needed the nap i suppose

butterflies-and-hurrricanes  asked:

Could I ask for Mettaton (maybe even King Mettaton) as D1? It looks like his "everything is perfectly fine" face.

THERE ARE NO PROBLEMS!

EVERYTHING IS COVERED IN GOLDEN GLITTER!!!

me a few hours ago: YEAH LET’S STAY UP ALL NIGHT AND THEN GO CLIMB A MOUNTAIN AT 4AM AND WATCH THE SUN RISE

me now: hnnghghghngghghhhhhh

how am i gonna last 2.5 more hours and then bike without falling asleep and dying

Niece mine

Some Mystrade fluff. Well. Pre-Mystrade-ish. The Reichenfuckening has fuckt my ability to write, but I hope you like it anyway. It’s pretty long so you can also read it on AO3. Love you guys 💜

*

24th June 2016

“Yeah, no, that’s fine, Mycroft.”

“I would appreciate it if you could involve Sherlock in the Hartingdon case, too, as there are a few aspects to it which may link to a matter we have ongoing at the moment.”

“No problem. Just send me the files, as always.”

“Thank you, Detective Inspector.”

“Greg. You know I asked you to call me Greg. And you did, for a while.”

“My apologies, Greg.”

“Alright. You know, I was wondering, we could probably – I mean, if you fancied it – we could…we could do this over dinner, sometime.”

Mycroft freezes at his desk for a moment. He’s tempted. He really is. But he can hardly look at the man. He is unreasonably attractive. If they were to blur the boundaries of their purely professional relationship by meeting on more informal terms, no matter how innocently, the…situation he finds himself in would only worsen. As it stands, the problem is manageable; his painful attraction to the silver-haired DI is bearable when parcelled out in short doses every couple of weeks.

It is kind of Lestrade to attempt to be friendly, but on this occasion, it would be counterproductive.

The man is so kind. And thoroughly admirable in every sense.

Mycroft does not look up from his paperwork.

“Thank you, Det- Greg, but unfortunately I have a lot to attend to at the moment and cannot find the time.”

*

9th July 2016

“Sherlock – no – this is impossible –”

“Hardly impossible, brother dearest. It seems to be happening already.”

“There must be someone else –”

“Nope. All away. Or dead. Some of them are dead. John and I have to go now. Important. Back soon.”

“Sherlock –”

As the car roars away, Mycroft looks down at the small human cradled awkwardly in his arms. The changing bag hangs from his shoulder, where Sherlock dumped it. Rosie blinks at him. “Christ,” mutters Mycroft.

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