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[personal profile] drachenmina
Title: Parenthetically
[livejournal.com profile] drachenmina
Word count: 1,600
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade. (Normal Sherlestrade service will be resumed asap.)
Rating: R
Warnings: Extremely unsuitable for diabetics.
Disclaimer: I disclaim everything but a worrying obsession with getting middle-aged detectives some action.
Thanks for the beta to the lovely [livejournal.com profile] blooms84, who would like me to point out that while middle-aged, Lestrade is still supremely virile and completely shaggable.

Despite what Sherlock might like to imply—all right, proclaim loudly to anyone within earshot, text to all and bloody sundry, and pretty much do everything short of taking out a full-page ad in The Times—Greg's not stupid. So when Mycroft Holmes calls up and asks him politely if he'd like to dine, tonight if at all possible, would eight o'clock do, oh, and smart attire, please, Inspector, Greg kisses goodbye, metaphorically speaking, to his evening by the telly and says, "Yes, right, see you later, then."

He wonders what it's going to be tonight. Affairs of state? (Unlikely.) Affaires of statesmen? (More likely.) Or just Sherlock needing his hand holding again? (Almost certainly.) Greg slips a couple of indigestion pills into his pocket as a precaution.

Greg's never heard of the restaurant they end up at. But that's all right as there's quite clearly no bloody way he could afford it on his salary, and the place seems to be doing all right from the Hollywood A-list trade. They can probably manage without the patronage of tired old coppers. It's quite pleasant, actually. Food's, well, a bit fancier than he'd like—and he notices Mycroft sticks to a green salad, no dressing—but one evening's not going to kill him.

As long as Mycroft doesn't scarper without paying the bill, of course, which could prove fatal.

(Later on, when all the wine Mycroft keeps refilling his glass with has helped Greg get over his self-consciousness about seeming star-struck, he looks around and realises that apart from him, everyone is sticking to the green salad. Greg's steak is probably the first bit of red meat the chef's had to cook for months. He hopes it hasn't gone off. And there isn't, it turns out, a bill to pay. Apparently Sherlock's not the only Holmes who gets all his meals for free. How they both stay so bloody skinny is a mystery to Greg.)

Mycroft, as always, is charming. ("Smarmy git," Donovan always calls him, though Greg can't see it.) He reckons the bloke makes a nice change from all the low-life scum they have to deal with on a daily basis. Bit of a failure to get to the point tonight, though. Strange. Usually he's all business. Greg admires him for that—too many time-wasters in his life as it is.

"Now, for coffee," Mycroft purrs, pink tongue flicking out to lick the last of the cocoa from the tiramisu ("my one indulgence," he said) from his lips, "I thought perhaps we could adjourn to somewhere more congenial?"

Greg blinks. "Sorry, what? Oh, coffee, right. Yes, fine." Ah. Must be top top secret, whatever they're supposed to be discussing tonight. Not Sherlock, then. Probably. "Want to go back to mine?" He's fairly sure it's not bugged. Not by anyone whose last name isn't Holmes, anyway.

Mycroft's car welcomes them in with a waft of pleasantly warm air and subtle (expensive) fragrance. Greg smiles. The chauffeur-driven limousine: natural habitat of the elusive, lesser-spotted Mycroft? Discuss.

"So nice to get out of the crush, isn't it, Inspector?"

Crush? That's not how Greg would have described it. Crush is what you get in his local Sainsbury's on a Saturday morning, with fights breaking out over the fruit and veg. Some of those old ladies can be vicious. Not a posh restaurant in W1. Then again, Mycroft's almost certainly lacking a basis for comparison. Greg stretches out happily on the wide, comfortable seat. "Yeah, a bloke could get used to this."

Mycroft beams. It's faintly disturbing.


"Only got instant, I'm afraid," Greg says when they get inside his flat.

"Really?" Mycroft frowns. "Oh, don't worry about it, Inspector. I'll have something sent up."

"Too posh for Nescafe, are we?" Greg doesn't mind. He prefers proper coffee himself, but it's not worth keeping it, just for one. Goes off before he can drink it.

Mycroft's face falls so quickly it probably registers on the Richter scale. "I do apologise, Inspector. I didn't mean to imply—"

"No! God, no. Don't worry about it." Greg puts a hand on Mycroft's arm to reassure him. Wonders if they put more alcohol in posh wine than in the cheap plonk he's used to. Probably ought to check that out, before next time. Next time? Need to concentrate on this time. Mycroft's stepped closer, and the devastated look's gone from his face. Greg's not sure how he'd describe what's replaced it. He swallows.

Mycroft's eyes gleam brighter than he's ever seen them. Course, Greg's never seen them so close up, before. He can feel the warmth coming off Mycroft's body, and there's a subtle fragrance, very expensive, very male. Very Mycroft. "Or perhaps we could find something... preferable?"

Greg doesn't think he's talking about a cup of PG Tips.


This is not happening, Greg thinks. There are many reasons why it can't be happening, starting with the basic—this is him, and this is Mycroft—and moving on up through he's going to ruin those bloody trousers, kneeling down in them like that. There's more, Greg's sure, but for some reason they appear to have slipped his mind.

Probably something to do with the posh bloke with his mouth around Greg's cock.

Greg's still half-convinced this is some sort of hallucination (probably brought on by too much rich food); no way is he a reliable witness at this point, but he thinks it went something like this:

Mycroft: Perhaps we could find something... preferable?

Greg: *Swallows. Tells himself there is no bloody way this can mean what he thinks it means.* Yeah?

Mycroft: Oh, I think so. *Hitches up trousers. Kneels. Nuzzles into Greg's groin.* Wouldn't you agree?

Greg: *Incoherent noise*

Mycroft: *Unzips Greg's flies* Oh, yes. Mmm. *Rubs cheek against Greg's hard-on* Mmm. *Extracts Greg's cock from his trousers and engulfs it with his mouth, in one economical movement.*

Greg: Oh, fuck!

So here he is, with the Lestrade family jewels being expertly fellated by the most dangerous man in Britain. Probably. Greg's aware he's over-thinking this, but Christ on a crutch, what the fuck else is he supposed to do to stop himself shooting down Mycroft's throat like a bloody teenager?

He wonders if Mycroft can do that thing Sherlock does of reading his mind. Decides it's probably pretty bloody obvious what he's thinking right now in any case.

Greg's not sure if it's proof either way when one fastidious, well-manicured finger shoves itself up into his rectum to massage his prostate in a way no bugger alive could withstand. He comes explosively into Mycroft's mouth. "Sorry!" he gasps. "Should've—"

"Oh, no apology required," Mycroft purrs, after a moment. He licks his lips, which has a frightening effect on Greg's knees. "Thank you, Inspector. That was delightful." He stands, brushing down his trousers.

Greg blinks, repeatedly. "You what?" It's probably not the most intelligent comment he's ever made, but there are extenuating circumstances.

Mycroft raises a well-bred eyebrow.

Greg stumbles on. "Don't you want to... I mean, I'd be happy to... bloody hell, Mycroft, what the fuck just happened?"

The eyebrow is joined by its twin. "I am sorry, Inspector. I was under the impression you were—ah—agreeable to the activity in question." Mycroft looks worried. Genuinely, not that fake bloody concern Greg's seen pasted on his face half a hundred times.

"Course I was bloody agreeable! That's not the point." Greg sighs. Wishes he'd taken a course in Holmes, but they weren't on offer at his comprehensive. Thinks what the fuck, and fakes it. "I thought you might be, um, agreeable to a bit of reciprocation?"

For just one moment, Mycroft looks delighted. Then the mask falls once more. "Most kind of you, Inspector, but that's entirely unnecessary."

Greg stares at him. Tries to think of big words to say, yes it bloody is. Gives up. "Bugger that. You're coming to bed."

This time, the delighted look doesn't go away.

Not before Greg falls asleep, Mycroft's head on his chest.


He's gone next morning, of course. Greg tries to tell himself it's just as well. He's got work to go to—another murder, and Mycroft's brother behaving like it's been laid on just for him.

Sherlock kneels beside the body. "American, or newly arrived from America. The cologne is distinctive, and not available here yet. Visited a curry house, but didn't eat—" Accusing glare, "—and you slept with my brother last night."

Greg curses under his breath, while Donovan flashes him a gleefully incredulous look. "Can we keep the deductions to the case?"

Sherlock, of course, doesn't listen. "Why would you sleep with Mycroft?"

Watson chips in. "Er, Sherlock, maybe not the best time—"

"You could do better than him. Yes, you're old, but you're not totally unattractive—"



Greg almost leaves them to it. Almost. "For your information, Mycroft's a good bloke. Decent. Hardworking. Lacking in sarcasm. Nice. Maybe, just maybe, I like spending time with him. Ever thought of that?"

It's the first time Greg can recall that he's ever reduced Sherlock to silence.

Pity the moment's spoiled by half a dozen coppers standing around looking gobsmacked.


Greg's not surprised when Mycroft's car pulls up beside him as he leaves the Yard. "Hope you're not pissed off by me going public about us," he says as a pre-emptive strike.

Mycroft smiles. "Oh, I rather think we have Sherlock to thank for that in any case," he says smoothly. "Drink, Inspector?"

Greg thinks about it. "I'd prefer a kiss," he says, eyes fixed on Mycroft's. "And that you call me Greg."

Mycroft smiles.

And this time, Greg thinks, he means it.
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