Sherlock Fic: First Right of Refusal
Hey everybody! I'm still in second-interview grad-school-ap purgatory, but there is now light at the end of the tunnel, so I'm stealing some writing time again! I hope to resume comment-answering and fic-reading next week, at which point I will be asking you to link me to all the awesome things you've been doing since the new year.
Title: First Right of Refusal
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade
Rating: PG-13
Word count: ~500
Content advisory: None
Author’s note: Beta’d by jaune_chat. Written for the Sherlocked Fest at sherlockmas for the prompt: "I don't just do what your brother tells me." So...what else has Mycroft told him to do? What has Lestrade refused him?
Summary: Lestrade isn’t ready to say yes to everything.
Mycroft’s hand caught against Lestrade's hip and held there, preventing him from rolling out of bed. "Don't go," Mycroft breathed against the naked skin of Lestrade's shoulder.
"Got to." Lestrade let himself sink back against the welcome warmth Mycroft's chest for another moment. "Got to get home and change before work."
"That's a problem we could solve." Mycroft's hand slid around to encircle Lestrade's waist. "Gregory, move in with me."
Silence hummed between them, energy like downed power lines, until Lestrade stopped holding his breath. “Let me up."
Mycroft released his hold immediately.
Lestrade sat up, eager to put his feet on solid ground. Behind him, he heard no movement, no protest, though he could feel Mycroft’s attention on him. He owed an explanation. "I'll be late if I don't get going."
He grabbed his pants from the floor and pulled them on, then his trousers. He tugged on his socks, slid his feet into his shoes. He had to search for his shirt, which he found draped over the back of the room’s solitary chair, with his tie laid neatly beside it. He remembered last night, Mycroft’s hands against his chest, slowly stripping him in the near-dark. He buttoned his shirt.
As Lestrade tied his tie, he caught sight of Mycroft looking at him with a quiet intensity more suited to a government puppet-master behind an imposing desk than a man naked in bed watching his lover dress.
Lestrade twisted the band of gold on his left ring finger.
"Is that a no, then?" Mycroft had transferred his gaze to a point somewhere in the valleys and peaks of tangled sheets.
"I've got to go." Lestrade grabbed his wallet, keys, and mobile from the nightstand. He sat on the edge of the bed and reached out to settle his hand on Mycroft, around the tempting curve where his shoulder met his neck. "It's not no forever. Let me think, yeah?"
"Of course." Mycroft lifted his eyes to meet Lestrade's. "I do love you. Whatever part of you I can have, I will love."
"Mycroft..." Lestrade felt the muscles tense under his fingers. "I've got to go." He stood and strode away, and didn't stop until he had closed the door to Mycroft's home behind him and could lean back against the wood and close his eyes. He imagined he could still feel the warm imprint of Mycroft’s hand against his skin. He’d find a way to make this work, to make the pieces of his life fit together somehow. He’d solve this.
Lestrade smoothed down his tie, as if the disorder of his mind might have translated in some physical way. As he did so he caught sight of his ring once more. He tugged at it, but it wouldn’t budge past the knuckle; it had been with him for too long. Instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets, pushed off the door with one shoulder, and began to walk.
Title: First Right of Refusal
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade
Rating: PG-13
Word count: ~500
Content advisory: None
Author’s note: Beta’d by jaune_chat. Written for the Sherlocked Fest at sherlockmas for the prompt: "I don't just do what your brother tells me." So...what else has Mycroft told him to do? What has Lestrade refused him?
Summary: Lestrade isn’t ready to say yes to everything.
Mycroft’s hand caught against Lestrade's hip and held there, preventing him from rolling out of bed. "Don't go," Mycroft breathed against the naked skin of Lestrade's shoulder.
"Got to." Lestrade let himself sink back against the welcome warmth Mycroft's chest for another moment. "Got to get home and change before work."
"That's a problem we could solve." Mycroft's hand slid around to encircle Lestrade's waist. "Gregory, move in with me."
Silence hummed between them, energy like downed power lines, until Lestrade stopped holding his breath. “Let me up."
Mycroft released his hold immediately.
Lestrade sat up, eager to put his feet on solid ground. Behind him, he heard no movement, no protest, though he could feel Mycroft’s attention on him. He owed an explanation. "I'll be late if I don't get going."
He grabbed his pants from the floor and pulled them on, then his trousers. He tugged on his socks, slid his feet into his shoes. He had to search for his shirt, which he found draped over the back of the room’s solitary chair, with his tie laid neatly beside it. He remembered last night, Mycroft’s hands against his chest, slowly stripping him in the near-dark. He buttoned his shirt.
As Lestrade tied his tie, he caught sight of Mycroft looking at him with a quiet intensity more suited to a government puppet-master behind an imposing desk than a man naked in bed watching his lover dress.
Lestrade twisted the band of gold on his left ring finger.
"Is that a no, then?" Mycroft had transferred his gaze to a point somewhere in the valleys and peaks of tangled sheets.
"I've got to go." Lestrade grabbed his wallet, keys, and mobile from the nightstand. He sat on the edge of the bed and reached out to settle his hand on Mycroft, around the tempting curve where his shoulder met his neck. "It's not no forever. Let me think, yeah?"
"Of course." Mycroft lifted his eyes to meet Lestrade's. "I do love you. Whatever part of you I can have, I will love."
"Mycroft..." Lestrade felt the muscles tense under his fingers. "I've got to go." He stood and strode away, and didn't stop until he had closed the door to Mycroft's home behind him and could lean back against the wood and close his eyes. He imagined he could still feel the warm imprint of Mycroft’s hand against his skin. He’d find a way to make this work, to make the pieces of his life fit together somehow. He’d solve this.
Lestrade smoothed down his tie, as if the disorder of his mind might have translated in some physical way. As he did so he caught sight of his ring once more. He tugged at it, but it wouldn’t budge past the knuckle; it had been with him for too long. Instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets, pushed off the door with one shoulder, and began to walk.