A Study in Mystrade

amo, amare, amavi v. love

(A/N: so samninja10 gave me this idea, go follow my unsung muse and goddess of mac n' cheese! I was reeeeally excited to write this with my awkward Mycroft bby and my fabulous beta! Props to her! I don't own characters, only the crappy plot.)
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The air smelled like chocolate cake, the scent wafting through the palace-like house, curling around the ionic pillars like a cat rubs against its owner's leg when it is happy to see them.

Lestrade took a deep breath, inhaling the heavenly aroma as he shut the door behind him. Even though he had moved in with Myc three months ago, the D.I was still impressed by the sheer magnitude of the house every time he came home from work. Today's case, a homicide near London Bridge, had been fairly straightforward, the weather had stayed optimistically clear, and Mycroft had made cake. All in all, Gregory Lestrade had a good day.

Kicking off his shoes in the foyer, Lestrade padded through the maze of softly carpeted halls to the kitchen, fully expecting to find his lover impatiently waiting next to the oven for his cake, teacup in hand. He was rather surprised when the kitchen was empty, the cake sitting on the counter untouched, and no Mycroft in sight.

After a preliminary inspection of the major appliances for cameras and prodding the cake with a toothpick, the D.I decided he probably wouldn't die if he ate some of it, and he had a forkful halfway to his mouth before he wondered where Mycroft was.

He scrutinized the kitchen, letting his mind wander as he looked for the little telling signs the older Holmes was constantly pointing out to him as the 'deduction basics'. Lestrade had found that he couldn't do it with consistency, but the one time he had succeeded, the look from Sherlock had been bloody priceless. The D.I scanned the room, absorbing the facts as they presented themselves.

The British Government was home, and had been in the kitchen fairly recently, judging by the fact that the cake was still warm and there was a teacup with water in it next to the sink. He had been preoccupied when he came home from work; his umbrella was next to the the fridge instead of in its customary stand outside his office, which meant he had needed a specific thing from the kitchen if he had been in here without getting some cake. He wasn't in his office now, otherwise he would have taken his umbrella to where it belonged.

Greg was pulled out of his revire by something heavy landing on the counter next to his elbow. Startled, he drew back his arm, his hand coming into contact with soft fur. He sighed in exasperation, shoving the animal off the sink. "Get off, you stupid cat," Greg grumbled as the cat tried unsuccessfully to climb the cabinets. Louis gave a dissatisfied yowl and padded off, rubbing against Mycroft's umbrella before leaving.

Deep in thought, Lestrade absentmindedly followed the cat into the atrium, shivering in the night air blowing through the hole in the roof. The cranky feline was standing on the edge of the marble fountain, his tail twitching as he silently followed the movements of the orange fish in the dark water. Just as he was about to stick a paw into the dark water, Lestrade scooped up Louis and put him on the ground. "Sorry, Your Higness, no fish filet for your delicate palatte," the D.I smirked as the cat shot him a look equal of disdain.

As the cat stalked off, Lestrade sank onto the stone lip of the fountain, staring complacently at the goldfish gliding through the pool. "I can't save you from that nasty creature all the time, you know," he muttered half to himself, barely audible over the gentle cascade of water from the glowing white spouts.

The fish swimming in the clear pool reminded the D.I of the first time he had met Mycroft  at Baker Street when he was taking a case file over for Sherlock and had walked in on a Holmes family domestic. The older Holmes' scathing remark about a 'world of goldfish' had locked firmly into his mind and convinced him that Mycroft must be the lonliest man in the world.

When Sherlock went essentially rouge, and Lestrade had to consult Mycroft, the became fast friends. They were very close, comfortable but wanting, until the D.I had been kidnapped and interrogated for information on Mycroft. The iceman had melted, and nothing was ever the same again.

Greg didn't realize how much he desperately wanted the politician until the first glance of obvious attraction from the politician had caused him to lose track of time and struggle to breathe. Sometimes he still couldn't believe it: of all people, the British Government had chosen him, a D.I who couldn't function for an hour without coffee and still occasionally forgot his mother's birthday. When he woke up in the morning, Lestrade had to convince himself that he wasn't hallucinating, that he really was sleeping with Mycroft bloody Holmes.

A small smile flitted across his face as Greg thought about his lover and his idiosyncrasies: the smug look he gave Lestrade every time he won an argument, chocolate cake every Friday, and the compassionate side of the iceman that only he could see.

Quite suddenly, something landed in the fountain inches from where he was sitting, scaring one of the fish enough that it jumped out of the water. The D.I was soaked, and a little startled by the projectile that had almost knocked him over. Fishing around in the dark pool, Lestrade's fingers found something smooth and round bobbing around in the blackness. Curious, he pulled the object out of the fountain, its surface slick with water.

Without warning, the lights in the bottom of the marble basin flooded the water with brilliant white light, illuminating the mysterious projectile. When he saw what it was, Greg had to exesize a great deal of self control to not drop it in disgust.

He ran a finger across the glossy skin of the apple, fully expecting to be poisoned on contact. Ever since Moriarty had hinted at his killings with deadly carved messages, the D.I had been extremely wary of the red fruit.

Slowly, he turned the apple in his hand, and blinked in disbelief. Etched into the fruit in neat, firm cursive were two words. For a long moment, Lestrade stared at the crimson fruit uncomprehendingly, the dull roar of the fountain pouring into his head as he tried to understand the message.

After what seemed like an eternity (but was really only a couple of seconds), Greg started to laugh harder than he ever had in his life.

A couple minutes later....

Mycroft didn't lock himself in the library on purpose, and he most definitely wasn't hiding from possible rejection. Or so he was telling himself. He had run faster from the balcony than he ever had in his life. The politician still felt his pulse racing, the heart he tried to deny the existence of thudding wildly in his chest, drowning out all forms of radical thought. He swallowed hard, his hand gripping the air where his umbrella handle would be, had he not left it downstairs. Human emotions were difficult to deal with, Mycroft realized. He stiffened, hearing a knock at the door.

"Myc, open the damn door," Greg sighed, prodding the door with his foot. When he got no answer, he pounded harder. "I know you're in there, you twat, now let me in." The D.I pressed his body against the door, not expecting Mycroft to open it. The door suddenly swung open, and he fell into the room.

Lestrade almost tripped over Louis as he scrambled to his feet. Mycroft had scooped up the cat and was placidly stroking it, the pudgy feline's throaty purr seeming, if possible, smug.

"What do you want?" Mycroft said cooly, attempting to sound unfazed, although his had was shaking badly and he was finding it hard to breathe.

"I'm giving something back, you drama queen," Lestrade said breezily, shouldering past his lover and towards the enormous bay window at the end of the library. He seemed to be looking for something on one of the tables, judging by the soft shuffle of papers. Mycroft kept his back to the D.I, resting the urge to turn around and confront Lestrade. He was so occupied with not paying attention to his lover that he didn't hear him behind him until it was too late.

His breath caught in his throat as Lestrade snaked his arms around his waist and pulled him into a tight embrace, almost making him drop Louis, who hissed in annoyance and trotted off to the far corner of the room. Mycroft relaxed as the shorter man buried his nose in his collar, his small puffs of breath sending shivers across his skin.

After a moment of comfortable silence, Lestrade slipped something into Mycroft's pocket and left the room, picking up Louis while saying something about a trainable cat, but he wasn't listening. The government official pulled the apple out of his pocket, tracing his finger over the engravings, repeating the message in his mind over and over again.

Will you?

Of course, you twat.