A/N: OperaGoose, this is for you! You're always annoyed at how little Mystrade there is around here on ff, so ta-daa! Check out 'Swapping Roles' too if you want a bit more action. It's only short but…

His body clock set in and he sat up, looking to the right to see Greg resting on his elbow, smirking.

"Happy Birthday Mycroft." He smiled, leaning across to kiss his lovers' chest. Mycroft smiled.

"Thanks Greg. I would suggest we spend the day here, but you'll be called in for a murder in 8 minutes." Damn Mycroft and his ability to know everything.

Lestrade smiled sneakily as he moved himself to straddle Mycroft Holmes, the better of the Holmes brother, at least in bed. Yes, he knew what Sherlock was like, but it was only once, years ago.

He pushed that night from his mind as he put his arms either side of Mycroft and leant down, kissing Mycroft hungrily, marvelling at how quickly Mycroft began to moan. Must be because it was early.

They only had 8 minutes, so Greg reached south and slid a hand down Mycroft's designer briefs. Mycroft gasped in surprise, his eyes fluttering shut in pleasure.

Smirking into the kiss, Greg took all of Mycroft in his hand, pumping slowly as their tongues battled for dominance.

Today Greg won, and Mycroft's hands twisted into Greg's hair as the DIs movements became more hurried, sensing the government official was close.

True to Greg's suspicions, Mycroft's breathing hit an irregular beat and he came into Greg's hand, a look of complete bliss on his face.

Greg smiled smugly. He let himself rest on top of Mycroft, snuggling into the older mans' chest. First present of the day.

They rested there, content with their own breathing and heartbeats, when Lestrade's phone went of with a text, naming a location and the word 'murder'. Sighing, Lestrade hit Speedile 1, and Sherlock's voice answered lazily.

'What?'

"Sherlock, Bow road, number 16. Murder. How long till you can get there?"

'I'm there, I did it.'

"What?" Greg felt his heart sink. It was only a matter of time, after all. They all knew- - his thoughts cut short as he heart Sherlock's deep laughter on the other end, and John criticising him. It sounded like John was literally right next to Sherlock… hm.. maybe both Holmes's had 'got some' this morning. "Sherlock!" He scorned.

'Sorry. I've wanted to use that for a while. I can be there in…' There was a muffled conversation, Sherlock's hand over the mike, Sherlock asking a question, John replying quietly. '15 minutes. I've got something to finish up first.' Greg didn't ask, he didn't want to know.

They hung up and Greg turned to see Mycroft fixing him with a stare that only Mycroft could pull of. And Sherlock. It was one of those stares that make you feel about 2cm tall, like he could see into Greg's innermost thoughts.

"We'd better get going." Greg grinned. "Come on." He rolled out of bed and hauled Mycroft to his feet. "You can have your cake when you get back tonight."

Mycroft's eyes lit up. Cake, his second love. It made the idea of putting up with the Secret Service and the Russian embassy almost bearable.

XxXxXxX

Sherlock stepped into the house and eyed Lestrade judgingly, taking half a second before his mouth twisted into a disgusted grimace and he barely suppressed a shiver. Lestrade looked at the ground. Okay, so Sherlock knew about him and Mycroft. That was alright, but when he could tell exactly what they'd been doing, he almost felt like a guilty schoolboy.

John raised an eyebrow; quietly asking Sherlock what was up. Sherlock shook his head minutely, suggesting John didn't want to know.

Of course, it took 5 minutes and Sherlock was reeling of facts about the victims 3rd birthday. Lestrade genuinely believed he made this bit up, just to astound them.

A short while later and John was talking to Anderson about something. He pushed away Sherlock, who was trying to drag him towards where they could get a cab, saying he'd be contaminated with a strange love for Dinosaurs and a nasally voice if he stayed near the half-wit any longer. Sherlock sighed mockingly, a good impression of John's own signature show of distress, and turned on his heel, stalking over to Lestrade.

"You're chipper today." Lestrade stated, noting the smiles and jokes he and Sherlock has shared.

"Yes, finally got a proper nights sleep. How's my brother?"

"You know it's his birthday today." Lestrade replied. "You haven't called him or anything." He knew their relationship as brothers was strained, but a birthday phone call couldn't be beyond them, surely.

"He knows I know, why bother? We never buy each other anything anyway. It just becomes an awkward conversation. It's not good. The best gift I can give him is not to do anything to attract attention to myself. It's always been like that." Sherlock didn't look at Lestrade, probably because his antics of the morning were plastered across his clothes or something.

"Fair do's. I'll see you tomorrow?" John walked over, smiling happily, oblivious.

"Of course, given another criminal has been gracious enough to kill someone again." Sherlock smiled. "Say hello to my dear brother for me." He smirked and turned, following John, leaving Lestrade confused but still anxious to see Mycroft again. It was annoying that the man would need to spend his birthday in a dull meeting.

9pm finally rolled in and Mycroft stepped through the door to the main hall of their house, his umbrella up protecting his head, and an unhappy expression on his face. The source wasn't difficult to find, as there was a series of holes in the black canvas.

"My favourite umbrella…ruined. Unexpected bullet shower." Mycroft sighed, throwing it to the side. "Bound to happen sooner or later, but still…" Lestrade knew how much that meant to Mycroft and stood up, walking over and slipping his arms round the mans' waist, pulling him in for a comforting hug.

Mycroft returned it, kissing Greg's head. "Hello Greg. How was the murder?"

"Sherlock got it all in a few minutes. How was the secret service meeting?"

"Boring. Nerissa took notes for me."

"Nerissa?"

"Yes, apparently it's from the Greek meaning 'from the sea'." Mycroft replied airily. Lestrade nodded, he was long accustomed to that woman's names.

Ignoring the niggling question that he'd never know that woman's real name, he dragged Mycroft to the bedroom, taking care in removing each layer of clothes, being sure to kiss each newly revealed piece of skin. Mycroft laid back, allowing Greg to effective worship him. The layers of stress faded away under Greg's lips.

50 minutes passed before either of them remembered their own names, tangled in the bedsheets at the centre of the double king sized bed. Silk red and gold surrounded their bodies, a thing layer of sweat making them seem metallic in the red light from the lamps.

They fell asleep, Mycroft dropping of mid sentence, a hand resting on Greg's chest, the other under the other man's neck. Greg had a leg rested over Mycroft's, his arms encircling Mycroft. Greg wished every night could be like this, why were their jobs so unpredictable? It wasn't like they needed the money any more. Mycroft could pay for them to live for about two lifetimes, surely.

Around 2am, Mycroft woke, and looked to Greg, who had slipped away at some point and come back with a long scarlet box, which he left at the foot of the bed. Mycroft sat up, leant forward, pulling the box back into the nest they had made for themselves. In the half-light of the streetlamps, he pulled back the lid and smiled, looking at the new black umbrella. It was scored with accentuating off-white pinstripes. It went perfectly with the slick black suit he was having made at this very moment by Ghastly Bespoke round the corner. This was better than cake. Even the chocolate kind.

Of course, he couldn't open it here. He slipped out of the bed, pulling a silk dressing gown round himself and padding down the dark staircase and through the dimly lit halls until he got the courtyard. It had stopped raining now, but the ground was still cold and wet under his bare feet. He walked into the middle of the wide flagstones, taking a deep breath before pushing the button at hearing the click as the umbrella spread out above him, protecting him from the moonlight.

The handle was ornately carved with a polished cherry oak, so smooth it was almost definite that his hands were the first to hold it since it was made. The thing metal frame shone beautifully like a spiders web over him.

In short, it was beautiful.

Smiling to himself, Mycroft turned for an early morning stroll through the gardens, twirling the umbrella over his head as he went.

XxXxXxX

A/N: So, bit odd, don't really know what the hell just happened. I'm not too comfortable with the M stuff yet, so I skipped it, I think you can all guess what happened.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY YESTERDAY MARK GATISS, or Mycroft, as you truly are. 45… that's practically middle aged… *shiver*

Anyway, reviews are like Umbrellas to Mycroft, happiness.