Title: Mystrade Love Song
Author: Jessie Blackwood
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade
Fandoms: Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Summary: I watched a program on John Betjeman yesterday, Poet Laureate in the UK until his death in 1972, and I've loved his poetry since my mum introduced me to it when I was younger. This is a take on his Subaltern's Love Song, I suggest you look it up. I got to thinking, Mystrade fits it perfectly.

***

Mr G Holmes-Lestrade, Mr G Holmes-Lestrade,

Furnish'd and burnish'd by New Scotland Yard,

What strenuous pastimes we’ll pursue after tea,

We in the bedroom - you against me!

 

Pressed to the bedsheets, oh! weakness of joy,

The speed of an eagle, the grace of a boy,

With carefullest carelessness, my heart you doth guard,

I am weak from your loveliness, Greg Holmes-Lestrade.

 

Mr G Holmes-Lestrade, Mr G Holmes-Lestrade,

How mad I am, glad I am, that you regard

That my heart is your grail, you’re my knight on a quest,

But my silver-haired victor, he loves me no less.

 

The orb of the moon, it shines as we walk,

And swing past the summer-house, buried in talk,

And cool the verandah that welcomes us in

To the six-o'clock news and a lime-juice and gin.

 

The scent of the conifers, sound of the bath,

The view from our bedroom of moss-dappled path,

As I struggle with double-end evening tie,

For we dance at the Golf Club, my victor and I.

 

On the chair in the bedroom lie his jacket and slacks,

the cream-coloured shelves crammed with small paperbacks,

The night sky outside is dark velvet and starred,

With love’s constellations, Mr Greg Holmes-Lestrade.

 

The Bentley is waiting, the light's in the hall,

The pictures of family are bright on the wall,

My sweet, I am standing beside the oak stair

And there on the landing's the light on your hair.

 

By roads "not adopted", by woodlanded ways,

We drove to the club in the late summer haze,

Into nine-o'clock Sherrinford, heavy with bells

And mushroomy, pine-woody, evergreen smells.

 

Mr G Holmes-Lestrade, Mr G Holmes-Lestrade,

I can hear from the car park they’re partying hard,

Oh! Surrey twilight! importunate band!

Oh! Strongly adorable gentleman’s hand!

 

Around us are Astons and Audis afar,

Above us the intimate roof of the car,

And here on my right is the man of my choice,

With the tilt of his chin and the purr of his voice.

 

And the scent of his skin, and the words never said,

And the silvery hair on Gregory’s fine head.

We sat in the car park till twenty to three,

Mr Greg Homes-Lestrade—my husband—and me.

***