He could tell the moment Sherlock took them, could feel the sudden quick pull at his belt, as though he'd just brushed against something, and Greg Lestrade bit back a curse. He was used to Sherlock pick pocketing him, but it never stopped being a pain in the arse, and him stealing Greg's handcuffs was the worst. The steady stream of stolen IDs and badges was annoying, but tolerable, he could always run off a new one, but the handcuffs...those were becoming a real problem. This made six pairs this month alone! The girl at the equipment desk was getting downright stroppy about it, raising her eyebrows and offering thinly veiled suggestions about where he might want to look for the handcuffs he seemed to keep 'losing.' It was embarrassing as hell, made him feel like a horny schoolboy caught with a skin mag instead of a (mostly) well-respected officer of New Scotland Yard. Really, enough was enough!
He bit his lip, wondering if he should call Sherlock on it, demand them back. Or...
The next few minutes were sufficient to wrap up the crime scene (a murder of passion, the affair with the stockbroker girl gone nasty, obvious once Sherlock had pointed it out), and the detective and the blogger were on the point of turning to leave when Greg made a show of patting his utility belt, absently at first, then with increasing agitation.
"Ah, shit," he muttered, almost to himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a faint, smug smile grow over Sherlock's features, a smile that vanished abruptly at his next words. "Mycroft'll be pissed."
"And what will I be, ah, 'pissed' about, dear one?" came a low, dry voice from just behind his left ear.
"My handcuffs've gone missing," Lestrade sighed theatrically, turning to peck him on the cheek. "Good to see you." Behind him, Sherlock and John hurried away as fast as they decently could, heads bent, deep in conversation. The detective-inspector bit back the loony smile that threatened to spill across his weathered features, a struggle Mycroft couldn't fail to notice.
"I had been under the impression that that was why we purchased that set of leather cuffs?" the diplomat inquired in a low voice, one gingery eyebrow raised. "So that we weren't...making use of your work-issue ones?" The DI smirked.
"Yeah. That's so. But Sherlock doesn't know that."
"Ah."
Mycroft glanced discreetly at his brother in time to see the consulting detective drop the handcuffs through the open window of the first police cruiser he came to, an expression of horror on his thin face. John leaned in next to him, looking disgruntled, and Mycroft could see his lips frame the words, 'I told you we should've just taken the time to learn that rope stuff.' Smirking, the British government turned back to his boyfriend, who was laughing openly at his quiet glee.
"Got to dash, I'm afraid. I'll see you tonight then, Gregory?" he asked, voice light and amused. "As soon as I've got the Chilean ambassador sorted?"
"Sounds fantastic, My," Greg breathed, letting his breath ghost across his boyfriend's ear, and Mycroft shivered pleasantly. He paused for a moment, then grinned, sharp and wicked. "Speaking of cuffs..."
"Way ahead of you," the elder Holmes purred. "I'll see you tonight, Gregory," and it was Lestrade's turn to shiver with anticipation as Mycroft shouldered his umbrella and vanished into the knot of curious onlookers, attracted by the police tape and the lure of the macabre. Greg grinned, and headed back across the scene. The Holmes brothers were not nearly so unmanageable as everyone seemed to think, he reflected, going to retrieve his handcuffs from Donovan's squad car. You just had to know the knack of it.
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A/N: The 'rope stuff' John mentioned is Shibari, a type of Japanese cord bondage, and very fun, although I'm with Greg and Mycroft on this one - I prefer leather cuffs. X)