Tag: mystrade

Oh looksie, I wrote another Mystrade thing:

Never Just Filling Space – Now that Sherlock has returned, what will it mean for Mycroft and Greg?

Teaser below the cut

Greg stepped into the room. Mycroft stood by the window, staring out at the city. After the chaos of the last few days, with Sherlock stepping back into the world of the living, the room was strangely silent and still.

He was still reeling himself. He and Mycroft had grown closer over the last few years and he honestly had no idea what Sherlock’s return would mean for them. Not that he ever had or would begrudge Mycroft his little brother. Quietly he stepped to Mycroft’s side, taking in the view himself. The city was cloudy and gray, the window keeping even the sound of traffic at bay.

Mycroft’s hand brushed his own.

Greg took his hand, wrapping a warm palm around his cool hand and squeezing gently. A soft sigh escaped Mycroft’s lips. Tugging him from the window, he pulled him to the couch and set him down, never letting go of his hand as he sat next to him.

They stayed like that, silence stretching out. Greg cradled his hand. Occasionally Mycroft would squeeze, as if assuring himself of Greg’s presence. For his part Greg’s mind played over the last few days. The shock, the anger. Not for himself so much as for John and Mycroft and the perdition they’d been through over the last few years. He hoped like hell Sherlock wouldn’t wreck things between John and Mary; the man deserved some happiness. Yes, Sherlock had good reason, but the world was still settling around his factual presence.

So, I got bit my a mystrade plot bunny. It’s going to be multiple chapters, but here’s chapter 1. Might even be done tonight if the muse is kind. It’s smut/angst/emotional comfort:

Who Picks Up the Pieces – Six months after Sherlock’s suicide, Greg takes Mycroft for a weekend away to try to get him to deal with the loss of his brother.

teaser below the cut

Greg Lestrade heard the car driving up. He poured the wine, waiting by the fireplace with a glass in his hand. This was no quaint cabin; nothing but the best for Mycroft Holmes. A fine rug covered most of the floor with two leather chairs facing the fireplace. Through one door was a bedroom with a king sized, four poster bed made up with only the best linens. Through another door was a well-stocked kitchen. There was no reason for either of them to need to leave this entire weekend, assuming Mycroft didn’t turn and walk out the minute he realized what Greg was planning.

The door opened, but Greg kept his back to it. He heard Mycroft shaking off the cold and hanging up his coat before stepping into the room. Greg could feel him looking him over, taking in the setting. He wondered if Mycroft would be silent; he often was, even before everything had happened. It had only been a few months since Sherlock’s death, but then again, that was the point of this weekend. Try to make Mycroft stop running away and face what he’d lost.

Mycroft picked up the other glass of wine and joined him by the fireplace. Greg let the comfortable silence stretch between them as Mycroft sipped his wine. Watching him, Greg could see the way that unborne grief weighed on him. There were more lines on his face these days, perhaps a touch of gray to his hair. He’d often felt self-conscious about his weight, but he’d clearly gained, not that Greg minded it.

“I was told to come here for an important meeting,” said Mycroft as he finished his glass, still watching the fire.

Greg moved closer to him, resting one hand on Mycroft’s back, feeling him stiffen. “This is an important meeting,” he said softly.

Mycroft turned and faced Greg. Placing one hand on his chest, Greg leaned up and placed a chaste kiss on his lips. The man watched him, still holding his glass and keeping himself firmly distant from his lover.