This is the fourth story about Mystrade, short as ever.
Enjoy~
This is just one day in Mycroft and Lestrade's life. It's a normal day. Mycroft is abroad, involved in some national importance. Sherlock gets excited in a pervert murderer, Lestrade trying his best to prevent Sherlock punched by his staff or the relatives of the victims or both.
Lestrade finds he is almost beside himself in the evening. Just at the edge of turning a wreck, his mobile phone rings like an angel, a new message coming.
- Meeting over earlier. At the airport now. I'll be home at 10. What's for dinner? MH
Lestrade grins to himself like an idiot.
- You know eating too late is bad for your diet. GL
- Leave the diet alone. What's for dinner? MH
- I've eaten. GL
- Don't be silly. You didn't, unless Sherlock didn't misbehave. But I assume it impossible. What's for dinner? MH
- Seriously, why would you ask? I don't think that foreign government will be too mean to offer the British government dinner. GL
- Gregory, I'm certain you're doing this on purpose. MH
- What is it? GL
- OK. I confess. I want to have dinner WITH YOU. MH
Looking at the capital words, Greg can't stop giggling.
- Stop smirking. What's for dinner? MH
- Some home-make, perhaps. I remember you love the cinnamon rolls I make. GL
- Well, I'll see what I can do to make the aircraft faster. MH
- Don't bother. I won't be home too soon. GL
- OK. MH
This is weird. Mycroft seldom replies in that way. But Lestrade's head is fuzzy now, so he decides to drop it. Whatever, before he can go back to make cinnamon rolls for Mycroft, he has stacks of files to finish.
Finally, Lestrade manages to return at 9. He ponders if an hour would be enough for his bakery when he has some trouble in finding his keys in the pocket.
Before he plugs the key in, the door is swung open. It's Mycroft, tired, but still charming as in Leastrade's dreams.
- What are you doing here?
Lestrade is muddled.
- This is our home.
Mycroft isn't smiling with a satisfaction of seeing his lover back again after a long time.
- Get in.
Mycroft orders.
Lestrade can see that Mycroft is unreasonably angry and he gets a bit pissed off himself, but he is too tired to deny, so he obeys immediately.
Mycroft snaps the door behind him, drags Lestrade onto the sofa, and stares at him from the upside.
- Did you sleep?
He grills.
- Yes, yes of course.
- When, and for how long?
- When did you turn into a DI, and I a suspect? And why would you care? You were away all along, with your national importance!
Lestrade regrets as soon as he speaks out. He shouldn't have said those things. Mycroft cares about him all the time. And he even got home earlier. Damn the files! They made him a bastard! And Lestrade is really bewildered now.
- So the flight was faster. How did you do that?
Mycroft frowns, and burns into chuckles a second later.
- Well, the pilot owes me a favor.
- Really? Oh, that's good!
Lestrade nodded, completely digesting Mycroft's hoax. In fact, it was the president who owed him a favor.
- So, considering this, you have to wait for me to make dinner. It won't be fast and you can't make it faster.
Lestrade staggers to stand up. But Mycroft pushes him back, joins him on the sofa, and binds him with his arms.
- No, leave it.
- Aren't you want to have dinner?
- You completely missed the point, Gregory.
- What?
- I said I wanted to have dinner with you, now that you are here.
Hearing it or not, Lestrade smiles, and falls asleep in the scent of expensive cologne, the private plain, and Mycroft, and his sweet kisses.
- Good night. I love you.