A Sense of Home

by snorklepie

Summary:

On paper, a bacon sarnie and a cup of good coffee isn’t exactly the kind of thanks one should receive for rescuing someone’s family member from an overdose.

Lestrade thinks that it’s possibly the best one he’s ever received.

Chapter 1

Greg meets Mycroft Holmes at 4am on a bloody horrible November Tuesday in the A&E of Barts. He doubts he even registers on his radar at first. Even though Greg was the one who called him to get there, and get there fast.

He’d scrolled through Sherlock’s phone in the ambulance as they screeched through the rain-drenched streets. It was easier than looking at Sherlock, who was limp and glassy-eyed, drenched with sweat and various other unsavoury fluids. Greg saw the endless line of missed calls, all from the same number. Sherlock of course had nothing so pedestrian as contacts in his phone book; but there were only two other numbers in his call history. Greg’s own mobile and someone else whom he was fairly sure supplied the cocaine that had led to this situation.

He hit call, and hesitated when he heard the weary, plummy voice say: “Good morning, brother mine. Up with the lark this morning, are we?”

Greg had explained as quickly as possible, favouring brevity over tact. He doubted any relation of Sherlock’s would appreciate the kid-glove treatment. Mycroft Holmes swept through the doors of the waiting room and stalked past the reception desk without a word, totally ignoring the indignant staff shouting in his wake. Something compels Greg to leap to his feet and follow Mycroft through the swinging double doors, waving his badge at the advancing security guards.

Perhaps it had been the thin, pinched line of the man’s mouth or the sheer cold anger in his eyes. Mycroft stalks down the corridor ahead, clearly in no doubt of his destination.

Greg is in no hurry to catch up with Mycroft Holmes (for who else could it be?) but equally he isn’t going to let him out of his sight. He takes in his thin, hawkish frame. Perfect, rigid posture. His hair is an odd, deep copper; tidily slicked back despite the ungodly hour of the morning. He catches another glimpse of his ashen face as he pushes the door of the treatment room where Sherlock is still being attended to. The man’s gaze slides over him and dismisses him instantly.

A moment later the door swings shut once more, and Greg slides wordlessly into an empty row of hard plastic chairs nearby. He aches for a cigarette, despite his uneasy churning stomach.

He had been the one who discovered Sherlock on the floor of his Montague Street flat, tipped off by a thin nervous lad who had clearly spent a long time working up the courage to enter NSY. Almost too long. Sherlock had been spotted down in the arches at Vauxhall, and later on curled up on the doorstep of his apartment building chatting listlessly to passers-by about mathematical similarities between the works of Max Born and Locatelli. Lestrade had been well into overtime already, but he gritted his teeth, grabbed his coat and headed over to Montague Street with the intention of reading one Sherlock Holmes the bloody riot act. When he’d gotten there, he’d found the doorstep empty and the windows of Sherlock’s third floor sitting room smashed to pieces.

And it had been quiet. Far too quiet.

Greg swallows hard, staring intensely at the toes of his scuffed, unpolished work shoes. He’s not going to think about the scene he found inside, not if he can help it.

An indeterminate amount of time passes. The aches he feels when he eventually straightens up probably mean it has been quite a while though. A passing nurse murmurs, totally unofficially, that Sherlock has been stabilised for now but they need to keep him in for further tests and assessment.

“I, er-“ she pauses, and glances back towards the glass panel of the door. “Family only for now, though. I wouldn’t – I mean, don’t go in there just yet.”

He nods his thanks, and rubs his bleary eyes. Well, it not as if he’s going to arrest Sherlock. Fat load of good that would do anyone. He’ll wait until he can be sure the daft git really is going to be alright. Then he’ll go in, make a few choice threats about keeping him off cases and tell him yet again to straighten himself out. He’ll just wait a little longer…

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, I presume?”

Greg jerks awake, with what he hopes is only a minor flail. He hastily wipes the back of his hand against the corner of his mouth and inhales sharply. Mycroft Holmes is standing in front of him, arms folded tightly across his chest. His face is as tired as Greg feels, his piercing blue eyes red-rimmed and utterly without humour.

“Oh, er – yeah. That’s me. Sorry, must’ve nodded off there for a minute. Long night.”

“Quite.” Holmes agrees, with a twist of his mouth that maybe had been intended to look like a smile. “My brother is now sleeping. Thank you for alerting me to the situation.”

“Of course. Is he-“

Mycroft Holmes fixes his gaze somewhere on the wall over Greg’s head and adopts a wooden expression. “He will be transferred to a private clinic tomorrow. I suspect the NHS does not need the added burden of dealing with my brother coming to his senses and rediscovering sobriety.”

“And he… agreed to that?” Greg asks incredulously.

“In a manner of speaking.” Mycroft says tightly. “Sherlock informed me that you have been attempting to get him involved with various withdrawal programmes over the last year. I appreciate the sentiment, although I am not remotely surprised at your lack of success.”

Greg bristles slightly, and hauls himself to his feet. “Look, I tried my best. God knows I want him to get clean. But nobody’s going to make him do it until he’s damn well good and ready.”

Mycroft gives him a brief, humourless smile. “One can only hope the events of the night have convinced him that the time is right. I’m afraid that you will have to do without his assistance for some time, Detective Inspector.”

Greg nods grimly. He’s not about to say that Sherlock will be missed; most of NSY will be delighted to hear that the wanker won’t be showing up at crime scenes for the foreseeable future. But Greg also knows that within a week his team will be facing a situation where they would trade anything for the insight Sherlock Holmes provides.

Greg goes and peers through the small square reinforced window of Sherlock’s door. Through the threads of steel he takes in the scene. Sherlock Holmes is curled up on his side, pallid and still in the sick fluorescent light. His long thin arms protrude from the loose sleeves of his gown, and they are bruised, dark shadows gathered in the crook of his elbows. Greg thinks he can see the remains of tears on his grubby left cheek. He has never seen Sherlock so still; the man paces and swirls and lunges, gesticulating wildly, deft fingers combing the air. To see him like this, unmoving and utterly defeated is deeply unsettling.

Greg’s chest feels tight. He presses his knuckles hard against the doorframe, focussing on the discomfort until he can turn around with an impassive face.

Mycroft Holmes studies him curiously, standing stock still on the other side of the hall. Maybe Lestrade’s poker face isn’t as good as it once had been. He shakes his head, and clears his throat noisily.

“Right, well I-“

“Would you care for a lift home, Detective Inspector?”

“Home? Um, no really I’m fine.” Greg glances at his watch, and sighs. “I’ll probably just head back into the Yard; nearly morning anyhow. I keep some spare clothes there,” he adds for some reason, then feels like an idiot.

“Eminently practical,” Mycroft comments drily. “I do the same, one never knows where the night may lead. Come along, I’ll drop you there. It’s the least I can do.”

Greg shrugs, and follows him down the hallway after one last long glance at the door of Sherlock’s room.

___

Mycroft Holmes’s car is unsurprisingly posh, low and sleekly curved. It is also parked incredibly illegally in a loading bay near the entrance of the hospital and frankly should have been towed within seconds; but Greg doesn’t really care all that much as he drops heavily into the passenger seat. He slams the door behind himself thoughtlessly, then winces as Mycroft elegantly slides behind the wheel next to him; shutting the drivers side door with a barely audible click.

“Don’t give it another thought,” he murmurs, pressing the ignition button. The car doesn’t do anything as ill-bred as roar to life; rather it purrs contentedly as Mycroft eases it out onto the street. Greg supposes he should probably make some kind of conversation but he merely stares dully out at the lightening streets of London. He feels a bit sick; wrong-footed and hollow. The city is wakening; workers making their bleary way down the slowly filling streets. A recycling truck tips up a commercial bin as they pass. The ear-splitting shattering of glass makes Greg groan slightly and burrow his chin into his coat collar.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go home, Detective Inspector? I suspect it has been a rather trying night for both of us.”

“It’s Greg.” Lestrade mutters, glaring at an offensively spritely looking jogger crossing the road in front of them. He feels the weight of Mycroft’s penetrating, curious gaze on the side of his face and makes a point of not returning it. “Or Lestrade. And no, I really wouldn’t. Thanks all the same.”

Too right he wouldn’t. He hasn’t watered the plants in days, the fridge contains nothing but geriatric leftover takeaway and his next door neighbour keeps giving him concerned, sorrowful looks in the hallway of his building. At least at work he will be surrounded by other pitiable sods with next to no personal lives. There might even be some leftover doughnuts in the staff kitchen to accompany the generic instant coffee that awaits him.

“As you wish.” Mycroft comments quietly, after a long pause. In his dead tired fugue state, Greg finds himself watching the man’s hands on the steering wheel, deft and decisive. He supposes if he were Sherlock he’d be able to gather all sorts of subtle clues about the man based on the length of his fingernails or the pattern of light freckles on his wrists.

“You don’t play the violin then?” he finds himself asking, out of nowhere. Mycroft frowns and glances at him sharply. The brief flicker of surprise feels strangely like a reward. Greg’s mouth curls into a faint smile in response.

“No, I don’t. Not since I was a child.”

“You’ve got hands like Sherlock’s.” Greg explains, probably totally unnecessarily. Mycroft hums in assent, staring ahead. “Except he keeps his nails a bit shorter. Visible callouses on the left hand.”

“Also on his right thumb tip. Well done, Detective Inspector.”

Silence drifted back through the car, Mycroft’s tone making it clear he is in no mood for idle conversation. Greg finds his gaze being dragged back to the hands on his steering wheel. The silver ring is what preoccupies him most of all, of course. Although there is no damn way he’s going to ask.

“So what do you do for a living?” he asks, eventually. It should be a safer question, surely.

Mycroft gives him another quick, appraising glance. It feels rather like being x-rayed. “I am a career civil servant.”

“Interesting.” Greg says thoughtfully, before cursing himself for saying it out loud.

“That is not the usual response one hears.” Mycroft says, after a long moment. Careful. Measured.

Greg shrugs, and watched the lights flick from green to red. They slow to a halt, letting a stream of schoolchildren pass in front of the gleaming, rain spotted bonnet of the car.

But it is interesting; Greg thinks, avoiding Mycroft’s gaze. Because hardly any civil servants ever call themselves anything so vague as that. They might say that they’re a junior undersecretary to the Minister of whatever; or that they work for the Department of bean counting. Most people like to make themselves out as special, in some way. Unique. To declare that their work has a particular purpose. So Mycroft Holmes is either lying or purposely being extremely vague. And he’s a Holmes, so god knows what Holmeses specialise in? Besides murder and mayhem and being insufferable bastards who make his life difficult, obviously.

They reach NSY a few minutes later, and as Mycroft swings the car around in front of the main steps Greg sighs quietly. It is a behemoth of a building, towering bulky and grey overhead. Somewhere in there is his desk, piled high with overdue paperwork, forgotten mugs of coffee and irritated post-it notes from his team reminding him to do tedious yet sadly necessary things.

He sits back in his seat for a long moment, then turns to face Mycroft. “Look, you know him better than me. Is he going to be okay?”

Mycroft doesn’t answer at once, turning off the ignition with a slow deliberate movement. He crosses his arms, his index finger coming to rest against his lower lip as he scans Lestrade’s face. Who knows what he's looking for, but after a moment or two Greg feels that he has passed some kind of test.

“I think that he is entirely capable of recovery.” Mycroft says, slowly. “But Sherlock needs to find some kind of purpose outside of his work. He has his research and his violin but they simply are not enough for him now. Charging around London with you, solving crimes… that has been a greatly stabilising factor. But you and I…” he holds Gregs gaze, his expression wry but somehow Greg feels the sadness without seeing it. “We are not enough. He does not have enough outlets in his life to satisfy him. His mind is undisciplined. It keeps turning and turning and when that continues for too long without the necessary stimulation; that is when the cocaine is at its’ most tempting.”

Greg nods, his mouth dry. Mycroft Holmes looks achingly tired. He doesn’t say anything more.

Greg rummages in his inner coat pocket and extracts an only slightly dog-eared card. He holds it out insistently until Mycroft takes it between two long fingers, staring at it with a faintly bemused expression.

“I know people always say this.” Greg says, forceful and strangely embarrassed. “But I actually mean it. You let me know if I can help at all, alright? Anything at all.”

Mycroft’s face does something complicated for a brief moment, before smoothing back into impassiveness. He nods once, and Greg decides that that is enough.

He reaches for the door handle, and heaves himself out onto the pavement.

“Right. Well, then. I’ll be hearing from you soon enough, I expect. Let me know how he’s getting on, okay?”

Mycroft nods again, and waits for Greg to shut the passenger door. Mercifully, he manages it without slamming it again. He watches Holmes swing back out into the growing traffic, standing there for several long seconds until the car is well out of sight.

The walk through security and the rabbit warren of New Scotland Yard doesn’t take as long as usual. It’s still early enough for most of the desks Lestrade passes to still be empty, walking by row after row of blank computer screens and overflowing in-trays. The bull-pen of his department is almost entirely empty, only one or two junior PCs hunched wearily over their desks.

They are ridiculously young, Lestrade thinks vaguely as he pushes open the door to his office. He shrugs off his coat and drops it somewhere in the vicinity of the coat rack, and sighs when he takes in the scene of devastation that is his desk. Every week he swears he’ll clear it, and he tries; he really does. And yet somehow it always gets swallowed by files and notes and the endless papery detritus of modern police-work. There’s a threatening note from Donovan, in block capitals sellotaped to his computer monitor. It tells him he should have completed doing the end of year appraisals for his team by the end of the day. Yesterday, actually, he realises with rising irritation and a sinking heart.

He slumps into his chair and toes off his shoes under the desk. His office is filled with chilly grey light filtering through the half-open blinds. He’s beyond tired, fed-up and illogically he feels something akin to homesick. Although he’s not entirely sure where that refers to any more.

Ten minutes, he tells himself as he closes his eyes and lowers his head onto his crossed arms. Ten minutes and he’ll scrape himself together. He’ll go take a shower, have a shave and dig out his spare suit and he’ll be able to face the day ahead. No problem.

It’s altogether too much, and deeply unfair to be woken twice by strangers in one morning. He jumps violently, shooting upright in his chair when he hears a polite voice murmuring, “Detective Inspector?”

She’s a tall, expensive looking woman in a neat camel coat. Beautifully shiny dark hair falls around her shoulders and she’s holding whatever the most modern version of a Blackberry is and a large white paper bag. Her expression is neutral, polite; but something in her face makes Greg think she’s somehow taking the piss.

“Who are you? And…” he gets to his feet and peers out into the bull pen, which has mysteriously filled up with staff since he shut his eyes. Donovan is leaning against her desk, arms crossed. She’s clearly trying to sneak a peek into his office and when he glares at her meaningfully she shrugs and gestures helplessly, wide-eyed. “How did you get in here?”

“My apologies. My employer asked me to deliver this to you personally,” she smiles and sets the paper bag down on a fairly stable pile of folders on the corner of his desk. “Sergeant Donovan checked my credentials, and I assure you the parcel was carefully inspected at security. So sorry to have disturbed you.”

And with that she turns and walks out, the red soles of her vicious heels winking at him as she goes. He stares after her for a moment, slowly closing his mouth.

“Lestrade, who the hell was that?” Donovan asks, coming to lean on the door frame. “New girlfriend? Bit posh for the likes of you, isn’t she?”

“Ha bloody ha.” he mutters, turning to stare at the stiff paper bag curiously. “Sod off and remind me to reprimand you for insubordination.”

“I’ll do that during my appraisal then, guv.” she replies smartly, with a roll of her eyes. He glares at her until she gives up and heads back to her desk.

It’s a fairly innocent looking bag, nothing sinister about it. Lestrade knows that security will have thoroughly inspected any and all contents; they can’t afford not to in London these days. The powers that be have very dim views of mysterious parcels being delivered to police headquarters. Whoever that woman was, she clearly has some clout to be allowed to stroll unescorted into the Serious Crime division.

He pulls the bag towards him, and his eyes widen slightly at the smell. He unpicks the fussy little sticky label holding it shut at the top, and peers inside. There’s a small, brushed steel flask inside. Next to it is an oblong shape wrapped in foil-lined white paper. He can feel the warmth emanating from it, and as he pulls it out of the bag he dislodges a slip of paper that flutters to the ground.

“I will keep you informed of any developments. Many thanks for your assistance, Detective Inspector. – MH.”

He stares at the note for a long time, as he unwraps what is definitely the fanciest bacon sandwich he has ever encountered in his life. The bread is lightly toasted sourdough, thickly sliced and spread with something tangy and tomato based and far too sophisticated to be called ketchup. The bacon is crisp, smoky, almost burnt at the edges and the scent of it has Greg’s stale mouth watering within seconds. The flask is full of beautifully strong coffee, slightly bitter and aromatic. When he takes a mouthful, in between bites of the magnificent sandwich, it braces him and almost makes him feel equal to the day ahead.

It’s odd, and unexpectedly thoughtful. On paper, a bacon sarnie and a cup of good coffee isn’t exactly the kind of thanks one should receive for rescuing someone’s family member from an overdose; but Lestrade thinks that it’s possibly the best one he’s ever received.

I will keep you informed..

Well, thinks Greg. If he means it, this may prove to be interesting.

Chapter 2

The next few weeks plod on by. Christmas comes and goes, along with a string of high profile robberies from the homes of Russian oligarchs. It takes Greg far too long to get to the bottom of it, and he keeps on hearing Sherlock’s irritated voice in the back of his mind: Boring! No! Wrong! Honestly Lestrade, isn’t it obvious?!

Donovan’s forehead is permanently creased from the late nights and the stress. At the Yard Christmas party they slump together on plastic chairs haphazardly lining the wall of the conference room, clutching plastic glasses of warm rosé. It’s the only thing left at this hour of the party. Neither of them enjoy it but the alternative is being sober at a work Christmas party, which is unthinkable. They are grimly watching their colleagues getting shit-faced, aggressive or lecherous; occasionally all three at once. There’s god-knows-what going on in the stationery cupboard at the moment. They’ve just seen Anderson going in there with a couple of temps from admin, which resulted in Donovan up-ending the bottle she had hidden under her chair into her mouth.

“Ease up, come on. We’re already going to feel like shit in the morning,” Greg elbows her, listening to the slur in his own voice. Although part of him just wants her to share what’s left of the wine.

“Exactly.” Sally wipes her mouth with the flat of her hand and burps quietly. “So the damage has already been done. No going back now.”

Greg sighs and tips back towards the wall, taking in the scene of debauchery. God, he hates work parties. He only came because he wanted to make sure it wasn’t Donovan who ended up in the stationery cupboard with Anderson, like last year. She’d spent the rest of the night crying into Lestrade’s shoulder, after Anderson had cheerfully gone home to his unfortunate wife. He hates the enforced jolliness, the stupid Christmas jumpers, the plastic mistletoe and the inevitable fights between Estates and Traffic. He used to go home to Sylvia afterwards, climb into bed with her with a weary groan. He’d grin when she’d kick him for coming to bed smelling like a brewery. He would wrap his arms around her just to hear her giggle and complain.

“What the fuck does he see in her anyway?” Donovan is saying, bitterly. He’s not sure if she means Anderson’s wife or the temps, and he’s supposed to be paying attention to this conversation so he can hardly ask now. She’s getting shiny-eyed and angry, staring ahead into the heaving depths of the dancefloor.

“You never know what’s going on in other people’s relationships .” Lestrade says, which is the only thing he can tell her with absolute certainty.

She lapses into silence, clutching the empty bottle. And that’s enough of that, he thinks tiredly. He wants to go… well, not home. But somewhere that isn’t here. He’s fairly sure that if he asks, he could go home with Donovan. There’s been a few times they’ve come close, usually times like this when they’re both dog tired and fed up and just want some human contact. But it would inevitably be messy and he doesn’t know what he’d do without her as his second in command if things went wrong.

“Right.” he says decisively, and points at the mostly untouched table of soft drinks. “We’re going to go get a couple of those big bottles of water over there. We’re going to chug them down, and then we’re going to get cabs and go home. No arguments.”

Donovan glares at him, and says belligerently, “You’re not the boss of me!”

“I think you’ll find I am.” Lestrade says pointedly. “Come on, Sally.”

“This is… this is bullying! And you’re not my dad! This is… this is patriarchal bullshit!”

“No, this is me saying it’s a good idea to go home.” Greg says patiently. “But if you want to stay I’m not going to stop you. Future Sally isn’t going to be happy with you, though.”

“Future Sally’s a bitch.” Donovan says, morosely. But she allows herself to be levered to her feet, and fifteen minutes later he has prodded her safely into the back of a cab.

His own taxi takes a few minutes to arrive and he huddles into his coat, huffing at his freezing hands and watching his breath stream away in the cold night air. The streets are full of late night revellers, throngs of couples and friends weaving happily along the pavements. Greg has a powerful sense of longing to just be somewhere, anywhere but here.

At just about exactly this time last year, Sherlock Holmes had loomed out of the shadows; as if out of nowhere. He was smoking furiously, twitchy with impatience. He demanded that Lestrade come with him at once to a shady block of flats in the backstreets of Camden. And that had been how he had ended up spending Christmas hauling off and interrogating members of a human trafficking ring. Hadn’t mattered much, really – Sylvia had left a couple of months beforehand. It was only now that Greg wondered what Sherlock had been missing while he’d been coming up with his far fetched but annoyingly accurate deductions. Had there been an empty place at a dinner table somewhere? Greg hadn’t known that Mycroft existed last year. The idea of Sherlock having a family at all somehow hadn’t occurred to him; it seemed faintly ludicrous for such a singular individual. Sherlock was self-sufficient, had never shown any inclination for socialising.

And it strikes Greg that maybe Sherlock had been lonely that night, a year ago. Maybe he’d had nowhere else he’d wanted to be, either.

He hasn’t heard anything from Mycroft in the last few weeks. He periodically emails Lestrade to let him know that Sherlock is responding reasonably well to treatment, that he’s spending time in a rather select sounding clinic somewhere out in the sticks. Greg never knows what to say in response, beyond ‘Glad to hear he’s doing ok. Send him my best, won’t you?’ or similar platitudes.

He pulls out his phone impulsively, opens his email app and thumbs a quick message to Mycroft.

Hi there,
Just wanted to say happy Christmas. Hope Sherlock’s ok – tell him we’re looking forward to having him back. Greg.

He stares at the message blurrily for a moment, before honesty forces him to amend the ‘we’re’ to ‘I’m’. He presses send before he can change his mind, and shoves the phone back into his coat pocket as his taxi pulls up at the kerb.

He has barely settled into his seat when his phone vibrates. Squinting at the screen, he sees a text message from an unknown number.

Good evening, Detective Inspector. My compliments of the season to you too. Sherlock is spending the holiday in the company of our parents, who have travelled down to Wiltshire to visit him. MH.

Christ. Sherlock has parents. Sherlock and Mycroft have actual parents. He frowns at the message, trying to order his thoughts enough to respond. His phone buzzes again.

I trust you enjoyed the celebrations at New Scotland Yard this evening?

Jesus. How the hell did he know that? Although, he supposes, if Mycroft really is some kind of high-ranking civil servant, it’s not out of the question that he knows when the NSY Christmas party would be. And it’s a reasonable assumption that Greg would be there.

I think I’m glad Christmas only happens once a year. Greg eventually replies, ignoring the small thump in his chest when he hits send.

I suspect Sherlock wishes it happens with even less frequency. My mother decided to bring her ‘Golden Age of Musicals’ DVD box set and some kind of children’s game called ‘Kerplunk’. She seems to think it will ‘jolly him up’.

Lestrade lets out a loud snort at the thought, although it makes him ache a little too.

Poor Sherlock. Aren’t you going to go and join in the fun?

There’s a slightly longer pause. Lestrade wonders if that’s too personal a question.

Alas, no. I am needed at the office.

A beat later: Sherlock is not particularly full of fraternal affection at the moment, I fear.

This is just so weird. Greg has spent far more time than he’d ever admit wondering about exactly who Mycroft Holmes might be over the last couple of months. His attitude during that awkward drive had given Greg so few clues that his bone-deep coppers instinct had taken over. He doesn’t want to examine his curiosity too closely, but it’s there and it never quite goes away.

He remembers the expression on the nurses face that night when she told him ‘family only for now’. He’s entirely sure Sherlock didn’t take the suggestion of rehab any too well. How much of a choice had Mycroft given him? Lestrade doesn’t really want to know. If he’d had that power, he would have bundled Sherlock off to rehab whether he liked it or not. Anything to stop him damaging himself even further.

Sorry to hear that. I’m sure he’ll come round. Promise him a nice fresh cadaver as a treat when he gets out.

Do you know, I suspect that might work. I’m afraid I must return to my work now. Goodnight, Detective Inspector.

The dismissal is clear, but it doesn’t sting. Greg nods, and thumbs out one last message.

It’s GREG. Goodnight, Mycroft..

***

January and February trudge by with very little contact between them. Greg checks his personal email and his mobile more often than he usually would, and tells himself that it’s simply a bad habit he’s developed. He’s only heard from Mycroft twice since Christmas, once confirming that Sherlock is still in the depths of Wiltshire; and once more at the beginning of March. The latter text message informs him that Sherlock has been discharged, and is staying with their parents at their country home. Mycroft doesn’t provide any more detail than that, and after a long spell of deliberation Greg decides that he’s not going to ask if he can visit him. Mycroft didn’t even give a clue of which county the Holmeses ‘country home’ was located in; and Greg’s fairly sure that means he doesn’t want him to know.

He imagines Sherlock grumpily striding across blasted heaths, glaring at sheep and unfortunate locals and grins to himself. Mycroft doesn’t say how long Sherlock is going to be there; or if he’s planning on returning to London any time soon. But it’s Sherlock, and it’s London – for him to settle anywhere else is unthinkable. Sherlock loves London like Greg does; maybe even more. It’s a visceral, helpless love of the teeming endless streets and secret seedy corners; history and modernity, darkness and strength mashed together to form a great, seething beautiful mess of a city. He’s not naïve enough to believe that just because Sherlock’s been discharged that means he’ll stay clean, that he’ll be on the straight and narrow from now on. But god, he wants it to be true.

It’s on a wholly average April Tuesday that Sherlock Holmes comes back into Greg’s life. It’s so unexpected that he merely gapes when he opens his office door and finds him casually rifling through some files on his desk. He’s pale, and clearly skinny as a rail under his very new looking suit. His hair is shorter than Greg has ever seen it, carefully styled and grazing his ears. He’s dressed almost like he’s come for an interview. As Sherlock turns to face him, Greg thinks, ridiculously: He looks fragile.

“Lestrade, it’s about time.” Sherlock says brusquely, which snaps him right back into his customary state of mild annoyance. Until he notices the very faint hint of unease in Sherlock’s face; the flash of teeth against his lower lip. He looks younger, somehow.

“Sherlock Holmes, as I live and breathe.” Greg says cheerfully, coming to clap him on the shoulder. Sherlock looks at Greg’s hand curiously, and he removes it in a hurry. “Glad to see you back.”

“Yes, well.” Sherlock sniffs, and looks back down at the entirely confidential file he had been perusing. “I see that you’ve been stumbling on without me.”

“Strangely enough, we do manage to solve a case or two without your help.” Greg sighs, and sits down. “But that’s not to say we don’t still need a consulting detective now and again.”

Sherlock probably doesn’t think the relief on his face is visible, but Greg can read him by now; see the tension slipping from his rigid frame.

“By invitation only, right? You don’t get to just waltz in on any case you like. And no picking on witnesses either, alright?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and grudgingly nods, sitting down on the other side of the desk. And it’s this point that Donovan chooses to breeze into the room without knocking, shuffling through a pile of paperwork. “Guv, you still haven’t signed off on the- oh bloody hell!”

“Good morning, Sergeant.” Sherlock says coolly.

“What is he doing here?!” Donovan asks sharply, ignoring him entirely and turning to face Greg. “Nobody said he was here! Has he got clearance?”

“I don’t know. Has he?” Greg asks, neatly reminding her that while he only just arrived; she was presumably at her desk nearby for most of the last hour. Her desk with the full view of Lestrade’s office.

“Gregson’s going to have a fit, you know that right?”

“Donovan, go sort out the holiday rota. Give me a minute here, okay?”

Sally stares at Sherlock for a long moment; he returns it unblinkingly, his pale eyes clear and calculating. Greg pinches the bridge of his nose. Don’t do it. Don’t say anything, Sherlock. Don’t make any deductions, not right now-

“You’re going to have to start taking your mother’s phone calls some time, Sergeant. I estimate you’ve got about a week until she-“

“Shut it, Sherlock.” Greg says flatly.

Donovan’s face is upset and furious, and her finger is shaking minutely as she points at Sherlock. “See this? This is what you’re inviting back in, Lestrade. He’s unprofessional and a total-“

“Sally, I was about to have a word when you walked in. Without knocking. Go on, give us a minute. I’ll talk to you later.” Lestrade says tersely, and waits until she turns on her heel and marches out of his office, bristling.

He slumps back in his seat and takes in Sherlock’s wooden expression. He sighs.

“I told them you were off doing research. Something to with chemistry, somewhere in Scandinavia. Wasn’t sure where.”

Sherlock nods once. Clears his throat. “I- yes. Very well.”

“Just… please Sherlock. Just try, ok? Try and dial it down a bit.” he realises he’s pleading, and glares down at his desk. Sherlock is utterly still, his face determinedly blank; but Greg saw the flicker of surprise. It makes him think of that horrible morning, and Mycroft’s surprise when he’d asked if he could help.

It seems so utterly alien to them that someone is willing to offer.

“So, er. How’s your brother?” he asks, a little desperately. Anything to change the subject.

“Insufferable as ever.” Sherlock says darkly, getting to his feet. He pauses. “Has he offered to pay you to report to him on my activities?”

“What?!” Greg asks, incredulous. And then with a grin, because he’s just that kind of bastard: “How much is that likely to be?”

Sherlock doesn’t dignify that with an answer. He contents himself with a filthy look as he grabs an unfamiliar long coat from the rack, swirling it so theatrically around his shoulders that Lestrade is sure he’s practised that move several times in front of a mirror. He can’t help the grin widening on his face.

God, he’s a glutton for punishment but he’s feeling fond as Sherlock gives him a terse salute and marches out the door, coat tails billowing.

He barely notices his fingers dipping into his jacket pocket, fishing out his phone on reflex.

He’s back. I’m fairly sure my Sergeant is going to try and murder him in the lift on his way out of the building.

I’m sure that would be inconvenient for everyone concerned. MH

It’s good to see him back. Was the swanky coat a gift from you?

Indeed. Unfortunately the offer of a cadaver was not sufficient to bridge the divide.

Well, of course it wasn’t! You need at least five corpses to build a decent bridge.

Detective Inspector, that is an appalling statement.

Greg, who had been (bizarrely, ridiculously) giggling quietly to himself as he typed, freezes. Oh god, that really was a terribly inappropriate joke. He’s the DI of the Serious Crime division, for fuck’s sake.

His phone vibrates again, and he’s slowly settling into a full-body cringe as he reads the next message.

You have clearly forgotten the need for decent supports. One would require at least eight.

He’s almost weak with relief and filled with totally out of proportion hilarity. He’s trying to come up with something suitably witty he can respond with, when his phone buzzes once more.

He feels the smile slide right off his face when he reads the words.

Would you be averse to meeting with me to discuss some of the finer points of Sherlock’s return to work?

Chapter 3

Greg Lestrade doesn’t get flustered. He absolutely doesn’t; he’s in his forties, he’s a copper, if he were in a certain type of novel he’s fairly sure he’d be called jaded. And yet when he steps out of the main doors of NSY at the unusually early hour of 6pm on the following Friday, Greg can’t deny that his palms are slightly damp. He’s steadfastly ignoring how his heart-rate has picked up since he left the office. It’s just that he’s less fit these days and he took the stairs rather than the lift.

Mycroft had asked him if he could collect him after work, and offered him a choice of three days. And Greg, because he’s got basically no social life these days, chose the soonest one. It felt rather nice to have a plan for a Friday evening, even if it was meeting up with someone inscrutable who might be about to offer him a bribe.

He wasn’t entirely sure how serious Sherlock had been when he’d made that comment. It sounded like something that could have been borne out of experience. And if Mycroft had paid someone to keep him informed on Sherlock, that was clearly awful, overbearing, a total invasion of privacy and… and… perhaps very slightly understandable. In a hugely messed up, dysfunctional way. Greg doubts Sherlock is terribly good at checking in with his family. There was no trace of anyone besides Sherlock in the Montague Street flat; no photographs stuck to the fridge or old greetings cards on the mantel. Greg wonders who Mycroft could have asked, in the past.

He’s looking around for Mycroft’s beautiful old coffee-coloured jaguar with no success, when as if out of nowhere the woman appears. The same one as before, wearing some kind of sharply cut modern black cape and a faintly sardonic smile. She gestures to a long black saloon with windows so darkly tinted they can’t be legal. It’s not a make he recognises.

“Good evening, Detective Inspector. I’m afraid that Mr. Holmes has been delayed – would you be so kind as to come with me?”

“Come with you where, exactly?” Lestrade asks, warily. The woman’s Blackberry chimes and she glances at it distractedly.

“St James’. It won’t take long. If you’d rather reschedule though, I can take a look at his diary.”

Greg hesitates, before taking a step towards the open car door. With a definite sense that he’s about to disappear down some kind of rabbit hole, he gets in and slides across the wide back seat. The woman smiles a little condescendingly as she slips in after him, elegantly crossing her legs at the ankle. The interior of the car is darkly plush, the leather seats whisper soft. It’s oddly muffled inside, the hubbub of traffic noise and commuters dulled to nothing. There’s a driver on the other side of a partition, but Greg can’t see anything more than the outline of his head through the thick screen.

Civil servant, Greg muses. He doubts the PM has a car like this, for popping around town. Mycroft Holmes is a civil servant with a car that he suspects may well be tank-proof, never mind bullet-proof. He glances at his companion thoughtfully. She’s ignoring him entirely, scrolling down the screen of her Blackberry with a beautifully manicured fingertip.

“So you’re Mycroft’s PA?” he asks, mainly as a way of breaking the silence.

“Mmm. I provide assistance in various areas.” she says vaguely, without looking up.

Greg waits for a few seconds longer, but no more information is forthcoming. She’s beautiful, in a distant and extremely unattainable way. He suspects that apart from trivial duties such as delivering bacon sandwiches and escorting people to meetings, she could probably garrotte him if Mycroft requested it.

In less than ten minutes the car slides to a halt on Carlton House Terrace, a short wedge of wedding-cake white buildings. The woman looks up and nods at number 10. “We’re here.”

Lestrade peers at the tall, immaculately white painted building; the elegant columns and intricate balconies. On the gleaming, black-painted front door is a highly polished brass nameplate that reads ‘Diogenes’.

The driver is opening his door before he can ask what the hell this place is, and the woman gives him a brief, patronising look that clearly says Run along, then!.

He sighs, and scrambles out, straightening his jacket and tie nervously before advancing up the short flight of marble steps. There’s an ornate brass bell pull next to the door and he gives it a good yank. He’s feeling irritated and off-balance; he’d expected to meet Mycroft, go for a coffee and have a chat about Sherlock. Not get spirited off into the depths of St James and dumped on the steps of some mysterious mansion. Oh god, this can’t be Mycroft’s house, can it? He cranes his neck to try and catch a glimpse through the neighbouring windows, but they’re all thickly curtained.

An elderly gentleman in a sharply cut three piece suit and neatly trimmed white whiskers opens the door. As Lestrade opens his mouth to say hello and ask what the hell is going on, he gets a glare and a silent, reproachful ‘shush’ in response, the man’s white gloved finger waving in the air. He gapes at him, utterly nonplussed.

He’s beckoned inside imperiously, into a darkly panelled foyer filled with faded hunting prints and portraits of jowly old white men. A massive crystal chandelier looms overhead, throwing glimmers of light over the frescoed walls and ceiling. The man (butler?) holds his gloved finger to his lips and continues to glower at Lestrade until he rummages in his pocket and pulls out his ID.

The glower lessens somewhat when his credentials have been inspected, but only slightly. The man’s whiskers twist minutely as he takes in Lestrade, his crumpled suit and unpolished shoes. Greg directs his best unimpressed copper stare right back at him, until he turns on his heel and makes a gesture to follow him.

He trails the neat, grumpy little man down a long dimly lit corridor, passing several heavy closed doors bearing plaques such as ‘Introductions’, ‘Strangers’, ‘Refectory’, ‘Saloon’, ‘Library’ and ‘Billiards’. They turn a corner, passing a huge stuffed boars head and a glass panelled door labelled ‘Turkish baths’. It’s like being transported into some bizarre Victorian dream. The whole place is eerily, deathly quiet. They pass one or two people in the corridor; clearly staff members by their identical dark suits and white gloves. They nod, unsmiling, as Lestrade and his escort continue on towards their unknown destination.

They reach a spiral flight of stairs, lit by heavily leaded stained glass windows in the curved walls. The steps are heavily carpeted, muffling the sound of their feet entirely. The atmosphere is beyond hushed, the air vaguely scented by vases of white lilies and shelves of old books.

Lestrade is deposited at an unmarked mahogany door near the top of the stairs, and he looks expectantly at his guide. The old man gives him a stern look and taps the door with a single knuckle; nothing so crude or loud as a knock. It opens after a couple of seconds, and Lestrade is relieved to see Mycroft Holmes on the other side; even with a mobile phone at his ear and weary irritation on his face. He gives Greg a faint smile and beckons him inside. When he looks around, his escort has already disappeared.

Mycroft mouths ‘one moment’ at Greg as he closes the door, and stalks across the room. The sound of his voice is almost shocking as he continues his conversation, in what appears to be rapid-fire Mandarin. He disappears into an adjoining room, leaving Greg to take in his surroundings.

It’s a round, warmly lit room with a huge desk set in front of the bay window. Two wingback armchairs sit on either side of the small fireplace, which is burning brightly. Books line the walls in glass fronted cases, and there’s a faint trace of tobacco in the air. The floor is carpeted with thick Turkish kilim, vibrant colours picked out in the firelight.

A single painting hangs over the mantel, a strangely compelling scene of a lakeside house at twilight, lit by a small lamppost and dominated by a huge tree at the waters edge. He’s still staring at the strange, off-kilter scene when Mycroft re-enters the room and smiles.

“My apologies, Detective Inspector.” he reaches out and shakes Greg’s hand. His skin is warm and dry, long fingers enveloping his hand. “That took rather longer than I had expected.”

“So we can talk out loud in here? That’s a relief,” Greg says, with a small grin.

“Only in here, and in the Strangers Room downstairs.” Mycroft says, taking a seat by the fire and gesturing for Greg to do the same. “The management are rather draconian about it, I’m afraid.”

“Do you live here?” Greg asks, curiously. The room they’re in is clearly only one of a suite of rooms; there’s two more doors besides the one he entered by.

“I keep some rooms here.” Mycroft says, which doesn’t really answer the question at all. He gestures to a small collection of heavy crystal decanters on a side table. “Can I offer you some refreshment? A sherry, perhaps?”

“I’ve never understood why people like sherry,” Lestrade says, eyeing the sparkling glass with distrust.

“Nor I, but for some reason people seem to expect it at this hour.” Mycroft answers, and there’s a gleam of something almost conspiratorial in his eye and oh god something strange happens in Greg’s chest. He swallows hard.

Mycroft is perusing the alternatives. “I’ve got a rather nice single malt from Jura, if that’s preferable. Gin, Cognac… or indeed a cup of tea if you prefer.”

“It’s a Friday evening, I suppose I’ll live a little.” Greg says, a little awkwardly. He accepts a heavy tumbler of venerable whisky with a splash of water, and sits back between the shadowy wings of his chair. Mycroft regards him curiously from his own seat, studying him in a way that makes Greg squirm afaintly

“So, Sherlock’s been helping us again. Smuggling case, down in the East End.” Greg offers. “He seems to be doing alright. He looks good, a bit healthier than he used to be.”

“Indeed. He does seem to be behaving himself at the moment,” Mycroft says grimly, taking a small sip from his glass. He stretches out his legs in front of the fire and sighs. “The question is, of course, for how long?”

“You really think he’s going to fall off the wagon?”

“I think that my brother is always going to be an addict, Detective Inspector. You know as well as I do that there’s always a danger that he will relapse.”

“I’m not going to ask him for help with any cases that involve drugs,” Lestrade offers. “But I can’t guarantee that they’ll never crop up in the course of the work we do. It happens. I’m going to do my best, but I can’t promise you that it won’t happen.”

Mycroft gives him a thin smile. “I am fully aware. But I fear the greater risk would be to stop him working. Boredom has always been Sherlock’s mortal enemy.”

Lestrade can’t help asking. He’s horribly curious at this point, and lord knows he’ll probably never have the chance again. “What was he like as a kid? Was he always like this?”

A ghost of a smile gathers at the corners of Mycroft’s mouth. “My brother has always been worryingly curious. When he didn’t have enough to occupy him, he had rather destructive tendencies. When I wouldn’t let him read one of my books he covered my new school satchel in raspberry jam and left it on top of an ants nest. He said he was undertaking an experiment.”

“What kind of experiment?!” Lestrade laughs, unable to stop himself. He feels the atmosphere shift into something much closer to comfortable as he sees a small, answering smile on Mycroft’s austere features.

“Oh, something deeply unconvincing about how sugar would affect the ratio of size to weight bearing capability of the ants… my French dictionary was quite ruined, I can tell you. I’m fairly sure that a few of the ants made off with my favourite fountain pen too.” he tells Lestrade seriously. There’s a strange weight in the way their eyes meet in the warm fire-lit room, and it makes Greg want to fidget, his skin prickling. He’s utterly disarmed and he hasn’t a bloody clue what to think about it. It’s bizarre to be sitting in this hushed, secret room listening to this strange, intense, elegant man tell him stories by the fire.

He finds himself telling a story in exchange, the words spilling from his mouth about exacting petty and satisfying revenge on his cousin for embarrassing him at a family dinner. And Mycroft Holmes sits and listens, long fingers toying with the heavy crystal of his whisky tumbler. He looks tired and comfortable and god, interested in the nonsense Greg’s talking; razor sharp eyes never leaving his face. He winds down, a little lamely; pleased and self-conscious and utterly thrown by the way the man is watching him. He can’t remember the last time anyone’s looked at him like that. Maybe they never have. It’s a bit terrifying; he’s almost positive that Mycroft Holmes has just the same lacerating intellect as his brother, but covered with a thicker layer of polish and an ability to read social cues.

“You’re not really a civil servant, are you?” he asks, feeling the non-sequitur thud onto the carpet between them. He hadn’t meant to ask that, at least not so bluntly. Or not quite so soon.

Mycroft Holmes merely takes another sip from his glass and gives him an almost demure look. “I certainly am. If you care to search for me online, you will find my job description and curriculum vitae on Her Majesty’s Land Registry website.”

Lestrade takes an answering swallow of his whisky, feeling the smooth peaty burn of it warming him down to his stomach. He’s having trouble suppressing a smile. Mycroft Holmes is being careful with his words, as if he finds outright lies unbecoming.

“I know, I saw.” He says, hoping it’s not too obvious how long he spent googling the man. And when that hadn’t worked, doing a very ethically dubious background check through NSY. Which had come up with precisely nothing, not a single parking ticket or speeding fine.

“Then I find the question rather perplexing, Detective Inspector.”

“Let’s just say, I’ve been a copper for a long time, Mycroft.” Saying his first name feels almost like scoring a point, in retaliation for the relentless formality in the way he addresses Greg. “I’ve got a certain instinct about some things…. Oh, god. Sorry.” he adds hastily, watching the shuttered look in Mycroft’s face with an odd pang. “Sorry. I’m like a dog with a bone. Just a bit morbidly curious, I ‘spose. You don’t have to tell me.”

Mycroft takes a long look into the flames, and half-smiles. “I believe that you are a very astute individual.”

And that confirms and denies precisely nothing, Greg thinks. But he’s glad when the moment passes.

There’s an almost soundless knock at the door, a muffled tap at most. Mycroft glances up with clear chagrin. The beautiful dark haired woman insinuates herself into the room and closes the door softly behind her, apology clear in her face.

“Sorry, sir. I’m afraid that I’ve received an urgent call for you from one of the parties we discussed earlier. It’s rather time sensitive,” she adds tranquilly, glancing down at her phone.

Mycroft sighs, and puts down his glass on a small carved wooden table nearby. “Very well, Anthea. Will you go and find the relevant documents next door?”

She disappears noiselessly without another word, heels sinking into the thick carpet. Mycroft watches her go, the door to the adjoining room clicking shut inaudibly.

“I am sorry, Detective Inspector,” he says, and the genuine regret in his tone makes Lestrade feel somehow warmer. “I had intended for us to have a rather longer conversation. "

“No, no.” Greg says, getting to his feet a little awkwardly and reaching for his coat. “Believe me, I know how work gets in the way sometimes. I could write a bloody book about it, to be honest.” he adds ruefully.

“Could we perhaps reschedule for another time?” Mycroft asks. He’s not meeting Greg’s eyes; adjusting his monogrammed cufflinks and starched cuffs in a way that Lestrade thinks is both hilariously fussy and rather endearing.

“Oh, er- yes. Yes, absolutely!” he says, too fast and god help him he feels himself blush for some reason. “How about-“

“Dinner?” Mycroft Holmes says, at the exact same moment when Greg suggests “A pint?”

They stare at each other for a long moment, and Greg laughs first; breaking the tension. What the hell has he got to lose? He feels positively reckless when he says: “Both?”

Mycroft blinks, and the sudden, genuine smile on his thin mouth looks somehow unpractised, a little unsure. But he nods, and clasps Lestrade’s hand warmly, all-too-briefly; his long clever fingers engulfing Greg’s own and letting go after less than a second.

“I look forward to it, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade turns towards the door, clutching his coat under his arm and fighting the ridiculous grin that’s threatening to erupt onto his face. He pauses at the threshold and looks back.

“Mycroft?”

“Yes?”

He has to ask. He has to. “You weren’t going to offer to bribe me to spy on your brother, were you?”

“Well, hardly.” Mycroft sniffs, totally unembarrassed. “Not when he’d so clearly tipped you off in advance.”

“Ah. Well, good. Glad to hear it.” Lestrade says sternly, and reaches for the door handle. “And it’s Greg, Mycroft. Greg. Far fewer syllables than ‘Detective Inspector’”

“Quite.” Mycroft assents graciously, totally failing to call him anything at all. “My assistant will be in touch to arrange the finer details. Goodnight.”

Greg steps out onto the shadowy, silent landing and the door has almost entirely shut behind him when he hears the murmured:“-Detective Inspector.”

Chapter 4

There’s a woman lying dead on the floor, her pink fingernails cracked and bloody from where she’s scratched painful letters on the floor. Greg’s been on the go since six in the morning; he’s knackered and hungry and he’s damn well had enough of these poor buggers showing up dead around London.

And yet at this moment all he can think is: What in the hell is going on here?!

Because Sherlock, Sherlock bloody Holmes, showed up at a crime scene with a short, unassuming looking fellow in tow. And he’s looking at the man with the dodgy leg with the kind of fascination that he usually only reserves for the worst kind of crime scene.

Sherlock’s swirling around, he’s rattling off rapid-fire deductions about the deceased’s loveless marriage and profession and Greg is gaping at him. Not because he’s being an arrogant arse, not because he’s coming up with the kind of precise detail that sounds preposterous but will turn out to be annoyingly true. But because Sherlock Holmes is showing off and it’s certainly not for Greg’s benefit. The man, the doctor, he’s gazing up at Sherlock with a kind of dazzled, bemused expression and for fucks sake he’s almost looking fond as he gingerly crouches by the body at Sherlock’s command.

He’s a doctor; he’s clearly got a spine of steel and he’s got the kind of lines in his face that only come from years of hard work, stress and sun damage. He shouldn’t be here, but Greg can’t bring himself to raise more than a token objection. He’s too fascinated by the way the air between them is filled with silent conversation. Sherlock’s face is more animated than Greg’s ever seen it, he’s nervy and he’s trying to cover it up with very nonchalant arsiness but it’s not enough; Sherlock is practically humming with excitement. As exciting as a string of serial suicides might be; it’s still not enough to warrant the way he’s behaving right now.

Does Mycroft know? is Greg’s next thought. What on earth would Mycroft make of this?

He’s got a sudden, burning desire to be sitting by the fire in that round, intimate room at the Diogenes once more, leaning forward as he tells Mycroft Holmes about this evening. About how his little brother has somehow acquired a companion who seems to be positively enjoying visiting a crime scene.

After they leave, Greg is left staring at more clues and fewer answers than he had to begin with. Sherlock’s buggered off, haring up a fire escape on a neighbouring building; shouting something about a suitcase. The doctor hangs around awkwardly for a long minute outside, scanning the rooftops and bristling at whatever Donovan says to him as she lets him past the cordon. It’s a filthy cold night and Greg’s about to go and tell one of the support staff to sort him out with a lift when his phone buzzes in his pocket. It’s an unconscious reflex now; he reaches for it without any clear intention.

Good evening, Detective Inspector. I understand my brother has recruited some kind of associate? MH

Greg could spend the rest of the evening wondering about the man’s timing and the sources of his information; but he frankly doesn’t have the hours or the inclination. Forensics are looking mutinous since he allowed Sherlock access to the scene and he’s fairly sure that a couple of bastards from the Daily Mail are trying to edge past the tape.

His thumbs are almost numb with the cold as he taps out a response. Hi Mycroft. Yes, who is this bloke?

Doctor John Watson, RAMC Captain, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Recently returned from Afghanistan and appears to have agreed to cohabit with my brother. An interesting development, I think you will agree.

Greg can think of no suitable response, other than Oh my god

Quite.

He means to respond, he really does, once he manages to pick his chin up off his chest. But he’s got a job to do and a dead woman on the floor and somehow the evening slips away. Anderson and Donovan are having a hissed discussion in a doorway that he really doesn’t want to overhear. He ends up arresting one of the Daily Mail reporters when he catches him attempting to slip an envelope stuffed with twenties to one of his more junior constables.

It’s pissing down with rain, Sherlock’s unreachable and Greg’s feet are sore and wet. He knows he’s missing something, he itches with that knowledge but there’s nothing here. Nothing at all except a woman whose husband is sitting at home in Cardiff, oblivious to the fact that his wife came up to London to have some extramarital entertainment and ended up dead. Donovan looks miserable and quietly furious, huddling in her too-thin coat on the doorstep. She gives him a sip from her paper cup of disgusting, lukewarm coffee and glares ahead as the woman’s body is slid carefully into the back of a nearby ambulance.

“A suitcase, that’s what the Freak said.” she mutters, ignoring the pointed look he gives her. “Fawcett says he spotted him scrambling out of a skip three streets over about half an hour ago, with a pink bag. Tried asking him what he’d found but the Freak just hailed a cab and left. Lestrade, he’s just stolen evidence! He’s taking the mickey out of us!”

Greg closes his eyes and sighs, anger and disappointment warring in him until the anger wins by a long shot. “Christs sake. Right, we’re going after him. Get a team together, we’re going to teach the idiot a lesson.”

It’s petty and unkind but he’s damn well had it. He’s fairly confident Sherlock’s not using again, that he’s not stupid enough to have any illicit substances squirrelled away in his new flat. But Lestrade went out on a limb to get Sherlock back on cases. If the bastard is already absconding from crime scenes with evidence so help him he’s going to make life difficult for him. And anyway, right now there’s nothing for him to do except wait until the autopsy is complete.

So Greg Lestrade organises a drugs bust at 221b Baker Street. The place is a mess to begin with but the team of eager volunteers gleefully make things worse within a matter of minutes. He tries to reassure the fluttery older lady downstairs that he’s not interested in anything except items in Sherlock Holmes’ possession. He still feels rather shifty when she watches the search begin, wide-eyed and tutting.

His phone buzzes again. Highly amusing of course, but is this entirely necessary, Detective Inspector?

Again, he means to reply except there’s the hammering of impatient feet on the steps and Sherlock barrels into the room; laughter dying on his pale face. Watson is on his heels and his face is a picture as he looks round the ransacked living room. Anderson gives a malicious grin and a wave from the kitchen. Greg wishes he could take a photo of Sherlock’s expression the second he realises that Anderson’s been through all his kitchen cupboards, his ridiculously extensive wardrobe and his collection of taxidermy otters.

It becomes clear just how new this thing between Sherlock and John Watson is, when the pair of them share a brief, intense conversation about the likelihood of finding class A substances here. It’s mostly silent; loaded glances and shared space and Lestrade feels like he could do with some popcorn as he watches Sherlock’s palpable embarrassment, the flush in his cheeks as he hisses ‘shut up!’ at Watson. The doctor’s grinning up into Sherlock’s face, impudent and surprised and Sherlock’s bloody bashful as he flounces away.

Even more stunning is the brief exchange a few moments later, when Sherlock drops a typically heartless comment about the dead woman’s child. As the temperature in the room drops, conversation stopping in the aftermath of the callous words, Sherlock turns and looks enquiringly at Watson; a man appealing to a trusted interpreter when he’s faced with an unfamiliar culture. And Watson’s face creases; he’s sad and bemused but he’s almost kind when he quietly confirms: “Bit not good.”

Sherlock’s standing in the middle of the room, some kind of brainstorm clearly taking place. And then he’s gone, yet again; muttering something vague about needing some air.
It’s all too clear that he’s buggered off, and Lestrade watches Watson sag slightly. The man’s disappointed and confused, he looks almost a bit hurt when he mumbles: “Well you know him better than I do.”

And Greg has to contradict him. He’s spent a lot of time with Sherlock over the last few years. They’ve faced death together, they’ve hidden in dark alleys and they’ve pored over evidence all night. He’s wiped the blood and vomit from Sherlock’s face and ridden in ambulances with him, praying to any deity that might listen to save him. And yet he knows, knows with an aching, bone-deep certainty that truly stings. This man means more to Sherlock Holmes than Greg ever will.

It all goes to hell. A nondescript looking cabby is dead; he’s apparently behind the whole thing. And he’s been meticulously shot, from a considerable distance. Sherlock’s wide-eyed and preoccupied as he sits at the back of an ambulance. Lestrade is on the verge of kicking him to just stop him talking as he rambles closer to identifying his new friend. Sherlock hasn’t spotted Watson yet, he’s standing next to a couple of parked cars, innocent and unobtrusive as he watches the forensics team scurrying about.

He’s too innocent looking by half.

And Lestrade knows when to let things go quietly. A serial killer is off the streets and that’s what matters. Sherlock eventually catches up with himself (Aha! Yes! Well done, Sherlock I will choose to ignore you, ta very much). Greg knows that once Sherlock gets to work there will be no trace of evidence leading to Watson; not a whisper. The pair of them talk quietly a short distance away, the air charged with a kind of dark delight. They share a long, gleeful look before beginning to walk away.

Lestrade’s just turning away himself, looking around for Sally when he hears Anderson give an unmistakeably appreciative whistle. He’s shuffling into his scene overalls on the steps of the college, his eyes trained on the perimeter of the scene. “Who’s that? She doesn’t look like she’s from the press.”

Lestrade frowns, hoping that whomever Anderson is ogling isn’t a member of staff. He cranes his neck, staring past the badly parked panda cars and ambulances and he freezes when he sees the woman.

Anthea.

She’s in her usual black, clearly done up for the evening. She’s leaning against a familiar long black car, texting furiously and blithely ignoring everyone around her. And there’s a man next to her, tall and hawkish and Lestrade would recognise that profile anywhere. Even from this distance. Even in the dark.

Mycroft is glaring after the retreating figures of Sherlock and John Watson, leaning on a completely superfluous rolled black umbrella. He’s immaculate as ever, despite the late hour; wearing a long dark overcoat and a beautifully cut grey suit. As Greg finds himself walking across the carpark, he notices the mirror shine on Mycroft’s shoes. His dark auburn hair is slicked back so tidily there has to be a serious amount of product involved. He’s clearly frustrated, tapping the ferrule of his umbrella almost imperceptibly against the asphalt.

“Evening, Mycroft.” Greg says, as casually as he can manage when his pulse has picked up sharply. “Everything alright?”

Mycroft Holmes turns to face him, his mouth curving into a small and slightly unhappy smile. He nods at Greg, formal as ever. “How do you do, Detective Inspector. I wondered if I might find you here. I thought I might drop by to see how my little brother was getting along; but he and his new companion found themselves unable to stay.”

“Yeah. Interesting times, eh?” Lestrade says, staring down the street after them.

“I won’t detain you any longer. I imagine you have a lot to take care of here,” Mycroft says, with a trace of apology. “Anthea, come along-“

“Not a lot left for me to do, to be honest.” Lestrade lies through his teeth. It’s true that there’s no one to catch any more, but he’s got a metric tonne of paperwork to do. And he should really be checking that all of the statements from the college cleaners are accounted for… even though Sally is probably already doing it. He’s gotten into the habit of hanging round ‘til the bitter end of every crime scene; although to be honest it’s mainly as a means of avoiding going back to his grimly empty flat. For once in his sorry life though, he might as well delegate.

Mycroft doesn’t say anything, just gives him an appraising look. He’s clearly waiting.

“So, I- er. Well, if you’ve got nothing on just now-“

“Nothing left in the diary for today, sir.” Anthea interjects without looking up. “I might pop off, if you don’t mind. I’ll pick up a cab from the end of the road.”

Mycroft gives her a look that seems almost chagrined, but he nods in assent. Anthea glances at Greg with a flicker of a smile and turns on her heel, striding off down the dark street without another word.

“It’s rather late for dinner, but can I see that you haven’t eaten in some time.” Mycroft says, turning back to Greg. His face is long and pale in the flashing blue lights, his sharp eyes probably reading all sorts of unsavoury facts in Greg’s countenance. “I know a little place that might suffice.”

“Sounds great. Give me five minutes and I’ll be with you.” Greg says hastily, and goes to explain to an incredulous Donovan that he is leaving everything in her more than capable hands.

“It’s that posh bird again, isn’t it?” she asks, standing on tiptoe and peering over his shoulder. “I saw her a while ago, over there. She offer to show you her etchings?”

“Goodnight, Sally.” Lestrade says firmly, ignoring her knowing grin. He can only imagine what she would think if she heard he was going to socialise with Sherlock Holmes’ brother of all people.

And he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing either, as he walks self-consciously back towards the ridiculous black car. He knows Mycroft is watching him but he doesn’t meet his gaze; he’s self-conscious and feels almost shy, for fucks sake. He doesn’t know what’s happening here, doesn’t know what Mycroft is doing or what he wants from Greg. It’s been years since he’s so much as made a new friend outside of NSY; he’s barely allowed himself to think about what might be brewing here. It’s ridiculous, it’s impossible to contemplate. Mycroft’s probably just be hedging his bets, wanting to keep in touch with Greg so that he can keep tabs on his wayward brother.

But god, he interests Greg in a way that he’s having trouble explaining. He watches people and listens to conversations and so often he finds himself musing: What would Mycroft Holmes think about this? What would he say if he were here?

Mycroft’s expression is curious as Greg finally reaches his side, a thin eyebrow crooked. He’s standing next to his car, one gloved hand on top of the open rear door. He steps aside politely, letting Greg slip inside before tidily folding himself onto the back seat next to him. The hubbub of the scene dies away instantly as he pulls the door shut and they are left in a warm, hushed cocoon. The car pulls away almost silently, slipping down the quiet streets and picking up speed.

“So… John Watson?” Greg offers, when Mycroft doesn’t seem inclined to say anything.

“Indeed.” Mycroft agrees, softly. “I suspect that you already know that this situation is rather… unprecedented. He seems like a rather unremarkable man. I have undertaken all the necessary background checks but have uncovered very little to concern me.”

“But you are.” Greg says, studying him. “Concerned, I mean.”

“Well he did just kill a man for Sherlock,” Mycroft says calmly, crossing his legs. “A man that he has known for considerably less than a week.”

Greg can’t confirm or deny this. He does want to know exactly how Mycroft knows, though. And Mycroft’s calm indifference to the matter is unsettling, to say the least.

“You’re certainly able to gather a lot of intel through your work at the Land Registry,” he says. It comes out a bit sharper than he intends but Mycroft just gives him a weary look.

“I take it that you are not planning on pursuing Jefferson Hope’s killer with any great rigor?”

“Do you think I should?” Greg asks, honestly curious.

Mycroft doesn’t answer at once, settling back in his seat with a contemplative look. It’s almost a full minute before he says, with a slight air of surprise: “I don’t know, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade is so completely, totally sure that those three words hardly ever pass Mycroft Holmes’ lips that he finds himself laughing weakly. Mycroft looks across at him, startled.

It looks like he’s about to say something else when the car slows to a halt. They’re on a quiet street somewhere in Bloomsbury, and as far as Greg can see there’s no restaurants or bars on this stretch of tall brick houses. It’s beginning to drizzle as Mycroft leads the way down a narrow alley, his umbrella flicking open to cover Lestrade without asking. They’re shoulder to shoulder for less than a minute, but he can feel the unexpected warmth emanating from Mycroft’s body. He keeps on thinking that the man is taller than he really is, but when they’re this close he can see that he’s only got an inch or two on Greg at most. He studies Mycroft’s profile surreptitiously as they walk, but if Mycroft notices he doesn’t let on.

They come to a stop at a small, ornate wrought iron gate lit on either side by small carriage lanterns. Mycroft folds his umbrella tidily and leads the way down a small flight of stone steps, where a very anonymous green painted door is surrounded by overgrown ivy. He pushes it open with one gloved hand and light streams out, along with the sound of distant conversation and the clink of china and glass. He casts a glance back at Greg, and gives him a faint smile. “Come along, Detective Inspector.”

“Greg.” he says, but follows Mycroft through the green door and into a narrow, dimly lit hallway. It’s warm inside, the carpet deep and plush when his feet sink into it. The place feels dated and cosy; ornate burgundy wallpaper and gilt mirrors, small lamps hidden under red velvet shades. The smell of food that comes from another door at the end of the hallway suddenly brings the saliva rushing to Greg’s mouth and he becomes painfully aware of how long it’s been since he last ate.

A venerable Gallic gentleman appears, bestowing a pleased and familiar smile upon Mycroft before ushering them through to an intimate little dining room. It’s filled with older, well-fed looking clientele. Several people sit alone at the small white linen covered tables, comfortably reading books propped next to their plates.

Greg’s chair is pulled out for him; a starched napkin draped over his lap. Mycroft orders without consulting Greg, which for some reason doesn’t annoy him. He watches and listens as Mycroft matter-of-factly orders a bottle of wine in perfect French; his refined accent melting into something more languid and melodic as he speaks to the sommelier.

You have a Toulouse accent. Is that where you learnt to speak French? he asks, when they are alone once more. He leans towards Mycroft, chin on his hand. He takes in his small pleased smile with a strange pang of pleasure.

Our grandmother came from Cahors. Sherlock and I spent part of our summers with her, as children. She refused to let us speak English at any time; so Sherlock and I made a great point of conversing in German to irritate her.

Mycroft, I am entirely unsurprised by that fact. Greg grins, and sits back to allow the waiter to fill his glass with rich dark wine.

You don’t speak French frequently. Mycroft observes.

Greg doesn’t bother with being surprised; he’s sitting opposite a Holmes after all. Not many people guess that it’s my mother’s family that is French. And I’m sure you can tell me where they’re from and what they did for a living and what they liked for Sunday lunch, Mycroft.

Mycroft gives him a long, thoughtful look as he tastes the wine; inhaling the scent deeply. He absently licks a drop from his lower lip and murmurs:

I would rather hear it in your voice, Detective Inspector.

There’s something stunningly intimate about that innocuous little phrase, and Greg reaches for the glass of wine in front of him with not entirely steady fingers. He’d forgotten what this feels like.

“I haven’t been back there in years.” he says, after a mouthful of the wine which is delicate and rich on his tongue. He glances at the bottle and huffs a faint laugh. It’s a Faugéres; he should have known. Mycroft gives him a self-deprecating smile and glances down, pushing his silverware back into perfect alignment with his forefinger. The silver ring on his hand gleams in the soft light.

“My mum left my dad when I was twelve, and her family didn’t much approve of divorce. It was quite a long time before my grandparents invited us back to stay. They’d fuss over me and ignore her, which drove me up the wall. So we only went a couple of times a year after that. I loved it there, though. I used to spend my days hiking over the hills in Herault and swimming in the gorges. In midsummer there was a special kind of quiet in the afternoons, when everyone was asleep and you’d smell the scorched grass in the fields. Only the sound of the cicadas for company…” he trails off, faintly surprised at the way he’s talking. Mycroft’s watching him intently, his face unreadable. He flushes. “I ‘spose it was a second home, for a while. Mum was never happy with wherever we were living, so we moved around a lot. Never lived in the same place for more than a couple of years. I never really felt settled. And I was cross with my Dad for a lot of reasons and ended up changing my name to hers around the time my grandfather died. I think I wanted to make some kind of show of solidarity; but I also wanted to keep that connection to Herault. They sold the farm not long afterwards. Nobody wanted to take it on.”

“You thought about it, though.”

Greg hums, and shrugs uneasily. “Thought about it. I always knew I wanted to be a copper, though. One of the few things I was absolutely sure about.” he sits back to allow the waiter to slide a plate in front of him. He catches Mycroft’s eye before he picks up his fork. “I s’pose I could have been the village gendarme.”

Mycroft gives a little moue of distaste and reaches for his own silverware. “Surely not. They wear the most preposterous hats.”

“Oh yes, I’d forgotten how stylish our bobbies’ helmets are.” Greg says, straight faced. “Been a long time since I’ve worn one.”

“They have a certain amount of dignitas.” Mycroft agrees seriously.

“It’s odd, isn’t it?” Greg says, after a mouthful of frankly delectable paté and capers on a sliver of crisp toast. “You make these connections to certain places and it’s not logical. You don’t know why, but it’s just home to you. Doesn’t matter how long it’s been since you’ve visited. Even now, I think about this particular oak tree in my grandparent’s garden. I used to lie in an old deckchair underneath it and just listen to the breeze running through the leaves. Hearing my gran and my mum arguing through the kitchen door. The smell of grass under hot sun. Sorry, I’ll shut up. I sound bloody maudlin.”

“I rather envy you,” Mycroft says thoughtfully, which almost causes Greg to choke on his starter. He half-smiles at Greg’s incredulous expression. “I merely mean that I do not have any great affinity for a certain place. My parents still live in our childhood home in Sussex, and I visit reasonably frequently. But to me it is simply a rather overfurnished cottage in a stretch of countryside much like any other.”

“I reckon you probably didn’t have a particularly easy childhood.” Greg says, then curses himself. “Shit. Sorry, that was tactless. Ignore me.”

Mycroft waves away his apologies. “I believe I was not a particularly easy child. My parents did their best, but Sherlock and I were... rather challenging. Perhaps if we had grown up in London there would have been more to occupy us. More libraries to read our way through, more museums to visit.”

“So you don’t feel like London is home, then?”

“London is more of a home than anywhere else,” Mycroft admits, pushing the top of his slice of paté to the edge of his plate. He’s only eaten a couple of bites, while Greg’s chasing the last tiny caper around his bare plate. “It’s the place I’ve lived the longest, certainly.”

Their table is cleared, and there’s a brief lull in conversation as the waiter brandishes a silver crumb tray and refills their glasses. Roast duck in a dark cherry sauce appears, next to a pile of tiny jewel-like roasted vegetables. Greg tucks in with gusto, dispensing with party manners in the face of such a feast. Mycroft eats slowly. When Greg makes an involuntary sound of pleasure after taking his first mouthful of duck, he gives him a bemused, oddly pleased look.

“Sorry.” Greg says again, feeling himself flush slightly. “I’ve been busy and this is the first proper meal I’ve had in a couple of days. This is amazing, by the way.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it. I don’t often have company for dinner outside of work functions,” Mycroft says slowly. “It’s a nice change.”

Greg eats another bite of fondant potatoes and forces the question out, heart beating a little faster. “So you’re not married then?”

Mycroft blinks at him. He glances down at the simple silver band on his finger and gives a small, strange smile before looking up at Greg again. “No, Detective Inspector. I am not. I suppose one could say that this is a souvenir of sorts. A reminder.”

The way he says it seems to dare Greg to ask. But he suddenly doesn’t want to know. He’s got a flash of uneasiness about that ring and why Mycroft might wear it. He clears his throat and focusses on his plate, before changing the subject deliberately; his voice pitched low as he leans towards Mycroft.

“About them. Sherlock and Watson. I think… I think I’m willing to let the trail go cold when it comes to Hope’s shooter. We both know I won’t find anything. And Sherlock seems to believe that he’s got a strong moral sense, and that he only shot when he saw that Sherlock was in clear danger. I’ll admit I’ve got a bit of sick fascination about what might happen next with them. Part of me wants to see what having a friend will do to Sherlock. God, you should have seen them, Mycroft. You can see them having these endless conversations without words. Sherlock put up with Watson telling him he’d overstepped the bounds of common decency; and he damn well wound his neck back in. I’ve never seen the like.”

Mycroft frowns, pinching the stem of his wineglass between thumb and forefinger. “I am… concerned. I admit that I have no frame of reference for this situation; I have no idea how the man’s presence will affect Sherlock. He’s barely had a friend since his first year of university, and even that ended badly.”

“Then surely,” Greg says, quietly. “We should let him have another go at making a new one?”

Mycroft sighs inaudibly, meticulously arranging his cutlery into straight lines on his still half-full plate. He takes a long moment, his face pensive.

“I believe that you are far kinder than my brother deserves.” he says eventually, sitting back and giving Greg a faintly rueful smile.

Greg shrugs uncomfortably and scratches the back of his neck just so that he’s got something to do with his hands. “I don’t know about that. I think you’ve forgotten that I organised a drugs bust on his flat earlier this evening.”

Mycroft laughs, but doesn’t contradict him. They both decline dessert, and a glance at Greg’s watch tells him it’s past midnight. The warm, shadowy restaurant is almost empty; waiting staff quietly clearing the room. He doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to leave this bubble of charmed warmth that surrounds them here. This evening feels like it’s taken place somewhere outside of time.

“I am sorry to say that I should be getting along,” Mycroft says, in a tone that makes Greg think: He really is sorry. “I have a rather early flight to catch tomorrow.”

“And I’ve got the leaning tower of paperwork to tackle in the morning.” Greg sighs, and glances around for the waiter so that he can at least make a token effort to pay the bill. As expected, he’s thwarted.

They pause at the top of the steps, under the shelter of Mycroft’s umbrella once more. The rain continues to fall lightly, persistently.

“I’m going to go get the tube.” Greg says firmly, nodding towards the far end of the alley. “Holburns’ just over there and you’ve got that early start in the morning.”

Mycroft looks like he’d quite like to argue, but seems to recognise the firmness in Greg’s voice. “If you insist, Gregory.”
Greg feels the delighted laugh almost burst out of his mouth. “Oh my god, finally!”

Mycroft looks startled at the extent of Greg’s reaction. He’s smiling more widely than Greg’s ever seen him, his eyes bright in the shadows under the shared umbrella. And Greg does it without thinking, he probably never would have the courage if he thought about it beforehand.

He leans forward, taking hold of the velvet lapel of Mycroft’s overcoat and he presses his lips to the corner of his mouth; feeling the faint rasp of his skin and the softness of his lips. It’s an impulsive, hasty kiss and he takes in the warmth of Mycroft’s utterly still body; the gentle woody scent of him. When he slowly pulls back, Mycroft’s staring at him. Wide eyed, but unmistakeably pleased.

“Goodnight then, Mycroft.” Greg says, his blood singing in his veins. He gives him one last smile, feeling suddenly much giddier than half a bottle of wine could possibly explain. He turns on his heel and walks away into the rainy night, his heart lighter than it has been in years.

Chapter 5

Greg sleeps through his alarm the next morning. But the small smile on his face and the faintly giddy feeling in his chest don’t abate until after he arrives at the Yard. Sally is waiting for him outside the lift on the fourth floor. She’s looking impatient and he holds up his hands in defence as he walks past her towards the bullpen and Serious Crimes.

“Look, I know, I know, I promise I’ll get around to signing off on the-“

“Oh bugger that.” Sally says dismissively. “Freak and that doctor bloke are waiting in your office.”

Greg sighs, and comes to a halt so that he can look at her full in the face. “Sally, come on. Don’t call him that, it’s unprofessional as hell. You know that.”

She gives a defensive twitch, and rolls her eyes. “Yes. Fine. Whatever. But they showed up this morning, at the time I gave them last night. When I left them, they actually seemed to be writing their witness statements!”

Greg stares at her, feeling his mouth open. Not once, nod sodding once in the history of his acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes has the mad git ever been willing to be anywhere at the time requested. He’s never agreed to provide a full statement without being threatened, cajoled, bullied or bribed in some way. He’d never actually expected them to show up this morning, not really.

“He’s up to something.” He strides ahead, resisting the urge to run towards his office. He’s uneasy at the thought of Holmes being unsupervised in his office at the best of times, given his total lack of respect for petty things like data protection laws and witness confidentiality. Colleagues look up from their desks as he passes, interested at the clear anxiety on Lestrade’s face.

He pauses at the threshold, peering through the gap of the ajar door. His office is dimly lit with greyish natural light that filters through the permanently grimy windows. It’s messy as ever, although the cleaners have made a half-hearted attempt to hoover the thin industrial carpet and they’ve smeared some of the dust to slightly newer pastures.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are sitting side by side on the correct, visitor-appropriate side of his desk. They’re both holding sheaves of A4 paper attached to clipboards.

Sherlock is leaning back in his chair, eyes closed and looking utterly bored. He’s not actually writing anything on his, and Greg can’t tell if that’s because he’s finished or because he can’t be arsed to start. Watson has an elbow propped on a corner of Lestrade’s desk as he scrawls. He’s neat and a bit tired looking, his well-pressed shirt buttoned all the way up to his chin. Just as Greg’s about to give up and push the door open, he watches Watson poke Sherlock in the upper arm with his forefinger. Sherlock ignores him; he’s probably meditating or plotting.

Watson does it again. And again.

Greg watches, fascinated.

Watson’s grinning, a cheeky little quirk to his mouth. “Come on, genius. Keep writing.”

“No.” Sherlock intones, sepulchral. “Shan’t.”

Watson continues to prod him with his index finger. “Come on. That Donovan woman is going to come back and kick our arses.”

“Lestrade’s lurking in the doorway. I’m sure he will protect us.” Sherlock says, without opening his eyes. Watson glances up, reflexive. Greg enters the room, refusing to look sheepish. It’s his bloody office, after all.

“Morning, gents.” he says, shrugging off his jacket and slinging it in the general direction of the coat stand. It slithers to the floor as usual, and he ignores this as usual. Sherlock is wearing that same ridiculously theatrical coat, the collar turned up like he’s some kind of dashing regency gent or one of the better class of vampire. He’s utterly impassive, right up until the moment he opens his eyes. He lets his gaze slide right off Lestrade and it comes to rest on John Watson, who sits back and folds his arms; holding his glance. Their shoulders are less than a couple of inches apart.

It’s taking all of Lestrade’s self-control not to gape.

Sherlock’s always been unapproachable. Or rather, most people tend to shy away from that level of crazy mixed with terrifying intellect and a total lack of social regard. And Greg’s never once seen him do anything that he’d consider social. And yet here he is, practically lounging against this outwardly normal bloke who must have some kind of extreme hidden depths, given the way Sherlock’s looking at him.

Look beyond, he almost hears in Mycroft’s dry tones. He remembers their conversation last night, cloistered in the dark car and the shadowy warm restaurant.

Watson is shortish, sandy haired. He’s got a warm, friendly and blandly attractive sort of face; the kind of man Greg would ask for directions and then forget almost immediately. Neat, he’s very neat. He’s meticulously shaved, his short hair combed into order even though he and Sherlock almost definitely had a late night last night. Jesus, did they sleep together?! Greg practically rears away from that thought. Christ, no, that’s a thought experiment I don’t have anywhere near enough time for.
Watson’s watching him now, attentive; his head cocked a little to the side. And Lestrade feels like he’s being sized up too, being read. John Watson, invalided home after being shot. His second tour in Afghanistan. Surgeon, but seen combat too. He’s probably precise, smarter than he lets on, able to work calmly and quickly in incredibly dangerous and stressful situations. Mycroft had mentioned that Watson had kept on treating a patient while he was bleeding out, had kept going until he was on the verge of passing out from pain and blood loss.

Not ordinary. Not ordinary at all. So why does he look so bloody ordinary? It’s like he’s trying his hardest to sink into his surroundings. He looks thinner than he should be, the tan on his face fading and he’s got the kind of premature lines in his face that make Greg wonder what exactly the man saw in Afghanistan.

Perhaps it’s similar to what he sees in Sherlock now.

And what’s he reading in Greg’s face? In the wrinkles of the shirt he hadn’t had time to iron, his unpolished shoes, the bags under his eyes and his hair that inches closer to silver every day? Greg hasn’t the foggiest, and isn’t entirely sure that he wants to know. He plops heavily into his desk chair, and grabs hold of Sherlock’s clipboard.

To his surprise, it’s got some writing on it – Sherlock’s clearly ignored most of the boxes that he finds boring or obvious; but he’s scrawled several lines in the section where he’s supposed to describe his version of the events of the night before. His writing would probably be elegant if it wasn’t so impatient, the ruins of extravagant copperplate in slightly leaking biro. Greg thinks of that note in the bag with the sandwich, that morning ages ago. It’s still in his desk drawer somewhere. Mycroft’s handwriting was unhurried, spare. Black ink that probably came from a frighteningly expensive fountain pen. He probably picked a style of handwriting that indicated he was a cultured, well-adjusted individual from a graphological study, Greg thinks. He grins.

Sherlock’s watching him with a faint degree of confusion that’s rapidly bleeding into distaste. “If you wouldn’t mind keeping your mind on the task at hand and not your latest conquest, Lestrade. I do have things to do, you know.”

Lestrade’s chin whips up at this, feeling something akin to panic. He can’t possibly know, he tells himself. He’s not bloody omniscient. It’s not like Mycroft would have told him. And told him what, exactly? That they had dinner together, Greg had spilt the beans on his slightly awkward childhood and adolescence, spoken some rusty French and left Sherlock’s brother with a fairly chaste kiss in a darkened alley?

Watson’s looking back and forth between them with a smile. Lestrade can’t help it but some part of him is beginning to like the bastard.

“Remember that talk we once had about my private life staying private?” he says as sternly as he can manage to Sherlock. He clears his throat and rifles through the papers ostentatiously. “Jesus, come on. You can do better than this, Sherlock. Three lines does not suffice when it comes to the whole business with the suitcase.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?!” Sherlock snaps. “You have a sufficient amount of information to file. Jefferson Hope is no longer dispatching the citizens of London and you’ve got a result.”

“Yes, Jefferson Hope. Dispatched by persons unknown. Wholly unexpectedly and out of the blue. And just in the nick of time to save your sorry arse.” Greg says, pointedly.

Sherlock just looks bored. Watson nods, his face displaying exactly the right amount of concern and relief.

Greg sighs. Well, it’s not as if he had been planning on following this one up anyway. He takes the rather better completed form from Watson, and signs it off without checking the fine detail too carefully. It’ll get buried in the slush pool of NSY’s records management system for a few months, before getting consigned to the archives. He’s fairly sure it’ll barely get glanced at again after today.

“Fine. Go, then. Go do… whatever the hell it is you two need to do.”

“We’re going to IKEA,” Watson says brightly, getting to his feet. “This one doesn’t have any plates that haven’t been used as makeshift petri dishes. He’s been keeping all the forks in a beaker marked ‘Corrosive’ too.”

“For pity’s sakes, I washed it!” Sherlock hisses, huddling deeper into his coat as he follows Watson to the door.

The door hasn’t even swung shut behind them before Greg is frantically typing MYCROFT THEY’RE PICKING OUT CHINA AND SILVERWARE!! into his phone.

***

The rest of the week passes slowly, with Greg wading through a series of straightforwardly nasty cases that are barely worth even texting Sherlock about. He exchanges a flurry of texts with Mycroft, which arrive at odd times that suggest he’s in a variety of dramatically different timezones.

They don’t mention what happened in the alley outside the restaurant.

Instead, Mycroft sends Greg a selection of odd non-sequiturs and occasional photographs. He gets the impression that Mycroft doesn’t really text people casually. He spurns any kind of abbreviation, which Greg appreciates (he’d had to have one of his nieces point out that LOL did not, in fact, stand for ‘Lots of love’ a few years back). Greg occasionally pops in the odd emoji when he replies, just because he enjoys the idea of Mycroft’s eyebrow raising in distaste.

***

It snowed here today. Buckets of it. I helped some kids build a snowman in Hyde Park on my way home. Is it snowing where you are?

Alas, no. I would actually welcome it at the moment. MH

Did you and Sherlock have snowball fights when you were kids?

You forget that I am nearly seven years older than my brother, Gregory. MH

He beat you, didn’t he? 

Goodnight, Detective Inspector. MH

***

Knife crime’s getting a bit ridiculous in London. I took a bloody Sabatier filleting knife off a suspect today. What happened to good old flick knives? At least they fit in the standard evidence bags.

Well anatomically speaking a filleting knife would be more effective than a flick knife if one was aiming for extensive internal damage. Sabatier make a reasonably good blade but Kai Shun are far superior. I assume the suspect worked in the lower end of the restaurant industry? MH

She worked in Wetherspoons on Holloway Road. I’m feeling slightly concerned about the contents of your kitchen now, Mycroft.

***

Good afternoon, Gregory. I do hope your meeting with the commissioner went smoothly this morning. Did you know that in some cultures that one is required to masticate particularly loudly in order to show sufficient respect for the catering? I confess I am struggling somewhat. MH

Greg spends a good five minutes having silent hysterics at the concept of Mycroft having to forego impeccable table manners in the name of etiquette. He stares at his own name on the screen, albeit in a form that nobody has ever used. His mouth unconsciously curls into a smile every time.

I bet they’re just trying it on. Trying to get you to slurp your noodles and get you embroiled in a diplomatic incident. HMLR won’t be happy.

Nor will my dry cleaner, I fear. MH

Greg stares at his phone for a long minute, willing himself to type the words.

When are you back? Do you fancy having dinner again?

He reads and rereads the message. Is it pushy to ask when Mycroft is back in the country? Needy? Demanding? He painstakingly deletes the first sentence, amending it to merely

Do you fancy having dinner when you’re back?.

There’s no response. Greg waits for a long minute, and then another. His stomach begins to tense up, and he steadfastly pushes back at the queasy anxiety. Christ but this is ridiculous, he thinks. Nobody’s left you feeling so on edge since you were twelve and Lisa Jenkins left you waiting for a week before turning you down.

His phone screen stays dark. After ten minutes he puts it face down on his desk and pointedly leaves it there while he dashes out to Costa to buy a slightly less rubbish coffee than what’s on offer in the staff room. He tells himself that he’s only walking quickly on the way back because he’s got a lot on that afternoon.

No new messages.

He takes a swig of his pointlessly huge cappuccino and glares at his computer screen, scrolling through his emails. Endless meetings in his calendar; media requests about the Hope case. Someone from the Daily Mail is hounding him to arrange an exclusive interview with Sherlock and he’s almost tempted to do it just to see the look of horror on his face.

Mycroft’s probably asleep, wherever the hell he is. He probably sent his last message to Greg, turned his phone off and went to bed. Or he’s in an area of dodgy reception. Or he’s busy having an important dinner. He merely ducked into the loos to message Greg about hilarious local eating customs in the restaurant where he’s dining with arms dealers. Or whatever the hell it is he actually does that is absolutely, not at all, anything to do with Her Majesty’s Land Registry.

The day stretches out endlessly, and Greg attends a string of tedious meetings and does even more bloody paperwork before (thank god!) getting hauled into the most utterly ridiculous case. Probably the most ridiculous case he’s ever been involved in with Sherlock, and that’s saying something. Chinese gangsters smuggling antiquities, a fight in some kind of avant-garde circus in an abandoned theatre. John Watson and his rather attractive new boss even manage to get kidnapped. Greg’s fairly sure Sherlock wouldn’t have minded if she actually had ended up being harpooned by the ludicrous cross-bow, given the transparently jealous looks he’s been casting at Watson. Dimmock is actually the officer in charge on the case, but by the end of two days he’s so shell-shocked by exposure to Hurricane Sherlock Lestrade takes pity and steps in to help with the clean-up.

Watson’s slightly rumpled and wide-eyed, quick to laughter in a way that might be shock but Greg thinks is more likely to be sheer excitement. Sarah Sawyer’s been taken home by a sympathetic DC after giving a rather shaky statement of her experiences in the sewers. Sherlock is standing rather close to Watson, his hands dug deep into his coat pockets and Greg wonders if it’s because he doesn’t trust himself not to touch him, to make sure he’s alright and unharmed. He’s got a few bruises here and there from the scuffle and his cardigan’s torn at the sleeve but he seems fine. More than fine really, there’s something fierce and vital in his eyes when he looks up at Sherlock.

They’re discussing where to get dinner, of all things, when Lestrade catches up with them. “Oi, you two. What’s the hurry?”

“John requires xiolongbao, apparently.” Sherlock says, with a great show of weariness.

“And I get to pick where we go because of the whole near-death situation thing.” Watson supplies. “It’s the rule.”

“It’s not a rule.” Sherlock argues, automatically.

“Absolutely a rule. Just invented it. Anyway, there’s this great little place in Soho that closes in about 40 minutes. Want to come?”

Lestrade’s starving and tempted to say yes, but he suspects Sherlock might poison his dumplings. He’s hovering over Watson, so transparently possessive that it’s almost adorable. “Nah, I’m good. You’ve been cleared to leave, right? You’ve spoken to Dimmock?”

“We’ve spoken to him.” Sherlock says, which is not really an answer. However, this isn’t technically Greg’s case so he can’t be bothered. Dimmock will have to learn the hard way, like the rest of them.

Sherlock swoops off to reclaim his gloves which he apparently dropped somewhere in the bowels of the theatre and Greg is left standing with John Watson on the pavement, vaguely longing for a cigarette.

“So, er. Everything going ok so far then?” he asks. “Living at Baker street, I mean?”

“Oh… oh, yeah. Well, it’s sheer bloody mayhem interspersed with flouncing and occasional explosions in the microwave,” Watson grins. “But yeah. It’s good.”

“Good. Sounds… fun?” Greg says slowly, and before he can stop himself asks: “Met his brother yet?”

“Mycroft? Ha.” He snorts and examines the hole in his cardigan sleeve ruefully. “Yes, we’ve been introduced. Well, I say introduced. Actually I was kidnapped by a posh bird in a big car and he interrogated me in an underground carpark. Should be used to it by now, I ‘spose. Kind of a wanker.”

For some reason, this makes Greg bristle slightly. John Watson’s looking at him curiously as he adds: “But I suppose he means well. He does fret about Sherlock a lot. Sherlock’s still a bit cheesed off that I didn’t accept money from Mycroft to spy on him; he reckons we could have gotten at least two grand a month off him.”

Greg nods, feeling in his pockets for the cigarettes that haven’t been in there forever. “Seen him recently?”

“Just this morning, in fact.” Watson stands on tiptoe to catch sight of Sherlock, who is pushing his way through the throng of officers and Forensics. “He popped round to get Sherlock to sign a birthday card for their mum. Think a bit of blood might have gotten on it at the same time. Hope she doesn’t mind too much.”

Greg’s hands stop fumbling in his pockets. He hates the hollow feeling that’s suddenly taken over his stomach. John flashes a quick smile at Sherlock then turns back to Greg, and whatever he sees in his face makes him frown slightly. “So, er. Why do you ask?”

“No! I mean, no reason.” Greg says, stoutly. “Just making conversation. You two go get your dumplings.”

“Sure you don’t want to come?” Watson asks, and he seems reluctant to leave all of a sudden.

“Nah, thanks though! I’m heading home.” Greg says, and out of sheer awkwardness says “Lets go get a pint soon though.”

“Yeah, alright.” Watson says, slowly. “Let’s. I’ll get your number off Sherlock.”

Sherlock plucks at his sleeve and the two of them head off down the street, heads bowed close together. Greg watches them go until they disappear into the shadows between streetlights, before turning and heading slowly in the opposite direction.

Chapter 6

Lestrade resolves not to think about why Mycroft Holmes might be ignoring him for the rest of the week, and of course fails miserably. It gnaws relentlessly at the back of his mind for the next few days. It creeps up on him during idle moments and quite frequently when he really should be concentrating on serious things like splatter patterns and photo-fits. He still glances at his phone restlessly, willing it to light up with a laconic message from the familiar number.

It never does.

Perhaps there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. Maybe Mycroft’s lost his phone. He might have sprained all his fingers in some kind of freak accident and is unable to type. Maybe he somehow found out about the time Greg tripped over a traffic cone and split his trousers in front of the entire forensics team on the day he was wearing the novelty Minions pants his sister had bought him. Admittedly that had happened six years ago, but anything is possible.

Maybe he’s suddenly met the love of his life and has forgotten about Greg entirely.

He types and retypes messages, trying desperately to sound… well. Not desperate, for a start. He never quite manages it, so he doesn’t send any of them.

Days are ticking by; it’s now a couple of weeks since he’s heard from Mycroft. At night he stares at the cracked paint of his bedroom ceiling, feeling tired and bored and irritated and more than a bit pathetic. He’s off-kilter and disappointed. Perhaps not just about whatever it was with Mycroft flaring and dying out as quickly as a cheap match. He’s growing increasingly aware that here he is at 4am, alone and unable to sleep in his horrible flat in a part of town that he hates. He doesn’t even have a bloody cat for company. His fridge currently contains a six pack of Stella, desiccated cheddar and some milk of dubious character. He listens at the door before he leaves in the morning, just so that he can avoid bumping into his neighbours.

This isn’t the life he’d envisioned himself having in his early days with the Met. Back then he’d been coming home to Sylvia, exhausted and occasionally traumatised; but nearly always happy. Their flat had been small and messy but full of character, the walls covered in posters and her paintings. The windowsills overflowed with plants and jam jars of bright cheap flowers. The kitchen was full of strange new ingredients they bought down the markets on the weekends. The first thing Greg used to do when he got home was to kiss his girlfriend and put on a record. Fill the place with the sound of David Bowie or the Kinks or Prince. Pour a glass of wine or a beer, letting the stress of the day bleed out of him. They would curl up on the battered orange sofa together, swapping stories about their days. He’d always been so glad to get home.

When Sylvia left, she took the paintings and the spices and the records. He’d rented this flat as a stopgap, just a place to lay his head while he was still reeling and trying to figure out what to do next. And now it’s going on two years later and he’s still here. He doesn’t really miss Sylvia any more, beyond a vague ache. But he misses that feeling he used to get when he closed the door behind him, being enveloped in warmth and colour and the knowledge that someone was about to come into the hall and kiss him hello.

He could easily afford a nicer place. He could buy paintings and records and interesting food. He’s capable of having a conversation with a stranger, he could conceivably make some new friends. And yet he doesn’t. He doesn’t do anything at all, except work.

No wonder Mycroft has decided against getting involved with him, really.

Greg turns over in bed, pulling at the corner of the duvet until he’s cocooned in it; staring at the orange street light filtering through the slats of the blinds. He can hear a siren and a fight in the distance but at least it’s not his problem right now. The shutters on the takeaway down the road slam shut with a rattle and a deafening final clang.

For fuck’s sake, you’re a grown man. Nothing’s going to change about your life if you don’t get off your arse and do something about it. You can either stop whinging or you can man up and pull yourself together. That’s the end of it.

“Enough.” he mumbles to himself, pulling the duvet even tighter. “Bloody enough, now.”

***

Greg doesn’t have anything even resembling a coherent plan to sort himself out. But when John Watson texts him the following day asking him if he fancies a pint at the Goat and Compass in Seven Dials, he says yes.

“Fuck it. Why not?” he says aloud, staring at the phone. It’s become all too common for him to automatically say no to such invitations, mainly because the usual people who ask him down the pub are A) coppers and B) his subordinates, which tends to get awkward when they want to complain about work together.

He supposes that this could be the first step towards having some kind of non work related (alright, yes work related but non-NSY related) social life. Of a sort.

He texts John again after a moment’s thought. Is Sherlock coming too?

Just asked him. He says he’d rather stick pins in his eyeballs.

Thought so. See you there round seven.

The pub is bustling when Greg arrives, slightly late due to a delay on the tube. John Watson is seated in a worn booth near the back, sipping a pint of lager and scanning a copy of the Metro. Greg catches his eye from the bar and mouths “Another?” at him. John grins in recognition and gives him a thumbs up, folding up his newspaper to make way for Greg at the slightly sticky table.

“Evening, sir.” Greg says, sliding in across from him and pushing the full glass towards John. “You look like you need this.”

“Christ, yes.” John says, nodding his thanks. “Turns out, Sherlock didn’t mean his own eyeballs. He’s got a selection out on the kitchen table. It’s like a scene from that horrible Salvador Dali film in our flat at the moment.”

“I would like to say that I am surprised,” Greg says flatly. “But I am absolutely not.”

“He says I’m being histrionic and a terrible flat mate for objecting, and that you are a shocking excuse for a DI for being unable to come up with a decent homicide case in the last week.” John says mildly, watching Greg tear open a bag of Walkers cheese and onion; taking a handful when offered.

“And yet you’re still living with him.” Greg states, although it’s half a question. He’s still fascinated by this development in Sherlock’s life; the change affected by this man sitting across the table from him. It’s been a couple of months now, and John doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.

And John looks different now too, from the thin unassuming man Greg met on that first evening on the Hope case. His tan has faded, and he’s gained a bit of weight. He stands taller now, shoulders square and relaxed; his face sliding readily into a wry smile. He might be annoyed and long suffering, but he’s not hiding real anger anywhere beneath it.

John grimaces. “Flat’s nice. Good location. And if I’m not there, Mrs. Hudson will murder Sherlock within a week.” he grins, a sudden boyish flash. “Not that I’m not tempted to let that happen, now and again.”

They’re interrupted by a pair of girls in matching pink tee shirts and cowboy hats, selling Cancer Research raffle tickets and rattling plastic buckets full of donated change. One is clearly an art student, going by the paint streaks on her trainers and her unusual jewellery. He can’t tell with the other, a wide-eyed blonde making conversation with John. They’re both pretty, Greg thinks vaguely, rummaging in his pockets for a handful of coins. Pretty, and flirting in an impersonal way guaranteed to encourage a couple of blokes in their forties to hand over money for a good cause. John’s turning on the charm in a diffident, practised sort of way which makes Greg watch him much more closely than either of the girls. He’s not trying particularly hard, and he barely shrugs when they smile and leave; rattling their buckets as they go. He turns back to face Greg, and takes in his curious expression.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Greg grins and nods in their wake. “On the pull?”

“Just being friendly.” John says, almost defensive. He looks away.

“Hey, no judgement here!” Greg says, holding up a hand. “Things didn’t work out with your boss, then?”

“Sarah?” John half laughs, thawing a little. “We decided best keep our relationship professional in the end. I think that perhaps the whole being kidnapped by Chinese gangsters and near death situation thing might have put her off a bit, to be honest.”

And the fact that Sherlock Holmes decided to come along on your first date, Greg doesn’t say, with what he thinks is an admirable show of tact.

“And the fact that Sherlock decided to come on the date with us,” John says, with a roll of his eyes. “Nothing weird about that, at all.”

“I didn’t say it.” says Greg. He just grins because there’s no way in hell he’s going to ask about whatever strange understanding exists between the residents of 221b Baker Street. No matter how much he wants to know. “Another?”

“My round,” John says, and gets to his feet.

The conversation is good, it’s easy; although it unsurprisingly involves quite a lot of discussion of one Sherlock Holmes. He learns that John’s got a sister over near Wandsworth that he doesn’t see much of, that he buys a lot of books he never gets round to reading. He speaks of his time in Afghanistan with an odd kind of mingled relief and regret that he’s not there any more. Greg listens to his stories of life in barracks, and realises that John probably misses it a bit; the company and camaraderie of army life. What must it have been like for him to be invalided home like that? John doesn’t seem to be someone who would be content to be idle for any length of time. He doesn’t quite like to ask about the leg, about the cane that disappeared after that first night.

“Mycroft called round again today,” John says casually, which has a strange and coldly sobering effect on Greg.

He forces his face to remain neutral, reaches out for another mouthful of beer. “Oh?”

John’s watching him curiously. There’s a long and not particularly comfortable silence as Greg places his glass back down, centring it perfectly on the beer mat in front of him.

“Mm.” John eventually says, seeming to give up waiting for more of a reaction from Greg. “He’s got a job he wants Sherlock to take, but of course Sherlock won’t hear of it. Can’t go into particulars, but it sounded pretty bloody interesting to me. Right up his street. But you know what the pair of them are like. Sherlock told him he’s far too busy.”

“With his eyeballs.” Greg says, mechanically.

“And apparently he has to get his skull serviced by some specialist over in Hackney. The one on the mantel, not his own. Christ, the fact that I have to specify which skull I mean says a lot about our lives…”

Our lives Greg thinks, ignoring the minor pang.

“But anyhow, Mycroft was hanging around for ages. Mrs Hudson brought him up some tea on the best china, which didn’t go down well at all with Sherlock. I ended up coming out early this evening, just to get out of there. Hope he’s gone by the time I get back; when the two of them are together for too long they start aggressively playing board games and threatening to tell their mum about stuff they did thirty years ago or the last time one of them nearly got killed.”

“What?” Greg asks, before he can help himself. “What d’you mean?”

John frowns slightly, and sits back; arms stretched out and palms flat on the table. “Well, you know. Mycroft.” he says, as if that explains everything.

“Mycroft what?”

“Mycroft’s job. You know what it is, right?”

No, Greg thinks, suddenly a bit tired and unaccountably furious. No, I don’t. He didn’t trust me enough to say.

“Government.” he says, eventually. “And not the Land Registry, that’s for sure. MI5?”

John lowers his voice and leans forward slightly. “Don’t think that begins to cover it, really. Sherlock says he pretty much runs the British Government.”

This sounds so bloody preposterous that Greg’s half tempted to laugh. “Come off it. Sherlock’s taking the mick-“

“And you think Sherlock’s likely to make something up about his brother that will make him sound important and influential?” John counters. “Come on. He’ll cheerfully lie about just about anything, but he’d never come up with something complimentary about Mycroft.”

Greg’s not at all sure what to do with this piece of information. He can’t really argue with John’s logic on this one. But it doesn’t make sense; government doesn’t work like that. There’s dozens of different departments and countless civil servants, all of whom have the unenviable task of dealing with politicians, ministers, and whoever’s currently got the misfortune of being Prime Minister. Nobody could be secretly behind all that, all those machinations and dealings and secrets. It sounds like some mad kind of conspiracy. But John’s looking at him steadily, curiously; like he expected Greg to know all of this.

“Just figured you knew,” John says, levelly.

“Why? Why in the world would I know?!” Greg says, and it bursts out sounding a bit angrier than he’d intended.

John doesn’t bat an eyelid. “No reason. Just thought you knew him.”

“Not well.” Greg says, staring down at the scarred and streaked wooden table. “Not well at all. Haven’t seen him in a while.”

“Do you want to?” John asks, not missing a beat.

“What?” Greg feels strange about the way this is going.

This isn’t the kind of conversation he’d been anticipating having with John. He’d expected the moaning about Sherlock. Maybe some talk about football or whatever the hell it is people are supposed to chat about with new acquaintances. Weather. Complain about property prices. Politics. But he hadn’t expected to get interrogated about how well he may or may not know Mycroft Holmes. It’s rude and unwelcome and he doesn’t care for it, thank you very much.

Maybe after all his time abroad and then in the company of Sherlock, John’s forgotten that there are just some things that British men are not supposed to talk about unless they’re properly drunk or have known each other for at least a decade.

“Mycroft. Do you want to see him again?”

“What do you mean, again?” Greg says, and then curses himself. John nods thoughtfully.

“Thought so.”

“What?!”

“Oh come on, Greg.” John says, irritatingly. “Sherlock’s been muttering darkly about you and Mycroft being in contact. You asked me about him yourself, last time I saw you. You don’t know what he does for a living, so you’re unlikely to be talking about anything work-related.”

“We talk about Sherlock.” Greg says, woodenly.

“Greg, we all bloody talk about Sherlock. We do it all day long. But reading between the lines here, I’ve got a feeling you might have… branched out a bit.” John sits back, and grins.

“Jesus, what is this?” Greg mutters into his pint. “Can’t we talk about footie or something?”

“Don’t follow it. This is much more interesting. Blimey, Greg! I mean, Mycroft?”

“I told you, I haven’t seen him in a while!” Greg snaps, annoyed. And for some reason, annoyed at the implied incredulity that anyone would choose to spend time with Mycroft Holmes. Before he can stop himself (bloody craft beer) he’s said: “He never texted me back!”

John blinks. “You mean, the morning after-?”

“NO! Christ!” Greg feels his face flushing furiously red. “No, fuck no! We- well, we went out for dinner one night. And it was… it was good. We had a really nice time, or at least I did.” He can’t believe he’s spilling the beans like this, and to someone he really doesn’t know all that well at all. Although he suspects that John is more likely to understand the situation than just about anyone, given his weird propensity for spending long periods of time in the company of a Holmes. “And it… well, it ended well, you know? And he had to go off to god knows where on some work trip the next day and we were texting back and forth as usual. Banter, you know-“

“Banter? Really?!”

“Yes, shut up. And it’s all going well, we’re keeping in touch right up until the point when I ask him if he fancies having dinner again when he’s back in the country. And then…” Greg drains the rest of his beer, and looks around the crowded bar at all the lucky buggers who aren’t part of this conversation. “Radio silence. Nothing. No response.”

John nods, frowning. “And how long ago was that?”

“Right before the smuggling case. Couple of weeks back. I mean, it was one date and a lot of texting. I can take a hint.” Greg says, with what he reckons is an admirable attempt at nonchalance.

John opens his mouth to speak, then seems to think better of it. He closes it again, after pouring quite a lot of beer into it. He gulps it down loudly, then unexpectedly leaps to his feet; grabbing his jacket from the bench next to him. A bit perplexed at this sudden flurry of activity, Greg watches him hastily consult his phone.

“Right.” John says, looking satisfied. “Ten minutes ago, Sherlock was complaining at me by text about the fact that Mycroft was still hanging around Baker street like, I quote, ‘a particularly objectionable and foul odour hell bent on haranguing me to death. Come back at once and bring food.’ If we hop on the Tube we can be there in-“

“I’m not just going to show up like that! It’ll be awkward and-“

“Look.” John says, with a great show of patience. “He knows I’m out with you, I said as much on the way out the door. He also heard Sherlock complaining about the very fact that I am out with you. If he’s been there all that time, he will have been witnessing Sherlock texting me whiny updates every five minutes. Sadly, he also knows that I will eventually cave in to said ridiculousness and will come home. So why’s he still hanging around? He could just as easily nag Sherlock by phone.”

Putting aside the sheer absurdity of John Watson’s life with an effort, Greg splutters: “That’s utter bollocks. He’s not hanging around on the off-chance you’ll bring me back with you.”

“Not even slightly bollocks,” John says seriously, with the emphatic conviction of a man three pints of Czech lager into the evening. “He’s engineered the whole thing.”

“But he could just text me!” Greg says, hating the way he feels himself beginning to cave already.

“After two weeks? Past the point of no return.” John informs him, knowledgeably. “You wouldn’t, if you’d let things slide like that. S’just rude.”

Full of misgivings and a faint sense of dread, Greg follows John out of the pub and down the street. He doesn’t know why he’s being so awkward about all of this. He’s a grown man, for pity’s sake. He could just ring Mycroft, like a normal person would. He’s got his phone number, after all. This feels ridiculous and adolescent, orchestrating a supposedly chance meeting that anyone with half a brain would see through in an instant, never mind someone with a terrifyingly sharp mind like Mycroft.

Or, (oh god!) Sherlock. This thought alone is enough to stop Greg in his tracks at the entrance to the station. No. He can’t face it. He will not walk into Baker Street, in the full knowledge that he’ll have to dredge up something coherent to say to the man who’s been ignoring him. In front of that man’s brother who will definitely verbally eviscerate him.

“No.” he calls ahead to John, who’s already halfway down the stairs. “No, sorry. This is just- no.”

“Greg, come on. You said yourself you wanted to see him again!”

“Not like this.” Greg says, simply.

“I swear Sherlock won’t be a dick. I’ll get him out of the way-” John offers, but he subsides when he sees the determined look on Greg’s face. “Oh, fine. Have it your way.” He dodges a couple of irritated commuters who duck around him and gives Greg a brief wave. “Fancy doing this again next week?”

“Yeah, alright.” Greg agrees, giving John a vaguely apologetic smile. He watches him disappear into the crowds below, before turning to idle his way thoughtfully down the street.

***

Drinks with John becomes a fairly regular thing, to Greg’s faint surprise. He realises after a couple of months and with a certain amount of embarrassment that John is probably sort of his best friend. Although of course he’s not foolish enough to think that goes both ways.

They see each other often enough at crime scenes, and Sherlock makes displeased faces when he thinks they’re spending too much time chatting and not listening to his genius. John mentions a few dates he’s been on, with various women he either meets through his locum work or cases; but these seem to peter out after a few months. Greg spends a lot of time watching John and Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, trying to figure out what on earth is going on there.

John is absolutely Sherlock’s best friend, the focus of his terrifying attention and the recipient of most of his strange attempts at affection or kindness. And John… well, a lot of the time John looks up at Sherlock like he’s just split the atom or stolen the stars, just for him alone. He beams and tells Sherlock that he’s fantastic, brilliant, that what he does is remarkable. And yet when people inevitably make assumptions about the pair of them something seems to close down in his face. He makes grumpy comments, usually featuring the words “Not gay!” and it makes something crawl and curl up in Greg’s chest. Partially for himself and his own complicated miasma of memories and regrets; but mostly for the way Sherlock goes carefully blank and buries himself in whatever is closest to hand.

It’s not like John seemed to care in the slightest about the possibility of Greg getting involved with Mycroft. Apparently John’s sister is gay, but that’s very clearly not the reason they’re estranged. John’s short-lived dating, in combination with his weird, co-dependant and occasionally adorable relationship with Sherlock makes Greg think that he’s probably “Not gay” in the same way that Greg himself is. But something stops him ever bringing it up with John. Perhaps because he’s not entirely sure that he wants to hear the explanation. So they talk about crime scenes and books and watch the cricket and, well… it’s good. He doesn’t spend every evening alone eating crap food and watching reruns of Murder She Wrote any more.

Right. So he’s made a new friend.

Greg grits his teeth and starts scanning property websites on his lunchbreaks, distractedly dropping crumbs into his keyboard as he tries figuring out public transport links and council tax bands. He looks at pictures of ‘bijou mews dwellings’, which on closer inspection appear to be annexes attached to the lower class of broom cupboard. Flats that boast classic period features but not much in the way of ceilings. He’s on the verge of getting overwhelmed and giving up entirely when Donovan bustles in, clearly with the intention of stealing some of his chocolate digestives.

She pauses at his shoulder, and brightens. “Oh, about bloody time! You’ve given up on the shithole, then?”

Greg makes a gloomy, disapproving sort of noise but he can’t quite contradict her. Sally’s only seen his flat once, when she’d had to escort him home from hospital with a badly sprained ankle. He still remembers her look of disapproval and faint disgust when she looked round his dingy living room.

“Come on, guv. Just thinking about your flat makes me want to cry. Or set fire to it a bit, anyway.” Sally tells him, cheerfully. She helps herself to a biscuit and hunkers down at his side, scanning the dozens of pictures and smarmy captions and terrifying numbers of zeros. “So you’re going to be a grown-up and buy a proper place, right? No more depressing rented bachelor pads?”

“I suspect I may have to settle for a shoe box somewhere in the vicinity of Luton, at this rate.” Greg says grimly, removing the digestives from her reach before she can steal another. “For fucks sake, just go and buy a sandwich Sally.”

“On a diet,” she says vaguely, frowning. “Nah, you’re going about this all wrong. You’re a copper, you should know that inside information is the way to go when it comes to stuff like this.”

“What do you mean, inside information?” Greg asks, curiously.

“Well, you know. Haven’t you ever visited a crime scene where the owner clearly isn’t going to be coming home to their charming flat any time soon in this lifetime and-“

“I am not buying a place where I need to scrub blood off the walls!” Greg says, appalled. “Oh my god!”

“It’s how I found my place,” Sally says, unconcerned. “Got in there before it even reached the market. Got a trauma cleaning company in before the decorators. Job done.”

“Unethical.” Greg says firmly.

Sally sighs, as if Greg’s being ridiculous and tedious. “Statistically, someone’s died in most houses you know. What does it matter if it was violent? Look, tell you what. I’ll give you a hand finding a place, if you sort out the paperwork on the Jones and Peterson cases by the end of the week. Deal?”

Greg nods warily. “No murder scenes, alright?”

“Ugh, fine. God, you’re fussy.”

***

Greg doesn’t hold out much hope, given the cut-throat nature of house hunting in London these days. Sally asks around all her friends and their colleagues, putting out a call for people who might be thinking of selling up. In return, he does his best to sign forms and follow the records management procedure in principle, if not entirely in practice.

He goes to see a tumbledown ex-council house that might be charming if he had an extra hundred grand to do it up with. He goes to see a lovely flat with windows that rattle every time a train goes by underneath. But it’s something to do on the weekends, and he gets to quite enjoy exploring parts of the city he’s half forgotten about and taking branches of the tube that he usually ignores. He walks through parks and wanders through obscure back streets. He opens a box of books he’d never unpacked and rediscovers old favourites, sitting in coffee shops and getting croissant fragments and buttery fingerprints between the pages.

Initially feeling like something of an idiot, he begins to make conversations with strangers in shops or in the queue for the bus.

“Why the hell did you ask her about her hat?!” Sally hisses, as she pulls him away from a bemused older lady in the Costa near NSY. She practically tows him out the door and back towards the office.

“Just making conversation, for pity’s sake! What’s wrong with that?!” Greg protests, trying to avoid dripping his latte on his shoes.

“This is London, Greg. That’s like doing a shit in public. People will think you’re a weirdo or a pervert if you do stuff like that.”

“Oh, bollocks! Look, she’s waving-“

“Are you having some kind of breakdown or midlife crisis at the moment?” Sally asks him, looking suddenly concerned. “I mean, should I get HR involved?”

“You can add that to your list of ‘Very Inappropriate Things I Should Not Ask The Man Who Is Currently My Boss’, Donovan,” Greg snaps. “And no, I’m not! Jesus, where’s the harm in being nice to people?”

He takes in her deeply unconvinced and entirely unrepentant expression, and sighs. Sally has an unfortunate tendency to see right through him, which he laments and appreciates in almost equal measure.

“Look, I’m just trying out a few things at the moment ok? I’m trying to find a new place, I’m trying to… Look, I just mean that not everything’s about work! I don’t want to end up at retirement with nothing but a long service award and a crap watch and an empty flat, alright? I’m trying to branch out a bit.”

“Oh, I get it…” Sally says, slowly. She frowns and takes a sip of her triple espresso. “You’re trying to find a life.”

“Ignoring just how insulting and insubordinate that sounds, Donovan, yes!” Greg half-shouts. “You might want to try it yourself, some time.”

Sally doesn’t answer, and they walk back to NSY in a distinctly thoughtful silence. She nudges him with a sharp elbow just as they’re about to go back into Serious Crimes division, in what is probably meant to be a friendly sort of way. “Don’t forget. You’ve got that viewing of that place in Highgate on Saturday.”

“Highgate, yeah. I’ll stop and re-mortgage most of my major organs en route, then.” Greg says, drily.

“They want a quick sale. Go take a look and remember to check the window-frames and attic,” Sally instructs him sternly, and thankfully goes to harass some of the junior members of the team.

***

The Highgate flat, from outside at least, is rather nice. More than a flat, actually; he knows it takes up the top two floors of a slightly ramshackle old building that was once a coaching inn and now houses some kind of fancy artisan cake shop on the ground floor. As per instructions Greg goes through an old stone archway round the side, and up a couple of flights of dimly lit and steep narrow stairs.

The owner of the cake shop lets him in, a tiny owlish man with flyaway hair and a slightly manic expression. Apparently the place belonged to an aged aunt who had thankfully died of natural causes. He thrusts the keys into Greg’s hand and instructs him to come and find him downstairs when he’s finished, that he’s got a batch of raspberry chocolate ganache that requires absolute split second timing. He’s gone almost before Greg can blink.

It’s rather a relief to view a property without the owner or an estate agent trailing him around; he’d felt under pressure to be complimentary about everything he saw in the last few places. Pushing the heavy old door shut behind him, he looks around the rather dusty hallway; taking in the faded green wallpaper and threadbare carpet. It’s dark, and a bit oppressive; but when he turns the heavy brass handle of the first door he’s greeted with a deluge of cool sunlight streaming across scarred floorboards.

The living room is long and narrow, one wall punctuated by tall wooden shuttered windows that look, surprisingly, onto a slice of overgrown canal. When he cranes his neck he can see a large swan swimming ponderously by below, past a drowned bicycle.

There’s comfortable, mismatched old furniture and a variety of rather startling modern paintings on the walls. A small wood-burning stove sits incongruously in a marble fireplace, the mantel covered in tiny old blue and green glass bottles that glitter drowsily and catch the light. As he walks across the worn old rugs, he disturbs clouds of dust and a few moths that skitter drunkenly through the air.

He finds a hilarious little kitchen straight out of the 1940’s through another door, full of greenish copper pans; and an even older bathroom filled with butter coloured art deco tiles. There’s an enormous spider resident in the cavernous tub. There are three small bedrooms, cramped with heavy Edwardian furniture and old wooden tea chests full of god-knows-what.

There is an actual pantry; and Greg is beginning to feel something akin to giddy by the time he’s climbing the tiny winding stairs to the attic. He already loves this place; it’s old and weird and totally impractical in a lot of ways but he wants it. He’s imagining himself reading by the stove in winter and throwing his toast crusts down to the swans from the kitchen windows. He could get a dog, take it for walks on the hill nearby in the mornings. He could finally get round to exploring Highgate cemetery for reasons other than apprehending suspects.

The attic door sticks and creaks alarmingly as Greg tries to open it. He has to apply a certain amount of force and swearing to get it open; but when he does he inhales sharply, taking in the view of the cloudy sky through the grimy domed skylight. The attic is cluttered with canvasses propped against the walls, others on sheet-covered easels. There’s a terrible draft coming through one of the small square broken windows, and there’s a definite damp patch on the wall over there. Something furry scuttles along the skirting board.

He doesn’t give a toss.

Greg walks across the room, feet echoing loudly on the wide bare floorboards until he comes to a halt beneath the skylight. He stands on a chair so that he can peer out, leaning on the narrow surrounding ledge. He can see the complicated tangle of Londons’ rooftops and spires from here, chimneys and skyscrapers, domes and trees. To his left he can see the shadowy expanse of Highgate cemetery, rows and rows of worn tombs and fanciful gothic mausoleums stretching into the distance. A flock of starlings wheel overhead, streaming like ribbons through the wind and he watches them spellbound. Propping his chin on his forearm, he presses his nose against the glass and sighs.

He stays there for a long while, drinking in the thick silence and the hushed forgotten atmosphere. He can’t explain it but it feels like this is his place. He’s already moved in, in his head. When he walks through the strange old rooms, he walks with the certainty of ownership.

Half an hour later he slowly descends the stairs, dreading the conversation he’s about to have with the little baker. Sally had told him a vague figure for how much the flat is going for, but he’s frankly incapable of believing her. It’s not cheap, but Highgate is one of those expensively picturesque areas that seems designed for inclusion in John Lewis ads or Richard Curtis films. It’s not really for people like him. He finds the little man laboriously icing a tray of eclairs in the shop downstairs, and he’s studiously ignored until the final flourish of ganache is applied.

And yet somehow, another half hour later he’s walking out of the warm, deliciously scented little shop with chocolate at the corner of his mouth and an utterly foolish grin on his face. It’s all still unofficial, of course; subject to the tedious minutiae of surveys and bank approval and credit checks. But it’s his, if he wants it; along with all the contents if he wants them. And he does. God, he does.

He pauses at the end of the narrow street, and buttons up his coat thoughtfully. His fingers find his phone in his pocket and he holds it tightly. He suddenly wishes he could call someone to share the news, someone he could share the satisfaction and delight with. He could call Sally, of course – she was instrumental in his finding the place after all. He stares down at the blank screen, and sighs.

I wish I could ring him and tell him about it. I wish I could show it to him, see his face when he notices the weird paintings and the kitchen and the giant spider and the view from the windows. He’d understand.

His thumb almost presses call. Almost.

Chapter 7

Instead, on a whim, he calls John. After all, when the time comes he can try and persuade him to help move his stuff in. It rings a few times, and he’s about to give up when it connects and he hears John’s breathless voice down the line. “Greg! Bugger it, that’s good timing. Can you get us some back up? We’re in a bloody church hall up in Chalk Farm and Sherlock’s about to apprehend the verger, who’s been blackmailing the organist-“

And that’s how he gets dragged out of his almost drunkenly happy state and straight back into overtime Holmes-related madness. Chalk Farm is only ten minutes away though, so he feels obliged to show up despite calling for immediate reinforcement. Sherlock has a pale, twitchy young lady in a dark cassock cornered in the cavernous building adjoining the church of St Silas.

Greg can tell from the moment he enters the room that Sherlock’s in an aggressively arsey mood. He’s needling the suspect, deducing details that frankly nobody needs to know about her personal hygiene and unhappy home life. There are a couple of curious PCs standing near the door, clearly enjoying the spectacle right up until the moment they notice Greg. He glares at them on his way past, and nudges John who is hovering uneasily behind Sherlock.

“Ah, Lestrade. Kind of you to show up. This is Miss Cardew, who has been extorting money in quite an inventive way from Mr Worthing, the church organist.” Sherlock glances round and gives Lestrade a humourless smile, all glittering teeth and tetchiness. Something’s clearly got him in a hell of a mood, and with a sinking feeling Greg recognises the early stages of a danger night. It’s been a long while, but he knows it when he sees it.

“It’s all foul lies, all of it!” Miss Cardew hisses, her hands trembling white against the flowing black of her robe. “I haven’t done a thing; not a single thing to Mr. Worthing. He’s clearly confused-“

“And the letters threatening to kill his dog and reveal certain personal facts to the Archdeacon unless immediate payment is made? Letters written on a particular kind of stationery only found in a few shops in London, one of which is owned by your sister?”

Miss Cardew looks as if she’s on the verge of collapse or tears at this stage, and Greg steps forward swiftly. He gives Sherlock a sidelong glance. “If you don’t mind, Ma’am, I think we might continue this discussion down at the Yard. I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade-“

He slips his hand into his pocket on reflex, reaching for his badge. And of course it’s this moment the corner of the wallet catches on the lining and he glances down for a second as he untangles it. It’s long enough for Miss Cardew to lunge at him, her own hand holding a gleaming, sharpened paperknife; eyes wide and panicked. It’s an inexpert attack, and he mainly feels resignation as his forearm snaps up instinctively to block the blow. But he hasn’t bargained for Sherlock’s hand darting forward to grab at her wrist and the three of them collide comically, grappling for the knife. He can hear John swearing behind him as the blade slides across his upper arm, severing layers of wool and cotton and unfortunately his skin underneath.

It’s all over in seconds. The local PCs (who up until now had looked like they were thoroughly enjoying the show and only lacking popcorn) descend on them in a panic. And while Miss Cardew is definitely a bit unhinged, she’s not a total idiot and submits to being cuffed with minimal fuss. Sherlock’s got a red blotch on his cheek where her flailing elbow caught him in the face but he’s definitely more embarrassed than injured.

Greg’s partly pissed off about the fact he’s about to end up in A&E because he definitely needs stitches, but mainly because that he’ll have to go shopping for a new coat. John comes and takes a look, distinctly sheepish.

“Sorry Greg. I’d no idea she was the stabbing kind,” he offers, gently reaching out to slide the bloodstained trench coat from his shoulders. “She must have been hiding it in her cassock. Come over to the window and I’ll take a look.”

“I’m fine,” Greg sighs, grumpily. The cut is long but fairly shallow; he’s had much worse and has the scars to prove it.

Sherlock picks up the knife curiously, it’s clearly old, grimy and spotted with rust. He glances over at Greg, watching John carefully parting the sodden cloth of his sleeve in annoyance. “Well really, if you’d just let me finish talking to her rather than leaping in like that we could have avoided the whole situation,” he says, crossly.

John ignores him. “Hmm. I’d stitch you up myself, but you’re going to need a tetanus shot.”

“I’m up to date, believe me.” Greg says, faint hope dawning. He really cannot be arsed spending several hours in the waiting room of the nearest A&E. “I got stabbed by a suspect last year.”

“Eh, you’ll be fine then. Come along home with us and I’ll get you sorted out.” John says, with the cheery dismissiveness of a man who has performed emergency tracheotomies by torchlight.

“But the case!” Sherlock interjects. “She hasn’t even made a confession!”

“But she has just stabbed our mate Greg here,” John says pointedly. “Who happens to be one of London’s finest-“

Sherlock seems incapable of letting this statement go. “Well…”, he begins waspishly.

“Shut it, you.” John says firmly. And incredibly, Sherlock does. Although he’s clearly none too pleased about it. “Miss Cardew will be nice and comfy in a holding cell for a few hours. She just assaulted a police officer, not to mention blackmailing poor Mr. Worthing. She’ll still be fresh when we get back to her, don’t worry. Now give me your handkerchief and I’ll staunch the blood a bit.”

Sherlock digs in his breast pocket with a poor grace, and pulls out an immaculate snowy white handkerchief; clearly starched and beautifully ironed. Greg’s fairly sure he sees a discreet monogram in one corner as John deftly folds it and presses it to the wound; tying it in place with the bottom half of Greg’s mutilated shirt sleeve. “Right; that’ll do for now.”

A handkerchief like that is such an utterly Mycroft thing to have, Greg muses as he follows John and Sherlock out of the hall. If it wasn’t for the embroidered ‘WSSH’ in the corner, he’d have suspected Sherlock of stealing it from his brother.

He studies Sherlock surreptitiously in the cab on the way to Baker Street, watching him unwrap a couple of nicotine patches and slapping them on his forearm. John confiscates the packet when he goes to unwrap a third, earning him a positively murderous glare with added nostril flaring.

“You’ve barely eaten today; you’ll make yourself sick.” John says firmly, sliding the box into the jacket pocket furthest away from Sherlock. He pulls out a protein bar and when Sherlock doesn’t take it he sighs and drops it into his lap.

Sherlock’s hardly socially adept at the best of times, but he’s in a foul mood today; he looks like he’s itching and his ridiculous Italian leather wingtips slide restlessly across the floor of the cab. John’s clearly worried and trying not to show it, his own gaze drawn magnetically back to Sherlock’s pale face and restless hands.

Greg wonders if John has ever had to deal with Sherlock on a danger night before. If he’s had to trail round after him, attempting to distract him. Quietly searching the flat. Hoping against hope that Sherlock doesn’t give in this time. And the knowledge that it’s all a bit futile, because if Sherlock sets his mind to it, nobody can stop him doing whatever the hell he wants to do. Not John, not Mycroft and certainly not Greg.

He’s been through all that before, more than once. He still hates that he failed Sherlock, even though he’s never figured out how he could have tried harder or intervened sooner. Sherlock pointedly stares out the window, ignoring them both.

Sherlock sweeps up the stairs and through the door of 221B without a backwards glance at John and Greg. They share a mutually exasperated glance in the hallway before following him up, arriving in the cluttered living room just as the bedroom door slams shut after him.

“Shit,” Greg muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he stares at the rattling picture frames nearby.

John merely gives a terse “Hmm” and then sighs. His face seems more lined than usual; he looks tired and tense.

“How long’s he been like this?” Greg whispers, pulling out one of the kitchen chairs and narrowly avoiding planting his elbow on half a dissected frog.

“Couple of days. Someone he’d been tracking skipped the country. It’s my fault of course, because I distracted him with food and the suggestion he sleep for a few hours,” John says, heavily. He flips the switch of the kettle before ducking into the bathroom and returns with an impressively large first aid kit. “I’ve done my best to check the flat.”

“Have you told Mycroft?” Greg asks, after a moment’s internal struggle.

“I can’t. Not yet, anyway.” John says, unhappily. He makes Greg a cup of tea before reaching for the kit. He rummages around for gauze and nitrile gloves, and eventually admits: “I will if he gets any worse. But Sherlock will never forgive me, Greg. If he thinks I’m running and telling tales to his brother he’ll never trust me again.”

As much as he wants to, Greg can’t argue with that. He doesn’t want to see what losing Sherlock’s trust would do to John Watson either. He knows down to his bones that John will do his utmost to help, will watch Sherlock like a hawk and distract him and possibly even offer himself up as a test subject on this very kitchen table if it stops Sherlock from using again. He still can’t banish the image of Sherlock on the floor of his Montague Street flat though, drenched in icy sweat and his own vomit. His faint pulse under Greg’s fingertips.

“Right, get your shirt off. It’s for the bin anyhow I reckon,” John instructs him in breezy, doctorly manner. Greg sighs and goes along with it, unbuttoning and peeling off the cotton; hissing as he pulls it over his wounded arm. John’s gentle and thorough, and Greg wonders idly if he’s ever done this to Sherlock before; patching him up and cleaning the blood from his bare skin. It’s oddly intimate and he’s faintly embarrassed by the whole thing.

Part of him grudgingly realises that there’s something extremely attractive in John’s quiet competence, in the way his small deft hands move and his intent expression as he works. He licks his lower lip thoughtfully as he applies a layer of surgical glue over the wound, his thumb sweeping the excess away smoothly. “There. We’ll wait a few minutes and I’ll give you another coat. Shouldn’t scar too badly, I reckon.”

“Thanks,” Greg mutters, and makes a face as he takes a sip of his now unpleasantly cool tea.

John grins and pats him on the shoulder. “Make yourself another one. I’m just going to find you something to wear home, alright?”

“Yeah, okay. Cheers, mate.”

Greg watches him go and knock softly on Sherlock’s door. There’s a distant grunt from within that John clearly interprets as an invitation and he slips inside, closing it behind him. It’s a strange thing to watch, the clear familiarity suggested by his movements and yet the formality of knocking and waiting.

He’s still staring at Sherlock’s bedroom door as he stands and reaches for the kettle, and he’s just getting the milk when he hears a soft cough from the living room. He startles and spins round, and oh bloody buggering fuck why now? Jesus no, WHY?

Mycroft Holmes is standing in the middle of the floor, one thin eyebrow raised as he takes in the sight of Greg in the kitchen, stripped to the waist and clutching a pint of Tesco semi-skimmed to his blood-smeared chest. Mycroft of course is as impeccably dressed as ever, in an achingly sharp charcoal three piece suit. He’s carrying an elegant wooden handled umbrella in the same shade of green as the pocket square in his breast pocket. A tan leather briefcase hits the floor with a faint thump, shattering the overwhelming silence.

If Greg had to choose a way to run into Mycroft Holmes again, this would be about number five million down the list of possibilities. The plastic carton of milk is cold against his skin and he stares down at it and back up again at Mycroft’s startled face.

“Um. Hello, Mycroft.” he says, trying his best not to sound sheepish. “Good to- I mean, long time no-“

“Good afternoon, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft answers evenly. Although the words are calm and measured, the formality stings.

You called me Gregory the last time I saw you and I fucking kissed you, Mycroft Holmes. I kissed you and you liked it.

“Cup of tea?” Greg asks, stiffly. It’s hard to muster a lot of dignity just now, but damn it he’s going to try. He’s unprepared for the anger he feels, but it’s certainly helping.

“Thank you, I- no. I was hoping to see my brother,”

“They’re in there.” Greg jerks his thumb at Sherlock’s bedroom door. “And to be honest I’d leave them to it for now. Sherlock’s having a bad day,” he adds meaningfully.

Mycroft doesn’t show any sign of surprise at this, merely nodding grimly. He comes a little closer, eyes travelling over Greg’s chest, trailing slowly over the stupid tattoo he got when he was eighteen. The scars he’s accumulated from years of apprehending criminals and the one from his appendectomy. His gaze seems to have a tangible weight, and Greg is fighting the urge to grab a tea-towel to cover himself up somehow when Mycroft observes, frowning: “You’re injured.”

“Um. Yes, I- it’s nothing.” Greg realises that he’s breathless as he says the words and (No, he’s a grown man for fucks sake!) he’s aware that his face is warm. Mycroft’s taking in the red, swollen line of the wound, leaning a little closer to inspect the livid flesh of Greg’s upper arm. His lips press together into a thin line and Greg sees his hair glinting copper in the light from the kitchen window. He’s close enough for Greg to smell his faint, woody cologne and the resultant jolt in his stomach is enough to have him retreating, turning and placing his cup in the sink with a clang.

“I trust you’ve had adequate medical attention?” Mycroft asks, and he’s so cool and calm it’s totally infuriating.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Greg reaches for his ruined shirt which is still lying on the floor. He doesn’t care about a clean one any more, he just wants to get out of there. He wants to be somewhere quiet and far away, somewhere he can sit down and have a beer and very determinedly not think about the way Mycroft Holmes’ sharp blue eyes track his every move. The way he’s been mapping every line of Greg with a kind of maddeningly impersonal curiosity. “Look, um- I’ve got to go. Just keep an eye on Sherlock, will you?”

“That is why I am here,” Mycroft assures him gently. “I received some information earlier that made me think it was wise to stop by.”

“Information. Right. Yeah.” Greg says, tightly. “Well… see you around, I suppose.”

“Detective Inspector-“ Mycroft begins, and stops when he sees the look Greg gives him. “That is- I mean, can I assist you in getting home?”

There’s the faintest splash of colour across his pale cheekbones, and Greg suddenly wonders if this is the closest Mycroft gets to flustered. It’s fascinating. And then he’s cross with himself for the way he’s hovering on the threshold, trying to persuade himself that Mycroft might care if he gets home safe or not.

He finishes buttoning up the ruins of his shirt and slings his awful bloodstained coat over his arm. “No thanks, I’m sure Anthea has better things to do.”

“Greg!” John exclaims, suddenly choosing this moment of all bloody possible moments to emerge from Sherlock’s room. He’s carrying a long-sleeved black tee-shirt that must belong to Sherlock, and he blinks as he looks between Greg and Mycroft; the unmistakeably tense atmosphere in the room. He frowns when he sees Greg on the verge of fleeing down the steps. “Hang on, I still need to put another layer of glue and a dressing on that cut; you can’t go just yet-“

“I’m fine, honestly. I can sort myself out. I’ve just, um. Left the cat on. I mean, sorry! Thanks, John. I’ll see you soon. Bye.”

And he goes, cursing silently and before he can discover a new and novel way to make an even bigger fool out of himself. He pauses just inside the front door and presses his forehead against the florid green wallpaper, eyes closed tight for a long moment of utter mortification. He’s just managed to pull himself together and is on the verge of hauling the door open when he hears the swift drum of footsteps on the stairs above.

He sighs. “John, really; I-“

He turns and sees Mycroft standing on the stairs, the merest suggestion of breathlessness in the movement of his chest. They look at each other for a long moment.

“Gregory…” Mycroft trails off, looking oddly frustrated.

Greg’s tempted to say something snarky, something like ’Oh, we’re back to Gregory again, are we?’. But he just stares at Mycroft, expectant.

“I’d like to speak with you,” Mycroft says eventually.

“Oh?” Greg asks, cautiously. “What about Sherlock?”

“Sherlock is refusing to speak to me at the moment,” Mycroft says calmly. “I will be keeping a close eye on him over the next day or two, though.”

Greg wonders briefly what ‘a close eye’ might mean to Mycroft, but he suspects that it’s rather more than simply popping in now and then.

“I, er. I’m sort of a mess at the moment. Maybe some other ti-“

Abruptly, there’s a flurry of movement and a bundle of dark cloth is hurled down from overhead. The door of 221B slams shut a moment later, and Greg stares down at the tee-shirt John had been holding earlier.

Interfering bastard.

Gritting his teeth, he stoops and picks up the soft pile of fabric. Mycroft appears to be smothering a small smile as he straightens up, but it flickers and disappears almost instantly.

“Alright. I was planning on cutting through the park on the way to the tube. Want to walk some of the way with me?” he asks, ungraciously. “We can get a coffee.”

Mycroft nods, and pointedly averts his eyes as Greg shucks the ruined, torn shirt and pulls on the long-sleeved black v-neck. It’s made of some thin, ludicrously soft material that almost slithers over his skin and clearly sized for someone of Sherlock’s waifish proportions rather than his own softened muscle. He grimaces as he looks down at himself, but at least he’s not going to scare anyone he meets.

Mycroft holds the door open for him, and they walk down towards Regents Park, the pavements filling with the beginnings of rush hour crowds. It’s a warm Spring day, and the park when they reach it is verdant and lush. The rolling green parkland stretches around them as they walk down a long avenue of chestnut trees, the new leaves almost glowing overhead. The silence between them isn’t particularly uncomfortable, but it isn’t companionable either. Halfway down the avenue, Mycroft gestures at an empty bench and the two of them sit, sipping at their coffee as they watch children sprint across the damp cricket grounds.

Greg watches Mycroft gingerly sipping from a takeaway paper coffee cup, and can’t stop himself from smiling a bit. He fiddles a bit with the lid of his own flat white when Mycroft notices him looking. “Sorry. Just- I doubt you get takeaway coffee very often. I always imagine you being a fine china sort of person.”

Mycroft glances down into the depths of his black coffee and gives Greg a small, answering smile. “I once drank some rather strong sprits out of a hollowed out human skull while on a diplomatic errand in Tibet. While a paper cup is not ideal, I rather think I will survive it.”

Greg snorts before he can stop himself, leaning back and resting his arm on the back of the bench. He turns to face Mycroft who looks back at him, unflinching. In the fresh, green tinged light that filters through the chestnut leaves his lightly freckled skin is pale, almost translucent. His eyes are guarded, shrewd as he takes in whatever is on Greg’s face.

I wish I could be like you, Greg thinks, out of nowhere. I wish I had your kind of composure. I wish I could read minds so that I knew what was going to come next.

“So, er. What did you want to talk about, then?”

Mycroft takes another small sip of coffee and glances away, out across the sprawling park. He doesn’t answer for a long moment, then quietly murmurs: “More of an apology, really. I should have replied to your message.”

Greg hums faintly in agreement, but doesn’t respond. He wants to hear this. If Mycroft’s in the mood for explanations, he damn well wants one.

“I wish that I could give you a better reason, Gregory.” Mycroft says quietly. “Something more concrete. But I can only tell you that it is better for both of us not to get involved.”

“Well, that’s illuminating,” Greg says drily.

“But nevertheless truthful.” Mycroft says forcefully. “My work is not particularly compatible with any kind of personal life.”

“Oh, I see.” says Greg, woodenly. “You know, Sherlock used to say the same kind of thing too. ‘Married to his work’ and all that. Always seemed like a bit of a cop-out, if you ask me.”

“My brother is a self-absorbed idiot who doesn’t know the first thing about professional duty,” Mycroft replies tightly.

“Well you’re asking quite a lot of me if you want me to understand what your professional duty is. Seeing as how you’ve never told me what you do for a living.” Greg’s trying to stay cool and detached, and is failing rather miserably. “You clearly never felt like you could trust me with that particular bit of information, Mycroft.”

“It’s not a question of trust, Gregory.” Mycroft bites out. “It is far more a question of protection.”

Greg stares at him. “Yours or mine?”

“Both.” Mycroft says at once. “Absolutely both of us.”

“And I’m assuming you haven’t forgotten that I might know a thing or two about that kind of threat? That there’s always a risk that I might not come home at the end of the day. That anyone I get involved with might become a target for gangsters or maniacs thanks to their association with me. For fucks sake Mycroft, my life’s been threatened more times than I can count. It comes with the territory; I accepted it a long time ago. And if you’re thinking that someone could use me as leverage to get to you? Well even if we got to that point I’d never expect you to make that kind of decision. I’d never ask you to choose me over your duty to your country. Because that’s what this is, right? I may not know the details, but you’re important. You think that because you’re integral to this country, you don’t get to have a personal life. Am I right?”

“And what if I came back to you after days or weeks away, unable to tell you anything about where I’ve been or what I’ve done?” Mycroft demands. “What if I needed to do something for the sake of my country that you would find utterly reprehensible?”

Greg forces himself to take a deep breath at this, trying to reorder his thoughts.

“Have you killed anyone?” he asks, eventually.

“Yes.” Mycroft answers at once. His eyes are cold, watchful. There is no hint of remorse in his stare.

“Me too.” Greg says, quietly. “I’ve killed people to keep this city safe. And once or twice I haven’t tried hard enough to save people who could have lived. And while I know that ultimately I have no right to do those things, I have to. Because this is my city, and it’s full of my people. And I will absolutely do whatever I have to, in order to keep it safe. Does any of that sound familiar to you?”

Mycroft doesn’t answer, so he plunges on.

“I work stupid hours; I pretty much never get home on time. I get drawn into cases and they take over my life. I take risks that I am absolutely not meant to. Your bloody brother drags me out of bed at least once a month so that we can chase down the latest murderer or rapist on the loose. I end up drowning in paperwork and have to take it home with me half the time. I don’t have a normal life, Mycroft. I wouldn’t know how to live one. You and me, we could never have a normal relationship. And… and that’s alright with me. More than alright, really.”

He flushes and looks down, suddenly all too aware of what he’s just said to a man he’s been on precisely one date with. He forces himself to look Mycroft in the eye once more, and simply says: “Just tell me that you’ll think about it a bit more, alright? And damn well tell me when you’ve come to a conclusion. Don’t just disappear on me like that again. Please.”

“I stand by what I’ve said, Gregory.” Mycroft says quietly, after a long pause. But while his eyes are wary, thoughtful, Greg’s not seeing a definite no in his face. Not just yet. “I- I am truly sorry that I did not respond to your invitation. I didn’t believe that you would be so troubled by it.”

“Listen,” Greg says, as gently as he can. “I understand we didn’t get very far. But you can’t tell me that it wasn’t a good start. I don’t meet many people I can talk to so easily. And I think that maybe that goes for you too. It’s just… wouldn’t it be such a shame not to give it a go? And regardless of what you decide, I’d still really like to see you now and again.”

Mycroft nods minutely and sighs. “You’re making being resolute rather difficult for me, Gregory.”

Greg feels a helpless smile spreading across his face; he can’t stop himself. Mycroft looks up from his coffee and into Greg’s face and whatever he sees there makes him inhale sharply, strangely unguarded. His lips are slightly parted as they share a long look and Greg realises, with a sudden rush: He wants me. The sun is bright in his eyes and he feels a strange, heady mix of vulnerability and power.

Slowly, he lifts his hand and it’s an endless moment until he’s touching Mycroft’s wrist where it rests on his lap. Mycroft is motionless as Greg’s fingers slide across the pale skin that protrudes from the fine starched cuff, slipping into the smooth curve between thumb and forefinger. He can feel the cool metal of the silver ring under his palm.

“I… I would rather you didn’t. Just now.” Mycroft murmurs, but his fingers tighten briefly; tangling with Greg’s. His eyes are dark, drawn to Greg’s lower lip; he’s been biting it unconsciously.

“Are you sure?” Greg asks, and his voice is unexpectedly hoarse even to him.

Mycroft merely nods, letting Greg’s hand go after a brief moment of pressure. “It isn’t something I- Well. You’ve given me something to think about, Gregory.”

“I certainly hope so,” Greg answers, not entirely sure how to read the look in Mycroft’s eyes. There’s definite wariness there, and perhaps some regret too. He’s trying not to feel stung at the way Mycroft has slid a little further away down the bench, putting a few more inches between them. As he watches, Mycroft reaches for the discarded briefcase and umbrella at his feet.

“I will be in touch before long. Once I’ve had the time to consider the situation again.” Mycroft says, a little stiffly. He leans briefly on the handle of his green umbrella, and gives Greg a faint smile.

Greg only nods, and watches as the Mycroft turns and makes his way back down the long avenue, vanishing into the shade of the chestnut trees.

Chapter 8

Greg is all too glad that he gets caught up in a counterfeiting case a couple of days later; because it’s exhausting and complicated and it’s something that requires a lot of his attention. He likes to think he’s managing to stay cool, calm and collected while waiting for Mycroft to tell him what his decision is. But after three days of silence he’s also struggling not to march down to the Diogenes Club to demand an answer. Which, he realises, is precisely the opposite of staying cool.

Instead he spends the evenings glaring at mortgage paperwork and survey findings for the flat in Highgate, filling out change of address forms and attempting to wrangle his deposit back from his landlord. Since finding his new home his current abode seems even more depressing. The dingy magnolia paint and sagging IKEA sofa are forlorn and grim when he opens the door at the end of the day. The smell of damp in his windowless en-suite is more persistent when he remembers the bright, chilly 1930’s bathroom waiting for him over in Highgate, spiders and all. There’s barely anything for him to pack but he starts anyway; boxing up books and filling up bin bags for the charity shop down the street.

John is practically live-blogging his watch on Sherlock via text messages to Greg. After Miss Cardew confesses to both stabbing Greg and blackmailing charges, she is rapidly dispatched to Pentonville without bail to await trial. Greg almost wishes she hadn’t; it would give Sherlock an excuse to keep digging for more evidence, to annoy Greg into helping with the interrogation.

-He seems to be doing OK today, but there’s a fish tank and a load of AA batteries on the kitchen table this morning. D’you think I should be worried?

-It’s an empty fish tank, by the way. He ate some toast and complained about the lack of Marmite. Think that’s a good sign.

-Oh, bugger. There’s just been a delivery from the pet shop.

-Greg, is it actually illegal to perform experiments on goldfish at home?

Greg briefly mashes his face against his computer keyboard, which earns him a concerned sort of look from a passing member of staff. He’s got enough on his plate without worrying about the RSPCA prosecuting Sherlock for cruelty to goldfish. Even if it’s a successful method of distracting him from cocaine.

-For gods sake John you are a grown man TAKE THEM AWAY FROM HIM!

-I know it’s not great but I think he might need this. He’s got two nicotine patches stuck to his forehead and he hasn’t styled his hair in three days.

Greg groans loudly, and sighs. He doesn’t need this right now. He really doesn’t.

The nicotine patches are a long standing habit that he doesn’t worry about too much. It would be a far worse sign if Sherlock caved and started furiously smoking unfiltered French cigarettes again like he used to in the bad old days. But the hair thing makes him pause and stare at the ceiling for a long minute. Since Sherlock’s return to London after rehab he’s been positively immaculate every time Greg’s seen him, in his sharp narrow suits and tight shirts. His skin is always close shaven, smooth and even. His ridiculous hair is perfectly coiffed and gleaming, even if he’s been tugging at it in frustration. At first Greg had thought Sherlock’s attention to his image was funny; a bit endearing. That this was Sherlock deciding to be some kind of grown up after years of being unkempt and utterly indifferent to his appearance. And then he’d changed his mind, slowly realising that Sherlock’s dedication to grooming and style was a kind of discipline; that it was something about himself he could control. If he’s suddenly stopped caring, what might that indicate? Greg doesn’t like the sound of it, not at all.

After an all-too-brief struggle with himself, he reaches for his phone again.

Mycroft, I realise that this may sound like an utterly bonkers question. But do you think it’s a bad sign if Sherlock doesn’t use hair gel for three days?

In less than a minute, his phone pings with an answering message. He steadfastly ignores how his heartrate picks up in response.

Good afternoon, Gregory. While I laud your deductive reasoning, I believe that the reason behind my brothers untidiness may be more prosaic in nature. His most recent online order from L’artisan Parfumeur was cancelled because his usual pomade is out of stock. Rest assured, I am monitoring the situation closely. I am cautiously optimistic that the worst is over, though. MH.

Greg sags slightly with relief, and thumbs out a quick message to John. He decides he’s not going to even attempt to explain why he knows Sherlock is out of hair product. After all, John’s smart enough to figure it out all by himself. And he’ll definitely give Greg a hard time about it the next time they meet up.

He’s only just hit send when he gets another incoming message.

Mycroft again.

Would you care to have supper on Friday evening? MH

Well. There it is, Greg thinks as he clutches the edge of his desk hard. At least he knows when Mycroft is going to tell him what he’s decided. The fact that it’s two days away is definitely a bit torturous; but surely the fact that Mycroft has suggested supper is a good sign. He’d hardly want to have a meal with Greg if he’s only planning on giving him the brush off.

Unless of course he’s being polite. If he wants to make up for ignoring Greg for such a long time. Or maybe he’s going to tell Greg that he’d like to be friends, nothing more. He swears softly and shuts his eyes for a long moment.

Supper. Greg is working class enough to associate that word with childhood, with buttered toast and hot cocoa before bed. But what Mycroft is undoubtedly planning is another intimate dinner in a charming little restaurant. Some place with immaculate service and lovely food and not too many people around. Somewhere expensive and elegant. Discreet.

Greg thinks about sitting on that bench in Regents park, the feel of Mycroft’s wrist under his fingers before he pulled away. The look in his eyes as he haltingly said: I would rather you didn’t.

Yeah, that sounds good. And with a strange surge of recklessness he adds: Mind if I pick the venue?

***

Of course there’s a bit of a problem with asking to pick the location for their… whatever it is… on Friday evening. Greg hasn’t been out with anyone in town for years, and he hasn’t a clue where he can take Mycroft. Of course he knows London, knows the teeming streets and the dark alleys like the back of his hand. He knows where he can get a really good hot cup of tea at 3am in Brixton, and he knows the best places in Brick Lane for delicious and eyewatering curry. But where the hell can he reasonably take someone like Mycroft Holmes for supper on a Friday evening?

Mycroft had agreed without fuss, merely requesting that the venue was within easy reach of Whitehall. God knows what he’ll be doing there during office hours. Possibly sticking slivers of bamboo under Boris Johnson’s fingernails, or giving David Cameron some kind of terrifying ultimatum. Greg isn’t sure if he actually wants to know.

He’s in the lift, glaring at the glowing buttons and wondering if in all honesty he can ask Mycroft to eat dumplings, standing up in Borough Market when Sally curiously asks him what the matter is. She’s carrying a large box of doughnuts balanced atop a stack of files, frowning at whatever she’s seeing in his face. He’d be quite tempted to steal a pastry, if she hadn’t threatened to eviscerate a member of the admin team who tried that on the floor below.

“Oh, er. Nothing, really…” he says vaguely.

“The sale’s not falling through or anything, is it?”

“No, no. Getting the deeds in a couple of weeks hopefully. No problem there.” He hesitates, and sighs. Well, what’s the harm? Unlike him, Sally actually has something of a social life. She might actually be of some help in this situation.

“I was just wondering… well, where I could possibly… take someone tomorrow night?”

He regrets the words as soon as he’s uttered him, because Sally is staring at him in open-mouthed disbelief.

“Oh my god! You’re going on a date!” She’s so clearly stunned, it’s really a bit insulting when he thinks about it.

“No! Well, maybe. A bit.” he says, lamely. He can feel himself blushing slightly, which is ridiculous.

“Worried your virginity might be growing back, then?” Sally asks, grinning.

“Donovan!” Greg hisses, appalled. “On what planet is that an appropriate thing to say to the man who is your boss?”

“I’m currently on lunch,” Sally answers, unconcerned. “That means for the next, let’s see, seven minutes I am not your employee; I am merely your charming and devastatingly witty pal and confidante Sally. Who is it? Ooh, is it Barbara in Estates? I heard her in the ladies a few weeks ago saying she’d climb you like a tree if she had the chance!”

“What?! No! And who the hell is Barbara in Estates?” Greg nearly shouts.

“Hmm, not her then. Go on, tell me! I’ll give you the raspberry glazed if you do…” she wheedles. “Oh, I know! It’s that posh bird who brought you breakfast that time, right?”

“I’m not telling you anything,” Greg says firmly. “Not now that I know about the kind of talk that goes on in the ladies loos round here.”

“Ugh, fine.” Sally pulls a face. “Fine. Okay, I’ll help. What sort of place do you want to take them?”

Greg looks at her sharply, but there’s only curiosity in her face. “Well… somewhere smart, I suppose. Dinner. Some place you can have an actual conversation, so not too loud. Definitely not a pub. But not too quiet, either. Somewhere with a reasonable amount of people. And central.”

“I get it,” Sally nods thoughtfully. “Somewhere romantic. Somewhere you can show them off a bit.”

Greg shrugs uncomfortably. “Yeah. I ‘spose.”

“Leave it with me. I’ll think of something.” Sally assures him, as the lift opens on the fourth floor and Serious Crimes. “You’re buying me lunch all next week, though.”

Greg grudgingly assents, and heads back towards his office. One of her words rolls around his mind persistently as he walks through the bullpen, weaving between desks and around the leaking water cooler. It’s still echoing in his head as he shuts the door behind him, as he sits down and stares at the blank screen of his computer.

Them.

***

Donovan emails Greg a booking confirmation for a restaurant the following evening at half eight. It’s an address he vaguely recognises as one of the ugliest buildings in London, over on Fenchurch street. But it’s certainly central; and as it’s a table on a Friday evening he’s not going to complain. It’s a relief that someone else took the decision out of his hands, really. He forwards the booking on to Mycroft who merely replies that he’ll see Greg there at the time indicated.

But he’s having severe misgivings the following evening as he stands in the crowded lift, on his way to the restaurant at the top of the building. There are loads of tourists, there’s annoying tinny music playing and the collar of his new shirt suddenly feels way too tight. On impulse he removes his tie and undoes the top couple of buttons, but it doesn’t help him breathe any more easily. Christ, what was he thinking, getting Sally to choose a restaurant? He knows for a fact she buys macaroni cheese pies from Greggs for dinner at least twice a week. This place is going to be tacky and awful and Mycroft is going to hate it.

The lift doors finally open on a dizzyingly high floor and Greg is swept out among a crowd of Japanese tourists who immediately flock towards some kind of viewing terrace. It’s a vast, glass walled space and the city spreads out around him, a great tangled profusion of spires and domes and the winding grey river below. The sun is slowly sinking behind the hazy cityscape, streaking the sky with vermillion and brilliant burning orange. Behind him, a steep lush slope of palms and tropical plants stretches up into the far corners of the glass roof. It’s strange and a little stifling in the dying sunlight, and ordinarily he’d be glued to the view like everyone else; picking out every familiar roof and alley. But he’s already seen a familiar angular figure standing in a distant corner, back turned to Greg as he gazes down at the turrets of Tower Bridge below.

Greg wishes he could read something in the precise lines of Mycroft’s shoulders, in the way he’s leaning lightly on his ever-present and totally superfluous umbrella. He’s walking faster than he really needs to, without conscious thought. There’s no way Mycroft can actually discern his footsteps over anyone else’s. But when he’s within ten feet, when he’s close enough to see the neat line of copper hair at his nape and the fine check of his three piece suit, Mycroft turns and smiles with no sign of surprise. He’s clasping the handle of his umbrella in both hands behind his back.

Greg just stares at him for a moment; wondering if he should hold out his hand or kiss his cheek in greeting. Eventually he reaches out and squeezes Mycroft’s upper arm a little awkwardly, and smiles.

“Hi. Um, sorry if I’m late.”

“Not at all.” Mycroft assures him gently. “I was rather enjoying the view while I waited.”

“Oh… good.” Greg says, a little lamely. He glances around at the crowds and adds apologetically: “I hope this place is okay. A colleague suggested it.”

“Mm.” Mycroft hums, nodding down at the bridge below. “Certainly. It’s rather intriguing to see the city from a different angle, isn’t it? I confess I enjoy the chance to look down at hidden roofs and through high windows. Rather like looking into another world.”

Greg comes to stand beside him, their arms not quite touching. He takes in the wide expanse of the city below and feels the familiar pang of affection and something akin to pride or ownership when he looks down at the web of streets and parks, river and trees. It’s oddly calming.

He gives Mycroft a sidelong glance. “Sounds a bit voyeuristic.”

Mycroft catches his eye, and shrugs slightly; mouth curving into a small smile that neither denies or accepts the truth of Greg’s statement.

Greg bites his lip and stifles a laugh, and the tension fades into something warmer, gentler. Mycroft is looking at him expectantly, his sharp blue eyes taking in every detail and finally coming to rest on Greg’s mouth. He feels that strange dizzying awareness that he experienced in the park the previous week. The knowledge that even if he’s not wanted, he’s definitely desired.

He swallows hard, and nods towards the distant door of the restaurant. “Um. I think they’re expecting us now.”

“Very well.” Mycroft nods, gesturing for him to lead the way. They don’t speak on the short walk, not until they’re seated at a table with a vertiginous view over the west of the city, a dreamy scattering of lights blinking on below as the sky clouds over and darkens.

The restaurant is smart, minimalist and busy. Judging by the long line they pass at the door, Greg reckons that Sally must have either horribly threatened or generously bribed someone to get them this table by the window. There are tourists and smartly dressed couples on dates at the tables around them, City boys in suits guffawing at the bar.

Mycroft takes it all in with an expression of mild interest, before clearly dismissing it all and focussing on Greg and the city below. They order wine and food, and Greg feels strangely shy once the barriers of menus and napkins have been taken away. He glances down at his glass of white wine, pinching the stem between thumb and forefinger; feeling the weight on Mycroft’s gaze.

Mycroft leans forward, and after taking a small sip from his own glass asks conversationally: “How is your cat getting along?”
Greg startles, eyes wide as he stares at Mycroft. “My- cat?”

“Yes, your cat. You mentioned one the other day? I’m rather fond of them.” Mycroft informs him seriously, but the glitter in his eyes makes Greg suddenly dissolve into embarrassed laughter.

“Right, fine, yes. You know damn well I don’t have a cat, Mycroft! I was- flustered, alright?! Jesus!”

“Well, that’s rather a relief. When you said you’d left one ‘on’, I was imagining all sorts of terrible possibilities,” Mycroft says primly and takes another sip of wine.

Greg’s tempted to call him a bastard, just to see what his face would do; but he manages to restrain himself. Just.

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks for reminding me of one of my finer moments,” he mutters, feeling the blush seeping across his skin.

Mycroft smiles down at his plate, and helps himself to an artfully arranged amuse bouche.

“I trust your arm is recovering, though? It looked like a rather nasty cut.”

Greg shrugs, feeling the faint twinge and tug of taut skin under his shirt sleeve. “I’ve had worse. I got Medical to stick another layer of glue and a dressing on it the following day. Week or two and it’ll be fine.”

“I am glad to hear it. Doctor Watson seemed rather concerned.”

“Huh.” Greg mutters, remembering John pitching the spare top down the stairs at Baker Street so that he would have no excuse not to talk to Mycroft. Clearly not all that concerned. “Yeah, well. He’s a good mate, I suppose.”

Mycroft nods thoughtfully. “An interesting character. I’m becoming more aware of how fortunate my brother is to have him.”

“But does he?” Greg asks, before he can help himself. He makes a face when he realises just how gossipy he sounds. “I mean- well. You know what I mean.”

Mycroft hums thoughtfully, letting his eyes drift out over the city again. “I think that’s a rather complicated question. And the short answer is that I do not know.”

“How can you not know?!” Greg asks, incredulously. “Come on, Mycroft! You keep an eye on Sherlock all the time! You’d have noticed something.”

Mycroft shakes his head. “Honestly, Gregory. All I can say with any certainty is that there is a certain… depth to their attachment.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Greg says, thinking of Sherlock’s jealous looks; of John matter-of-factly slipping into his bedroom.

“Do you know, I don’t really feel like examining my brother’s personal life too closely this evening.” Mycroft smiles, sitting back as their starters are placed on the table between them.

Greg nods in agreement, watching the crinkle of lines around his shrewd blue eyes and narrow foxy features with another odd rush of want. He still doesn’t really understand this pull towards Mycroft but it’s constantly there like an ache in his bones; he feels it in the rush of his blood. He can’t keep his eyes away from the line of his shoulders, his oddly delicate wrists protruding from immaculate starched cuffs. Greg’s being careful not to shuffle his knees and feet forward but he’s all too aware of Mycroft’s long legs neatly crossed beneath the table, encased in soft dark grey wool. And with a rush of excitement and embarrassment, he knows that Mycroft must be able to read this in his flushed face; in the awkwardness of his body.

He closes his eyes for a long moment before forcing himself to meet Mycroft’s gaze and he feels strangely weak and a bit giddy as they share a long look. He can feel the hair on the back of his arms prickling as he slides his hand across the expanse of tablecloth, reaching out just a few inches so that he can run a single fingertip down the back of Mycroft’s pale freckled hand.

Mycroft stares down, watching the movement of Greg’s finger tracing a path across the curve of his wrist, following the veins and sliding between the sharp peaks of his knuckles. It’s a single, slow movement and he swallows as Gregs hand retreats back across the table. It’s the only response he makes.

“Did I- are you uncomfortable?” Greg asks. He’s not sure if he wants to know the answer.

“No.” Mycroft says, eyes widening a fraction. “No, Gregory. It’s not that.”

“Because… I mean, correct me if I’m wrong here. But I felt like maybe you were going to tell me that you wanted to give it a try.” Greg says, trying his damnedest not to sound desperate. Please don’t let him have read this wrong. Please.

Mycroft clears his throat and takes a long sip of water. He opens his mouth to speak. Hesitates. Eventually, he frowns at the tablecloth and then back up at Greg. He looks faintly unhappy and Greg’s already wincing when he says: “Yes.”

“What- you mean?”

“I mean… that I would very much like to explore this a little further with you.” Mycroft says, soft yet somehow guarded.

“I can’t help but feel there’s an extremely large ‘but’ coming along in just a moment,” Greg sighs. He’s not quite able to believe Mycroft, not yet. Not when there’s something clearly causing him to stop and struggle.

Mycroft doesn’t answer at once. Greg forces himself to give him a moment.

He tries, gently: “Look, if it’s a case of you not being out-“

“It’s not that.” Mycroft says bluntly. One of his fingertips is trailing along the fine edge of his plate, and Greg follows the movement in the corner of his eye. The silver ring is there as always, glinting faintly in the evening light. Mycroft gives him a small, slightly bitter smile and clenches his fist. “Yes, well done, Detective Inspector.”

“Please don’t call me that.” Greg says, quietly.

Mycroft’s face softens at this, and he sighs. “My apologies. I’m not terribly adept at this sort of thing, Gregory.”

“At what? Relationships?” Greg asks.

Mycroft shrugs, uncomfortable. “Yes. And talking about such things, I suppose. Gregory, everything I told you the other day still stands. I can’t really go into fine detail just now, given our surroundings. But this ring… it’s significant.”

“Can you tell me who gave it to you?” Greg asks, curiously. The ring is utterly plain and looks like it’s probably heavy. It’s a little wider than the wedding band he used to wear.

Mycroft shakes his head. “I bought this myself. I’ve worn it for several years now.”

“It’s supposed to be a discouragement?” Greg guesses.

“To a small degree. But it’s also a disguise. And a reminder of more careless times.” Mycroft murmurs, and before Greg can come up with any kind of coherent response to that he’s slipping off the silver band; placing it squarely on the table. His hand is largely hidden from anyone else but Greg; it’s on the side of the table nearest the window and screened by glasses and a small vase of flowers.

Greg stares at the livid scar that surrounds Mycroft’s ring finger; it’s not wide but it’s significant. The skin is dark, raised in parts and faintly puckered. Mycroft turns his hand over, palm upwards in a gesture that in any other situation would look like an invitation. Greg swallows hard. There’s an indentation that indicates a piece of flesh was removed altogether. He’s seen much worse scars; he’s got more severe ones on his own body, come to think of it.

But this scar is clearly something more, it’s something that’s changed Mycroft. Changed the way he interacts with the world, the level of trust he places in the people around him.
Greg reaches out helplessly, driven by some unspoken need to touch; to reassure. He’s not entirely sure. He feels a pang when Mycroft almost flinches back, slipping the ring back on to his finger with a quick deft movement.

“Who did that to you?” he asks, quietly.

“Someone whom I should not have trusted.” Mycroft replies quietly. He reaches for his wine glass and his hand is almost perfectly steady. “I- we worked together. A long time ago.”

Greg has so many questions he doesn’t know where to start. And at the same time, he knows that it’s not fair to ask. Not right now, not here in this crowded restaurant. Not when Mycroft is practically vibrating with discomfort. He still wants to touch him, to steady him somehow.

He settles for what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “Can you tell me where I can find him?”

Mycroft’s eyes widen in what Greg realises is genuine surprise, before he lets out a small and slightly startled laugh. “While I appreciate the sentiment Gregory, I assure you it is not necessary.”

Greg hopes that means what he thinks it means. He takes a mouthful of chilled wine, gulping it a little too quickly.

“Thank you for showing me,” he says, eventually.

“That person… we worked together for several years. We came from similar backgrounds; shared some interests. It was not a conventional relationship. But in my line of work, the number of people one can confide in is rather limited.” Mycroft’s words are measured, his eyes trained on where his fingers are rearranging the silverware next to his largely untouched plate. “I was… I allowed myself to become emotionally compromised. To the point where he found it possible to not only deceive me but also betray our country.”

Greg knows that around their table the world is continuing to turn; that their fellow diners are laughing and eating and arguing and looking around at each other and the wide expanse of London below. But it’s nothing but a dull and distant background hum when he looks at Mycroft’s face, which is a remote and icy mask of self-reproach. He can’t even see any anger there; just pure, unadulterated self-loathing.

“I only found out the truth of the matter when I ended up, against my will, en route to a remote backwater outside Moscow. I was not allowed to leave for some time. Eventually, with my brother’s assistance, I managed to return home. But not before I had sustained this, along with some other injuries.”

Greg nods dumbly, feeling his own hand gripping the edge of the table like a vice. He knows that these careful, level words are a sanitised and abridged version of the truth. He inhales sharply, and waits until Mycroft can meet his eyes once more. “I’m sorry,” is all he can offer.

Mycroft gives him a thin, humourless smile. “Thank you. I hope you may understand my reservations a little better now.”

“But… it’s not enough to put you off altogether, is it?” Greg asks, carefully. There’s a whole world of responses and assurances he wants to give. And it’s just not the time.

“It’s a little unexpected. But no, Gregory.” Mycroft answers, after a long pause. “It isn’t.”

“Well thank fuck.” Greg hears himself sigh, and then freezes with utter horror and mortification. He can’t believe it. He literally cannot believe he just said that. Here, with this man, after hearing that story. Greg Lestrade chooses that moment to be coarse and vulgar and totally inappropriate.

He stares at Mycroft, who looks utterly taken aback. And then, to his absolute amazement, Mycroft dissolves suddenly into genuine and helpless laughter, leaning his forehead on his hand as he chuckles. “Oh good lord, Gregory! Your poor face!”

And somehow, being a coarse idiot turns out to have been exactly the right thing to do. Greg feels a little shocked, jumpy; but the relief of watching Mycroft laugh is pure balm to him. The tense atmosphere dissolves. The remote coldness in Mycroft’s face disappears and he laughs again as Greg buries his face in his napkin, hunched over in theatrical shame. A waitress who had clearly been aiming to clear their plates takes one look at them, before executing a perfect 180 degree turn and heading in the opposite direction.

“It’s lovely hearing you laugh,” Greg confesses, once he’s managed to pull himself together slightly.

“It’s rather nice to have cause to,” Mycroft replies drily, but there’s a touch of high colour in his pale cheeks that wasn’t there before.

The rest of dinner passes smoothly, and there’s an unspoken agreement to restrain themselves to more neutral conversational ground. Greg orders a decadent chocolate fondant and insists that Mycroft takes a bite. He completely loses the thread of the conversation as he watches the silver spoon that had been in his own mouth mere seconds before, sliding slowly between Mycroft’s narrow lips; imagines the taste of chocolate against his tongue.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow as he replaces the spoon neatly on the edge of the plate. Greg closes his mouth abruptly, and coughs weakly.

“You were telling me about your new apartment?”

“Oh, er. Yeah!” Greg scrambles mentally for a moment, and laughs a little shakily. “Yeah, it’s um. It’s great. Up in Highgate, not too far from the cemetery. Funny old place, actually. Totally impractical, to be honest. Needs a load of work, lots of rewiring. It’s full of old furniture I’d never have chosen myself, but it just fits. I can see myself there already. There’s a big old skylight in the attic where you can look out over the city, so you never feel too far away from it all. I just walked into it and it had to be mine, you know? It just sort of… fit me.”

“It sounds charming.” Mycroft says lightly. But he’s watching Greg talk with a kind of abject attention that makes him want to fidget.

“You should come and see it,” Greg tells him. “I’ll be moving in next month. It’ll be a bit of a renovation project for a while; but it’ll still be better than my current place.”

“I’d be delighted.” Mycroft assures him. Greg is aware that the tip of one of his toes is pressed against the instep of Mycroft’s elegant wingtip and this knowledge alone makes him stupidly happy. Because Mycroft isn’t moving away.

They take the lift together down the thirty five floors to street level, behind an elderly couple who are clearly celebrating some occasion. They stand shoulder to shoulder, and the proximity is not entirely warranted by the lack of available space. They don’t meet each other’s eyes.

The street outside is cool and breezy, and Mycroft’s black saloon is already idling a little way down the kerb. They walk slowly, coming to a halt in front of a darkened office building. Streetlights glimmer and reflect on plate glass, orange and diffuse through shivering tree boughs.

“I- could we do this again soon?” Greg asks, taking a small step closer.

Mycroft nods at once, smiling down at him in a way that makes Greg wish they were somewhere else; somewhere quieter than a central London street on a Friday evening. His new flat or the Diogenes, somewhere with a firmly closed door between them and the rest of the world. Somewhere he could ease the jacket from Mycroft’s shoulders, untuck and dishevel him. Just a bit.

He reaches out, his hand coming to rest on Mycroft’s arm; clasping him just above the elbow. And he feels Mycroft go utterly still, watchful as Greg comes even closer.

“Gregory, I-“ Mycroft swallows, his eyes on Greg’s mouth and there it is again; that familiar certainty. The denied want. “I would love to say goodbye to you like that. Properly.”

“But you can’t. Not here.” Greg says, as calmly as he can manage. It’s not a question and he can’t help it, it still stings.

“Not here.” Mycroft echoes, softly. “We could-“ he gestures towards the waiting car.

“No. No, it’s alright.” Greg says, squeezing his arm and taking a step back. “Honestly, it’s okay. Just, um. Keep in touch, alright?”

“I will.” Mycroft assures him, clear apology in his eyes. “Goodnight, Gregory.”

“Goodnight Mycroft.” Greg murmurs, and he’s the one who turns and walks away first.

Chapter 9

The following morning, Greg wakes early. His flat is even more depressing than usual, given that it’s full of half-packed boxes and bin bags destined for Oxfam. Upon entering the kitchen he discovers that the bread is stale. There’s no milk in the fridge either, which is the final crushing blow that propels him into clothes and out of the flat. He’s not entirely sure where he’s headed, beyond somewhere with coffee and toast, until he finds himself heading into the nearest Tube station.

Highgate isn’t really that far away, but it feels like a different world when Greg emerges blinking into the leafy streets lined with mellow brick buildings. There’s an almost excessive amount of window boxes and hanging baskets adorning the old Georgian streets, lush and fragrant as Greg ambles at random along one street and then another. It would almost be too pretty, too bourgeois if it wasn’t for the wide stretch of cemetery flanking the village; overgrown grey tombs and mausoleums in a bizarre mishmash of period and styles. Greg walks along the cemetery border, running his hand along the chipped black paint of the iron railings before following the scent of coffee and pastries to a nearby bakery.

It’s still a novelty to think he’ll be living here soon, that this will be his neighbourhood. That this particular bakery with the delicious almond croissants and worryingly obsessive baristas might become his regular Saturday morning spot. He takes a seat outside and stretches out his legs, taking a mouthful of strong, fragrant coffee before simply allowing himself to soak up the atmosphere of the quiet street. It’s still early, local inhabitants only just beginning to emerge from their well-kept homes to walk dogs or buy fresh bread.

He wonders what Mycroft does on a Saturday morning, wherever he is. If Saturdays are any different from the rest of the week or if he’s already sitting at a desk in another perfect suit and tie. It’s hard to imagine him unshaven and sleep rumpled, curled under a duvet in a darkened bedroom somewhere out there in another part of London. It’s hard to even imagine him wearing a pair of pajamas. Greg takes another mouthful of coffee, and decides that it’s perhaps not quite the time to follow that train of thought.

Dinner the night before had been… varied. Complicated. His stomach clenches when he thinks of the scars on Mycroft’s hand. The way they had parted on the busy street, the apology in Mycroft’s eyes as he gently put space between them. And yet the sheer unexpected delight he had felt when Mycroft had laughed helplessly. Recalling the moment when he’d run his finger across the back of Mycroft’s hand makes him shiver slightly as he grins sheepishly into his coffee cup.

He feels as if they’re in some in-between, knife edge sort of place where just about anything could happen next. It’s been so long since he was in the giddy, fledgling days of a relationship. Decades, when he comes to think of it. But he’s not sure if he can ever remember it being like this: the anticipation, the painful uncertainty and sheer rush of it all. The second guessing and agonising over minor details, each quirk of a brow or fleeting touch of a hand.

He now has at least a vague pencil sketch of Mycroft’s romantic past, or at least the most significant part of it. Greg knows a certain amount about betrayal; he’s experienced it enough in his personal and professional life to recognise the way it can eat away at the soul, even years afterwards. He thinks of Mycroft’s cold, flat demeanour as he recounted the story; the transparent regret and self-recrimination in his face. And it makes Greg wonder, as he brushes the crumbs off his lap: even if Mycroft wants to trust him, will he actually let himself? And will he ever allow himself to do anything beyond looking at Greg with want in his eyes? And if he does, will it only ever be behind closed doors?

There are no answers forthcoming, and Greg gives up before strolling over towards the old coaching inn that contains his new flat. Mr. Chen is just opening the patisserie downstairs, and he waves Greg up the winding staircase with a warm madeleine in his hand and the heavy bunch of keys for the door. He spends the rest of the morning making a vague list of proposed improvements to the place; installing more lighting in the hall and doing something about the resident moths. He peers out the window that overlooks the canal and makes a mental note to try and resurrect the ancient drowned bicycle. It probably annoys the swans. As the sun rises in the sky it bathes the long narrow living room with buttery yellow light, making the dusty old floorboards glow with warmth.

Greg thinks for a long moment, then takes out his phone. He texts Mycroft: Hope you’re having a nice weekend. Just wanted to say hello.

After he presses send, he suddenly wonders if he should have put an ‘x’ at the end of his message. And then sternly tells himself to pull himself together, Mycroft’s not exactly the type to be offended by a lack of virtual kisses. Particularly when they haven’t actually gotten around to having a proper one yet. He waits a few minutes, but there’s no response, which doesn’t actually worry him much this time around. He’s reasonably confident Mycroft isn’t looking at his phone because he’s doing something important or terrifying; not because he’s actively ignoring Greg.

He flops back onto one of the worn green brocade sofas, coughing violently when a huge cloud of dust is dislodged from the cushions and billows through the air. After it disperses he relaxes into the doughy feather upholstery and stares at the ceiling for a long time. There’s something still hanging heavy over him, something he’s having trouble putting together even in the peace of this room.

This time a week ago, he thinks he’d have been positively delirious if he’d known he would have dinner with Mycroft again. A dinner during which Mycroft had looked at him in that way, had confirmed that he did want to try having some kind of a relationship with Greg. (He can’t say dating. He just can’t; it’s just too ridiculously carefree and casual a term to associate with Mycroft Holmes.) And yet… Well. He’s certainly happy about how things went. But why isn’t he happier?

“What the hell is my problem, exactly?” he asks the empty room, closing his eyes and settling further into the dusty cushions. “Go on, tell me. No rush. I’ll wait.”

***

Mycroft eventually answers, early that afternoon. Thank you for a very enjoyable dinner and an interesting evening. I have just arrived in Dusseldorf but will return on Monday – perhaps we could reconvene then? Wishing you a restful weekend. MH

Well, it’s not exactly effusive but Greg will take what he can get. He’s walking back towards the Tube as he ponders his response, and is distracted by another incoming message alert.

-Greg are you up to anything this evening? Fancy a pint?

-Yeah, why not. Sherlock’s doing better then?

-Molly texted him about an unusually necrotic liver that turned up in a cadaver and he perked right up. Think we’re out of the woods now. See you round seven?

John shows up at seven on the dot, and downs half a pint before he even says hello properly.

“Rough week, then?” Greg asks, unnecessarily. Because he’s got a long string of John’s increasingly demented texts in his phone and the message about the goldfish was one of the tamer ones.

John turns to look at him wearily. He’s wearing the expression which indicates that while he might not have been hang gliding over hell during the last few days; he might possibly have been over one of the other, more dubious underworld realms.

But he just shrugs and smiles, before clinking his glass against Greg’s. “We made it. That’s the main thing.”

“Cheers to that,” Greg knocks his elbow against John’s. “Well done.”

He waves his hand dismissively. “Nah, well. You know.”

Greg nods. “Yeah.”

And that’s how they end up staying out far too late that night, propping up the slightly sticky bar of the Goat and Compass. The bar fills up and slowly empties out again. They eat chips and drink beer and they talk about nothing very much in particular.

One of the bar staff smiles at John, and Greg watches curiously as she leans across and says something in his ear. John smiles back, but that’s the end of it. He catches sight of Greg’s face and for a brief moment looks almost defiant. “What?”

“Nothing!” Greg says, automatically. “Nothing at all. Just, um. Thought she’d be your type. You off the market, then?”

“Hmm.” John says, tracing a finger through some spilt beer in front of him. “Maybe. I suppose so. How about you?”

He shrugs, a little awkwardly. “Early days. Cautiously optimistic, I ‘spose.”

John gives him a long look, and is probably on the verge of asking for some kind of elaboration when their second order of chips arrives. Which clearly requires much more of their immediate attention, and it’s a few minutes before John licks a smudge of ketchup from the corner of his mouth and turns back to Greg. “So the two of you managed to sort things out then?”

Greg nods, slowly. “Yeah. Some things, anyway. I mean… I don’t think it’s going to be plain sailing, exactly. But we’re talking again. Had dinner together last night, in fact.”

“Actual dinner, or he kidnapped you and forced you to eat with him in some shadowy locale?” John asks, and grins when Greg swats him. “Well. That sounds like progress, anyway. How come you’re not looking more cheerful about it, then?”

“I am cheerful!” Greg protests. “I’m just tired. And possibly a bit squiffed.”

“Mhmm. What, he told you he’s waiting until marriage, then?” John suggests innocently, and giggles into his beer at the filthy look Greg shoots at him. “Saving himself for Prince Andrew?”

“Shut up, you.” Greg growls. “And hey, if we’re in the mood for poking fun at people’s love lives, will we start taking a look at yours?”

John sobers up slightly at this suggestion, pulling a small face. “Ugh, fine. Alright. Seriously, though. What’s the problem?”

Greg takes a long look into the depths of his glass, which is somehow only a third full. He’s sure it had been brimming just a moment ago; surely the barman only just placed it in front of him. Funny how that happens, after you’ve had a few. In his peripheral vision he notices John gesturing wearily for another round, and doesn’t have the heart to stop him.

“You see…” Greg murmurs, and pauses. Swallows hard.

Come on. If anyone in the world is going to understand this, it’s probably John Watson. You might as well have a go at saying it to someone.

“You see… Apropos of nothing, you might say. I was married for a bloody long time. Me and Sylvia, we got together when we were in uni. Tied the knot a couple years later. And it was sort of a different world back then, as I’m sure you remember. Kids these days, they like analysing things. They like finding a name for themselves. I guess it makes them feel like they’re part of a group, like they’re not on their own. And I get that, I really do. But for me, back then…” he took another long swallow, ignoring John’s loaded gaze on the side of his face. “I always knew, you see. Never bothered me much. I had a friend at Uni. Paul Stoker. We were great mates. We went out on the pull together, we read the same books; we liked talking shit at house parties about the terrible music being played. One night, after our midterm exams he stayed over at my halls…” Greg feels himself blush slightly, then half laughs. He risks a look at John, who is listening attentively with a carefully blank expression.

“I mean, he had girlfriends; I had girlfriends. But we had so much fun together. I couldn’t talk to anyone like I did to him. We seemed to be on the verge of something for the longest time but I didn’t want to spoil it. Didn’t want to lose him as my mate. But it felt sort of inevitable, in the end. It was… well, it was clumsy and we were half pissed because we probably wouldn’t have had the nerve otherwise. And it was sort of brilliant, too. Got better and better. We never really talked about it much but we were joined at the hip. Probably took me longer than it should have to realise that while I wasn’t bothered; he was. I mean, it was fine when it was just us on our own - he made me laugh like nobody ever has, before or since. He was… ugh, he really sweet if I’m honest. He’d write me these funny notes and tuck them into my textbooks. He once drove all night so that he could wake me up on my birthday during the Christmas holidays.

“But he started sitting in the seat ahead of me on the bus, not beside me like he always did before. He’d be watching everyone around us, to see if they were looking. Noticing us, for some reason. He began to make a big show of flirting with girls at parties; I thought at first to make me jealous. And Jesus, it worked! But it wasn’t about that, not really. It was all about throwing people off the scent. He got paranoid about our friends finding out about us, although I really don’t think they’d have cared. I mean, it was 1990, not bloody Victorian times. Yeah, people could be shitty but we were students in London. We might’ve gotten a few comments here and there but nothing terrible would have happened. We were more than capable of seeing off anyone who had a go at us.

“It just sort of crept up on me after a while. I began to push him; I’d make a point of taking his hand as we walked home at night and he’d let go after half a second, looking round to see if anyone noticed. I once tried to snog him at the end of the platform at Holloway road tube station, and he pushed me away so hard I fell on my arse. Fuck it, why on earth do I still remember which station it was? Ridiculous.”

John half-heartedly echoes Greg’s feeble huff of laughter, inching the new pint towards him along the sticky wooden bar. Greg nods his thanks and takes a long pull of the stout, steadfastly ignoring the faint swell of bitterness in his chest. “So: long story short. Didn’t take long til I’d had enough. We didn’t really break up; I backed off but it was a bit messy and he’d still show up at my halls now and again. Idiot that I was, I usually invited him in. Eventually term ended. We didn’t write to each other that summer. He went off and worked in some bar in Majorca and I did some volunteering with the police cadets.

“I met Sylvia the following year and she was… I mean, she was lovely. And it was so nice to be with someone who wasn’t ashamed to be seen with me. I’d forgotten how nice that was. I told her about Paul early on. About me. She just shrugged and said she didn’t mind, just so long as the two of us were exclusive. Certain irony there, needless to say. Paul didn’t finish his degree in the end. Didn’t come back after the summer. I heard from friends that he decided to go work for his uncle’s IT firm in Manchester. I missed him like mad the first year. He was my best mate, I kept on wanting to tell him a stupid joke I’d heard or play him a new song I liked. But I had other friends and I had Sylvia, and it got easier of course. Made a load of new friends once I entered training.

“I got a message from him out of the blue a few years ago. He’d seen me in the papers and decided to get in touch. He’s married now, going on ten years. And to a bloke, no less. Got kids, a dog, nice house up north. Never figured out what to put in a reply, so I never did.”

“Does it matter that it was to a man?” John asks quietly, after a moment.

“I ‘spose it twinged a bit. No, damn it. A lot, if I’m honest. Because I look back on what it was like, me hanging around waiting for him to be alright with people knowing. Wanting him to just acknowledge me, to let people know that I mattered and it was all real… I mean, I’d never wanted to force him into coming out or anything. For me it wasn’t really a secret but it’s not like I broadcast that I was equal opportunities in that area. But I’d never want anyone to feel like I was ashamed of them, you know? And I know we were really young; I know that he wasn’t ready back then.

“And I suppose, with Sylvia… I mean, everyone just assumes that you’re straight. You’re a man, a copper, married to a very pretty lady. People would make the odd off-colour remark in front of me, stupid crap about poofs and shirt-lifters. They reckoned good old Greg, who drinks pints and plays footy and bloody hates Abba and has a crap haircut is straight so of course I’ll agree with them. And I’d call them up on it, every time. But not once did I say ‘And by the way, I like blokes too.’ Because it’s a weird situation to be in. You begin to second guess yourself.

“You begin to think: Well, I’m married to a woman and I very much enjoy sharing a bed with her. I’m going to be with her forever. I’m not planning on ever dating anyone ever again. So what does it matter? People won’t get it; they’ll just be confused and they’ll look at me differently and what’s the point? Bit of an academic question, really. Best keep quiet.

“And then eventually you’ve kept quiet about it for so long it seems like you’d be telling your friends you’ve been lying to them for years. So better not say anything. Doesn’t matter. Not really. Except deep down there’s always a fucking annoying little voice telling you that you’re hiding something important about yourself. Gets louder as time goes by.

“And now Sylvia’s gone off with Andrew the fucking PE teacher and the divorce papers have been signed and I’m on the wrong side of forty and I’m too bloody old to be having some kind of identity crisis. I’m not gay. I’m not straight. I ‘spose I’d have to tick the ‘bisexual’ box on a form; but even that doesn’t feel quite right. I mean, why do I have to be anything? Can’t I just be Greg Lestrade, who doesn’t really give a toss either way about the contents of the trousers as long as I fancy the person who’s wearing them?”

John snorts, and drains the end of his pint. “Not quite so easy these days. Harry cornered me the other day and tried explaining to me about how I’m a heteroflexible homoromantic something or other. Hippogriff? Which, for all I know, I may well be. Not sure how it changes anything for me personally, though.”

“What does Sherlock reckon you are?”

“Borderline insane for putting up with his nonsense and thankfully grateful for it.” says John promptly. “I tend to agree with him on that one.”

“I am too old for this shit.” says Greg, setting his glass down firmly on the bar. He almost misses, which is a bit disconcerting.

“So what are you going to do, then?”

“Damned if I know. Not much to lose though, to be honest.”

“Except your privacy. And maybe your liberty, if it all goes tits up.” John says, patting his arm comfortingly. Greg elbows him on principle.

“He’s not like that. Not really.” Greg’s got the beginnings of a headache and he really should be in bed by now. “It’s just… I can’t face being in another situation where the person I’m with is always worried about us being seen together. I can’t do it. I don’t want to be anybody’s secret.”

John doesn’t look up from the surface of the bar for a long minute, and there’s something complicated going on in his face that Greg doesn’t quite fathom.

He glances at his watch and sighs. Then he looks at his phone and winces. “Christ. Fifteen texts and a picture message of the smoking remains of our latest microwave. See this, Greg? This is the level of drama you are inviting into your life. Sherlock favours kitchen appliances; but Mycroft has pretty much the whole of the British government at his disposal. He might decide to blow up Slough if he feels your attention is elsewhere.”

“Well, then. He’d be doing everyone a favour, wouldn’t he?” Greg replies, suddenly cheerful at the thought.

John’s phone pings again, and again a moment later. His eyes widen at whatever he sees on the screen. “Jesus. I’d better be getting home.”

Greg nods, and together they begin to shrug on jackets and pat pockets for wallets. Not for the first time, he notices that John has taken to wearing a rather nice dark blue cashmere scarf. As Greg watches he carefully doubles the soft fabric over and tucks the ends through, snugging it around his neck before buttoning up his coat. John has changed in more ways than one over the last several months, he muses. His shoulders seem a bit looser. His mouth curls into a grin much more easily these days. While he still favours comfortable jumpers and worn jeans they seemed to fit him better, their colours bringing out the colour in his dark blue eyes and the sandy flecks in his hair. The wool pea coat he’s got on is newish, well-cut and a little longer than the old donkey jacket he used to habitually wear.

Greg tails him out of the pub, the heavy old double doors swinging shut behind them with a thud. The night air is unseasonably chilly, their breath instantly curling into wispy, whitish trails. He flips up his collar, and instinctively digs in his pocket for the familiar pack of cigarettes that hasn’t been there for a very long time. He sighs.

“John… it is worth it though, right? I mean, the texts and the flouncing about and the microwaves and the sheer bloody mayhem?”

John’s face in the streetlight is shadowy, bathed in a sodium orange glow. He shrugs, licking his lower lip before tucking his chin into his scarf. He seems to some kind of internal decision and sighs. “Greg, mate. If you tell Sherlock I said this I will never forgive you. I’ll harpoon you. Understand?”

Greg nods, intrigued.

“Mycroft, too. Got it?” John grins, and glances quickly up and down the street as if there’s a chance Sherlock might be hiding behind a telephone box or in the neighbouring doorway of Nandos. He takes a deep breath. “Worth it doesn’t even begin to cover it. Meeting him was like… like waking up in the bloody land of Oz or something. It’s bizarre and infuriating and a lot of the time I have no clue what on earth makes him do the things he does; or say the things he says. But he’s the best man I have ever known or will ever know. He doesn’t trust anyone easily; and Mycroft’s the same. Worse. But when Sherlock decided that he trusted me; wanted me of all the people in the world… it was…” he trails off, looking a bit embarrassed. “Look, it’s not something that happens every day. Or even every decade. You sometimes feel like you’re a specimen under a microscope. Or just a total idiot when you can’t see the world the way they do. But, god, worth it?” he raises his eyes from the pavement, and meets Greg’s gaze with an almost devastating honesty. “Yes. Yes, it’s worth it. Totally worth it, every single minute.”

Greg lets out a long breath that he hasn’t really been aware he’s been holding. “Right… right, yeah. Okay.”

John nods, and takes a step back. “Yeah. Just… just make sure you’ve thought about it properly first, okay? There’s nothing casual about the Holmeses. You’re either all in or you’re not. Or Jesus,” he pauses, as if struck by a sudden pleasing thought. “Maybe you should just do it. We could have a support group with their dad. It would drive them mental.”

Chapter 10

Monday evening rolls around, and Greg finds himself standing on the steps of the Diogenes Club once more. He stares up at the gleaming bronze plaque on the door after tugging at the ornate bell pull set into the wall. He likes to think that somewhere in the depths of the silent building a loud, jangling bell has made one of the po-faced staff leap several feet in the air in alarm, scurrying towards the door before he can do it again.

The gleaming black door swings open, brisk and silent. The same whiskery little man from last time peers out, mouth pursed at the sight of Greg standing there with his hands in his pockets. Greg gives him a bright, cheerful grin in response and waves at him gaily. The face of the (doorman? butler? aged retainer?) darkens even more, but he beckons him inside. Greg is clearly expected; and the little man gestures towards the wide corridor that leads towards Mycroft’s rooms.

Greg holds up one finger and wipes his feet on the wide doormat, theatrically and at great length. He’s fairly sure his escort is silently grinding his teeth by the time he’s done.

Once his (clean, newly polished) brogues have been rubbed in every direction on the fine jute rug, Greg nods approvingly at his own feet and follows him out of the hall.
Greg is left at the door of Mycroft’s rooms without a backwards glance. He’s still fighting the urge to giggle when it swings open to reveal Anthea, who gives him an appraising look. He’s glad that he made an effort. She’s elegant as ever, buttoned into a crisp beige trench coat and black silk scarf. She’s clearly on her way out.

“Good evening, Detective Inspector. My employer has been anticipating your arrival,” she smiles, stepping back to let him into the dimly lit room.

“Oh, er- right. I’m not late, am I?” Greg asks. The gilt clock on the mantel reads seven o’clock on the dot. Mycroft is just visible through the door to the neighbouring room, phone pressed to his ear. He’s glaring at Anthea as she reaches for her fancy handbag and blackberry.

“Not in the least.” Anthea assures him, with a bland smile. “Well, I must dash. See you tomorrow, sir!”

Mycroft, still on the phone, gives her a curt nod and then she’s gone in a waft of silk and expensive scent. Greg watches her go with a certain level of bemusement before turning back to catch Mycroft’s eye. The latter raises a hand in a small, apologetic gesture and rolls his eyes at whatever is being said on the other end of the line.

Greg smiles, a little awkwardly. He feels Mycroft’s eyes on him as he slowly slips his coat from his shoulders and drapes it over the back of one of the wingback armchairs. Mycroft is murmuring in some Slavic tongue, an edge of impatience in his voice and Greg is glad that he can’t understand whatever is being said. He pretends not to listen, sitting down next to the unlit fireplace and running his fingers along the deeply buttoned leather. He’s hoping the fact that Mycroft has left the door open is some indication of trust.

“Gregory, good evening.” It’s a couple of minutes before Mycroft hangs up, and he steps into the cosy round room briskly. Greg gets to his feet at once, taking in the small genuine smile on Mycroft’s face and he feels absurdly pleased and a bit shy in response. Once again, he’s feeling unsure about how to greet him, rocking forward slightly on his toes and swaying into Mycroft’s orbit. He looks up into Mycroft’s long, thoughtful face and smiles helplessly in response to the warmth in his eyes.

Mycroft bends to meet him, and Greg only has half a stunned second before he feels the whisper of their lips meeting gently. Mycroft’s mouth touches his briefly, lingering for a moment on Greg’s lower lip. It’s so unfair how quickly it’s over. Greg looks up into his shrewd eyes a little wildly, breath catching as he reaches out and touches Mycroft’s cheek.

The pad of his thumb whisper-rasps against the faint suggestion of stubble there, stroking down towards his jaw.

“Well thank god; that’s one question answered anyway,” Greg offers, feeling his heart thudding embarrassingly hard in his chest.

“Hmm?” Mycroft hums, and he lets himself lean just a fraction into the bowl of Greg’s hand.

“Kissing. It’s alright in here, then?”

“Very much so.” Mycroft confirms with a smile. He seems to be on the verge of stepping back; of reaching for his coat when Greg catches hold of his jacket lapel and pulls him back down into another kiss. He feels a moment’s hesitation in Mycroft’s stiff shoulders and he’s about to let go, to apologise for startling him. But then the man makes a small, soft sound. It’s so quiet it’s barely audible but he softens under Greg’s hands, his own palm coming to rest at the back of Greg’s neck. His narrow mouth is slowly moving under the pressure of Greg’s lips, and it’s suddenly warm and lush as he lets him in.

It’s a long time since Greg kissed someone like this. Perhaps he never has before now, because he can’t recall ever feeling these electric pangs in the pit of his stomach; the strange thrum of his heart as Mycroft leans into him. He can hear and feel Mycroft’s hitching breaths as they tangle with each other and this isn’t just a kiss. This feels like more than a kiss; it feels important in some intangible way that Greg can’t really examine right now. Because he’s too busy letting his hands slide down the fine wool covering Mycroft’s chest, dipping inside the wings of his jacket and sliding back until they encounter silk in the small of his back. His fingers explore and worry the small buckle at the back of Mycroft’s waistcoat as they share breath. He feels Mycroft’s sharp teeth sink gently into his lower lip and the resulting burst of arousal he feels leaves him almost giddy. When they break apart he rests his forehead briefly against Mycroft’s shoulder and takes a deep, calming breath.

“Goodness. Well-“ Mycroft lets out a small, slightly breathless laugh. “Yes. That was quite-“

“Yes, it was a bit.” Greg agrees, with a grin. There are patches of high colour in Mycroft’s pale cheeks that he’s stupidly proud to have put there. His mouth is flushed, still slightly damp from Greg’s eager lips. “Well, um. Thank you.” he says ridiculously, because he’s just that kind of idiot.

Mycroft gives him a quizzical look, then smiles at the clear mortification in Greg’s face. “It was my pleasure. Very much so.”

There’s a long, shared gaze and then a mutual straightening of ties and cuffs, a clearing of throats.

“So, um. What are we going to do this evening then?” Greg asks, with a brave attempt to forget just how utterly un-suave he is. “I mean, not that we have to go anywhere-“

And a large part of him is very amenable to the idea of staying here all evening; never mind dinner or drinks or whatever Mycroft has planned. He wouldn’t mind staying here for a while longer, in this hushed little room with the soft light and deep carpet and nobody to disturb them.

“Well, I was going to suggest some Wagner at Covent Garden-“ Mycroft begins, turning towards the coat rack beside the door and therefore utterly missing the look of abject horror on Greg’s face. “I keep a box there. The Berlin Philharmonic are currently performing all four cycles of Der Ring des Nibelungen this evening, which has been greatly anticipated.”

Greg opens his mouth to come up with a polite but compelling excuse as to why he can’t really cope with that much highbrow shrieking and angst on a Monday evening, when he notices the positively mischievous glint in Mycroft’s eye.

“-and then Anthea rather brusquely informed me that in her opinion it would not be conducive to conversation or relaxation on your part.”

“I knew I liked her.” Greg says, giving Mycroft a hard look. “Sensible woman.”

Mycroft sniffs. “I’m rather sure she will shortly be sitting in the box herself, with a bottle of Bollinger at her elbow and surrounded by empty chocolate wrappers.”

“So, the alternative plan is…”

“Well, I was going to suggest… if you’re amenable, that is-“ Mycroft makes a great show of buttoning up his coat and reaching for his paisley scarf, avoiding Greg’s curious gaze.

“Perhaps we might go back to my home and have dinner there?”

“Your place?” Greg says blankly. When he sees the beginnings of the familiar shuttered look on Mycroft’s face he scrambles to make amends. “I mean, wow. Yes! Yes, that would be lovely. I just wasn’t expecting-” he gestures at their surroundings. “I mean, I sort of thought you lived here.”

“Not all the time,” Mycroft says drily, but at least he seems to have relaxed once more. “I occasionally stay here during the week for convenience sake, but I usually prefer to return to my house in Kensington. One is permitted to speak in all of the rooms there, for a start.”

“Well, consider me sold on the idea.” Greg says at once, slinging his coat over his arm and holding the door open for Mycroft. “Lead on.”

***

Greg is not surprised when Mycroft’s ridiculous town-car drops them off on one of the plusher garden squares near Holland Park, leaving them standing in front of a terrace of achingly well-kept Georgian townhouses. The buildings are elegant but not over-large, red brick and white plaster with wrought iron railings and balconies. Mycroft pushes open one of the small, ornate garden gates and leads Greg up a short path to a gleaming black painted front door without a word, before taking his keys from his pocket. It doesn’t escape Greg’s notice that it’s no ordinary Yale lock; Mycroft uses an oddly shaped dark metal key and swiftly enters a long series of numbers on a locked keypad. Greg studiously looks upward at the leaded fanlight over the door, and takes in the discreet cameras in the corners.

He’d make a joke about the security arrangements, but he suspects it would fall flat. There’s clearly a reason for all of this. Instead, he asks: “Lived here long?”

“Eighteen years next month,” Mycroft replies, at last pushing open the heavy wooden door to reveal a cream-painted square hallway. It’s furnished much along the same lines as the Diogenes; thick deep carpets and faded hunting prints on the walls. Plaster busts of former prime ministers line the deep windowsills on either side of the front door.

The sight of Margaret Thatcher’s head makes Greg pointedly raise an eyebrow. “Mycroft, while I’m grudgingly willing to entertain the notion that you’re a Tory-“

Mycroft laughs quietly, slipping off his overcoat. “I assure you Gregory, as a civil servant I cannot claim to have any political affiliation. I do not own this house, nor most of its contents. It came with the job.”

“What if, say, you sort of totally accidentally broke something?” Greg asks meaningfully, eyes riveted to the rigid white face topped with carved bouffant hair.

“Well, what on earth do you think happened to James Callaghan and Anthony Eden?” Mycroft inquires lightly, and gestures for Greg to follow him. They arrive in a large, well-lit kitchen at the back of the house. A set of French doors overlook a small garden surrounded by high ivy-covered walls. It’s a bright, well-proportioned room with pale marble counter tops and a long mahogany dining table near the wide, square-paned windows. It’s so neat that it makes Greg feel slightly uneasy; like he’s making the place untidy just with his presence.

“Can I offer you a drink?” Mycroft asks. “I’ve got some rather nice Saint-Chinian in the cellar.”

“Yeah, sounds lovely.” Greg manages, with only a small giggle about the fact that Mycroft’s got a bloody wine cellar downstairs. Mycroft gives him a stern look, and fetches a couple of bottles before handing him a corkscrew.

“One moment. I’ll find some glasses.”

“Are we going to order in or can I help you make something?” Greg asks, pouring the wine. “Or - oh god, you don’t have staff for that sort of thing, do you? You don’t have a valet or a chef lurking somewhere round here?”

Mycroft gives him an amused look. “No Gregory, I do not. I have a housekeeper who comes in a few times a week, but that is the extent of my household staff.”

“Well thank goodness for that,” Greg says, relieved, and he clinks their glasses together. “Come on then, put me to work. My mum always said the best way to make someone feel at home is to give them a job to do.”

After what is clearly a token protest from Mycroft, he gets to work chopping onions, crushing garlic and bruising herbs. He’s amused to see the perfectly sharpened Japanese blades in the knife rack, and catches Mycroft’s eye. “No Sabatier here, then?”

“Certainly not.” Mycroft retorts, looking positively insulted. “What if I needed to disembowel someone?”

It’s strangely domestic and rather lovely, they way they work around each other. Greg wasn’t sure what to expect, but conversation is easy; almost playful as he ribs Mycroft for still wearing a tie and jacket in his own kitchen.

With a roll of his eyes, Mycroft shrugs off his jacket and loosens his tie a fraction. For some reason the sight of him rolling up his starched white shirt sleeves, revealing long yet clearly strong forearms leaves Greg flushing and reaching for his glass. The edge of one of Mycroft’s braces is visible through the armhole of his dark blue waistcoat and fuck it that should not be erotic to him, but it just is. He reaches out (why does this feel daring?) and skims his palm along Mycroft’s back, sliding across the wide expanse between his shoulders and down one arm. He can feel the outline of an unexpectedly firm bicep, long lean muscle under fine cotton. Mycroft is utterly still, watching Greg’s hand curiously as it slides down his arm, cupping his elbow before trailing down his forearm. Their eyes meet and Greg doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing really; but it makes sense, there’s a kind of rightness when he presses his mouth to the thin skin on the inside of Mycroft’s wrist. There’s a suggestion of cologne and a trace of the herbs they’ve been cooking with. A whisper of tobacco.

He smiles against Mycroft’s skin, recognising the darkness in his eyes. Hello, he thinks. There you are.

“Tell me what you’re thinking?” Greg asks, quietly.

Mycroft gives him a long look and Greg can almost hear the effort it costs him to say, in a low voice: “That I was unprepared for this. For you. ”

“I reckon you’ve made some kind of decision, haven’t you?”

Mycroft nods. “I already told you that, at dinner the other night.”

“Yes, but we’re here. You invited me into your home.” Greg takes Mycroft’s hand in both of his. Presses it between his palms. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“You should, though.” Mycroft tells him, softly. “You’ve been nothing but open with me. You invited me into your life, without guile or expectation. I haven’t made things easy for you, and you’ve still been more patient than I deserve.”

“You deserve it.” Greg says at once. “You absolutely do.”

Mycroft shakes his head minutely, staring down at their joined hands. “But could we speak for a moment about what you want? What you deserve?”

“Um.” Greg shrugs helplessly, scratches his neck. He lets go and reaches for his wine glass, leaning against the counter. “God. Well. There’s some stuff I’d like to be clearer about, I suppose.”

Mycroft nods, taking his own glass and sitting down on the other side of the central kitchen island. At first he’s slightly dismayed by the distance, but it gives the situation such an interview feeling that it makes Greg grin a little. He rests his elbows on the cool marble, leaning towards Mycroft with his palms flat on the surface.

“Okay. Mycroft, are you out?”

Mycroft makes a small, slightly displeased face. “Up until now it has been rather an irrelevance, Gregory.”

“Yes, fair enough.” Greg agrees. “But what I really want to know is, will you be embarrassed or be put in any kind of danger or discomfort if people know we’re together?”

Mycroft doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Eventually he admits: “It is possible. That day in Regents Park, I told you that anyone I care about could become a target.”

“Yes, and I told you that I’m alright with that.” Greg says, flatly. “But the fact that I’m a bloke-?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “Not relevant.”

Greg lets out a small sigh of relief. “Good. That’s- good.”

“Well honestly, Gregory.” Mycroft says, with a shadow of amusement. “I’m under no illusions that anyone would look at me and immediately conclude that I’m a roaring heterosexual.”

“Well enough people assume that about me.” Greg shrugs. “Look, I’m not expecting to walk hand in hand all the time or snog you on every street corner. But I don’t want to be introduced as your ‘friend’. If anyone asks, I want to be able to say that you’re…” he pauses, flailing slightly because there’s no way he can think of or refer to Mycroft as his boyfriend for fucks sake. “I want to be able to say you’re mine, alright?”

Mycroft looks away, flushing as he glances out the windows into the garden. There’s a long pause, and Greg beginning to worry that he’s gone too far; that’s he’s said too much, when Mycroft clears his throat and murmurs: “Yes. I- I would like that.”

“And… just so we’re clear, I realise that work is going to get in the way for both of us. It’s going to be a bugger, I’m probably not going to get to see you anywhere near as often as I’d like. But this, right here? This is what I want. I want to spend my evenings with you; I want to eat with you and drink ridiculous wine from your wine cellar and I want to read next to you on the sofa. If you promise not to inflict bloody Wagner on me too often, I’d be delighted to go to the opera with you. I want… I want to go to bed with you and wake up with you and argue over whose turn it is to make the tea in the mornings, alright? And I know it’s stupid and completely presumptuous to be talking like this when it’s all still so new but you asked me what I wanted and it’s that, Mycroft. That’s what I want.”

Greg’s speaking rather more forcefully than he’d intended, but damn it he doesn’t have the patience to be coy or evasive. There’s no point in it, not when he’s got a chance like this; when Mycroft Holmes is sitting across from him with a strange, almost pained look in his eyes. There’s something he’s never seen before in Mycroft’s face, and it makes him catch his breath slightly.

“Does… does that sound okay to you?”

Mycroft slides his own palms onto the countertop, and Greg can almost hear the whir of him arranging his thoughts. Because for just a moment there, he looked unguarded. Almost defenceless in the face of Greg’s words.

“Gregory...” Mycroft says, a little haltingly. “That- it sounds wonderful.”

Neither of them move, but the air is thick between them. Greg can feel his face almost hurting with the expanse of his smile. Mycroft is staring at him like he’s some strange, rare and impossible thing rather than a greying copper who wears his heart far too plainly on his sleeve. This sort of thing doesn’t happen to Greg, it shouldn’t be possible. His skin feels hot and that’s not surprising, because he’s fairly sure he’s glowing right now. He’s prickling, and flushed and he wants nothing more than to stride over there and kiss Mycroft again but at the same time he wants this strange, breathless moment to continue forever.

And because life is full of stupid, bad timing it’s at this moment the gleaming silver oven decides to make a shattering, electronic buzzing noise; signalling that the chicken has finished roasting and that Greg Lestrade hates modern technology with an utterly burning passion. He stares at the oven, wild-eyed and just for a moment he’s tempted to kick it.

He wheels around at the sound of Mycroft laughing at him, face open and creased and so clearly fond it stops his destructive urges at once. “My dear Gregory, your face!”

Gregory slaps the button on the oven viciously, grabs an oven glove and yanks the roasting dish out of the oven. He slaps it down with the bare minimum of care, before turning to find Mycroft has crossed the distance; he’s placing his hand on Greg’s cheek and there’s still laughter in his eyes and a smile on his lips. He kisses him with care, with a curved mouth and what feels like joy in the way their bodies touch.

Eventually they separate; Greg’s stomach growls embarrassingly loudly and reminds him that he didn’t get around to lunch and there’s a perfectly roasted chicken sitting a few feet away; glazed with glistening butter, fragrant with garlic and rosemary. Mycroft smiles down at him and before they step apart Greg tugs at the edge of his waistcoat; running his fingers greedily down his sides.

They eat at one end of the long, gleaming mahogany table as the sky outside darkens. Mycroft lights some tall beeswax candles and they eat slowly, surrounded by a warm yellowish glow. The wine is predictably wonderful, and Greg smiles at the label. It’s from a vineyard less than ten miles from his grandparent’s farm in Herault and without even looking at Mycroft he knows that this is not even remotely accidental.

“I can’t remember the last time I cooked food like this,” Greg confesses, spearing a last crisp roasted potato from the bowl on the table. The flesh is pale and slightly sweet, rough edges golden brown and scattered with damp flakes of sea salt. “I got out of the habit, living alone. I want to start again, though. Maybe I can make you dinner some time.”

“I’d be delighted.” Mycroft murmurs, propping his chin on his hand. Greg’s unreasonably happy to see that his plate is nearly empty too, pushed aside with just a few bones and peas left scattered next to the heavy silverware. He seems more comfortable than Greg has ever seen him, his pale skin glowing slightly in the warm candle light. There’s something intoxicating in seeing him like this; in his rolled up shirt sleeves and loosened tie, smile soft around the edges. It seems like a rare honour. Greg wonders how many other people get to see Mycroft when he’s loose and relaxed, tracing a long finger through a splash of wine on the table.

“I only started cooking when I was a student,” Greg muses. “I loved having all my friends round the kitchen table, everyone pitching in and bringing something with them. It was cheaper than going out on the piss and we always got to talk more than we would have done in a club or down the pub. Sitting up late, smoking and telling stories till the small hours. That’s how you get to know people, I reckon.”

“You enjoyed university?” Mycroft asks, idly.

“Mm. Yeah, most of it. I think most people do, don’t they? Didn’t you?”

“It was an interesting time.” Mycroft says, slowly. “I was among some intellectual peers at Cambridge, which was a welcome change. But it was a rather competitive atmosphere, which does not necessarily encourage camaraderie.”

“You still in touch with anyone from back then?” Greg asks, curiously. Part of him itches to meet someone who knew Mycroft as a teenager or awkward undergraduate; someone who knew him before he became this genteel, polished version of himself.

“One or two colleagues.” Mycroft says, quietly. He pauses, and Greg watches a shadow flicker across his face. “It was there that I first met Charles. We were recruited at the same time.”

“Recruited.” Greg says, blankly. “You mean-“

“I mean, that there were certain professors who were well placed within the University to observe each new group of students. Professors who were able to spend time determining if their students possessed certain… skill sets. Abilities. You look shocked, Gregory.”

“Shocked?” Greg echoes, and frowns. “No, I- it just sounds like something out of a book. I didn’t think that sort of thing actually happened outside of Le Carre.”

“The Cold War persisted for a very long time.” Mycroft says delicately, pouring some more wine for them both.

“Bet they didn’t think of recruiting at Bristol Polytechnic,” Greg mutters darkly.

“You’d be surprised.” Mycroft tells him, with a narrow smile.

“And Charles – he was the… I mean your?”

“The associate we spoke of before, yes.” Mycroft confirms. “We were mere acquaintances at Cambridge, but training brought us rather closer together. He was… an unusual person in many respects.” Mycroft pauses, and lets his gaze wander out into the shadowy garden. “We shared quarters during our first few years. That was meant to be a safeguard, you see. A means of keeping watch on new recruits. It was a trying period for many reasons. Training was not particularly easy.”

There’s a whole world of unspoken detail in this last short sentence, and Mycroft’s face is remote as he says it. Greg isn’t sure he ever wants to know what Mycroft has done; what he’s been asked to do for the sake of his country.

“Even if I had wanted to, I was unable to speak to anyone about my experiences. Nobody, that is, except Charles. He was going through the same process, we were being moulded in the same way. He and I… I suppose it was inevitable that we bonded a little. And as time went on it became more than that. After training ended, we were both assigned more experienced partners. But whenever time and work allowed we returned to each other.” Mycroft inhales deeply, and Greg can almost feel him itching for a cigarette. “It is by no means an excuse, but I was considerably younger and less experienced than I am now. He spent a considerable amount of time working in Moscow and what was then Leningrad. I believed that I was going to meet him for a few days between assignments. At first he spent some time attempting to persuade me to work for both sides, as he had been doing for some time. And when that didn’t work he enlisted some local colleagues and used some… alternative methods of persuasion. It was an inexcusably foolish situation to end up in.”

And clearly painful, terrifying and devastating as fuck, Greg wants to say. It’s so clear in Mycroft’s quiet delivery, the edge of anger to his words. He wants to punch something, preferably this Charles bastard. And he wants to hug Mycroft, but he’s not sure if he’d welcome it right now.

“You think that you’re the first person in the world to fall in love with someone who betrayed you?” Greg asks, gently. “Mycroft, just because you’ve got a brain the size of a planet… it doesn’t mean you’re not a human being. Some things go beyond intellect or observation.”

“And that is precisely what makes them so dangerous.” Mycroft replies sharply.

Greg shrugs helplessly. “I think it might be worth the risk, though.” he says eventually.

Mycroft doesn’t answer, but the tension seems to slowly ebb from his shoulders over the next few minutes. There’s a tacit agreement to put aside this particular conversational minefield, for now anyway.

They clear the table and leave the plates in the sink, and the sight of this mess in the orderly kitchen cheers Greg oddly. They end up sitting in the small library, on either end of a chesterfield sofa with a backgammon board between them. Greg would be quite tempted to mock Mycroft for having a library complete with a sliding ladder and leather club armchairs; it is wasn’t for the fact it’s hushed and intimate and lovely in the candlelight. It’s the only room he’s seen so far that looks like Mycroft spends much time in it; there are piles of papers and recent paperbacks on the desk. He likes to imagine that Mycroft kicks off his shoes and lies down in here when he’s alone, dozing with an open book on his chest.

Greg’s about to admit inevitable defeat in the game when there’s a faint scurrying movement behind the sofa. He pauses, carved wooden counter in hand and stares at Mycroft. Rather than seeming embarrassed or annoyed at the sound of infestation, he merely rolls his eyes slightly and sighs.

“Look, um. Don’t worry. I’m going to have to put down some traps in my new place, it’s a problem with these old buildings.” Greg assures him. “I’m not going to stand on a chair and shriek.”

“Goodness, that’s a relief.” Mycroft says drily. “One moment please.”

He bends down and drums his fingers on the side of the sofa. “Bertram, will you please come out from under there?”

Greg’s not entirely sure what he was expecting; maybe if he had to put money on it he’d hazard a guess that Bertram is one of those very expensive long-haired white cats with the squashy faces. What he is entirely unprepared for is the sight of a large, greyish ball of fluff dangling heavily from Mycroft’s hands.

Bertram stares suspiciously at Greg, who is utterly taken aback at the sight of Mycroft holding a big, long eared rabbit with a twitchy nose. “Gregory, this is Bertram. Bertram, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Greg says mechanically, for lack of a better option.

“I had instructed him to stay in my study for the evening.” Mycroft tells him, with a reproving glance at the rabbit now draped across his lap. “But unfortunately, he can be remarkably strong-willed.”

Greg reaches out tentatively, and touches the rabbit’s head. Bertram gives him a stern look, but permits him to trail a hand down his warm, glossy coat and along his large floppy ears.

“You own a rabbit.”

“Well, there’s no need to look so awestruck about it.” Mycroft says, dismissively. In the dim light, Greg’s fairly sure his ears are slightly pinker than they were a moment ago. “Anthea decided he would be a suitable Christmas gift last year, for some reason best known to herself.”

“He’s lovely.” Greg says, feeling a smile spilling across his face.

“He’s a menace.” Mycroft says sternly, but Greg doesn’t miss the way his long clever fingers ruffle and smooth through Bertram’s fur. It’s a familiar, well-practised movement; and the rabbit nestles a little closer to Mycroft’s waistcoat, closing his eyes contentedly as his whiskers twitch. “He chewed through three of my favourite neckties in the last month, and in the beginning did some quite inexcusable things in the corner of the drawing room.”

“Shocking behaviour,” Greg agrees, solemnly. And because he can’t stand it anymore he shifts the backgammon set onto the floor and slides closer to Mycroft, who watches him curiously as he advances. “Can I kiss you now or will it scandalise your rabbit?”

Mycroft smiles as Greg’s hand slides up his arm; one finger tracing the line of his brace where it’s visible at his shoulder, under the edge of his waistcoat. “Well, Gregory… it’s clearly an area that warrants investigation.”

Chapter 11

Greg finally moves into his new flat in Highgate a couple of days later, despite the dust and moths. Despite the dodgy wiring and the damp patches and the draughts that sweep through the old window frames. John helps him move his belongings, and in return Greg has promised him beer, pizza and that a minor assault charge against Sherlock will be dropped. It’s still cheaper and less hassle than hiring movers, so he doesn’t try bargaining too hard.

“Well, it’s… got character.” John remarks, taking a long swig from his bottle of lager and looking round the flat. It’s getting late and the shadows are lengthening in the long living room. Lights are blinking on in neighbouring buildings, reflecting in the canal below. Pigeons are flying in to roost under the eaves, scrabbling and cooing in the still evening air. Greg chooses to ignore John’s raised eyebrow and the implied you’re bonkers for buying this place and sits down next to him on the window-sill, clinking their bottles together.

“I know,” he says happily. “It’ll take a bit of work, but I don’t care. Did I tell you about the swans?”

“Yeah. Twice. Did you know those buggers can break a mans arm?” John asks, smirking.

“They’re just misunderstood!”

“Mhmm. Sure.” John grins. “Nah, I can see it. I mean, you can definitely tell a mad old lady lived here for a long while. But it’s got, um. Vintage charm?”

“Vintage charm?! Jesus.” Greg chokes slightly. “Who the hell even are you?”

“I may have spent quite a while on Pinterest earlier this week.” John says darkly. “For a case!” he adds hastily.

“Sure it was!” he laughs into his beer. “I believe you.”

“It was! Bloody Sherlock said that the suspect’s taste in interior décor was a valuable clue.” John snorted. “I can tell you right now that it wasn’t. But I now know way more than I ever needed to about this shabby chic bohemian bollocks. People spent shed loads of money trying to get their flats looking this faded and worn out.”

“Oh, well, cheers for that.” Greg rolls his eyes, but can’t be bothered taking offence.

“So what does Mycroft think of all this?” John asks, slowly beginning to prise the label off his sweating bottle. “Will he step foot in the place before it’s been fumigated?”

“I’ll have you know that I had all vermin dealt with last week.” Greg says haughtily. “And it was only a few mice.”

He doesn’t mention the large spider in the bathroom, which has resisted all Greg’s attempts to catch it. He’s given up and named him Nigel. He just hopes that the spider will keep to their bargain, and stay at the other end of the tub while he showers.

“He hasn’t been here yet,” he says. “He’s somewhere in South America at the moment.”

John gives him a meaningful look. “…and?” he eventually prompts.

“And…” Greg can’t stop the small and probably incredibly silly smile that appears on his face. He looks down at the floorboards and scuffs his shoes through the dust. “And it’s, um. Good. So far… so far it’s really good.”

Even if he wanted to, he’d never be able to explain this to John. He’s not sure it can be put into words, how he feels when he remembers Mycroft’s expression in the kitchen; looking at him that way. His voice, slightly hoarse. Gregory… it sounds wonderful.. Kissing his narrow, sharp, soft mouth again and again. Tangled in the corner of the sofa in the library while that ridiculous rabbit loped around the carpet, eyeing them suspiciously.

“Jesus…” John simply says, staring at him. Greg scrubs his hand across his mouth, as if he could wipe the smile off that way. “Just so we’re clear; I really don’t want to know what he did. Not if it makes your face do what it just did.”

“Shut up!” Greg laughs helplessly. “Shut up and let’s order some food. I’m starving.”

A couple of hours later, after John’s left and the sun has disappeared behind the neighbouring buildings, Lestrade looks around his new home. He lights a few of the ridiculous chintzy lamps, bathing the rooms in soft pools of light. He’d meant to get a start on cleaning up this evening, but it can wait. He just sinks into one of the dusty green brocade sofas next to the unlit stove and props his feet up on an unpacked box of books.

It’s quiet here, far quieter than he’s used to. In his awful old flat, he could always hear his neighbours, traffic, arguments on the street and the clatter of the all night chicken shop on the corner. There’s still noise around him; this is London after all. But it’s a quiet, muted hum and he needs to strain to hear it. The biggest disturbance comes from the pigeons in the eaves and the occasional clank of elderly piping in the walls. He has a sudden urge to play some music. And then it shocks him slightly, when he realises he can’t remember the last time he listened to any kind of music. It had once been such an integral part of wherever he lived; coming home and putting on a record or just flicking on the radio. He’d never been particularly highbrow; he’d always been too much of a magpie for that. But he’d always loved hearing new sounds, exploring different types of music. Sylvia used to tease him a bit when she’d find him lying on the sofa, his eyes closed while he earnestly listened to whatever new record he’d bought that day.

And there’s another surprise, Greg muses as he gets up and reaches for the box he’s fairly sure contains his old turntable. There’s no ache any more, not even a twinge when he thinks of her.

***

Mycroft’s away far longer than he had planned, and his irritation shows in the messages he sends Greg. He usually texts him a couple of times a day, and Greg tries to avoid thinking about what he’s doing too much.

Then a couple of days pass with no contact at all. By Sunday he’s on the verge of trying to track Mycroft down via the Diogenes when his phone lights up with the message:

Apologies for the lack of contact, Gregory. I really don’t think you would believe me even if I could give you the reason behind it. MH

Greg takes a long, fortifying breath and lets it out slowly. After a moment he becomes aware that he’s pressing his phone hard against his chest and briefly feels mortified, even though he’s in the privacy of his own kitchen.

Was beginning to wonder if I needed to send out a search party.

While I appreciate the sentiment, I rather doubt you’d have found me. MH

I’ll have you know that I am one of London’s Finest, Mycroft. I have ways and means. Greg snorts quietly to himself, feeling his mouth curving into the smile that always coincides with hearing from Mycroft.

Well, I cannot possibly argue with that. Thankfully I am on my way to an air field at the moment. I should be arriving back into London tomorrow morning. MH

And before Greg can reply, another message appears. I am in dire need of a hot bath, a proper cup of tea and some of your company. MH

Greg slowly sits down at the kitchen table, staring at the last message. It’s not reasonable, the way such a small sentence makes his heart beat faster; his skin feel warmer.

Come back. Come home. Come here. he thinks.

How about coming over tomorrow evening? he eventually types. And then after looking around the dusty shelves of his kitchen, as a panicked afterthought he adds. Please tell me you’re not asthmatic.

Thankfully no. MH Greg can picture the wry smile on Mycroft’s face. I look forward to it.

Greg spends the rest of the weekend alternately cleaning and fretting, washing the grimy window panes while he wonders if Mycroft will like the place. He beats dust out of the massive heavy curtains which promptly sticks to the clean windows and he ponders what he’ll cook.

He hangs up his clothes and changes the sheets on the huge carved sleigh bed and resolutely doesn’t think about Mycroft seeing the room where he sleeps. It’s just in case. He should try to be tidier, anyway.

That last evening at Mycroft’s house in Holland Park had ended warmly, Greg taking a cab home around midnight. They had kissed for the last time behind the front door, and Mycroft had watched him from the gate until the cab had turned the corner. Greg knows that he could definitely have stayed over that night and a large part of him had wanted to. But it’s a strange, new, fragile thing between them. He’s not the same person he was when he was last in the early days of a relationship, so many years ago. He badly wants to get this right; but he’s not entirely sure how to do it.

And to be perfectly honest, it’s been so long since he took a man to bed he’s sort of worried that he’s forgotten how to do that too.

He’s distracted at work the following day. Sally takes blatant advantage of him when she sees him staring into space and she gets him to sign off at least three months of paperwork, four birthday cards and the holiday rota. He’s on the verge of scribbling his name on a cheque to cover the next months’ worth of coffee orders from Costa for the whole of Serious Crimes when he blinks and stares at the piece of paper she’s holding patiently under his nose.

“Hey!”

“Oh come on,” Sally says, entirely unrepentant. “Do it! It’ll boost morale.”

“Fuck. Off.” Lestrade glares at her, and tears up the cheque she must have taken from the book in his desk drawer while he wasn’t looking. “Jesus! That’s practically fraud.”

“Alright, it was admittedly a long shot.” Sally sighs, and perches on the corner of his desk. “What’s going on? You’ve been frowning and staring out the window for the last hour. I was beginning to wonder if you were trying to lay an egg.”

“Nothing is going on. I’m just… thinking.” Greg says firmly.

“Mmhmm. Thinking about what?!” Sally persists.

“None of your business.”

She gives him such an old fashioned look, it’s positively prehistoric.

“Come on, guv. Tell Sally.”

Greg shakes his head. “No way. You’ll just tell everyone in the ladies loos. I know the kind of talk that goes on in there.”

“I won’t!” Donovan protests, and then sighs when he doesn’t say anything else. She reaches out and pushes his office door closed, and looks at him meaningfully. “Look. It pains me very much to admit this. But I’m a bit concerned about you right now. You’ve been acting a bit strangely lately.”

“I’m fine!” Greg mutters.

“And,” she continues relentlessly, staring down at the carpet. “It pains me even more to admit this. You’ve always been extremely decent and listened to me when I’ve been an idiot over Phil. More times than I can count. I know I’m a bit of a bitch. I know I probably gossip more than I should. But I wouldn’t do that, not about you. Because you’re not just my boss, Greg.” Sally looks like it almost hurts when she says, monotone: “You’re my friend. You wanker.”

Greg opens his mouth to tell her, reflexive, that she’s not allowed to call him a wanker. And then he pauses, considering the way she’d called him Greg just a moment before. Because she’s never called him that. Not to his face.

He wonders if she calls him that in her head, like he calls her ‘Sally’ in his. It’s far more of a shock than it should be; this sudden realisation that he’s important to her. She’s studiously avoiding his gaze, glaring at the carpet in the wake of such a display of revolting sentiment.

“It’s umm…” he trails off, feeling a bit overwhelmed. Then, in a slight rush in case he loses his nerve: “Right. Look, this might be a bit of a surprise, alright?”

Sally finally looks up, expectant.

“But, er.” Greg feels his blood surge. He hates that he’s nervous saying this. “I’ve been seeing someone. A bloke. I mean, not a bloke. A man.”

Sally nods slowly. “Right. Okay… and is that why you’re worried? Is this some kind of sexuality crisis?”

“No! Jesus. I’m fine! There is no crisis here!”

Sally continues to frown at him thoughtfully.

“It’s just all a bit… new.” he says, lamely. He feels vaguely panicked when some kind of realisation seems to dawn in her eyes.

“Oh, I see!”

“No, I really doubt-“

“You haven’t been single for millennia!”

“Shut up!”

“Is tonight the big night, then? You’re not worried that the equipment’s gotten a bit rusty from disuse, are you?”

Greg leans forward and buries his face in his hands. He literally cannot believe he got himself into this conversation. Perhaps if he stays like this for long enough, she’ll give up and go away and he can cringe in peace for eternity.

“I mean, is it your first time with a bloke?” Sally asks curiously.

Greg gives an inarticulate groan that might be construed as a negative.

“So what’s the problem? Grooming? Positions? Morning-after etiquette?”

Maybe he could hit the panic alarm under his desk. Surely it’s intended for situations such as these.

Sally’s blithely continuing her horrifying list. “Safety? Oh, safe words? Is he kinky like that?”

“Stop!” Greg tries to snap, but he’s worried it sounded more like pleading because it was muffled by his hands. He steels himself and looks up long enough to glare at her.

“Enough! I knew I shouldn’t have told you anything!”

Sally wrinkles her nose at him. And yes alright, she is definitely taking the piss a bit. But there’s also an unexpected kindness in her eyes.

“Sorry.” She sighs, and kicks the leg of his chair. “Listen. Admittedly I am not a bloke who sleeps with blokes. But I will tell you this much. People are just people, guv. You show up, you make a bit of an effort. Make sure you smell nice. Pay attention to what he likes. Listen to what he says. That’s all you need to do.”

“And that’s it, is it?” Greg asks, bemused.

“You’d be surprised how few blokes get even that much right.” Sally says darkly.

There’s a bit of a pause, and Greg feels his mortification levels dropping slightly. He leans back in his chair, and lines a few pens up in a row on his desk. Just for something to do with his hands.

Sally kicks the leg of his chair again. Although it makes him wobble slightly, he recognises the gesture for what it is. “You okay?”

“Umm… yeah. Yeah, I think I am.” he says, realising as he says the words that it’s true.

“Good. Then bloody well go and buy me a coffee.” she orders him, and gets off his desk.

Sally pauses at the door, her hand on the knob. She gives him a small grin. “Listen. Thanks for telling me. It wasn’t a massive surprise, to be honest. But I appreciate that you told me.”

“Yeah. Er. No problem?”

“So who is he anyway? What’s his name? Want me to run a background check on him?”

Greg freezes, suddenly aware of what her reaction would be if she knew whom he was getting involved with.

“Triple espresso, was it?” he asks, getting to his feet and patting his pockets for his wallet. “Want cake with that?”

“Well that’s deeply suspicious.” Sally informs him, with narrowed eyes. But at least for now, she lets the subject drop. “Red velvet cupcake. Two of them. And I want a biscotti.”

There are some conversations he’s not sure he’ll ever be ready for.

Chapter 12

Greg buys groceries and wine at the little deli down the street from his flat on his way home. This has become part of his new routine since moving to Highgate and he’s remembering how much he loves food. Not just the fancy, beautifully arranged fare that he eats at restaurants with Mycroft. But he’s remembering the particular pleasure that comes from slowly strolling past market stalls and cases of cheese. Inhaling the scent of fresh baked bread, selecting blushing apples one by one and dropping them into a paper bag. Inspecting newly laid eggs nestled in a box of straw, letting a morsel of brie melt on his tongue as he decides on the best one to take home.

The staff in the deli nod and smile at him in recognition as he enters now, just like the baker down the street and the lady at the fishmongers. It’s oddly pleasant, to be recognised as a regular customer. He’s begun to nod and smile at the people he passes on his way to work in the mornings, too – piecing together the neighbourhood and the people who live around him. It’s more than a coppers habit; it’s the beginnings of feeling like a local. It’s a very long time since he’s felt like that anywhere.

Greg rather self-consciously adds a bunch of yellow roses to his basket of shopping at the till. Then he puts them back. He’s clearly overdoing things.

“You sure you want them?” the young man in the striped apron asks him, slightly perplexed as he packs the rest of Greg’s shopping into a couple of paper bags. Greg’s picked up the flowers and put them down again twice now. “I’ve got some pink ones in the back if you’d prefer ‘em.”

Greg blinks at him, and shakes his head. To his embarrassment he’s flushing slightly. “No, er- no. I’ll take them. Sorry.”

“Alright, then.” The young man reaches out slowly and gently takes them from Greg’s hand, turning and wrapping them in brown paper. “If you’re sure.”

Is it odd to buy flowers? Greg wonders, as he pays and leaves hastily. He’s second guessing himself to a ridiculous degree about everything now. He’s not planning on giving them to Mycroft of course, that would just be awkward and weird. But Greg really isn’t the type of person to just have flowers around the house. Will Mycroft notice? What will he think? Will he think that Greg’s trying to set up some kind of romantic scene of seduction with wine and roses and candles and music? Will it all just turn out to be hideously awkward? Maybe he should just bin the flowers right now.

“Oh, for fucks sake! You are a grown man and they are just bloody plant stems!” he hisses to himself as he ducks through the weathered stone archway that leads to the entrance of his building. It’s a warm evening, long shadows trailing across the cobbles. And there’s a familiar tall (and by god extremely early) person standing outside his door. Mycroft turns as Greg rounds the corner, his stern expression softening at once.

“Good evening, Gregory.”

Greg’s heart lurches a bit, because Mycroft’s smile is quietly delighted as he moves towards him. He’s elegant as ever, but more casual than Greg has ever seen him; he’s wearing a dark blazer over an open necked linen shirt, a green silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. Greg stops dead, eyes wide and he just drinks Mycroft in as he approaches. His hands are still full of shopping but he can feel his body swaying towards the man, drawn towards him; no consideration and all instinct. Mycroft’s large hands land on his shoulders and he’s close, blue eyes intent and lips warm as they press briefly against Greg’s cheek. Greg’s shut his eyes by the time Mycroft steps back, his mouth melting into an irrepressible smile.

“You’re early,” is all he can say.

“My apologies.” Mycroft replies, without a hint of sincerity. He reaches out and takes one of the bags of groceries, tucks the yellow roses comfortably under his arm and lets Greg fish in his jacket pocket for his keys. There’s another bag on the doorstep, clearly set down by Mycroft while he waited. Greg sneaks a quick look inside from the corner of his eye as he opens the door to the building, and can’t help his giggle when he spies a bottle of wine and an elegant little bouquet of lavender and white stocks.

“Well, I hadn’t realised that you were planning on buying some ‘plant stems’ as well as ingredients for dinner,” Mycroft says blandly, and gives Greg a small sidelong grin.

Greg glares at him and picks up the bag before leading the way up the steep narrow stairs. “It’s bad manners to listen in on private conversations I’m having with myself, you know.”

“Goodness, I am blotting my copybook this evening, aren’t I?”

“Dreadfully.” Greg agrees, and opens the heavy old door to his flat. Mycroft sidles in after him into the shadowy hallway, curiously glancing around the dark marbled walls and gilt mirrors. He’s silent as he follows Greg into the long airy living room. It’s thankfully much cleaner than it had been a few weeks previously. Greg’s unpacked his books onto the shelves and put up a few old photographs but it’s still largely the strange mishmash of décor that came with the flat. The odd abstract paintings seem to glow slightly in the evening air. Light glints off polished dark wood and the small collection of coloured glass bottles and tarnished silver candelabra on the mantelpiece. Their footsteps seem loud on the timeworn floorboards, and Greg busies himself with opening the tall windows; letting cool air drift into the room along with the distant sound of trembling leaves.

“What do you think?” he asks, before turning around. It’s ridiculous, just how much Mycroft’s opinion matters to him.

“It’s remarkable.” Mycroft says quietly, leaning closer to one of the paintings and smiling faintly at whatever he sees in it. “Rather like stepping back into the days of the Bloomsbury set.”

He meets Greg’s eyes and his expression is warm. “It’s unexpected. And beautiful.”

Why on earth this makes Greg duck his head and hide a smile, he doesn’t know. He leads the way into the kitchen, dropping the bags of shopping onto the slightly lopsided table in the middle. Mycroft looks amused by the preposterous room, the cavernous larder and the drawers full of heavy old silverware and bizarre gadgets. He matter-of-factly shrugs off his blazer and drapes it over the back of a kitchen chair, rolling up the sleeves of his starched linen shirt with intent.

Greg watches Mycroft out of the corner of his eye as he finds the drawer that holds the corkscrew without even asking. He eases the corks from the bottles with a satisfying pop and sets the wine to breathe. Greg is still a little self-conscious; slightly nervy as they move around each other. But something in the way Mycroft is calmly making himself useful, at home in Greg’s kitchen makes Greg smile into the colander of clams he’s rinsing in the sink. He’s helpless and achingly fond at the sight of Mycroft thoughtfully zesting a bloody lemon of all things.

He rinses and dries his hands, setting the clams down with a thud on the table. Mycroft goes still as Greg comes to a halt behind him, trailing off in the middle of a frankly implausible tale about Bolivian politics. Greg takes in the breadth of his shoulders, the fine linen pulled taut by the angle of his arms. It’s a warm evening, and Mycroft’s not wearing anything underneath it; the smooth fabric uninterrupted by any outline of underclothes. It’s a single thin layer of fabric between him and Mycroft’s bare skin. Despite being fully dressed, it’s the least clothed Greg has ever seen him. He reaches out slowly, and slips the tip of his fingertip down the back of Mycroft’s lightly freckled neck; down the ridge of his spine. His dark auburn hair is meticulously neat, perfectly cut at the nape and it rasps soft and warm under Greg’s fingertip as it travels downward, down underneath the white collar. Mycroft’s skin is paler underneath, and he’s stock still as Greg curiously pulls the fabric down a fraction; taking in the delicate vertebrae, skin the colour of fresh milk.

Mycroft’s breath is audible. Not loud, but more rapid than it had been just seconds before. Greg leans in slowly and presses his mouth to the nape of Mycroft’s neck. He can smell a hint of Mycroft’s cologne and he turns his head, dragging his faintly stubbled cheek against the tender skin and he feels the man shudder.

“I’ve missed you.” Greg murmurs quietly, and slips his arms around Mycroft from behind. He’s solid and warm and he can feel Mycroft’s rapid pulse under his palm.

“I’m sorry.” Mycroft breathes.

“Not looking for an apology.” Greg closes his eyes and rests his cheek against Mycroft’s shoulder. “Just saying it. I’m glad you’re here now.”

Mycroft nods, and covers Greg’s hand with his own. “Would it help if I told you I cut short a meeting with the American Vice-President so that I could get here sooner?”

Greg huffs a laugh and squeezes him tighter for a moment before letting go. “Shut up. No you didn’t.”

Mycroft’s face is flushed when he turns to look at him, his eyes bright. “I left Anthea to iron out the finer details. She’s always telling me that I should learn to delegate a little more.”

“Sounds familiar.” Greg says wryly, thinking of Donovan. He reaches out and pours a glass of wine for them both.

“The wretched man always seems rather terrified of her, unfortunately.” Mycroft says thoughtfully, clinking his glass against Gregs. “Can’t imagine why. It comes in rather useful from time to time, though.”

Greg thinks that there’s probably a wide range of reasons why anyone with half a brain should be terrified of Anthea, if his initial assessment of her was correct. He’s just glad that Mycroft’s got someone like her at his side when he goes AWOL in the depths of Bolivia or wherever the hell he’s been for the last while.

They finish preparing dinner, and Greg rummages around in the cupboards until he finds a couple of jugs he can stick the flowers in. Mycroft lays the inlaid table that stands at one end of the living room. He lights some candles, their flames gently flickering in the breeze from the windows. Greg watches him from the kitchen doorway, cradling his glass against his chest. Watches the way Mycroft moves through his space, how he inspects the bookshelves and takes his time selecting a record from the pile next to the turntable.

There’s an inexplicable rightness to having him here; he looks relaxed and unselfconscious in Greg’s comfortable, slightly shabby rooms. It’s obviously totally ridiculous to be thinking like this, but Greg has a powerful sense that this could only be the first of so many evenings they’ll spend here together. Mycroft picks a Chet Baker album of all things, which Greg finds hilarious but can’t explain why.

They eventually eat in the flickering glow of evening and candlelight. There is idle conversation about Greg’s latest counterfeiting case and Mycroft’s hasty research into the finer points of Quechua diplomatic etiquette. It’s so unhurried it feels almost indulgent to Greg, who takes the time to just lean back in his chair and take in the sight of Mycroft here at his table; leaving fingermarks on the heavy green tinged glassware. He watches Mycroft lick his thumb after dropping an empty shell into the blue china bowl and smiles into his glass.

“Am I so terribly amusing?” Mycroft inquires, reaching for his napkin. He presses his lips together, giving Greg a stern look. Greg shrugs, and grins but doesn’t say anything. How can he explain the stupid pleasure that comes from witnessing Mycroft with his top button undone, relaxed enough to give in to a tiny lapse in table manners?

Later on, when they’ve cleared the dishes and carried their glasses over to the deep sofa next to the fireplace, Greg reaches out and takes Mycroft’s hand.

“Are you going to stay?” he asks, simply.

Mycroft takes a sip of his wine, looking into the depths with a careful expression that Greg can only read as shy. It makes him tighten his grip on Mycroft’s fingers.

Mycroft half-smiles in response and glances back up at him. “If you’d like me to.”

Greg takes the glass from his hand and places it on the floor. Mycroft watches him curiously, perhaps a little guarded as Greg reaches out and touches his face; pressing his palm against Mycroft’s cheek.

“Of course I do.” he murmurs. “How can you ask me that?”

He kisses him quickly, then forces the next words out. “Not going to lie, I’m a bit nervous about this. Because… because I want you. Because I don’t want to mess everything up. Because it’s been a really long time since I’ve been with anyone and I never expected to meet someone like you, Mycroft. You’re…” he swallows hard, taking in the faintly incredulous look on Mycroft’s face. “You’re lovely. I never mean to say all these things… and then when I’m with you I can’t help it. I can’t risk not letting you know how much I want you. How much I want you in my life.”

Mycroft’s smile is slow, a little tremulous but it’s so genuine Greg can’t help but lean forward and kiss his mouth again. When they break apart, their foreheads touching, Mycroft whispers just on the edge of hearing: “Gregory, I… I never expected life to be so kind.”

There are no more words needed between them for the next few minutes, just the sound of warm breath and the rasp of fabric; Greg’s muffled swear when the sofa cushions get in the way and Mycroft’s answering soft gasp of laughter. It’s slow and unhurried but with the promise of much more. The sofa’s really not big enough for both of them to lie down comfortably, Greg’s got one knee on the floor and the other between Mycroft’s long thighs. His hands are busy undoing a few more buttons on Mycroft’s shirt while he kisses him, long and deep and he’s fucking delighted at how creased and increasingly dishevelled the man under him looks. He’s shocked when he sees the darkness in Mycrofts eyes. The man is usually so buttoned up, so completely covered and clothed that it seems almost painfully erotic when Greg gets a glimpse of his pale chest. He’s hard by the time he catches sight of Mycroft’s flushed nipple under the edge of his crushed linen shirt.

“My dear Gregory…” Mycroft murmurs, sly and bemused by the transparent hunger in Gregs eyes. “Will you please just take me to bed?”

“It’s awfully far away,” Greg points out, unable to wait a moment longer before ducking down to run his tongue across the pink crest. Mycroft makes a small breathy noise, but pushes at his shoulders a moment later.

“For heavens sake, man! Just think of the possibilities of having considerably more room!”

This argument does at least have some weight behind it, and Greg’s knee is definitely beginning to protest. He sighs and hauls himself up, holding out a hand for Mycroft who takes it at once.

He doesn’t let go until they reach the small bedroom that Greg’s occupying until the attic room is fixed up. The room is mostly taken up by the huge sleigh bed; it’s dark and cluttered with too much furniture but Greg stops caring about it just about the time Mycroft’s hands start working methodically on the cuffs of his shirt. He lost his shoes somewhere along the way earlier and his shirt is already half unbuttoned. It’s been such a long time since he went to bed with someone like this, heart racing as gentle hands ease his clothes from his body. He’s sweating and his skin prickles with arousal when Mycroft buries his face in his neck and uses his teeth on the sensitive skin under his ear. Long arms wrap around him and fingernails lightly drag down Greg’s spine, making him shudder.

It’s probably not the most complicated or drawn out session of lovemaking he’s ever experienced, but by god it’s definitely the most intense experience he’s had in someone’s arms. Greg’s residual nervousness dissolves into a strange, electric awareness of Mycroft’s eyes on him. On the way Mycroft pays attention to every response he elicits, to every hiss of breath and unconscious twitch of Greg’s body. It’s the same way he felt on that first evening at the Diogenes, the heady and slightly terrifying sense of being the sole focus of Mycroft’s attention and deduction. Of knowing that the sight of his body is being filed away somewhere in the mans mind, that the memory of this encounter is something Mycroft can revisit in precise detail again and again, should he want to.

“That afternoon, at Baker Street…” Mycroft quietly says, as he trails cool fingertips across Greg’s stomach and downwards. “Blood all down your chest and arm. You foolish man, you were ashamed, embarrassed for me to see you like that. When all I could do was look at you and try to hide what the sight of you was doing to me…”

Greg feels like he should really come up with some kind of snappy retort to this, but for the life of him he can’t. Not when Mycroft’s clever, clever fingers have just undone his belt buckle. Not when he can hear each individual tooth of his zip easing open. Not when he is finally released, finally bare under Mycroft’s hands.

“You- you fucking dropped your briefcase-“

“Well, I can hardly be blamed for that...”

And with that, Greg loses the ability to talk at all because Mycroft’s mouth is suddenly on him; hungry and wet and hot. A second later, two large hands are pinning his hips to the bed and he can see Mycroft’s hair, finally messy and dishevelled at one side where it’s brushing against his inner thigh. Greg is a mess; the sensuality of having Mycroft working at him with his tongue is enough to have his breath coming in ragged heaves. Mycroft’s holding him down, stopping him from thrusting back into the heat of his mouth and fuck, he’s strong, the muscles in his bare shoulders and biceps suddenly apparent. Greg’s drunk on the sensation, on the sense of having ceded power to him. He can’t stop himself imagining what else Mycroft wants to do to him; what it could be like to have his body worshipped and controlled and entered by him.

Greg hasn’t been fucked in decades and all of a sudden he wants it, wants it all, wants everything Mycroft will give him and then some. He’s not sure how much of this he’s saying aloud. He can’t focus, not when Mycroft’s pulled off his cock and is now pushing his thighs further apart so he can suck wetly at Greg’s tight balls. It’s too much – Mycroft’s on the edge of sucking too hard and it pushes him right over the edge with a sharp cry, back arching against the crumpled sheets. And he’s coming, almost viciously intense while Mycrofts weight comes to land on him; mouth seeking Gregs while his come smears and slides between them.

Greg hasn’t even had the chance to touch Mycroft yet, not properly and his hand scrabbles to find the hard flesh that’s pressing into the line of his groin. The noise that Mycroft makes when Greg’s fingers are finally around his smooth warm cock is harsh and guileless and it makes Greg want to devour him. Their tongues are slick and hot as they drag across each other. Greg’s fingers are working Mycroft tightly; no finesse, just sheer naked want as he feels the weight and heat of the mans body against his. Mycroft’s fingers are in his hair as they kiss, knotted so tight that Greg can feel the skin on his face pulled taut. Greg’s drunk on this, on his own climax still surging through his body and the somehow almost forgotten sensation of having someone heavy and warm in his arms. Friction, skin against skin, the scent of male sweat and arousal and his own come in the close darkness. He can’t reach nearly enough of Mycroft, but he’s able to grab hold of a handful of his arse with his free hand and squeeze. He digs his fingernails into the soft smooth flesh as Mycroft gives a helpless whine and then he gasps into Greg’s mouth as he comes, warm and wet all over Greg’s hand and stomach. Greg kisses him through it, the frantic movements of their lips slowing into something softer, languid and decadent.

After their breath slows, Greg distantly supposes that he should get up, fetch a damp cloth or even a handful of tissues, maybe a glass of water. But Mycroft doesn’t seem to care about the mess between their sweating bodies, his arms are wrapped tight around Greg, one long thigh slipping between his. So instead Greg presses his forehead against Mycroft’s shoulder, which is pale and freckled in the half-light that filters into the bedroom. He inhales deeply, making a sound of deep and weary contentment.

“You sound like a well fed cat.” Mycroft murmurs.

“Feel like one.” Greg laughs quietly. “Jesus, I can’t tell you how much I needed that. I’ve been dying to get my hands on you for months. I’ve been starving for you.”

Mycroft huffs a small, slightly incredulous laugh and kisses Greg’s head. “I can’t tell you how strange it is to hear you say these things to me.”

“Hmm?” Greg sighs and skims his hands down Mycroft’s back, palms trailing over warm skin and the long ridge of his spine. “Why’s it strange?”

Mycroft doesn’t answer at once, just lets Greg keep exploring the lines of him. Greg’s on the verge of sleep when he hears the soft, refined voice tell him: “Because I’m able to tell when you’re speaking the truth.”

“’Course I am,” Greg mumbles. “You’re fucking gorgeous.”

“You’re an extremely odd man.” Mycroft informs him. “I don’t know why more people don’t realise it.”

“I know. But you like me though, don’t you?” Greg opens one eye to take in the frankly glorious sight of Mycroft flushed and warm, pressed snug against him in between his disordered sheets. The man looks like he’s resisting the urge to roll his eyes and it makes Greg grin.

“Gregory, despite my best intentions… I really quite adore you.”

And there’s no real response to that, not when Greg’s heart is doing something complicated and sharp and on the verge of hurting. All he can do is wrap his arms around Mycroft more tightly and mutter “That’s it. You’re staying, aren’t you?” into Mycroft’s ear. “Just… stay. Please.”

Mycroft does.