Breaking the ice {Mystrade}

Chapter Eight - Sweet Dreams are Made of This

The day was beautiful. Idyllic, even. Soft white clouds marbled against the smooth, gradiented-blue sky; to the distance, rolling green hills dipped low as an amber, setting sun crept between them: casting its last few rays over the tranquil countryside. 
Where one hill melted into another, a small house sat nestled in the crook, surrounded by a scattering of trees, bordered by a snaking stream.
Mycroft sighed, taking in the crisp air and exhaling. All was still.
One image shifted into another, and Mycroft found himself ducking through the doorway of a small, grey-stone house. A low-levelled hallway stretched out in front of him, lowly lit and comfortably warm.
He wandered idly for a minute or so, taking in every detail, every inch of the place. Somehow it reminded him of something - something nostalgic and quaint - but he couldn't for the life of him put his finger on it. He supposed he might have been there as a child - the Holmes' often spent their holidays in traditionally antique lodgings in the countryside. Him and Sherlock would spend their days fishing, or swimming in the lake (nicely warmed by the persistent sun). Sometimes they'd even be allowed to wander into the nearby forest to find sticks for bows and arrows and such. Eurus had always preferred to stay behind, gazing at insects with a magnifying glass or dissecting leaves. Even at the age of four, she had a mind far superior to the rest of the family.
A pang of guilt and fear struck him as he recalled the youthful face of his sister. She'd looked so pale, so gaunt in that labyrinthine prison.
All thoughts of his family, however vanished as he reached the end of the corridor. A heavy, wooden door stared back at him, held shut with an iron latch. Carefully he lifted the handle, and gave the door a cautious push. It creaked awfully as he opened it, as though it had barely been touched for decades (which was probably true).
The door opened out to a sizeable kitchen: perfectly useable, yet furnished with aged kitchenware, barely a modern appliance in sight. A large, oak kitchen island dominated the room. In the exact centre, elegantly placed, sat a vase of fresh flowers: snowy white roses; sweet pink peonies; eggplant-purple daisies. Mycroft breathed in their intoxicatingly floral scent and leaned forward for closer inspection. As he drew closer, he noticed a plain, white card - identical to the one which he'd sent Gregory less than a fortnight before.
"My deepest love."  This one read.
Mycroft started at the creak of the door behind him, only a momentary, quiet sound. His body froze entirely. He hadn't expected anything else to join his drowsy stupor.
"Mycroft Holmes. Fancy seeing you here." Mycroft spun around to face the tall man leaning against the doorframe. His posture relaxed, perhaps even cocky, with his hands carelessly thrust in his pockets and legs crossed jauntily. Every inch of him oozed perfection, his sleeveless arms tanned and muscular, chocolate-brown eyes illuminating a beautiful face with the most delicious lips, lifted in a practically saucy smile.

"Gregory Lestrade." Mycroft breathed. 
Except it wasn't. Well, it was, yet he seemed twenty years younger, with deep brown, wavy hair and an air of spry youthfulness about him. For a moment, he panicked. However at a glance around the kitchen, he caught his own reflection in a mirror (from whence it came, he couldn't imagine). The man Mycroft saw reflected was quite the same as the one before him (in the sense of age). His hair, thicker and a deeper red and his eyes, far less cold, far less calculating.

"Welcome home, my love." Greg murmured, his voice smooth like caramel. Greg toyed with his bottom lip teasingly, and Mycroft thought how he'd very much like to kiss him, to rake his fingers through his lovely hair, to be closer, closer to the man he's so willingly fallen for.
He took a half-step forward, and Greg did the same, both men eyeing each other attentively.
Apparently Greg could barely wait a second longer, for he closed the space between them and drew Mycroft into a tight embrace. Mycroft's eyes fluttered shut as Greg set the pace, pulling the auburn's waist in towards him, then slowly working his way up to the top. Mycroft's breathing increased rapidly, his heart racing out of control. He looked down at Greg's pretty lips, naturally prised apart and waiting.
"Gregory..." He sighed. Greg planted delicate kisses along Myc's neck, causing him to shiver at the affectionate touch. The auburn took up his lover's head in his hand, enjoying the feel of his hazel-brown hair through his own long fingers.
Greg's lips brushed across Mycroft's cheek, advancing towards his mouth slowly, desperately prolonging the action. Mycroft grew impatient. His desire was so pressing, it was a miracle he hadn't torn the clothes straight off the other man's body.
It was a blessed relief as their lips met, crushed together with loving urgency.
"God, you're beautiful." Greg gasped. Only a fraction of a second of breathing time passed before they met again. Mycroft sucking gently on Greg's bottom lip. Greg carefully guiding Mycroft backwards to the kitchen island. Feeling the side of the wooden bench against his back, Mycroft hopped himself up onto the counter to face Gregory.
Greg smiled, flashing Mycroft a look of pure impudence. The auburn stretched out his legs and hooked them around Greg's waist. Greg ran his hands up Myc's thighs as he was pulled closer.
"I..." Mycroft stopped to gasp as Greg's hands brushed his inner thigh. "I think I love you."

A few intrusional beams of sunlight broke through the curtains, washing over Mycroft's eyelids. The dream-world slipped away from him: like trying to hold water, he couldn't bring it back. He blinked a few times at his ceiling.
For once, the room wasn't cold. Instead, a pleasant warmth swept over him, and he almost considered throwing off the covers.
As his mind fell further into consciousness, Mycroft grew better aware of himself. He had a thumping headache, and for whatever reason was still wearing his shirt in bed - a habit which he disapproved of greatly. The room gave an alarming swing. Dizzy? Why?
Hangover.
Recovery position, was his first thought. In that case, if he did throw up, he wouldn't die of asphyxiation. What a dreadful way to die that would be.
Mindful of his pounding head, Mycroft heaved himself onto his side. At first, image and thought didn't quite come together: all he could see was a human-shaped lump, and he had no clue as to why it was there. Then, as the person came into focus, he nearly shouted. Greg Lestrade was in his bed.

A/N: Good day, lovely readers! Honestly, this chapter was a joy to write, and the majority was written in the middle of the night. Although then again, my most inspired moment of the day is 2 o'clock in the morning. Ah well. Sleep can wait.
Hope you enjoyed xx