SHERLOCK
STARRY NIGHT
Author's Note:
Pairing: Mycroft Holmes/Gregory Lestrade
Warnings: Mild language, mentions of child abuse
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat. The original characters are the property of Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing but the plot and make no money from this story.
Chapter One: Painted Tattoo
Mycroft smiled as he walked into the flat. He could hear The Rolling Stones playing softly in the background, clanking pots, and a baby laughing. Noah was six and a half months old, and had just started laughing. He'd smiled a lot, but never laughed until a few weeks ago when Greg had done something ridiculous and made peels of laugher fall from the baby's mouth.
Since then the two had been doing everything they possibly could to make Noah laugh. He mostly did it when Greg was being weird; pulling faces, waggling toys (and his hips) around the place, and generally being the man Mycroft had fallen in love with.
Mycroft slung his leather jacket over the hook by the door, dropped his keys in the bowl sitting atop the small, narrow table, and leaned his newest finished painting against the wall. He then kicked his shoes off, and couldn't help but jog down the long hallway so he slid into the main room on his socks. Gregory was a bad influence on him.
They lived in a studio flat; one large room that made up the sitting room/bedroom/kitchen/small dining room, with a bathroom opposite the kitchen, and a small wooden staircase that led up to the overhanging space that had once held their bed and wardrobe.
Now it was Noah's space; all his toys, clothing, and cot were up there, and Greg and Mycroft had dragged their stuff downstairs to make it fit as best they could. It wasn't the biggest place- or the cleanest- but it had a lived-in feel that the Manor house Mycroft had grown up in didn't. Likewise, Greg's childhood home had been a shack, really, what with seven kids trying to live in a two-bedroom house.
Mycroft ran his eyes over the small space; they'd painted the walls white, having hated the light pink they'd been when they'd moved in. A strip of blue boarded by black had been Greg's way of trying to liven the place up. Like the miss-matched furniture, band posters, and clothes left lying all over the place didn't do that.
But it was home. That's all that mattered.
Mycroft spotted his spouse and son in the small kitchen. Noah was in his little bouncy-chair thing; it was circular, made of plastic, with bright coloured toys stuck all over it and a swing in the middle that let Noah sit up and bounce.
Greg was making dinner- some type of pasta, they'd lived on the stuff when they'd first run away from home- and it was a dish that brought back memories of cold nights curled up together on a bare mattress; of tears shed and fears shared over whether or not they'd done the right thing; early mornings eating stone-cold food because they had no electricity after working four days in a row because they needed the money.
Everything was different, now. Greg was smiling and laughing again, along with Noah, the little boy bouncing and slapping his hands against any available surface in a show of enjoyment.
Mycroft shuffled across the floorboards and Greg finally looked up from where he was holding his hand out, Noah sucking what looked like pasta sauce off of Greg's index finger.
'What have I told you about feeding the baby like that?' Mycroft asked as he got closer.
Greg flashed him a cheeky grin. 'What have I told you about walking around the flat in clothes, hmm?'
'Not in front of the baby,' was Mycroft's immediate response. He leaned over the counter to accept a warm, gentle kiss from his partner, who's grin turned goofy as they parted. 'And how's my favourite man?' Mycroft asked, bending to kiss Noah.
The baby grinned and flapped his hands about, making grabby-motions at his papa. Mycroft gave in and lifted his son from the swing, Noah immediately snuggling against him to mouth wet kisses to Mycroft's neck.
'And he loves you too,' Greg smiled and turned back to the pasta sauce he was heating up on the stove.
'Of course he does; look at me,' Mycroft responded.
Greg laughed. 'How was work?'
'How it usually is,' Mycroft answered, bouncing Noah in his arms. He was manager at the local pub, having worked his way up from bartender/waiter to where he was now, and also worked part-time as a painter; he could sell most of his paintings on street corners, but selling them to a studio was good for when they desperately needed money. Greg worked at the pub too, playing his guitar either solo or with local bands, and waiting tables when they had an extra shift. They were the first jobs they'd gotten when they'd moved to London, and the money wasn't great, but it was something.
They were both still on the lookout for better work; they had a son, now, and the amount of things he needed just to live comfortably was staggering. Plus, they needed a bigger place; the three couldn't co-exist happily in a small studio flat when Noah got bigger.
'No trouble?' was Greg's next question.
'No,' Mycroft shook his head. 'Has Noah eaten?'
'Waitin' for you,' Greg said and nodded at the bowl of warm water, filled with diced vegetables, that was sitting on the bench beside the blender.
Mycroft carried Noah over and started preparing the little man's dinner, Noah seeming comfortable slotted against Mycroft's chest. Greg and Mycroft traded stories about their days- Mycroft had wiped tables, Greg had played with Noah and gotten him to laugh seventeen times (Greg definitely had the better day)- and soon enough the small family was sitting at their table eating dinner.
Mycroft fed Noah while Greg made cooing noises at him, and the red-head spent half his time laughing. Noah and Greg ate exactly the same way; laughing or babbling as they did, spilling sauce down their chins and shirts. Noah was a baby, he had an excuse- and a bib- Greg, not so much.
'Honestly, Gregory,' Mycroft sighed when his partner dragged a thumb through the sauce dripping down his cotton t-shirt.
'Wha'?' Greg mumbled, sucking his thumb. 'S'dirty already.'
'I spend half my time trying to scrub stains from your shirts.'
'And I spend half my time trying to get you out of your shirts,' Greg said and pointed his fork at Mycroft. 'Which sounds like time better spent?'
Mycroft's lips tugged up into a smile, despite his best attempt to remain stony-faced. When they'd first met, back when they'd been stupid sixteen-year-olds trying to escape their home lives, Greg's gruff nature and rough exterior had made Mycroft's skin crawl. He grew on you, though, and once he'd gotten through Mycroft's coldness that was it; Mycroft was lost.
The blue-eyed man just shook his head, knowing a lost cause when he saw one, and went back to feeding Noah while trying to get his own dinner into his mouth. Unfortunately Noah seemed to find noodles extremely amusing and kept grabbing for them and shoving them into his mouth before Mycroft could stop him, laughing when Mycroft scowled. Greg laughed too.
Two hours after sitting down for dinner they were done, and Greg went to wash the dishes while Mycroft changed Noah's nappy and slid him into his little blue footsie pyjamas. They had guitars on them; when Greg had seen them he'd grabbed them, and Mycroft couldn't have talked him out of the purchase if he'd tried.
Mycroft was just putting Noah into his little cot when Greg joined him, a warm presence by Mycroft's side as the taller man tucked the baby in.
'He was good?' Mycroft whispered.
'Yeah,' Greg nodded, just as low; if they woke Noah up he'd be a terror to put back down.
Mycroft smiled and reached down to brush Noah's dark, slightly curly hair from his forehead. He was a Lestrade in every sense; dark hair, chocolate brown eyes, and an over-enthusiastic attitude about everything in life. But Mycroft hoped to impart some Holmesian onto him; books and deductions, multiple languages and a love for knowledge.
'Sherlock called today,' Greg said suddenly.
Well, that ruined Mycroft's mood.
He tensed and withdrew his hand from Noah's warm body, watching his son sleep for another minute before turning and walking down the stairs. Greg followed him; it wasn't like Mycroft could hide. Their flat had two rooms, and Mycroft didn't fancy spending the night in the small, cramped bathroom.
'Don't walk away, love,' Greg said.
Mycroft sighed as he flopped onto their double bed. The sheets hadn't been made, and Mycroft felt himself sink into the duvet; it smelled like Greg.
Greg waited patiently, sitting beside Mycroft and playing with his leather belt. Finally Mycroft sighed again and said, 'Why?'
'He wants to reconnect, you know that,' Greg said.
'He wants to shout at me for abandoning him to run off and play house with the local bit of rough,' Mycroft muttered. Sherlock's words, not his; shouted over and over again whenever Sherlock could get Mycroft on the phone.
They'd been close, once. Sherlock had been nine when Mycroft's troubles began; when Siger Holmes found out that his sixteen-year-old was gay and would never marry the Marsdens' pretty young girl Andrea. Father and son had deteriorated into shouting and throwing things, until Siger stepped it up a notch with shoves and punches.
Sherlock was ten, Mycroft seventeen, when the older brother finally had enough money to run from home with his boyfriend and try to make a life for himself in London. They hadn't spoken in four years. Their father had passed away last year, leaving Meghan Holmes to take care of thirteen-year-old Sherlock.
. Sherlock had, somehow, gotten Mycroft's number, and had been calling almost every day for six months.
Mycroft was inclined to blame the Lestrades. Greg's extended family still lived a few streets from Holmes Manor. Greg's youngest sister, Ryley, had gotten pregnant at sixteen, managed to track Greg down, and convinced Greg and Mycroft to raise her then unborn son, Noah. She'd signed away all rights, perfectly happy to be an aunt instead of a mother. She'd probably given Sherlock Greg's contact details.
So here Mycroft was. A twenty-one year-old father with a younger brother trying to reconnect. Mycroft would be all for it if their phone calls didn't always descend into shouting matches and accusations.
'He misses you,' Greg said.
'He hates me,' Mycroft corrected.
'He still loves you,' Greg said, and Mycroft noted that Greg didn't disagree with him. Sherlock definitely hated Mycroft.
Mycroft sighed and brought both hands up to rub his eyes. He was too tired for this. 'I might call him tomorrow.'
'That's my boy,' Greg grinned brightly.
'I'm not making any promises,' Mycroft warned.
Greg shrugged bounced across the mattress to kiss him. 'Don't care, it's a start.'
'Please don't do that,' Mycroft groaned, pushing him away.
Greg pouted. 'Don't do what?'
'Say "that's my boy", to me,' Mycroft murmured as he sat up. 'You say that to Noah.' He yawned and stretched a bit- purposely to smirk when Greg's eyes immediately jumped to the sliver of skin revealed when his shirt hiked up- and stood, ambling towards the bathroom. He was too tired for a shower, but washing his face and brushing his teeth would be good enough.
When he walked back into the bedroom/sitting room Greg was changing into his own pyjamas- boxers and a large, clean t-shirt- and Mycroft paused to watch. Greg was still very fit; he'd played a lot of sport when he was younger, and waiting tables, taking care of a baby, and helping lug around musical equipment for an extra few quid had kept him in shape.
His muscles were defined under warm, tanned skin, a few freckles dotting his lower back from where he'd gotten sunburnt as a boy. He had a large scar across his left shoulder courtesy of his father's belt, and smaller scars from when he'd crawled under a wire fence running from the cops after stealing a bag of food from the local supermarket.
Mycroft knew those scares, those spots, those muscles; he'd explored them all with his lips and tongue and hands in the past six years. But his absolute favourite part of Greg's skin was the tattoo.
Greg had worked/stolen the money to pay for his tattoo. It started from halfway up his right arm and went all the way up to his right shoulder. It was a collection of smaller pictures, some Mycroft had designed, all morphing together to create a piece of art; a cricket bat across his forearm mixing with a dragon spewing fire; a guitar melding into music notes that actually read the chorus of Greg and Mycroft's song; the notes dancing around to his elbow, where thick black lines twisted and turned all the way up to his shoulder, branching out into red lines and Peter Rabbit and an intricate piece of Vincent van Gogh's The Starry Night.
Mycroft had drawn that, too; had mapped it out for the tattoo artist to ink onto Greg's skin. It took up most of Greg's shoulder, a beautiful mixture of blues and yellows. Greg had said that one day he wanted to get his other arm done with just that art. It was their favourite painting, a reminder of the nights they'd spent lying on the wet grass at the local park, hiding from their families and staring up into the sky as they spoke of a better future for the two of them.
Mycroft couldn't help but step forward, crossing the distance between them quickly. Greg made to put his shirt on but Mycroft stopped him with warm hands on his hips.
'Mm?' Greg hummed, turning only slightly so he could eye Mycroft.
'I love your tattoos,' Mycroft said, and that was all Greg needed.
He smiled and tilted his head. Mycroft pressed a kiss to his cheek, his lips, before kissing his coloured skin. He ran his hands up Greg's hips and sides, ghosting over his ribs before his fingertips touched the pictures needled into Greg's skin.
'I painted you something,' Mycroft said after tracing a swirl on Greg's bicep.
'Oh yeah?' Greg asked.
Mycroft nodded, pressed one last kiss to Greg's shoulder, and went to get the painting he'd left by the door. When he got back Greg was in bed, unfortunately with a shirt on, but Mycroft dismissed that and instead turned the painting around so Greg could see it.
'Fuck, Myc,' Greg breathed and made grabby-hands for it (much like Noah did, they really were the same age). Mycroft handed the painting over and crawled into bed as Greg admired the new artwork.
Mycroft had never thought he was particularly talented, not until they went three days without eating and Greg convinced the red-head to sell some of the paintings he'd brought with them. The money they got for five pieces of artwork was enough to eat for a week after they stretched the budget. After that, Mycroft couldn't afford to be self-concious about his "talent"; he still couldn't, really.
The painting was of Greg... well, Greg's back. It showed him from neck to lower back, leaning against a white wall, his jeans sliding down to reveal the waistband of his pants. Rather than leave Greg's back smooth, Mycroft had painted The Starry Night.
Each star and swirl of the sky looked like it had been tattooed onto Greg's back and over Greg's small imperfections, parts even curling around his hips and ribs. Mycroft had spent hours upon hours staring at a picture of The Starry Night to get it right, and many more hours after that painting the actual thing and doing touch-ups.
There was no special reason he had for doing it; it wasn't Greg's birthday, or an anniversary, or a make-up gift. When Mycroft painted, he needed two projects to work on. While he painted somebody's cat or a replica of a famous piece of art, he needed his own thing to work on so he could jump between the two projects and not get bored. It was just how Mycroft worked, so he'd decided to start this... for Greg.
'This is beautiful, Myc,' Greg breathed, eyes darting from the painting to land on Mycroft, only to slide right back again seconds later.
'I'm glad you like it,' Mycroft said.
'Like it?' Greg's eyes bulged. 'Fuckin' hell, Myc, I love it.' He suddenly stood, throwing the blankets- and nearly Mycroft- clear as he shuffled down the mattress. He grabbed a framed picture of Radio Head that was hanging at the end of their bed and replaced it with the painting. Greg jumped off the bed to stare at it, eyeing the thing critically, before nodding to himself and placing the Radio Head frame on the kitchen table. 'Fuckin' love you,' Greg said when he came back to bed and pounced on Mycroft.
Mycroft laughed and kissed him back as he wrapped his arms and legs around his partner. Greg grinned against his mouth, and they enjoyed a few good minutes of snogging until Mycroft yawned.
'Stupid body,' he muttered when Greg pulled back. 'No, don't go!' he whined.
Greg snorted and nuzzled Mycroft's neck with his nose, pressing a kiss to the flushed skin when he was done. 'Tomorrow, when you're rested and Noah takes his nap, I am gonna fuck you until you scream.'
'Can't scream with Noah here,' Mycroft said.
'Scream into a pillow,' Greg growled. Mycroft smirked. 'Hey, let's sleep the opposite way, 'kay?'
Some nights they laid the opposite way on their bed so they could look out the only window their flat had. They'd look up at the night sky- or day, their schedules were subject to change- and talk like they had when they were younger, more naive, less world-wary.
Mycroft moved their pillows and Greg tugged their blanket around until it was perfectly spread out. They crawled under and got comfortable, Greg with his head on Mycroft's shoulder, their limbs slotted together. The couple went silent as they stared out the window. There weren't many stars, being in the heart of London, but if they squinted and pretended they could see whole constellations and maybe a planet.
'I'll call Sherlock back tomorrow,' Mycroft murmured.
'M'kay,' Greg hummed. 'Where'd the change of heart come from?'
Mycroft was silent a few seconds before saying, 'When he was six, he wanted to know all about the solar system. He made me research every planet and star and galaxy so I could explain it to him. We poured through all the information we could get for hours every afternoon, and almost every night we took his telescope out onto the grounds so we could star gaze.'
He paused to shuffle through his thoughts, his feelings, before speaking again.
'Two months later he told me he'd deleted it all because he wanted to learn about bees. Days of research and time spent together just gone.' Mycroft's voice cracked and Greg rubbed a warm hand over his stomach. 'I want to teach Noah all of that, too,' Mycroft said softly. 'Because even though Sherlock doesn't remember, I do. And maybe Noah will remember. If he doesn't-'
'You will,' Greg finished for him. 'And that's good enough.'
Mycroft nodded. 'I'm used to being there for people, but them not being there for me.' He squeezed Greg's shoulder. 'Except for you.'
''Cause I'm awesome,' Greg grinned.
Mycroft smiled and took the out; Greg knew he didn't like talking about his childhood, so he made a joke. Greg was the same... they really were perfect for each other.
'You're a brat, is what you are,' Mycroft said.
'Mr Holmes, I am offended!' Greg announced loudly. Mycroft shushed him and they spent a good five minutes straining their ears to see if Noah had woken.
He hadn't, and by the time they settled down again Mycroft's exhaustion had caught up with him. He yawned again and Greg murmured, 'Go to sleep, Myc. I'll rock your world tomorrow, 'kay?'
'Okay,' Mycroft replied and kissed the top of his head. He took one last look through the window, at the stars he knew were there but invisible to him, and closed his eyes, Greg a warm presence beside him
Author's Note: A mixture of Tumblr and me remembering the van Gogh episode of Doctor Who... also energy drinks; lots and lots and LOTS of energy drinks. Cigarettes, too. Kids, don't smoke, it ain't cool!
Anywho, hope you enjoyed this random piece of random I wrote.
Update: I have, one again, turned a one-shot into a multi-chapter story. DAMN YOU, JOHNNY!
Cheers,
{IDreamer}