Chapter Text
Whoever Greg had expected to come through the door first, it certainly wasn’t Sherlock. Nevertheless, that was who burst into the room that apart from Lestrade was thankfully empty. The younger Holmes took a look around which lingered briefly on the prone inspector then seemed to nod to himself and plunked himself down on one of the unoccupied beds.
Before they had a chance to say anything to each other, another stepped in closely followed by a third.
Greg felt his throat constricting and his stomach, which wasn’t faring well to begin with, was churning very unpleasantly. He wanted to get it over with, but at the same time Mycroft Holmes was the last person that he wanted to see at that moment in time. It took a lot of will to keep looking at the man as he walked into the room and stopped in the middle of it, not to mention keep his face relatively neutral.
The third person, John, made things slightly better by being the one to go over and reclaim the visitor chair beside Lestrade’s bed. He looked over at the brothers, mouth set and eyebrows raised as if daring them to say anything and the inspector felt a surge of fondness for his friend. One should never underestimate John Hamish Watson, especially as a soldier ready to defend, and right now he was using that protective streak to challenge two rather formidable foes.
Sherlock looked back at his flatmate with an intensity that surprised Lestrade somewhat, but not as much as the rather obvious heat in those pale eyes. What kind of heat he couldn’t say for sure, but the contrast from the normally almost impassive face was astounding.
The elder Holmes cleared his throat, dragging everyone’s attention back to him.
“First of all,” he began, “it is good to see that you pulled through this...ordeal and with what appears to be limited consequences. I am in no doubt that Doctor Watson could tell us exactly how many dire outcomes there can be to such a thing.”
He paused for a moment, then continued. “That you would take such drastic measures, however, to what was essentially a small misunderstanding of intent...”
Greg couldn’t help it; he stared at the man, not quite believing what he was actually hearing and therefore, not yet able to get mad. “Are you saying that you think that I...what, overreacted?” There was no immediate response, but the silence was telling.
“Get out,” the inspector said, voice low and dangerous. Mycroft looked confused and opened his mouth to say something, but didn’t get a chance. “I said, get out!”
When the man didn’t move and clearly had no intention of doing so, something sparked inside Lestrade and he made an effort to sit himself upright, despite the protests of both his stomach and John.
“How dare you?” he began in a low tone, glaring at Mycroft, who stared back, face calm but only barely so. “How dare you tell me that I was overreacting when you have no idea at all why I was actually doing it?! A small misunderstanding of intent you call it? Maybe it was to you, but then again, that’s what you do, isn’t it? Making use of misunderstandings and misdirection, subtle manipulation to suit your needs; that is your world. That is you.”
He actually wanted to stop. Just turn away from them all and pretend he was alone in the room until they left. But now that he had begun, he found the words spilling out of him almost without his consent. In a way it was cathartic. The possibility of it turning out worse was slim at best and he felt a little better for being able to get it off his chest after keeping it in for so very long.
What was surprising was the fact that he was allowed to speak. Nobody interrupted; in fact, Mycroft stood there in front of the bed, completely still, face impassive but not dismissive or otherwise indifferent, eyes intent on the inspector. He looked like he was just going to let it all in – whatever Greg said, he would listen to without speaking up against it. It felt both chilling and comforting at the same time; alien and liberating.
After a deep breath, he carried on. “What you don’t get is that not everyone works like that. To most people manipulation isn’t a good thing. It’s something you only use when you’re either out of options or you’re an absolute arse. Getting manipulated is getting used just for the sake of it and that...that just...” he sought for the right words to describe it properly and failed. “It hurts. It really fucking hurts to know that you are. What hurts more is to know that to the manipulator, that’s all that you are.”
He blinked once, twice, staying the moisture in his eyes to the best of his abilities. He was angry and he was hurt, but he was not going to give in to the tears. They would help nothing.
A hand grabbed his and he glanced over to see John looking back at him with a mixture of affection and encouragement. They exchanged small smiles then Greg turned his attention back to Mycroft.
“The problem is that I can’t do this anymore. I’m tired of being on edge and going back and forth between cynical observations and hopeful optimism – it’s draining me. John has been wonderful in these past few months, he really has. “ Lestrade squeezed John’s hand as he gave him another glance and therefore missed the tightening of Mycroft’s hand around the umbrella handle as well as the aborted attempt to get up from Sherlock. “But it’s not been quite enough, not in the long run, and the...incident at the restaurant was just the last straw. I know it’s who you are and that’s fine. I just can’t deal with the confusion anymore. No matter how much I care.” The last words were spoken very quietly.
There was silence in the room for a moment after that. An odd expression was present on Mycroft’s face; it was a mixture of disbelief, anger, a bit of pain and a sliver of hope. “You care?” he asked slowly, as if unsure he had actually heard it correctly, an unexpected furrow appearing between his eyebrows.
“Yes, of course I do!” Lestrade burst out, surprised by the reaction.
“So....” To both John’s and Greg’s surprise, the one speaking was Sherlock, leaning forward with eyes narrowed, “you care for Mycroft and yet you’re in a relationship with John? Pray tell me, Greg, how does that figure? I am intrigued.”
Greg and John involuntarily swallowed and exchanged glances. So the brothers were apparently aware that they had had a relationship. How much they knew of it wasn’t clear, but they didn’t seem to be aware that it had been a platonic makeshift solution. Whether that was a good thing or not was not clear.
John came to a decision as he looked between the two brothers, not liking the expressions he saw there. In for a penny, in for a pound, after all. “Ah. That’s not hard to explain,” he began. Their attention swivelled to him. “We aren’t in a relationship per se –“
“Oh, please,” Sherlock snapped in interruption, nose wrinkled as it tended to when he felt his intelligence was being deeply insulted. “As if it wasn’t painfully obvious that you are. All the late nights ‘drinking’ and staying the night, the standing closer together at crime scenes and the constant looks, the fact that you haven’t tried to hit on one of our female clients for months and of course the fact that you had the key to Lestrade’s apartment.”
“If you would let me finish,” John barked back, temper rising and just kept in check. What they did not need right now was Sherlock having a strop. “We aren’t in a relationship, you berk; at least not a romantic one. We never have and we never will. But we have provided some support and understanding to each other over the last few months, because we have damn well needed it!”
He glared at them both, but mostly Sherlock. ”Yes, you got it right. Of course you’ve spotted all of that, why wouldn’t you? But as you’ve said yourself as well, you always miss something. This time your massive brain has managed to quite miss the point of why we have been doing this for so long, which is quite astonishing, really.” He sent a questioning look to Greg, who hesitated a moment, then nodded. The decision John had come to was agreed on. “So – do you want to know?”
Sherlock opened his mouth, but Mycroft was quicker.
“Yes, please.” The tone was bordering on pleading, if such a thing could ever be ascribed to Mycroft Holmes.
John took a breath. This was it, then. This was the moment where things would unravel. The possibility that it would turn out in their favour was of course there, but with the way things had been going for them as of late, it would just figure that it wouldn’t. Either way Greg had been right; dealing with the confusion and the uncertainty for so long was draining beyond belief.
If this turns out wrong, I do hope Greg doesn’t mind me moving in for a while until I sort out new accommodations and another job, he thought with a bit of dry detachment before starting.
“It was supposed to be a substitute solution,” he started, closing his eyes as he spoke. “That was all it was meant to be, right from the get-go. We were going to provide the support and understanding the other needed from the one person who understood, really, properly understood, what it’s like to be in love with the two of you complete and utter wankers!”
He stopped speaking then opened his eyes at a rather insistent nudge of the elbow from the detective inspector. What he saw he couldn’t quite believe, but later it was a memory he would treasure dearly.
The two brothers had expressions of flabbergasted disbelief on their faces that would have looked almost comical in any other circumstances. They were not even trying to hide it, which was even more baffling, and neither seemed able to find their voice.
Mycroft was, after a minute or two, the first to recover enough to be able to speak. “And why would we believe that?” After everything, that seemed too good to be true and his brain was automatically leaping to some kind of subterfuge or otherwise lie.
Mentally, John spluttered. On the outside, he merely glowered and walked right up to the man with the ginger hair.
“Why would I lie?” he growled. “What’s the benefit of lying at this point? When I have more to gain or at least keep by keeping shtum than I have by speaking, why the blooming hell would I lie? Hm? You tell me that, Mycroft Holmes.”
“You think...” It wasn’t Mycroft speaking; it was Sherlock, looking uncommonly perplexed and somewhat vulnerable. “John, you honestly think that keeping quiet would be the good option? How can you think that?”
The doctor was about to snap back at him but he stopped when he saw that Sherlock wasn’t trying to insult him or otherwise belittle him for thinking something the detective deemed idiotic. Instead, looking at his face, he seemed genuinely confused as to the reason why John would think that.
It gave John a lump in his throat and a feeling in the pit of his stomach that was both warming and a little unpleasant. “How can I think anything else, Sherlock?” he asked, speaking in a much quieter and subdued voice than his earlier angry tone. “When have you – either of you – given either of us reason to think anything else? When keeping quiet meant that at least we could keep the status quo and speaking up would cost us what we had...well, would you say anything?”
The two brothers looked at him then exchanged glances and as always, they seemed to be able to share a lot of information with just that one glance. That this time, their gazes lingered was something that left both John and Greg with a rather unsettling feeling.
“At what precise point have we given you the impression that you would...have lost what you had if you said anything?” was what was finally asked and again, it was Mycroft asking the question.
“When have you done anything but?” Greg asked, sounding thoroughly perplexed. “Honestly, with Sherlock normally deriding anything resembling relationships or sentiment and you being so very professional,” he almost spat the last word, “it’d take deductions pulled straight out of your arse to realize that you were even remotely interested, even if you didn’t add the manipulative tendencies and the derision of attachment.” He both sounded and looked hurt ant vulnerable by the time he had finished speaking.
“We have tried...” Mycroft began then faltered.
His brows furrowed, face settling into a contemplative expression that lasted for several moments. He then seemed to come to a resolution; he let his umbrella fall from his hand as he took long strides over to the occupied bed. Before Greg had a chance to react, Mycroft leant over him and planted a kiss squarely on the detective’s lips.
Lestrade spluttered and if it hadn’t been for his pained abdomen making sudden movement something he was loathe to do, he would more than likely have drawn his arm back to land a punch on the other’s jaw.
As it was, he did manage to pull away some, glaring as he did so. “I swear to whatever deity might be out there, Mycroft Holmes, that if you are doing this for the fun of it, then I –“
“Do shut up, Gregory.” With that, the redhead kissed him again, lips against lips, firm and insistent. There was no immediate response, but Mycroft didn’t let that bother him. Not at that moment.
“I am tremendously sorry for giving you the wrong impression for so very long as well as letting you think you were being manipulated. Neither was my intention.” He gave Greg the opportunity to look at him, every facade and mask peeled away, revealing what he hoped the inspector understood to be the real emotions underneath. “Will you please give me the opportunity to make amends and prove the depth of my regard for you?”
Greg couldn’t help himself; the relief and warmth flooding his system made him a bit overwhelmed, so he nodded slowly, ignoring the slightly archaic way the other sometimes phrased things, and when next Mycroft leant in for a kiss, he met him halfway. The kiss was soft and slow, just lips pressing together, learning each other, but it spoke of future heat and passion. It spoke of more.
On the sideline John watched, eyes slightly misty. He wouldn’t be able to say what the exact reason for the moisture in eyes were, as it was made up of so many emotions all at once but two of the larger ones were the happiness on Greg’s behalf and the slight wistfulness at losing something that he had come to treasure.
In his mental absence, he didn’t notice Sherlock sliding up to him until he was blocking his view. The consulting detective had the oddest look on his face that John had yet seen. His fingers twitched as if they wanted to move, to touch something, but was prevented from doing so by Sherlock holding himself back.
“Sherlock?” John said, his voice pitched low in question.
He didn’t assume that just because Mycroft had stepped up to the plate and actually done something to demonstrate that he actually had feelings for Lestrade that his flatmate would do or be able to do the same. That would be leaping to conclusions and that only ever seemed to work out for the consulting detective himself.
Sherlock didn’t answer him, at least not verbally at first. Instead he let his hand move up to rest on John’s shoulder, much as he had back in Lestrade’s living room, and as before he searched his friend’s face.
This time, though, he did manage to say something.
“I...don’t do feelings,” he began haltingly and watched as John’s expression faltered.
It was far from obvious if you didn’t know the doctor, but Sherlock had made it his business ever since he came back to catalogue in his mind every single expression of John’s. He was far from an expert yet, given how many expressions and surprises his friend tended to throw his way, but it was clear to him that John thought he was about to be rejected.
“I don’t, John,” he repeated as he frantically ran through ways of phrasing it in a way that would be truthful yet considerate and, more importantly, would be believed as such. It was not something he had any sort of experience with and so he struggled. “I never have and I never wanted to, but you have always had a way of coaxing them out of me without meaning to.”
He moved his hand upward from the shoulder to place it gently against John’s cheek. “I can’t say that the feelings were particularly welcome at first but now...now I wouldn’t be without them. You are and always have been invaluable to me, John, and...” he swallowed “...when you showed signs that you preferred Lestrade over me, it...” He stopped, seemingly cross with himself, though for what precise reason John wasn’t sure. “I didn’t want to lose you.”
Well, that can still be interpreted as Sherlock just having trouble dealing with having a good friend and being afraid of losing that, John thought, ignoring the way the hand on his cheek felt.
The doctor wanted to say something, but as several thoughts jostled for space in his head he had trouble managing to articulate what he actually wanted to say.
He was brought out of his jumble of thoughts by the feel of soft, dry lips pressing against his own. He blinked once, twice, eyes able to focus on the consulting detective in front of him. More specifically he saw that odd expression he had seen cross the pale features several times since he and Greg had ‘gotten together’; the expression that until now had only puzzled him immensely.
Now, though, he thought he might just begin to understand and he smiled, getting a smile in return. “That was what the whole suit thing was about?”
Sherlock adopted his patented ‘must you be so bloody obtuse’ expression at that. Then he bent down to claim John’s lips once more, this time a whole lot more aggressively; tongue pushed for entrance and went on to try and dominate the other man’s mouth. John gave as well as he got, though.
“Perhaps we should...leave the patient to...get some rest,” the doctor said somewhat breathily when they eventually parted.
“Don’t think there’s much chance of that,” Sherlock replied with a smirk.
He looked out of the corner of his eye with a pointed air and John followed his line of vision to where Mycroft was practically halfway onto the bed, being tugged down by Lestrade’s insistent hands on the back of his neck and the lapel of his suit jacket. The inspector was doing a valiant job of snogging the living daylights out of the red fox.
“Maybe not,” John conceded. He looked back at Sherlock and there was a glint in his eye that promised a lot of things; things that sent barely repressed shivers down the younger Holmes’ spine.
John was about to ask whether they should go home, but he didn’t get a chance; Sherlock grabbed his wrist and was dragging him out the room rather forcefully before he managed to utter a word. Not that he minded.
There would be a lot of sorting out what would happen now and what exactly had happened in the last few months, suits and acid and bouts of jealousy included. But that would be later.
“Mycroft...”
Greg looked around the room, slightly intimidated by the understated, immaculate style that reeked of money far more than designer brands ever could. The sheer size of what was essentially a reception room wasn’t helping matters.
“Why are we here?”
“We are here, dear Gregory, because you were only discharged on the condition that you would recuperate at home.”
Lestrade squirmed slightly as he tried to find a more comfortable way to sit in the wheelchair he was currently forced to occupy. “Yes, at home. This is not my bleeding home.” Not that he particularly wanted to go back there so soon, given what he had done there, but that wasn’t really the point.
Mycroft wasn’t fazed in the slightest by the sharp tone; he merely gave the ghost of a smile as he continued to steer the wheelchair through the reception room and the living room into the master bedroom. “No, but it is mine. Here I can make you that you recover at an acceptable pace far more easily than I ever could were you in your own flat.”
They’d reached the bedroom by this point and he stopped the chair close to the bed. He then made a move as to grab hold of the detective inspector, but Greg gave him a glare for his troubles. Muttering under his breath as his abdominal muscles were stretched, he levered himself out of the chair and onto the bed, sitting against the headboard.
“I can walk, you know. I’m not made of glass and it’s not that bad.”
Suddenly the elder Holmes was looming right in front of him, a steely expression on his face. It was hard not to be a bit surprised by the fact that emotions were visible at all on the man.
“I don’t think you’re in any position to be the judge on that, do you, Gregory?” It wasn’t actually a question.
Mycroft’s expression softened after that and he planted a quick kiss on Greg’s cheek before sitting down on the bed and sliding his hands as gently as possible underneath the shirt and vest the inspector had been given to don along with a pair of jeans when he were allowed to leave the hospital. Lestrade had wisely decided to forego asking where they had been procured from.
Greg let himself be manhandled; he was aware that this was more than likely a part of the redhead’s attempt at penance for his earlier behaviour and so he didn’t want to discourage him. Nevertheless, he was as nervous as he was thrilled by the prospect of being stripped by the man he’d been in love with for who knows how long. Not that his heart was hammering or anything like that. He was over forty years old, for Pete’s sake; he should be able to handle something like that with some measure of maturity.
The fact that he was past forty was also the reason for his nervousness; he was in no way in bad shape for his age, but there were plenty of signs on his body showing his age and so he couldn’t help but feel slightly self-conscious as first his shirt, then his vest came off.
As if sensing the unease – and Greg definitely wouldn’t put that past the man – Mycroft leant in as soon as the chest in front of him was bared and let his lips ghost over the clavicle bone, slowly and softly, the feathery feel sending shivers down Lestrade’s spine. They only intensified as the lips moved ever so slowly downwards and the shivers in turn shot right down into his interested groin.
“I thought I was...meant to rest?” Greg managed to ask, a little shakily.
He could feel the lips curve into a smile against his skin; the tone of the voice following that made it clear that it was in fact a smirk. “Well, of course, dear Gregory,” Mycroft said, lips touching skin as he spoke, “and you are going to. There is nothing to say that your rest can’t be...improved, though.”
Long, deft fingers slid under the waistband of Greg’s jeans, moving towards the button and undoing it while the lips continued to slowly ghost their way downwards, circling ever so carefully around the navel. Lifting his hips to aid with the removal of the jeans, the inspector tried to stifle the moan of mixed pleasure and pain that came from the lips on his stomach accidentally pressing harder into it, pushing at overly abused muscles.
Mycroft pulled off at that but only so that he could more easily pull the jeans the rest of the way off, removing the socks as he went.
Greg meanwhile slid slowly, mindful of his ‘condition’, down so that he was lying on top of the covers instead of sitting. The pleased hum from Mycroft made him crack a smile.
The smile turned into a soft gasp when the elder Holmes bent down again and let his lips continue their feathery exploration, this time starting at the middle of the left inner thigh and moving upwards at a pace that felt agonizingly slow to Lestrade. His cock had begun to stir almost as soon as the undressing had begun, but now it was starting to strain against the cotton of his briefs, desperate for the attention that was so very close and yet so very far.
He wanted very badly to push his hips upwards thereby directing the attention the right place and he did try. Mycroft was not to be deterred, however; the long hands came up to grip onto the hips and held them firmly down. The mouth lifted from the thigh, only to breathe warm, moist air over the cloth-encased flesh, causing it to twitch fervently.
“Mycroft...” The name came out on an exhale that was more of a moan than anything else. “Shush, now,” Mycroft chided.
“I will take you apart and put you together, then do it all over again until I have paid a fraction of the proper penance for my earlier conduct.”
“You honestly don’t have to – “
“I know. But I want to.” With that, he lowered his head again, much to the joy of Greg.
“So...” John began.
They were lying in bed. More specifically, they were lying tangled together on their sides in Sherlock’s bed, naked and covered in both cooling sweat and the ejaculations from them both. The consulting detective was spooning; curled around his doctor, one long leg thrust between two rather stockier ones, ankle hooked around one shin. One arm was propped up to support the head while the other was draped over John’s waist, seemingly loosely and by coincidence.
John knew that it was only seemingly, though, as when he’d tried to get up earlier to get something to clean them up with, the arm had tightened around him rather pointedly. It didn’t loosen until it was clear that there would be no further attempts to get out of bed.
“So...” he started again. “How long? Was it really only because you felt that I was starting a relationship with Greg that...” he had trouble finishing the sentence. It seemed rather disheartening to think that his friend had only laid a claim because he didn’t want anyone else to.
For a moment, there was no answer and John suspected that Sherlock was trying to pretend he was asleep never mind the fact that John could tell perfectly well the breathing wasn’t actually as relaxed as it appeared.
“You are not a toy,” was what finally came and the doctor blinked, thrown slightly by the apparent non sequitur. Then he remembered having accused Sherlock of thinking something to that effect.
“No,” he agreed. “I’m not.”
“I’m...it’s not...this isn’t an experiment, humouring you or being possessive.” The almost vice-like grip on John’s waist would beg to differ with that last statement, but with a possible further explanation on the table he wasn’t going to argue. “It...I want this, John. With you. Very badly and not for any sort of ulterior motive. Just...you, in every possible way there is.” To underline his point, he tightened his hold on his new lover and nuzzled into his neck.
It was rather romantic in its own Sherlockian way. After everything, it was as close to perfect as he could hope for.
Despite the tight grip, John managed to turn around, a smile tugging on his lips. He planted a lingering kiss on cupid bow lips, eliciting a smile in return from Sherlock as they parted.
“I love you too, you utter nutter,” John said, watching as the smile on Sherlock’s face turned into a full-blown beam. “Just wish that it hadn’t taken all that trouble and worry to get to this point.”
“Sometimes, it’s the results that counts, John.”
John couldn’t really argue with that.
Epilogue
A few weeks later, on a overcast, drizzly morning, found John in a cafe, sipping a cup of rather overpriced coffee and waiting for a crumpet and a croissant.
The door bell jingled but the doctor didn’t look up until a little while later when the chair next to him was pulled out and a man sat down in it.
“I’m surprised you’ve been allowed out on your own.”
Greg let out a snort of a laugh. “Must we have a pot and kettle theme?” he asked before sipping on his own coffee. “Seems like it,” John agreed, unable to keep the grin from his face. “Not that either of us can really complain of the current situation, can we?”
“Nope, definitely not. Apart from one thing...”
They were interrupted by the arrival of the plates of baked goods and the subsequent good natured battle over who got the croissant and who got the slightly burnt crumpet. To the surprise of neither, it was John who got the crumpet.
“Honestly!” Lestrade was trying not to grin and was failing miserably. Then his voice lowered. “Apropos of that – I do miss our time together. You know.”
“Yeah – can’t see how we’ll get that much leeway from either of them just yet, though, can you?”
“Well...” Greg leaned back in his chair, mindful of his still sore stomach. “There is always that idea you had earlier, though, isn’t there?”
Two claimed men grinned conspiratorially at each other over their cups of coffee.
The End