Mystrade one-shots

Fuck Bitches, Get Monet

Hey everyone!
I'm really sorry I haven't written in so long, a lot has happened since I last updated this and I've been snowed under with work. Please accept this small, fluffy one-shot as an apology.
I also hope you guys appreciate my weak attempt at a pun in the title XD

~ Lauren xxx

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When Greg suggested Mycroft take up a small hobby to keep him busy and help him wind down after long days in the office, he'd expected his husband to take up something like crosswords or word searches, possibly turning back to the piano again. Hell, even the occasional dot-to-dot seemed more likely to the detective than what the politician had chosen to de-stress himself in the long evenings.

"Honestly, Myc, as much as I love being involved in your activities, I really want to get my drink. I left it in the kitchen and, quite frankly, I'm going to need a large amount of tea to get through these next few hours."
"I'll phone Anthea and ask her to bring it in to you."
"Mycroft, you will not phone your assistant to get her to bring a mug from one room to another when we are both perfectly capable of walking."
"Gregory, I love you, but for the love of God stay still."

Of course, Mycroft Holmes would not pick a convenient hobby. It had to be a form of art, and his preferred method of artistry was sketching. Although this was not sketching, as this was in no way quick or rough. Every detail had to be perfect, the proportions couldn't be a millimetre out. Greg loved his husband's perfectionism, but why he took an A4 sketch more seriously than the affairs of the government he was involved in was beyond the detective. 

"Babe, my eyebrow is itchy."

Mycroft flushed like a teenage girl, as he did every time Greg called him 'babe' or 'sweetheart' (which Greg found adorable, considering they were both in their 50s and had been married for years), but quipped 'Well deal with it for a few minutes, I've nearly finished that part of your face anyway' nevertheless.

Every part of Mycroft screamed that he should be an artist: the long, skilled fingers, the elegant limbs and the perfect posture. Despite that, knowing Mycroft himself, it was the most unlikely profession you'd expect from someone with such a sharp wit and intellectual brain. You'd expect him to be an 'I finish the daily crossword in The Guardian in 3 minutes flat' kind of man. Despite that, his artwork was absolutely magnificent. It was almost photo-realistic, but with his own individual, somewhat mathematical structure and style; Greg had never seen anything like it. Then again, the DI knew he was biased, considering he already thought everything about Mycroft Holmes was a masterpiece. 

He nagged his husband regularly, but Mycroft knew just how lucky he was to have Greg in his life. He saw a new side of him when he took up sketching, now being given a chance to fully observe Greg. Mycroft had memorised the pattern of freckles on Greg's hands, like a dusting of stars scattered across his skin, and counted every tiny wrinkle that appeared next to his eyes when he smiled. It was strangely therapeutic, and was an intimacy they simply hadn't had the time to experience for a long time. Too long. It was relaxing.

Greg loved art too, but was more subtle about it. He drew cartoons, caricatures of his friends and relatives. His small sketchpad was full of Sherlock with extremely high cheekbones and accentuated lips, Sarah- his ex-wife and best friend- with wild curly hair and a huge, glossy smile and Molly with large doe-like eyes and a sleek ponytail, tied loosely behind her head. He had never attempted to draw Mycroft. He was too scared to mess up, and he simply couldn't capture his husband on an A5 piece of parchment. 

"What are you thinking about?" Mycroft whispered, absentmindedly running his fingers across the pencils laid out next to him. 

Greg smiled apologetically. "Work," he replied. "Sorry. Everything is going on at once, and I know Christmas is going to be unbelievably hectic."

"True," said Mycroft, returning to shading the shadows Greg's collar left on his neck, "Evil always seems more common in our happiest times."

Greg pondered this for a moment, before fidgeting on his chair slightly and replying: "This is why I love you. Though you are far too deep sometimes, I just wanted to complain about work."

Mycroft laughed. "Touche," he replied. "I love you too. Now stay still."

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Sorry this was so poor lmaoooo

I hope you all have a wonderful Christmas and a great 2017! Let's hope it's better than this year, 2016 must've been cursed.

If you don't celebrate Christmas, have a wonderful holiday anyway. Look after yourself.

~ Lauren xxx