Title: Have your cake and eat it too?
Author: fanficwriter101
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade
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) PWP slashy/fluffy/angsty fic
Rating: PG for implied coupledom and some swearing
Characters: Ensemble (Mycroft/Lestrade established couple)
Series: No - but it might help if you've read 'Home Truths' and some of my other fic in this fandom first.
Spoilers: None intended but anything (including the unaired pilot) might get a mention.
Summary: Lestrade's gift to Mycroft is much appreciated.
Archive: Just tell me where it's going
Additional 'stuff': You really can hire a room (actually one of two) at the restaurant for your own private function. I'm so close to my first slash in this fandom but I'm not anymore sure it will be Sherlock/John. The development is a real building site - I think it would suit Mycroft perfectly. I like *my* Lestrade's first name and *my* Dimmock's first name. I made both up.

***

Baker Street...Tuesday morning.

Sherlock tossed the envelope at John who only just caught it before the sharp edge took his eye out. "What is it?"

Sherlock sighed. "It's my brother's birthday party invitation. Why Lestrade thought it necessary to organize..."

John pulled out the cream card with black embossed lettering and read it, whistling softly. "Simpsons in the Strand. Bet that's not cheap."

Sherlock shrugged. "Probably not Lestrade's idea."

John frowned. "Sherlock, that's not nice."

"Bit not nice?" Sherlock queried with a small smile.

"*Very* bit not nice." John qualified ungrammatically, not smiling at all. "So...what are we getting him?"

Sherlock shrugged and tried the usual ways he had of getting John to do something he really didn't want, or couldn't be bothered, to do. "Oh, I thought a tie."

John rolled his eyes. Did Sherlock really think he didn't know what was going on? "No Sherlock, we're going shopping."

Sherlock pulled a pained face. "But I have an experiment in the oven."

"For how long?" John folded his arms and waited for a response.

"Um...hours?" Sherlock hazarded.

"Is it safe in the oven without you standing over it?" John needed to be sure.

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes. "Yes, John. Really! It's not like I *meant* that saucepan to melt..."

John smiled smugly. "Then you can come with me for an hour or so."

As they flagged down a taxi, Sherlock tried to think back to the moment when John tricked him into their gift-buying trip.

***********************

A few days later...Simpson's in the Strand...9.45 pm

Mycroft declined the slice of cake the waiter offered him with a wave of his hand. He had eaten quite enough food for one evening. In fact, only the pressure of being seated around a table with a couple of dozen people had led him to eat as much as he already had. He pushed from his mind the mental picture of weeks of salads and exercise in the gym at the office which he had to look forward to after his necessary over-indulgence.

He didn't notice Lestrade's hurried conversation with the waiter, distracted by his assistant's less-than-subtle brush-off as someone he recognized only vaguely tried, and failed miserably, to flirt with her.

Sherlock was practically glued to John, to be expected, Mycroft reasoned with an inward sigh. They didn't have the best of relationships and there was no reason Sherlock should behave any differently just because they were in public. That coupled with the fact that John probably only knew a handful of the guests meant the two men made little attempt at conversation with anyone other than each other.

Lestrade was several feet away, talking to someone he clearly knew better than Mycroft did.
Mycroft sat back in his chair, sipping a glass of sparkling water, observing Lestrade. Although there was more than a decade between them, the age difference emphasized by Lestrade's grey hair, Mycroft always *felt* older. His energies were expended at work in a very different way, but at the end of a working day he felt just as tired and, as a consequence, they rarely went out except occasionally to the theatre, ballet or opera.

He had been concerned - although he never mentioned it to anyone - that the Detective Inspector might become bored with their lifestyle, particularly with the arrival of former RAMC Captain Dr. John Henry Watson. After all, he had reasoned, John and Gideon had much more in common than he and Gideon.

"Hey." A hand rested lightly on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

He looked up and smiled. "Thank you for this."

"You were miles away."

Mycroft forced his insecurities down and smiled. "Not at all. Is everyone enjoying themselves?"

Lestrade nodded, ignoring Mycroft's poor attempt at a lie. "Yeah. Sherlock looks...okay."

Mycroft let his gaze drift across to the far end of the table. John was leaning back, several people around him apparently listening intently to him while Sherlock's eyes swept around the knot of people, an occasional slight smile twitching his lips.

Later...Pimlico

Mycroft sat on the bed, tugging at his bow tie. He yawned and flexed his neck tiredly.

"Are you coming to bed?"

Lestrade's voice carried from the kitchen. "In a minute."

In fact it was several minutes - minutes in which Mycroft undressed and got into bed - before Lestrade appeared in the doorway.

Mycroft looked up and smiled even before he realized Gideon was hiding something behind his back.

Lestrade walked over and smiled. "Happy Birthday." He held out a small black hinged leather box.

Mycroft took it, staring at Gideon as he did so. "Everyone enjoyed themselves tonight."

Lestrade frowned, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Except the birthday boy himself."

Mycroft realized it was pointless to deny the truth. Softly he admitted: "Ever since Mummy died, I haven't really *celebrated* my birthday."

Lestrade nodded understandingly, gesturing at the box in Mycroft's hand, not wanting Mycroft to get into one of his moods just yet. "Open it." He prompted.

Lifting the lid, Mycroft saw the silver photo frame and stared silently at the picture it held.

Filling in the silence, Lestrade smiled, nervously waiting for Mycroft's response. "Sherlock gave me the picture..."

Mycroft swallowed hard and rested his fingertips lightly on the glass. "It's the last picture we have of the three of us together. We were on a picnic on Hampstead Heath. I gave it to Sherlock so he wouldn't forget what Mummy looked like..." His voice had been soft, packed with emotion but suddenly he quieted, tears replacing words.

Lestrade got up, moved around to the other side of the bed and climbed back onto the bed, on top of the bedclothes, reaching gently to rest his hand on Mycroft's silk-covered forearm.

Without warning, Mycroft turned suddenly, practically lifting himself onto his lover's lap.

A little taken aback, but adjusting quickly to the change in Mycroft's usual reserved behavior in the bedroom, Lestrade moved so he was sitting on the bed, his arms full of Mycroft, their bodies rocked by the heart-rending sobs issuing from the overwhelmed civil servant. "You poor sod. Everyone worries about bloody Sherlock. No-one thinks about you, do they?"

After a few minutes, Mycroft calmed a little, twisting in Lestrade's grip, looking up at him, sniffling, embarrassed. "You do."

Lestrade smiled. "Course I do. Someone's got to."

*******************************

Same time, Baker Street

John was getting used to Sherlock wandering in on him when he was in the bathroom, sometimes when he was actually *in* the bath, and, on occasion, his bedroom, mostly either early morning when Lestrade called to report a case that had come in overnight or late night when Sherlock had a sudden flash of inspiration in a case they were working on. He had a fair idea of how Sherlock would behave if John invaded *his* personal space in the way Sherlock did John's but he didn't try to prove his theory simply for the sake of flat-sharing harmony.

So he was little surprised when, just as he was getting into bed, Sherlock knocked on his bedroom door.

"Sherlock?"

"Can I come in?"

John wondered what on earth Sherlock could have done in the hour since they'd arrived home to warrant such caution. "Yes Sherlock. What is it?"

Sherlock entered the room and flopped down on the end of John's bed, his dressing gown billowing briefly as he lowered himself.  

"Mycroft called. To thank you for the present."

"Us Sherlock, I just helped you choose the frame, remember?" John waited for the real reason his flatmate was draped across the width of his bed.

After a pause during which Sherlock examined in great detail the neatly-sewn hem of John's army-issue blanket which was folded at the end of his bed, he rolled onto his back, bending his knees. "Do you want to have your 40th birthday party there?"

"Any chance we could talk about that in the morning if you're not going to tell me what's *really* bothering you?"

Sherlock huffed crossly. "Mycroft will lose any opportunity for promotion if people find out. Lestrade too."

John smiled inwardly at Sherlock's concern for his older brother and his new partner. "He said he's thinking of retiring. I think if he did, Lestrade would join him."

Sherlock rolled onto his side and lifted his head, resting it on his hand. "What a waste."

"Not if they love each other." John disagreed softly.

Sherlock exhaled sharply, wrinkling his nose at John's soppiness. "Love!"

John chuckled, "You wait Sherlock. One day someone'll come along and you won't think about anything except being with them."

Sherlock lifted himself up hurriedly as if concerned John's sentimentalism might be catching. "Nonsense! Ridiculous! The very idea!"

John smiled. "Methinks the detective doth protest too much."

"*Consulting* detective." Sherlock corrected automatically, heading for the door, forgetting to correct the actual quotation.

"Yeah. 'Night Sherlock." John smiled to himself long after the door slammed closed.

*************************

Pimlico, a few days later...

Although they didn't know it, Mycroft and Gideon's Sunday morning routine was an almost perfect mirror of Sherlock and John's.

The Sunday papers, a leisurely, late breakfast. Unless one of them was on duty or working on a case, the routine was a wonderful release from the stress and tension of the other six days.

Mycroft sipped his coffee and waited for Gideon to wake fully, which usually meant letting him get through his second cup of coffee, before announcing:  "I have to fly to Dublin on Sunday."

Lestrade didn't get the connection, but he was used to Sherlock's mental leaps and waited for the help he expected would be forthcoming from his brother.

"Her Majesty is making an official visit to the island in the late Spring and the individual who was to make the preparatory visit has come down with...some incapacitating illness."

Lestrade bit back the smile which threatened to alter his expression at Mycroft's moue of discomfort at the very idea of being...incapacitated.

Mycroft ploughed on, ignoring Gideon's very poor attempt at covering his thoughts. "You could come. Get that little worm Dimmock to cover for you for a couple of days."

Lestrade frowned. "Are you sure Myc? I mean, you've never wanted me with you before..."

"I apologize if it appeared that was the case. It was quite unintentional, I assure you." Mycroft shifted, sitting up for a second before leaning back, reaching for Gideon's hand as it reached for a slice of toast, fighting the urge to grab the toast and shove it in his mouth to try and soothe his growling stomach. "I didn't imagine you would want to accompany me."

Lestrade sighed and shook his head. "I don't mind people knowing about us. But in your position, I thought you had to be careful."

Mycroft acknowledged the truth of Gideon's statement with a slight nod. "I do. But I'm thinking of taking early retirement."

Lestrade frowned at this unexpected comment. "And do what?"

Mycroft shrugged a little. "Write. I've always wanted to write a book."

"Blimey...um...okay."

"And then it wouldn't matter...about us." Mycroft decided he needed Gideon to understand his reason for quitting his job.

"You'd be okay with people knowing...then?"

Mycroft nodded, looking up at Gideon, smiling. "Absolutely okay."

Lestrade kissed Mycroft's knuckles lightly. "Well...that's settled then. I'll call Simon. No sense him being asleep when I'm awake. And I'm not gonna be able to get the picture of a worm with his face out of my head."

Mycroft chuckled softly. "I am sorry about that."

Lestrade laughed, getting up to refill his coffee, briefly resting his hand on Mycroft's chest, feeling Mycroft's hand cover his own. "Don't be."

"What's this?" Lestrade looked down at the black-covered glossy brochure advertising something called: 'The Tower, One St George Wharf' which had been laying between them, unnoticed until that moment.

Mycroft shrugged. "It's a new building. I thought we might...register our interest."

Lestrade flicked through the pages, whistling softly. "Concierge...security...theatre tickets...blimey, that living room's bigger than my whole flat!"

Mycroft went into the living room and returned with an opened envelope. "Our late Uncle's estate has been settled. My share is...well...almost certainly sufficient to meet the cost of a small apartment in the development."

Lestrade took the envelope, unfolded the letter and stared at the final paragraph. "Bloody Hell Myc!"

Unlike Lestrade, Mycroft had grown up around money and it didn't concern him as long as he could afford the rent on his flat, hand-made suits and comfortable shoes. "It would mean a bit of a commute for you. It's across the Thames of course."

Lestrade walked back to the table and perched on the edge. "You know, I know how to make a murder look like suicide. Now I know you're loaded, aren't you worried I'll bash your head in and run off with the money?"

Lestrade stared at Mycroft's face, letting him know he was teasing. He had known for several years just exactly how comfortably off financially both Holmes brothers were.

Realizing just in time, Mycroft smiled. "I believe my brother's investigation into my unexpected demise would expose you as the prime suspect."

Lestrade shook his head, dropping the letter onto the table. "Okay, let's stop talking about murder. I get enough of that at work."

"Agreed." Mycroft nodded.

End

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