Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belong to Sir ACD and in this reincarnation Moffat, Gatiss and the BBC. We own nothing and are only writing this for fun.

Warning: Vamp!Lock, supernatural themes, some violence, supernatural themes and love between two men. This chapter; Mystrade fluff and some gruesomeness near the end.

Love isn't brains children, it's blood.

Part Twenty-Six.

Greg finished his shower, dressed in a 'ratty' old t-shirt from his uni days and jeans equally old, and headed for Mycroft's office, scrubbing a towel over his still silver hair. His body had definitely gone back to his late twenties in form, same as his face, but apparently the vampiric change thought he looked better with gray hair. He actually had to agree as he had a naturally darker skin tone than most people born Caucasian in England and the black hair of his youth had looked pretty boring against it but the silver contrasted.

He hip-bumped the door open and moved into the chair Mycroft had settled beside the desk for when he was still toweling his hair dry. Greg still insisted on sitting on the corner of the desk when he wasn't damp and nothing was going to change that.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his mate but was happy that Greg made use of the chair instead of his desk. He didn't mind Greg coming to his office, not when he was working like this. It never stopped baffling Mycroft how there could be so much paperwork in his chosen 'profession'. "Really Greg, that shirt again?"

He chuckled, "I love that you can't stand the shirt, which is only see through in three spots and has no holes so it is not ratty, but you never say anything about the denims." Which he understood since the shirt was baggy but the jeans fit like a second skin, the age of them making the fabric soft and clinging. "I've told you before that the shirt is special so I'm not going to go over it again."

Well of course he didn't complain about the denims. In fact Mycroft wouldn't mind it if Greg wore nothing but those denims, at least when they were alone together. The shirt though, the shirt was horrible and Mycroft was already planning on how it could be lost in laundry. "I just don't get it, you'll have your memories of your university days with or without a shirt I wouldn't even polish my silver with." Not that he had ever polished his own silver, it seemed like a good thing to say though.

Greg gave him a speaking look, "You try to get my shirt disappeared Mycroft and there will be consequences." It was an old band shirt, an AC/DC one in what even he had to admit was an ugly shade of yellow, and he fully intended to wear it until it had a hole in it and after that he planned to frame it.

"I might just be willing to face those consequences." Mycroft muttered but he didn't really mean it. No matter how ugly he found that shirt, Greg loved it for some reason. "I just wonder what you would think if I gave in to such sentimentality and wore my clothes from my youth..." Mycroft struggled to keep a straight face. The fashion of his youth, well...that was something he did not miss.

Greg's lips twitched into a grin, "I'd take pictures and send at least one to John before dragging you to some re-enactment camp in England. I can see you now, speaking Norman French and Middle English wearing a great big plumed hat and a fancy tunic and tights."

Mycroft shuddered. "You drop me in such a horrid camp that has no historical accuracy at all and I might just have to fight my way out of there." He sniffed. "I was always clad in the best of fashion though, my plume was bigger than all the others."

"Darling, your 'plume' is legend," it was a drawl with a thousand dirty connotations to it and Greg waggled his brows purely to get a laugh out of his mate.

"Lord you're an idiot." Mycroft couldn't stop a wide happy grin from spreading over his features though. He sign his name on the last of the documents on his desk with flourish before getting up from his chair only to plop back down in Greg's lap. "Luckily I seem to have developed an affinity for your special brand of idiocy."

"Very lucky," he draped the towel over the back of the chair and let one arm curl around his mate's back and the other drape across his lap so the hand was resting warmly on his thigh. He kissed the tip of Mycroft's nose, "It wasn't always mine. It got passed on to me just before I left for uni, it belonged to my Dad before then. There are a lot of good memories in this shirt."

"Hm, you had to play that card didn't you?" Mycroft picked at the shirt with long, slender fingers. "I suppose I can learn to live with it, even though it looks like a dog with gallbladder problems have sicked up all over it."

"I never said it wasn't ugly. That's why I never wear it in public baby, because it is an ugly, ugly shirt. Freely admitted." Greg sighed and shook his head, "I should probably retire it I know. One good catch on the threadbare areas and it's got a hole. I'm just clinging a bit I suppose."

Mycroft plucked on the shirt a little longer before spreading his hand out in a caress over the soft fabric. He had not grown up like Greg, had never had something to treasure like that in memory of his father, gods he did not want anything from that bastard either but just because such sentimentality was foreign to him personally, it didn't mean that he didn't understand it. "Cling as long as you want to Greg, you should wear it as often as you like."

He lifted the hand on Mycroft's thigh to cover the one his mate had on his chest with it instead, "I wish you and Sherlock could have had something worth clinging to. Wish you both could have met my Dad actually. He was a great big bloke, looked like you'd need a wrecking ball to knock him over," he snickered, "Mum's nickname for him was the Hulk, said all he needed was the green skin and he was set. Had a laugh to match, big and rough and warmer than sunshine in spring. He'd have liked you and Sherlock both."

Mycroft doubted that, neither Sherlock or he was very easy to like. "He sounds like a wonderful person. I wish I could have met him too." He did even though his first meeting with Greg's mother and siblings hadn't exactly gone very well.

"He was wonderful, and he would have liked you don't think I don't know what that look means. Mum and the others are all pretty high strung and easily offended, complete opposite of how Dad was really. If you were to mix John and Mike Stamford together and pump the result up a little bit in bulk, you'd have my Dad, kind of a scary thought there." Greg tapped his fingers against the back of Mycroft's hand.

"You took the words out of my mouth there." Mycroft smiled. "I like John and Stamford is a nice man I suppose...He's put up with Sherlock well enough over the years but a mix of the two of them...I believe your father was better and less scary than that image." He rubbed the tip of his nose along Greg's jawline.

He chuckled and turned his head to nuzzle Mycroft's chin just as someone knocked on the door.

"Sir? A...delivery just arrived for you and Lieutenant Lestrade." Anthea's voice came dry through the door.

Mycroft noticed the slight pause there as Anthea spoke and a cold shiver ran down his spine. Whatever this delivery was, Mycroft doubted that he would like it. He got off Greg's lap and waited for Greg to get up as well before walking over to open the door. "A delivery you say? Do we know who sent it?" Mycroft knew it wouldn't be anything dangerous, if it had been it wouldn't have made its way inside the house but he still had a bad feeling.

Greg got up to follow, standing just behind Mycroft's shoulder, curious as a cat.

"Oh yes indeed we do," She opened the door of the crate at the exact same time Mycroft opened the door and the fluffy, wriggling ball of living cotton that was a pyrenees puppy came scrambling into the office, tongue lolling in a happy doggy grin as it tumbled to a stop at Greg's bare feet to sniff at his toes.

Anthea held out an envelope to her employer that was embossed with Sherlock and John's name on the heavy parchment.

Mycroft took the envelope and opened it, one eye on the fluffball currently wondering whether it should eat his mate or not. He let his eyes roam over the words on the expensive parchment and felt his nose twitch in disdain. Oh this just had his brother written all over it.

'A token of our most fervent congratulations on your mating and our gratitude for your recent generosity dear brother. Enjoy.'

Mycroft looked back at the furry creature. He could already imagine what would happen with his shoes. He just made a choked noise and handed Greg the letter.

Greg read the short missive and gave one, low rolling laugh before bending down to pick the puppy up, much to its wriggling delight. It made happy whines and immediately started licking Greg's face like mad, prompting more laughter from the former DI. "Easy boy, easy." He pet the silky soft fur and cradled the puppy in his arms more securely, and in a manner so that the pup could only reach his jaw and chin for licking. "Excitable little thing aren't you?" He met Mycroft's eyes with a grin, "We'll bully Sherlock into paying for damages."

Mycroft still viewed the puppy with suspicion. "Have you ever actually managed to bully Sherlock into doing something he didn't want to do? It takes more effort than creature proofing our home. I will find a very high shelf for my shoes." He'd noticed his mate's glee at the dog and already knew the fluffball was here to stay. "He won't be sleeping in our bed, absolutely not."

"If you say so baby," he scratched behind the floppy white ears to the puppy's ragdoll delight and hid his opinion that as soon as the pup started whining through the night because it was lonely, Mycroft would be the first one to scoop it up into the bed. "Did Sherlock send puppy supplies too?"

Anthea smiled in mischievous amusement, "They've been delivered and set up in your quarters."

"Better to take the creature there then, before it decides that my very expensive, very antique desk is a chew toy." Mycroft eyed the puppy in Greg's arms again, it really was rather adorable looking and the smile it brought out in Greg even more so. Still Mycroft had a persona to live up to, didn't he?

Greg leaned over to kiss Mycroft's cheek, bursting out into laughter when the puppy took the opportunity to lick Mycroft's face, "Alright come on Midas," he shifted the puppy in his arms and headed out of the office back to his and Mycroft's rooms, "Let's get you used to your new home."

Anthea was studying the wood grain of the door intently, her excellent poker face just barely strained, "Would you like me to send a message to Mr. Holmes sir?"

"No, that's alright. I think I need to deliver my thanks in person after he and John has given us such a ...thoughtful gift." Mycroft was still incredibly wary regarding the puppy. White and fluffy with paws that already showed that he would grow to become a very, very large dog. He sent his PA a somewhat tense smile. "I better go and join my wayward mate before he and the creature go after my shoes. I don't want either end of the dog near my handsewn leather." Mycroft nodded at Anthea and hurried after Greg to their quarters.


It was several weeks later, after he'd returned to duty, that Greg's warning bells started going off. Since he was vampire now he'd been bumped up to more dangerous cases though he rather thought this one might be more dangerous than first glance would tell. And first glance was bad very bad. It was a bloodbath, in one case literally as one of the bodies was floating in a tub filled to the brim with crimson. The victims were varied, human, vampire, a couple of werewolves midchange, and what looked to be a siren. They'd been slaughtered, in the case of the non-humans some were torn to pieces and he looked over at the UG's version of a medical examiner and forensics officer, "Do a body part count. There's something off about this."

"You don't say..." The medical examiner mumbled under her breath, delegating the actual grunt work of hefting the body parts out of the large tub to the forensics officer. She didn't care if the parts were lifted and counted by manual labor or magic as long as it got done. She would have her work cut out for her later on, seeing if there were a whole creature somewhere in that blood soup. Her pointed ears twitched in distaste and her delicate fae sense of smell was rebelling. Not much ruffled her but she had never seen anything like this before and she had seen a lot.

Greg tilted his head and looked at a section of wall that had been recorded already before lifting a gloved hand and wiping at it, revealing lines cut into the brick. "Oh yeah I say. I'd say we need a magic analysis run here once it's hosed down too." He stepped back so that the circular spell runes in the wall could be seen by the team.

The others nodded, looking grimfaced. The team were made up of a rather ragtag group, all sorts of creatures working together. They had all taken very well to working under or alongside Greg Lestrade. The man knew what he was doing and he didn't make rash judgments without having all the facts.

He walked through the scene, looking for any sort of magic residue, but coming up with nothing. Just blood and gore and what appeared so far to be unused spell runes carved into various surfaces of the basement flat. It set his hair on end and by the time they finished with the scene he was certain that this was the start of something big and nasty. He pulled out his phone and sent a text letting Mycroft know he was going to be late, reminding his mate to take Midas for a walk, feed him, and spend fifteen minutes training him, and telling Mycroft that yes he had to do it himself. Greg had already succeeded in teaching Midas to sit and stay and now they were working on lying down.

Mycroft snorted as he read the text message before frowning slightly. Of course he could train the fluffball if he needed to, he wasn't completely incompetent. He was nowhere near as good as Greg was with the mutt of course. Mycroft mostly snuck Midas treats and cuddled him when no one else was around.

'Watch your back and front for that matter. Let me know if there's anything I can do. - M'
Mycroft sent the message with quick fingers before looking down at the white puppy at his feet, looking around the empty room before reaching down and lifting the dog up in his lap.

The puppy rolled over so Mycroft could rub his belly, white tail wagging furiously.

Greg smiled and sent back a reply in the affirmative before heading to his car and heading back to HQ.

To be continued…