SparkleFiction

"You're so terribly British," Lestrade murmured against the back of Mycroft's neck.

"Am I?" Mycroft glanced sideways at Lestrade's cheek, though he could see his eyes more properly in the mirror.

"You are painfully British. English, in fact." Lestrade insisted.

"Whereas you are, by distinction, French." Mycroft allowed a smile.

"Mais oui," Lestrade murmured, tucking Mycroft's watch into his pocket. "Parce que je vis pour le moment seul, et je ne regrette pas me permettre de tout genre."

"Votre français est terriblement littéral."

"Oh, bite your tongue," Lestrade scolded, grinning, his hands looped around Mycroft's waist. "God, you're posh. What are you doing today? Conquering some minor island nation?"

"Classified," Mycroft said smoothly.

"Of course," Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Will you be sparing your painfully common boyfriend your company at dinner, Mister Holmes?"

"Possibly." Mycroft squirmed loose and reached for his coat. "If I've the time. Keep alert for a car, Gregory. Nineish. And try not to eat all the doughnuts in the office. It's a gauche stereotype."

"Blow it out your arse," Lestrade retorted, trying not to laugh.

"And a lovely day to you as well, my dear."