Fic: The Plan
Title: The Plan
Summary: Mycroft finds himself in an unusual state. Fortunately, he's planned for most every contingency.
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade, established relationship
Rating: PG-13 (just to be safe)
Warnings: very mild slashy goodness, massive amounts of fluff
Spoilers: None
Disclaimers: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Author's Notes: MY FIRST FIC EVER, SO PLEASE BE KIND! Comments soooo welcome. Also, this has not been betad or brit-picked. Please let me know when you find any mistakes. Anyone kind enough in this season of giving to volunteer for any future beta-ing shall receive the (virtual) cookies I had earmarked for Santa! Texts are indicated by ALL CAPS. They're not yelling at each other, they're just like Kanye with their all-caps. I really just wanted a way to make the texts clear.
Despite what those around him might think, Mycroft Holmes' iron-fisted self-control is not something which comes naturally to him. No, it is a skill that he has had to cultivate with great dedication and deliberation. A necessity in his chosen career and desirous in his, well, family-life he supposed, his mouth forming a moue of distaste. Realizing that his mouth was moving in such a way without his conscious thought did not help his current mood in the least. It was yet another indication that his much-vaunted control was slipping away most assiduously as the afternoon progressed. The unpleasant reality is that since his control is not inbred, it is more than possible for said control to falter. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, it is extremely...troublesome.
He sat down behind his overly large desk with somewhat less than his normal grace, managing, just barely, not to make an audible huff of annoyance as he did so. A vision of a pasty, willow-tree of a wraith, dark hair and dressing gown whipping about, dropping dramatically onto the sofa in an abject and vociferous fit of pique danced before his eyes. Such a display was anathema to his own sensibilities. He forcefully repressed the hint of a shiver that ran up his spine at the thought of the unpleasant squeaking sound such flopping made on a sofa covered with what he truly feared was some sort of pleather. He deliberately ignored the frisson of fear he felt at the thought that he himself could possibly be capable of behaving so ... dramatically?... childishly?... Sherlocky? At the thought of the word "Sherlocky" firing down his neurons, he nearly dropped his forehead rather forcefully to meet the top of his desk. Only then did the full extent of his problem dawn upon him.
However, Mycroft Holmes was nothing if not well-prepared at all times. Therefore, though finding himself in such a state was so rare as to be blue-moonish, he still had a plan in place for such a contingency. It was not by any means a complicated plan. On his current personal list of 987 such contingency plans it was the third simplest. On the list of some 642 plans to which his assistant had full access, it was the second least complicated. He ignored the deep baritone voice which snapped in his head that the more accurate word to describe most of his plans (his life?) might me convoluted. Ah well, that voice knew annoyingly little about the indeed complicated (Convoluted, Mycroft!) world of political maneuvering in which he thrived. Best ignore that voice and focus on the Plan. Plan 635 to be exact. Since the list was of course organized by likelihood of necessity, the fact that the Plan was so far down the list was an indication of how minuscule was his expectation that it would ever need be implemented.
He gave some thought to the fact that conditions in his life had changed enough that it might be prudent to give some thought to moving 635 a bit higher on the list. His thoughts scattered around possible displacement and shifting of plans. This gave him great pause. His thoughts had scattered? His. Thoughts. Had scattered. This was indeed unprecedented, and quickly reinforced his decision that it was past time for 635. He took a breath and swiftly pushed the button on the intercom connecting him to his assistant.
"Themis, implement Plan 635 immediately."
"Yes sir. The car will be waiting," came the swift reply.
Ah, it was most satisfying to have such incomparably competent people at his disposal. 635 was uncomplicated but also untested; nevertheless, his PA had responded to his instruction without the slightest pause. It was a welcome bit of familiarity in what was a distinctly unfamiliar and, therefore, uncomfortable situation.
He rose from his chair, donned his overcoat, and pulled his umbrella from its holder as he exited his office. Themis (as she was called on Tuesdays), concentrating on her Blackberry, acknowledged his exit with a "Good afternoon, Sir." He noted nothing but the smooth, slightly bored facade, as per usual, and was again grateful for his well-trained staff.
As promised, his car was indeed waiting when he exited the elevator into the private, secured garage. With a nod to his driver, he settled into the not-pleather of the back seat. As Reginald seated himself behind the wheel of the car and began them on their journey, Mycroft felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. He gave a slight start in surprise at the vibration and berated himself with an internal "Dammit!" at the reaction. Pulling the phone from his pocket, he was definitely NOT surprised to see who had sent the text awaiting him.
He quickly thumbed at the phone and opened the message: CARE TO TELL ME WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS GOING ON HERE?
With little thought and a decidedly unusual amount of cheek, he replied: NOT REALLY -- M
A swift buzz followed, and he found himself in a furious text exchange:
WHAT? I'M NOT JOKING HERE! WTF, MYCROFT?!?
NEITHER AM I. BESIDES, IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN MADE EXTREMELY CLEAR TO YOU PRECISELY WHAT IS HAPPENING. 635 IS CLEAR ON THE FACT THAT YOU ARE TO BE APPRISED OF YOUR DESTINATION.--M
It wasn't at all clear on that, but as only Mycroft knew that, and since he intended to address the oversight as soon as possible, he felt only a little pang of guilt as he sent his reply.
I KNOW WHERE I'M GOING. NO ONE TOLD ME, BUT THE WINDOWS AREN'T BLACKED OUT. WHAT I DON'T UNDERSTAND IS WHY I'M HEADED THERE OR WHAT THE HURRY IS. AND WHAT THE HELL IS 635? ARE YOU ILL? IS THAT WHAT'S WRONG?
IT WOULD NOT BE INACCURATE TO SAY THAT I'M NOT FEELING AT ALL MYSELF. --M
CHRIST. WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN? I'M STARTING TO GET MORE THAN A BIT CONCERNED HERE.
MY SINCERE APOLOGIES. I DID NOT MEAN TO CAUSE WORRY. 635 IS UNTRIED. SOME BUGS OBVIOUSLY NEED TO BE WORKED OUT FOR FUTURE EXECUTION.--M
MYCROFT? YOU'RE NOT MAKING SENSE. YOU ARE NOT MAKING SENSE! IF YOU'RE JUST YANKING ME AROUND HERE, THERE WILL BE HELL TO PAY.
NO YANKING. YOU HAVE MY WORD. I SHALL ENDEAVOR TO EXPLAIN ONCE WE ARE HOME. MY ETA IS ROUGHLY 5 MIN.--M
YEAH. RECKON MINE'S ABOUT THE SAME. THIS BETTER BE GOOD!
He tried, truly tried, to stifle something akin to a grin at the last message, but failed rather miserably. Ah well, he had performed his duty by enacting 635 and found it within himself to forgive the loss of control.
As his car pulled to a stop in the drive before the front entrance, he opened the car door himself and waived Reginald off. The front door was still locked, so apparently he'd arrived home first. As he entered the foyer, he contemplated his next move. 635 only went so far, and he again gave some thought to expounding upon it. He ignored the rather strident "CONVOLUTED, MYCROFT!" that sounded in his head, and hung his coat upon the rack and deposited his umbrella in the stand. Alas, any further thought to plan-making was forestalled by the rather forceful entrance of his housemate.
"What the bloody fucking hell, Mycroft?! Are we on the verge of WWIII? An alien invasion? Zombie apocalypse?"
Mycroft examined this man who'd burst through the door (his life?) with undisguised adoration. Perhaps it was this that halted the tirade.
"Mycroft?" more softly, much more softly.
"Yes, Gregory?"
"Are you OK?"
"No. No I am not OK, Gregory. I am far from OK. Hence the implementation of Plan 635 and your presence here. With me. At home. " And with a glance at the hall clock, "At 2:43 on a Tuesday afternoon."
He'd been slowly approaching his lover since Gregory's entrance, and now stood directly in front of the sole reason for the development and execution of 635. Some quiet voice whispered in his head that this man might indeed be the sole reason for his life. He pretended not to hear the inner alarm sounding loudly in his brain at this thought. An alarm that sounded nothing like a squeaking sofa, thank you very much. He would grant himself a few allowances when under the proximal influence of one Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.
"Love, are you alr---,"but the DI's question was ruthlessly cut off by the crushing kiss of Mycroft Holmes. He attempted to finish his question, or at least ask some shorter variation. Alas, he found that his lips were never free long enough to quite finish the thought. His mouth was at first busy with responding to Mycroft's own bruising kisses, and later with tasting and savoring the rest of his love's pale expanse of skin. They managed to stumble to the sofa in the formal living room before all their clothes were removed. It was a room and a sofa that rarely found use in their surprisingly informal home-life, but, Mycroft noted with satisfaction in a rather distant part of his brain, even with their own version of rather dramatic flopping, their sofa made nary a squeak. Such could not be said for himself. However, after an hour of vigorous proximity to his DI, the only noise he was currently making was a hum of satisfaction with himself, his love, his life, and his sofa.
"So," came a rather roughened mumble from the head resting on his chest, "care to explain what precisely all this was about?"
"My dear Gregory. I would think it's fairly obvious what 'all this' was about," came the reply, followed by a delicately stifled yawn.
Lestrade lay still for a few moments in somewhat befuddled contemplation. Mycroft found it beyond intriguing to watch the progression from confusion, to disbelief, to flattered irritation play out on Gregory's somewhat rumpled features.
Raising his head to pin his Holmes with his best "interrogating an uncooperative suspect" stare, Lestrade asked "Do you mean to tell me that you sent two of your black-suited minions to fetch me from my office in the middle of a busy workday to deliver me home at 2:43 in the afternoon so we could have a quick shag?"
"Well, as the clock's just rung 4, I wouldn't necessarily call it quick, Gregory."
"Not the point, Mycroft." Lestrade huffed, expression losing the flattered and moving completely to irritated at this point. An irritated that could morph into anger if Holmes wasn't very careful.
"Well, what is the point then?"
"The point is...it's...you can't just...what the hell, Mycroft? I'm not your little piece that you can fetch at will to come scratch your itch whenever you get randy!"
"What? No, Gregory. No, that's not what happened at all." Mycroft sat up swiftly to follow Gregory, to keep his arms around the man and keep him seated on the sofa until he could properly explain himself.
"Well then spell it out for me? What exactly do you think happened here? Huh? What?"
"I...I just...I...Plan 635, Gregory, is what happened. I found myself at a 12:30 meeting with...well a meeting with some rather difficult representatives from a rather volatile area. The meeting was no less problematic than I had expected, but I found that I was having a rather difficult time focusing. And you must understand, losing my focus at such a time can be a very dangerous thing. For all of us, Gregory. I mean that. I cannot afford to let my mind wander, to let my control slip in situations such as these. It is unacceptable.
I managed to get through that conference by sheer force of will, but I very nearly made a number of rather unforgivable blunders. I was puzzled at first by what was happening, but as I wandered, yes wandered, back to my office, I slowly realized my problem. I couldn't focus on the meeting, I couldn't focus on my job, I couldn't control my mind or my emotions because I was thinking about you. I...I've never, never had this problem before, Gregory, so it took me a rather ridiculously long time to figure out what was going on. By the time I had it figured out, I was so far gone that I nearly flopped down into my chair and had visions of Sherlock dancing in my head. His voice, too! You can imagine my distress. "
By this point, Gregory's expression had lost it's irritated look, only to be replaced with something Mycroft couldn't quite identify. But his body had become pliant once again and he was no longer fighting Mycroft's embrace.
"So let me get this straight. You got so distracted by thoughts of me that you couldn't focus on your job, so you thought the best solution was to send someone to fetch me home so we could ..."
"Make love," Mycroft finished. "I have never and will never think of what we do as something so crude as 'scratching an itch.'"
"You could've just called me, My. Or texted me. All you had to do was ask," Gregory explained softly, leaning slightly back into their embrace.
"Perhaps, but as I said, I was not thinking clearly. I am unused to needing anyone, and I will admit that I am unused to asking...for anything. I was very nearly flustered, Gregory, and that is not a situation I care to find myself in. So, I fell back on one of my many contingency plans. Plan 635, to be exact."
"I'd nearly forgotten about that. What the hell is Plan 635? Kidnap and shag DI Gregory Lestrade?" Greg laughed.
"Of course not. It is merely a contingency plan put into place should I need my significant other retrieved to our home for a certain amount of time during which neither of us shall be disturbed. "
"Ah. I stand corrected." Greg laughed again as he leaned completely back into Mycroft, pushing him back into a reclining position on the sofa. "And how long is this certain amount of time during which we shan't be disturbed?"
"Two hours precisely."
"From the time of execution or the time of arrival at our home?" asked Lestrade with a smile, reminding Mycroft once again why he so desperately loved this man.
"From arrival at home. There was no way to accurately estimate travel time given that our individual locations at the time of said implementation could not be predicted with any accuracy. And I estimated that, should I ever reach such a needful state, two hours would be the minimum time limit needed for proper amelioration, thus allowing me to return to peak efficiency."
"God, I love it when you talk bureaucrat in bed." The kiss that followed reinforcing the truth of that statement.
Glancing at the rather ornate clock on the mantle, Gregory stated, "I think we've got another half hour to get you to peak," lowering his head back to Mycroft's lips with an amused-looking leer. Mycroft's last cogent thought for another half-hour was that Gregory did so love his little double entendres.
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Seven that evening found Mycroft exiting his final, rather tension-riddled meeting of the day with the Home Secretary. As he entered his office, his face was set in its normal, calm, polite mask of intelligent efficiency. He settled into his chair with his normal grace and began perusing his schedule for tomorrow. He penciled in a 15 minute meeting as the first order of business with his PA to discuss further expansion of detail and a higher prioritization of what is currently Plan 635. In preparation for such, he retrieved his own folder containing a hard copy of "The Plans." He pulled out the sheet containing 635 and placed it on top of his materials for tomorrow.
As he exited his office and headed for the black car waiting to take him home, he felt the vibration of his phone receiving a text message. He noted with pleasure that there had been no startle of surprise this time. As he rode down in the thickly carpeted, ornately paneled elevator, he pulled out his phone to find a text from Gregory waiting:
AM INSTITUTING OWN PLAN FOR TONIGHT. DINNER, DESSERT, THEN YOU. PLAN 69.
Mycroft couldn't help the bark of laughter that escaped at the somewhat crass, but terribly lovely, message. Well, if his emotional control was slipping once again, he felt secure in the fact that Gregory's plan should have him once again in top form by the morning.
He replied: EN ROUTE. AM OF OPINION TESTING OF PLAN SHOULD COMMENCE ASAP. DISCUSSION OF SUCCESS OF PLAN AND ANY FUTURE IMPLEMENTATION SHOULD BE OUR FIRST ORDER OF BUSINESS TOMORROW A.M..--M
He not only spoke bureaucrat, but was fluent in the written language, as well. He hit send and nodded at Reginald as he slid into the back seat, reevaluating the need to make any changes to his own plan lying upstairs on the middle of his desk:
PLAN 635
RETRIEVE DI GREGORY LESTRADE
REMOVE DI LESTRADE TO LONDON RESIDENCE
COMMUNICATIONS BLACK-OUT TO COMMENCE AT ARRIVAL TO RESIDENCE: 2 HOURS
In other words, kidnap and shag DI Gregory Lestrade. Simple but effective. Perhaps even Sherlock would approve.