Work Text:
Mrs H: Hello . . . Greg? This is Mrs. Hudson calling.
Lestrade: Oh, hello . . . uh (yawn) . . . God, what time is it? Is something wrong? Are you okay? Sherlock and John okay?
Mrs H: Oh, yes, yes. Everything and everyone --all just fine--didn't mean to worry you, dear.
Lestrade: (sighs) Thank God. So . . . what can I do for you (big yawn) at . . . uh . . . two a.m.?
Mrs H: It's a bit embarrassing, but I'm afraid I've nowhere else to turn. I know you said you really didn't want to do this anymore, Greg, but Sally and Anthea are both up to their necks in their own nanowrimo projects, and my deadline for the London Slashfest is tomorrow, and . . .
Lestrade: Oh no. No, no, no! I can't beta anymore . . . I told you, I just find the whole thing too creepy. Maybe if you were doing Luther or Garrow's Law slash or something else fictional, but . . . not people I know. I just can't think of any new adjectives for Sherlock's giant . . . ego.
Mrs H: I promise this will be the last time I ask you to do it, Greg. You've got such a good ear for the coppers' dialogue and you know the police procedures . . .
Lestrade: Are you telling me this is just a casefic? None of that . . . you know . . . tearing their bloody clothes off in public places stuff? Which is illegal, by the way . . .
Mrs H: Well . . . there's a bit of that, of course. The prompt asked for some naughtiness in Dimmock's office, and . . . well, the usual tongues and toes and . . .
Lestrade: Oh my God, stop! I don't want to know! (pause) Where? In Dimmock's office? (chortles)
Mrs H: (pause) I lied. It's your office, Greg. It's always in your office. On your desk. Under your desk. In your squeaky chair. You have to realize that your office is very sexy, Greg. It's in half the fics on the Scotland Hard comm. I can't very well leave it out or have people doing it in the bloody morgue again. The cache of flavored lube and condoms in your top drawer is fanon, after all. Please. Just let me email the story to you and have a quick look. Just let me know if the dialogue seems right and the appendages seem to be in the right places--not too long--the story I mean, not the appendages.
Lestrade: (pause, some whispering and grumbling in the background) Okay, fine! Fine! I'll read it. This is the last time, right?
Mrs H: I promise! Oh, thank you, dear! You've saved me at the eleventh hour, once again! I can't thank you enough. You'll have one of my special cakes tomorrow. I'll deliver it myself.
(high-pitched squeal heard in the background at the mention of cake)
Lestrade: Yeah, yeah. Okay. Send the fic to my gmail. I'm awake now, so I'll look at it right away.
Mrs H: Bless you, dear--and goodbye! Happy reading! (click)
Mycroft: (giggling gleefully, and kissing Lestrade's shoulder) Thanks for saying yes, Greg. I'm so tired of reading reports about nukes in Kazakhstan, I could scream. Go back to sleep. I'll do the beta. I'm eager to see what she's come up with this time. I hope John gets a little more BAMFY and there's some spanking and . . . .
Lestrade: No way! We'll beta this together. I don't want you wanking off to thoughts of those two plonkers--especially John "that's not a gun in my pocket" Watson. Mrs Hudson always exaggerates his . . . well, his everything, in my humble opinion.
(Lestrade pulls his laptop onto the bed. Mycroft makes tea while Lestrade prints out the fic. Lestrade and Mycroft both put on their reading glasses and settle in, red pencils in hand, for "Skullf***ery: A Love Story" by martha221.)
Mycroft: (daintily sipping tea) You know, you could ask her to beta your Colin/Bradley fics. It would only be fair.
Lestrade: (slurp) Hmpf. Not ready to de-anon on those yet, My. Besides, you're my one true beta and always will be.
(kisses. snuggles. fade to black)