First of all, I didn't know what I should call this one. I just wanted to write. Worse still, I didn't even know what I was writing. I just wanted to write. Then I finally came up with something.
So, enjoy!
Thank you~
This is just another normal day. Mountains of paperwork, not so cooperating suspects, and some petty cases are all Lestrade has got for today. If there is anything of mercy, Sherlock's absence will be the one. No offence at all, just to say after that many bloody work, Lestrade really can't assure he'll have the strength to tackle that.
Then when Lestrade returns home, here comes the real salvation. The buff light is flickering in the living room, a Tchaikovsky's work playing on the phono, and an adorable scent of a red velvet cake fluttering from the kitchen. And then-
"Bad day?" Gazing from the book Lestrade stand in front, Mycroft says, rises from the sofa, pecks Lestrade on his lips, and helps him off his coat. Lestrade loses his words and motions watching Mycroft hook his coat up.
Mycroft turns over, tending to dish a piece of cake for Lestrade, but he sees Lestrade freezing and grins with a slight sigh."Why are you still not used to me welcoming you home? It's such a long time since I've moved in."
"Oh, I am, actually. Just ... um, you know, while you melt within, freeze is often the outside reaction. And I'm a little bit overwhelmed." Lestrade comes back to earth, steps forward to Mycroft, and answers him, rubbing his nose bridge.
"How so?" Mycroft askes, raising his right eyebrow, both amused and curious about both Lestrade's meek words and gesture. And he makes sure again even Her Majesty, his very old friend, can't compel him to abandon Lestrade.
"Um, it's such an honour to have you here waiting for me back home. It's beyond an insignificant D.I.'s reach." Lestrade answers, reaches out for Mycroft, and clasps him, burying his face in Mycroft's hair.
"Don't be, nor do you underestimate yourself. For me, you are not just a D.I." Mycroft holds Lestrade back, and swings with him to the tender music.
"Then what am I?"
"You are the butter to my cake, and the button to my suit." Mycroft whispers, which is far more intoxicating than Tchaikovsky. However-
"Oh, it's twisted." Lestrade says, and pulls himself back a little, frowning.
"Why?"
"Because you make me in a dilemma over whether to supervise you away from cakes in case you blow your buttons off." Lestrade says, pretty prudish.
Lestrade feigns to be innocent, while Mycroft rolls his eyes. Before Mycroft's omniscient brain can sort out a solution, Lestrade kisses him both passionately and tenderly, with a vow.
"I love you, whatever you may be."