Chapter Text
The park behind the university was unusually busy for a weekday afternoon. The September sun had coaxed half the student body out of the library and onto the grass, scattering them in small, laughing clusters with their lunches and half-read textbooks.
Mycroft preferred the far edge, near the low fence that separated the park from the football pitch. It was quieter there. A place where one could, in theory, concentrate. He had brought a book on political systems - something far more engaging than the uninspired sandwich resting beside him - but he was only half aware of the words.
He turned a page, then another, then realised he'd been reading the same paragraph three times. With a faint sigh, he set the book down and adjusted his sunglasses, the sunlight sharp against his pale wrists.
Lunch was an exercise in restraint. Two neat triangles of bread, an apple, and a bottle of water. His mother would have approved, though she'd still have reminded him to avoid apples, too much sugar. He'd eaten perhaps half of it, if that. The rest sat on the napkin, untouched, already attracting the interest of a wasp.
He brushed it away, feeling absurdly guilty for wasting food and yet unable to continue. Eating in public still felt like performing an act he hadn't quite mastered.
Across the park, someone shouted. A group near the pitch, kicking a ball around, shirts off, laughing in the heat. Mycroft's gaze lingered for a moment longer than intended, drawn in spite of himself by the movement and noise.
He could make out one of them more clearly now. A young man with messy brown hair, tanned from the late summer sun, whose laugh carried easily across the grass. It was an open, unguarded sound, the kind of laugh Mycroft could never quite imagine himself making.
He looked away quickly, irritation rising at the intrusion. Youthful exuberance, undisciplined noise. He reminded himself that he was, technically, still one of them. Eighteen. A university student. Though sometimes it felt more like he was a visiting observer from some other, quieter species.
He checked his watch. Nearly time for the interdisciplinary seminar on 'Crime and Society'. He'd registered only because his academic advisor had insisted it would be 'a stimulating complement to his political coursework'. Mycroft suspected 'stimulating' in this context meant 'good for socialisation'.
He collected the half-eaten sandwich, folded the napkin precisely around it, and slipped both into his satchel. The laughter from the football pitch followed him as he stood, brushing stray grass from his trousers.
He told himself he was merely curious, but his eyes lingered, on the brown haired footballer.
The young man moved with a kind of unthinking ease, all lean strength and restless motion. There was nothing polished about him, but something compelling in the looseness of his stance. The way he ran, the way his shoulders shifted, the way he laughed with his whole body.
It wasn't beauty in any conventional sense, Mycroft decided. It was vitality - that maddening, effortless aliveness that drew others in without trying.
He adjusted the strap of his satchel, gaze snapping away before anyone could notice he'd been watching. It was, after all, a simple matter of observation. Nothing more.
He disliked noise. He disliked wasted time. And he had a distinct premonition that the seminar was about to provide both in abundance.
The seminar room was already half full when Mycroft arrived. He recognised several faces from his politics and economics lectures - most neatly dressed, punctual, the sort who annotated their notes in matching pens. The others, he assumed, were from the criminology department - louder, looser in manner, sprawled across chairs with that particular kind of confidence born from not caring what anyone thought.
He chose a seat near the front, slightly to the side, where he could see both the professor and the board without having to crane his neck. He set out his notebook and fountain pen in precise alignment, folded his hands, and waited for the lecture to begin.
By the time the professor started speaking, the door creaked open again. Two students slipped in, whispering apologies. Mycroft's attention flicked up automatically, and he felt a flicker of recognition.
The young man, with the easy grin and messy brown hair entered the seminar room. Now not topless anymore, but dressed in a band t-shirt under a unbuttoned shirt as if this were some informal gathering rather than a seminar. His companion trailed behind, equally unprepared.
Of course it's them, Mycroft thought.
Mycroft exhaled through his nose and turned his gaze firmly back to the professor, jaw tightening. He was not about to let some late, grass-stained undergraduate derail his focus.
Still, he could sense them moving down the row behind him, looking for empty seats. Two shadows at the edge of his concentration. The scrape of a chair, a low chuckle, a whispered 'sorry, mate'.
The professor - a mild, bespectacled man whose enthusiasm for social theory seemed inversely proportional to the attention span of his students - launched into an overview of the course.
Mycroft listened, pen poised above his notebook, taking meticulous notes even as most of the room began to drift. The syllabus, apparently, would 'explore the intersection between political systems, social structures, and criminal behaviour'. They were to examine how law functioned not only as a mechanism of order but as an instrument of power.
He found the premise tolerable, though the delivery could have benefited from sharper phrasing.
The professor went on at length about weekly readings, essay requirements, and the final paper. Mycroft noted it all down in neat, unhurried script. Behind him, someone whispered something that drew a low, amused laugh. Mycroft's hand tightened on his pen again.
"Finally," the professor said, adjusting his glasses, "we'll begin the term with a paired project. Each of you will be partnered with someone from a different discipline. I expect you to merge your perspectives. Policy meets practice, so to speak. You'll submit a joint analysis by mid-term."
There was a collective rustle of unease, a few groans. Mycroft simply waited, certain that whoever he was paired with would at least be competent. Most of his fellow PPE students were - well, tolerably efficient.
The professor began to read from a list. Names echoed through the room, pairs forming as students exchanged nods or resigned sighs.
"Holmes, Mycroft."
Mycroft straightened slightly, glancing toward the board as if the name might appear there. He waited for the corresponding half of his assignment.
"Lestrade, Gregory."
A pause. Mycroft's brow furrowed. The name meant nothing to him.
He turned discreetly in his seat, scanning the rows. A few chairs back, the brown-haired boy in the faded band T-shirt raised a hand lazily and grinned when the professor looked his way.
Of course it's him, Mycroft thought.
Mycroft faced forward again, expression neutral but pulse quickening just enough to irritate him. Of all the undisciplined, inattentive, grass-stained students in the room, he was to spend the next several weeks working with that one.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, the faintest twitch of disapproval crossing his mouth.
The moment the professor dismissed them, the room broke into a low hum of conversation. Desks scraped, notebooks snapped shut, pairs already forming with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Mycroft gathered his things in orderly fashion, slid his notebook into his satchel and made for the door before anyone could waylay him into small talk.
He preferred to plan alone first, then delegate later. Partnerships, in his experience, worked best when one person did the work and the other stayed out of the way.
"Hey! Mycroft, right?"
Mycroft stopped mid-stride, exhaled once through his nose, and turned.
Greg Lestrade was threading through the crowd with that same unhurried, good-natured confidence that had irritated him at the football pitch. He'd rolled up the sleeves of his overshirt and his smile was far too open for a university corridor.
Mycroft stepped aside, letting a group of students pass before replying. "Lestrade."
"Greg," he said easily, as if they were already friends. "So we're partners, yeah? Looks like the professor wants a politics brain and a people brain to work together."
Mycroft regarded him a moment. "That is one way of phrasing it. I would prefer we begin by agreeing on a division of labour."
Greg blinked, the grin faltering only slightly. "Division of labour?"
"I assume you're more comfortable with the sociological angle. I'll handle the structural analysis. We can combine our findings before submission."
Greg tilted his head, considering him. "So, you do the thinking and I fetch the coffee, is that it?"
"That," Mycroft said evenly, "would depend entirely on your research capabilities."
For a heartbeat there was silence. Then Greg laughed, a bright, unoffended sound that startled Mycroft more than anger would have.
"Right," Greg said, still chuckling. "Guess I'll have to prove I can keep up with you then."
He slung his bag over his shoulder. "You free tomorrow after lunch? We could meet in the library. Or the park, if you like the sun better."
Mycroft hesitated, "The library will suffice," he said shortly.
"Figured as much." Greg's eyes were still amused, but softer now, as if he'd already decided not to take offence. "See you there, Mycroft."
He walked off down the corridor, whistling under his breath, leaving Mycroft standing very still amid the dispersing crowd.
Mycroft adjusted the strap of his satchel and told himself the faint warmth in his face was simply due to the heat in the hallway.
Mycroft's dormitory was, as always, immaculate. The narrow bed was made with precise corners, the books on his shelf arranged by subject and size, the curtains drawn just enough to let in a measured amount of afternoon light.
He placed his satchel on the desk, lined up his pens and hesitated. He had promised his mother he would call once he'd settled into his timetable for the week. Promises, especially to her, were not taken lightly.
He sat down, smoothed the front of his shirt, and dialled the number. The line crackled faintly before her voice came through, "Mycroft, dear. You sound tired. You're not overworking again, are you?"
"No, Mummy," he said. "I've only had my first seminar today."
"And what sort of people are in your courses? You've been paired up, I assume? You must make the right sort of acquaintances. Networking is everything, you know that."
"Yes," he said. "We were assigned partners for a project."
"Well, good. You might find it useful to align yourself with someone with potential. Not the frivolous type. Honestly, Mycroft, one must be selective about company. You have your career to think of."
"Yes, Mummy."
She moved on without pause, her voice brisk as she discussed a luncheon she'd attended, a speech his father was preparing, a distant cousin's engagement. Mycroft murmured assent at the right intervals, eyes unfocused, gaze fixed on the folded napkin still sitting on the desk - the remains of his unfinished lunch.
"You're eating properly, aren't you?" she said suddenly, as if the thought had only just struck her.
"Of course."
"Nothing heavy. I know how easily you… well, moderation is key. You remember what the doctor said."
"Yes, Mummy."
A silence, just long enough for him to imagine her nodding on the other end. Then she resumed, her voice softening by degrees. "You know we're proud of you, Mycroft. We only want you to reach your full potential. You've always been… special."
He closed his eyes briefly, the words settling on him like a familiar weight. "Thank you."
There was a rustle on the other end, the faint muffled sound of her covering the receiver. "Oh, your brother's here. He's been pestering me to let him say hello. Honestly, that child…"
Another pause, then a different voice, sharper, younger, full of impatient intelligence, "Mycroft?"
Mycroft's tone softened almost imperceptibly. "Hello, Sherlock."
"I found a bird skeleton in the garden," the boy announced, without preamble. "It's fascinating! I think it's a starling, but Mummy says I can't keep it in the house."
"I imagine she has her reasons," Mycroft said dryly. "You might at least catalogue it properly before you're made to dispose of it."
A small, pleased pause. "I already have. Measurements, wing span, everything."
"Good. Be sure to wash your hands afterward."
"I did. Mummy said you'd say that."
Mycroft allowed himself the faintest of smiles. "She knows me too well."
Before Sherlock could launch into further detail, Violet's voice returned, faintly exasperated. "That's quite enough, dear. Your brother has studying to do."
"Goodbye, Sherry," Mycroft said.
"Byyeee."
The line clicked, and the silence returned.
He replaced the receiver carefully, aligning it precisely in its cradle. The room was quiet again.
He looked at the napkin, the untouched half of the sandwich folded inside, and finally threw it in the bin. Then he sat for a long while, motionless, listening to the faint laughter from the courtyard below - students heading out to the pub, no doubt, or the football pitch again.
He told himself he preferred it this way - quiet, ordered, solitary. And if a small part of him wondered what it might be like to belong among that noise, he dismissed it quickly as idle curiosity.
The library was quiet, the sort of quiet Mycroft found reassuring. A steady hum of pages turning, pens scratching, the occasional cough. He had arrived early, naturally, and secured a table by the window. His notes were already laid out in a careful order. Syllabus, reading list, a blank page titled 'Project Structure'.
He checked his watch. Two minutes past the hour.
Greg arrived five minutes later, looking as if he had sprinted the last stretch. His hair was a little wild, t-shirt rising high on his torso, bag slung haphazardly over one shoulder. He gave Mycroft a bright, slightly breathless grin.
"Sorry, class ran late. Well, that and I might've stopped for crisps."
He dropped into the seat opposite, unpacking a battered notebook, a pen with bite marks in the cap, and the crisps. The bag crinkled loudly in the hush of the library.
Mycroft stared at it. "I was under the impression that food was prohibited in here."
Greg looked around, unconcerned. "Is it? I'll keep it quiet, promise." He tore the bag open anyway, the scent of salt and vinegar cutting through the dusty stillness. "Didn't have lunch yet. You can have some if you like."
Mycroft's first instinct was to decline, firmly and immediately. But Greg had already pushed the packet toward him across the table, one hand still rifling through his notes with easy nonchalance.
The crisps sat there between them, gaudy packaging glinting under the sunlight, spilling in through the window.
"No, thank you," Mycroft said, after a pause slightly longer than necessary. "I've already eaten."
"Suit yourself," Greg said, popping one into his mouth. He chewed noisily, though somehow not rudely, then gave Mycroft a sideways glance. "You came prepared, huh? You've got a whole system going."
"I find preparation prevents inefficiency," Mycroft replied.
Greg's smile widened. "And inefficiency's the worst possible crime, yeah?"
"Among the more irritating ones," Mycroft said dryly.
Greg laughed, low and genuine, before finally pulling his notebook open. "All right, then. Let's be efficient. What's the plan, partner?"
Mycroft folded his hands atop his notes. "I've considered the structure," he began, with the air of someone announcing the weather forecast. "Our paper should address the correlation between governance models and crime rates. A comparative approach, perhaps two nations, differing legal systems, identical social pressures. It will require a framework grounded in political theory, of course, but I trust your background in criminology can provide complementary data."
Greg nodded slowly, chewing another crisp. "So… numbers and laws. Charts and graphs. Riveting stuff."
Mycroft's brows drew together. "It's a serious study."
"I didn't say it wasn't," Greg said easily, wiping his hands on his jeans. "But maybe we could look at something closer to home. Like how different communities around London react to policing, or how people see justice in practice. That's still structure, just with people in it."
"That's anecdotal," Mycroft said.
"It's human," Greg countered, leaning forward on his elbows. "You can't just talk about laws without talking about the people they're for. Otherwise, it's just" He made a vague motion with one hand, as though plucking a word out of the air, "numbers on paper."
Mycroft hesitated. He disliked interruptions, but more than that, he disliked being forced to acknowledge a valid point.
"Fine," he said at last, clipped. "Assuming we were to introduce a human component, how would you propose we collect data?"
Greg brightened. "Interviews. Case studies. I've got a mate who works with the community outreach programme in East End. They've got loads of insight about how people interact with law enforcement. It's real-world stuff."
"That hardly constitutes rigorous methodology," Mycroft said automatically, but there was less edge in his tone now.
Greg tilted his head. "You said it yourself. You'd handle the theory. I'll handle the fieldwork. You tidy it up, make it sound clever. Teamwork, yeah?"
Mycroft studied him. Greg's grin was irreverent, his tone light, but there was thought behind his words. A kind of instinctive understanding of social dynamics that Mycroft's carefully built logic couldn't quite replicate.
Against his better judgment, he found himself writing a note: "Lestrade - Empirical research / qualitative interviews."
Greg noticed. "See? You're already warming up to me."
"I'm simply acknowledging efficiency," Mycroft said.
Greg grinned wider. "If that's what we're calling it."
Mycroft looked up, prepared with a retort, but found himself caught instead by the easy warmth in Greg's expression - open, unguarded, as though the world had never given him reason to hide. It was… disarming.
He cleared his throat, straightened his notes. "Very well. If we're to pursue this… combined approach, we'll need a clear outline before you start collecting anything."
Greg nodded, leaning forward again, elbows on the table. "All right, hit me. What's step one?"
"Defining variables," Mycroft said. "Determining what constitutes a measurable indicator of social response to crime."
Greg blinked. "English, please."
Mycroft suppressed a sigh. "We need to decide what exactly we're studying before you begin your so-called interviews."
"Right. Okay. Like… whether people trust the police? Or how they think punishment should work?"
Mycroft looked at him, surprised despite himself. "Precisely."
Greg grinned. "See? I get it. You just use fancier words."
"That's because words matter," Mycroft said primly, though his tone lacked real bite.
Greg chuckled, unbothered. "All right, so say I do these interviews, talk to people about how they see justice, how safe they feel. You could, what, run it against the theory side? Like… how policy shapes behaviour?"
Mycroft hesitated again, pen poised. "That would be… feasible."
"Feasible." Greg's grin turned teasing. "Is that your version of a compliment?"
"It's an acknowledgment of coherence."
"I'll take it."
They went back and forth for a while after that. Greg talking in bursts of energy and half-formed ideas, Mycroft quietly translating them into structured points. Against his expectations, it wasn't entirely unpleasant. Greg was quick, quicker than he looked and though his phrasing was imprecise, his instincts were often sound.
When they finally paused, the page before Mycroft was covered in tidy lines of ink, the beginnings of a plan that somehow balanced theory with fieldwork.
Greg stretched back in his chair, the last crisp crushed between his fingers. "Not bad, eh? We might actually pull this off."
Mycroft allowed himself a small, controlled breath. "Indeed. Though I suspect it will require a considerable amount of refinement."
"Yeah, yeah. You can polish it. I'll rough it up again. Balance."
Mycroft glanced up at him, lips twitching before he caught himself. "An unconventional method."
"Bet it works," Greg said, gathering his notes.
For once, Mycroft couldn't quite argue.
"Hey, before I forget. there's a thing tonight at the pub I work at. Start-of-term party. Half the class'll be there. You should come." Greg said with a smile.
Mycroft looked up from his notes, pen still poised. "A party."
"Yeah." Greg grinned. "You know. Music, people, conversation, the occasional drink. Nothing too terrifying."
"I assure you," Mycroft said evenly, "I am not easily terrified."
"Good." Greg's grin widened. "Then you've got no excuse."
"I don't… generally attend those sorts of events," Mycroft replied. "They tend to be noisy, and largely unproductive."
"That's kind of the point," Greg said. "You get to stop being productive for a bit. Try it, it's good for your health."
Mycroft closed his notebook. "I doubt very much that loud music and intoxication improve anyone's health."
Greg chuckled. "Depends how you define health, mate." He stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Anyway, you'd be welcome if you changed your mind. I'm behind the bar most of the night. Free drink if you make the effort."
Mycroft inclined his head, the faintest of polite smiles curving his mouth. "Thank you, but I have other commitments this evening."
"Of course you do." Greg gave him an amused look, not quite believing him. "Maybe next time, then."
"Perhaps," Mycroft said, which was as close as he ever came to no.
Greg gave a lazy salute and turned to leave, whistling under his breath again as he went. The sound followed him out of the library, faint and bright.
On the table lay a single crisp crumb, glinting in the light. Mycroft brushed it away with the edge of his notebook as he packed his things and told himself he was glad of the silence.
The corridor outside his dorm room was quiet. Most of the students had gone out to clubs, no doubt, or the party Greg had mentioned. Laughter drifted faintly through the open window, carried from somewhere down the street, muted by distance.
Mycroft sat at his desk, pen in hand, but the silence he longed for in the library after Greg had left felt different tonight. Not peaceful - simply empty.
He turned a page in his notebook, scanning the neat lines of notes from that afternoon. It had gone… better than expected. Greg's manner had been informal to the point of exasperation, but he had listened, really listened and his observations, though clumsily phrased, were undeniably perceptive. He had noticed things Mycroft might never have considered - tone, body language, the human texture beneath the theory.
The thought unsettled him. It shouldn't. Collaboration was meant to be beneficial. Productive.
He was simply relieved that the project stood a chance of being successful despite initial misgivings.
He told himself that was all it was.
Still, he found his pen idle above the page, his gaze drifting toward the window again. A gust of cool air stirred the curtain, carrying with it the faint sound of music from across campus.
He closed his notebook, aligning it precisely with the edge of the desk. The project would turn out well. He was certain of it. And that, he decided firmly, was all that mattered.
Mycroft rose early, as he always did, long before most of the dormitories stirred. The morning air was fresh, the sunlight slanting through his window in pale, deliberate stripes. He dressed neatly, hesitated only a moment over whether to bring his umbrella, habit more than necessity, then left for a walk around the college grounds.
The campus was peaceful on this early Saturday morning. A few students crossed the lawns with coffee cups in hand, still half-asleep. Someone cycled past with a rucksack slung carelessly over one shoulder. The quiet suited him. He preferred to think while walking, there was something orderly about the rhythm of it.
His route took him, as it often did, through the park behind the university and past the football pitch.
He hadn't expected to see anyone there so early, but voices carried across the grass. Sharp, energetic, the sound of a ball being kicked, shouted encouragements. He slowed instinctively.
Last year, the university hadn't managed to assemble a proper team. This year, it appeared they'd found their enthusiasm. There were perhaps fifteen of them out on the field, running drills in the morning sun.
And among them was Greg.
He was easy to spot even from a distance, the messy brown hair catching the light as he moved. He was laughing about something, one hand gesturing broadly as if the entire pitch were his stage. The jersey showed off his toned, bare forearms. His legs were streaked faintly with grass and dust.
Mycroft stopped for a moment at the edge of the path, watching.
He told himself it was simple curiosity. Observation. The same detached attention he might apply to any study of group behaviour - the dynamics of teamwork, leadership, social rapport.
Greg was… at ease. Effortlessly so. He shouted something across the field. Mycroft couldn't make out the words, only the bright tone of them and the others responded instantly, laughing, following his lead.
It was remarkable, in its way. The ability to command without authority, to draw people in without force. Mycroft had spent years perfecting control, yet this was something else entirely, something he could neither learn nor imitate.
He stood a moment longer, then adjusted the strap of his satchel and turned away toward the dining hall.
Breakfast, he reminded himself, and then back to his reading. There was no reason to linger.
The dining hall was already half full when Mycroft arrived, though 'full' was relative. Saturday mornings drew a slower crowd. A handful of early risers, a few hungover students nursing tea, the clatter of cutlery softened by the high, echoing ceiling.
He collected a tray with mechanical precision. Porridge, half a slice of toast, tea. He'd rehearsed this kind of meal a hundred times. Enough to appear normal, not enough to invite comment. The trick was balance, control.
He chose a table near the window, away from the noise, and unfolded the morning paper beside his tray. The ritual helped - something familiar, measured. A few bites of porridge, a sip of tea, an article on trade policy he only half read.
He'd nearly convinced himself of calm when the doors opened again, letting in a rush of sunlight and noise.
The football players walked in. Greg was the last of the group, still damp from the field. His shirt clung in patches where the fabric hadn't quite dried, and his trainers left faint prints on the tile. He was laughing with two teammates, carrying a mug of coffee precariously in one hand and a heaped plate in the other.
He looked utterly at home.
Mycroft's gaze flicked back to his newspaper, but the words blurred. He was aware, acutely, of Greg crossing the room - loud in every sense, but never crude. The kind of presence that drew attention without demanding it.
A moment later, a shadow fell across his table.
"Mind if I join you?"
Mycroft looked up. Greg was smiling, a faint flush on his face from the fresh air outside.
"This seat's free," Mycroft said, automatically formal.
"Cheers." Greg set down his tray with a clatter that made Mycroft's tea ripple in its cup. His breakfast was an unapologetic mountain of eggs, toast, and sausages.
"You were out early," Mycroft remarked, eyes back on the paper.
"Training. Figured we'd try to get a proper team going this term." Greg grinned, stabbing at his eggs with unnecessary enthusiasm. "Coach says we might even make league games if we keep at it."
"How ambitious," Mycroft said.
"Gotta start somewhere." He took a large bite of toast, then nodded toward Mycroft's tray. "That all you're having?"
"It's sufficient," Mycroft said curtly.
Greg shrugged, unbothered. "Suit yourself. You'll waste away before the term's out, though."
Mycroft folded the corner of his newspaper. "Highly unlikely."
For a moment, there was only the muted sound of cutlery and the murmur of conversation from other tables. Then Greg reached into his pocket and slid something across the table - a folded scrap of paper.
"Here," he said. "I wrote down a few places we could check for the interviews next week. Some of my mates from the programme said they'd talk if we come by."
Mycroft unfolded it carefully. The handwriting was messy but legible, a list of community centres and contact names.
"This is… thorough," he said, meaning it more than he'd expected to.
Greg grinned, sipping his coffee. "See? Told you I can be efficient when I want to."
Mycroft glanced at him over the top of the paper, almost smiling despite himself. "A rare and commendable quality."
Greg leaned back in his chair, stretching slightly. "You know, I've seen you in here before. Always on your own."
Mycroft's eyes lifted from the paper once more, one brow faintly arched. "Observation is clearly one of your strengths."
Greg grinned. "Occupational hazard. Comes with criminology. But seriously, don't you ever sit with anyone?"
"I prefer solitude," Mycroft said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
"Right," Greg said, drawing out the word thoughtfully. "So, no friends, then?"
The question was asked lightly, but it landed with surprising precision.
Mycroft folded the corner of his newspaper with deliberate care. "I have acquaintances."
"Not the same thing."
"I find it sufficient."
Greg studied him for a moment, head tilted. "You don't strike me as someone easy to get to know."
"That's not generally a priority of mine," Mycroft replied.
Greg chuckled softly. "Bet it's other people's loss, though."
Mycroft blinked, caught off guard by the ease of it, the uncalculated kindness. He looked back at his paper, voice even. "You're unusually persistent, Lestrade."
"Greg," he corrected gently. "And yeah, maybe. Comes from growing up with a lot of noise. Silence feels weird to me."
Mycroft considered that, then nodded once. "We differ in that respect."
"Guess that's what makes this partnership interesting, then." Greg smiled, unbothered by Mycroft's reserve. "You bring the quiet, I bring the noise. Balance, right?"
Mycroft allowed himself a small exhale that wasn't quite a sigh. "A generous interpretation."
"Best kind," Greg said easily, then rested his elbows on the table, studying him. "So what do you actually do when you're not in class or writing essays? You got any hobbies, or do you just… read about politics for fun?"
"I find intellectual stimulation enjoyable, yes."
Greg laughed. "That's a yes, then. Come on, nothing else? No sports, no music?"
Mycroft hesitated. "I walk."
"Walk?"
"Through the park, around the college grounds. It helps me think."
Greg leaned back, considering him with an amused squint. "So your idea of a wild Saturday is a stroll and a stack of books."
"I fail to see what's 'wild' about any Saturday," Mycroft replied.
Greg grinned. "You're something else, Mycroft. You know that?"
"I'm aware that my habits differ from yours, yes."
"That's putting it mildly." Greg propped his chin on his hand, eyes curious rather than teasing now. "You always been like this?" He gestured vaguely with his free hand. "All buttoned-up and proper?"
Mycroft straightened slightly, unsure whether to be insulted. "I prefer 'disciplined'."
"Yeah," Greg said, smiling. "I figured you'd say that."
There was a pause, long enough for Mycroft to feel it. Greg's gaze wasn't mocking. It was simply interested, which was somehow worse.
"And what about you?" Mycroft asked at last, mostly to deflect. "Have you always been this… irreverent?"
Greg's grin turned wry. "Probably. You learn not to take life too seriously when it keeps throwing punches."
Mycroft looked at him a moment, the easy way he said it - without self-pity, without drama. Just fact. "A resilient philosophy," he said quietly.
"Something like that." Greg checked his watch, though he made no move to stand. "You're a strange one, you know. I can't figure you out."
"That's probably for the best."
Greg laughed, the sound warm and low. "You say that like it's a challenge."
Mycroft didn't answer. He folded his napkin neatly beside his tray, eyes lowering to the cooling tea. "I don't consider myself particularly complex."
"Then you're the only one who doesn't," Greg said, still smiling.
They sat there for another few minutes, the noise of the hall ebbing and flowing around them, neither quite ready to end the conversation.
Greg finished his coffee, placing the mug on his empty plate. Then, with the kind of casual tone that meant he'd been thinking about it for a while, he said, "So… you got a girlfriend, then?"
Mycroft looked up, expression composed. "No."
"Not your thing?" Greg asked lightly, almost teasing.
"Not… a priority," Mycroft corrected. "I'm occupied with my studies."
Greg tilted his head. "Right. But not interested at all?"
"Not particularly."
There was a pause. Greg toyed with the rim of his mug, thumb tracing a slow circle against the ceramic. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, careful, "Boyfriend, then?"
Mycroft's spoon paused halfway to his mouth. For a second, he didn't move. He could feel the pulse of silence between them, sharp and fragile.
Greg's tone had no mockery in it. Just curiosity. Acceptance, even.
But still, this was a university dining hall. A public space. Laughter in the background, voices drifting close enough to overhear. The air felt thinner somehow.
"No," Mycroft said finally. His voice was perfectly calm, perfectly controlled. "I don't… have any such inclinations."
Greg's brow furrowed slightly. "Oh. Right. Fair enough."
Mycroft nodded once, putting his spoon down. "It's not something I find particularly relevant."
"Didn't mean anything by it," Greg said quickly. "Was just wondering."
"Of course," Mycroft said. His tone was polite, final.
Greg sat back, chewing the inside of his cheek, gaze flicking over Mycroft as though trying to decide whether to say more. Then he didn't.
They fell back into silence for a while after that. Around them, the noise of the hall carried on. The clatter of dishes, the low hum of other people's laughter.
Mycroft took a slow sip of tea, eyes fixed on the window. The sunlight outside was too bright, the reflection too sharp.
He told himself it didn't matter. It was better this way - detached, untouchable. Easier.
Greg shifted, glancing at his watch. "Anyway," he said, clearing his throat, tone light again, "I'd better head off. Got a shift at the pub later." He slung his bag over his shoulder, hesitated a moment. "How about we meet up Thursday? Same place, same time? Go over what I've got from those interviews?"
Mycroft didn't look up, only nodded once. "Thursday will be fine."
Greg smiled faintly and tapped his fingers lightly on the table before walking off.
Mycroft listened to the sound of his footsteps fading into the corridor, the echo of his voice swallowed by the chatter of the hall.
Only then did he exhale, setting his cup down with careful precision, as if control alone might steady the knot in his chest.
Sunday evenings followed a pattern, as most things in Mycroft's life did. He'd finish his reading for the week, straighten the papers on his desk, and place a call home just after eight. His mother appreciated punctuality.
The line clicked, and Violet Holmes's familiar, efficient voice came through at once. "Mycroft, darling. You're well, I hope?"
"Yes, Mummy. The term has begun without incident."
"Good. And your courses? You're keeping ahead of the material, of course."
"I am."
She continued without pause, her tone brisk, polite, and faintly distracted. "Your father's been terribly busy. Meetings in Brussels, I believe. I attended a charity event for the Women's Historical Society yesterday. Dreadful food, but the conversation was tolerable. Have you made any useful acquaintances yet?"
"Some," he said.
"That's excellent. One never knows where the right connections may lead."
Mycroft made a sound of assent, his mind already wandering. He could predict her next five questions and the perfunctory reassurance he would offer in response. He let her voice wash over him, rhythmic and familiar, a kind of background noise.
After a while, he said quietly, "Is Sherlock there?"
A pause. "Yes, though he's been impossible all day. You know how he gets." There was a faint sigh, then muffled words as she passed the receiver over.
"Mycroft?" Sherlock's voice, sharp and curious as ever, filled the line.
"Hello, Sherlock. How was your week?"
"I found another skull!" Sherlock said immediately.
"Of course you did," Mycroft murmured, pinching the bridge of his nose. "A squirrel, I assume?"
"Probably. Mummy says it's disgusting and made me put it in the shed. But I'm going to clean it properly when she forgets."
"That seems… likely," Mycroft said dryly. "And school?"
"Boring. They won't let me skip ahead. I tried to explain that I already understand the curriculum better than the teacher."
"Did you explain it politely?"
"I don't think so."
A reluctant smile tugged at Mycroft's mouth. "You might consider subtlety in future."
"Subtlety is lying."
"It's diplomacy," Mycroft corrected. "You'll find it useful one day."
Sherlock snorted, unimpressed. "You sound like Mummy."
Mycroft couldn't help a quiet laugh. "Heaven forbid."
There was a small pause on the line. Mycroft could hear faint movement in the background, the creak of the old floorboards. Then Sherlock's voice again, a little softer.
"They started the new term for ballet this week."
"I see," Mycroft said, his tone warming almost imperceptibly. "And how are you finding it?"
"It's fine."
"Only fine?"
A pause. "They've changed the instructor. She's very… particular."
"That sounds like someone you might actually respect," Mycroft said lightly.
Sherlock made a noncommittal sound, halfway between a hum and a snort. "Perhaps."
There was another silence, not quite comfortable. Mycroft frowned faintly, sensing the shift in his brother's tone. "Is everything all right Sherry?"
"It's school," Sherlock said at last, evasive. "It's never all right."
"Sherlock."
"It's nothing," he said quickly, too quickly. "Just people being stupid..."
Mycroft's voice gentled. "You're referring to your classmates?"
"Obviously." Sherlock said and quietly added, "They don't like that I'm the smartest… and that I do ballet."
Mycroft leaned back in his chair, his free hand tightening slightly around the armrest. "They don't like that you excel at it," he said. "There's a difference."
"Tell that to them," Sherlock muttered. "Apparently it's just for girls and fairies, I don't know what a mythical creature has to do with it though."
Mycroft sighed quietly at the innocence of his little brother. "Their ignorance does not define your abilities."
"I know that." The words came sharp, defensive, but thin at the edges. "I just… don't care what they think."
Mycroft knew that tone too well. It was the one Sherlock used when he cared very much indeed. He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "You shouldn't have to bear their idiocy in silence."
"I'm not in silence," Sherlock said. "I'm ignoring them."
"That's not the same thing."
"I said I'm fine..."
The line went quiet again, save for the faint background hum of their mother's radio somewhere in the house.
Mycroft exhaled softly. "Very well. But if there's ever anything-"
"I know," Sherlock interrupted, quick and impatient. "You'll handle it. You always do."
There was something in the way he said it - not quite gratitude, not quite accusation - that made Mycroft's chest ache.
"I only meant-"
"I know what you meant," Sherlock said, cutting him off again. His tone softened just slightly. "It's fine. Really."
Mycroft didn't believe him, but he let it rest. "When are your next performances?"
"Next month. I'll tell you if you want to come."
"I'd like that."
"You always say that," Sherlock murmured, not unkindly.
Mycroft smiled faintly to himself. "Then perhaps one day I'll surprise you."
"I doubt it."
He could almost hear Sherlock's small, wry smirk and for a moment the ache eased, but Sherlock's next swords came out quieter, almost hesitant, "When are you coming home?"
Mycroft looked toward the window. Outside, dusk had settled fully. The lamps along the path below had just flickered on, pools of amber light in the gathering dark.
"I'm not sure," he said. "Perhaps during the break."
"That's weeks away."
"I know."
"You could still visit," Sherlock said, and though his tone was deliberately casual, Mycroft could hear the small, sharp edge beneath it. The kind he used when pretending something didn't matter.
"I'll try," Mycroft said gently.
There was a pause long enough for him to know his brother didn't believe him.
Sherlock exhaled through his nose, the sound almost a sigh. "Mummy says I shouldn't expect you. That you're busy with grown-up things."
"I'm not too busy for you," Mycroft said at once, before he could stop himself. The words came out firmer than he intended.
Another silence. Then, more softly, "You always say that too."
Mycroft closed his eyes. "And one day, perhaps, it will be true."
Sherlock didn't answer, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then, quietly, almost grudgingly, the boy said, "Goodnight, Mycroft."
"Goodnight, Sherlock."
The line clicked. The flat tone that followed filled the room with an oddly heavy quiet.
Mycroft replaced the receiver carefully, aligning it with the base, and sat back in his chair. He told himself he preferred this - structure, solitude, the measured predictability of his own company.
And yet, somehow, it all sounded rather louder than before.
Mycroft stood, restless in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. He crossed to his wardrobe, opened the top drawer, and retrieved the half-empty packet of cigarettes he kept tucked away behind a stack of neatly folded shirts. He didn't smoke often, only when the quiet pressed too close.
He slipped the packet and his lighter into his pocket, then went downstairs and out into the night.
The air was cool, with that faint dampness that always crept in after sunset. The campus lay still, windows lit here and there in the dormitory buildings, a scatter of voices drifting from the far end of the quad.
He crossed to a bench beneath one of the tall oaks outside the boys' dormitory and sat down. For a moment, he simply listened. The rustle of leaves, the faint hum of distant laughter, the rhythmic thud of a ball still being kicked somewhere near the park.
He lit the cigarette, watching the flame flare briefly before the tip settled into a slow red glow. He drew in the smoke and let it out again in a measured breath.
He'd never liked the taste, not really. It was the ritual that mattered - the pause, the solitude, the illusion of control.
Above him, the windows of the upper floors glowed warm against the dark. Somewhere, someone was playing a guitar, the sound barely carrying through the evening air. It wasn't unpleasant.
He thought of Sherlock - brilliant, exasperating, lonely without realising it - and of his mother's clipped voice, all expectation and order. Then, unbidden, he thought of Greg.
That laugh on the football field. The grin in the dining hall. The way he spoke as if conversation were the most natural thing in the world.
Mycroft took another drag, slower this time, and watched the smoke curl upward, pale against the dark sky.
He told himself he was thinking about the project. About efficiency. About strategy.
But the image that stayed with him was the easy warmth of a smile he couldn't seem to rationalise.
When the cigarette had burned almost to the filter, he crushed it neatly beneath his shoe, checked that the embers were out, and rose.
Back inside, the corridors were quiet again. The order of it should have been comforting. Tonight, it only felt like silence.