Domestic Bliss (BBC Sherlock; Mystrade - bangbang & Spoo)

[Spoo]

I know that it's been a thing we've spoken about from time to time, but allow me to officially [and publicly] present a collaboration between the lovely bangbang and myself (with the recent influx of domestic Mystrade [thank you, scw!] we were inspired to share our conjoined writing with you all ). We originally wrote this back in March - and on SKYPE, no less - so it may read a little choppy in some places, but for the most part it's been edited/fixed into fic format.

On that note there will be TWO parts to this, and the first part will feature NO sneezing. Actually, sneezing wasn't really our main focus, so there's a lacking amount in general (we were more interested in writing some adorable domestic Mystrade moments rather than fetishy stuff ). Part 2 will be posted soon!

Last but not least, bangbang wrote for Mycroft and yours truly wrote for Greg. We hope you enjoy!

~*~

Domestic Bliss

Part 1

by bangbang and Spoo

If Greg had slammed the door shut behind him then he'd barely noticed. He seemed to be in a trance - a simmering, dangerous trance that blinded him from his own aggressive actions. This included practically ripping his tie off, storming into the kitchen, and proceeding to make the angriest sandwich England had ever seen.

He hadn't eaten earlier when the case dismissed for lunch (he'd spent the majority of that break yelling in Sally's ear) and now that court was adjourned, now that the rotten bastard had been found NOT GUILTY when every shred of bloody evidence should have worked against him, Greg decided to distract himself with food to avoid breaking something.

Outside the flat, Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose to try and relieve the lingering headache that had plagued him ever since his phone had started ringing that morning. There was tiredness etched into every harsh line of his face as he unlocked the front door.

The sound of clattering in the kitchen informed him that Greg had obviously beat him home. Hanging his coat up, Mycroft followed the sounds down the hall and entered the room.

Greg paid no mind to the fact that he wasn't alone anymore. He was stood leaning against the counter, chewing and grunting and wondering where the hell justice had gone in the world. After swallowing a mouthful of the sandwich he'd haphazardly thrown together, his dark eyes flickered in Mycroft's direction.

Mycroft leant against the doorframe, taking in Greg's appearance.The general dishevelment of his dress and the furious slant of his eyebrows told him everything he needed to know about how his partner's day had gone. He didn't speak, not yet - he was still gathering himself, departmentalising his day and locking things away in his head before he allowed himself to tentatively unwind. But he raised a questioning eyebrow as he crossed the room, and nodded towards the kettle in a silent offer.

Greg managed a small nod before he furiously dusted his hands together to rid them of the crumbs the sandwich had produced. Clearing his throat, he folded his arms across the width of his chest and valiantly ignored the burning desire to chew at his nails.

There was nothing more he desired in that moment than to both smoke and drink himself stupid - to utterly destroy a pack of cigarettes while washing down his temper with several pint glasses. But self-control was necessary, as was his ability to avoid the vices that were far too easy to tempt him.

There was a palpable sense of nervous, thrumming tension vibrating off Greg. It wasn't unfamiliar to Mycroft. They had co-habited long enough for him to become accustomed to the frustration that Greg's job sometimes provoked in him. It was difficult for him to know what to do in these situations; comfort wasn't his strong suit.

As the kettle boiled, he leant himself against the counter beside Greg and stretched his legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankle.

It occurred to Greg as he stood there, glaring holes in the floor, that he'd barely spoken to his other half that day. They'd exchanged brief texts during the earlier morning hours, yet their communication had stopped when their schedules selfishly deemed themselves phenomenally more important.

Although too wound up to even think of socializing properly, Greg still provided a greeting in the form of resting their shoulders together; it was a light touch, a gentle one, yet he hoped it would convey that he was glad Mycroft had come home.

Mycroft gave a long sigh at the contact, and allowed himself to relax his posture. The stiffness in his spine began to dissipate, leaving a bone-weariness that he had ignored all day. The kettle clicked off, but he stayed put. Slumped slightly below his full height as he was, their shoulders were almost even.

"Bad day?" he asked quietly. He already knew, of course; but perhaps giving Greg a chance to rant would help.

"Horrible day," Greg quipped, huffing. "D'you know what I hate?" He licked his lips and narrowed his eyes a bit. "I hate the smug look of a guilty person getting away with it." It was an expression he'd seen many times before, and particularly that afternoon when the murderer smirked as he was cleared of any and all charges. Even thinking of it was enough to get the older man's blood boiling again. "He just walked right out of there."

Platitudes wouldn't help. Mycroft already knew that, and he wouldn't insult Greg with assurances that he had done the best he could. Instead, he glided his hand over the tight plane of Greg's back before moving towards the kettle. But he paused with his hand on the tea caddy, mulling over Greg's words in his head, and then moved to the fridge instead.

Greg’s anger broke and gave way to a far more pressing sense of urgency; seeing the fridge was the perfect cue. "Are you hungry?" He pushed up from the counter. “I’ll make you something."

Mycroft waved a hand in a soft dismissal. "No, thank you. Perhaps in a while."

It often took him some time to become reacquainted with himself and his body after spending so long in his head, working through a labyrinth of calculations and strategies. He wasn't looking for food, anyway. Instead, he drew out two gently clinking bottles of beer. He'd never really had a taste for it before; but stealing sips of Greg's had left him with a liking for certain brands.

He held one out to Greg. "You look like you need it."

Greg eyed the offered beer as a man dying of thirst might. There was a notable glimmer of fixation hidden beneath a worn layer of strained tolerance, yet he knew that with Mycroft supervising, as well as participating himself, there was no chance he would overdo or exhaust anything.

"Cheers," he breathed, accepting the cold glass into his tense hand. "I definitely need it."

Mycroft raised his own bottle in a sardonic sort of toast before bringing it to his lips. He briefly closed his eyes as he took the first sip. It was chilled and smooth and grounding; he exhaled through his nose and met Greg's gaze.

"I'm sorry about your case."

"So am I," Greg returned, having downed a good chunk of the bottle with his first hearty swallow. He made a mental note to drink slower as he reached out with his free hand to gently grab hold of Mycroft's sleeve; he pursued no further contact outside of this, seeing as just feeling the material of his lover's clothes between his nubby fingers sent currents of ease through him. "Looks like you've had it rough, too, yeah?"

Mycroft massaged his temples with his free hand. "It's been a trying day. Even more so than usual." His problems were more global and remote than Greg's terrifyingly human ones; but still they edged at the corners of his mind like shadows, and he gently barricaded them out. Just for tonight, he told himself, and he edged a fraction closer to Greg.

Greg frowned at the exhaustion and weariness that Mycroft sported and stepped in an inch nearer. He'd gradually begun to emerge from his poor mood just by having his partner close to him; it was nothing short of a miracle how Mycroft always managed to calm Greg's inner storm before it had the chance to worsen.

"You wanna pop upstairs once we're finished?" He gave his beer an implicative wiggle. "Change and have a relaxing evening together?"

"Mmmhmm. That sounds good." Mycroft cradled his bottle in between long, latticed fingers. He needed a cigarette, he realised; the want of smoke crackling in his lungs, the soft burn of the drag, the nicotine rush. It needled at him, and he subconsciously reached for his pocket where he usually kept them.

He didn't have any now, of course. He'd quit - they'd both quit - and it had been replaced with nicotine patches and semi-frequent snarling at each other. Rousing himself a little, he pressed slightly against Greg. "After this."

"After this," Greg echoed in agreement. Leaning in, he feathered his lips along Mycroft's jaw and exhaled slowly through his nose. "It always seems worse on days where we don't talk much. The stress, I mean."

When there was more communication between them, regardless if that entailed actual phone calls or texts, the evening approached with relative ease. If that communication was removed (or never existent to begin with) then it suddenly turned into a much more complex and far less favorable situation.

Mycroft made a sympathetic noise low in his throat, lifting his chin a little to allow Greg's mouth unfettered access. Sighing through Greg's tousled silver hair, he took one hand off his beer and circled Greg's wrist, placing the pad of his fingertips over the comforting thumpthumpthump of his partner's pulse.

"It can't be helped, I suppose," he murmured. "Although I do wish our schedules would allow at least a phone call every so often."

Greg let his shoulders rise and fall in a halfhearted shrug. "Makes moments like these a bit more special," he reasoned, attempting to look on the bright side.

Even so, it was nice that they were able to share in each other's weariness while equally understanding the perils of a consuming career. Greg kissed the shell of Mycroft's ear, once, and then pulled back to take another sip from his bottle.

"Heh. I remember when you didn't drink beer."

Mycroft gave a rather undignified huff. "I still won't drink that swill you preferred when we first met." He'd choked down about half a pint of Greg's habitual whatever's-on-offer-in-Tesco's purchase the first time he had spent the evening at his flat; it wasn't an experience he wished to repeat. Smirking slightly (although still not loosening his grip on Greg's wrist), he nudged him. "You've practically got me - slumming it, is that what you would say?"

Greg half-choked, half-snorted on the mouthful of beer he'd been in the process of swallowing. There was something undoubtedly hilarious about hearing Mycroft's elegant and articulately posh tongue saying words or phrases that fell below its aristocratic nobility. Recovering, he swiped the thumb of his free hand across his lips, which were damp from having nearly spit out his drink in amusement.

"That's exactly what I'd say," he agreed, grinning toothily. "Lookit you. Learning and all."

"What can I say," Mycroft commented, drily, "you've certainly provided me with an education."

He dipped his head to brush his lips across a silver temple, and then slid his fingers from where they monitored Greg's heartbeat to rest in his hand. It wasn't a gesture he offered often; he still wasn't the most tactile of people, even if he had become more open to the idea of being doted on. But tired and jittery with nicotine cravings, he found himself wanting to be touched.

Greg's brown eyes had fluttered shut in response to the affection along his temple, though they opened again at the familiar weight and presence of fingers within his own. Instinctively, he entwined the mismatched digits - Mycroft's long, agile columns with his shorter, stubbier ones - and then brought the lot of them to his mouth for gentle, unhurried kisses.

"Mmm… M'already feeling better," he spoke, his voice rumbling against the bridge of Mycroft's cool knuckles.

"Good," Mycroft hummed in agreement, and swept his thumb over Greg's lips. "So am I, actually."

He was still tired to the core, and the pounding in his skull would have to be remedied sometime soon; but for now, he was happy enough to bask in Greg's attention. Settling his bottle on the counter and shifting so that he stood in front of Greg, he ran his free hand through messy locks and drew in for a languid embrace.

Greg mimicked Mycroft's action of setting down his beer and, with his arms freed, he encircled them around the taller man's waist in a snug hold. His frustrations seemed to leave him in the form of a deep, albeit content sigh that came the very depths of his lungs. Then, pressing his forehead into his partner's shoulder, he swayed them ever so gently.

"Can I squeeze you?" he asked, a playful smile hidden from view.

"If you must," Mycroft said, in a mock tone of long-suffering. But he shifted his weight a little to let Greg grip him tighter, draping his arms over his partner's broad shoulders. Bowing his head slightly, he nuzzled into Greg's hair and gave his forehead another soft kiss.

Greg's grip grew stronger as he quite literally squeezed Mycroft against him. The other man was thin, and most of what Greg was hugging felt like layers of clothing, yet there was the undeniable solidity of a body behind it, as well as the distinct smell of tea and cleanliness. The nuzzles, he privately decided, were by far his favorite part.

Greg's straitjacket-grip was strangely comforting; tight along his ribs but not overly constricting. Mycroft idly played with the shorter strands of his hair at the nape of Greg's neck, leaning in to his shoulder. Greg's frustration, his impotent rage at the case and the murder and everything, was still present, but it wasn't quite as oppressive as before.

He momentarily stopped combing Greg's hair and pressed a stifled yawn against the back of his hand. "Mhmm. Excuse me."

"Aww," Greg cooed, though not in a way that conveyed pity or mockery or anything that would put Mycroft off or make him feel belittled. He pulled back enough to establish eye contact between them, and once that was seen to (literally) he lovingly caressed the side of Mycroft's faintly freckled cheek. "We'll go to bed early. Well, earlier than we usually do."

It often took them a while to unwind from the day, and even then they were up late watching TV, or typing emails, or reading crap jokes on their phone (the latter, of course, being a pastime that belonged solely to Greg).

Mycroft moved his cheek against Greg's palm, He would have denied any such suggestion (especially if the word purring was used) but the action bore an uncanny resemblance to a cat being stroked. Closing his eyes with a curtain-fall of pale lashes, he nodded in consent.

"In a bit, yes. Hopefully you'll sleep." Greg had a tendency not to, after cases or court.

Greg's jaw set itself in something akin to rekindled injustice, yet he relaxed almost instantly after. "I will if you play with my hair," he murmured, prior to seeking out Mycroft's lips in a brief kiss. Keeping his mouth busy was key in order to avoid occupying it with other, poorer choices.

Like a cigarette…damn, he wanted one.

Suppressing a groan that came out only partially muffled, he decided to voice his internal struggle. His gaze showcased nothing but pure guilt as he asked: "Would'you be upset if I had a smoke? I know we’ve quit, but…"

Mycroft leant back in and pressed his mouth against Greg's in a gesture that was half loving admonishment, half grateful relief. Briefly, he cupped the back of Greg's skull and touched their foreheads, as though he could convey his own craving better with the skin-to-skin contact.

"I'll get the pack."

Greg could have cried. "You're brilliant,” he settled for saying, giving Mycroft's cheek an appreciative kiss. "I'll grab something warm for us."

As they disconnected to go about their separate tasks, he began to shrug out of his suit jacket while heading into the living room. It was cold outside, but not bitterly so. They'd survive with a blanket over their laps as they sat outdoors and eased what remained of their tension with a shared bad habit.

Mycroft dug the hoarded "emergency" pack out of his desk drawer in the study, fingertips brushing against meticulously organised files that he couldn't bring himself to care about right now. Slipping the pack and a lighter into his pocket (he didn't share Greg's optimism about the warmth of the night) he drifted back into the hall and through to the back door, where he waited for Greg.

The two were soon reunited as Greg approached with a blanket folded over his arms. He smiled at Mycroft, pecked the corner of his mouth, and then proceeded to lead them outside. As expected, there was a chill in the air but it was considerably less biting than the winter nights that had actually brought snow in early February.

"We can share one," Greg suggested brightly. "Doesn't count if we do, because we're not technically smoking a whole one."

"That's true," Mycroft said, with a slight shiver.

Stretching himself down onto the bench, impeccably tailored trouser cuffs brushing at his crossed ankles, he withdrew the packet and lighter. The faint smell of tobacco sent a keen pang through him, and he tapped the space beside him in an invitation.

Greg sat himself without hesitating and spread the blanket over their laps cozily. He helped himself to a few lazy nuzzles against the side of Mycroft's neck as his lover worked on getting their cigarette out and lit. A buzzy sort of exhilaration flooded through his body, though he supposed that was the feeling of giving into something that was desperately wanted though not necessarily good.

Ehhh, he'd deal with the shame aspect later.

The blanket helped insulate Mycroft against the cold, and he shifted a little closer to Greg's body heat and his touches. Mycroft took a sharp, long breath, curling away from the slight breeze, as he brought the lighter to the end of the cigarette. He almost imagined he heard a faint crackle as paper was briefly engulfed in flame, the ash glowing red. The first inhale was as good as he remembered it, and he held it out before tipping his head back and closing his eyes.

Greg's hands twitched as he watched Mycroft start them off; his knee bounced a bit, relaying minor impatience, before he gently plucked the cigarette from his partner's fingers. He bit the spongy filter between his lips, cherishing the familiar feel, before he inhaled deep, deep, deeper still until his lungs were bathed in nicotine and smoke and reborn addiction.

"Goddd," he stressed, exhaling the word through a silvery cloud that came from both mouth and nostrils. “I wish this didn’t feel so relieving."

Mycroft spared him a glance through heavy-lidded, half-closed eyes, the whole white expanse of his throat laid bare, and finally let a jet of smoke escape his lips. "You realise we're both going to be miserable tomorrow," he said, with no real feeling behind the words.

"Blame it on me," Greg offered, handing the cigarette back over. He took a second to lavish the bitter taste on his tongue - how it dulled his aggravation, pacified his anxiousness, and soothed whatever remaining anger flames into faintly glowing embers. "But let's enjoy it for what it is now. 'Cos it won't happen again. Right?"

"This is the last time," Mycroft assured him, taking the cigarette and inhaling as though it was his final breath. Bringing one hand up to rub at the kinks in his neck, he gently tapped the excess ash into an ashtray before passing it back.

Greg nodded in wholehearted agreement and settled a hand on Mycroft's knee through the blanket. Taking the cigarette back into his possession, he brought it up for another inhale - though this one was much smaller than the first drag had been. Moderation, he firmly reminded himself, savoring the misty mouthful he didn't quite release just yet. He held it steadily, letting the wispy tendrils curl in his chest cavity, before allowing it to drift through his parted lips.

Mycroft paused his ministrations on the tight muscles of his neck and instead put his hand on top of Greg's, linking their fingers together and reaching over to take the cigarette. "I'd almost forgotten how much I enjoyed this."

Greg squeezed the fingers that became tangled in his own fondly. "It's always the things that are worst for you that're most enjoyable," he sighed, pressing his thigh a bit closer to Mycroft's. He wasn't cold (not even without a coat on) yet he craved contact between them, regardless of how small or inconsequential.

Mycroft willingly leaned in against him. "An unfortunate truth." He fussily readjusted the blanket over Greg's legs, tucking it a little tighter. Their shoulders bumped as he took another long drag, and he held it as though testing his limits before releasing it in a long, tired column of smoke.

"Bath before bed?" he suggested, holding the cigarette back out.

"You're spoiling me," Greg chuckled, taking the cigarette. "Letting me smoke--which doesn't count, since it's only half--and now a bath? Christ, it's not even my birthday yet." He set the filter back in his mouth and tried to pretend that they weren't already halfway through the guilty pleasure.

Taking another shallow inhale, he decided to release this one solely through his nose. "Makes you feel like a dragon," Greg grinned.

Mycroft huffed in amusement at Greg's action. "I can't do that."

“That's because you don't have dragon blood in you,” Greg teased.

"No," Mycroft said, with a wry twist of his mouth as he took the cigarette, "it's because it bothers my sinuses. Which I'm sure comes as a terrible shock to you." He stroked the back of Greg's hand, still linked with his, with his thumb. "I suppose you do have dragon blood, then?"

"How else do I manage to stay so warm all the time?" Greg challenged, prior to glancing at Mycroft's pronounced nose. In profile it was quite a sight - large, prominent - yet the grief it brought his poor boyfriend was unimaginable. "You're not missing much," he added. "Besides, there's plenty of other parlor tricks you can do."

Mycroft considered Greg's first statement and tipped his head in a nod, then took a deep inhale and looked rather sadly at the diminishing cigarette. "Such as?" he inquired, and held the filter up to Greg's lips. "Breathe in.”

“Well,” Greg started, prior to fastening his lips around the offered end. He inhaled as instructed, held it, and then turned to expel the smoke away from Mycroft's face. "…you can do that thing with your thumb." He separated their entwined fingers down below for a second, so that the younger man could demonstrate. "The bendy thing. Because you're double-jointed. I can't do that."

"This?" Mycroft bent his thumb back at a 90 degree angle. "Hardly impressive. Besides, it's only on one hand." He tucked his fingers back into Greg's and took another pull on the cigarette.

"That's still one more hand than I can do!" Greg countered, nudging Mycroft's shoulder with his own. "And," he continued. "You can roll your r's and do that foldy thing with your tongue. I can't do either of those things. Not without hurting myself. Heh."

"I'm a linguist. Rolling my r's rather comes with the territory." Mycroft exhaled slowly and placed the cigarette in between Greg's fingers, then nuzzled the cold tip of his nose into Greg's jaw. "Besides. Your tongue is very talented. I'm certainly not complaining."

Greg wasn't sure if he shivered because of Mycroft's suggestive comment or because of the cold nose that burrowed into his skin. Perhaps it was a combination of both.

"That's probably because I learned a few things from yours," he replied, glancing down at the cigarette. There was about two drags left, he noted. One for each of them. Right. Forgoing his inhale (he wanted to prolong it for at least another minute) he turned his face and met the curved bulb of Mycroft's nose with his snubber one in a gentle touch. "You should teach me more things later…"

Mycroft crinkled the bridge of his nose in a ticklish sort of irritation, and briefly pulled away from Greg in order to rub the side of it firmly with a curled knuckle. Eyebrows still drawn slightly together, he turned back, lips a fraction away from Greg's, cigarette almost forgotten.

"Perhaps I will," he murmured. "You're a very good learner."

"It helps when I'm very interested in the subject," Greg smirked and, leaning in, connected their mouths together in a languid kiss. His stressful and upsetting day lay behind him now - a barely visible point in the distance.

Mycroft, in Greg's opinion, was the best and most successful solution he could have asked for.

TBC.

Edited September 5, 2015 by Spoo

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

Ooohhh!! I'm over the moon! I've missed you guys soooo much! It's Christmas! *dancing wildly and singing, hallelujah*

Your characterization of their relationship is so detailed and intimate. Reading your stories is like being in the room with them. You leave nothing uncovered--all the faults and flaws and all the beauty and tenderness. I love how Mycroft is Greg's island of peace and comfort and how Greg has been able to bring Mycroft into the fold of humanity with his beer and loving touches. And the two of them and their cigarette. LOL! (Clearly I'm not a smoker) I am so looking forward to part 2.

[SomethingClever]

Domesticity and everyday affection are my favorite favorites, and you all write it so well. This whole dang thing was a treat to read and I can't wait for the next bit. I actually LOVE that fetishy stuff wasn't your main focus, there's something really special about fics where it's just a small feature of the overall story... the subtlety is beautiful.

[Juto]

Wow this was in deed domestic bliss! It was just a wonderful snapshot into their relationship!

You wrote them perfectly, so true to the characters even in this somewhat "unreal" setting!

I loved how you made them rub off on each other, like Mycroft knowing exactly what Greg would say and Greg knowing that Mycroft would never have uttered those words if not for him! And Mycroft drinking beer?? Haha genious!

The way they compliment each other and calm each other down after a trying day at work! Just pure love!!

The cigarette sharing (after agreeing that half a cigarette was not cheating) was so sweet!

Kudos for cowriting this via Skype! It was so well written and so detailed it was like watching an actual episode featuring this wonderful couple!

Mystrade in its purest form is simply the best! Sneezes or no sneezes (still looking sooooo much forward to part 2, don't get me wrong!). Feel free to post more

[Spoo]

Thank you for your kind words, everyone!

I mentioned it to scw already, but this collaboration will probably be the last Mystrade work both bangbang and myself will be writing/posting on the forum. We still love the pairing and enjoy reading about them, but it's time for us to "move on" so to speak. Besides, there's a crazy amount of Mystrade on the forum now (come back, Johnlock/other Sherlock pairings!), so it's highly doubtful our retirement will signal the end of "an era".

That being said, here's the [overdue] part 2~

~*~

Domestic Bliss

Part 2

by bangbang and Spoo

Mycroft returned the kiss Greg initiated and worried at Greg's bottom lip with the slightest hint of teeth. Bringing his free hand up to cup Greg's jaw, he reluctantly withdrew and sighed. "Do you have to be in early tomorrow?"

Greg shut his eyes - softly, at first - before they crinkled closed in earnest. "Yes," he groaned. An early morning was always required after a court case (especially one that was lost). "But don't let that stop us."

"Believe me, I won't." Mycroft gently took the cigarette out of Greg's fingers and took a final inhale before passing it back. "They never last long enough, do they?"

"Nope," Greg sighed, sadly, before taking his last drag as well.

For old time's sake (and because he may have wanted to show off a bit) he opened his mouth to let the smoke drift out in rings. They were slightly shapeless at first, considering it had been an age, but then, gradually, they took on their proper circular form.

"I learned how to do that when I was sixteen," he boasted, snubbing out their spent cigarette in the ashtray.

"When I was sixteen I taught myself Russian," Mycroft said, drily. But his eyebrow quirked with amusement all the same. "You must have spent a long time practising." Shivering a little now that the distraction of the cigarette (and the kissing) was gone, he began to gather up the blanket.

"I actually picked it up fairly quick," Greg stated, assisting Mycroft in folding up the covering along their laps.

Preparing himself, as it took actual effort to coax his older joints into standing once seated for a while, Greg stood and stretched his arms over his head. He sniffed briskly as he waited for Mycroft to join him, and then frowned when he noted a touch of wetness accompanying his sharp inhale. Yeah, it was definitely time to head back inside.

"Though probably not as quick as you learned Russian. What'd it take you, two days?"

"Slightly longer, actually; I wasn't quite as experienced with languages as I am now, and the Cyrillic alphabet can be a little tricky to master." Mycroft pushed himself up as well, wincing a little. "I'm getting old," he lamented. He hadn't missed Greg's sniffle, and brushed a hand over his partner's back as they headed back indoors.

"If you're getting old," Greg huffed, amused, as he locked the back door once they were inside. "Then I'm ancient." He sniffed again and reached up to gently touch the back of his sleeved wrist against his damp septum. As if it weren't already obvious to the both of them, he announced: "My nose is running."

"You should have worn a jacket," Mycroft chided gently. The earlier irritation in his own sinuses was gradually returning; ignoring it, he passed the tissue box discreetly placed on the kitchen counter over to Greg. "I hope you're not catching cold."

"Nah. M'just a bit drippy," Greg replied, gratefully accepting the offered tissues. He clasped three of them around his nose and blew forcefully, expelling what he could or, at the very least, drying the wetness. "Besides, I've already had a cold this year."

"And you'll have another one if you're not careful." Mycroft blinked rapidly, the first hint of dampness entering his own sinuses. "Do wrap up well tomorrow, won't you?"

"Alright," Greg vowed. "But only for you, Mr. Holmes."

Leaning in, he kissed Mycroft's cheek and then tossed the tissues he'd used into the nearby bin; he grabbed his beer from its placement on the counter (it wasn't cold anymore, but he wasn't about to let it go abandoned when there were three or four sips left) and worked on finishing it.

"You still need to eat something," Greg reminded, once he'd resurfaced.

“I am aware,” Mycroft said. "Perhaps I'll make some toast." He nodded towards his own bottle. "You can finish mine, by th----hhh! hh-ihhh!" His breath shuddered, eyebrows puckering, and he bent sharply away from Greg, shaking on the precipice. "hihh! ah--hh'hih... Oh, bugger."

Mycroft removed the hand he'd clamped over his face and gave a damp sniffle, reaching towards the tissues for his own use this time. "Excuse me."

"I think I should be the one saying that I hope you're not catching cold," Greg reversed. "You okay?" Setting down his beer (he'd finish it in a minute) he reached out to gently touch the side of Mycroft's waist.

"I'm fine," Mycroft assured him, although he leant into the touch as he tended to his nose with increasingly wet snuffles. "Just a little chilly. Nothing a hot bath and an early night won't fix." Still, there was a vaguely distant cast to his face, and he knew that the sneeze hadn't receded far.

Greg wasn't entirely sold by the response he received, yet he didn't linger on the topic due to the desire of not wanting to irritate Mycroft with an overabundance of coddling. "I can start the bath for us," he offered, drumming the fingers of his free hand along the counter. "If you want."

"No, stay," Mycroft said, balling up the tissues with a frown and tossing them into the bin. "I won't be a moment. I've missed you today."

He didn't want to spike the concern in Greg's voice, no matter how unwarranted it was, so he attempted to keep his sniffling to a minimum as he filled it. Which was getting slightly difficult; the temperature change wasn't being kind to his sinuses.

"I'm going to make some tea to take up. Would you like a cup?"

Greg, who had felt a little pull in his chest (a happy little pull) at the admittance that he'd been missed, smiled. It made him feel amazing, wanted, and very very loved.

"Yeah," he said, finishing what remained of his beer in a single swallow. "That'd be great, thanks." After tossing the bottle, he approached Mycroft from behind and framed the taller man's waist in his palms; he leaned in and nuzzled the back of Mycroft's neck slowly. "I've missed you today, too, y’know.”

"Hmm. Well, at least we have to--tonigh--" Caught off-guard, Mycroft barely had time to swivel away from the counter and Greg, clasping his hands over his face just in time to catch an immensely ticklish sneeze. “Hhh-ihh'tisssh!" He froze, breath heaving slightly, and convulsed into his palms again. “Ihh'ngtsshh!"

If he was being honest with himself, Greg had been wondering when Mycroft's failed sneeze from earlier would return (and bring some friends with it). Walking back to the tissue box they'd both been using since returning indoors, he brought it over and waited at Mycroft's side for his lover to be released of his present chill-induced tickle.

The sneezes were punishingly wet, and Mycroft grimaced as he removed one hand to pluck some tissues from the box. He steepled the soft paper over his arching nostrils, eyes scrunching shut as he released a rapid, voiceless sequence into them.

“Hhh'ingtschh! hhh-tish!tish! hih--hhhh'tish!" Swiping the tissues over the damp underside of his nose, he eventually deemed himself fit to emerge. "Urgh. Do excuse me."

"Bless you," Greg said, continuing to watch Mycroft as he recovered from the small sneezy spell. He returned his hand to the other man's back and rubbed gently, comfortingly, in what he hoped was acceptable (and not patronizing) sympathy.

"Thank you." Mycroft gave a final dab and glanced over at Greg. "Truly, I'm fine. You know how little it takes to set me off."

He brushed a hand over Greg's hip as he crossed to wash his hands at the sink, discarding his tissues as he did so. His nose was still a bit drippy; he resigned himself to being bothered by it for the next while, especially once they got into the bath. Hands cleaned, he went back to methodically making tea, standing a little closer to Greg than he usually would, craving his presence.

Greg leaned against Mycroft in full and helped himself to the occasional kiss along the man's jaw. He had put his horrible day on the back burner for the time being and was instead focusing on the smooth, freckled skin he couldn't get enough of. Especially when it involved using his mouth.

Mycroft reached down and wound his arm around Greg's middle as he waited for the kettle to boil. "I'm glad you're home," he murmured, pulling him close and enjoying the affection. "Truthfully, I was worried you would still be at work."

"That's the last place I wanted to be after today," Greg replied, thinking back to his stressful afternoon. "Don't think Sally would've let me stay if I'd tried, though. She thought I was going to hurt someone." And honestly, he'd been fully prepared to put his hands around a throat (namely the throat that belonged to the murderer who'd gotten off scot-free).

"Well. I'm rather glad she didn’t let you." It was more selfish than anything - Greg working late was never a good sign, and Mycroft worried about his partner after particularly tough cases. And, after co-habiting for so long, Mycroft had become accustomed to coming home to someone. It wasn't a feeling he had ever expected, and it sometimes scared him a little how dependant he had become on Greg.

But he couldn't bring himself to be sorry about it. He impulsively turned and nestled into Greg's hair, pressing his lips against his grey temple.

Greg made a soft sound that was equal parts surprised and equal parts pleased. "Hello," he murmured gently, cupping Mycroft's hip with his left hand. His fingers stroked over expensive material as he helped himself to a reciprocative kiss.

"Hello." Mycroft brushed his cheek against Greg's, eyes closed, and brought him in for a close hug. He didn't know whether it was Greg's terrible day, his own terrible day, or simply weariness, but he felt oddly desperate for contact. Unfortunately, his nose had other plans; he brought one hand up to rub at it irritably, and turned his head away to sniffle softly, still not moving away from Greg.

Greg didn't mind that the affection was interrupted by the whims of Mycroft's nose; he remained close, participating, and eager to accept any and all tokens of love his other half bestowed upon him.

"Still a bit sniffly, are you?” he rumbled, lazily kissing the area below Mycroft's earlobe.

Mycroft gave a little hum of agreement, and massaged the side of his nose vigorously. There was a building tickle, but it wasn't strong enough to provoke another fit. Not yet, at any rate.

"I'm quite fine," he assured, and bent a little to rest his chin on Greg's shoulder with a sigh.

Greg held Mycroft against him and rocked them side to side gently. "We'll have some tea. We'll have a bath," he said, quietly. "And then we'll lie down together. How does that sound?"

Mycroft let the tension he had been holding in his shoulders all day ebb away and he leant, boneless, against Greg. "That sounds wonderful." He sniffled again, touching a knuckle to his septum and reluctantly pulling back. "Tea," he said, gathering his thoughts, and began to pour the boiled water into mugs.

"Tea," Greg echoed, stepping away for a second to take care of Mycroft's beer. There was a little more than half left, and he gladly sipped away as his hotter drink was prepared. From his position against the opposite counter, he smirked. "I like you in that one, by the way." He nodded at Mycroft's suit-clad figure.

"This one?" Mycroft surveyed himself; a dark suit, white shirt, and co-ordinating tie and pocket square. “Thank you."

"I'm serious," Greg continued. "Fits you in all the right ways." The entire collection of Mycroft's suits were exclusively tailored to fit him and him alone, and they did an excellent job of hugging his lean, attractive body. At least Greg happened to think so as he stared, shameless.

"I know exactly what you're doing, and you'd better stop it immediately," Mycroft told him, half-joking but also a bit pink-eared. He finished making the tea and paused to worry his nose with the inside of his wrist. Narrowing his eyes, he leant against the counter and waited for Greg to finish his beer.

Greg drank what was left, tossed the bottle, and smirked cheekily in Mycroft's direction. "It's not my fault your trousers make your arse look great," he said, nonchalant, as he gave into another shrug. "I'm just appreciating it."

"Hush. Unless you want to bathe alone." Mycroft carefully took a mug in each hand and moved for the door, indicating for Greg to open it with a tilt of his chin.

Greg raised his hands in playful defeat and obeyed by opening the door. He allowed Mycroft to step through first and then, once the walkway was cleared, followed after. He started to unbutton his shirt as he walked behind his partner, revealing the sleeveless undershirt that lay beneath, spread across his chest in a soft layer of cotton.

Mycroft led the way into the hall and up the stairs. With both hands occupied, his sniffling was becoming more and more frequent; the steam from the tea was causing some definite wetness in his sinuses. He fought against it for a few moments, but the dampness was firing up the earlier tickle, and sneezing (or, heaven forbid, succumbing to one of his fits,) without a free hand was both distasteful and dangerous.

He slowed to a halt as they entered the upstairs landing. Looking over his shoulder in a haze of fluttering eyelashes and crinkling profile, he managed to gasp out, "Ca--hhh! Can you ta-hhh... take these?"

Greg blinked, having not been expecting the request, yet as he recognized the dire, desperate need in Mycroft's expression - as well as the telltale hitching in his breath - he swiftly grabbed the mugs in his hands and took care not to spill a drop as he stood back, giving Mycroft some room.

Mycroft gave a brief nod of thanks, although he wasn't sure if Greg would have picked up on it as it turned into a rapid snap forward into steepled hands. "hh'isssht! hhh---hh'ISH!"

There was no force behind them - none of the restrained power of his usual sneezes; they were just indescribably ticklish and horribly wet. Blinking past tearing eyes, he carried on walking, face still covered, into the bathroom. He left the door open so Greg could join him, and yanked out a lavish handful of tissues from near the sink just as his shivering breath turned into something more urgent.

“Hh-ishhh!ish! hh'tsssh! hehh... hih!-hh'tsssh!"

"Bless you, bless you," Greg said, trailing behind Mycroft as he entered the bathroom.

He set their tea down along the counter and then went about turning on the tap for their bath. The less focal attention he paid to Mycroft, the more grateful he knew his partner would be. So, staring at the flowing water instead, he asked:

“You sure you're not catching a cold, love?"

"I'm certain I'm not."

Mycroft appreciated the lack of scrutiny. Although he'd gotten much more comfortable with Greg taking care of him, he still intensely disliked too much attention being paid to certain things. Such as his sneezing. He dabbed at his nose until he was sure he wouldn't drip, and then came up behind Greg and circled his waist.

"Just a tickle."

Greg leaned back against Mycroft, enjoying the comforting solidity of the body behind him, before he reached up to absently scrub at his own suddenly tickling nose.

"Nhn. I think it's contagious," he mumbled, wondering if he was simply mirroring Mycroft's body language or if the itch he was tending to was a weird coincidence. Either way, he caved in the dome of his nostril with a determined knuckle and then pulled away, sniffing and shaking his head. "Maybe it's punishment. For smoking."

"Perish the thought." Mycroft took the tissue box from the counter and offered it up, a small, worried frown appearing between his eyebrows. "I do think it's more likely the fact that you sat outside, in a London evening, without a coat." Taking a sip from his tea, he nudged Greg's foot with his own gently, and began to undress.

"I wasn't even cold," Greg exclaimed, though not loudly. He snagged a tissue and wrapped his nose in it, rubbing and rubbing and rubbing until his nostrils were hot and red from too much physical attention. Disposing of the crumpled up ball, he slipped out of his dress shirt and worked on unbuckling his belt.

"You obviously got a little chilled," Mycroft pointed out, not unkindly, and winced at Greg's actions as he carefully hung up his jacket. "Don't, you'll make yourself sore." He wasn't a stranger to the chapped skin and burning nostrils that came from over-use of tissues, and the thought of Greg scrubbing his nose raw gave him the hypocritical want to fuss.

Greg wrinkled his flushed nose and gave it a flexing wriggle. "It's not sore," he disagreed, slipping out of his trousers.

He stepped over to the bathtub and shut off the water so that it didn't overflow onto the tiled floor. Next to be removed was his undershirt, followed by his socks and, lastly, his pants. Devoid of clothing now, he looked at Mycroft and asked: "D'you wanna sit in front of me or behind?"

"Your choice," Mycroft offered, undressing with a bit more care than Greg had. His waistcoat was folded on the counter, tie and pocket square neatly laid out beside it. He paused before taking off his shirt and trousers, sipping his tea and scanning Greg's naked (and impressively aged) body. "I am perfectly happy with either, as long as you're joining me."

Unlike Mycroft, who shied away from too much attention, Greg welcomed it (though it was more out of goofiness rather than a genuine desire to be praised or lusted over). "Like what you see?" he teased, securing his own tea. "And I choose behind, so you're in front." Setting down the mug - while ensuring that it was still within reach - he stepped into the bathtub and slowly lowered himself along the curved end of it. "Godddd," he groaned, tilting his head back. "You're going to love this."

Mycroft gave a longing look at the water. Baths were a self-indulgent luxury he had rarely allowed himself before Greg - too decadent, too much time, far less efficient than a shower. He had had a hard time justifying it to himself unless he was particularly stressed or unwell; but it was easier to convince himself it was worthwhile if Greg joined him. Climbing in and sinking down in front of Greg, he gave a blissful little moan at the heat of the water.

"This is wonderful, thank you," he murmured, leaning back against Greg's chest.

Greg didn't hesitate to wrap his arms around Mycroft's middle, where they came to clasp over the man's belly button. "It's the little things," he pointed out, pressing a weighty, lingering kiss against the back of Mycroft's neck.

Mycroft shifted a little, instinctively shying away from Greg's touch to an area he still wasn't entirely comfortable exposing. But he willed himself to settle, and tipped his head backwards to brush his lips briefly against Greg's bicep in return. "It is the little things," he agreed.

Leaning in, Greg nuzzled into Mycroft's hair and smiled when he could smell shampoo from a morning shower. This smile, however, diminished slightly when a flurry of tickles invaded his nostrils (courtesy of the dark auburn strands). Greg’s nose was typically a resilient fortress, yet when already irritated and bothered it tended to adopt some abnormal sensitivity. Pulling back, he retracted one of his hands and firmly sawed his knuckles below his septum.

Mycroft frowned as he felt the sharp movement behind him. "Are you alright?" he inquired, shifting downwards and tilting his head back to look up at Greg. It was relatively unusual for Greg's nose to start acting up, and even more so that it continued beyond a minimal disturbance.

"Yeah," Greg said, though the lack of confidence in his tone suggested that he might have not been alright. "My nose jus'--" If the sentence was to continue, then it wouldn't have the chance. A glazed, urgent sort of look settled in Greg's eyes before he clamped a loose entanglement of fingers along his nose and mouth and lurched violently off to the side. "HUHHR'RRDSSCHHH'OO!"

"Bless you." Mycroft had jumped a little; despite the length of their relationship, Greg's enormous sneezes never failed to startle him. Leaning forwards, he reached down for the tissues. "Are you certain you're alright?" he asked again, concerned, while holding out a handful of the tissues for Greg to take.

Greg heaved a heavy exhale in the aftermath of the vicious sneeze. "M'fine. I think your hair tickled my nose," he explained, taking the tissues and blowing into them. This, unfortunately, triggered a rare - though equally powerful - second sneeze. “HHUHH'RUSCHHH'UH!" Unlike last time, however, he at least had the advantage of already having tissues to clean up with. "Christ. Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Mycroft tsked, and twisted his arm so he could brush the stray silver tangles off Greg's face. "Bless you." Prompted by the unexpected second sneeze, he pressed the back of his hand against Greg's forehead, checking for any heat. Greg's temperature skyrocketed even with a simple cold; it was the most reliable way of deciding whether he was ill or not.

Greg didn't pull away from Mycroft's hand, though he did laugh in between damp, snuffly sniffles. "We're going to spend the rest of the night accusing each other of catching a cold, aren't we?" he asked, though he couldn't help but smile at the thought of it.

"If we do it for long enough, one of us should eventually be right," Mycroft sniped, but brought his hand away and settled back, tucking his partner's arms back around him again. The heat from the bath was easing his sore muscles brilliantly.

Greg sniffled away the last tingly vestiges of his tickle and then resumed his loving on Mycroft. "I promise you I feel fine," he stated, dragging his lips over a generously speckled shoulder.

"If you're sure," Mycroft said, shifting back against Greg and shutting his eyes. "Shall we focus on our evening together instead?"

“I am sure. And yeah,” Greg replied, crossing his arms over Mycroft's chest in an attempt to hold him closer. He shut his eyes as well. "Let's focus on that."

END.

[katy693]

I come for the sneezing, I stay for the Mystrade. I thoroughly enjoyed this.

[darkness-is-the-light]

This is absolutely beautiful. I have been reading your Mystrade stories (and collaborations) for quite a while and have not been disappointed with any of them. You both write so wonderfully, it is truly a pleasure to read.

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

Lovely snapshot of Mystrade, sneezing or no. I echo Sophie83540 in saying I've enjoyed all your Mystrade works. Your writing is excellent. So much so, I'll be happy to read any stories by either of you any time.

(BTW, I think you are too young to discuss "retirement". I hope you will consider "hiatus" to be a better word. I am sure you are aware that a hiatus can be a very long time.)

[ellwren]

So good! And yet so sad, if this is truly the end.

[cally]

As I am sure I have said before, the use of language combined with the attention to detail make these pieces nothing short of perfect. As always, a pleasure to be read and cherished for times to come.

[Juto]

Sorry I'm so late to the party!

This was just such a lovely finish!

Again, it's such a wonderful snapshot and you seem you know these two so well, its scary!

The choice of words, especially for Mycroft is just perfect! Who else would say "Perish the thought" and actually, genuinely, be serious?!

Awwwwwww.... This was your last? Thank God I've been so busy I still have a lot of your wonderful material left to read! At least you went out with a bliss

What fandom will you conquer and handle to perfection next? Doesn't really matter, I'll probably read it as soon as its up anyway

Thank you for your amazing contribution to this wonderful pairing! You certainly had me hooked

[Twezz]

You had me at the line 'The angriest sandwhich England had ever seen.' I don't know why I'm so amused by that line in particular, but I really like.

I think this is going to be the story that sealed it for me. I have to catch up on Sherlock. I'm so behind, but I love Mycroft and I want to learn more about Greg. I love how sweet and genuine they are with each other, and how healthy their relationship is. And the banter is just plain fun between these two, and how they know little things, like needing to have an emergency cigarette pack for really horrible days.

"Hmm. Well, at least we have to--tonigh--" Caught off-guard, Mycroft barely had time to swivel away from the counter and Greg, clasping his hands over his face just in time to catch an immensely ticklish sneeze. “Hhh-ihh'tisssh!" He froze, breath heaving slightly, and convulsed into his palms again. “Ihh'ngtsshh!"

All I have to say here is that description. Just...that description.

I love how they fuss over each other to, and how worried they are. And poor Mycroft still getting startled at Greg's large sneezes. I love it! This fic is wonderful and so fun to read. You both write amazing.