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The Boathouse

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The rain was never-ending, coming down at such a force and speed that large puddles had formed on the sodden ground that they walked on, soaking them to the bone despite their coats and boots.  His umbrella had been discarded long ago, the strong and powerful winds had turned his best umbrella inside out within seconds of it being opened as he tried to shield himself and Greg from the wind. The spokes were damaged beyond repair from the strong wind, he doubted that it would be able to be fixed. 

 

They were so far away from the house, the estate feeling much larger than Mycroft had remembered, feeling as large as the world once did to him when he was a child. He hadn’t been to Uncle Rudy’s estate since he was in university, hardly straying far past the library when he stayed there after a disagreement with his parents and Rudy had helped to mold him into shape for the office that he now sat in. 

 

 The weather had been glorious until the rain had started, pouring from the sky suddenly, a few drops had turned into bucketfuls of water coming down on their heads. They had left bits and pieces from the picnic they had in the field as they ran for shelter, not having time to cram everything into the bag that Greg had brought with them and as they pulled on their coats, the blanket that they sat on would be sodden and would be coated in mud, the sandwiches soggy and wouldn’t be fit to give to a pig. 

 

“We can try to get back to the house,”  Greg said, trying to get shelter from a tree. His hair was plastered to his head and his cheeks were red from the cold, tine wind battering against them. He was completely soaked from not having the chance to fasten up his coat.  “Do you know where we need to go?”

 

Mycroft tried to gather his bearings, wishing that he had spent more time exploring the estate than hauled up in the library on his own. His brother had always preferred exploring and knew the estate like the back of his hand. 


“I think that there is a lake nearby,” he eventually said. “We need to keep going down and go left. I recognise the tree  from when we drove in and I can see a bit of the gate at the bottom of the estate.”

 

“Why are we going to a lake?” Greg grumbled, following Mycroft regardless. “I don’t think that we need to go for a swim, I’m already looking like a dead rat.”

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes and shot him a stern look. “You can go swimming if you would like, I am going to take shelter in the boathouse until the rain has died down. I might let you in if I am in a good mood. It is your fault that we are soaked.”


“I can’t control the weather, Myc!” Greg said, shoving his hands in his pockets to shield them from the rain that was coming down horizontally. “You did agree to the picnic in the field, I thought that it was romantic.”

 

It was romantic and Mycroft had enjoyed himself until the rain started to come down, finding himself pleasantly tipsy from the champagne that Greg had brought with them to celebrate the long weekend that they had together.  He couldn’t even pretend to be annoyed at him. The fact that Greg had organised this get away for him, come up with the idea of a picnic in a field, clearly had listened and cared about one off-handed comment he made about how he used to like to have them with Sherlock and Uncle Rudy, how they were some of his favourite memories from childhood, gave him all the reason to love Greg if he did not so already. 


It allowed him to justify that he loved him already and did so immensely. 

 

He had the key to the boathouse in his coat, thankful that it was attached to the ring of keys for all of the gates and the building and that he had brought them with him.  

 


He could see the dust particles float once the door was opened and quickly closed once Greg was in the boathouse.  Large silvery cobwebs had been woven by the spiders in the corner of the high ceilings and in between the old fishing rods that hadn’t been used in decades. The building smelt vaguely of rubber and damp, a large disused boat took up the middle of the room, a hole in the bottom of it.  A few kayaks and a large canoe were on the other side of the boathouse, hung up on the wall. A small fireplace was in the room with an old bed in the corner. 

 

They started to peel off their coats and wet socks, trying to hang them in a manner where they would dry. Greg occupied himself with the fire, finding some old firewood and paper that was somehow usable, starting up a fire with a lighter with some difficulty, nearly dropping the lighter as his fingers shook with the cold.

 

Mycroft rummaged around the cupboard, pulling out a few old jumpers and a few pairs of socks, slightly moth bitten and smelt slightly but it was better in being in damp clothing. 


“Where are these from?” Greg said, pulling off his damp shirt and pulling on the clothes that Mycroft had gathered, he perched on the bed and pulled on the socks.  He stood up again and inspected the old stone walls and the black and white photographs of men in fishing gear and in boats, men holding up large fish, or standing together in a large group outside the old stone building. 


“Rudy used to insist that we keep extra clothes when we went to the lake,” Mycroft explained. “Someone was always going to fall into the water or get pushed in,” he pulled a face.  “Even though I have not been in ages and I’m a grown man, he still buys me clothes for the lake.”

 

“What about the bed then?” Greg asked. 

 

“Rudy had a friend- as my mother insisted on calling his long-term partner,”  Mycroft said, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards as he thought of the few golden summers of his youth. “He liked to work on the boats and slept there when Rudy and himself squabbled, not too often as fights were resolved by tea time.”

 

“We can go on the boats if you want? When it’s dryer, of course,” Greg suggested, moving to poke the fire, adding in logs he found.  “I never could picture you in a canoe.”

 

“I was a member of the Cambridge Boat Club” Mycroft commented, enjoying the surprised expression on Greg’s face. He was a coxswain, for the most part, the role suited him perfectly and Rudy had insisted that it would be good training for later life with being in control of the boat, steering it,  organising and directing his boatmates, and making decisions.  


“I never saw that coming,”  Greg said, sounding impressed as he threw himself back on the bed. “And all this time I thought that you didn’t enjoy yourself at university.”

 

“I do allow myself to have a good time here and there,” Mycroft smirked, placing a hand on Greg’s knee, slowly raising it upwards, waiting for Greg to brush it off if he wanted. He never did. 


“The two of us are in a boathouse,” Greg said, a knowing smirk appearing on his face. “It’s making you think of that film you like- book as well,  the two of them in the boathouse at the end. It’s making you want to relive a youthful fantasy, isn’t it?”

 

Mycroft’s cheeks went a sugar-dusted pink, catching his own reflection in an old shaving mirror that was on the desk. He shook his head quickly and looked away, regretting even watching the film with Greg and talking about how much he loved it and the book, how much it meant to him when he was younger, and how he read the book once a year as it was his favourite. 

 

Greg’s fingers touched his cheek carefully and turned him to look at him. “It was a really good film,” he said reassuringly, kissing him. “It’s a chance in a thousand we met and we shan’t never be parted.”

 

He opened up his mouth and closed it again, finding himself wanting to believe him so desperately even though he had quoted lines from a book. He already knew that he loved him an embarrassing amount, an amount so much that he knew that he couldn’t exactly quantify how much he did or put into words, but hearing him quote his favourite film confirmed to him that he would never be able to describe what the intensity for how much he loved Greg Lestrade. 

 

He kissed him hard, unable to say anything else to him, hoping to convey how he felt to Greg. His fingers went into his hair and he pushed him back on the bed, climbing on top of him. 

 

“If I knew that quoting films was going to do this to you, I would have been doing it a long time ago,”  Greg smirked, his fingers teasingly hovering on his waistband. “Or even talking about us roaming the Greenwood together.”

 

Mycroft let out a pathetic noise and kissed him, his fingers tugging at the jumper that Greg was wearing, relieved that Greg understood the message then teasingly placed a hand on the front of his trousers. Mycroft shuddered at the touch and wanted more.

 

“This is not how I thought that the afternoon would go,” he smirked. “The two of us in a boathouse and recreating your favorite film,  are you still tipsy from the champagne.”

 

Mycroft shook his head furiously wanting to believe that it was the reason for it. “It is simply catching up to what we were doing before the rain came on, you still have the supplies ?”

 

Greg left the bed and Mycroft instantly missed him, he watched him as he rummaged around in the bag that he had brought with him. He kicked his trousers off in anticipation, leaving them on a pool on the floor before lying back on the bed, stroking himself lazily.


“Tart,” Greg smirked, sauntering back to the bed with the bottle and box in his hand. He stripped off his clothing and made his way to the bed, leaning on top of them to kiss him, his arms pulling him in close, his hand stroking them together, their moans shared between another’s mouths. 

 

“Shall we continue with what we were doing before?” Greg asked, reaching out to grab the bottle that he had thrown on the pillow. “Before the rain stopped us?”

 

Mycroft nodded, not wanting to waste another moment, spreading his legs open for the other man, blaming the champagne for his want, his need for the other man. “I suggest that you get on with it.” 

 

Greg let out a soft chuckle and kissed his chest, coating his fingers and quickly making work of opening him up while still being gentle, kissing him as he did so and taking great care even though Mycroft was impatient. 

 

“I’m ready,”  Mycroft huffed out, pulling him close. “I don’t want to waste another moment, get on with it.”

 

“You are demanding, ordering me about,”  Greg smirked. “It’s not like when I used to just have you over the desk like what we used to, love. I’m in charge now.”

 

Mycroft let out a noise of protest, turning into a groan when  Greg sliced himself up and pushed into him without much warning, his head pathetically collapsing onto the pillow. He wrapped his legs around him tightly, allowing the other man to shape him into how he wanted them.   He grabbed his face in his hands, kissing him messily as he moved, their kisses being teeth than anything.

 

He was always surprised about how much of a frency that his body got into when he was with the other man, no matter how many times they had been together. Each time working him as much as the first time.  Their bodies fell into a rhythm together easily, Greg knowing what he liked and what he needed at that exact moment, relentless movements, hard, but he still liked to be kissed and reassured that he was loved and needed. The only thing that Mycroft could do was to hold fast, the hand that he used to touch himself had been replaced with Greg's.

 

“Greg...I’m…”  Mycroft managed to utter out, struggling to get the words out between Greg’s kisses.

 

Greg nodded, seemingly understanding what he meant despite only being able to utter out a few words. Mycroft congratulated himself for selecting such an intelligent man to be his partner as Greg started to pound into him with no mercy, intent on one thing only. 

 

The headboard hit against the wooden walls, a rhythmic thump with each moment that he made. He almost feared that the bed would break with them but found himself unable to really care. His orgasm took him suddenly and without giving him much warning,  Greg quickly followed with a shout of his name into his neck.


“Christ,”  Greg breathed out, gently pulling out of him and kissing him once more. “That was amazing.”


Mycroft hummed to himself, satisfied.  “Much better than what we got up to in the field despite the interruption.”

 

Greg leaned over and kissed him before he left the bed, finding something to clean them up with. Mycroft admired him without shame or trying to hide it in the slightest.  “What are you thinking about?” he asked. 

 

Mycroft shrugged and looked out of the window, smiling to himself. The heavy rain had died down, the sky a glorious blue once more. They should be able to make it back to the house before the rain starts again.  “The rain has stopped,” he said simply. “That was simply the best thing to do when it started raining again. If the weather stays like this   then I know how I shall like to spend the time.”