Prompt from tumblr. My first real go at Mystrade, slightly cracky (I mean, look at the title), and very fun to write.
Mycroft glances warily around his bedroom – ridiculous to do, since he's the one that watches people, not the other way round. Nevertheless, he crosses to his window and makes sure that the curtains are securely shut, then makes his way to his closet. He steps inside, bypassing the rows of carefully pressed suits and furtively opening a small drawer at the back.
Nestled among the silk boxers (all plainly colored, dark blues or blacks) is a shock of pink; kitten's nose pink, powdery and delicate. He lifts up the tiny shorts, scrutinizing them, then glancing down at his thighs with a skeptical frown. He folds the shorts up and carefully places them on the shelf, hesitating for a moment before shimmying out of his trousers; he lets those pool on the floor, then he takes the shorts in hand again and steps his feet through them.
Mycroft sucks in a breath. All those months of sweating (disgusting and undignified, but necessary) away at the treadmill, of foregoing the crème pies and the pound cakes, comes down to this. He closes his eyes, bends down, and pulls the shorts up his legs.
A small gasp of surprise leaves him when they glide over his hips, settling snugly (but amazingly not too snugly) around his waist. He swallows hard, leaving the closet and removing the sheet from the full length mirror propped against his wall. He stares into the mirror in disbelief, then turns to the side, then all the way around, craning his head to see himself. The seat of the shorts stretches slightly over his behind, hugging the (dare he think it?) muscles there in a very flattering way.
While Mycroft is standing there, enraptured by his own physique, his door opens soundlessly (very well maintained hinges, oiled once a month) and a certain silver-haired detective inspector slips inside, choking on his greeting at the view he's offered. He has to swallows several times and wet his lips before he can speak, words directed to a pink-clad bottom.
"Didn't know you gave me full clearance into your house. I'm touched."
Mycroft tenses (especially in the gluteus region, which Greg notes with a grin) then swiftly turns around, tipping his head back and swallowing, looking about as dignified as anyone could ever be while wearing a pair of soft-pink booty shorts.
"I would have expected you to knock."
"I texted you." Greg plucks up his phone and waves it briefly in the air, then sets it on a table and shrugs out of his coat.
"I told you dinner would be at six. It's only half four." Mycroft makes to step past Lestrade and into his closet, determined to don a pair of trousers. Greg catches him by the arm, a lopsided grin plastered over his face as he pulls him close, free hand dropping to his waist, curving over his hip then palming the soft fabric pulled over one firm cheek.
"Well, now we have time to work up our appetites, yeah?"