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The Spoon Incident

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"Yeah, sorry, what's this?" Gregory Lestrade asked, looking down incredulously at the man sitting at his kitchen table.

"Breakfast." Mycroft replied tiredly, picking at his food.

Greg snorted derisively, and began making himself some coffee. "Half a grapefruit and a cup of tea is not breakfast, Mycroft Holmes. And knowing you, you'll miss lunch because you're too busy." Greg poked his spoon in Mycroft's direction, emphasising his point.

"It's breakfast for those of us who wish to lose weight, dear." Mycroft said curtly, taking a sip of his tea.

Greg rolled his eyes as he sat opposite his lover, placing his steaming coffee on the table. "Not this again; you don't need to lose weight! Honestly Myc, you and your godawful diets."

"Just because you think I'm alright doesn't mean that I am." Mycroft said, icy blue eyes focussed entirely on the newspaper in front of him.

"Is this because Sherlock called you fat again? He's a dick, and he's your brother, of course he's going to insult you." Greg said.

Mycroft's eyes snapped up to meet Greg's concerned ones, anger blazing in their depths. "This has nothing to do with Sherlock; do you really think I'm that pathetic? I need to lose weight and that is that, so just drop it." Mycroft stabbed at his grapefruit aggressively.

"Fine, fine. Just don't come crying to me when you're hungry and tired and doubting your self-worth."

"I do not 'doubt my self-worth.'"

"Yes you do." Greg replied. "Every time you do. You decide to diet, get nowhere, end up crushing your self-esteem, and then it takes me hours of torturously slow sex to prove how perfect you are to me."

Mycroft scowled into his tea, avoiding Greg's imploring gaze. "It's nice to see you've picked up on a pattern, Detective Inspector. It seems you're not as useless as my brother makes out."

His scathing sarcasm told Lestrade that he was a hopeless case at the moment, so he decided to leave the subject alone. "Whatever. You'd better go, or you'll be late for whatever it is that you do."

"Yes." Mycroft said, standing and adjusting his tie. He walked to the door, retrieving his umbrella from the coat stand by the entrance. "Goodbye." He said, and exited Lestrade's flat.

Greg was, admittedly, a little put out the lack of a morning-slash-goodbye kiss, but he brushed it off and decided, instead, to think up something to do about his Holmes' bad mood.

"You and Mycroft had a fight." Sherlock stated bluntly, as himself and John approached the crime scene.

"Sherlock." John hissed. "What did I say about discretion?"

The detective simply rolled his eyes at his little army doctor, wrapping a lanky arm around his waist. "It's only Lestrade, what harm can I do? And besides, it's true."

John smiled apologetically at Greg, and he grinned back, not sure how John coped with the man.

"Well, I wouldn't call it a fight, really. He just got a bit touchy because-"

"Because he's fat. Yes, I know." Sherlock cut in, earning a stern, no-nonsense glare from John.

"The body's over there. Go make yourself useful and stop being a prick." He said, and Sherlock swooped off obediently, hovering over the body and rattling off deductions.

"Sorry about that, he doesn't know when to stop." John said.

"It's alright, I can put up with him if it means that this case is solved within the hour." Greg replied.

They watched Sherlock jump around the crime scene for a few complacent minutes, until John asked, "So, er, is everything alright with you and Mycroft then?"

"Oh, yeah. Just the usual. He's a sensitive git for all the confidence he exudes."

"Mhm." John agreed knowingly. "Very delicate self-esteems, the Holmes brothers have."

"He's the same then?" Greg asked, referring to Sherlock, who was currently flouncing away from a pissed off Anderson.

"Yep, exactly the same. As much as they'd hate to hear it, they're very similar."

"Emotionally at least. I feel as though Mycroft has a sense of manners that Sherlock...just doesn't possess." Greg said, making John laugh, as the younger Holmes rudely deduced that Sally had had a rather disappointing one night stand the previous evening.

"Well, whatever it is, I hope you two sort it out." John said.

"Oh, we will. I've got a plan." Greg smiled.

Mycroft returned to the flat at exactly nine pm, as he always did. His day had been...trying, to say the least. What with there being three impromptu meetings of national importance, an endless pile of paperwork on his desk to finish by the end of the day, and the fact that Anthea had contracted a nasty bout of the flu, so he was left with an abysmal excuse for a PA who was lacking any intelligence whatsoever, and knew nothing of his schedule, had made Mycroft completely exhausted by the time he returned home. And yes, Gregory had predicted correctly, it seemed. He didn't have time for lunch, and all he'd managed to fit in was a stolen apple from his new PA's fruit bowl.

Mycroft fished his keys from his inner jacket pocket, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. He placed his umbrella by the door, and hung his jacket on the stand.

"Gregory? I'm back. I-" Wait. What was that? What was that delicious and enticing and all too familiar smell coming from the kitchen? He didn't...Oh please say he didn't.

"Mycroft! You're home! Wonderful!" Greg appeared from around the corner, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, wearing a damn apron, and covered in flour.

He did.

"Get in hear right now and say I don't love you." He grinned. Greg reminded Mycroft of a child, desperate to please, happiness radiating from his flour covered body.

"Gregory, you haven't." Mycroft said, clinging to the last hopes that he was in fact was mistaken.

Nope, apparently not.

"Tadaa!" Greg proclaimed, presenting a huge cake sitting on the kitchen table, with the words, 'You're beautiful, you fucking idiot.' scrawled so artfully across the top in messy, chocolate piping. "Made it myself, all from scratch." He said proudly, waiting for a reaction from his government official.

"I...What am I supposed to say, Gregory?" Mycroft smiled warmly at him, eyes soft with affection for his lover.

"Well, you don't have to say anything. You could try it though." Greg suggested, cutting a slice and putting it on a plate. He picked up a spoon and scooped a bit onto it, holding it out for Mycroft to take.

"Look, as much as I appreciate it, I really can't." Greg only advanced, a mischievous grin spreading across his features. "No, really, Gregory, I mustn't."

"Come on, Myc, I spent all afternoon baking. And it would wound me so if you didn't even try it." He said, backing Mycroft into the table. "For me?"

Mycroft glanced from Greg's dancing brown eyes to the spoon hovering insistently in front of his face. "I can't Gre- Mmmff!"

He was silenced, well, nearly silenced, by Greg slipping the spoon into his mouth as he tried to refuse. He let go, stepping back, allowing Mycroft to eat the cake and take the offending cutlery out of his mouth. He chewed and swallowed, glaring at Greg all the while.

"It's absolutely delicious." He snapped angrily.

"See? It wasn't that bad. You're not dead, are you?" Greg said, offering the plate to him hopefully.

"Fine, but this doesn't change anything. I'm still dieting. Just...after this cake is finished." Mycroft snatched the plate out of Greg's hand, and the D.I laughed at his petulance.

"Oh, give over. Like I'll even allow you to. You're tall and lean and sexy and there's no way that I'm going to let you change." Greg said lovingly, cutting himself a piece as well.

"Hardly." Mycroft muttered, as he licked his spoon.

"You are! And what you're doing to that spoon is incredibly hot and is making me jealous."

Mycroft stopped mid-lick, glancing at Greg, observing his lust-blown pupils and the way his eyes were glued to his mouth.

"What, this?" He asked innocently, dragging his tongue up the back of the spoon. He smirked when Greg swallowed audibly, and cut another piece of his cake.

Mycroft put the spoon in his mouth, and pulled it out slowly, sinfully. He moaned as he swallowed the cake, bringing the spoon back to his lips to lick off the remaining icing. "Why would it make you...jealous, dear?"

Greg put his plate down on the table roughly. "You know damn well why. Bedroom, now." He grabbed Mycroft's wrist and dragged him towards their room.

"What about the cake?" Mycroft asked, trying not spill the half eaten cake in his hand.

"Bring it with!" Greg said desperately, and they both proceeded to have a very delicious, satisfying evening.