Notes:

Completely un-beta'd, so apologies for anything I overlooked. Written for Valeria2067's Tumblr prompt about Mycroft kidnapping John for Lestrade.

The ranks of nobility in this universe don't really fit any real-life models; it's closer to a model that I'm developing for my own worlds from my original works. Lestrade is a nobleman with a court, but he's not a king. This fic was developed out of an original story, so I've kept the fantasy setting. Lestrade and John are human, Mycroft and Sherlock are not.

Lord Gregory Lestrade was sulking.

While they weren't as impressive as the moods he'd seen his own brother in, Mycroft found Lestrade's sulks far more disconcerting than Sherlock's. It had everything to do with the fact that a man of Lestrade's bearing looked out of place sprawled out on his custom settee with a furrowed brow marring the quiet, strong composition of his face, and nothing to do with the fact that Mycroft found himself more than a little fond of the nobleman than one would expect a member of the court to be. (Which was not a fact at all, because Mycroft was not more fond of Lestrade than was appropriate, no matter what the young library-keeper Molly might imply with ill-contained glee. And he most certainly did not wax poetic when talking about his master to others.)

"Is there anything I can do for you, sire?" asked Mycroft. Lestrade's bad moods had decreased in frequency over the last few years, and Mycroft would be damned if he allowed them to return. He would do whatever it took to keep Lestrade in good humour, just as he had after the discovery of numerous affairs the (former) lady of the manor had been involved in.

"There's nothing anyone can do," said Lestrade petulantly, scowling at the high ceiling. "Not all problems can be fixed as easily as pouring a cup of tea, Holmes, as much as you might like to think so." Sunlight and shadows from the glass door leading to the balcony played over his face, throwing the angles of his face into sharper detail.

"...Would you like some tea?" asked Mycroft. If he could get Lestrade to sit up and talk over tea, he might be able to get to the cause of the current sulk.

"No. Yes. I don't know," said Lestrade irritably, rolling onto his side and pressing his face into the velvety cushioning. Mycroft exited the room and came back soon after with a tray he set on the table in front of the settee and began pouring. Lestrade rolled over again and sat up, running his fingers through the dark silver of his hair. "I don't know what to do. I'm at a complete loss." Mycroft said nothing, but set a cup in front of Lestrade. Lestrade took a sip before sighing. "I wish I knew why love has to be so complicated."

Only years of practising keeping his composure kept Mycroft from spilling the tea he was pouring for himself. This didn't sound good at all. "My lord?"

Lestrade set his cup down before leaning back against the settee, stretching his legs out and crossing his ankles. One arm draped over the back of the sofa, pulling his shirt taut against his chest. Mycroft almost bit his lower lip, but caught himself last moment and smoothed down his own shirt before picking up his cup. Lestrade leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. "Have you ever wanted someone you couldn't have?"

"I think almost everyone does at some point in their lives, sire," said Mycroft. "Is there...someone you're fond of?" Mycroft needed a name before he could decide on his next move. The idea of Lestrade pining after someone didn't sound good at all - he had business matters to attend to, after all, and a lover would only complicate things - but if left to his own devices, the pining would be just as distracting. So long as the name Lestrade gave him wasn't someone dangerous to his well-being or his rule, Mycroft would do whatever he could. Pulling strings was a specialty of his, after all. "Perhaps this person isn't as unattainable as you may think."

"No...perhaps not," said Lestrade, sounding as if an idea had just occurred to him. He straightened up, looking at Mycroft. "In fact," he said, the pitch of his voice lowering, "I think you could be very helpful indeed, Holmes." Hints of a smile quirked at the corner of his mouth, his eyes brightening.

Mycroft came very close to outright staring. "Could I, sire?" he asked, keeping his voice level. Inwardly, his heart rate betrayed his composure. He had been privy to this particularly intense stare of Lestrade's only a few times in the past; he had seen it at the beginnings of Lestrade's courtship with his wife, and once or twice he imagined he had seen it directed at him when Lestrade thought he wasn't looking. He had long since come to associate it with Lestrade thinking eagerly of something he wanted that he knew he was about to get. And now here it was again, directed at him across afternoon tea.

"You could," said Lestrade, and Mycroft thought his voice sounded almost like a purr. "You could be just the man I want."

Mycroft swallowed hard. He was certain the flush he could feel threatening to creep up his face had everything to do with the warm sun and nothing to do with Lestrade's statements. He made a mental note to get up in a moment and push the door ajar to let the breeze in. "I'll be more than happy to do whatever I can, my lord."

Lestrade's demeanour brightened further. "Excellent," he said (in what was most definitely a purr). "Holmes...I want you to bring me John Watson."

Lord Gregory Lestrade had finished sulking. Mycroft Holmes had just begun.