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Chapter Text

The metal table was what was really getting on his nerves. It made an irritating clanging sort of sound whenever the young detective's obviously new and ill-fitting watch came in contact with it. It was growing tiresome, the tiny, tinny sound. Grating. The questions were also irksome; inane, and repetitive. But since he'd had to ask the same questions numerous times himself, that part was easily ignored.

“And you were at this Diogenes until…?” 

“Around nine. As you know. Because I pulled the CCTV and left it with your superiors over a week ago.” 

The detective sighed. “Again, Mr Holmes, I will remind you that you are not suspected of any crime. We are merely establishing a timeline and a scene for a murder that took place quite close to you.” 

“Neither the first nor I daresay the last. What is complicating matters is why this particular case has become the business of Scotland Yard.” 

The young detective drew in a breath to answer but beside him, Lestrade gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. 

“I'm afraid that's classified, Mr Holmes,” he said. 

“Classified to me?” 

“Pertinence only to active investigations of her Majesty's law enforcement. You know the statutes.” 

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied, raising his eyebrow at the DI. 

“Still, I do feel we've taken up enough of Mr Holmes's time, don't you agree, Wickens? You're free to go.” 

“Well. Good. I believe my car waited?” 

“It did. Quite a few annoyed commuters down there. Be warned.” 

Mycroft waved off the remark and lifted his umbrella into hand. He marched himself downstairs and back to the office. This little hour-long tour to the Metropolitan and back to the office was likely going to cost him hours of work. He was already annoyed. 

When he finally made it home, he was in such a foul mood that he didn't even bother to pass by the kitchen, didn't grab a tea or a scotch, did not even take off his shoes. He began removing clothing the second the bedroom door was closed. Jacket on the clothes horse in the corner, tie on top of it — he'd put them away properly in the morning. Shoes underneath, shirt unbuttoned. He gave a deep sigh. 

“Was that strictly necessary?” he asked into the muggy darkness. 

Greg yawned, stretching his hands above his head, looking for all the world like a cat. If a cat had somehow managed to worm its way into Mycroft's bed. Naked. And, apparently, just waking up. 

“Oh, you know it was. Stop it. Did you want them to ask more questions about you and I? Had to treat you like a proper witness. You know that. Come here, grumpalump. Why are you in so late?” 

“Well,” Mycroft hissed. “I don't know if you heard, but I was called away from the office and fell behind on some rather important documents that needed to be completed. I find I am just getting away.”

Greh chuckled. “I don't know why you even came down. It's not like you have to respond to ordinary summons. You aren't some regular citizen. Could've just refused” 

“Yes, and alienate your boss. Not only impacting the rather tenuous bond between the government and the police force but also causing his attention on our relationship by refusing a perfectly reasonable request for information. Brilliant advice, darling.” 

Mycroft sighed again and removed his quite wrinkled trousers. Greg propped himself up on his elbow, watching Mycroft with narrow eyes. Judging the actual level of threat. 

“I'm sorry,” he said softly a moment later. “Come to bed.” 

Mycroft's shoulders fell into a soft thing resembling a regular posture, losing their tension immediately at the shift in tone. He smiled wearily and leaned down to kiss Greg. 

“In a moment. I desperately need a shower. And no, not that kind of shower, Gregory Lestrade. I find the need to be clean after tonight.”

Greg smirked but reached out and gripped Mycroft by the back of the neck, kissing him again gently. 

“I really am sorry about today. I tried to get them to change their minds. You know what he's like.” 

Mycroft kissed him a third time and straightened. In the bath, he turned the water to a scalding temperature, letting steam fill the room and wafting eucalyptus into the air. He stepped in gingerly, letting his back adjust to the heat. He leaned his forehead against the cold white tile and exhaled. He could let go of the day. He could keep his promises to Greg; leave work at work except if he needed to debrief. Come home at a reasonable hour. Hold neither of their jobs against them. 

As a very young child, Mycroft's favourite story had been about a bear that became separated from its family right after its winter torpor. It wandered the forest, asking every other animal it met if they would be its family. They all refused but offered to teach the bear something to help it survive. From the squirrels, the bear learns to forage for tasty berries and nuts. From the beaver, it learns to make a den that it can hide in when the day grows dark. The woodpecker teaches it how to climb trees by hopping along the side. 

Eventually, the bear finds its family and is reunited, but it takes all the skills of its forest education and shows its siblings how to live. The reunion had always felt a bit stilted to Mycroft, even as a child. The message seemed to be that you were to rely on others, especially your family. But what Mycroft took away was that it was not very difficult to become self-sufficient. 

Considering there were no bears in the United Kingdom, it's possible the true meaning of the story had simply been lost in translation. Still. Mycroft liked his version best. 

Take what you need from people; kindly, and carefully, rarely making a scene or causing harm. And then leave, stronger than you were before and needing even fewer people as a result. 

He'd lived that way for decades. Quite successfully, by almost every measure. Until, quite against his will and all good sense, he'd let Gregory Lestrade worm his way into his bubble of self-defence. Things had remained slightly off-kilter since. 

He stepped out of the steam-filled shower only to find Greg perched on the toilet, holding a large, striped, fluffy towel for him. He took it gratefully, though wholly embarrassed, and tucked it quickly around his waist. Greg reached out and tugged gently at the edge, forcing him to step forward into an awkward embrace. After barely a moment, he was released and handed his large grey robe, the one that no one else in the world would ever see. For, despite its luxurious softness and perfect fit, it was basically a scramble of rags held together by their belt at this point. He shrugged it on and leaned back into Greg. 

“How'd you know.” 

“I'd be a pretty poor detective if I couldn't tell when my husband had had a crap day.” 

“Would that I had married a fishmonger or a haberdasher.” 

Greg snorted. “I can never tell if you're quoting something. So. What happened? After me, of course” 

“Can't discuss it.”

“Is it over?” 

“Very nearly.”

“Excellent. Want to order chips and make out?” 

Mycroft barked in laughter and leaned harder into Greg's cheek where it rested on his abdomen. “Please,” he murmured, his hands carding through Greg's soft, ungelled hair. “Preferably in that order.” 

Yes. He could do this. He could pretend to be entirely normal. 

For now. 

Gwen had not seen the elder Holmes in months and was still wholly unsurprised when he appeared at her door at three in the afternoon on a nondescript Monday. You didn't get far in her line of work by being caught unawares by power. 

“How are you then?” she had asked immediately, as though she didn't have employees hiding documents in the back as she held open the door.

He'd merely smiled blandly and gestured for her to return inside.

Now, they were sat at her kitchen table with very civil cups of tea that lay untouched between them. The silence had started to stretch and though she wouldn't admit it, it was making her uncomfortable. 

“How's that copper boyfriend of yours, then?” 

“Cooper husband.” 

Gwen's eyebrows raised quite against her will. “You married him, then?"

“In the literal middle of the night with no one else around,” he replied, a wistful smile on his face that looked wholly out of place and was a bit disconcerting.

“A good decision, that.” 

“Marrying Greg? The best I've ever made, I find.” 

Gwen's brow furrowed. “And yet here you are?”

“Indeed.” 

“Does he know you are here?” 

Holmes scoffed. “If he did, I would not have gone to all the trouble of ensuring I wasn't tailed. I would have even made an appointment. Please, Gwen. Don't insult me.” 

She made a decision then. Her business was nothing if not built for the whims of the powerful. She could pretend this was just one more of those.

“Alright then,” she said brightly, clapping her hands. “Shall we, then?” 

Mr Holmes nodded and stood stiffly. She guided him out to the large metal building in the back and walked him past any number of perfectly serviceable vehicles, ones she knew for certain he would not choose. She stood a little straighter as they approached the middle aisle. These were more a Mycroft Holmes speed; spiffy older models, sports cars that were far too low to the ground for her liking. The men always gravitated to these cars. The ones where their dicks could be on best display while still firmly clothed and in the legal bounds of status. 

But Holmes walked past these too, with barely a glance. When he did stop, Gwen held her breath. The bike was older, at least five years, possibly three off the road. It had one broken mudflap that she'd have to repair to even justify letting him take it. Royal Enfield, adventure tourer, though she couldn't tell from a glance if it was a Himalayan or not. Even her knowledge had it's limits and motorbikes were not her favourites. The quintessentially high front suspension had been her only clue to the type to begin with, and though she could admit it was a handsome vehicle, she was surprised by his enamoured joy when she turned to question him further. 

“I will take it,” Holmes said without preamble. 

“Erm,” she replied. “We have…nicer bikes, if I can just direct your attention—” 

“Nicer?” he interrupted, sounding genuinely confused. 

“Newer. Fewer miles. This is hardly a Ducati.” 

“Ah,” he replied quietly. “You mean flashier. No, thank you.” 

“Well. I mean… I guess. Sir, forgive me for asking but are you able to, um, drive…a motorbike? “

“I hold licenses A2 through H, madam, though I confess it has been some time since I have practised with a large lorry.”

“I think you'll find that was not my question,” Gwen replied slyly. “I don't imagine there are many qualifications you'd find it difficult to be in possession of on paper, Holmes.”

“I assure you, Gwendolyn, I obtained them through all the regular channels. It has been some years, but I promise to not die splayed out on the pavement until I am well off your property.” 

“I'd take it as a kindness. Inquests do take up so much time, plus there'd be the bother of your husband, your brother. It's just such a busy month as it is.” 

Holmes smiled at her wryly and then, suddenly, laughed. 

“Gwen, the motorbike is mine. I will be leaving in 20 minutes, regardless of whether or not you have changed that mudflap.” 

She patted him gently on the shoulder, a motherly pat that he did not shy away from. 

“Don't worry, Mycroft. I'm not going to get in the way of your little midlife crisis. Come, sign the paperwork. The boys will take care of that flap.” 

The car followed him at only approximately half a mile back. He could see it in the rearview most of the time. Anthea would have him off the bike and into its armoured interior faster than he'd be able to figure out how to lock the clutch, and he decided not to lose sight of that. Any number of tactics could be used to secure him right now. He was no less monitored than he'd been half an hour ago.

But he was freer, of that he was sure. The sun was shining and he'd changed into an overly large leather jacket, aviator sunglasses that he hoped were keeping the bags under his eyes from turning pink in the late afternoon, and a helmet that would surely accomplish very little were he to break his promise to Gwen vis-à-vis his ability to stay upright on the motorbike. 

The white line of the road was swaying ever so gently beneath the horizon line, which was likely a symptom of his glee more than anything. He hadn’t been out of the city in such a long while; it was already doing his heart good, which could not be a good sign. It had taken him two attempts to get into motion but as soon as he’d sat steady on the back, the sensation of his youth had come flooding back to him. He’d nearly started crying and had instead insistently pulled on all his staunch Poshness around him like a cloak as he peeled out of the drive. 

Now, as he careened rather recklessly down the line, his head flooded with songs he hadn’t thought of since his youth. Songs he’d never admit to having listened to on the radio at top volume in his first car. Pop music. The Pretenders. Blondie. Even, on occasion, Pink Floyd. He still remembered all the lyrics to Another Brick in the Wall. Realising this, now, on the back of an impulsively purchased motorbike, Mycroft decided to start singing at the top of his lungs. 

He might be, in actual fact, going mad.

The ride home was not nearly long enough, particularly when he hit London traffic again and began to inch around corners and by busses until he pulled into the Kensington high street and finally decided to just pull over and stop, about a block from the house. He felt rather than saw the car pull in behind him and he stood against the bike, kickstand open, flipping the keys in his hand as he waited for Anthea. Instead, he looked up into the gentle, careful eyes of his detective, standing on the pavement with his brow furrowed. He reached Mycroft and started a wide, speculative circle around the bike. 

“Anthea called you,” Mycroft concluded, waiting for Greg to speak. 

He simply nodded, holding his hand out; without question, Mycroft dropped the keys into it and stepped up onto the pavement to stand beside him. Greg gestured at him, waving his hand up and down his attire with a quirked eyebrow. 

“Don’t get me wrong, it’s bloody hot, this,” he finally said. “But. I mean. Really, Mycroft?”

“It was time for a change of pace. It isn’t the first time I’ve owned a bike.”  

Greg cleared his throat, and crossed his arms. His stance widened into what Mycroft privately called the ‘copper spread’. He was getting ready for cross-examination, the potential for a runner, or maybe just preparing to fight. It was never a good movement of Gregory’s body when his legs decided to fall back on his training. 

“Were you, at any point, planning to tell me you felt this way?” he asked quietly. 

“I haven't a clue what you're talking about, Gregory. “

“Mycroft Edward Lewis Holmes. You can lie to yourself as much as you'd like but if you insist on continuing to lie to me, we are going to very quickly barrel into a problem.”

Mycroft studied him for a moment before clearing his throat.

“Those are not my middle names,” he replied.

“Figured I shouldn’t use your real names on the street,” Greg teased, his shoulders relaxing just the slightest amount. Mycroft released a held breath and laughed. 

“I’ll take that as a kindness. Can we go inside to have this conversation?”

“And just leave this here?”

“Anthea will deal with it.”

“Anthea knows how to drive a motorbike too, does she?”

“I said ‘Anthea will deal with it’, not ‘Anthea will ride it’,” Mycroft replied with a sigh. 

“You really do not pay that woman enough.”

“I assure you, I do.” 

“I promise you, I know you well enough to know that you do not.”

Mycroft glared at Greg again, but he only laughed, going to the now-open window of the car behind him and passing the keys through it. There was a short exchange that left Greg laughing, which deflated what was left of Mycroft’s road-born buoyancy. Nothing he could do was going to save him from this conversation, and he had no idea where he was going to begin.  

The door lock clicked the moment Greg stepped inside. Pre-Greg-Mycroft had never locked the door. It had always felt unnecessary.  Mycroft toed off his shoes and padded to the kitchen. Greg's steady gaze bore into him, a silent challenge that made it clear this exchange was inevitable, not to be brushed off with liquor or sex or telly. 

“Alright, then,” Mycroft finally sighed, taking off the jacket to lay it across a kitchen chair,  the carefree leather a stark contrast to his frustrations. “What do you wish to discuss?”

Greg crossed his arms tighter, his posture shifting from interrogation mode to something more open but no less intense. “Seriously? Mycroft. Let’s start with the bike. Why now? Why this? Where did it even come from?”

Mycroft hesitated, the words swirling in his mind. “I needed a change. A break from… everything.” He gestured vaguely toward the city outside their windows,  its cacophony barely muted by the hum of traffic that permeated even the peace of the house. “It isn't the first time I've...ridden. Or purchased one, actually. There is a shop...she can...get what you need.”

“Brushing right past that one since I am pretty sure you are describing a chop shop and I am, I'll remind you, a fucking police officer," Greg sighed. "What do you mean a break?"

"Just. You know. From the pressure, the expectations. This seemed… liberating."

"Liberating?” Greg echoed, the edge of scepticism creeping into his voice. “You know you’re not just a regular bloke, right? You can’t just… disappear on a motorbike.”

“Perhaps I’m not trying to disappear, but to reclaim a part of myself I thought lost.” 

Greg studied him, his expression softening, but the furrow in his brow remained. “And did it help?”

“Immensely,” Mycroft replied, a hint of genuine enthusiasm breaking through. “I felt… alive. Nostalgic. For a moment, I wasn’t just Mycroft Holmes, the government official or the man with the burdens of responsibility. I was just… me.”

“Then why not share that with me?” Greg asked, his voice low and steady. “Why keep it to yourself?”

“I didn’t want to saddle you with my whims. I thought you’d find it foolish.” Mycroft’s voice wavered slightly, revealing a vulnerability he rarely showed to anyone but Greg.

It had been months of this. Months of pretending conversations had concluded when in fact, they’d only just started getting to the central seed of what was wrong. Months of his head regularly giving him enough evidence to believe that he was just a hindrance to Gregory's freedom. Happiness. Safety. He managed to ignore it most of the time, but this week, he just shut down nearly completely. He'd finally lost the pretence of normalcy.  

When they had decided to get married, on what amounted to little more than a whim, Mycroft had feared this part of everything. His world operated on cycles; he’d be fine, completely normal and himself, for years at a time. He’d be the dutiful public servant, the savant, the bureaucrat and the mage. The one who could make several problems go away and the rest of them smaller. Until suddenly, he’d snap. It had never happened while Greg had been around. They’d only been together for two and a half years. Getting married in that time was foolhardy. Sherlock had said, but Mycroft had resolutely ignored him.

He regretted that resolve now.  

Greg sighed, his arms falling to his sides in apparent defeat. 

“Foolish? Mycroft, you’re allowed to have fun. You’re allowed to enjoy life.” Greg stepped closer, the distance closing like the gaps between Mycroft’s defences. “I thought we’d been over this...honestly, I thought we were passed this. I want to be part of the fun parts. The parts that make you wake up and go buy a motorbike. You seem like you're scared of me, or of me seeing your humanity."

"Greg, that's not-"

"You don't scare me, but the shutting me out does. I want to know what’s going on in that brilliant mind of yours. Sometimes, it feels like I’m losing you in tiny bits and pieces. Do you know how terrifying that is for me?”

Taking a breath, Mycroft met Greg’s gaze, feeling the weight of his partner’s sincerity. “I suppose I’ve always thought of myself as the pillar, the one who supports. Sharing my own needs feels… unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary?” Greg repeated, the incredulity evident in his voice. “You’re not a burden, Mycroft. You’re my husband. We’re in this together, remember?”

“Together,” Mycroft echoed, the word resonating in the quiet space between them. It was a promise and a commitment, one he’d often taken for granted. “I suppose I have lost sight of that.”

Greg stepped closer still, lowering his voice. “And what else have you lost sight of?”

Mycroft hesitated, his mind racing. “I’ve been… avoiding being vulnerable. Avoiding joy. Perhaps even avoiding you.”

“Not anymore,” Greg said firmly, reaching out to take Mycroft’s hand. “Let’s change that. No more running from what you want. Not from me. Not from anything.”

Mycroft felt the warmth of Greg’s grip, grounding him. “Alright. No more running. I’ll try.”

“Good,” Greg said, his smile breaking through the tension. “And if you need more adventures like this, I want to be part of it. So let’s talk about that, too.”

“More adventures,” Mycroft mused, the idea both thrilling and daunting. “Do you…do you mean that?”

“Why wouldn’t I? I’m hardly opposed to chaos. I married you.”

Mycroft glared at him. 

“I’m sure, Mycroft,” Greg laughed, his eyes brightening. "Adventures, but together. Please." 

"Okay," he promised. 

Promised Greg. Promised himself. 

Chapter Text

Greg had known for several weeks that something was up with Mycroft; he hadn’t been able to put his finger on it, but there was definitely something wrong. Small things would set him off, not that he ever yelled. Nothing as basic as that. He’d instead just slide inward, silent and terse. He would disappear for hours to the club, a place he hadn’t spent much time since they’d finally just admitted to everyone else that they were a couple nearly a year earlier. They got married mere weeks after that, done hiding the reality their lives together. 

He hadn't really been worried at first. Everyone was entitled to bad days, bad weeks. Rough patches in the psyche. Hell, he'd done almost a decade of slight insanity and at the bare minimum, of being a bit more sullen than anyone needed to be. So he'd just given Mycroft space and let him work through whatever was distressing him. He came to bed each night, woke up to make the coffee each morning, and never left without a pleasant word or kiss. And so Greg had waited.

Until the items started going missing. At first, it had barely been noticeable. Wouldn't have been noticeable, except that Greg was a detective, and of the sort who had fallen into his job in the order of being good at it first and paid for it later. He was a cataloguer. Knowing where his things were and why was part of what relaxed his mind, eased his comfort into being home. So he noticed when the antique vase that had been on the top of the sideboard in the faux dining room disappeared. And then he realised immediately that the chrome duck Mycroft had once stored at the top of the bookshelf in his study was gone. When the Portuguese tile that had hung on the door to the pantry left, Greg finally made a decision he'd been avoiding. 

He called Sherlock. 

The man sat in what was, for him, attentive patience. Sure, his legs jiggled below the table, and his eyes closed at Greg's second sentence. But his hands remained steepled in front of his face, and he sighed at convincing times. Greg decided he was probably listening. 

“I told you,” Sherlock said finally. 

“What?” 

“I told you not to marry him. Not so soon. I'm sorry, Greg. That it has come to this.” 

“What?” Greg repeated, stupidly feeling discombobulated and unable to think of a better response to Sherlock's non-answers. 

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and his hands fell to the table with a thud.

“Have you seriously never wondered why Mycroft doesn't end up in drug dens or losing money on the horses? With his intellect? You don't think he doesn't also get incredibly bored. This is what he does. Pretends. For too long. He almost made it through university, but that was the longest one. It’s usually only a few months before…”

Greg sighed. “Before what Sherlock?” 

“Before he snaps.” 

“Stop. You're being dramatic.” 

“You're only saying that because it sounds like I'm describing a serial killer,” Sherlock replied with a meaningful glance. 

“Which you’re doing intentionally. Because you’re being dramatic.”

Sherlock studied him for a moment longer, eyes boring into Greg's skull until he finally grinned.

“Yes, that's true. I have no evidence that my brother is a serial killer. Though I suspect he'd be quite successful at it. Lots of resources and such. But no. He's too boring to be that interesting.” 

“So what do you actually mean, Sherlock.” 

“Well, I suspect that John's therapy friend would reference ‘mania’ about these episodes. But that isn't it. He's in full control of his decisions. They rarely involve any large levels of risk, to him or others. But. Nonetheless. He goes through these periods where he is…well. Reckless.”

“Reckless,” Greg repeated, dubious. “Mycroft Holmes. The man who plans out his ties for the entire week.”

“Mm,” Sherlock allowed. “So lock up the keys to the safe. Now, about that murder you had last week on the terrace of the March house—”

“Sherlock! Focus, please. Do I need to worry?”

“Oh. No idea. Probably not. But he's never been married during one of his little escapades. So. Maybe call our mother. Now….the nanny didn't do it.” 

“Your mother—hang on, yes she did. We had her on the cameras and she's confessed.” 

“My mother was on the cameras of the March house terrace?” 

“Sherlock!” 

“Oh, the nanny. Yes. It wasn't her. She's covering for the gardener. She was sleeping with him.”

“No,” Greg said, angry despite himself. “She was sleeping with the husband.” 

“No, no. Honestly, Lestrade. Did you even investigate this case? The husband is gay. She was covering for the gardener. Because the gardener killed the wife. Because he was sleeping with the husband. It's so painfully obvious that it's boring. I do not understand why you didn’t call me sooner. Suppose you were distracted by Mycroft’s antics. Yet another reason you should not have married him.” 

“For God's sake, Sherlock. Stop. I don't have time for you to explain why her buttons exonerate her or whatever nonsense you're about to launch into. I just needed to know if I need to be worried about him.” 

“The gardener? I don’t think so. He’ll be out in ten, seven if he behaves.” Greg sighed, crashing his head into his hands. 

“Again I say. I did warn you not to marry into this family,” Sherlock insisted. 

“You did. I'll cop to it.”

“You don't need to worry. But I'm serious. Don't let him access all the money. One time he bought a yacht.” 

“A yacht.” 

“Yes. In Madrid.” 

“Madrid is…literally the middle of Spain. It's landlocked.”

“Yes, we were all similarly confused. Still. He owned it. For three weeks.” 

“I see. So glad I called you,” Greg said facetiously. 

This was all to say that he really wasn't surprised when the motorbike appeared. He was instead grateful that it was quite a bit smaller than a yacht. And honestly, kind of practical. When Mycroft tired of it, he'd take lessons, get his license, and use it to get to work sometimes. He could zip through traffic, take a break from the tube. It wasn't the worst manifestation of whatever it was that was bothering Mycroft. 

Because regardless of what Sherlock thought, that's what was happening here. Something was deeply, worryingly, concerning his husband. There was a 50/50 chance it had something to do with him, but Greg had regularly fought that insecurity for their entire relationship and wasn’t willing to spend that much time concerned about it now. It was difficult being the arguably weaker, less powerful partner when normally, everything else in your life put you in a position of being…well, not that. For two years, at least, he’d been having to deal with that reality. He could remain calm. He could be a supportive partner. 

He could, he reasoned, plan some adventure. Well. Adventure, Mycroft style. He just needed to enlist Anthea.

Mycroft was incredibly grumpy when Greg turned up in the car from the office at ten minutes to five that evening. Greg brushed it off and handed him the train ticket, an almond latte, and a ham and pickle. The preferred ‘we have to take the train’ package of Holmes brothers everywhere. Mycroft attempted to scowl, but sipped the latte nonetheless and Greg did not miss the small smile that lightened his face afterwards. 

“Here,” Greg added, passing him a jumper. “Change. It’s a long trip. You’ll be more comfortable.”

“Edinburgh?” Mycroft muttered, glancing at the ticket. “Why are we going to Edinburgh? And why aren’t we flying?”

“Because we are taking the train,” Greg replied with a smirk. “Now change or I’ll eat your Quavers myself.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Mycroft hissed, nonetheless depositing his coffee in the cup holder and undoing his tie, unbuttoning his shirt. He smirked when Greg began watching him rather voraciously. “You wouldn’t possibly dare that, either, dear husband.”

“Why not?” Greg teased. “Thought we weren’t running from what we want? And it’s pretty clear to me that what you want is a blow job in the back of this town car.”

Mycroft’s face flipped to an immediate scowl that Greg had not been anticipating. “I assume you spoke to Sherlock then?”

“What the fuck,” Greg sighed. “How. How did you do that. I was talking about sex. How did you end up at ‘you talked to my brother’?”

“You did though, right?”

“Yes, fine. I did. Alright? I talked to Sherlock.”

“Is that why we are going to Edinburgh?”

“Not even slightly, Holmes.”

Mycroft looked out the window, ceasing all attempts to change his clothing even though he was now sitting with his shirt open to the navel, his singlet out to the world, his tie hanging rakishly around his neck. Greg took a deep breath, collected himself. 

“Mycroft,” he said through clenched teeth. “Please, just talk to me. We are about to be on a train for five hours. I’d rather do it with my husband and not with the terse, icey, government official.”

Mycroft did not meet his eyes. “No more surname,” he muttered.

“No more surname. Sorry. That…wasn’t fair.”

Mycroft looked at him then, and Greg’s heart nearly stopped. He was so forlorn, so sad. The blue-grey of his eyes was bright and unreadable, but there was such a strange set of emotions behind them that Greg decided he’d better backpedal.  

“Darling. I have prepared a bit of an adventure for us, North of Edinburgh. When we arrive, we are meeting a helicopter to take us the rest of the way. I booked the train because you love the train. I didn’t want it to feel like a work trip, so I decided the plane was out. But we don't have to go.” 

“I want to go.” 

Greg nodded. “Well. Alright then. I will give you the choice, then; do you want all the details now? This does not have to be a secret. I’m sorry. Whatever it is that’s going on right now? Sherlock didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. Well…apart from the fact that the nanny didn’t kill the wife.”

“Well, of course not. It was the gardener.”

Greg laughed. “See, I don’t know why I didn’t just ask you what was going on. I’m sorry.”

“No. Please, Gregory. Don’t apologise to me. You have nothing to apologise for. I have been…I have not been honest with you.”

“Sherlock suggested that these feelings have happened before?”

“I sometimes find that my life. It suffocates me.”

Greg let his immediate question die in his throat. He wouldn’t do that to Mycroft. He wouldn’t let him feel worse, wouldn’t put that burden on him. He refused to say ‘do I suffocate you’. He knew the answer was likely at least partially yes, and frankly, he wasn’t ready to hear that right now.

“Mycroft. I should have just asked you. We don’t have to do this right now. We can go home. You can. I can go stay with my sister. Give you some space.”

Mycroft’s gaze snapped to immediate attention. “Do you…you need space.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Mycroft Holmes,” Greg laughed, scooching closer on the seat to him. “Not what I said, you foolish man. I was offering space.”

“I don’t want space,” Mycroft whispered. 

“You don’t, hey?” Greg grinned lasciviously. 

“Never.”

“Well alright then. D’you want to know why we’re going to Scotland?”

“No,” Mycroft murmured, reaching out and pulling Greg by his shirt into his chest. “No, Greg.” 

“I see. What do you want? Hm?”

Greg undid the last of Mycroft’s buttons and slid the shirt off his shoulders. Mycroft’s eyes slid closed for a fraction of a second but then snapped open and forward to the front of the car. 

“The driver,” he murmured. 

“Partition isn’t enough for you, darlin’? Don’t think you can be quiet enough?” 

Greg, for good measure, palmed Mycroft’s trousers. He was at that stage of arousal where, given a few mental exercises and a moment of not being enticed by his husband, he could return to proprietary and no one would be any the wiser. The alternative, however, was much more appealing to Greg, particularly when Mycroft’s hips did not object to the attention. 

“You know I can’t,” Mycroft groaned. “Let’s…I cannot, Gregory.”

Greg sat back, hands safely in his lap after handing Mycroft the jumper again, but he couldn’t contain the gentle smirk that fixed itself on his face. 

“Suit yourself, love. Plenty of time to break down that particularly interesting hang-up,” he teased. 

Mycroft was flush from forehead to v-neck when the car pulled over in the loop at King’s Cross, but he took the hand Greg offered and pulled his own small suitcase behind him when it was produced from the car. They found their platform just in time for the train to pull in and were seated for twenty, comfortably-silent minutes before it pulled out of the station. First Class National Rail was a far cry from the private plane they often travelled with, but Greg had been correct in his decision. Mycroft loved the train. By hour two, his laptop was out on the table between them, but he was very quietly humming to himself as he answered emails and the usual deep furrow of his brow was missing. He asked for, and then received, an entire bottle of prosecco with glasses that could almost pass for real glass if you squinted. 

Greg stretched out his legs on the seat beside Mycroft and settled into a novel he’d put down two months ago. Even having to go back a chapter to pick the plot back up, he was engrossed again quickly, and only glanced up because Mycroft’s hand was suddenly resting on his leg. When Greg met his eyes, he was smiling; it was small, tentative and weary, but Greg was willing to take it. 

“Alright, love?” he asked quietly, noting the laptop was closed and Mycroft’s other hand was occupied by prosecco. 

He nodded, his head lolling back to rest on the seat. Greg smiled back and returned to his page. Finally having a contented Mycroft in his midst was a relief and a tiny bubble expanded inside his chest knowing that it was enough, for now, the being on the train. He was enough. 

After about five minutes, Mycroft’s glass gently hit the table. “The toilets are probably too small, aren’t they?”

Greg carefully looked up, assessing the expression he was met with before proceeding. 

“Um. Yes,” he decided on a moment later, nonetheless finding another smirk on his face. “Not to mention the CCTV.”

“No CCTV in the lavatory, Lestrade. That would be a violation of privacy laws.”

“No, sure, you are not incorrect. It’s just the simple matter of being a public place where the corridors are monitored by your office.”

“Only if something goes wrong. No need to look at the footage otherwise.”

“So it was a no in your privately hired town car where the chance of being noticed was less than the chance of the house staff walking in on us, but now you’d like to commit an indecent act on a shared train?”

Mycroft smiled a lazy, slow smile.

“What the actual hell has gotten into you, Mycroft Holmes.”

“Not entirely sure, husband. I am not suggesting we…go through with it. I just thought you should know that I had most definitely, carefully considered the possibility.”

“I am deeply regretting going all the way to Edinburgh right now, let me tell you. If I’d known all you needed was risky—”

“Hush, darling. Someone might hear you,” Mycroft murmured, squeezing Greg’s calf just a little too hard and immediately smiling a predatory grin that went straight to the centre of Greg’s core and making his cock jump hopefully. 

“You bastard,” Greg growled, picking up and draining his glass. “Loos.”

He stood up suddenly, aware of two things. First, no one was close enough to them in the relatively empty compartment to have heard their conversation. Second, while there was only an extremely small chance that Mycroft would actually follow him to the toilets, the possibility was not zero.

When he arrived back at his seat, he found Mycroft, in his non-descript, perfectly reasonable and comfortable jumper, reading Greg’s book and drinking the rest of the bubbly. If you were to walk by him without knowing exactly who he was, you’d assume you’d found a regular, middle-aged bloke. You’d be incredibly wrong, but something about the tableau made Greg smile as he slid into the seat beside Mycroft and rested on his shoulder. 

“Sorry, sir,” he said softly. “Just need a quick nap while I wait for my husband to return. You don’t mind, do you?”

“This book is insipid.”

“You think every novel is insipid.”

“Would you have actually done it? If I’d pushed?”

“You are well aware that I am powerless around you. Had you pushed even one sentence further…I did go to the loos, you know.” 

Mycroft turned and kissed Greg on the head, chuckling. “We are far too old to be using small spaces like that safely, but that’s good to know. I’ll make it up to you. For the teasing.”

“Promises, promises,” Greg said, yawning in comfort despite himself. He let his eyes slide closed.

“I love you,” Mycroft said suddenly, turning the page rather vehemently despite his apparent about how compelling the book was.   

The sentiment was well known to Greg, but the actual expression of it was pretty uncommon. It didn’t bother him, since Mycroft was more of a show than a telling sort of man, but hearing it now, so bluntly and apropos of nothing was actually rather alarming. He made himself stay calm.

“You’d tell me if something major was going on,” he said. “Right? Not like, protect me until the last moment before the nuclear strike? I’ve made that clear, yes? That I don’t…want that kind of protection.”

The low rumble of Mycroft’s chuckle growled over Greg’s hair and he reached over and placed a hand in Greg’s, sat them in Greg’s lap. 

“Nothing so serious, I promise. I think I’m just a tad sentimental, at the moment. I needed very badly to be out of the city, apparently.”

“Well, good. We will soon be very out of the city.”

“Well, that sounds promising. Hush, dear. I know I am being alarming. But there is no cause for alarm, I assure you. Not from a personal or a national level. I may have to check my email to assure you about the international stability, but it may be preferable to just leave that one to the others, hm?”

“Agreed,” Greg laughed, letting his body relax.  

They spent the remaining time on the train in companionable comfort. There was never any preparing for these moments. The ones where Mycroft was just human and a partner. He brought up the gas bill, asked Greg if he wanted to spend Christmas evening in the Cotswolds again. They talked in vague, undefined terms of getting a dog — though they likely never would before Greg retired. 

When they arrived at the station and a car met them to whisk them immediately to a helipad ten minutes away, shuffling them without question or preamble or even requiring identification, Greg allowed himself one moment to marvel at this life. 

Three years ago, he'd used the trains to leave London maybe once every three months, usually to some team-building event or a sport-related day out with the crew. Sometimes he'd have hired a car to drive out to see his aunt in Bournemouth. But that was as far afield as he ever flung. The effervescence of living this life instead hadn't quite worn off yet. Nor had the reality that he regularly thought in words like ‘effervescence’ without ironically rolling his eyes. 

Now, his subconscious had rewired; it noticed how insufficient the first-class of a train was for Mycroft's work and safety. Now, he was so used to getting into a helicopter that he didn't duck his head or cover his ears. Now, private flights and personal assistants were a part of his elaborate plan to get his husband out of the city for one weekend. 

He knew better than most that the trappings were only just enough; as expensive and fancy and posh everything was on the outside, it was only just enough to keep Mycroft safe, healthy, allowed to exist. To keep him afloat. There were actually very few things that were ‘unnecessary’ in Mycroft's life, and the plane rarely made that list. Without the plane, Mycroft would be trapped for a week on slightly hostile soil. Or be unable to make it to a peacekeeping dinner that England had only been invited to at the last moment. So no, Mycroft didn't use his privilege and wealth frivolously. Most of the time, he didn't even notice the extra perks of his job. Everything had a purpose, since Mycroft had curated those purposes carefully. 

Greg supposed even the whiskey could technically be considered essential; he'd be willing to sign several documents proving the importance of single malt to the safety of the nation. Some days, whiskey was the only thing that set the ghosts in Mycroft's eyes back a bit, kept the chaos of what he knew at bay. The only thing, minus being held for a minimum of two hours, that kept Mycroft from a tipping point from whatever information he'd been privileged with that day. If American presidents never made it out of office without looking several decades older, then Mycroft Holmes had to be fae. It was the only explanation for his ability to continue to wake up and go to work each day, and still come home being the gorgeous man he continued to be. 

So yes. Greg was used to this life now. He did not begrudge it. He took advantage when he thought it would help Mycroft.

But sometimes, every once in a while, he did have to pause and breathe deeply. Mentally thank his mother, who dragged them through school in a council flat that he had loathed until he understood how much safer it had made them. Thank his father, who he'd hated for never being there until he understood that working three shifts in a row had kept food on the table for more years than Greg had been alive. He had to pause and take in the place he'd accidentally ended up, by simply seeing human beings for who they actually were. For understanding Sherlock first. For letting Mycroft in.

They landed in an open field, which Greg had to assume had been Anthea’s plan, and another car deposited them at the front door of the cottage in under ten minutes. 

“We have arrived,” Greg said grandly, opening the lock box and unlocking the gate. 

Mycroft smiled at him dubiously. “Arrived where , dear one?”

Greg grinned and gestured expansively at the open door and the seawall behind it.

“Worminston!” he said simply. 

“Worminston.”

“Worminston. Twenty minutes from St. Andrew’s, home of the Fife trail end, some wonderful castle houses, and — hopefully — our new cottage.”

Mycroft looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “What?”

“Well.” 

Greg looked inside the house, stepped in through the doorway, stepped back out again.

“Well here’s the thing. You need to leave the city more. Your job. You need actual breaks . You love Scotland. It’s close, we can get here in an hour with the plane — and Anthea already checked, there’s a private airfield we can use just up the road. This place is for sale. But Anthea managed to convince them to let us stay here for a few days, decide if we wanted to do it.”

“For sale?”

“Yes. Plus,” Greg added, stepping into Mycroft’s arms and hugging him close. “We’re going paragliding tomorrow. 

Mycroft stepped back, took a deep breath, and pushed past him into the house; Greg held his breath. 

They were backing onto the rugged coastline of the North Sea; it exuded charm and tranquillity, but that wasn’t even the part that Greg was excited about. The entire cottage felt like Mycroft. Its weathered stone façade, softened by creeping ivy, felt like the house version of his husband. The thatched roof, with its gently sloping lines, was adorned with vibrant wildflowers, adding a splash of colour against the backdrop of blue skies.

Inside, the cottage featured a cosy living room and a stone hearth, plush armchairs that invited you to curl up with a good book. Large windows framed breathtaking views of the surrounding landscape, where waves crashed against the rocky shore. The kitchen, with its rustic wooden beams and vintage tiles, with sunlight streaming in through a small window.

A short staircase led to the upper floor, where two quaint bedrooms with views of the horizon begged you to lie in all morning. Soft linens and coastal decor created a serene atmosphere, perfect for restful nights. Outside, a small garden opened up to the beach, where you could collect seashells or simply listen to the seagulls and the gentle lapping of the waves.

The air was imbued with the salty scent of the sea, and the sound of distant laughter from nearby cottages mingled with the natural chorus of the ocean. Greg, if he was honest, never wanted to leave. 

Mycroft took in all of these things while Greg followed reverently behind. 

“Well, Gregory,” he said eventually. “I am not sure I ever want to leave this place. How soon can we put in an offer?”

“Let’s just spend the weekend,” Greg said, relief flooding him and setting him at ease. “We can call the solicitor on Monday if you still feel that way.” 

Mycroft nodded thoughtfully, his gaze still fixed on the horizon where the sun began to dip toward the sea, casting golden hues across the water. “A wise decision, I suppose. Wait, did you say paragliding ?”

Greg chuckled. “Only if you want to. But yes. A weekend will give us time to explore and appreciate it. Who knows? You might find it less enchanting after a few days.”

Mycroft shot him a sidelong glance, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “I doubt that. But your practicality is noted.”

The sound of waves crashing against the shore accompanied them, a calming rhythm that echoed in their hearts. “What do you think?” Greg asked, gesturing toward the cottage’s inviting porch. “Shall we set down our bags and go explore a bit? Go find some crab and a glass of something nice.”

“Lead he way, Gregory,” Mycroft replied, a rare spark of enthusiasm lighting his features. “I’m quite curious to see what the village has to offer.” 

With a renewed sense of adventure, they stepped out of the cottage, ready to embrace whatever the weekend would bring.

Chapter Text

It was far too early the next morning when Greg finally got Mycroft out the door. Despite being an early riser, he was the grumpiest morning person Greg had ever met. He grumbled and moaned the entire time he was getting ready, and they were leaving ten minutes later than planned. He grabbed an extra jumper from the hook where Mycroft had deposited it the night before, just in case, then followed and locked the door carefully with the ostentatiously large key. 

They'd have to replace the locks, for sure, for security. It made Greg a bit sad. The big old-fashioned thing was ridiculous and reminded him of a whimsy that he had lost several decades earlier. The type that believed, in the back of his mind, in tiny borrowers. That thought there was a chance that there was a Master Key somewhere in the world. As a young man, he'd let himself be prone to fancy. He'd never have admitted it to anyone in the known universe, but he kind of liked dumb mysteries and silly things. Mycroft would likely be both bemused and appalled by this fact. 

The car that waited for them, not a driver in sight, was not made for either of them. It was violently red, a sports car of some Italian brand or another. The top was down, which was thrilling. The sky seemed to have decided they deserved the day's adventure and was holding a watery, wispy sort of blue that was so unlike Scotland that Greg felt the need to hold his breath. It was crisp, but not unpleasant. The wind was low, too. They might actually get up into the air this morning. 

“Did you buy this too?” Mycroft grumbled, examining the car with his arms crossed.. 

Greg chuckled. “First of all, I'll remind you that only one of us has bought a large item without asking the other.” 

Mycroft glowered.

“And secondly,” Greg continued, “if I were going to buy you a sportscar, it wouldn't be this monstrosity. This is definitely not a Mycroft Holmes sort of car.” 

Mycroft wandered over to where Greg was standing beside the driver's side, having previously been inspecting it for things known only to him. 

“Is that so,” he asked. “So what, exactly, would be a Mycroft Holmes car?”

“Well. Let’s see,” Greg said, reaching out to pull Mycroft into his chest, where he collapsed, reluctantly stepping into the space between Greg’s feet. It was his preferred location for this man, regardless of how much of a fuss the morning version of him was making. Greg wrapped his arms around him and leaned against the car to support them both. 

“Silver, to start,” he continued. “Not that super shiny one, not the new style. Vintage. Aston Martin, maybe? Hm. No. Wait. MG. 70s.” 

Mycroft grinned, suddenly returning the embrace, arms around Greg’s neck and tucking his head beneath his chin. 

“Honestly, a pretty good deduction, Mr Lestrade. Though vintages come with rather a lot of maintenance”

“We can just hire someone to keep her in repair.”

Mycroft laughed. “Oh, can we? No cars, thank you. They remind me too much of work. So. Are you going to drive us, then?”

“I had planned on it, yes,” Greg teased. “Don’t you trust me?”

“I’ve never seen you drive,” Mycroft said pushing off Greg’s chest and practically sauntering to the passenger side of the car. “Let’s hope there are safety belts and handles in this thing.”

“Oy!” Greg laughed, settling in beside him. 

“I would appreciate it if you would tell me why we are up so early, now that I am, as requested ‘in the bloody car’.”

“Well, as you know, I am better at ideas than I am at planning,” Greg said, turning over the engine. “And when I said to Anthea, ‘Fife and Paragliding’, she, you know…Anthea’d. Which is to say, she sorted it out. But she neglected to tell me until after the fact that these events were two hours apart.”

“Two hours in which direction?”

Greg felt his face heat. He’d known this would be the case regardless of what he said, so he just decided to let Mycroft work it out.

“Gregory. Are we driving two hours back toward Edinburgh?”

“Technically we’re going West, so it barely counts.”

For the second time that morning, Mycroft laughed a hearty laugh. And though he was technically being mocked with this laughter, it warmed the very centre of his soul to hear it.

“Well,” Mycroft said a moment later, finally calming down. “I demand coffee first.” 

Greg smiled. “Already where we are heading. Bacon sarnie?”

“If you must,” Mycroft agreed with a smile, his head collapsing onto the headrest, sunglasses firmly down. He’d be asleep again in five minutes if Greg didn’t stop him. 

Even with their stop in town, Greg was pleased to find they were twenty-five minutes ahead of schedule when they hit the motorway again. 

“What led you to paragliding?” Mycroft asked suddenly as they picked up speed. “That’s a very specific activity to ask of Scotland, darling. I don’t think it’s exactly what they’re known for.”

“No, I know. It was…silly. Only. With the Motorbike and… besides. You said you wanted to go.”

“What?” Mycroft said, smiling ruefully. “When?”

“About six months ago, we were watching that documentary on South America and they showed the gliding into the canyon. And you said, ‘I think that is a much better way to pretend to fly than skydiving. More control.’”

“Six months ago?”

“Yes?” 

“And you took that to mean, I’d like to go.”

“Yes,” Greg said simply.

He felt Mycroft studying the side of his head, but he stayed focused on the road, letting Mycroft process what he wanted to say.

“Well,” he finally decided, looking back out at the horizon. “You were right. Paragliding is, statistically, slightly more dangerous. But. I do not want to freefall. Do you know how often I freefall? How often my life is completely out of control? But with a sail, I fly. Not fall.”

“Dear god, Mycroft. That’s almost…romantic.”

Mycroft chuckled. “I am certainly not that, sir. Slanderous. Practically defamation. I could sue.”

“I am sincerely sorry,” Greg murmured. He’d meant it as a joke, but he was overcome by a sudden wave of…whatever this emotion was.

It would have been simple enough to quantify it as love; he loved Mycroft, especially his idiosyncrasies. He was a study in constant contradiction. The man was lonely in a room full of people. He was always the most intelligent in any space but never really ready to admit it. He commanded nuclear codes and war plans, but he was afraid of spiders. Even right at the beginning, Greg’s demand for Mycroft’s attention had been more of a test than anything. He’d just wanted to see if he could get a rise out of the man whose frown lines were deep but whose laugh lines appeared seemingly against his will. He hadn’t been able to catch his footing fully ever since. Now, just when he thought he knew everything there was to know, a statement like that would set him adrift again. 

Mycroft’s hand dropped on top of his where it rested on the gear shift; he lifted it gently and kissed his palm before returning it to the shifter. When Greg glanced at him, Mycroft looked sad. 

“Where did you go?” Mycroft asked gently. 

“Nowhere,” Greg insisted, looking at the exit approaching and making a quick decision. “I’m right here, Mycroft.” 

They were in the middle of nowhere; it was perfect. He couldn’t think of any objections that even Mycroft was going to be able to find. He’d probably be wrong, but he decided in that moment that he didn’t care. He’d decide for both of them. 

He pulled off the main road onto what was little more than a cow path. They passed several signs for a loch, but he saw no water, just sheep. Mycroft only glanced at him with a raised eyebrow when he shut off the car. Greg said nothing. Didn’t need to. That wasn’t the way their relationship worked; Greg rarely needed to speak, and always did. Mycroft always needed to say more, and instead stayed silent. But right now, he didn’t want to explain; he was going to choose action. 

He reached over and dragged Mycroft to his mouth across the centre console of the stupidly flashy car. Mycroft scowled against his lips. 

“We are still in public,” he argued into Greg’s mouth.. 

“Barely,” Greg argued, punctuating the conversation by deepening the kiss. Mycroft groaned, hands threading into his hair and pulling his head deeper. 

Mycroft pulled back. “But we’ll be late.”

“Not if you stop talking,” he pointed out. 

He reached back and opened the door; he felt he would need more space. He pushed his seat back for good measure, then wasted no more time. He reached out and unzipped Mycroft’s trousers. No point standing on ceremony at this point. He pushed the waistband out of his way until Mycroft’s boxers were all that remained in his way. Mycroft inhaled. 

“Greg,” he said, sounding torn, his tone halfway between warning and want.

“Please,” he whispered, swinging his body so that his legs were outside the car. Not the most awkward way he’d ever done this, thought it was close. “Please, my love. There are no cameras. No one else is here. Let yourself have what you want.”

Mycroft finally nodded and Greg wasted no more time. Sliding Mycroft's cock from his boxers was ludicrously salacious, and it made Mycroft giggle an honest to God giggle. 

“Jesus, just begging for it as usual, eh?” 

“Since the last time you threatened to blow me in a car, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft growled.

Taking him in hand, Greg spit into his other palm, the act making Mycroft groan. Greg smiled wickedly as he began to stroke Mycroft's length, revelling in the way his breath hitched. The cool morning air nipped, but he barely noticed, focused entirely on the man before him.

"God, you're gorgeous like this," Greg murmured, leaning in to capture Mycroft's lips once more. The kiss was messy, all teeth and tongue, as Greg's hand continued its ministrations.

Mycroft's hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more friction. "Gregory," he gasped, breaking away from the kiss. His usually impeccable hair was mussed, cheeks flushed with desire. "Please, I need—"

"I know what you need," Greg purred, shifting his position. 

Without warning, he lowered his head and took Mycroft into his mouth, relishing the strangled moan that escaped the usually composed man beneath him. Greg's hands gripped his hip, shifting around the gear so he could carefully hold him steady as he bobbed his head, taking Mycroft deeper with each movement.

"Oh God," Mycroft groaned, his head falling back against the headrest. His fingers tangled in Greg's silver hair, not guiding, just holding on as waves of pleasure washed over him.

The sound of a distant car engine made Mycroft tense, his eyes darting to the road. But Greg didn't stop; if anything, he redoubled his efforts, hollowing his cheeks and swirling his tongue.

"Gregory," Mycroft panted, tugging at Greg's hair in warning. "I'm close, I'm—"

Greg hummed in acknowledgement, the vibrations sending shock waves through them both. Greg's tongue swirled around the head of Mycroft's cock, teasing and tasting before he took him down his throat. Mycroft's breath came in short, sharp gasps as Greg worked him expertly, alternating between long, slow strokes and quick, intense suction. His hips jerked upwards, seeking more, always more.

He loved knowing this about Mycroft. The knowing that Mycroft Holmes, a crucial cog in the British government, was quite girthy ‘round the cock. Had incredibly sensitive balls and quite liked when Greg managed to fit all of them in his mouth. Greg liked knowing that this buttoned-up, confident man who was unfailingly diplomatic and kind of scary in the right light, was easily undone with a quick flick of the taint. That you could get him to agree to rather a lot of you just swirled your tongue at the top of his foreskin. It made him part of a rather exclusive club. (Less exclusive than Greg would have liked, but that was a bit rich coming from him, the Letchiest Letch in all of Letchier-upon-Letchton. They generally didn't go down that road.) 

The thought of people who weren’t Greg being where he was now made him a little more vehement than he’d intended with his next pass on Mycroft’s cock, and with a strangled cry, he came, his body tensing as waves of pleasure crashed over him. Greg swallowed eagerly, not letting a drop escape, as he guided Mycroft through his climax. As their breathing began to slow, Greg gently released him, pressing a soft kiss to his inner thigh before sitting up. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips.

"Well," Greg said, his voice slightly hoarse, "I'd say that was worth being a little late, wouldn't you?"

Mycroft, still dazed from his orgasm, could only nod weakly. His usually impeccable appearance was thoroughly dishevelled — hair mussed, shirt wrinkled, and a faint flush still colouring his neck and cheeks. It was the most beautiful sight Greg could be responsible for; more importantly, though, there was a brief moment where Mycroft’s eyes lost their haunted look. He seemed utterly calm, completely free. It wasn’t an expression he was familiar with, not even in their normal (quite frequent) post-coital bliss. It was a curious thing to witness. But, just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone again. 

“I didn’t know,” Mycroft murmured, a hand threading almost involuntarily through his hair. “That you were so flexible, my dear.”

“Nonsense,” Greg teased, placing a hand gently on the back of Mycroft’s neck until he met his eye. “There’s tons of room here. We definitely could have managed the train.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Best get back on the road,” Greg said with a wink, relinquishing Mycroft and turning on the car. 

He giggled as Mycroft hurriedly wiped down and then tucked back in his cock, grinning the whole time he tried to look less like he had just been thoroughly cock-sucked in the middle of a cow field. 

Mycroft was still just a little bit high when they arrived at the airfield at the top of Tinto Hill. He’d always taken quite some time to let go of orgasm-induced endorphins; he blamed the fact that he’d spent so many years repressing every ounce of release, sexual or otherwise. 

Perhaps that was the problem now. 

Still, he had not lied to Greg. He was excited about this; dramatic as he was, his head needed some serious seeing to, and if something as ridiculously human as paragliding couldn’t help reset whatever was going on with him, then he may be beyond help. 

Mycroft listened attentively as the instructor prepared them for their flight. There wasn’t a lot of skill required of him; he was grateful, since his ears were ringing and his heart was pounding in his chest. In his head, his mother’s voice was shouting at him.

I didn’t take so much as paracetamol when I was pregnant with either of you and now you are going to run off a hill with a giant sail on your back?

Because ultimately, that is what paragliding amounted to. He let the instructor strap him in, looked at Greg with a grin whose origins he was unsure of, and took hold of the pole the instructor handed him that apparently housed a camera. 

Greg gave him an encouraging thumbs-up as he was strapped in a few metres away. Mycroft envied his ease, the way he seemed to thrive in situations that made Mycroft’s stomach churn. They were about to leap into the air, leaving behind the mundane worries of their everyday lives, and for once, Mycroft felt the urge to embrace the chaos rather than resist it.

“Remember, when we reach the edge, you’ll want to lean forward,” the instructor said, snapping Mycroft back to the present. 

He could see the edge of the hill looming ahead, the drop-off a tempting promise of freedom. With one last deep breath, he glanced at Greg again, who was already bounding toward the precipice, and he followed, feeling the rush of wind as it caught the fabric of the sail above him.

Before he could second-guess himself, they were running, the ground slipping away beneath his feet. And then, they were airborne, the world tilting and swaying in a dizzying dance. For a moment, everything was silent but the rush of air, and Mycroft felt an intoxicating mix of fear and joy flooding through him. The air caught the bottom of the sail and they were hoisted up; in that instant, Mycroft was completely and totally alone. It didn’t matter that he was strapped to a twenty-something with dreadlocks, didn’t matter that it would only last a moment. His head, just as it had on the back of the motorbike, finally shut up. 

The air was frigid and damp, and the wind rushed past his face in an intense flow, but everything was silent. Unlike the motorbike, he had very little responsibility up here. Sure, he was supposed to be supporting some sort of toggle and pressure and what not, but he let the separate part of his brain deal with that. For a full twenty minutes, the glided over the countryside and Mycroft did not have to think about anything. This was closer, so much closer, to the answer. 

Just as tears began to approach, he felt a surge of confidence wash over him. The instructor’s voice crackled through his headset, guiding him with calm precision. “Prepare for landing. Focus on your approach.” 

Mycroft scanned the ground below, spotting the designated landing zone—a grassy field marked with bright flags.“Ease off the throttle and keep your feet ready,” the instructor continued.

With every passing second, he felt the air currents shift, tugging at the sail above him. He adjusted his weight slightly, shifting to maintain stability. As they glided closer, the landscape rushed up to greet them.

Mycroft followed the commands given as they began to lose altitude more rapidly. In the final moments, he crouched slightly, readying himself for impact. They touched down softly, and Mycroft stumbled a bit, the momentum sending him forward. He rolled onto his side, the sail collapsing around him, cocooning him in a fabric embrace. Laughter bubbled up from his throat, a mixture of relief and exhilaration. As Greg landed nearby, grinning widely, Mycroft felt a rush of triumph. Love. Freedom.

Still, as he was detached, as Greg rushed over to greet him, he felt it. Felt the fear creep back in. He did not know why he could not let this go this time. None of his emotions were new; decay and the inevitable passage of time? How inane and boring, how completely unnecessary to his day-to-day function. He knew they were ever deteriorating, but so did everyone. How was this an original existential crisis? 

There was a weight to it that felt different, more suffocating than it had in his youth when he’d lost the plot. Right now, it was the thrill of the flight combined with the abruptness of landing back on solid ground. On the motorbike, it had been the far less subtle return to London and the CCTV and the congested traffic. His inner Sherlock was screaming at him. Telling him how boring he was. He wanted to taste the freedom of the sky still lingering, but it was tainted by the stark reality of having fixed nothing.

Greg’s voice cut through his thoughts, full of excitement and energy. “You did it! Can you believe we actually flew?” But Mycroft could barely muster a smile. He felt as if he were watching from a distance, unable to engage fully in the joy surrounding him. 

Was it the fear of what came next? The return to routine, to the mundane? The reminder that moments like these were fleeting, and soon they’d be buried beneath the weight of their responsibilities? He wished he could embrace the happiness of the moment, but the thought of all that could be lost loomed larger than the thrill of the flight. 

“Hey, you okay?” Greg’s brow furrowed, concern flickering in his eyes. 

Mycroft forced a nod, but the truth was more complicated. He felt a deep ache, a longing for something—perhaps a sense of permanence in a world that felt so transient. “Just… processing,” he managed to say, trying to sound casual, but the words felt inadequate. 

As they walked back to the car, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this moment was a turning point. It was a reminder that while they could soar high, they were always tethered to the ground, grappling with the inevitable. 

He was going to lose Greg.

The thought settled heavily in his chest, honestly from out of nowhere. Certainly not the first time he’d thought of their lives this way, but still. He observed Greg’s easy confidence and the way he effortlessly connected with others. It struck him that those very qualities that made Greg so vibrant also set him on a path that might leave Mycroft behind. Particularly if he could not get himself out of this desperate funk, this ridiculous spiral towards insanity. 

When they reached the car, Mycroft paused, staring at the vehicle as if it held all the answers he sought. The air felt thick with unspoken words, and he hesitated, torn between expressing his fears and the desire to keep things light, to hold onto adrenaline and blowjobs and clear blue Scottish skies.

As Greg rummaged through his bag, animatedly planning their next adventure without concern for his inner turmoil and Mycroft felt the moment slip away. The question he had wanted to ask lingered in his throat, choking him.

Driving away, with the landscape blurring past, Mycroft resolved to cherish every fleeting moment they had left. If their lives were to be ephemeral, he could force himself to be present for it; there was a kind of beauty, a determination, in refusing to let fear dictate the time they had together.

They drove back in early afternoon sunshine. Greg was illuminated and Mycroft managed to keep a conversation going by asking him questions every once in a while and then just listening with half his brain. 

The cottage held a picnic that had clearly been delivered while they'd been out and they traipsed it down to the beach behind the garden wall they sat with bare feet on sun warmed pebbles, sitting in the stripiest beach chairs of Mycroft's dreams. He knew he was being too quiet but could not seem to stop. When his mobile rang, making him realise how silent it had been for several, now-alarming hours, he was almost grateful. 

He answered it and stood, not bothering to tell Greg as he stepped away from him on the beach. The phone ringing and Mycroft leaving was routine. Greg smiled at him and released the hand he'd been holding absently. 

“Anthea,” he answered shortly. 

“Steady on, sir. I see we're not quite done being a gothic romance novel heroine yet?” 

“Anthea,” he repeated, aiming for warning and landing somewhere near exasperation instead. “You have called on a weekend? A weekend I am supposed to have off, I might add.” 

“Unfortunately, I have,” she sighed. “There's a situation. Robertson thought he'd handled it but…”

“But he's Robertson?” 

“Indeed.” 

“Plane?” 

“In an hour.” 

Now it was his turn to sigh. 

“I really am sorry. I tried.” 

“I know Anthea. Please do not apologise,” He tried closing his eyes against the bright sun, took a deep breath. Aimed for lightness when he added, “I went paragliding today.” 

She laughed, bringing him up short. They had become friendlier with each other, since Greg. It happened with everyone he met. It was his special talent; he was convivial without being tedious, affable without being cloying. It had a tendency to wear people down. 

 “My God,” she said after a moment. “Did you really? I wasn't sure you'd go through with it.” 

He smiled, though she couldn't see him. She took a deep breath in response.

“Sir,” she said hesitantly. “I am not prying, so don't accuse me of…yeah, prying. Only Greg seemed…well, actually worried. Which is rare. Do you need me to be worried, too?”

He cleared his throat. ““I pay you quite well to never worry about me, Anthea.” 

“Understood,” she replied, returning to a tone of buisness that hurt him in the deep recesses of his stomach. “You aren't actually buying that cottage, though, right?” 

Mycroft turned to look at Greg, whose head was tipped back into the sun, sunglasses glinting in the bright light. 

“No,” he admitted. “It is lovely, I know. Only Gregory has forgotten about winter. I do think I'd like to find somewhere, though. To get away. It will need to be close, he is correct there. But. Somewhere. I can't take the city for months on end. Not anymore. Can I leave that with you?”

“Of course. I'll start looking today. Thank you for absolutely not answering my question.” 

“Dear Anthea,” he chuckled. “Think how disappointed you would have been if I had given you a straight answer.” 

“The plane will be there shortly.” 

“Anthea,” he said as she went to hang up. He knew he hadn't quite hidden the panic in his voice. “Can you please make sure…” 

But he could not finish that sentence. It was not her job. Nor was the sentence a sane demand. 

And Anthea needed it to be neither. She paused only a moment before replying, “He is alright, Mr Holmes. He's concerned about you. But he's fine.”

He marched himself back to the chairs and sat unceremoniously in Greg's lap. Laughing, he groaned at the suddenness.

“I'm not really sure these chairs are made to handle this, darlin’.” 

“I have to go back,” Mycroft said shoving his face into Greg’s neck.

“Oh, I figured as much. We aren't putting in an offer either, are we?” Greg replied wrapping his arms around Mycroft. 

He smiled against Greg’s sun-warmed skin and shook his head gently. He pulled back to gauge Greg’s reaction. He looked, as he often did, at ease and content. 

“But the idea is sound. Anthea is going to look for somewhere where the North Sea does not attempt to murder us for six months of the year.” 

Greg smirked. “Oh. Fuck. Yeah. Didn't think about that.” 

Mycroft chuckled. “You never do. My summer boy. Never remember there are other seasons when the sun is shining. I cannot blame you. I would be the same if my skin went to this gorgeous, tanned Adonis form every time I went into the sun.”

“Says the freckled masterpiece in my lap,” Greg said, smoothing down Mycroft’s hair. “But you do want to have somewhere. To escape to.” 

“I will not always be…able to stay.”

“Really?” Greg said in mock horror, pushing Mycroft off his lap in favour of folding up the chairs. “No shit, Mycroft. I knew the score when I got us into this mess, remember? I just think sometimes you can save the world without starting out in grey and dreary London.”

“I don't save the world.” 

“Near enough.” 

“You love London.” 

“Sometimes. But you don't.” 

“You will come with me, then? If I find a place in…Spain. Or Majorica.”

“No, I think I'd rather stay in the freezing rain than go to the beach with my hot-as-fuck husband. Jesus, Mycroft. Stop saying ridiculous things. Let's go get packed up before the plane arrives.”

As Greg huffed around, bundling far too many objects into his arms and still trying to push his own sunglasses onto his nose, Mycroft smirked. 

“What?” Greg demanded, noticing his expression.

Mycroft reached out and took the cooler bag from him, adjusted his sunglasses and smiled. “You're mad at me. It's refreshing.” 

“Me being annoyed at you is refreshing?” 

Mycroft stepped up to Greg, cupped his cheek with his free hand. Kissed him gently. 

“Yes,” he said simply, walking away. 

Greg just shook his head and followed Mycroft up the beach. 

Chapter Text

“Ah yes, plane. I missed you, plane. I apologise for disparaging you in my head. Hiya, Jamie,”

“You disparaged the plane?” Jamie smirked, taking the handle of his bag from him as he began to climb the steps. 

“Only in my head,” he replied with a wink. 

Behind him, Mycroft had taken a suit bag from Anthea and they were discussing something in hushed tones a fraction too far for him to hear. 

“Any clues today?” 

“Not even a destination. Sorry, mate.” 

“I was on the beach,” Greg moaned. 

“I had my five-year-old this week.” 

Greg winced. “Yeah, you win. Want me to get him to call someone else in?” 

“Nah, it's all good. I'm off after this leg. It's Cohen after me.” 

Greg wrinkled his nose. “Not a good sign.” 

“Not usually,” Jamie agreed sympathetically. 

Neither was Mycroft's face as he climbed into the plane too; far-away, serious, with eyebrows so furrowed they almost touched in the centre. Holiday, free-flying Mycroft had fled completely now. He disappeared into the back immediately, presumably to change. Greg busied himself with the bar and offered Anthea an old-fashioned. The fact that she accepted it also was a sign; international, most likely. A long enough flight that she could drink now. He doubled the shots in all three drinks and set them down on the tiny tables. 

When Mycroft didn’t return right away, Greg grew uncomfortable in the silence. He always did. Another thing that made him a good cop and an absolutely terrible match for Mycroft Holmes. He took a sip of his drink and sighed, looking around him. They had so much space up here. He could fully extend the chair he was sat on, have a proper sleep, and not even impact Anthea’s desk area across the aisle. The lights above him could adjust to no fewer than 17 lighting settings, and five of them could be accessed with voice command.

“How guilty do you end up being about the plane, Anthea? You know. The environment and what have you?” 

She considered his question for a minute, fiddling with her cocktail stick. 

“Less guilty than I probably should be, Mr. Lestrade.” 

He chuckled. Took a sip. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Me too.” 

“If it helps, he does rather a lot of good for the country.” 

“Oh, I know.” 

“If it helps more, he donates about half his salary.” 

“I know that too.” 

Anthea studied him for a minute. “I don’t think you need to be as worried as you are, Greg.” 

He considered his next sentence for long enough that the pause got awkward, and Anthea turned away from him to watch the steps of the plane get pulled up. 

“I am unfortunately a bit convinced he’s getting ready to leave me.” 

Her gaze turned back to him in a sharp snap that made him dizzy. She did not respond, just blinked at him slowly then looked away again. Mycroft returned a moment later in the grey pinstripe and Greg was left to worry alone again. When neither of them spoke, when Mycroft just stood beside him in the aisle but picked up his own cup, he cleared his throat.  

“Okay, I'm going to need some details here. Anthea took a drink, but you're already in a suit.” 

Mycroft smiled and Anthea laughed. 

“He's gotten very good at this. Well done, you,” she said to Greg. “My drink is because when we land back in London, I'm going straight to my sister’s. I am on annual leave and I was assured that would not be interrupted, despite current evidence. He's going on to France, though. Hence the suit. Not a long haul flight.”

Greg deflated in relief. Not as serious as originally billed, then. 

“I thought,” Mycroft said gently. “That you may want to join me? Make your work pay for the little interrogation stunt they pulled? I can call it in for you.” 

Greg considered for a moment, mentally assessing the number of open files on his desk at work, while having already made a decision. 

“Obviously I want to come with you,” he said, holding his drink aloft so that Mycroft finally sat down beside him and bumped their glasses together. 

“Oh he's still being terribly dramatic, is he?” Anthea teased gently. 

“Just a bit. Think we're getting somewhere, though. Don't you think, My?” 

Mycroft grimaced at him sidelong.

“I know, I know. ‘Don't call me My’. But your name is so long.” 

“It is two syllables. You use Anthea's full name. It is most assuredly longer.” 

“What am I gonna call her? Ant? Anth? Thea? Oh, Thea. I quite like that, actually.” 

“You may not call me Thea.” 

“Okay.” 

Mycroft scoffed. “Okay? She gets a say?” 

“Well, my dear, it's very rude to use a nickname someone doesn't approve of.” 

Mycroft scowled again and Greg decided to wink. He hadn't winked in a few weeks. It hadn't been safe. Or. Hadn't felt like the right decision, at least. He had forced himself not to close that one eye, an expression that always made Mycroft go just the slightest shade of red at the spot behind his ear. It always made his day when the softest blush disappeared into his suit collar because Greg, his husband , had flirted with him. 

He held his breath. Mycroft turned to him and smirked. 

And then he winked back. 

Which was, Greg decided, promising. 

Anthea stood a moment later and wandered off without a word. Greg reached around Mycroft, wrapping an arm across his shoulders so he could bundle him into his side and kiss the top of his head. 

“You okay?” he asked. 

“Remember when we were floating in the air with merely a piece of silk between us and certain death?” 

“Yes?” Greg replied hesitantly. 

“It always feels like that.” 

Greg considered for a moment. Wasn't sure what the follow-up was and decided instead for Mycroft to continue. 

“I think people assume I know what I am doing,” Mycroft continued. “Since I am…bright. They assume I have a plan for everything.”

“Mycroft—”

“But it always feels like freefalling.” 

“I'm sorry.” 

“No. I…I am doing a terrible job of expressing myself, detective. I apologise. I only mean…”

“You mean that your job makes it hard to find things exciting when you aren't solving a catastrophic problem. It's all too slow.” 

Mycroft sat up suddenly, staring at him with that expression that made Greg want to remind him to stop biting the side of his cheek before he had to go back to the dentist, which he hated. 

“How do you do that?” he asked, seeming genuinely irritated. “I have spent weeks trying to solve that on my own. I…have struggled.” 

Greg laughed. “I analyse people for a living. You really aren't as difficult to figure out as you like to think you are. You and your brother have that one in common.” 

Mycroft tried to use an angry eyebrow at him and Greg just grinned wickedly. 

“Goldfish, Sherlock,” Greg mocked, his poshest affectation making the words nearly unintelligible. 

Mycroft sighed and rubbed at his previously pissed-off eyebrow. “I really wish I had never told you that story.” 

“I hate to sound like a broken record, but you realise that had you just talked to me at some point in these past few weeks, we could have figured this out sooner.” 

Mycroft had the decency to look sheepish. 

“Okay,” Greg continued. “So you want to go fast. We can do that. That's easier than what I've been trying to do.” 

“What have you been trying to do?”

  “I’m not even sure. I thought you were…no, never mind.” 

“‘Go fast’?” Mycroft added.

“Yeah. Mycroft. You're an adrenaline junkie. And you're just figuring it out. It really isn't that deep, love. We'll…try some stuff.” 

“Junkie.” 

Mycroft said this slowly, dangerously. As though scolding a child. Greg sighed. 

“Okay, listen, we don't have time right now for your incredibly…narrow point of view about drug use. But point taken. I'll watch my words.”

“He has almost died. Four times. They are not narrow. They are…experiential. Reductionist perhaps, but —”

“Okay, yes, I'm sorry.”

“Not to mention that the word ‘junkie’ is quite base in origin. Means old rope. In the 20s. Originally, of course. It became drugs quite quickly.”

“Oh my god, Mycroft. I've said I'm sorry.” 

“Not to mention the word itself is American. ”

“Is there any chance of you dropping this before we get to France?” 

“We were just having such a productive conversation. I was cooperative. I was agreeing with you. I was…listening,” Mycroft said, clicking his tongue. “I don't know that there was call for such violence.” 

Greg finally cracked at the persistent teasing, his heart swelling at the sheer silliness that Mycroft was capable of creating when he wanted. So he pounced, tackled Mycroft in his seat; an entirely undignified squeak escaped him, making Greg laugh slightly too loudly.

“Do I seriously have to tell you two middle-aged men not to rough house?” Anthea called from across the cabin. “You’re on a private plane? In thousand pound suits?” 

“Sorry Anthea,” they said in unison. 

Greg grinned, two centimetres from Mycroft's face. He waggled his eyebrows ridiculously and snaked his arms around Mycroft's waist, squirming into Mycroft suggestively. 

“Anthea is right there,” Mycroft hissed, though he too was grinning. 

“And if she wasn't,” Greg murmured back. 

Suddenly, Mycroft shifted his knee so that it pressed almost painfully into Greg's cock. He leaned in so that he was right against Greg's neck, reached up and took his ear in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive shell. 

“If she wasn't,” he whispered, so quietly that it made Greg shiver trying to listen.  “Then my prick would already be out, your trousers 

would already be down, and we'd be seeing just how difficult it is to ruin a thousand-pound suit.” 

Greg exhaled, tilting his head into the caress. Mycroft chuckled, the sound low and needy. 

“Because my cock would be inside you,” Mycroft clarified, completely unnecessarily, as he pulled away and pushed Greg away as much as he could from beneath him.

Greg inhaled sharply. He didn't bottom often, but usually, that was just because Mycroft so frequently begged to be fucked, whining and grinding until Greg felt there was no alternative. On the rare occasion when Mycroft decided to take Greg, it was like he'd chosen to play a role. A bloody gorgeous role in which he dominated with words but took things painfully, tantalizingly slow in action. By the time Greg came in those interactions, he was usually surprised to be conscious, as boneless and weak and broken as he was. He'd decided he had to marry Mycroft in one of these post-top moments, though he'd die before he let him find that out. 

Still, Anthea was right there and so for the third time in as many days, Greg forced himself upright and drew himself away from his husband's extremely promising dirty talk. He had to adjust himself carefully as he sat back in his own seat. 

“I have decided that you are an incredibly cruel man,” he muttered, downing the rest of his drink defiantly. 

“I'm disappointed that you're only just working that out, my love. I've been assuming you are quite intelligent.” 

“Oy,” he teased.

Mycroft let himself grow quiet and insular as the flight to London continued. He picked up files and studied emails on his phone. Greg sat in his window seat, headphones in, presumably listening to a podcast. Every once in a while he'd reach over and run his hand down the back of Mycroft's head, smoothing down the short hair there. It was a habit he'd picked up sometime in the first six months of their relationship and it was, secretly, Mycroft's favourite action. It seemed to settle every nerve ending in his body and he wanted to keen and purr, lean into the touch like a cat. 

The plane touched down at Heathrow an hour later and Anthea beckoned him onto the tarmac. Greg smiled and waved her off, but made no move to stand up. 

On the pavement below, Anthea was joined by their new pilot and flight crew, and as she took her case from the attendant who got off after Mycroft, she handed him a copy of the report he'd been asking for all week. 

“Before you decide to go all ‘I am Mycroft Holmes’, you were in no position to read it last week. And also, here's the second folder.”

He bit back the retort he wanted to make, kept to himself the quip about her familiarity, her inappropriate tone for her boss; that wasn't who he wanted to be, not anymore. The lack of stiffness in her voice wasn't a lack of respect or a challenge. It wasn't a reduction in her fear for her job and it certainly wasn't a misunderstanding of his own power. It was simply trust. Anthea knew he trusted her and she had, finally, after nearly a decade, decided she could trust him. He would not break that tenuous bond. 

The second folder contained a flashy pamphlet and a welcome package, an old-fashioned check-in ticket and two hotel keys. 

He looked at her in question and she shrugged. 

“You have to be in the Alps for these meetings. There's no reason you can't be somewhere comfortable while they happen.” 

“Your idea or his?” 

She smirked at him. “He didn't know about this trip two hours ago, remember? Please make sure our detective does not get hurt.” 

He smiled down at the folder and closed it carefully. 

“Our detective?” 

“Mhmm, sir,” Anthea insisted. “At this point, he belongs to all of England.” 

“How alarming for both he and I.” 

She handed him one final envelope. Small, sealed. 

“That's for him,” she said quietly. “Don't you dare open it, sir. And please. Do not have sex on the plane.” 

He blushed fiercely and she held her hands up in surrender. 

“Anthea,” he said sharply despite her white flag. 

“I know. Sorry. I'm sorry,” she insisted. She was smirking, but he decided it was easier on both of them if he just nodded and accepted her apology. 

“Go. Enjoy the time with your sister.” 

Anthea sighed. “I will not. I will be half drunk for a week while she complains about her husband in her very large house that she's done absolutely nothing to earn. It is tedious and you know that. But thank you for the time. Try not to worry yourself into an early grave, Mr. Holmes.” 

“I shall do my best.” 

Mycroft climbed the stairs to the plane and settled back into the seat across from Greg as the engines roared back to life. He pushed the hotel folder across the table to his husband and smiled gently as he flipped through it. 

“The Alps? Glacier skiing? Surely that's not an option in August.” 

“One of the few places in the world,” Mycroft explained. “Courtesy of Anthea. She seems to think our holiday can extend into my work” 

Greg smiled a beatific grin. “I don't hate that plan.” 

“She didn't explain this one,” Mycroft added, questioningly, handing over the smaller envelope. 

“Not to worry. I know what it is.” 

Greg winked and stood from his seat. Mycroft watched him go to the small kitchenette at the back of the plane, studied his back and the envelope he'd left on the table in equal measure. He wouldn't open it, of that he was sure. Even if the act of leaving the envelope there would slowly kill him. 

When Greg came back with a snack for them both, a plate of fruit and cheese, he picked up the envelope and tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans and studied Mycroft with a grape poised near his mouth. 

“What is it,” Mycroft sighed. “You are thinking quite loudly there, my love.” 

“I have to ask you something but I think I'm going to make you mad,” Greg admitted. “But I think I should just ask since I'm about to partially lose you to the nation anyway. This may be the perfect moment.” 

Mycroft tilted his head, and refused to take the bait. 

“Where's the duck.”

“The— wait, what?” 

Mycroft had anticipated any number of questions. Why are you still acting weird? Why am I suddenly being allowed to come on a work trip? Why do you think I am going to leave you? Why am I on this plane? But nowhere in his thirty seconds of imagining had the duck entered his consciousness. 

“The chrome duck. You moved it. I want to know why. And where. The vase too, but I didn't like it as much as the duck, so.” 

“I don't know what you are talking about, dear.” 

“Oh for fuck's sake, Mycroft. Where's the bloody duck.” 

Mycroft crossed his arms lightly across his chest and quirked a single eyebrow at his husband. 

“Is this some sort of game? Do I have to, like, solve the mystery of the missing duck? Do I have to ask for Sherlock's help?” 

Mycroft cleared his throat and picked an imaginary piece of lint off his jacket. 

Greg, finally, burst out laughing. “Fine,” he declared, too loud for the small plane. “Keep your duck-related secrets, Holmes. I'll find a way to make you talk.” 

Mycroft turned to study the clouds that passed by his window. He would not, this day, or any day, be admitting exactly what had happened to that bloody duck. He just wasn't sure how he was going to convince Greg to drop it. He was stupidly and unduly surprised that the absence of the horrible sculpture had even been noticed. He should have known better. You didn't just walk into being a first-class Detective Inspector of the Royal Metropolitan Police. Greg was very good at what he did. Of course he'd noticed. 

They got off the plane in Chembrey to an incredible, sunny day. Their hosts met them with a cooler bag full of Swiss-made bubbled wine and a basket of picnic supplies that were loaded into a lovely, large car that made far more sense to Mycroft than the convertible. He was, however, immediately on guard. Being given the red carpet treatment usually concealed a more insidious purpose. He suspected that the Geneva officials were planning to make things far more difficult than was strictly necessary. 

Still, he settled into the car beside Greg, prepared for the nearly two-hour drive and wishing he'd been able to change a little later. He leaned into Greg's side, grateful for the hands that immediately carded through his hair, and began answering the messages that arrived he took his phone off flight mode. As far as he was concerned, the internet on planes was the worst modern invention in history. He refused to be reachable for those short sojourns. It was the only time he was unavoidably detained and he guarded the time jealously. Even Greg had long ago accepted that even on a quiet night at home -— or, worse, on less than quiet nights at home — Mycroft's phone could go off and he would have to disappear. 

“If I guess what happened to the duck, will you tell me?” Greg asked innocently. 

“If I say yes will you leave me be about this particular topic?” 

“Probably.” 

“It isn't….Connected. To my current restlessness. The duck. Just so you are aware. You are making an inappropriate connection.” 

“So you acknowledge that there is a duck! Ah ha,” Greg declared.

They arrived at the chalet and Greg was momentarily speechless, the first time that had happened in several days. The place they had been given to stay was what the word chalet had been invented for. It was huge. The sloping roof and wood panelled everything, high up on a large hill. The hotel was actually a group of interconnected buildings, some small cabins, some large, grand vistas. This sat somewhere in the middle, with a wide, fully wrap-around balcony with glass panels between the wooden rails so that the view of the meadow below them was unobstructed. To the right, the glacial mountains were foreboding and omnipresent, but in every other direction, there was no view into any of the other cabins. There was a sense, in this place, that they were alone and the peace was so complete that it was almost stifling. 

"Have we entered the fucking Sound of Music," he finally muttered as Mycroft shifted their suitcases into the bedroom. 

"Eloquent as always, my dear. I assume that this meets your standard for the next few days?" 

"I'm terrified to touch anything." 

"Well, that's unfortunate, as I have to leave you almost immediately. Do you think you'll be able to negotiate the washroom?" 

Greg stuck his tongue out. "Go, be very important and scary and what have you. I'll be here, you're kept woman, pining for the fjords." 

"Better to pine for the hills, my love. Far closer and fewer sea monsters of days gone by." 

"You're ridiculous." 

"No more than you." 

With a kiss that might have felt perfunctory had the past few days not been what they were, Mycroft took his very important briefcase and significantly less important umbrella and left. Greg headed out onto the balcony and found a very comfortable chair. He pulled out the envelope and stared at the austere, simple business card he found inside.

Meredith Moyle 
Accredited Marriage and Psychosexual Therapist

He was endlessly impressed by Anthea; give her a very vague and completely ludicrous request and she would, somehow (possibly by magic), arrive at exactly the correct conclusion and solve a problem you didn't know you had. 

Chapter Text

Having placed a call he may one day soon regret, Greg decided to change into some of Mycroft's slightly fancier Casual Wear and head out into the village. He hadn't been given any specific orders to stay in the Chalet and it was usually a bad idea to keep a DI Lestrade cooped up for too long. It was a truly gorgeous day; there was a freshness to the air that made it feel slightly chilly, and his smart jumper was perfectly necessary as he wandered in and out of the small shops that sat at the edge of the train station he'd seen when they'd driven up. 

Easy smiles and casual conversation were Greg's bread and butter; before long, he felt rejuvenated and less inclined to text Mycroft (usually inadvisable in these situations). He found a cable car that took him to the first summit of the mountains and bundled himself in with his packages and a mulled wine he'd picked up on instinct. It still felt ridiculous to be doing these borderline winter things in the height of August, but he didn't look or feel out of place so he went with it. 

The mountain was grassy and flowered. He likely wasn't that high up, at least based on the map he'd quickly studied in the welcome centre. It was still full summer here on this level, not a glacier in sight. Families strolled around the various paths that sat at the plateau they’d been spat out on. Greg found a very nice bench and stuck his earbuds in; he let his music go to full shuffle, rarely skipping anything like the slight psychopath he was. He munched on the snack mix and fancy cheese he’d found in the shop without thinking much of anything. 

When he was busy, Greg’s brain moved seventy miles an hour. He could conjecture and formulate, chase or lead, fight or contemplate calmly. He was excellent at his job, after all. But he had this skill as well, and deep down, he knew that was the problem with both Holmes boys. No one had ever taught them how to shut down. How to simply stop being on. Mycroft didn’t know how to pause and enjoy the wonders of too many wildflowers for a single square plot. He couldn’t listen to a song and only hear the music. He was constantly solving seventeen problems at once; he was always Mycroft Holmes. Greg could not imagine how hard that had to be. 

Having spent a good few hours in the warm sunshine and the gentle breeze, he decided he should head back to the Chalet. He had no idea, of course, when Mycroft would make a reappearance, but he didn’t mind. That was the trade-off of going with him when it was a work trip; Greg was comfortable in his own company. He was pretty well-suited to the role of high-powered executive’s husband and it made his family laugh at him constantly. He had his own stressful job that had odd hours. He had mates to hang out with if he got lonely during the weird weeks. He had hobbies and nieces and wasn’t that prone to boredom. It was a good match. 

Greg was really hoping he could help Mycroft remember that. 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, mate,” he chastised himself as he got morose while packing away Mycroft’s suit shirts in the closet of the suite. “You don’t even know if he’s thinking the way you’ve decided he is.” 

He was sitting on the balcony with a book and a glass of wine when Mycroft stormed back in. He was not quite done with being outside in the gorgeous, non-London air and he chose not to move. He’d be discovered soon enough, and Mycroft’s stomping nature seemed to need a moment. 

“You will not believe that meeting,” he said when he finally appeared, closing the door gently and curling himself into the lounge chair with Greg, who immediately shuffled over to accommodate the sudden clinging. 

Mycroft had changed into soft grey track pants and the blue henley Greg had bought him at Christmas. There was still gel in his hair, but it had stopped working at some point recently and the spot at the top that was thinning subtly was on full display. Greg wrapped Mycroft into his side and waited. 

“The Genevan contingent would like to sincerely apologise to the crown for the murder of their junior undersecretary on British soil. An unfortunate assassination, apparently.” 

“An…unfortunate assassination. How…how does anyone even put those words together,” Greg asks. 

“Only a government official.”

“Isn’t Geneva relatively well-known for peace?”

“Oh indeed. The characters in question ‘acted outside of government oversight’.” 

“Well, I should bloody hope so. Wait, why are they apologising to you — oh, oh fuck. You are not serious.” 

“Unfortunately, my love, you have immediately figured it out. The murder outside Diogenes. I have already sent Anderson the relevant documents. The case will be closed whilst you are conveniently out of office.” 

Greg laughed. “You are my favourite person. Poor junior undersecretary.” 

“Well exactly. Now. I am free. I have told them they may have three hours in the morning to work out the consequences from a diplomatic standpoint, meaning we have the evening and all of tomorrow after 11. Can I actually tempt you to ski?” 

“Absolutely fucking not,” Greg replied. “I thought we could go on one of the glacial tours they have offered, but I am not about to strap sticks to my feet and throw myself down an ice hill for the first time at forty-five. Even I have my limits, Mycroft.”

Mycroft smiled wickedly, and winked. “Disappointing,” he murmured before pushing himself off the lounger and wandering back inside. 

Refusing to follow, Greg went back to his book. When Mycroft returned, he was holding the full bottle of wine in the crook of his arm and a tray full of snacks in the other. 

“We can investigate dinner later. I need a break before going into the people again. Is that alright?”

He put the tray down on the table between them and took up position in his own chair. Greg missed the weight of him at his side, but he had to agree that eating that way was not conducive to function. Greg received a new glass of wine and watched as Mycroft loaded a tiny plate with olives and cheese, a few far-too-fancy crackers, and stood. 

He was looking out at the vista when he suddenly turned around to face Greg. 

“Do you know what the most ridiculous part of the whole conversation was, Gregory?”

“What, darling?”

“They tried to imply that our intelligence forces were slipping. Seemed surprised that I didn’t already know.” 

‘Well, that is ridiculous. Surely they had to know the connection wasn’t going to be made about a completely unimportant official’s death and a country that almost never has incidents.” 

“Hm,” Mycroft muttered, turning away again.

“Mycroft, your intelligence is not slipping. I promise you that. This has been…a weird month. And the entire situation is pointless. We don’t need to know everything that happens in the entire country, contrary to your belief. It’s sad the man died, sure, but there’s nothing you could have done to stop a very small cell of terrorist actions from Geneva of all places. Did they even tell you why he was targeted?”

“Climate bill,” Mycroft replied tersely. 

“Theirs or ours?”

“Theirs.”

“Well, there you go. We weren’t acting as asylum or in policy with them. You have zero responsibility here. That’s why they’re grovelling.”

Greg stood up and joined Mycroft at the railing. “And they are grovelling. Anthea landed us a completely private chalet. No one has complained about an impromptu husband entourage. The food all came from a massive gift basket I unwrapped. And you’re home before it’s even dark. That’s as close as a foreign office is ever going to come to mea culpa. I refuse to allow you to blame this one on yourself.”

“Yes, fine,” Mycroft said, eating the last olive on his plate and putting it down on the edge of the bannister he stood beside. “I hear you.” 

Greg stepped up behind him and wrapped his arms around him. There was nothing left of work Mycroft; he was relaxed, easy. His shoulders were sat at an almost normal level, even if they did contain tension that no masseur had ever fully managed to remove. He smelled of long-ago shampoo and slightly more recent deodorant and, most distinctly, like Mycroft. Greg pressed in and kissed the side of his neck. 

“Pretty sure this is the calmest I’ve seen you in months, gorgeous. You aren’t really mad at Geneva, are you?” 

Mycroft smiled, leaning his head to the side to allow more access. “No. Not really,” he admitted. “I’m very glad you are here. I’m very glad we went paragliding and are now staring at the Alps. Nothing seems especially serious right now, if I am honest.” 

“Dear god,” Greg teased, working his hands underneath Mycroft’s jumper and flattening his palms along the line of hair that ran there. “England may fall.” 

“Let it,” Mycroft breathed, his arms falling to the railing as Greg continued nipping at his neck.

Mycroft gripped the wooden railing of the balcony, his knuckles white as he gazed out at the majestic peaks of the French Alps. The crisp mountain air nipped at his flushed skin. Behind him, Greg pressed close, his warm chest flush against Mycroft's back.

"Beautiful view," Greg murmured, his breath hot on Mycroft's neck.

"Quite," Mycroft managed, his voice strained as Greg's hands roamed lower.

Mycroft chuckled as he realised where they were headed, perhaps belatedly. Apparently, they were doing this without an overture. It wasn’t surprising, because over the last three days, Mycroft had started and stopped proceedings far more times than was strictly fair; save for the fantastic car blowjob, he couldn’t recall the last time they’d just had completely unscheduled, unplanned sex. Which was both the reality of their middle-aged lives and just the tiniest bit sad. Mycroft deftly spread his legs without thinking too hard, letting himself appear as hungry and shameless as he felt. 

With deft movements, Greg pushed at his track pants; he was usually wearing complicated trousers at this point in their rituals, and this time he hadn’t even put on pants. Greg gasped when the waistband just let go, and he pushed harder at the material, letting them pool around his ankles. Mycroft shivered, exposed to the alpine chill and, more suddenly than he’d been prepared for, half-naked. But then Greg was there, hot and insistent, pushing into him with spit-soaked fingers, an aching slowness that he would never tire of.

Mycroft bit back a moan, not wanting to shatter the tranquil mountain silence. Greg set a slow, languid pace as he opened him up. It wasn’t necessary and before long, Greg decided to replace the hand with his far more satisfying girth. Not fully hard yet, Mycroft stepped out of his trousers and spread his feet wide, making Greg shudder against his back as he pushed into Mycroft’s welcoming arse.

“I made a phone call today,” Greg said quietly, his hands gripping Mycroft’s waist so hard they were going to leave a mark.

“Hm,” Mycroft acknowledged, leaning hard on the balcony. ”To whom?”

“Therapist,” Greg gasped, settling deep in Mycroft’s ass and swirling his hips as he refused to pull back. “We need to…discuss some things.”

“Like what,” Mycroft moaned, trying in vain to squirm away from Greg’s almost painful lack of movement, trying to get back the slow, slick friction. 

“Later,” Greg insisted, pulling back.

Greg resumed his steady rhythm, his movements causing the glass panels of the balcony to fog slightly. Mycroft's fingers curled against the wooden railing as he fought to maintain his composure, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through his body.

"Gregory," Mycroft breathed, his voice barely audible over the whisper of wind through the meadows below.

Greg's hands roamed up Mycroft's sides, pushing his shirt up to expose more skin to the cool air. His lips found the sensitive spot just below Mycroft's ear, kissing and nipping gently.

"Let go," Greg murmured. "It's just us and the mountains."

Mycroft closed his eyes, giving himself over to the sensations. The contrast of the chilly air on his exposed skin and the heat of Greg's body pressed against him was intoxicating. He rocked back to meet Greg's thrusts and was met with a moan not his own. He wanted Greg to tell him more, wanted him to explain. Wanted to know what had made him place that phone call, what had convinced him that they needed someone else in their marriage. At the same time, he wanted to forget his day, forget the panic, ignore the fact that Greg was disquieted. He reached down to grip his prick, finding it leaking with precum. Unable to stop himself, he gave a quick intense scan of their surroundings. No other chalets in the vicinity, the train below too far to be of much concern. His heart raced nonetheless; the possibility that they were going to be seen was not zero. His breath came in quick, short gasps. Greg noticed Mycroft's sudden tension and slowed his movements, leaning in to press a reassuring kiss to his shoulder.

"See? This. This is one of the things. You want to be seen, don’t you? You find it hot. You haven’t talked about this. Do you want that, Mycroft? Do you want someone to watch as I bury myself deep inside your ass? As I fuck you from behind until you’re screaming for me, until you almost can’t stand? Want someone else to know just how completely Mycroft Holmes, ruler of all of England, can be destroyed with the simple act of buggering.”

Mycroft's breath hitched at Greg's words, a mix of arousal and anxiety coursing through him. He struggled to form a coherent response, his mind clouded with pleasure and conflicting emotions.

"I... I don't know," he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Perhaps... perhaps we should discuss this later."

Greg nodded against Mycroft's shoulder. He resumed his previous rhythm, his hands now roaming Mycroft's chest, teasing and caressing.

"Alright, love. But. Definitely later," he agreed, his voice husky with desire. 

Mycroft let out a shaky breath, allowing himself to sink back into the sensations. The cool mountain air on his skin, the warmth of Greg's body, the exquisite pressure and friction where they were joined. He closed his eyes, focusing.

Greg's hands roamed Mycroft's chest, teasing his nipples to stiff peaks. His hips maintained a steady, maddening rhythm that had Mycroft gasping and trembling. 

"That's it," Greg encouraged, his voice low and husky. "Let me hear you. Always so noisy.”

“G-Greg,” Mycroft shuddered, coming into his hand and holding himself by sheer force of will as his legs turned to jelly.

Greg's pace quickened as he felt Mycroft tighten around him. He buried his face in the crook of Mycroft's neck, muffling his own groans as he chased his release. The wooden railing creaked under their combined weight and movement.

"God, Mycroft," Greg panted, his rhythm becoming erratic. 

Mycroft reached back with his free hand, tangling his fingers in Greg's silver hair. He tugged gently, knowing how much Greg loved it. The action drew a deep moan from Greg, who thrust harder in response.

"Come for me, Gregory," Mycroft urged, his voice low and commanding despite his post-orgasmic haze.

With a final, powerful thrust, Greg came undone. He bit down on Mycroft's shoulder to stifle his cry of pleasure, his body shuddering as he collapsed onto Mycroft’s back. He detached them carefully, dragging Greg with him as he went to sit, still largely naked, on the lounge chair behind them.

“Are we going to talk about it?” Greg said a short time later. 

“This doesn't feel much like later,” Mycroft complained. “With both our pants still off.” 

Greg chuffed. “ Some of us weren't wearing pants. Sorry, don't know what came over me there.” 

“The day I expect an apology for an orgasm is the day you put me in the box, Lestrade.”

“Fair enough. And what about apologies for unsolicited therapist calls?” 

Mycroft hesitated. “Well. I am not exactly surprised that you've taken that route… I understand it, almost. I want to say ‘you should have talked to me’, but that would be a bit hypocritical. Rocks at glass houses given current events.” 

“I just wanted to know that we could. I won't make you go if you don't want to.” 

“Who did you call?” 

“Anthea got me a number. She doesn't know what she got me. It was a chain of events thing. With Hubert. So no one knows. She just handed over the envelope.” 

Reaching for the balcony floor, Greg pulled his trousers to him and fished out the card. He handed it to Mycroft and proceeded to hold his breath.

“You're holding something back from me. I feel like I keep asking what you want and you immediately clam up. It doesn't have to be a big thing. I just. Thought it'd be worth a try,” Greg finished lamely, sitting back and waiting Mycroft out again. 

“I don't know how to talk to you about this stuff,” he said quietly. “How am I supposed to talk to a stranger? But of course, I'll try.”

“What? Really?” 

“Yes, darling. Without hesitation.” 

“Okay,” Greg replied meekly. “Okay.” 

Mycroft took a deep breath; he could continue to let the words escape him. It had been helping, this week, to just say the things he normally held back. Greg needed to hear him more often. Mycroft needed him to know that he was there still, human and broken and full of angst. He needed Greg to know that he hadn't latched himself to an unfeeling robot. So he would keep pushing past his intense fear and let the words tumble into the space between them. Let the proverbial chips fall. Let Greg weigh him with all the evidence available.

“I am intolerably in love with you, Gregory Lestrade," Mycroft murmured. "You do know that, right? That it is almost painful. Almost impossible. So you can request whatever you need from me and I will find a way to ensure it happens. Please. Tell me you know that.”

Greg's breathing had only just returned to neutral. His heart had stopped racing, and the endorphins were throwing themselves through his bloodstream at a rate that would one day be his cause of death. If Mycroft Holmes asked him to jump out of a plane without a parachute into a pool full of bloodthirsty hippopotami, he'd only ask him what colour swim trunks he wanted Greg to wear. So to sit there, post orgasm, and have Mycroft sound like he was begging Greg to stay? It clicked something into place for him. He felt like an absolute idiot. 

How could he have not seen it? Well, not how. He knew how; he'd missed it by being trapped in his own fear. His brain had been trying to get him to see it since Anthea's little head snap that morning. 

“Mycroft,” Greg asked softly. “D'you remember what I said the night before we got married? How I told you I knew it was fast, and that if you ever needed to leave me, I hoped you'd just tell me that you were feeling that way so I could prepare.”

Mycroft inhaled deeply, curling further into the chair as a result. “Yes,” he murmured. 

“And?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly.”

Mycroft dragged his body over Greg’s; he shoved both his hands into Greg’s short hair, staring as far into his eyes as was humanly possible. 

“I have been worried about you leaving me all week long.” 

Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft and kissed him hard. He smiled, a sad and delicate thing. “Yeah, me too.” 

“Maybe we do need to talk to someone,” Mycroft said with a soft chuckle. 

Greg laughed too. Snuggled into Mycroft carefully. 

“Yeah, we do. But not because either of us is going anywhere, okay?”

Mycroft didn’t reply; he nestled down into Greg’s chest. He was still not wearing any clothing. 

“Guess we should go shower or something,” Greg said. 

“Shh,” Mycroft said quietly. “I am sleeping.” 

Greg laughed again and smoothed down Mycroft’s hair. Let his lungs settle themselves back into a normal rate of oxygen intake. 

And promptly fell asleep.

Chapter Text

As his dreams of a relatively normal makeup vacation weekend with his husband vanished on a balcony in Switzerland, Mycroft found he was no longer able to sleep. At some point, they had migrated back inside to the proper bed, and Greg, being Greg, had immediately drifted off to sleep again. Mycroft was on his side now, watching him and periodically checking his watch. It was getting quite late for dinner, even if they went by city standards instead of small town. He’d just get up and call someone to bring something, if he didn’t think doing so would wake Greg up, they’d be at square one. He was therefore frozen in indecision, watching his sleeping partner work through some dream that was causing his forehead to furrow and was disturbing his breathing. They both looked older, he knew this, but Mycroft privately thought that it was just adding to Greg’s beauty. Unlike his own ageing face, Greg’s frown lines made him more distinguished, and his ample laugh lines lit his face from within. Seeing him like this, upset by some unseen, unnatural force, made Mycroft smile fondly. 

He should be feeling relief, in all likelihood. Greg was telling him he wasn’t going anywhere. He had taken the active — and likely necessary — step of asking for help. But bringing a person into their confusing and complicated relationship was shaking Mycroft and the foundations upon which he walked. It was hardly an original crisis to have; a fear of therapists and counselling was a starter pack card in the deck of ‘Generation X’ and he was used to being more interesting than that. He chastised himself and gave himself a stern talking-to. Internally, of course. One mustn’t speak to oneself. That was the start of all questionable behaviour. 

If he explored the purchase of the motorbike in any depth, for example, he discovered how very basic he had become.

Greg stirred suddenly, his eyes fluttering open. He blinked groggily at Mycroft, a sleepy smile spreading across his face. "How long was I out?" he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

"Not terribly long," Mycroft replied softly, reaching out to smooth Greg's tousled hair. "Though I'm afraid we've rather missed the dinner hour."

Greg yawned and stretched, the sheets rustling as he shifted. "S'alright. Not that hungry anyway." He propped himself up on an elbow, studying Mycroft's face. "You look knackered. Didn't you sleep at all?"

Mycroft shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "I'm afraid sleep eluded me. Too many thoughts rattling about, I suppose."

“I know,” Greg replied, wincing. “I’m sorry. S’my fault, that.”

“I…no, it isn’t. Let’s not start this again, love. Come on. Let’s go for a walk or something. It’s a lovely evening.”

Greg smiled. “Deal. Just give me a mo' to wake up properly."

Mycroft nodded and slid out of bed, padding over to the wardrobe to select appropriate attire for an evening stroll. As he buttoned up a crisp shirt, he glanced over his shoulder at Greg, who was now stretching languidly.

"Perhaps we could find a late-night café," Mycroft suggested. "I imagine you might be peckish after your nap."

Greg chuckled. "You know me too well. I could murder a sandwich right about now."

The streets were quiet but not deserted, with a few other couples and small groups meandering through the small village. They passed two separate pubs, but Greg quickly discovered through his gregarious chatter with a local woman, that the best place for a late-night snack was the kitchen at the end of the row. Built around the ski lodge, it had cheap and cheerful fare for the employees who came down the mountain late. Mycroft marvelled at the simplicity of this exchange; the two joked and laughed, and after thirty seconds, they were being offered an escort to the mountain the next day and a suggestion for the other side of the mountain. When they parted a moment later, it was like they had been friends for years. Mycroft grinned at Greg’s contented facial expression as they strolled on.

“You’re a wonder,” he said gently.

“Hm?” Greg said, confused.

“It would make my job much easier if I could do that.”

“Do what?”

"That," Mycroft gestured vaguely behind them. "Engage with strangers so effortlessly. Charm information out of them without them even realising."

Greg chuckled, shaking his head. "It's not about charming information out of anyone, love. It's just being friendly. People like to talk, you know."

"Yes, well," Mycroft sighed, "I've never quite mastered the art of small talk, I'm afraid."

They continued down the cobblestone street, their footsteps echoing in the quiet night air. The kitchen at the end of the row came into view, a warm glow emanating from its windows.

"You don't need to master small talk," Greg said softly, reaching for Mycroft's hand. "You've got me for that, haven't you?"

Mycroft squeezed Greg's hand, a small token of comfort. “Indeed,” he managed to agree.

“Let me guess, anything with ham?” Greg offered.

Mycroft nodded but drew back Greg’s hand when he tried to let go. He pulled him in and kissed him gently. Greg grinned when he pulled back.

“Public kiss, eh? Steady on.”

Mycroft chuckled softly, a faint blush colouring his cheeks. "I suppose I'm feeling a bit bold tonight," he murmured, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

Greg's grin widened. "Gee I wonder why," he whispered, giving Mycroft's hand another squeeze before leading him towards the kitchen's entrance. “Let’s keep balconies on the list.”

“There is a list?”

“There’s always a list, Mycroft Holmes.”

Dinner obtained from the cheery proprietor, they continued their evening wander in blissful harmony. By the time they made it back to the chalet, Mycroft’s mind had settled somewhat and he gave a great yawn.

“To bed, Mr Holmes,” Greg teased. “You’ve had a long day. I’m just going to read a bit. Some of us didn’t have diplomatic affairs to see to, and that nap earlier was not a good idea. Want me to read out there or…?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Stay,” he asked quietly. “Please?”

“Course, Posh. Long as you tell me when the light starts to bug you.”

Greg settled into bed beside Mycroft, propping himself up against the headboard with a book in hand. Mycroft curled up on his side, facing Greg, his eyes heavy with exhaustion.

"Same book?" Mycroft murmured, his voice thick with approaching sleep.

“Yes, you menace. It’s insipid, remember?”

Mycroft hummed softly. "Sometimes a bit of mindless entertainment is just what the doctor ordered."

Greg chuckled, reaching out to run his fingers through Mycroft's hair. "Well, in that case, shall I read aloud?"

Mycroft nodded, his eyes already drifting shut. "Please do."

Greg cleared his throat and began to read, his voice low and soothing. Mycroft was asleep within moments.

The following day, Mycroft disappeared into the clutches of the government again for several hours; but the afternoon, they spent on the mountain. Greg had managed to book a private tour on the glacier, complete with a pick down a short crevasse. It was fun, exciting even, but they both agreed that it paled in comparison to having thrown themselves off a cliff.

“I fear we may have to slow down, husband,” Mycroft teased on the ski lift back down. “We’re growing too used to adrenaline. Soon, there shall be nothing left to thrill.”

Greg laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Oh, I don't know about that," he said, a mischievous glint in his eye. "I'm sure we can always find new ways to get our hearts racing."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at his lips. "Is that so? Do enlighten me, Detective Inspector."

Greg chuckled, his breath warm against Mycroft's ear. "Let's just say it involves a few more balconies, maybe a hot tub or two, and definitely some creative use of rooms.”

The smile slid off Mycroft’s face. “Perhaps that conversation first.”

Greg wrapped an arm around Mycroft and kissed his temple. “Holmes, I absolutely forbid you from worrying about this every moment of the day until we hear back from that therapist. It’s just not that serious, my love.”

Mycroft nodded and attempted not to let the last of their mountain journey drift into seriousness. They packed in a flurry and were back at the car by 3, headed home to London and their regular lives. It was a surreal reality, considering that Mycroft had been unintentionally allowing them to run away for four days straight. It was always easier to do when he had work to blame and Greg to bring along. But, their lives did beckon. If nothing else, Greg needed to go back to work.

The plane ride home was quite a boring journey, what with the lack of tension between them and the anticipated return of case files and emails and phone calls. They were seeped in comradery and bland dread, and Mycroft felt the contentment of that reality wash over him like a particularly comfortable, familiar blanket.

It was nearly ten by the time they let themselves into the house, and Greg immediately put the wash on, as was his habit. Mycroft had never even bothered to unpack his own bags before. This version was nicer. The dry cleaning would mysteriously disappear with him in the morning, too, no matter how many times Mycroft insisted they could just use the service. ‘Some things’ he would say ‘are important to do yourself’. He pulled out some cheese and some bread he’d left in the fridge and had made them cheese toasties and milk by the time Greg reemerged from the shower, smelling of mint and lemon and home .

Greg's hair was still damp as he padded into the kitchen, wearing his favourite worn pyjama bottoms and a soft t-shirt. He smiled warmly at Mycroft, who was plating up the food.

"Ah, you're a lifesaver," Greg said, gratefully accepting the plate and settling onto a stool at the kitchen island. "I'm famished."

Mycroft chuckled, running a hand over Greg’s wet hair. “You always are,” he replied fondly. “Ready to return to reality?”

“Absolutely not,” Greg laughed. “You?”

“Never. But, alas.”

“Thought I might call John, see what I missed. Need anything from Sherlock?”

“Goodness no, let’s leave him be, shall we?”

Greg laughed again and lifted his plate and glass. “I’m eating in bed while you shower. On with it.”

Mycroft smiled fondly as Greg shuffled off towards the bedroom, plate and glass in hand. He tidied up the kitchen quickly before heading to the shower himself.

The hot water was a welcome relief after the long journey home. As Mycroft stood under the spray, he found his mind drifting back to their conversation on the ski lift. He knew Greg was right - he shouldn't obsess over their upcoming therapy session. But old habits die hard, and Mycroft had always been one to analyse every possible outcome of a situation.

He was so lost in thought that he barely noticed when the water began to run cold. Shaking himself out of his reverie, he quickly finished up and stepped out of the shower.

“K. Five letters,” Greg said when he emerged.

Mycroft, wrapped in a plush towel, raised an eyebrow as he approached the bed. "I beg your pardon?"

Greg was propped up against the headboard, a crossword puzzle balanced on his knees. He looked up at Mycroft with a grin. "Five letter word for 'K'. Starts with 'C'."

Greg's face lit up. "Brilliant! That's it." He scribbled the answer into the puzzle.

“How old is that newspaper?” Mycroft laughed, pulling on pants and a t-shirt and crawling into bed.

“No idea,” he replied, handing Mycroft a sandwich. “I figured I should finish it though. Isn’t it bad luck or something?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard that one, no.”

“Ah. Well.”

As they curled into their perfectly normal bed, in their completely comfortable home, Mycroft decided two things; first, he was going to repaint the bedroom because this red was criminally too dark. And second, he was going to calmly approach whatever came next with an open mind. An open heart.

“Worth asking?” Greg said, a well-worn sentence in this space. Half the time, Mycroft couldn’t explain what was on his mind, wasn’t allowed to talk about it. But he’d not realised until this moment how much he appreciated that Greg had worked out a way to ask him anyway.

“Nothing special,” he assured him, finishing the last crust of his sandwich. “I want to repaint the bedroom.”

Greg chuckled. “As long as that’s all you repaint. The last time I let you start here, the whole house got an overhaul. And then my duck disappeared.”

“Now it’s your duck is it?”

“Might as well be, seeing as I'm the only one concerned about its welfare. You should just tell me. I've already spiralled wildly out of control in my imagination. There’s no way it's as dramatic as the story I’ve created.”

Mycroft smirked. “See, I was going to. But now I am just having fun.”

“You fiend.”

Mycroft laughed. So Greg lifted a pillow from beneath his arms and smacked Mycroft square in the face. “What happened to the chrome duck decoy, Mycroft Holmes!”

Mycroft's laughter was muffled by the pillow, but he managed to grab it and toss it aside, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "If you must know, Detective Inspector, your beloved chrome duck decoy is currently residing in a very secure location."

Greg narrowed his eyes playfully. "And where might that be?"

"Oh, I couldn't possibly divulge that information," Mycroft said, his voice dripping with mock seriousness. "It's a matter of national security, you understand."

Greg snorted. "National security, my arse. You've hidden it because you think it's tacky, haven't you?"

Mycroft's lips twitched. "I would never dream of criticising your... unique taste in décor, my dear."

"I didn't even buy it! I have no idea where it came from!"

“I assure you, the duck will come to no harm."

"Uh-huh," Greg said, unconvinced. He lunged forward, pinning Mycroft to the bed. Mycroft laughed heartily and the concerns of the day washed away fully. 

Chapter Text

An appointment with a stranger on a Friday was hardly out of the ordinary, but Mycroft had spent the entire day slowly spiralling with anxiety regardless.

He was hardly puritanical, though he’d never really considered what that meant. Sex was base, human nature, regardless of your job or your IQ. It was pointless to try and pretend that wasn’t true. Then he’d stumbled into life with Greg, and he had certainly realised that sex could be more than base. But as far as investigating his internal needs? Desires? There had never been a need.

Except, now he was, apparently, meandering into a mid-life crisis. His mind could not slow down; he needed it to, he could tell. Rest did not seem to reach him, and even when he managed to relax, it didn’t feel like enough. The closest he’d come to quietened had been on the bloody paraglider, and he could hardly jump out of a plane every time he felt stressed. For one thing, it was stressing out Greg.

So, he’d go talk to the frigging counsellor. He just wasn’t sure what it was going to actually accomplish.

Greg shifted uncomfortably on the sofa that was so cliche he almost wanted to scream. This woman seemed kind enough, and was listening with rapt attention. Her relationship counselling label was putting him on edge, though. Did their relationship really need counselling? He was regretting dragging them here at all, but Mycroft cleared his throat gently and Greg refocused on the question: what had brought them here?

“He's thrill-seeking,” Greg said simply. “Probably not how he'd classify it, but he is. And it’s new. Like…he’s looking for ways to feel the way he feels when things are on a high at work, but without having to solve crisis after crisis.”

“Do you feel that’s fair, Mr Holmes?”

Mycroft simply nodded.

Greg sighed. “But he gets back down and…you can just tell that it hasn't worked and he's immediately disappointed. And I’m worried about him, which is annoying him. Things have been…tense.”

“I’m not sure I would say tense,” Mycroft interjected quietly.

Greg raised an eyebrow at him. “In three weeks, we’ve bought a motorbike, a cabin in Spain, jumped off of a very large cliff, and had sex in an arguably…well, okay, no, not really a risky place, but certainly not the bedroom you usually demand we be in before I’m even allowed to take off your shirt. And you won’t acknowledge any of it.”

Mycroft exhaled firmly. It wasn’t quite a sigh, so Greg tried to shove his frustration back down.

Dr. Moyle nodded thoughtfully, making a note on her pad. "It sounds like there might be some disconnect between what you're each experiencing and how you're communicating about it. Mr. Holmes, when Greg describes your recent activities as thrill-seeking, does that resonate with you?"

Mycroft was quiet for a long moment, his fingers steepled in front of him. "I suppose... I've been feeling rather restless lately. My work has been particularly demanding, but in a different way than usual. Less intellectually stimulating crises, more tedious bureaucratic matters. I find myself craving something more immediate."

"And the physical activities - the paragliding, the motorbike - how do they make you feel?"

"Alive," Mycroft said simply. "Present. My mind goes quiet for the first time in... well, perhaps years."

Greg leaned forward slightly. "It's not that I don't want him to have what he needs. I just... I don't know what that is. And I'm afraid he's going to hurt himself trying to figure it out."

“I have a suspicion that this transition has more to do with a lack of communication than anything else,” Dr Moyle said gently. “Have you two ever had a conversation about what it is you’d like from each other? I mean, in bed. In case that was not clear.”

Greg felt his face flush slightly. "I mean... we've been together for…we know what we like."

"Do you?" Dr. Moyle asked, her tone gentle but probing. "Because from what you've described, it sounds like Mr Holmes is discovering new things about himself. And you, Mr Lestrade, seem to be trying to anticipate his needs rather than asking about them directly."

Mycroft shifted in his seat, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "I fail to see how discussing our... intimate arrangements will resolve my apparent need for adrenaline."

"Because they might not be separate issues," Dr. Moyle replied. "You mentioned feeling present, your mind going quiet during physical thrills. Have you considered that intimacy might serve the same function, if approached differently?"

The silence stretched between them. Greg could practically hear Mycroft's mind working, categorising, trying to decide if this was true.

The simple truth was they had never talked about it; Greg had had many conversations with his ex-wife about sex. Negotiating new things, trying to save something that was already dead. In a scared, embarrassing corner of his mind, he’d always assumed that not having those conversations with Mycroft had been a positive. That they’d been getting what they needed from each other without even having to talk. So what if he’d been wrong this whole time? What if he’d never actually given Mycroft what he’d needed?

"I think," Mycroft said slowly, his voice carefully measured, "that I may have been... compartmentalising. Treating physical satisfaction as entirely separate from mental stimulation."

Greg turned to look at him properly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that perhaps I've been approaching our intimacy the same way I approach everything else - with control, with predictability. And lately, that's been feeling..." He paused, searching for the right word. "Insufficient."

Dr. Moyle leaned forward slightly. "Can you elaborate on that, Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft's fingers drummed once against his thigh before he stilled them. "I believe I may have been... holding back. Not intentionally, but out of habit. The same way I hold back in every other aspect of my life."

"Oh," Greg said, his voice softer now.

"Greg, it is not—it is not because of you.”

“I know,” Greg replied, unconvincingly.

“Perhaps it is time to stop protecting each other from certain parts of yourselves?” Dr Moyle suggested gently.

“Possibly,” Greg allowed.

Her tone took on a sympathetic sort of teasing. “Alright. All is not lost. This lack of communication is one of the most common reasons for seeking therapy. Can we consider some next steps?”

Mycroft and Greg both nodded, and Greg reached out to take Mycroft’s hand on the sofa.

“We simply get older and our world views change. There are moments where we have to reestablish our own desires. Our own understandings. This is just humanity, Mr Holmes. It’s okay.”

“I…thank you,” Mycroft said.

Greg was astonished. Mycroft seemed to have discovered some solid truth about himself in the past ten minutes. No matter what Greg had been anticipating, it hadn’t been that.

Dr Moyle nodded. “I’m going to give you homework. We’re going to rip the band aid off and call it kink negotiation, because, quite frankly, neither of you can afford to be as bashful as you’re being about sex. I suspect outside of this room, neither of you are exactly blushing debutants.”

Greg felt his stomach drop.

"It's not what you think," Dr. Moyle said with a slight smile at his expression. "It's simply a structured conversation. You're going to sit down together and discuss what you want, what you don't want, and what you might be curious about. No judgment, no pressure to act on anything. Just honest communication."

"Right," Greg said, still feeling slightly shell-shocked.

"The point isn't necessarily to discover that you're into anything particularly... adventurous," she continued. "It's to practice being vulnerable with each other about desire. About what you need to feel present and engaged."

Mycroft nodded slowly. "I see. Remove the guesswork."

"Exactly. And Mr. Lestrade, this means you get to stop trying to read his mind. You can just ask."

Greg let out a breath he had unintentionally been holding.

“Seems easy enough,” he murmured.

They left the office in silence and Greg sighed quietly when the ubiquitous black car pulled up to the curb.

“I have to go to work,” Mycroft said tersely in reply.

“I know. It’s fine. I’m not upset. I just…Mycroft. Are we okay?”

Mycroft smiled, the genuine expression crinkling his eyes. There was an easiness to the expression that Greg had been unprepared for. It unclenched something in his jaw, seeing Mycroft smile like they were still in the easy, genial first two months of their relationship.

“Gregory,” he sighed, grabbing Greg by the hand and pulling him into an embrace. “You initiated this conversation, and right now, I feel more hopeful than I have in months. Is there a possibility that I have accidentally repressed myself? That I am not beyond hope and can perhaps be saved by a fantastically good shag?”

Greg burst out laughing and pulled back so he could see Mycroft’s face; his cheeky expression made Greg laugh again.

“Yes, my love. We are fine. Better than. Need I remind you that me being uncomfortable in my own skin far outdates you, darling man? Sherlock has reminded me at least six times this year that it is miraculous I have convinced you I am normal.”

“You aren’t normal,” Greg teased, nuzzling into Mycroft’s nose with his own. “That’s my favourite thing about you.”

“I have an idea. You took the day off, yes?”

“Mm.”

“Make a list. When you get home. I shall try to do the same.”

“You’re going to make a sex list in your office?” Greg laughed.

“My god,” Mycroft winced. “I guess I hadn’t framed it quite that way. But. Yes. I shall. We can talk tonight. I promise not to be too late. Disaster mitigation only, weekend emails, then I am home.”

“Okay,” Greg said. “Deal.”

“Do you want a ride home?”

“Nah,” Greg said, brushing Mycroft’s hair back into place, straightening his tie. “Tube will be good for me right now. Love you.”

“And I love you, my golden detective.”

Chapter Text

As the car drove off, Greg did in fact feel lighter. There was at least some sort of plan in place for them to stop tiptoeing around each other. It didn’t assuage all his fears of course. There was still the distinct possibility that he couldn’t meet Mycroft’s needs. That Sherlock was right. That Mycroft was going to pull away anyway.

But at least there’d be a great deal of fun first.

Greg's afternoon was spent in a surprisingly productive state of domestic bliss. He'd cleaned the kitchen properly, done the washing up that had been lingering since before Switzerland, and even managed to tackle the spare room that had become a repository for everything they didn't know what to do with. By the time he sat down with a cup of tea and a notepad, he felt more settled than he had in weeks.

The blank page stared back at him.

He'd written "Things I Want" at the top in his careful handwriting, then immediately crossed it out. Too clinical. He tried "Desires" next, which felt pretentious. Finally, he settled on "Stuff to Talk About" because that's what it was, really. A conversation starter.

The first few items came easily enough - things they'd done before that he'd particularly enjoyed, variations on familiar themes. He let himself wander into past relationships, too, finding a few things from his college days that he’d been keen to try again, like being tied up, or using toys. He'd never actually brought any of that up with Mycroft, assuming his posh husband would find it vulgar somehow.

But then he paused, pen hovering over the paper. What if this was his chance to explore further? He thought back to their balcony encounter, to Mycroft's breathless response when Greg had suggested being watched. That had been pure improvisation on his part, dirty talk pulled from some hidden corner of his mind. He hadn't expected Mycroft to react so viscerally to it.

He added "exhibitionism?" to his list, the question mark a concession to his own uncertainty.

The more he wrote, the easier it became. Some items made him blush even as he scribbled them down, but there was something freeing about getting them out of his head and onto paper. One thing became increasingly obvious, until he laughed out loud in the empty house.

“Dear lord, Greg Lestrade,” he said. “You’ve been letting sex become vanilla.”

There was nothing inherently wrong with that, he would argue, should anyone ask. It’s not like they’d stopped enjoying each other. Things were always satisfying, pleasant, and perfect. But Mycroft worked a lot; they often scheduled time together, which meant that sex was so rarely spontaneous and even less frequently full of energy.

He knew Mycroft well enough to know that the positions they chose were not the problem. Instead, they’d simply grown too comfortable. Greg had been an anomaly in Mycroft’s life. A surprise. A puzzle to be solved.

And now, he believed that he’d figured out all of Greg’s pieces.

“Well, that will never do,” he murmured, putting the pen down.

By the time he heard Mycroft's key in the lock around eight-thirty, Greg had filled nearly two pages with his careful handwriting. Some entries were accompanied by question marks, others by exclamation points, and a few by both. He'd surprised himself with the breadth of his own curiosity.

"Greg?" Mycroft's voice carried through the house, accompanied by the familiar sounds of him hanging up his coat and setting down his briefcase.

"In here," Greg called from the living room, quickly closing the notepad and setting it aside. His heart was beating faster than it should have been, as if he'd been caught doing something illicit rather than completing homework assigned by a licensed therapist.

Mycroft appeared in the doorway, loosening his tie and smiling. He looked tired but not defeated, which Greg took as a good sign. "How was your afternoon?"

"Productive," Greg said, then gestured to the notepad. "And yours?”

“Yes, I also made a list,” Mycroft teased. “I also defused a few minor emergencies, but those were far less fun.”

Greg laughed. “Oh yes, you’re so impressive. My husband, the essential service. Come give me your kinky list, you big nerd.”

Mycroft's cheeks flushed slightly at Greg's teasing tone, but he moved toward the sofa with more confidence than Greg had expected. "I'm not entirely sure 'kinky' is the appropriate descriptor," he said, settling beside Greg and producing a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket.

Unlike Greg's notepad, this was clearly official government stationery, which made Greg snort with laughter.

"You wrote your sex list on Whitehall letterhead?"

"It's what I had available," Mycroft said primly, though his cheeks had gone slightly pink. "And I hardly think the Queen will be auditing my personal correspondence."

"Let me guess," Greg said, grinning. "You made a spreadsheet."

"I did not make a spreadsheet," Mycroft replied with mock indignation. "I made... extensive notes. With subcategories."

Greg burst out laughing. "Of course you did. Christ, I love you."

"Yes, well," Mycroft cleared his throat, unfolding his paper. "I discovered that when one approaches the topic systematically, there are rather more variables to consider than I initially anticipated."

Greg leaned in. “Yeah, Posh, I figured that out too. Complicated, hey? We probably should have talked about this before we got married.”

Mycroft smiled calmly. “As I remember it, you were rather insistent about expedience.”

“Yeah, well,” Greg replied, wrinkling his nose at Greg. “I couldn’t risk my mother finding us out and dragging me home without my dowry.”

Mycroft leaned in too and kissed Greg on the tip of the nose. “It was never about your dowry, my sweet love.”

Greg was still chuckling as he opened his own notepad. "Right then. How do we do this? Take turns?"

Mycroft sighed. “Why am I so much more embarrassed than I was while writing this in my office?” he complained. “You've literally seen me naked every week for two years.”

“I know what you mean. We could just swap and read? Discuss after?”

Mycroft hesitated, then nodded. "That seems... sensible. Jesus, I feel like I’m in year ten.”

He held out his meticulously folded paper, his expression carefully neutral despite the faint blush still colouring his cheeks.

Greg handed over his notepad in exchange. He settled back against the sofa cushions, unfolding Mycroft's list with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation.

The first thing that struck him was that Mycroft hadn't been exaggerating about subcategories. The page was organized with military precision, broken down into sections like ‘Currently Enjoyable’, ‘Potentially Interesting’, and ‘Requires Further Discussion’.

Greg's eyes widened as he scanned the contents. Some items were predictable enough—Mycroft wasn’t quiet in the bedroom. But there were some that he felt had to be new considerations.

“I will say,” Greg said quietly as he finished reading. “That I was expecting to be more off base with what we needed to explore.”

Mycroft grinned, leaning forward to kiss him. “I’m not surprised how aligned these are, my dear. You are my soul.”

“Don’t,” Greg exhaled with a chuckle. “Don’t be lovely and sweet right now. I’m too turned on.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, setting Greg's notepad aside with deliberate care. "Is that so? I hadn't realized my romantic declarations had such an effect."

"Everything about you has an effect," Greg murmured, reaching out to trace the line of Mycroft's jaw.

Mycroft chuckled, setting the notepad down between them. "So, what now? Do we just... pick something and try it?"

"God, no," Greg laughed, running a hand through his silver hair. "That's not how this works. We talk about it first. Set boundaries. Figure out what we're both comfortable with."

"I see." Mycroft's expression turned thoughtful. "I must admit, I'm surprised by how... extensive your list is."

"Same goes for yours, Mr. Holmes. Who knew you had such a vivid imagination hiding behind all those three-piece suits?"

"I think we've established that I've been repressing quite a lot," Mycroft replied dryly.

Greg frowned. He had to ask, though he knew it was going to shift the mood significantly. He was prepared. The day had been heavy and promising at the same time, and it needed to be asked. But he was sad that it was going to drag the teasing, glittery lilt from Mycroft’s tone, was going to rob him of the sly smile he was being treated to.

“Because of me?” he said quietly. “Were you repressing because you thought I…couldn’t handle it? Or—”

“No,” Mycroft insisted, seriousness etching into his brow. “Not at all. The opposite. Have you forgotten how buttoned into those waistcoats I was when we started…”

“Fucking?” Greg supplied deviously.

Mycroft laughed. “Yes, then. Gregory. This is all on me. I could have been talking to you for months and instead I—”

“You only get fifty per cent of this blame-taking, you git. You heart the woman. I have been trying to anticipate your needs instead of just asking.”

“I have an idea,” Mycroft said, tone shifting suddenly. “Let’s stop wallowing, hm? We have to talk, yes. But we already did that once today. We’ll do it again later.”

Greg smirked. “And what exactly are you suggesting instead, Mr Holmes?”

Mycroft picked up the notebook and tossed it to the coffee table before leaning forward and gently pushing Greg down by the shoulder.

“Number thirty-seven,” he murmured, attaching their mouths.

Greg's breath caught as Mycroft's mouth moved against his, warm and insistent. He tried to remember what number thirty-seven had been on his list, but Mycroft's tongue was doing something distracting and his brain had gone pleasantly blank.

"Which one was—" Greg started to ask, but Mycroft pulled back just enough to speak.

"The one where you wrote 'miss being spontaneous' with three exclamation points," Mycroft said, his voice already rougher than it had been moments before. "And then underneath, 'kitchen counter?'"

Greg groaned, partly from arousal and partly from embarrassment. "Christ, you memorized my list already?"

"I have an excellent memory," Mycroft replied, nipping at Greg's bottom lip. "And your handwriting is surprisingly legible for a detective inspector."

"Shut up," Greg laughed, but he had no time for being annoyed because Mycroft was dragging him by the hand, and then the waist of his joggers, their mouths never detaching.

They made it to Greg’s immaculately clean kitchen eventually, though there were several walls used in the meantime.

“You were busy today too,” Mycroft smirked, dragging Greg’s t-shirt up his torso desperately.

Greg found himself pressed against the cool granite countertop, Mycroft's hands everywhere at once with an urgency that took his breath away.

"God, Mycroft," Greg gulped.

"You were right,” he gasped. “Spontaneous? We used to be good at that."

Greg laughed, the sound transforming into a moan as Mycroft's hand slipped inside his conveniently elastic waistband. "Bloody hell, chosen efficiency, have you?”

"I am many things, Detective Inspector," Mycroft murmured against Greg's neck. "Efficient is merely one of them."

With surprising strength, Mycroft lifted Greg onto the counter, stepping between his spread legs.

Greg let out a startled laugh, wrapping his legs around Mycroft's waist. "I forgot you could do that."

Greg's head fell back against the cabinet with a soft thud as Mycroft's mouth found the sensitive spot just below his ear. The granite was cold against his thighs where his trousers had been unceremoniously yanked down, but Mycroft's body was radiating heat between his legs.

"This was definitely worth cleaning the kitchen for," Greg managed to gasp as Mycroft's clever fingers wrapped around him.

"Mmm," Mycroft hummed against his throat. "I should hope so. Though I'm about to make rather a mess of your hard work."

Greg laughed breathlessly, then moaned as Mycroft's thumb circled the head of his cock. "God, yes. Please do."

There was something gloriously freeing about this—Mycroft still mostly dressed in his work clothes, Greg half-naked on the kitchen counter, both of them impatient and unprepared. A small voice in the back of his mind made Greg wonder if it was enough, if Mycroft’s brain had found the silence that he craved. Mycroft began pressing open-mouthed kisses down his torso, his hands holding firm to Greg’s ass the whole time.

“You’re thinking too loudly, love,” Mycroft murmured. “Going to fix that.”

Greg's retort died in his throat as Mycroft's mouth closed around him, hot and wet and utterly focused. His hands flew to Mycroft's hair, fingers tangling in the auburn strands as his hips bucked involuntarily.

"Fuck," he breathed, watching Mycroft's head bob between his thighs. The sight alone was enough to make him dizzy—his composed, immaculate husband on his knees in their kitchen, tie askew and hair mussed, completely devoted to taking Greg apart with his mouth.

Mycroft pulled off with an obscene pop, his lips swollen and pupils blown wide. "Better?"

"What?" Greg panted, brain struggling to process the question.

"You're overthinking," Mycroft said, pressing a kiss to the inside of Greg's thigh. "Has it stopped?"

Greg let out a shaky laugh.

“Good,” Mycroft replied. “Now get down.”

His voice was firm and Greg responded automatically, a lump in his throat as his cock bobbed in appreciation of the order.

“Lean on the island,” Mycroft continued. “Face that window.”

Greg whimpered this time, but did as he was told.

“So pretty, my detective,” Mycroft murmured from behind him. The distinctive sound of a belt and a zipper made Greg spread his legs further. “You were right, when we were at that chalet. You got closer to the truth than I had ever dared. I’d love it. To have someone watch us. To have them know that you’re mine. I want someone to get embarrassed by how loud we’re being.”

Greg's knees nearly buckled at the confession, his hands gripping the edge of the island for support. "Christ, Mycroft," he gasped. "You can't just say things like that."

"Why not?" Mycroft's voice was closer now, his chest pressed against Greg's back. "We're being honest now, aren't we? No more holding back."

Greg could feel Mycroft's arousal against him, could hear the barely controlled want in his husband's voice. "You're going to kill me," he managed.

"That's rather the point," Mycroft murmured, one hand sliding around to grip Greg's hip while the other reached for something in the nearby drawer. "I want to watch you fall apart. I want to hear you beg."

“No lube in the kitchen,” Mycroft whispered in his ear. “But coconut oil is—”

“Mycroft,” Greg whimpered. “Please.”

"Patience," Mycroft murmured, his voice a velvet caress against Greg's ear as he coated his fingers with the oil. "Good things come to those who wait."

Greg let out a breathless laugh that quickly transformed into a moan as Mycroft's slick fingers found their target. "Not sure patience is my strong suit right now," he gasped.

"Then perhaps we should work on that," Mycroft replied, his free hand sliding up Greg's bare chest. "Another item for our list."

Time seemed to stretch and contract as Mycroft prepared him with maddening precision, every movement calculated to drive Greg to the edge of coherence. By the time Mycroft finally, finally pressed into him, Greg was trembling, his forehead resting against the cool surface of the island.

"Oh god," Greg breathed as Mycroft bottomed out, filling him completely.

It wasn’t until this moment that he realised it had been a while since he’d been beneath Mycroft like this. He’d failed to remember how much he enjoyed the sensation; being controlled, the slight stretchy pain, the delirious slide against the internal bundle of nerves. It was so different, so much more sensation. Mycroft had been indifferent, at first, to who took which role in their hurried, frenzied sex. Those early days had required so much flip-flopping that Greg would sometimes forget who he’d voted for. But slowly, Mycroft had started asking for Greg to be inside him every time. They’d fallen into a pattern, and since Greg was content either way, he’d just let Mycroft bottom.

But this? This was who they were.

They didn’t have roles in their relationship; they gave and took, teased and teased back, supported each other through difficult days and celebrated victories together. In bed, they should be the same—fluid, responsive, taking turns being vulnerable.

"Missed this," Greg panted as Mycroft began to move, setting a rhythm that was both controlled and desperate. "Missed you like this."

Mycroft's answering groan was broken, his usual composure cracking. "Greg, I—"

"I know," Greg gasped, pushing back to meet each thrust. "I know, love."

The kitchen filled with the sounds of their breathing, the slap of skin against skin, and the occasional creak of the island under their combined weight. Greg's reflection in the window glass showed him debauched and wanting, Mycroft's face visible over his shoulder—eyes closed, mouth open, completely lost in sensation.

"Look at us," Greg managed, his voice rough. "In the window.”

“Fuck,” Mycroft hissed, his why them becoming erratic, the furtive slamming of his orgasm falling so deep in Greg’s ass that he almost wanted to cry.

Greg came with a shout, his release painting the cabinet doors below as Mycroft's movements became desperate and uncontrolled. They stayed pressed together for long moments afterwards, both breathing hard, sweat cooling on their skin.

"Well," Greg finally managed, voice hoarse. "That was..."

"Overdue," Mycroft finished, pressing a kiss to the back of Greg's neck. "Very overdue."

Greg laughed shakily as Mycroft carefully pulled out. "Think the neighbours got a show?"

"I certainly hope so," Mycroft replied, and Greg could hear the smirk in his voice. "Though I suspect Mrs Patterson will be giving us pointed looks over the garden fence tomorrow."

"Worth it," Greg said, turning in Mycroft's arms. His husband looked thoroughly debauched—hair mussed, tie hanging loose, shirt wrinkled beyond salvation. “Homework complete, I’d say.”

“Oh dear,” Mycroft laughed. “I’ve just realised we have to see that doctor again.”

“We got this,” Greg insisted, kissing him soundly.