Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Under different circumstances, Mycroft might have thought the night romantic. The winter storm clouds had rolled on towards the eastern mountains, leaving behind a sky of shimmering stars. Snow that had begun to melt during the day and then frozen again as the sun sank below the horizon crunched beneath Mycroft's boots. Across the yard from James and Irene Moreaux's darkened shop, the warm glow from Lestrade's smithy was familiar and beckoning.

Mycroft's gut churned with apprehension.

He had prepared a speech to deliver to Lestrade, a succinctly-phrased discourse conveying his most sincere contrition and hope for accord. There had been ample time to rehearse several variations during what felt like the longest and loneliest day of his life. Before dawn he had hastily and in stealth gathered the items he would require that evening and then cast himself out from the castle. He did not wish his presence to cause his family, Sherlock in particular, any further pain or distraction. He would return only when he had set things right.

Setting out on an all-day rambling carriage tour of the winter-white kingdom, Mycroft had told his coachman he was inspecting the roads. The coachman, of course, must have known it to be a lie. Gossip flowed quickly at court. Normally, Mycroft appreciated the efficiency of that particular system of information transfer. He had made frequent use of the mechanism himself to ensure the right words found the right ears with no clear path back to their point of origin. It would have been a kindness for that same system to return to his own ears some hint of the reception he might expect from Lestrade after the spectacle Mycroft had made of himself. But his coachman said nothing and Mycroft would not ask. It was a curious, unpleasant feeling, lacking information. Almost terrifying.

As he neared the forge, Mycroft's resolute tread faltered only a little. His heartbeat, however, faltered significantly when he saw Lestrade inside, sat still and silent by the fire. Lestrade's arms were folded and he rested one black booted ankle across his knee. He was watching the yard. Waiting. His face was half in shadow and half in flickering orange light. That achingly beautiful face that only a night ago Mycroft had touched and kissed and adored.

Lestrade did not move or acknowledge Mycroft in any way as he entered the forge.

In the uncertain quiet, Mycroft's movements—his too-heavy breathing, the scuff of his boots across the stone floor—sounded to his own ear clumsy and intrusive. He felt too big. He felt too small. When he lowered the satchel he was carrying, the steel inside made a clattering racket. As he straightened, his grey wool cloak whispered sibilant scorn. He had to clear his throat—another loud, coarse sound—before he could speak.

"Master Lestrade," Mycroft nodded carefully. "Good evening."

"Lord Chancellor," Lestrade returned in a mild, measured voice. "You've forsaken your cloak of stars this evening."

"I fear it is outshone tonight by the true canopy of wintertide," Mycroft declared, then cringed inwardly at his ridiculous grandiloquence. Pompous speech was another cloak he should try to shed tonight. "My poor tribute is…wholly inadequate."

Lestrade unfolded and refolded his arms, shifted minutely in his chair. The wood creaked. "Prince Sherlock said you would come to me tonight," he said eventually. "I wasn't sure I believed him."

"So…you discussed…me. The two of you."

"At some length."

"I see."

"I don't think you do."

Lestrade's tone of voice was…strange. Mycroft should be able to read it, should be able to read his body language, but his mind was muddled. All day planning his words and now he felt tongue-tied. If only he could see into the shadows to read Lestrade's eyes. But he could not and there was nothing for it but to proceed as best he could. Mycroft's stomach gave a cold roll. He took a deep breath. "I have come to finish what I began. I must—"

"Sorry, what you began when you advanced me to your brother as a marriage partner? Or what you began on your knees in front of me in the library?"

"I…" A flush of warring emotions crept up Mycroft's neck. There was shame at his loss of control, but far more strongly he felt the punch of desire at the memory of Lestrade's body pressed against his own. "I must…I cannot discount the probability that after my…behaviour…particularly after my behaviour…it is still Prince Sherlock who holds your favour. Indeed it sounds as though your…connection…is intact. This is as it should be. You will make the perfect—" He stopped, and frowned down at his hands before he started again. "You will make the Prince a fine partner."

Mycroft gestured towards the satchel he had brought, as though Lestrade might guess what it contained: the three remaining daggers to fulfil his false order—a point of honour even though the illusion of his patronage was no longer required—and a stunningly-crafted costume, a beautiful thread-of-silver coat for Lestrade's final night of the Winter Ball. A coat fit for a betrothal. A coat fit for a prince.

Lestrade rose from his seat and took a slow step towards Mycroft. "You still wish me to marry your brother."

"I would not stand between you."

"I asked what you wished."

"What I wish is irrelevant," Mycroft's voice snapped out with a sharpness he did not expect. He took a slow breath to steady himself. "I desire your mutual happiness. Above all else."

Lestrade took another step forward. His face was no longer shadowed, but still Mycroft could not read his dark eyes. "You have not yet spoken to Prince Sherlock."

"I thought it best, under the circumstances."

"He predicted as much. Said you prefer to 'engage conflict from a safe distance.'"

Wrong-footed as he may have been, Mycroft bristled at the mockery he suspected beneath his brother's words. "On the contrary, Master Lestrade, I am here to offer you the most direct and deepest of apologies."

"Apologies for what, exactly?" Lestrade stepped closer.

"I…should have thought that obvious."

Lestrade tilted his head quizzically. "I find it surprising, Lord Chancellor, I must continue to ask a practised diplomat such as yourself for more specific language." It looked almost as though he was struggling to suppress a smile. A smirk at the very least. "Or perhaps, as you are such a diplomat, I should not find it surprising at all." He stepped forward again, so close now Mycroft caught a breath of the clean, softly spicy scent of his hair. "And whilst I agree you do owe me an apology, I would like to clarify for which particular discourtesy you feel you must offer it. I suspect we may not have the same one in mind."

"I…" Mycroft made his hideous throat-clearing noise again. "I took…liberties, for which you could not have been prepared—"

"I most certainly was not prepared. That, I will grant you."

"Nevertheless, liberties were taken and I—"

"My lovemaking might otherwise have been much improved."

"—regret any—" Mycroft blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Perhaps I might have convinced you to stay."

Mycroft blinked again. And again. "It seemed expedient to remove myself from the situation as quickly as—"

Lestrade reached out and touched a fingertip to the iron semicircle of Mycroft's cloak pin and there was a smile. "Your brother did also say you are a fool."

"That," Mycroft exhaled around the hope that rose into the hollow of his throat, just underneath Lestrade's touch, and fluttered wildly, "I will grant you.

"Your brother also asked me to deliver you a message."

Lestrade turned to his work table and then back with a folded parchment in his hand—a folded parchment with a distinctive crested wax seal.

Mycroft eyed the thing warily. "That is not a message. That is a Royal Decree."

"Is it?" Lestrade evinced surprise. "That sounds serious."

"What does it say?"

"I don't know." Lestrade held out the parchment. "It's addressed to you, isn't it?"

Mycroft took a deep breath, took the document, and broke the seal. Sherlock's elegant writing scrolled across the page. Elegant and…brief. There were but three short lines of text, but Mycroft stared at the note for a long time before silently handing it back to Lestrade.

Lestrade took it and, after a glance at Mycroft for permission, read aloud. "I hereby decree: Mycroft, you are a fool. He is yours. With my compliments," Lestrade's eyes met Mycroft's, "and affection. Your brother, Sherlock."

"Brother." Mycroft swallowed hard. "My brother—"

"Is a grown man, capable of making his own choices," Lestrade said steadily, "as am I. In spite, I might mention, of these royally high-handed attempts to pass me around like some sort of prize goat."

"I wanted—"

"Last night you said you wanted me."

"You aren't…a goat."

"You said you have never wanted anything more."

"I have not," Mycroft whispered.

"This parchment would have you believe I am yours."

Mycroft forced himself to meet Lestrade's eyes. He could hardly breathe. "And what would you have me believe?"

Lestrade pressed the parchment back into Mycroft's hand, letting his touch linger. "That it is true."

Carefully, so carefully, trying to hide how badly his fingers were trembling, Mycroft folded the parchment and slid it into the safety of a small pocket in the inner lining of his doublet. On the left side, over his heart. He pressed his hand against it for a long moment to make certain it was secure.

"I think you still have an apology to make," Lestrade said gently, with an unfathomably soft expression.

Mycroft nodded. The absurd speech he'd practised all day was complete rubbish. He saw that now. It should never have been about his noble ideals for his brother or for the kingdom. Mycroft had hurt this man, this man he loved so desperately. He had all but trampled him under the carriage of his good intentions, and yet Lestrade still rose and held out his hand. Mycroft would do everything in his power to make amends. "Gregory, I—"

Lestrade opened his arms. "I forgive you."

With a strangled sound, Mycroft stepped into his embrace.

They clung to one another, not kissing, not moving, just breathing. Chest to chest, faces buried in the crooks of each other's shoulders. The forge no longer seemed so quiet. The fire crackled and a soft wind blew and all the winter's snow Mycroft had packed around his heart melted into a river. He could hear its rush.

"You have a coach waiting?" Lestrade murmured, drawing back slightly.

"Yes."

"Send it away." Lestrade's thumb traced the edge of Mycroft's jaw. His dark eyes were full of promises. "You will not need it again tonight."

+++

Even in the early hours of the evening, the Grand Ballroom was practically vibrating with expectation. The kingdom awaited Prince Sherlock's choice of a partner, and its assembled representatives in the ballroom were eager to be the first to hear the news. In an effort to introduce a calming air to the great room, Queen Maeve had instructed the musicians to keep to soft, soothing melodies, the pages to speak in gentle tones, and the wine stewards to make themselves only so available. Nevertheless, the milling, murmuring crowd was full of anticipatory energy. Queen Maeve, although she maintained an outwardly placid appearance, counted herself amongst the restless.

Prince Sherlock, on the other hand, was subdued. Pale. Resigned. So unlike himself it twisted the Queen's heart. She had questioned herself many times since their quest began as to whether she, Mycroft, and the King had truly chosen the right course of action in arranging for the Prince to marry.

Each time she had begun to lose faith, it had been her husband who reassured her, often with no more than a gentle, wordless touch. When she had married the King, Maeve had not been in love—at least not the kind of love she believed a still-young woman should feel. But she had held her doubts close and quiet and agreed to wed, because the King had seemed a good man, a kind and wise and admirable man who would make both a good husband and father. Still she wondered whether she could ever love another as she had loved her first husband. The answer was, of course, no—she had grown to love the King in an entirely different way. No less deeply. No less richly. Love could grow.

Her boys had made themselves such sceptics towards the ideas of love and romance, but the Queen's own experiences had persuaded her such reluctance might be overcome by the right person, the right situation. If love could grow in her heart, and now it seemed in her elder son's heart, perhaps it could grow in her younger son's as well. Not only would a marriage keep the Prince safe from the machinations of that conniving, wet-lipped toad Prince Magnussen, it might bring him happiness. This was her most fervent wish for her Sherlock, who had so very much love to give, whether he realised it or not.

Her beautiful, bright-eyed, sharp-hearted boy.

"Sherlock." Queen Maeve laid a gentle hand on her son's silver-embroidered coat sleeve. "We must make the announcement at midnight."

"Yes."

"You have made your choice?"

Prince Sherlock nodded and said quietly, gravely, "I have."

+++

Mycroft followed, eagerly biddable, as Lestrade took him by the hand and led him through the curtained doorway that led to his private quarters. Intent though he was on Lestrade, Mycroft could not help noticing that the storage shelves along the small corridor were all but bare, no longer stacked with Lestrade's intricate, shiny, hand-crafted treasures.

"Never mind that now," Lestrade murmured preemptively, noting the direction of Mycroft's gaze. "I've something to show you."

"I…was hoping as much." Mycroft's heart sped up at the thought of a number of things he would very much like Lestrade to show him.

Lestrade chuckled and squeezed his hand. "Something else, first. Something for you." And he pulled aside the second curtain on the interior wall, the one that led to his bed chamber.

Mycroft's eyes widened.

The last time he'd stood in this spot he had beheld a small, dismally utilitarian space with a bare stone floor, a straw-stuffed mattress, and a set of simple wooden trunks for Lestrade's belongings.

The little room had been transformed.

The ceiling glowed with flickering candles, cradled in clear glass globes suspended from delicate silver chains. Garlands of beads woven cleverly in between reflected the shimmering light, casting a spray of golden stars across the room. In place of the flat, straw sleeping mat, there was a high mattress draped in ivory linen sheets and layered with blankets in luscious, fur-lined chocolate-coloured satin and quilted crimson silk. The stone floor had been covered by a thick gold-and-vermilion patterned rug, and the single, small window draped with a fall of ivory that had been pulled aside to offer a view of the night sky.

"Gregory," Mycroft breathed. "How…?"

Lestrade's eyes flared with pride. "You aren't the only one who can work magic."

Mycroft swallowed thickly, too overcome with emotion to speak. It was too much. It was simply…too much. He had tried to give, he had tried to serve, he had tried to settle happiness upon the people for whom he cared. Such happiness was not meant to come back to him. That was not how the world worked.

"I know it's nothing to the palace," Lestrade was watching Mycroft's face earnestly, "but…it's what I could do."

"Your things…"

Lestrade nodded. "Bartered. My apprentice Dimmock and I spent the day."

"But…your beautiful things. For…me?"

"Pride of place. It's what you said, I remembered," Lestrade said. He shrugged, as if he hadn't just done the most wonderful thing anyone had ever done for Mycroft in his life. "And now they have it, out in the world where people might enjoy them. What greater pride is there?" He looked away, almost shyly, at the beautiful space he'd made. "Do you like it?"

Mycroft pulled him in and kissed him. He kissed gratitude into Lestrade's mouth, wonder onto his cheekbone, and praise across his closed eyes, and said, "No."

Lestrade's delighted smile faltered. "No?"

"You expressed a desire for clarity in my language, did you not?"

"Yes, I…suppose I did…"

"Then, no. I do not like it. The correct word," Mycroft slid a hand around Lestrade's neck and held his gaze, "is love."

The tips of Lestrade's ears turned pink. "Mycroft—"

"Gregory," Mycroft husked, stepping into Lestrade's body, pressing his hips close. His heartbeat was not the only thing that had begun to quicken.

Lestrade exhaled a shaky breath and said, "You are already very close to deterring me from my course. And I'll not have it. I have plans for you tonight."

"Mm? Plans?" Mycroft nuzzled into Lestrade's hair.

"Yes. Stop that. Plans. Tonight I intend to enchant you."

"That…will not prove difficult, I suspect."

Lestrade gave him a smiling little shove away. He was beaming so bright with anticipation that Mycroft could not help but join in. "It begins with…a bath."

"A bath." Mycroft followed Lestrade's nod towards the small brazier heating the room, atop which rested a covered copper pot.

"All right, it's not a full bath. And it is optional and, of course, entirely your decision," Lestrade shrugged with a self-satisfied twinkle in his eyes. "But I highly recommend it."

"I find myself…most willing to accept your recommendation."

Lestrade guided Mycroft to the corner of the little room, where he gave him a long, lush kiss before he wrapped cloth around his hands and poured steaming water from the copper pot into a small wooden tub. The scent of cloves, the same scent in Lestrade's hair, filled Mycroft's nose and a fresh wave of desire curled in his groin.

"Now, you do understand I have no footmen," Lestrade said gravely, "so I'll have to take care of you myself."

"That is…quite acceptable," Mycroft managed.

Lestrade looked him up and down. "You'll need those clothes off."

"Oh, but I—" Mycroft's hand rose to press against the pocket in his doublet. The parchment inside crinkled softly.

Lestrade understood him immediately. "It will keep safe." He put his hand over Mycroft's. "Trust me."

Mycroft lowered his arm and let Lestrade reach for the top button of his doublet. The light from the candles was soft. The room was warm. Lestrade made appreciative little sounds as the row of buttons parted their fastenings, and to Mycroft's surprise the more of his body that was exposed, the more secure he felt. He watched Lestrade's fingers do their nimble work in wonder.

Lestrade folded the blue linen doublet with great care and stowed it safely inside a small trunk near the bed, then propped Mycroft up against the stone wall and divested him of his boots, trousers, and underwear. When Mycroft finally stood completely naked and completely hard in front of Lestrade, Lestrade's face was flushed, and his eyes liquid with desire.

As Mycroft reached for him, Lestrade came willingly into his arms. Mycroft's groan when his prick felt the weight of Lestrade's body was swallowed up by Lestrade's hungry kiss.

"Do you feel how full I am for you," Lestrade said thickly. He pulled Mycroft's palm to the front of his trousers.

"Yes," Mycroft exhaled.

"Good. I want you to know." Lestrade's eyes were lidded heavily with desire when he stepped back and away. He pulled his own shirt over his head in a smooth motion and tossed it aside, then knelt down to dip a clean, rough-toothed rag into the wooden bucket. "I want you to know how much I already want you before I begin."

He stood, stepped in front of Mycroft again, and lifted the dripping cloth. Water splashed down Mycroft's chest, warm and then instantly cool, and then Lestrade reached behind him and wrung the cloth out over the back of Mycroft's neck and shoulders. Mycroft gasped at the flood of sensation, his melting heart made manifest in the rivulets. Tiny fingers of water tickled his back and teased and trickled down into more intimate places. His chest hair caught against Lestrade's. Lestrade's trousers and the hard heat inside brushed and pressed against his own straining cock again and again as Lestrade dragged the warm cloth down Mycroft's back.

Lestrade groaned along with him at every such contact, but he was relentless and thorough. He performed his ministrations over and over, his motions growing rougher and faster, laving Mycroft's shoulders and chest and thighs until Mycroft was trembling with sensitivity and in serious danger of disgracing himself against Lestrade's still-clothed hip.

By the time the wooden bucket was almost empty, Mycroft was so thick with need he was shaking, and when Lestrade finally flung the rag aside, Mycroft moaned his name.

Lestrade kissed him, three times, hard, and then dropped to his knees and swallowed Mycroft down.

Mycroft's head hit the wall. He had never realised, never imagined there could be such joy in surrender. Still, he struggled briefly against his own body. He wanted this to last forever, these wet sounds, Lestrade's thumbs pressed into his hips. But he couldn't last. He just couldn't. He succumbed with a grateful sob to the pull of Lestrade's mouth and spent himself inside it, legs trembling, arms flattened against the wall, and a lingering line of water trickling down the crack of his arse.

"Gregory," he shuddered when he was finally able to speak again.

Still on his knees, Lestrade dragged the back of his hand across his open mouth and gave Mycroft a silent, pleading, desperate look.

"Yes," Mycroft growled, hauling Lestrade to his feet and pushing him backward towards the lush bank of snowy blankets. "On the bed. Now." His fingers were already at Lestrade's trouser fastenings, jerking roughly at the uncooperative ties.

"Move," Lestrade swatted Mycroft's fingers away, so Mycroft pulled off one of Lestrade's boots whilst Lestrade, swearing violently, got his trousers open.

Mycroft gave Lestrade's trousers a rough tug, down past his hips, and then pushed him again. There was a soft whump when Lestrade's arse hit the pile of blankets. Mycroft scrambled onto the mattress after him. Lestrade's prick was flushed the same glorious, swollen pink as his mouth, and Mycroft desperately wanted his own hands and tongue on both places at once, and every place in between. Spent as he was, his cock still tingled with the euphoric echo of blood and pleasure, but the longing that swept him had nothing to do with physical need. "I will do for you," he promised urgently, his gaze fixed on Lestrade's eyes, "anything you want."

"God, Mycroft, just—" Lestrade rolled half on top of Mycroft, reaching over his head and across the bed.

Mycroft's nose brushed the tufted hair underneath Lestrade's arm, and he inhaled his scent shamelessly. He dragged blunt fingertips down Lestrade's skin, over the ridges of his ribs and into the soft flesh at his waist, and made a noise that meant you are beautiful. He hoped Lestrade understood, as he was having difficulty finding the words.

"Please," Lestrade caught Mycroft's hand and tipped a flask into it. Warm oil puddled in Mycroft's palm.

"Yes," Mycroft said.

"Please, just—"

"Yes."

Mycroft reached down and slid his hand around Lestrade.

Lestrade groaned and bucked his hips. "I need—"

"Yes, yes." Mycroft pulled Lestrade all the way on top of him. He did not loosen his grip even as he hooked a leg around Lestrade's to hold him in place, pumping his oil-slick fist steadily up and down in the sloppy, soft space between their bellies.

Lestrade wrapped his arms around Mycroft's shoulder and his head, fastening their bodies together. He panted hot-breathed, humid, needy little grunts into the hollow where Mycroft's jaw met his neck, and Mycroft hummed yes and come on and give me and mine. Give me. Mycroft tightened his fist and pulled a long, rough stroke.

With a single bark of pleasure, Lestrade arched his back and came in Mycroft's hand. Three more thrusts of his hips, fucking out the last of his release into Mycroft's fist, and Lestrade collapsed on top of him in a trembling heap.

"God," Lestrade sighed against Mycroft's shoulder as another shudder shook his thighs. "Yes." And then he started to giggle.

Mycroft wrapped both arms around his Lestrade, possessive and protective in the same gesture. He tried for a moment not to feel too smug about the urgency of Lestrade's climax, failed miserably, and let himself grin his own giddy delight and pride up at the candlelit ceiling.

Eventually Lestrade pushed himself up on his arms and peered down at the mess on Mycroft's abdomen. "Nnnh," he said approvingly.

"I would have to agree," Mycroft smirked.

Lestrade caught his own lower lip between his teeth and rolled his hips slowly against Mycroft's, sliding their bellies together and smearing his release between them. Mycroft, in his admittedly limited experience, had never seen anything so lewd or so lovely. He felt quite delightfully filthy.

"Perfect," he murmured.

"Stop that," Lestrade chided fondly, collapsing his weight atop Mycroft once again with a wonderful little wriggle. "You know I'm not."

"It is perhaps an implausible claim, but I've yet to see any evidence to contradict it."

"Oh, really? I'll have you know I bollocksed up my evening's plan the first time you moaned under my touch. I meant to tease you…torment you a bit longer. Mycroft, you have befuddled your poor enchanter."

Mycroft nodded solemnly. "I might have warned you of that danger. But as the enchanted, I must most forcefully deny any cause for complaint."

"Mm. Say forcefully again."

"Forcefully," Mycroft repeated obediently. He tried to make the word sound sensual, but he was smiling too hard.

Lestrade snickered at him and wriggled into another kiss, then his nose wrinkled. "Cloth?" he suggested.

"I'll get it," Mycroft volunteered, and rolled Lestrade off onto his side. He had to stop once he had turned back to the bed, cloth in hand, and the ridiculous grin that kept reasserting itself grew even wider. Lestrade was propped up on one elbow, still with his trousers shoved down to the tops of his thighs, and wearing only one boot. He was also wearing a blatant leer. "Look at you," Mycroft smiled.

Lestrade eyed Mycroft's body up and down in turn. "Look at you. I think you should just stand there for a while."

"I fear at some point the temperature might not prove to my advantage."

"Then by all means, let me warm you."

Lestrade shed the rest of his clothes, Mycroft cleaned them up, and they wriggled under the pile of blankets, propping their shoulders up on the plush feather bolster at the head of the bed. Beneath the covers, their hands found each other and interlaced fingers. Mycroft rested his head on Lestrade's shoulder. "What else did you have planned?"

"There was meant to be a costume. Although, sod that. You should never wear clothes again. Dancing lessons. And, look here, I have wine, water, sweets…"

Indeed, a small platform beside the bed held platters of dainty sweets, a glass decanter of some clear golden beverage, and several other small flasks that Mycroft guessed—with a little shiver—held oils.

"And…chess?" Mycroft asked as his gaze fell on the board at the far end of the platform. Then he sat up straighter. "That's my—I mean…I admired the set."

"I kept it for you. You'll have to play at a disadvantage, of course. You did forfeit a piece."

Sure enough, the white knight Mycroft had declined had not been returned to the board. "And I regret that forfeiture. Very much. I would like to see it restored."

"Sorry, it's too late. Your little knight is off on his own adventure now. Doing his own good deeds. Oh, which reminds me…" Lestrade grinned at him, then rolled over to retrieve something from the bedside shelf. He proudly deposited three copper coins onto the blanket over Mycroft's chest. "For your good deeds."

Mycroft blinked down at the three coins, scooping them into his palm. "I would say you have done me a good deed tonight. A very good deed."

"Whilst I could easily say the same of you, my most enchanting sir, I accept your tribute." He plucked one of the coins from Mycroft's hand. "Oh, dear. Only two left," he said regretfully.

"Only two." Mycroft closed his fingers around the cool discs, frowning. "I see. I shall…ration them carefully."

Lestrade gave him an odd look, then snorted a laugh and shook his head. "Mycroft, my love," he reached under the covers and slid an arm across Mycroft's chest, "Two more tonight."

"Oh." Mycroft felt a warm rush of anticipation run through his body.

"But first, I think it's time for your dancing lesson."

"I'm…not entirely certain my legs will support that plan quite yet."

"They don't need to. Turn over."

Mycroft blinked, then raised his eyebrows questioningly. "What sort of dance is this, exactly?"

"Turn over," Lestrade grinned, "and find out."

Puzzled, but definitely growing curious, Mycroft rolled over onto his stomach.

"You'll dance for me, Mycroft," Lestrade licked his lips lasciviously and slid down under the covers towards Mycroft's open thighs. "I promise you."

+++

As the midnight hour approached, Sherlock had still given the Queen no hint as to whom he had chosen to marry. He had simply remained seated stiffly on the throne platform at the end of the Grand Ballroom, arms folded across his chest, staring dispassionately into the sea of gaily-attired guests. Several of his remaining candidates had attempted to draw him out for a dance, but Sherlock had waved them all away, showing no one any particular favour the Queen could discern.

The Queen's stomach fluttered with nerves. Sherlock's choice was everything now. In these final hours, she may have been prepared to entertain the belief it was Mycroft who had the right idea in hand-picking a partner for Sherlock…even if Mycroft had miscalculated slightly in his own selection. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth for a moment.

In his own list of potential partners, Sherlock had included the snide Musgrave and the odious Wilkes for the sole purpose of unsettling both Mycroft and herself with his abominable taste—of that the Queen was certain. Neither man could hold her son's interest for more than a second. For obvious reasons, Mycroft's smith Lestrade was not in attendance, but his step-siblings James and Irene were skulking near the front of the crowd with watchful, foxy faces. There was a danger there, abominable taste or no. Sherlock was fascinated by a certain type of darkness, but the Queen was hopeful he recognised that interest as something for his mind alone and not for his heart. Between the remaining candidates—the composed and fiery-haired Lady Violet, the vivacious Lady Janine, the winsome barber-surgeon Molly, and the golden and elegant Lord Victor—the Queen honestly had no idea which might have won Sherlock's favour.

She sent the King to Sherlock in one final attempt to draw out information or intimation of his choice with the suggestion Sherlock might wish to seek a private audience with his intended partner before the official proposal and announcement, but Sherlock waved him away as well.

As her husband returned to her with a wry, resigned smile and gave her hand a gentle squeeze, Sherlock sighed and straightened his posture. He looked over at the two of them and quirked a rather sad-eyed smile. "I'm fine, Mother."

"My dearest…"

"Mother," Sherlock said firmly. "I'm fine. I'm ready."

"Are you certain—"

"Mother, midnight will pass us by if you will not allow me to proceed."

The Queen glanced once at her husband and then nodded. She signalled her seneschal, who in turn signalled his pages to begin assembling the candidates. A distinct hush spread throughout the ballroom as the pages wove through the crowd. As the Prince's chosen few took their places in front of the dais, the hush became absolute.

The corners of Sherlock's mouth were pinched as he surveyed the crowd. He rose smoothly to his feet.

The Queen's fingers had gone icy cold. She folded them in her lap as she sent up a silent prayer for her son. Choose well. Be happy.

Sherlock took a deep breath, and—

At the far end of the ballroom, the tall entry doors burst open with a bang, a flurry of motion, and a shouted curse.

"Get off me, you sodding ox."

The crowd parted with a collective scandalised whisper as a rather bedraggled-looking man marched…well, limped…proudly up the centre of the room, leaving a trail of snow and mud on the gleaming blue marble floor in his wake. At first the Queen though him injured, but then she saw his uneven gait was the result of his wearing only one boot. His clothes were the road-worn garb of a soldier, but the set of his shoulders and jaw, the determined angle of his blond head would have marked him out as such no matter his attire. He was not a tall man, but he was easily out-pacing two longer-legged, highly flustered castle guards—one of whom was indeed rather ox-like—who were trying to give the impression of being in dignified control as they scurried after him.

"As I am apparently required by law to present myself at this ball," the soldier growled as he neared the royal dais, "as a person eligible for marriage. I will take the opportunity of your attention to inform you your knights and foot soldiers have held the Eastern Mountains for you, my Prince." His eyes were scanning the platform, and when they locked on Prince Sherlock's, the soldier stopped in his tracks and said, "Oh."

The Queen looked to Sherlock, who was…staring…with the most curious expression on his face.

"Stop," the Prince barked to his guards, who were poised to rush the still-armed soldier, without altering his gaze.

The Grand Ballroom had gone utterly silent.

The soldier settled his weight into a sort of parade rest. His nose gave a twitch that ended in a sniff. "Am I about to be beheaded, then, for that…thing I've just done?" he asked mildly.

A tiny, confused line formed between Sherlock's eyebrows. He continued to stare.

"We haven't actually beheaded anyone," the Queen offered into the silence, "since King Armand's—"

"You've just returned this night from the Eastern Mountains," Sherlock lurched forward and blurted out, "by way of the Seven Saints' Pass. The snow turned to sleet on the day you left. You were injured in battle. Left shoulder. Your dominant hand. Mostly healed now but you're trying to retrain your sword arm. It isn't going well. You were on your way to your sister's house in town. Looking forward to seeing your young nephew. The gift you brought for him, the outline is clear in your pocket, ruined in the weather. You had hoped to acquire a new gift from the shops, but you arrived too late. In a temper. You insulted the gate guard—rightly so, he's an idiot—when he delayed your journey even further. In revenge, the guards dragged you here. Manhandled you. Your boot, lost in the struggle along the way. Unfortunate. It is your only pair."

The soldier's mouth had fallen slightly open. He blinked.

"Have I missed anything?" Sherlock demanded in the smug tone that said quite clearly, of course I haven't. He settled into an imperious pose, a peacock's pose, chin raised, one eyebrow cocked expectantly, and waited.

The Queen was certain she was the only one who could have noticed her son's nervous swallow and the minute, anxious twitch of his hand.

She held her breath.

"That was…amazing." The soldier huffed out a soft, awed laugh. "Extraordinary."

Sherlock's chest puffed out and he drew himself up just a bit taller.

"Gorgeous," the soldier murmured with a dazed little smile.

Sherlock blinked.

The soldier's eyes, the Queen noted, were quite a lovely shade of blue, with long blond lashes. Eyes that had not left her son's since they first locked gazes.

Nor had Sherlock's eyes left the soldier's. Not once.

Well.

The Queen cleared her throat delicately. "Perhaps you might favour us with your name, sir."

"Your Highness, forgive me!" the soldier started, then bowed awkwardly. He dragged his gaze to the Queen, but it snapped back immediately to Sherlock. "John Watson. I'm called John Watson."

"We're so pleased to meet you," the Queen said lightly. She glanced at her husband, who had one hand pressed over his mouth. The corner of his eyes were crinkled.

When she looked back at Sherlock, he was standing rather awkwardly with one arm stretched out, palm up, towards the soldier. Something silver glinted in his hand.

John Watson, with a puzzled look, slowly reached out and accepted the offering. "It's…a white knight."

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered, as though blinking himself from a daze.

"For your nephew," he said, stringing the words together quickly. "Yes, for your nephew. The gift."

"Niece," the soldier murmured.

Sherlock frowned at the correction. "Excuse me?"

"It's…for my niece. Not nephew. I have a niece."

Sherlock's lips compressed in frustration. His brows drew down in concentration.

"No. She'll love it," John said hastily. "It's…thank you. I—"

Sherlock's face cleared. "I know where your boot is," he proclaimed grandly.

"What?" John blinked. "How could you possibly…?"

"I can show you."

The Queen frowned. "Sherlock."

"What…now?" John said. His eyes shifted to one side, as if he had only just remembered the presence of everyone else in the ballroom. "Aren't you…otherwise…engaged at the moment?"

Sherlock grinned slowly. "Not yet."

"Sherlock!" said the Queen, rising from her seat.

The soldier grinned back.

Sherlock's eyes had gone fever bright. "Come on!" he called, jumping down from the dais. He started forward and then, with the most terrified, hope-sick look the Queen had ever seen on his face, turned and held out his hand to the soldier.

The Queen's heart caught in her throat.

John Watson, looking just as stunned as her poor son, took Sherlock's hand.

And then they were off, Sherlock and John, parting the astonished crowd again on their way into the bright winter night and the sharp breath of adventure. The doors to the Grand Ballroom slammed shut behind them just as the tower clock began to chime midnight, and the crowd erupted into a frenzied roar of chatter.

+++

Lestrade shifted beneath the warmth of his bed covers and hummed happily as soft fabric slid over his bare skin. He rolled to his side and curled himself around the even warmer body tucked in next to him, which return a contented rumble followed by a gentle snore. His night sky of candles had burnt down to wax puddles, but the day was sunny, the sky through the half-curtained window azure blue. He and Mycroft had obviously slept far later than Lestrade's usual dawn waking time, but then they had perhaps not actually gone to sleep until dawn.

Lestrade grinned against Mycroft's shoulder and gave it a gentle kiss.

He was in no hurry to get out of bed. The room was morning-bright and the air that touched his skin above the covers was cold. Winterjays gossipped merrily in the nearby treetops. Lestrade grinned and ducked his head back under the covers, letting their weight muffle the sounds from outside his own little nest. Here there was nothing but the whisper of fabric, the steady sighs of sleepy breathing, and the soft brush of Lestrade's fingers through the hair on Mycroft's chest. Lestrade wriggled his hips closer to Mycroft's warm, solid thigh and let his eyes drift shut.

"Lestrade! Out here at once!"

Lestrade groaned at the sharp and not-at-all soporific sound of Irene's voice.

Mycroft stirred and mumbled, "Grgry?"

"Good morning." Lestrade smiled and pressed a kiss into Mycroft's hair.

"Lestraaaade…" James's voice joined his sister's, singing Lestrade's name in the soft, insistent way that always meant he was seething.

Mycroft frowned, blinking blearily, and tried to reach for Lestrade as he climbed out of bed with a deep, resigned sigh.

"Shh. It's fine, love." Lestrade pushed him back down into the mattress with a reassuring hand. "I'll see to it."

"You can't hide forever," James sang. The sounds of wood sliding across stone and the clatter of metal on metal came from the space outside Lestrade's room.

It was as well to get this inevitable confrontation over with. He had been fortunate enough his errands of the previous day had delayed it until now. Lestrade quickly pulled on his trousers and shirt and padded barefoot out onto the cold workshop floor, where he was greeted by a pair of icy glares. James had found and bundled the complete set of Mycroft's daggers into his arms. Irene was in the process of sifting through Lestrade's tools.

James spread a toothy smile across his face. "He graces us at last!"

"He must think so, mustn't he?" Irene sneered briefly at the shaping hammer in her elegant, white hand as if it disgusted her, then tossed it aside. It landed on the stone floor with a sharp clang. "When in fact what you have done, Gregory dear, is disgrace us all."

"After all these years we've cared for you," James mourned, eyes glittering.

Lestrade eyed the bundle of daggers in James's arms. Though he had meant to turn them over to James and Irene as part of his debt repayment, seeing James clutching them so possessively set his teeth on edge, as though James had, uninvited, laid his hands on Mycroft himself. "Those aren't yours," he warned.

Irene snorted, an uncharacteristically ugly sound for her. "Of course they are. Everything of yours is ours, by our hand and by our charity. Did you think you weren't going to pay for what you did?"

"And what exactly do you think I did to you?"

"You ruined our chance with the Prince with your blundering," Irene hissed through small, pearly teeth. "You ignorant peasant. It's over now. It's too late. And you owe us."

James laughed, a dark, ugly sound. "Did you think getting your hands on a royal cock was all this game was about?"

"As the royal cock in question," Mycroft said quietly from the doorway, in a voice as soft as the slide of a snake across stone floor. "I believe that is my cue to enter." He smiled then, and a shiver ran down Lestrade's spine.

Irene's eyes went wide, and the ire contorting her lovely face shifted instantly into an obsequious smile. "My Lord Chancellor!"

James said nothing, but his eyes glittered with hatred.

Lestrade looked between James and Mycroft and cleared his throat, trying to defuse the rising tension in the room. He turned to his step-sister. "What did you mean…too late?"

"The Prince's engagement, of course." Irene darted a curious look at Mycroft. "Prince Sherlock announced his engagement at dawn. The news has just reached us."

Lestrade saw Mycroft's chin twitch up, just the slightest of movements. He would be almost desperate to know whom Sherlock had chosen, but Lestrade knew he would not display his ignorance to James and Irene. "Was it Molly?" he asked, helpfully for Mycroft and hopefully for his new friend.

"Oh, that's the funniest part," James tittered. "It's nobody. Some scruffy, pathetic, little soldier who wandered in off the street."

"They made quite a scene at the ball," Irene murmured, sounding a bit envious.

"No accounting for taste, is there?" James's sneering stare crawled down Lestrade's body. "But don't worry, Gregory, darling. We'll still be here when this one has used you up, if he hasn't already. Nothing left for you to pound away at then but making our horse shoes."

Lestrade's hands curled into fists on Mycroft's behalf, at the suggestion his intentions were so base. He was not a violent man, but there was family, there were debts, and then there were limits.

Mycroft stepped smoothly in front of him. "I fear Master Lestrade will be far too busy with his new post as Royal Armourer to make your…" he glanced coolly down at James's feet, "shoes."

Lestrade blinked.

"Oh, I was wrong, wasn't I?" James snickered gleefully. "The grubby soldier wasn't the funniest part of all this. Because you must be joking."

Mycroft gave a soft sigh. "Would you be so kind, Gregory, as to fetch me the satchel I carried here last night?"

"What?"

Mycroft smiled at him. "I believe it is in your room."

"Mycroft…" Lestrade's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Please."

Lestrade nodded warily. "All right."

He stepped through the curtained doorway and snatched up the satchel from the storage hallway, then froze behind the curtain at the sound of Mycroft's voice, lower and more menacing than he had ever heard him speak.

"—debt is settled and if you broach the topic again or seek any manner of reparation from Master Lestrade, I will happily lay you both out in the palace courtyard for the crows totake your eyes. Do not test me. You know who I am. It would take but a wave of my hand to make it so."

There was a sharp inhale, and then a long silence.

"As it is," Mycroft's voice continued, "I will simply require you to remove yourselves from my kingdom. You are banished. You will have whatever ill-gotten goods you can carry out by sundown."

Lestrade stepped out into the forge, staring at Mycroft, the satchel dangling from his hand. James and Irene seemed frozen in place.

"Thank you," Mycroft said politely as he took the satchel from Lestrade's nerveless fingers. He turned to James and held the bag open, nodding at the bundle of daggers James still clutched in his arms. "I believe Master Lestrade said those do not belong to you."

James's lip curled into a silent snarl, but he dropped the daggers.

The rattle of metal rattled a cry from Irene. "But, my Lord, you can't—"

"Sundown," Mycroft hissed at her as he closed the satchel. "And if you are ever seen in our kingdom again, I will have you made into the shoes you are so eager to extract from your smith. We are finished here. You are finished here. Now scurry."

As James and Irene were scurrying away across the yard, Mycroft placed the satchel on the floor and then straightened to look at Lestrade. His eyes were still cold and steely, the eyes of the Lord Chancellor.

"You're a bit scary," Lestrade breathed, thrilled to his core. After all, he could work steel.

The imperious expression melted away. Mycroft twitched an eyebrow at him. "Too villainous?"

"That is…exactly the opposite of what I think of you."

A blush of pink bloomed across the scary Lord Chancellor's cheeks. "I find myself quite protective of my Royal Armourer."

"Did you even notice you're only wearing a sheet?"

Mycroft blinked down at himself and frowned. "As a matter of fact…no." He ran a exploratory hand through his wildly-mussed hair. "Hm."

"Royal Armourer…Mycroft, are you…serious?"

Mycroft looked up from his linen sheet. "Of course I am. I can think of no man more worthy of the post. No one more qualified to help me protect this kingdom. Although…now that I consider it, we may need to modify the title to better suit you. I think…Royal Armourer and Artificer. You cannot neglect your great artistry."

"That sounds…" Unimaginable. Beyond the wildest dreams of a boy who had grown up in charcoal dust and slept next to cinders and thought one day, if he was very lucky, he might have a little shop of his own. "Thank you."

"It will be my pleasure to behold every beautiful thing you will create." Mycroft reached out to curl his fingers gently behind the back of Lestrade's neck, stroking his skin once with his thumb. "I do appreciate beautiful things."

"As I would appreciate being so near the man I love. If he will visit his humble Royal Artificer from time to time."

"He will visit his husband."

Lestrade blinked. "Husband."

Mycroft caught his hand. His eyes were earnest. "If you will have me."

All the stars in the sky sparkled in Lestrade's eyes. All the candles that lit a winter's ball flamed inside his heart.

"Mycroft, I will have you in every way I am able. Happily. Ever after." Lestrade pulled Mycroft into his arms. "And if you will kindly drop this sheet, my love, we can begin right now."

+++

Queen Maeve visited the Grand Ballroom again in the early afternoon. She took a seat in a quiet, sunny alcove where she had a pleasant view of the side courtyard as well as the ballroom floor. In the yard, Mycroft's agent Anthea was leading a group of earnest young trainees in weapons drills. As the two women in the centre of the training circle crossed swords, their boots kicked up little showers of snow that sparkled in the sunlight. In the ballroom, the servants knelt polishing the marble floor or stood upon ladders extracting dwindled candles from the chandeliers and chatting amiably as they worked.

"Happy, my dear?"

The Queen looked up as her husband joined her in the little alcove, sweeping his cloak to one side to sit beside her. He had clearly just come in from the day, as his cheeks were pink with cold. The Queen brushed a strand of greying hair from his forehead and smiled. "Very."

"And where have our two errant young swains got off to today?"

"Sherlock and his soldier made their escape shortly after breakfast. I believe they were headed in the direction of Sherlock's chambers. I've seen no sign of them since."

"Hm," the King chuckled.

"And if I'm not mistaken, here is our Mycroft now."

And indeed at the far end of the ballroom, Mycroft had appeared at last, flushed and beaming, with his handsome smith in tow. Mycroft, her quiet, sombre son, was chattering away with great animation, pointing at features of the ballroom as they crossed the floor. His smith Lestrade, also flushed and beaming, had eyes for nothing but Mycroft.

"Look at them," she said softly, feeling suddenly uncharacteristically misty-eyed. Now both her sons had found their hearts.

The Queen took her husband's hand and held it tightly, and felt it held tightly in return.

Her two foolish sons who had not believed in such things as magic. Such things as love. Let Prince Magnussen come. He was nothing. Her kingdom was fortified by the strongest power there was.