Gregory Lestrade had always done what Mycroft told him to do. Not that the elder Holmes had ever explicitly ordered the DI (outside the bedroom, that is), but he found that lowering his voice to a certain octave and tilting his head just so while saying “I insist.” elicited the most wonderful results.
“Let me take you to dinner… I insist.”
“The weather seems to have taken a turn for the worse, allow me to take you to your flat. No, no, I insist.”
“I see that there is a match between our preferred football teams tomorrow, I insist you join me at my private box so we can call each other rude names over a few drinks.”
“Come up to the flat for a cup of coffee, I insist.”
“I must insist that you kiss me, Gregory.”
“I insist that you stay the night.”
“I see that the policeman’s ball is coming up soon, I hope I don’t have to insist on being your plus one.”
However it seemed that no matter how much he insisted, he could not keep the DI in his arms from bleeding out onto the icy concrete floor.
“Please, Gregory…” Mycroft felt his throat tighten as Lestrade lifted his blood-soaked hand to cup the politician’s cheek, letting his thumb rub across the pale skin and leaving a small red streak in its wake.
“Don’t, you can’t.” He watched his lover silently say his name once more before the dark eyes fluttered closed and the hand on his face went limp. Mycroft caught it and held it tight, willing life and warmth back into it. His voice cracked as he pleaded,