Gregory Lestrade carried the empty plates into the kitchen. He carefully rolled up his sleeves and began to wash them, humming as he went along. He didn't hear Mycroft enter the kitchen or cross towards him.
"You really don't have to do that you know," he said, startling Greg.
"Please, you made lobster for Christ's sake. It's literally the least I could do," Greg replied. "When did you even learn to make lobster?"
"When I was about seven I was convinced our family cook was a Russian spy. I examined every move she made and followed her everywhere. My hypothesis turned out to be incorrect, but I picked up the recipes for several different dishes."
Greg snorted. "You've got to be joking."
"Oh but I'm not."
Greg paused his dish-washing and turned to the other man. "You are truly a remarkable man," he said earnestly.
Mycroft smiled and blushed. "I'm really not, you know. But I'm assuming that this was a successful first date?" he asked shyly.
Greg grinned devilishly and stepped closer. "That depends," he said wryly. "Is it over?"
"God, I hope not," Mycroft breathed.
With that, Greg closed the distance between them and pulled Mycroft into a strong embrace. He kissed him fiercely, something he had been planning to do for some time. But the feel of Mycroft's mouth pressed against his own was unimaginable; kissing him was sheer unadulterated bliss.
The dirty dishes were quite soon forgotten.
