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nickelsandcoatsTitle: I'll Give You Everything You Need (You've Given Me Everything I Want) 17/? || 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: ~1,750 for this part
Pairings: Sherlock/John, 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 were "The Resurrection Stone" from the Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part II soundtrack and "Amy in the Tardis" from the Doctor Who: Season 5 soundtrack.
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 || part v || part vi || part vii || part viii || part ix || part x || part xi || part xii || part xiii || part xiv || part xv || part xvi
Ugh, this is the part that just did not want to be written. I think I scrapped about six drafts of this one before I settled on this one. Reichenbach is coming.... :(
Mycroft rang off, holding his mobile tightly. Gregory had been home⎯he had talked to John, that much was obvious⎯but for the past few days, the two of them had danced around the other. Their touches, once deliberate, were now glancing and all but accidental. Gregory still kissed him goodbye when he left for work in the morning, but instead of a deep kiss and a squeeze of his arse, meant to sway him into being late, he now got a perfunctory, closed-mouth peck and a light squeeze of his bicep (always the left one).
They were drifting apart, even if Gregory didn’t see it yet, and Mycroft didn’t know how to stop it from happening.
But now, he had something almost more important to worry over⎯the call he’d just received was one he had hoped for but had not counted on⎯James Moriarty had been captured. And from the brief report his officer had given him, it sounded as if it had been suspiciously easy to apprehend the man.
Mycroft squared his shoulders and straightened his tie, smoothed down his immaculate jacket. Moriarty was now detained, and Mycroft wanted answers. He strode down the hall and into the lift, twisting a key into its slot next to the -5 button. The button lit up, and the lift descended.
There would be no more games.
John was inspecting the newest dead body in a string of them⎯four, so far⎯and Greg and Sherlock were standing back several yards, shoulders only a few inches apart. It was the first time the two of them had been alone since Greg talked to John, and Greg was sure Sherlock could feel the tension singing in his body as he bit his tongue against the hundreds of questions he wanted to ask.
Sherlock’s eyes flicked over to him, cataloguing and indexing, and then his eyes narrowed a bit as he said, “Your hands are twitching as if you need something to do with them to distract you. Your shoulders are tense and your weight keeps shifting from foot to foot. You’re biting your lip and fidgeting with your ear⎯all evidence points to you having questions to ask someone. As your symptoms did not appear until you were standing next to me, it can be inferred that your questions have to do with me. So, ask.”
Greg squirmed a bit, inspected the toe of his boot (muddy), and finally spluttered out, “How could you ask him to do this? I mean, how could you let yourself be opened up like that, knowing that you would lose him someday and you’d be alone?”
Sherlock blinked. “Ah.” He glanced over at John and the small clump of officers, ensuring that they were out of earshot before he cleared his throat and answered so quickly that Greg nearly didn’t catch what he said: “Because I love him. Because I am not myself when he is not with me, and I couldn’t bear to be without him, even if I only could have him for a short while.”
The two men glanced at each other and then looked away again, Sherlock shuffling his feet a bit in embarrassment.
“You’re good for him, Lestrade,” Sherlock said after a moment. “And he’s good for you. I don’t know what John’s told you, but if you have questions, I’m willing to answer them. Just…” he trailed off, staring at John’s back, watching as he pointed at something on the body. “Don’t leave him. Please.”
“I don’t plan on it.”
“But you already are.”
“Wha⎯?”
Sherlock was already striding over to meet John, and he didn’t look back even as Greg shouted his name.
Hours later, Greg trudged up the stairs, leaning a bit on the wall as he pushed open the study door. Mycroft and a woman were talking, their voices almost too low to hear, and Greg found himself blinking at the woman⎯the very tall woman who was wearing a feathered cloak.
“Er, hello,” he said, glancing over at Mycroft, who looked a bit shy.
“You must be Gregory,” the woman said. Her voice was much deeper than Greg was expecting, but she was smiling at him⎯and there was something familiar about her smile.
“Guilty as charged,” he grinned, holding out a hand. “You must be Mycroft and Sherlock’s mother.”
She clasped his hand and allowed her smile to widen a bit. “I am. It’s wonderful to meet you in person. Mycroft’s kept you from me.” She winked at him over Mycroft’s spluttering denial. “I’m afraid I cannot stay,” she added, dropping his hand. “I have business I must attend to. As do you both.” With a nod, she gathered her cloak about her and simply vanished. Greg closed his mouth and looked at Mycroft, who shrugged.
“Mummy does love to be mysterious.” He traced a finger along the brocade pattern on the back of the sofa, shifting his weight as he glanced up at Greg, almost shy. “How was your day?”
“You don’t want to deduce it?” Greg smiled to soften any sting from his words.
“I want to hear it from you. Please.”
Greg frowned. “What’s wrong? Something’s got you upset.”
“I will tell you, just…not right this moment. You’re just home and you’re tired and I don’t want to talk about it, not yet. And before you ask, no, it’s not to do with you.”
So Greg reached out and took his lover’s hand and pulled him down onto the sofa, placing Mycroft’s head in his lap and running his hand through his hair as he recounted his long, long day. Slowly, as his hand stroked and petted and Mycroft’s hand rubbed up and down the arm he’d pulled across his chest, Greg felt his shoulders relax and his heart stop twisting with every beat. Christ, he’d missed this the last few weeks. It seemed like both of them had been too hesitant, retreating back to where they’d been when he first started staying the night here. Sherlock’s plea from earlier (he’d left that out when he told Mycroft about the crime scene) bubbled up into the forefront of his mind. He gently pushed it aside, promising himself he’d bring it, and his apologies for letting distance lapse between them, up with Mycroft later. Maybe tomorrow. The frown lines that had been between Mycroft’s brows were finally starting to fade, and he didn’t want to make them return. Not now, not ever, even though he knew the latter was a futile wish. Mycroft would always worry about something or someone.
When his story wound down, Greg paused, letting the stillness of the room seep in between them. Mycroft stirred and pulled his arm a bit closer to his chest, blinking up at the ceiling. Greg leaned down and kissed his forehead, smirking as he felt Mycroft’s nose twitch against the short spikes of his hair. “Tell me,” he said into Mycroft’s skin.
“Mmmm.”
“Please.”
Mycroft kept his eyes closed and whispered, “James Moriarty is in custody.”
Greg’s lips pressed hard into his forehead for a moment, gathering control, before he sat up slowly. “Since when?”
“Since this afternoon. My people found him and apprehended him.”
Greg shook his head for a moment, glad that Mycroft’s eyes were still closed. “And were you going to tell any of us this if I hadn’t pressured you?”
“Eventually, yes.”
“Eventually?”
Mycroft sighed. “Gregory, there’s nothing any of you can do. He’s in the hands of the government, and he will remain that way. His capture does not equal a free pass for you or Sherlock to question him.”
“But you will?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus.”
Mycroft opened his eyes then, sat up properly, ran a hand through his hair.
“Have you started?”
“No. My people have. We’ll see what we can get from them, first.”
“If I give you a list of questions⎯” Greg blurted out, “Will you see that they get asked and answered?”
“It depends on the question,” Mycroft answered slowly.
Greg’s eyes were hard. “He’s a suspect in several cases, and I want to see them closed. He needs to be brought to justice, not locked away in some secret facility!”
“He will be,” Mycroft assured. “But you must understand that I have to protect all of you, and the easiest way to ensure Moriarty can’t use his influence is to keep him under my control. Do you see?”
“I do, but I don’t like it.”
“I know.” He leaned in and kissed the corner of Greg’s mouth. “I’m trusting you to keep this absolutely secret. No one can know, especially not Sherlock. I know what Sherlock would do if he knew, and it would not be…a wise choice on his part.”
Greg nodded. Sherlock had already killed Moriarty once, and he had come back to life. Greg did not want to imagine what Sherlock would do to ensure the man stayed dead this time. So, somewhat against his better judgment, he nodded, and Mycroft kissed him again.
“Thank you,” Mycroft breathed against his cheek, and Greg felt his heart break a little at the enormity of the gratitude in those two little words.
Four days later, Mycroft found himself sitting across a solid stainless steel table from James Moriarty, who was pale and sickly looking in the harsh light. The only points of color in Moriarty’s face was the coal-black pit of his eyes, which bored into Mycroft’s with the devotion of a religious fanatic.
“I hear you’ve said nothing but to ask to speak to me. Is that true?”
Moriarty only blinked at him, mouth moving lazily as if he were chewing a piece of gum.
Mycroft stared steadily back, crossed his legs at the knee, and clasped his hands over his knee, waiting for a response. The silence spun out between them for several minutes before Moriarty leaned forward as far as the restraints would allow and breathed, “It must be so fascinating to have grown up the way you and little Sherlock did. Tell me about it.”
Mycroft raised a brow.
“Tell me about it, and I’ll answer your little questions. A little quid pro quo between men of our…status.” He grinned at Mycroft, his front teeth still stained a rusty brown from his earlier session. “A story for a story, how’s that?”
Gritting his teeth, Mycroft began to talk.
Across from him, Moriarty’s eyes glittered like a blackened jewel beetle’s carapace as he absorbed every word that fell from Mycroft’s lips and hoarded it jealously in a crack behind his heart.
part xviii
Author: Sarah/
nickelsandcoatsRating: PG13 for this part
Spoilers: Spoilers (eventually) for all of season 2!
Word Count: ~1,750 for this part
Pairings: Sherlock/John, 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 were "The Resurrection Stone" from the Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part II soundtrack and "Amy in the Tardis" from the Doctor Who: Season 5 soundtrack.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 || part v || part vi || part vii || part viii || part ix || part x || part xi || part xii || part xiii || part xiv || part xv || part xvi
Ugh, this is the part that just did not want to be written. I think I scrapped about six drafts of this one before I settled on this one. Reichenbach is coming.... :(
Mycroft rang off, holding his mobile tightly. Gregory had been home⎯he had talked to John, that much was obvious⎯but for the past few days, the two of them had danced around the other. Their touches, once deliberate, were now glancing and all but accidental. Gregory still kissed him goodbye when he left for work in the morning, but instead of a deep kiss and a squeeze of his arse, meant to sway him into being late, he now got a perfunctory, closed-mouth peck and a light squeeze of his bicep (always the left one).
They were drifting apart, even if Gregory didn’t see it yet, and Mycroft didn’t know how to stop it from happening.
But now, he had something almost more important to worry over⎯the call he’d just received was one he had hoped for but had not counted on⎯James Moriarty had been captured. And from the brief report his officer had given him, it sounded as if it had been suspiciously easy to apprehend the man.
Mycroft squared his shoulders and straightened his tie, smoothed down his immaculate jacket. Moriarty was now detained, and Mycroft wanted answers. He strode down the hall and into the lift, twisting a key into its slot next to the -5 button. The button lit up, and the lift descended.
There would be no more games.
John was inspecting the newest dead body in a string of them⎯four, so far⎯and Greg and Sherlock were standing back several yards, shoulders only a few inches apart. It was the first time the two of them had been alone since Greg talked to John, and Greg was sure Sherlock could feel the tension singing in his body as he bit his tongue against the hundreds of questions he wanted to ask.
Sherlock’s eyes flicked over to him, cataloguing and indexing, and then his eyes narrowed a bit as he said, “Your hands are twitching as if you need something to do with them to distract you. Your shoulders are tense and your weight keeps shifting from foot to foot. You’re biting your lip and fidgeting with your ear⎯all evidence points to you having questions to ask someone. As your symptoms did not appear until you were standing next to me, it can be inferred that your questions have to do with me. So, ask.”
Greg squirmed a bit, inspected the toe of his boot (muddy), and finally spluttered out, “How could you ask him to do this? I mean, how could you let yourself be opened up like that, knowing that you would lose him someday and you’d be alone?”
Sherlock blinked. “Ah.” He glanced over at John and the small clump of officers, ensuring that they were out of earshot before he cleared his throat and answered so quickly that Greg nearly didn’t catch what he said: “Because I love him. Because I am not myself when he is not with me, and I couldn’t bear to be without him, even if I only could have him for a short while.”
The two men glanced at each other and then looked away again, Sherlock shuffling his feet a bit in embarrassment.
“You’re good for him, Lestrade,” Sherlock said after a moment. “And he’s good for you. I don’t know what John’s told you, but if you have questions, I’m willing to answer them. Just…” he trailed off, staring at John’s back, watching as he pointed at something on the body. “Don’t leave him. Please.”
“I don’t plan on it.”
“But you already are.”
“Wha⎯?”
Sherlock was already striding over to meet John, and he didn’t look back even as Greg shouted his name.
Hours later, Greg trudged up the stairs, leaning a bit on the wall as he pushed open the study door. Mycroft and a woman were talking, their voices almost too low to hear, and Greg found himself blinking at the woman⎯the very tall woman who was wearing a feathered cloak.
“Er, hello,” he said, glancing over at Mycroft, who looked a bit shy.
“You must be Gregory,” the woman said. Her voice was much deeper than Greg was expecting, but she was smiling at him⎯and there was something familiar about her smile.
“Guilty as charged,” he grinned, holding out a hand. “You must be Mycroft and Sherlock’s mother.”
She clasped his hand and allowed her smile to widen a bit. “I am. It’s wonderful to meet you in person. Mycroft’s kept you from me.” She winked at him over Mycroft’s spluttering denial. “I’m afraid I cannot stay,” she added, dropping his hand. “I have business I must attend to. As do you both.” With a nod, she gathered her cloak about her and simply vanished. Greg closed his mouth and looked at Mycroft, who shrugged.
“Mummy does love to be mysterious.” He traced a finger along the brocade pattern on the back of the sofa, shifting his weight as he glanced up at Greg, almost shy. “How was your day?”
“You don’t want to deduce it?” Greg smiled to soften any sting from his words.
“I want to hear it from you. Please.”
Greg frowned. “What’s wrong? Something’s got you upset.”
“I will tell you, just…not right this moment. You’re just home and you’re tired and I don’t want to talk about it, not yet. And before you ask, no, it’s not to do with you.”
So Greg reached out and took his lover’s hand and pulled him down onto the sofa, placing Mycroft’s head in his lap and running his hand through his hair as he recounted his long, long day. Slowly, as his hand stroked and petted and Mycroft’s hand rubbed up and down the arm he’d pulled across his chest, Greg felt his shoulders relax and his heart stop twisting with every beat. Christ, he’d missed this the last few weeks. It seemed like both of them had been too hesitant, retreating back to where they’d been when he first started staying the night here. Sherlock’s plea from earlier (he’d left that out when he told Mycroft about the crime scene) bubbled up into the forefront of his mind. He gently pushed it aside, promising himself he’d bring it, and his apologies for letting distance lapse between them, up with Mycroft later. Maybe tomorrow. The frown lines that had been between Mycroft’s brows were finally starting to fade, and he didn’t want to make them return. Not now, not ever, even though he knew the latter was a futile wish. Mycroft would always worry about something or someone.
When his story wound down, Greg paused, letting the stillness of the room seep in between them. Mycroft stirred and pulled his arm a bit closer to his chest, blinking up at the ceiling. Greg leaned down and kissed his forehead, smirking as he felt Mycroft’s nose twitch against the short spikes of his hair. “Tell me,” he said into Mycroft’s skin.
“Mmmm.”
“Please.”
Mycroft kept his eyes closed and whispered, “James Moriarty is in custody.”
Greg’s lips pressed hard into his forehead for a moment, gathering control, before he sat up slowly. “Since when?”
“Since this afternoon. My people found him and apprehended him.”
Greg shook his head for a moment, glad that Mycroft’s eyes were still closed. “And were you going to tell any of us this if I hadn’t pressured you?”
“Eventually, yes.”
“Eventually?”
Mycroft sighed. “Gregory, there’s nothing any of you can do. He’s in the hands of the government, and he will remain that way. His capture does not equal a free pass for you or Sherlock to question him.”
“But you will?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus.”
Mycroft opened his eyes then, sat up properly, ran a hand through his hair.
“Have you started?”
“No. My people have. We’ll see what we can get from them, first.”
“If I give you a list of questions⎯” Greg blurted out, “Will you see that they get asked and answered?”
“It depends on the question,” Mycroft answered slowly.
Greg’s eyes were hard. “He’s a suspect in several cases, and I want to see them closed. He needs to be brought to justice, not locked away in some secret facility!”
“He will be,” Mycroft assured. “But you must understand that I have to protect all of you, and the easiest way to ensure Moriarty can’t use his influence is to keep him under my control. Do you see?”
“I do, but I don’t like it.”
“I know.” He leaned in and kissed the corner of Greg’s mouth. “I’m trusting you to keep this absolutely secret. No one can know, especially not Sherlock. I know what Sherlock would do if he knew, and it would not be…a wise choice on his part.”
Greg nodded. Sherlock had already killed Moriarty once, and he had come back to life. Greg did not want to imagine what Sherlock would do to ensure the man stayed dead this time. So, somewhat against his better judgment, he nodded, and Mycroft kissed him again.
“Thank you,” Mycroft breathed against his cheek, and Greg felt his heart break a little at the enormity of the gratitude in those two little words.
Four days later, Mycroft found himself sitting across a solid stainless steel table from James Moriarty, who was pale and sickly looking in the harsh light. The only points of color in Moriarty’s face was the coal-black pit of his eyes, which bored into Mycroft’s with the devotion of a religious fanatic.
“I hear you’ve said nothing but to ask to speak to me. Is that true?”
Moriarty only blinked at him, mouth moving lazily as if he were chewing a piece of gum.
Mycroft stared steadily back, crossed his legs at the knee, and clasped his hands over his knee, waiting for a response. The silence spun out between them for several minutes before Moriarty leaned forward as far as the restraints would allow and breathed, “It must be so fascinating to have grown up the way you and little Sherlock did. Tell me about it.”
Mycroft raised a brow.
“Tell me about it, and I’ll answer your little questions. A little quid pro quo between men of our…status.” He grinned at Mycroft, his front teeth still stained a rusty brown from his earlier session. “A story for a story, how’s that?”
Gritting his teeth, Mycroft began to talk.
Across from him, Moriarty’s eyes glittered like a blackened jewel beetle’s carapace as he absorbed every word that fell from Mycroft’s lips and hoarded it jealously in a crack behind his heart.
part xviii
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Date: 2012-07-20 03:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-24 04:26 am (UTC)