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.
Halloween wasn’t particularly a thing when Mycroft was a child, so his first proper exposure was Greg’s daughters rushing into their house, rambling on about their wonderful costume idea, and how they were going to dress as three.. sisters? From some Despicable child’s movie. And that they expected their father to dress up to take them out.
Until an hour before they were set to leave, and Greg was called away on an emergency. Nobody ever warned Mycroft that being a step-parent would come with three devastated little girls! But the costume was only a black jacket and a striped scarf… (and a promise extracted from Greg not to make any nose jokes).
Maybe, said the oldest girl later that night, as he carried her sleeping sister home… maybe having him for a step-father wasn’t so bad after all.
And when they bake together Greg always picks the ugliest scone or whatever and has it for Sunday breakfast because he says it tastes the best and Mycroft can’t stop him. And Mycroft pretends to be displeased at him deliberately picking the ugly one but actually he just loves Greg so endlessly much and they sit together at the table having breakfast, holding hands, feet together under the table
[Mystrade ficlet – pure fluff and happiness. ❤ M-rated. Inspired by this photo.]
It takes a lot to get Mycroft to laugh – but when he does, he laughs.
They’re practically living together before Greg even sees it happen. One Friday night with the weekend ahead of them, they end up lying on the couch beneath Mycroft’s winter blanket together, watching Blackadder in the dark with a bottle of red wine. They have nowhere to be in the morning; the bottle soon empties itself. Greg digs a pint of chocolate ice cream out of the freezer. He feeds it to Mycroft with a teaspoon as Mycroft lies comfortably against his chest, watching the TV with a gorgeous little smirk on his face. By the time they reach the middle of series two, his snorts of amusement are cracking open into unguarded chuckles. He gets ten minutes into the fifth episode before it’s all over for Mycroft and he’s laughing helplessly against Greg’s chest, barely able to breathe. There are tears in the corner of his eyes. He’s shaking, collapsing into more laughter each time he tries to get a hold of himself, and his helpless amusement and distress set Greg off too. They have to stop the DVD just to breathe, their sides now hurting from the laughter. Mycroft is a mess – he tries desperately to wipe his face, but the helpless tears keep on coming.
Greg’s voice filtered down into Mycroft’s consciousness, arriving delayed and wrapped in cotton wool. He hummed and sank deeper into the bath water, foam tickling his nose. The warmth of the water soaked into his bones. With a sigh he breathed in deeply, enjoying the calming aroma of the orange blossom oil that the water had been infused with.
“Darling?”
Mycroft opened his eyes slowly, but was still temporarily blinded by the light, even though it was turned down to a soft glow. As he blinked sleepily, the bathroom came into focus. He laid eyes on the golden lamps, the glass covers that looked like magnolia flowers, the green marble finish that glinted luxuriously in the low light.
He wanted to answer, but then he felt a hand in his hair, carding carefully through the strands, scratching slightly and he closed his eyes again with a sigh.
“Just wanted to check if you haven’t drowned, love…” Greg said with a chuckle.
Greg was leaning against the wooden paneling of the wall, almost hidden by a large fern. He eyed the crowd with feigned interest, quietly nursing a flute of pink champagne. He would never tell anyone that it was actually one of his favourite drinks, and this was the main reason that he was already on his fourth refill. Well, he didn’t actually know anyone at this charity party, to which the super had invited him. It was held in a ballroom of a big hotel in western London and had gone on for quite a while now. Greg had long run out of patience for meaningless small talk, but he felt bad for leaving early because he’d received a personal invitation as the only inspector. He only hoped that no one would approach him, as he was definitely feeling more than tipsy from the champagne.
As if on cue, a tall man in a tuxedo detached himself from the crowd. As their eyes met he smirked and Greg drew in a sharp breath. With a leisurely step the man walked over to him and came to stand entirely too close to be proper. Greg stared into the stormy blue eyes until the man raised his glass – also filled with pink champagne. Greg grinned as their glasses clinked.
“I don’t believe we’ve met?” the man said and took a sip.
Greg: *at a crime scene, takes a drag from a cigarette*
Mycroft: *four days since his last, breaks off his conversation with Sherlock mid-sentence, crosses the crime scene tape, grabs Greg by the lapels, and tries to inhale him and the smoke through an insistent kiss*
Greg, when he’s finally released: Christ, Mycroft, you could have just asked for a smoke.
Mystrade-Lecroft 