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22 December 2011 @ 12:33 pm
fic: Such Simple Plans  
Such Simple Plans

Sherlock bbc | Lestrade/Mycroft | PG-13 | 4700 | beta: flecalicious | disclaimer: the show and the characters aren't mine

He wasn’t in the mood right now to try and decipher Mycroft’s ‘politician’ talk.  He just wanted to know what was going on.  Mycroft has a unique way of asking for company.  

Written as a companion piece to lucybun's The Plan for sherlock_remix   Can be read alone but if you want the full story and Mycroft's POV I recommend reading the original as well.  Also now in Chinese.  Thanks to himawarivy for the translation.



Lestrade had always wanted to be a police officer, to catch the bad guys and make the world just that little bit safer.  He was good at it too; he’d been a detective inspector for six years now and he still enjoyed it – well, he still enjoyed it most days.  There were always going to be bad days, whether it was a particularly nasty death, Sherlock being more overbearing than usual or being stuck in his office filling out paperwork all day.

He hated paperwork.  The slow tedium of writing up statements, filling in forms – it was alright for Sherlock, he got to saunter off home at the end of a case, but for Lestrade that was only the beginning.  

There was always so much to do after a case had been solved, not including all the work he still had to keep on top of for his other cases.  Stuck in his office filling in paperwork and writing up evidence was not his idea of good time.  It had to be done though.  The problem was he’d started to lose focus and that was something he couldn’t afford to do.  Yes, paperwork was dull and monotonous but if he made a mistake it could ruin the success of a trial and he didn’t want to be responsible for letting some murderer back out on the streets just because he was tired; he had enough problems with Sherlock and the chain of evidence as it was.  

With a sigh he pushed away from his desk.  He needed a break, he needed to focus.  Giving up, he started rummaging around in the bottom most drawer for the cigarette pack he kept hidden away at the back for emergencies just like this.

He’d been trying to give up smoking for months now – Mycroft couldn’t stand the smell of cigarette smoke – but he kept slipping.  The patches worked for a time but it wasn’t long before his fingers started itching for something to do.  It was even worse on days like today when there was nothing to take his mind off the constant craving.  He knew he should try harder; after all, many people did successfully give up the habit, but it was the only way he knew of to reliably kick his mind back into gear.

Grabbing his coat he made his way out of the side entrance of Scotland Yard.  Just around the corner was the perfect smokers’ spot; out of the way, quiet and better yet for Lestrade there was only one CCTV camera to keep an eye on. He was pretty sure Mycroft knew about his occasional lapses in control – the man knew everything, for crying out loud – but he hadn’t brought it up and there was no way Lestrade was going to flaunt these little slip ups in plain view for Mycroft to see.

As it was he never even got the chance to light up.  The little spot was empty right now; the lunch break crowd had dispersed and no one wanted to linger in this freezing weather.  Pulling out one of the few remaining cigarettes he reached for the cheap plastic lighter in his coat pocket.  As he turned back around to check the CCTV camera was still facing its usual direction he spotted a black Jag slowly pulling up alongside – oh, damn it.

He knew perfectly well who it was, of course – no-one else was quite so obviously mysterious as Mycroft bloody Holmes.  It looked like he wouldn’t be getting his quick break – he knew he should have stayed in his office and worked through the mental block.  He really didn’t have the time to pander to Mycroft’s kidnapping urges today.

With a sigh he casually dropped the lighter, unlit cigarette and half-empty pack between the tall metal bars rising behind him and blocking off the MET grounds from the street.  He wouldn’t be seeing them again most likely.  Probably a good thing – without a ready supply at hand maybe this time he could quit for good.  

As the two heavily built, black-suited underlings approached alarm bells started firing in his mind.  This wasn’t like the usual kidnappings – where was the nameless assistant?  In the past if it hadn’t been Mycroft in the car then she was always there.  He couldn’t think of a time when two unknown heavies had collected him; it put him on edge.

“Look, I don’t have time for this right now.  I have a lot of paperwork that needs doing, can’t you just tell him I’ll see him tonight?”  

Neither of the men slowed their pace, taking positions on either side of Lestrade.

“I really don’t have time for all these cloak and dagger meetings.” He didn’t like the way they were herding him towards the waiting car. “Tell Mycroft if he wants to talk to me he can bloody well do so himself.”  He froze in his tracks; this was ridiculous, he had work to do.  Apparently the hired help did not care about his schedule or the pile building up on his desk as they grabbed him by the arms and dragged him towards the black car.  

“What the hell are you doing? Get off me,” but as hard as he tried to loosen their grip the two goons just continued to drag him towards the waiting vehicle.  

As one of them let go to get the car door Lestrade shook himself out of the other’s grip.  He was half tempted to run back up to his office but he knew it would be pointless – if Mycroft wanted him this badly then there was nothing he could do.  With a sigh he slid into the back of the car, taking out his phone as soon as he’d strapped himself in.

Care to tell me what the bloody hell is going on here?

He better have a damn good reason for this.  He had work to do, all he had wanted was a nice five minute cigarette break to help him relax and focus.  He did not want to be manhandled and driven off somewhere by two of Mycroft’s puppets.

Not really. M.

Lestrade just stared at his phone for a few seconds – was this a joke to him?  Mycroft was so rarely flippant and never about important matters so what in hell’s name was going on?

What? I’m not joking here! WTF, Mycroft?!

He was fuming.  He knew Mycroft always liked to be in control, knew the man loved his strict schedules and regimens, but this was more than a step too far. As he looked out the window trying to gauge his destination there was a small vibration from the phone in his hand.

Neither am I.  Besides, it should have been made extremely clear to you precisely what is happening.  635 is clear on the fact that you are to be apprised of your destination. M.

Clear?  There was nothing clear about this situation.  What was ‘635’, for starters?  Knowing Mycroft it could be anything from a nuclear war to a case of the flu.  

He highly doubted the first option. He’d figured out where they were headed now – for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why he was headed to their home in the middle of a busy weekday afternoon but he was positive that was where he was going.  If there was about to be something akin to a nuclear war he highly doubted Mycroft would be taking him home.

The second option had some possibilities.  Lestrade thought that maybe there was something about being a Holmes that meant you lacked the social understanding most people had.  Everyone knew about Sherlock’s lack of social tact and he didn’t know of anyone else besides Mycroft who would see kidnap as a normal social function.  It was therefore entirely possible that Mycroft had sent two of his heavies to collect him so that Lestrade could look after him with a flu.  

The only problem with the flu idea was that Mycroft was never ill.  It would take something pretty serious for Mycroft to be at home from work on a Tuesday afternoon.  He was starting to get worried.

I know where I’m going.  No one told me, but the windows aren’t blacked out.  What I don’t understand is why I’m headed there or what the hurry is.  And what the hell is 635? Are you ill? Is that what’s wrong?

It would not be inaccurate to say that I’m not feeling at all myself. M.

Why could he never get a straight answer out of the man?  If he was honest he knew the answer to that already; anyone who spends all day dealing with politicians was going to be used to speaking in riddles and half truths.

He wasn’t in the mood right now to try and decipher Mycroft’s ‘politician’ talk.  He just wanted to know what was going on – was that so much to ask?

Christ.  What does that even mean?  I’m starting to get more than a bit concerned here.

My sincere apologies.  I did not mean to cause worry.  635 is untried.  Some bugs obviously need to be worked out for future execution. M.

Again with the mysteries.  Stabbing at the buttons he sent his reply.

Mycroft?  You’re not making sense.  You are not making sense!  If you’re just yanking me around here, there will be hell to pay.

No yanking.  You have my word.  I shall endeavour to explain once we are home.  My ETA is roughly 5 min. M.

There had better be something important going on here; if this was just some whim he’d be furious.  It wouldn’t matter that his lover was the British Government, nothing would protect him from what Lestrade would do to the man.

With a frustrated sigh he typed out his reply.

Yeah, reckon mine’s about the same.  This better be good!

It had better be bloody earth-shattering.  

Leaning back into the leather seats Lestrade tried to figure out just what was going on.  635, whatever it was, obviously included having him brought home no matter what.  It was the urgency of it all that had him worried.  Nothing he could think of fit with the little information he had.  It had to be important, nothing else would have Mycroft bringing him home in the middle of the afternoon, but then why had he been so reluctant to tell him what was going on?  Mycroft had said he wasn’t feeling like himself but that could mean anything.

He was so caught up in thinking of all the possible explanations from the ridiculous to the banal that it took him off guard when the car slowed to a stop outside the house he and Mycroft shared.  He’d also somehow missed that one of the men was now standing on the pavement opening the door for him.  Sliding out of the car he resisted the desire to slam the door behind him, instead heading for the front door of the London town house in front of him.  

He hoped Mycroft was here already since his own keys were currently lying in the top right drawer of the desk in his office.  He didn’t have to worry; the door handle turned easily under the none too gentle force he applied.  Shoving the door open he caught sight of the man behind all this and he marched into the hallway.

“What the bloody fucking hell, Mycroft?  Are we on the verge of World War three?  An alien invasion?  Zombie apocalypse?”  He was about to go into full swing when the look on Mycroft’s face brought him up short.  The adoration was written all across Mycroft’s features – that wasn’t right.  He knew Mycroft loved him but he had never seen Mycroft show his affection so blatantly before.  Mycroft was always in control of his emotions and what he showed in his expressions.  The naked tenderness written across his features sent alarm bells ringing in Lestrade’s head.

“Mycroft?”  His tone of voice was no longer angry but soft and almost wary.

“Yes, Gregory?”  Mycroft was slowly walking towards him, almost as if in a daze.  It was then that Lestrade noticed the edge of panic in Mycroft’s expression.

“Are you OK?”

“No. No I am not OK, Gregory.  I am far from OK.  Hence the implementation of Plan 635 and your presence here. With me. At home,”  Mycroft’s gaze fell on the hall clock briefly before returning to Lestrade, “at 2:43 on a Tuesday afternoon.”  

Mycroft was now standing right in front of him, the alarm in his eyes more pronounced than before.  There was definitely something odd going on here; he just wished he knew what it was.

“Love, are you alri...,” but his question was abruptly cut off as Mycroft crushed his lips against Lestrade’s.  There was no gentleness to the kiss, just the desperation and hint of panic that he had seen in Mycroft’s eyes just moments before, translated into the firm press of lips and lick of exploratory tongue.

As much as Lestrade just wanted to give in to the sensations he was still worried.  He could sense the other man’s desperation and need so clearly – it was so unlike Mycroft, a man who was usually in absolute control of everything around him.  He tried to ask his question again but every time he tried to speak Mycroft would ravish his mouth once more.

Finally he gave up trying.  Right now all he wanted to do was respond to Mycroft’s bruising kisses with his own.  He’d never been able to say no to this man – he forgot he was supposed to be furious, forgot that he was waiting to hear Mycroft’s explanations, forgot about his paperwork and that it was the middle of a busy work day.  Instead he just returned every peck of Mycroft’s lips, every lick of tongue, every tug of teeth on swollen lips.

As he removed Mycroft’s jacket his lips began tracing patterns along his lover’s jaw, down his neck, before once more taking Mycroft’s mouth with his own.

They made their way slowly towards the formal living room, stumbling against each other as each tried to remove more of the other’s clothing whilst kissing every inch of exposed skin they could reach.

Upon reaching the sofa both men stood shirtless, skin against skin.  Lestrade loved Mycroft’s body; his pale skin, the freckles peppering his shoulders, the light smattering of hair on his chest – he loved it all.  

He moved a hand down to Mycroft’s groin, giving a slight squeeze before moving on to undo his lover’s fly.  Mycroft’s hips bucked slightly at the touch, throwing them off balance enough to send them falling onto the sofa where their play of lips and hands continued to it’s ultimate climax.

~ ~ ~

Some time later Lestrade found himself lying on top of Mycroft, head on his chest and listening to the vibrations of his lover gently humming in contentment.  It was all very confusing though.  They’d just had some pretty damn good sex but he still had no idea why Mycroft had had him literally dragged from work to do so.

“So,” he began, “care to explain what precisely all that was about?”  His voice was deeper than normal, rougher due to the post-coital high.

“My dear Gregory.  I think it’s fairly obvious what ‘all this’ was about,” came Mycroft’s reply, followed by a stifled yawn.

How was it obvious?  They only thing that had happened since his arrival was the sex they’d just had.  That couldn’t be right, could it?  There was no way Mycroft kidnapped him from work just because he was feeling randy – but as he thought it over he realised that was the only thing that made any sense. Relatively, anyway.  

He could feel some of his earlier irritation coming back, more subdued than it had been earlier but it was working its way back up to full strength.  At the same time there was a part of Lestrade that couldn’t help but be ever so slightly flattered by the implications that being dragged home by his lover for a shag implied.  

Nevertheless he’d had enough of these games – he was getting a straight answer out of Mycroft no matter what.  Lifting his head to better stare down Mycroft, he fixed his expression with the look he usually reserved for police interviews with difficult suspects.

“Do you mean to tell me that you sent two of your black-suited minions to fetch me from my office in the middle of a busy workday to deliver me home at 2.43 in the afternoon so we could have a quick shag?”  He couldn’t keep the tone of disbelief out of his voice – no matter the evidence, it sounded insane.

“Well as the clock’s just rung four, I wouldn’t necessarily call it quick, Gregory.”  How could the man sound so obliviously smug whilst missing the point entirely?  Did he not realise that Gregory had important work to do?  Okay, so he wasn’t the British government, but that didn’t mean he just lazed around all day waiting on his lover’s beck and call.  

The slight flattery he had felt earlier was gone entirely now, his irritation back in full force, and it wouldn’t take much at this point to push him over the edge into outright anger.

“Not the point, Mycroft.” he huffed out in frustration.

“Well, what is the point then?”  The genuine curiosity in Mycroft’s voice didn’t help with the anger.

“The point is...it’s...you can’t just,” how on earth did you phrase something like this?  Giving up on subtle he decided direct and to the point might be easier.  “What the hell, Mycroft?  I’m not your little piece that you can fetch at will to come and scratch your itch whenever you get randy!”

He sat up swiftly on the sofa they were still lying on.  He had thought Mycroft actually cared about him, thought this was more than just sex.  He’d moved in with him after all, although in this new light Mycroft’s insistence that he do so took on another meaning entirely.  He had thought it was just Mycroft’s way, the same way that made him grab people off the street when he wanted a chat.  He hadn’t realised Mycroft had seen it differently.

“What?  No, Gregory. No, that’s not what happened at all.”  He wished he could believe him but his irritation and the fact that all the evidence was telling him otherwise meant he couldn’t accept it.  

As Mycroft had spoken he’d followed Lestrade up until they were both sat side by side on the formal sofa, Mycroft’s arms wrapped around Lestrade, holding him in place.

“Well then, spell it out for me.  What exactly do you think happened here?  Huh?  What?” He struggled against Mycroft’s hold, not really trying to get away but rather to show his displeasure at the situation.

“I...I just...I...Plan 635, Gregory, is what happened.”  If this was Mycroft’s idea of an explanation he needed a lot of practice – what the hell was ‘plan 635’?  

“I found myself at a 12.30 meeting with...well, a meeting with some rather difficult representatives from a rather volatile area.”  Mycroft really did love his riddles but at least they seemed to finally be getting somewhere with them.

“The meeting was no less problematic than I had expected,” Mycroft continued, “but I found that I was having a rather difficult time focusing.  You must understand, losing my focus at such a time can be a very dangerous thing.  For all of us, Gregory.  I mean that.  I cannot afford to let my mind wander, to let my control slip in situations such as these.  It is unacceptable.”

Mycroft was in full flow but now that he was finally getting something akin to an explanation Lestrade decided to sit and listen quietly.  “I managed to get through that conference by sheer force of will,” he went on, “but I very nearly made a number of rather unforgivable blunders.  I was puzzled at first by what was happening, but as I wandered,” and at this point Lestrade’s expression must have shown some of his surprise at the thought of Mycroft Holmes doing anything without a purpose, “yes wandered back to my office, I slowly realised my problem. I couldn’t focus on the meeting, I couldn’t focus on my job, I couldn’t control my mind or my emotions because I was thinking about you.”  

It was at that point that Lestrade’s irritation began to fade away.  

“By the time I had it figured out, I was so far gone that I nearly flopped down into my chair and had visions of Sherlock dancing in my head.  His voice too!  You can imagine my distress.”  The mental image that last part conjured in Lestrade’s mind put all thoughts of anger out of his head entirely.  The idea of Sherlock tormenting his brother like that was just too funny an image to stay angry.  

Relaxing back into Mycroft’s embrace he went over everything he’d just been told.  “So let me get this straight.  You got so distracted by thoughts of me that you couldn’t focus on your job, so you thought the best solution was to send someone to fetch me home so we could...” at that point Lestrade trailed off.  He so desperately wanted to believe that this hadn’t all been about satisfying Mycroft’s sudden desires but he had to hear it from Mycroft himself.

“Make love,” Mycroft finished. “I have never and will never think of what we do as something so crude as ‘scratching an itch.’”

Mycroft’s tone was so heartfelt there was no way Lestrade could believe he was lying. He smiled slightly as he thought about the rather convoluted way Mycroft had ‘asked’ him home for a love making session.  “You could’ve just called me, My, or texted me.  All you had to do was ask.”  He leaned back into Mycroft, arms still wrapped around his chest.  There was no way you could mistake Mycroft for anything but a Holmes with social skills like that.

“Perhaps, but as I said I was not thinking clearly.  I am unused to needing anyone and I will admit that I am unused to asking...for anything.  I was very nearly flustered, Gregory and that is not a situation I care to find myself in, so I fell back on one of my many contingency plans.  Plan 635 to be exact.”

“I’d nearly forgotten about that.  What the hell is Plan 635?  Kidnap and shag DI Gregory Lestrade?”  He couldn’t hold back a soft laugh at the thought that stashed away somewhere with vital plans for national security was a file detailing what had happened that afternoon.

“Of course not.  It is merely a contingency plan put into place should I need my significant other retrieved to our home for a certain amount of time during which neither of us shall be disturbed.”

The mildly affronted tone had Lestrade laughing again.  “Ah, I stand corrected.”  Now that he finally understood just exactly was going on he’d be a fool to waste such a good opportunity.  Leaning fully into Mycroft’s embrace he guided him down onto his back, “and how long is this certain amount of time during which we shan’t be disturbed?”

“Two hours precisely.”

“From the time of execution or the time of arrival at our home?” Lestrade asked with a smile – Mycroft loved to be exact.

“From arrival at home.  There was no way to accurately estimate travel time given that our individual locations at the time of said implementation could not be predicted with any accuracy.  I estimated that should I ever reach such a needful state two hours would be the minimum time limit needed for proper amelioration, thus allowing me to return to peak efficiency.”

Christ but that shouldn’t sound as arousing as it did, Lestrade thought.  “God, I love it when you talk bureaucrat in bed,” and with that he closed the final distance between himself and the man he loved so desperately with a long passionate kiss.

Pulling away slightly he turned to look at the ornate clock sitting on the mantle.  “I think we’ve got another half hour to get you to peak,” he said with an amused smirk as he leaned back down to take Mycroft’s mouth once more.

~ ~ ~

After the two hours were up and Mycroft’s car had dropped him back off at work Lestrade had found it incredibly difficult to focus back on the paperwork he now had to catch up on.  Every few minutes his mind would think back to those unexpected few hours.  No one had commented on his sudden disappearance; he hadn’t really expected them to, Mycroft was far too clever about these things.  He had been given a few odd looks by some of the sergeants though – Sally in particular had given him a rather all too knowing smirk as he had come out of the lift.

It had taken him quite a bit longer than he’d have liked but eventually everything was done for the day.  Grabbing his keys out of the top drawer and pulling on his coat he made his way downstairs.  Just as he was headed out the front door inspiration struck.  Pulling out his phone he noted the time – six o’clock, perfect.  That should give him enough time to set things up before Mycroft finished at about seven, if nothing disastrous had happened.

Am instituting own plan for tonight. Dinner, dessert, then you. Plan 69.

With a cheeky smile spreading across his face he made his way home, grabbing some ingredients for the first part of the plan.  Not many people knew it but Lestrade was actually a pretty good cook.  He’d cooked for Mycroft before and each of those occasions had turned out to be particularly memorable.

As soon as he arrived back home he settled himself into the relaxing routine of preparing dinner.  Not only was he good at cooking, he enjoyed it too.  He always felt it was a shame that he didn’t get to indulge as much as he would like, what with work and everything, but it made these rare times when he did that much more satisfying.  

Whilst he got everything ready he thought back to that afternoon.  He’d need to have a talk with Mycroft about proper ways of asking your significant other for sex that didn’t involve kidnapping, but he had to admit that the end result had been pretty spectacular.  

Whilst the food was in the oven he heard the double beeps and the muffled vibrations of his phone receiving a message.  

En route.  Am of opinion testing of plan should commence asap.  Discussion of success of plan and any future implementation should be our first order of business tomorrow a.m. M.

With a smile he pulled dinner out of the oven and began serving up – he didn’t want to waste any time they could spend doing other things later.  

As he waited for Mycroft’s return he couldn’t help but think that maybe these plans should be put into practice more often.


Fin.