Chapter Text
1
It started again, back when their relationship was still relatively new. He had managed to refrain until this point but it was exhausting.
Mycroft, accustomed to having every aspect of his life under control, deliberately did not think much about his habit that he liked to pretend was insignificant. In fact, it was a rather huge source of comfort he had come to rely on in moments of deep focus and stress. It was a behavior buried in the far reaches of his subconscious, a comfort from childhood he had not quite shed.
One evening, Mycroft and Gregory shared a rare moment of quiet in the evening. Mycroft had buried himself in the familiar leather armchair, feet tucked beneath him and nose-deep in the important file he had brought from work earlier. His right hand, which had been poised over the report with a pen, gradually drifted to his mouth. And then, almost of its own accord, his thumb slipped past his lips.
The tension in his shoulders eased immediately, the familiarity of the motion grounding him. It was hardly noticeable from where Greg sat, engrossed in the evening news, flipping through the channels with a muted yawn. But Mycroft could not shake the nervous flicker in his chest — the fear of being seen, of having this vulnerability exposed to someone who saw him as the perfectly put-together elder Holmes.
After a few minutes he gently removed his thumb, clearing his throat as though he were merely adjusting his posture.
Gregory did not even glance up, too busy laughing at some ridiculous game show on television.
Mycroft let out a quiet breath of relief. For now, his secret was safe.
2
Business trips were a tedious part of Mycroft’s life, and flying made it worse. He despised the cramped quarters, the sense of being out of control, and the crushing boredom of long-haul flights. By the time the situation he had left the country for was handled, Mycroft was exhausted. It was sheer luck Gregory was able to accompany him on the return flight, having solved a case near Mycroft.
Though Greg’s presence was comforting — always a steadying force beside him — it was still difficult for Mycroft to relax entirely in the air. Turbulence struck suddenly, the plane jolting in the air. Greg, sitting next to him, seemed entirely unaffected, flipping through a magazine as if they were on solid ground.
Mycroft, however, gripped the armrests tightly, his knuckles whitening. He hated the vulnerability of it — the way his stomach clenched, the sharp rise in his heartbeat. It brought him back to childhood, that panicked feeling he’d only ever soothed by one particular habit.
Without thinking, Mycroft moved, this thumb brushing against his lips. It was his tiny, invisible comfort.
Greg nudged him gently. "You alright, Myc? Looking a little pale."
Mycroft stiffened, dropping his hand as though burned, his mouth immediately forming into a tight line. "I'm fine, Gregory," he said smoothly, his voice betraying none of the turmoil. "Just a bit of turbulence."
"Fair enough," Greg said, oblivious, returning to his magazine.
Mycroft forced himself to keep both hands firmly in his lap, but the temptation gnawed at him for the rest of the flight.
3
It had been one of those days. Endless meetings, impossible negotiations, and political disaster after disaster. By the time Mycroft finally returned home, well past midnight, he was utterly spent.
Gregory was already fast asleep on his side of the bed, the soft sound of his breathing filling the quiet bedroom. Mycroft, however, could not rest. The stress still throbbed behind his temples, his mind refusing to switch off.
So, after sliding into bed as carefully as possible to avoid waking Greg, Mycroft let himself succumb to an old habit. He turned onto his side, back facing Greg, and slipped his thumb into his mouth.
The relief was immediate — his muscles unclenching, the tightness in his chest easing. He had only meant to do it for a few minutes, long enough to calm himself down. But the quiet comfort lulled him into sleep much faster than he anticipated.
Morning came too soon, and he awoke with a start, his thumb still resting against his lips. Greg, now awake and getting dressed, had not seemed to notice. Mycroft turned away quickly, pulling his hand under the blanket.
"Morning, darlin'," Greg said, voice warm. "I’m making coffee. You want some?"
"Yes, please," Mycroft replied, the brief flicker of embarrassment passing as he forced himself to act casual. "That would be lovely, Gregory."
As Gregory left the room, Mycroft’s heart pounded, but the day moved on without incident.
4
There were days when Mycroft could feel his control slipping, the weight of the world pressing down on him a little too hard. It was late, the sky dark outside his office window. Papers littered his desk, and his phone buzzed incessantly with updates. Another crisis. Another disaster to manage. More people that seemed to enjoy bothering him.
His desk lamp cast a dim glow over his papers, and Mycroft leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. His hand trembled slightly as he moved it to his mouth, thumb once again finding its way to his lips. Alone in the safety of his office, he indulged, letting the repetitive motion soothe him.
He didn’t hear the door open until it was too late.
"Myc?" Gregory's voice cut through the silence, causing Mycroft to jump in his seat. He yanked his hand away, his face flushing. He quickly smoothed his expression into one of his usual impassive calm, though his heart raced in his chest.
"Gregory," he said, his voice perfectly measured despite his internal panic. It had been another close call. "I was not expecting you."
Gregory stepped inside, holding a takeaway cup of coffee. "I thought you might need a break. You’ve been at it for hours."
Mycroft cleared his throat, straightening in his chair. "Yes, well, there’s no rest for the wicked, as they say." Gregory smiled, setting the coffee on the desk.
He didn’t seem to notice Mycroft’s earlier lapse, and for that, Mycroft was silently grateful.
5
It was an accident, a stupid one. Mycroft had cut his thumb on the edge of a glass during one of his countless meetings, the deep gash requiring a bandage that covered most of the digit. It throbbed incessantly, a dull ache that only worsened as the hours dragged on.
That evening, when Mycroft returned home to his partner, the pressure was unbearable. The injury wasn’t particularly severe, but it took away his one reliable method of comfort. Normally, by this point, he’d have found a quiet corner and settled into his familiar habit. But with his thumb bandaged and useless, Mycroft was left feeling strangely hollow.
He did not manage to sleep, tossing and turning, frustrated beyond measure.
Gregory, reading beside him, did not comment at first, though he glanced at Mycroft over the top of his book. "You alright, love?" he asked after Mycroft shifted for the fifth time.
Mycroft hesitated, not wanting to admit his problem. "I’m fine," he said, though the tension in his voice gave him away.
Gregory raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. He closed his book, reaching over to turn off the lamp. "Goodnight, then," he said softly, settling down beside Mycroft.
But sleep would not come, and the more Mycroft tried to ignore the aching emptiness, the worse it became. He closed his eyes, willing himself to rest, but nothing worked.
+1
Two days later, Mycroft left the bed after he still had not managed to sleep much during the last few nights. His frustration from the night before lingered, the ache in his thumb pulsing dully beneath the bandage. He needed something to ground him, some comfort that would not come now that his thumb was out of commission and using his other thumb did not suffice.
He dressed, his mood sour as he descended the stairs to find Gregory waiting in the kitchen, breakfast laid out on the table.
"Morning," Gregory said, though there was something in his tone that made Mycroft pause.
"Good morning," Mycroft replied, narrowing his eyes. "What are you up to?"
Gregory’s lips twitched into a small smile as he reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small, black item.
Mycroft froze as he saw what it was — a pacifier, simple and discreet.
"I figured," Greg said gently, "since you’re having trouble with your thumb, that this might help."
Mycroft’s mouth went dry, his heart pounding in his chest. There it was. Gregory knew, and it was only a matter of time because he would leave.
"You - you knew?" He choked out, staring at Gregory.
Greg chuckled softly. "Course I knew. I’ve known for a while now, Mycroft."
A wave of embarrassment washed over Mycroft, his face heating. But before he could stammer out a defense, Greg stepped forward, holding out the pacifier.
"You don’t have to pretend with me, darlin'," Greg said. "If it helps you, then it’s fine by me."
He looked at the adult sized pacifier, then back at Greg. He searched for the reassurance that Gregory did not think he was as repulsive as Mycroft feared. His expression was rather soft, understanding.
Mycroft hesitated for only a moment before taking the pacifier from Greg’s hand. The simple gesture, the weight of Greg’s acceptance, brought an unexpected sense of relief washing over him.
"Thank you," Mycroft whispered, his voice barely audible.
Greg smiled, leaning down to press a soft kiss to Mycroft’s temple. "Anytime, love. I’ll always take care of you."
That evening, after the initial surprise of Gregory’s gentle revelation had faded, Mycroft found himself in the quiet sanctuary of their bedroom, the pacifier resting innocuously on the nightstand beside him. The sight of it stirred conflicting emotions within him. Embarrassment simmered just beneath the surface, threatening to overtake him, but it was drowned out by the overwhelming sense of comfort that the small object now represented.
Gregory's acceptance had caught him off-guard, as had the quiet reassurance in his voice when he’d offered the pacifier earlier that morning. Now, as they prepared for bed, Greg was in the adjoining bathroom, brushing his teeth, while Mycroft stared at the small piece of plastic as though it were the most perplexing puzzle he’d ever encountered.
He had relied on his thumb for so long, a secret, soothing habit that never drew attention. But this - this was different. This felt like stepping into unknown territory, no longer a private solace but something shared between them.
The soft sound of Gregory's footsteps returned Mycroft to the present. Gregory emerged from the bathroom, looking at Mycroft with that easy, understanding smile he always wore when he knew Mycroft was overthinking something.
“You’re allowed to use it, you know,” Greg said, climbing into bed and pulling the covers up. “There’s no judgment here. You need rest, Myc, and you’re not going to get it if you keep fighting yourself.”
Mycroft swallowed, his fingers brushing the edge of the pacifier. "I’m not fighting anything," he muttered, though it came out weaker than intended. He felt the warmth of Greg’s body settle beside him, and for a brief moment, he closed his eyes, letting the comforting presence of his partner ground him.
Greg leaned over slightly, pressing a soft kiss to the side of Mycroft’s head. “You don’t have to hide it anymore. I know how hard you push yourself, Myc. Just let go, for a little while.”
Mycroft stared down at the pacifier for a long moment, weighing the absurdity of it all. But, after a deep, steadying breath, he allowed himself to reach out. His fingers wrapped around it, the plastic surprisingly cool in his hand. The vulnerability of the moment made his chest tighten. Still, as he raised the pacifier to his lips, he glanced sideways at Greg, half-expecting to see a look of amusement or judgment. But Gregory wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t even watching with curiosity.
Instead, Greg had turned, his back resting against the headboard, eyes filled with quiet affection. He wasn’t scrutinizing Mycroft, wasn’t making a spectacle of it. He was simply there, offering a kind, steady presence.
With a tentative exhale, Mycroft finally placed the pacifier in his mouth. The sensation was strange at first, foreign compared to the familiar comfort of his thumb, but within seconds, his body responded to the calm it provided. His jaw relaxed, the tension that had been wound tightly in his shoulders for days began to slowly dissipate. He settled deeper into the bed, exhaling around the pacifier, as his eyes fluttered closed.
Greg’s hand found Mycroft’s beneath the covers, his thumb gently rubbing soothing circles over his knuckles. "Good?" he asked softly, his voice no louder than a whisper. Mycroft gave a small nod, unable to form any words, but the gentle pressure of Greg’s hand was all the reassurance he needed. For the first time in longer than he cared to admit, he felt safe enough to relax completely.
The house was quiet, the muffled hum of the city fading into the distance outside their window. Mycroft’s breathing slowed, his body growing heavy as the exhaustion that had plagued him for days finally began to melt away.
Greg watched him for a while, the steady rise and fall of Mycroft’s chest, the way his brow finally relaxed. The man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders was now, for once, at peace. Mycroft shifted slightly in his sleep, and Greg’s hand stayed with him, a gentle, constant reminder that he wasn’t alone.
Hours passed in the stillness of the night. Mycroft didn’t stir once. He didn’t wake to the usual thrum of his racing mind, nor did he feel the familiar tug of insomnia that often kept him up, staring at the ceiling while his thoughts swirled endlessly. No, tonight was different.
When morning finally came, sunlight streaming softly through the curtains, Mycroft awoke to a feeling he hadn’t experienced in what felt like years: true rest.
His eyes opened slowly, his body still warm and cocooned beneath the covers. The pacifier had slipped from his mouth at some point during the night and now rested beside his pillow. He blinked groggily, his mind still sluggish from the best night’s sleep he could remember.
Greg was already awake, sitting beside him in bed, a book in his hands.
Mycroft turned his head, his gaze meeting Greg’s warm, brown eyes. A small smile tugged at the corner of Greg’s lips.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Greg said, his voice soft and fond.
Mycroft blinked, still processing how deeply he had slept. The hours that had passed felt like a blur, a kind of uninterrupted stillness he wasn’t used to. He glanced at the clock on the bedside table and realized he’d slept nearly ten hours—an anomaly for someone as perpetually overworked as him.
Greg set the book down and leaned over, pressing a kiss to Mycroft’s temple. "How are you feeling?"
"Better," Mycroft admitted, his voice still husky from sleep. His mind was calm for once, free from the relentless ticking of tasks and responsibilities.
"Good," Greg said, his hand resting gently on Mycroft’s arm. "You needed that."
Mycroft hesitated for a moment before looking at Greg. The vulnerability of last night still lingered, but there was no shame in it, not with Greg.
"Thank you, for everything. I hadn’t realized how much I needed —" He paused, his cheeks warming slightly.
"You don’t have to explain, Myc," Greg said, cutting him off with a gentle smile. "I knew you’d never ask for something like that. That’s why I got it for you. And if it helps you rest, then that’s all that matters."
Mycroft exhaled slowly, feeling a weight lift from his chest. "You’ve known for a while, haven’t you?" he asked, his tone softer, no trace of accusation.
"Yeah," Greg admitted with a smile. "But I figured you’d come to me when you were ready. I just wanted to make sure you knew it was okay."
Mycroft stared at Greg for a long moment, a rare sense of warmth and relief flooding through him. He was used to carrying everything — his work, his secrets, even his small comforts — alone. But here, with Greg, he didn’t have to. He didn’t need to hide.
"Well," Mycroft said finally, a small, grateful smile tugging at his lips. "It appears you were right."
Greg chuckled softly and leaned in, capturing Mycroft’s lips in a gentle, lingering kiss. When he pulled back, his eyes sparkled with warmth. "I usually am, love."
Mycroft rolled his eyes at that, but there was no bite to it. He settled back against the pillows, letting his hand rest on Greg’s.
He had no meetings today, no immediate crises to handle. For once, the day stretched out before him with no urgency. And as he rested, basking in the rare peace of the moment, Mycroft realized that maybe — just maybe — it was alright to let someone else take care of him for a change.