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Mycroft liked to think he was the reasonable, mature Holmes when it came to interpersonal communication. Sherlock often became frustrated with the inability of ordinary little minds to absorb and process the many layers of meaning contained in his own cryptic hand-waving, winking, and Obviouslys.
But Mycroft, used to dealing with mundane bureaucrats and obfuscating diplomats on a daily basis, took pity on his acquaintances and gave them every opportunity to understand him. He tried to stoop to their level of simple English nouns and verbs whenever he could. However, Mycroft also preferred to be as economical and genteel as possible in word and deed. He strove to ensure that each phrase, each glance, or each twirl of his umbrella was replete with meaning, but also restrained and high-minded.
Normally only a phrase, a glance, or a twirl was necessary to make his point to anyone who was really paying attention.
But despite Mycroft's best efforts, this one man, Detective Inspector Lestrade, seemed thoroughly unable to decipher even the most rudimentary of Mycroft's statements. He sometimes felt as if they were speaking different languages entirely. How was he ever going to get through to Lestrade?
Mycroft tried a myriad of approaches.
"You're a very interesting man, Detective Inspector."
By this, Mycroft meant, of course: I find you both physically and intellectually appealing. Please feel free to ask me to lunch.
Lestrade simply nodded and continued questioning John Watson about Sherlock's whereabouts when his warrant card went missing.
"Perhaps we should meet privately to discuss Sherlock's lack of cooperation. I'd like to help."
By this, Mycroft meant: I want to be near you. Sherlock is an irritant we have in common. Over tea we may find more pleasing interests in common. I hope to have the opportunity to touch you repeatedly while we discuss those common interests.
In response, Lestrade invited Mycroft to his office and they had a brief, tea-less conversation entirely about Sherlock. Sitting nearly six feet apart!
"I see you have a good deal of work you are taking home. I hope it won't be a late night for you?"
Meaning, obviously: The way you carry those pathetic brown folders around fills me to the brim with longing. Hot coals of desire are banked beneath my skin. Searing hot coals. I can only imagine what it might be like to be held by those manly arms just like those folders. If I arrived at your doorstep tonight, would you toss away your paperwork and attend to my feverish body instead?
Lestrade just smiled and nodded. "Worst part of the job, but it's got to be done."
On the verge of despair, Mycroft consulted Anthea for advice, and she told him to try a more direct approach. "Compliment his looks, Sir," she said. "Everyone responds to a thoughtful compliment."
"You are looking especially attractive today, Inspector. New haircut?"
Dear God, how much more obvious could he get? Clearly, the meaning was: Your silver hair drives me round the twist and back again. I regularly imagine stroking, pulling, and chewing it during what I hope are our inevitable, multiple sexual encounters. Call me.
Lestrade pulled his fingers through the short grey strands with a grin, and said simply, "Yeah, thanks."
Finally, Mycroft felt he could bear the tension no longer. How, how, how could he make his feelings known to Lestrade without blurting them out in an uncouth and vulgar way? Routinely watching the 221B surveillance tapes one afternoon, he stumbled upon his answer.
Well, if Sherlock can do that, then I most assuredly can do it better, Mycroft thought.
He knocked on Lestrade's office door and walked in. "Good evening, Detective Inspector Lestrade. May I ask you to hold my umbrella for just a tick?" By this he meant, simply: Hold my umbrella.*
And then he kissed Lestrade. Gently at first, just as Sherlock had kissed John, standing in the doorway of their flat. But then Mycroft moved closer, tipping Lestrade's head back to run the wet tip of his tongue into the shallow indentations on each side of Lestrade's throat and up towards his irresistible jawline. He fingered the top button of the D.I.'s collar--teasing-- before pulling it open to press hungry lips and teeth to the flesh above his collarbone. Mycroft's mouth then returned to Lestrade's and slid into perfect alignment, swallowing Lestrade's surprised, gravelly "oh, you . . ."
Lestrade brought Mycroft's umbrella around the man's slim waist, holding the tip in his left hand and the handle in his right, pulling it hard and fast against Mycroft's back so that there was not a molecule of space between their bodies, and--more to the point--so that Lestrade was able to communicate in his own way.
Certainly, thought Mycroft, they had reached an understanding, a common language, if you will, in the form of two rapidly stiffening erections sliding against each other and two hearts thumping madly.
Mycroft moaned softly and pressed his tongue a little deeper, reveling in being understood at last.
A/N: *It's possible there may have been some subtext in the phrase "Hold my umbrella."