For witzel-sucht on tumblr, written for Summer Mystrade Exchange – inspired by the headcanon you told about the nonny and my own holiday's fight with the temperatures. Hope you'll like it! :)

Greg snorted quietly at the sign hanging on the wall on his floor in New Scotland Yard. AIR CONDITIONING, PLEASE DO NOT OPEN THE WINDOWS, it said, but apparently English AC wasn't made to deal with the temperatures that came to London that particular summer and sitting in the room full of people and with closed windows was like an attempt to commit suicide. And for the moment being, Lestrade had enough of the suicides, thank you very much. Or the suicides which apparently were turning out to be the murders and the other way around too. (Not that Sherlock I-Am-Always-Right-And-You-All-Are-Idiots Holmes even bothered to admit he had been a little bit mistaken about that one.)

He always felt very sorry for the families of the victims, and even the huge amount of paperwork caused by it, gathered now on his desk, didn't make the sting in his chest any weaker. But no matter how sorry or guilty he felt, he still had to do the papers.

The fact, that after finishing dealing with it, he would come back to nothing else but an empty flat waiting for him didn't make the situation any better. Mycroft, again, was only God knows where and it has already been... Greg quietly closed the door to his office behind himself and glanced at the small calendar on the desk. Almost eight days since the politician was gone. Not that he was counting. Not that he knew 189 hours passed since they had seen each other for the last time, 192 hours since they had kissed properly and...

Lestrade shook his head, trying to get rid of the thoughts hiding there. He really shouldn't be thinking about it right now. He knew that, but he couldn't focus on the work either.

"This bloody sweltering heat..." He muttered, shifting in the chair. The imitation leather felt unpleasantly sticky against his perspiring back. The drops of sweat appeared on his forehead and Greg wiped it away with the top of his forearm. Mycroft quite often repeated Greg was like a radiator, throwing the heat around despite the time and the weather, and as much as it was a really nice thing during cold, winter evenings, right now the cop just wished he could have melted already.

With a sigh, he focused his attention on the paperwork for a moment, eyeing the pile of papers. Why couldn't paper melt? It would make his life sooo much easier. Or at least if there was a few degrees less... Greg tilted his head backwards on the chair's back and sent the sun hidden behind the blinds a murderous glare. Didn't work. Shame.

When he finally gathered himself and started to fill in the paperwork, the whole universe seemed to conspire against him. A pen was sliding in his fingers, the sleeve garters (Mycroft's actually, but Greg let himself borrow a pair, seeing as the government's official wasn't using them often anyway) were refusing to hold the rolled sleeves up and kept falling down his arms and, like things weren't going bad enough already, a small electric fan, which he was keeping on his desk, broke down. Not too much time passed before his composure was near to breaking and every now and then Lestrade had to remind himself, that as much as he wished, half-laying wasn't the most appropriate position while writing about the cause of the suicide. He got himself a tentative fan though, made from an useless piece of paper, and pretended it was helping. But it wasn't.

Soon enough 'the fan' was crashed into a paper ball and laid on the floor next to the trash bin, because of course Greg hadn't managed to throw it into the bucket.

The copper was ready to waste more of his energy and growl in frustration, when the door opened slightly and Sally's, definitely too cheerful, face appeared in the crack. Lestrade prayed someone wise had let him go home. Obviously or sadly rather, it didn't happen, but the woman asked if she could get him something to drink. A gift from heaven. Or the temperature in her office got so high, she caught the first occasion to take a trip around the air conditioned floor. Like it would help.

"Water, tea? Or coffee?"

Greg thought about a cold pint, that was what he needed right now. He just kept himself from letting out a helpless groan.

"Coffee, please. As long as you'll put in a reasonable amount of ice."

At moments like that he loved the refrigerator they had in the spare room. If Greg didn't want to have the paperwork finished as soon as possible, he most likely would go there and put his head inside it and stay like that until there would be liveable conditions in the rest of the building. Which was about to happen in… a few weeks, probably. If they were lucky.

When Sally put the mug down to his desk, it turned out to be rather ice with coffee, than coffee with ice. Already melting cubes were occupying more or less half of it. The drink was wet, had an ugly taste, was cold and oh God, it was exactly what Greg needed right now. The rubbish coffee managed to cool him down a little, at least for some time. Greg even considered getting another one, but decided he would probably get either sick, from the taste, or ill, after almost swallowing half of the cubes and teasing his burning and sore from shouting throat, casually thanks to Sherlock for that.

Though, even only the cold mug put against copper's forehead and temples felt nice, that is, until Superintendent happened to pass by his office with a weird look, and Greg put it down, a bit embarrassed (not that all of them weren't trying everything to get colder; a contest for the dumbest way to do it was won by Anderson, who put his face under the running water and drops from his hair almost destroyed an evidence).

Lestrade stood up, shifted the blinds and closed the window, hoping he would feel air conditioning. After fifteen minutes he stood up again, this time to get the window opened. The action was repeat a few more times, without any noticeable effect. Eventually, he decided on another so-called coffee and swallowed it without tasting.

The hours passed, the sun was shining less brightly, the pile of paperwork got smaller. The end of the day had never felt so good.

When Lestrade was leaving Yard, maybe there was a few degrees less, but the air was heavy and it was a bit hard to breath. If not the usual London rush, he would say it was… quiet. Silence before the storm? He hoped so. He could get home on foot, walking in the rain and imbibe it like a sponge, but Mycroft could get back any time and the shopping was definitely needed. As long as getting wet was a nice idea, getting the bags wet also, wasn't.

He took his car then. At least this one air conditioning was working as it should, and twenty minutes spent in the traffic jam were definitely the best twenty minutes of Lestrade's day.

There was a queue, but not too big and fortunately he got everything he aimed for. Something for a late dinner - beer included -, something for a dinner if the government's official was back - beer still included - and a box of ice cream. Okay, a big box. ...okay, Greg bought three big boxes of ice cream. Just in case if Mycroft - you-don't-need-the-diet talk included too - would be back. If not, well, truth to be told, the cop could cope with 4,5 litres of ice cream and he wouldn't complain if he had to do it.

And somewhere, on his way home, Greg got an idea of eating the ice cream instead of the actual dinner. He wasn't really hungry anyway, too high temperature for that – even for him.

When he was entering the flat, Lestrade was not surprised to find Mycroft wasn't in there. He couldn't say he wasn't disappointed though.

Grunting quietly, he unpacked the bags and moved on to the cold boxes, smile finally spreading over Greg's face. The only problem that occurred, was that he opened them, only to find inside something more reminding milkshake than ice cream.

With a heavy sigh of a man beaten by the weather, Greg put them into the freezer and eventually settled for a shower. Ah, shower. Cold, long shower, and if that wouldn't help, he was about to give up completely and just rot in front of the telly only with his boxers on for the rest of the day.

Casually, making his way to the shower, Greg dropped the taken off clothes to the floor, leaving a trail behind himself, and stepped into the bathroom covered with nothing more than a thin layer of sweat. Sometimes Mycroft would consider it sexy, especially when he was in a good mood, but now, there was no Holmes to flatter the old cop. Nor to share a shower with.

With that longing thought, Lestrade turned the water on and, as always, struggled with the tap for a moment, trying to find the right temperature. Quick wash, and when it was done, there was nothing left to do, but to close eyes and simply enjoy.

Greg had an expression like he could feel every little cold droplet, which was travelling down his skin, like he could track in his mind the traces of every one of them. They were falling from his chin to his collarbones, dripping from his wet hair to his shoulders. He shivered, when one touched his particularly ticklish spot on the nape. It felt so good, Greg was almost expecting the pair of cold hands reaching out and touching his body, joining droplets in their exploration. He could almost hear the soft hum of appreciation, when he would relax under them, letting these slender fingers to take care of him...

He was violently woken up from his fantasy with the hot water falling on his face. Apparently, while daydreaming, the cop knocked off the tap and instead of refreshing shower, he was getting a sauna.

Enough, he decided and cut the water off, before marching out of the shower with a fluffy towel wrapped low on his hips, water still dropping from pretty much everywhere.

Greg passed by the garments still adorning the hallway floor, because there was no government's official to pick them up, and, grabbing ice cream which finally were real ice cream before, tumbled onto the settee. He glanced at the clock and reached for the remote control to turn on the telly. Time to get the supper and off to the bed, most would say, but, to be honest, Greg didn't planned on moving any more that day. The hard and bad for back furniture became his bed since Mycroft had been gone. Yes, the detective didn't really like sleeping alone in the massive, king-sized bed, but the matter was even simpler than that – the bedroom had its windows, really big ones actually, directed onto the south side, the sunny side. Result? Sometimes in the evening it was incredibly hot in there, and sitting on the couch and stuffing another mouthful of ice cream, Lestrade wondered how the hell they could sleep there.

...

Greg had fallen asleep thinking about the sun and ironically, the next day he was woken up by it. Seemed that all the TV shows last night had been so dull, they managed to lull him to sleep quite quickly. He propped himself on an elbow and sleepily roamed his eyes over what he could without really moving. When he spotted the remote control laying on the very edge of the coffee table, definitely out of his reach, he thanked God the device was turning itself off on its own after some time, otherwise, Mycroft would have killed him, before he even had a chance to see him. Not that it was about the bill, it wasn't really a problem, but the politician insisted on being ecological.

After this thought crossed his mind, making him almost laugh, he eventually found himself conscious enough to notice that he was covered with a blanket. There wouldn't be anything extraordinary about it, if he remembered wrapping it around himself the previous night. He did not. Actually, he didn't even recall taking it out of the closet.

That very thought had him jumping to his feet and… hesitating when the fabric fell down. The towel must have been shoved to the carpet by accident, as beneath the blanket he was wearing nothing at all. It didn't really concern him, after all he was in his own flat. What it boiled down to was that the towel has been nowhere to be seen. And that was a little alarming.

When realisation finally dawned on his sleepy mind, Greg couldn't help but curled his lips in a smile. Scratching at his scalp, the detective walked towards the kitchen, with swaying steps of a man who was woken up in the middle of the night. The fact that his clothes weren't wallowing around didn't go unnoticed though. The closer his destination, the more carefully he tried to move and delicious aroma of coffee wasn't making it any easier.

Eventually, Greg stopped in the door frame and with a grin observed an auburn haired man bustling around and making the coffee. He was dressed, as always, in some posh trousers and shirt, but his composure was more relaxed than usually. Lestrade didn't really know what time was it, but most probably late enough for Mycroft to be at work already, and if he wasn't, that could mean only one thing - the politician had come back and took a day off straight away.

It was just enough to make Greg the happiest man in the world. He took a few more steps forward and a moment later, he stood with arms wrapped around Mycroft's middle and cheek pressed to man's shoulder blade.

"Do I have you back or am I still sleepin' and it's a dream?" He muttered, not caring if his words were muffled by the government's official back or shirt.

Mycroft didn't seem surprised at all, probably he knew about the cop's presence behind his back for a while now. He just chuckled quietly and turned in the embrace to face Greg.

"Do I really have the pleasure to appear in your dreams?" He asked, resting his hands on his lover's waist and then slowly sliding them down, to his bare hips.

The detective shivered under the cold touch and grinned up to him. "Every now and then, yeah."

"Oh, I'm flattered." The politician said, moving his hands back (too soon, Greg thought) and tugging delicately at the other man's arms. "But now, could you please let go of me for a moment, Gregory? I will make you a coffee."

Greg obediently moved back and collapsed onto the chair. "So? When did you get back?"

"A couple of hours ago."

"Why didn't you wake me up?"

"I thought you could use some sleep. Can I ask you a question now?" Mycroft put the mug down to the table and settled on the chair opposite with his own coffee in hands. After receiving a nod, he continued. "Why were you sleeping in the living room?" Not that he couldn't deduce it himself, but they had an unspoken agreement that Mycroft would not do that to Greg.

"Bedroom's too sunny and too hot." The silver haired man answered, gulping down the beverage.

"You've never complained about that before."

"Yeah, and now I keep wondering how can we sleep in there." Greg shrugged, and looked up to the politician, who in answer offered a smile, that one Holmes' smile saying I know something you don't, but I'm not going to tell you so better deduce yourself. And Greg would start to think about it that very moment, if Mycroft didn't surprised him by getting up and putting on the jacket, which was hanged on the chair's back till now. "You goin' somewhere?"

"Yes, I have to go to the office."

Greg let out a childish huff. "Haven't you just come back from work?"

"Just a minor case which has to be urgently taken care of. I will try and be back as soon as possible."

"Doesn't my outfit encourage you to stay at home? Even a little?"

"Your outfit?" Mycroft raised a single eyebrow. "You are naked, Gregory."

"Exactly" The cop grinned and earned himself a roll of these pretty blue eyes.

"As much as I would love to stay and admire your outfit, I have to go. Just a small request, don't eat ice cream for dinner, you will get yourself sick."

It was Lestrade's turn to roll his eyes.

...

(Already dressed, though only in boxer shorts) Greg kept himself entertained by the shower and stupid computer games and shower and ice cream and cold beer for the rest of the day. He believed Mycroft was trying to make it as soon as possible, but unfortunately the case turned out to be not so minor, and when the government's worker turned up at home, it was long after the supper time.

The detective started to doze in front of the telly, again, tired just by the heat alone, when he felt a hand being rested on his shoulder. He opened his eyes slowly, turned around on the couch and leaned over the backseat to kiss Mycroft on the lips. He had to lurk for longer than he thought, because Holmes had his hair already wet from the shower and was dressed in silk pyjamas (again, Greg was never going to understand how he could sleep in pyjamas during summers like that).

Mycroft walked around the furniture and turned the telly off, before taking his lover's hand and attempting to make him stand up. In comparison to his own, Lestrade's hand were warm and big. "Are you going to sleep here again?"

Greg let himself be pulled up, but nodded in answer. "I think so. Sorry, it's just too hot in the bedroom.

But the auburn haired man was already tugging him away from the settee. "It is not, let me show you."

He was about to protest, but the part of him, which craved just sleep and Mycroft's closeness didn't allow him to. Soon enough, he was laying on the soft mattress with his partner spooning him. Usually it was Greg initiating a contact like that, but this time Holmes pressed his chest to the detective's back, tangled their legs and reached out his arms to touch man's bare chest.

Even though they were touching with almost whole their bodies, Lestrade noticed it wasn't so hot, as it had been when he had tried to sleep there alone. Slender fingers sliding down his chest helped him to get to the answer why. He always knew Mycroft's hands were rather cold, but now he realised it wasn't only his hands. Like Greg was the radiator, Mycroft seemed to cool down his temperature.

The detective moved his lover's hand up to his lips and kissed it. "You were right." He muttered, already half-absent.

He felt the delicate shake of Mycroft's chest on his back, as the government's official chuckled soundlessly. "I dare to say, I am always right."

He was just about to confirm it and ask if he could take Mycroft with him to work and use as a personal conditioning, when he dozed off completely.