[Fic] The Space Between, Mycroft/Lestrade
Jan. 23rd, 2012 03:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sirona_ficsSo apparently, even a week later, I still have ALLL THE TRF FEELS EVER. I've pored over all the post-TRF fics I could find, have gorged myself on John's mysery and despair. However, I haven't been able to find a Mystrade fic that deals with the aftermath. And when, last night, I sat down to write a wee little thing about it, for the reason outlined below, I found I had all the words, and, er. This happened. It's actually not what I set out to write at all, but it turns out it's what wanted to get written, so.
Title: The Space Between
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade, hints of Sherlock/John
Rating: R
Word count: ~3,000
Warning: Spoilers for TRF, perceived character death, hurt/comfort, angst, hints of alcohol abuse.
Summary: In which Lestrade deals with the aftermath of the events showcased in TRF, vis-a-vis the other Holmes brother.
Notes: For the very wonderful![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
stardust_made, whose birthday was last week. I've only just found out, and wanted to write a little something to celebrate the start of her next trip around the sun.
His knuckles sting from pounding on the door in the freezing evening air, while the last vestiges of pink drain out of the sky. He changed the locks on him. Lestrade would be furious -- and he is, he's fuming, he's surprised plumes of heat aren't rising from the top of his head. Perhaps there are. What's the point of giving anyone a key if you're going to make it impossible for him to use it a bloody week later?
"Let me in, for fuck's sake. I'm not leaving until you do, and don't think you can just send your goons out to run me off, because I'm not fucking going, and I'm going to arrest the lot of them for assaulting a police officer if you try it."
Silence. Not a sound from inside the house; Lestrade would assume there's no one home if he didn't know for a fact that Mycroft is in there, hiding away and miserable while pretending to the rest of the world that he isn't. If there's a hint Lestrade's supposed to be taking, Mycroft's shit out of luck; there's absolutely no chance he's walking away before he sees for himself that the other Holmes idiot, whom he happens to be sort-of-maybe seeing, is, if not perfectly well, then at least alive.
"Mycroft. Let me in," he tries again, quieter this time, just this side of begging, which would normally make him cringe but not right now, not when he knows Mycroft is probably sitting alone by the fire with one of his (far too frequent of recent) glasses of whiskey at hand, staring into the flames. The guilt is eating him alive, even if Mycroft would rather die than admit it.
The lock tumbles over and the door opens, which actually manages to catch Lestrade by surprise. He hadn't expected it to be this easy.
And it isn't. Anthea stands in the doorway, immaculate-looking as always if Lestrade ignores the grey-tinged skin under her eyes.
"You should go, Inspector," she says, but her eyes tell a different story. They burn into his, begging him wordlessly to make it stop, fix it, make it go away.
"You know I'm not going to do that," he tells her, gentle yet implacable. "Will you let me in?"
"He doesn't want me to," Anthea says, even as she moves aside. Lestrade processes that for a moment, then steps forward, over the threshold. "I'll be close by," she adds quietly before slipping past him into the falling night, jacket already folded over the arm that had been hidden by the door.
"All right," he nods. "I'll call for you if necessary."
He watches her go as he pushes the door closed, tries not to think about how weird it feels to be conspiring with her to take care of her boss. Wonders whether it rankles for her that she has to resort to his help, and if this is the first time that she has ever defied her boss' orders; wonders how much trouble she's going to be in when Mycroft sees him. Her back is straight, her steps decisive as she marches down the drive. She doesn't care, it transmits loud and clear. Or, more accurately, she doesn't care if it means the Mycroft situation is handled; and apparently, she trusts him to sort it out.
Lestrade wonders, too, if he's about to disappoint her.
He walks inside the house without extending any effort into muffling his footsteps -- Mycroft's nobody's fool, and Lestrade suspects he knows that sooner or later he would have to face him, like it or not. The drawing room by the front door is empty, so Lestrade walks on, pokes his head into the other rooms he passes. Mycroft's townhouse is big, spread out over several levels, and there are rooms aplenty. Mycroft is in neither. Lestrade makes his way steadily towards the back, where he's pretty sure there's a study-cum-library lurking behind the heavy walnut door at the end of the corridor. He pushes it open, edges around it, and spies the familiar head of light brown hair, poking just over the top of the high-backed chair by the fireplace. There is indeed a tumbler on the small side table at his elbow; it's almost empty. They're going to have to have that talk, and soon; for now, it's more important to get Mycroft to talk at all.
A sigh drifts from the front of the chair, put-upon and weary. Lestrade would be offended, if he didn't know that game by heart by now. The two brothers are--were not as different as they tried to pretend.
"I suppose Anthea let you in," Mycroft says, a carefully steady hand reaching for the cut-crystal glass, hiding it from sight while presumably lifting it to his mouth.
Lestrade doesn't bother stating the obvious. Doesn't say 'You wouldn't', either, because this is no time for half-bitter accusations. It's only been three days since the funeral, and the wounds are still much too raw.
Mycroft replaces the glass on the table, empty now, and doesn't turn. Lestrade wonders dully whether the recent events have finally wrecked the... whatever push and pull has been going on between them for almost a year now, the two of them dancing around Sherlock and John and each other. Wonders whether it's worth bothering at all, with any of this.
Remembers the haunting silence of his flat, devoid of tall, perfectly-put-together men leaning on umbrellas and smiling that faint, enigmatic smile of theirs that drives him up the wall for conflicting, entirely different reasons. First time he's had the chance to go home in a week, and he'd only lasted thirteen minutes before pushing his feet back inside his worn shoes and grabbing his coat.
Fuck it, he's never been one to be so easily dismissed.
He rounds the chair with measured steps, not that its occupant needs the warning. Mycroft still won't look at him. His hair, usually gelled into submission, hangs loose around his forehead; it makes him look softer, more human. He looks tired, too, the full Windsor knot of his tie tugged slightly off-centre, the top button of his shirt undone. It's not the most relaxed Lestrade has ever seen him, or the most mussed. But there's something worn about him, something desperate, an infinitesimal indication that Mycroft Holmes is quite at the end of his tether. No wonder Anthea let him in.
At long last, Mycroft raises red-rimmed eyes to his face. He still doesn't smile, but the tightness in his expression fades the slightest bit. Lestrade sighs. "Hi," he says, lets Mycroft hear the exhaustion in his own voice. Even with all of Mycroft's stubborn avoidance, it's still good to see him.
Mycroft sighs, too, no more than a huff of breath. Then, "Hello, Gregory," he murmurs, sounding resigned -- but also, unless Lestrade is mistaken, very much like a weight has just dropped off his shoulders. Lestrade walks closer, lifts a hand cautiously; when Mycroft doesn't pull back, he strokes careful fingers along the creases in his forehead, slides his thumb over his eyebrow. Mycroft seems to sag, eyes fluttering closed.
"John told me everything," Lestrade says, wanting to get that part out in the open straight away. Mycroft stiffens for a long moment, almost like he's getting ready to bolt; Lestrade makes a point to not let his fingers falter in their path down the side of his face. Eventually, Mycroft's shoulders slump again and he settles deeper into the chair.
"Yet here you are," Mycroft muses quietly.
It takes Lestrade, drained as he is, almost a full minute to work that one out. "Of course I'm bloody here," he says, powerless to keep the hint of reproach out of his voice. Without pausing, he runs his thumb over the fold between Mycroft's eyebrows. "Fuck's sake. Wasn't your fault. Even you are not omnipotent, Mycroft Holmes."
Mycroft smiles. It's so far from amused that Lestrade aches to see it. "Doesn't make me any less responsible."
"Oh, sod off," Lestrade snaps at last, fighting the urge to fist his hand in Mycroft's hair, tilt his head back and make him look at him. "You can't take responsibility for what one madman gets into his head to do. Nor the other one."
"Oh, Gregory," Mycroft murmurs. Lestrade grinds his teeth together. He hates it when Mycroft sounds like that, just this side of patronising, like Lestrade is some child who has no idea how the world works. "That's not what John thinks."
Lestrade swallows his sigh. "John's not thinking clearly right now," he offers, like Mycroft doesn't know. "I wouldn't be, either, if the situations were reversed."
Silence greets this admission. Lestrade's chest tightens; he feels wide open, exposed, the confession stripping away any and all defences he has left. He is excruciatingly aware what the comparison with John and Sherlock's relationship implies, and the longer Mycroft remains closemouthed, the more Lestrade's heart tries to sink through his stomach. His fingers, which haven't seized in their path over Mycroft's face all the while, hesitate now; his arm feels heavy with the weight of quietude hushing all sound but the crackle of the flames behind the grate. He lets his hand pass through Mycroft's hair one last time, if that's what this is; tries to memorise the texture of it, the lightness of the strands, and then lets his arm drop, braces himself for the words that are surely about to fall from those strangely mobile lips.
It doesn't reach his side. Mycroft's hand snakes out, catches his before it falls out of reach, strokes a soft thumb along the back of it. Mycroft's eyes are closed, lips pressed together in a thin line; two spots of colour burn brightly at the tops of his cheeks. He lets out a rush of breath, tight and fast, almost a sob. His hand tightens on Lestrade's.
Lestrade doesn't know what to say. 'I'm sorry' hardly seems adequate; 'It wasn't your fault' superfluous. Not like Mycroft would ever believe it, that beautiful, frightening mind of his worrying over and over every strand of the chain of events that led them here, every fraction of a second that could have changed the unbearable outcome. Caring for this man brings with it the awful responsibility of watching him in those so-very-rare moments when one of his intricate, complex plans falls to pieces on the press of a 'call' button, the pull of a trigger. Watching Mycroft second-guess himself is terrifying, excruciating. Insupportable.
Lestrade is still struggling for words when there's a soft tug on his hand, a request more than a demand. He lets himself be drawn closer to the chair, until he's standing with his knees pressed against the side of it, the warmth of Mycroft's arm a brand against his thigh. Mycroft pushes himself off the back of the chair, shocks Lestrade into immobility when he turns and presses his face against Lestrade's stomach, snakes an arm around the back of his legs and holds him there, breathing warm and heavy through the thin fabric of Lestrade's shirt, raising goosebumps across his skin. There's a catch in his breath, just the slightest hitch before it's forced to even out again; it jolts Lestrade out of his daze, gets him moving again, tangling a hand in Mycroft's hair, rubbing soothing fingers over the back of his neck. Mycroft turns his head, strokes his cheek against Lestrade's stomach, inhales deeply, like Lestrade's the only thing that is keeping him together at that moment. His other hand never drops Lestrade's; Lestrade turns it in his grip, slots their fingers together like that's how they belong, holds on tight.
Long moments pass in silence as Mycroft does his best not to cling despite clearly wanting to, and Lestrade lets him maintain the illusion of control if that's what Mycroft needs, even when the front of his shirt grows damp. His whole being aches for this man, whom he cares for possibly too deeply, likely headed straight for disaster. He can't do a damned thing about it, though, can he, and so it's pointless to worry about what comes next. Right now, there's only one thing he can do.
Mycroft startles when Lestrade takes a step back, jerks away and looks down, hiding his wet face like it's something to be ashamed at, actually having feelings. For him, it's probably mortifying. Could well be that tomorrow morning Mycroft is going to wake up and decide that this is too much, more than he ever wanted, that it compromises him and he needs to take a smart step back. But that's tomorrow. Tonight, Lestrade slides to his knees, head level with Mycroft's shoulder, curls a hand around the back of his neck and presses down gently, asking for Mycroft's permission. It surprises him how easily Mycroft lets himself be guided closer, until his lips settle over Lestrade's, slow, soft, pliant. He lets himself be kissed, opens for him so easily when Lestrade asks for entrance with a touch of his tongue. The sigh he muffles against Lestrade's mouth feels like it's torn out of him, wrenched from his chest without his approval. Large, warm hands settle on Lestrade's shoulders, clutch at the lapels of his jacket. The arm of the chair separates them still, but Mycroft tugs him closer like he could bypass it through sheer force of will.
The kiss turns desperate, frantic, like Mycroft is trying to climb inside him through his mouth, like he needs it more than breathing. Lestrade can hardly draw air as it is; his lungs sting with the effort to not pull back, to give Mycroft what he so obviously needs, so rarely asks for. The curl of Mycroft's tongue against his sends a jolt of want down his spine; the slide of spit-slick lips over his, when Mycroft tilts his head and presses their mouths tighter together, is enough to get Lestrade instantly, mortifyingly hard. Lestrade has enough wits left to feel grateful that the side of the chair is still between them, because surely this is reprehensible behaviour, wanting to fuck a grieving, devastated man through the floor. Shame vies with his arousal, his helpless need to make this better somehow clawing at his chest. Mycroft doesn't appear to have noticed, thank god, but he does draw back after a moment, breathing harsh and strained.
"I'm sorry," Mycroft says, and Lestrade stares at him for a long moment before he even realises what Mycroft means.
"Don't be," he says immediately. "Don't ever apologise for something like this. If this is the only thing I can do to help, fuck, take it. Take as much as you need."
It's Mycroft's turn to stare at him. It's always unsettling, being the subject of that penetrating gaze, even more when Lestrade's emotions are running so close to the surface. He fights to hold it, to not duck his head and evade scrutiny -- mostly because Mycroft sees far too deeply inside him already, and there's nothing Lestrade can do to keep him out, even if he wanted to. After a nerve-wracking moment of quiet contemplation, Mycroft raises a hand, uncurls long fingers and draws them wordlessly over the side of Lestrade's face, a strange look in his eyes.
The silence stretches again, though it's much more comfortable now -- or it would be, if Lestrade's knees hadn't chosen that exact moment to remind him that he isn't that young anymore. He must wince without meaning to, because Mycroft's gaze sharpens and he pulls back, rising out of his chair in one smooth motion, leaving Lestrade to follow him with his eyes and mourn the loss of his touch, the odd intimacy of the moment. But then Mycroft leans down, braces his elbow and gives him a boost to his feet, face inscrutable when both of Lestrade's knees crack loudly. Lestrade swallows his sigh when Mycroft's hand drops; he misses its warmth with an immediate, visceral tug. He prepares to make as graceful an exit as possible under the circumstances, well aware that their unscheduled evening together has come to an end -- it's obvious in the shift of Mycroft's eyes, the careful distance he puts between them.
"I'll just... I'd better go," he says, voice unexpectedly rough. He clears his throat, looks away, presses his lips together to hold in the curse that wants out at how fucking useless he feels. Why did he even think his presence would change anything, might help ease Mycroft's pain? "I just wanted to make sure you weren't..." Killing yourself? Suffering in silence? Each justification seems more lame than the last. God, he really should go. He steps back, nods his goodbye, turns to head for the door.
The hand that once again wraps around his sends a spike of sensation up his arm, roots him to the spot. He looks back in question, tries not to hope too much. Mycroft's mouth is slack, lips open a little; it makes him look strangely vulnerable. Lestrade's heart twists in his chest.
"Stay," Mycroft murmurs, so quietly that Lestrade is convinced he heard wrong at first. The look in Mycroft's eyes doesn't change, though; it's a little shy, asking for something that Mycroft looks half-convinced he shouldn't have, doesn't deserve.
There's really only one way that Lestrade can answer that plea. He turns his hand to grip Mycroft's, lifts it until he feels Mycroft's skin against his lips, until he can press a kiss right over the knuckles. Mycroft's eyelids flutter closed, like even that tiny touch is too much.
He lifts his head after, looks Mycroft in the eye, lets his shields down enough so that Mycroft can't mistake what's inside. And he says, "Yes."
Title: The Space Between
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade, hints of Sherlock/John
Rating: R
Word count: ~3,000
Warning: Spoilers for TRF, perceived character death, hurt/comfort, angst, hints of alcohol abuse.
Summary: In which Lestrade deals with the aftermath of the events showcased in TRF, vis-a-vis the other Holmes brother.
Notes: For the very wonderful
stardust_made, whose birthday was last week. I've only just found out, and wanted to write a little something to celebrate the start of her next trip around the sun.His knuckles sting from pounding on the door in the freezing evening air, while the last vestiges of pink drain out of the sky. He changed the locks on him. Lestrade would be furious -- and he is, he's fuming, he's surprised plumes of heat aren't rising from the top of his head. Perhaps there are. What's the point of giving anyone a key if you're going to make it impossible for him to use it a bloody week later?
"Let me in, for fuck's sake. I'm not leaving until you do, and don't think you can just send your goons out to run me off, because I'm not fucking going, and I'm going to arrest the lot of them for assaulting a police officer if you try it."
Silence. Not a sound from inside the house; Lestrade would assume there's no one home if he didn't know for a fact that Mycroft is in there, hiding away and miserable while pretending to the rest of the world that he isn't. If there's a hint Lestrade's supposed to be taking, Mycroft's shit out of luck; there's absolutely no chance he's walking away before he sees for himself that the other Holmes idiot, whom he happens to be sort-of-maybe seeing, is, if not perfectly well, then at least alive.
"Mycroft. Let me in," he tries again, quieter this time, just this side of begging, which would normally make him cringe but not right now, not when he knows Mycroft is probably sitting alone by the fire with one of his (far too frequent of recent) glasses of whiskey at hand, staring into the flames. The guilt is eating him alive, even if Mycroft would rather die than admit it.
The lock tumbles over and the door opens, which actually manages to catch Lestrade by surprise. He hadn't expected it to be this easy.
And it isn't. Anthea stands in the doorway, immaculate-looking as always if Lestrade ignores the grey-tinged skin under her eyes.
"You should go, Inspector," she says, but her eyes tell a different story. They burn into his, begging him wordlessly to make it stop, fix it, make it go away.
"You know I'm not going to do that," he tells her, gentle yet implacable. "Will you let me in?"
"He doesn't want me to," Anthea says, even as she moves aside. Lestrade processes that for a moment, then steps forward, over the threshold. "I'll be close by," she adds quietly before slipping past him into the falling night, jacket already folded over the arm that had been hidden by the door.
"All right," he nods. "I'll call for you if necessary."
He watches her go as he pushes the door closed, tries not to think about how weird it feels to be conspiring with her to take care of her boss. Wonders whether it rankles for her that she has to resort to his help, and if this is the first time that she has ever defied her boss' orders; wonders how much trouble she's going to be in when Mycroft sees him. Her back is straight, her steps decisive as she marches down the drive. She doesn't care, it transmits loud and clear. Or, more accurately, she doesn't care if it means the Mycroft situation is handled; and apparently, she trusts him to sort it out.
Lestrade wonders, too, if he's about to disappoint her.
He walks inside the house without extending any effort into muffling his footsteps -- Mycroft's nobody's fool, and Lestrade suspects he knows that sooner or later he would have to face him, like it or not. The drawing room by the front door is empty, so Lestrade walks on, pokes his head into the other rooms he passes. Mycroft's townhouse is big, spread out over several levels, and there are rooms aplenty. Mycroft is in neither. Lestrade makes his way steadily towards the back, where he's pretty sure there's a study-cum-library lurking behind the heavy walnut door at the end of the corridor. He pushes it open, edges around it, and spies the familiar head of light brown hair, poking just over the top of the high-backed chair by the fireplace. There is indeed a tumbler on the small side table at his elbow; it's almost empty. They're going to have to have that talk, and soon; for now, it's more important to get Mycroft to talk at all.
A sigh drifts from the front of the chair, put-upon and weary. Lestrade would be offended, if he didn't know that game by heart by now. The two brothers are--were not as different as they tried to pretend.
"I suppose Anthea let you in," Mycroft says, a carefully steady hand reaching for the cut-crystal glass, hiding it from sight while presumably lifting it to his mouth.
Lestrade doesn't bother stating the obvious. Doesn't say 'You wouldn't', either, because this is no time for half-bitter accusations. It's only been three days since the funeral, and the wounds are still much too raw.
Mycroft replaces the glass on the table, empty now, and doesn't turn. Lestrade wonders dully whether the recent events have finally wrecked the... whatever push and pull has been going on between them for almost a year now, the two of them dancing around Sherlock and John and each other. Wonders whether it's worth bothering at all, with any of this.
Remembers the haunting silence of his flat, devoid of tall, perfectly-put-together men leaning on umbrellas and smiling that faint, enigmatic smile of theirs that drives him up the wall for conflicting, entirely different reasons. First time he's had the chance to go home in a week, and he'd only lasted thirteen minutes before pushing his feet back inside his worn shoes and grabbing his coat.
Fuck it, he's never been one to be so easily dismissed.
He rounds the chair with measured steps, not that its occupant needs the warning. Mycroft still won't look at him. His hair, usually gelled into submission, hangs loose around his forehead; it makes him look softer, more human. He looks tired, too, the full Windsor knot of his tie tugged slightly off-centre, the top button of his shirt undone. It's not the most relaxed Lestrade has ever seen him, or the most mussed. But there's something worn about him, something desperate, an infinitesimal indication that Mycroft Holmes is quite at the end of his tether. No wonder Anthea let him in.
At long last, Mycroft raises red-rimmed eyes to his face. He still doesn't smile, but the tightness in his expression fades the slightest bit. Lestrade sighs. "Hi," he says, lets Mycroft hear the exhaustion in his own voice. Even with all of Mycroft's stubborn avoidance, it's still good to see him.
Mycroft sighs, too, no more than a huff of breath. Then, "Hello, Gregory," he murmurs, sounding resigned -- but also, unless Lestrade is mistaken, very much like a weight has just dropped off his shoulders. Lestrade walks closer, lifts a hand cautiously; when Mycroft doesn't pull back, he strokes careful fingers along the creases in his forehead, slides his thumb over his eyebrow. Mycroft seems to sag, eyes fluttering closed.
"John told me everything," Lestrade says, wanting to get that part out in the open straight away. Mycroft stiffens for a long moment, almost like he's getting ready to bolt; Lestrade makes a point to not let his fingers falter in their path down the side of his face. Eventually, Mycroft's shoulders slump again and he settles deeper into the chair.
"Yet here you are," Mycroft muses quietly.
It takes Lestrade, drained as he is, almost a full minute to work that one out. "Of course I'm bloody here," he says, powerless to keep the hint of reproach out of his voice. Without pausing, he runs his thumb over the fold between Mycroft's eyebrows. "Fuck's sake. Wasn't your fault. Even you are not omnipotent, Mycroft Holmes."
Mycroft smiles. It's so far from amused that Lestrade aches to see it. "Doesn't make me any less responsible."
"Oh, sod off," Lestrade snaps at last, fighting the urge to fist his hand in Mycroft's hair, tilt his head back and make him look at him. "You can't take responsibility for what one madman gets into his head to do. Nor the other one."
"Oh, Gregory," Mycroft murmurs. Lestrade grinds his teeth together. He hates it when Mycroft sounds like that, just this side of patronising, like Lestrade is some child who has no idea how the world works. "That's not what John thinks."
Lestrade swallows his sigh. "John's not thinking clearly right now," he offers, like Mycroft doesn't know. "I wouldn't be, either, if the situations were reversed."
Silence greets this admission. Lestrade's chest tightens; he feels wide open, exposed, the confession stripping away any and all defences he has left. He is excruciatingly aware what the comparison with John and Sherlock's relationship implies, and the longer Mycroft remains closemouthed, the more Lestrade's heart tries to sink through his stomach. His fingers, which haven't seized in their path over Mycroft's face all the while, hesitate now; his arm feels heavy with the weight of quietude hushing all sound but the crackle of the flames behind the grate. He lets his hand pass through Mycroft's hair one last time, if that's what this is; tries to memorise the texture of it, the lightness of the strands, and then lets his arm drop, braces himself for the words that are surely about to fall from those strangely mobile lips.
It doesn't reach his side. Mycroft's hand snakes out, catches his before it falls out of reach, strokes a soft thumb along the back of it. Mycroft's eyes are closed, lips pressed together in a thin line; two spots of colour burn brightly at the tops of his cheeks. He lets out a rush of breath, tight and fast, almost a sob. His hand tightens on Lestrade's.
Lestrade doesn't know what to say. 'I'm sorry' hardly seems adequate; 'It wasn't your fault' superfluous. Not like Mycroft would ever believe it, that beautiful, frightening mind of his worrying over and over every strand of the chain of events that led them here, every fraction of a second that could have changed the unbearable outcome. Caring for this man brings with it the awful responsibility of watching him in those so-very-rare moments when one of his intricate, complex plans falls to pieces on the press of a 'call' button, the pull of a trigger. Watching Mycroft second-guess himself is terrifying, excruciating. Insupportable.
Lestrade is still struggling for words when there's a soft tug on his hand, a request more than a demand. He lets himself be drawn closer to the chair, until he's standing with his knees pressed against the side of it, the warmth of Mycroft's arm a brand against his thigh. Mycroft pushes himself off the back of the chair, shocks Lestrade into immobility when he turns and presses his face against Lestrade's stomach, snakes an arm around the back of his legs and holds him there, breathing warm and heavy through the thin fabric of Lestrade's shirt, raising goosebumps across his skin. There's a catch in his breath, just the slightest hitch before it's forced to even out again; it jolts Lestrade out of his daze, gets him moving again, tangling a hand in Mycroft's hair, rubbing soothing fingers over the back of his neck. Mycroft turns his head, strokes his cheek against Lestrade's stomach, inhales deeply, like Lestrade's the only thing that is keeping him together at that moment. His other hand never drops Lestrade's; Lestrade turns it in his grip, slots their fingers together like that's how they belong, holds on tight.
Long moments pass in silence as Mycroft does his best not to cling despite clearly wanting to, and Lestrade lets him maintain the illusion of control if that's what Mycroft needs, even when the front of his shirt grows damp. His whole being aches for this man, whom he cares for possibly too deeply, likely headed straight for disaster. He can't do a damned thing about it, though, can he, and so it's pointless to worry about what comes next. Right now, there's only one thing he can do.
Mycroft startles when Lestrade takes a step back, jerks away and looks down, hiding his wet face like it's something to be ashamed at, actually having feelings. For him, it's probably mortifying. Could well be that tomorrow morning Mycroft is going to wake up and decide that this is too much, more than he ever wanted, that it compromises him and he needs to take a smart step back. But that's tomorrow. Tonight, Lestrade slides to his knees, head level with Mycroft's shoulder, curls a hand around the back of his neck and presses down gently, asking for Mycroft's permission. It surprises him how easily Mycroft lets himself be guided closer, until his lips settle over Lestrade's, slow, soft, pliant. He lets himself be kissed, opens for him so easily when Lestrade asks for entrance with a touch of his tongue. The sigh he muffles against Lestrade's mouth feels like it's torn out of him, wrenched from his chest without his approval. Large, warm hands settle on Lestrade's shoulders, clutch at the lapels of his jacket. The arm of the chair separates them still, but Mycroft tugs him closer like he could bypass it through sheer force of will.
The kiss turns desperate, frantic, like Mycroft is trying to climb inside him through his mouth, like he needs it more than breathing. Lestrade can hardly draw air as it is; his lungs sting with the effort to not pull back, to give Mycroft what he so obviously needs, so rarely asks for. The curl of Mycroft's tongue against his sends a jolt of want down his spine; the slide of spit-slick lips over his, when Mycroft tilts his head and presses their mouths tighter together, is enough to get Lestrade instantly, mortifyingly hard. Lestrade has enough wits left to feel grateful that the side of the chair is still between them, because surely this is reprehensible behaviour, wanting to fuck a grieving, devastated man through the floor. Shame vies with his arousal, his helpless need to make this better somehow clawing at his chest. Mycroft doesn't appear to have noticed, thank god, but he does draw back after a moment, breathing harsh and strained.
"I'm sorry," Mycroft says, and Lestrade stares at him for a long moment before he even realises what Mycroft means.
"Don't be," he says immediately. "Don't ever apologise for something like this. If this is the only thing I can do to help, fuck, take it. Take as much as you need."
It's Mycroft's turn to stare at him. It's always unsettling, being the subject of that penetrating gaze, even more when Lestrade's emotions are running so close to the surface. He fights to hold it, to not duck his head and evade scrutiny -- mostly because Mycroft sees far too deeply inside him already, and there's nothing Lestrade can do to keep him out, even if he wanted to. After a nerve-wracking moment of quiet contemplation, Mycroft raises a hand, uncurls long fingers and draws them wordlessly over the side of Lestrade's face, a strange look in his eyes.
The silence stretches again, though it's much more comfortable now -- or it would be, if Lestrade's knees hadn't chosen that exact moment to remind him that he isn't that young anymore. He must wince without meaning to, because Mycroft's gaze sharpens and he pulls back, rising out of his chair in one smooth motion, leaving Lestrade to follow him with his eyes and mourn the loss of his touch, the odd intimacy of the moment. But then Mycroft leans down, braces his elbow and gives him a boost to his feet, face inscrutable when both of Lestrade's knees crack loudly. Lestrade swallows his sigh when Mycroft's hand drops; he misses its warmth with an immediate, visceral tug. He prepares to make as graceful an exit as possible under the circumstances, well aware that their unscheduled evening together has come to an end -- it's obvious in the shift of Mycroft's eyes, the careful distance he puts between them.
"I'll just... I'd better go," he says, voice unexpectedly rough. He clears his throat, looks away, presses his lips together to hold in the curse that wants out at how fucking useless he feels. Why did he even think his presence would change anything, might help ease Mycroft's pain? "I just wanted to make sure you weren't..." Killing yourself? Suffering in silence? Each justification seems more lame than the last. God, he really should go. He steps back, nods his goodbye, turns to head for the door.
The hand that once again wraps around his sends a spike of sensation up his arm, roots him to the spot. He looks back in question, tries not to hope too much. Mycroft's mouth is slack, lips open a little; it makes him look strangely vulnerable. Lestrade's heart twists in his chest.
"Stay," Mycroft murmurs, so quietly that Lestrade is convinced he heard wrong at first. The look in Mycroft's eyes doesn't change, though; it's a little shy, asking for something that Mycroft looks half-convinced he shouldn't have, doesn't deserve.
There's really only one way that Lestrade can answer that plea. He turns his hand to grip Mycroft's, lifts it until he feels Mycroft's skin against his lips, until he can press a kiss right over the knuckles. Mycroft's eyelids flutter closed, like even that tiny touch is too much.
He lifts his head after, looks Mycroft in the eye, lets his shields down enough so that Mycroft can't mistake what's inside. And he says, "Yes."
