Mystrade Drabble
Greg Lestrade opened his door with the full intention of snapping at whoever was knocking. It was late, it was raining and he’d had a hell of a day. The snarl died in his throat when he found Mycroft Holmes on his doorstep, eyes downcast.
“I’m sorry.” Mycroft spoke quietly, voice just above the rainfall. “I didn’t know where else to go.” The elder Holmes, only Holmes now, Lestrade reminded himself bitterly, was soaked, despite the umbrella clutched in his fists so hard his knuckles had turned white.
Lestrade sighed, running a hand over his red-rimmed eyes. He stepped aside, motioning with his arm for his former lover to come inside. He couldn’t really imagine how Mycroft must be feeling. The funeral had left him hollow, every breath aching inside his ribs. Lestrade didn’t know how Mycroft managed to stay upright in the wake of his little brother’s death, certainly not after John has informed him it was all Mycroft’s fault.
Mycroft uttered a soft thanks and allowed himself to be ushered into the kitchen, Lestrade’s hand hesitant at his elbow. He stood for a moment, shivering and wet, before Lestrade guided him to a chair at the kitchen table and excused himself to find a towel.
When Lestrade returned, he found that Mycroft had removed his sopping jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. His normally impeccable posture had slumped. With a silent sigh, he settled the towel on the politician’s head, rubbing gently in an effort to dry his hair.
He and Mycroft hadn’t spoken since their breakup. It had been stupid. A careless remark of Mycroft’s that set Lestrade’s teeth on edge. "And I'm just the dumb cop who warms your bed." He had snarled, hurt fueling his anger. Mycroft had remained silent, and wasn’t that a harsher confirmation than anything he could have said? Lestrade had stormed out and the fact that Mycroft had let him spoke volumes to the detective.
Lestrade was brought from his reverie when he felt Mycroft’s shoulders trembling. He stopped rubbing the towel and pushed it back around Mycroft’s neck. A quiet sound escaped his throat, a hitch in his breathing, and the trembling in his shoulders intensified.
Mycroft brought a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound, a harsh exhalation of air, almost a sob. He startled when Lestrade knelt before him, pulling him into his strong chest with a hand on the back of his neck, rubbing in slow circles. He allowed himself to be cradled, tucking his head beneath Lestrade’s chin. “Gregory,” he murmured, hiding his face in the crook of his neck and shoulder as the tears spilled over to pool in the hollow of Lestrade’s throat.
“Shhh...” Lestrade soothed, holding Mycroft tighter. “I know.” He pressed a kiss to the top of Mycroft’s hair. “I know. I’m here.”