyes. “Were you planning
on having a drink?”Mycroft pursed his lips. “I had been…considering
it.”“Socially?” Greg asked.
“It would be extremely unlikely I would see
anyone I know in such a venue.” Mycroft replied. “They do have private function
rooms, and an associate of mine had offered a small group the opportunity to experience
the venue.”“Right.” Greg replied, not entirely sue
what Mycroft was saying.“I have been making an effort to, as my
dear mother puts it, ‘meet someone’ for a while,” Mycroft admitted. “I found a
discrete group of men in my age range and social situation. We meet semi
regularly to talk. Some pursue other members, some are there for support.”“And you?” Greg asked, wondering where the
hell this conversation was going.“I have not met anyone in that group I
would be prepared to date,” Mycroft admitted.Greg thought about that statement. He
thought about the fact that Mycroft was coming to see him here and now, after
realising Greg had been visiting the most overtly gay bar in London. A
possibility coalesced in his mind.“No-one in that group,” Greg repeated. “What
about outside of that group?”The flush was answer enough. Mycroft
cleared his throat, but did not answer.“Well not only am I flattered,” Greg said,
leaning forward and grinning, “but I’m interested if you are.”Mycroft looked up, surprise written all
over his face. “Sincerely?” he asked.“Yep,” Greg replied. He checked his watch. “Bit
late for a drink now, but how about Friday night?”Mycroft nodded without speaking.
“Great. Text me. We can meet wherever you
like. Well, maybe not the Silver Stud.” Greg grimaced. “Beer’s overpriced and
the tables are sticky.”They both shuddered before sharing a grin.
“I will be in touch,” Mycroft murmured, the
high spots in his cheeks the only indication of his emotional state.“See you later,” Greg said, watching him
leave.Picking up a pen, he scrawled MH, drinks on his weekly planner.
Excellent.
ok so head cannon is when mycroft offered Lestrade money to spy and Sherlock he took it then proceeded to tell Sherlock that he took the money from his brother and that theyll split the money monthly but then Lestrade ends up giving Sherlock all the money so that he can pay for a better apartment because he knows that Sherlock would never accept help from his brother but he’ll accept the money if he thinks hes swindling his big bro basically Lestrade plays both brothers in order to help them
127. “It’s turbulence. It’s normal.”
For the anon who wanted fics with Mycroft being the patient and caring one.
The soft grunt made Mycroft glance up from the periodical he was
reading. He took in the white knuckles and pale face of his seatmate.“Are you alright Gregory?”
“Yeah,” came the tight reply. Only to be followed by a quiet whimper
as the plane took another sudden drop in altitude then bounced back up.“It’s turbulence. It’s normal.”
“Yeah.” The aircraft shook alarmingly. Greg closed his eyes, his
lips moving in a silent prayer.Mycroft put away his magazine. He lay his hand palm up on Greg’s
knee. It was immediately grasped with a forceful grip. Mycroft squeezed back.
okay, well-written, insanely hot smut scenes in fics are amazing, but where are all my embarrassing, awkward, realistic scenes? gimme like:
– someone getting the world’s worst charlie horse in the middle of sex and their calf cramping so bad that they’re practically crying and screaming, but not in the sexy way, and their partner massages their calf until the muscles finally relax, but they’ve still got a limp like three days later and everyone definitely gives them shit about walking funny
– a blowjob gone wrong and someone getting cum in their hair, or worse, their eye, and it’s only funny for a second because then they have to spend the next fifteen minutes flushing out their eyes, and when they’re done their eyes look like they’ve spent the last hour trapped in a closet with a bong
– someone sitting in the kitchen with a frozen spoon pressed against their neck, trying to get rid of a hickey, half-heartedly bitching about their partner being a damn vampire, and if they have to hear one more joke from a coworker or friend about getting into a fight with a vacuum hose…
– trying to have sex in the front seat of a car and it’s working okay until someone’s ass lands on the car horn and scares the living daylights out of them, and then they have to scramble to drive away because they just blared the horn in a residential neighborhood at 1 a.m. and lights in houses are starting to come on
– trying to have shower sex except water is a terrible lubricant and it keeps washing away the real lubricant, so they finally dig out the good silicone lube and things are going much better until some spills in the bottom of the tub and then they’re slipping around, nearly falling on their asses or cracking their heads
– trying to be sexy and use food in bed, except whipped cream doesn’t actually hold its position, it melts and goes splat on the floor, and chocolate sauce looks kinda gross, and honey is literally the stickiest goddamm substance ever found on god’s green earth
– taking a romantic bath together except, let’s be honest, most tubs are barely big enough for one grown person and definitely not big enough for two, so all the water sloshes out and they’re both sitting in a tub with water barely up to their laps, shivering in the cold bathroom air
– attempting new positions in the middle of sex is adventurous and exciting until they’re trying to rearrange and get into position and someone accidentally gets kneed right in the balls
– nevermind getting walked in on by a friend or a family member, try a very annoyed pet staring accusingly and unblinkingly from the floor because they always sleep on the bed and right now the humans keep pushing them down, but when the humans try to shut them outside the bedroom, they spend the next hour scratching incessantly at the door
I live for fics like this. Give me a awkward sex tag and I will read EVERYTHING
I feel like the Red Dwarf fandom has delivered all this kind of fanfic at some point or other.
I’m dying 😂😂😂😂 I think some of these have the potential to end up in one of my Soft Smut Sunday pieces.
This is how it should be! I would love to read one of those…
Need me some Mystrade fics of this
💕 Soft Smut Sunday Ficlet: ‘Thought’ 💕
[Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade]
Mycroft wakes to his lover’s mouth at the side of his neck, and the nuzzle of an erection at his tailbone. His first sound of the day is a low, breathless moan; his first thought is still some time away.
There’ll be no thinking yet.
There’ll just be hands, coaxing down the front of his body; thick fingers persuading their way between his thighs; the gentle biting at his neck that makes him gasp without fail. There’ll be his husband’s breath, soft and rough in his ear, and the stroke of his wicked tongue in the hollow just behind – then the murmured command, “All fours for me, gorgeous…”
It will unfold into stroking up and down his bare back – lazy, loving hands that guide him to rock back and meet each slick thrust as it comes. There’ll be whispered praise, telling him he’s doing so well. There’ll be panting, arching and whimpering with need, and begging from low in his throat as Greg fucks him too slowly to come, too deeply to cope; but there’ll be no relief until his husband says. There’ll just be the two of them, and what they can make each other feel.
They might be out of bed by ten. They might still be in bed at three.
Mycroft doesn’t care.
He’ll think about it later.
Mystrade-Lecroft 