this appeared into my brain last night, when JohnsArmyLady challenged me to write another Mystrade story, for heaven's sake...
i own nothing, just a sad, deluded mind that's far too full of Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade... Daily...
It wasn't exactly that Greg hated the thing, or that he wished to burn it, ceremoniously, not even that he wanted to replace the eyesore… it was just that… It was so big…
When he moved in last year, Mycroft had asked him if Greg wanted to put his stamp on the house, maybe put some new wallpaper up in the living room, or redecorate the bedroom in funky colours of his choice, and Greg was nonplussed – he couldn't really give a monkey's. Decorating, and being bothered about what the place looked like had never been his area, it had been his ex-wife's when he was married, and now that he was going to live in Mycroft's house, which was to become his in time, he never even thought about changing anything about the décor. It looked fine. It looked more than fine: it looked gorgeous, in an elegant and classy way. Only that sofa…
It reminded him of every rich, pandered to, twatty bastard he'd ever come across in his career, every loaded businessman that's ever thought he could just buy his way out of trouble. Every time he'd had to visit one in their mansion in the country or million pound town house in St. John's Wood or Kensington, they would all have the trophy wife or mistress, and they would also all have a Chesterfield sofa, so for Greg to spot one in Mycroft's living room made him feel somewhat disappointed. But it was Mycroft's house, and it was Mycroft's sofa, so he never mentioned it…
So when Greg came home after a gruelling day at work, with a young man losing his life to drugs and the family he had to console, the circumstances he was found in, and everything to do with it, he just flopped himself into the corner of the brown leather sofa, whiskey in one hand, remote control in the other. Until Mycroft would come home at least, he would be doing nothing more than stare at the telly, down his drink and pretend today didn't happen.
An hour or so later he heard the front door open and close, and he anticipated the arrival of his beloved within seconds, and the familiar crunch of the doorknob being twisted, and he noticed himself feel a little bit cheerier already.
"Hello, my darling," was the familiar greeting he received, and as he looked up he saw that Mycroft had come in without any of his attributes. He'd taken his jacket off and looked fairly relaxed, and bent over the back of the sofa to catch Greg mouth in a sweet kiss. "Ooh, you seem tense… Hard day?"
"Bit. Overdose of a young guy, looked like a set up… Don't wanna go there anymore…" Greg mumbled.
"Aah… Advanced relaxation techniques required here, I'm guessing…" Mycroft mused, while holding on the hand that Greg had offered him. For one second he contemplated rolling over the back of the sofa, but thought better of it, and while still holding Greg's hand, he walked around the arm, parked himself next to his partner, pulled him towards his own body, making sure that he was feeling totally comfortable. Greg's head was resting on his chest, and Mycroft's arm was draped securely around his body, while the fingers of his other hand were tenderly raking through Greg's soft grey hair. That would keep trouble out…
"My…" Greg whispered almost after he had been stroked for a while.
"Shhh… Don't talk, just chill out for a bit…"
More stroking and stillness ensued.
"Just hear me out for a minute, My..." Greg tried again, words slipping out quietly. "You know I said I hadn't wanted to change anything about your house, when I moved in last year, and I didn't… But for about three minutes I thought about mentioning how much I disliked this sofa…"
"What? You should've said… I'd change any-"
"No listen, it's okay… I never liked it much, at first, cos it reminded me of awful stuff, but I suppose anything can have its redeeming features, if you try hard enough…"
Mycroft caught his eye and tried to show Greg how confused he was.
"There's one thing this particular object is really quite useful for…" he said, while moving his head up just a little, enough to be able to reach his loves lips, and press a tender kiss on it. His arm reached up to pull Mycroft's head down, and confusion was making space for eagerness, and before long the tenderness of the kiss changed into something more fervent, something less gentle and their bodies shifted into a different position, making it easier for them to express feelings of longing and a wish to leave behind any thoughts of unpleasantness that swamped them during their day.
"I like where this is going," Mycroft mumbled as he snaked his arm around Greg's body, pulling him close, and deepening his kiss, feeling his heart crank up the beating and his breathing getting heavier and louder. Clothes left bodies and the sofa's leather creaked a little under the movement.
The crackling fire provided the perfect backdrop, and the statue of Buddha sitting on the mantelpiece witnessed the two men expressing their love for each other.
The calm that set in after they were done made Greg giggle a little. All tension had left him by now, and caressing Mycroft in his arms was as much as he felt like doing right then, for the time being.
"See what I mean," he sniggered, while still out of breath.
"Shall I not get rid of it then?" Mycroft smiled. He pressed a kiss on Greg's chest, then rested his head on it, feeling the heart beating under his cheek.
"Nah, it'll do I suppose… And the stains give it character, don't you think?"
Mycroft lifted his head quickly, suddenly feeling his old fussy self take over, but quickly realised that he didn't give a fig, and laid his head back down on Greg's chest. So what if his nine thousand pound custom made sofa was carrying the stains of love made to the man that he loved to infinity, and beyond… Money meant nothing if he didn't have Gregory in his life.
The fire crackled on, and the Buddha saw that it was good.