“How?” they ask, if they dare, usually with a drink in their hand at a casual gathering of some kind - and it never fails to raise a smile on Mycroft’s face.
“Gregory’s sister,” he explains. “Incredibly good of her. The eyes transpire to be a family trait.”
“Oh, so - you were…?”
“Hence - the red…?”
“Mm. The freckles, too.”
For a while, Mycroft couldn’t quite ascertain why he enjoys watching people work out the recipe of genetics that created their daughter. He knows some couples would take offence at it, perhaps rightly fearing some furtive investigation as to her real parentage.
In strictly biological terms, their daughter would class as Gregory’s niece - but anyone who has ever watched the man hold her, laughing, whirling her about the lawn in a shower of red curls as she clings to his shoulders and screams with laughter, has been left in no doubt.
Nobody could ever tell him she isn’t truly his child.
Gregory was the first person to hold her - gathering the tiny bundle against his chest, crying, struggling to cope with her smallness in his arms. Gregory was the first person to lay her safely in her crib, and put a stuffed toy into her tiny hands. He’s always the first person to reach her when she calls, wherever she is in the house, and he’s the first person she wants when she’s frightened - which is never often.
Their daughter lives in a world where, if things hurt, they never hurt for long - and there will always be loving arms to wrap around her, a gentle voice to say soft things, and a smile to brighten away her tears.
Mycroft lives in that world, too.
He didn’t know it existed, until Gregory gave it to him.
And so he doesn’t mind people wondering how the two of them managed to achieve their daughter - half Gregory, half himself, entirely her own person.
Sometimes I get an idea to write something that’s been done to death. I never regret my little indulgences, and I share this with you on yet another fine #softsmutsunday.
(My 3rd Sunday in a row guys, small win for me!)
It was a lovely day. The puffy masses of clouds blended together in an endless sea of grey. A light drizzle had set upon the city. People hid in shops and cafes, content to hide in their warmth until the rain passed. The sound of car tires splashing through water on the roadways filled the air.
Greg Lestrade walked casually down the street, his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his brown trenchcoat, his greying hair spiked slightly with the rain. He loved the rain, he’d always loved it. As a kid he would run through storms and come home covered in mud and grinning like a fool. As an adult he limited himself to strolls through drizzles, less messy most of the time and less likely to get royally sick. He relished in the feel of the warm rain misting over him. As he strolled leisurely towards his flat he let his mind wander…
He thought of work, cases and colleagues and bad coffee. Work sent his mind to Sherlock and John. To the two idiots who refused to acknowledge the unspoken, but clear to anyone with eyes, attraction between them. He chuckled as his mind went to his own unspoken, ridiculous, childish, unrequited… *crush*. His mind conjured up brown hair with red overtones, pale skin, and piercing eyes, a tall, lithe silhouette with a sharp nose and strong chin.
Mycroft Holmes. James Bond wrapped in a three piece wet dream. Bespoke suits clung perfectly to his body in all the right places. Greg had fantasized more than once about unwrapping him like a Christmas present and then taking the posh man apart piece by piece. He wanted to tear down those shields and that ever present aura of control. He wanted to map every freckle on his skin like so many constellations. Greg puffed out his cheeks as he sighed, a hand slipping through his wet hair and sending the strands in all different directions. He was too bloody old for a crush of all things. There had always been something that drew him in though. At first it had been the air of mystery and power, a sucker for the cliche apparently. Then it had been to his protective nature and unbridled intelligence, god if smart really wasn’t the new sexy. As they grew closer he found the man was a master in witty banter and began to look forward to their occasional meetings. The shift was slow and casual, meetings became less and less about Sherlock and more about learning about one another.
Greg stopped and tipped his head back, his eyes slipping shut as the rain lightly peppered his face. He smiled as he took a moment to just breathe. He cracked open an eye when the steady drizzle suddenly stopped. Above him was a black umbrella. He grinned as he lolled his head to see one Mycroft Holmes, looking as perfectly presentable as ever.
“Mycroft, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Simply passing by Gregory. I noticed you were getting quite wet.”
“Ta, what would I do without you?”
Mycroft raised his eyebrows slightly, a small smile twitching at the corners of his lips. “Would you like a ride home Gregory?”
“Well, that’s tempting,” Greg chuckled as he ran a hand through his hair, small droplets raining down on his coat. “But I did set out to walk in the rain.”
“Ah, I see.”
Was that… disappointment in those icy eyes?
“If, ah, if you’re not too busy, you could join me for a walk.”
Mycroft seemed surprised by the offer. He pondered it a moment, eyes flicking over Greg’s face.
“That would be amenable Gregory.”
“Glad for your company mate. Shall we then?”
Greg offered his arm and waggled his eyebrows. The bark of laughter made Greg smile broadly and the man it emanated from clasp a hand over his mouth.
“Gregory Lestrade you are incorrigible.”
“That’s me, now..” He nudged Mycroft’s arm gently with his own.
Mycroft tentatively linked their arms and Greg started them walking.
Conversation flowed free and easy. It was like two old friends coming together, and really they’d been friends for years, why shouldn’t they get on well? They chatted and complained and Greg worked a few soft chuckles out of his stoic companion. Before he knew it his flat was in view.
“Oy my nice walk in the rain is almost over,” he slowed them to a stop. “Persuade you to actually stroll in said rain Mycroft?”
Greg stepped back into the rain, facing Mycroft, his hand holding lightly to the sleeve of the other mans suit.
“Oh come on, it’s just a little-”
A crash of thunder cut Greg off as the metaphorical bottom fell out. A torrential downfall had Greg soaked to the bone in seconds. Mycroft bit his lip to keep from laughing.
“Oh you think it’s funny?”
Mycroft caught Greg’s glare with ease. He had expected the hand on his sleeve to pull him in, he hadn’t expected the hot breath against his lips and he startled at the proximity. His umbrella was snatched from his free hand a snapped shut.
“Catch me if you can!”
Mycroft gaped as Greg began a half hearted run towards his flat. The sounds of his shoes splashing on the flooding sidewalk intermingled with his loud laughter. Mycroft huffed before giving chase.
Greg glanced back at the sound of another set of splashing feet. Mycroft was actually running after him. He howled with laughter as he made it to the small awning of his flat with Mycroft only seconds behind. The men looked at one another and began to laugh. They were both soaking wet.
“You didn’t win Mr. Holmes, but a consolation prize.”
Greg handed him back his umbrella. If Mycroft’s fingers brushed his own and lingered ever so slightly, he didn’t mention it.
“You will have to work on your prizes Detective Inspector.”
Mycroft smirked. “Indeed, I find they’re rather lacking.”
“How’s this for lacking?”
Without giving himself a chance to overthink, he pulled Mycroft down by his jackets lapels and planted a hard kiss to rain slicked lips.
Greg wanted to say there were fireworks and that the world seemed to slow, but real life isn’t always like the movies. Instead, there was a warm contentment in his stomach as he pressed against cool lips. When Mycroft leaned in to their impromptu kiss, Greg felt as if they’d finally broken an unspoken tension. He grinned as he pulled away, straightening Mycroft’s wet suit as he did.
“How’s that then?”
Mycroft laughed breathily. “A pity I didn’t win Gregory, I’d be most interested to see what the prize would be.”
“Well,” Greg smiled warmly as he unlocked his door. “Let me invite you in for a cuppa, and maybe I’ll tell you what first prize was.”
“How could I refuse such a tempting offer?”
Greg chuckled as he pulled Mycroft in after him. Not bad for a lonely walk in the rain. Not bad at all.
Greg rubs his thumb idly along the side of the tablet, his gaze trailing from number to number across the screen. He should’ve known better than to try a difficult one after a huge lunch. The gorgeous country pub had offered a number of very drinkable real ales, and it’s tricky enough staying awake right now, let alone attempting sudoku.
But this is what they do on Sunday, and the quiet feels as restful as sleep. Greg’s head rests comfortably on Mycroft’s chest. The joy of a large couch is that a few extra cushions and a fleece blanket turn it into a bed, and the two of them can lie here in the sunshine streaming through the French windows, empty tea mugs on the coffee table, a plate of digestive biscuits to work through. Mycroft is quietly absorbed in a Henry James novel, peering over his reading glasses at the weathered paperback. Greg is torn between the half hour he’s now invested into this puzzle, and starting again with an easier one.
As Mycroft’s fingers stray through his hair, carding gently through the silvering strands, Greg smiles a little and sighs.
“Alright,” he murmurs. “Help. What have I done wrong?”
Mycroft’s mouth curves. Without taking his eyes from his book, he says, “I’d rethink that eight, if I were you. Bottom right.”
Greg studies it. After a moment he spots a second eight in the same column, and with a grin taps the screen to erase his mistake.
“Thank you, darlin’.”
“Not at all.”
Reaching for a digestive from the plate, Greg snaps it gently in half. “Thank you for only saying when I ask.”
Mycroft’s eyes pull away from the page. They flicker with a smile into Greg’s, amused as his husband offers him half the biscuit.
“Puzzles are never truly about the solution,” he remarks, takes the biscuit between his teeth, and crunches it contentedly as he turns his page. “They are about the solving.”
tokiosaitou: Mystrade where Mycroft brings a bit of work that is uncharacteristically frustrating him home, and Lestrade provides the solution.
((I could think of anything work-related that Mycroft would bring home so I’m changing it just the tiniest bit. I hope you don’t mind.))
Greg turned over in bed in the darkness and blinked his eyes open blearily, rubbing the grogginess from his face so he could focus on Mycroft’s silhouette, perfectly still in the dark.
“Hey,” he said quietly as he cuddled close to his fiancé, slipping an arm over the man’s waist and gently manoeuvring one leg in between Mycroft’s as he clung to him and rested his cheek on Mycroft’s shoulder. “What are you thinking about so hard in the middle of the night? You promised me you’d sleep tonight.”
Mycroft absently stroked Greg’s back but didn’t respond at first, instead he just continued to stare up at the ceiling as Greg pressed kisses to his shoulder and chest through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. He finally started talking after a moment or two, though Greg stopped him a few sentences in.
“You’re speaking in Russian again,” Greg murmured into his neck and Mycroft finally turned his head to kiss Greg’s temple.
“Sorry. I said I’m thinking about the wedding is all, you should go back to sleep. You’ve got work in the morning,” Mycroft murmured into his hair and Greg sighed before propping himself up on one elbow to look down at Mycroft, his free hand coming up to trace the line of his jaw and trail under his chin until he could press Mycroft’s chin down gently with the pad of his thumb to part his lips gently and then he leaned in to kiss him slowly.
“You hired that atrocious woman to plan our wedding for us, you know, so that we wouldn’t have to worry about it too much,” Greg mumbled against Mycroft’s pliant mouth and Mycroft hummed softly.
“I know but I can’t help it. I don’t know what she’s planning and you know I hate not knowing.”
“Do you not have her under surveillance?”
“Of course I do. But..mpf-” Mycroft was abruptly cut off as Greg pressed their mouths together again to silence him and he shifted so that he was on top of Mycroft, though he made sure to keep some of his weight up on his forearms to avoid crushing the other man.
“You’re always so affectionate when you’re sleepy,” Mycroft finally managed to mutter and Greg dropped his head to rest it in the crook of Mycroft’s neck, letting his weight ease down off his arms until he was settled fully on the other man.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Greg replied with a small yawn and a long, open-mouthed kiss to Mycroft’s neck. “And we both know that you would feel better if you planned the wedding yourself, so why don’t you? I’ll help you whenever you’d like, of course, and Anthea will help you, too. We’ve got enough friends to help us plan it all,” Greg mumbled into Mycroft’s jaw and he felt the man sigh underneath him before he turned them over so that they were laying face to face and Greg immediately cuddled into his chest lazily.
“I did miscalculate how annoying it would be to place the fate of our wedding into the hands of an incompetent, abrasive woman,” Mycroft finally admitted and Greg kissed his jaw slowly.
“We should just elope. Go to that little church in the village by your country house,” Greg said teasingly and Mycroft froze beneath the older man. “Mycroft? I was joking. What’s wrong?” Greg asked in sudden concern at Mycroft’s reaction. Mycroft suddenly wrapped his arms tightly around Greg and turned over so that the man was pinned underneath him and he pressed a flurry of kisses to his jaw and neck quickly.
“That’s perfect. Yes. I want to do that instead,” Mycroft managed to breathe in between kisses. “We can simply plan a reception for everybody we were planning to invite, but a small wedding with just the two of us and a few witnesses, and that little church is perfect for such an affair. I want that. Please.”
Greg let himself be kissed over and over until Mycroft finished talking and then he somehow managed to wrap his arms around Mycroft too and looked up at him as the man pulled back to look down at him to see his reaction.
“All right, I’m perfectly fine with that,” Greg murmured fondly. “I still want to see you in a tux, though,” he added sleepily and Mycroft nodded.
“Of course. We’ll still be dressed exactly as we already planned and everything else will remain the same, we just won’t have a large ceremony. I just want you there, I don’t want a huge spectacle,” Mycroft said tenderly and Greg nodded.
“Okay. Now will you go to sleep, though? I’m tired and you’re tired and it’s late,” Greg yawned and Mycroft studied him for a moment before he slid over to lay back down on his side of the bed, only this time it was his turn to wrap Greg up in his arms instead of the other way around.
“Yes. Goodnight,” Mycroft practically whispered for Greg’s benefit even though he knew he wouldn’t sleep at all that night in his excitement to start figuring out the new plan. And of course he should have known that Greg would have a moment of pure brilliance - he always did. Mycroft kissed the back of Greg’s neck and felt himself to be the luckiest man in the world, as well as the man most in love.
Mycroft has no problem with rain…that is the calm quiet falling of water drops. But once more was involved, namely sounds and light he was terrified. This was one of those stormy nights when the sky was lit up by lightings the world rumbling afterwards. Mycroft pulled the blanket up to his nose after a quiet loud one. When he is alone this is when all the lights are up in the house, music playing loudly to overshadow the noises from the outside. But tonight he wasn’t alone nor in his house. He and Greg went out for dinner and the night lasted longer than he first anticipated. Now the man was curled up around him, his chest against Mycroft’s back, his arms around his waist, so Mycroft was trapped. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide; he was forced to stare out of the window and watch the horrific display of nature. “Talk to me.” a soft whisper drew his attention. Mycroft pretended to be asleep. “My, I know you are up.” “Go back to sleep Gregory.” “Not until you tell me what keeps you up.” “Work.” “Do you regret last evening?” “Why would I?” he didn’t dare to turn. “Don’t know, just guessing.” “Do you regret it?” “The only thing I regret is not being brave enough to confess sooner.” he kissed the base of his neck. “So what’s is it?” Greg turned so he was laying on Mycroft, tossing his leg over him. “I’m not letting you till you talk.” “This is your way of questioning criminals?” “No, only the privileged can experience it.” “I just want to sleep.” “Not getting out of it.” “Fine…it is work.” “Liar.” Greg chuckled. “Do I bother you? I mean you got used to having the bed all to yourself and now I’m here.” “Not that.” “Then what?” “Storm.” Mycroft whispered hoping Greg won’t hear it. Mycroft expected laughter but Greg just kissed his temple. “Why not tell me love?” “Embarrassed…I supposed to be the ice man…and…” “Well you are not the ice man…I can tell already. And it’s perfectly fine. What can I do to help?” “I usually listen to music on full volume.” “If I read to you…that would help?” “That would keep you up till it’s over.” “It’s okay.” he reached over to turn on the bed side lamp. “Now.” he sat up and picked up the book from the night stand. He put his pillow up against the headboard and leaned to it. “Come here My.” he reached for him. Mycroft settled in his arms, head resting in his chest, his back to the window. “It’s a crime story if you don’t mind.” “Can’t get away from work?” “Apparently.” he chuckled. “Want me to start from the beginning?” “No need, I’ll catch up.” Mycroft closed his eyes and forced himself to only listen to Greg’s voice, which was easier than he thought, Greg kept reading but and soon the storm calmed down too. Now the rain drummed on the window quietly but Mycroft didn’t care about it. Greg was still reading to him, his voice was low, soothing his chest resonating, and Mycroft soon found himself drifting off to sleep.
Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade Characters: Mycroft Holmes, Mycroft Holmes’s Umbrella, Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan Additional Tags: Valentine’s Day, Smut, Fluff and Smut Summary:
When you’re married to the British Government holidays and anniversaries may get rescheduled. Crabbiness will probably ensue.
I’m feeling really uninspired today for Soft Smut Sunday, so I’m putting out my first ever gay smut, which I wrote for Valentine’s Day. Greg and Mycroft are so romantic it’s gross. Though I also wish I had someone to be gross with.
This is hopefully a salve to the emotional wounds brought on recently by @bigblueboxat221b@syrum@bryntwedge@mysaratonin ’s amazing angst filled ficlets of recent days. There will be more short installments to follow. I’ve got about two dozen pranks they can play on one another! Enjoy!
It started innocently enough. Mycroft had been dragging that morning. He had been working long hours and getting home late. Greg understood that his husband’s job was very important, and Mycroft was a perfectionist. Anything he did was done well. Nevertheless, Greg was feeling a little neglected. So when he checked on Mycroft in the shower that morning and found him lightly dozing while standing, he decided it was time to take drastic measures and make his husband see that he could not continue on like this. And Greg thought of a sure fire way to get his lover’s attention. Filling a glass with ice cold water, Greg tossed it into the shower, splattering Mycroft’s back. Mycroft let out a yell, arched his back and stood ramrod straight, awareness coming to him with a start. He turned to find Greg watching him sheepishly, trying to hide the glass from his view. “Gregory! What in the world was that for?!” Greg had the decency to look repentant.
“Sorry love. It looked like you had fallen asleep. Didn’t want you to be late for work.” Greg had a hard time hiding a smirk.
“I wasn’t sleeping,” Mycroft responded. “Just resting my eyes.”
“Yeah, right Myc. Whatever you say. Come along now, get dressed. Breakfast is waiting for you downstairs.” And with that, Greg left the bathroom, and Mycroft’s head churned with ideas.
The rest of their morning passed without incident. Mycroft put together some snacks for Greg, he knew his husband often got engrossed in his work and didn’t take necessary breaks. Mycroft had access to all sorts of refreshments at his office, unfortunately New Scotland Yard didn’t provide their employees the same.
They departed with a shared kiss on their doorstep, each getting in their respective cars and heading for work.
Around 11 that morning Greg was getting distracted by his hunger pains and decided to take a quick break. Pulling out the bag Mycroft packed for him, he opened it and selected a powdered vanilla creme donut, his favorite. He took a large bite, and immediately began to gag. “What in the hell?” he asked. He scraped some of the filling out with his finger and took a whiff. It smelled like…… No, it can’t be…… He touched his finger to his tongue and his fears were confirmed. Mayonnaise. Mycroft!!!! Oh, this was war. Game on. Greg dumped the rest of the contents of the bag on his desk. Carrot sticks, an apple, some crackers. And a note. Greg opened the missive and couldn’t help but smile as he read it -
‘Payback’s a bitch, dear. See you at home tonight. And may the best man win!'
If there are any others who want to be tagged, let me know and I’ll gladly add you! This is something different from what I usually do so I didn’t know if my wonderful regular supporters wanted a tag for this. I can surely add you if you’d like! ❤
Three years into their marriage, Greg and Mycroft adopt a baby girl. She immediately takes after her papa, and grows up speaking French, Arabic and Chinese as well as English. (Greg has to pick up bits of all three as well, so he knows what on earth his tiny person is saying to him.)
When she’s six, their daughter is cast as the Star of Bethlehem in her prestigious school’s nativity play.
Mycroft tells everybody.
The date is circled in red on the kitchen calendar for weeks. That afternoon, an urgent diplomatic incident kicks off with Russia. Russia are told they can wait until the bloody morning.
As the play starts, Greg realises Mycroft is trembling a little beside him. Their daughter’s costume took Mycroft a week to make. Anthea helped - she taught him how to braid his little girl’s hair, how to thread the silver sparkles through it. Mycroft didn’t sleep last night. This afternoon he smoked for the first time in six years. The last time he smoked, she was being born.
Halfway through their daughter’s solo song, Greg glances across to find Mycroft quietly in tears.
His parents never came to anything extra-curricular. They were too busy. Mycroft was the ‘easy’ child - the one that could raise himself. They left him to it.
Greg discreetly takes his hand; Mycroft wraps their fingers, tight.
After the play, when the children come from backstage, their daughter flies through the crowd to her papa’s arms. Mycroft catches his star and twirls her through the air, and she laughs and tells him in French that she did well. He hugs her more tightly than he has ever held anyone but Greg - and he tells her, “Mon étoile, tu étais parfait…”
On Christmas Day, Mycroft opens a handmade book of his daughter’s pictures and stories. She and Greg made it together - arranging, sticking, decorating. Whenever Papa was away, this was what they did to feel close to him. They started it back in March.
On December 27th, Mycroft informs the relevant people that he is to be considered semi-retired - effective as soon as is humanly possible.