The Sweetest of Torture
Warnings: Slash / Pairings: Mystrade / Word Count: 1800
Being Sherlock Holmes' "Handler" came with it's responcibilities. First of all, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade had to take care of the man that had "hired" him to be such a "Handler". He wasn't usually called upon this duty, but whenever he was, Lestrade was always ready and equipt with what he needed to carry out his task. The man was hardly ever unprepared, and this was most certainly no exception.
The calls were usually always the same. He recieved texts, never phone calls, from either the man himself or his delightfully forgetful PA, just before he was supposed to carry out his task. This particular time, Lestrade was seated at a bar, enjoying downing a whiskey on high speed when his phone vibrated irritatingly in his pocket. Grumbling to himself, Lestrade fingered the phone in his pocket before finally managing to pull it out, and flipping it open. The text was from an unknown number, but the nature of the message made the sender most obviously clear:
He's drunk again. Home.
Wetting his lips with a flick of his tongue, Lestrade grasped the whiskey with one unsteady hand and downed it in a few gulps, then threw the glass back on the table a bit harder than he meant to. Wasting only a moment, the Detective Inspector typed back to the sender his reply, and went to retrieve his coat by the door.
On my way. Don't let him kill himself.
The taxi took an odd route, so it took slightly a bit longer for Lestrade to arrive. The house was large, one of three flats that were scattered around the rural London area and by far the biggest. This was the one that was often referred to as "Home", and where it's owner spent the most time. Paying the cabbie, Lestrade stepped out of the cab and strode up to the front door with a quickened pace, well aware that he was late. Once he'd braved the final step, the Detective Inspector knocked against the richly wooden door insistantly, with strictly three knocks, a pause, and then one more knock. That had somehow become his signature knock, that the people inside the house would know who was on the otherside of the chestnut wooden door without having to look.
Indeed, the door swung open to reveal a very concerned "Anthea". Even to this day, Lestrade wasn't sure what her name was, and she didn't seem to keen to give it out on street corners. "How much has he drunk?" was Lestrade's first question, addressing the matter immediately.
"A lot," Anthea replied, thus opening the door a bit in turn so that Lestrade could come in. The Detective Inspector took the obvious invitation, rubbing his forehead at the answer and hanging his trench coat up on the door. It was going to be a long stay - and not just a quick visit - he could already guess. It was occuraces like these that made him worth what he did. "Come on, we better hurry."
What exactly was Lestrade's job, you ask? Concering Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade was assigned to take care of him when the man was drunk. It wasn't very frequent, maybe once or twice a month, but when Lestrade showed up to take care of the problem, he was efficient.
When Mycroft Holmes was drunk, it was frightening. He often spat out government secrets, and flailed around like a fish out of water. There wasn't many people that Mycroft trusted to deal with situations like this - especially since he was known to spit out government secrets so willingly - and even those wouldn't be willing to do the job. These people consisted of three.
Sherlock Holmes.
John Watson.
And Greg Lestrade.
Naturally, Sherlock and John wanted absolutely no part of it. Sherlock didn't feel the need to do anything nice for his brother - "Why should I? He'd never reciprocate in one million years." - and John was frankly scared that Mycroft needed someone to take care of him that wasn't part of his staff when he was drunk. This, of course, then left the aforementioned Detective Inspector, who reluctantly took the job. Reluctantly meaning after being begged and pleaded with by a few of the kitchen staff that had been put through taking care of him when he was drunk with earmuffs on - "BLOODY. EARMUFFS." - to prevent them from listening.
The job wasn't as bad as everyone made it out to be. Simply, it involved Lestrade being texted by "Anthea" saying usually straight to the point text messages - usually He's drunk again or He needs you to do a job. - and Lestrade would come. He would calmly take away the bottle from the man, try to block out all the information that Mycroft was shouting drunkenly, and help the man into bed. It was usually an hour after he'd fallen asleep that Lestrade was allowed to leave.
It wasn't that bad. It could be worse.
There were those few times, though, like this time, that he had to stay longer. That it would be more difficult to do all of the aforementioned things. However, Lestrade was prepared.
He was in practise.
"Anthea", as she always did, lead him wordlessly into Mycroft's unnecessarily roomy study, with a fire blazing in the fireplace and Mycroft sitting slopily in the chair. "I wish you luck," the PA told the Detective Inspector, as she always did, and left, shutting the door behind her.
Cautiously, Lestrade approached and rounded the chair. Mycroft, sure enough, sat clumsily in his large, plush chair, a drink firmly grasped in his right hand. His eyes were glazed over, and he definitely resembled a drunken scholar in his charcoal gray vest, slacks, and suit jacket. His eyes snapped up as soon as Lestrade came into view, and he mumbled something that sounded like, "Finally."
"I'm sorry," Lestrade said slowly, plucking the bottle from the grasp and leaning down in front of the man. "What was it this time?"
"M'arty."
Anyone else would have mistaken this for "Marty", as in short for "Martin" and often assosiated with "Marty McFly Junior" from the film Back to the Future. However, being a Detective Inspector and working closely with one consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, Lestrade was able to understand that the jumbled word that Mycroft had spoken was not "M'arty" but "Moriarty". Gritting his teeth together, Lestrade asked, "What did he do this time?" all the while easing Mycroft from the chair and slipping off his suit jacket.
"He-" the man paused for a moment, and then flinched away. "You're taking off m'clothes."
Confused - he'd never complained about this before - Lestrade answered tentatively, "Yes. I have to get you into bed."
It was only after he'd said it that Lestrade realized how horribly wrong it sounded.
"M'tired," Mycroft slurred, grabbing onto Lestrade's shoulder for support. "Need you to 'iss me."
"I'm sorry," Lestrade gaped. "Y-you want me to what?"
"Need you to 'iss me," Mycroft gasped, prompted grabbing Lestrade by the face and kissing him square in the mouth. It was a few moments before he pulled away, leaving the Detective Inspector irreparibly shocked. "'ank you. Feels 'etter now."
"I'm-I'm glad I could satisfy you," was all Lestrade trusted him to say.
As soon as they managed to get up to Mycroft's room, his suit jacket and vest were gone, and all that remained with a white dress shirt with black cuffs on the sleeves. The said man stumbled into his bed, and Lestrade watched him, temporarily in a state of shock. "G-Gregory?"
"Yes, Mycroft?"
"Need you to 'iss me ag'n."
No. This was not good. This was very much not good. That was so not good, in fact, that Lestrade began to shake with the consequences. Sure, one kiss was all right; it was sloppy, and unplanned, and most obvious a mistake. But two? Which might lead to three? Or four? Or more? Lestrade began to tremble with trepidation as Mycroft stared at him from the darkness, in his bed.
"What're you 'aiting for, Greg'ry?"
They way he said it - so un-Mycroft-like Lestrade couldn't stand it - was what ultimately sent him over the edge. In an absolute flash, the Detective Inspector lost any sort of self control he may have had - oh god, he's going to regret this in the morning - Lestrade practically launched himself across the room and made rough contact with the other man's lips. They fell back against the wall, the bed being pressed up against it, with Lestrade kissing Mycroft with such passion they could have both exploded.
Lestrade tried to tell himself it wasn't real.
He couldn't convince himself.
Suddenly, Mycroft abruptly stopped eagerly kissing him back. Pulling away, afraid he'd done something wrong, Lestrade looked back at the shut eyes of a now fast asleep Mycroft. The goddamn government man had fallen asleep while the Detective Inspector had been kissing him!
Sighing, Lestrade shifted the sleeping form to a more comfortable position, and then covered him with blankets. He then proceeded to the chair, where he always sat after his job, and watched the other man sleep.
How could he never have enjoyed this, watching Mycroft sleep, before? The sweetest of torture - sitting here, unable to leave watching him sleep. Somehow loving every minute. God, what had Mycroft done to him?
When Mycroft Holmes awoke from his sleep - his head pounded with hangover - slight memories of the night before jumbled around in his head. However, what made them connect was the sight of Gregory Lestrade, asleep in the chair, where he'd been all night.
Mycroft smiled gently. He finally had Lestrade right where he wanted him.
GOD IT'S SO BLOODY FLUFFY I CAN'T STAND IT. I'm a HUGE Mystrade shipper, and there's not nearly enough of it. I hope you liked, at least in the least bit, and remember, reviews are love! I might make a sequel to this - ugh, what is it with me and oneshot sequels? - while writing the sequel to my Stalker!Mycroft fic. Thank you for reading! Thank you everyone who supports Mystrade! We shall unite!
-Doc xx