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Mistaken

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"Er, I don't go for men," said Greg Lestrade, hesitantly, but his body language said; yes, he did.

Or more accurately; yes, he could.

Or, perhaps to be absolutely accurate; that he hadn't done so yet, but that he might not require a great deal of persuasion. And by 'men', maybe he was referring to 'men in general', but the man in question here was just one man in the singular form, and it was Mycroft himself.

It was quietly but blazingly obvious to Mycroft, as his eyes roamed over Gregory Lestrade, that what he was saying with his mouth was not what he was saying with his body. Wisely though, Mycroft refrained from correcting him. 'Best let him realise in his own time,' he thought. "I see," he said soothingly. "So I am...mistaken."
Greg stepped back slightly, "I'm afraid so," he said awkwardly, with an apologetic tilt of his head. But if he was so 'afraid so', he thought, then why did it feel like he was the one making the mistake here? He couldn't actually tear his eyes away.

Mycroft held his gaze for a moment. He smoothed down his tie; in a placid manner, in no rush, and when he reached the end, he held out his hand. There was an infinitesimally tiny pause before he said, "Let us shake hands then, Gregory, and it will all be forgotten. We shall never mention it again."

Greg looked down at Mycroft's extended hand, with its long, delicate fingers and manicured nails, and without thinking about what he was doing, he enveloped Mycroft's hand quickly in his own rough, calloused paw - and pulled. He brought his other hand up to Mycroft's slim shoulder to steady him as he pulled him closer. Mycroft had already foreseen what was going to happen and he stepped forward lightly, raising his eyebrows in a polite question. 'Oh yes?' said the eyebrows.
"Don't even ask me!" ordered Greg, sliding his hand from Mycroft's shoulder up to the nape of his neck, where he spread his fingers to cradle the back of Mycroft's skull. So Mycroft didn't ask. He just let Greg reel him in, with Greg's other hand letting go of his own and then sliding quickly up the side of Mycroft's face and when Greg kissed him, it was hard and full and pleasingly passionate. Mycroft's hands led his arms up and around the satisfying expanse of Greg's back. "As I said," Mycroft whispered, when the kiss broke, "let us never mention it again."
"Ooh, you smug bastard," growled Greg with a grin, holding Mycroft tightly and leaning in for another kiss.