Chapter Text
Greg was in bed with Mycroft when he went to sleep. He thought that would remain consistent; but he woke up with a quivering mess of a fanboy.
“Mycroft…?” The Detective Inspector began, “What’s wrong?”
“The final episode of Cabin Pressure airs in nineteen hours!” Mycroft panicked.
“So?” Greg smirked.
“Oh, Martin’s going to go to Swiss Air and leave MJN to fail, isn’t he?” Mycroft sighed sadly.
Greg laughed, Mycroft always made fun of his Doctor Who ‘feels’, why should he give sympathy. “I wonder if one of them will die…” Greg pretended to muse with a smirk on his face.
“No! No one is going to die! I have confidence in the niceness of John Finnemore that he will not do that!”
“You don’t, do you?”
“No! No, I really don’t! Oh, it’s going to be Martin, isn’t it? Not Martin, I love Martin!” Mycroft babbled.
“Or it could be Douglas…” Greg grinned.
“No! Not Douglas!”
“Or Carolyn…”
“Gregory!”
“Or Arthur…”
“Stop it!”
“Maybe Martin dies… And Douglas commits suicide as he was in love with Martin and never got to say it…”
“How dare you say that!” Mycroft gasped angrily, he threw himself down on the bed, turning to face away from his boyfriend.
Greg realised he had sprinted past the line. “I’m sorry, Myc…”
Mycroft only huffed.
Greg kissed between the man’s shoulder blades. “I’m really sorry. They won’t die, I’m being very mean.”
Mycroft sighed and rolled over. “That’s alright, I suppose. But don’t say that to Sherlock, he’ll throw a fit!”
“Sherlock’s a fan, too!” Greg gasped with ill-concealed horror. Sherlock was bad enough as he was, but fanboy, Sherlock?!
“He’s a Martin and Arthur shipper. I like the ship, but Douglas is the man for Martin.”
“What about Theresa and Martin?”
“No.” Mycroft said with finality as he snuggled into Greg.
“At least she confirmed that Martin’s great in bed; I knew it,” Greg smirked.
“I never think of him like that; I always associate him with Sherlock…”
“Really?”
“Yes,” Mycroft kissed Greg’s neck.
“Oh, you hopeless fanboy,” Greg sighed fondly and he held the eldest Holmes closer, kissing his hair.
“I love you, darling.”
“Love you, too.”
~*~
“Sherlock?” John enquired, poking his head into the living room, “What are you doing?”
“Fanfic,” was the monotonous answer.
“Anything good?” John asked casually.
Sherlock gaped at him, “It’s all good.”
“Of course,” John held up his hands defensively.
“Nineteen hours. Just nineteen hours…” Sherlock muttered, reading his Skipthur fanfiction with gusto.