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They had flirted and stolen kisses in stairwells and backseats and elevators for months. But both feared the complications and dangers if their liaison were found out. And it seemed someone was always watching--at their offices, at Greg's flat, and at Mycroft's stately home. Even in the gents at Starbucks.
They just couldn't find a place where they felt safe and secluded, where no one would see them going in or out. So despite the white-hot intensity of this passion, they had not yet consummated their relationship. And no, Greg insisted, the 44 hours of phone sex didn't count, as no bodily fluids had been exchanged.
So when John and Sherlock left for their Iberian vacation, Mycroft and Greg went to 221B to be alone--since it was not so far away that they couldn't rush to their offices in an emergency. A staycation, Greg had called it. Featuring mostly horizontal recreation:
- Staying in bed 'til noon.
- Lying on the sofa together in pyjamas--or not in pyjamas.
- Listening to music or watching telly.
- Not discussing he who shall not be named and his woolly-jumpered little friend.
It seemed like the greatest of all luxuries: time alone together.
When they arrived, Mrs. H. gave them a key and went to fetch supplies: Coffee, tea, bread, jam. Pinot noir and a nice chocolate torte for Mycroft. Beer and the makings of a pasta dinner for Lestrade. They let her fuss over them that first day because they thought she was caught up the romance of it all.
She didn't tell them she'd shipped them for years, and was relieved they were finally getting past all that bloody tedious UST she was so tired of watching. It's about f***ing time they did it, she texted Anthea, promising to relay all the details she could find out.
Meanwhile, on the southern coast of Portugal, Sherlock was getting sunburned and John was sick of being told what to do and how to do it, on his own vacation. The bickering had reached epic levels and Sherlock announced they were going to leave early.
"I'm finished packing. Are you coming with me ?" asked Sherlock, snapping his suitcase closed with a flourish.
"Absolutely not! I can't stand the thought of another plane trip with you sulking the whole way! Besides, don't you need the extra seat for your ego?"
As it turned out, two seats did offer a more comfortable situation for sulking and his ego, so the trip home was quite pleasant.
Sherlock arrived home to 221B in the early afternoon. And despite Mrs. Hudson's efforts to stop him (idle chitchat, blocking the stairs, tales of serial rat suicides in the basement . . . or was it murder?), Sherlock bounded into the flat and discovered the undeniable evidence.
- Silk ropes
- Blindfolds
- Handcuffs
- Lubricants in five flavors
- Merchant/Ivory DVDs.
Signs of debauchery in the kitchen and the bathroom and on the comfy chair! And there on his own precious sofa the two men lay together. Cuddling! Barely acknowledging Sherlock's presence!
Mycroft: in red silk pyjamas, reading War and Peace. In Mandarin.
Always showing off, thought Sherlock.
Lestrade: head in Mycroft's lap, earbuds in, eyes closed, strumming air guitar, wearing Mycroft's waistcoat. And nothing else.
After vomiting, Sherlock demanded that the two squatters vacate the premises immediately. They said they'd oblige, but had the nerve to complain he'd spoiled their holiday. Yet they both looked so infuriatingly happy.
Sherlock finally had to slap them both to stop them blowing kisses to each other as they gathered their accoutrements.
Mrs. Hudson creeped up the stairs to help bundle up the food and miscellaneous props for the lovebirds who had been tossed out of their nest.
Sherlock texted John a message saying their home had been violated, and he was ordering a cleaning service--possibly also a hazmat team.
John texted back: About f***ing time they did it. I'll be home at the weekend. Ask Mrs. H to wash my sheets.
Mrs. H replied, "I'm not his housekeeper. You wash the sheets, Sherlock."
"Huh--after what's gone on in that bed, I'll burn them."
"You'll want to burn the carpets too," said Mycroft.
"And the tablecloth," added Lestrade.
"And your violin bow," mumbled Mrs. Hudson.
As they climbed into Mycroft's big black car, Lestrade sighed and frowned. "I really thought we might have one more day together, My. Too bad."
"You underestimate me, Greg," purred Mycroft. "I've got connections, you know. And I've found another place we can go and not be disturbed. It's very . . . remote."
As they pulled into the alley, Lestrade looked around in all directions, but for the life of him couldn' t see where Mycroft had in mind. It was just a cold, empty spot in a corner of the city--no cozy homes of the sort Mycroft might like. Hardly anyone around, in fact.
Then Lestrade suddenly saw a thin, good-looking young man with a lot of hair who seemed to be waving cheerily to Mycroft as if they were old friends. And there was a funny old-fashioned blue police call box. Huh. Greg hadn't seen one of those in awhile . . .