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“I’m beginning to think of my life as something out of a Dali painting,” Lestrade mentioned as they strolled through the quiet halls of the National Gallery. It was three hours after closing, but none of the guards seemed to mind.
“How is that?” Mycroft cocked his head questioningly.
“All melted clocks, and I’m not sure I understand any of it,” Lestrade chuckled as Mycroft pulled a painting from his attaché case and began mounting it on the wall.
In all the months they’d been seeing each other, Lestrade never knew when or where their dates might end up. He’d stopped questioning, for the most part. If he asked why they were hanging 17th century Dutch seascapes, Mycroft would likely begin a rant about Flemish Royalists. He couldn’t think of anything particularly illegal about adding paintings to the collection. It couldn’t be trespassing; they’d been let in.
“I’ve always pictured my life as more of a Magritte,” Mycroft countered when he’d made sure the painting was level.
“All brollies and bowler hats?” Lestrade smirked. “I can see that.”
“Crisp green apples,” Mycroft nodded.
“And unusually bright skies,” Lestrade continued.
A sly, shy grin spread across Mycroft’s face before he muttered, “I think I might be able to love you.”
“Well, let me know what you decide,” Lestrade answered, bemused and besotted.