#mystrade young

[gaaberbatchh]

Hii, I was reading a wonderful fanfic today and I had the idea of ​​making a cover(Sorry if I get confused, English is not my first language.)

Name: FORGED

By: Ludicrous / @sky-is-torn

It was something momentary but I liked it and wanted to share it. I would like to make a version of mycroft without the mask and how I imagine her face but I prefer to wait to know exactly how to imagine it and finally edit, but I already have some ideas of how it would look in my head.

Bonus✨

Bonus for Greg returning victorious from the war!(And returning to mycroft obviously

[carla-creates]

Merry Pride, my dears!!! ✨🌈🖤🤎🤍❤️🧡💛💚💜💙💗🌈✨

Here be a lil Mystrade and Johnlock. UwU 💖💖💖 And yesss, these be my thoughts for their sexualities. :3

But yah... I like how they came out. 🥰

Enjoy, dear hearts!!

Hearts,

Carla 💜💜💜

[rabiessnail]

Young Mystrade Headcanons

@sarcasstic-jpmvr

Greg has a childhood stuffy (A jellycat rabbit named Smudge) which he gets embarrassed about

He also has two younger half-sisters, Amelia and Carrie (Caroline) from his Dad's current marriage (his parents split when he was three, because of his mother's alcohol issues)

Greg works part-time in Sherlock's favourite bakery, which is where Mycroft first meets Greg

They have their first kiss at the Arcade (where they spent all their-Mycrofts-money on the 2p machines <3)

They almost broke up on Valentine's Day after a surprise gift goes wrong--after that, they promise never to try to surprise each other again)

The two broke that promise when they accidentally both proposed to each other at the Arcade fourteen years later (The same one where they first kissed)

[sarcasstic-jpmvr]

@rabiessnail it’s giving mystrade

This post was begging for the Mycroft treatment.

[ssayandee]

just some young mystrade!

Greg before and after meeting Mycroft!!

and silly them go somewhere

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Five Fics Friday: August 30/24

Happy Friday everyone!! Check out what I've got for you today to get you through Labour Day Weekend! Enjoy!

RECENT MFLs

It Never Rains by StellaCartography (M, 1,955 w., 1 Ch. || Post S4, Parentlock with Rosie, Domestic Disaster, Plumbing Issues) – Focus, Watson, he commanded himself. He was down to the last corner of floor and then he'd just have to plunge the toilet, scrub and disinfect every surface in the bathroom, clean out the shower, run another wash, feed Rosie a proper dinner, and get her to bed. All in the next hour, if he wanted to prevent a stroppy Rosie and an even stroppier Sherlock. He hurried to get the toilet flowing again and was kneeling down to start on the floor when the door opened.

A Study in Bathtub Drains by jawnscoffee (G, 1,233 w., 1 Ch. || Prompt Fic, Established Relationship, Bathing, POV John) – It's a hot summer's day but not in a Shakespeare- but a really sweaty-i‘m-dying-because-of-the-heat-way. Which is why Sherlock wants to take an ice bath. The only problem: he can‘t find the bathtub drain.

For The Honour Of The Division by flawedamythyst (T, 8,627 w., 1 Ch. || Pub Night, Pub Quiz) – Lestrade wants to win the pub quiz, John wants to socialise Sherlock, and Sherlock just wants to get John drunk. (TRANSLATION: 中文-普通话國語)

The Arrangement by AbAbsurdo (M, 16,891 w., 10 Ch. || Mystrade || Victorian AU || Misunderstandings, Romance, Secret Identity, Historical Inaccuracy, Age Difference, Past Child Abuse, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Background Relationships) – Ten years ago, Mycroft Holmes was forced by his father to marry a young aristocrat from Brussels, who was left alone in the family’s countryside estate while Mycroft went to London to pursue a career in politics. A decade later, he sends divorce papers to the husband he hasn’t seen since he was a boy because he wants to go after James Moriarty who’s been seeking his company for years. In a ball, he meets his brother’s acquaintance and occasional colleague Inspector Lestrade and falls for him instead. His husband, while in grave danger himself, has not yet said his last word. Old enemies are waiting for a mistake to destroy him.

The Slash Man by Engazed (E, 281,469 w., 34 Ch. || Post TRF, Detective Story, Angst, Hurt / Comfort, Gore, Conspiracy, Friendship, Rape/Non-Con, Disturbing Images, Graphic Violence) – After ten days of unspeakable torture at the hands of Sherlock's worst enemies, John Watson has returned to Baker Street to live with a man whose death, no matter how fake, still haunts him. But his recovery is not easy, his friendship with Sherlock is strained, and a dangerous but hidden menace continues to threaten them both. Part 2 of The Fallen Series

[divinity-in-chaos]

Mycroft headcanons

I just need to get these out of my system. If anyone has anything to add, pls do!! I love to hear your thoughts 🥰 slight hints to mystrade!

Warning: this will include themes of depression, eating disorders and self-harm. I will put them at the end, so if you aren’t here for that, just skip past ❤️

He absolutely hates the summer. This guy is a winter baby. The cold weather is a bother but at least he doesn’t sweat through his suits in the snow.

Will never admit it, but his mother’s homemade pie is his favourite comfort food. He’s tried a thousand times to bake it, following the recipe exactly, but he can never get it just right.

The first time he held Sherlock, he cried.

(This is the one of the only times he’s cried in front of his parents.)

Mycroft can’t stand jazz music. He does not understand it at all.

If he had to have a pet, it would be a cat. Preferably one without any fur.

Is actually allergic to certain laundry detergents- I like to think Sherlock is too. They just have sensitive skin.

Watches Barbie movies to unwind when he gets overwhelmed and burnt out. Will not admit this even if it were to save his life.

Every autumn, he re-watches Over The Garden Wall with a glass of wine. The whole show in one sitting, I might add.

Is a daddy’s boy. Sherlock is mummy’s boy.

Would love to have a daughter, but the trauma of taking care of Eurus and Sherlock has convinced him he’s not suitable to be a father. His family genes also has a massive play in that- what if it was a case of Eurus again? Nope, Mycroft would rather be lonely.

Speaking of lonely- I like to think after TFP, Sherlock starts setting him up with people and at first Mycroft complains, but then eventually he just gives in and lets Sherlock do what he wants. Coincidentally, this is just around the time Sherlock starts setting him up with Lestrade. Isn’t that strange? 👀

Came out to his parents during lunch one day, it was very casual.

(Sherlock has never come out, he doesn’t feel like he has to follow that tradition)

His favourite colour is green.

Has a framed photo of himself, Eurus and Sherlock as kids which he keeps in his bedroom. Not on display, but in his bedside drawer (in the middle drawer)

Depressive themes now:

Has been struggling with depression and ED’s since he was quite young.

He has a particular routine of binge eating and then purging.

This is in partly Mrs Holmes fault when she started insisting he diet, a little too much. Not harshly, just unaware of the consequences.

Although it’s mainly depression causing it, along with a childhood of being bullied and mocked by peers.

Attempted suicide at 16. This was the second and last time Mr and Mrs Holmes saw him cry. It wasn’t out of sadness or embarrassment, it was frustration that he had failed.

Sherlock’s reaction to his attempt is the sole reason he hasn’t tried again.

Has SH scars on his stomach.

[mimisempai]

This unavoidable between us - Chapter 1/8

Summary

Aziraphale has known for a long time that if he doesn't find his soulmate before he turns forty, he'll die on his birthday. After years of ignoring this fact, he's forced to face up to reality and plan his last week, calling in an agency that makes dreams come true.

Crowley helps out his best friend, Nina, and takes her place in an escort agency. His mission: to accompany a client and help him realize all his dreams... as his lover.

Notes

Those who read my Mystrade will recognize the concept of this story. I couldn't resist rewriting it for the ineffable husbands. 

On Ao3

Rating G - 2962 words

Masterpost here

Aziraphale set his old alarm clock for eight, turned off the bedside lamp, and closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to come. 

He had tried to read to fall asleep, but he couldn't concentrate, so he waited, his emotions a strange mixture of excitement and resignation.

Tomorrow was the first day of the last week of his life.

Tomorrow was the first day of the week when he would be able to realize all his secret dreams.

To leave without regrets.

He was ready.

In a world where the concept of having a soulmate was a part of everyday life, Aziraphale had known for a long time that it wasn't in the cards for him. Some lucky people found their soul mates when they were young, and most found them in college or graduate school, but Aziraphale hadn't been lucky enough to find his own soulmate. 

Or he hadn't recognized them.

There were many possible signs and rules. It could be a sign that appeared only in the presence of your soulmate, hearing your soulmate's thoughts, the world being only shades of gray until you met your soulmate, and other even more amazing signs.

As for Aziraphale, he knew only one thing about his soulmate.

If he didn't meet his soulmate and if they didn't declare their love for him before he turned forty, he would die on his fortieth birthday.

So for years he had searched every day to see if a mark had appeared on his body, every day he had addressed his thoughts to his unknown soulmate, hoping that they would answer him.

He would have liked to hear something, anything, but after a lifetime of loneliness, Aziraphale had finally come to terms with the idea that there was no other half waiting for him elsewhere.

He stopped talking to them when he reached the age of thirty. He stopped his daily ritual of waking up and whispering good morning to the void. 

He made that decision on his thirtieth birthday. He wasn't going to wait for someone who didn't exist.

So for ten years Aziraphale immersed himself in his work, ignoring the sword of Damocles hanging over his head, reducing his social contacts to a minimum, isolating himself more and more. Living in a bubble where he could ignore reality.

Then, a few months ago, reality came crashing back to him when Mr. Brown handed out the Whickber Street shopkeepers' meeting schedule for the first half of the year. 

One date caught his eye.

March 20, 2023.

The day after his birthday.

The day after the day he was supposed to die. 

Aziraphale had returned home completely broken. He had sat in his old red armchair for several hours, his dull eyes staring into the void around him. Unable to react. The only thought that came to him was the ineluctability of his fate. He'd realized he'd been playing hide-and-seek with death, like a child hiding his eyes, hoping no one would see him.

Then he'd done everything in his power to deny it. He had pushed it to the back of his mind, and refused to dwell on it. Until 8 weeks ago, he had thrown himself into his work, even more than usual, putting his books in one order and then another. Traveling the length and breadth of the region to find the rare pearl to add to his collection.

Refusing to dwell on what lay ahead. 

If he didn't think about it, it wouldn't happen. 

Absurd indeed, but better than facing the truth.

Then came the anger that had surprised him three weeks ago. He had felt it rise up inside him one morning and destroy everything in his room. He tore down the curtains, threw them on the floor, punched at the walls, broke everything he could get his hands on - jewelry, lamps, clothes, picture frames - finally releasing the anger of over twenty years. He destroyed everything in his path until, as his strength waned, he fell straight into the next phase: bargaining. He'd begged God for more time, gone to his grandmother's church, which he'd left years ago, and burned countless candles for a little more time.

Until he found himself at home, distraught and defeated by this fate.

The naked truth.

He was going to die, and nothing could change that. 

So he had finally come to terms with the inevitable and fully accepted his fate.

But Aziraphale was not the type to wait and do nothing until death came.

He would go, of course. But with style. With a bang.

If he left, it would be without regret.

In one week, he would try to fulfill as many of his dreams as possible, and began to write a kind of bucket list, from the most mundane to the most extravagant.

He had hung a small sign on the door of his bookstore, "Closed for vacation," to avoid questions.

Then he'd spent a few hours with his notary to organize his estate; he had no family, not even distant, so he'd left several charities to which the value of everything he owned would be divided after his death.

His way of leaving a small trace of himself in the world.

His bookshop.

He swallowed around the lump that formed in his throat, as it did every time he thought about it. Hopefully the next owner would love it as much as he did.

Aziraphale remembered that one day someone had passed out flyers on the street advertising a special agency that made people's dreams come true. Since Aziraphale kept everything, it wasn't hard to find among his papers. The flyer read "Make your life a dream" in colorful letters and was illustrated with photos of luxurious, paradisiacal landscapes. Without thinking twice, he picked up the phone and made an appointment for the next day. 

He had been greeted with a pleasant smile by a couple to whom he had described in detail what he wanted a few moments later.

Though he'd long since given up hope of finding a soulmate, Aziraphale had always harbored a secret hope of finding someone, if only for a few years. To have a comforting, loving presence in his life. But aside from a few fleeting lovers, he hadn't found THE one. 

Perhaps he was meant to live alone.

But for the last week of his life, Aziraphale was going to change that. He was going to live out his dreams, yes, but not alone, a whole week with a man who was educated, if possible, or at least curious, someone witty, to have all kinds of experiences he'd never been able to have because he'd never had a real, lasting relationship. The agency staff was very understanding and assured him that there would be no problems. They had also reminded him that the only obligation of the man he would choose was to keep him company; anything beyond that was at their discretion and outside of any financial exchange. 

Aziraphale was quite happy with this, as he was looking for pleasant company to spend the last days of his life on earth. 

For the next step, they had asked him for his program of activities for the week, while making it clear that he was free to change his plans up to the last minute. He gave a few guidelines for each day, but left himself some leeway. Once again, the agency complied. Probably his promise of an unlimited budget made them bend over backwards more than usual.

Then came the selection phase.

He had been presented with a catalog based on his criteria, and after passing over three candidates, he had found the person who seemed perfect. 

If only it had been that easy with his soul mate.

There was a close-up of his face and a head-to-toe photo. The man had hair the color red wouldn't be enough to describe, but what Aziraphale noticed first were the amber eyes that sparkled with gold. Then there was his smile, a mixture of sparkle and confidence. As for the rest, if he were honest, Aziraphale would have only one word to describe the red-haired man's slender body: tantalizing.

From the description, he seemed cultured, well-read, with a wide taste in music and movies, and a love of good food and wine. He was also 39, like Aziraphale, and there was no mention of his profession. 

Before Aziraphale told them of his decision, the agency people had pointed out that this was the man's first assignment. 

This had finally convinced Aziraphale to choose this candidate, and it was comforting to know that he wouldn't be the only one who was inexperienced in one way or another. 

Once he'd made up his mind, he was told the name of his future companion for this unusual week, Anthony Crowley. 

After paying a deposit, he had to fill out several forms, as well as a description sheet similar to the one he had just consulted. Then they had called in a photographer who had taken two snapshots of him. When he appeared a little confused, the people from the agency explained that they were going to send these to his future partner so that he could familiarize himself with Aziraphale, to get to know him a little first. 

That's how he was tonight, on the eve of his first meeting with this man.

He was going to live every day to the fullest, no matter how it ended.

Aziraphale visualized Anthony one last time and focused his mind on the days ahead, refusing to think about the inevitability of the seventh day. 

He fell asleep dreaming of tomorrow, of red hair and golden eyes.

**********

"Dear Mr. Crowley,

Enclosed you will find all the information about the week you will spend with the client. There is a sheet about the client so that you can familiarize yourself with his appearance and who he is. Please do not give this information to third parties, as stipulated in the attached contract. You'll also find the terms of the contract and some forms you'll need to return to us regarding insurance."

Crowley sighed and ran a hand over his face, still wondering what had possessed him to offer his help to Nina. He adored his best friend and was truly happy for her happiness, but that didn't stop him from resenting her for involving him in such a venture.

A few weeks ago, Nina had introduced him to Maggie, her girlfriend and soulmate. Seeing them together, Crowley had envied them. It was clear that they were made for each other. That's when Nina had told him about a problem that was a little uncomfortable for her. She had an escort contract with a high-end agency that made people's dreams come true. 

She'd been doing this for years, in addition to her regular job, to make ends meet, and also in the hope of meeting her soul mate there.

Now that she had Maggie in her life, she couldn't contemplate continuing this job, but she was under contract for one last mission, and if she broke the contract, she would lose her bonuses. So she had begged him to take her place just for this mission, insisting that it was just an escort role.

Crowley, who didn't like to see a friend in trouble, let alone Nina, had apparently agreed to help her. Besides, the fact that he was on sabbatical between jobs gave him the free time he needed. 

But even though he had wholeheartedly agreed, that didn't stop him from wondering what had possessed him now that the deadline was approaching.

Though he had no idea how to recognize his soulmate, Crowley had long believed that he would find them. Until a few years ago, when he saw people around him finding their better halves one by one while he remained hopelessly alone, he gave up on the idea of finding his soulmate and settled for casual relationships. 

Oh, he'd done some research, after all, he loved to collect data and now knew a lot about soulmates and the intricacies of the experience. About twenty percent of the English population had a soulmate who shared the same soul sign. About five percent had no visible shared mark, but experienced paranormal signs such as hearing their soulmate think, feeling what they felt, suffering when they suffered, seeing in color when they met, and other such phenomena. About two percent of the English population didn't have a soulmate, hooray for him, lucky he never tried his luck at gambling, he would have ended up broke. 

So, yes, Crowley knew a lot about soulmates, but not about his own, if he had one.

All he knew was that the day he met them, the moment he shook their hands, he'd know it was his soul mate.

In fact, it was as if he knew nothing. 

He'd shaken hands with a lot of people, but none of them had given him the signal: "Hey ho, it's me, your soulmate." 

Not one.

He shrugged. He had a job to do, and he was going to do it as well as he could so as not to get his best friend in trouble or lose her money.

He grabbed a bottle of Talisker from his minibar, poured himself a glass, and then grabbed the bundle of papers the agency had sent over before sitting down on the sofa with his feet up on the coffee table.

First he looked at the photos: the client was a man in his forties. He had adorable, messy blond curls and the brightest blue eyes he'd ever seen. 

Crowley took a sip of his drink and continued reading the file.

The man's name was Aziraphale Fell, a name he'd never heard before, and as he looked at the photo again, Crowley thought how lucky he was to be paid to spend time with such a cute guy. 

According to the agency's description, Aziraphale wanted to spend a week with a man, someone who was preferably well-read, and that he wanted to have all the kinds of experiences that a couple would have together and that he'd never been able to have because he'd never had a lasting relationship. 

Luckily for him, Crowley hadn't done it either, so they were on equal footing in terms of experience. That calmed Crowley down a bit, at least he wouldn't look too stupid.

Knowing the agency's policy on sexual intercourse, Crowley wasn't worried about that aspect of things, but he still wondered what the man wanted them to do together as he continued to scan the list.

When he got to the second page where the various activities were listed, he thought to himself that this job was more like a vacation than any vacation he'd ever planned for himself. In the end, there was a good chance that he wouldn't regret sacrificing his time and part of his budget for a wardrobe befitting the "role" he was about to play. 

Nina had told him he'd get a cut of the payoff for this mission, and that would more than cover his expenses. Crowley wasn't really in need, but it would allow him to spoil his younger sibling, Muriel, who was moving in with their soulmate, Eric. 

As for anonymity, he'd be in the clear a priori. Crowley's acquaintances, whose number could be counted on the fingers of one hand, didn't frequent the places listed in the agency's documents, so the chance of running into one of them was infinitesimally small. 

In short, everything was perfectly in order, and if the customer was pleasant, it might help Crowley forget for a moment the loneliness that weighed on him. This longing to have someone to laugh with, to discuss his thoughts and feelings with, just to share.

He took a sip of his drink, thinking about the irony of the situation. He was being paid to keep someone company, and his loneliness was so great that he welcomed it. 

His phone vibrated on the table in the living room, he grabbed it and saw that Nina had texted him.

Hey! Tomorrow's the big day, I hope you're ready.

Received at 10:30 p.m.

Yes, everything's fine. Don't pressure me, you moron!

Sent at 10:32 pm

Thanks again Crowley! You took a big thorn out of my side

Received 10:34 pm

No problem. I'm off to sleep, gotta look good tomorrow.

Sent 10:35 pm

You already do look good.

Received 10:37 pm

Crowley chuckled before typing his reply.

No need to flatter my ego, I've already signed.

Good night, Nina.

Sent 10:39 pm

Don't forget to tell me all about it.

Good night !

Received 10:40 pm

Crowley put the phone down, went over all the papers and the contract one last time, and signed the necessary forms required by the agency.

He had to meet Aziraphale tomorrow at 2 pm. That would give him time to go to the agency to hand in the signed contracts and pick up the various bookings and tickets for the next seven days.

He was both impatient and anxious because he'd never done this before. Not to mention that his experience with romance was rather thin, as he had never had much luck in his past relationships. 

In any case, he would try to make the most of this week.

Crowley turned off the TV, packed his things and went to bed.

He didn't have much trouble falling asleep.

After all, at worst the client would find him boring and the week would end quickly, and at best he'd have a good time with no consequences. 

Nothing worse than his present life.

Only time would tell.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Ineffable fan fictions Masterpost : here

[aseriesofunfortunatetexts]

ok so i only got into asoue a few months back but scrolling through ur blog is so interesting, mostly because like. what are you SEEING in the denouements. not in a mean way, in a “they got basically nothing in canon and i am very curious as to what’s going on in your head” way. i would love to know how you perceive them

don’t get me wrong i understand getting attached to minor characters more as much as the next autism riddled person but again i am very curious

[insert obligatory how dare you, they're the most precious boys ever! joke here]

Before we begin, I'm actually not autistic, so you can't use that as an explanation. I've been tested a lot through my life, due to other mental illnesses, and I always score so low it's almost uncanny. Hyper-fixating on nerd stuff is my One Thing that gives me points in tests, but that's it. So no, that's not the reason I like minor characters.

Ignoring the fact that this actually feels like a weird thing to have to explain at all, I'm gonna go ahead and answer anyway:

I have no idea. As in I don't know what happened initially, but I have a couple of theories. Firstly, I'm a whole ass Adult. Like, mid-thirties at this point. That means I'm more or less uninterested in creating content about the kids, because I do dick jokes and write smut and I don't personally feel like combining those with young characters. The Sugar Bowl Generation is where it's at for me. And if you've been around the fandom for a bit, you will have noticed that people who are into the SBG have to do quite a lot of legwork to keep ourselves stimulated. Our enclosure is pretty low on natural enrichment tbh.

That means you have to create your own fun. A puppy that's been left at home too long will inevitably start chewing on the furniture. A fangirl (gender neutral) will start conjuring up elaborate headcanons and characterizations and theories and dynamics from more-or-less thin air. It's the way of the world. Remember how Mystrade was a huge thing in the Sherlock fandom, despite them never interacting in canon? Yeah, it's a bit like that. There's a certain freedom to be found in it.

Only we do have some crumbs! Just spend half an hour at @snicketsleuth, and see how much you can string together from them. That's a very mixed metaphor, sorry. But my point stands.

The Denouements are a pretty niche focus, I'll give you that. However, what we have is so interesting to me. Like, the fucking Spotter's Guide that @lyeekha made actually goes a long way to explain my initial infatuation. I love some deceit and mystery that can be unravelled by careful observation of micro expressions, you know? It's very satisfying.

And I just love them, you know? I can't explain it better than that. I'd drop in the fact that I'm very physically attracted to Max Greenfield in the role(s), but I'm pretty sure that's obvious. And it doesn't matter nearly as much as my fascination with the essence of the characters that I've so carefully cobbled together from scraps I found on the trash heap of canon (how's that for a metaphor though?)

Does that help at all?

[rabiessnail]

fanfics are writing themselves in my brain I cannot express the need to create help me

Mark Gatiss in the live shows, that's it, that's the post

[themirokai]

Here it is, the last story so far in His Professional Capacity (my Mystrade spy series, that I wrote back in 2021). In case you missed it, I’m posting the stories from the series here on tumblr in anticipation of putting out a new story in the series. 

The four previous stories are: one, two, three, four. 

This fifth one is short and light, and was really down to the fact that lots of people in the comments of Protégé really loved Peter Romer, and he needed an encore. 

The Assist 

Greg gets some unexpected help when making an arrest. 

Tags: Greg’s day job, Banter, Light flirting, Mycroft’s work kids

1,545 words

Note: If you’re just coming to this one, I recommend you go read Protégé first. 

Read it below or on AO3. 

~*~ 

Greg pounded down the pavement after the arson suspect. His muscles were straining and his lungs were struggling. He kept himself fit, played football when he could, but this bastard was fast. Greg glanced over his shoulder to see the constables a few steps behind him. At least he could still keep ahead of those youngsters. Greg looked in front of him again, just in time to round the corner… 

...into a flea market filled with people, none of them running. “Ah fucking Christ on a stick!” Greg pulled up, scanning the crowd for his suspect. After a moment of peering about fruitlessly, he leaned over, grabbing his knees and panting to catch his breath. 

“Sir?” The constables were beside him. 

“Spread out!” Greg shouted. “Find him!” The constables waded off into the crowd and after a moment Greg set off as well, muttering curses to himself all the way. 

He had just peered into his third stall when a familiar Scottish accent reached his ears. “Oi! Silver Fox!” 

Greg turned to see Agent Peter Romer approaching, pushing the suspect in front of him.

“Romer?” Greg squinted. 

“Nice to see you too, Silver Fox. And you’re welcome.” Romer’s hair was longer than when Greg had last seen him, worn in a small ponytail at the back of his head. 

“What the hell are you doing here? Is Mycroft here?” 

“Nah, boss is stuck in Whitehall all day, far as I know. Ya got some cuffs for this arsehole, Silver Fox? They’re not in my standard kit. Got some for the bedroom ‘course, but they’re more of the fluffy variety. You should probably arrest him too, since I’m not technically doing that.” 

Greg was already pulling out his handcuffs and dragging the suspect around to put them on him. “John Hayden, I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade of the Metropolitan Police, and you’re under arrest on suspicion of arson. You are not free to leave,” Greg growled at him, then turned to Romer and jabbed a finger at him. “No disappearing. I want to talk to you.” 

Romer gave him a mischievous grin and a raised eyebrow. “You want me around, Silver Fox? Then wild horses couldn’t drag me.” 

Greg rolled his eyes and pulled out his radio to call the constables back. After a few minutes they had taken the suspect away and Greg turned to where Romer was ostensibly perusing the merchandise in the nearest stall. 

“Mycroft lets you wear your hair like that?” 

Romer’s hand immediately flew to his ponytail and his look of dismay appeared genuine. “Ya don’t like it?” 

Greg tamped down his first reaction to soothe and crossed his arms over his chest. “No, it’s awful. What the hell are you supposed to be?” 

Romer’s grin returned. “Nuh uh, Silver Fox. The boss raised your clearance for matters pertaining to his safety and yours. My current project doesn’t qualify.” 

“And does your current project involve tailing me?”   

“Maybe I was just shopping for -” Romer grabbed a rhinestone-encrusted trumpet from the counter beside him, “a snazzy new bugle?”

“Try again, Romer.” 

The young man relinquished the trumpet, then shoved his hands in his pockets and started walking backwards away from Greg. “Maybe I wanted to buy you a drink?” 

Greg shook his head as he followed. “I am working. And aren’t you prohibited from flirting with me on pain of being exiled to China?” 

“Nah,” Romer said with a grin, then turned around to walk beside Greg, facing front, “can you imagine all the trouble I could get into without the boss keeping an eye on me? He’d never send me that far away.” 

Greg scrubbed a hand over his face. “Christ, and I thought him having to keep track of his brother was bad enough.”

Romer stopped walking and turned to Greg, touching his arm. “No, Lestrade, it’s not like that. I’m just fooling.” He shook his head, brow furrowed. “I never intentionally cause problems for him, I promise. I’m good at the work … or at least I try to be. Credit to the Service and all that.” 

Greg snorted. “But sometimes you push the boundaries a little so he pays more attention to you?” Romer wrinkled his nose and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck in response. Greg chuckled and patted his shoulder. “Yeah, I get it, kid.” Greg started walking again and Romer stuck by his side. “Alright out with it, Peter. What were you doing chasing down my suspect?” 

“You know we’ve been keeping an eye on ya ever since ya moved in with the boss, in case someone tries to use you to get to him.”

“Right,” Greg said, “but I didn’t think I had a security detail.”

“You don’t. But we generally have an idea of what you’re working on and your whereabouts.”

Greg sighed. He had long ago accepted the fact that Mycroft was under surveillance at all times for his safety. He had more recently come to terms with the fact that Mycroft was a valuable enough target that someone could conceivably try to get to him using Greg, and this meant that Greg merited some level of security. What he wasn’t quite comfortable with was the idea that “security” included agents from Mycroft’s unit “keeping an eye on” his work. Greg knew some of them, and recognized them all by sight once they had rotated through Mycroft’s security detail. A few of them, like Romer, were assigned to Mycroft’s unit long-term, but others spent a few months in the unit taking rotations on the security detail and other shadowy assignments, then moving back to MI6 or MI5 or wherever they had come from. It bothered him that he didn’t know how they remained aware of what he was working on. Was his office bugged? His computer monitored? He was pretty sure that if he asked Mycroft he would get a straight answer, but he wasn’t certain that he wanted to test that. 

“So did Mycroft or one of you lot deduce that we would lose Hayden? Does he teach you how to do that?”

“He has taught me some. Says I have a good instinct for it,” Romer said, beaming proudly. “But no one’s as good as him. And that’s not what happened here. Hayden the arsonist is on the very fringes of a massive criminal organization we’re tracking. Don’t get excited,” he cautioned, seeing the look on Greg’s face, “he’s really just at the very fringe. You won’t be able to flip him to anyone bigger, otherwise we would have brought him in.”

“Any chance I can see your file on the organization?” 

“Not my call,” Romer said, with a twinkle in his eye, “but maybe if you put on some tight jeans and unbutton your shirt a bit when the boss gets home-” 

“Watch it, kid,” Greg growled. Romer laughed and put up both hands placatingly. Greg shook his head. “Alright, so you knew I was going after Hayden, and?” he prompted. 

“And given that this organization might be getting a hint that we’re on to them, the boss wanted to make sure that the arrest went smoothly just to make sure they hadn’t made the connection between him and you and Hayden and them.” 

“Did you volunteer for this, Peter?” 

Romer grinned. “I was available. And I’m quite good at finding people; it’s how I ended up in the boss’s unit. So he thought I might be able to help. Which, even you have to admit, I did.” 

“Yeah,” Greg sighed, “you did. Glad you were around.” He chuckled at Romer’s bright smile. “So nothing nefarious going on other than me and my constables not being fast enough to catch him before he ran into a flea market?” 

“Nah, looks like that’s the extent of it.”  

“Good.” Greg turned to Romer and held out his hand. “Thank you, Peter. I appreciate the assist.”

Romer’s smile stretched ear to ear as he shook Greg’s hand. “My pleasure, Silver Fox. And uh, you’ll tell the boss, yeah?”

“Sure, kid,” Greg chuckled, “I’ll tell him.”

---

Late that evening, Greg was lounging on the sofa watching a football match and drinking a beer when he heard Mycroft come in. “There’s takeaway in the fridge,” he called. 

A few minutes later Mycroft - shoes off, waistcoat unbuttoned, and tie loose - entered and plopped ungracefully onto the sofa. He swung his feet onto Greg’s lap and began applying chopsticks to the contents of the takeaway container he had brought with him. 

“Rough day?” Greg asked, starting to massage a foot with one hand. 

“Politicians,” Mycroft replied after a few bites of stir fry, “all damn day. Even the ones who have clearance high enough for my briefings are insufferable these days.” 

Greg made a sympathetic noise. 

“I hope Romer behaved himself?” Mycroft asked after eating a little more. 

“I don't think we would have made the arrest without him,” Greg admitted. “And he wanted to be sure you knew that.” Mycroft snorted. “That kid thinks the sun shines out of your arse, darlin’.”

“Mm, are you saying it doesn’t?”

The foot rub turned into tickling, forcing Mycroft to abandon his food and straddle Greg’s lap for a kiss.

[stellacartography]

Alarming (T)

For the August 7 Mystrade Monday prompt:

Character A is trying to get Character B up and out of bed, and Character B is trying very hard to ignore Character A.

It's the bloody phone that does it. There it goes, buzzing itself to the precipice of the bedside table and plummeting in a fit of unpleasantness to the floor. At least it's quieter down there, muffled by the rug and the dust bunnies.

Greg nestles deeper into the high-tech, down-alternative pillows Mycroft had insisted upon when they purchased a set of bedding together. The night had been a late one. Meetings and arguments at work giving way to much-needed decompression time at home. Greg is still knackered. Hardly surprising given that he'd been up till half-one with Mycroft.

It's good being with him like this. Greg wouldn't have dreamed of this synchrony with the stuffy, government lackey who had cornered him at a crime scene over a decade ago. But Mycroft has proven himself to be a loving partner, a good match for Greg's needs and wants and their love has grown slowly, surprisingly, pushing up with impressive strength through cracks in the pavement.

Greg feels a stirring beside him.

"Your phone is ringing."

"Mmm." Greg buries his face a little deeper.

A hand passes beneath the sheet and lands on Greg's flank. Greg hums again at the warmth. The fingers of the hand stroke along his leg to his buttock and pinch.

"Ow," Greg groans forlornly into the pillow.

"Kindly get up and stop your phone," Mycroft commands. He says it softly, sweetly but it is a command nonetheless.

Greg grabs at the hand on his leg and brings it up to his mouth. He kisses Mycroft's fingers one at a time then mouths at the tips, giving each a little nibble and scraping his teeth over the pads.

"I won't be distracted, Gregory," Mycroft says into the air above Greg's ear. He elongates Greg's name under two conditions: irritation and arousal. Greg smiles around the finger tips between his lips, then sucks and licks, dragging a disgruntled growl of want from Mycroft's mouth. Mycroft nips at Greg's neck and pulls his hand away only to return it to Greg's arse where it pinches him again.

"Your phone," Mycroft snarls, taking Greg's earlobe between his teeth.

Greg laughs and twines their fingers before wrapping Mycroft's arm tightly around his chest. "'S fine where it is. It'll stop."

"It is not fine, Greg. For some unknowable reason, you set an alarm last night and now your phone will ring and ring until someone stops it or the world ends."

It occurs to Greg that Mycroft's tone is particularly... plaintive. One could almost mistake it for whining. Usually, Greg likes when Mycroft whines. He whines when Greg is between his legs and drawing his pleasure out, ramping up his anticipation, giving him just enough to keep him suspended, held aloft over his release. Greg lives for the sound of that whine. This is different.

"Did you have a bit much to drink last night, handsome?" Greg turns over without opening his eyes and snuggles close to plant kisses all over Mycroft's furrowed brow and stubbled cheeks.

Mycroft mutters a grumpy, "Perhaps."

"Not as young as we used to be. A little scotch and a late night hit harder now." Greg opens his eyes only to close them again when Mycroft kisses him.

Mycrofts mouth is soft and pliant on Greg's until he stretches back. "I wouldn't trade it. This. Not for another decade of youth."

Greg smiles and opens his eyes to see Mycroft smiling down at him. "Just as well, you couldn't have handled me." Greg takes advantage of Mycroft's shock to flip him over and press him down into the bed. "If I'd had you thirty years ago, you'd never have gotten any sleep."

The phone lies forgotten. Its battery dies before Greg thinks to recover it.

Tagging @mystradepromptsandscenarios

[johannadc]

Mystrade plot bunny: Brandy

When "Brandy" came on the oldies radio station, I suddenly had this Mystrade AU idea...

Mycroft has wound up working in some coastal dive bar. He'd gone searching for Sherlock, who'd run away to follow a ship's doctor, and ran out of money. Plus, the bar was a wonderful source of information, as sailors came through, swapping gossip about a strange, gawky cabin boy who saw everything.

One night, a silver-haired captain comes in for the first time, and he's taken by an attractive young man, reading in a corner by candlelight. The light flickers off his brandy-colored hair, and the captain strikes up a conversation with this unusual man. He clearly is too well-educated and well-spoken for this place, which only makes him more intriguing.

I gift it to the universe, in case anyone wants to write it.

[marta-bee]

In which Sherlock is a brat, Mycroft is longsuffering in a maliciously-compliant sort of way, Lestrade is just --well-- perfectly Lestradish, and if you're not clicking the link after reading the sample below to just go read the thing, well, more's the shame for you.

Seriously. I. am. chortling.

(And do follow @eventhorizon451 for more delightful Mystrade if you're not already.)

      “Hmmmm… alright, so you don’t deny Mr. Holmes’s accusations, whatever they may be… I’m still not solid on that but I suspect it’ll tease out at some point.”

      “That is what you gleaned from my speech, Lestrade?”

      “Basically.”

      “Deplorable.”

      “If you say so, sir.  In any case, are you the person responsible for removing the original walkway and replacing it with those concrete slabs?”

      “I am.”

      “Destruction of private property….”

      “Don’t write that down!”

      “Gotta keep the facts straight, sir, so you get fair treatment by the law.  Might I inquire as to where you obtained the cement?”

      “No.”

      “Adding Theft to the charges list.”

      “I did not confess to stealing it!”

      “Can you produce a receipt for your purchase.”

      “Receipts are boring.”

      “Theft stays on the list until such time as the owner of the shop corroborates your purchase or is first informed of his inventory loss and files his own complaint.”

      “There was an extreme surplus of materials at the construction site!  I was reducing the inevitable waste to benefit the environment.”

      “I’ll jot that down as a mitigating factor.”

      “I do not need mitigation!”

      “Making a note that you not only confessed to the crime but are proud of it.  Not that you asked, but my advice is not to say things like that aloud as they tend to work against you in court.”

      “I am not a criminal.  Mycroft’s anti-science biases are, however, and he should be tossed in the stocks as a target for young children practicing their aim with slings and catapults they made during their art instruction at school.”

      “Is that a threat, sir?  Mr. Holmes, are you feeling unsafe due to this person’s words or conduct?”

      “Let me think…”

      ‘Oh, piss OFF, Mycroft!”

      “Yes, I believe I am.”

Mycroft’s smug smile made Sherlock boil over like a pan of milk left on the stove – spectacularly and with a great deal of future promise of more aggravation to come.  Stinky, crusted-on aggravation…

      “Alright, that goes on the list, also.  I think there’s enough here for me to take this individual into custody and see him processed.  I can take your statement here and draw up the paperwork for a formal complaint once I’m at my desk.”

      “Thank you.  It is good to see my taxes well being used for the civic good.”

      “Anything for you, love.”

Sherlock’s gasp drew in all available oxygen in the London area, which explained both Mycroft and Greg’s being frozen in place for several long moments.  Some information was not, at present, slated for certain infantile and hysterical ears.  Though the infant’s ears were now positively dripping with information.

      “You… you… you…. you!”

And the hysteria was commencing.

      “I’m… I’m me, sir, yes, thank you for noticing.”

      “Enough of your failed pantomime, Lestrade – confess!”

      “That’s my line, sir.  Please stick to the designated script.”

[feralremains]

Tag nine people you want to get to know better

Thank you @the-toad-in-your-piano for the tag!

Three ships

Hm, I will tell about my most recent one, the one I've written the most about, and the one that got me into writing fanfic and making fanart.

The latest: Nygmobblepot! Edward Nygma/Oswald Cobblepot from Gotham. Well, what can I say? Sad, mentally ill and murderous men, what's not to like? They have an interesting relationship, and I like to see it being explored more in many different forms.

The one I've written the most: Willton, Frederick Chilton/Will Graham from Hannibal. Even though this is the ship with the highest amount of words by me, it's still only somewhere between 5,000 and 10,000 words. I'm a beginner, but hopefully getting better all the time! I admit, this one isn't very popular. I like NBC Hannibal's Chilton as a character a lot, and I personally think he needs some other character to develop himself. Will gives us contrast, with his cool calculations and violent mind compared to Frederick's neuroses and anxieties.

The beginning: Good old Mystrade. Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade from BBC Sherlock. I'm a sucker for emotionally suppressed middle-aged men. I suppose I could explore my own experiences through them - anxiety, depression, self esteem issues. Older queer people have always made me hopeful, and even though it really isn't the same, sometimes fictional characters work as a substitute.

First ever ship

Huh, I am not absolutely sure, but I guess this would be Johnlock. I remember seeing one of the older Sherlock Holmes films when I was younger, The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes, 1970, and Holmes implying Watson and he were lovers felt surreal, almost. This one was an old film for a young kid such as myself, and there they were, queer, and it wasn't only a joke, we were not only portrayed as comic relief. Obviously it was somewhat humorous (Holmes trying to avoid fathering a child for Madame Petrova), but they didn't make it seem like queer people were lesser. In a way, I felt understood - that's what not having obvious actual queer representation causes - and it stayed in the back of my mind for a long time.

Now, thinking about the ships I've now told about, I realise I (often along with other people) have headcanoned one person of the pair as asexual, even though I've only known I'm ace myself for a very short time, comparatively.

Last song

I've been listening to Hannibal the Musical and Possibly in Michigan (Animal Cannibal). Completely normal and sane songs to listen to, I can assure you.

Last movie

I watched The Lady in the Van with my parents last night. It was quite amusing, both light-hearted and serious at the same time. Before that, The Batman (2022), which I didn't like as much as some of the other Batman films, but it was quite decent.

Currently reading

Haha, I'm not currently reading anything, really. The last actual book I read was the Shining by Stephen King some weeks ago. It was much better than the film, which I watched right after, although not scary at all.

Currently watching

Gotham (2014-2019). Finding television series that can keep me watching is not the easiest task, I guess. Usually I only like a few characters, and try to resist the urge to only see their scenes as long as I can.

Currently consuming

Well, I should be getting an evening snack, but I'm writing this. Going to get an apple and some mango gurt with rice cereal.

Currently craving

This is a bit in the TMI territory, but the ability to feel strong emotions, and for once not anxiety. I feel very empty most of the time. Fortunately I have Petunia the blue tongue skink. I also would like to learn Swedish and get even more herps.

Tagging (no pressure to actually do this! Also, with my luck, everyone I tag has already participated in this, but no harm done anyways. I have literally never interacted with some of you, and never in a personal manner with any of you, but let's ignore that for a moment, or otherwise I could never participate in these)

@nygmobblepot-trash @arabriddler @shyjusticewarrior @cliobii @evansdoodles @super-who-locked-me-in-here @barbacarisi @the-chilton @no1raulesparzafan

[once-in-a-blue-moon-rising]

Tag 9 people you want to get to know better. (Or just read my answers, that's cool too. Thank you @the-real-surfski for the tag, I will do my best to be interesting!)

Three ships: I'm going to go for my newest, my longstanding favourite and a more unusual one here.

Newest: Young-woo x Jun-ho from Extraordinary Attorney Woo. Highly recommend this show in general too.

Longstanding fave: Mystrade! (Mycroft x Lestrade from Sherlock.) Who would have guessed this one? I never talk or post or write about them.

More unusual: Tokyo x Nairobi from La Casa de Papel. Imagine a human wrecking ball (affectionate) in one corner, and in the other, a woman who is by comparison fairly measured and analytical, but who has never had a particularly good outlet for her skills, and is also very capable of becoming a human wrecking ball if needed/provoked.

First ever ship: 10Rose! I was thirteen and, well, they were the start of it all.

Last song: The last thing I played on Spotify was a podcast, so I'm just going to go with my last liked song (and I like songs a lot, because I need to teach the algorithm to give me stuff I like) - PARTY ON MY DEATHBED by Hot Milk. I love Hot Milk.

Last movie: I think it was 1976, which is not at all a good reflection of my taste in films, which is much, much trashier.

Currently reading: A Little Life. This is my first re-read, and I just love this book so much. I think it's sort of becoming a comfort book (which is an absolutely WILD thing to say if you know anything about it) and whenever I try to express this to anyone, they're like 'yeah, it's comforting to see that your life is actually not so bad after all', but that's not at all what I mean. It's more that the characters are just so real, so individual and flawed and messy and human, that I feel like I've spent 30 years with them, like they have with each other. But if I could fix things for them (especially Jude) I'd do it in a heartbeat.

Currently watching: I need to get into another series; the only thing I'm regularly watching at the moment is F1. And (obviously) I will be glued to Eurovision tonight.

Currently consuming: Just ate a fried-egg sandwich.

Currently craving: The ability to absorb a language like a toddler. You're telling me I have to read and listen and practise, without the chaotic determination of a very small human, and with a job?

Tagging (with no expectation): @the-toad-in-your-piano, @meanderings0ul, @rosasbi, @garnetcapricorn, @neverlet, @insuchawonderfulway, @turquoiseorchid, @locke-ripped-his-clothes-off, @magniloquent-raven