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Talk To Me

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Lestrade knew better than to barge into the ‘secret bathroom’. If he wanted to talk to Mycroft, he would have to wait until the other man felt he was in control – whenever that would come to pass.

He sat in one of the visitor chairs, tapping on the armchair whether out of nerves or perhaps impatience, he wasn’t totally sure. It took about 5 minutes before Mycroft showed himself.

Greg had never seen Mycroft look so vulnerable. His hair was messed, obviously combed with his fingers, his waistcoat was put on properly now, but it was creased as if it had been worn a few days and the t-shirt underneath was just as tattered. To Greg, the fact that he was seeing the shirt underneath was a surprise as Mycroft, even amid a heatwave, had never taken his suit jacket off.

Mycroft looked at Greg on the chair and sighed, walking further into the room and standing behind his desk.

“I believed you were gone.”

Greg nodded, “that was the plan. I knew you wouldn’t talk otherwise.” He stood carefully, worried Mycroft would run and hide again like a scared rabbit scurrying back to its warren. “I wanted to talk with you.”

Mycroft nodded, eyeing his desk where files were still stacked neatly, and his salad and Freddo still perched.

“What is it we need to discuss?”

“Us.” Lestrade said immediately.

Mycroft glanced at him a second and noted Greg’s unmoving and determined stare. “I wasn’t aware there-” He cleared his throat as he moved a piece of paper from the top of the file to another place on the desk. He needed to look busy, he needed to look occupied.

He needed to ground himself to make sure this wasn’t some dream.

Greg stood up and came to other side of the desk. He placed his hands on it and leaned in.

“What you and Sherlock were talking about, what me and John overheard, was any of it true?”
Mycroft was till resolutely staring down at the desk, though he could feel the eyes on him burning into his skull. He finally looked up into those deep, brown eyes and instantly regretted it. He was drowning.

“To which bit are you referring?”

“Mycroft…” The patience that this man had for the Holmes’ sounded like it was wearing thin. He leaned back and walked around the desk, standing to Mycroft’s left. Mycroft followed him with his head, not letting him out of his sight.

“Right now, I don’t care about those two idiots back at Baker Street. If they finally get together, woopee.” Greg’s sarcastic and monotone voice made Mycroft almost chuckle despite the seriousness that clung around them in the air. Greg lifted a hand to Mycroft’s cheek, and the other man turned his body to face Lestrade. “Right now, I care about you.”

Mycroft forgot how to breathe.

Especially when Lestrade suddenly pressed their lips together.

There were no fireworks nor heavenly chorus or angels singing, however Mycroft was sure he felt a spark (to which he would deny to any living being). Their lips moved in sync as if this was a dance they both knew. Greg’s free hand came up to Mycroft’s neck and began to play with his hair, his fingernail’s scraping his head.

He didn’t even know that was erogenous until now, or perhaps it was because he knew it was Greg touching him, Greg’s tongue begging for entrance into his mouth, Greg’s waist he was clinging to, Greg’s aftershave he was smelling, Greg, Greg, GREG!

They pulled away slightly to clash together again, like waves crashing on the shore. One of Greg’s hands began to slowly trail down Mycroft’s back, a slow caress that drove Mycroft out of his mind. It was crazy how much a timid touch could do to him.

Pulling away reluctantly, Mycroft leaned his forehead on Greg’s. “You’re better at talking than anyone else.”

Greg smiled. “You only get to talk like this with me, don’t want you snogging Boris.”

Mycroft leaned back, repulsed. “Gregory! Of all the people here, why him?”

Greg started giggling, nuzzling into Mycroft’s neck. He felt Greg’s hot breath there and it made him smile, his arms pulling him closer.

“Will you go on a date with me?” A muffled question reached Mycroft’s ears and his stomach did a little flip.

He pulled back, looking at Gregory. He was just about to answer, the yes on the cusp of his lips when the door opened quickly, and Anthea burst forth. She wasn’t put off by their close position and stared at Mycroft, a little apprehension in her eyes but a little waver in voice.

“Sir…”

 

0-0

 

John woke up alone.

If it weren’t for the fact that he was in Sherlock’s bed and the congealed disgustingness that was on his belly and sheets, he would think it was another great dream. He sighed and looked to the empty space next to him. To be fair to the other man, expecting a genius to sleep and/or lie still for six hours was probably pushing it, however John would have liked a quick snuggle before starting... he looked to his clock… Early Sunday morning.

Shrugging, he kicked of the sheets and pulled up the underwear that was tossed aside last night before stepping out of the room to the bathroom for a short shower. He didn’t like how deathly silent it was without Sherlock in the flat. John was so used to some wort of screeching from a violin, or a murmur from soft deductions, or just even Sherlock demanding odd jobs for him to do bar the housekeeping, that when the detective was gone it was eerily quiet.

When he was making his tea, he had made a second and had just poured the milk in when he realised he had. He shook his head and tipped it down the sink before he looked around the apartment once more.

He sat down in his chair, looking across at the green, leather one across from him. He chuckled to himself as he took a sip; he was becoming one of those girls in those teen novels. He can survive, what was it, just over two hours without his friend/perhaps lover. He turned to his right and lifted the newspaper that Mrs. Hudson must have laid out for him.

He was just turning to the fifth page when his phone began to ring.

“John. It’s me.”

“Greg. You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Listen, you need to come to Bart’s right now.”

John’s heart stuttered as he stood up, the newspaper forgotten as he rushed to his coat. He folded it around his arm as he ran down the stairs. “What happened?” He asked, pulling the door open and running to the street, looking both ways for a taxi.

“A mugging, I think.”

Confusion washed over John as a taxi stopped in front of him and he stepped in. “Bart’s hospital.” He directed to the taxi driver before thinking about what he was being told. Sherlock was clever (too clever), had a great peripheral vision and was a terrific fighter. Surely, he could have protected himself from a mugging with ease. The fact that he could not worried John more and more.

“-ohn? John? You still there?”

John shook himself out of his thoughts. “Yeah, sorry, Greg. Um, you any idea what happened?”

“Mycroft has his people looking, obviously, but he’s staying by Sherlock’s side right now.” John breathed a somewhat sigh of relief, never had he been so grateful for Mycroft Holmes. “I’m waiting outside to show you in.”

“Thanks Greg.”

“No problem, mate. See you in a bit.”

 

0-0

 

Turns out ‘a bit’ was 15 minutes later, as it seemed everyone and their mother needed to be out in London! John leaped out of the taxi, throwing too much in the cabbie’s direction and running up to Greg. Greg stubbed out his cigarette before showing him through the entrance.

As they made their way through, John thought about how he never noticed how winding the hallways seemed, or how the strong smell of cleaning products clung to the air. How strange it was that when he was in ‘doctor mode’ as it was, none of that seemed to register to him, but here he was as a visitor and all could hear was the too loud beeping of the heart monitor or the piercing ring of the phones.

They finally made it to a private room (of course) and he saw Sherlock lying down, pale as anything. There was a cut already butterflied-stitched on his left cheekbone, a bruise already forming around his right eye, and presumably more injuries all over his body.

John stepped further into the room and looked to the screen showing Sherlock’s vitals. At least everything there was fine. He saw Mycroft looking up to him, sitting beside Sherlock’s right.

“I have been informed there were three men who did not take lightly to Sherlock’s deductions.” He shook his head with a tiny grimace or perhaps an even smile – John had given up trying to figure out Mycroft’s expressions. “I have informed him in the past that some people do not like their secrets to be laid out in front of an audience.”

“Wouldn’t be Sherlock if he didn’t get to show off.” Greg said. He stood behind Mycroft, by the door, leaning with his arms crossed. John turned his head to him, both of them almost sharing a secret joke.

John sat down in the spare chair to Sherlock’s left and went to reach out for his hand before he stopped himself.

“Myc, shall we go and get a drink?” Mycroft turned around in his chair, an eyebrow raised. Lestrade uncrossed his arms and held his right hand out for him. “Come on.”

Mycroft glanced back at John and nodded once, understanding. He stood and accepted Greg’s hand, being led out of the room. John watched them go. “Fina-bloody-ly.” He said with a small smile.

“Couldn’t agree more.”

John jumped, looking down at Sherlock, the other man’s eyes open and looking at John. “You’re awake?!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to talk before John held his finger up. “Don’t you dare say ‘obviously’, okay, because you… you looked like you… you…” John seized his face and kissed him lightly, taking into consideration his injuries.

He broke the kiss and pulled back slightly. “You idiot.”

Sherlock lifted his lips into a smirk. “I was trying to be helpful.” John furrowed his eyebrows. “I was buying milk.”

John stared at him before bursting into laughter, his forehead falling to Sherlock’s chest. It felt so nice to hear the heartbeat and feel the rise and fall of Sherlock’s breathing. After a while he began to hear Sherlock’s little chuckle, before he heard a hiss.

“Hey, no, careful!” He sat up and held his face. They stared at each other for longer than probably seemed necessary. Sherlock swallowed.

“I, um, I am sorry to, um, if I… if you worried.” John couldn’t hold back his grin, stroking his cheekbone tenderly, noticing how soft the other man’s face was.

He carefully bumped their foreheads together, closing his eyes. “You idiot.”

Sherlock watched him, sighing in as deeply as he could. Sherlock’s arms began to surround around John.

“Stay.” Sherlock whispered.

“Obviously.” John smirked, opening his eyes, pressing a quick kiss to Sherlock’s lips.

 

0-0

 

Greg was watching quietly from the door, ajar from when Mycroft ‘closed’ it behind them. The scene before him was, well there was no other way to describe it but, cute. He grinned, so happy for his two friends, lifting his coffee cup in a silent toast.

“Fina-bloody-ly.” He whispered before going to turn around but being stopped by a pair of arms encircling his waist. It was a tight embrace and Greg felt instantly safe.

“Eloquently said, Gregory.” He heard, before he felt a nibble on his earlobe. Greg’s smile widened as he learnt back into the arms. He placed his spare hand on top of the Mycroft’s left hand and squeezed. He finished his coffee quickly, throwing the cup in a nearby bin. He did a little inner cheer as it went in.

Greg turned around, still the arms wrapped around him. “There was something I forgot to tell you before.” Mycroft looked at him intently. Greg breathed in, gathering his courage. He reached up his right hand to cup Mycroft’s cheek. “Seeing Sherlock right there just reminded me… well, I know that wasn’t serious, but it could have been, and it could have been you and you need to know – I’m not saying this well…” Greg closed his eyes and shook his head.

Mycroft bought his hands up, one mirroring Lestrade’s grip the other running through Greg’s hair. “I am in love with you too, Gregory.”

Greg’s eyes popped open to stare at Mycroft. Only truth was shinning in Mycroft’s blue eyes, no ice just pools of clear water. Lestrade grinned and surged forward, taking Mycroft’s breath away with a deep and passionate kiss.

It may not have been the most romantic of places to confess one’s love, but perhaps that makes it more romantic. That and right then, Greg couldn’t care less as he was in the arms of the man he loved and being kissed within an inch of his life.

What more could be better?

 

0-0

 

Cheers surrounded them as another goal was scored. Lestrade leaned back in his seat to see the score. 2 nil to Arsenal, Yes!

“Hey!” John complained, knocking on the wooden table to catch Greg’s attention again. He turned back round to the other man.

“Yeah, yeah, alright.” He sighed, picking his bottle up and taking a swig. He tried to remember what they wanted to meet up. Something about wanting to stop being a doctor and wanting a pint. Ahh, so Sherlock, of course. “So, how is he?”

John nodded, taking a sip of his own drink. “Considering he has to take a break from his precious work, he isn’t being the annoying prat he normally would be.”

Lestrade smirked. “Probably because he has a distraction.”

John held his hands up in mock surrender, “I ain’t saying anything.” They grinned at each other. John tilted his head to the side, “And how are you and The British Government?”

Greg smiled cheekily, shaking his head. His eyes took on a faraway look, as if remembering a good memory. “Ohhh, fantastic!”

“I immediately regret asking.” John’s eyes bulged at Lestrade’s incredibly happy tone.

“I never thought it, but Mycroft loves my handcu-”

“Stop!”

Greg laughs in delight as John downed his drink as if trying to forget Greg’s words.

“But seriously, I’m glad for both of us.”

John spared a glance up at Greg to see sincerity on his face. John beamed back at him. “Same. Even if your relationship does scare me.” They shared a laugh before ordering another round.