SKETCHES
Fandom: Sherlock (TV)
Relationship: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Written for prompt FFF330 Unfinished Paintings of Flash Fiction Friday by @flashfictionfridayofficial
It was by accident that Greg found the mysterious door part-opened, as if in invitation. He hesitated in front of it, wondering for a moment whether it was a test until he remembered who he was married to.
Mycroft never did that kind of thing. Their marriage was built on trust and well-respected boundaries. As he opened the door with a smile, Greg realized that this was Mycroftâs way of saying that he trusted Greg with another part of himself. He could take it if he wanted to.
Having turned on the lights in the previously pitch-dark room, Greg noticed that the room looked way smaller than he expected. It was more of a studio of sorts, a little too messy to be associated with someone like Mycroft Holmes, but in a cozy, comforting way. Against one of the walls, were a few stacks of boxes and a desk sat at the corner. The pen holder on the desk held five or six charcoal pencils of different heights. The rest of the work space was dedicated to a couple of more pencils, some course textured paper, a kneaded eraser, a ruler, a box of paper towels and two sharpeners. Above the desk were a set of light fixtures that seemed to be adjustable.
Charcoal art, Greg mused fondly. Of course.
A book case at the side, had two shelves full of books, most of which had titles related to charcoal art and a few about watercolour. The rest of the shelves held two more boxes of paper towels and a stack of haphazardly arranged sheets of papers.
Delighted, Greg turned to the easel mounted near the only window in the room. Admittedly, his first instinct since he had first lain his eyes on it had been to rush to it but he supposed he could wait until he had gathered all the little clues scattered about in this small room.
The easel had an empty white paper attached to the top holder. As he approached it, Greg noticed that there were not one but two papers attached to it. Flipping the top paper over, the paper underneath it startled a laugh out of him.
It was a drawing of him. Incomplete, but Greg marveled at the details of it. It was clearly a recreation of a typical Sunday morning in their household in Mycroftâs point of view. The charcoal Greg on the paper was barely dressed in a carelessly donned dressing gown, hair an absolute mess and was having his coffee smiling mischievously over the rim of his cup.
It didnât take long for Greg to feel the presence at the doorway. He didnât have to turn to know who it was.
âHope you donât mind me breaking and entering,â he said, still taking in all the little details if the drawing. The rumpled newspaper at the side, the half-eaten breakfast plates and even, he now noticed, how the sunlight seemed to be streaming in from the windows at the back.
âNot to worry,â Mycroft said, his smile audible in his voice. âI will not press charges. Actually, I was starting to wonder what was taking you so long.â
Greg turned to his husband. Mycroft was leaning against the doorframe. His eyes were bright with fondness.
âThank you for trusting me with this,â Greg said. He meant it. He knew how deeply protective Mycroft was about any part of him that made him human. Greg, himself, had been one of those for a number of years now.
 âWell,â he said, a touch nervous, âI didnât mean to keep it a secret from you. Itâs er- you havenât yet got to the boxes I presume?â
âNo,â Greg said, frowning as he turned to the boxes stacked against the wall. âWhatâs in them?â
âNow that youâre here, you may as well see for yourself.â
Greg looked at Mycroft once again and abandoned the easel.
Opening the top-most box, he was met with another sketch of himself. This one featured him reading a book, wearing his glasses. This too, was incomplete and seemed more like a rough sketch. The one after was of him in the process of removing his tie, probably after a day at the court. As he suspected all the sketches in the box seemed to be of him, some were smudged and some were more roughly sketched than the others but all of them were incomplete.
âJesus,â Greg said, laughing in disbelief. âAll of them?â
âNot all the boxes,â Mycroft hurried to clarify, flushing in embarrassment, as if it made any difference.
Greg pointed at another box at the bottom of the stack. âWhat about this one?â
Mycroft groaned in response and hid his face in his hands, clearly regretting his decision. Greg cackled as he retrieved and opened it.
As expected, it was another stack of sketches. Most of them even more scraggly looking and incomplete. It was then when he noticed the date scribbled at the bottom of the paper.
âMyc,â he exclaimed. âThis is from ten years ago!â
âGreg-â
âHonestly, you shouldâve said something.â
Mycroft stopped short and blinked in disbelief. âMight I remind you that you were married at the time?â
âAh.â
âIndeed. I- assumed it would do no harm to tend to my frustrations privately- and drawing helped⌠in a way. Obviously when I said frustrations-â
âI know, sweetheart,â Greg intervened. Frustrations. Greg supposed that was one way to put it.
âI drew until I felt like I could sleep,â Mycroft added quietly.
Greg left the boxes as they were and gently pulled his husband into a hug. âYouâve got me now,â he said instead of âI should have met you firstâ. âStill, you can draw me as often as you like. Promise Iâll even sit still âtil you complete it.â Greg smiled listening to Mycroftâs soft huff of laughter. âWe have all the time in the world.â














