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Talk To Me

Chapter Text

It started out as a night out on the town.

Which, translated, is just saying ‘spending another Friday night with not-quite-a-work-friend John Watson, both talking about things that was both interesting and not what they both really wanted to talk about’. It was a little sad how many Fridays Greg and John had spent nonsensically talking over politics or discussing the latest celebrities when all either wanted to do was ask for advice.

How would you date a Holmes?

As if there was a guidebook? As if Google had any answers on that? As if there was indeed a book out there called ‘How To Date A Holmes… For Dummies’. As if…

However this particular night, as Greg angled his head to try and see the football game on the TV clearer (their regular table being taken – Greg didn’t want to think how sad they were to have a regular table on a Friday night), John cleared his throat. Greg turned back to his friend.

“Greg, there’s uh, there’s something… Can I tell you something but you can’t mock me, okay?” Greg’s interest piqued but his face remained passive as he nodded encouragingly, bringing his bottle of lager to his lips.

John moved his head around in what appeared to be apprehension before gulping. “You know that thing that I say all the time?”

The DI stared at him. “You say a lot of things, John.

“Yeah, but this I repeat a lot.”

“You repeat a lot of things…”

“That I’m!” John started, slight anger at Greg’s confusion evident before he took a breath. “When I say I’m not, you know, gay.”

“Oh, that.” Greg paused before smirking and leaning back in his chair. “Ohhhh.”

John glared at him. “You said you wouldn’t mock me.”

“I didn’t though, did I?”

John rubbed at his brow with his left hand. “You can be so much like Sherlock sometimes…”

“And he, I assume, is the reason for this sexuality crisis?”

Still leaning on his left hand, John peeked through his hand to stare helplessly at Greg. Seeing his friend like that, the smirk lifted and instead was replaced with a similar expression to the doctor’s. “If it helps, I know what it’s like.”

“Sexuality crisis?”

Greg raised both brows and shrugged as he finished his bottle. “That to, though long ago. But also falling for a Holmes. Though, I do believe mine has manners.”

Despite the sad mood the conversation the had turned, it was funny to see John’s face turn from confusion to utter horror. Greg couldn’t help his little chuckle as he caught the attention of the bar tender and lifted his empty bottle and signalled for another.

“No!”

“Kinda, yeah.”

John was so stunned. A waitress gave him his new bottle, took his old and John’s old glass with her all before John spoke. Greg was starting to wonder if he had somehow caused John any harm, if he had somehow inadvertently caused a brain haemorrhage at the mere thought of someone liking Mycroft, let alone fancying the bloke. But no, there seemed to still be light in those deep blue eyes.

“But… he’s Mycroft.”

Greg smiled. “And he’s Sherlock.”

John scoffed. “Touché.”

 

o-o

 

It was when they were sharing a taxi, that Lestrade remembered that Sherlock had stolen his badge yet again. And though yes, he wasn’t really in the state of mind to battle wits with the consulting detective, it was easier to get the badge in one sweep tonight than having to get another taxi tomorrow or spend petrol on his own car. He also had the assistance of a tipsy John, which had always amused him before to find out, that Sherlock could never quite say no to.

As they pulled up to 221, John paid the cabbie and thanked him profusely, proclaiming that he was an awfully nice guy. The taxi man, more than a little embarrassed, said nothing as they both exited.
The steps outside were a tiny tricky but they leant on each other. John was putting his key in when he noticed it was unlocked. He shrugged the shoulder not balancing on Lestrade’s (his right) and they moved in.

That’s when they both heard the raised voices. Well, more like shouting, however with their posh accents it would be more becoming to say ‘raised voices’. Greg was once again sorry for the dear old landlady who lived below 221b. Whatever rent they paid was surely not enough.

Greg and John slumped together against the black wallpapered wall and listened in.

Up the stairs, were the Holmes brothers, once a formidable team now at each other throats. Sherlock was standing by the sofa and Mycroft by the mirror in front of him.

“How many times must I tell you, Sherlock, caring is not-”

“Shut up! That rubbish you spit out is annoying and repetitive.”

“If you were not caught up in this world of fantasy you would see clearly. Doctor Watson-”

“John is none of your business! He’s mine!” Sherlock shouted, a primal growl almost tearing out his throat after his shout.

“Exactly. He is important to you, so is important to me.”

Sherlock stomped toward Mycroft; their noses almost touching. Mycroft did not even flinch at Sherlock’s dramatic show. “You are a hypocrite. You speak yet do the complete opposite. You care Mycroft, admit it!”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Done?”

Sherlock scowled and spun on his heel. “Actually, no.” He twirled back; his curls wild on his head. “Lestrade.”

Mycroft tried with all his might to keep his façade indifferent but there must have been a twitch, a give-away, a clue of some kind as Sherlock smirked, his left lip curling so high it nearly reached his eye.

“Caring for two people, now… My, my, is that a new record?”

“Throwing the attention on me is not going to work, brother dear. We were talking about you.”

“Indeed, we were.” Sherlock plopped down on the sofa; legs crossed on the coffee table. “However, talking about your feelings for Lestrade is a far more interesting topic, don’t you think?” He looked expectantly up at his brother. The staring contest continued for a minute before Mycroft grew tired. He moved to his umbrella which he had perched on the arm of John’s armchair.

“When it may occur, we will finish this conversation when you have grown up.” With a shake of his head, he opened the door and walked down the stairs. It was then that he noticed the two men looking up at him, obviously eavesdropping on their converstion as both had their mouths agape.

It is not in Mycroft’s nature to literally freeze on the spot, nor for his mind to go blank. In fact, his mind has never completely gone blank; there has always been some form of thought buzzing away, a memory being replayed, a lost file to be deleted. However, standing at the top of the stairs, knowing in certainty that the object of his desires knows that… he was desired was something his almost blank mind could not fathom.

With his head turned down, something he had not practiced since his years at school, he almost ran down the stairs and out the door, ignoring Lestrade’s pleading ‘Mycroft’.
Greg had all but sobered up now. He had forgotten all about the badge, the main reason why he was here. All he could think about was about the man who had just left. The man who appeared tonight was so different to the prim and proper Mycroft he saw almost daily now. He wanted to know why this Mycroft wanted to run away. He had to know why he hadn’t looked him in the eye as he left.

He had to find out more.

Chapter Text

Greg was trying to do work, no one was denying that. However, work would include effort and effort right now… well, it sounded like too much effort.

He sat, staring at the closed door in front of him, drumming the end of his pen against the pile of notes from his recent case. His eyes were glazed over, and if one were to look at him, one would think he was spaced out and had no thought in his mind at all. They would be wrong, though. For as Greg stared and landed the pen on those notes, he thought of a man who had not been able to get out of his head for eight days. A whole fucking week and a whole bloody day.

Greg sighed, breathing deep as he remembered the bleak feeling he experienced when the text came through yesterday. Every week, Holmes and Lestrade would meet to talk of ‘The Troublesome One’, or at least that is how it started. It turned from the occasional ‘how was your day’, to the ‘you’ll get through this, Gregory’, when Greg was facing his tough divorce and having to say goodbye to his daughter every day.

Then there was the ‘I missed you’ that had slipped out of Greg’s lips when they had agreed to meet up three days later, and even though it was just a few days, the change in his schedule, not meeting Mycroft that Thursday night, really shook him. The ‘I guess I can’t know where you went, but I’m glad you’re back’ was genuine. That tangent was dropped as quickly as the quick glance they had shared before moving on to a safer conversation. Their weeks had stopped being about Sherlock and started being about them. It was nice to have someone to talk to again, and Greg loved every moment of it. It was just them in that moment, no one else.

Until… Greg dropped the pen and looked to his phone again.

I can’t – MH

Lestrade looked at those two words again. For not the first time he wished he was Sherlock, to be able to deduce what Mycroft was trying to say and be able to reply (preferably less like Sherlock) in kind.

There was something Mycroft couldn’t – at least Greg could comprehend that – but what? He knew the other was embarrassed by what had transpired that night eight days ago but why?

Greg twisted the top of the pen until it broke, only to fix it. He repeated the action. Was what he heard true?

“However, talking about your feelings for Lestrade is a far more interesting topic, don’t you think?” He could still hear the condescending tilt to Sherlock’s words, could still hear the tension with the final words, could still hear the words as clearly as if he were in the same room. Yet, he did not hear Mycroft rebut this claim.

The pen was dropped on the files, luckily fixed so no ink was spilled, and his face was open in silent surprise. It was true, he never denied. Though it is true that brothers never have to talk about feelings with each other, and if brothers were to, it’s not as if Mycroft is going to have a heart to heart with Sherlock about something so mundane and ‘common’ as feelings. When Greg thought of Mycroft, he thought of him as a higher being, as someone who did not dwell with everyday occurrences as trivial as love.

But even as Greg thought about this, he was already ripping his coat on, already making his excuses in his head.

He was seeing Mycroft.

 

0-0

 

John had been patient enough.

 

He had been boiling under his skin, had been itching to talk with Sherlock for so long but had been rebuffed by the Consulting Detective every time he tried to bring up what he classified as ‘that night’.

 

“What the Hell happened between you and your brother?” John snapped as he came through the door, hoping Sherlock didn’t notice his wobble.

Sherlock was lying in his usual pose on the sofa. He sighed, “the usual when you’re not here. However it became rather… heated this time round.”

“Yeah, no shit! Me and Greg come back to a fighting match! Bet Mrs Hudson is finally just getting to sleep.”

“Greg and I.” Sherlock corrected, rolling his eyes. “She’ll be fine. She’s got her ‘soothers’.” He added.

John shook his head and landed heavily in his chair. He paused, gaining slight confidence, he finally asked, “what were you fighting about anyhow?” Sherlock stared resolutely at the ceiling, his fingers still at his mouth. Nothing gave him away until eventually he whispered, “nothing, John.”

John slid to the edge of his seat. “It must have been something. You guys carry conversations through stares or through upper class wit, not through petty shouting. Did something big happen? Is your mother okay?” He would only call a mother ‘mummy’ to a ten-year-old patient or younger. Not a 36-year-old man.

Sherlock nodded before sitting up gracefully. “I will retire to bed.” Sherlock, willingly going to bed, now John was REALLY scared!

He stood up quickly and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist. “You can talk to me Sherlock. You can tell me anything. Is everything okay? Is there anything I can do? What’s wrong?”

They both stared at each other. They were quite close, a tilt of his head, a hand at Sherlock’s shoulder and they would be lips apart. John noticed Sherlock’s eyes were trained on his lips. For a second it looked like Sherlock was leaning in before-

-Before he shook his head a little. “You’ve been drinking.” And with that, Sherlock strode his way to his room, never a look back.

If he had, he would have seen John, wishing he had kept to the Diet Coke.

Even now, he still wished he had kept to Diet Coke instead of wallowing in self-pity, longing and pints. Not the best, all in all…

He lied on his bed, staring at his ceiling as if it held any answers to his nonsensical questions. However, as he knew it would, the ceiling stayed unhelpfully quiet.

With a purpose and determination, which he had thought he had lost, he stood quickly from the bed and made his way downstairs.

There he found Sherlock in the kitchen, sitting but poised over a petri dish with a green substance within and, holding a pipette in his right hand (obviously not adhering to safety and forgoing the wearing of safety goggles that John had specifically bought two months into his living in Baker Street when Sherlock had narrowly escaped with his vision but burnt his eyebrows – A picture that graces John’s photo album).

Sherlock didn’t even grace him a glance, but instead squeezed the pipette and watched intently as the drop fell into the dish. A slight sizzle was heard and Sherlock hummed once. He breathed in and then sat back. He looked up suddenly at John. “Yes?”

John kept his eyes on the petri dish as little bubbles started to appear. “I, uh, wanted to talk with you but, um, I can see you’re busy with… that.”

Sherlock looked down again at the dish. “Yes. It’s mould. I am conducting an experiment hoping to conclude that it is possible-” Sherlock was interrupted by the burst of ‘goo’, is the closest word, that erupted from the dish. It spread from at least a metre radius, catching Sherlock’s front, the counters, the fridge but luckily John was out of shot, as the microscope stood as a sort of shield.

Sherlock had closed his eyes on instinct, and so opening them slowly, he looked down at the now ruined experiment, and now the green-splattered kitchen – or more Jackson Pollock designed kitchen.

He looked to John, expecting to see anger and rage on his face however it looked as if the other man’s face was… transforming? It was twitching – his lip was wobbling, his right eye jerking – Sherlock was worried that perhaps John was experiencing some sort of fit.

John was aching – he was trying so hard not to burst into a fit of laughter! First of all, Sherlock’s scrunched up face as the ‘goo’ exploded on his face was priceless and he hoped he would remember that for the rest of his days. Second, he looked a little lost, as if he didn’t know why his experiment had gone wrong – which to say that John wasn’t just a tad happy that the Great Sherlock Holmes didn’t know something, when it didn’t come to general knowledge, is a bit of an understatement.

But now, with Sherlock looking at him, dripping with goop, with slight horror in his eyes that John might be angry with him… it sobered John immediately and made his gentle smile appear. The smile he would use with frightened children at the GP. “Guessing that wasn’t what was supposed to happen.”

Sherlock glanced to his left and then to his right. “What gave it away?” He replied in his deep but steady monotone. This time John giggled and after a while, Sherlock joined in with his chuckles. And it was as if the awkwardness of the days past were melted away, just like that!

“You better clean this up though,” John said, settling his giggles to rest. “I already paid more last time for bullet holes and new windows. This… whatever is not coming out of my rent this time.” With a cheeky grin, John went round and held Sherlock’s left hand (it was the cleaner of the two) for a brief second. Sherlock looked up at him and they eyes locked. With a burst of confidence, he leaned down and whispered into his ear, “I would kiss you but you’re a little contaminated.” Lifting away but not far, he saw Sherlock follow his movements. “And for the record, no, I haven’t been drinking this time, Sherlock.” A sudden look of vulnerability passed Sherlock’s face.

John nodded before pulling him up off the chair with his left hand. “Shower. And then, talk to me.”

 

 

Chapter Text

Anthea thought she knew her boss well.

She knew his schedule inside and out; knew who to tell to bugger off nicely and not so nicely; knew when to order a salad, when to order a salad with dressing, and when to order a sandwich; and she also knew when it was time to call in the big guns – chocolate.

Today looked like a Salad and dressing with perhaps a Freddos… just in case

Mycroft hadn’t seen many clients in the last eight days. She had barely seen him smile – or rather the courtesy smile he throws her way or, if she is incredibly lucky, the genuine smile she receives when she does well or makes him laugh. She had received neither in the last week.

She did like her boss. All things considered – as in where she worked, who they were working for and what she did – she had a good boss. He may sometimes go at short notice, but that was due to his half-wit of a brother, or she had to make arrangements for his sudden trips away to God, and Mycroft, knows where.

However, she would not change it for the world. Even if it did mean working Saturdays...

Her intercom buzzed – 12pm, right on schedule.

With swift movements, she stood up and gracefully entered Mycroft’s private room with grace and without a knock. He didn’t look up from a file on his desk but she was instantly more worried than she was before.

His tie wasn’t straight, one side longer than the other, and sitting neatly within his collar (the collar itself all wonky, his left higher than his right side); stubble along his jaw, cheeks and chin; his suit jacket was hanging inside out on the back of his seat as if thrown without care; his waist coat was not done up properly, one hole had been skipped and so a clear gap had been created within his attire; and his hair was the worst part – normally so well put not letting a single curl come to the light, however today the gel he used so often was nowhere to be seen and now his hair was nearly as wild as his brother’s.

Anthea couldn’t help but stare.

Finally, Mycroft glanced up at her and sighed. “I know I look a sight, but I would appreciate if further eyes did not look my way.” He pointedly flashed his gaze at the door, which still stood ajar from Anthea’s entrance. Quickly closing the door, she placed the container holding the salad in her left hand down on the table to Mycroft’s right.

She slid the Freddo on top with a gentle smile.

He breathed in slowly and looked directly into her eyes, assessing her. She always was a mentally strong person, but sometimes when Mr Holmes would stare you down, she sometimes wanted to cower away under the immense power it held. However, this stare seemed less powerful and more needing, almost as if Mycroft was wondering if he could trust his PA. Shouldn’t he know that by now?

Gathering all the confidence she had, she asked, “is there anything you need, sir?”

The stare slipped, and the eyes fell back to his desk. “No. That will be all.”

“You don’t look yourself, sir, and if I may, I’m worried about you.”

She was expecting something – perhaps a ‘really?’ or a ‘you do, no way!?’ (though the latter would have been a very unlikely occurrence). He may have even said a thank you but no, all her boss did was keep his eyes on his desk, his back still as rigid and straight as his upbring would forever keep him and hands folded in his lap.

She wasn’t taking a no for an answer and was just about to speak when she heard, “No one should waste time on me.”

She was pretty sure she heard her heart break. This poor, disguised gentle, man in front of him, the power behind Britain, didn’t think he was worthy of attention.

“If I again, sir, that’s a load of shit.”

It looked like he may have just chuckled and she mentally pumped her fist in the air when they heard some commotion outside. Well, commotion in The Diogenes Club is not a fighting match but rather a hushed disagreement. But the fact that both Anthea and Mycroft knew one of the voices causing said commotion (one dreading seeing that person again and one knowing that that voice might be the reason that Mycroft might be in this stupor), caused their conversation to drop immediately – hence both of their looking to the closed door in unison.

Mycroft out of fear and Anthea out of pure wonderment.

Mycroft stood up immediately. “Get rid of him!” Anthea turned back as the other tried unsuccessfully to scrub his hair into neatness. She looked pointedly at him as they heard Lestrade’s voice come nearer. Mycroft stopped and his normally icy blue eyes were deep and pleading with her. “Anthea.”

She couldn’t deny him at that moment. “I’ll do what I can, go.”

With that, Mycroft fled to the hidden bathroom to the right of his desk. Anthea watched him go before standing by the door, like a bodyguard Greg would have to go through to reach her boss.
Suddenly, the door burst open and three bodies crashed on the floor. Two guards crushing Greg’s poor body. Anthea’s impassive face now set in motion she watched as they struggled to stand.

One of the guards got up first and looked to Anthea. “Sorry Miss, didn’t mean to intrude, however-”

“Anthea!!”

They both looked down to the kneeling Greg, straining to get to his feet.

“Mr Lestrade.”

Greg turned to the guards, “See, they do know me!”

The guard still on the floor looked up at him. “Didn’t mean you had to cause a ruckus.”

“Could have let me in without a fight?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s real secure, init?!”

“Enough!” Anthea scolded. “You two are no longer needed, thank you for doing your jobs. I’m sure you’re needed back at your post. Mr Lestrade, what is it you needed?”

Lestrade watched as the two guards left before closing the door. He walked over to a wooden trolly in the corner and opened it up. Pouring two glasses of whiskey, he sipped one.

“Dumb doesn’t suit you, Anthea. You know why I’m here.” He took another sip.

Anthea noted the five o’clock shadow, the slight grey shades around his eyes from sleep deprivation and the red colouring his normally bright brown eyes. These two are as bad as each other, Anthea thought to herself.

“Mr Holmes is at home.”

“No, he isn’t.”

Anthea arched an eyebrow.

“Mycroft wouldn’t go anywhere without his suit jacket,” Lestrade pointed to the desk chair, where the jacket still hung loosely around the back frame, “And don’t even get me started on his fixation with that umbrella of his?” Greg said, a little smirk pulling at the left side of his lip.

Anthea smiled back, the joke of the umbrella too true. She was also impressed. Though, she admitted, he was a DI. He would be trained to see details and he knew Mycroft well. Sherlock, proclaiming he was always right, was wrong when he said this man was an idiot.

She stepped closer and pointed to the bathroom. “He looks just as bad as you.” She whispered, trying to hold back a laugh at Lestrade who pulled down at his suit and ran a hand through his hair. Her face then turned murderous. “I know 43 ways to kill a man and make it look like a suicide. Do not hurt him.”

Greg nodded and with a polite smile and a quick nod, Anthea left.

The DI looked to where Anthea had pointed, now seeing faint lines indicating a door. He sighed and combed his hair with his fingers again.

Just talk to him.

 

0-0

 

Even though he had said for Sherlock to clean up the mess, he had ended up doing it – he was used to cleaning up Sherlock’s messes by now that it was second nature. And secondly, it did stink to high heavens!

John was just scrubbing the last remnants of the ‘gooey, ewwy thing’ (what he had named it in his head) off one of the top shelves, when he heard the tap of bare feet.
Without turning around, John huffed, “Yes, I know, I caved. But next time can you please not explode disgusting and God-awful experiments. Save that for Bart’s please.” John was still scrubbing mercilessly at the surface of the cupboard.

“John.”

“Yeah?”

“I thought we were going to talk.”

Placing the scour on the counter John turned around to face the other man, and felt his knees turn to jelly. There Sherlock stood in only a short towel… very short.

“Um, yeah, um, we were going to talk. Do you want to get changed first?” John had difficulty trying to drag his eyes away from the magnificent sight before him and look into Sherlock’s eyes as he talked. When he saw Sherlock’s little smirk, he knew he was done for.

Sherlock strode slowly round the table. “What you said before, John. I was thinking about it as I was in the shower.” He was inches away from John, mirroring that night from before, now only standing in the kitchen with John backed up to the counter, nowhere to go.

As if he would rather be anywhere but here.

“I’m no longer contaminated, John.” He looked directly into his eyes, then looked away as he thought, “Well, strictly speaking, I was never contaminated to begin with - to be so would require-”

“Oh, shut up!”

With that said, John grabbed Sherlock’s face and pulled him to his own, attaching their lips in a fierce kiss. Sherlock had never like be interrupted, however this one he would allow. It was passionate and closed until John was licking at the seam of Sherlock’s lips, begging for entrance.

It was then that the other man took over. Sherlock’s arms caged John in and he pushed him against the counter with his hips, quickly moving one hand to John’s head to stop him from banging his head on the counter above. He moaned loudly when John scratched his scalp in retaliation. They both parted when they both had to breathe, not straying far, both panting into each other’s mouths.

“I thought we were going to talk?” Sherlock repeated from earlier.

“We were. And then you came in wearing that and damn it.” John sighed, not thinking straight as most of his blood was rushing southward. He opened his eyes, not realising he had closed them to see Sherlock smirking again.

“Are you feeling alright there, doctor?” His smirk had now elevated to full on bright smile, as if he just discovered a case that was a 10. To have that smile pinpointed on him was an honour and very arousing.

“Feeling a bit hot, actually. I might need to head to bed, though I may need a hand.” John winked, thrusting his hips into Sherlock’s thigh suggestively.

“Very subtle, John.” His deadpan voice came back, admonishing him for his blatant euphemism, but it worked as he took the hand around the nape of his neck and the hand that was rubbing his back and led John backwards toward his bedroom.

On the way, Sherlock pulled John’s jumper off completely and threw it God knows where and in doing so, John’s shirt came slightly loose from his trousers.

As soon as the door closed, Sherlock rounded John again and pushed him up against it, kissing him hungrily. They shuffled around, taking John’s clothes off, during which Sherlock’s towel fell. John’s landed on his hips, his thumbs circling the hip bone.

“On the bed now.” He instructed.

“Is that an order, Captain?” Sherlock replied, his eyebrow quirking up.

In answer, John gently pushed him until Sherlock lay sideways on the bed. John crawled on top of him, straddling him easy.

“Don’t tease me, Sherlock.” He whispered, nibbling on Sherlock’s earlobe. A loud moan echoed around the room and Sherlock slapped a hand across his mouth.

John chuckled. “Ah, ah ah.” He took Sherlock’s hand and kissed his palm, then his fingers individually. “I want to hear you; loud and clear. I want to hear how good I make you feel. I want the whole world to know that I am here with you. That I get to be here with you.” John smiled warmly down at Sherlock, and he replied with his own smile.

“Only you.” Sherlock whispered around the lump forming in his throat.

They joined in a kiss, still as hungry but more loving and sweeter. When they ran out of breath, John moved down to Sherlock’s pulse point, sucking gently, and nipping over it. Sherlock moaned.

John moved off him, directing Sherlock to move to the pillows to be more comfortable before climbing back on top and sucking on the other side of Sherlock’s neck. The neck that had been plaguing him for quite some time. While doing so, his left hand moved south, his knuckles lightly tracing over the tip of Sherlock’s erection. Sherlock gasped and arched off the bed slightly. John stopped with the attention on the neck and moved to his lips, tasting Sherlock. Sherlock clutched onto John’s back.

He took Sherlock with his full hand, starting with an upstroke. Sherlock groaned in his mouth. John had to get closer, moving from leaning on his right arm to his right elbow – the skin on skin contact from their chests and legs entwining felt amazing, and made him all the more harder.

Sherlock took his right hand from John’s back to John’s cock, mirroring John’s movements on his own. Feeling the other man arc into his hand was amazing and felt so right, hearing him stutter his name was pure ecstasy.

They started to go wild and fast, pleasure taking over. Grunts and pants were so loud in the room until John twisted his wrist just right and Sherlock saw white as he shouted John’s name – probably so loud that Mrs. Hudson could hear. John didn’t mind however, and hearing that sent him over the edge too.

After a few seconds, John rolled off and fell to Sherlock’s left. They both stared at the ceiling, both trying to collect their breaths.

“That, that was amazing.”

Sherlock turned his head to look at him, John doing the same. “Couldn’t agree more.” They both beamed at each other and John cuddled up to his side, throwing his left leg over him, kissing his collar bone.

“I need to clean us off before we get stuck but I’m tired.”

“It’s fine, we’ll just get stuck together.” Sherlock said, his arm sneaking round John’s middle and pulling him closer.

John looked up, placing his chin on Sherlock’s chest. “Sentiment?”

Sherlock shrugged as much as he could. “Only you.”

Chapter Text

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.