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.
@lmirandashere it is, lovely! Sorry for having to re-upload, but I’ve searched everything I can think of on my blog and can’t find the bloody thing…
Warning: this ficlet is NSFW under the cut! Even though there is enthusiastic consent on both sides, Greg is drunk, so if that’s something that is likely to trigger you, please avoid.
Mycroft does not find out about the party until it is happening. The one and only downside of never talking to your housemates, he thinks. I could have vacated the premises until this festival of raucous drunkenness had passed.
Doubtless the house will be unlivable for the next week.
He puts his noise-cancelling earphones firmly on and works for as long as possible – an essay due the following week for his political participation module. By two in the morning, however, he’s starving, and the increasingly loud thump of the bass from downstairs has given him a tight, angry headache.
Nothing on Earth would persuade me to go down there, he thinks crossly. Best to get to sleep, and hope that this headache passes by morning. He shuts his laptop with an angry snap.
He tries, and fails, to sleep. He can hear someone – or rather, two someones – next door in Hannah’s room. There is a lot of drunkenly exaggerated moaning, and – is it possible to die from giggling during sex? He wishes this unlikely fate on the girl, whoever she is, and presses his pillow over his ears.
He doesn’t have time to react when his door ricochets open, slamming back against the wall. There’s a dull thud that sounds like a kick, the door closes again, and a heavy body thumps down onto the mattress next to him with a huge, beery sigh of relief.
“Jesus Christ, I’m pissed,” mumbles someone, from behind their own hands. “Fuckin’ell. C’n hardly walk straight. Quiet in ’ere though. Jus’ need a minute of – quiet…”
The voice is strongly-accented Estuary English, and Mycroft realises with a jolt of adrenaline that the boy who’s stumbled into his bed is Lestrade, from the Social Problems module he’s been auditing alongside his own scheduled lectures.
Oh, fuck.
Improbably beautiful Gregory Lestrade – no, Greg. He’d told the lecturer to call him Greg during the first register. Mycroft squeezes his eyes closed, trying not to think about the boy’s cut-glass jaw or lively, mischievous brown eyes.
Thursday night. Mycroft is in his socks, sitting on the grey-blue Ikea sofa in Greg’s flat, holding a mug of Yorkshire Tea in both hands as he quietly watches Gregory ironing his work shirts. The soft hiss of the steam is soothing, even when it’s sharp. It doesn’t distract from the television. They’re watching an old episode of Fawlty Towers – Mycroft had seen it before, but it didn’t seem to be funny until Gregory.
Little ever did.
Mycroft’s superiors have expressed some concern over him spending so much time in an unmonitored flat. They’d prefer Mycroft to spend his evenings in his registered residence, where his security is better accounted for. It would be more convenient, they’ve said.
In this moment, watching his lover quietly iron, hearing Gregory chuckle under his breath at the television, Mycroft knows there is no safer place on the planet.
Ianto: (sitting at his desk with a flower, he plucks off a petal) He loves me, He loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me…(plucking the last petal) he loves me n-
Jack: (popping up from behind Ianto) That’s a load of crap! How dare that flower-
Jack: You know what, hold tight Ianto! I’ll get you another flower!!
(He storms out of the hub towards the nearest flower shop)
Tosh: (having watched the entire scene play out) Ianto why are you smiling? Isn’t it a bad thing if you end on he loves you not?
Ianto: Yeah, but it’s not so bad seeing as that’s the 12th flower I’ve plucked
Hernando and Lito like to cuddle in bed and talk about random things. They’ll talk about Hernando’s class, Lito’s movies, art, politics, media, books, memes, etc. Once they got into a really deep discussion about how to cook a steak correctly that lasted hours.
Can we please consider Mycroft and Greg having sex while trying to keep a completely normal conversation going as a game. And each of them trying to make the other “happier” and who ever can remain coherent the longest “wins”.
It’s Mycroft’s birthday and Sherlock decides that he’ll prank him as a present.
He makes it past an outraged John. He makes it past all of Mycroft’s security. He makes it all the way to Mycroft’s living-room door and here, of all places, he stops.
He stops because in said living room he finds Mycroft dancing (cough, Swaying) with Greg (to Ed Sheeran’s “Perfect”, obviously) and he must really be going soft because all he does is take a short video to send to John with the caption ‘Maybe next year, then.’ before sneaking back out of the house.
John doesn’t show it to anyone and Sherlock doesn’t tell anyone else what he saw. Fast forward a few years to the wedding and Sherlock records that dance too (also to Perfect, obvi) and when Greg and Mycroft return from their honeymoon, they find a video ready to play. It’s their first dance as a married couple spliced with the first dance Sherlock recorded.
Imagine Mycroft and Greg after a late-night shift. The way they walk together, hand in hand under the soft glow of the streetlights, their muffled footsteps synchronized in the crisp, fresh snow. Their coat collars turned up against the wind, Mycroft’s head on Greg’s shoulder. They don’t talk about much, really, but the light smiles, the furtive glances they exchange, the way they brush their fingertips over each other’s knuckles, reflect more about them than they can tell.
Mystrade-Lecroft 