Drunk Minds - Sober Truths

by InnerSpectrum

Summary:

Greg goes out to a pub with John and wakes up, hungover, someplace he's never been before...
Mycroft's couch...
In Mycroft's office...?
In Mycroft's home...?

Notes:

Written for:

Mystrade Monday Prompt #53 For September 1, 2025 Character A and Character B run into each other in the most unexpected place (or circumstances).
Facebook #mystradedialogueprompt: "Did you mean it?"

Chapter 1: Waking Up Is Hard To Do

Notes:

Greg POV

“Oh, fuck me…” Greg Lestrade groaned softly.

“That depends…” A familiar smooth, yet amused, voice spoke, “…did you mean it?”

Wrrrr!

Greg’s eyes had popped open in surprise at the voice he did not expect to hear in his flat first thing in the morning.  He immediately regretted it as a gabazillion pinpoints of searing lava found the minuscule gap between the curtains to aim directly into his retinas.

What cruel bastard turned on the sun?!

The dryness of his eyelids felt like sandpaper against the orbs as he closed them again.

Greg Lestrade angled away from the light and barely caught himself in time from falling to the floor, which admittedly would have been much worse. Still, it did nothing to stop the field of unprocessed cotton that lined his mouth, nor the entire drum section of an American college marching band that took up residence in space behind his brows.

Only then did he realize it was not from his bed he nearly fell, but a surprisingly comfortable couch.

An oxblood leather couch, he had heard about in a dinner conversation once, but had never seen in person…

…In the office of Mycroft Holmes…

…the HOME office…

Aw, shit…

“Gregory…?” the familiar voice he should not be hearing spoke again in concern.

Oh, you bastard. I bet you angled the drapes to do exactly that, didn’t you?

He slowly sat up as very hazy visions of him and Watson at more than one pub came to the surface, making him want to lie down again.

Goodness man! When is your dumb arse going to learn, your half-French blood cannot keep pace with a full Scot?

Hand shielding his eyes until he was angled away from the light, Greg carefully sat up and looked around, stunned.

I’m… I’m in Mycroft’s townhouse?

“How did I get here?"

“I’d say you walked in, but the newborn gazelle wobbling that got you from your vehicle to this room cannot be called so graceful a word as walking.” Mycroft chuckled, handing him a large glass of water and a bottle of paracetamol from the coffee table.

“Ta.” Greg reached for the medicine gratefully.

 

Chapter 2: A Few Hours Earlier…

Summary:

Mycroft is interrupted during a diplomatic dinner to learn that an unexpected visitor is at his home - sort of...

Notes:

Mycroft POV

“Sir?”

Mycroft looked over as Anthea captured his attention.

 It was a welcome distraction from the aggravation of doing his own legwork as he maneuvered around the so-called intelligence gathered for the black-tie bureaucratic event. The last place he wanted to be, but even he must do his own legwork sometimes. He had spent the better part of the past hour successfully convincing a foreign diplomat that an initiative, which was a small part of a larger plan in Mycroft’s political chess, was the diplomat’s own.

“Pardon me, no rest for the weary.” Mycroft politely, but happily, walked away from the idiotic diplomat who was being anything but, “I’ll pass your thoughts, I’m sure they will be receptive to them.”

He saw the puzzled expression on Anthea’s face as she took him to a quiet room.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know if it is wrong per se, but…” with the smallest furrow her brow, Mycroft knew she internally sighed and decided to spit it out. “D.I. Lestrade is parked by the stanchions outside of Knightsbridge, sir. And yes, your brother is fine.”

“Excuse me? I presume he asked for me, and he is being detained.”

“No,” Anthea said. “He did not. In fact, he has not left his vehicle.”

A dark auburn brow rose, “Then what…?”  

“Fifteen minutes ago, Lestrade pulled over just outside the gate, parked, and has sat there since. One of the guards, Templeton, was about to go to the car to ask him to leave, but recognized Lestrade on approach. He returned without making contact and made the call to me instead for instructions.”

“So, let me get this straight. Lestrade is not in distress; he waits in his vehicle outside my townhouse, yet he does not ask for me.”

“Correct, sir. But why is he there, of all places?”

Mycroft had no idea, but headed for the door, intending to find out.

“I take it you do not wish to call first?” Anthea started texting their security that they were leaving.

Mycroft shook his head, happy to leave the party, knowing his part was done.

“This is one time, I think I must go.”

Chapter 3: For A Few Minutes

Summary:

After an evening of football, drinks, and conversation about the Holmes Brothers with John Watson, what's a drunk officer who shouldn't be driving to do?

Notes:

Greg POV

“You, sir, are a right tosser, you.”  Greg laughed as he pulled up to 221 Baker Street.

“Oomph! And if I don’t get upstairs and soon, I just might toss.” A greenish-looking John Watson fumbled for the door handle.

“Oy! Don’t toss in my car, mate.” Greg reached over and undid the seatbelt that John had not realized he was still strapped in, and he almost spilled out of the vehicle. Greg started to get out of the car, grateful when John righted himself, so he didn’t have to.

“You’re on the other side of town, Greg. You good?” John opened the front door at last and stumbled in.

“Gotcha here, didn’t I?” Greg waved at him and pulled away from the curb.

Oh, John is right pissed. But them Holmes boys will do that to a fella.

Greg and John met at a pub to watch football. A playful rivalry where John happily cheered any team that played against Greg’s beloved Arsenal. In the interim, they ate, drank, and waxed on a subject few people would understand: Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes.

It should have been a warning sign that Greg could not remember what was said, as both whinged about the respective brother each was secretly in love with. Love, neither would admit it to the man himself nor to each other.

It wasn’t.

A red light reminded Greg of ginger hair, which reminded him of Mycroft. Visions of removing waistcoated suits and discovering more ginger hair floated as he waited for the light.

A car horn blast behind him shook Greg out of his thoughts as the light turned green.

No, he woke me up. Shit.

Greg chastised himself.

Christ, where am I…? Not a good look for a cop, mate, and you can’t call a bloody taxi.  

Realizing he was more drunk than he initially thought, and both of his phones were dead, Greg pulled over to the first empty spot he saw, parked, and plugged both phones in to charge.

Just enough to call an Uber.

He let his eyes close to the heated visions of Mycroft loving him deeply.

Just for a few minutes, Greg...

Notes:

As always, Muse didn't ask me, but apparently, this tale is going to be told in a series of 360MG Format? Let's see where the finicky hussies take us.

Chapter 4: Tap, Tap, Tapping on the Glass

Summary:

Mycroft found himself standing on the pavement in the middle of the night outside Lestrade’s car...

Mycroft found himself standing on the pavement in the middle of the night outside Lestrade’s car, where Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was in the tilted-back driver's seat, fast asleep.

Deductions, naturally, came hard and fast:

Not a suit, out for pleasure. Pleasure that involved copious drinking. More than intended, and this is the consequence. Probably realized too late that it would not look good if he, a decorated officer of the law, were pulled over for a DUI, and decided to stop and sleep it off. He likely does not realize that he’s outside my home.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was a good man who was surprisingly intelligent and tenacious. It has made him one of London’s top detectives for getting convictions that stick, even before proving himself a man of patience when one Sherlock Holmes inserted himself into Gregory’s life.

Gregory was precisely what he presented himself to be: a salt-of-the-earth man. A good man whom, over time, Mycroft Holmes had secretly fallen in love with.

And Mycroft, who never lied to himself about who he was, would not classify himself as a bad man, because he was not. But he has done things; made the tough, sometimes cruel decisions no one else could, to have things done on his words, where he would not call himself a good one.  And though they had become friends, Mycroft would even say, good ones, he knew men like Gregory did not desire men like Mycroft.

So, he kept that love to himself.

Or so he had thought.

Had this been a year ago, Anthea would have instructed security to remove Lestrade from the premises, and Mycroft would have been none the wiser. But Anthea came to him tonight. That action let him silently know she was aware of his feelings and had also kept that secret until now. She came to him, allowing him to choose how to handle this.

I have secretly imagined many scenarios in which I wanted to wake him. Although almost all of them involved him naked in my bed.

Glad he sent Anthea home first, Mycroft carefully tapped the car window.

Brown eyes opened groggily, “M-Mycroft?”

Chapter 5: I Know It's Late, I Know You're Weary

Summary:

Mycroft faces a very drunk Greg who has a few words for him...

Notes:

Greg's POV

“M-Mycroft…?”

Crap,  he found me. Did my phone get enough juice for the GPS tracker I’m not supposed to know is on my phone to be active again?

Greg carefully sat up, started the engine, and cracked open the window.

“’M not drivin’! ‘M w-waitin’ for… for juice to call… to call… Uber.” Greg pleaded his case.

“Good to know some brain cells have not been completely fried.” Mycroft rolled his eyes.

The cool early autumn breeze revived Greg just enough to make him force himself to look up from the crotch area that was more or less at eye level to the man’s face.

What do you say when you’re more drunk than and the man of your incredibly dirty dreams is suddenly before you?

“I… I dreamed of you… And now I…” Even in the dark car, Greg knew he turned crimson. “I woke up wondering if you would feel as good inside me in real life as you do in my dreams.”

Why is Mycroft looking at me like that…? 

“Lestrade, let me take you home. You cannot stay out on this street, and you are in no condition to drive.”

Standing on the pavement, with the streetlight behind him, made Mycroft look even taller from that angle. Greg looked up at him.

“Your legs go on forever, Mycroft Holmes… Do you?”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, step out of your vehicle now,” Mycroft ordered in full Iceman as he pinched the bridge of his nose after a beat.

Granted, a sober Lestrade would have balked at the blatant command. Luckily, inebriated Greg understood he was impaired and obeyed.

Well, sort of…

Greg managed to pull himself out of the car and made it to the other side, allowing Mycroft to drive.

“Home, Jeeves…” Greg, unintentionally, but completely missed the dirty look on Mycroft's face.

It was then that Greg remembered the lifts in his building were out of order.

“I’ve got that bloody five-story walk-up! Christ!”

Greg didn’t notice the U-turn but chuckled at the frosty look Mycroft shot at the guards in the security kiosk as the car entered the private parking.

“You saw nothing,” Mycroft grimaced.

Chapter 6: Help Me Make It Through The Night

Summary:

Mycroft Holmes prided himself on his curated reputation of being near omniscience because there are no probabilities that he has not thought of.

Except what to do with a drunk Greg Lestrade...

Notes:

Mycroft POV

Mycroft Holmes prided himself on his curated reputation of being near omniscience because there are no probabilities that he has not thought of.

The probability that Gregory Lestrade would flirt with him, even drunkenly, absolutely was not one of them.

He pocketed Greg’s car keys as he got out of the car and stood stunned for a moment.

Surely Gregory did not mean ME. That was preposterous! It had to be.

Mycroft did not want to think about the debilitating crush of confirmation if the sobered man does not remember, scoffs at, or outright denies what happened.

Because of the other probability Mycroft could not fathom: that he had heard correctly. 

And he could not ask for clarity while Greg was still obviously drunk.

“Come on, you,” Mycroft opened the passenger door, then winced at his word choice, grateful Greg had not heard or was so deep into his cups the double-entendre was lost on him.

Greg staggered up the two steps into the townhouse and stumbled into a wall he clearly had not expected to be there.

Mycroft quickly realized Greg’s “Home, Jeeves” comment was because the man had believed he was being taken to his flat. Not Mycroft’s townhouse.

When Greg nearly knocked photos from a credenza, Mycroft didn’t think about it. He walked over and slipped a shoulder under Greg’s arm, steadying him. Not until he had taken a few steps and registered the heat from the body of one Gregory Lestrade, who was half-leaned against him, as he guided him to the office.

I can feel him under my fingers. Well-toned, but not overly so. A ‘Dad’s Bod’ that’s a furnace!

Mycroft had long deduced that Greg had a decent body under the ill-fitted suits often worn at work. It was another thing to feel it for himself.

“Oh, you’re solid! And hot.” The words fell out before Mycroft could stop himself.

“Ditto, big boy. Ditto.” Greg practically fell onto the leather couch, then promptly fell asleep.

Mycroft leaned over, smiling softly as he adjusted a throw when Greg’s eyes momentarily opened.

“If only you’ll look at me like this for real,” a sleeping Greg mumbled.

Notes:

Muse is having fun - I'm just writing the incident reports as told to me

Notes:

By the way - if you're commenting, and/or slickly complimenting, solely to solicit work? Let me be blunt: EFF OFF with that BS, not interested.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 67 of Mystrade Monday Prompts
• Part 215 of Mystrade is Our Division Prompts