DALLIANCE
Rating: M for a reason.
Spoilers: None whatsoever.
Summary: Mycroft is devastated when he thinks Sherlock is dating Lestrade and resolves to do something, anything, to prevent the Inspector from slipping away from him. Even if it means coming clean about his own feelings.
Dedicated to the crew of the good ship Mystrade.
"Attendance is non-negotiable, little brother."
Standing in the living room of Baker Street Sherlock was pleased his brother couldn't see his appalled expression over the phone.
"Black tie, of course," continued Mycroft.
"Of course. Can I brink someone?" asked Sherlock.
"If you must. Just be there. The French Embassy. Eight o'clock tomorrow night."
Sherlock was even more appalled when John reminded him that he wouldn't be available to go with him, he would be in Cambridge with Harry.
"Well, I'm not going on my own," said Sherlock huffily.
"Take Molly, "suggested John. "I bet she'd jump at the chance."
"No," said Sherlock, "I've got as better idea."
He picked up his phone again and dialled.
"Hello, Lestrade? No, we're fine. I know you're not busy tomorrow night. Do you have a dinner jacket? No, it's not a weird question. Do you? Can you get one? Good. I'll pick you up at seven thirty. It's a reception at the French Embassy and I refuse to attend on my own."
John looked at Sherlock as he put his phone back in his dressing gown pocket.
"Did you just ask Greg out?" he asked, trying not to sound as disbelieving as he felt.
"I do have an ulterior motive, John. My brother has been infatuated with the Inspector for years, it's about time he did something about it."
John shook his head.
"It doesn't work like that, Sherlock. Greg's only just got divorced. From a woman. "
His flatmate might be a genius but he could be terribly dense at times, John often had to spell things out for him. In words of no more than two syllables.
"He's also bisexual, John. And massively sexually frustrated. You can tell by the way he walks. A little dalliance would probably go a long way to relieving that."
John just sighed and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on.
Mycroft was deep in conversation with the Serbian ambassador the next night when he caught sight of his brother. And with him…
Mycroft's champagne glass slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers and shattered on the marble floor.
"Apologies, Mr Ambassador," he said graciously.
"Are you all right, Mr Holmes?"
"Perfectly. Do please excuse me, I've just seen my brother."
"Ah, the famous detective. We will speak again later."
Mycroft inclined his head while his heart was full of fury.
He was going to kill his bloody sibling. What was Sherlock thinking? Why did he bring Gregory Lestrade of all people with him when Sherlock knew only too well about his brother's infatuation with the handsome Detective Inspector?
And the man looked incredibly fine that night, his broad shoulders showed off to their best advantage in well-cut back cloth, his brown eyes were twinkling and he was all bonhomie and middle-aged charm and Mycroft felt absolutely floored with longing.
Their eyes met and Mycroft saw Lestrade's smile falter briefly, returning to full beam as they met up.
"Good evening, brother mine."
"Sherlock. Good evening, Inspector."
"Right, Mycroft. Which utterly boring person did you drag me here to meet and impress? Trade deal in the offing, is there?"
Mycroft frowned but discreetly pointed out a small, plump man who was wide -eyed with excitement having spotted the famous Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock sighed and made his way over, leaving his brother and Lestrade alone.
"I need his conclusions on that man," explained Mycroft. "And that man is a huge admirer of my brother."
"Fair enough, "replied Lestrade, downing the last of his champagne. "excuse me, I need a cigarette."
Mycroft watched the elegantly-dressed figure leave the reception room as Sherlock returned to his side.
"He's clean of all you suspect of him, brother. Make your deal, but don't let him anywhere near your assistant, she's just his type."
"Why did you bring HIM of all people?" hissed Mycroft, momentarily forgetting why he had asked Sherlock here in the first place.
"I deduced he would annoy you the most. I also deduced you would enjoy the sight of him in formal dress. Scrubs up well, doesn't he?"
"Extremely well," admitted Mycroft.
"What I didn't deduce," continued Sherlock," is quite how jealous you would be."
"Don't be ridiculous!"
"This has gone on long enough. Do something about it then we can all get back to working properly."
"Do what? "scoffed Mycroft. "Someone like that wouldn't be interested."
"Oh, I don't know. He hasn't taken his eyes off you since we got here. Where is he, by the way?"
"Garden," said Mycroft distractedly.
"Then go and talk to him. I think a dalliance with the likes of Lestrade would do you good, brother."
He walked away, quietly pleased at the expression on his normally inscrutable big brother's face.
Greg Lestrade stood in the embassy gardens, cigarette in hand, wishing he was a million miles away from here, or at least curled up in front of the telly with a beer. This really wasn't his thing, there was only one reason he stayed, just on the off-chance that he might have a conversation with Mycroft Holmes that didn't want to make him cut his tongue out or die of embarrassment.
He'd known the man for years, he knew their relationship was strictly Sherlock, however much he wished to the contrary. Falling for the handsome government man had been all too easy and his fantasy life had become enriched.
Recently it seemed that the Iceman was thawing towards him. The fact that this détente had coincided with his divorce hadn't escaped Lestrade.
Seeing him tonight, smiling, relaxed, with a glass in his hand had taken Lestrade's breath away and when the light from the chandeliers had highlighted the deep red in Mycroft's hair, red like a well-banked fire, Lestrade's thoughts had turned to the filthy. He'd always preferred redheads.
"Idiot," he muttered to himself.
"Talking to yourself, Gregory?"
Lestrade almost swallowed his tongue. Mycroft had appeared out of nowhere and was standing close enough for Lestrade to smell his expensive aftershave.
"Not even my mother called me Gregory. Unless I was really naughty."
"My mother insists on calling me Mike. What can you do?"
Lestrade grinned as Mycroft produced a packet of Silk Cut from his jacket pocket and began hunting fruitlessly for his lighter.
"Here," said Lestrade, offering his own battered Zippo. Mycroft lit up and inhaled deeply. He even smoked elegantly and Lestrade knew, in that minute, he was utterly lost.
"Thank you, said Mycroft, returning the lighter. "I had to get out of there. Far too many people."
"I thought you'd be used to it," said Lestrade, grinding out his own cigarette on a handy stone cherub.
"Hardly. I was surprised to see you here though."
"Not as surprised as I was to be invited. Though Sherlock never does anything without some kind of agenda."
"I know exactly what it is." Mycroft didn't meet Lestrade's eyes and he crossed his arms over his body. "It is for you and I to spend some time together as he has this notion that there may be a degree of mutual attraction. Of course, I understand completely if you find this an appalling idea…"
"I don't. I think it's a great idea."
Mycroft's face lit up at Lestrade's comment and he moved closer. In the half-light, his sapphire eyes were almost black. The noise of other people approaching made Lestrade react swiftly. He leaned in and kissed Mycroft softly on the lips.
"You know where I live, "he whispered as Mycroft mentally reeled from the shocking intimacy "Around the corner is a place that does the best espresso in London. I'll be there at ten o'clock, if you're interested in continuing this conversation."
"I don't frequent cafes" Mycroft was appalled to hear himself say. What the hell was wrong with him?
"It's not, "smiled Lestrade. "It's a bookshop with delusions of grandeur. Just be there, okay?"
And with that, he was gone.
Lestrade was five minutes early the next morning when he opened the door to the bookshop and was assailed with the aromas of fresh coffee and new books. He was no sooner through the door when Mycroft appeared, dressed in charcoal grey with a navy-blue shirt which brought out the colour of his eyes.
"Well, Gregory, you promised me the best espresso in London."
"No problem, "said Greg with a smile. "I'll get them if you want to sit down."
Slowly, over idle chit-chat about the books and films they loved, not to mention general trivia, the two men relaxed into each other's company. It was nice, Lestrade thought, to talk to Mycroft like this without discussing work, or Sherlock. The espresso cups had long since been drained but neither of them moved, reluctant to break the spell. Until Mycroft spoke.
"May we go to your flat, Gregory? I feel the need for a cigarette."
"Yeah, they'll skin you alive if you light up in here," smiled Greg.
Mycroft followed Lestrade into his living room silently asking permission both to sit and light up. They both did, Lestrade drinking in the sight of Mycroft on his sofa like he was a regular visitor.
Mycroft finished his cigarette and leaned back, his eyes on Lestrade.
"Is that all you came for?" asked Lestrade.
"You and I both know that it's not, Gregory."
Lestrade was finding it hard to breathe.
"Last night," continued Mycroft, looking down at his clasped hands. "I would have let you do anything to me, especially after you kissed me. You must appreciate, my previous, er, dalliances have been rather short on tenderness. And this morning…"
"That's the trouble with last nights, "said Lestrade placidly. "There always followed by this mornings. Are you having second thoughts?"
"About you, no. I have no doubt about my desire for you, Gregory, but it never occurred to me to ask you what you want."
Lestrade grinned, that million-dollar smile that made Mycroft go weak at the knees every time he saw it. Even more so when he saw desire kindling in Lestrade's dark eyes.
"Oh, that's easy. I want you."
"Then you shall have me," said Mycroft simply.
He slid into Lestrade's embrace like he belonged there. Mycroft's mouth was warm and inviting, his lips parting to allow access, Lestrade exploring carefully, not wanting to rush it.
They paused for breath, Lestrade's hands moving slowly over Mycroft's slender frame as he shrugged off his suit jacket, reaching for the buttons on Lestrade's shirt, desperate to see for himself if reality could beat his imagination.
He returned to Lestrade's mouth, kissing him deeply, his long fingers tangling in the other man's silver hair, their bodies pressed close leaving Mycroft in do doubt about exactly how much he was wanted.
Lestrade broke the kiss, stood up and extended a hand.
"Come to bed, Mycroft. I'm getting too old to be shagging on the sofa. It's murder on the knees. Besides, "he continued, his voice now a low growl which hotwired right into Mycroft's libido. "there's nothing like skin on skin."
Wordlessly Mycroft followed him into the bedroom where they finished undressing each other, Mycroft pulling Lestrade on top of him.
In a daze, he watched Lestrade caress every part of him as if he were made of blown glass, vocalising his pleasure at every sweet touch, Lestrade's name on his lips, the sheets clutched in ecstasy.
None of his fantasies could hold a candle to this reality and he arched against Lestrade, every nerve ending electrified. Why, he thought, did I deny myself this for so long? Wanting and unable to hold back, biting his lover's shoulder to stifle his cry of completion.
Lestrade moving slowly in Mycroft's body, angling himself perfectly, sweet friction driving perilously close to the edge, one soft cry and the feeling of Mycroft closing around him was enough to push him over, shamelessly vocal even though he tried to hide it, blood seeping down his chin where he had bitten his lip.
When he came back to himself he was nestled in Lestrade's arms, one of Lestrade's hands stroking the outside of his thigh.
"Gregory, I'm sorry. I have to go," he said. Lestrade looked almost hurt but quickly rallied.
"Yeah, the country won't run itself, will it?"
"May I use your bathroom?" asked Mycroft, getting out of bed and standing there lean, freckled and lovely. "And would you care to join me?"
"Too bloody right I would, "laughed Lestrade.
When they were both dried and dressed Lestrade took Mycroft into his arms and kissed him. Mycroft clung to his warm, solid body, reluctant to let go.
The intercom to Lestrade's flat buzzed, a harsh, jarring sound that made them break apart almost guiltily.
"That will be my driver," said Mycroft. "Gregory…"
"It's fine, Mycroft. Go,"
With a nod, he left.
Lestrade decided he needed a drink. He was halfway through his second pint in his local when his phone buzzed in his pocket. The message was from a number he didn't recognise, but the content made him smile like a Cheshire Cat and, losing interest in anything but composing a suitable reply, he left the pub.
I DON'T SEND TEXT MESSAGES ANY MORE THAN I FREQUENT CAFES. YOU ARE A CORRUPTING INFLUENCE, GREGORY LESTRADE. I DON'T WANT THIS TO BE A MERE DALLIANCE. TELL ME YOU DON'T EITHER. OVER DINNER TONIGHT. PLEASE? MH
The End.