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It seemed that Lestrade's salt-and-pepper hair grew in the same on his face as it did on his head. His beard was bristly, patchy, viscerally appealing in a way that had little to do with aesthetics and more to do with masculine sensuality. Mycroft was stood rapt, conjuring up the rough brush of the beard against his lips without having moved an inch. His apprehension dropped away, lost behind a painful stab of want.
Christmas, when he and Lestrade had both been strong-armed into growing beards for a cause, proved to be the turning point for the whole desperate, shattering, uncomfortable scenario.
- Part 1 of So Full of Light