Gregory Lestrade liked strong women. Blonde, preferably, but he wasn't massively picky. He liked them to be powerful; something he guessed came from his job as an authority figure of sorts, although coppers aren't really respected in the same way any more. He had a huge crush on Cuddy from the TV show House. He loved the way she yelled – not that he had any weird kinks or anything.
He was a simple man. He liked curves and boobs and smooth legs and tanned skin, and he liked the smell of fruity shampoo, and the smell of perfume.
He liked lie-ins, though he never got them. He liked junk food, but he also had a small obsession with apples. He liked beer, but he'd prefer a Coke most of the time.
He liked his job, he liked having something to show for his efforts. He liked having control over idiots like Anderson. He wouldn't admit to it, but he liked Sherlock's arguments with Anderson. It was a bit like watching the Discovery channel, which again, he also liked.
So when Greg found himself nodding off on the sofa after an 18 hour shift and had to pull himself up to bed, because he'd enough experience sleeping on that sofa to know the perils to his back, he was not expecting the dream he had.
It wasn't a nightmare. It wasn't a good dream. It wasn't a sex dream, or a high dream, or even a warped pregnancy craving dream. Although the latter three summed it up best of all, he supposed.
Mycroft Holmes, the ice man, the sociopath's powerful, somewhat evil brother. Mycroft Holmes, the lover of umbrellas, the man who occupied a minor position in the British government but had the power to cover up everything Sherlock did. Mycroft bloody Holmes (and actually, that probably was his middle name).
Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft Holmes in a cake. Mycroft Holmes wearing a sash with "Happy birthday" written on, and Mycroft Holmes singing the bloody song to go with the occasion.
Mycroft Holmes climbing out of the cake, adjusting his sash to cover what was probably worth more than the real crown jewels, and launching into a version of that candy man song from Willy Wonka.
Awaking in a start and plodding off to the bathroom, cursing his body for still thinking he was a goddamn teenager, Lestrade tried to decide what the weirdest part of the dream was. The way Mycroft moved his sash and consequently ruined Greg's fun, delightful view? The fact that Greg would do anything for a fat slice of chocolate cake now?
Pondering it later, finally getting his cake in a cafe on his miracle of an opportunity for a break, Gregory Lestrade concluded the weirdest part was the way he'd seen Mycroft come in to his cafe, and then had his grin crushed at the sight of what was on the other end of Mycroft's hand.
John Watson. John bloody Watson.