Title: 86,400
Author: fanficwriter101
Pairing: Mycroft/Gideon
Fandoms: Sherlock
Disclaimer: The characters from the show aren't mine, they belong to others. No copyright infringement intended. Any characters you don't recognize are mine. Feedback would be nice, positive feedback would be nicer. Enjoy!
Category: Sherlock (BBC 2010 version) angsty / fluffy slash (implied) fic
Rating: R for explicit (but of course carefully edited) implied sex and violence
Characters: Ensemble
Series: No
Spoilers: Anything from Season One (including the unaired pilot) might get a mention.
Summary: Mycroft learns a lesson the easy (and fun) way. Sherlock's lesson is a bit more uncomfortable.
Archive: Just tell me where it's going
Additional 'stuff': I decided 'not Anthea' would have a name beginning with a different vowel for every day of the week. This fic starts on Friday evening, so it's U. Flats similar to the one I have them living are available to buy at a touch under £700,000. This fic focuses on Mycroft's two biggest 'issues' and includes a flashback to Lestrade's early life. In everything I've ever seen Lestrade's alter ego in, he loses his temper in a really big way. I just had to write that in a fic :). I'm assuming Gideon and the rugby team captain are BOTH over 18 at the time.


Mycroft could smell food cooking as soon as he opened the door.

The radio was on - a pop-music-playing station as far as he could tell in the limited time it took him to walk in, take off his coat, scarf and gloves, stow his briefcase in the wall safe behind the sofa and cross to the kitchen. He felt a sudden flash of panic - was it Gideon's birthday or had he had some news Ursula had forgotten to pass on to her boss, good or bad - but he didn't have long to ponder the question as Gideon realized he wasn't alone in the kitchen and turned, smiling.

"You're home early."

Mycroft's already rooftop-level anxiety skyrocketed. "Um...yes...is that a problem?"

"No, just nothing's ready. Go and sit down and I'll bring you a drink."

At work, whether dealing with colleagues, politicians or diplomats, Mycroft was always in charge. It was just easier. And, mostly, those around him agreed and allowed him to set the agenda, make decisions and, of course, take the fall when things went wrong.

At home, things were very different. Gideon had just seemed to naturally make 'suggestions' or 'observations' which Mycroft went along with. Again, it was just easier.

So he walked back into the living room and, sighing softly, slumped tiredly into the tan leather armchair he knew allowed him an uninterrupted, if oblique, view of the kitchen.

Gideon came out of the kitchen after a few minutes carrying two champagne flutes. Mycroft had begun to relax a little, easing his shoes off, loosening his tie and leaning back, silently observing Gideon. Suddenly, he was on edge again. He had missed something. He knew it was too late to do anything about it but he still mentally kicked himself for forgetting...

"Happy two month anniversary."

Mycroft hoped his anxiety didn't show. Had it really been two months since they moved into the newly-built complex? Two months...it felt more like two weeks. He took the glass and sipped at the bubbling amber liquid. He smiled politely as his taste buds processed the alcohol.

 "Got it on special offer at lunchtime. Half price. It's all right isn't it."

Mycroft recognized the rhetorical nature of the question just in time and nodded agreeably.  He was lying, of course. The 'champagne' - if indeed it had in fact come from that region of France - was just empty calories and he knew Gideon's cooking paid scant attention to the fat or calorie content of any of the ingredients. He tried not to think about how many miles of cycling he would have to do in the gym to lose the weight he would gain at the end of the evening.

"Good day? Or at least, not horrendously awful day?" Gideon asked, perching on the arm of the chair.

Mycroft considered the question, considered the Official Secrets Act and settled for: "Average, for the time of year, I think."

"There's time if you want to shower?"

Mycroft shook his head. "No, thank you, I...showered at the office."

"After you spent how long in the gym?" Gideon asked gently. He had been in a good mood, wanted Mycroft in a good mood and had no intention of ruining either.

"Summit food is always so rich..." Mycroft tried to defend his workout. Attending the Summit had been a disruption to his week he had tried to avoid, but he had accompanied the Ministers and aides, keeping out of official photographs and press conferences, working quietly in the background.

"How long?" Gideon pushed, taking Mycroft's glass from him.

"An hour." Mycroft admitted softly, looking up nervously.

Gideon sighed. "Is this really bad?" He held up the delicate crystal flute, the alcohol still fizzing wildly.

"No, it's..."

"Myc..." Gideon frowned warningly.

"Yes." Mycroft nodded. "Why don't we open the bottle Sherlock and John bought us as a moving-in gift? It's still in its box on top of the refrigerator."

Gideon nodded. "I'll do that."


As always when Gideon cooked, on this occasion meat but just as often fish or chicken, there were accompanying vegetables and potatoes. There was also always something for dessert and Mycroft didn't complain because it was always delicious. With enough advance warning - birthday, anniversary, Mycroft could reduce his food intake in the days before the dinner and really enjoy the meal. On this occasion, following so soon after the seemingly endless lunch- or dinner-time meetings at the Summit he had just returned from, Mycroft had had no warning and, as a result, he was anxious to discover what Gideon was planning. "It smells great. What are we having?"

"It's a new recipe I thought I'd try. Got it from the paper a few days ago."

No help. Mycroft tried again. "Meat or fish?"


If Mycroft considered the idea that Gideon was teasing him, he didn't let on. "And for dessert?"

"If it turns out badly, indigestion tablets."

Mycroft gave up as Gideon returned with two glasses. "You can pick the wine next time."

Mycroft smiled. "Two months...it seems longer."

"Living with me you mean?"

Mycroft looked up, horrified at how his comment had been misinterpreted. "No! I just meant..."

"Hey, relax, I was kidding." Gideon frowned. "Come on...tell me."

"Tell you...what?" Mycroft gulped, biting his lip, playing for time.

Gideon wasn't in the mood for games. "Why you went to the gym before you knew I had dinner planned."

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock asked me..."

Gideon was on his feet before Mycroft finished the sentence. "Let me guess. Something like...hey Mycroft, are you putting on weight?"

Mycroft nodded, his facial muscles twitching.

"If he wasn't your brother, I'd give him a smack."

Mycroft smiled a little. "Don't let that stop you, please."

Gideon's temper subsided. "Next time, tell him to sod off."

Mycroft sipped the rather nicer drink. "Let's not let my brother ruin our evening, please?"

Gideon nodded. "Set the table and I'll bring the plates."


Later that evening, Baker Street...

"John...um...could you...um...give us a minute?"

John nodded and headed to his room, closing the door behind him. He didn't want to know what the two of them were about to discuss but he was sure it would involve bodies and other unpalatable subjects.

"Detective Inspector...is this about..."

Sherlock didn't get to finish the sentence. Gideon grabbed his collar and slammed him against the doorframe. "I don't care why you can't be civil to Myc but if you *ever* tease him about his weight again I'll fill this flat so full of Class A gear you'll get out of prison just in time to collect your bloody pension, got it?!"

Sherlock struggled a little but the DI was holding his collar tightly, pressing him against the unyielding wood behind him. "I don't believe you can dictate the subject of my conversations with my brother." Sherlock struggled to maintain a disinterested tone despite his situation.

"Believe. It." Gideon snarled, banging Sherlock against the doorframe.

"Well, well, it only took you eighty-six thousand, four hundred hours."

"What?!" Gideon released Sherlock, stood back, frowning at Sherlock's comment.

"Two months. It has been two months since you moved in together and already my brother has you fighting his battles for him. He really is so weak..."

At that moment, just too late, Sherlock realized he had gone too far. He wasn't able to prevent Gideon's fist impacting his nose, but his cry of pain echoed around the flat, bringing John - who had been trying not to listen to Sherlock and the DI argue - out of his room just in time to see Sherlock fall to his knees, his hands covering his face.

"What's going on?"

Gideon - chest heaving, face flushed - stood over Sherlock, cradling his hand. "I think I broke Sherlock's nose."
John hooked his hand under Sherlock's elbow and pulled him over to the sofa, blood dripping through Sherlock's fingers as they walked. "Sit down, let me have a look." He turned back to Lestrade and jerked his head towards the armchair. "I'll look at your hand in a minute. Sit down over there."


"You hit him?"

Gideon nodded. He was mortified he'd lost his temper. He had always prided himself on not letting Sherlock get to him whatever the provocation and he'd failed spectacularly. His fingers - thankfully not broken - were bruised, swollen and very sore. Apparently, John had confirmed, Sherlock's nose was in a similar state - unbroken but seriously smacked.


"I think you should go." John said firmly. "Get a taxi. Don't drive with your hand like that."

Gideon nodded and headed out of the flat.

"Right, you, come over here by the window and I'll put a dressing on your nose."

Sherlock frowned. His nose was agony, his cheek only marginally less painful and he had a thumping headache and a really sore back. "He hit me. I didn't do anything."

"You made some - knowing you, probably personal - comment to your brother about, let me guess, his weight? He probably just mentioned it to Lestrade. You know he's got a temper and he's protective of Mycroft. Serves you right."

Sherlock scowled and flinched as John smoothed the adhesive on the edges of the thick pad over Sherlock's forehead and cheeks. "OW!!"

"Shut up. You're lucky it isn't broken. And that I'm a doctor. And you just got a smack. You know Lestrade boxes, don't you."

Sherlock nodded a little, felt dizzy and sat down hard in the armchair.


Two months...as he sat in the cab, cradling his hand which felt like it was being whacked repeatedly by a hammer, Gideon realized there was something other than just being cross at Sherlock's sarcasm behind his split-second decision to smack the irritating git. It had been, as Sherlock had accidentally reminded him, two months since he'd moved into the newly-built apartment complex.

Two months of taking care of...things...himself  in the shower. More than once he'd tried to get Mycroft in the mood, but he'd failed every time. Finally, he'd had to ask. If his attempts at seduction had been unsuccessful, his attempt at broaching the subject one evening had been a disaster. It had been the one and only time - Gideon hoped it would be the last - where they had rowed so angrily, they had actually contemplated splitting up. 

It had taken hours of sleep-depriving talking before both of them calmed down enough to go to bed. And they had both slept dreadfully, finally waking long before they needed to, grumpy and bleary-eyed all day, much to their respective teams' chagrin.

They touched, hugged, cuddled, even falling asleep leaning on each other on occasion but that was as far as they went. And, Gideon had to admit, he didn't mind *that* much. Mostly. Almost all the time. Sometimes. He scowled and settled back into the seat, sighing crossly. He minded. A lot. As the taxi drove through the light late-night traffic, Lestrade lay back and closed his eyes, remembering another first time.

Three decades earlier...

Gideon was as happy as he'd been all term. He'd just found out he'd been put in the First Eleven school rugby team. His last year in the 6th Form, his last chance and, finally, he'd made it.

Both his own and the opposing team's players were bigger, heavier and more experienced than he was and, with only a few minutes of the game left, Gideon had been smacked in the face, kicked, rolled on and was soaked, muddy, sweating hard and close to exhaustion.

He heard one of his team shout his name and, moments later, the muddy ball smacked into his chest. Grabbing it, he ran, chest heaving and landed hard on the ground, the ball and the touchline under him.

The roar of the spectators as he scored the winning try would stay with him forever.

In the shower, he examined his bruised and bloody torso with a grimace and a few sharp breaths. As the water took away the mud and blood, the plastic curtain behind him opened and cold air wafted over his bare shoulders.

"You did well for a first time."

Gideon recognized the captain of the opposing team - he'd watch the older boy several times in previous matches - and tried not to show how uncomfortable he was being that close to an older, equally naked, boy.


He was desperately trying to ignore the hand on his crotch, but it was impossible to ignore the finger pushing between his buttocks.

"Lucky catch."

"What...um...yeah...suppose so."

"Relax...it's not like it's your first time, right?"

Gideon tried to do as he was told but it was and he really couldn't.


It hurt...at the time and for a couple of days later. Every time he sat down or bent over or just moved at all, his backside reminded him of what he'd done. He'd heard it got easier the more you did it. He hoped it did.

Thankfully, it did. But it had been so long since he'd been with anyone, he wondered briefly if it would hurt once again when - if, he corrected himself - he finally convinced Mycroft to do it.


Mycroft was, thankfully, asleep when Gideon slid into the chilly side of the bed, turning onto his side, regretting what he'd done and wondering how Mycroft would react when he found out.

A moment later, Mycroft turned over and reached for Gideon's right hand, taking it in his, ignoring the soft gasp of pain that matched the light pressure of his fingertips on the hot, swollen knuckles. "Thank you."

"You're not angry?" Gideon asked nervously.

"With you? No."

Gideon let out a relieved breath. "I'm sorry I beat up your little brother."

Mycroft chucked softly in the darkness. "I'm sure he deserved it. And John says his ego was more damaged than his nose."

"Is it weird that it felt...right...smacking him like that?"

Mycroft smiled and kissed Gideon's knuckles lightly. "I suppose I'm really surprised you've only hit him once in...how long has it been...five years?"

Gideon lifted himself up, leaning half on the pillows and half on Mycroft. "Yes...which means...I've known you..."

Mycroft slipped his arm around Gideon's shoulder. "Five years, four months and..."

"Last time a Holmes reminded me how long we'd been together I hit him." Gideon said teasingly.

Mycroft settled for: "A long time."

"Is there any more of that champagne left?"

"Yes, but you shouldn't drink it. You've had pills."

Gideon shrugged.  He didn't bother asking how Mycroft knew he'd taken some painkillers at Baker Street. "I don't think it'll kill me."

Mycroft didn't move or speak for a minute then: "Do you think your hand would hurt very much if you ran it under hot water?"

Gideon frowned. "Why the hell would I do that?"

Mycroft pushed the duvet off his legs. "Because I'm going to take a shower."

It took Gideon a few seconds to catch up. "And you want me to..."

Mycroft flicked the bedside light on, his expression suddenly anxious. "If you would like to..."

Gideon smiled. "I would."



Mycroft reached across and took Gideon's hand gently. "Thank you."

Gideon grinned in the darkness. "Why tonight?"

Mycroft hesitated. He knew he'd kept Gideon waiting for a stupid amount of time. "Because I realized two things."

"Oh?" Gideon's smile remained.

"One...you have terrible taste in wine."

Gideon laughed and rolled onto his back. "And two?"

Mycroft lifted himself up on one elbow and rested his hand on Gideon's chest. "I love you."

Gideon opened his mouth to make some remark about how long it had taken Mycroft to actually come out and say the words. Then he closed it and settled for turning towards Mycroft and reaching around his back, pulling him close.