Chapter Eight~

The next morning Mycroft woke up to light pouring in through the windows and burning his eyes. Groaning and pulling the covers over his head like a grouchy teenager, he attempted to let sleep encompass him once again. But his head was still throbbing from the argument and the lack of sleep from the night before, preventing him from doing any such thing.

He threw the sheets off of him with a sigh, regretting it immediately when the cool air hit his bare arms and feet. He precariously hopped across the hard-wood floors towards the socks he'd thrown off last night. He wasn't sure if it had just been his imagination, but last night had been extremely warm. Noticing how cool the house was now he wondered if it had just been a dream.

After a quick visit to the loo and a shower, Mycroft walked into the kitchen/living room groggily. Was it really only a little after ten? He'd only slept for a few hours then… he hadn't been able to sleep for quite a while after Lestrade had left the flat. It was nearly 5 when he finally retreated back to bed. He wondered what ungodly hour Lestrade had finally returned.

Speaking of said man, Mycroft could hear his light snoring from the couch and smiled to himself.

He made himself a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter, sighing contently. He inhaled the warm liquid happily, letting it burn the back of his throat in a soothing manner.

After a few minutes for who knows what reason (perhaps fate) Mycroft noticed a pile of things sitting on a small table next to the front door. There was nothing particularly interesting about said things—a brief case, a jacket, a notebook—so it is often questioned why Mycroft noticed it. But he did. After observing the pile for a few minutes, Mycroft finally noticed a bright yellow sticky note. Rather like the pile of things, there was nothing particularly interesting about the sticky note, so it is unknown why Mycroft went towards it, picked it up gently, and read it. But luckily, he did.

"Meeting: 11:00, " it said in thick, bold letters that had been quickly scratched in with a sharpie. Just as Mycroft was about to put the note back on the pile of things he noticed something peculiar: today's date was scribbled on the top of the note, and right below that a sidescrpit that read "urgent, please attend"

Lestrade had a meeting today at eleven and it was already 10:30! His heart hammered in his throat, and for a second he sat in silent panic. What should he do? He really didn't want to wake Lestrade up, but at the same time he didn't want him to miss this urgent meeting….

The prospect at hand seemed so looming that Mycroft even considered going back to bed and pretending that both of them had slept past eleven so that it in no way could be Mycroft's fault.

He shook his head. He was such an unconfrontational little coward.

He walked towards the couch. Lestrade was sprawled out on his back, arm and leg spilling onto the floor, a blanket hanging onto the floor and just barely clinging onto his body. It looked severely uncomfortable and Mycroft felt a pang of guilt. He really needed to find a place to stay so that he could get out of Lestrade's hair and let him sleep in his own bed again.

Mycroft nudged Lestrade gently, trying to wake him up. He waited silently for a moment, but Lestrade didn't stir. He nudged him again, a little harder. Still nothing. Mycroft sighed. Time to bring out the big guns. He shoved Lestrade roughly, causing the man to jump up with surprise. The blanket that had been barely covering Lestrade fell to the floor, revealing the man in nothing but his boxer briefs.

Mycroft's face lit up like a Christmas tree.

They stood staring at each other with eyes as huge and round and frightened as a fully puffed up puffer fish.

The stuttering that ensued was as fast and disorderly as a furious typist trying desperately to meet the deadline.

Lestrade hurried off the couch, grabbing a shirt that had been thrown onto the floor. Pulling it over his head, he offered an explanation to Mycroft, who wouldn't meet his eyes and was instead staring with the utmost attention to the very uninteresting floor.

"It was really hot last night," he said quickly,

"Scorching," Mycroft nodded in agreement (it really had been sweltering last night)

Gregory ran a hand through his short grey hair. "And I uh—I hadn't expected—uhm—I had been meaning to put my clothes back on before you woke up, but…. Uhm—"

Mycroft cut off the awkward banter with a frightened reply of his own "I'm so sorry," he said in a slew, hands wringing around each other, "I just thought I'd wake you up for your meeting—I saw the note on the counter."

And with that, the awkwardness was subdued almost immediately as Lestrade realized his dire situation. "Shit" he cussed, looking for a clock. "What time is it? Oh crikey, I need to go."

He ran around desperately, throwing on his suit and tie, grabbing his briefcase, and finally pouring himself a thermos full of coffee. He stopped abruptly at the front door. He turned around, looked at Mycroft for a second, and said, "Make yourself at home, I'll be back this evening. See ya Myc."

The door shut with a note of finality and Mycroft let out a breath he'd been holding, closing his eyes and running a hand over his sweating, beet-red face. He was never waking anyone up ever, ever again.

Although, honestly, he hadn't really minded, after all. Mycroft's face turned beat red more than once that afternoon as a shirtless Lestrade entered his thoughts again and again. No matter what he did, those firm muscles and chiseled chest would not get out of his mind…