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Sweet Sunday mornings spent skin-to-skin in bed. Lingering kisses, fingertips drawing maps of unfamiliar lands, and exploring their bounty. The deep rumble of his laughter like the thunder of a passing rainstorm, cleansing and quenching, it’s power palpable in the midmorning air.
Mycroft never knew that it could be like this. That a single look would light him up, and a single touch would burn him down. He never imagined that some of the most memorable conversations in his life would take place in the darkness of his bedroom, near two in the morning. Mycroft never allowed himself to imagine Greg Lestrade in his bed, but now it was a memory he’d play on loop, hoping his scent stays woven into his sheets.
For a while, alone, they could pretend that this was it. Fall into the comforting domesticity of padding around the flat together as if it was their everyday, sinking into the warm bath of what could be.
At morning light, church bells call the faithful, faintly in the distance; alien sounds from another world. Their faith is entirely here.They worship on each other’s altars, drinking down the wine of good company, tasting the manna of each other’s skin. Sinners, some would say, and at the delicious delegation, they’d simply smile - it’d never felt so good to burn.