You Can Have It. Sherlock: Mycroft/Lestrade (fantasies, domesticity)brighteyed_jillDecember 5 2012, 04:29:01 UTC
Lestrade thought of a house, sometimes. Especially on rare nights like this, with Mycroft warm and solid in the darkness of his flat. When Mycroft kissed him, he held on to enough spare brain cells to fantasize. The man was always thorough; after leisurely claiming Lestrade’s mouth, he worked his way down Lestrade’s neck, then held him still by the hips while he kissed Lestrade’s bare chest, then his belly.
It wasn’t that Mycroft’s attentions weren’t enjoyable-certainly Lestrade cherished every moment of their time together and hoarded the memories of these nights like treasure. But Lestrade allowed himself, once in a while, to indulge in the possibility of something more.
While Mycroft’s hands stroked Lestrade to hardness, he thought of the house. A modest one bedroom would be enough. Though Mycroft was used to grander, of course, it wouldn’t matter. This retreat was only for the two of them; no work, no family obligations, no spectres of the past would penetrate the walls.
Mycroft’s fingers moved inside Lestrade, sending him writhing. He clutched handfuls of the sheets and squeezed his eyes closed.
He could imagine a snug living room, two armchairs by the fire. Mycroft’s reading glasses on the table by two empty wine glasses. The clank and scream of London’s streets melted away and the gentle silence of the village at night wrapped around the warm home the two of them had made.
Lestrade pulled Mycroft close as he took him inside. Mycroft held on tight when he moved, staying near enough to plant more kisses along Lestrade’s arms and down his calf where it rested over Mycroft’s shoulder.
The bed would be extravagantly large, Lestrade decided. Comically outsized for the modest bedroom. Mycroft would allow a smile when he saw it, and drop a sly remark about Lestrade’s priorities. They would sleep together each night, free to sprawl, but never so far away that Lestrade couldn’t reach out to find Mycroft beside him.
They finished together-Mycroft with a breathless shout and Lestrade silent and open-eyed, taking in the sight of Mycroft’s pleasure.
Collapsed in a hopeless tangle, Lestrade could see the seasons changing through the window of a cramped-but-tidy kitchen: fall rolling into winter and out again to spring in a loop stretching ahead through the years.
Lestrade found Mycroft’s hand and knit their fingers together.
A phone rang. Mycroft untangled himself promptly, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and answered, “This is Holmes,” in a perfectly unruffled voice. He re-dressed as he listened to the voice on the other end, interjecting an occasional, “Mmm” or “I see.” At last, as he finished straightening his tie, he said, “I understand. Goodbye.” He turned to Lestrade. “I’m needed back at the office.”
Lestrade nodded against the pillow. “Will I see you at the weekend?”
“It depends on Belarus. I’ll have Anthea call. Goodnight, Gregory.” He dropped a gentle kiss on Lestrade’s cheek and swept from the room, leaving the flat conspicuously emptier.
Lestrade closed his eyes once more, and thought of a house.
Re: You Can Have It. Sherlock: Mycroft/Lestrade (fantasies, domesticity)nightswhisperDecember 5 2012, 05:07:24 UTC
Oh gosh! THat was perfect and wonderful and just-aaah!! So heart breaking, really, in the best of ways. I really adore teh imagery you built up. THANK YOU!
It wasn’t that Mycroft’s attentions weren’t enjoyable-certainly Lestrade cherished every moment of their time together and hoarded the memories of these nights like treasure. But Lestrade allowed himself, once in a while, to indulge in the possibility of something more.
While Mycroft’s hands stroked Lestrade to hardness, he thought of the house. A modest one bedroom would be enough. Though Mycroft was used to grander, of course, it wouldn’t matter. This retreat was only for the two of them; no work, no family obligations, no spectres of the past would penetrate the walls.
Mycroft’s fingers moved inside Lestrade, sending him writhing. He clutched handfuls of the sheets and squeezed his eyes closed.
He could imagine a snug living room, two armchairs by the fire. Mycroft’s reading glasses on the table by two empty wine glasses. The clank and scream of London’s streets melted away and the gentle silence of the village at night wrapped around the warm home the two of them had made.
Lestrade pulled Mycroft close as he took him inside. Mycroft held on tight when he moved, staying near enough to plant more kisses along Lestrade’s arms and down his calf where it rested over Mycroft’s shoulder.
The bed would be extravagantly large, Lestrade decided. Comically outsized for the modest bedroom. Mycroft would allow a smile when he saw it, and drop a sly remark about Lestrade’s priorities. They would sleep together each night, free to sprawl, but never so far away that Lestrade couldn’t reach out to find Mycroft beside him.
They finished together-Mycroft with a breathless shout and Lestrade silent and open-eyed, taking in the sight of Mycroft’s pleasure.
Collapsed in a hopeless tangle, Lestrade could see the seasons changing through the window of a cramped-but-tidy kitchen: fall rolling into winter and out again to spring in a loop stretching ahead through the years.
Lestrade found Mycroft’s hand and knit their fingers together.
A phone rang. Mycroft untangled himself promptly, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and answered, “This is Holmes,” in a perfectly unruffled voice. He re-dressed as he listened to the voice on the other end, interjecting an occasional, “Mmm” or “I see.” At last, as he finished straightening his tie, he said, “I understand. Goodbye.” He turned to Lestrade. “I’m needed back at the office.”
Lestrade nodded against the pillow. “Will I see you at the weekend?”
“It depends on Belarus. I’ll have Anthea call. Goodnight, Gregory.” He dropped a gentle kiss on Lestrade’s cheek and swept from the room, leaving the flat conspicuously emptier.
Lestrade closed his eyes once more, and thought of a house.
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment