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nickelsandcoatsTitle: I’ll Give You Everything You Need (You’ve Given Me Everything I Want) 5/? || at Ao3
Author: Sarah/![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nickelsandcoats
Rating: PG13 for this part
Spoilers: Spoilers (eventually) for all of season 2!
Word Count: ~2,000 for this part
Pairings: Sherlock/John, eventual Mycroft/Lestrade
Warnings: AU.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: Mycroft's never given his feathers to anyone before, but one person wins him over without even trying.
Notes: Forflying_dreamz's prompt here at my shuffle meme post. She asked for #103, which was, for this part, "The Woman" from the Sherlock: Season 2 soundtrack by David Arnold and Michael Price.
This is a sequel to Here Is What My Heart Will Give You (and Here Are the Things I Will Give Up for You). You really should read that one first before you read this story or this story will not make any sense. One last note: this story is set pre-Here Is What My Heart Will Give You (and Here Are the Things I Will Give Up for You) and will eventually end up post-Reichenbach. Expect lots of angst.
part i || part ii || part iii || part iv
Just some schmoop before the angst engine starts to rev up. :)
Mycroft awoke the next morning with a start. There were noises in the house⎯strange ones that he wasn’t accustomed to hearing. He sat up slowly, very conscious of his breathing, as he spared a glance at the clock on the wall and nearly gasped.
Nine o’clock.
He’d not slept that late in years, not since the last time he came down with the ‘flu and had taken an unprecedented ten days off of work to recover. He listened closely, trying to decipher what he was hearing. The clink of mugs, the tap running, humming. Abruptly, his brain caught up⎯-Gregory. Gregory, preparing coffee, humming a bit of some song Mycroft had heard blaring from a shop once a few months ago.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, eyeing his dressing gown. What was Gregory likely to wear? The guest room had been fully stocked, but perhaps Gregory was in the clothes he’d been wearing last night? Should he dress? Mycroft bit his lip for a moment, worrying it between his teeth. Resolutely, he pulled on his dressing gown, tying the sash firmly. He thrust his feet into his slippers and then opened his door before he could change his mind and put on his armor and make Gregory uncomfortable.
When he entered the kitchen, he was just in time to see Gregory turn around with a mug in each hand, borrowed dressing gown cinched firmly around him. His silvered hair stuck up in shaggy spikes, his eyes half-lidded and still heavy with the remnants of sleep, and Mycroft had never wanted to kiss anyone more than he did in that moment.
Mycroft was across the room in a few strides and kissed Gregory fiercely, remembering himself in time to keep his lips closed as he had not brushed his teeth. Gregory tipped his head back and returned the kiss lazily, letting Mycroft control the pace. When Mycroft pulled back a bit, blinking back the daze that settled over him when he had been lost in the feel of Gregory’s lips against his own, Greg smiled up at him, darted in to give him a quick kiss of his own and a rough, “Good morning,” as he handed over one of the mugs. Mycroft took it automatically, raising a brow at the sugar and milk.
Greg scrubbed one hand through his hair, pushing it into further disarray and gave an embarrassed grin. “Ah no, sorry. Didn’t know how you took it, so I let it be.”
Mycroft quirked a grin and carefully added one sugar and a healthy dash of milk. Greg leaned over and murmured, far too close to Mycroft’s ear, “I’ll remember that, then.”
Afraid to breathe, lest he break the spell of expectation that settled over the room, Mycroft asked in a hush “How do you take yours?”
Greg pressed a fleeting kiss to Mycroft’s cheek and replied, “You’ll have to wait and find out,” and backed away to lean against the counter with a cheeky wink.
They both laughed a bit, smiling at each other over the rims of their mugs.
The next few months were bliss. They went to dinner every few nights, and Gregory stayed over whenever he could, sleeping in the guest bedroom. Eventually, most of his clothes and other belongings migrated to Mycroft’s guest bedroom, and every time he passed by the door when Gregory wasn’t there, Mycroft would open the door and smile a bit just to see Gregory’s things residing there.
They hadn’t slept together, not yet. Mycroft was skittish, and Gregory didn’t push.
That’s not to say that things had not been heated and heady between them. On Friday and Saturday nights, when neither of them had to work the next morning, they spent hours on the sofa, alternately snogging like teenagers and running hands up inside shirts (and lately, dipping inside trousers) and leaning against each other, hands linked on thighs, listening to each other breathe.
On those nights, Gregory talked, and Mycroft listened. He learned of Gregory’s childhood spent racing about with a brother and sister whom he rarely saw now. He heard the stories Gregory’s family told around the table at holidays, and laughed at the funny ones, held Gregory close at the sad ones.
And little by little, Mycroft opened up. He told Gregory of Sherlock’s fervent desire to be a pirate when they had been young (Gregory laughed so hard at Mycroft’s imitation of young Sherlock’s pirate speech that he cried). He spoke fondly of Mummy (but never said who she truly was). He never spoke of his father.
Gregory noticed, of course, and asked him about once, when Mycroft was idly running his hand through Gregory’s hair, making the inspector arch into the touch. “You never speak of your father,” Gregory mumbled, his voice a deep rumble with the pleasure. “What happened?”
Mycroft’s hand stilled. “I never knew my father,” he said softly.
He could feel Gregory tense up under his hand as the man processed those words, putting together the gap in years between he and Sherlock, knowing that Mycroft would have been old enough to remember something of his father, even if he had passed not long after Sherlock’s birth. “It doesn’t matter,” Mycroft said quietly. “It doesn’t bother me, and I honestly don’t think about it. Sherlock never knew him, either,” he added as an afterthought.
Gregory turned in his arms and gathered him close, tightening his arms around him as he pressed gentle kisses to Mycroft’s brow. “I’m sorry,” Gregory murmured.
“What for?” Mycroft tried to twist around so he could see Gregory’s face, deduce what he was apologising for, but he was held fast.
“You must have been lonely. I can’t imagine not having my dad around.”
Mycroft settled back against Gregory’s chest, listening to his breath and his heart thundering in his chest. Lonely? He had not thought of his situation as such⎯after all, he’d had Mummy and Sherlock, and his other brothers and sisters who he flew with. He’d not missed his father at all, and he was not lying when he said that he never knew him. The one time he’d asked Mummy about his father, she had only smiled sadly and told him not to worry over it. He’d not asked again.
No, he’d not been lonely as a child. As an adult, yes, as he’d been unable to become truly close to anyone. Mummy, of course, was always there, but even Sherlock pushed him away as he grew up, and then Mycroft had been left alone. He’d not realised how empty his life was until Gregory Lestrade was forced into it by way of Sherlock. Without thinking, he pressed his ear harder into Gregory’s chest, letting the loud thumpTHUMP of his heart reassure him. No, he was not lonely any longer.
“Thank you,” he breathed into Gregory’s chest. He wasn’t sure Gregory would have heard him, or even understood what he was being thanked for, but Gregory tightened his hold and kissed the top of his head, letting his lips linger there, and Mycroft thought that he was understood.
They must have drifted off at some point, because a loud pop! from a knot bursting in the fireplace as the fire died down startled them both awake.
Gregory sat up a bit straighter and ruffled Mycroft’s hair, speaking through his yawn, “We should put that out, got to bed. It’s late, and I know I’ve been up since half-five today.”
Mycroft gave an uncharacteristic sleepy grumble as his comfortable pillow moved under his cheek. “’ll do it,” he slurred as he sat up and stretched, reluctantly dropping his right foot to the floor and wriggling it a bit to get the blood flowing again. He stood, reluctantly, peeling himself away from Gregory and moved to bank the fire. Gregory sat on the sofa and watched him, expectant, dark eyes glinting in the dim light.
Mycroft felt the weight of his gaze on his back and swallowed thickly. He rose from his crouch and walked back over to the other man, was pulled in by Gregory’s arms, felt the whole length of his body against his as Gregory stood. “Let’s go to bed,” Mycroft breathed, unwilling to break the spell that the heat of Gregory’s body cast over him.
“To sleep?”
Mycroft nodded.
“I’d like that. I’ve been gathering my courage to ask you that all night,” Gregory said against his throat.
Silently, he took Gregory’s hand and led him down the hall, pausing long enough for him to fetch pyjamas and his dressing gown from the guest room. Gregory emerged from the room with the small bundle tucked under his arm and held his hand out for Mycroft to take. Mycroft took it and then tucked it in the crook of his elbow, leading the way to his own bedroom.
Mycroft changed first, ducking into the ensuite. He caught his reflection in the mirror above the sink and let out a rueful sigh. He’d not had anyone in his bed in years, and tried to stamp down the knot of butterflies in his stomach. This was Gregory, who he trusted implicitly. Who he loved, a confession he had only made in his deepest thoughts, and kept buried deep, taking it out only rarely to turn in his head and heart until he felt giddy with delight. There was nothing to be nervous over⎯this would change nothing.
When he walked back out, Gregory had used the time to change himself, and was sitting on the edge of the bed, feet twining nervously together. He heard Mycroft’s approach and looked up, and Mycroft’s breath caught at the trust and nervousness, and love buried deep in his eyes.
This would change everything.
He crossed the room and leaned down, kissing Gregory sweetly. “Hello,” he said as he pulled away.
It was the right thing to say as the tension in the room cracked. “Hello,” Gregory replied grinning.
Mycroft reached behind him to turn down the duvet, move the extra pillows to the bench at the foot of the bed. Gregory helped him, licking his lips a bit nervously as he settled into the bed. He groaned as he sank down. “That’s it, I’m never sleeping anywhere else ever again,” Gregory said, wriggling down into the mattress. Mycroft grinned at him as the implication of what he’d just said registered with the inspector, whose eyes widened almost comically.
“Good,” Mycroft said, cutting off the explanation Gregory was preparing as he reached out and turned off the lamp, settling in himself. He held his breath for a moment, waiting to see what Gregory would do.
What Gregory did was grope around until he found Mycroft’s hand and then started tracing the back of it with his index finger. When he’d finished that exploration, he turned his hand over and ran his fingers over the palm, making Mycroft shiver with pleasure. Gregory smiled into the dark and gently tugged on Mycroft’s hand, pulling him closer. When Mycroft obliged, he rolled onto his side and rested his head on Mycroft’s chest, resting his palm above his heart. Mycroft ran his hand up and down Gregory’s back and listened to his breathing slow as the other man fell asleep.
It took Mycroft far longer to fall asleep. The feeling of holding another being, the trust implied in sleeping next to someone, filled his heart to bursting. The last time he had felt this way was when he and Sherlock had been small and Sherlock had crept into his room, changed into a raven, and let Mycroft hold him to his chest so he could chase his younger brother’s nightmares away. That feeling of implicit trust paled next to what he was feeling now, with Gregory on his chest, palm and fingers warm through his shirt.
He turned his head and brushed a kiss to Gregory’s forehead, barely whispering, “I love you,” into the darkness, a hushed confession he was startled to make. It felt as if a great weight had been lifted from him, and he drifted off to sleep, a small smile on his face.
Gregory, who had woken just enough at the brush of lips on his forehead, stilled for a moment when he heard the whispered confession, heart pounding in his ears. He waited until he heard Mycroft’s breaths even out and deepen before he whispered, “You too,” into the darkness.
part vi
Author: Sarah/
nickelsandcoatsRating: PG13 for this part
Spoilers: Spoilers (eventually) for all of season 2!
Word Count: ~2,000 for this part
Pairings: Sherlock/John, eventual Mycroft/Lestrade
Warnings: AU.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: Mycroft's never given his feathers to anyone before, but one person wins him over without even trying.
Notes: For
flying_dreamz's prompt here at my shuffle meme post. She asked for #103, which was, for this part, "The Woman" from the Sherlock: Season 2 soundtrack by David Arnold and Michael Price.This is a sequel to Here Is What My Heart Will Give You (and Here Are the Things I Will Give Up for You). You really should read that one first before you read this story or this story will not make any sense. One last note: this story is set pre-Here Is What My Heart Will Give You (and Here Are the Things I Will Give Up for You) and will eventually end up post-Reichenbach. Expect lots of angst.
part i || part ii || part iii || part iv
Just some schmoop before the angst engine starts to rev up. :)
Mycroft awoke the next morning with a start. There were noises in the house⎯strange ones that he wasn’t accustomed to hearing. He sat up slowly, very conscious of his breathing, as he spared a glance at the clock on the wall and nearly gasped.
Nine o’clock.
He’d not slept that late in years, not since the last time he came down with the ‘flu and had taken an unprecedented ten days off of work to recover. He listened closely, trying to decipher what he was hearing. The clink of mugs, the tap running, humming. Abruptly, his brain caught up⎯-Gregory. Gregory, preparing coffee, humming a bit of some song Mycroft had heard blaring from a shop once a few months ago.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, eyeing his dressing gown. What was Gregory likely to wear? The guest room had been fully stocked, but perhaps Gregory was in the clothes he’d been wearing last night? Should he dress? Mycroft bit his lip for a moment, worrying it between his teeth. Resolutely, he pulled on his dressing gown, tying the sash firmly. He thrust his feet into his slippers and then opened his door before he could change his mind and put on his armor and make Gregory uncomfortable.
When he entered the kitchen, he was just in time to see Gregory turn around with a mug in each hand, borrowed dressing gown cinched firmly around him. His silvered hair stuck up in shaggy spikes, his eyes half-lidded and still heavy with the remnants of sleep, and Mycroft had never wanted to kiss anyone more than he did in that moment.
Mycroft was across the room in a few strides and kissed Gregory fiercely, remembering himself in time to keep his lips closed as he had not brushed his teeth. Gregory tipped his head back and returned the kiss lazily, letting Mycroft control the pace. When Mycroft pulled back a bit, blinking back the daze that settled over him when he had been lost in the feel of Gregory’s lips against his own, Greg smiled up at him, darted in to give him a quick kiss of his own and a rough, “Good morning,” as he handed over one of the mugs. Mycroft took it automatically, raising a brow at the sugar and milk.
Greg scrubbed one hand through his hair, pushing it into further disarray and gave an embarrassed grin. “Ah no, sorry. Didn’t know how you took it, so I let it be.”
Mycroft quirked a grin and carefully added one sugar and a healthy dash of milk. Greg leaned over and murmured, far too close to Mycroft’s ear, “I’ll remember that, then.”
Afraid to breathe, lest he break the spell of expectation that settled over the room, Mycroft asked in a hush “How do you take yours?”
Greg pressed a fleeting kiss to Mycroft’s cheek and replied, “You’ll have to wait and find out,” and backed away to lean against the counter with a cheeky wink.
They both laughed a bit, smiling at each other over the rims of their mugs.
The next few months were bliss. They went to dinner every few nights, and Gregory stayed over whenever he could, sleeping in the guest bedroom. Eventually, most of his clothes and other belongings migrated to Mycroft’s guest bedroom, and every time he passed by the door when Gregory wasn’t there, Mycroft would open the door and smile a bit just to see Gregory’s things residing there.
They hadn’t slept together, not yet. Mycroft was skittish, and Gregory didn’t push.
That’s not to say that things had not been heated and heady between them. On Friday and Saturday nights, when neither of them had to work the next morning, they spent hours on the sofa, alternately snogging like teenagers and running hands up inside shirts (and lately, dipping inside trousers) and leaning against each other, hands linked on thighs, listening to each other breathe.
On those nights, Gregory talked, and Mycroft listened. He learned of Gregory’s childhood spent racing about with a brother and sister whom he rarely saw now. He heard the stories Gregory’s family told around the table at holidays, and laughed at the funny ones, held Gregory close at the sad ones.
And little by little, Mycroft opened up. He told Gregory of Sherlock’s fervent desire to be a pirate when they had been young (Gregory laughed so hard at Mycroft’s imitation of young Sherlock’s pirate speech that he cried). He spoke fondly of Mummy (but never said who she truly was). He never spoke of his father.
Gregory noticed, of course, and asked him about once, when Mycroft was idly running his hand through Gregory’s hair, making the inspector arch into the touch. “You never speak of your father,” Gregory mumbled, his voice a deep rumble with the pleasure. “What happened?”
Mycroft’s hand stilled. “I never knew my father,” he said softly.
He could feel Gregory tense up under his hand as the man processed those words, putting together the gap in years between he and Sherlock, knowing that Mycroft would have been old enough to remember something of his father, even if he had passed not long after Sherlock’s birth. “It doesn’t matter,” Mycroft said quietly. “It doesn’t bother me, and I honestly don’t think about it. Sherlock never knew him, either,” he added as an afterthought.
Gregory turned in his arms and gathered him close, tightening his arms around him as he pressed gentle kisses to Mycroft’s brow. “I’m sorry,” Gregory murmured.
“What for?” Mycroft tried to twist around so he could see Gregory’s face, deduce what he was apologising for, but he was held fast.
“You must have been lonely. I can’t imagine not having my dad around.”
Mycroft settled back against Gregory’s chest, listening to his breath and his heart thundering in his chest. Lonely? He had not thought of his situation as such⎯after all, he’d had Mummy and Sherlock, and his other brothers and sisters who he flew with. He’d not missed his father at all, and he was not lying when he said that he never knew him. The one time he’d asked Mummy about his father, she had only smiled sadly and told him not to worry over it. He’d not asked again.
No, he’d not been lonely as a child. As an adult, yes, as he’d been unable to become truly close to anyone. Mummy, of course, was always there, but even Sherlock pushed him away as he grew up, and then Mycroft had been left alone. He’d not realised how empty his life was until Gregory Lestrade was forced into it by way of Sherlock. Without thinking, he pressed his ear harder into Gregory’s chest, letting the loud thumpTHUMP of his heart reassure him. No, he was not lonely any longer.
“Thank you,” he breathed into Gregory’s chest. He wasn’t sure Gregory would have heard him, or even understood what he was being thanked for, but Gregory tightened his hold and kissed the top of his head, letting his lips linger there, and Mycroft thought that he was understood.
They must have drifted off at some point, because a loud pop! from a knot bursting in the fireplace as the fire died down startled them both awake.
Gregory sat up a bit straighter and ruffled Mycroft’s hair, speaking through his yawn, “We should put that out, got to bed. It’s late, and I know I’ve been up since half-five today.”
Mycroft gave an uncharacteristic sleepy grumble as his comfortable pillow moved under his cheek. “’ll do it,” he slurred as he sat up and stretched, reluctantly dropping his right foot to the floor and wriggling it a bit to get the blood flowing again. He stood, reluctantly, peeling himself away from Gregory and moved to bank the fire. Gregory sat on the sofa and watched him, expectant, dark eyes glinting in the dim light.
Mycroft felt the weight of his gaze on his back and swallowed thickly. He rose from his crouch and walked back over to the other man, was pulled in by Gregory’s arms, felt the whole length of his body against his as Gregory stood. “Let’s go to bed,” Mycroft breathed, unwilling to break the spell that the heat of Gregory’s body cast over him.
“To sleep?”
Mycroft nodded.
“I’d like that. I’ve been gathering my courage to ask you that all night,” Gregory said against his throat.
Silently, he took Gregory’s hand and led him down the hall, pausing long enough for him to fetch pyjamas and his dressing gown from the guest room. Gregory emerged from the room with the small bundle tucked under his arm and held his hand out for Mycroft to take. Mycroft took it and then tucked it in the crook of his elbow, leading the way to his own bedroom.
Mycroft changed first, ducking into the ensuite. He caught his reflection in the mirror above the sink and let out a rueful sigh. He’d not had anyone in his bed in years, and tried to stamp down the knot of butterflies in his stomach. This was Gregory, who he trusted implicitly. Who he loved, a confession he had only made in his deepest thoughts, and kept buried deep, taking it out only rarely to turn in his head and heart until he felt giddy with delight. There was nothing to be nervous over⎯this would change nothing.
When he walked back out, Gregory had used the time to change himself, and was sitting on the edge of the bed, feet twining nervously together. He heard Mycroft’s approach and looked up, and Mycroft’s breath caught at the trust and nervousness, and love buried deep in his eyes.
This would change everything.
He crossed the room and leaned down, kissing Gregory sweetly. “Hello,” he said as he pulled away.
It was the right thing to say as the tension in the room cracked. “Hello,” Gregory replied grinning.
Mycroft reached behind him to turn down the duvet, move the extra pillows to the bench at the foot of the bed. Gregory helped him, licking his lips a bit nervously as he settled into the bed. He groaned as he sank down. “That’s it, I’m never sleeping anywhere else ever again,” Gregory said, wriggling down into the mattress. Mycroft grinned at him as the implication of what he’d just said registered with the inspector, whose eyes widened almost comically.
“Good,” Mycroft said, cutting off the explanation Gregory was preparing as he reached out and turned off the lamp, settling in himself. He held his breath for a moment, waiting to see what Gregory would do.
What Gregory did was grope around until he found Mycroft’s hand and then started tracing the back of it with his index finger. When he’d finished that exploration, he turned his hand over and ran his fingers over the palm, making Mycroft shiver with pleasure. Gregory smiled into the dark and gently tugged on Mycroft’s hand, pulling him closer. When Mycroft obliged, he rolled onto his side and rested his head on Mycroft’s chest, resting his palm above his heart. Mycroft ran his hand up and down Gregory’s back and listened to his breathing slow as the other man fell asleep.
It took Mycroft far longer to fall asleep. The feeling of holding another being, the trust implied in sleeping next to someone, filled his heart to bursting. The last time he had felt this way was when he and Sherlock had been small and Sherlock had crept into his room, changed into a raven, and let Mycroft hold him to his chest so he could chase his younger brother’s nightmares away. That feeling of implicit trust paled next to what he was feeling now, with Gregory on his chest, palm and fingers warm through his shirt.
He turned his head and brushed a kiss to Gregory’s forehead, barely whispering, “I love you,” into the darkness, a hushed confession he was startled to make. It felt as if a great weight had been lifted from him, and he drifted off to sleep, a small smile on his face.
Gregory, who had woken just enough at the brush of lips on his forehead, stilled for a moment when he heard the whispered confession, heart pounding in his ears. He waited until he heard Mycroft’s breaths even out and deepen before he whispered, “You too,” into the darkness.
part vi
