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For the third Sunday in a row the scent of bacon drifting lazily through Mycroft’s home serves as a summons to breakfast. There’s been a pleasant routine around it, waking up wrapped up with Greg and kissing each other softly- then less softly- tangling themselves up in the sheets under the scattered rays of morning light, then tidying themselves up and wandering downstairs to cook. Well, Greg cooks. Mycroft makes coffee and stays out of the way.

That morning Greg had vanished beneath the sheets just as Mycroft was hazily beginning to stir, waking him up with slow and sensual laps over his cock.

Mycroft came with his hand in Greg’s hair, sleepily murmuring his lover’s name, and Greg had whispered back that Mycroft had been overworked that week and should really go back to sleep.

Surprisingly, he did.

Lie-ins are not a normal part of Mycroft’s routine, and he’s bleary and rather confused when he comes back to himself, alone in his bed, blinking at sunlight.

His hand wanders to the other side of the bed, cold now. His eyes flick to the bathroom- dark.

Where… oh. Bacon.

The thought makes him smile. Greg is downstairs, making breakfast, letting him sleep in. It’s very… domestic. Mycroft suspects he might like domestic.

He’s been trying to acquire a key for Greg. Anthea has informed him that she doesn’t care how fond Mycroft is, protocols state that no partners to personnel of his level are to have unrestricted access to secured domiciles until the extremely thorough vetting of their paperwork is finished, and it had taken a week just to acquire all the forms involved. “They don’t like adding risk factors, sir. Be grateful that my clearance is enough to approve him for sleepovers,” she’d said smugly.

He’d gotten her back, more or less, when they’d both been called in well before dawn on Friday morning to handle a minor diplomatic emergency and she arrived wearing the same outfit as the day prior. He’d simply sighed often while feigning paternal disappointment until she caved and said she’d ask for a rush on Greg’s paperwork processing.

Mycroft finally drags himself out of his comfortable bed when he hears the whirring of his blender. A brief rinse of his person is sufficient for presentability, and a dash of cold water across his face helps remind his body that it can’t be lazy all day. He shrugs on a bathrobe and wanders downstairs in just that, still feeling the tranquil after-effects of his additional repose, feet padding softly on the stairs and straight across to the kitchen. Firmly wrapping his arms about Greg’s waist from behind in a warm embrace and resting his chin on his shoulder, he plants a kiss to Greg’s cheek.

“Good morning, Greg.”




Everyone at Scotland Yard thinks that Greg's in love.

He tried not letting it show - he really did. He stopped opening texts at his desk or in the car with Sally, knowing his only reaction to them is always a huge and giddy grin. He's done his best to slip out casually for lunches, trying not to bounce on his heels. When he's needed to be out the door at six for a dinner reservation at seven, he's given other excuses - and tried not to look too pleased about it.

But they're detectives - and they're good at it - and it was only a matter of time.

He's had to admit to them now that he's started seeing someone. They wanted to know all about her straightaway. Greg's given no details; he's claimed it's not serious yet.

The truth is these have been the happiest three weeks Greg can remember in years, and it shows in every inch of his face.

Sally says he looks like a new man. People give him startled smiles in the corridor, and it's only then that Greg realises he was grinning just out of habit. Work's been flying. His flat's clean and he's bought new bedding. He's not been drinking in an evening on his own. He's even started going jogging again, and he's been cooking proper meals more.

Especially when there's someone else to enjoy them with him.

As Mycroft's arms slide around his waist, happiness rises through Greg as real and palpable as warmth. It blooms into a grin; he turns his head into the little kiss.

"Good morning, beautiful..." This isn't their first good morning; the first one was said in soft moans and sighs. Sunday good mornings always are. Greg's certain he's now had more sex in five weeks than he had in the last five years.

"Your smoothie's just finished," he murmurs. "Used up your last banana... have to get you some more before Monday."

Mycroft's never taken up his offer of bacon - Greg used to make it anyway out of politeness, but he knows Mycroft has a harder time managing his weight. Mycroft's the expert on his body. He lets Mycroft make the decisions.

"Did you sleep okay?" he asks, voice soft, as he turns the bacon rashers over with the tongs.




“Exceptionally well, thank you.” Mycroft’s hand lingers on Greg’s back as he reaches for the blender. He has to admit there has been a marked uptick in the quality of his breakfasts since Greg started making them. His prior system was mostly strict allocations of nutrients and calories, mixing kale or beets with the fruit and hoping for the best when it came to taste. Greg has coaxed him into using blends of ingredients that are meant to go together, and even occasionally indulging in something more substantial, like avocado on toast.

“Perhaps we can stop by the supermarket after we pop in with her royal majesty.” Marmalade expects them both for lunch and lazy Sunday afternoons now, and she is a hard mistress to disappoint. “Speaking of…”

Mycroft digs through his mail- he doesn’t get much, as there is not, technically, much of a trail linking his name with this particular property. The envelope is an orange one decorated with paw prints, the return address to Cats Protection in Archway, and he smiles when he hands it over to Greg. It contains a thank-you card, hand-written and signed by the rescue staff with all the names of their current residents signed on as well, and a nice picture of Marmalade enclosed.

He’d made the donation- a fairly sizeable donation- in Marmalade’s honor.

“It’s anonymous- I don’t use my name for public charity contributions, but I thought the gesture was warranted, considering. I like the picture- we’ll need a new frame, I think, I don’t believe I have any extraneous ones laying about.”

We has been been slipping off his tongue more and more lately. We. Our.

It feels… easy. Real. Like he’s always been doing it.

He presses another kiss to Greg’s cheek and brings his smoothie over to the table. There’s a large cover spread in the newspaper on a crime ring that had been rather violently arrested several months back finally going to trial. “Is this one of yours? Looks very dramatic.”




"Oh, God... look at her - she's a photogenic little thing, isn't she?" Greg transfers his bacon quickly onto the bagel set aside ready, washes his greasy fingers and dries them on a tea-towel, then takes up the photograph to admire her.

Marmalade's the sort of shy, small little cat with eyes as big as her soul, and there's something of her gentle wariness in the photograph. She's clearly regarding whoever took it with some suspicion, unsure why they're pointing a box at her. It makes Greg smile just to see it.

It makes him smile even more to hear 'we'.

Three weeks - grocery shopping, photo frames and 'we'.

Bringing his breakfast over to the table, placing down a coffee beside it, Greg glances at the spread and grins a bit. "Ahh - yeah... embarrassing. Got me towards the end, have they?"

He squints over Mycroft's shoulder, scanning over the text. After years of doing this, he's gotten quick at spotting the important bit.

"There," he says, tapping with a finger at a later paragraph. 'Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, heading the team responsible for the gang's dramatic arrests, said in a statement to the press...'

"I don't remember what I said, so don't read a word of it," Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade adds, takes a mouthful of his bagel and chews. He covers his mouth with a hand. "Something about keeping London's streets safer... usually gets them all scribbling away furiously..."

He swallows, reaches for his coffee, and regards Mycroft over the rim. His brown eyes are bright as stars this morning. With a small smile, amused and hopeful all at once, he says,

"Proud of me?"




“Always.” Mycroft smiles, brushing his knee fondly against Greg’s under the table, seeing as their hands are both occupied. It gives him no end of pleasure to see Greg so happy, and his own eyes glitter blue in return.

Besides, it is true- he really is always, constantly, proud of Greg.

“Though I don’t understand why they can’t be a bit more descriptive. Something like ‘absolutely gorgeous DI Lestrade’, or ‘rakishly handsome DI Lestrade’ to really give their readers the full picture,” he adds with a sly look.

He reads the rest of the article while he sips his smoothie. Greg did indeed provide some standard comments regarding the increased safety of the streets, ‘just doing our jobs’, etc. It did look a bit more dramatic than what Greg had told him at the time, but he suspected that was a combination of the paper playing it up and Greg instinctually playing it down. “Looks like a nasty group. I’m sure London’s streets are safer with them in custody.”

He ponders, considering over the taste of strawberry, pineapple, and banana. “Do you ever keep the articles you are in? I imagine you’ve had quite a few interesting cases make the papers over the years.”




Greg still isn't quite used to hearing that he's handsome. He grins broadly, leaning across to butt gently at Mycroft's shoulder with his nose.

"Daft about me," he says - with an unspoken, don't ever stop. "Think I've got a few major ones in a box somewhere in my flat... back when I was young. First big cases. Sally's got all the tapes of our appeals - if you ever want hours of footage of me scowling at a roomful of journalists, giving the vaguest answers I can possibly think of, just let me know. I'll have a treat for you."

He chews a mouthful of bagel for a while, considering the spread in the paper.

"They're a vicious bunch," he admits. "Never thought we'd manage it, to be honest... it seems like I've just had a bit of a productive streak lately. Things turning up at the right time. Y'know?"

He smiles as he picks up his coffee again.

"I'll be in court sorting all that out soon. You'll get to see me in my 'serious police officer' suit. Tie and everything."




“Oh, the tie as well? I shall have to insist on a thorough review of this very serious suit, to ensure it is up to standard. As well as any pictures of young Inspector Lestrade you may be hiding.”

Mycroft brushes his fingers fondly over Greg’s cheek and tucks back one of his ever-wild locks. He misses this sort of casual touching when he’s at work. He’ll miss it even more if Greg is stranded at court for days, where texting is frowned upon- not that Mycroft would write when he knows Greg is in court. The risk of distraction would be too great.

“How many days do trials like this usually occupy you? I’ve a trade conference near the end of the month- perhaps our busy days shall overlap.” And give us more free ones together.

There’s a reception at the end of the conference he’d like to take Greg to… assuming their paperwork clears in time. The Non-Domiciled Partnership Approval. As of yet, he hasn’t brought it up. Just in case there is a holdup.

“Maybe we can squeeze in another nice dinner before the trial starts… somewhere with praline, so you have a reward for all your hard work.”




Greg makes a mental note to make sure any pictures of Sergeant Greg Lestrade are definitely well hidden, lest Mycroft wish to swap him for the younger model. He'd been involved in a charity calendar once, not long after joining the force.

Christ, let's hope they all got destroyed. Otherwise Mycroft will have one in every room, permanently set to February. Greg, 24, Essex Police. What was I thinking?

"Court can be a pain, to be honest... sometimes you prepare yourself for the long haul and it's over in days, then sometimes a cut-and-dry case drags on for months... depends on the lawyers."

He gives Mycroft a reassuring smile, laying a hand gently on his lover's knee. There's something about being allowed to see Mycroft like this - just a bathrobe, eating breakfast together in the kitchen. It's a little bit like heaven.

"Shouldn't need to be around for more than a week this time," he says. "Not unless there's a major surprise. Let's go for dinner, though... I'd love that. Get cosy somewhere with candlelight."

He bites his lip, smiling, his eyes bright even to be planning this.

"Known each other a whole six weeks soon. Seems worth celebrating."




“It is. We are.”

Six weeks. It feels like far longer. Six months, perhaps. Six years.

Not that Mycroft needs an excuse to take Greg out and wine and dine him. He’d do it every day if they had the time.

“I’m not sure I want to give you up to the courts for a whole week, but I suppose I can make the sacrifice in the interests of justice. And a stellar dinner beforehand helps, of course.”

They’ll have to go somewhere exceptionally nice for dinner. He already has some ideas. Capra, perhaps, though it’s nearly impossible to get into on short notice. He’ll have Anthea find out if anyone there has a surplus of parking offenses that can be quietly absolved.

He finishes his smoothie and gets up to tidy the kitchen, planting a kiss on Greg’s temple, half in his hair, which smells tantalizingly like bacon from his time standing over the stove.

“We could try for a weekend away sometime after the trial’s done. Sneak off to whichever house my parents are currently not occupying. It’s a good time of year for it and close enough to make it back if either job decides they simply cannot function in our absence.”




Christ. A weekend away.

Greg's never heard something so appealing in his life. Just the two of them, somewhere peaceful - somewhere out of London - he had a feeling Mycroft's parents were the type to have houses in enviable places, maybe even out in the country. Fresh air, peace and quiet, each other.

God, yes.

Absolutely fucking yes.

Grinning, Greg finishes the last of his bagel. He's not sure how he got so lucky; he just hopes it won't be stopping any time soon. Nothing will get him through a miserable week at court like the thought of stealing off somewhere with Mycroft straight after.

"Are you sure your parents wouldn't mind?" he asks, resting his chin on one hand. He wonders if Mycroft would be telling his parents they'd both be there - if it would be, Greg and I.

It's still the earliest weeks, and Greg's nowhere close to revealing this to his own friends and family. That news, when it comes, will be a shock. Even Sally's never known him have a boyfriend. Even though there was a point in his life he dated other men almost exclusively, it wasn't something he shared with his family - even Andy, his twin, didn't know. Karen never knew. Those days seemed to vanish in an instant as soon as she arrived on the scene, and Greg had almost forgotten they'd ever happened. He'd ended up remembering his twenties as a youthful happy phase, blurry like a hazy summer, now long gone.

And then there was Mycroft.

It's almost thrilling, imagining Mycroft mentioning him to people - to his parents - even vaguely, even discreetly. He hopes that, in time, it'll be perfectly normal for them to mention each other. My partner, Mycroft. My partner, Greg.

It'll take some courage.

Small steps, Greg thinks, dabbing a little butter off his plate with his thumb. He licks it away. For some reason, he can imagine telling Sally first - then maybe family - working the rest out from there.

All to come. Just enjoy it for now.




“The greater risk would be Mummy deciding she needs to attend and… host.” The thought is not a comforting one, and his tone belies the point. He has no doubt she would be anything but attentive to Greg, the matter is more that he is disinclined to spend a weekend with her appearing round the corner with tea for Greg at the least convenient times while telling Mycroft he really ought not to have another scone.

The thought makes him crave a cigarette, and he’s been more or less off those for months, only indulging when he’s under extreme stress.

“She can be a touch intrusive.”

Perhaps they’d be better off getting a private cabin somewhere… but that was something to think on later.

“I’m sure she will like you, of course. Father too.”

At least he’s never had to worry about them caring that he’s gay- they’ll be far more shocked that he has someone he’s willing to let them meet at all. He’s otherwise kept his lovers well distanced from the efforts of his mother to ‘keep apprised’ of his life. Fortunately his security clearance level has let him claim an awful lot is simply classified, including his relationship status.

Mycroft finishes tidying the kitchen and returns to the table just to brush his finger’s over Greg’s neck. “I’m going to get dressed. Need anything from upstairs?”




Greg puts his coffee down at once. He turns in his chair, slips his arms around Mycroft's waist, and with a gentle but insistent tug guides him down onto Greg's lap.

"Nope," he says, fondly, and kisses the corner of Mycroft's jaw. "Seeing as you're still downstairs..."

It's good to feel playful. There was a time he never thought he would again. Every week he spends with Mycroft, he seems to lose another five years of stress. If they keep this up, he'll be twenty-one again in no time.

Running his hand along Mycroft's thigh, Greg murmurs,

"M'looking forward to meeting them, love... when you're ready. Promise I'll be good as gold." He smiles a little, soft-eyed, a thought crossing his gaze. "You - don't mind that I'm still peering around a closet door, do you? I'd shout you from the rooftops if I could. Just need a few more weeks to - "




“Of course I don’t mind.” Mycroft nuzzles against Greg’s chest. “Take your time.”

Not everyone has the- well, he considers it a luxury in retrospect- of absolutely knowing he was gay since about the age of twelve, and having family that didn’t mind. They’d always been far more concerned about academic brilliance than minding who their sons fancied (so long as said fancying did not interfere with school or, later, work.)

“You tell whoever you like about me when you’re ready. It’s only you and me right now. Well, and Anthea,” he adds as an afterthought. And a few other government officials. A relatively small group, considering.

He brushes his lips over Greg’s throat. “And in the meantime I have a few other places you can ‘shout me’ from. Bed, for instance. Or the couch. This chair….”




Greg's fingers twitch on Mycroft's thigh.

"Nnh - "

Sensitive neck; it only seems to be getting more sensitive over time. Mycroft has a particular talent for looking after his neck. It turns out that having Mycroft sitting on his lap at the same time rather amplifies the sensation. Greg stirs, tightening his arm around his lover's waist.

"S-Steady," he whispers, even as his chin lifts of his own volition for more. "Or you might not be getting dressed just yet..."





Mycroft layers a few kisses just under Greg’s jaw. He really is delightfully responsive, in addition to all his thoughtful, considerate qualities.

One of his hands slips behind Greg’s head and begins toying with the shortest set of hair, brushing his fingers back and forth over them. A little shift and his hips rotate so his robe reveals just a bit more leg- any grinding over Greg’s lap is merely a fortunate byproduct.

“I suppose I could delay dressing for a bit....”




Nnh. Hair. The nerves on the back of Greg's neck prickle hopefully, tightening in expectation of a tug. He's dreading his next hair cut. Fingers through his hair now remind him of Mycroft - in particular, an aroused and insistent Mycroft. He's going to need to be careful, or risks being unwelcome at the barbershop in future.

Mycroft is irresistible, though - thoughts, touch, everything. As the robe shifts, offering just a little bare thigh to his fingertips, Greg stiffens and bites down on a groan. The tantalising shift of pressure across his groin releases the sound. He shivers with it, eyes closing, and his throat muscles shift beneath Mycroft's lips as he swallows.

"Christ - darlin'..."

He can feel himself growing hard already. Three weeks of intimacy, and the sensation no longer makes him nervous. It now softens all his thoughts, relaxing him; his body has learned that when he's turned on, Mycroft takes care of him. They don't need to be worried any more.

"M-Mycroft - "




“Greg,” Mycroft rumbles, hot breath across Greg’s throat.

His hand wraps through that lovely hair until his grip is firm, holding Greg in place while he turns his attention to an earlobe, kissing and brushing his teeth over it.

He really had been going to get dressed. Really. But Mycroft doesn’t mind the distraction one bit. These past few weeks have contained the best sex of his life, and they’re managing with the frequency of twenty-somethings. It’s a marvel he is not planning to question, nor to stop.

“You know, you took excellent care of me this morning.”

Mycroft shifts his hips again and dips his free hand in the slim gap between them, gently palming the growing hardness he could already feel against his thigh.

“I think I ought to return the favor.”




Greg makes a soft, urgent sound in his throat as Mycroft's hand slides over his cock. His erection is pressing at the fabric of his navy cotton nightwear already; the brush of his lover's fingers is enough to make him shake. Mycroft's touch is reassuring even as it excites him, comforting and familiar, and the gentle wet sounds at his earlobe are heaven. Mycroft seems to stimulate all of his senses without even trying. In moments like this, his lover is more than a lover - he's everything.

"I like taking care of you," he manages, and though it's phrased as a protest, his pulse is speeding. "Sunday... s'our day... I like making you feel good. You work so hard all week."

He isn't sure when his hand slipped itself beneath Mycroft's bathrobe. He just knows that Mycroft's thighs are enough to make his mouth water, and he'd spend his life stroking them like this if he could.




“So do you,” Mycroft murmurs softly.

Greg’s hand on his thigh and the quiet moans slipping from his lips are enough to ensure that Mycroft’s own erection has begun to take a firm interest in the proceedings, despite having been spent this morning and the previous night. It’s terribly obvious in his bathrobe, which doesn’t do a single thing to hide it- not that he wants it to.

He terribly enjoys these mornings- when Greg’s hair is still sleep-mussed and he carries the masculine scent borne in the remnants of sex and sweat. It’s comfortable. No suits as armor. No hiding.

Long fingers unlace from Greg’s hair, massaging into his scalp down to the tendons of his neck.

“What if I just slip under this table… take you in my mouth…”

Mycroft punctuates his thoughts with kisses along Greg’s neck, working very, very slowly downwards.

“Slide my fingers inside you.... Find that spot you like…. Make you scream when you come down my throat.”

He rubs the palm of his hand gently over Greg’s cock.

“Would you like that?”




"Oh God," Greg whispers - then again, his voice tighter, "Oh my God..." as he pushes his hips up into the gentle rubbing of his cock, heat flooding his face. Mycroft could talk him into coming, and he knows it. Part of him wants to be embarrassed how quickly his lover learned to render him this insensible. He might as well have handed Mycroft a list on their first weekend together. These things. These things turn me into goo.

Mycroft hadn't needed a list; he'd just laid his hands on Greg, and it all came pouring out.

They hadn't even been camping yet.

What a weekend that would be.

"Please," Greg whispers, his voice cracking a little. Mycroft likes 'please'. He stretches back his chin to offer more of his neck to his lover's mouth, and in his loose grey t-shirt, the edges of two rosy-pink bites can just be seen near his collarbones. It's rare for Greg to be unmarked these days. He feels oddly distressed if they heal without new ones. "I'd like that - I - want to come for you."

His chest expands against Mycroft's; joy and excitement, breathed deep.

"Your hellion," he mumbles, shivering.




“My hellion,” Mycroft agrees.

He nips mildly near the base of that sweetly exposed throat- he’ll have to be a bit more cognizant of precisely where he’s laying claim to Greg until the trial is over. It’s probably not a wise idea for a testifying office of the law to be obviously marked above the collar- but he’s been fairly careful about that, especially since Greg isn’t ready to tell people exactly where any such marks are coming from.

Of course, he can leave them in more intriguing spots when the opportunity arises….

He drags his teeth across that soft flesh as he shifts down, nudging Greg’s legs apart to slip between them, half under the table. His hands find the edge of soft cotton and pull gently, sliding them over Greg’s knees and down, off entirely.

Then he leans in and sets to laying a series of kisses along the inside of Greg’s thigh. When he’s just close enough that his cheek is almost brushing against Greg’s cock, he looks cheekily up and sucks down on the skin, ensuring another mark will be left there.