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What You Ask For
"I'm SO BORED John. I need something!" Sherlock whined.
“I know luv, headed for the Tube now. Maybe I'll find a murder to entertain you.” John chuckled at the drama. It had been a few of very quiet weeks at home, he knew his husband was at wit's end.
"Promise?" Sherlock almost sounded hopeful that he would.
"Promise!" John grinned and rang out as he beelined for the train.
As if rush hours on the line are not bad enough, John left his headphones on his desk and of course, he’s now sardined against the doors. Any chance of feeling the air conditioning is close to nil against the crush of bodies at this point and he just prays he’s not a soggy mess when he finally disembarks.
Because naturally it's rush hour, but the train is crawling...
To the side is an older woman with enough Aquanet in her hair, that if they actually wanted to hive there, he seriously doubted bees could have penetrated the hirsute turban.
And oh, bloody hell already!!!!
Did this guy next to him pour every ounce of cologne in existence in a tub and immerse his entire body in it?
Gee-shush!!
Pinching the bridge of his nose while trying hard to keep his eyes from watering from both toxic scents, he faced the door to stare down into the long expansive blackness of the tunnel before the next stop. The immense dark was very fitting to his mood indeed.
It's rush hour - RUSH already!
Looking for any distraction to try to pull his mind out of its funk, he notices a tall, dark-curly haired woman in shades in the glass' reflection. He could just barely make out the shape of her eyes behind the dark lenses, but couldn't really see them. She made up for it by having beautiful lush lips, emphasized the more with whatever gloss she was wearing. They looked as though she drank water not even seconds ago and I all but expected an errant liquid drop to fall. He couldn't tell if his sudden thirst was for this unseen water implied or for the lips themselves reminding him of the cupid bow lips of his love waiting for him at home, providing that implication.
Nope, definitely reminding me of your lips.
He smiles thinking of his husband as she seemingly stares straight ahead, but can't tell if she's really staring ahead or doing the non-dance, all commuters without personal diversions do of looking at anything, but seeing nothing. It's a lovely few minutes of I'm looking at you, but I'm not looking at you to while away the time as he thinks all the things we wants to do with his husband to entertain him.
Come on train!
As if hearing his plea, the train is speeding at its normal pace after the next station.
Yes! Nothing but one more stop between me and kissing you.
As the train is pulling into the station, she slowly lifts her shades and stares up quizzically. It was her, at first what the...? rapidly increasing to OH MY GOD, expression that finally made him stop looking at the reflection in the glass and actually through the glass itself. Her confusion then shock is rapidly matched by passengers waiting on the platform as the train starts to slow. Mesmerized by their expressions, his mind does not fully register the crimson streaks snaking their way down the panes.
As the train jerks to its stop, the bloody body that suddenly slides from the curved roof of the train, and is caught on God only knows what to now dangle hideously in front of John just as the doors open. It sets off screams inside and out of the train get his full attention.
The front of the skull was slowly turning towards him and with a slow sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, that had nothing to door with the bloody horror dangling before me, he realized he recognized what was left of the face attached to it.
You've got to be bloody kidding me!
John suddenly understood why Sherlock grinned as his phone is in his hand dialing without a thought.
Universe is rarely so lazy - careful what you ask for, indeed.
His husband’s melliferous voice teases as he answers “You better not be…..”
“Sherlock!” John speaks over him. “Our former client is dead. Get to Baker Street station NOW.”
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Attitude
Greg found himself in an unexpected fit of giggles when a phrase innocently fell from Mycroft’s lips.
“Oh, that is your puerile thoughts giggle…”
“Sorry! Sorry!” Greg brought a serviette to his lips. “It was an inside joke with my family.”
“Oh?” Mycroft brows furrowed trying to fathom how what he said while semi-jokingly kvetching about a colleague could cause such.
“It started with Mum fussing with my dad. Went over my head at first because I was too young. Took a bit to get the correlation.” Greg turned a little pink. “Once I did? It was weeks before I could keep a straight face when heard.”
Greg knew Mycroft knew him well, he understood Mycroft was aware he was stalling by the indulgent little smile that played at his lips as he made a go on gesture.
“When Mum was in a… let’s say flirtatious mood and didn’t want me to know she would comment on Papa’s attitude. How Papa had a lot of attitude. Or if Papa was in a mood that was reciprocated, she’d tease ‘not with that attitude!’”
“Ah…” Mycroft nodded, getting the correlation as he had just said the words himself. “Not that it was meant the same when said to you, I gather.”
“Thank goodness!” Greg shuddered with a laugh. “I eventually cottoned on. I was using it myself for a while, calling it my attitude, but like most jokes told too often, it eventually lost its humor. With some notable exceptions.”
Because he knew Mycroft well, Greg watched as Mycroft studied him.
“You have commented on my attitude several times of late, Gregory.”
“I know...”
Greg saw the surprise as those mental wheels spun.
He saw when the conclusion was reached.
And he saw Mycroft’s understandably wary, but definite happiness of that conclusion.
“Are you saying you meant it in the same context as your female progenitor?”
“I am…”
“You want…”
“All of your attitude…? I do.”
“So, you’ve realized that thought is…reciprocated?”
“Oh yes, I have…”
They sat acknowledging the screaming unsaid.
“Shall we… check our attitudes then?”
“Oh, lets.”
Greg smiled taking Mycroft’s hand.
Signaling for the check, Mycroft grinned.
@mystradepromptsandscenarios
#mystradedialogueprompt#mystrade monday prompts#mystrade#mycroft holmes#greg lestrade#bbc sherlock#360mg format
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Waiting...
Text 16:45>> Can we meet at Diogenes? 6pm? Important and *private*. – GL
Mycroft Holmes stared at his phone in surprise.
Gregory Lestrade had never asked for a private audience with him before. Yes, they have shared private dinners in the office at Mycroft’s behest, not Gregory’s. And certainly not with an emphasis on privacy which Gregory would know was innate with being at Diogenes.
Text 16:47>> I am here and available for you now if the need is urgent. – MH
Text 16:48>> Be there in less than 30. - GL
He has waited for Gregory for a variety of reasons in the years he has known the man, but this was the longest less than thirty minutes of Mycroft’s life as he tried to deduce why Gregory would have need of him and could not come up with anything.
Mycroft waited with bated breath as Gregory was let into the office.
He looks happy... That is good. It’s been a long while since I’ve seen him look truly happy and not just smiling because it’s expected.
Usually affable and expressive, Mycroft had not realized how much he had come to enjoy those traits in Gregory until their slow decline as the knowledge of his wife’s affairs took its toll. Gregory’s pride and heart had taken a major blow and Mycroft waited as it played out to its inevitable heartbreaking conclusion.
All Mycroft could do was watch, wait and be something to Gregory that by some miracle he realized Gregory has been to him – a friend. That he himself wanted to be so much more than a friend to Gregory continued to be his secret. Still, the last few years had been misery for the copper.
And yes, part of that misery was his fault with Sherlock’s ‘dying’.
The guilt of it had made him pull away when Greg needed him most. When Sherlock returned to London as last, he was immediately forgiven. Mycroft however, begrudgingly accepted the blackeye, then endured the painful weeks of silent treatment, as he - Mycroft Holmes - begged forgiveness before they slowly found the way back to being friends once more.
Through it all Mycroft watched and waited as Gregory slowly found his footing again.
Mycroft watched and waited as Gregory found his self-worth and pride again.
And as much as it killed him internally – Mycroft watched and waited as Gregory began to date again.
His only satisfaction was that none of the dates seemed to fulfill Gregory enough for even a second date. One evening during dinner, while Gregory whinged about yet another disappointing date, for a very brief moment, Gregory had smiled at him. It was such a warm beguiling smile. A smile where Mycroft almost, almost, confessed his love, but fear sealed his lips. He could not make himself say the words. And when the moment passed, he told himself it was his imagination and he waited.
Gregory was certainly better, professionally and personally, but Mycroft understood he was not fully happy. Still, he kept his secret to himself. What was the point? Men like Gregory Lestrade: warm, solid, salt of the earth, moral, not to mention unbelievably handsome simply did not date men like Mycroft Holmes: uber-intelligent, cold, posh, exacting, and constantly skirting the fine line of what’s moral and lawful. Though dreams of Gregory Lestrade permeated his nights, in the cold light of day he knew he would not be the person Gregory would ever turn to romantically and being his friend was better than nothing – so he watched and waited.
Thus, seeing Gregory look at him with that beguiling smile again filled Mycroft’s heart with cautious joy. He beamed as he stood to greet him. “Good evening, Gregory.”
“Wow… I miss the way you used to smile at me…” Greg closed and locked the door behind him.
“Pardon?” Mycroft, basking in the glow of Gregory’s smile and his locking the door, was taken aback. “The way I used to smile at you? Is that a joke? That’s not funny.”
“The truth is not here for our entertainment, but for the elucidation of facts.” Gregory teased with words Mycroft had once said to him. He crossed the room to stand near him, still smiling. “Though to paraphrase what your brother likes to remind me – my being so slow at seeing and observing is one thing – but oh observing and absorbing that truthful light is at a snail’s pace. Still, even a snail as slow as I will eventually get there...” Gregory loosely gestured to the room and the two of them, “…Well here...”
“Gregory what are you on about?”
“Sorry… This is a first for me…” Gregory said, slightly pinking. “…my asking…”
“What is…? Asking what…?”
“When I was a young spotty thing, I was a pretty boy – I know hard to believe as ragged as I am now…” Greg joked self-deprecatingly, then quickly held up a hand to stop the numerous protests about to fall from Mycroft’s lips. “Though I don’t see it personally, I am aware that I’m found to be attractive. And perhaps that is why I have not need, but did you know that I have never been the one to ask first?”
“Never?”
“Never. Every single one of my dates in life happened because the other person asked first. Hell, even my ex was the one who proposed, not I.”
The incredulousness that a man as secure and confident in his professional mien as Gregory, has never asked anyone on a date personally, was overshadowed in the enormity of what was being implied now.
“Gregory… Are you asking…?”
There was something – a feeling, a slow joy that slowly began to creep from the depths of Mycroft’s soul at Gregory’s words. He did not dare to call it hope. That was far too dangerous a thing. The looming shadow in fear of the emotional crash if what he feels is wrong, have him frozen in place.
“Asking you out on a date?” Gregory clarified, “No.”
Mycroft inhaled sharply from the blunt impact of it. Unable to exhale, unable to speak in that miniscule spark of hope that dared to shine, swiftly snuffed
“Mycroft breathe…” Gregory lightly placed a hand on Mycroft’s tie, right over his tie clip, right over the heart he’s not supposed to have as the breath rushed out of the contact. “As I said I’m slow. In all the dates I’ve gone since my divorce I noticed a few things. 1 - you stopped smiling at me like that when I began to date again. They all failed because snail me realized that 2 – after each date I all but ran to where I preferred to be as soon as possible – with you.” Gregory emphasized the point by firmly tapping Mycroft's chest with his finger.
It is not lost on either that, whether by surprise or desire - or both, Mycroft has allowed this.
“Gregory, I…”
“Shhhh, let me finish….” Gregory smiled shyly as he laid his hand on Mycroft’s chest again, fingers gently caressed the fine material of Mycroft’s shirt while his palm stayed in place. “The point of dating is to get to know to someone. To get to know them and see if you’re compatible. To see if you want more from them. If you want a future with them. And the way I see it Mycroft, you and I have been dating for a couple of years now, yes?”
Dumbstruck in the reality that his dreams just might be coming true all Mycroft can do is nod as he waited, knowing there was more.
“We - well I - didn’t know that. I thought it seemed like you wanted to for a while after I was divorced, but you never actually asked. And as you now know - I have never asked anyone before. So when nothing happened, I tried to tell myself you wouldn’t want me, but now and then you smiled that smile… And this snail finally realized I was so tired of looking in other faces when all I want to see is yours.”
The hand on Mycroft’s chest had slowly travelled to cup his face and Mycroft was transfixed staring into the eyes that stared into his.
It was only natural when Mycroft found his hands have gently rested on Gregory’s hips. As much as he is screaming on the inside to just DO something. He understands that this ONCE Gregory needs to be the one to do this. He’s waited so long for this; he patiently waits a little more.
“I know what I want is you, Mycroft. And I do know you. And I do know we are compatible. And I do know I want more… And I do know I want a future… So no, I am not asking for a date - I believe we’re well past that. What I am asking for…” Gregory closed his eyes and took a breath. When Gregory opened them again, the resolution in them is rock solid. “Mycroft Holmes, I’m in love you and for the first time in my life *I* am the one asking: will you be…mine?”
“Yes.”
Mycroft softly brought his lips to Gregory’s at last.
The kiss is soft, slow, almost languorous… As if neither can believe the moment is happening.
Then Gregory’s tongue slides across Mycroft lips asking, begging for entrance and the kiss becomes – more…
Knowing at last the wait is over.
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Chapter 2: Sweet Home Alabama
It's rock star Jim Moriarty's first hours of freedom after having served a ninety-day jail sentence All he wants is to go home, if only he can get away from his agent who has other plans.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/55046797/chapters/140153794
Read from the beginning HERE.
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It's How Things Are
It was awkward, God, so awkward.
It has always been a little, more than a little, awkward when it came to him.
It’s how things were with him.
A lot about her has changed since she first met Sherlock Holmes, except one… the most important one.
She still loved him.
“I love you…”
And she had waited literal YEARS, to hear those words from him.
But she didn’t think hearing them would hurt so much.
That’s a lie.
Deep, deep down she knew…
She knew he meant them. Knew he meant each word.
Just not the way she ever wanted.
It’s how things would never go.
Thus, she was not surprised when he came by.
He explained things. Fractured memories returning. The secret sister. He, John, Mycroft, and the Torments of Sherrinford.
Sherlock was full of earnestness and apologies, until she could stand it no longer.
“Don’t say any more.” She begged and walked him to the door.
“And I am sorry for your loss…”
And of course he noticed, her cat Toby was gone. And that was why she was crying even before he called asking for those three words.
“Um… Bye... ”
She closed the door and leaned her forehead on it with a soft sigh, surprised to find herself smiling- however bittersweet.
It’s how things will be.
“Bye…”
---------------------
I literally found out about #sherlollyweek2024 on Tumblr a couple of hours ago. I already had this story in mind when I made the discovery, the universe is rarely what?
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In Need
Mycroft Holmes turned off the press conference he had watched for the nth time. It was less the conference but the cell phone video that captured one Detective Inspector Lestrade as he chased down a murderer that he watched repeatedly. Especially the part when Gregory jumped onto, ran across, then leapt from a moving vehicle to capture the man.
Mycroft had never been so hard in his life and could not wait to do something about it.
He Gregory well. He knew he would be home soon and what he would want.
After knowing each nearly a decade, secretly pining for him for the past two years, learning the feeling was reciprocated a mere two weeks ago, and having the pleasure of loving openly since, it was still novel and wonderful to him that he shared this love with Gregory.
Thus, he was waiting just inside the home office door with two snifters of cognac on Gregory’s arrival.
“I need you.” Gregory panted.
Gregory slammed the door, grabbed a snifter, downed it in one go and threw the crystal at the fire place.
Surprised by the action, Mycroft had no time to respond as his own snifter was snatched from him to meet a similar fate. Any thoughts of complaint he may have has were swept away when he was turned and shoved against the door in the full body press of Gregory’s body against his, followed by a passionate kiss.
“Tell me more.” Mycroft grunted feeling Gregory’s hard need against his own.
An amused, but happy staff will take care of things later, but that is later. Caught in the whirlwind matching passion Mycroft thought nothing of the clothing trail that marked their path from the office to the bedroom. They grasped and clawed and snatched at any and everything that impeded skin-to-skin contact. That became desperate grasps and claws of each other until a sweat drenched and quivering Mycroft roared his lover’s name unable to hear Gregory’s cry of his name as the world whited out around him.
It was only in quiet of afterglow that Mycroft appreciated the enormity of what they had shared and what it meant. The love and trust that he did not even think about it until then.
“I wouldn’t have done this with anyone else.” Mycroft smiled into the warm brown eyes smiling into his. “Couldn’t have.”
“Done what?” Gregory ran a hand through Mycroft’s chest hair.
“Given myself as easily I did with you, my love. Without thought or hesitation.” A blushing Mycroft shyly admitted. “And that’s how I know now.”
“Oh Myc…” He saw the surprise as Gregory read the unspoken between the lines, “…I knew I had your heart, thank you for trusting me to love all of you.”
And because Gregory knew him well, Gregory smiled warmly he as gleaned onto the salient point. “Go ahead, ask, my love.”
Mycroft slid over onto Gregory and kissed him slowly, tenderly.
“Marry me, Gregory.”
"Not a question. Answer's still yes."
Read on AO3
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Reminding Me
Greg Lestrade was not having the best day. Awake since a quarter of three in the morning, it was now half past one in the morning. He stood back while Donovan questioned a new widow. There was something about the woman that niggled at the back of his mind, something he could not put a finger on.
Same with a book he saw in the window of a shop that morning. And with the new watch he noticed on his boss’ wrist while being royally blasted by him for something that was not his fault.
Greg chastised himself to pay attention before he missed something – else, or nearly did something stupid – again.
Goodness knows I do not need another dressing down from Sherlock Holmes, when I was caught semi day-dreaming.
There had been something about a painting in a different murder’s home that had triggered a similar feeling he could not quite grasp.
“I would think the copious amount of blood on the floor you’re about to step into would have your attention, not- whatever that monstrosity passing itself off as art on the wall. Clearly you don’t need my assistance if you can’t pay attention, Inspector. ”
And with that Sherlock flounced off minutes later.
Now hours after the fact, it still rankled. Suffice it to say when his phone buzzed with a familiar pattern Greg was not in the mood.
Mycroft. Oh, Christ, what does he want?
Before he fully retrieved his phone from his pocket the buzzing stopped. Assuming an accidental dial, and grateful to no have to deal with the man right now, Greg went back to work. He would have completely dismissed the incident if the same did not happen again as he and Donovan left the scene and called it quits for the night.
Greg stared at his phone in surprise. Mycroft Holmes accidentally dialing someone once was a mistake. But twice – within the span of twenty minutes?
That did NOT happen.
Greg immediately dialed the man as he rushed to his car.
“Gregory, I apologize. I was not aware of the late hour and…”
Tired as he was, even Greg heard the falsehood of it. Greg did not lie to himself. He knew Mycroft Holmes to be a master manipulator. If he truly wanted to lie to Greg, he would be none the wiser. Greg did not think twice as he interrupted.
“Bollocks, Mycroft. What do you need?”
“I…”
The phone fell silent. The seconds ticking by was the only reason Greg knew the man had not rung out. As Greg somehow knew he would, he smiled to himself when Mycroft spoke again exactly as the minute mark struck.
“I must suffer being in close quarters with another being.”
Mycroft suffer?
His exhaustion fled; Greg looked at his phone. “Excuse me?”
The uber intelligent genius worked in a position the world does not know exists and is better for it. Mycroft Holmes causes suffering in others who do not listen to his advice in that position. Mycroft himself does not suffer for anything but save his brother and migraines; that his brother, Sherlock, was sometimes the cause of said Migraines, notwithstanding. A man for whom caring is not an advantage is practically a mantra, Mycroft most certainly did not suffer the company of others if he did not have to, including Greg’s. Something he had made known repeatedly in their association, even if that now decade old association has slowly grown into something of a friendship from once acrimonious beginnings.
Greg started his car. “It’s past two in the morning, Mycroft. I’m having a bad day, could you be a little more forthcoming?”
“I know, Gregory... As am I...” Mycroft sighed. Before Greg could take in the enormity of that admission, Mycroft continued. “I... I find myself in the unique mindset of desiring quiet, but not solitude and the Quiet Room will not do. If I must do this – and clearly, I must – the only compromise is to align myself with someone who would cause the least egregiousness to my sensibilities. I lament that it seems it would be… you.”
“I…” It was Greg’s turn to take a full minute to parse through the backhanded part to reach the possible compliment.
He wants company? But not just any company. He wants MY company…
“Where are you?”
“Diogenes, if you’re too tired, Gregory, I will underst-”
“Be there in twenty.” Greg rang out.
---- ----
A middle of the night Mycroft sat behind his desk. His shirt sleeves were perfectly folded, exposing his forearms. It was only the second time Greg had seen him as such. With his eyes glued to his work, Mycroft blinked when Greg stood at the door and softly cleared his throat.
You called here I am. Your insufferable company.
Mycroft checked the time, seventeen minutes. He gave a slight smile when Greg said nothing else as he closed the door, and hung his trench on the rack.
Always the perfect host, Mycroft gestured between the choice of the wingback chairs by the fireplace, a decanter of what Greg knew would be very expensive brandy on a table between them, or the sofa which had a pillow and a blanket folded on top, in deference to the late hour.
Mycroft stood; a curious look flickered across his face as Greg chose neither but approached the desk instead.
Greg closed the laptop and glared at Mycroft daring him to gainsay him as he pointed to the chairs.
You want quiet, but not solitude, but you are not working while I just sit around and twiddle my…
Caught in Mycroft’s blue/grey gaze he was reminded of the art that had captured his attention – It had the same color. Without looking down he knew then that his boss’ new watch reminded him of Mycroft’s pocket watch. The book he saw in the shop? A copy of Narnia that he and Mycroft had talked about at their last dinner. And the canned lights above Mycroft’s head shone on the ginger hairs of the hirsute man’s forearms. Hair the bright ginger color of the victim’s wife Donovan interviewed.
…Oh
“Gregory?” Mycroft broke the silence. “Are you well?”
He called...
He started to say I saw something today, and it made me think of you, but stopped himself just in time.
...and I came running...
It was then Greg realized these were not one-off occurrences at all. He has been seeing the man in seemingly random things, not just that day, but for quite a while.
...without batting an eye...
Oh shit…
“I’m fine – shall we…?” Greg quickly turned, walked to the chairs, sat, and poured himself a much-needed drink.
He called and here I am…
In a moment of shocking clarity, Gregory Lestrade understood something else:
I’m in love with Mycroft Holmes and I absolutely cannot tell him.
OH SHIT!
@mystradepromptsandscenarios
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Take My Hand
As a toddler Mycroft Holmes’ parents understood he was not fond of touch. He especially did not like to have his hands held. He constantly tried to have something in at least one hand to have a reason not to touch or be touch beyond necessities.
A repair was needed to a fence in back acreage. Now a curious aged seven, Mycroft followed his father and the groundskeeper across their land. Accustomed to the young boy’s presence, neither thought anything of it as hopped random stones to cross the wide creek. Mycroft easily hopped the first few stones, but nearly slipped into the water with his last attempt. He realized his young legs were not a match for the length of the adult men. It was not deep water, but it was nearing winter and he did not want to fall.
“Da!” Mycroft, carefully balanced on a stone, called to his father.
Mr. Holmes turned in surprise at his very independent son until he understood the problem. He reached out, Take my hand.
Mycroft reluctantly put his hand out, the chagrin of having to do so evident, even on his young face.
----
Mummy heard when the front door slammed. Her husband was about to yell when she held up a hand as two sets of footsteps ran up the stairs.
“Sherlock. Leave. Me. The hell. ALONE!” was bellowed from upstairs.
The insulting tones of a younger brother, who knew a lot- but not yet enough, followed.
“Of course he’s mad, you’re stupid! You kissed him; I saw it! And with your tongue in his mouth? Nasty! That’s why he hit you!”
Mummy was on her way up when something heavy in Mycroft’s room hit the floor and shattered.
“Sherlock! Go downstairs and help your father.”
“But Mummy…”
“Now, Sherlock.”
She entered the bedroom, closed the door gently behind her and carefully stepped around the shattered CRT monitor on the floor. Mycroft laid with his back to the door. He curled further in on himself, but did not otherwise acknowledge her. Still, she knew he was aware of her presence. She silently sat on the edge of the bed and waited.
“I didn't know it could hurt so much…” a muffled voice sniffled.
“Unfortunately, the first one almost always does, son.”
“There will not be another,” a broken voice snarled.
She had known it was going to end badly with her son and the closeted boy, but some things cannot be avoided in life, and one’s very first heartbreak was at the top of the list. Her own heart broke as Mycroft sobbed into his pillow.
Knowing he would never ask, after a while she simply put an open palm beside him. Take my hand.
She knew he would know it is there. Moments later an awkward hand silently reached out barely touching hers.
----
Hands on his umbrella, Mycroft said nothing as his -no longer a baby- brother’s Red rimmed verdigris eyes slowly fluttered open and tracked the hospital room until they met his.
“How…?” Sherlock’s normally baritone, a raspy shadow of its normally mellifluous self. He groaned as he tried to sit up.
“Why ask questions you know the answer to, Sherlock?”
Mycroft had flicked his eyes away, but knew Sherlock caught his wince. The beating had been brutal. Sherlock had deleted the details of how they got there from himself, but Mycroft dig not need Sherlock to tell him; he had already deduced it.
“This OD was accidental, a miscalculation…”
“Miscalcu-!” Mycroft nearly thundered before he stopped himself. The sudden silence, was one thing, but nothing could have prepared Mycroft for the tears that slipped from his own eyes. “Promise me, Sherlock.” Mycroft angrily wiped them away, “Promise you won’t do this again…” Mycroft’s voice broke piteously. “Please?”
Sherlock placed his hand on the guard rail near him.
Mycroft knew it was not a promise to stop, but silently asking: should he fall, again, would Mycroft be there.
Sherlock’s hand lingered there for a while silently begging, Take my hand.
Only when it seemed Sherlock was about to pull away, did Mycroft lay his hand over Sherlock’s.
“I’ll always be there for you.”
----
It was less than two hours since his parents left his office after a tongue lashing that Mycroft had not been privy to since A Levels. It helped to know Sherlock did not hate him for the keeping the secret of their little sister all that time. Still, his parents’ words had stung. With Sherlock taking their parents back home and Anthea still at Sherrinford straightening the mess left in Eurus’ wake; for the first time in a long time, Mycroft felt utterly and completely alone.
Even more so than when he woke up trapped in Eurus’ old cell.
He had sat on the floor because Eurus had destroyed the bed taking away the only comfort in that space. The floor was cold and he was not exactly young anymore. He was grateful when rescue arrived in the form of Greg Lestrade.
“Here.” Greg offered to help when Mycroft’s cold stiffened bones protested rising.
“I’m fine.” Mycroft used the bedframe to pull himself up.
“You're not alone, just so you know.” Greg had sighed as they walked out.
At the time Mycroft thought Greg referred to the eyes and ears that were always in that room.
Mycroft told Anthea she could go home and he was on his way home himself.
Somehow, he wound up in the carpark of NSY instead.
He does not know who, if anyone, told Greg he was there. He was just grateful when the man acknowledged his driver, then quietly slid into the backseat next to him.
Greg said nothing as the car pulled into traffic; just his presence was enough to chase the demons away.
Only then did Mycroft understand what Greg had truly meant that night.
“I’m not alone, Greg.” Mycroft laid his hand on the seat between them, his pinky grazed along Greg’s then stilled. “I know that now.”
Understandably unsure, Greg tentatively slid his hand closer so that their respective pinkies fully touched, but nothing more.
“And just so you know; neither are you.” Mycroft turned his palm up on the seat in offering, Take my hand.
“I know that now.” Greg smiled as he slowly slid his hand over Mycroft’s and grasped it.
@flashfictionfridayofficial
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To The Victor
Greg knew he should not have tried it. He really did know.
It was a fool’s quest to try. Especially, in the semi lit kitchen.
But stubbornness was very much a trait of being a Lestrade.
To the victor, no?
So, he tried - several times.
And failed – several times.
Yet he was getting closer to his goal, each attempt giving him false security, that the next would be successful, he overextended his reach, upsetting his delicate balance.
Greg felt the wrongness of it and knew there was not a thing he could do already feeling himself about to make impact with the floor.
“Greg!” A partially dressed Mycroft ran into their kitchen. His eyes immediately deduced what happened. “Your leg!”
“Damn my leg!” Greg shouted. Teeth gritted; his hand slapped at the cast he wore in frustration.
Mycroft helped him to a chair. “What were you thinking?”
“That I’d make you some damned tea before you left!” Greg glared at the box that still mocked him from the upper shelf. The shelf he himself had placed them on. But that was days before surprising a criminal by tackling him.
Fortunately, Greg had made the arrest.
Unfortunately, he had broken his tibia during the capture and was currently out on medical leave.
“I can help you with that.” Mycroft finished buttoning his waistcoat, his long legs easily letting him get the box. He tutted when Greg started to reach for his fallen crutch. “Why didn’t you just ask someone?”
“It’s early. I didn’t want to wake staff…” Greg groused. “And I’m not an invalid.”
“No one says you are.” Mycroft handed him a mug and squatted before him. “What would you say - roles reverse?”
“Sod off.” Greg could not help his growing smile. “I know what you’re doing… What about your staff?”
“Our staff, love.” Mycroft reminded him, his hand on Greg’s thigh, exposed from the cutoff trouser leg for his cast, travelled. “You know they’re discreet. “Just trust me. Please.”
“How’s the tea…?” Mycroft grinned zipping him up when done “Worth it?”
Greg grinned at his new husband, forgotten mugs on the table.
To the victor, indeed!
“Yes. Mm, good.”
@mystradepromptsandscenarios @flashfictionfridayofficial
#flash fiction friday#ff237#mystradedialogueprompt#mystrade monday#mystrade#mycroft holmes#greg lestrade#360mg format
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Wide Awake With The Beginning
It was one in the morning when Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade sent his partner Sargent Sally Donovan home. Unfortunately, he woke up at his desk nearly two hours later.
God, you’re starting to get too old for these late nights, Greg my boy. Starting to? Shaddup!
As always, before he went home for the night, he did his nightly checks.
Sherlock Holmes would be annoyed should he ever find out; Greg did not care.
Watson would semi-jokingly accuse him of spying, but the good doctor had long ago resigned himself to the facts of hidden cameras in his life.
Anthea would say he was being a ridiculous mother hen, but he knew she was the reason he was allowed it.
He needed to know where people were before he could go home and lay his own head down.
He pulled out his tablet, checking both GPS and cameras.
His sisters were in their respective homes with their families, asleep as most people would be that time of morning.
There were no visual cameras at Anthea’s on purpose. Mycroft had informed him of the time he found grounded-up camera pieces silently served with his morning tea. That politely dissuaded him from doing such again, but the thermal imaging was allowed to remain as a compromise. Greg only had access to her phone GPS, thank goodness - because he did not want to imagine what she would feed him in vengeance if he had visuals.
At Baker Street, Watson was also asleep, but Sherlock puttered about the kitchen. Sherlock’s focus was on what seemed to be entrails dangling from tongs. Greg mentally shuddered at whatever insane experiment the genius was about. No surprise that Sherlock was awake. His sleeping habits, though much improved since sharing a flat with Watson, were still deplorable.
Pot-Kettle Greg, leaving work at near three. He chastised himself as he closed that tab and opened the final one. A tab he noticed was added a year ago, and not by him, for someone revered with as much importance as the previous.
Mycroft Holmes.
Uber intelligent. Enigmatic. Posh. Mycroft was a reserved man, many thought of as cold - and he is, especially to those who do not get the honor to know the true him. To the few of the public that see him regularly he is a cold exacting man. One who does occupy a minor office with the British government - he even has an official ID, paperwork, and occasional meetings to prove it. It a far cry from his true occupation as political analyst who wielded immense power in his manicured hands. Power that has caused royalty, dictators, and other high-ranking people in global politics to take heed – or else. Over the years Greg has been blessed to see the dry biting wit. The little quiet ways Mycroft shows his care for his parents and Anthea. The loving exasperation in how he and his little brother, Sherlock, deal with each other when out of the public eye. Greg knew he was one of the very few graced to know the man beyond the public persona and forged a quiet friendship from what was once a very acrimonious association between them.
Greg knew, originally, he had been tracked simply as another way for Mycroft to potentially locate his brother when Sherlock would cut off all other means of tracking when so inclined, which was often. Like John he had become resigned to his life being somewhat under surveillance by the enigmatic man because of his association with Sherlock.
Greg was eventually given access to the cameras for Sherlock and John as a quid pro quo courtesy. A year ago, he had been given access to Anthea’s GPS - only when she was in London of course - for when Mycroft is incommunicado, but wanted to secretly let Greg know they were in fact in London without calling unless absolutely needed. It was a surprise to discover when the last tab appeared, and Greg had direct access to Mycroft’s GPS. Again, only when in London, but it was better than being reliant solely on Anthea for emergency contact. He completely understood the level of trust being given to have it and he was honored.
Greg does not know when he added Mycroft to his nightly check routine, but there the man was…
Wait… Why is he there so late…? Oh…
The GPS told Greg where the man was: at his office in Diogenes.
The hidden cameras, the only visual cameras for Mycroft he had been allowed access, told him why he was still there: he had fallen asleep at his desk.
Oh, that cannot be good for his back.
Mycroft, always impeccably dressed, had removed his jacket in the privacy of his office. It was the first time Greg has seen him so and Greg almost felt he was spying on something illicit as he watched the gentle rise and fall of the man’s body in slumber.
You work so hard Mycroft, taking care of the world. Who takes care of you?
It was not the first time Greg has had that thought.
Would you let me take care of you?
Nor was it the first time Greg has had that thought.
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Mystrade Monday Prompt #73 For January 22, 2024 - "You know that’s not the case.”
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It Will Be...
Mycroft, back from a weekend trip to put out a hot spot overseas, nodded at Clemmons, his Chief of Household Staff, as he walked in the door of the townhouse. Given the time, Clemmons would normally take his brief case, bring to the office, assuming he would be headed straight to bed. That she pointedly took the carry-on and coat, but not the briefcase told him all he needed to know.
Mycroft had not texted that he was home early because he had expected his husband to be asleep and did not want to wake him. He quirked a surprised brow at the news.
“It’s a quarter of four.”
“He’s been there since half-two. You know what that means.”
“Unfortunately, I do. Thank you and good night, Clemmons.”
“Good night, Sir.”
It meant Greg was working on a case at this late hour in their home office.
Mycroft Holmes had spent over a decade as a full-time active agent. It was a skill set that remained ingrained within long after he proved himself of better used calling the shot than actively making them. One Mycroft used now as he near silently entered the office.
He smiled indulgently at the spiky silver head of his husband that rested on crossed arms on top of the desk. The monitor had locked and gone completely black from inactivity. It meant Greg had fallen asleep at least thirty minutes ago. Gently closing the door behind him he entered the office and approached the desk.
Greg’s cross arms were on wrinkled papers that looked about to fall to the floor. He reached out for a paper when a hand snaked out.
“Hands off!” a sleep filled gravelly voice stopped him, rescuing said papers without looking. “You’re not as quiet as you think.” Bleary eyes peered up then blinked in realization, “Love! You’re home early!”
“Good morning, I am, and you’re knackered from working late.”
“I am.” Greg admitted slowly rising to greet him with a kiss. “To bed now to sleep and I promise you later it will be.”
“What will it be later?”
Greg winked leading him out of the office.
“A good morning.”
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Neverlet, the problems around AI art are very valid. I fully understand and acknowledge your concerns. However, you have accused me of theft here and that is not correct.
That is not to say the AI tool I work with, does or does not 'steal' other artist's work, I honestly cannot say with certainty. I myself only select the styles that are specifically credited to the artists used. For this image the prompts I gave were: a."Two men kissing by a black sedan park outside a modern apartment complex"
b. "Rupert Graves" and c. "Mark Gatiss"
For each I chose Hyperrealistic, splash art, concept art, mid shot, intricately detailed, color depth, dramatic, 2/3 face angle, Mark Brooks and Dan Mumford, comic book art, as the styles. The app itself named the artists, both of whom can be googled. I think it is safe to we would all know by now if either artist, renowned in their field, were against it. Thus, both artists are aware their names are used in the app and it is fair use. Therefore neither the app, and by my using it, nor I stole from the artists.
Your points regarding the hodge-podge of AI in rendering art compared to human is a very valid. It is a huge drawback. I took the least egregious among what was returned and dropped the pieces into photoshop to create what you see. For all its faults, and I agree there are plenty, it is still a hell of a lot better than anything I could have created on short notice. I have not the talent nor the patience to draw even basic line art that would resemble what I want. The AI tool, for all it drawbacks, allows me this. Is it perfect? Clearly not. It does however provide the gist of the visual I wanted to accompany the fic and that was all I was after.
The above being said, even after some photoshopping by me, you are correct in saying my using AI is not "#my art". That is true. It was an honest mistake in tagging which has been rectified.
How It Ends
He remembers the chaos first time seeing the smooth bare walls.
Despondency of what necessitated the move.
Battling rage as plans were put to labor.
Tired resolution with loneliness his reward when done.
Six years of marriage, half spent in a pile of chewed nerves and broken promises, some by him. But the repeated broken vows of fidelity, were all hers. When the marriage folded, he was emotionally trashed to everything. His twisted thoughts being this is how it ends.
Years have passed through Time’s sands since he first moved into the flat, a chewed-up man. A new slice on life, he sees it with different eyes now, his selling a 180° switch from when he purchased the flat.
He knew had loved his wife once. But one day he took a risk, flirted with the impossible, and learned it was pittance to what he feels for the former pest who holds his heart and soul now.
Greg smiles at the not quite bare walls- the flowers and trees his niece had drawn, the new owners’ problem as he hands in the keys and walks out.
A beaming Mycroft is waiting. “Ready, my love?”
“Yes, my love.” Greg greets his fiancé with a beatific smile and a kiss. “Let’s go home.”
This is how it ends yet it’s only the beginning…
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The Orchestra, Mrs. Hudson, is on fire!
Sherlock Live Suite, performed by The Danish National Symphony Orchestra, 2020 (X)
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How It Ends
He remembers the chaos first time seeing the smooth bare walls.
Despondency of what necessitated the move.
Battling rage as plans were put to labor.
Tired resolution with loneliness his reward when done.
Six years of marriage, half spent in a pile of chewed nerves and broken promises, some by him. But the repeated broken vows of fidelity, were all hers. When the marriage folded, he was emotionally trashed to everything. His twisted thoughts being this is how it ends.
Years have passed through Time’s sands since he first moved into the flat, a chewed-up man. A new slice on life, he sees it with different eyes now, his selling a 180° switch from when he purchased the flat.
He knew had loved his wife once. But one day he took a risk, flirted with the impossible, and learned it was pittance to what he feels for the former pest who holds his heart and soul now.
Greg smiles at the not quite bare walls- the flowers and trees his niece had drawn, the new owners’ problem as he hands in the keys and walks out.
A beaming Mycroft is waiting. “Ready, my love?”
“Yes, my love.” Greg greets his fiancé with a beatific smile and a kiss. “Let’s go home.”
This is how it ends yet it’s only the beginning…
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As an avid Mystrade writer I find this especially hilarious and feel SO called out! 😂🤣
Very important to have friends who enjoy media you don’t personally enjoy, both because having friends with varying interests can help you understand why someone might enjoy something even if it’s not your cup of tea which can help build empathy skills and also because there’s nothing more fun then being able to explain the plots of your respective obsessions to each other and have the other respond with “what the fuck”
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That Will Do
I blink as my eyes open to an unusually sunny day for a January. I cannot help but smile enjoying the ridiculous thread count of the linens I lie in… So much luxury!
So, this is my life now? Yes, this is my life now.
It has only been a few weeks that Mycroft asked me to be a permanent resident, not a visitor. It’s been amazing – yet a teeny, tiny part of me still cannot accept I am worthy of living in this, but here I am.
That will not do.
I am in love with and loved by a most amazing man. I am worthy of him and this.
My smile falters when I discover an empty bed. Before I can really think to question it, I hear the answer in a steady rhythmic pattern.
I should not be hearing that and know without looking he left the bedroom door ajar, so I’ll know where he is.
Damn, he feels he overindulged at dinner.
And this is the penance: me in an empty bed – him on the treadmill.
That will not do.
I unfold myself from the sheets, handle necessities and enter the home gym.
I know he hears me enter, but focused on his run, ignores me.
Give it your best shot, Iceman, that really will not do.
I walk into his line of vision.
Me and my erect nakedness.
Mycroft grins in appreciation, shuts off the machine and dismounts.
It’s a start…
As always, he lifts his top to rub his belly, but my hand is already there unzipping him from his track suit.
"You’re adorable. I have a new exercise for my gut.”
“Whose gut?” He raises an amused brow.
“This gut...” I pat his belly. “…This arse…” I grab his bum.
“…All this? Mine.” I kiss him as I push down his trousers and pants. “This exercise will do wonders.”
“And what says I would be receptive to this exercise?” He kicks off his trainers.
I kneel placing a kiss just under Mycroft’s now naked navel and work my way down to envelope his erectness in wet warmth.
Yes, that will do.
“My gut.”
@mystradepromptsandscenarios
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So Much More
Mycroft Holmes sat in absolutely the last place he expected to be late on Christmas Eve.
It was the last he wanted to be on Christmas Day, but he was.
It was the last refuge for those who had nowhere else to go yet could not be to be totally alone.
Especially in late December during the holidays.
“…idiot boy, I’m asking how could you?”
And Mycroft Holmes found himself still there on Boxing Day.
The Diogenes Club.
“Then you should have done better.”
The saving grace of having an office with its own ensuite and change of clothes is that none of other occupants in the Quiet Room were witnesses to the fact he had spent the night there as well. It was chaos anywhere outside of these walls and Mycroft needed a moment’s respite from it all.
He glanced at his blinking phone reminding him of the messages waiting for response. More chaos.
Anthea was on a rare holiday to visit her family in Australia for a couple of weeks. He absolutely did not want her cutting her free time short because of him. She knew something was wrong, but she understood and respected his wishes with the caveat that if he truly needed her, he would call.
“Then he’s very limited.”
Short of political, alien, or biblical Armageddon he had no intention of doing so.
He had left the Quiet Room and responded to her call quickly knowing why she had reached out -Sherlock called told her in worry.
“How dare you say that?”
There were several calls and texts from his brother - none of which Mycroft has answered.
He knew what Sherlock would say.
“You are a monster!”
His brother had been equally aghast at Mummy’s outburst.
Mycroft simply stood and walked out.
He did not call for a driver. He did not even get his coat.
He quietly closed the door, walked to his car, and drove away.
Mycroft was more than halfway to London before the turmoil in his brain settled enough that he thought to arrange for a car for his brother to return home. He would have to give an apology he knows Sherlock will dismiss in understanding, but he simply could not bear another moment in the emotional chaos around his family.
Anthea had reached out.
Sherlock had reached out several times. At his home. At his offices in Whitechapel and Diogenes.
Their father had reached out.
Mummy had not.
Mycroft was not sure she ever would.
“You are a monster!”
Mycroft had heard as Sherlock got over his initial shock at Mummy’s outburst and ardently began to defend him. He was sure no one noticed he had fled the house at all until they heard the car start up. By the time Sherlock made it to the front door, he was a speck in the rearview mirror.
Sherlock and Mycroft semi-jokingly referred to spending Christmas with their parents from the day before Christmas Eve until midday on Boxing Day, as their Holiday Penance. Mycroft does not know what was said after his departure on Christmas Day. He can barely comprehend that it was just yesterday. He does know, in an unusually petty move, Sherlock had left their parents’ home literally minutes after midnight on Boxing Day, keeping to the letter, if not the spirit, of their annual penance. Though Mycroft knew Sherlock had arrived at Baker Street in the early morning hours, and certainly deduced where he was, that his little brother had not immediately come banging down the door at Diogenes and intentionally caused a ruckus, was an appreciated show of respect. Though Sherlock had called, again, and Mycroft had ignored him, again, Mycroft also knew Sherlock would give him until tomorrow before coming after him personally.
It was an odd reversal of roles - Sherlock checking on him. And Mycroft could not deny the comfort in the knowledge that his little brother would in fact come for him.
Unfortunately, that left him time to sit in the morass of his spiraling emotions.
“You are a monster!”
Doing the correct thing –keeping Eurus in Sherrinford- was not necessarily the right thing –not telling his parents. At first his silence was at his Uncle Rudy’s behest. It seemed sensible enough to his young mind. Everyone seemed happy with the sweet-faced, pig-tailed, pyromaniac elephant out of sight, and in Sherlock’s case, out of mind – literally. And when Rudolph Vernet passed, by his own continuance of the status quo.
And all of them shielding the emotionally distraught Sherlock from the truth of Victor’s murder instead of teaching the young boy to process his grief and anger properly had perhaps been the biggest mistake of all.
“You are a monster!”
Thus, Mycroft sat in the silence of the main room, the Quiet Room, purposely looking at no one. The few other there were carefully avoiding looking at him, not wanting him to see their shock at his presence. Mycroft thanked the Universe for the Quiet Room where none can ask.
He had paced his townhouse.
He had paced his main office at Whitehall.
He had paced in his upstairs office in Diogenes.
No, he had to be in the Quiet Room.
Because Mycroft knew if he were in any other room where he was allowed to be alone, to be without restraint, to be allowed to speak…
He would scream.
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#mystradedialogueprompt#mystrade#mycroft holmes#greg lestrade#december2023#mystrade holiday collection 2023
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