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Summary: Mycroft gets his man.  With the help of the dessert menu.

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 1670


written for this prompt:

http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4777.html?thread=13451433#t13451433

"So. I want Mycroft to cheat on his diet."


-----------------------

Never let it be said that Mycroft Holmes lacked imagination. It is true he was not given to flights of fancy, to wild stories or conspiracy theories or seeing ghosts or imagining horrors, but his imagination was in perfect working order.

When Mycroft Holmes imagined, he did not imagine outlandish things, it was more in the nature of a prediction. He decided that things must be as he saw them, and he would ensure they were.

When it came to diplomatic matters, or the current interest rate, or even which maverick MP was going to vote the party line this time, those were things he could imagine, and things he could control or at least influence.

When it came to certain Detective Inspectors however, the case was, sadly, very different.

The imagination part, he could do that. And did. Often. Occasionally at the most inappropriate times. It was getting so a glimpse of silver hair of a certain length, or a strong jaw without a tie beneath it would have his imagination taking over rather too much of his mind, no matter what he should be thinking about.

Now this would not necessarily be a bad thing save for one difficulty: imagining was all he was able to do.

It wasn't that the Inspector had rejected him.

It wasn't that the Inspector was already taken.

It wasn't that the Inspector did not, as the phrase went "swing that way".

(Mycroft Holmes was a thorough man. He knew exactly how Gregory Lestrade swung. And which side he dressed to come to that, which had been the subject of one of his more intricate imaginings.  Unfortunately it was during a meeting with members of an influential union, and while he did not think his vision of undressing Lestrade paying attention to which side he dressed to was responsible for the Tube strike, he did sometimes worry it might have been a contributing factor.)

The Inspector was not taken, not theoretically averse to the fact Mycroft was definitely male, and had not rejected him. Had not even thought about rejecting him.

Because, apparently, the man was utterly oblivious!

They had had dinner. Several times. Mycroft had provided his car (and himself. Without, alas, any result.) on rainy days and on the day of the aforementioned tube strike.

They had discussed politics and football and the songs of Ella Fitzgerald (agreeing on their excellence) and of Genesis ("Pretentious tosh" said Lestrade. "Complex and ahead of its time" said Mycroft.).

They had even seen a play ("Incomprehensible" said Lestrade "Agreed" said Mycroft "I do not believe staging Twelfth Night as taking place inside a beach ball and intercutting the dialogue with pieces taken from The Importance of Being Earnest was a sensible decision.")

He had sat close to the Inspector in the car. He had called him Gregory and persuaded Gregory to call him Mycroft. He had put an arm around his shoulders. And yet as far as he could tell (and Mycroft prided himself on his knowledge of human response to stimuli, it was an important part of his job) Gregory Lestrade had completely ignored every move he'd made.

He had not rejected them, he had not even noticed them!

They were due for another dinner tonight, and this was it. Time for the big guns. Time to be very obvious about just what he was after, and what he was imagining.

Which as a goal was all very well, but how to bring it about? He did not feel he could say "Well, How about a bit of hows-your-father then?" Or even "Would you be averse to some sexual intercourse?" The tried and true "Wannafuck?" was not even considered. Outright asking was not suitable, it was not how Mycroft Holmes did things.

He was distracted by his problem all through dinner. So much so that Gregory asked him if he was all right, if something from work was upsetting him. "Should I worry about a war starting or that the Coalition is going to privatise the Met? It's not your diet is it? Is that why you've been picking at your food?  Worrying about your waistline?"

Mycroft was not sure how to answer. The whole diet problem was another difficulty. Not as pressing as how to get Gregory Lestrade into bed and so convert imagination into reality, but still a problem.

Then the dessert section of the specials board caught his eye and just like that there was the answer. He would sacrifice one for the other, the diet for the man. Diets could be resumed, but something told him if he didn't get Lestrade tonight he never would.

So with an almost invisible gesture he summoned a waiter, and made his order. "Well, that answers the diet question" said Gregory, smiling. "Oh the eclairs here are excellent" said Mycroft, who had been told they were... But even if they were soggy or too sweet, they would do for what he had in mind.

He made small talk, while paying attention to relaxing his shoulders and his neck and throat and arms. Breathing through his nose, opening up his airway. Preparing himself.

When the eclair arrived it was everything he could want. Long and thick and glistening. The shining glaze of the chocolate drizzled symmetrically over the pastry, the cream in thick slippery ridges oozing out from its confines. It was, as he had hoped, almost obscenely sensual.

He caught and held Gregory's gaze with his own as he (to Gregory's obvious surprise) disdained the knife and fork and took the eclair in both hands.

He cradled it gently, running a finger along its length, looking at it with desire and yes hunger in his eyes. He brought it closer to his mouth and then extending his tongue just so, licked the tip of it once then twice, and on the third time swirling his tongue around, paying particular attention to the underside.

He was gratified to see that Gregory had stopped investigating his own dessert (another from the specials menu, involving brandy and chocolate cream) and was watching with interest.

Mycroft ran his tongue along the side of the eclair, just below the cream, knowing that some of it was transferred to the side of his mouth. He slowly and sensuously licked his lips while one hand stroked the other side of the eclair in a long motion with just a little pressure.

He was sure Gregory's pupils were a little wider, good!

Once more he licked around the tip of the eclair, cleaning up cream with his tongue in long slow licks. The hand closest to the other end of the pastry stroked gently up and down rythmically, now and then the tips of the the fingers extending as though massaging something that was only there in Mycroft's imagination.

Yes, it seemed Gregory's breathing had sped up....

Very well, now or never!

Mycroft breathed in and out, letting some of his imaginings show on his face, in the opening of his lips, in the widening of his eyes.

He relaxed his jaw, opened his mouth, and slowly, carefully, and with exquisite neatness, engulfed nearly half of the bulging, glistening, thick creamy thing.

He neither bit nor licked, but removed it from his mouth for just a moment, before once more taking as much of it as he could, this time closing his lips on it and sucking the cream from it. He knew his cheeks told Gregory what he was doing, and Gregory's breathing told him that it was working!

He worked his mouth over the eclair, trying hard to let no cream escape, swallowing it as obviously as he could. He removed the length from his mouth, then licked it with care and attention before opening wide and taking it in once more. Twice more. Three times.

He sucked the end hard, swallowing pastry as well as cream. Gergory was swallowing in his turn, his dessert still untouched.

Mycroft returned to licking, to swirling his tongue around, paying attention to all sides of the pastry, particularly the underside, and every few licks he would once more take as much of it in as he could, in and out and then resume licking until nearly all the cream was gone, and it appeared Gregory was nearly gone too!

Time now for the last hurrah, he wasn't oblivious now! Mycroft reached over the table for Gregory's hand and taking it gently in the hand not currently occupied with a very well attended to eclair drew it towards his face.

He indicated and as though in a dream (in fact Mycroft had dreamed of something like this last week) Gregory wiped some cream from Mycroft's mouth with his finger and Mycroft captured that finger with his tongue, encouraging it inside his mouth where he sucked it clean.

One of the things he liked about Gregory Lestrade was his intelligence, and he was reminded of that when Gregory gently swiped the finger around the other side of Mycroft's willing mouth and placed it temptingly on the lips. Mycroft wasn't sure how much of his own intelligence was available right now as he sucked that finger and swirled his tongue around the tip.

He drew his head back, placed the limp and spent eclair upon the table and both hands on Gregory's, where they gently squeezed and stroked as he said softly "Shall we go now?"

Gregory's breathing was faster, his eyes wider, his own tongue licking his lips. "Go?" he said. "Ah. Umm. yes. Ahhh. Go. Yes. Good idea. Umm.. Yes. Bed. I mean... umm.. yes."

Mycroft Holmes smiled. It was just as he had imagined.

As they left the restaurant he was imagining other things he was going to put in his mouth tonight....

Diet be damned.
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