A/N:
Hiyami (FF): Something Mystrade. Like maybe how they knew each other or maybe how they're going to interact with each other when Mycroft turns up again at the stables for whatever reasons
Capturing_Essence (AO3):Gifting: Someone Sherlock or Mycroft gifting their significant other some gift. (I'm going to go with Mycroft/Mystrade)
Aaaaand prompt requests are going to be closed for now. I've reached the bottom of my list, so it's time for the final few prompts to meld with what I've got going on in my head. I might take more once I've finished the upcoming bit, though. Now that leads me to my next thing: I'll be updating less frequently since I'm going to have to go off my brain rather than yours, and I have a collab in the works as well as two other multi-part stories. As a way of making it up to you, as well as for the coming angst, here's a nice, big chapter!
Mrs. Hudson had a headache. Actually, she had five, and they all had names: Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade, Sebastian Moran and John Watson. Sherlock and John were so well-fitted, it was driving her absolutely mental to watch them dodge about but continue to ignore the way their relationship had developed. Honestly, it was nearly sinful how foolish they were being, not that Sherlock's elder brother was much better. Mycroft had noticed in himself the way his thoughts tended to be much more tender where the Trotter was concerned but wasn't doing anything, and Lestrade, bless his reluctant heart, was too worried that Mycroft was offended by his weakened state and that he'd never been much glorified on the track. It was ridiculous, and no matter the number of times she dropped hints (and not subtle ones anymore) neither seemed to pick up on them, which was growing disheartening. The worst offender, though, was Sebastian. Mrs. Hudson had known him for a long time, had seen the way he looked at Jim and the way he looked at Molly, and she was tired of his indecision; even after Jim had been caught drugging Sherlock, some part of Sebastian still remained loyal to him. It was ludicrous and insane; not every man was lucky to have someone so tolerant! Fortunately, though, he, at least, was beginning to recognize what he had, and it was about time, too!
The others, though- Lestrade and Mycroft in particular, as they still weren't speaking face to face- needed a shove in the right direction, and Mrs. Hudson knew just who could help.
"Really, Mrs. Hudson, I can understand what you're saying, but-"
"But nothing, Anthea! I'm sure Mycroft's been completely miserable lately, just as unhappy as Lestrade's been. I think it's time we give them a reunion, don't you?" Mrs. Hudson's cheerful tone did nothing to disguise her anxiety. Her intentions were good, but Mycroft tended to react quite strangely when it came to Lestrade. As logical and thoughtful as he usually was, it was difficult to predict how he would react, which was a reason why she needed Anthea, though it wasn't the only one. "You still have that parrot friend who can plants ideas of things in Mr. Moran's mind while he sleeps, right?"
Anthea sighed, worried about the outcome of their endeavor but knowing she wouldn't refuse.
"I do. We should get started composing what he'll say right away. The sooner this is over, the sooner I can sleep in peace."
A few days later, Mycroft arrived at the stable, Anthea perched on his long spine.
He backed out of the trailer slowly, his wide hips swaying slightly with each step. Despite how awkward and uncomfortable it must have been, he was strangely graceful, and everyone- human and animal- who could see him was engrossed in the sight.
Well, almost everyone.
"Hello, Mycroft. Have your hips gotten wider of late, or is it just the angle?" came a low drawl once he had been lead inside the stable by one of the many nameless workers and put into an empty box stall.
"They're the same as ever, brother. I heard about your last race- a shame, really, losing to a bunch of unknown horses- though I suppose it's understandable as you were... rather distracted," he replied, unruffled and well-used to Sherlock's jibes. "If you don't mind, there's someone I'd like to see, and it isn't you."
Sherlock was immediately pressed against the front of his stall, his long face poking out between the bars.
"Stay away from John, Mycroft," he said, his voice carrying a greater weight than his words, and if Mycroft's mind hadn't been so preoccupied with thoughts of another horse, one who was neither grey nor black, he might have been intrigued by the protective look on his brother's face.
As it stood, however, he was busily pondering a certain ex-racehorse, so Sherlock's behaviour went unremarked.
During the entire exchange, Anthea had sat on Mycroft's back without comment, but she could no longer stay silent.
"Sir, perhaps it would be beneficial to, ah, go see... him...?" she asked, still fretting over a possible break in her boss's somewhat foggy demeanor.
"Hmm? Oh, yes, I suppose it would. If you'd be so kind?"
He indicated the locked door with his nose, and Anthea quickly flew over to unlock it.
When Mycroft went through, she didn't follow him, not physically, but her worries were a tangle in his long tail that she watched until she could see it no more.
Lestrade was kept in the farthest field when he wasn't in his stall, and it took all of Mycroft's hard-earned self control not to break into a gallop immediately to get there as soon as possible- or at least limit the amount of time his mind had to imagine the multitude of ways this could go wrong.
In the end, he only lasted eight minutes until he couldn't hold back any more and wound up running.
Lestrade was leaning against the front gate, his head up and nose pointing into the sky, nostrils flared as he breathed in a familiar scent. It wasn't one he'd smelt in years, but it was one he instantly recognized, despite the voice in his head telling him it couldn't be, that there was no way that he was about to see-
"Mycroft?" He'd meant for it to come out strong and welcoming, but instead, it came out as a half-strangled whisper- just a few notes shy of a whimper. He coughed, then tried again, "Mycoft?" with a much more pleasing result.
"Ah, Lestrade. It's a pleasure to see you again; it's been a long time, after all." Was he imagining it, or did Mycroft sound worried?
"It has, hasn't it? Over four years, now." Was that a flinch? It couldn't be. "Anthea passed on your regards a while ago. I hope you got mine in return?"
"Yes, I did, actually. Since it seems that Mr. Moran wants me here for the time being, I thought that I'd be remiss if I weren't to make a visit with an old friend. I do hope you're doing well, Lestrade. Your leg seems much better than before...?"
Lestrade nodded, though he felt uncomfortable under Mycroft's heavy gaze. He'd forgotten how disconcerting it was. "Much better, thanks. I hardly ever notice it, and it doesn't give out like it used to."
"That's good. That's... very good..." Mycroft trailed off, suddenly looking nervous and shifting his weight back and forth. "Erm... I wonder, Lestrade... Would you mind going on a small walk with me?"
Curious, Lestrade shook his head. "I don't mind at all, but I'm in here while you're... out... there..." he finished weakly, watching enviously as Mycroft trotted away, then cantered up to the gate before smoothly jumping over it. There had been a time when Lestrade could have cleared it without a fuss, too...
"Are you ready?" Mycroft interrupted.
"What? Oh, yeah. Lead the way."
Their walk was quiet, uncomfortably so. Lestrade was reminded of the walks they used to take when they were younger, when Mycroft was struggling with his weight and Lestrade had been just beginning his career in steeplechasing. They'd always been the high point of his day, wandering around the pasture with the taller horse at his side, laughing and pushing each other. It had all disappeared after his fall, though. He had been alone for almost a year, his only company doctors and physical therapists- people who were really just legal torturers*.
Mycroft seemed to be lost to his thoughts, though, and Lestrade wasn't eager to disturb him, especially not when he was wearing such an angry expression.
Eventually they came to a stop in front of an old tree that had been their favorite place to play as colts. It was even older now, its branches drooping beneath some unseen burden. It was a fitting symbol of their friendship- once so strong, now barely alive- yet Lestrade couldn't ignore the pull on his heart as Mycroft stood next to it and looked up, and for a moment, they were healthy and young again, self-assured and glorying in each other's company. Lestrade felt more empty once the moment died than he had before, and he didn't care that it was showing on his face. If Mycroft Holmes cared to make an issue, well... there was nothing to keep Lestrade from giving that long, silky tale a right trample.
Mycroft spoke suddenly, sounding distracted and worried. "Buried beneath this tree is something very important to me, something I miss sorely." He paused, then shook his head. "No, that's not quite right. I miss what represents more than I miss it itself. Do you know what it is, Lestrade?"
Of course he didn't. How could he? What could Mycroft possibly miss? What could be buried-
"You don't mean...?"
"Oh, but I do. You loved that stone, Lestrade, loved more than anything ought to be loved. Honestly, it was frustrating to me, having to share you with it, having to make sure you didn't leave it somewhere then become upset because you couldn't find it... The day you gave it to me, however, I found that I was no longer able to look at it the same way. It was no longer a burden, or some rock that could easily be replaced. No, it was suddenly the most precious thing in the world, so I did the only thing I could think that would keep it safe; I buried it here, where I'd always be able to find it."
"Mycroft..."
"I didn't forget about you, Lestrade. I could never do that, and I... I wanted you to know that you aren't someone I could just bury and forget. You are much more than that, sentimental fool that you tend to be. I have to know something, Lestrade, and I need you to tell me the truth. Have I waited too long? Did I worry and take too much time to be able to-to-"
One thing Lestrade always did better than Mycroft was mercy, so when he saw the way Mycroft had worried himself into a near panic-attack, he swiftly walked over to him and pressed his face against Mycroft's, softly nuzzling the soft skin above his lips and smiling at the way Mycroft's whiskers tickled.
"Of course you didn't, and you never could."
*My dear, I simply had to throw this in here! ongreenergrasses and I have such lovely conversations!
