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Published:
2016-04-20
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2023-01-08
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Chapter 226: Red Velvet Hot Chocolate. (Mystrade.)

Summary:

Lestrade's having a shitty night until he isn't. Mystrade. Flirting. Anal.

For the DW H/C comment fest on sholio's journal. The prompt was hot chocolate with whipped cream and sprinkles.

Chapter Text

Lestrade recognised that the glow of ‘getting his man’ was wearing off.

Yes, he’d got his man, and a rather nasty piece of work, at that.

But ‘getting his man’ had also required being fished out the Thames at three o’clock in the morning. Lestrade’s suit, his second-best suit, in fact, was more than likely ruined. Lestrade was cold and wet despite the shock blanket, and he was frankly eager to, either, one, be allowed to resume command of the scene or, failing that, to be sent home to dry himself out and warm himself up properly.

He’d reached the point of wanting to go home when he heard his name.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

Bloody hell.

Mycroft Holmes.

There, standing before Lestrade, was Mycroft Holmes, looking like a million pounds in a three-piece Savile Row suit at three o’clock in the morning in the middle of utter chaos.

And he came bearing gifts!

Well, a gift.

He handed Lestrade a cup. It was one of those environmentally friendly travel mugs with a clear dome. Whatever the cup held was covered in whipped cream and dark brown sprinkles.

Lestrade looked at it like Cinderella might eye her former pumpkin, with pleasure and no little awe.

“Much preferable to the shock-blanket tea that the well-meaning constable was intent on offering you.”

Lestrade slid the covering open and took a sip.

“Hot chocolate!”

It tasted like cake, liquid cake.

Lestrade was in love.

“Excuse my language, but this is fairy godmother level shit, Mister Holmes. Where in the holy hell did you come by this at this hour?”

Mycroft rubbed his own neck and then confessed, “Homemade.”

“Holmes-made?!”

Mycroft laughed and nodded.


Two months later…

“I don’t know how much longer I can hold off, My. You feel so good.”

“Come, Gregory.” Mycroft had a white-knuckled grip on the iron headboard and a pillow between his legs.

“I’d rather you come first. Come with my cock in you, feel you tremble around me, that’d be hot. You’re rutting on that pillow like a bitch in heat. I know you’re close.”

“I am close, but Gregory, it would be selfish, not to say unchivalrous, for me to invite you to dinner…”

“And breakfast. You said ‘breakfast.’”

“…and breakfast at my home, and not see to your comfort, that is, your pleasure, first.”

“Not hospitable, eh?” Lestrade smiled. “It can’t be too comfortable with my cock up your arse. Well, I’ll come first on one condition.”

“Anything. Absolutely anything, Gregory.”

“I want some of that hot chocolate, the kind you brought me that night. The one that cast a spell on me, made my toes curl, made me fall in love you, made me thank Providence that I fell into the bloody river in the middle of the night and ruined my second-best suit.”

Mycroft laughed. “Is that all, you beautiful man? Done.”

“Hold on, lover,” said Lestrade as he gripped Mycroft’s hips tighter and angled himself to full advantage.

“Come for me, Gregory. Come.”