“And how many lovers did he have?”
“At least thirteen. Men and women, and the in between.”
“Lord!” Greg stared at the man. He couldn’t understand anything of it.
“You should ask Mycroft.”
“Mycroft? How would he know?”
“Mycroft? You mean the king of nail and bail?”
“What? Mycroft?”
“Yes John, Mycroft. You don’t think he was born in a three piece suit and an umbrella, do you? He had quite the colourful, wild youth, my dear brother. It’s a surprise he doesn’t have a crazy ex, or five.”
To nail, but to not bail in AO3 [T] - warning: violent bloody crime scne
Written for @mystradepromptsandscenarios "You mean the king of nail and bail?"
The game is to write a flash fic this weekend and post it here (or with a link to the fic on AO3) on Monday with the hashtag Mystrade Monday. Flash fiction is a complete story that is less than 1,000 words. Please spread the word.
Hot tip: If you tag @mystradepromptsandscenarios we’ll reblog it.
Greg tapped on the door frame to Mycroft’s home office. “How are you feeling?” He asked.
Mycroft finished wiping his tender nose and binned the tissue. “Miserable. I can’t breathe,” he complained. He closed the file on his desk. “Palestine and Israel aren’t helping either.” He looked Greg over with a critical eye. “How are you?”
“I can breathe.”
“Bastard.”
“Well, I took my cold medication, unlike some people in this room.” Greg gave the untouched tablets and glass of water on the desk a pointed look.
There’s something oddly soothing about the never-ending cycle of seasons, Mycroft muses. While all else falls apart and crumbles, winter gives way to spring, just like it always does.
Work is all-encompassing, but in the rare moments of peace, Mycroft has taken to opening all the windows. He leans on the windowsill, as far as he dares, and closes his eyes under the sunlight. Sometimes, he stays still, until his skin is both chilled by the wind and warmed by the sun.
Wrote this for @mystradepromptsandscenarios Mystrade Monday prompt: Are you going to talk to me?
Using @oneblueumbrella ‘s 360MG format.
Thanks to you both for the inspiration!
Also up on AO3.
Talk
There had been a fight. First there had been a gala. Mycroft had oozed around with a fake smile and fake laugh and made vague nonsensical conversation with stuffy, obnoxious aristocrats. Greg had trailed after him, miserable and bored, and had perhaps had just a touch more scotch than was actually a good idea. When Mycroft discreetly pointed this out to him, Greg had switched to sparkling water but had bristled and fumed and been even more miserable until Mycroft said it was time to leave.
“Well that was thoroughly horrid,” Mycroft said once they were in the back of the black car with the privacy screen up.
“I am capable of handling myself, you know!” Greg snapped. “I didn’t need you mother hen-ing me!”
“And I did not need you visibly intoxicated while I was working.”
It had devolved from there.
By the time they reached the house, nothing was resolved, but they were both smarting and angry. They trudged up to the bedroom and removed their formalwear and got ready for bed in silence. As he slid on an old cotton t-shirt and flannel bottoms, Greg felt an almost physical weight lift. Perhaps the evening hadn’t been that bad.
Greg frowned when he realized Mycroft was heading for the door instead of the bed. “Are you sleeping in the guest room?”
Mycroft turned to face him. “Are you going to talk to me?”
Greg heaved a huge sigh. “I don't - I need more time to make sure that the words coming out of my mouth are the ones I want to say.”
“I suppose that’s for the best,” Mycroft fiddled with the hem of his silk pajama shirt.
“But I love you, and I want to hold you tonight if you’ll let me. And we can talk in the morning?”
Mycroft swallowed, considering, then nodded.
They turned out the lights and climbed into bed. Mycroft lay down on his side, facing the wall, and Greg slid up to his back, molding his body around Mycroft’s and tucking his arm around the slim waist. Greg kissed the back of Mycroft’s neck, earning a squeeze on his wrist.
