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"Myc," said Greg Lestrade, as he opened up each of their luggage bags, "We're on holiday. For the summer. And all you packed were three-piece suits and dress shirts?"
Mycroft looked up at the DI through pale lashes, more focused on the book in his lap than his lover's incredulous voice. "When have you ever seen me wear anything else, Greg? Outside the bedroom, of course."
"It's just..." Greg pulled out one of Mycroft's crisp white shirts and a pair of perfectly pleated black pants and held them up to the window. Against the beautiful, brightly lit panorama of white beach sand and deeply blue water, they looked incredibly out of place. "It's just, I think they're going to get a bit uncomfortable. What with the heat, and the water, and the sand and all. Don't you own anything...casual?"
Mycroft looked up in disgust, as if the very idea of 'casual' offended him. "No, Greg. I do not."
"I think you're going to want something," said Greg. "I really think so." He went to the closet and began hanging up the pieces of Mycroft's suits, one by one, leaving his own more casual clothing folded on shelves nearby, his lips pursed.
"Are you...offended by my choice of clothing, Greg?" asked Mycroft, in a tone similar to the one Sherlock often used when he was confused about something involving the emotional.
"No, Myc, not offended," said Greg. He smiled despite himself. Mycroft rarely looked perplexed, but it always made Greg feel slightly idiotic when he did; the expression was rather endearing on the elder Holmes' face. "Just...we're on bloody holiday, Myc, you don't have to dress like you're expecting the Queen to walk in at any moment."
Mycroft nodded as if he understood, but it was evident that he didn't. Not quite, anyway. Greg gave it up as a bad job and went back to putting away the clothes. It would be amusing to see the man shaking sand out of his dress shoes later, at any rate.
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Greg woke the next morning with Mycroft's side of the bed cold. He frowned slightly, running his hand over the rumpled sheets and wondering where the man could have gotten off to so early, until he turned over and realized that it was in fact eleven AM and that there was a note trapped under the alarm clock.
I have gone out for a few things, Greg. Please meet me at 12:30 for lunch in the hotel's restaurant. I have a balcony table reserved under the name of Holmes. I shall see you soon. Yours entirely, Mycroft.
Greg tried to pretend as if the words yours entirely hadn't made him a bit giddy as he rang for some coffee, but the room service man told him he looked quite chipper anyway.
He drank his coffee in bed while he watched the tail end of some silly reality show, then he showered and dressed in a pair of nice blue Polo shorts and a white button-up linen shirt. The hotel was pretty swanky, but at lunchtime he highly doubted the restaurant would require anything like black tie.
Which is probably close to what Myc will be wearing, he thought, as he rode the mirrored elevator downstairs and gave the hostess his name.
"Oh, you must be with that handsome man from earlier!" said the girl, a blue-eyed blonde woman wearing a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. She took up a menu and began to lead a slightly surprised Greg through the lunch crowd.
"I was wondering why he seemed so unresponsive," the woman looked back at him and winked. "You're quite a lucky man!"
"Um, thank you?" said Greg. He wasn't used to people describing his partner as handsome, at least not before or instead of other things like intimidating and unnerving.
The hostess led him to a table on the terrace, and for a moment Greg looked around, wondering where Mycroft could be. That was when the tall man leaning against the terrace railing turned around and smiled at him.
"Such a lucky man," the hostess whispered to him, winking again, and Greg, positively agog, had to agree.
Mycroft was wearing a dark blue v-neck linen shirt, one that fitted against him snugly and showed off just how well that diet had been going, despite Sherlock's gibes. The pale khaki shorts clung to his arse lovingly--A little too lovingly, Greg thought, as he followed the direction of the pretty hostess's gaze--and he was wearing a pair of sandy canvas boat shoes on feet that were normally armored in nothing less than black dress socks and sturdy, shiny black leather. Even his pale-gingerish hair was slightly mussed, and when Mycroft leaned in and kissed him at the corner of his (still open) mouth, Greg felt stubble.
"Do sit down, Greg," said Mycroft, pulling out a chair and nodding toward it. "You must be hungry. You were sleeping so soundly that I didn't wake you for breakfast. Oh, thank you, dear," he added to the perky blond hostess, who thanked him with brightly sparkling eyes and a breathless Yes, sir.
Greg sank gratefully into the chair, staring across the table at Mycroft's sprinkling of pale reddish stubble, his slight grin, and the tantalizing peek of collarbones offered by the soft v-neck.
"Who are you and what have you done with my Mycroft?" Greg asked at length. "Bloody hell, Myc, you look...you...bloody hell."
"Yes, well," said Mycroft, blushing slightly as he always did under Greg's praise for his appearance, "I took into consideration what you said yesterday after we arrived and decided that you were right. My suits, while I do prefer them, would not be comfortable nor practical in this environment. So I went out and did a little shopping."
"I approve," said Greg, his shock giving way to something a little more lecherous. "I wholeheartedly approve."
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Over the next few days of their vacation, however, Greg wasn't sure how much he 'approved' after all.
He approved of the way those pairs of shorts clung to Myc's arse, the way they rode up his thighs; he approved of the v-neck shirts and the new accessibility to Myc's throat and collarbones. He enjoyed the sight of prim and proper Mycroft with messy hair and stubbly cheeks, and he even quite liked Mycroft in swimming trunks (especially when they were wet). He liked the way Mycroft's body looked so much freer, so much less uptight. He especially liked how much easier it was to get the man undressed at night--suits had too many sodding buttons.
What he didn't enjoy, however, was the way that every single man and woman in the whole bleeding hotel seemed to notice the exact same things that he did.
Though Mycroft was aware of the flirtatious glances, the obvious stares and even the blatant pickup lines he received in the bar, he was able to brush them off as nothing. He ignored the glances and told the would-be suitors, "I'm flattered, really, but I'm here with my partner...yes, the attractive bloke at the bar with all that silvery hair, that's the one."
It didn't help that Greg's sudden possessiveness amused Mycroft...amused him and occasionally turned him on.
It was the last evening of their holiday. He and Mycroft had ventured down to the bar one last time, chatting around and having a few drinks. Mycroft's tight white linen shirt and dark blue plaid shorts had been earning him glances all night, but as of yet, no one had actually approached him (likely because Greg had been at his side all night, with their hands around one another's waists and their fingers hooked into one another's pockets, but still).
It was just before last call when Greg disappeared to the men's room for a moment. He was out in two shakes, but of course even during that brief time away from his partner someone had sidled up to him...and Mycroft was talking to him.
Greg recognized the smile on Mycroft's face as they locked eyes across the bar, the smile that said that Mycroft knew exactly what he was doing, the one that made Greg want to kiss him and throttle him simultaneously. The infuriating man winked at him before turning back to the bloke at his side, the one who was leaning on their table and smiling at him and putting his hands too close to Mycroft's.
"Ta," was all Greg said to the man as he left some absurd amount of money with the waitress and hooked Mycroft by a belt loop. He tugged him out the door of the bar and into the mirrored elevator, unsure whether he was going to jump the man or scream at him.
Mycroft moved before the doors had even shut.
He turned into Greg, nudging him against the wall of the elevator, pinning him there with his hips as he smiled. "I told him, you know," he said. "That I was, ah...taken. He was quite polite about it. He wanted to see you. I told him how handsome you are. Especially with a tan. He was quite impressed. I do believe he was about to be off when you snatched me away."
Greg took Mycroft by the hips and spun them around, pinning the slightly taller man against the wall instead. He kissed him, hard, just to silence the mouth that would have continued talking, then moved his lips down along Mycroft's jawline.
"Don't care," he muttered, bucking against him, nibbling. "Don't care, don't care, you're mine and no one but me looks at you like that."
"C-certainly," Mycroft breathed, and Greg laughed quietly. It was always fun to feel Mycroft--the British Government--coming undone because of him.
"I think," mumbled Mycroft against his lips a minute or two later, "That this is our floor, though. You really should refrain from tearing my clothes off until we get back to the room."
"Done," Greg mumbled, kissing him again as the doors opened. He hooked his hand into Mycroft's back pocket, grabbing, as they walked the short way to their room. The front of Mycroft's shorts twitched and Greg smirked.
"And after I tear them off," he said, as he pushed open their door and tugged Mycroft inside, "It's back to the suits. I'm not going to have everyone back home leering after you they way everyone here has been."
He kissed Mycroft again before the man could reply, shutting the door behind them with his foot.