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Mycroft Holmes loved ghost stories. He read scads of them in his youth and still indulged in the occasional tale now he’d reached the prime of his adulthood. Therefore, the sound of booing emanating from his garden did not completely surprise him. The amateurish quality of it, however, did. As did the fact the otherworldly groaning was in his husband’s voice. Time to investigate.
Gregory was hiding behind a hedge. The investigation was concluded.
“I can see you.”
“Fuck off, no you can’t. I’m a ghost!”
Mycroft stared at the hedge-shrouded image of his husband and wondered if his adoration of nitwits was restricted to this single example or might it be slightly broader, which was terrifying to contemplate.
“I very much can and, if required, I can recite details of your wardrobe.”
“Pfft… you saw me this morning, so that’s not terribly convincing.”
“You are speaking to me! Claiming to be some form of phantom is… nitwittery at its finest!”
“Booooooo…”
“Gregory Lestrade! You are not a ghost.”
“Ooohhhh… I’m floating away…”
Which meant his spouse hopped several feet to the left.
“That was pathetic.”
Greg’s giggle always set Mycroft’s brain alight with delight and this time, damnably, was no different.
“Gregory Lestrade! This tomfoolery is beneath a man of your station.”
“Ghosts are stationless. Very democratic lot, us ghosts.”
“Twaddle! Piffle and twaddle.”
“Boooooooooooo……”
Now his deluded spouse was waving his arms in what he wrongly assumed was ghostly maneuvering.
“This has gone far enough! If I must drag you from the hedge and sit you down for a lecture on foolishness, then so be it.”
As Mycroft moved to dart behind the hedge his spectral spouse floated to the other side and boo’d in triumph.
“Gregory!”
Ghost giggles were particularly evil in tone.
“This is a proper ghost hunter film! They never catch them, you know.”
“I do not know for I have no idea what you are blithering on about. And you are NOT a ghost!”
“Boooooooo…”
The leap Mycroft made from behind the bush would have been very impressive if Greg had been there to see it.
“Told you. Booooooo…..”
“You simply ran behind the hedge like the fiendish blighter you are!”
“Can’t run. Ghosts don’t have legs!”
“I refuse to accommodate your insanity!”
“That’s fine. I can be insane all on my own, thank you very much.”
And he proved it by starting a recital of what he remembered of Hamlet’s father’s ghost’s soliloquy, which was slightly off the mark since his hazy memory and dubious improvisation skills were serving more to send Mycroft insane than prove his own existing condition.
“Terrible. Positively dreadful! An affront to the Bard unsurpassed in its egregiousness.”
“What do you expect? My brain’s ectoplasm. Memory’s not a thing to count on with naught but glowing goo in your ghost skull.”
“You. Are. Not. A. Ghost.”
“My goo begs to differ.”
Trying a surprise leap, Mycroft roared that Greg somehow anticipated him and evaded capture again by scurrying to the now-vacant side of the hedge.
“This is intolerable!”
“At least you’re not dead. I shouldn’t complain, though. It’s not bad, really. Booooooooo…”
This prompted a round-and-round that lasted several minutes before both men refused to confess they were winded but did a bit of stealth panting anyway.
“B… Boooooooooo…”
“Oh, shut up.”
“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
This leap… attempted leap… was over the top of the hedge and succeeded only in gaining Mycroft a face full of shrubbery and an irrevocably mussed shirt.
“I am in agony.”
“booooooooo….”
“Your sympathy is unappreciated.”
“Ok, then. Booooooo…”
“You utter ratbag…”
This leap anticipated shrub defiling and used it as leverage to pull Mycroft up so he could muscle his way to peek over the top of the hedge. Where Greg wasn’t.
“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!”
Being startled forward onto a ghost-lacking side of a hedge was an inglorious death.
“Ghost hunters – 0. Ghosts – 1 fapquillion. We win!”
“Bounder! That was… assault by bellow!”
“Ghostly bellow, if you please. And I’m not the one who said to get intimate with a plant. Bit kinky, if you ask me, but it takes all sorts.”
This bit of round-and-round was a closer contest than the first since Mycroft used his near-ground position to gain traction and propel himself around the first turn, but Greg had started to peek around the side to check for actual death, inglorious or otherwise, so had a head start when the he heard the sound of scrabbling feet.
“Gregory!”
“Boooooooooooo!”
“I am going to nullify your citizenship!”
“Go ahead. Ghosts don’t need passports. Boooooo…”
“You are not a ghost!”
“Boo la la. I’m a French ghost.”
“That is the very last straw, Gregory. I am going to…”
“Ahem.”
Mycroft turned at the sound and glared at the man with a clipboard standing behind him.
“Who in bloody blazes are you?”
Poking his head around the hedge, Greg grinned wide and began singing what he was absolutely convinced was exceptional resurrection fanfare as he stepped into view.
“I am returned to life! Hold your applause, please; I’m a humble man. All to spec, Mr. Fraser?”
“Yes, sir. Just need a signature.”
Greg ambled over to sign his name with a tad more flourish than his norm, but it did the trick of making Mycroft give a peevish snort.
“Thanks! Come on, love, time to go inside.”
“Oh, you wish to haunt the house now?”
“I resurrected! Or, as we prefer to call it, unghostified.”
“I hate you.”
Nodding at the clipboard-carrying man, who turned and strode away around the house, since in the house might further entangle him in domestic… whatever this was…, Greg turned and made ‘come on come on come on come on’ wavy motions with his hand before running forward towards the garden doors like a kid hearing the call of an ice cream van. Mycroft, in contrast, walked like a man either hearing the call of the gallows or allowing his adversary to sprint ahead in order to fall into the deadly trap than lay in wait. Either, at this point, was an acceptable thing, to his mind.
When his feet finally crossed the threshold, he stopped, stood and stared, mouth starting to drop.
“Tah Dah!!! Surprise!!!!!”
There was a small cake present on a side table, as well as a bottle of exquisite port, but those were the meagerest of the wonders. The largest was… his chair.
“My… the chair…”
“Yep. The one you’ve been in love with since you saw it when we shopped for a new desk for your study.”
The chair… the chair that enveloped him in a cozy cocoon of comfort when he took a seat. The chair that was lush and sized so that even a man of his proportions could curl around a good book, nestling near the hearth, and enjoy an evening of pure bliss…
“I had them set it aside until you decided on the new rug and drapes in here in case I had to have them reupholster it, if that was even possible. I’ll put your normal reading chair in one of the guest rooms, so it’ll be there if you decide this new one isn’t as much to your liking as you’d hoped.”
The sentiment was appreciated but Mycroft already knew this was now his chair. His chair. That special one that fits your body in all the proper ways, no matter how the body wished to contort while enjoying its tender support. Oh dear heavens, he was becoming misty eyed…
“So, love, why don’t you have a seat, toe off your shoes and I’ll cut you a little celebratory cake, accompanied by a glass of the port you enjoy when having a spot of celebratory cake.”
This leap was towards his new chair and Mycroft relished the quick loss of his shoes and the even quicker placement of his bum on the perfectly stuffed seat cushion.
“Oh… this is divine…”
Not in Greg’s opinion. Divine was seeing his husband lit up like a candle with contentment. It had taken some effort to gather the cash for the chair since it cost as much as the funeral his ghost had enjoyed before toddling off to be a Holmes pest, but it had been worth it to see his Mycroft happy.
“Here you are… cake, fork and port. And… sorry about the bit of a runaround out there. I knew you’d be upset learning people were in the house unattended and Anthea told me to get stuffed when I asked her to chair sit while I took you to lunch or something. This way, I could keep you distracted but have an eye on the house, which I knew you’d appreciate.”
“You were a scamp, Gregory, a positive scamp. But I shall forgive you given the cake is delicious, the port is delightful and my chair is nothing short of… it is a silly thing, but the chair is a piece I have wanted since childhood. Not this particular one, of course, but the chair. The perfect chair in which to make a warm little nest to read the day away. Not that I have plentiful time for such now, but… there are still small moments of time, an afternoon here, evening there, where I can lose myself to a good book. Oh Gregory… this is long-cherished dream come true…”
Reaching down, Greg ran a hand along Mycroft’s cheek and placed a kiss on the very top of his head.
“Anything for you, love. Once we have our cake, want to make a start on that nest? Anthea promised to leave today free except for the thorniest of situations, so how about you gather whatever you need – book, blanket, thick socks, whatever it takes to make you comfortable, and I’ll take the sofa for a book of my own or a game on my tablet.”
“Yes! Most assuredly, yes. We shall savor this culinary surprise to its fullest, then I will don my most comfortable attire and… you will not mind if I pay you no attention for the remainder of the day?”
“Given what I put you through in the garden? Not in the slightest. Frankly, you can ignore me all you like when you actually have some time for yourself. I know how rare that is and you do a great job sharing your free time with me, but I also want you to have that alone time for this sort of thing, too.”
Now Mycroft was on his feet, kissing the man he loved with every fiber of his being.
“Then we have a plan for the day! Though I do want to share dinner with you later.”
“Dinner we make or dinner some other chap makes?”
“The latter, I feel. That option provides more time for reading.”
Greg used his turn for spouse kissing to not only deliver the kiss but take a long moment to stare into the most beautiful eyes in existence.
“I’ve created a monster, haven’t I?”
“Given we already have a ghost in the family, a monster should, as they say, fit right in.”