Work Text:
"We should get married."
It was a balmy Sunday in August; blisteringly hot outside, actually, but that was what air conditioners were for. Greg was trying to combine work with relaxation by simultaneously lying on the couch, nursing a cup of lukewarm tea and pouring over the paperwork for a particularly baffling string of murders that Sherlock had solved not three days before with unusually good timing. All in all, it was the closest the DI got to having a 'lazy Sunday' - because what weekend could be complete without gory pictures of some poor bastards who'd had their brains blown out?
So, it was in this state of rare and pencil-chewing concentration that he was posed the Question – in this case it was a Statement, but it was good as. He didn't glance up from his work, merely muttered, "Sorry, love, what? If you're making more tea, I'd love some," at a picture of the hydrangea bush where the murder weapon - Smith and Wesson 9mm revolver, fitted the American who had been charged to a T - had been cunningly concealed.
"I was rather hoping to get a more enthusiastic reaction than that," his partner murmured, in an exasperated tone. Greg looked up, gave his lover a winning smile and said ardently:
"I would kill for a cuppa."
Mycroft Holmes, the British Government and backbone of several top secret services including, but not limited to, the CIA and MI6, heaved a put-upon, "you-should-be-glad-I-love-you-too-much-to-have-you-shot" sigh. He disappeared into the kitchen for few minutes before returning with a pot of tea, two cups - one a delicate piece of china that wouldn't look out of place in Buckingham Palace, and the other a hopelessly gauche MET mug - and a quirked eyebrow. Greg didn't know how he managed to carry it all and still remain snarky; one of life's mysteries.
"Now," Mycroft began, after he had settled on the end of the couch, poured his own cup - weak black, lemon, no sugar - and set the pot back down to steep for another few minutes, "Gregory--"
"Did someone die?" Greg asked, glancing up once again from the papers. "Sherlock? Again? For real this time?"
"No, of course not. Whatever gave you that impression?"
He shrugged. "You never use that tone unless someone has."
"I didn't believe I had a tone for telling you if someone has passed away. In fact, have I ever told you that someone had died?"
"Mmm, no, I don't think so. Still, there's a first time for everything."
"When I tell people why I love you, your boundless optimism is what I'll mention," Mycroft said dryly.
Greg stared at him, knowing now for certain that something was wrong. They hardly ever talked about love, except for a handful of times. Most of these were after rocking good sex, in which case it was usually a breathless and murmured, "Love you," which meant more, “Let’s do that again sometime, preferably in the next hour.” The other, well, singular time, actually, had been when Greg had woken from an induced coma after being shot twice in the chest and then undergoing intensive surgery. Mycroft had stolen into the hospital in the dead of the night and woken him with a soft brush of fingers across his cheek and a whispered declaration of love. He could only remember it very fuzzily, having been half-asleep and doped up on morphine. However, when asked, Mycroft had turned a peculiar shade of pale, said, "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," and immediately stonewalled all other attempts he made at trying to discuss it, so it was as good as a confession.
Which meant this casual mention now had some sort of grave meaning behind it that was only readily understandable to Holmeses and other strange geniuses. "Okay," Greg said, bracing for the worst. "Let me guess: inoperable cancer? Early onset Alzheimer's? A slow acting but untreatable poison from some godforsaken part of India or China?"
Mycroft had frozen, tea-cup in mid-air, and was gazing at him with a faintly puzzled expression on his face as Greg continued to rattle off worse-case scenarios.
"Imminent nuclear threat? An injection of concentrated HIV/AIDS? Aneurysm? Oh God, it's an aneurysm, isn't it? That's why you've been having migraines—”
"Greg, I do hate to intrude upon your imminent panic attack, but what on Earth are you talking about?"
"You!" he said, waving an arm about in distress. "You're going to die, aren't you? That's why you just said you loved me!"
The elder Holmes stared at him for a moment longer, then began to quietly laugh, which was possibly the least reassuring thing he could have done, because genuine laughter was another thing Mycroft did not do.
"Don't laugh," Greg snapped, fighting back a rising wave of panic, "it's an aneurysm!” Oh God, was he going crackers like that ruddy taxi driver turned serial killer? Was that a symptom of aneurysms?
Mycroft composed himself rapidly, a slight twitch of his lips the last indication of his mirth. "No, you're certainly right; aneurysms are nothing to laugh about. However, Detective Inspector, I do wonder at your evidence for such a claim. The migraines are, I assure you, related specifically to work and I have always suffered from them. If I may also point out: you seem to have overlooked other crucial and relevant data."
It was Greg's turn for confusion. "What?"
"Did you not hear...? The reason I am openly professing my love for you is because, not five minutes ago when you were absorbed in those awful files, I stated that it would be an advisable and logical advancement of our current relations to pursue the possibility of a conjugal partnership in order to achieve a number of goals, which I can set out for you if you so desire."
He tilted his head slightly, trying to work through all that bureaucratic white noise and understand the main ideas of Mycroft's little speech. "You... want to get married?" he queried uncertainly.
"I did just say that in as many words, yes."
He snorted. "In pollie's English, at least." Before his lover could get properly offended, he sat up on the sofa, stuffed the papers and pictures into the file, chucked it onto the floor and beckoned. "Oi, c'mere."
"Was that policeman's English?" Mycroft retorted, setting his tea-cup down and sidling closer to Greg where, instead of sitting side-by-side, he slid into reclining position, swinging his legs up onto the couch, and using Greg's lap as a cushion.
He was content to sit back and run his fingers down and across his lover's forehead, stroking his head in a well-practised rhythm. Mycroft's eyes fluttered shut, and Greg felt his own, stupid panic begin to recede.
"So," he said softly, when he could again breathe freely, "marriage. Not called that though, is it? Isn't it civil partnerships?"
"For now," was the enigmatic reply.
He huffed out a laugh, carding his fingers through brown hair. "And I suppose I should hear all your wonderfully logical reasons why we should get married before I decide?"
"Yes, that would be sensible." Mycroft sighed and murmured half to himself: "Sensible and optimistic."
"Do you have them written down? Is it in a list?" he teased, "'Reasons Why It Would Be Eminently Sensible To... what was it... Enter Into a Conjugal Partnership with Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.' Number 1: he is a stunningly handsome officer of the law. Number 2: our sexual chemistry is extremely complementary."
"Don't be obscene."
"But it's true: I am a damn good shag. So, now I’ve stroked my frail ego, what were the other reasons?" There was a stony silence from the man lying in his lap. His eyes were still closed, but a little crease was forming between them, the smallest hint of a frown tugging at the corners of his lips. It appeared that the British Government was, in fact, readying for a long, hard sulk. "Don't get in a strop, love, I'm just teasing. I want to hear why it's, er, logical and advisable we get married."
"I thought it would be a nice idea," Mycroft replied sullenly.
"Aw, c'mon, Mycroft. No passionate declarations of how much easier it would be to take over my taxes for me?"
The man breathed out an impatient sigh, contradicted by his frown disappearing, "If we are going to start with the pettiest reasons first... Taxes, yes; it will irritate my brother to no end; Mummy would be thrilled; it’s a rare opportunity to get you in a proper suit, not those cheap things you insist on wearing; I have always enjoyed weddings... Then, of course, there are the more important ones: I would be able to legally see you the next time you were invalidated in hospital or… worse; we may actually get time off for a honeymoon, which is of course somewhat doubtful but wholly within the realms of possibility; I would like to spend the foreseeable future with you; and, of course, I... love you."
"I love you too," he grinned, capturing one of Mycroft's hands and bringing it up to lay a light kiss on it.
“So?” he prompted.
“So…?”
“Are you being deliberately obtuse today?”
“You haven’t asked me anything, yet.”
Mycroft sniffed. “I am not going to get down on one knee…”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“I’m very rather comfortable where I am – oh.” He paused, and said again, “Oh. Is it – would you prefer me to…”
“Well, not if you’re going to get all awkward about it.”
There was another pause as Mycroft considered the best words with which to make his intentions clear: “Are you amenable to the suggestion that I have proposed?”
“Mycroft, honestly. I feel like a ruddy member of cabinet.”
“I do not, have not, and will not propose to members of cabinet, and consider myself to be frankly appalled at the—”
“Mycroft Holmes,” he interrupted, trying for sultry and sincere and sounding more like he was ordering Mycroft to “put-down-the-gun.” He winced, and gentled his voice. He’d done it once before, and this time he wasn’t even on his fifth glass of Guinness: how hard could it be? “Would you do me the very great honour of marrying me?”
Very hard, it seemed. The silence stretched on for so long that he began to fear a refusal, even though it had been Mycroft’s bloody idea in the first place.
“Is that what you wanted me to ask?” Mycroft asked finally, frowning. “It seems too…”
“Actually I was sort of hoping you’d just say yes.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.”
“Right. Well. Good.”
“… Am I supposed to ask you now?”
“Er, it’s not… If you want? I mean, we are going to get married, aren’t we? It’s a done thing, yeah?”
“Once the amendment goes through...”
“And that’s a sure thing as well?”
“Gregory, honestly,” he mimicked Greg’s exasperated tone with terrifying accuracy. “Now. Gregory Lamont Lestrade—”
Greg scowled, “How is it that you know my middle name, but I don’t know yours? I bet it’s something ridiculously cute, like Barnaby or Sherrinford—”
“Hush. It is perfectly ordinary, and you are ruining the moment. Now. Gregory Lamont Lestrade, would you do me the inestimable privilege and honour of consenting to marry me?”
“Of course I will, you silly clod; you only had to ask.” Greg grinned down at Mycroft, who gave a half-hearted roll of the eyes and tugged at the lapel of Greg’s shirt.
“Kiss me,” Mycroft said bossily, and who was he to argue?
(Later, much, much later, after having remade the stone-cold pot of tea and taken it to bed, Greg mused, “Sherlock is going to be pissed,” to which Mycroft could only respond by hitting him repeatedly with a pillow. Greg caught it easily, laughing, as his lover – fiancé – groaned, “No brother talk in bed, we agreed.”
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, before it occurred to Greg: "Fuck. I'm going to be related to him now.")