Fic: Like We'd Been Out In the Rain
Title: Like We'd Been Out In the Rain
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing/Characters: Mycroft/Lestrade, with mention of one Mr. John Barrowman.
Rating: NC-17 for POOOOORN
Summary: Cracky little fic written for the prompt "Mystrade crack?" given to me by dapperdeer on Tumblr. Lestrade finds out why Mycroft carries that umbrella everywhere.
Disclaimer: The original characters of Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes were formulated by Arthur Conan Doyle, and these updated versions were devised by Mark Gatiss (PRAISE GODTISS AND ALL HIS WORKS) and Steven Moffat (HE OF THE INFURIATING CLIFFHANGERS). I don't own them, I'm just a fan.
A/N: My first time writing guy-on-guy porn. I hope everything's in the right place... Also my first time writing Mystrade.
They'd first met when Sherlock messed up his first crime scene, and Mycroft had come to see that his brother wasn't imprisoned. Lestrade didn't know Sherlock all that well at the time, but Mycroft seemed like a level-headed sort of bloke, if a bit creepy, and so trusted him when he said he'd do what he could to keep his brother out of trouble.
It turned out that all Mycroft could do was get his brother a P.I. license. Once Sherlock had put his mind to detecting, there wasn't any real way to stop him. Lestrade was a little frustrated, but trusted the Boss-clad, buttoned-up civil servant when he said that he'd keep Sherlock in line. And he had kept that promise, at least.
Occasionally Mycroft's car would swing by, Anthea inside, and shanghai Lestrade for a meeting about the younger Holmes. Eventually these meetings, held at a flat Mycroft kept in the city, became more regular, until eventually they exhausted the subject of Sherlock and his unchanging ability to meddle with a crime scene and generally outsmart everyone in the place. So they discussed football, politics--nothing personal. Never anything personal.
Until the question had nagged at Lestrade's mind for far too long and he just couldn't keep it in anymore.
"So… Mycroft?"
"Yes, Gregory?" They were on first-name terms now, a feature of their relationship that Lestrade never ceased to find slightly odd, as the informality clashed with Mycroft's usually insufferably prim and proper manner of speech.
"Why do you always carry that bloody umbrella with you?"
"…"
"I'm sorry… Have I made you uncomfortable?"
"No, no. Not at all." Mycroft sipped from his snifter of brandy, formulating his thoughts. "Let's just call it… eccentricity. And besides, you never know if it will rain."
"True." Lestrade ignored Mycroft's marked pauses and left it there, never to speak of it again…
Until Mycroft walked out of the room one night to take a call, and the umbrella was just sitting there, blue fabric twisted tight around the shaft that curved into the elegant wooden handle, begging Lestrade to touch it…
So he picked it up, manipulated it, looked at it… And found something strange.
Something was engraved into a small silver plate at the base of the handle. Lestrade squinted his forty-something-year-old eyes to make out what it said in the dim light.
The plate read: "To MH, the greatest lover I have ever had."
"What are you doing, Gregory?"
Lestrade's head whipped up, fearful of the wrath that could be contained under that neatly starched collar and perfectly fitted suit.
But Mycroft didn't seem angry. Just curious.
"I… I'm sorry, Mycroft. I was just… looking at your umbrella…"
"Ah, so you've seen the engraving, then." A smirk began to grow from one corner of Mycroft's mouth to the other.
"…Yes, yes I have."
Mycroft began to chuckle. "An ex of mine." He took the umbrella from Lestrade and studied the engraving. "You might have heard of him, actually… he's on that Torchwood programme. John is such a lovely man."
"John? John BARROWMAN?"
"Yes."
"You dated JOHN. BARROWMAN."
"Yes. And as you can see, we enjoyed each other's… company quite a lot."
"YOU were the best John Barrowman ever had?"
"Up until that point, yes." The smirk was a genuine smile now. "We had great fun, John and I, until our respective jobs necessitated that we break up. It was amicable. I still go and see all his shows when he performs in the West End. I keep the umbrella as a reminder of our time together."
Lestrade, speechless for the past few moments, was slowly regaining his composure… And quite a bit of curiosity. He'd dated a man, once, before joining the Met, but his boyfriend had been callous and quite bad in bed, actually, and they'd broken up after only five weeks. He'd dated a few women here and there, and lusted after fit blokes on the telly, but nobody'd really lit his fire or piqued his curiosity… not till this moment.
"Were you really… that good?" Lestrade looked timidly up at Mycroft through his eyelashes. Mycroft arched an aristocratic eyebrow. Lestrade expected to be rebuffed, but instead Mycroft silently walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a jar of maraschino cherries. He plucked out four, removed the cherries, and kept the stems. He walked back over in front of Lestrade and sat down, popping two stems in his mouth, then a third, then the fourth, cheeks hollowing, jaw working, brow furrowing… until he drew out a connected strand of knotted cherry stems. The eyebrow arched again.
"Fuck." Lestrade exhaled. His trousers had become significantly tighter, all of a sudden. Mycroft placed the stems on the table, stood, and reached out a long-fingered hand, which Lestrade took without hesitation. Mycroft led him out of the dining room, through the hall, and into a plain, minimalist bedroom.
Pale, soft lips captured Lestrade's rougher ones in a beautifully sweet kiss. Mycroft drew the jacket off of Lestrade's shoulders and tossed it in the corner, replacing its presence on his arms with his own perfectly manicured hands as the kiss deepened. As mouths opened and tongues came out, they wrapped around each other closer and closer, more and more… until finally Lestrade just had to break away and quickly remove Mycroft's expensive shirt, coming back in for quick kisses as he practically tore off his own and then started in on their belt buckles.
"Mmm…" Mycroft moaned between kisses. "So eager, Gregory…"
"You and your-" Here, a kiss, "You and your bloody cherry stems, your fucking tongue, Mycroft…" Tongue-filled moans now, and the rustle of denim and finer fabric as they fell to the floor…the snap of a Calvin Klein waistband, the sharp "nngh" that followed…"And that umbrella. Why an umbrella, anyway?" Lestrade had pulled away now to study Mycroft's flushed cheeks as he answered.
"Well, you see… We got so sweaty during… you know… that once John said it looked like we'd been out in the rain when we'd finished."
"That energetic, huh?"
"I was younger then. But I assure you, I can still hold my own." Mycroft wrapped his arms around Lestrade's waist and pulled him in quick, bending down to suck on his earlobe and relish the moans that produced in the usually grumpy, by-the-book detective. Before they knew it, the pants were off, too, and they'd moved over to the bed, Mycroft's long frame on all fours above Lestrade as he continued to lick and suck along his jawline, Lestrade moaning like mad all the while. Mycroft rocked back onto his knees, pulling Lestrade with him, their cocks rubbing together as he positioned Lestrade on his lap. He wrapped a hand around them both and started pumping with long, slow strokes, spreading precome over them both.
"Fuck, Mycroft. So fucking good…" Lestrade rested his head on Mycroft's shoulder, wiggling his hips a bit. "Don't you stop, My. Don't you fucking dare stop."
"Never. Never." Mycroft kept pumping, faster and faster as Lestrade's moans became louder and more insistent and his expletives more frequent.
"Aah, My My My My…" Lestrade repeated the diminutive over and over like a litany, breath hitching every once in a while, hips pushing up into Mycroft's soft--oh so impossibly soft--hand. Mycroft tugged at Lestrade's silvery gray hair, bringing their eyes up to meet each other. So close, both of them were so close…
"Gregory…" He breathed out in a whisper, gently kissing every part of Lestrade's sun-darkened face, bringing them closer… Closer still…
"Aaaangh! OH GOD, MYYYYYY…" Lestrade threw back his head and cried out as he came, squeezing his eyes shut as Mycroft's hand became slicker with his come.
"Gregoryyyy…" Mycroft's voice trailed off as he came moments later, nose pressed into the hollow at the base of Lestrade's collarbone.
As they came down from their high, Lestrade spoke, breathless, and slurring some words in the post-orgasmic haze: "Mycroft, I am going to give you so many fucking umbrellas."
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing/Characters: Mycroft/Lestrade, with mention of one Mr. John Barrowman.
Rating: NC-17 for POOOOORN
Summary: Cracky little fic written for the prompt "Mystrade crack?" given to me by dapperdeer on Tumblr. Lestrade finds out why Mycroft carries that umbrella everywhere.
Disclaimer: The original characters of Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes were formulated by Arthur Conan Doyle, and these updated versions were devised by Mark Gatiss (PRAISE GODTISS AND ALL HIS WORKS) and Steven Moffat (HE OF THE INFURIATING CLIFFHANGERS). I don't own them, I'm just a fan.
A/N: My first time writing guy-on-guy porn. I hope everything's in the right place... Also my first time writing Mystrade.
They'd first met when Sherlock messed up his first crime scene, and Mycroft had come to see that his brother wasn't imprisoned. Lestrade didn't know Sherlock all that well at the time, but Mycroft seemed like a level-headed sort of bloke, if a bit creepy, and so trusted him when he said he'd do what he could to keep his brother out of trouble.
It turned out that all Mycroft could do was get his brother a P.I. license. Once Sherlock had put his mind to detecting, there wasn't any real way to stop him. Lestrade was a little frustrated, but trusted the Boss-clad, buttoned-up civil servant when he said that he'd keep Sherlock in line. And he had kept that promise, at least.
Occasionally Mycroft's car would swing by, Anthea inside, and shanghai Lestrade for a meeting about the younger Holmes. Eventually these meetings, held at a flat Mycroft kept in the city, became more regular, until eventually they exhausted the subject of Sherlock and his unchanging ability to meddle with a crime scene and generally outsmart everyone in the place. So they discussed football, politics--nothing personal. Never anything personal.
Until the question had nagged at Lestrade's mind for far too long and he just couldn't keep it in anymore.
"So… Mycroft?"
"Yes, Gregory?" They were on first-name terms now, a feature of their relationship that Lestrade never ceased to find slightly odd, as the informality clashed with Mycroft's usually insufferably prim and proper manner of speech.
"Why do you always carry that bloody umbrella with you?"
"…"
"I'm sorry… Have I made you uncomfortable?"
"No, no. Not at all." Mycroft sipped from his snifter of brandy, formulating his thoughts. "Let's just call it… eccentricity. And besides, you never know if it will rain."
"True." Lestrade ignored Mycroft's marked pauses and left it there, never to speak of it again…
Until Mycroft walked out of the room one night to take a call, and the umbrella was just sitting there, blue fabric twisted tight around the shaft that curved into the elegant wooden handle, begging Lestrade to touch it…
So he picked it up, manipulated it, looked at it… And found something strange.
Something was engraved into a small silver plate at the base of the handle. Lestrade squinted his forty-something-year-old eyes to make out what it said in the dim light.
The plate read: "To MH, the greatest lover I have ever had."
"What are you doing, Gregory?"
Lestrade's head whipped up, fearful of the wrath that could be contained under that neatly starched collar and perfectly fitted suit.
But Mycroft didn't seem angry. Just curious.
"I… I'm sorry, Mycroft. I was just… looking at your umbrella…"
"Ah, so you've seen the engraving, then." A smirk began to grow from one corner of Mycroft's mouth to the other.
"…Yes, yes I have."
Mycroft began to chuckle. "An ex of mine." He took the umbrella from Lestrade and studied the engraving. "You might have heard of him, actually… he's on that Torchwood programme. John is such a lovely man."
"John? John BARROWMAN?"
"Yes."
"You dated JOHN. BARROWMAN."
"Yes. And as you can see, we enjoyed each other's… company quite a lot."
"YOU were the best John Barrowman ever had?"
"Up until that point, yes." The smirk was a genuine smile now. "We had great fun, John and I, until our respective jobs necessitated that we break up. It was amicable. I still go and see all his shows when he performs in the West End. I keep the umbrella as a reminder of our time together."
Lestrade, speechless for the past few moments, was slowly regaining his composure… And quite a bit of curiosity. He'd dated a man, once, before joining the Met, but his boyfriend had been callous and quite bad in bed, actually, and they'd broken up after only five weeks. He'd dated a few women here and there, and lusted after fit blokes on the telly, but nobody'd really lit his fire or piqued his curiosity… not till this moment.
"Were you really… that good?" Lestrade looked timidly up at Mycroft through his eyelashes. Mycroft arched an aristocratic eyebrow. Lestrade expected to be rebuffed, but instead Mycroft silently walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a jar of maraschino cherries. He plucked out four, removed the cherries, and kept the stems. He walked back over in front of Lestrade and sat down, popping two stems in his mouth, then a third, then the fourth, cheeks hollowing, jaw working, brow furrowing… until he drew out a connected strand of knotted cherry stems. The eyebrow arched again.
"Fuck." Lestrade exhaled. His trousers had become significantly tighter, all of a sudden. Mycroft placed the stems on the table, stood, and reached out a long-fingered hand, which Lestrade took without hesitation. Mycroft led him out of the dining room, through the hall, and into a plain, minimalist bedroom.
Pale, soft lips captured Lestrade's rougher ones in a beautifully sweet kiss. Mycroft drew the jacket off of Lestrade's shoulders and tossed it in the corner, replacing its presence on his arms with his own perfectly manicured hands as the kiss deepened. As mouths opened and tongues came out, they wrapped around each other closer and closer, more and more… until finally Lestrade just had to break away and quickly remove Mycroft's expensive shirt, coming back in for quick kisses as he practically tore off his own and then started in on their belt buckles.
"Mmm…" Mycroft moaned between kisses. "So eager, Gregory…"
"You and your-" Here, a kiss, "You and your bloody cherry stems, your fucking tongue, Mycroft…" Tongue-filled moans now, and the rustle of denim and finer fabric as they fell to the floor…the snap of a Calvin Klein waistband, the sharp "nngh" that followed…"And that umbrella. Why an umbrella, anyway?" Lestrade had pulled away now to study Mycroft's flushed cheeks as he answered.
"Well, you see… We got so sweaty during… you know… that once John said it looked like we'd been out in the rain when we'd finished."
"That energetic, huh?"
"I was younger then. But I assure you, I can still hold my own." Mycroft wrapped his arms around Lestrade's waist and pulled him in quick, bending down to suck on his earlobe and relish the moans that produced in the usually grumpy, by-the-book detective. Before they knew it, the pants were off, too, and they'd moved over to the bed, Mycroft's long frame on all fours above Lestrade as he continued to lick and suck along his jawline, Lestrade moaning like mad all the while. Mycroft rocked back onto his knees, pulling Lestrade with him, their cocks rubbing together as he positioned Lestrade on his lap. He wrapped a hand around them both and started pumping with long, slow strokes, spreading precome over them both.
"Fuck, Mycroft. So fucking good…" Lestrade rested his head on Mycroft's shoulder, wiggling his hips a bit. "Don't you stop, My. Don't you fucking dare stop."
"Never. Never." Mycroft kept pumping, faster and faster as Lestrade's moans became louder and more insistent and his expletives more frequent.
"Aah, My My My My…" Lestrade repeated the diminutive over and over like a litany, breath hitching every once in a while, hips pushing up into Mycroft's soft--oh so impossibly soft--hand. Mycroft tugged at Lestrade's silvery gray hair, bringing their eyes up to meet each other. So close, both of them were so close…
"Gregory…" He breathed out in a whisper, gently kissing every part of Lestrade's sun-darkened face, bringing them closer… Closer still…
"Aaaangh! OH GOD, MYYYYYY…" Lestrade threw back his head and cried out as he came, squeezing his eyes shut as Mycroft's hand became slicker with his come.
"Gregoryyyy…" Mycroft's voice trailed off as he came moments later, nose pressed into the hollow at the base of Lestrade's collarbone.
As they came down from their high, Lestrade spoke, breathless, and slurring some words in the post-orgasmic haze: "Mycroft, I am going to give you so many fucking umbrellas."