SHERLOCK

HE DOES LOOK QUITE DASHING

DI Lestrade is sick of the rumours. His wife thinks he's cheating, Sherlock Holmes thinks he's in a relationship, and John Watson just smiles knowingly. And why is it so annoying? Everybody thinks Greg is with Mycroft Holmes! But he's not... is he?

Author's Note:

Characters: DI Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Sally Donovan, Anderson.

Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade, a little Sherlock/John.

Rating: Rated M for sex later on and language. Also cigarette smoking, alcohol, and some good 'ol man-on-man action.

About: Just a small tale about two men who are apparently not gay but then have lots of man-on-man sex! Mycroft/Lestrade. It's not Beta-d so all mistakes are my own and there are probably a lot of them. I apologise.

Ownership: Original characters are owned by Arthur Conan Doyle, these versions are owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I just get to play.

Chapter One: Fighting

'For fuck sake, Millie! Just because I hang out with Mycroft Holmes doesn't mean we're bloody sleeping together! I'm not gay and neither is he!'

Greg Lestrade sighed. He was sick of having this conversation with his wife. Greg had been spending a lot of time with the elder Holmes lately, but they were just friends. Greg had never felt sexually attracted to a man and Mycroft was the same. Just because two men hang out together doesn't mean they're involved.

Millie Lestrade snorted and folded her arms. 'Yeah right, Greg. I see the way you two look at each other.'

'What? So now if I look at a guy I wanna sleep with him? So every time I see Sherlock, or John, or even Dimmock, I wanna fuck them, is that it?'

'No,' Millie hissed, 'because they're not Mycroft Bloody Holmes!'

Greg ran his hands through his greying hair. 'Millie, we've been over this a hundred times, alright? I am not having an affair!'

He wanted to shout that he wasn't her but the thought of Millie with another man stung. He knew she was cheating on him, he'd seen all the little clues. But he bit his tongue and folded his arms.

Millie glared at him. 'Don't lie to me, Greg! Just don't! Admit that you're with him!'

'I'M NOT WITH HIM!' Greg exploded. Millie flinched as Greg grabbed his jacket and keys. He'd had enough, he wasn't staying here.

Let Millie think what she fucking wants, he seethed as he slammed the door to their flat. I don't give a fuck.

-oOo-

Greg found himself wandering London aimlessly. After two hours of trying to talk himself out of it, he bought a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He lit one quickly and exhaled with a sigh, the nicotine flowing through his bloodstream.

'Starting up again, Gregory?'

Greg smiled and turned. Standing behind him on the dark street was none other than Mycroft Holmes. He was taller than Greg, better dressed, and a lot better looking in Greg's opinion.

Really, the two men couldn't have been more different. Mycroft's hair was dark brown, Greg's grey. Mycroft had icy blue eyes, Greg had dark brown eyes. Mycroft was very tall, Greg was just tall.

And Mycroft Holmes was a very, very intelligent man. And dangerous.

Greg just carried a gun.

'Hello Mycroft,' Greg smiled and looked at his cigarette. 'Yeah, starting again.'

'May I enquire as to why?' the smooth voice asked as its owner got closer. Mycroft stood by Greg and looked down at him.

'Millie and I had a fight,' Greg admitted.

'Oh? What about?' Mycroft actually sounded like he genuinely cared and Greg found himself smiling.

'Er, nothing. Just something stupid.' Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

'You wouldn't be wandering the streets of London on a Saturday night if it was about nothing, Gregory.'

Mycroft was the only person who ever called him Gregory. Well, except his mother, who only shouted it at him when she was angry.

'It was... nothing, really,' Greg said again.

Mycroft continued to look sceptical but he let it go. Taking a deep breath, he looked around and said, 'It's a nice night.'

'Yeah,' Greg grunted.

Mycroft chuckled. 'So well articulated, Gregory.'

Greg smiled.

'She's thinks we're sleeping together, doesn't she?' Mycroft mused.

Greg stuttered and dropped his smoke. He stared at Mycroft, who was looking quite smug with the reaction.

'I... wh-what?'

'Your wife,' Mycroft said. 'Mrs Lestrade is under the impression that you and I are having an affair.'

He was staring at Greg now, his eyes bright and piercing. Greg knew there was no point in lying.

With a sigh, he picked up his cigarette and said, 'Yeah, she does. I keep telling her to stop being so stupid.'

Mycroft made an amused noise. 'Yes, well. When two men spend a lot of time together there are bound to be rumours.'

'Yeah,' Greg snorted, 'just look at Sherlock and John.'

'My brother and the good Dr Watson are a perfect example,' Mycroft nodded his agreement. 'My brother is as asexual as they come and Dr Watson is most definitely straight. However, because they live together and flirt endlessly, they must be sleeping together. Unfortunately that is not the case.'

'Unfortunately?' Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded and leaned against his ever present umbrella. 'My brother would do well to have a romantic relationship. But he doesn't seem to care very much about anything sex-related with either gender. Unless the person is dead, he doesn't care about anyone... despite yourself, Doctor Watson and me.'

Greg nodded. 'Mm. He'd probably calm down a bit if he got a shag.'

Mycroft chuckled. 'Indeed.'

Both men lapsed into companionable silence. They'd spent many nights together, mostly sitting at restaurants, cafes, or even at Mycroft's flat. They found each other's company refreshing and it gave them both a chance to complain about work and Sherlock.

'Well, not that this isn't lovely,' Mycroft said suddenly, 'but I have dinner waiting at home. Would you care to join me, Gregory, or are you planning on going home?'

The thought of spending another silent night on the couch made Greg's heart ache. 'Nah, not going home,' he said. 'Um, yeah, I'll come by.'

A black car slid to a stop before them and Greg smiled.

'Show off.'

Mycroft chuckled.

-oOo-

Greg ended up in Mycroft's spare bedroom (which was actually bigger than his bedroom at home). Millie tried calling his mobile but Greg ignored her.

He changed into his spare clothes at the office and was called away to a crime scene. The boy had been stabbed twelve times and Sherlock Holmes danced about, watching John Watson peer at the body. Greg sipped his coffee and fidgeted. He's smoked all his cigarettes the previous night and was itching to buy another packet.

'Smoking again, Lestrade?' Sherlock asked.

Greg ignored him.

'And you didn't go home last night.'

'Yeah, yeah,' Greg muttered, 'My fingers are twitching, I smell like smoke, and I'm wearing my spare clothes.'

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 'Very good, Detective Inspector. There's hope for you yet.' He turned and John approached to tell them what he'd found.

'It was the uncle,' Sherlock announced, 'he tried to rape the boy and the boy fought back. You'll find the uncle's DNA under his sneaker. Now run along, Lestrade, go find the bad guy.'

'Thanks, John,' Greg said. 'And Sherlock, too, I guess.' He smiled when Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

'Are you sleeping with my brother yet?'

Greg's mouth fell open and John glared at his flatmate.

'Sherlock!' he said.

'What?' Sherlock asked, his face a mask of innocence. 'I simply asked a question of the good Inspector.'

'That... what... how... what the bloody hell are you on about?' Greg demanded.

'I simply asked,' Sherlock said slowly, like Greg was stupid, 'if you are yet to have sexual relations with my elder brother, Mycroft. Would you like me to spell out his full name? I could, it's quite a funny name.'

If possible, Greg's jaw dropped even further. 'I... what... no!'

'Oh,' Sherlock said, looking him up and down. 'I just thought since you spent the night at his flat that you two would have finally decided–'

'How'd you know I was there last night?' Greg demanded.

Sherlock tutted. 'Detective Inspector, please. You already confirmed my deduction that you didn't go home last night. Over the past several months you and my brother have grown considerably close. I assumed, naturally, that you spent the night there as my brother would have been the one to find you wandering the streets of London last night after your fight with your wife. And, of course, I could smell that shampoo that Mycroft keeps in his guest bathroom.'

He paused.

'Hmm, I suppose I should have deduced that you and Mycroft were yet to sleep together with the smell of the shampoo. If you had engaged in sexual intercourse, you would no doubt have smelt of that awful cologne Mycroft wears.'

Greg glared at him. Mycroft's cologne wasn't awful. If anything, it smelt good to Greg. John sighed again at the look of anger that flashed across Greg's face.

'Sherlock, it's none of your business,' John mumbled.

'We are not sleeping together!' Greg hissed. 'I'm bloody married and neither of us is gay!'

'Yes, of course not,' Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes. 'Everybody is so happy with their little gender titles and even the suggestion of moving from under said title is met with anger. John, let's go before Lestrade explodes.'

And he swept away, all dramatic swirl of his coat. John looked at Greg.

'Sorry about him,' he muttered.

'It's alright,' Greg replied. 'I'm used to it.'

John smiled weakly before following his flatmate.

-oOo-

Sherlock was right, of course. Greg and Sally Donovan knocked on the door and when the uncle saw who it was he bolted. Greg tackled him but the man kicked at him, snapping Greg's head back. He winced as the man slipped away upstairs.

Greg was back up and he chased after him, Donovan following quickly. The uncle was trying to climb out the window when Greg tackled him, both crashing to the ground. The man smashed his fist into Greg's stomach and he grunted but didn't let go.

Greg twisted the man around and pulled out his cuffs.

'Norman McNeill, you're under arrest for the murder of Scott William McNeill. Anything you say can and will be used against you.'

He slapped the cuffs on and Donovan helped him up.

'You're bleeding,' Donovan said as they hauled him downstairs.

Greg raised a hand to his face. His nose was tender, his cheek bruised, and he felt blood dripping down his chin. It had stained his shirt and Greg sighed. Now he had to go home.